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Category Archives: Learning from mistakes

Part 1: “I sought the Lord, and afterward…”?

15 Wednesday Mar 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Church, Faith, Growing up, Gullibility, Learning from mistakes

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A License to Preach, events, life experiences, Memories, Serendipity, Synchronicity

Pentecostal banner

In the first semester of my freshman year at Illinois Wesleyan University I wrote an essay and titled it “Is God a Teddy Bear?” I was exploring the psychological roles of anchoring for personal security in a god and the projection of good and bad attributes onto one’s idea of god. This was based naturally in the different characterizations of gods as judgmental, oppressive, vindictive at one end of the spectrum to loving, generous, and forgiving at the other end. These seem to be tied to personal experiences with parents, leaders, and others, to degrees of stress in environment, and the coping mechanisms we adopt for dealing with them and for understanding ourselves. The result for me was not only an “A” on the paper, but also a crisis in my own faith that lasted throughout the year.

If I was only praying to and worshipping an aspect of myself projected onto an idea of a personal being, there was not much power in my activity. If I was refusing or delaying the mature behavior of taking responsibility for myself and for my own potential, even when connected to other people, then such worship provided no service that could be characterized as healthy, “saving,” or mature. Worshipping oneself, even as a projected self, is a dead end. I began to think of the practices of devotion that I had exercised increasingly during my adolescence as an echo chamber that simply revealed to myself what I was thinking. Obviously I was on the wrong track in planning to be a minister, and I began to think of a career in psychology instead, or perhaps I should return to my earlier interest in anthropology.  The immediate dilemma was practical—my scholarship was tied to my status as a pre-theological student, and IWU had a psychology department which was devoted to behavioral psychology only, with its theoretical foundations in B. F. Skinner, whose work did not inspire me in the least.

I wanted to believe. The means to that end seemed to be retreating, and the awareness of my practical and psychological needs only accelerated the retreat. Even the fact that my own projections were positive, based in loving parents and family, and helpful, intelligent advisors and mentors, did not provide the answer if they were only projections. Relying on the faith of others does not provide a substitute for one’s own faith. My advisor for my work with the Illinois Conference Methodist Youth Fellowship noted that sometimes we “act our way” into belief. We continue to do as much as we know how to do until the ultimate goal becomes real for us. I knew “how to act” but the advice did not deliver me from the circle of my own subjectivity. The college chaplain suggested that the analogy of projection relied not only on a projector but also on a screen; something had to be there to receive the projected image, or something had to be “behind the screen” that was true. While I agreed with the analogical point, it did not construct anything more than an idea of god, not God-as-personally-known-in-the-universe.

I had no idea about what could deliver me from this conundrum, but I continued seeking an answer.

Which John Bell?

09 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Books by Gary Chapman, Citizenship, Events, Learning from mistakes, People, Racial Prejudice

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Books by Gary Chapman, events, life experiences, Memories, Our Land! Our People!, The Trail of Tears

OLOP Cover Photo 3

John Bell was such a popular name in the 1800’s that hundreds of references to that name show up in southern and Midwestern records. Many can be eliminated as related to one another because of birthdates, locations of death, and other indicators that they are not related to the John Bells that are part of our own family, but many remain single references that are unconnected to any other data.

 

We began with confidence in our own closest ancestors with that name, the great-uncles and great-great-father who are buried in the family cemetery near New Salem, Illinois. From where did that Great-great grandfather come? There were other Bells and even John Bells in the immediate vicinity and surrounding counties who could be easily disregarded because there were no plausible family connections.

 

You can imagine my excitement when I found a ‘John Francis Bell’ born in the Cherokee Nation with the same birthdate as the Grandfather John F. Bell, reported by his grandson (our Grandpa Hillmann) to be raised among the Cherokees with twenty-one siblings. Then I found a maternal uncle, James Starr, traditionally responsible for his nephews’ upbringing, with twenty-one children of his own. The name ‘John Bell’ also appeared as one of the youthful protectors (or was it a gang?) of the Cherokee Nation’s eastern border, along with Starr’s own sons and several other relatives and neighbors. These instances provided a connection to a full line of John Bells well-documented in Cherokee records. John Francis Bell also disappeared from Cherokee Nation records in 1848 just after the murder of his father, and just before our John Francis Bell appeared in the New Philadelphia-New Salem area.

 

It was not the case that the records were entirely in agreement with each other. Sometimes two John Bells in the same Bell family appeared in each generation. John Francis Bell had a younger brother named John Martin Bell. They had an uncle named John Adair Bell who had first cousins named John Bell. Often the middle names were not used in separate records.

 

John Adair Bell was the most famous among them since he and his brother Samuel Bell signed the New Echota Treaty with the Federal Government in 1835. John Adair Bell led one of the large detachments of Cherokee people in the 1837-38 Removal, usually called the Trail of Tears. Members of the Bell detachment were mostly residents of the ancient city of Coosawattee in Georgia, and John Adair’s father, and his brothers, including David Henry Bell, and David’s son, John Francis Bell, were probably among its numbers. I must add ‘probably’ because no full listing of the detachment members has been recovered, and other circumstantial information has been assembled that points to their presence.

 

The John Bell who was the grandfather of the grandfather of our grandfather, in other words the father of John Adair Bell, has often been mistakenly identified as the signer of the New Echota Treaty and the leader of the detachment, instead of his son. To add to the confusion, his middle name may or may not be the John ‘Christopher’ Bell, born in Greenville, South Carolina, in May 1, 1782, although that date seems to be firm as the grandfather’s birthdate, so I will use that name for the sake of identification. John C. Bell married Charlotte Adair, the mixed Scot and Cherokee daughter of John Adair (the founder of Adairsville, Georgia), and their children included John Adair, David, Samuel, and Devereaux Jarrett, as well as several other well-documented men and women.

 

John C. Bell’s 1842 Registered Claim clears some additional confusion about his life. He gives reasons for his 1833 move from Coosawattee to Alabama, where his brother Francis Bell was residing in that part of the Cherokee Nation, and the claim clearly indicates that John C.  Bell was ‘white,’ although his family is Indian. John C. Bell is a member of the Cherokee Nation because of his marriage to Charlotte, not because he was born into it. The Georgia legislature’s claim on John C. Bell, later declared unconstitutional by the Federal Court, was a claim on him as a white man and citizen of Georgia. This is interesting because many Cherokee records, dating from around 1900, claim that John C. Bell was half-Scot and half-Cherokee, like his wife. They often say that John C. was the half-blood son of John Bell, the Scotsman, who married a Cherokee woman of the Deer Clan.  This would make John C. commit incest, according to Cherokee tradition, when he married Charlotte Adair, who was also a member of the Deer Clan. I account for this lapse in Our Land! Our People! with the documented incidents later when families in the next generation disregarded clan membership when marrying, as the clan system was breaking down, and people were adopting the English familial system and different definitions of incest, but there was no corroboration of this with regard to John C. Bell and Charlotte Adair, and it is more likely that people later just got confused about which John Bell was which. John C. Bell, a Scot, married a woman of the Deer Clan, Charlotte Adair, and their children, observed the clan traditions and married spouses of the Wolf Clan, or other clans that were not Deer. John C. Bell’s father may have been named John Bell, or he may have been another David Bell; this is where the lines become unclear again, but neither married a Cherokee woman.

 

If I were to rewrite Our Land! Our People! I would consider John C. Bell as a full-blooded Scotsman, still with his Scot accent, who was one among several men who married Cherokee women and were adopted into the Nation. He was a well-known traveler, trader, farmer, and blacksmith who fell in love with a Cherokee woman, who was the daughter of another well-known Scot trader and traveler, John  Adair. That was enough of a challenge for their lives at the time without the additional burden of an accusation of incest.

 

It would have been a lot easier if there were not so many ‘Johns Bells’ in and out of the family.

 

 

Filling In the Aporiae

24 Friday Feb 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Books by Gary Chapman, Cherokee history, Learning from mistakes, People, Words

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Books by Gary Chapman, life experiences, Memories, Names and Titles, Our Land! Our People!, Out of My Hands, Serendipity, The River Flows Both Ways, The Trail of Tears

 

OLOP Cover Photo 3 OOMH TRFBWcover

A Chapman is literally and historically a peddler, often of books as well as other trifles. That is how we began anyway, and I have been continuing the tradition. The first popular books for public consumption were chapbooks. Today we would call them pamphlets or paperbacks. One of my favorite Seventeenth Century chapbooks, held in the Lowenbach Collection in Chicago when I was the curator, was titled “Cures for the Plague,” and of course none of the cures would have worked.

One of the advantages of travelling around the country peddling my books is finding out where I have made mistakes in writing them. This has got to be as true when a person writes historical fiction as when writing legitimate history, if that person is concerned about getting as close to the truth as possible, both in telling a good story and in telling an accurate one.

I have known that the stories I have written in my retirement years have been about histories that will never be totally accurate, but are important nonetheless. I have tried to write my father’s early life stories so that they would be interesting and faithful to his spirit, my son-in-law’s and his brother’s emigration from Vietnam and Cambodia so that the stories would honor the ancestors who made their lives possible, and my wife’s Cherokee ancestry so that more contemporary people would appreciate the real sacrifices that have been made in building our country and the values that we should try to serve, even when they have not been served well in the past.

Talking to other people who know some of these backgrounds can be humbling. The soldier who served in Vietnam told me that he doesn’t want to listen to someone who wasn’t there, and he doesn’t want to hear the stories of his enemies, and I can understand his reasons. The family member doesn’t want to have the privacy of her dear deceased grandparents invaded, and I sympathize with that motivation as well, although our grandparents had nothing to be ashamed of and  much to make them proud. The active member of the Cherokee Nation doesn’t need another white man making money off of his people. I can only reassure him that I am not making any money.

I am learning and correcting as I go. I am finding out much that I could not have if I had not published. I am discovering that it is good to write on matters in which you have little prior knowledge or experience, because you begin to fill the holes in your own ignorance.

 

Where Was Chicken Trotter and When?

24 Friday Feb 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Books by Gary Chapman, Cherokee history, Citizenship, Death, Events, Learning from mistakes, People, Racial Prejudice, Small town life, Suffering, Travel

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Books by Gary Chapman, events, life experiences, Our Land! Our People!, Serendipity, The Trail of Tears

OLOP Cover Photo 3

Recently I was presenting Our Land! Our People! at the Talbot Library and Museum in Colcord, Oklahoma. I did not expect to find much in the little town of Colcord, Oklahoma, but I was wrong. Talbot publishes some significant works on Cherokee history, and their facsimile editions of the 1843 Claims were illuminating on the John Bell family in several respects. For the first time I could actually see the English and Cherokee handwriting of four key family members—John Bell, the father, and three of his Bell sons—John Adair, David Henry, and Devereaux Jarrett (better known as Chicken Trotter).

The 1843 Claims record unreimbursed losses prior to the Cherokee Removal in 1838-39, usually due to thefts or confiscations of property by non-Cherokee white men. They were submitted to recover those losses, and they had to be witnessed by at least two other reputable citizens. The Bells served as reporters of their own claims, witnesses to others, and, in the case of Chicken Trotter, an official recorder of several dozen claims by others.

Chicken Trotter’s reports are some of the clearest and most beautifully written in all of the volumes. Deciphering other writing was sometimes impossible, but “D. J. Bell” provided some of the best. That surprised me, because in other places he is recorded by the simple notation “his mark,” and I never found evidence that he had attended any of the Cherokee schools. It is no wonder that he didn’t sign his work “Devereaux Jarrett” but “D. J. Bell” works well, and there is no competitor for the use of those initials among the Bell family. David Henry Bell would be “D. H.” and he just signed as “David Bell.” As these claims were recorded in the first few months of the year, there was enough time for Chicken Trotter to get back to Texas in order to work with Governor Sam Houston to conclude the Treaty of Bird’s Fort on September 29, 1843, which ended the four years of conflict between the Texas government and several tribes. Conflict followed the second Texas governor, Mirabeau Lamar’s attempt to eradicate the native population. Sam Houston, the first governor, an official Cherokee himself,  had tried to grant reservation status to the Cherokees among others. From one administration to the next, the policies reversed from welcoming people of different cultures to trying to destroy them, and back again.

Chicken Trotter, according to the records of the Texas Cherokee population, had come to Texas during the mid-1830’s, when Chief Duwali (or Bowle, as he was also known), led the tribe. They were and continue to be located in Rusk, Cherokee and Smith Counties, as the areas are known today. When in 1839 Governor Lamar and the Texas militia killed Duwali and at least half of the tribe in a genocidal attack, Chicken Trotter soon became one of the remaining leaders.

Because of the Texas Cherokee account I rewrote Our Land! Our People! removing Chicken Trotter from Alabama, where his father lived, and from the Bell Detachment on the Trail of Tears, and putting him in Texas through the late 1830’s. After publishing, I found evidence that Chicken Trotter served his brothers in the Bell Detachment as a treasurer paying bills along the route. If he accompanied the group the whole way, he was travelling to Indian Territory from September 1838 through early January 1839, before returning to Texas in time to be in danger during the massacre of Duwali and the Cherokees in July.

When a group of Cherokees, including John Adair Bell and David Bell travelled to Texas in September and October of 1845, accompanied by the diarist and newspaper reporter William Quesenbury, they visited the northeast Texas Cherokee settlement, and Chicken Trotter was there leading the group, having established a community farm, including watermelons and pumpkins as Quesenbury notes, because some of their horses got loose and tore up the patch.

In 1848, Chicken Trotter was again in Indian Territory, joining his brother Sam and other Cherokees planning a journey to California to prospect for gold. Sam died on the way but Chicken Trotter and his wife Juliette got there before returning to their people in Texas a year or so later. There is no record about his success or failure in finding gold.

Chicken Trotter was a busy man, travelling back and forth quickly in days when travel was difficult. Maybe that is how he acquired his name.

In and Out of the Delivery Room

13 Monday Feb 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Events, Faith, Health, Learning from mistakes

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events, life experiences, Memories, Synchronicity

Chicago skyline 1970

We were anticipating the birth of our first child and preparing for it by taking classes in the Lamaze method of natural childbirth, as were other families in the Chicago Theological Seminary student community. Our obstetrician, Dr. James Jones, was popular in our Chicago Southside neighborhood. His office was always packed, yet he had time for each of his patients. He was a tall, handsome, personable African-American gentleman. No wonder his patients adored him. He also made time to fly to Haiti regularly to donate his services to expectant mothers there.

With Lamaze comes the expectation that husbands will be assisting their wives throughout labor and delivery, and Chicago had a law on the books banning husbands from the delivery room. We made a loud protest to the City Council, and the law was suspended. Having assisted in large animal births and trained in emergency human delivery practices, I had a vivid sense of what I could expect in the delivery room, and the Lamaze classes refreshed my previous experience with movies of deliveries with the aid of the Lamaze method. Jan and I had agreed that we would use Lamaze as much as we could, but we would not be afraid of using anesthesia if that proved necessary. Dr. Jones was on board with those ideas.

The due date was April 20, or so. Early in the week the city reversed its position and again banned men from the delivery room. The case went to court.

During the week of April 30th, the sleeplessness of end-of-term pregnancy was accompanied by the University of Chicago campus demonstrations following the killing of students at Kent State. An all-day and all-night vigil continued for the next week in the open lawns just half a block away from us.

Our first baby was typically late in coming, so we still had hope that a ruling in our favor would come out in time. One week overdue and Dr. Jones was gone to Haiti for a week. Two weeks overdue, with Dr. Jones due back the next day, we were just hoping that the baby would come out, sooner rather than later.

It was Mother’s Day, May 10, 1970, a beautiful sunny day. Our next-door neighbors in the apartment house, Sid and Arnie, were planning to make dandelion wine. We decided to help by picking blossoms on the Midway Plaisance lawns where the dandelions flourished. One way or another we were going to induce the coming of this baby.  Sid was a nurse at Chicago Lying-In Hospital nearby where we were planning to go. Sure enough, while we were picking dandelions, Jan experienced her first labor pains. Dr. Jones was due t in the next few hours, and the court was due to make its ruling.

Jan’s labor turned into a twenty-four hour ordeal. We went through all the breathing patterns. Jan was spent; so was I for that matter, with less justification of course. Dr. Jones was in the hospital, delivering a baby for Mrs. And Mr. Dick Gregory (the comedian), whose room was across the hall from ours, and filled with baskets of flowers. No court ruling came until a few days later, after Alicia was finally delivered, when the court ruled in favor of husbands in the delivery room. Too late for me. I was too tired to care anyway.  Jan had been whisked away. There was nothing for me to do except worry and pray about for my overly tired wife.

Jan remembers seeing Dr. Jones enter the room wearing a neck brace. (It was heavy duty bringing all of those babies into the world.) A few minutes later out came our baby. Later they all emerged from the delivery room, with my exhausted Jan holding a red-faced bald-headed, one-eyebrowed baby, who was not yet, but soon would be, the most beautiful little girl in the world.

I still wonder why the men of the city council thought it was their duty to keep other men out of the delivery room, but for us more important matters needed to be addressed—diapers, feedings, schedules, and finding our way as new parents.

After the Failed Bi-Pap Experiment

07 Tuesday Feb 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Disabilities, Health, Learning from mistakes, Uncategorized

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events, Serendipity, Synchronicity

 

psspectacledowl1

From their own positive experiences, several people were helpful and encouraging to me about the use of C-Pap or Bi-Pap machines, and I am grateful for that. We learn along the way much about ourselves, minds and bodies, and sometimes we learn that one size does not fit all.

Shortly after my last blog report, I learned more about my failure. I had “complied” in every respect with the advice to use my Bi-Pap machine, averaging seven hours of use per night at the end. The result was paradoxical. I was suffocating, and my blood oxygen level was declining, resulting in the 70% levels referenced in my last report, and increasing unstable angina during the night. I began with a moderate obstructive apnea, aggravated by chronic sinus problems. I ended with a serious central apnea, in which the connection between brain and breathing diminished. That is not desirable. I asked that question when the process began, “Does the use of a C-Pap machine sometimes replace the body’s own natural automatic impulses to breathe?” and I was told “No; that does not happen.” As it turns out, in special cases, it does. I am special.

Maybe it has something to do with the odd electrical wiring of my heart, which has two blocked fascicles, the electrophysiologist tells me. That has probably been the case almost all of my life, and it is not easy or safe to change. The nerve blockage at least complicates the issue of brain to heart and pulmonary system operation. I am all for easier solutions.

Finally, I was told to stop using the Bi-Pap device entirely. After a few nights I returned to the earlier pattern—no central apnea, and moderate obstructive apnea. Meanwhile I had gone to a dentist who was trained in fitting “oral appliances.”   (She was very kind and sympathetic.) The process is similar to fitting a set of dentures or braces—molds are taken of the existing teeth. A device is prepared that covers both upper and lower teeth, and the covers are connected so that the lower jaw can be gradually moved forward, using the upper and lower teeth as the anchors. Moving the lower jaw and tongue forward opens the airway in the throat. Combined with simple inserts for expanding the nostrils, this old “mouth breather” suddenly became a nose breather with expanded access to my windpipe. Adapting to the device was relatively simple, compared to the Bi-Pap machine. The oral appliance fits securely, so there is no problem with ever-shifting masks. The oral appliance is also very quiet. Gradually over the past four months the airway space has enlarged from my natural relaxed position to 7 mm larger in diameter. The resulting beneficial impact on apnea has been substantial.

I returned the BiPap machine. No hard feelings. Someone else will benefit from it—maybe even you. But if you feel like it is trying to suffocate you, even when the technicians increase the settings for the machine to work harder, it probably is.

Getting the Lead Out

04 Saturday Feb 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Events, Farm, Gullibility, Health, House, Learning from mistakes, People

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events, life experiences, Memories, Serendipity

paxton-chapman-farmhouse

My father was inhabiting his house by himself, after Mother’s death, and it was time to simplify things, like fancy window dressings and shelves of collectibles gathering dust. A few years passed before we arrived at a stage when my one visit a month could provide just enough time to sweep and dust and finish laundry, so that he would have an easier time doing what he needed to do by himself. Part of that process was replacing the sheer curtains and drapes with mini-blinds. My brother generously supplied the mini-blinds for sixteen large double-hung windows. They looked neat and they were versatile for providing light when needed and privacy when it was needed.

After ten years there by himself, and the loss of his driver’s license, the day finally came when he could no longer live there. It was a sad day, and we had to stop at the end of the lane for him to take a long last look, before we moved on to Burlington, where he would live at my house.

The question remained—what would we do with the property? Larry Schwing had worked with my father for years, and he had gradually assumed more of the responsibility for the farm until he was the full-time tenant farmer. The income from the farm would accumulate and provide what was needed for my father’s eventual move to assisted living and then nursing care. The house could contribute in the same way. We cleared the house of furnishings, held a sale of the items that would no longer be needed, and prepared for renters. The Larry Magelitz family arrived just when the house was ready. It would provide a comfortable home for the couple and their two little boys. Their life there went well for their first several months, until routine blood tests showed warning levels for lead in the little boys. It was a small indication, but there is no safe level for lead in children, and we were all upset that we had exposed them to danger in the old house.

We arranged for lead testing throughout the house. There were many painted surfaces, plenty of places where peeling paint and other materials could have been the source, but none of them showed a positive test for lead. Finally, the relatively new mini-blinds were tested, and the surprise came. They were saturated with lead, and the dust from their painted surfaces showed the positive results we had been searching for. The new mini-blinds from China were the source. There was no inspection or restriction of lead on anything that was being imported in the country. We quickly stripped the house of every set of blinds and sent them to the landfill. After a thorough cleaning, the Magelitz family was able to live there until a new job took them away. Another young family soon took their place, and, happily, they could enjoy the house for eleven years without fear of lead contamination. My parents always enjoyed the young families that lived nearby as their neighbors. We knew that they blessed the use of their home for these families and would want them to live there in safety.

The Nightmare of Talking Money

04 Saturday Feb 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Church, Citizenship, Events, guns, Learning from mistakes, People, Racial Prejudice, Words

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events, life experiences, Synchronicity

dock at sunset

The nightmare began when the court declared that “money is speech.” It was a variation of the old saying that “money talks.” The door opened for many wealthy people to set up and use pseudo tax-exempt non-profit organizations to take part in partisan campaigns. Then that idea spread into the churches. Individuals who wanted to endorse candidates for office funneled money through tax-exempt churches for partisan support, expanding the cash available that was unreportable and unaccountable to public interests. This was all in the name of the First Amendment.

A candidate appeared who had his own wealth, who could go where he wanted, stay where he wanted, and say what he wanted. He lied often, long, and loudly, and captured an extraordinary share of media attention with his outrageous antics, and he didn’t need to raise funds from anyone else in the ordinary course of campaigning. Wealthy people could go elsewhere and spend even more to prop up candidates who would do their bidding and who would be accountable to them personally. The singular wealthy candidate was just another form of “money speaking,” since he could not only use his own resources, but he could use his unusual platform to increase his own resources without needing to answer to anyone else, reveal his conflicts of interest, or follow the customary ethics of transparency and disclosure. His party shielded him from investigation and exposure of foreign entanglements in the hope that they could carry out their own platforms of experimental political change and revolution while he was in charge.

The candidate pretended to be the voice of common men overlooked and ignored by the rapid transformations of global economies. Wealth sought the cheapest labor and the highest rates of return without regard to the public interest where goods were manufactured or where they were sold. His decisions, once he was elected, simply cleared the way for more aggressive domination of the multitudes by moneyed interests. Money continued to talk with a louder voice. Soon it was understood that speech was not free in any form, not in the press, not in electronic media, not in the Internet, who were all controlled by a small concentration of special interests. The old principles of the First Amendment were hollow. Personal freedoms were identified with the freedom to force others to obey the conscience of the person who chooses to discriminate, instead of the freedoms of the person who is the target of discrimination. People with money had the freedom to oppress people without money.

The only Constitutional Amendment that would could not be abrogated in any form was the Second Amendment, and the more weapons and the more powerful weapons that one possessed, the more political power a person had. The resulting condition of a heavily armed population was neither “well-regulated” nor controlled by any police or military force serving the common interest. Private military units and paid bodyguards became the norm for those who could afford them. The random, careless, and accidental use of arms to injure and kill accelerated to become the leading cause of death among all people. People had developed the habit of scapegoating strangers and different ethnic groups; finally they turned on each other, neighbor against neighbor.

Society descended into chaos. The social contract was broken. What began as the security of wealth became the reinstatement of the “law of the jungle,” and life returned to being the “nasty, mean, poor, brutish, and short” life (as Thomas Hobbes had described it) of the “good old days.”

These were thoughts of the middle of the night when the mind entertains what darkness hides. The dream does not have to end this way. The creative mind can move the ending in another direction entirely as the day dawns.

Threatened with Expulsion

31 Tuesday Jan 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Church, Citizenship, Events, Faith, Growing up, Learning from mistakes, People

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A License to Preach, events, life experiences, Memories, Serendipity, Vietnam and Cambodia

 

eagle head

Appointed by the Illinois Wesleyan Student Senate in my senior year to chair the Religious Activities Commission, I presided over the committee that organized the weekly chapel series, two annual lectureships by theologians or religious leaders, two symposia on current events related to the world of religion, and coordinated several volunteer groups, including the Student Christian Movement and the Community Tutoring Program. It was my third year serving on the commission in those latter capacities, and it was turning out to be a challenging year.

 

We determined that the Fall 1967 symposium would address the issues raised by the Vietnam War, and it was customary when dealing with controversial issues to have different sides well-represented. An expert in the history of Indochina agreed to come to provide background. Several of the IWU faculty agreed to serve on discussion panels. To present the case for the continuing conduct of the war we found a U.S. Defense Department analyst, Craig Spence. The cost of bringing these experts to campus had eaten most of our available budget. I asked for more funds.

 

I began to promote the plans for the symposium, using an art student volunteer for poster design, and, among other efforts, publishing the key documents that represented the sides of the conflict, the Gulf of Tonkin resolution, various statements by North and South Vietnamese leaders and assemblies, and considerations of Just War theory and applications by ethicists. These documents were left in several areas of the campus for students who were interested.

 

Four weeks until the symposium, when we still had not secured a bona fide critic of the war, the Dean of Students summoned me to her office. She informed me that I should not secure someone to present a criticism of the war, I should stop distributing propaganda representing our enemy’s viewpoints, and, if I continued to undermine the reputation of the university that she had worked so hard to maintain, I would be expelled. Anything else that she said during the minutes that followed fell on deaf ears as I prepared my case. I was not alone in planning this program; other students and faculty were just as committed to it as I was. If the university was doing its job, it would consider different positions as objectively as possible. If she thought she could threaten me into submission on this, she was mistaken.

 

The next day I learned that no additional funds would be available. I called Staughton Lynd, a well-known academic and activist, who had written and spoken extensively about the war, and explained the situation to him. We could provide a modest honorarium, and I would drive to Chicago to bring him to campus and return him to his home after the presentations and discussions. He agreed to come.

 

I confided in the college chaplain and two other faculty members about the threats from the Dean of Students, and received reassurances from them, but I didn’t see any value in alarming the other students who were involved in planning the conference until and unless they experienced the same threats.

 

The symposium occurred with high participation, full reporting by the Bloomington Pantagraph as well as the Wesleyan Argus, and Staughton Lynd made a thorough presentation to a packed ballroom at the Memorial Student Center. Craig Spence said that the war would probably last another thirty years, if we intended to win it, and an important benefit could be the destruction of China’s nuclear arsenal. If it was evaluated as a debate no one won the symposium, but as a fair representation of views it accomplished its purpose. I mostly remember the extraordinary five hours on the road between Chicago and Bloomington, learning from Staughton Lynd, who shared his experiences with the human rights crisis in the United States as well as opposition to the war in Vietnam.

 

I didn’t hear any more from the Dean of Students, but a few weeks after the symposium, the Dean of Men called me into his office, and he warned me about the dangers of the passive aggressive anger that I had displayed in the fall. He didn’t know that I had that in me.

 

The Surprising Loss of My Virginity

30 Monday Jan 2017

Posted by chaplines2014 in Death, Events, Faith, Growing up, Gullibility, Health, Innocence, Learning from mistakes, Suffering

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events, life experiences, Memories, Serendipity

3 Owls

The fall of my sophomore year at Illinois Wesleyan began with high expectations. I had finished my freshman year with straight A’s. I had a steady girlfriend.  I was newly elected president of the Methodist Student Movement. I was enjoying my classes including “Greek II,” “Creative Writing,” and “Biology,” which I hadn’t gotten to take in high school. And I was preparing for the next summer to be spent in Mexico with a Catholic student work project. But after the first few weeks I began to suffer sharp pains in my back, which only grew worse as I grew weaker every day. Finally, early on one weekday morning in October, I made it into the dormitory bathroom with severe pain in my bladder and penis, pouring bloody urine into the toilet until I passed out. When I awoke and the blood was just oozing, I dressed and headed for the campus health service. I thought I was dying.

Nurse Velma Arnold looked at me knowingly as I explained what had happened. “You have VD,” she said. It took a minute for that to soak in, before I said, “But that is impossible.” And she said, “That’s what they all say. Obviously I can’t help you. You will have to see Dr. Cunningham. I will need to know who your sexual partners have been.” It was hard to make her believe that I couldn’t answer the last question, since I hadn’t had any. She finally let me go anyway.

Later that day, still in misery, I saw Dr. Cunningham, who seemed to take a broader view of the matter. He recommended that I drink as much beer as I could while I was waiting to see Dr. Killough, the urologist. He suspected that I was experiencing kidney stones or a urinary tract infection or both, which is what it turned out to be. Having never drunk an alcoholic beverage, and being 19, under the legal drinking age, on a campus where possession of alcohol was considered cause for expulsion, I was not inclined to take his advice about the beer. He didn’t give me a prescription for beer, but he did give me an antibiotic sulfa drug. By the time I saw Dr. Killough, a day or two later, and he confirmed the double diagnosis with a cystoscope, I was also beginning to show the hives of an allergic reaction to the sulfa drug. The cystoscope, experienced regularly during the next several months, along with a few days in the hospital over Christmas break, removed every ounce of false modesty that I had developed in my 19 years. I had discovered more about my own genitalia than I ever wanted to know.

 

 

I was not completely clear of infection or signs of kidney stones until the next summer. The plans for a Mexican work trip cancelled, I wished my Catholic friends and girlfriend farewell, took a summer course in the history of Christianity, and looked for something else to do.

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