Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Powderfinger




Look out, Mama,
there's a white boat comin' up the river
With a big red beacon, and a flag,
and a man on the rail

I think you'd better call John,
'Cause it don't look like they're here
to deliver the mail

And it's less than a mile away
I hope they didn't come to stay
It's got numbers on the side and a gun
And it's makin' big waves.

Daddy's gone, my brother's
out hunting in the mountains
Big John's been drinking
since the river took Emmy-Lou

So the powers that be left
me here to do the thinkin'
And I just turned twenty-two
I was wonderin' what to do

And the closer they got,
The more those feelings grew.

Daddy's rifle in my hand felt reassurin'
He told me, Red means run, son,
numbers add up to nothin'

But when the first shot hit the dock
I saw it comin'

Raised my rifle to my eye
Never stopped to wonder why.
Then I saw black,
And my face splashed in the sky.

Shelter me from the powder and the finger
Cover me with the thought that pulled the trigger
Think of me as one you'd never figured

Would fade away so young
With so much left undone
Remember me to my love, I know I'll miss her.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Good News/Bad News

I retained power during Hurricane Sandy. However, I'm still too tired due to thyroid to post. Writing may be sporadic until I am properly treated.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Conditional Love

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
_____________

Conditional Love

Until I got sick, our family was the spitting image of saccharine wholesomeness. A picture that still hangs on the wall in my parents’ house shows a family portrait in happier days. Everyone is smiling with great gusto, flashing expressions that would have appeared forced had they not been genuine. Even my father seems relaxed, beaming at the camera. For once, I appear comfortable in front of the lens, not introverted and shy, seeking to collapse into myself.

Twenty years later, the change has been prominent. I’m not sure that I would consider our family dysfunctional as much as battle-weary. We’ve had our moments of histrionics and our quirks, for sure. My father is a chronic worrier and inclined to catastrophize even the smallest of problems. It is a condition I have inherited, to some extent, either genetically or by osmosis.

I am very fortunate to have had the parents I did. My mother’s brothers are thoroughly self-absorbed. They’ve never felt like real people to me, this because they’ve never been willing to show a broad range of personality. One of my uncles is always right and never wrong. If he is challenged, he terminates conversation immediately. He wants to be validated, but if he doesn’t receive it, he can’t tolerate being challenged.

My other uncle appears to have a pleasing, friendly personality, at least at first. He is, however, a name-dropper and social climber. The charm is all for show, and often to gain some material ends. His business dealings at times have bordered on unethical. Once, years ago, he was desperate for political power and tried to set himself up as a candidate for elective office. This was, of course, until his own mistakes and character flaws eliminated him as a plausible politician.

Both are heavy drinkers and likely functional alcoholics. Much of their personalities result from the place of the birth, small-town Alabama of the 1950’s. The Fifties were a time in which masculinity revolved around being tough and not showing weakness. Nowadays, you’d refer to the both of them as geeks. In the hyper masculine, tough guy culture of their upbringing, this distinction automatically rendered a person unable to conform, forever an outsider.

Their God is money. I do not want to seem uncharitable in levying that charge. My uncles grew up in borderline poverty, constantly without enough money. The psychological impact made enough of an impression that they were convinced they needed to make money by any means necessary. Or, as Scarlett O’Hara put it in Gone with the Wind,

As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again!

I remember most the forced family gatherings. Thanksgiving dinners, in particular, were an experience akin to waterboarding. One uncle and his wife always hosted the gathering and prepared the meal. The two of them were sure to be at least somewhat intoxicated before everyone showed up. The blood feud always resumed when my other uncle entered the house with his own wife in tow.

Before long, accusations and counter-charges flew across the table. As a child, I could pick up on the thick tension in the room, knowing something was very wrong without having words to describe it. My uncles have never resolved their grievances and I sincerely doubt they ever will. They’re too old and set in their ways now. Most of the arguments were petty, often about the amount of power each presumably had in the Republican Party.

I’m glad my mother managed to survive this noxious atmosphere. If you want my honest opinion, I think that mental illness of one kind or another is present across the board. Genetically, it is rampant in the family, and knowing what I do now, I recognize their denial for what it is. They cannot own up to what they have, so they refuse to seek treatment. It is their unhealthy conduct that has led me to be open, truthful, and forthright with my own manic depression.

My Grandmother used guilt to pull her warring children together one more time. She was the only person who could have done it. Following her death, the custom has not been resumed. My mother tolerated the behavior of her brothers and their wives for a time, but their attitudes eventually led her to mostly disassociate herself entirely from certain members.

When it happened, I felt satisfied and proud of my mother for being courageous enough to make the difficult, but necessary decision. She put up with family drama about ten times longer than I ever could. As I study the dynamics present, I see conditional love and denial in great proportion. The jury’s still out as to how I make sense of it all.

When my grandmother died, I didn’t grieve her passing much. I was the fair haired child who could do no wrong. My sisters could do no right. I find it strange that such a strong woman would favor male children over female children. Eventually, I came to resent having to constantly defend my sisters while being placed upon a pedestal. I never asked to be placed on high and did not find it flattering.

My uncles made a few lame, half-hearted gestures to establish a relationship with me. One took me hunting, a practice I felt no need to continue. The other paid to have me flown down shortly before Christmas. We went fishing, then fried the recent catch in peanut oil on the boat with a portable grill. Beyond these gestures, we had no real relationship and do not now.

I can only remember their behavior while intoxicated. The two become extremely silly, even childish. But I do not consider them to be authentic people. They are much too repressed and neurotic for that.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Quote of the Week


"The difference between a moral man and a man of honor is that the latter regrets a discreditable act, even when it has worked and he has not been caught."- H.L. Mencken

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Saturday Video



Ohh...
Can anybody see the light
Where the morn meets the dew and the tide rises
Did you realize, no one can see inside your view?
Did you realize, for why this sight belongs to you?

Ohh...
Just set aside your fears of life
Through this sole desire
Done it warning
Done it now
This ain't real

On in this side
Done it warning
Done it now
This ain't real
On in this side

Done it warning
Done it now
This ain't real

Done it warning
Done it now
This ain't real
On in this side

Can anybody see the light
Where the morn meets the dew and the tide rises?
Did you realize, no one can ever see inside your view?
Did you realize, for why this sight belongs to you?

Friday, October 26, 2012

Step Inside Love



Step inside love, let me find you a place
Where all the cares of the day
Will be carried away
By the smile on your face
We are together now and forever
Come what may
Step inside love and stay

Step inside love
Step inside love
Step inside love
I want you to stay

You look tired love, let me turn down the light
Come in out of the cold
Rest your head on my shoulder
And love me tonight
I'll always be here if you should need me
Night and day
Step inside love and stay

Step inside love
Step inside love
Step inside love
I want you to stay

When you leave me, say you'll see me again
For I know in my heart
We will not be apart
And I'll miss you till then
We'll be together now and forever
Come what may
Step inside love and stay

Step inside love
Step inside love
Step inside love
I want you to stay

Thursday, October 25, 2012

Health Update

This morning I visited my third separate endocrinologist in the DC area. It pleases me greatly to report that I finally received a diagnosis that was in keeping with my symptoms. I only wish the office of the doctor was more accessible to public transportation, as I very deliberately do not own a car. Insurance isn't going to cover as much of the total cost as I would like, but to receive actual answers instead of nothing at all is worth the increased bill.

It has been determined that, indeed, I do have a thyroid condition. The gland itself is very swollen. To determine whether the thyroid gland is under-producing or over-producing hormone, I will undergo a test in two weeks. In keeping with the protocol, I will consume radioactive iodine in pill form, then have its effects measured throughout the day. I must arrive at 8:30 am two days in a row.  

It is believed that my condition is caused by taking high doses of Lithium. Lithium has been extremely effective as a mood stabilizer for bipolar disorder. I credit it with keeping me out of mania for the last four years. I won't stop taking it, but the hefty daily dose has begun to negatively effect other parts of my body. Side effects like these are unavoidable sometimes, especially with powerful psychotropic medication. The effect on the body, with time, can be an issue.

Keeping this blog regularly updated is a goal I keep for myself every day. Unfortunately, for the duration, fatigue and other side effects have made me too weak to regularly produce content. When I can do it, I will. When I can't, I'll rest. Those are the only choices I have. Thank you, readers, for being patient with me.

I'm fast approaching the end of the book, but may need to delay my end date by a few weeks. Being effectively treated is the highest priority I now hold for myself.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Apologies

Medical appointments today. More tomorrow.

Today is my birthday, as well. I'm not sure how one is supposed to feel at 32.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Harmless Fun

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
_____________

Harmless Fun

For each of the last two years of high school, my destination was always the same immediately following dismissal. After parking my car in a vacant lot next door, I walked up the steps to a highly elevated front porch, where one of my classmates lived. Often the family’s two erstwhile cats had decapitated a small animal or two, usually squirrels, leaving their severed heads on the floor mat.

After disposing of the latest feline love offering, the glass pipe came out and smoking began. I was a novice at first, but wanted to seem as though I knew what I was doing. My cover was blown almost instantly, but no one gave me a hard time about it. I did not know the proper way to light the bowl. A fellow participant corrected me early on, as before I’d confused the bowl for the carb. A carb regulates airflow in and out of the pipe. Lighting it does absolutely nothing.

Her parents always returned home from work a couple hours later. We finished up well before they arrived. I can’t remember now how I got hooked into this network of friends. Because I’d always had trouble forming friendships, I graciously accepted the offer and appreciated the fellowship. They were kind and non-judgmental at a time where many of my peers were the exact opposite.

One of the reasons I was there was because of my feelings for the host of the party. She kindly swatted away my advances, one by one. Serially monogamous, I got the feeling that she didn’t really know what she wanted out of a boyfriend. Few of us did at that time. My feelings faded away eventually.

My first creative writing efforts were often introduced to those present on the front porch. Though I consider them juvenile and a little embarrassing now, they do show great promise. The people with whom I kept company were not academic high-achievers as I was. If anything, they were classic underachievers, the sort of kids we called “alternative” then, although that phrase doesn’t mean now what it meant then.

I was a huge Tori Amos fan at the time, as was she. Her older sister left behind the sheet music to several songs. A guitarist, the complicated chords of each song were beyond my skill. Around the same time, Tori became something of a gay icon. I saw her in concert twice, surrounded by queer men and women. Most people passing time on the front porch were as interested in music as I was, but mostly disinterested in the same bland, formulaic Top 40 that ruled the charts.

Bluff Park is a self-contained community within the city limits of Hoover. As the name would suggest, it is at a higher elevation than the rest of the city. The last vestiges of blue collar life, or at least lower middle class life can be found there. Bluff Park kids stick together through thick and thin. I still remember watching packs of girls walking the streets together after school, talking and gossiping.

Earlier in high school, I’d befriended a fellow guitarist from the same community. I was just learning the instrument, but was picking things up quickly. Both of his parents smoked inside the house. Now, I’d find the practice intolerable, but in those days I smoked copiously myself, so it didn’t really seem to matter. I will say that, should I sleep over, I smelled like I’d been out to a club all night.

His mother was an alcoholic, or at least a heavy drinker. She made passes at me, even though I was fifteen and still several years underage. She didn’t seem to discriminate much with her affections, since she also flirted shamelessly with my father when he arrived to pick me up. My friend appeared to ignore this as much as possible. I suppose, under the circumstances, I would have tried to do the same thing.

I remember heading for the showers the instant I arrived home, to wash off the cigarette smell. Not yet having much confidence or experience around those to whom I was attracted, my attentions often turned to his mother. Did she really want me, or did she only want the attention? She was clearly quite fond of me because of my musical ability, but due to my young age, I wasn’t sure what to do with the mixed messages.

As it turns out, I never pushed too hard. I was intimidated enough by women my age. Her husband was always present, only a room or two away. I wondered if he knew about his wife’s preoccupations. They were flagrant, so I imagine he must have registered complaints at some time or another. Though speculation is rarely constructive or helpful, I wondered then and wonder now if they had an open relationship.

Monday, October 22, 2012

Patterns

I saw something of myself in you
Too much, in fact

The way you preened
before a mirror
talked a little too loudly

Projectile vomited
your life story
in the direction
of anyone within earshot

They only rolled their eyes
clucked their tongues
made circular motions
around their temples

when you weren't looking

I tried not to notice

the intoxicated swagger
you seemed to mistake
for self-confidence

I never pointed out
the brightly lit stage
you strode upon

was held up by
contradiction and condescension

I knew
that myths and fairy tales
kept your heart beating

Thus I wasn't surprised
to find the death
of your last panacea

covered in your own blood

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Quote of the Week


"A mature person is one who does not think only in absolutes, who is able to be objective even when deeply stirred emotionally, who has learned that there is both good and bad in all people and all things, and who walks humbly and deals charitably with the circumstances of life, knowing that in this world no one is all-knowing and therefore all of us need both love and charity."- Eleanor Roosevelt

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Saturday Video


Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby.
Ain't nothing like the real thing.
Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby.
Ain't nothing like the real thing.

I got your picture hangin' on the wall,
But it can't see or come to me when I call your name.
I realize it's just a picture in a frame.

I read your letters when you're not near me,
But they don't move me, and they don't groove me
Like when I hear your sweet voice whispering in my ear.

I play the game, a fantasy.
I pretend I'm not in reality.
I need the shelter of your arms to comfort me.

I got some memories to look back on
And though they help me when you're gone,
I'm well aware nothin' can take the place of you being there.
No other sound is quite the same as your name.
No touch can do half as much to make me feel better,
So let's get together.

Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby.
Ain't nothing like the real thing.
Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby.
Ain't nothing like the real thing.

Friday, October 19, 2012

San Antonio

IMG_20121019_093355IMG_20121018_144545IMG_20121018_144308IMG_20121018_144302IMG_20121018_141753IMG_20121018_141602
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San Antonio, a set on Flickr.

Health Update

Pardon for minimal posting. My thyroid is screwed up. It will be Thursday before I even begin to get a preliminary diagnosis. Endocrinologist are over-scheduled these days. Baby boomers with diabetes are their primary clientele, and they never hurt for business.

I'll save a lengthy description of what's going on with me for later.

I've been forcing myself to write the minimum until my strength returns. Properly spaced, the book now runs to 163 pages. As I've read through each chapter, I recognize I've repeated myself a few times. But this is the domain of an editor. I first believed I'd never write 100 pages, and now I'm wondering what the optimum length should be. I've packed an awful lot into this, the first draft.

Have a good weekend, everyone!

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

False Prophets

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
_____________

False Prophets

After waiting for eight hours in the ER, I was finally triaged and made to sit in a room. The hospital was the best in town and I'd made a conscious decision to choose it. Quality of care from hospital to hospital varies considerably, based primarily on available financial resources. Unfortunately, all the beds were taken, so I was transferred to another one. In accordance with the law, I had to be placed somewhere, whether it was in the next country over or the next state. Where I was headed was based entirely upon chance.

A bed opened up at the worst hospital in the city, one that was in danger of completely coming apart. I wanted to leave almost immediately upon being admitted, but I needed help and couldn’t turn down any offer of assistance. Psychiatric wards are not my favorite places to be, especially because I’ve experienced multiple lengthy stays over time.

Upon entrance, the patients reacted to me in unexpected ways. Some treated me like The Messiah. The label was not deserved, nor sought. My mistakes and limitations were no different than theirs. Mine came attached with the splendor of a college education, a loftier vocabulary, and a few more exotic road trips. Even had I tried, I wouldn't have been able to convince the most mentally ill of my mortal status.

I noticed, rather quickly, that they asked to borrow my clothing. They coveted things that had touched my body, lusted after them like talismans, as though they somehow had power and charm. There was a touch of the supernatural about it, as though they believed that wearing my clothes would make my own supposed superior traits transfer onto them. I imagined they worshiped them, placed them before altars, and whispered incantations before bed.

I went through the motions as I had many times before. I yet again unenthusiastically watercolored a cheap piece of balsa wood in the shape of a fish. While doing so, I made unsatisfying small talk with fellow patients. Social class and educational opportunity kept me from the company I sought, forcing me to skim across the surface instead with unsubstantial small talk.

I never quite understood the point of occupational therapy. Nor did I understand the choice of words. This activity wasn't exactly labor-intensive, nor did it promote any sort of helpful exercise that I could reckon. What it did to was occupy patients' time while the staff took smoke breaks and drank copious amounts of diet soft drinks.

We filed into a room with lots of tables and chairs. One was supposed to select three colors that he or she preferred, all found in large plastic see-through cylinders. One hoped that they weren't painted shut from someone else's earlier carelessness. One was next supposed to select an object to paint. I went through the motion, but not with much relish or zest for the task at hand.

All of us patients had a measure of freedom perhaps undeserved, one that could be dangerous. The staff was too consumed with making sure that a particularly patient, who everyone called Mr. Norris, wasn't sexually harassing the other patients or mutilating himself. He would sidle up to female patients and express a desire to kiss them. The only thing the staff could think to do to discipline him was to restrict his smoke breaks.

No, you ain't smoking today, Mister Norris, said the nurse, her face a portrait of annoyance, hands on hips. I heard you been causin' trouble.

I had the misfortune of rooming with Mr. Norris. I would find bloody rags and paper towels in the trash can. I would wipe the urine off of the toilet seat. I would never walk around in the bathroom without rubber soled shoes. Having lived with men before, some of this was expected, but I still found that a lack of basic cleanliness was totally disgusting.

They called all of us, even the hopeless cases, Mister, Miss, or Misses. One could almost believe that we really weren't stark raving insane, that we were instead guests at some exclusive resort with horrible food and dishwater coffee. I appreciated the professionalism, but it didn’t seem to fit here, under these circumstances.

The true entertainment was watching Mr. Norris moonwalk across the room with a dishcloth on top of his head, much to the amusement of other patients. The day room was where we spent most of our waking hours. A round-faced, sarcastic patient had maybe one-half a front tooth left, due to years of drug addiction. I tried to ignore the visuals. At some point, she accidentally brushed up against me, whereupon the oily foundation she had caked onto her cheeks rubbed off on me.

Is this even? I didn't have the heart to tell her that she was asking the wrong questions. Whether or not her makeup was evenly distributed wasn't the problem. I doubt she was well enough to do it herself. Until she recovered, her hands were too unsteady, her perception too impaired.

I had various rude nicknames for certain patients I disliked. Snow White was the moniker of one such woman, an exceptionally pale-skinned thirty-two-year-old who had slashed her wrists. She showed us all the threads of the stitches that had closed the open wound. It reminded me of horror films--the way that eyelids are sewn shut. She pulled out her Bible in an effort to show us how the events of the present day were connected in some large, overlapping way.

She a day later, she terrified the more trusting, and more devout members of the ward by feigning a seizure in the dayroom. Faking her convulsions she continually repeated the same verse in Proverbs. This had drawn the fury of the rest of the patients, and leaving her now a pariah. Other patients angrily confronted her for faking illness and turning the ward upside down. I suppose she wanted the attention.

Later in the day, she practically dry-humped me, leaning over my body under the pretense of re-attaching a loose telephone cable. She wondered out loud if she could divorce her husband. I wasn’t sure what she was implying, but didn’t want to find out. I wasn't interested, if she was suggesting I might consider being her lover.

Mr. Norris talked non-stop. Initially, he'd kept me anxious and on edge. The staff had seen everything by now. A nurse gave me a reassuring smile and told me oh, he's just old and confused. Mr. Norris droned on and on, returning to the same two or three lines. He owned a house over by the helicopter pad, he claimed. He’d point out the window towards the location, with great emphasis, assuming you were also capable of seeing it yourself.

I arrived at the hospital in the middle of some fairly massive exploration of my sexual orientation. I was too sick to hide evidence of it. My socks off, Mr. Norris looked at my painted toenails. I wish I had some polish on my nails. Would you do it for me? You know if they saw a man like me with polish on his nails they'd call him a sissy. I wasn’t sure how to honor his request and had not, in any case, brought toenail polish with me.

After Last Night's Debate


Don't call it a comeback.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Grad School, Part Two

Another unedited excerpt of Wrecking Ball
_____________

In seminar my behavior could get tongues wagging. In a small program, the same fifteen people took courses simultaneously, several times a week. I got to know several of my classmates well as a result and I’m sure they got to know at least one prominent side of me. A year or so before, I’d attended an intense, highly partisan Unitarian Young Adult conference. For the first time in my life, I was introduced to an aggressive dose of queer theory and radical politics.

Memories of the experience stayed with me for a long time. I suppose I’m still processing the shock today. I’d been afraid of many of those parts of myself until then, but the energetic presentation I observed boosted my confidence considerably. But then I had to go home, back to a culture diametrically opposed to what I’d learned.

Upon my return to Alabama, I’m sure I courted gossip in bushels. To most of my fellow students, I think I was probably considered something of a radical leftist. It was true that I had been recently radicalized and empowered, but I returned to a very conservative state and a very conservative school. Few shared my beliefs and a few were hostile to them, though they never directly challenged me.

I’d previously conducted my affairs with men incognito, but I was no longer willing to stay closeted. Had I not been in the middle of mania, I would have never had the courage to be so open. Today, with thousands of dollars of therapy bills to show for it, I’m still afraid and made uncomfortable around other men. One of the paradoxes of my life is that only being inhibited or intoxicated allows me the ability to truly relax and not feel mortified in male company.

One day, on some errand or another to the history department office, I shyly asked a student in my program if he was gay. He was seated behind a desk in the front, the de facto secretary. I believe I passed him a note written on notebook paper, not courageous enough to ask point blank. He indicated that he was, noting that he wished there wasn’t a need for such secrecy. Now he was in on what would become the worst kept secret of all.

From then on out, I took great delight in being a huge tease. I discovered he wasn’t bold enough to suggest we go to bed. For the sake of shock value alone, while seated a chair over in seminar, I’d leave my notebook open where he could see it. Inside, I’d earlier, quite deliberately, hidden a particular magazine that showcased the physical profiles of attractive, very naked men. With a kind of glee, I delighted as he took a sharp intake of breath in surprise, as I immediately closed my notebook resolutely shut.

I enjoyed having control in situations like these, situations that I’d created myself. Earlier in my life, I’d been placed in a submissive posture where I’d been unable to assert my own free will. Now, seeking to even the score, I got to be the one who called the shots. It was pleasurable and gratifying to encourage men to pursue me, or at least to acknowledge that they found me sexually appealing.

In the unique circumstances mania provided,  I wanted as much as I could get. This recently adopted attitude influenced all aspects of my life. For example, I audaciously chose to review a book for class that explored the intersection between homosexuality and southern identity. Once I’d given my presentation, the professor moved across the table from me. I’d dared to show myself as queer, and he couldn’t deal with it.

Nearly ten years later, I could feel more scorned, more rejected, but I don’t. Our personalities and ideas were similar and I thought of him almost as a colleague, not an instructor. Perhaps that is what got to him, the idea that someone who wasn’t heterosexual could hold similar views with the same no-nonsense logic. I still hold him in high regard as a scholar and intellectual. Though his behavior disappointed me, I greatly respected his intellect and the ideas he introduced. Many still percolate in my mind, influencing the words I write today.

To his credit, he made a concerted effort later in the class to redeem himself. I could tell he was uncomfortable with me as I was. He was not used to this display of boldness. In the South, being queer is a private matter, where it might conceivably be less of a societal taboo in a different location. There were too many ironies at play for me to be indignant, even for wholly justified reasons.

To return to the minutia of class, I found my life constantly occupied with reading, writing, memorizing, and theorizing. School usually came easily for me. I focused now exclusively on my strongest subject, history, and assumed it would be only moderately challenging. Instead, I found myself stretched in ways I’d never before thought possible. I was never given an exam or a test once during my master’s program, but was expected to spit out completed assignments and analysis on a nearly daily basis.

For a while, mania came to my aid. When some students would spend two or three hours on a paper, I’d be hyperactive enough to devote nine or ten hours. Had mania not reached a state where I’d border and teeter on the edge of psychosis, which simply means being out of touch with reality, it might have been helpful. I made mostly A’s on my papers. My contributions in seminar were uniformly strong, and sometimes I even dazzled, reaching heights I’d never before dreamed I could manage.

In academia, eccentricity is expected and not necessarily thought to be out of the ordinary. Provided I could get my work done, no one really objected to my frequently erratic behavior. As is the case in many separate instances throughout the course of my life, I wish people had intervened well before I got severely ill. Environment was also a factor in why no one thought to reach out. I spent most of my time in situations among other people whose behavior and demeanor was often not considered ordinary or usual.

It was only a matter of time, I suppose, before I got too high and too ill. Final presentations came due. We were to observe and comment upon the work of others. A classmate wrote a paper on the history of The Beatles. He played a video segment in front of the class on a laptop as part of his presentation.  I’d seen it myself several times before. As it played, I energetically mimed, word perfect, the words of John Lennon during a particular interview.

My overstimulated mind performed flawlessly with the mimicry. Even when mentally well, my recall and memory was thought by many to be impressive. But in any case, my behavior during the presentation made me seem even stranger than before. Everything came to a crashing, clattering halt shortly thereafter. I was so manic that I began to dominate class discussions with rambling commentary.

My manic depression was common knowledge because I made no attempt to hide it. My professors were concerned about me, but likely didn’t know how to respond. Disaster struck. I lost the ability to write papers, read, and keep up with my classroom obligations.

The ability to produce expired with two weeks left at end of the term. It seemed unfair to have completed 90% of the work, only to fall flat at the end. I would have failed all three classes, had I not withdrawn from them. My first hospitalization specifically for mania, not for depression, followed next.

Monday, October 15, 2012

A Different Look at The Civil War



The life of President Abraham Lincoln is now venerated legend. The legacy and history of the first and only President of the Confederacy, however, is not so well known. Jefferson Davis was ultimately blamed by many Southerners for losing the war, but at the outset was held in highest regard. Much as was true with Lincoln and the North, the South’s perception of its appointed, not elected leader changed dramatically from the beginning of the war until its conclusion four years later. Jefferson Davis’ story is compelling in its own right, showing the inner strength and decisiveness of a proud, but often intractable man.

Augustin Stucker’s new book, Lincoln & Davis: A Dual Biography of America’s Civil War Presidents, explores decisions made, battles won and lost, and the leadership qualities of both men. Within the pages, he advances several audacious arguments that previous scholarship has deliberately skirted. Stucker is unafraid to label the deified Abraham Lincoln as a believer in racist ideology, at least in his earlier days. The man usually credited with freeing the slaves, according to Stucker, should not be excused for merely being a product of his times.

Lincoln’s working class, small town Illinois upbringing and daily dealings took place almost exclusively in the company of other whites. Prior to the war, Lincoln’s only real interaction with blacks took place on journeys South. There, he encountered, from a safe distance, slaves working in the field. A moderate on most racial issues until the very end of the war, Lincoln believed from the outset that blacks were inferior to whites. Like many Northerners of his time, Lincoln found the practice morally objectionable, but hoped that slavery would eventually die out of its own accord.

Augustin’s account thoroughly covers forgotten events during the course of the war. Historians and journalists both are culpable to the same easy-to-digest story narratives that overemphasize detail for the sake of simplicity. Abraham Lincoln’s legacy as liberator does not always hold up alongside the facts.

The man who would eventually be the first Chief Executive of the Republican Party sought containment, not eradication of the peculiar institution. His paternalistic, somewhat condescending attitudes towards people in bondage were not unusual for the day. Radical abolitionists pushed Lincoln steadily towards Emancipation, but the cautious President was wary of causing needless division during the already heated wartime atmosphere.

Only upon meeting with notable free blacks like Frederick Douglass did Lincoln’s views changed. By the end of his life, Honest Abe began to adopt an attitude of full and unequivocal racial equality. Though the cause of the war had always been about slavery, the North’s stated agenda was to preserve the Union, not to liberate Negroes. It is to Lincoln’s credit that he was open-minded enough to set aside prejudices many of his age either could not or would not. The eloquent orator and consummate activist Douglass noted that Lincoln treated him no differently than if he had been white.

Lincoln’s Southern counterpart, Jefferson Davis, was considered the foremost political voice of the new Confederate States. Though he had served as a U.S. Senator from Mississippi, Davis was raised primarily in the divided border state of Kentucky. Though the family ran into financial trouble from time to time, Davis owned a plantation and lived as a wealthy planter in Mississippi, where his estate was located.

He’d been Secretary of War under President Franklin Pierce. Pierce and Davis were lifelong friends. By virtue of their close-knit ties, Davis was granted significant Executive authority over the country. He may well have been the power behind the throne. After Pierce’s single term in office concluded, Davis was selected by his adopted home state’s legislature to be a Senator. In those days, Senators were not yet directly elected by voters.

Davis did not court the office of President of the C.S.A. and only reluctantly accepted his appointed post. He was thought to be the only man capable enough for the job, and Davis recognized the faith his new country placed in him. When the news of his appointment reached him, Davis was initially aghast, not the even the slightest bit enthusiastic about taking on such a mammoth responsibility. Lincoln, by contrast, courted votes by the bushel and ran an energetic, eventually successful campaign.

In the end, Lincoln won the 1860 U.S. Presidential Election because he ran against an impossibly divided Democratic Party. The former Illinois Congressman captured a sufficient number of votes in the Electoral College, even when, in several Southern states, his name was not even printed on the ballot Lincoln’s election was the last straw for the South, though its views of Lincoln were reactionary rather than factual. The U.S. President was far more conciliatory and centrist than Confederate propaganda would lead one to believe.

The managerial styles of both men were opposite in nature. Whereas Lincoln relied on a so-called Team of Rivalries in his cabinet to make crucial decisions, Davis was by nature a micromanager. While Lincoln sought as many perspectives as possible when crafting policy, Davis always had the final say. Once Davis’ mind was made up, no one could ever change it.

An insomniac and workaholic, the Confederate President often kept active until the early hours of the morning. Unlike Lincoln, who saw limited military action earlier in life, Davis considered himself first and foremost a military man. Though he graduated towards the bottom of his class at West Point, Davis nonetheless had substantial prior combat experience. Like many Civil War generals, Davis had cut his teeth as a commanding officer in the Mexican War, twenty years prior.

Jefferson Davis signed off on many significant strategic decisions during the conflict. He worked best with Robert E. Lee, but clashed considerably with less successful and less skilled generals. Davis preferred a hand’s on approach to plotting military strategy; he had a large say in the decisions made. Lincoln knew little of battlefield tactics upon assuming his office, but when war came studied them extensively in his spare time. Due to his own persistence, he was eventually able to converse directly and extensively with his generals.

Lincoln, as it turns out, would need a good grasp of battlefield maneuvers. It took several changes of command before Lincoln found a winner. Davis focused his primary attention upon War Department business, seeing himself as a self-proclaimed War President. Much of the minutia could have easily been delegated to subordinates, but Davis was adamant that he and he alone was the most competent person to handle almost all military matters that crossed his desk.

A few months prior to the Emancipation Proclamation, the Lincoln Administration made an audacious offer to the slave-holding border states of Kentucky, Maryland, and Missouri. All three were offered money from the United States Government to buy outright the freedom of their slaves. Each state legislature flatly declined the offer. Lincoln and other politicians were of the opinion that whites and blacks could never live together peacefully, suggesting instead that freedmen and freedwomen should be sent to colonies to live apart from white society.

Davis had a different challenge before him. He found it difficult keeping the Confederate States united and on the same page. Confederate citizens tended see themselves as residents of a state first and a country last. Georgia’s governor Joseph E. Brown was Jefferson Davis’ wartime nemesis, denying the Confederacy needed soldiers and raw materials to the very end of the conflict. Governor Brown was unwilling to provide troops and economic support to the Confederacy, believing that his state needed preservation most of all.

In some respects, this struggle was no different than what the still-brand new United States had experienced eighty years before. Under its first written constitution, the Articles of Confederation, a weak central government proved to be wholly impotent and ineffective in running the country. Without a stronger central government, the United States could not raise needed tax revenue, nor could it build and maintain a standing army. For this reason, among others, the U.S. Constitution was eventually enacted in 1787.

Because of the focus on state first, not country first, the Confederate States were hampered by a defensive strategy that stretched troops too thinly. Its intention was to keep the entire borders of the fledgling country protected from attack. Against superior troop numbers, it proved to be an ineffective strategy. Confederate armies were outnumbered two and sometimes three to one, and could not challenge Northern armies in conventional ways.

In the South, Jefferson Davis’ legacy is mixed. Though blamed for losing the war by some, others champion his memory. Several Southern states still formally celebrate his birthday in early June, though certainly not as publicly as once was the case. Pro-Confederate stances are not politically correct these days. Even now, Abraham Lincoln is still one of the most highly regarded Presidents to hold the office. His face graces coinage and paper currency. Monuments and statues have been built to celebrate his honor.

As for how we should view the Civil War, we’ve been taught to focus on turning points—the names of a few pertinent battles, a few notable personalities, and an often overly simplified rendering of the facts. Usually these turning points are military blunders or poor strategic decisions made by politicians. The Civil War, for North and South alike, was a grand study in ego, hubris, and human nature. Generals flagrantly ignored orders, reinforcements arrived either too late or right on time, and skill was often subservient to luck.

The North and South both experienced triumphant successes and demoralizing defeats. It’s impossible to say for certain if one or two changes here and there could have swung the war in an entirely different direction. Each side struggled with poor leadership and each benefited from a few fortunate rolls of the dice. Nearly 150 years later, we continue to grapple with an account of how each event played out in time and space. Augustin’s book encourages us to take into account an accurate context of the times before we form our arguments and make our conclusions.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Quote of the Week



"If voting changed anything, they'd make it illegal."- Emma Goldman