Mystical Experience, or Merely My Imagination

I.















I sometimes pass by Confederate Avenue five and six times a day.

There's a juncture, on the left hand side, directly parallel to the park. I've always sensed some sort of deep, intense energy from this point--a force that makes my whole being quiet and contemplative. No matter when. No matter what I've been doing. I've felt the same way now since I moved to Atlanta in August.

Every time I pass, I involuntarily turn the music off in my car and sit in quiet contemplation. Can't have the news on. Can't have my music on.

To most, it's just a landmark. It's just a way to criss cross back up and down one of Atlanta's main and busiest thoroughfares. I may be different. From the first time I crossed it, a shiver ran through my body. Words cannot explain the sensation I received.

It stuns me into silence even now.

That spot, which now contains a house built for white working-class textile mill workers during the post-war boom, sits directly adjacent to a yellow fire hydrant. This space has some deeper meaning. To me, it's more than just someone's residence. It's more than someone's MARTA stop.

The first thought that passed into my mind was. I've been here before.

I hasten to say that. I bring a healthy sense of skepticism to such thoughts. But something deep and sorrowful happened there. I sense some life was lost. The emotions I feel are despair and mourning and desperation all rolled into one. The proverbial stiff upper lip.

Sometimes I walk past and close my eyes and see if I can channel some of what was said by those who lived so long ago. But all I feel is sorrow. It makes me want to stand at attention.

I am Atticus Finch, played by Gregory Peck, walking out of the courtroom after his unsuccessful defense.




Stand up, Scout, your father's passing.










II.

On July 22, 1864, the Union forces launched an attack on Atlanta, trying to destroy its vital railroads. The last gasp effort. The effective death blow to the Confederacy. The North pushed deeper and deeper into Atlanta, creeping inch by inch. Fort Walker, blocks from where I live, fortified the Confederate defenses.

The Confederate Troops dug in, desperate to preserve their way of life. But the Yankees, too, overran that fortification.


III.

I do not know what exactly transpired at Confederate Avenue. I feel a powerful force full of devotion, determination, sweat, hell, and horrible toil. I want to know. I crave to know. But all I am greeted with are more questions.

My feelings, too, are those of deep ambivalence. Just as war contains irony and boundless devotion, so too my feelings are split. The true believers on both sides suffered.

They do now in Iraq.

IV.

I looked into the historical record of my family. My great-great-grandfather fought for the North but he would not have been there. He did not enlist until nearly two weeks later. He aided Sherman in his march to the sea. He guarded prisons.

He was not in Atlanta.

William Anderson Camp

Aged 19 years old

V.

Certainly, I, as a Unitarian, would have been an abolitionist. It's easy to casually dismiss that theory, blase, as rather a fait accompli.

But I do know that beliefs are funny things. Doesn't make them real. It's all in how you were brought up. It's all in how you were raised. I don't think liberals or conservatives are biologically created.

My father is a Reagan Democrat turned Libertarian. There are parts of me who are influenced by him. My mother is a left-liberal. feminist, Obama devotee. There are parts of me who are influenced by her.


VII.

But to return to Confederate Avenue. I find myself feeling that all war, no matter what justification is wrong. The energy involved is counterproductive.

I know what trenches must have been like in WWI. Five miles forward, five miles back. Progress measured in feet and inches rather than in miles. All these lives lost and for what? A few extra dollars? A few more decorations? A press clipping? A promotion? A tax burden? Ego? Pride? What is the sum of all of these things?

Meanwhile, the poor are duped into believing the lies perpetuated to make money. I do not fault the ignorant. I do not blame the true believers on either side. Some fought for glory. Some fought for money. Some fought because they had no choice. Some fought because they believed.

In the end, all suffered.