11,690. RUDIMENTS, pt. 655

RUDIMENTS, pt. 655

(you can't go home? again?)

One place I always wanted to

go was Grey Goose Falls,

Minnesota. No; never made

it to there. Back in seminary

days, when all those Camden

black people would come in

on the flatbed truck from

Campbell's Soup Co., to spend

the day picking and sorting the

bell peppers that were planted

in the field, I likewise often

wanted to be with them or be

one of them. This was 1962 or

so, at first, and then later, maybe

1964, those three guys from New

York, Schwerner and somebody

and somebody, got killed out in

the fields in Alabama or Mississippi

or wherever it was  -  Freedom Rider

stuff, I suddenly realized what the

thing about segregation was. It

was right here! Camden itself,

each time I'd go there on whatever

seminary mission it was, was

about as segregated as could be.

I'd read about places down in

Arkansas where if white people

went into a blacks-only restaurant

and sat down to eat at the counter,

the white police would come in

and drag them out beat them a

little and throw them back into

their car, saying 'get outta' town

now, or we'll kill you.' It never

got to that point in my world,

no, but I often wondered about

it in Camden  -  it was the very

poorest place I'd ever seen. We'd

drive slowly through there and

there would be pathetic people

on their stoops and run-down

porches, in disastrous-looking

houses and row-houses, rentals

or shacks, whatever, just staring

out at whatever moved by them.

They looked dead except they

were breathing, and they watched

movement just for the sake of

movement or to have something

to do. It was horrible. Walt

Whitman is buried in Camden

and his last house is there too;

the house is a sad scene, since the

entire once-quaint 19th-century

street has been torn down except

for his house and the adjacent house

on either side of it  - now on a

large road, with the river view

obscured by overpasses and such,

and, directly across from it, the

broad and industrial-use format of

Camden's large prison  -  ugly and

square, new, and concrete. Guard

cars and a entryway gate and an

inspection booth, etc. Really gross.

If you do continue into and around

town to get to the gravesite (Buyer

beware!) the land that you have to

go through is ruination of Biblical

proportions. For the life of me, in a

country such as this  -  where every

Jew-boy banker and lawyer is a

millionaire a few times over, every
shark-skin suited Eyetalian can fling
 a mob connection and sell drugs to
your kid and have a way to beat the
rap, and every Chinaman and Irish 
guy knows the inside dope on both
the buying and the selling  -  gaming

the system from the inside, and the

loops and ways around laws and deals

and politics and finance, are catered to

for that ilk alone, while hundreds of

thousands of poor folk, ignorant bastards

with broken families and all the rest,

rot and decay just like the world

around them  -  I can't understand why

any fool in their half-right mind would

even think of saying the Pledge of

Allegiance. It's all been so twisted

and crossed over that it makes a

hammer and sickle now look straight.

-

If you do manage to cross town for

the cemetery destination  -  crossing 

the Serengeti Desert naked and in 

the face of roaring lions is probably 

easier, or less nerve-wracking anyway  

-  and, once there, if you have the requisite 

guts to get out and walk around, it's 

actually a pretty nice place, with lots 

of rather interesting stuff, and his 

gravesite, a family tomb, of 

interesting design and location, 

and  -  generally  -  a real good 

literary feeling of satisfying

accomplishment ensues. I'd 

recommend it, but be careful too. 

Or just maybe, one of these days I'll 

do it again, for you, and report back!! 

Anyhow, segregation and race was 

a curious topic for me. The seminary 

itself (Wisconsin based, the German

Salvatorians here were mostly

Teutonic, blond, Aryan looking

guys in clerical garb with serious

dispositions), never seemed other

than a white place; except for the

cook, a Spanish fellow he was, and

his kitchen staff  -  which WAS black;

a few large Aunt Jemima types, a

few younger females and a number

of black guys  -  they all roomed in

the same house, a Spanish style

villa with a red-tile roof) as the

head chef Spanish person. Some

came and went, maybe commuting

(Camden?). Interesting stuff, and

what it came down to was a surfeit

of Southern style cooking at  each

mealtime  -  scrapple, corn breads

and corn mashes, pancakes, and

numerous other things that had

southern flavor : vegetables and

sauces too. A regular 'culinary'

delight, and served right up. Race

was never talked about, and just

the un-mention of it made it 

weirder. I kept hearing the news

and reading the articles about the

Freedom Rides and the clatches 

of northern kids going down to the

South to show solidarity, march

with the oppressed, support the

rallies and voting rights registrations

and all that. Malcolm X getting

shot was big news too. Many

things, it seemed, were going on

and they were all someplace else.

I couldn't get anywhere, kept in

stir as I was. A 12-year old kid on

enforced observer status only.

That wasn't much fun, nor did

it seem to have anything to do

with religion, for me. My idea of

Religion, right then, was in being

in the midst of turmoil, action,

crisis, and change. Righting wrongs,

turning things over and around, to

flip the ways of the devilish world.

There wasn't much I could do sitting

in a 2x4 chapel and being preached

to about Jesus over-turning tables.

That was some confusing stuff.

-

I think the rest of my life, ever since,

may have been making up for that.

That feeling of helplessness I swore

would never again happen to me.

And it hasn't. I can't stand two-faced

squirmers, weasley political types,

nor those who think they 'balance'

good and bad, right and wrong, by

referring to profit and loss. Their

morality lives somewhere up their

butt, and the world caters to that.

James Joyce, the writer, had it

that every man (person) spends 

his (her) life looking for the 

place he wants to belong to. I

can see how that's true, in a lot

of ways. To my mind however,

and I think to Joyce's as well, it

was never meant to be, or meant 

to 'mean' a physical place. Each

person has that  -  we have home

where we originated, home where 

we were moved to, and/or more

than once, and plenty. All those

places we all have, and they stay

with us no matter what. Thomas

Wolfe had it as 'You can't go home

again,' which is sort of a twist

in the opposite direction. (You

can't, because you are actually

ALWAYS there). But I think,

for the rest of it, and basing it

on the internals that I've always

had  -  early home life, seminary,

Camden, cloistered, Philadelphia,

and then New York, etc.  -  what

they all seem to mean is the

intellectual and creative fervor 

with which you MAKE these 

places, building what you wish

for that place to inhabit, to be.

For me, it always included

peace, justice, rightness, fairness,

humanity, creativity, grace,

peace, quiet, and beauty too.

Kind of the best, leathery-glove

feel you can put on things. That's

where I always wanted to be, and 

to stay, and to be left alone at.

Sadly, the world itself now 

destroys all that better than

Jack the Ripper with a spare

knife. People have degenerated

into myopic infidels.

-

When they begin teaching you

how to preach, the lessons always

start off with aspects of 'dynamics.'

I so hate that word and concept. It's

so very TV preachy, tent-showmanship

and pulpit sideshow crap. They want

you to use rip-roaring, active words,

dynamic and vivid; verbs; scenes with

power, intoning a proper rise, and lilt 

and drama to the voice you use.

All of that, to me , is so bogus, and

always was. I'd sit there thinking

of those dead-blank and vacant

faces in Camden and it just about

always froze me to place. None of

people ever needed, nor sought, a

sideshow. They wanted a hand,

affection, love and extension. That's

all quiet stuff; not glossy, not loud.

It's the silent stuff of grace and power

that can come from within, if you've

got it right, and it can sweep people

away; once caught that way, they

run right into your heart and soul,

and with them you are whole. Forget

the rest. You know, I learned all that

and more and better just from watching 

those pepper-picking crews coming in,

doing their work, and shouts, and songs,

and their long, dreary, silent happiness

filling bushels day after day.