Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Tracks of my Tears
I am not Rainmain so I can’t tell you the day of the week January 16, 1991 when Bush One authorized the bombing of Baghdad as Operation Desert Storm Smack Down and the CNN worldwide news network began in earnest.
I can tell you that back here in the USA the irony of bombing an ancient city on the birthday of Martin Luther King—give or take a day—was not lost on some politically astute students at Cape Henlopen High School.
The day before another Irony of “Carpet bombing people from the land of magic carpets” a chicken nugget of student activists” threatened to walk out of school at 11 a.m.to protest the inevitable hostilities.
“Fredman let me ask your advice on this,” the principal said, resourcing me only in times of crises. “Some students are going to walk out at 11 a.m.to protest the war. What do you think we should do?”
“I think nothing seems like the proper course of action. And thank god we still have students who stand for something without worrying about where they may fall if disciplined.”
“Yea , but they’ll disrupt lunches. I think what I’m going to do is dismiss everyone to go outside at 2 p.m.and that way they can protest or show support whatever they want.”
“I think that’s the dumbest idea I've ever heard. If I were going out at 11, I certainly wouldn’t be placated by your compromise, plus the right wing faction of the community will crucify you for letting these people out of captivity before the dismissal bell.”
I was right on both counts but didn’t anticipate a carpet count down so all the protesters could be accounted for and disciplined the next day.
That night it was Bernard Shaw of CNN and Peter Arnett under the Baghdad desk as bombs fell on the ancient Persian city.
The next day we were at war. Televisions were set up in the library of the school—no direct feed into classrooms at that time—so those students traumatized could watch CNN and be consoled by each other
The political activists were all in lockdown in the ISS room across the hall. I had the assignment of covering ISS period 4 which was around 11 a.m. I talked to the students about the Sixties protest crew but didn’t tell them that the SDS –Students for a Democratic Society-voted me ‘Most Dangerous Person on Campus” back in 1969 at West Chester-and The Black Panther Party voted me ‘Most Favorite White Man” not because I ever did anything but rather because I was completely non aligned with any group and would follow my beliefs regardless of consequences.
The librarian came into the room and asked if I’d keep an eye on the library while she went downstairs to use the bathroom and get a cup of coffee. In a flash the traumatized tribe in the library changed all channels to the Brady Bunch because they didn’t comprehend and didn’t give a rat’s ass about Baghdad, Kuwait, Hussein or anything else sans the icing of the military draft.
So there it was, the peaceful protesters taking their punishments like whipped puppies, while those residents from what Prine called “The Valley of the Unconcerned” petted each other and ate cheese doodles.
The following week I was doing my daily routine of writing current events on the board. I was using the Philadelphia Inquirer because computers were not yet in the rooms. I just wrote headlines and got into the stories once the students got there.
“First Delaware Valley Soldier Killed In Desert Storm” I started to read.” Captain Dr. John Gillespie 33 years old from Yeadon, Pa was killed when a jeep he was riding in overturned. I was stopped in my tracks. I just stood there.
“What’s wrong Fredman? Fredman are you O.K” students asked?
I wanted to seize the “teachable moment” and tell them that I was Dr. John Gillespie’s football coach and track coach in high school. I wanted to tell them what a funny character he was. How he mumbled all the time and that his favorite words were mother fucker. I wanted to tell them about the time I asked John, who was playing defensive end, to ask the ref how much time was left in the half and that John said, ”Hey Ref, what mother fucking time is it?” which got us a 15 yard penalty.
I wanted to tell them that when I asked this 17 year old African American what he wanted to be when he grew up, John said, ”A mother fucking Doctor” and that I said, “you already talk like a doctor writes because nobody knows what the mother fuck you are saying.”
But all this Most Dangerous Man and Black Panther Favorite White Man could do was stand there and cry. I was just whacked by the suddenness of it all. There was Dr. John and then there he wasn’t.
All I could get out finally was that John was my student, my athlete, my friend.
Kids sat in stoned silence. That’s the way they are. They wanted me to tell them what happens next. The wanted Fredman the jokester and story teller back. They didn’t like crying anymore than I did.
I can tell you that back here in the USA the irony of bombing an ancient city on the birthday of Martin Luther King—give or take a day—was not lost on some politically astute students at Cape Henlopen High School.
The day before another Irony of “Carpet bombing people from the land of magic carpets” a chicken nugget of student activists” threatened to walk out of school at 11 a.m.to protest the inevitable hostilities.
“Fredman let me ask your advice on this,” the principal said, resourcing me only in times of crises. “Some students are going to walk out at 11 a.m.to protest the war. What do you think we should do?”
“I think nothing seems like the proper course of action. And thank god we still have students who stand for something without worrying about where they may fall if disciplined.”
“Yea , but they’ll disrupt lunches. I think what I’m going to do is dismiss everyone to go outside at 2 p.m.and that way they can protest or show support whatever they want.”
“I think that’s the dumbest idea I've ever heard. If I were going out at 11, I certainly wouldn’t be placated by your compromise, plus the right wing faction of the community will crucify you for letting these people out of captivity before the dismissal bell.”
I was right on both counts but didn’t anticipate a carpet count down so all the protesters could be accounted for and disciplined the next day.
That night it was Bernard Shaw of CNN and Peter Arnett under the Baghdad desk as bombs fell on the ancient Persian city.
The next day we were at war. Televisions were set up in the library of the school—no direct feed into classrooms at that time—so those students traumatized could watch CNN and be consoled by each other
The political activists were all in lockdown in the ISS room across the hall. I had the assignment of covering ISS period 4 which was around 11 a.m. I talked to the students about the Sixties protest crew but didn’t tell them that the SDS –Students for a Democratic Society-voted me ‘Most Dangerous Person on Campus” back in 1969 at West Chester-and The Black Panther Party voted me ‘Most Favorite White Man” not because I ever did anything but rather because I was completely non aligned with any group and would follow my beliefs regardless of consequences.
The librarian came into the room and asked if I’d keep an eye on the library while she went downstairs to use the bathroom and get a cup of coffee. In a flash the traumatized tribe in the library changed all channels to the Brady Bunch because they didn’t comprehend and didn’t give a rat’s ass about Baghdad, Kuwait, Hussein or anything else sans the icing of the military draft.
So there it was, the peaceful protesters taking their punishments like whipped puppies, while those residents from what Prine called “The Valley of the Unconcerned” petted each other and ate cheese doodles.
The following week I was doing my daily routine of writing current events on the board. I was using the Philadelphia Inquirer because computers were not yet in the rooms. I just wrote headlines and got into the stories once the students got there.
“First Delaware Valley Soldier Killed In Desert Storm” I started to read.” Captain Dr. John Gillespie 33 years old from Yeadon, Pa was killed when a jeep he was riding in overturned. I was stopped in my tracks. I just stood there.
“What’s wrong Fredman? Fredman are you O.K” students asked?
I wanted to seize the “teachable moment” and tell them that I was Dr. John Gillespie’s football coach and track coach in high school. I wanted to tell them what a funny character he was. How he mumbled all the time and that his favorite words were mother fucker. I wanted to tell them about the time I asked John, who was playing defensive end, to ask the ref how much time was left in the half and that John said, ”Hey Ref, what mother fucking time is it?” which got us a 15 yard penalty.
I wanted to tell them that when I asked this 17 year old African American what he wanted to be when he grew up, John said, ”A mother fucking Doctor” and that I said, “you already talk like a doctor writes because nobody knows what the mother fuck you are saying.”
But all this Most Dangerous Man and Black Panther Favorite White Man could do was stand there and cry. I was just whacked by the suddenness of it all. There was Dr. John and then there he wasn’t.
All I could get out finally was that John was my student, my athlete, my friend.
Kids sat in stoned silence. That’s the way they are. They wanted me to tell them what happens next. The wanted Fredman the jokester and story teller back. They didn’t like crying anymore than I did.
