Letter from Seoul - 7
The life of each of us across history.
This is a rumination on the age-old question of whether our life is foretold or whether we have choices. The answer is that both play their role.
During adolescence it was my Fate to study the Hundred Years’ War (1337-1453) in my sophomore World History class. In those days I often masked my lack of sophistication by being precocious. Sometimes this worked; but usually I fooled no one.
One morning in class, I expressed my admiration for how old and decrepit soldiers kept up the good fight for a hundred years on the battlefield. Mr. Armstrong, a very seasoned classroom teacher, did not leave me exposed too long for my intellectual naivety. He helped salvage my dignity by explaining that the narrative of history does not always conform to neat and convenient constructs of time. In other words, the Hundred Years’ War went unresolved for more than four generations, with sons picking up the battle of their fathers ... and their grandfathers. With a bit more maturity and a working knowledge of my family history, I recognized the pattern of fathers-and-sons going to the killing fields nearly every generation to defend king and country, or the corrupt agendas of hack political leaders.
My Irish-born grandfather, who had immigrated to America at age 10, answered the call of duty for the British Empire in World War I and enlisted with the Canadian Expeditionary Force in late 1917. His group shipped out to England for additional training before heading to the death traps of trenches in France by September 1918.
While in England, my grandfather had enough leave time to make a brief visit to Ireland to see his extended family outside of Castlebar in County Mayo. This was no time to appear in Ireland in a military uniform that displayed loyalty to the British. The Irish had been under the British boot for 750 years and refused to help the Empire protect freedom, when they had so very little. Michael Collins (1890-1922) and the Irish Republican Army were already working to drive the British off the island once and for all. Ultimately, the Irish shot their way out of the United Kingdom, save for the six northern counties which are still part of the U.K. because Belfast has one of the deepest harbors in Europe. This accounts for why the RMS Titanic was built at the Harland & Wolf Shipyard in Belfast. My grandfather – who died before my birth, dodged both the burgeoning IRA and survived his time in France.
Last photo of Michael Collins, during his speech to the Skibereen Committee, March 1922
April 10, 1912, the Titanic leaves Southampton, England, on her maiden voyage.
Castlebar, Co Mayo
At age 10, my grandfather sailed on June 21, 1906 from Queenstown, Ireland on the SS Baltic. Captain Edward Smith,, considered the best of the White Star line, helmed the ship across the North Atlantic which docked in New York City eight-days later. Six years later Captain Edward Smith took command of the RMS Titanic. The rest is history.
After World War I, my grandfather returned to St. Louis where he had come of age after coming through Ellis Island on June 29, 1906, and married his girlfriend. Together, they had a family of two sons and a daughter.
A generation later, my father and his brother went off to the killing fields of World War II. The brothers survived, returned to St. Louis and started their own families.
Before I even asked my question about the Hundred Years’ War, I knew I had an appointment in the killing fields of Vietnam. But I did not believe that my life was already foretold and Fate could not be denied. I was not going to be the third generation of my family to go to the killing fields.
In America, Affirmative Action is denounced as a way of leveling the playing field. Good God-fearing Americans embrace Social Darwinism and don’t want white trash and minorities getting all-uppity by succeeding at college and pursuing the American Dream. They best know their place. Yet American oligarchs have no problem with Legacy Admissions to college for some of their brain-meltingly stupid progeny. This accounts for why the Smirking Chimp, George W. Bush, graduated from Harvard with an MBA and promptly displayed his Reverse Midas Touch. Every business he managed turned to shit. Imagine serving in WWII as bomber pilot with a staggering 58 missions, only to return home and marry a woman with Thyroid-eyes, who gave birth to losers like George and Jeb Bush. No wonder old man Bush was clinically depressed and became a life-long political hack who followed second-rate actor Ronald Reagan around as he drifted in-and-out of reality because of Alzheimer’s. Just say “no,” to Fate and skip the killing fields of Vietnam, and another version of the Hundred Years’ War.
Some historians argue that the World War era really starts with the Seven War in Europe (1756-1763) – played out in North America as the French and Indian War, and includes both the Napoleonic Wars and the Franco-Prussian War.
“Hank, why do you drink?
Hank, why do you roll smoke?
Why can’t you just play the game?”
While not exactly conforming to Family Tradition by Hank Williams, Jr. – it's close enough for my attitude.
* * *
I registered for the draft days after I turned 18 in late 1969. I even gained a student deferment because of acceptance to college. Yet I never had to go into exile in Ireland – which was the plan. One month before I graduated with the Class of 1970, Nixon called out the National Guard at Kent State because of Anti-War demonstrations. This turned into “Four Dead in Ohio.”
It was shocking, yet Robber Barons Andrew Carnegie and John Rockefeller tapped the governors they owned in both Colorado and Pennsylvania to have the National Guard gun down workers on strike for better wages and working conditions.
– In 1892, Carnegie’s foreman at Carnegie Steel (later U.S. Steel) at Homestead outside of Pittsburg, was set to break an organized strike “by any means necessary.” Henry Clay Frick hired Pinkerton agents – the template for the FBI under closeted crossdresser J. Edgar Hoover, to squash the strike. In the end 16 people were shot dead. The strikers gave up and, although Carnegie was in England at the time, he ordered that wages be cut by half. And we honor this man with Carnegie Hall.
– John D. Rockefeller and the Ludlow Massacre in Colorado. In 1914, John D. Rockefeller leaned on his paid lackey, the Colorado governor, to send the state militia to Ludlow to bust strikers "by any means necessary,” and this resulted in 21 deaths - including women and children, all by machine gun fire. And we honor this man with Rockefeller Center.
In the United States of Amnesia, these inconvenient truths are not taught in high school.
“Nixon, why do you have student demonstrators shot dead on the spot?
Nixon, why do you hire thugs to dig up dirt on your political opponents?
Why must you lie, and bomb innocent people from the sky?”
In the words of urban legend, Omar Little: “It’s all in the game, yo.”
On July 1, 1970 the Second Draft Lottery was conducted live on radio, and it only affected people born in 1951. This meant me. That year, the first 100 numbers drawn randomly were sent to the killing fields. My number was 252. Later in life, I worked with a teaching colleague who was born three days after me in 1951. His number sent him to Vietnam. Luck of the Irish. Or was it my Fate?
The Arabs, drawing on Hellenistic views about Fate – introduced to them by Alexander and his Greek generals, believe that “it is written.” Our life is a tale foretold. Sophocles (496 BC – 405 B.C) is best known for Oedipus, a fairly heavy-handed play about this concept. A first reading of the play – once assigned to high school freshmen, seems like a Jerry Springer segment: "Jerry, Jerry, Jerry." The Oracle is pretty clear: “the boy will grow up to kill his father and marry his mother.
”You say what? That is so disgusting. Hand me the barf bag.
“Zeua said to Oedipus: kill me a father.
Oedipus said: Where do you want this killing done?
Zeus said: Out on Highway 61.”
Okay, so that is a mild parody of Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited (1965).
To appreciate Western Literature, one must stop and spend some time with Shakespeare (1564-1616) to understand that it was not until the Renaissance that the idea of Free Will finally made sense. It’s a little tough to accept that a Celestial father who loves us stood by and allowed the Black Plague to kill an estimated 30 million people in Europe.
“Well, that’s Fate for you,” the gravedigger told Hamlet, as he held out Yorick’s bone-dry skull.
“No,” said the melancholy, Dane. “Just rotten fucking luck.”
If there are no choices and our lives are foretold, then we have a license to behave without consequences – because it’s not our fault. This is carte blanche for wretched irresponsibility; look no further than malignant narcissist Donald Trump, the department store rapist who is always a victim. The Elizabethans pushed back on this long-standing belief. Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy – parodied so frequently, is a genuine contemplation of what responsibility we have over our lives. “To be, or not to be” can also be understood just as well as “to act, or not to act,” or “to take responsibility through Free Will and tell Fate to fuck straight off.” Hamlet did not abide by a Fate to step aside for his homicidal uncle. He went on a killing spree to avenge his father’s murder.
It’s shocking to actually root for the loathsome Alex in A Clockwork Orange,, when he breaks free of society’s efforts to strip him of Free Will. And it’s truly heartbreaking to see Randall P. McMurry reduced to a lobotomy victim, yet we know that Free Will triumphs when the Chief restores McMurry’s dignity by killing him, and then finally has the courage to escapes the mental hospital and gains control of his life.
* * *
My father survived the killing fields of World War II and retired out of the Navy on July 23, 1946 - with an Honorable Discharge. He served as a gunner’s mate in the South Pacific and received the Victory Medal, American Area, Philippine Liberation, Asiatic-Pacific, and Good Conduct distinctions. Although he was married to my mother on July 1, 1950 – he was called back to active duty for the Korean War. in the spring, 1951. Initially my father was stationed at the Coral Springs Navy base in Florida before shipping out to Korea. He returned to St. Louis for Mother’s Day ... because my mother was pregnant. He made the decision to drive all night for his return to the Florida base. This was the worst decision of his life. My father drove a brand new 1950 Ford convertible along the state highways of eastern Missouri and western Tennessee. He crossed into Alabama and kept heading for Florida, when he fell asleep at the wheel. The car rolled and he was thrown through the canvas top. By every measure, he was a lost cause and a Catholic priest performed The Last Rites – essentially the kiss of death. Somehow, my father survived and was transferred to the navy base at Millington in Tennessee. At the time, it was a traditional base with excellent medical facilities. The only thing I know about science is how to spell the word. Otherwise, that part of my brain is empty enough I should rent it out for space. This is to say that I know nothing about neurological matters. Yet, in the case of my father, he was never the same because of short-term memory issues.
I’m an only child. As a result of my father’s accident, he was damaged for life. As a result of how my mother was born, she had mental issues. In my mother’s case she had a revolving door relationship with mental wards in St. Louis. In a sense, she was an equal opportunity mental patent and gave all hospitals a chance.
“Let me tell you now
Everybody's talking about revolution
Evolution, masturbation, flagellation
Regulation, integrations, meditations
United Nations, congratulations.
“All we are saying is give lockdown a chance.
All we are saying is give lockdown a chance.”
I’m not certain of the exact diagnosis, though my mother would have had lengthy periods when she was so charming and so intelligent, and such a joy to experience. Other times, she sank into a debilitating depression and seemed incapable of making any decisions. In short, both my parents needed someone strong to pull them through their bewilderment, confusions and loss of confidence.
From an early age, I did not take authority figures seriously. The military was certainly not for me. In truth, I’m lucky I was only fired from three jobs during my prime years. One of the facilities where my mother spent time was Malcolm Bliss Hospital. I would expect such a hospital name from Ken Kesey, who wrote One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Malcolm Bliss. What the fuck?
When I experienced Jack Nicholson’s tour de force performance as Randall P. McMurphy, it was like watching a home movie. I had seen those same patients many times in my life. Anthony Burgess in A Clockwork Orange and Ken Kesey in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – both published in 1962, addressed the same motif: How far should society go in behavior modification before Free Will is completely destroyed? Obviously, the death penalty is the end of the line.
* * *
By the time I was 10-years-old, my mother gave my father his walking papers. As far as she was concerned, he was damaged property ... a horse who was not going to finish the race. The fact that my father had to ask me how old I was, and often sat around reading my comic books alarmed me. When my father was given a medical discharge from the Navy in late 1951, he was rated with a 50% disability. About 18-months after the divorce, he walked away from his life. He told no one, least of all me. He was 38-years-old and took off in the family car for Mexico. That was the summer, 1963 and I was 11-years-old.
I did not have any contact with my father for the next 30-years. He never returned to the U.S. and lived out his life in an obscure village on the Rio Moctezuma in the old Aztec Empire. In this part of Mexico, the priest is expected to be bi-lingual Spanish-Nahuatl, since the old Aztec language is still spoken in this part of eastern Mexico.
The word “Mexico” is Nahuatl, yet just a few examples loan words absorbed by the Spanish that passed into English, include:
avocado – chocolate – tomato – chile – coyote – tamales – peyote – guacamole – mezcal – shack
In 1968, at age 72 – my age now, my grandmother went to Mexico to see my father. She had been a widow since 1947 and had not seen my father in five years. She had a suitcase and a round-trip plane ticket back to the U.S. She never left the old Aztec village. She died in 1982. Both my father and grandmother are buried in the village cemetery of Chapulhuacan.
I finally went to see the Old Gringo in July, 1993. It’s a long way to Tipperary, but an even longer way to Chapulhuacan. I made the 14-hour one-way trip from Nuevo Laredo-to-Chapulhuacan on the Flecha Roja bus several times in the 1990s. The landscapes were reminiscent of classic Sam Peckinpah films like The Wild Bunch, or Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia ... as if there was an instrumental soundtrack by the incomparable Carlos Santana.
By the start of the new decade, I was living in a three-story villa on the Arabian Gulf, among the Muslims of Bahrain, and employed a maid from Sri Lanka. I was a teacher for DoDEA, the U.S. military school system for the dependents on the overseas bases of the American Empire. That year, Mohammed Al Khalifa was a student of mine. His grandfather is the 74-year-old King of Bahrain. Inshallah, some day Mohammed will be the Minister of Defense. His older brother, Isa, will be the King. This is their Fate. It is written. But these are stories for another day.
Chapulhuacan.
* * *
I’m retired now and do not work for anyone because I don’t feel like answering to anyone. When I left my job in Seoul with DoDEA eight-years ago, I retired as a wage-slave. I’d been walking that wheel since age 18. No fucking mas. I’m not wealthy, yet I have enough financial resources (pensions, annuities, savings) that I’m just fine. There are countless people who are smarter than me, and far more talented. There are also countless people at the opposite end of the bell curve who experience life as a daily struggle. Each of us has the ability to express ourselves with a sense of competency – and ideally with passion so there is purpose to our existence on this mortal coil.
For me, writing and photography check these boxes. I pursue these expressions because it feels sensible and natural. To find my way into a newsroom shortly after college where someone paid me to write and be a photographer was too good to be true. Yet I also know there is a certain arc to my pursuits, whether it’s a grand love for a woman, writing, photography – experiences that bring me enormous joy. The arc begins with a passion, followed by validation and a sense of competency. Then this comfort zone eventually gives way to contentment, then complacency and sooner or later contempt: this is it? This is boring ... she is boring ... the money is boring ... and, more importantly, I am bored with myself and with life. And then it’s time for a major change because I have still not decided what I want to be when I grow up.
I had already acquired a Master’s degree in Education during the early 1990s. This time I was serious, no pub crawls, no dipping into a large size coffee can for my stash of marijuana. I hoped the new degree would open doors for a public relations gig with a school district. I was not keen on being a classroom teacher. Yet this is what happened, and I found that I enjoyed it. I did not do this until I was 50-years-old, but by then I knew how to handle the hecklers. I spent a year working in an Alternative High School, and that’s a tough crowd. I aligned myself with DODEA because it really pays well, and I wanted someone to help pickup \my travel tab. This career allowed me to live in Bahrain, Germany, England, Japan and ... finally Korea. I had to leave America to achieve the American Dream of upward mobility. Yet after nearly 15-years, the familiar arc of my life had run its course. If it’s a drag to wake up in the morning, it’s time to get a new script, learn some new lines and develop a new role for a new play.
This all coincided with meeting the woman who is now my wife. She says it was Our Fate.
PS) About the American education system: America is paying a heavy price for nearly two generations of social promotion in public schools K-8. There is neither the time nor the salary available to motivate secondary school teachers to re-teach basic concepts that were covered in schools when me and you were students in the late 1950s and early 1960s. It did not help that the Fairness Doctrine of the FCC was neutered by Reagan in 1987 – which allowed for both Rupert Murdoch’s open sewer, known as Fox News, and drug-addict Rush Limbaugh on radio to unleash a tsunami of disinformation, lies, misinformation and promote a steady diet of Orwellian doublespeak, like 2+2 = 5. It did not help that the Corrupt Supreme Court made an absolute mockery of the Constitution in the 2010 case of “Citizens United v FCC” which, in truth, supported the idea that political bribery was protected as a First Amendment right. And now we have a department store rapist as the presumptive presidential candidate for the Republican Fascist Party in November. A New York state appeals panel slashed the amount of money Our Insurrectionist-in-Chief needs from Putin and Russian oligarchs as a bond in his real estate tax scam case. And now the very shady Ronna Romney McDaniel has been hired to be an overpaid bloviating bobblehead for NBC.The Board of Directors for the thoroughly defiled National Broadcasting Company may not be Muslims, but they sure do believe in the Profit.
Long arm of the law: J Edgar Hoover in 1936.
Photograph: New York Daily News Archive/Getty Images
In that bygone era of grade school, when a collection of students was together in the same room with the same teacher for an academic year, my sixth-grade teacher bought us all a smart looking paperback copy of Roget’s Thesaurus. If he had handed me a bag of gold, it would not have been as valuable as that 50-cent thesaurus. It changed my life.
For high school graduation, my mother presented me with a portable manual typewriter and a hardbound copy of Roget’s Thesaurus. I’ve had a half-century relationship with that edition – longer than my connection with any one person, and it has accompanied me from St. Louis-to-Seoul, and all points in between. That edition from 1970 remains an integral part of my book collection.
Allegedly, Christopher Hitchens (1949-2011), an immensely talented wit and writer, could imbibe liberal quantities of alcoholic refreshments throughout the day, hold forth with ease and intellectual dexterity on literary, political and religious issues at both formal lectures and lively parties - then sit before a keyboard at 1 a.m. and produce a stunning essay for Vanity Fair that marked him as the rightful heir to Gore Vidal in his prime.
I’m still waiting for lightning to strike, to know what I want to be when I grow up, to be enraptured by a muse who will inspire me as much as June Mansfield (1902-1979) shaped the life of Henry Miller (1891-1980), her husband, who went unaccompanied to Paris in 1930 and during this down-and-out period wrote countless letters to his wife and friends in New York City that became the material for the scandalous Tropic of Cancer – banned as obscene for 30-years, edited by his mistress and benefactor, Anais Nin (1903-1977). Perhaps the best we can do is to be an interesting collection of contradictions.
Call me Kennedy. Ahab had his whale. William Burroughs (1914-1997) had his heroin. Bruce Chatwin (1940-1989) had his Patagonia. As for me, I have a camera and a passport.
The play’s the thing.
Michael Kennedy