The Prisoner

     A melancholy valley just north of our city harbors a deep and dark secret few know and even fewer will speak of. Drive east on Pantranco as it bisects the business district towers that hold the engines which drive our robust economy, until it crosses Edsa. Edsa, unlike Pantranco, winds through low hills, studded with fine homes. Many drivers of the businesses that line Pantranco built exquisite mansions, occasionally glimpsed behind ivy covered walls and screens of ancient and spreading oak, laurel, and hawthorn trees. Eventually Edsa twists out of the tony neighborhoods, passing through haphazard collections of increasingly modest environs until deadending into Wurzbach Ave; surrounded by the shanties of new arrivals and day-laborers. Wurzbach runs north between vast hulking factories; piles of soot smeared bricks that belch noxious plumes which spread across the district. Eventually the sweatshops, warehouses, and freight-yards taper off and Wurzbach slips under the turnpike, sheds a few lanes as it disappears into craggy hills.

     Most people do not pass the turnpike-boundary; very few even know of the district and the story that lurks on the edge of the city.  Within a few blocks, Wurzbach sheds the pretense of name, becoming a two-lane blacktop that winds in between increasingly wild hills. Highway maintenance crews rarely venture out this far. Weeds and scruffy bushes soon march up to the edge of the lumpy tar-striped road. If you pay attention you may spot a dingy white sign with nondescript black block letters, hanging slightly askew on a roughly welded iron pipe frame. Underneath the words, Falstaff Correctional Facility, an arrow points you down an even narrower rutted road.

     Now, twisted ancient oak trees line the road, reaching out for the periodic passing truck or car; all the while doing their best to block the few rays of sun that slip past the interminable clouds and mist. Dark, devoid of color, the craggy toothy ridges suck up hope as you pass. The road follows a ravine which passes between hills that continuously creep closer, steep cliffs threatening all passers with periodic landslides and the isolated boulder. After a few miles the ravine debouches into a small box canyon, home to Falstaff Correctional Facility, known the inmate and correctional officer alike as FCF.

     Built several decades ago, FCF, a moldering pile of roughly hewn stone, exudes isolation and despair being literally and figuratively at the end of the road. A windowless edifice garlanded with rusted coils of razor-wire fills most of the small valley. The small gravel parking lot swallows up the road. An arched, portcullis guarded, entry consumes far more than it releases. Rusty iron letters stapled in an arc above the entry point proclaim, “Pass this portal to pay your penalty.” Mirror-windowed strongpoints guard each corner and the midpoints of all walls. A single smokestack points an accusing finger at the leaden sky. This is the place where society discards the unwanted, undesirable, and incorrigible. Citizens send those they wish to forget, even the correctional officers, to this dark, desolate corner of the landscape. As the weary and warry traveler reaches the inside, passing through the narrow dripping tunnel, what little hope remains slowly fades away.

     Deep inside one of the cell-blocks a small, rusty iron door guards a winding staircase which descends into a dark subterranean space far below the surface.  A few dim caged bulbs scatter desultory light into this grim, lonely space. At one end of the hall another ancient rusty door, pierced by tiny barred window, guards the worst offender in the facility. Next to the door a malevolent guard slouches on a decrepit gray metal chair; his neural-enforcer propped against the wall, close at hand. He waits out his shift, guarding the monstrous criminal society wants to forget. Mounted on the grimy wall, a black-Bakelite telephone provides a tenuous connection to the world above. What heinous crime incarcerated the man behind the door; forgotten and discarded? The phone on the wall comes to life, its clattering ring echoing off the dark, moist stone walls barely visible in the gloomy distance.

     Surprised, the guard stares uncomprehendingly for a few moments at the phone wonder filling his porcine face. Which is more surprising; the fact that the ringer works or someone would have cause to call all the way down to this cell? Heaving his bulk up on spindly legs, the guard snatches the phone from its cradle, “Yes,” he mumbles, “You want the prisoner now? Yessir, right way.”

     Bemused, he fishes an old skeleton key from the small jingling cluster clipped to his belt. Picking up the neural-enforce, he raps the door with it. “Hey you,” he grunts, “get up!” A hideous liquid grunting and scraping slips past the small window in the door. Slowly, something very heavy makes its way to the door. As it draws near the door, a malodorous wind surges with it, the reek gaging the guard. The door creaks open with agonizing slowness as the guard strains at the handle; rust slowly drifting off the nearly immobile hinges. Ducking slightly to clear the lintel, the criminal shuffles out, heavy iron fetters binding his arms and hobbling his feet.

     As the criminal steps into the dim circle of light the guard barely stifles a gag. Unrecognizable as a human the monstrous criminal stands, panting slightly, covered in a thick layer of black slimy moss. A quick poke in the ribs with the neural-enforcer elicits an agonized bellow from the criminal. “Com-on you!” huffs the guard, “Enough complaining. Your day has come. You knew it was coming and I’m glad it’s here.” Slowly, painfully the criminal shuffles down the dark cavern as the guard follows, disappearing into the gloomy darkness.

     At the end of a long steamy corridor a small group of guards wait. A small group of dark suited officials gather on the witness balcony.  At one end of the room an ominous machine waits, thrumming slightly. Conduits and leads emit a soft green glow as engineers clad in heavy leather aprons and goggles adjust various taps, vernires and dials. One of the witnessing officials inquires, “Is The Light of Justice ready?” One of the goggled men turns, nodding in ascent. Slowly the condemned makes his painful way into the room as a gaggle of neural-enforcer equipped guards keep watchful eye on the monster. As the iniquitous transgressor mounts a slightly elevated pad a small group of guards steps over and quickly shackles it to large staples set in the basalt floor.

     “Transgressor,” an unseen speaker bellows, “You stand condemned of unspeakable crimes of humanity. You have been sentenced to stand in the unremitting light of justice. The state will now execute your sentence. Do you have anything to say?”

     The creature slowly shakes his bowed head as chains scrape and clank.

     “Officers, do your duty,” commands the unseen speaker. At the command, the leather clad officers spring into action and a huge lens swings up as a throbbing hum fills the cavern. Slowly, inexorably a

       http://www.mithrilwisdom.com/2013/02/the-lazarus-machine-steampunk.html 

green glow fills the lens rapidly shifting into blazing white. With an audible snap a shaft of brilliant light leaps from the lens stabbing at the dark slimy mass, shackled to the floor. An agonized bellow fills the room.

     Alone in the harsh, burning light of justice the monster writhes and cries out as the hum grows. Smoke and popping competes with the throbbing machine. All the witnesses and guards shield their eyes from the bright stabbing light and writhing smoking mass. Capacitors expended the light snaps off. The criminal, strangely diminished, stands smoke drifting up from glowing spots.

     “Again,” the speaker commands, and the light flashes out once more and a harrowing bellow fills the air. This time the light continues to burn until the monster collapses with a death rattle in a smoking ruin. One of the guards steps forth and checks the condemned for signs of life.

     “He’s dead,” the guard announces.

     “Put him back in the cell and seal the door.” The guards move forward and drag the smoking carcass away.

     Three cycles later a clangor rouses the guard sleeping outside the sealed cell. “Quiet in there,” he shouts! Despite his repeated commands the commotion continues. Eventually, curiosity aroused, he steps to the door, peers in, and then unlocks it. It slowly swings open and with a hiss the guard steps back. A slight dark-haired bearded man steps out and smiles at the guard.

     The sun breaks through the clouds as the portcullis slowly creaks up. The slight dark-haired man steps out into the unusual light. Slowly turning, he smiles and strides down the road.          

Trust

     Droning on the helicopter pilot spewed out a torrent of vector, wind, altitude, and other assorted bits of aeronautical administrivia.  Other pilots and crew-chiefs sat rapt, furiously jotting down key bits as they passed. For us, the significant information arrived long ago. We knew where we would fly, confirming that the pilots had the same objectives we’d mapped out in planning days prior. He’d covered actions on the objective, letting us know that our vision of the operation synchronized with his vision; a key bit of information in multi-unit maneuvers. Over against the wall bulky bulgy bags of leaflets waited, hulking amid piles of our kit.  Soon we would each lug one out to the waiting Blackhawks and disappear into the dark Iraqi night. Eventually the pilot's supply of aviation-speak spun out, the briefing ended, and we gathered round our pile of kit and leaflets.

Taken during my first tour, not the mission I described in this post.

     Amid small talk we kitted up, checking out magazines, flares, first-aid kits, and other oddments needed for a trip outside the wire. Pre-combat Checks and Inspections (PCI) complete we gathered in sticks outside the command post to wait for our aircraft, waiting in the darkness. Normally my work did not include Leaflet mission for the Psychological Operations (PSYOP) Company; however, due to our operational tempo the PSYOP Company need help in the form of volunteer aircrew. As we waited quietly in the darkness the platoon sergeant sidled up to me. Staring off into the darkness, we exchanged greetings, as we contemplated the shining lights of Baghdad in the distance.

     “Sir,” he said, “Do you remember the pilot's plan in case one of the birds was shot down?”

     “Yes, I do.”

     “What did you think of it?” he asked gazing into the distance.

     “Well, not much; especially if we go down in Sadar City.” Sadar City, a huge slum-like collection of concrete warrens perched on the northeast corner of Baghdad, housed thousands of people and some of the worst terrorists and plain criminals in Iraq. No Americans went into Sadar City without strapping on their full kit. A festering cauldron of anti-American hate, Sadar City periodically boiled over with violence, and not all of it directed at Americans. Inside Sadar City sectarian hatred frequently dished out assassinations and occasional mass killings. The pilot's plan, in case an aircraft was brought down by ground fire, was to remain with the downed helicopter and wait for rescue. Images of Mogadishu and more recently of the corpses of American soldiers dragged through the streets and hung up on a bridge remained fresh in our minds. After a few moments of silence I added, “If able, I’d rather make my way to the nearest road and head out. A downed aircraft will be a magnet for all the Jihadis. We wouldn’t last a minute in that crowd.”

     After a few more seconds of silence the NCO replied, “That’s what I think. I just want you to know that if we go down. I and my men well take orders from you, not the pilot.” And with that he turned and walked over to one of his subordinates, saying, “Hey, McAlistar, tighten up your gear. You don’t want it flying ‘round the inside of the aircraft.”

     I did not have much time to contemplate his words as the thrumming of approaching aircraft announced our impending departure. We faced away from the landing zone, letting gravel bounce off our armored backs. Then swinging around we lumbered to the waiting birds, heaving our bags of leaflets into the cabins and clambered into the dimly lit red interiors. After sorting out all the bits and pieces, I took the headset the crew-chief proffered and settled in for the flight, turning the NCO’s words over in my head.

     I had never met the sergeant. He did not know me, or I him. He sensed me out and extended his trust, placing his life and the lives of his subordinates in my hands. Later that night as a few tracers crawled up toward us and our aircraft launched the obligatory anti-missile flares I reconsidered his words. One of the many brightly lit Mosques that dotted the landscape of Baghdad wheeled beneath us, like a giant bejeweled crown, offering tracer prayers that went unanswered as my silent ones were. After a few hours spent littering the environs of Baghdad and the surrounding ‘burbs, we returned to snatch a few precious moments of sleep before the next day’s activities.

     I never saw the sergeant again, at least not that I know of. I often think of his gift of faith and trust. Rarely does the civilian world offer such a moment. Our neat and ordered lives normally do not require such decisions. Perhaps that is why I like my second career of teaching so much. Trust, normally implied and rarely spoken fills my world. Daily, my students and their parents simply assume that I will do the right thing. I stand and deliver what they trust is truth. Like the NCO in the dark, they make a decision and place their trust and I am honored to try my best. I’ve always been thankful that I never had to lead a group of soldiers out of Sadar City in terrible darkness.

Veteran's Day

            Today as part of Memorial Day weekend activities the V-Corps Headquarters gathered at 6:300 A.M. and ran in formation for several miles through the housing area.  Later the Corps leadership inspected our class A or, dress uniforms. It is early afternoon here and my dress jacket hangs on the doorknob. I am looking at the bits of ribbon and shinny metal and plastic that adorn an otherwise drab jacket. I remember a drill sergeant who told us that our uniforms were a great deal. If we served long enough we could wear them as civilian clothes upon our discharge. We all laughed inside thinking, "Who would wear that jacket as a civilian? You would look like a geek." Some twenty-three years later I cannot imagine wearing that uniform as a civilian; however; different reasons compel me.

            I am proud of the uniform. It tells my story as a soldier. Ribbons tell of times when someone thought enough of what I did to write it down and memorialize it. They also speak of deployments into harms way in the service of and as a representative of my country. A bright bit of metal tells those who know of a period of intense labor encouraging others to serve their country. Combat stripes and patches occupy a position of honor on the right sleeve. These are not emblems of a highly successful or particularly valorous career. But they do represent honorable if imperfect service.

            As I put the finishing touches on my uniform this morning my children, Timothy and Candace, asked me about the meaning behind the ribbons and accouterments. They enjoyed hearing about what I had done. Their respect and admiration provide me great satisfaction. When my wife Christy says that I look good in uniform I feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment and inner peace.

            Recent revelations regarding prisoner abuse grieve all soldiers.  We all take an oath to “protect and defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic”.  Somber leaders in dress uniforms with more rank and greater awards than I will ever wear testify before congress regarding this misconduct.  Their somber looks reveal a deep concern about those who betrayed their trust, failing the nation and their comrades.  A few soldiers and leaders will never look at the uniform again without a sense of failure, loss, or diminished opportunities.  A very few will never wear the uniform again.  A few minutes of weakness or a period of inattention deposit a stain that no cleaner can remove.

            I think of all the men and women who wore the uniform before me. Their sacrifice and service illuminate the path today's soldiers tread. At times soldiers make mistakes providing the ready critic ample opportunity to tear down. Yet, the vast majority walk their path with honor, commitment, and courage. I choose to remember this throng of women and men; some sacrificed all, but most shouldered their burden and moved out smartly. We should remember and salute this silent phalanx of patriots on Memorial Day.

            My name will probably never scroll in flickering letters across the TV screens of our nation or the world. My rank may not change and I may have earned my highest award from the Army. But, I can still with pride tell my children what the ribbons and medals represent. And my lovely bride can still let the pride shine in her eyes when she gently adjusts my collar and smooths out a crease on my shoulder. Some rewards and honors are priceless.

          I wrote this shortly after returning from my first tour of duty in Iraq. I served another six years, was promoted, returned to Iraq, and completed a variety of other operational missions. Yet, in some ways, this still captures the essence of my feelings about 26 years of service in the Army.

Teaching Civil Speech

     Open up Facebook or any other social media and a seemingly endless stream of boorish speech streams across your screen. Frequently the words, “Watch while _________ owns _______” headline the clip. Despite our cultural embrace of rudeness, abusive speech neither indicates a fulsome grasp of the issue at hand nor is it acceptable in civilized discourse; especially among those who claim the name of Christ. Recently a speech purportedly given by a University Professor circulated in which he supposedly “put college students in their place” for being easily offended and trampling on the Bill of Rights in their rush to avoid confronting issues or concepts which did not fit their world-view. In part of his speech he wrapped himself in the mantle of Christianity, claiming that he had the right to be offensive.

     As an educator and a Christian, at least a man who actively seeks to emulate Jesus since He loved me so much that he paid an incalculably high price for my sins, I feel I must push back against our current penchant for discourteous speech. I do seek to challenge my students. I want to lay things before them that test their prejudices, that make them reconsider their predilection for accepting cultural norms without question, and stretch their minds past the insular world of West Texas. As a history and English teacher, I work hard to unveil truth in such a manner as to help them consider why they hold fast to certain viewpoints and more loosely to others. As their teacher, and hopefully mentor, I want to usher them into newer vistas which enable them to better employ their talents and take their place as leaders. Like Christ, I must do so with skillful, gentle hands.

     My students enter my classroom trusting, hoping that I will help them. Of course there are moments when they behave foolishly, uttering nonsensical, ill-formed ideas. I must disabuse them of those patterns of thought. These bruised reeds need binding up and the smoldering wicks need fanning. Encouragement does not mean that I accept silliness or ignorance; instead I deal with them as gently as possible. Occasionally I rattle cages; as with the revelation to my 7^th graders that for decades Texas was always a “blue” state. But I do so to illuminate, not own. And therein lies my problem with our winner-take-all culture spilling into the classroom.

     When I allow myself to engage in an adversarial relationship with my students I fail them as an educator. I do not suffer fools gladly, being willing to answer a fool according to his foolishness, always remembering that as the classroom teacher I speak from a position of power and authority.

When I engage in dismissive, rude speech I give up that intellectual high-ground. To start a semester or even class with a screed; even one that may forward defensible ideas or concepts, degrades the learning experience, bending the teacher-student relationship into an unnecessarily adversarial direction. For centuries one of the hallmarks of the educational experience and educated minds was civil discourse. When we in the profession of education adopt the more adversarial atmosphere of talk radio or the Sunday argumentary, we erode our ability to speak into the lives of our students. Such aggressive speech does not illuminate or educate in or outside the classroom, serving only to divide or build walls. And in an age in which our nation faces significant challenges at home and abroad we must seek to find unity and carefully thought out solutions to thorny problems we face. This age requires well educated young men and women who understand how to engage in thoughtful, investigatory discourse to uncover and execute solutions. Is my pride so strong that I never consider another viewpoint, another thought, another consideration, one different than my own? If I never model and teach well-reasoned, thoughtful, and polite speech how will they learn such behaviors? If I continually display and applaud, often by forwarding and reposting, such ugly behaviors how will we as a country and society ever find our way out of this dark morass into a more civil culture which embraces solutions instead of verbal altercation?

     

The Learning Dance

     “Mr. Robinson, it was just like you said…” Students harbor unreasonable trust in teachers. They fully believe that I will stand before them and deliver truth. A few view me with suspicion; however, the majority simply assume that I speak truthfully. Oddly, they frequently show greater trust in areas outside my expertise. Each day they arrive in my class prepared to hear what I say and then incorporate that into their mental framework, no matter the subject.

     I frequently stray off topic. The world continually presents me with new, intriguing things. I often share them with my students; sometimes on the spur of the moment. Caught up in the joy of a “new thing” I take a few moments of class to unveil some aspect of the world. The students enjoy these little diversions since I normally do not hold them accountable for this information. We all bask in the glow of some jewel or oddment unpacked. Recently the heavens provided such a moment.

     Those uninterested in celestial happenings might have missed this one. Venus, Jupiter, and Mars engaged in one of their periodic dances; better known as a conjunction. These relatively common

occurrences provide the night-sky viewer with moments of great beauty. During the last week of October this year these three planets lined up quite nicely in the early morning sky; in Lubbock, low on the eastern horizon. Each day as Christy and I walked they drew closer and closer. Finally, Venus and Jupiter abandoned Mars, forming a couplet leaving dim lonely Mars spurned, sinking down toward the horizon. As the climax drew near, I shared with my students.

     Using the white-erase board, I sketched out what was happening, giving a simple explanation of the orbital dynamics involved in creating such a conjunction. Trust me, my explanation was quite simple any math of physics teacher would have rolled their eyes at my childish scrawlings depicting this elegant dance. I shared with my students the joy of beholding the beauty of such a display in the cool dark of early dawn. They listened quietly, appreciating the digression for the delay of class more than anything else. At least that was what I thought.

     A day or so later one of my seventh-graders came into my room before school started. I number him among the handful of students who swing by my room for a little chat prior to the start of the day. I’m not sure why they come. Perhaps it is for a little camaraderie; perhaps they just need someone to keep them company until their friends arrive. No matter the cause, we enjoy our casual meetings in the morning. At any rate, Jerald came in very excited and exclaimed, “I saw it Mr. Robinson.”

     “Saw what Jerald.”

     “The conjunction, you know!”

     Light dawned, “Ah yes. How did you like it?”

     “Oh it was beautiful. I got up and went outside and looked to the east. And there it was. Mr. Robinson, it was just like you said, beautiful!” We enjoyed a shared moment of discovered beauty, sublime.

     I wondered what his parents thought when their son got up and went outside early in the morning to look at some odd thing Mr. Robinson told them about. Learning takes place at unusual times; often when we least expect it. Jerald is not one of my great enjoyers of history. But, I still managed to teach him something even when I did not plan to. That is part of what excites me every day. I never know what interesting thing will take place in my classroom. Sometimes my students learn; more often I do.