In Summer ’74, a couple of other Gyrenes and I were invited to meet the family of another. Being invited back to “the
block” as the non-country folks put it was indeed a thing of brotherhood. Not nearly so much about the home geography as about
the family and friends occupying space in that geography.
The brother inviting us was an American of indigenous descent and he was from the Arizona/California region of no water.
Or it always seems damn dry to this east of the Mississippi resident, beautiful in Spring, but….
When I was a child, I thought I knew poverty and the attending conditions and I did in the context of Indiana poor-white
folks. The Marine Corps was no new thing for these people, Uncles, Fathers and many male Elders were also gyrenes. No
disrespectful people here throwing their excrement at us like apes not humans.
Reveille sounds when I met Americans living in broke down cars. I know how cold it gets in that part of the world at night and to me this was inexplicable and inexcusable.
I know the Ayn Rand delusionists will hide in determinism, knowing the kind of brother gyrene the culture nurtured I can’t be so hide bound to excuse with such ease.
The after effects of that grand introduction to the family of my brother became a second catharsis. No damn way to deny
“socio-economic-strata” as the politically correct chumps put it after that weekender.
Me? I call it class division. Few folks on the other side of the fence served when I did, some officers. In that day Dan
Quayle and those like he and “W” Bu$h hid in the National Guard.
Besides, I already had ONLY the required respect for Presidents Nixon and Ford and SECDEF Rumsfeld and those kinds of
chumps. I respected the chain of command, the position but not the men at the top of it. All that came from experience and from
my first contact with L. Fletcher Prouty’s “Secret Team” book the same summer. I already knew Commandant Cushman was a jerk but
then I learned how big a jerk.
Nuff fer now…