Courage and Confusion
A few days ago, my friend Charley and I were discussing, via email, the overt sexual content of some of the popular rock ‘n’ roll songs of the 1970s. What prompted the exchange was the choice I’d made for the Song of the Day in a recent blog post. Mind you, it wasn’t the song that I chose, it was the one that I didn’t choose. Though highly evocative and nostalgic, I didn’t select it because I felt the lyrics were overtly titillating and inappropriate for the story I was telling. [Drop me an email if you want to know the name of that song.]
It’s no secret that many rock ’n’ roll songs have sex as an implicit theme, even those from the ’50s and ’60s—way more than I realized back in my innocent, teenage days. But hey, I was in my late 20s, maybe early 30s, when I discovered that the term rock ’n’ roll—like the term jazz—was once a euphemism linked to the sex act. So, I guess in that sense all of rock ’n’ roll is about sex. I doubt anyone would bat an eye about these terms today.
As our email exchange continued, we traded comments about some other euphemisms and the way in which some terms that were once considered vulgarities have worked their way into commonly accepted speech. I mentioned to Charley that this topic reminded me of one of my pet peeves. Back when our girls were still in their teens, I forbade them to use the exclamation ‘bull,’ insisting that many people, at least those in polite company, would consider it to be just a shortening of the vulgarity “bull shit”—a term we would never allow. (Gosh, darn it, parenting requires some tough choices and is often very confusing.) I thought it was the right thing… but the years passed and times changed. Not long after relocating to Hattiesburg, I was hit in the face with a TV ad for Kim’s ‘No Bull’ Chrysler dealership. I still don’t like it, but what can I do? I guess “Kim’s Chrysler” just needed a bit more jazz.
That discussion with Charley further put me in mind of an incident from my high school days that I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about. It was embarrassing then and still haunts me somewhat even now. I was in the 12th grade at Stone High in the last few weeks of the 1970-71 school year. My friends and I were sitting in a cluster toward the middle back in Mr. Chambers’ Economics class. It was near the end of class and near the end of the school day. Having finished his lesson and with most of the class chatting happily—many of us suffering from a not too healthy case of “senior fever”—Mr. Chambers stood behind his desk-top lectern grading papers. He had a quiet, unassuming manner and commanded his classes with dignity. He was not overly stern, but was all-business, while tolerating our cut-ups and teenaged immaturity.
Let me insert here that Mr. Chambers was a middle-aged black man, having come to Stone High that year when the county school district had finally completed full integration by converting the all-black Locker High into the county’s first junior high school and moving the upper classes and many of its faculty to Stone High. Also making the move was Mr. Jones, the Locker High principal—he became the SHS assistant principal—and Mrs. Jones, his wife and typing teacher—she was one of my favorite teachers during that pivotal senior year. All three of these fine educators helped make integration a much smoother transition than many in the county had feared.
Mr. Chambers, Stone High School Social Studies teacher.
(photo from the 1971 SHS yearbook)
Now, back to my story. I had turned in my desk to chat with Anita and Deborah, who were sitting behind me. I’m pretty sure Benny and Gary and Toni were close by, maybe Gwen and Carmen, too, but they were carrying on their own conversations. Having finished a bit of homework, I had just signed my paper with my usual, or should I say my unusual, left-handed flourish. Anita, also a lefty, then attempted to use her right hand to sign her own name. Not having much success, she blurted out “My right hand’s a hook!”—using a slang derogatory term that, back in the day, was akin to calling a person or thing, clumsy or stupid or idiotic. Hook in this sense was a contraction of a much coarser expression. I didn’t particularly like it much better, but it was certainly more acceptable than full version: shithook.
None of the students who may’ve heard Anita gave the remark any thought. The term was quite common during that time, and she had not spoken it that loud. But, when Anita placed her head down, trying to stifle her uncontrollable giggles, I glanced toward the front of the classroom to find Mr. Chambers staring directly at the two of us with a confused look on his face.
There he stood, this dignified double-amputee, whose left arm was completely missing and to his right elbow was attached a metallic mechanical arm fitted with a chrome set of pincers for a hand. Dang it all, his right hand literally was a hook!
When it dawned on me what he must’ve thought about the remark, I sank red-faced into my desk. He didn’t say a word to either of us, but quietly resumed his paperwork—I was thankful the class bell rang a couple of minutes later.
I knew what needed to be done, but I didn’t have the courage or the words to go up to him after class with an apology. What would I have said? How could I have explained that it was just an innocent exclamation that had nothing whatsoever to do him. Maybe he sensed it, but I wanted him to know it. As it was, I just slinked on out with the rest of the class.
Over the years I’ve come to realize what a hard life he must’ve had and what a courageous man he was. I don’t know how he came by his handicap.Was it during combat during WWII or the Korean War? Was it from a car accident or the result of a birth defect? Whatever the case, he had overcome this adversity, as well as the pitious glances he must have endured, not to mention the daily encounters of blatant racism he undoubtedly suffered throughout his life here in the deep south. On top of all that, he had weathered the difficult transition of moving from an all-black school to teach in a potentially volatile, now predominantly white school. How oppressively onerous these challenges must have been.
My respect for this man grows each time I contemplate this episode occurring in those confusing times. And I still want him to know it.
Gary Simpson and Anita Wesson speaking at the December 1970 Junior-Senior Banquet.
(photo from the 1971 SHS yearbook)
Several members of the 1971 SHS yearbook staff gathered around my motorcycle while taking a break from the task of laying out the pages (March 1971).
L-R: Benny Newton, Russell Lott, Carmen White, Toni Smith, and Jeanne Rogers.
This photo was taken by Gwen Smith. I remember that because that’s what she wrote when she signed my annual.
(photo from the 1971 SHS yearbook)
WORDS TO PONDER
on·er·ous (adjective):
(of a task, duty, responsibility or situation) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.
www.languages.oup.com
pin·cer (noun), pin·cers (plural noun):
1. a tool made of two concave jaws that work on a pivot and used for grasping and pulling things.
2. a hinged and sharply pointed organ used by an arthropod for feeding or defense, as the mandibles of an insect, or claws of a crab, lobster, or scorpion.
www.merriam-webster.com
SONG OF THE DAY
“Ball of Confusion” by the Temptations (Greatest Hits II, 1970)
BONUS TRACK
“I'm Still Standing” by Elton John (Too Low for Zero, 1983)