How Being A Prisoner of War Changed My Life

I want to share with you a letter my American mother sent out from Vienna, after encountering a dying Austrian man whose favorite memory is the time when he was a prisoner of war on US soil.

Do allow me this Reader's Digest moment, if you don't mind...

Dear friends,

As some of you know, I volunteer regularly at a local hospice/palliative ward in Vienna. Yesterday I had an encounter there that made an unusually deep impression on me. The patient I was privileged to meet was an 85-year-old retired medical doctor who seemed rather subdued when I introduced myself. But as soon as I revealed to him that I was a native U.S. American he became very animated. “I lived in Virginia for 2 years”, he told me “and those were 2 of the best years of my life.” Of course, I asked him when that was and why he had been in America. “It was 1944-45 and I was a prisoner of war”, he promptly told me. That was the beginning of a 90 minute story that fascinated me from beginning to end.

Dr. A. was 14 when Hitler & Co. occupied Austria. He readily admitted that as an impressionable teen-ager he was fascinated by the Nazi propaganda and joined the Hitler Youth organization. When he was drafted into the army at age 18 (1942) he thought he was headed for a big adventure but was immediately confronted with the cruel realities of WWII. In the spring of 1944 after the allied forces had finally captured Montecasino (Italy) from the Germans, he was part of a small band of German/Austrian soldiers sent on a reconnaissance mission up to the top of the mountain. They successfully reached the high plateau only to find themselves surrounded by American soldiers. Dr. A. continued: “My American miracle began the minute the Americans captured us. I knew that if the situation were reversed the Germans would have shot the Americans on the spot. But we were simply ordered to put down our weapons. Our identities were established but no one beat, let alone tortured us.” Soon Dr. A. was brought to Naples where he was put on a ship bound for Norfolk, VA.

He has no idea how long the rough crossing lasted but he remembers begin full of fear at the thought of landing on “enemy soil” and being thrown into an American prisoner of war camp. He had witnessed how badly the Nazis had treated their captives and wondered if he would be strong enough to survive the anticipated suffering. When the ship docked in Norfolk Dr. A. was told they would be taken by train to the POW camp. “In Europe we soldiers had always been transported in cattle cars, so you can imagine my amazement when we were escorted to shining silver trains and allowed to sit in well padded seats. At that moment, I fell in love with America.” Dr. A. recounted in detail how respectfully he was treated during his captivity. Even though he sometimes had to clean latrines he felt grateful for his “good luck”. At times the prisoners worked outside the camp on near-by farms. He was absolutely incredulous when at noon-time the farmer’s family invited him and his fellow prisoner to join them at their dinner table. “Such humanity! Such generosity! That goodness created such hatred in me for the Nazis and all they had done and all the lies they had told us. Even being held prisoner in a democratic country was a 1000 times better than living under Fascism. I wanted more than anything for the Allies to defeat the Nazis so I could return home to a democratic Austria.”

Dr. A. was 21 when he returned home. He was too exhausted yesterday to tell me the rest of his story but he did emphasize that even though the American government has done some things over the years that he did not agree with, he has always defended America to its critics because of his POW experience.

I was moved to recount this story because it reminded me so painfully of how far America drifted from that POW camp in VA to the black hole of Guantanamo and other CIA prisons. Dr. A. was an enthusiastic young supporter of the Nazis when he went off to war and he had been convinced that America was his enemy. He was converted to the principals of Democracy by being treated according to the morals and values upon which our country was founded. Generous and humane treatment planted the seeds of democracy in a young soldier and the results were life-changing.

Peace,
J.

Watch those Buds Pop!

Live report from the Wisshickon: New life is poppin'!

Mindless Acts of Whiteness

Two events shaped my experience of Philadelphia today.

1. The Aftermath of St. Patrick's Day in South Philly
2. The Signing of a Treaty with Members of the Lenape Nation

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I find the celebration of the patron saint of Ireland, St. Patrick, a baffling and confusing experience in America. On the one hand, Irish-Americans are more Irish than Irish on this excuse of a drink fest; and on the other hand, this is the one day in the year when Americans of many stripes get to partake in a vulgar celebration of their white ethnicity in general. Everyone who cares to is dressed in kelly green t-shirts, adorned with green mardi gras beads, four-leaf clover top hats, and a Guinness emblem somewhere on their person. And being of Irish descent is not of importance here: rather, this is your chance to explore your gritty, post-Mayflower immigrant, underdog, deeply ethnic whiteness, whether you're a bar-hopping elite college student or an extended family roasting hot dogs on the BBQ grill in your back yard. As long as the beer flows, that's all that matters.

And what can be better hangover medicine than a genuine Philly Cheesesteak from Geno's in South Philly. Mind you, you're coming from endulging your real or imagined Irishness to having a greasy experience with your real or imagined Italianess, mindlessly consuming your real or imagined working-classness and feeling proud -- for once -- of your real or imagined whiteness.

So, then, there is a line around the block to get that cheesesteak at 3 PM on a Sunday afternoon, because we will never forget!!!!

*******

Just hours before I biked past Geno's, I witnessed a blessing ceremony performed by members of the Lenape Nation at my church. A representative of each group signed a treaty committing to our renewed relationship with each other and the land on which this city stands.

The Lenape are the people who have lived in this geographic area for, hmm, the past 10,000 years. The reason why you may not have heard of them before is that they were forced to go totally underground in order to preserve their identity, language and culture. It is just now that they are becoming more public again.

Being in the presence of Native Philadelphians at Tabernacle United Church this morning, where people of many ethnicities were present -- but most of us of European descent -- gave me a sense of our varied histories of immigration and displacement, our complicated and shared history of oppression, extinction, exploitation... In this space, healing and reconciliation were on the top of the agenda, in addition to honoring our ancestors, especially the ancestors who have kept this land for us.

As it turns out, I'll be hiking in the woods with a Lenape name tomorrow morning: the Wissahickon. Glorifying the sacred ground on which we stand is, indeed, a sharp contrast to the grit and grease of the rest of the weekend's goings-on. Or is it?

A, D sharp and F as a Mazurka, please!

These two people are the reason I came to Philadelphia: Italo and Jean.

Italo was my mom's music teacher in high school. This was in Detroit in the 60s. Mom ended up singing professionally for 20 years in Germany; Italo to this day talks about her outstanding voice when she was 16 and singing solos with the Cass Tech choir which he conducted. In fact, Italo listens to old recordings from that time on a daily basis now. Music is what keeps him alive as his memory is fading and his mind frequently slips into obscurity.

Jean retired last year from being a school librarian at the tender age of 86. She plans to live to be no less than 100, like her mother. Jean introduced me to MANNA, an organization that provides meals for people living with HIV/AIDS. The two of us volunteered there togerther for several years. Now she helps stock a local food pantry and takes care of her hubby. When I asked her yesterday what her days look like now, she said each days starts with them looking for Italo's glasses. This, apparently, takes a good chunk o' time.

I got a taste of what else keeps Italo happy and occupied: You name three notes on the musical scale plus a rhythm pattern (see title of this posting) and he'll compose an impromptu piece for you on the piano (see picture below); or he starts off singing part of a melody and you go around the lunch table taking turns completing the melody however you like, regardless of how much food you currently have in your mouth. "Come on, just be creative!!" That's his favorite line these days.

This can go on for hours.

Jean and Italo live in the Philly suburbs, and their son went to Haverford. So I went to Haverford and, thus, landed in Philly. And now they have 7 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren, plus me.

Open Letter to Harvey Milk

Dear Harvey Milk,

The year you were killed, I was born. That makes me 30 years old in 2009. I have been out for 15 years, lived in 5 different countries, acquired 2 advanced degrees, fallen in love with 2 Jasons, been single-bilingual for 5 years since, and I am slowly becoming aware of the fact that I have been moved back into the closet with disturbing subtlety.

They just made a movie about you. I saw it a few days after a lover categorically refused to kiss me for fear of becoming infected with a disease I don't have. I live in a world where bishops are openly gay and speak at the nation's President's inaugural festivities. Where gay commitment ceremonies are the season's climax of family TV dramas. Where same-sex marriage has been legalized in Catholic Spain, a gay man is the mayor of Berlin, Sean Penn receives an Oscar for playing you.

I also live in a world where queer neighborhoods keep being gentrified and decentralized, where fear and sex come in the same package, where subcultures have become cynical about the fight for equal rights, where corporations like Bacardi and Absolut sponsor Pride parades while queer communities sponsor them to feed our rampant alcoholism, and where I make eye contact with unknown men only to intimidate them, never to flirt or simply acknowledge their humanity, for fear of being beaten up.

Irrational, I know. But that's how it (still) is in 2009. The gays get fired from the military, fired from their civil jobs, denied housing, refused service, refused adoption, refused marriage, refused rightful vindication for crimes against them, denied visitation rights, inheritance rights, tax breaks, full citizenship and immigration rights. We live in relative comfort but also in relative silence, we live openly but also in fear, our voice has been integrated but also submerged. We've become more straight-acting, more mainstream, more consumerist, more cynical, more complacent than you would ever have imagined.

I'm posting footage of the response to your killer's light sentence of 8 years in prison, of which he served 5 before being let go. The outrage generated during the 1979 riots has meanwhile been pacified by high glucose corn syrup, vodka tonics, crystal meth, fashion advertisement, gay cooking shows, and bad lesbian drama on cable TV.

But this year it's re-emerging in California and around the country and the globe with the fires that were lit by your outrageous presence on this Earth.



In reverence of our ancestors,

DKcosmonaut