Jobless claims lead indicators as Summer of Recovery sputters - by Bruce Tyson - Page 2 - Helium

Jobless claims lead indicators as Summer of Recovery sputters - by Bruce Tyson - Page 2 - Helium

A real person

Usually I feel like I am not a "real person." Everyone else has money, a house, paid bills, vacations, trips, "things," clothes, enough food, and more. I don't. I don't see myself as ever having those things because those good things are for "them" and all the shit is for me.

I must have been two or three one Christmas when under the Christmas tree was the most wonderful teddy bear I had ever seen. He was on my side of the tree, but I looked at all my other presents and didn't touch the bear. My mother asked if I saw it and I answered that I knew that it was for Bryan. It turned out that it was for me. Even at that very very young age I had been trained to think that anything good must belong to someone else. I am still that way today.

Look how lousy this is

At times when we were very young, my brother and I would sit at the "play" table and draw or color. My brother, about 16 moths older than I, would always color within the lines and draw nicer pictures. I would be frustrated because his would be so nice and mine looked like shit. When my mother wanted to see what we were doing, I would say, "Look at how lousy this is." My mother wouldn't argue. I wish that she had explained to me that she was just as proud of my work as she was my brother's. She didn't. I wish she had helped me understand that I should be satisfied with my work if I did the best I can. She didn't.

To this day, I feel like the work I do is inadequate and shameful because it is so clearly inferior to that which others might do ot to that which I know is possible.

I want to be satisfied with knowing that I did my best. I still don't want people to see my work for fear of criticism. I want to be proud of my work. I ought to be proud of everything I do if I did it to the best of my ability.

Even now, when I am struggling to work on my own, I ought to be happy whether I have a "good" day or a "bad" day. I ought to be proud, even if I didn't earn enough because I did it and I am a real person... or am I not?

The underwear problem

My mother had a horrible thing about laundry. It is hard to believe that children in the late 1900s had to live like this, especially when their parents had the means to easily do better. Her rules were:

One pair of socks per week
One pair of underpants per week
One undershirt per week
One shower per week

I may have spoken of the one shower rule before, but here I want to talk about the underwear.

I can't imagine how hideous I smelled as a boy, and then compound that stench with the body odor of a teenager. This was accentuated by my mother's refusal to allow more than one shower in a week, but also became an obvious issue with underwear.

Undershirts and drawers would become stained with sweat and stink after one day. Often I would get up in the morning only to find my underwear smelly and wet from previous wear. I don't know what else to say except that it must have been one of the many reasons the kids at school wouldn't have anything to do with me.

The underwear problem was not new to me as a developing teen. When I was in the 2nd grade, I had a problem with pooping in my pants. For some reason, I was terrified at the thought of using the bathroom at the Martin Luther King Jr. Elementary School. I'd try to hold it in, but sometimes it didn't work.

I remember one time we were lined up to go to music class and I had bowel movement in my pants. Passing by the classroom sink on the way out the door I grabbed a paper towel and stuffed it in my pants so I didn't have to feel the mushy mess on my buttocks. Doreen Eato saw me do that and she announced to the entire class that I had poop in my pants. How awful. That was just one of the many struggles with bowel movement that I had as a young boy. This had horrible implications when it came to the "one pair of underpants per week" rule. The morning after an incident, the streaks would be crusty and hard. I had to put them on anyway and they would scratch my bottom and stink. I remember one time my underpants were so bad that I hid them behind my furniture and sneaked in a clean pair out of desperation. This was the only time that I defied the rule - that goes to show how bad that poop problem was.

My mother either did not know or did not care that I had the poop problem. I have thought about it several times in my life (even now I dread taking a dump, especially in a public restroom.

My mother just didn't want to be bothered with a lot of laundry. In my own family, it seems like my wife and I are always doing the wash. It is a drag, but it's better than limiting our children to one set of underwear and socks per week.

Harmony Church Fort Benning B-9-2 1984

I guess I've been thinking a lot about the Army now that my son is just weeks away from going off to West Point. He'll have a cadet basic training, a seven week period of intense Hades, I'm sure. At least they get to spend some time in the barracks. I don't know what all else they do... the Beast stuff... I still don't understand it all.

I was telling him about the barracks I did basic training at in Fort Benning, Georgia. They are gone now, finally giving way to the wreckers as they prepare Harmony Church for the Armored center. What's up with all this Maneuver Center stuff combining Armor and Infantry at Fort Benning anyway?

Harmony Church in 1984 sucked. I was 17, didn't know a thing about what was going on. I remember the reception station, the shots... my brother was on Reserve Duty when I showed up and he came to see how I was doing. That was before I got sent out to the unit. I was in B-9-2, the "Bravo Rangers." My platoon got there early for some reason so we spent about two weeks painting everything. Finally the rest of the company showed up and it began.

I was oblivious to what was happening. I think back on it, and I realize that I was in a fog. I didn't have any vision for my life. I had no purpose. I was there because of my mother and I had nothing to look forward to. There's so much I remember about that time though... I remember the overhead ladder that was mandatory to get into the chow hall. I remember being on KP once and passing out the "end of the loaf" and refusing to trade it for a regular piece when a trainee complained. I was standing in the chow line one time and I saw Sergeant Flowers. He looked different than most of the drill sergeants and I was staring at him as he was sitting at a table. I remember he said "Who are you looking at?" and I looked away. Sergeant Williams was the other drill sergeant for my company. He hated me. He called me names, he called me fat, he classed me in with Private Hall... I was the second most despised person in my platoon. It was hell. I was weak (I couldn't do pushups and the overhead ladder was always a challenge. sometimes I couldn't do it, other times I could, but I'd have to bring my trailing hand forward before moving to the next rung. I never could walk my hands through it.

The barracks were from WWII and they showed it. The toilets were separate from a shower room that were off to the right of the stairs. We never could get the floors shiny enough and we got kicked out of the barracks for not keeping it clean enough. We camped behind company headquarters from half of training. We had to have fire guards in the "camp" and fireguards in the barracks. We had round the clock cleaning teams... oh, it was bad.

The toilets had no stalls. I mean it. There were about six crappers out in the middle of a square room. I think the room may have had some washers and dryers in it too. Yes, I think so. Everyone sat on the toilets with their pants down and their hands screening their genital area. How horrible.

I was looking for photos of Harmony Church that I had found online years ago... I couldn't find them. There is a Harmony Church Facebook page that has some photos that sample the feel of what it was like back then.

Like every other time of my life, I had no friends. I had only a couple casual acquaintances that sometimes I could hang with, but I made no lasting friends and no one really liked me. In fact, I was mocked when I couldn't finish the runs, and I was ridiculed for the way I looked. I didn't know how to relate, and I had no perspective on life.

I remember too, the blisters I got on my feet because my boots were too big. It was horrible.

Zero the Rifle

Fort Benning, Georgia was a horrible place that I came to love. After failing to physically prepare for the ordeal that laid before me, I was in for a horrendous shock upon arrival. OK, not upon arrival at Fort Benning... arrival at Bravo Company, 9th Battalion, 2nd ITB (B-9-2). We were the "Rangers." Of course we weren't really Rangers: we were called the Rangers.

After a relaxed time at the reception station where I got shots and some basic in-processing done (My brother actually stopped by during that time because he was there for annual training with the 1st Brigade, 323rd regiment, 108th Division Army Reserve unit, the same unit that I was assigned to). That is so long ago, I can't recall exactly what my reserve unit was, but I think I have that about right. The unit was on Laurens Road in Greenville, South Carolina, but seems to be gone now. In fact, the entire reserve center seems to be abandoned. Let's get back to my story.

When we were live-firing our weapons, we were taken to a shooting range where we were supposed to get our weapons zeroed. Of course, I had never even touched a rifle before (except the ceremonial type at JROTC) and had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I remember they had these little site picture training aids, but that didn't help because I used them incorrectly. When it came to be my turn, I lowered myself into a foxhole to begin the process. On a wooden bench, equipped with binoculars was a West Point cadet who was assigned to our company. I'd fire a few shots and he would tell me "turn your front site X numbers counterclockwise." I'd do that, fire again, and he'd tell me to adjust some more. By now, you could probably guess that things were not going to end well on this day.

The cadet kept telling me to rotate the site, blah, blah, blah. It was getting late. For some reason I was having trouble getting my weapon zeroed. Finally, A drill sergeant from my platoon by the name of Williams came by. The cadet got his attention and indicated there was a problem. The sergeant had me fire a few rounds, the cadet told me to rotate the sight post, and the whole thing came off the gun, apparently from turning it too much). The drill sergeant got angry and said, "Private XXXX, get out of that foxhole!" I did, and suffice it to say, I never got my weapon zeroed.

The problem was that I didn't understand the concept of a proper site picture. Rather than aiming at the center of the "o", I was aligning the site post with the top of the "o". This was on an M16A1 rifle. I never had another opportunity to zero so I had to learn what the site picture looked for my rifle by trial and error. I did well too: I qualified as sharpshooter.

Learn about My High School Graduation

What Graduation?

My high school graduation sucked, primarily because I was not there. The day of graduation I was shipping out to Fort Benning, Georgia via Newark, New Jersey. That was all right because my schooling largely amounted to pain. The pain I speak of is emotional pain. The pain that made me wish I were dead on more than one occasion.

A History of Rejection

Toddlers Workshop

There is something about me that caused me to be different. I remember I was pre-preschool age when my mother put me in some sort of classes at the YWCA downtown. The play area was set below street level and I remember one day looking up and seeing her watching me, right after I was bullied off the slide.

Nursery School

Later she put me in this nursery school at a church in Highland Park. I only remember two things about that: once we made these cool colored flowers. They were composed of a wire frame and then dipped in some sort of plastic that stretched across the frame. Mine had different colors and I liked it for years after I had made it. Another time, we drew leaves. Mine was different than everyone else's because my leaf had a smiling face on it. In short, I don't recall much of a problem in nursery school, but I was only three (I suppose).

Kindergarten

Kindergarten was at the same church but in a different section. I remember nap time. I also remember the teacher who, while teaching time would say, "Two thirty. My tank is thirty." That always puzzled me because I didn't think it made sense. I still don't think it made sense. That poor pathetic teacher probably ruined the lives of thousands of children throughout her ignorance-fueled career. The other kids didn't like me in kindergarten. I remember being laughed at, and one child tripped me, sending my head into the side of an opened door, punching a hole in my forehead. I didn't have any friends.

Still Rejected

That trend continues until this day. I have no friends. I desperately want a friend, but there is some sort of problem. I don't know what it is either. We started going to church again a couple years ago, and I fully intended to make some friends, but the story is the same: no one like me. No one cares about me. I feel like if I had just one friend, my life would be so much better.

Right now I'm not going to finish going through all my experiences at school. Suffice it to say that at graduation time I had no friends. The only thing I ever liked was the Jr. ROTC, and my future sucked because I had caved in to my mother's demands that I go to Bob Jones University. I had nothing to look forward to. The recruiter picked me up at the house in the morning and took me to Newark. My parents could have taken me there, but they didn't. The only extent to which my mother cared was that I was headed to Bob Jones University where my life would be further scarred and ruined.

Why I went to Bob Jones University

First Things First

I just sat down to write about my life. The first thing that came to mind is my experience at Bob Jones University. I am not going to write about all that happened there right now, but I will tell you why I went to college there. You will see that this, like most things in my life, is more complicated than it seems... or maybe it just seems more complicated to me.

A Wretched Mother in Proper Perspective

Intolerance Rejected

You haven't met my mother yet. If I had to tell you about her fifteen or twenty years ago, I would have told you that she was evil. Now that I've lived and experienced the forces of life, I would have to say that she probably was basically a good person who had "issues." I say that because I have met a lot of people. I have read about a lot of people. I have even met myself a time or two. No matter how bad a person is, I can see how life has affected them and helped form them into what they have become. Such empathy, understanding, and tolerance came to me late in life: probably too late. For a long time I resembled my mother in that manner, but I digress.

My Mother's Background

My mother. What happened to her to make her the way she was? Her mother seemed to be nice (but mark it down, she was more like my mother than I realized). I never met her father because he died before I was born. She grew up in a small town outside of Philadelphia and had an older brother and a younger sister: both of whom she seemed to legitimately hate, except when they were around (which wasn't often). I don't now much about her youth, but I do know that she encountered religion at some point and became involved with a local "christian" youth organization and eventually with a small independent Baptist church in the area. She graduated from Wheaton College in Illinois, and it was there that I think she became exposed to Bob Jones University.

My Mother and Bob Jones University

She pretty much held Wheaton in disdain. She spoke a time or two about how Bob Jones students would come up there (God knows why) and talk about how strict it was compared to the goings on at Wheaton. I don't know if the strictness is what caused her to idealize Bob Jones, but something did. Perhaps it was her step sister (her mother remarried a widower who had two daughters). One of them seemed to have permanent mental issues (perhaps they stemmed from her mother's untimely death) and another that somehow ended up attending college at Bob Jones University. There may have been other influences that pushed her into idolizing the college, but I don't know what they might be. At some point, however, it became clear that she was obsessed with the place and she made up her mind that her sons would go to college there.

My Mother's Lies in Print

My mother received the Bob Jones magazine, Faith for the Family, and even wrote a piece that was published in it (the article misrepresented life in our family, but who cares?).

My Mother's Peaceful Vacation

I remember we traveled to South Carolina and spent a week at Bob Jones for their "Peaceful Summer Vacation". I remember how awful that was. We stayed in the dormitories, ate meals at the dining hall. In between those exciting events, my father wanted to shoot archery, which we did in the rain, and we attended countless special lectures. One was by Dr. Frank Garlock who was ranting about playing records backwards (I wonder if they've tried that with CDs?) and Bob Jones III who ranted about students who kept breaking "Skoo Roos" and had their tails booted out of the place. My mother ate it up.

My Mother's Art Gallery

During that awful week at Bob Jones University, my mother purchased a number of replica prints of the art in their gallery. When we got home, she framed them and had my father hang them up in the stairway at home. She also got a book that talked of this history of Bob Jones and ranted about that to my father for weeks if not months. I forget how old I was then, but I didn't want to go to Bob Jones University, but my mother made up her mind that I was.

Shut Up!

I remember one time when we were at her mother's house that she was going on and on, telling her about how great Bob Jones University is. I kept saying under my breath things like "that's wretched," and "that's a waste." my mother finally made me shut up. Anyone with any sense should have been able to foretell from that point that the Bob Jones University ordeal would end up disastrous: it did.

My Brother

I'll talk more about my brother later, but for now let's just say he was a bad example. First, he didn't want to go to Bob Jones either. I had so hoped that he would stand up to her and say he wasn't going, but he caved under the pressure. The rationale my mother had was that he could go to another college, but he'd have to pay for it himself. seeing that he never worked at all (so had no money), he felt as though he had no option for college. My mother decided that he should join the Army Reserve under a "Split Option" for training. This allowed him to go to basic training at Fort Dix in the summer after high school graduation, and then go to AIT in the summer following his freshman year. My mother had no interest in going to his graduation from either training, but she was interested in going to Bob Jones University every year for Thanksgiving. How horrible that was! Before that, I remember going down there myself on a plane ticket I bought... was that over Thanksgiving? I don't recall, but I think it was.

My first huge mistake

In high school, I had excelled in the Air Force Junior ROTC program. As a result, I was offered the unit's ROTC scholarship to college. Of course, my mother wouldn't have anything of that. It was Bob Jones University or nothing as far as she was concerned. She ranted about how alcohol, drugs, and promiscuity were all over college campuses and that I had to go to Bob Jones University and meet a "sweet Christian girl to marry." That was the only vision she seemed to ever have for either one of us. The sweet Christian girl never materialized for my brother, and I had "issues" that caused her not to materialize for me either (at least not at Bob Jones University).

I Lost by Trying to Please

I succumbed to my mother's pressure and I did the same split option thing with the Army Reserve. I went to infantry school and - although it was incredibly difficult - I enjoyed it more than most things I've done since then. I was young. I was afraid to lose my parents because they were all I had (them and my brother). I wish I had the foresight at the time to see that I would lose them anyway. I should have told my mother "screw you," took the scholarship, and had a great life. I didn't, and that was my first major mistake.