In the summer of 1955 Holbrook was a small Arizona town on the main East-West U.S. highway between Flagstaff, AZ and the Arizona border with New Mexico. Not much has changed.  The town is bordered by Navajo Nation reservation land, occupied by our country’s largest registered Indian tribe and is the largest reservation by square miles.  

God, ever mysterious in His ways and reasons, had ‘called’ my Dad to save the Navajo. When my Dad was called, as he often was, it meant that we all moved.  God never failed, but success could look like failure in human terms. As it turned out, God had neglected to inform the Navajo that help was coming, so we arrived unannounced, and mostly ignored by the Navajo people.  God had also failed to coordinate our mission with the local Catholic Church, the LDS, and the U.S. Society of Friends, those known affectionately as Mackerel Snappers, Mormons, and Quakers.  Those organizations had already claimed most of the spiritual turf on the Rez, and had no apparent interest in sharing the mission field  with a self-anointed, self-appointed, evangelical “voice crying in the wilderness.”

Our initial stay in town started, as all stays did back then, in one of the independently owned motels on the main business loop of the main highway, during which time we looked for cheaper, more permanent housing.  “Permanent” in my family was a vaguely defined term which meant between 6-weeks and two-years, though two-year stays were rare.  After two or three days in the motel we found a spartan rental on the edge of downtown, South of the Southern Pacific railroad tracks where freight and passenger trains rocketed through town without slowing.  Standing in what passed as our front door, one could see the State Route highway 77 overpass, and hear the traffic’s tires on its seams.  I don’t recall what the inside of the rental looked like.  I do recall the city police regularly visiting a sometimes noisy drunken Indian neighbor who was vigorously abusing his wife and at least one kid on a regular basis, and made a huge to-do whenever his lady locked him out.  It takes a majority practice, and minority exceptions to create a stereotype...in fairness, we would only look at individuals, instead of subsets within larger groups.

I pretty much had the run of the small downtown.  One favorite activity was to stand between the main rail line and the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse as the trains rushed by, their draft almost pulling me under the speeding cars.  But, mostly I just explored, in that aimless way that a rodent explores its surroundings.  I don’t recall that I ever did anything that should have caused trouble for me or anyone else. My motivation was just youthful curiosity, one event just leading to the next in an aimless fashion.

On a certain Sunday, as I remember soon after arriving in town, we left home and headed North in our dull green four-door 1949 Hudson, which we affectionately had named “The Tank.”  I remember seeing the spires of Monument Valley from my low vantage point of The Tank’s back-seat, but I think that is likely a false memory which has been mixed in to my Sunday memory in error from a different day.  Back then the trip out took much longer than the trip back, and I remember that the trip home after our morning was pretty quick. 

I don’t recall how we happened to be invited for a home church service in a traditional Navajo hogan.  I think adults assume that kids are paying attention to conversations and somehow glean information from what they hear, but I can assure you I was not one of those kids.  Adult-speak formed a low, rolling rumble of background noise in my presence, unless I was guilty of something and anxiously listening to find out if I had been discovered.  I was not listening to adults talking unless and until someone spoke my name.  So when we pulled up to a small wood and mud structure, a pickup truck parked beside it, I became vaguely interested because this had never before happened.  

Having heard us arrive, the occupants of the hogan streamed out to greet us, though in a quiet, almost dignified fashion, led by an adult male wearing what I now know to be an expensive “cowboy” hat.  The irony of an Indian wearing a cowboy hat was lost on me at the time. I don’t recall what the rest of the family looked like but I do remember that the family did not resemble the town Indians in appearance, except in skin color.  This family appeared to belong here, whereas the town Indians always seemed to me out of place. I don’t recall whether this was a three-generation family or not.

When we stepped through the low door, I was immediately amazed by the visual feast of colors and texture.  Every inch of walls and what was no doubt a dirt floor, was covered with weaving and tapestries. They were, as it turned out, the families heritage and endowment, handed down over the years to sons and daughters.  The hands of their ancestors had chosen the dyes to make these colors, indeed grown the sheep which produced the wool, and had woven this art from designs deeply embedded in the generations, and yet the weaver had left their individual marks while observing the traditions. This family on this day could tell the story of each piece of heritage which hung on their octagonal walls, or covered the desert-dirt floor.

As I look back now I know that this Sunday morning was my beginning of seeing Indians as individuals, not just a social "problem" and generality, not just as a source of guilt and anger for white society.  Had I been more astute I would have known that this place, this traditional home, this desert, and this history was why this family so clearly belonged here and now, not just to some vague time in the past.  All of that thought came later, most recently as a behavior therapist for an agency trying to improve the mental health of Tohono O’odham People, the nation’s 2nd largest tribe by membership and land-area.

The White man didn’t cause all of the issues and unproductive behavior of the Indians.  One of my native clients pointed out to me that the “noble savage” is just another mistaken white view of native reality.  As he put it, “There’s nothing more noble about Indians than anyone else!  We’re as fucked up as anyone, and we were enslaving and killing each other, beating our wives, and stealing from each other long before the white man showed up, illegally occupied and settled our land, and tried to wipe us out!”

But, on that Sunday in the Summer of 1955 a small fissure formed in one small developing brain, at that time in one life when that brain is forming, and all the dots are yet to be connected into almost irreversible values and beliefs.  And, on the ride back to Holbrook in the back-seat of The Tank something had shifted, only slightly, and that shift would allow the next possibility to become a question seeking an answer, instead of a conclusion, and simple answer for a couplex issue.  And, one day, far in the future an adult brain would ask in effect, “If we are wrong about that what else did we get wrong?” 

Maybe Custer did die for our sins.

By the Summer of 1971, Jennifer, Kim, and I had returned to University Place, Washington from Oaklawn, Illinois.  I had worked for Weyerhaeuser Company in Chicago’s “loop” district since being moved out there in February 1969.  Now that we were back in the PNW, I wanted to attend college, and perhaps even get a Master’s.  I was 28 years old, married with a child and a foster child named Wayne whose Mom was incarcerated at the Purdy Women’s Correctional Center near Gig Harbor.  Wayne deserves a story of his own, as does Nina our 2nd foster child.

The loss of job, and relocation move from Chicago back to Tacoma was a consequence of technological advances in high-speed data transmission which eliminated the need for me and my technical group to do what we did, and ultimately resulted in my transfer and demotion.  I vowed to never again be on the technological “dime.”  The fateful day I received the call from my boss on the West coast that our control center would be shut due to advances in AT&T data technology I felt stupid, naive, and more than a little duped.  I blamed myself…but, I will always believe my Manager Al Berry, who had by this time departed Weyerhaeuser, was aware of the temporary nature of the assignment even before Jennifer and I transferred from Tacoma to Chicago.  I believe I  simply failed to ask the right questions of him before accepting the move.  Al was smooth, not in the good sense of the word, an ex-AT&T manager who had come to Weyerhaeuser’s Information System Group in Tacoma, which meant he was joining one of AT&T’s larger customers.  By the time our Network Center was slated for closure, Al Berry would be replaced by Helmut Heim.  Helmut was a German with an accent, and, one of the most professional guys I ever worked for…a true leader who was committed to taking care of his crew.  No one had ever discussed an exit plan for those of us who moved out to Chicago…we just assumed we would be brought back home.  Fortunately, Helmut was willing to relocate us home though no written agreement to that effect existed.

I don’t remember what I said to Jennifer that night, after getting the call at work from Helmut, then taking the long train-ride home.  When I rode the Rock Island commuter train into town that morning, I had had a future…now?  In those days, I was still lodged somewhat in the cultural values that the husband was the head of the family, and ultimately made all the big decisions, after optionally listening to the opinions of others.  Clinging to this myth was part of my leftover Evangelical legacy…some would call it cultural.  I would have gladly shared my sense of failure at that time with another collaborator, or totally given it away.  I just felt I shoulda known, because I coulda known, and woulda never come to Chicago for anything less than a sure success for me and my family.  I don’t remember our homecoming in University Place being celebratory for me.  My sense was more that I had been almost buried by circumstances in a defeat, I was in retreat, and it was going to take a while to erase the loss…probably years.  I had the sense that everyone knew we had returned home in defeat.  It was my first first job-loss, but would not be my last.

Having accepted the company’s relocation package back to home base in Tacoma, I was also accepting the rotating shift position as an hourly Production Controller in the Computing and Telecommunications Operations Department, at a 40 percent wage reduction compared to Chicago’s wage.  From the company’s perspective, I had been terminated in one position, then hired into another position though there was no break in service. My direct manager in Tacoma, Scott Crozier who by then reported to Helmut Heim, was able to step-down my pay-rate over a period of time, I want to say equal reductions each two weeks for 3 months, so Jennifer and I could better manage the hit to our finances.  Jennifer learned quickly to be a world-class cash-manager.  It would be the first time we had to ask creditors to bear with us.  We were committed to paying, but if they all piled on we would go under.  There would be one more time, after a house sale fell through and we briefly owned two mortgages, when we would again seek forbearance from our creditors.  At that 2nd time, we would get even more practice at playing the float, and asking, ”Just don’t send us to collection and everyone will eventually get their money plus interest!” and again we paid something regularly, communicated often so as to never leave an open question, and did without everything but necessities.

As for my goal of returning to school, I could not attend college full-time and also work a 40-hour rotating shift which “dogged” backwards on the clock every 3-months.  No available University at that time had that level of flexibility in their on-campus offerings.  The sole solution which would satisfy all needs was that the shifts would have to be “frozen” vs. being rotated and dogged backwards on the clock every 3 months.   It took me almost a year to demonstrate to management that our staff’s array of skills could adequately cover 3-shifts, 24X7, with enough volunteers accepting a “permanent” day, swing, or graveyard shift assignment, with enough flexibility to accommodate job-turnover, vacations and sick-days. Sometime in March the following year I started my first college Freshman class at Tacoma Community College after demonstrating the staffing of all shifts, 24/7, with qualified volunteers who preferred an unchanging shift which would best accommodate their foreseeable lives.  Only the Data-Entry department stayed on their traditional Swing and Graveyard shifts because all the new data had to be entered after the close of business, and available for use by 7a.m. East Coast time each following business day.  

The next quarter I could enroll in at Tacoma Community College would start in March 1973.  Jennifer and I decided we would apply for Veteran’s educational benefits, a considerable amount of monthly income for a family of 3.  But, we would bank that VA money and use it in a year for a down payment on the house we were renting from a young couple at church who had been relocated to the East Coast.  We had committed in writing to either buy their house for an agreed on sum, or manage the selling of the house for an agreeable sum. With Jennifer’s cash-management skills, a bit of luck, and the kindness of friends and family, we would be able to pay the community college expenses out of pocket, until such time as I would be forced to go to Pacific Lutheran University…a private, expensive local University...and be approved for a student loan.  The collateral from owning a home would come in handy at that point a year and a half later.

At the time I enrolled for Spring Quarter 1973, all incoming Tacoma Community College freshmen were required to take an English aptitude test, get at least an 80% on it, and take a non-credit, “bone-head” English course when they failed, as most did.  Two of us, both recent military veterans, passed the test on our first attempts, out of a class of 30.  I would take all the transferable 100 and 200 level courses I could at TCC, before moving to PLU.  The student loan process went smoothlyI graduated college in the Summer of 1975 with a Bachelor’s from Pacific Lutheran University, and an acceptance letter to Graduate School at the same institution.  I had precisely enough credits to graduate…no expensive extras, no side trips, no retakes, .  My Bachelor’s GPA was 3.87…and a four-year degree in 3-calendar years while working 40-hour weeks and occasional overtime.  Not bad for a kid who had graduated 3rd from the bottom in his high school class of almost 600. However, there is a certain “pressure” in bringing home your grades to share with others who are sacrificing so one can attend college.  The entire grading spectrum is emotionally skewed.  By that I mean, a “C” feels like an “F” and a “B” feels like a “D.”  An “A” feels like the only truly acceptable result.  I would learn to do even better in graduate studies where I graduated with a 4.0.  As I crossed the stage to get my empty folder from the school’s President, I searched the audience to find the face of the person in the crowd to whom I owed my grades…that woman I never wanted to disappoint.

I never again lost a job due to technological advances. The “technologies” of training, management development, and human resource management would of course change over time, but the changes would be gradual enough to predict, and off-set, or to simply choose to go to a company which was “old school.” More often than not later on I would find myself “dodging” another human instead of technology, a CEO or Chairman of the Board, a VP of Sales or Marketing, who believed that his position had been achieved as a consequence of his own brilliance and his innate knowledge-of-everything, including better knowledge than my own specific areas of expertise. Crossing one of these blind-messiahs could result in damage every bit as fast and thorough as changing technology.  I was to learn this the hard way at least once, as a job loss, and more often as some senior manager simply shut the door on a discussion with the silent words, “Humor me! I’m your boss!” Beware the man who believes himself to be some sort of “renaissance man” for he is more likely a narcissist.

So, immediately after earning my Bachelor’s degree, at the start of the next semester, I began my graduate studies.  I took a full load every semester, including Winter semester and so finished in less than 2-calendar years.  This accelerated pace saved us at least $2,000 back when $2K was equivalent to $11,000 at present value.  Justin was born in the early hours of March 27, 1974 just as I was going through semester finals.  The final I left the hospital to go take on his birth morning was for a class wherein the professor had been very clear that the only valid reason for one’s absence was one’s own death.  This same “understanding” professor would one day soon continue to plague me as a member of my graduate committee.  

Looking back, the entire 5 1/2 years of school seemed hard on everyone, even after graduate studies started.  The graduate classes and clinical practicums allowed a longer leash, more flexibility, but one still had to do the work…including a Thesis or 3 thesis quality research studies, with APA quality papers. I opted for the “bite sized” efforts because it seemed somehow more manageable to spread the effort over the entire graduate phase.  By then, the full-time work had by become a day shift, salaried staff position which helped my boss handle the employee relations of our Operations group.  He had developed the job with me specifically in mind, and, the position would cease to be when I left the company in November 1978.  My boss, Scott Crozier, was destined to die that same December.The goal to keep me employed during 5 1/2 years of schooling had been achieved, and my mentor was now gone.  The world had changed, seemingly overnight, and for the first time in my life, at 35 years old, I sensed mortality’s beckoning in the tick of the clock, in the swoosh of the calendar pages.  Time seemed to become an actual asset, not simply an abstract, and I was “wasting” my time in pretense…trying to be that person I wasn’t, but which others thought I was, or should be.

It would take more than a year before I would “come out” so to speak.  As it occurred, gay people do not have the monopoly on “coming out.”  Starting Thanksgiving Weekend 1979 I would start reconciling my public life with my actual life by starting a life long effort to live my actual life publicly.  My actual life would be the sum things left out, things kept, and new things added.  Evangelical faith, would be the big reduction.  At the core of that reduction was the simple fact that I did not believe the Christian, or any other religious, myth.  Success has been difficult, and results have been mixed.  In trying to live entirely in the “light” I’ve learned it was easier to live in the shadows, and just tell important others what they wanted, expected, to hear, than it is to justify your deeds in a way that’s convincing for others.  So my latter life has been a process of “coming out” as opposed to an event, or even a series of events.

People from my early life knew me in the context of church, shared beliefs, common values, and even shared prejudices. Fundamentalism is a way of life, not just observing a written dogma. Fundamentalism has its own code, its “looks” and sideways glances which in the context of the moment pass shared meanings between believers.  Nothing new and different from any other belief.  Fundamentalism is a system, with inputs, processes, and results which are then reprocessed or adjusted to become part of the inputs. The system even has a way of getting rid of waste. I soon discovered that even in purely social events, I was a guest but no longer a member. I had become waste.  The people I number as friends from my evangelical times are all important to me.  That group is made up from friends and family, some who have known me as a friend since the 1950’s.  The responses to my changes have ranged from unquestioning acceptance to outright denial, “Why that’s ridiculous! Everyone believe in God!”  That sort of comment pretty much shuts the door on exploratory discussion.

Do I believe in a Creator? Yes. I believe the Universe evolves, creating-destroying-creating, as it winds down.  Who or what created the Universe in the first place? Who or what is responsible for the Void, the Matter, the Anti-Matter, the Energy, the Light, the Dark Stuff?  I don’t know…maybe it Is because it Is…maybe it came to Be just because It could…for me, that is easier to believe then believing in a Teddy Bear Deity which occupies Himself with my comfort and welfare, and gives me fair weather while wiping out Bangladesh with annual floods.

I have learned to be careful with the beliefs of others.  I have learned that sometimes they’re barely holding on, and belief is about all they have. I no longer need to destroy their beliefs in order to be at home with my lack of Faith.  Perhaps we create the Cosmos which we are most comfortable in.  I am not comfortable in a Reality where a fickle Deity pulls the strings, and favors this or that person over another. I don’t want to live in that world.  I want to live in a fair world…by fair, I mean a world where the probability, and possibilities are as near randomly distributed as possible in order to favor or disfavor no one.  I choose to not accept the favor or disfavor of a deity which would require his star worshipper to sacrifice his own son as proof of allegiance to the Deity.  I decline to believe any doctrine that requires me to become intellectually disabled, “like a child”, in order to tolerate its outrageous lack of coherent facts.  I refuse any belief which refuses to show the calculations which lead to its revealed claims.  Revealed “knowledge” is rumor, not reality.