Gravity

The plants stayed outside again last night. It is March. They may need some toughening up, like Marine recruits. It is going to be a hot summer.

The weekend is over. The move is done, as is the Academy Awards, which I missed altogether. They have a five second delay this year, sparked by the astonishing revelation of Janet Jackson’s right breast at the Superbowl. And the prospect that Shaun Penn would say something inappropriate about the Administration when he won the Oscar as Best Actor. All the possessions have flowed with gravity down from the fifth floor to the poolside unit, huddled in the dark flank of Big Pink. I think that the sun will come around as the days lengthen, the earth shifting so the axis of the late afternoon will flood the pool deck with soft orange light.

There certainly isn’t any of that in the dawn. Facing Route 50 the announcement of the working week came with thin tendrils of etherial light, weightless. Down below the light seems to arrive by spilling down from the roof and accumulating by gravity until it reaches the lower slats of the plantation shutters.

Yesterday the light had piled up to the extent that all the slats were outlined. I blinked in the darkness. My muscles and joints ached from the labors of Saturday. I jackknifed out of the Murphy bed and felt my way to the door. It was full day outside. Sunday morning had arrived and people were already out, sans jackets, walking the dogs. It felt like Spring.

There was plenty to do. The little dooryard was heaped with empty boxes and luggage. The plants looked at me accusingly. My little waxy green friend drooped with the pull of gravity and fatigue from fighting the cold. I moved it in. The others looked more hardy, and I let them remain outside.

I am overcome by d�j� vu. The radio tells me that the Marines are landing in Port au Prince. Fifty were dispatched last week. Now there will be hundreds more. This rings of General Smedley Darlington Butler’s career. Quick in, quick out. Perhaps too quickly. We have always had a certain national attention deficit for these small sad places far from our shores. I heard on the radio that President Aristide had fled the country on a morning flight for the Dominican Republic. They say he is headed for the Central African Republic and perhaps South Africa. I had a bit part in his restoration to power, and with the Marines going back in, I couldn’t help but think of Smedley.

He is a bit of a counter-cultural icon these days. He came from a distinguished family of Quakers and became the most colorful officer of his time. He was still in his teens when he was appointed a second lieutenant in the Marine Corps for the War with Spain. He then served in the precincts of the new American Empire. He was in the Philippines in the days of the insurrection against American rule. He served with distinction in China and was decorated for “distinguished conduct and public service in the presence of the enemy near Tientsin.” He also served ashore in Puerto Rico and the Isthmus of Panama.

He organized the Marine presence in Nicaragua before WWI, and participated in the assault and capture of Coyotepe in 1912. His first Medal of Honor was presented following action at Vera Cruz, Mexico, 21 and 22 April 1914, where he commanded the Marines who landed and occupied the city. The following year, he was awarded the second Medal of Honor for bravery and forceful leadership as Commanding Officer of detachments of Marines and seamen of the USS Connecticut in repulsing Caco resistance on Fort Riviere, Haiti, 17 November 1915.

He died in 1940 and they named a ship after him that has long been consigned to razor blades. He had a certain gravity about him that radiated like an aura. But he isn’t remembered for any of that. He is remembered for some candid remarks he made just after retirement in 1933. Something in his Quaker background had never been buried despite the 33 years of service. ‘Ole Gimlet Eye looked out at the crowd and said:

“War is just a racket� Only a small inside group knows what it is about. It is conducted for the benefit of the very few at the expense of the masses�I spent thirty- three years and four months in active military service as a member of this country’s most agile military force, the Marine Corps. I served in all commissioned ranks from Second Lieutenant to Major-General. And during that period, I spent most of my time being a high class muscle- man for Big Business, for Wall Street and for the Bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a

gangster for capitalism.

I suspected I was just part of a racket at the time. Now I am sure of it. Like all the members of the military profession, I never had a thought of my own until I left the service. My mental faculties remained in suspended animation while I obeyed the orders of higher-ups. This is typical with everyone in the military service.

I helped make Mexico, especially Tampico, safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in�.I helped purify Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers in 1909-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests in 1916. In China I helped to see to it that Standard Oil went its way unmolested.

During those years, I had, as the boys in the back room would say, a swell racket. Looking back on it, I feel that I could have given Al Capone a few hints. The best he could do was to operate his racket in three districts. I operated on three continents.”

I think I know why it was only one ship they named after Smedley. His words are uncomfortable. I am retired, too. But I would never say anything like that. I finished my cigarette and broke down some boxes. It would take every moment of daylight to try to bring order out of the chaos in the new apartment. But at least I own this place, and that is a start.

Before gravity brings me down.

Copyright 2004 Vic Socotra