The tyranny of vertical

Sometimes I wiggle my fingers beneath the water. It is an expression of glee and of confidence that I don't have to be technically perfect to swim -- swimming is to be enjoyed -- it is a personal practice. I learned this from the many people I encounter at the pool. Some go up and down the lanes doing things that my swimming teacher told me not to do. Yet they are moving contentedly and most any movement you make that doesn't drown you or befoul the water is good exertion/good therapy.

I was able to accomplish a smooth turn at the wall in the pool a couple of days ago. This is the first time I've actually completed it. I usually get a tiny sliver of panic/uncertainty that I can turn and swim away without being overwhelmed. It is an unrealistic, emotional response of fear that distracts me/impedes me. So I come up at the wall and take extra breaths before heading back. It is exciting to conquer this tiny panic. Swimming offers small triumphs -- for me. When I feel changes in my physical responses -- more graceful movements, better posture, deeper breathing, more strength, more stamina - (stamina is a thing easy to observe and gratifying to document) - I credit swimming. When I thrust a pair of hard, foam dumbbells into the water between my legs in fifth position and jump up and kick my legs to right and left diagonally I always laugh heartily. It's an exhilarating feeling. I ponder how many complex, exhilarating, deeply pleasurable movements we don't perform on land because of social convention, physics and THE TYRANNY OF UPRIGHT STANCE. Are we not in our finest moments when we are horizontal: sleeping, swimming, making sex, dead? Straight is possible -- perhaps more possible- in the horizontal. I often feel that when I straighten in the water -- trying to accomplish my best technique my body engages all of my sometimes very lazy abs and back muscles and I can tell that I am as straight as I will ever be. I push my fingers toward an aqua horizon - my forehead is at the water's lips as I try to do the stroke right. I'm reaching and I put all that I am reaching for just ahead of my fingertips so that I will keep forward. For the first time yesterday, I realized the confidence to make the turn without fear -- without breaking for a "calming" breath -- and begin to go for the other wall. Sometimes I wiggle my fingers beneath the water and I smile, too. I'm sure underwater smiling is good for the face.

Memorial Day 2009/RED TAILS

I went to see the much ballyhooed RED TAILS - the George Lucas film about the Tuskeegee Airmen. It's a good enough action flick. There were no moments of intense meaning. There was only the opportunity to see a clutch of young, seemingly courageous, beautiful-looking men. It was very like I'd imagined it was for young men like my father who served in WWII. My father, James S. Clarke, was not an airman. He was in the army -- in a transport corp. He served in France and England and was a part of the Normandy invasion -- one of the thousands of ground troops who sucked up their guts and landed off those transport boats onto the beach -- yes, Black soldiers were there, too. My father remained a competant, confident driver well into his nineties because of skills forged by driving through the French countryside under the circumstances of WWII. One of the charms of Lucas' movie about the airmen is that it is some measure a small movie. Despite the publicity promotion it isn't a biggie. It is a competant movie about a group of men who went through a particular experience together. This movie purposely - I think -- limits itself to a core story, tells it briskly without much ruffling of feathers -- of any kind. The film could not tell all of the stories of African Americans in WWII. My father who was in the European theater, my uncle who was in the Pacific theater, my cousin's step-father who was in the Italian battles, my aunt who guarded German prisoners stateside. And also all of their friends and further relatives who donated blood and medical supplies specifically for "colored" troops and who wrote letters and sent packages and waited by the radio and read the telegrams. When my father died in 2009, I was pleased that it was Barack Obama who offered the gratitude of a grateful nation to my father for his military service. My father voted for him and I thought it quite fitting.

Next movie: African American Women in WWII. A Veteran of World War II

Luise Higgins Jeter March 8, 1918 - January 14, 2007

poses with her niece, Breena Clarke at the Women In Service To America Memorial near Arlington Cemetary



Her war anecdotes were about the facility she was assigned to that housed German POWs stateside. She said they were treated with an excess of respect -- officers allowed to keep their uniforms. She related a story of riding in a deep south town in uniform on a bus. She said the other "colored" riders were nervous for her. She said she sat up front until she got off at the military base. She was a courageous young woman. There were a couple of funny tales about drilling and falling into a ditch and how she and her fellow Black women had dealt with petty racism. Gladys Henderson


Auntie remembered this woman and got a little tearful looking at her filled up with feeling that, at last, there was some recognition of the role she and others had played.


a hopeful, courageous face in all of its hues Pvt. Luise Jeter was given veteran's honors at her memorial service in 2007. After her military service, she worked for the Veteran's Administration in Washington, D.C. and in Detroit, Michigan.



Auntie was proud of her service and proud of Col. Oveta Culp Hobby. She spoke of how proud the women were to wear the cap that was designed by Col. Hobby and named for her. She was very happy the day we visited the memorial
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Cheryl, Barbara, Auntie and Breena visited the National World War II Memorial on the Mall in Washington, D.C. Auntie was excited about it. There are so many beautiful intangibles about this portrait. She inscribed it: To Harry - my darling Husband -- Luise



Happy Memorial Day, Private Luise H. Jeter!