This blog continues with my experiences starting in 1970, when I had to do two years of Alternative Service as a Conscientious Objector, working at the Indianapolis Goodwill. The photo is a blurry shot out my bedroom window from the carriage house I lived in.
During my lunch and coffee breaks, I enjoyed wandering through the different departments at Goodwill. As someone who has always been intrigued by old and unusual things, I was in heaven. Daily, I would scan the book and record departments in hopes of finding some treasures.
There was such a wide range of things that came into the Goodwill. Some of it was just trash, but most were good useable items and some things, were expensive antiques. I was constantly wondering about the source of the things; ie, who owned it, what story could it tell.
The most extreme example of this was the day there was a commotion over on the conveyor belt, and I soon learned that among the clothing that had just been dumped onto the conveyor belt there was a dead baby. The small corpse travelled the entire length of the belt, down the line, passing all the people who were doing the sorting, until it came to the end where the canvas-sided cart sat collecting the refuse. I guess, no one along the belt knew what to do with it. The police were informed, but I never did hear any more about it.
Our carriage house was a bit of a fortress, and we lived on the second floor of the brick structure, so felt safe, but one night after going to bed, I was lying in the dark. Suddenly, a bright light streaming through the windows illuminated my room. I was puzzled at first, but soon realized it was a spotlight from a police helicopter following someone through the alleyway besides our house. I was shocked, having spent all of my previous life living a rural area, rarely seeing a helicopter, let alone a police chopper, tailing a suspect.
Jim had heard there had been some break-ins in the neighborhood and was concerned about his stereo and other possessions. He was so concerned that he went to a Sears store and talked to the Allstate Insurance agent about getting some insurance. Things were going well until the Allstate guy asked Jim where he lived. When Jim told him North Delaware, the agent just shook his head and told Jim, “Sorry, but we don’t insure in high crime neighborhoods.”
Despite the very low pay, I was making 49.50/week, and my weakness for some of the interesting items that came in to the Goodwill, I was still able to buy enough gasoline to drive the MG (when it was running), down to Evansville to visit with my family and to be with my girlfriend. One weekend when my car was not well enough for the drive, I was able to catch a ride with my Goodwill mentor, Mr Dennson, who drove me as far as his home town, Washington, Indiana. Once I had gotten out of his car was left on the side of the highway, hitch-hiking. With my thumb out, I experienced something that gave me an instant lesson in discrimination.
As I stood there trying to be optimistic about my chances of catching a ride in conservative, rural, Washington, a car spotted me and slowed down as it approached. Great, I thought, some kindly soul is going to stop and give me a ride. The car crawled very slowly toward me, and as it passed, the person riding in the passenger side, spit at me, then the car gunned the accelerator, and raced on down the road, having shown the long-haired hippie exactly how they felt about people with different values than theirs in their neighborhood.
I was shocked, but unharmed, and eventually a good samaritan did stop to give me a ride, and eventually I did make it down to Evansville for the weekend. However, the spitting incident did give me a taste of what it must be like to be black and have to face bigotry, sometimes daily, throughout their live. It was something, I have never forgotten.
You can view my paintings: davidmarchant2.ca
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