My Conscientious Objector Problem Resolved

      The next correspondence I received from the Selective Service was a questionnaire form. It asked me what kind of alternative service I would like to do.  I was given three choices.  For my first choice, I wrote down “Some kind of conservation work,” because I was very much concerned with the degradation of the environment, and enjoyed working outdoors.  My second choice: “Teaching school in an Indian reserve”, I was a qualified elementary teacher, and I wanted to working with people in need.”

    Finally, for my third choice I wrote down, “Goodwill store”, because  I knew that most CO’s ended up carrying bedpans in hospitals.  Being in a hospital was not something that I would have liked to do, considering how easily I fainted, so I certainly didn’t want to work in a hospital.  I had heard that sometimes CO’s served their Alternative Service in Goodwill Stores, and to me, that seemed like that would be a more attractive job than working in a hospital.  I hoped that putting down “Goodwill Store” as my third choice, might give the Draft Board an idea they probably wouldn’t have considered.

    In my next communication from the SS, I was informed that I was to report to the Indianapolis Goodwill Store to begin two years of alternative service.  The draft board always made sure that the Alternative Service done by a CO was located hours away from his home, so that his life would be disrupted, but I didn’t mind that, those drafted into the military had to leave their homes, and I was certainly willing my serve my time in Indianapolis, if that is what the Draft Board wanted.

        I have already blogged about what working in the Goodwill Store was like.  If you haven’t read it and are interested, you can go back to my July 4th blog entry and begin there.

View my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

My Selective Service Classification Decision

             I knew that for a week or so, the future of my life would remain in limbo, as the local Draft Board made their decision as to what my classification would be, but as I left the Selective Service office and stood again in the dark hallway, I experienced one of the proudest moments of my life.  I had stood up for the things I believed in and I didn’t waver, even though it might mean a jail sentence in the future.   I had not cowered in the face of one of the strongest forces on Earth; the US Government.   

    There were no hearty handshakes, shouts of congratulations, or cheers.  It was just me, alone in the hallway, full of an inner pride, because I had figured out what the right thing to do was, and then I had done it.

    Finally the letter from the local Draft Board arrived.  I opened it and was dismayed, but not entirely surprised to discover that they had rejected my appeal, and that I would continue with the 1-A-O Classification.   The letter did hold out some small hope, it said I could appeal the decision to the Indiana State Draft Board.  I immediately grasped at that last straw, and sent a letter to the state board appealing the decision of my local board.

    I was gratified to learn that I didn’t have to show up for an interview with the Indiana State Draft Board, only my file was sent up to Indianapolis, and their decision would just be based on my file, not on how long my hair was.  I was hopeful that they would judge me by my beliefs and the things I had written.

    A letter from the State Board eventually arrived stating that I had been reclassified as a 1-O Conscientious Objector, so I would not have to become  part of the military, but instead I would have to serve two years doing “Alternative Service,” something I was quite willing to do.

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Appearing Before My Draft Board

      I paused in front of the door to the Selective Service office and considered the implications of the next hour, then tried to relax.  I took a couple of deep breaths, as I wondered about what this day would bring, and how it might change my whole life.  

    I opened the heavy wooden door and entered the room.  The secretary that sat at a desk inside asked what she could do for me, and after I had stated my purpose, she asked my name, told me to have a seat, and then disappeared behind another door.  Upon reentering the room, she held the door open and said, “Mr. Marchant, the board is ready to see you now”.

    The high ceilinged room was cramped and smaller than I imagined.  It’s walls were lined with filing cabinets, leaving just enough space for the five stern-faced older men, who sat around the large rectangular oak table.  To me, the five looked like the rural farmers or the small business owners I had grown up seeing in the pews of our church.  They wore older suits and ties, and all sported closely cropped haircuts.  The secretary reentered the room and took a seat with her pad of paper to record the procedure.  They told me sit down in the wooden chair in front of the table.

    The five then proceeded to introduce themselves using a false friendliness that I immediately recognized from all the years I had worn my hair long in the very conservative Bible Belt of Southern Indiana.   I could tell they had immediately stereotyped me as one of those despised  “long haired hippies.”   These five conservative “good old boys” who were being paid by the government to supply young bodies for the war, were not going to have much sympathy for my sincerely held moral beliefs.

    The inquisition began:

    “Why have you registered as a Conscientious Objector, Mr. Marchant?”

    “I think it is morally wrong to kill other human beings and I do not want to be a part of any organization that does.”  I was being careful not to be political in my answers or reference Vietnam.  This meeting was about my moral beliefs, so I stuck strictly to that.

    “Why would you not accept the 1-A-O classification?  You would be helping others.”

    “I would still be in the military, and supporting those whose function is to kill other human beings.  I don’t want to have any part in doing that.”

    “Why would you not consider being a medic and help save lives?”

    “Medics are part of the military, their job is to patch people up so the military can use them again.” was my reply.

    Then, as I knew they would, the questions became more sly.

    “Do you mean if you saw someone lying there, bleeding and hurt, that you would not want to help him?”

    “If I knew that by helping him that I would just be enabling the military to eventually reuse him to kill others, or to put him out there again to be killed, no, I wouldn’t want to help him.”

    Then the questions became ridiculous.

    “What if a man was trying to kill your mother, you mean you wouldn’t want to fight him off?

    “Well,” I replied, “of course I would try to do whatever I could to save my mother, but I wouldn’t want to kill the perpetrator.” 

    This back and forth went on for some time.  Their questions never really delved into my moral beliefs, they just kept throwing out situations, trying to trick me into saying I would kill someone.  At the end of the session they asked me if I would like to say anything.

    I took a breath, summoned up my courage  and told them, “Look, I am willing to do two years of  alternative service as a 1-O conscientious objector, but I will not be a part of the military.  If you try to induct me into the military, I will refuse and go to jail.”

    That was the end of the inquisition.  The Draft Board told me they would send me the results of their decision in the mail. 

        The photo above is not my Draft Board, but another.  The people behind the table are pretty similar to men in my Draft Board that I had to confront.  

You can view my paintings at:  davidmarchant2.ca

My Fight To Become A Conscientious Objector

      Since I had departed the Peace Corps, my occupational deferment from the SS (Selective Service) had ended, and I waited for the next shoe to drop.  Without any other deferment, I figured that my application to be a  C.O. (Conscientious Objector) would kick in.  However, the next letter I got from the Draft Board was an unpleasant surprise.  

    The SS had two different types of CO classifications.  One was the “1-A-O” given to those who were willing to serve in the military, but just not kill people.  They were non-combatants, and they were usually given jobs in the military as medics.  The other CO classification was “1-O”, it was for those who had a moral opposition to participating in any part of the military.  The 1-O recipients were required to do 2 years of service to the country as a civilians.

    In my original forms sent in when I was 16,  I had stated that I was a 1-O, non-military conscientious objector.  The letter I had received from my draft board was typical of how they worked.  They classified me as a 1-A-O objector, meaning I was to be drafted into the military.  I wasn't going to let that nonsense happen.  I fired off an appeal to the the classification board and again settled back and waited.

    The result of my appeal was that I was summoned to appear before my local Draft Board.  

    I found myself walking through a dark hallway in the old limestone courthouse building in Evansville, Indiana.  Since childhood, every time we had rounded the city’s downtown square, I had peered up at the massive ornate stone Courthouse, with its tall columns, arched windows, and slender domed roof which featured a clock, but this was the first time I had ever been inside of the old building.  

    I glanced at each office door as I passed, my lone footsteps echoing through the tunnel-like hallway.  Finally I saw the wooden door with its frosted glass window upon which was emblazoned in distinctive gold letters; Selective Service System—the office I was looking for.

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1970; Hangin' at the University

      As I continued to spend a lot of my free time at the university.  I began to know and socialize with the small, but growing faction of counter-culture students.  They had formed a mock fraternity which they called 'Phi Zappa Krappa'.  I enjoyed being around people with similar values in music, pop culture, and politics.  Whenever I could, I hung out with whatever individuals from the group I could.  

    Since I had a lot of free time and was hanging out at the university anyway, I took couple of graduate classes; one in Evolution, and one in Ecology, both subjects that I was extremely interested in.

    I happened to be taking the Ecology class when the 1st Earth Day occurred on May 22, 1970.  We organized a small celebration of the event at the University of Evansville with some speakers from the Biology Department and my mother even volunteered to sew up an “Ecology” flag for the gathering.

    A month or so after that 1st Earth Day, the ROTC (Reserve Officer Training Corp) were putting on a military “tattoo” on the campus.  I, along with some other anti-military-types, marched along in jest with the troops.  As a result, I received a reprimand from the Dean of the University, for showing disrespect to the ROTC  during their marching ceremonies.

    While hanging out with the Phi Zappa Krappa's, I soon found myself noticing a quiet, blue-eyed, honey-haired, girl from Germany, who everyone called “Kraut”.   (I had always loved the riddle:  What do you call a German Hippie?   Answer: “Flower Kraut.”).  

    In questioning some friends I discovered her name, and she that had recently moved to the US,, after growing up in Berlin, Germany.  She had just begun attending the University of Evansville and was hoping to later major in Art History.

    The more I saw of her, the more enthralled with her, I became.  After building up my nerve, I approached her and we soon began dating.  After several dates I was hooked:  We seemed to share so many of the same interests, values, and tastes, and beside that, she was beautiful and intelligent.

        We went to movies, to the museum, and on excursions to wooded parks.  She soon became my best friend and since she couldn’t drive, I was happy to ferry her in the MG to wherever she wanted to go.  She liked my family and I began to take her to all of my family gatherings.

        “Ecology” flag shown above.  Phi Zappa Krappa group photo below, with my new best friend; front row, second from the left.

View my paintings at:  davidmarchant2.ca

Morning Light, Evening Light

     I always keep my eyes open for natural beauty and Sunday evening while I was in the living room watching television I happened to glance out through the drawn blinds in the window, and noticed an unusual large streak of orange in the sky.  I immediately ran out with my camera and took the photo above.

    The following morning when I first took Kona out for her pee, I noticed the amazing highlighted Cariboo Mountains, caused by the sun on the opposite side of the valley, just starting to peek over the Rocky Mountains.   Again, I had to rush to get my camera so I could take the photo below. 

View my paintings at:  davidmarchant2.ca

March on Washington, Nov. '69

    When I learned that the anti-war movement had planned a huge March on Washington for November 15th, 1969, I knew I needed to add myself to the multitude of others that would be there.  I naively believed with so many people going to Washington, Nixon might recognize what massive opposition there was to the Vietnam War, but he ignored us, and left town over that weekend to be with his flag-waving base.

    Fortunately, locally someone had organized a bus to carry everyone who wanted to attend the march.  I traveled overnight on the bus with others from Evansville to get to Washington DC.  Upon disembarking I was amazed at to see how many rows of other buses from other states were already parked and  unloading the thousands of other protesters.  It is still considered the largest demonstration ever to take place in Washington DC.  The crowd was so big, that during the event I didn’t really know what was going on, I just followed with them as the massive crowd moved along.

        There were speeches and music (Pete Seeger, Peter Paul and Mary, John Denver, and Arlo Guthrie) but I didn’t see or hear any of it, because my section of the crowd was still probably a mile away from where that happened.  

        I spent the night sleeping with others in one of the many school gymnasiums that had been opened up to provide shelter to the demonstrators. The next day everyone re-boarded their buses to return back to their home towns.  It was a whirlwind weekend trip.

        Even though all I did was march with the two hundred and fifty thousand others, all of whom felt the importance of stopping the useless slaughter, and although the march didn’t end the war (in the following years, thousands and thousands more were still destined to die, or be physically and psychologically maimed for the vanity of politicians), I am proud that at least I made an effort to stop the madness.

View my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca
 

Back Home and Floundering

      The next day, I woke up in my room in the basement of my family home, and had no real idea about what I would do with my days, let alone my life.  I spent a lot of time reading, and explored the oak and maple forests around my Indiana home.  My parents felt my aimlessness and gave breathing room as I tried to come up with some kind of future for myself.  I knew that with all of my draft deferments gone, the SS (Selective Service System) would eventually come calling, but in the meantime, I was free.

    Feeling totally disjointed having left the Peace Corps and finding myself back in Evansville, I looked for some kind of anchor.  I started hanging out back at my old university campus.  I still had friends and knew people there, and my social life began to grow.

    I was serious about doing what I could to stop the war and fortunately, I was happy to discover that there was an anti-war group that had formed at the university.  During my first four year as a university student, there were only a few kindred souls that I felt close to and that possessed the same values that I did.  Most students were there only for job training and a diploma, not to question the world situation and explore other ideas that might make it better.  

    Since I was already pretty knowledgeable about the SS and really wanted to do something to help end the Vietnam War, I volunteered as a draft councilor at the Newman Center, a house which was sort of student center owned by a Catholic society, located across from the university.  Using a very informative booklet put out by the Mennonite Central Committee, I was able to clarify what rights people had in regards to the Selective Service, and inform the guys that came in with questions what the different options for staying out of the military were.  

    One week when we discovered that the Marines set up an “Information” table right beside the door to the Wooden Indian (the university student restaurant and gathering place) our draft counseling group set up a table right across from them, which I helped man.   I expected some resentment and hostility from the Marine recruiters, but they, like us, were quite tolerant and friendly when we exchanged words.

            The photo shows some of the new friends I made upon my return from the Peace Corps.  The unruly group had formed a mock fraternity/sorority called Phi Zappa Krappa at my university. 

You can view my paintings at:  davidmarchant2.ca 

Goodbye to the Peace Corps and Goodbye to Hawaii

      Along with our Filipino instructors, there were a handful of ex-Peace Corps volunteers who were teaching us.  The two who I respected most, told me that the Peace Corps should be out of the Philippines; it had already done most of what it could do for the people in real need. However, the Peace Corps still remained there, as a sweetener, to balance all of the US military base expansion because of the Vietnam War.   Hearing that didn’t do much for my motivation and certainly didn’t encourage me to stay in the Peace Corps, since I was already having my doubts due to my difficulties in learning and trying to understand and speak Tagalog.

    In the middle of September, our Peace Corps training was coming to an end, and I figured I should just stick it out until it finished, before deciding my future.  Fortunately, the Peace Corps was set up in such a way that at the end of the training, the volunteers had to make the choice to either to go “in country” or not.  There was no shame in choosing the “not” option, as the Peace Corps would rather see you quit, if you were having doubts, rather than have you go into country and then quit.

    At the end of training, I made the choice to bale.  It was hard to say good-bye to Charlene and all of the other volunteers and staff who I had gotten so close to, during my month and a half in Hawaii.  My decision left my future blank.  I hated to leave Hawaii, but the Peace Corps gave me a ticket back to Indiana, and I had no money, so that is where I headed.

    I knew that leaving the Peace Corps would end the deferment I had received from the Selective Service System for being in the Peace Corps.  With no deferment, I knew they would try to draft me into the military.  That was a fight I knew would come, and I decided that once I was back in Evansville, I would take a more active role in pushing for an end to the terrible slaughter taking place in Vietnam.

    With a duffle bag draped over my shoulder and only a dime in my pocket (I needed to save it so I could use a pay phone to call my parents once I had arrived at the Evansville airport).  I boarded the plane, sadly said goodbye to Hawaii as I flew over it, and returned home to the corn fields of Indiana.

View my paintings at:  davidmarchant2.ca

Summer of '69

      There were two major events that occurred during the Summer of ‘69 that I will always associate with my time being in Hawaii, because I had learned of them during that memorable period of my life.

    One of our beach trips began on Saturday afternoon, July 19th.  Charlene and I were fortunate with our rides and arrived at the beach in time to enjoy the surf and sun a few hours before we watched the sun dip into the Pacific.  Again we slept under the million of stars sparkling above us, near the big boulder on the edge of the sand and were lulled to sleep by the constant low pounding of the surf.

    There was a fancy new big hotel built right beside the Hapuna Beach Park, and when we woke up hungry on July 20th, Sunday morning, we hiked over to the hotel for a breakfast.  I remember that morning because as we ate our over-priced breakfast in the fancy restaurant, we learned that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Adrian had become the first men to walk on the moon.

    The other big event that happened while I was in Hawaii was Woodstock.  While in my life before the Peace Corps I followed music very closely, once I was in the training center in Pepeekeo without media, I was totally unaware that the “Three Days of Peace and Music” had even been planned.  When I read about it in one of the weekly news magazines I was somewhat dismayed about missing it, knowing full well that even if I would have known about it, I probably wouldn’t have been able to attend it, but it sure would have been a great opportunity to see so many of those  musicians that I loved.          

        While I was saddened at missing Woodstock, I had some compensation, all I had to do was look down at the blue Pacific to realized that I was very happy to be where I was.

View my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Hitching To Hapuna Beach

      We lived for our Saturday afternoon and Sunday “Free time” with different groups heading off in different directions.  I had begun to get close to Charlene, a New Jersey girl from an Italian family.   We usually paired up for an excursion to Hapuna Beach.  Of course, we were hampered by the lack of transportation to the other side of the island.  Our only recourse was to hitchhike.

            One weekend, with blankets and supplies in hand, we hiked up to the edge of the highway, put on a pleasing face, and stuck our thumbs out.  Eventually a big white Cadillac took mercy on us and stopped to pick us up. 

          “Wow,” I thought, “this is great, we will be riding to the beach in style.”  I was wrong, it was not the delightful ride I had imagined. The Cadillac was occupied by a wealthy middle aged couple, and after we had gotten in, closed the door, and answered some introductory questions, the couple soon forgot our presence in the back seat, and began to verbally go at each other.

            They bitched and complained, insulted and argued at each other as  Charlotte and I, embarrassed by the verbal tirades, tried to make ourselves invisible in the back seat. While I was thankful for the ride, I was even more thankful and relieved when we were able to get out of the car and escape from the really miserable rich couple in their fancy car. 

            Our beach time was idyllic, Hawaii was a paradise for the senses. The azure surf, the deep blue sky, and the blinding white sand all fit my  Hawaiian stereotype.  We even got to stimulate our tastebuds when we were even invited to help ourselves to the leftover fresh pineapple and other tropical fruit refreshments from a Sierra Club gathering that had been held at the beach.  At night we made our bed in the sand beside a van-sized rock, under a million stars, with the surf lulling us to sleep.

            After a morning of more swimming and lazing around in the sun, it was time for us to gather up our blankets and head back to camp. We hiked up to the road then once again relied on our thumbs for a ride, eventually we made it the main highway, halfway home.

            As we stood there hitching, a very old beat up and rusted truck slowed to a stop.  The driver, one of the two old grizzled geezers in the cab, spoke through the rolled down window and said, “There isn’t any room in the cab, but we’ve been out picking guavas and you can sit in the back with the fruit if you want.”  

            We accepted the friendly invitation, threw our bundles into the back, then climbed over the dented tailgate and settled in. 

            It was an uncomfortable ride, sitting cramped on our blankets, which we had bunched up to pad our bottoms from the hard floor of the truck bed.  Our confinement, squeezed between the baskets and cardboard boxes, full of the freshly-picked green fruit, didn’t hamper the enjoyment of our ride.   We watched, with the wind in our hair, as lush flowering bushes, green ferns, and tropical palms flew by, giving us the occasional glimpse of the Pacific on our left. 

             When they stopped to let us out, we climbed out of the back of the truck, our legs still stiff from the confinement.  As I thanked the old men, they told us we should take some of the guavas with us.  Seeing that they were poor men, who had already given us the gift of a drive, I tried to refuse, but they insisted.

            Those two very contrasting rides, one in the miserable rich man’s plush Caddy and the other in the poor man’s beat up truck, will be forever in my memory, and even back then, given the choice of what kind of life I wanted, I would have always chosen that of the poor content old men in their rusty old pick up, over the neatly dressed wealthy guy in his shiny white Cadillac.

Take a look at my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

I Was Seduced by Hawaii

         While I was in Hawaii for Peace Corps Training, it was not the Peace Corps that changed my life, it was Hawaii itself.  

    All through my four years of university, I somehow managed muddle through under the dark cloud of a depression, caused by being dumped by my high school girlfriend.  My life was not very joyful.  I went to classes, my social life was pretty much nil, and I worked nights at a Boy’s Club running the recreation room.  The main thing that put any excitement in my life was music, which which was dynamic and changing.   It was Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Byrds, The Buffalo Springfield, Steppenwolf, Jimi Hendrix, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, etc, etc, etc. The music kept me going through the gloom.

        Once I got to Hawaii, it seemed as if I had come alive again.  It seemed that I had been thrust into a paradise.  Everything was vibrant, lush, full of beauty, and inspiring.

During our Peace Corps free time  on Saturday afternoon and Sunday, all of us trainees were  eager to explore the Island of Hawaii.  There were some group excursions planned by the staff, who took us to Hilo, Volcano National Park, and some beaches.  I was quite surprised to discover how few beaches the Island of Hawaii had.  It certainly didn’t live up to the mental picture I had formed.  Most of the coastline was made up of inaccessible high black cliffs.  The beaches that did occur were small and scattered, but interesting because some had white sand, green sand, and others black sand. 

        I formed a relationship with Charlene, an Italian girl from New Jersey and on our days off, we would hitchhike to the dry side of the island to spend the weekend sleeping on the beach with our Peace Corps blankets, beside the surf at Hapuna Beach.

I loved Hawaii.  It over-loaded the my sensual side.  The colors of everything in Hawaii were so brilliant and intense.  The cerulean blues, so deep, and the reds and greens so vibrant and alive.  The tropical fruits, native plants, the dramatic volcanic geology, and pounding surf all captivated me. For an Indiana boy, just to look out and see the ocean instead of a corn field, was life changing.

Hawaiian shirts had always seemed like a joke to me, but after I had begun to absorb Hawaii, I understood, and I even bought a pair of blue Hawaiian-printed bell-bottoms, printed with large white flowers.  I loved Hawaii’s dramatic topography, built by geologically-recent volcanic eruptions, then  covered with palms, ferns, and other exotic tropical plants I had never seen before.

I found both the warm breezes whispering off of the Pacific and the intense rainstorms, that mostly occurred at night, awe inspiring.  Pepeekeo, like Hilo, was on the “wet” side of the island, but you were pretty much guaranteed sunshine, by traveling over the high middle section of Hawaii, past the verdant-pastured ranch-land of Parker Ranch, then down to hill to the dry leeward side of the island into the desert-like environment of Hawaii’s west side.  It was this sunny dry side where we discovered Hapuna Beach park which seemed to be the Big Island’s best beach.

Hawaii had so much to offer; jungles, mountains, ranches, waterfalls beaches, volcanoes, and deserts.  I was not the only one aware of this paradise, by 1969 Hawaii had already begun to experience an influx of “hippies” who had abandoned traditional lifestyles, and who had travelled to the island to stay, eking out a living the best they could.  I was envious, but I forced myself to keep my mind on the Peace Corps; the reason I was there.

Take a look at my paintings;  davidmarchant2.ca

    

Our Peace Corps Training

      Our training was necessarily intensive, given the short time allotted to learning all about life in the Philippines.  We were awakened early in the morning and attended classes throughout the day and into the night until 8:00, with few breaks, except for eating, and a bit of “down” time.  This went on Monday through Friday and on Saturday morning.  It seemed relentless, and I was always exhausted each night and ready for bed.

    The training had three main focuses.  Naturally, the primary emphasis was on learning the language, which in the Philippines is Tagalog.  Secondly, we had to learn all about the Philippine culture, and the lastly we had to learn about what we would be doing.

    This last bit was a big disappointment to me.  I assumed that I would be in a classroom teaching kids, but to my dismay I discovered that the Peace Corps program I was now in was to set up to run seminars for Filipino teachers.  Running seminars didn’t appeal to me in the least, but I waited to learn more.

    The more red flags went up as I learned more about the culture of the Philippines.  Things like “status” and “Face” meant very little to me, but they were extremely important to Filipinos.  I remember being told that men, who often wore shirts made of thin material, would often buy Filipino cigarettes, then put the actual cigarettes into a pack from American brand of cigarettes, then have them visible in their thin shirt pocket so that everyone would think they were smoking the more expensive American brand.

    While I was not happy about many cultural aspects of Filipino society, I really liked the Filipino instructors and cooks that we had.  They were friendly, kind and fun to be around.  

    My biggest problem happened during the Tagalog class.  It was set up as a language immersion class, with practically no English spoken.  My exposure to foreign languages was pretty much non-existent.  I had taken Latin my Freshman year of high school, but even though it was not really much of a spoken language, I flunked it, receiving two red “F’s” on my report card.  

    I don’t think I have much ability in hearing subtle differences in the spoken word or remembering unknown sounds.  I depend heavily upon seeing the word visually.  The Tagalog classes were set up just the opposite to what I needed.

    We went into the classroom, and right away our Tagalog teacher would start saying something in Tagalog, repeating it several times.  Then they would give a Tagalog response to the statement or question they had ask.  The Tagalog question was then said to the class, and the class was encouraged to respond, and many of them did, but we didn’t know what was asked or what the response was.

            I will always remember once in our Tagalog class I was asked some question in Tagalog.  I responded the best I could in Tagalog, but then all of the Tagalog staff burst out laughing.  I didn’t know what I was asked or what I had said that was obviously, ridiculously wrong,  I never did find out.

    I began to recognize that I was not doing as well as the others in the group.  It was frustrating.  I just wanted to visually see what the Tagalog words and sentences looked like so I could remember them.  It wasn’t until about three weeks later that we were finally handed papers, that showed  the sentences and words that the class had been learning, but by that time it was too late for me.  I was too far behind.

    The photo above shows our friendly Filipino teachers.

View my paintings at:  davidmarchant2.ca

Off To Hawaii For Peace Corps Training

      In mid-June of 1969, the time had finally arrived for me to say goodbye to my family, friends, and MG (I took my guitar with me) and board a plane for Oakland California, which was the gathering spot for the Peace Corps trainees for two days of orientation.  It was the first time I had ever been in an airplane, and I found it was exciting to be flying across North America.  While all the other passengers were reading magazines, I had my curious eyes glued to the changing landscapes below, slowing moving across the window.  

     Once in Oakland, I met the other Peace Corps volunteers in the program.  It was a friendly and interesting group that I found very interesting because they had come from all over the US, and like me, they were all recent elementary education graduates with a specialization in science.  I enjoyed learning about their lives.  After we had been thrust together as a group for a while, one guy from New York City, who was Jewish, asked me if I was Jewish, and I have always wondered what it was about me that made him think I might be.    Was it my looks?  My beliefs?  I have no idea.

    Our orientation completed, we were bussed across the bridge to San Francisco where we boarded our long flight to Hawaii.  Upon landing at Hilo, Hawaii on the Big Island, our group was welcomed to paradise with the traditional flowered leis put around our neck, and then transported by a bus to our training site at a long, old, tin-roofed, school building, located at a tiny place called Pepeekeo. 

    Pepeekeo was basically just a lonely crossroad of two rarely used secondary roads, distinguished only with a small old convenience store and a few houses.  The whole area was surrounded by fields of sugar cane, but down the long sloping fields, this rural Indiana boy was excited to spot the blue Pacific Ocean, stretching out along the horizon.

    We were led to our barracks; a dormitory room created in the former school classroom.  We threw our baggage onto the floor beside our bunks, then proceeded to make our beds using the folded sheets and wool army blankets that sat on each bunk.  We were all tired from the long flight and time change, but hungry, so at the allotted time we all gathered in the large basement room of the school house that was our cafeteria.

    As part of our training we were fed Filipino food; a lot of spiced vegetables, chopped meat, rice, and trays of fresh tropical fruit.  It was a new cuisine for me, but I found it very appetizing until after a solid month of the non-stop Filipino fare, I found myself craving a cheeseburger and fries.

    Below are photos of Pepeekeo, and the sugarcane fields.

View my paintings at:  davidmarchant2.ca