Author: michaeldexterhankins

Over the years, I’ve come across numerous people that I’ve shaken my head at. I’m sure some folks have encountered me that did just the same. This head-shaking ritual has even been performed after I said or wrote something that should’ve been kept in check.

In the late 1980s, I was taking creative writing classes under Professor Michael Burwell at the University of Alaska – Anchorage. These classes were fun and the students were generally older like me, with the most senior a woman in her late 70s. I was in my 30s during this time.  For three years I took the same class finding it a hoot.

We met at an elementary school in Eagle River, and on sunny afternoons the group of us would head outside, taking seats in the school’s spacious front lawn. It was a laidback atmosphere and one that I looked forward to. During several classes, a student brought buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken, while others shared homemade cuisine or cookies.

Our assignments consisted of writing about almost anything, and the class critiquing this work as it was read aloud, with Professor Burwell giving a follow-up review. Things generally went smoothly although there were a few students that got out of hand.

One of these was a Federal Wildlife Officer. While the oldest student was reading her manuscript about a small cabin she owned in the old ghost town of Sunrise, the gal mentioned having picked up an eagle’s feather and keeping it.

The officer, at this point, interrupted her, saying that was illegal and subject to penalty, correctly claiming that the fine was $100,000 and one year in prison. Those two then got into a loud argument over the merits of such — with Professor Burwell stepping in — suggesting that it was merely a mistake by the lady and that perhaps she could return it to the place found.

The agent was okay with that, yet she wasn’t, still wanting to argue that it was only a stinking feather. She rambled on for some spell having lost it upstairs while we had to endure her anger.

This federal employee then went into a rant, losing it himself, claiming that only American Natives could possess eagle feathers and that even they had to have a permit. The squabble went on and on with the professor finally saying they’d have to take this matter outside the classroom, where it should’ve been taken to begin with. I went home that afternoon and removed from my garage bulletin board, an eagle feather I’d found, tossing it in the trash.

I’d written an article for this class, showing that I believed television programs played a big part in how children acted and played out roles, using an example of my watching certain westerns such as Gunsmoke and The Rifleman. In those shows, whenever Sheriff Matt Dillon or Lucas McCain encountered some tough guy, usually drunk, fisticuffs were the first method to take care of them.

That flawed philosophy got me in trouble more than once in school. My article mentioned this, along with it going on to say that movies and television shows nowadays take things even further, oftentimes showing someone being shot and killed over a mere vocal argument.

A fellow in this creative writing class became so incensed with what I was reading out loud, that he interrupted me before I wrapped things up by saying, “You’re trying to censor free speech!” For the sake of this story, I’ll ficticiously name this person, Chuck.

Chuck went on a loud tangent before the professor calmly said that he was to merely critique the author’s writing, and not their viewpoint. I just sat there shaking my head, because this wasn’t the first time Chuck had gone off the deep end. I bit my tongue not saying a word because I knew Chuck always packed a sidearm, having observed it.

The easily excited man wrote a bizarre composition that was nothing more than plagiarized words taken straight from the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young song, Woodstock. In this tune, the lines, “And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden,” came up several times.

Chuck equated those lyrics to Yasgur’s Farm in Woodstock, New York, where the infamous festival took place. In his spiel, he attempted to show us where we were back then concerning, The Garden of Eden, and where we were going to be in the future. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one totally lost in his analysis, with most of us older students undoubtedly believing he was on something — and it wasn’t sanity.

Professor Burwell took me aside afterward to say that Chuck served in the Vietnam War and that his wife said that he’d come back a different man. It was hoped that this class would help him get a better grasp on his struggles. Knowing that greatly helped me to understand the man’s deep psychological scars.

My wife ran into a similar situation at her place of employment. Joleen worked with a fellow who seemed harmless enough, yet one day when they were discussing the Vietnam War, this fellow quickly lost it. He berated her up one side and down the other for calling it a war. “It was a conflict!” he informed her through clenched teeth. They never talked again, with Joleen deeply afraid of him after that incident.

These days, whenever I come across someone having lost it, I’m not so bold to confront them like in the past. I know that instead of fisticuffs, they’re apt to shoot and then want to argue later. Because of that constant threat, I quickly veer around their mental conflict and keep on truckin’.