Musings on a Postage Stamp: Part One

One fond memory unleashed a string of troubling thoughts.

PART ONE

My musings were triggered by an envelope I was sending to a friend. Rather than stick a Forever stamp on it, I decided to use some of the older and lower-denomination stamps I had lying around. Working from right to left, first one row and then a second, I arrived at a point where I needed just one more 4¢ stamp.

I decided to share the 1960 BSA stamp that you see here in the lower left corner (four cents paid the first class rate in that long ago year). That’s what initiated a long series of ruminations. I can offer only a sampling here. I’ll focus on a topic that was clearly on my mind, not long after my January post on incarceration; namely, my own experience of being jailed.

I really appreciate all the feedback I received on the “Reimagining Incarceration” post; and my apologies to anyone who did not receive a response; I do read every comment carefully, and sometimes I don’t have my thoughts together enough to record my reaction right away. I try to get back to as many people as I can. Some readers expressed puzzlement, some were supportive, and others offered additional sources for my consideration. One site in particular (Prison Policy Initiative) displays some dramatic graphics showing the lopsided nature of incarceration around the globe.

Not only does the U.S. have the highest incarceration rate in the world; every single U.S. state incarcerates more people per capita than virtually any independent democracy on earth. To be sure, states like New York and Massachusetts appear progressive in their incarceration rates compared to states like Louisiana, but compared to the rest of the world, every U.S. state relies too heavily on prisons and jails to respond to crime.

As I attached the Boy Scout stamp to the envelope, my thoughts naturally turned to my friend Norman Rockwell, who designed the stamp, and to my classmate Thornton Percival, who appears on it.

For many years, I have wondered whatever happened to Thornton after his family left Stockbridge. In the early days of internet searches, I was not able to find him, so I thought I’d try again. Voilà! From a newspaper article now 13 years old:

His image became a model for a generation of Scouts, but Percival was just that — a model. The boy from Stockbridge, Mass., never joined the Boy Scouts.

It’s a lingering regret for Percival, now a Suquamish lawyer, who has gained respect for Boy Scouts of America from five decades of signing autographs and speaking to Boy Scout troops. Percival was a guest at the Kitsap Friends of Scouting Leadership Breakfast in Bremerton Wednesday, an annual fundraiser made special this year with the celebration of the group’s 100th anniversary.

https://www.kitsapdailynews.com/life/suquamish-man-was-the-face-of-scouting/

In the summer when Norman was designing the stamp, he spread word around town that he was looking for a model. I was away at Boy Scout camp, and when I returned, my Scoutmaster Pete was eager for me to go and apply. I was skeptical, since I had modeled for Norman before, and I figured if he had wanted to use me, he would have let my mother know. But I dutifully donned my uniform and paid a visit to the Rockwell home and studio.

As always, Norman was gracious, and invited me into his studio. When I told him of my mission, he confirmed my suspicions. “I’ve already selected someone,” he told me, “but as long as you’re here, let me look you over. Maybe I can use you for something else. Stand over there in the light, “and he proceeded to direct me to stand and sit in various positions. “Even if you had come earlier,” he said, “I would not have chosen you.” I think he was trying to make me feel better, being the kind and gentle soul that he was, but I was not disappointed, since I had expected no other outcome.

Not too many months after that, I came back to request a favor from him, which he granted. He designed a neckerchief for my trip to the Boy Scout Jamboree. I have elsewhere provided a very detailed account of that, so for this newsletter it’s ASFAT (a story for another time).

Here I am, sporting my Jamboree patch and Eagle Scout pin.

And here is the official neckerchief (not the one Norman designed for my troop).

In between those visits (the first one about the stamp, the second one about the neckerchief), I was arrested for the first time in my young life. I was just 13 years old.

The story of my arrest is also ASFAT; it’s a story of trouble and also of privilege. The short version is that I stole some mail that was destined for the Housatonic National Bank, thus combining two federal crimes in one action.

I was never told about the negotiations that must have ensued, but somehow, rather than facing federal charges, I ended up being ushered into the County courthouse in Lee.

The judge was very kind to me, and explained that although I was being convicted of a crime, I was being put on probation. I was instructed to stay out of trouble and to write a weekly letter to my probation officer, telling him what I had done that week.

All of this must have been puzzling to the adults in my life. Up to that point, I had been a fairly well-behaved youngster, active in the Boy Scouts and my church, and doing well in school.

As I think back on it now, I wonder if Norman knew about that arrest. If he did, he never mentioned it to me, and we remained friends for several years after that.

Stockbridge, after all, was (and still is) a small town, and just about everything that happened in town became public knowledge. Gossip was not always accurate, however, as Norman illustrated:

Life in Stockbridge was not as idyllic as depicted in the typical Norman Rockwell painting. He famously said, “I paint life as I would like it to be.“ I had a troubled childhood, although in many ways it was a privileged one as well. The adults in my life were supportive but also controlling.

With the clear insight that I claim to have now on those early years, I can see that I was misunderstood, and that I also misunderstood the world around me. Much of that had to do with my autism. In those pre-Special Education days, autism was not well understood, and my needs were not well supported.

I was fortunate to receive a set of positive social values, implanted in me at an early age. My parents, despite their own struggles, were loving and patient. They were not particularly good at giving explicit instructions, but they were good role models. My father taught me to play baseball, and he read to his children every night. My mother was a practitioner of the saying, “If you don’t have something nice to say about someone, don’t say anything at all.” I never heard a single ethnic slur uttered in my house (I had to learn those from my classmates).

I acquired my social values in a variety of ways. My grandmother Wilcox and her sister, my grandaunt Belle, were very outspoken and instructive about such things as the need to learn manners, and to respect all people regardless of their station in life.

I also attended my church youth group, was an active member of the Boy Scouts, and learned about the wider world from various schoolteachers, as well as from other adults who showed an interest in me.

The teachings that made sense to me, and that I readily adopted, described actions (such as being courteous and kind) that, I believed, if universally practiced, would make the world a better place.

As I constructed an ideal world in my head, I became more and more troubled that reality was a far cry from that ideal. This disconnect was disconcerting to me, and made me feel as if I were living in two different worlds — the one I envisioned and longed for, versus the one I actually experienced.

All of this made me eager to see people come together and to get along. Thus began a lifelong pattern of organizing and leading groups, and trying to reconcile differences. I did not like the way the world operated, nor the way it treated me, so I set out to change the world to be a more comfortable place for me. I’m still at it.

As a result of these tendencies, I often found myself in leadership positions. I became an Eagle Scout at 14, I was elected to statewide office while I was in my church youth group. I was selected to preach a sermon in my church on Youth Sunday.

I read Silent Spring when it came out in 1962, and learned why my beloved bluebirds had been disappearing. By the time I graduated high school in 1963, I was a practicing environmentalist, planting an organic garden.

To add to my own contribution toward a better world, I became a vegetarian and a pacifist at around the same time (just a few weeks ago, I marked the 60th anniversary of beginning my vegetarian diet).

How proud my parents must have been when I received a full scholarship to Oberlin College. How upset they must have been when I was arrested again before I could even step foot on the Oberlin campus.

My own incarceration took place later in 1963, and ushered in a period in which I was “covered with night” (the Haudenosaunee description of a person in mourning). Ironically, perhaps, I was arrested by the Stockbridge police as I was on my way to Pittsfield to board a bus to Washington to attend what would become known as MLK’s I Have a Dream speech. Instead, I was transported to Pittsfield in a police cruiser to be indicted, which shattered my dreams, and marked the beginning of a very dark time in my life.

In part two of this account, I will relate my experience of being jailed, and how my broken dreams sent me into a tailspin.

From that point on, life took me on a totally different direction from the one I had imagined for myself.