Thoughts after Memorial Day

 My thoughts after Memorial Day.

www.flemmingoppenhagen.org

When I was 24 years old, I knew the time for my draft was up. Instead of waiting for the letter in the mail telling me that I was drafted, I went voluntarily. I did that to get away from Copenhagen, and with a broken heart having been let down by a young woman, which I had fallen passionately in love with and who had other plans which did not include me. I was a rather devoted Catholic at the time, and the military was not an option for me at all. Still isn't! So, I showed up at the draft office, papers in hand signed by my mentor and parish minister that I was unwilling to bear arms because of my faith. That was not a problem in Denmark. Instead of serving in the armed forces, I had two other options. The parole board offered me to serve as a park ranger or as a firefighter in the Civil Defense or SF as they called it back then. What a fantastic idea that no one had to bear arms if one did not believe in NATO or the colonial wars of the US, which they fought in Vietnam, Africa, or Central America at the time. There was no doubt in my mind; I wanted to be a firefighter, and so it was that I spend the next two years learning first how to put out all kind of fires and later as a sergeant, was taught how to cook and command a mobile kitchen-unit in case of a natural disaster. At the time, I was okay about my service, and though I did not choose to stay in the system when my time was up, I have never regretted that I served my country or gave my time for a cause for which I believed. I was proud of serving, and I thought of doing it peacefully. I would do the same today. I still don't believe that this world's future lies in colonialism or wars fought because of capitalist interest.

           The reflection on my own story brings me to the question of how to observe Memorial Day in the country I live in now. I do not feel it is enough to honor fallen soldiers without asking the all-important question of to what cause did they put their lives down to fight. Did they blindly sign up to go wherever the government sent them, or did they fight to protect their home country and their families? I do not think anyone doubts the sacrifice to which the firefighters on 9/11 died. The same goes for the doctors and nurses on the frontline in the resent pandemic. Why are we so willing to honor men and women who fly out to fight wars that old rich men tell them to fight to protect their capitalist interests? Have any of these soldiers ever questioned why they are sent out, or are they just doing it for the money? Who are they defending? Who are they killing in foreign countries thousands of miles away from home? I grieve for the loss of young men who have gotten brainwashed into believing that occupying Iraq or any other middle eastern country is what it means to be a soldier defending our homes and country. Even as a conscious objector, I understand the importance of protecting your country or your family from harm, but that is a far cry from the death toll of young American men and women who are being killed abroad because of politics and the money market. I can grieve for their families, and I can mourn for their innocent stupidity when they signed up for serving the empire, and its world policies.

           Still, and here I have to pause. The soldier, being a man or a woman, is a particular archetype. It is with us now and back through history to the very root of humanity. The sad reality that humans are destructive creatures who engage in killing each other for 5 acres or less when asked to do so. How to deal with this archetype is really at the bottom of my lifelong question. The sad fact is that there is no answer. Young men go to war and get killed, and older men and women profit for their loss. After the all-powerful have put their money in the bank, they lay flowers on the unknown soldier’s grave, and pictures are taken. At the same time, they make speeches of the enormous sacrifices their fellow citizens' have brought the nation. They put flags on their grave-stones, and afterward, people go to the beaches or their backyards and have hamburgers. At the same time, the song inside my head by Pete Seeger goes, "when will they ever learn, when will they ever learn." It is very sad, because maybe we will never learn. These are my thoughts on the day after Memorial Day.

A train is like a typewriter

or a hand crank sewing machine

or an elevator 

in an old apartment building

or my grandfather 

taking a nap

or the psalms of David

unchanged by time.

The Vinyl Ritual
I do not recall how Ole became my childhood hero, but I think it started on my first big boy scout trip to Norway. Ole had become our troop leader, and the five boys in our group immediately fell in awe of this guy who was a couple of years older than we were. It is possible that he was given this responsibility at the beginning of our trip and then took us under his gentle wings for the duration of our adventure. He brought something in his possession, something we had never seen before, a portable battery-driven record player. It could not play LP’s, but he had a stack of forty-fives that he played at all times. Tunes like “She loves you,” Please Please Me and Love me Do!!!! All the new hits by The Beatles. We wanted to be as fresh as he was and sang along “full blast” every time he put one on the turntable. Another talent that Ole had was that he could blow the trumpet and did so every morning at daybreak. Imagine! Playing the bugle, how cool was that?
We all went to the same Catholic school in Copenhagen, and though he was probably a couple of grades above me, he still thought I was a fun kid because he invited me and my friend, Henrik, to his home after school to listen to vinyl and 78 RPM records. Ole’s dad had a huge collection of Jazz records, which Ole shared with us. Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, Benny Goodman, etc.
Ole would lean back in the one comfortable brown worn leather chair in the room and open the world of Jazz for our virgin ears. It was not the first time that I listened to records, of course, my parents had a small collection of classical 78’ts which seldom was attended to at home, but this was different. For the first time, I was introduced to the ritual of the record player. Ole would get up from his seat, walk over to the record player, a brand-new Garrard which had three settings: 45, 33, and 78 RPM options. He would pick out a disk, sometimes an old 78, and other times a new vinyl “Long Playing” and gently holding it between his hands, letting the record slide out of the paper sleeve into his fingers. The record player had a red, stiff cardboard lid that Ole would open with his pinky, still holding the disk in his hands. Then lower it to the center of the turntable, put it into a safe position on the holding pin in the middle, and then let go of it. With his right hand, he would lift the pick-up arm, which made the turntable start to spin as it let out a clicking noise. He would slide the pickup arm over the rim of the disk and then lower the arm and with the needle down unto the record using a lever on the right side of the player. There was a Whoosh from the needle hitting the spinning record, and then seconds later, out of two large Teak B&O speakers, the room was filled with the most wonderful music I had ever heard. He would then turn around and sit back down in his chair. My friend and I sat on the floor like his devotees looking at him with big eyes. We sat there in silent anticipation. When the tune was over, and the needle reached the Woosh, Woosh, Woosh on the very inner groove, the ritual repeated itself. Ole would get up, lift the arm of the record, and gently put it back, first in the sleeve, and then into the cover. After several tunes, his dad would come into the room and serve us tea. 
These afternoons spent with Ole and listening to his records was my big introduction, not only to the world of Jazz but also into the ritual of playing Vinyls. A ritual I still perform with utmost care in my own home almost every day. I think back with appreciation for this young man who, by his kindness and love for Jazz music, taught me the sacred ritualistic act of record playing and listening.

The leader of the band. Dan Fogelberg cover

As tears go by cover. Music: The Rolling Stones

On the phone again

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My new book is finally available at Barnes & Noble as well as on Amazon.

Sojourner in a Foreign Landis a personal story about immigration, the search for spiritual belonging, sexual and gender identity, and how childhood trauma influences a human life. As a Scandinavian immigrant, I was blessed with privileges other ethnic groups did not have. Still, it was a struggle to start from the bottom. The book also describes life in Copenhagen, Denmark, in the fifties and sixties, and what it means to leave your culture and traditions behind.