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Me, Hunter, and My Amazing Inner-Truth Vehicle

Kenneth, born and raised in the South, resides in Hamilton, Alabama. He enjoys sharing his unique perspectives on life through his writing.

Hunter S. Thompson, Long Beach, California, May 1989.

Hunter S. Thompson, Long Beach, California, May 1989.

This somewhat disorganized piece is dedicated to Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, July 18, 1937 - February 20, 2005. Although I am only now delving into his sometimes-psychedelic world mixed with a genius talent, I have realized something else besides his down-played, self-abasing fame. I learned that through the human imagination, you and I can sit quietly and unlock our hidden power locked inside our imaginary vehicle, travel back in time to right the wrongs, tell that smart mouthed know-it-all what we really think all without any thought of legal ramifications, jury trials and prison.

A back-note about today's prison atmosphere: Sure, most of our prison's have a visible violent atmosphere--the tension is thicker than a professional politician or madam's lies. Both are pretty good in the keen ability to tell anyone a perfect lie at anytime, anywhere, about anyone or anything. Professionals like certain politicans and madam's are so proficient at telling the perfect lie that they can easily retire at age 33 and live a long, fruitful live behind mansion doors made from imported Lebanon cedars.

This narrative is both heartfelt and loose tongued--this phrase, "loose tongued," used to imply people who drink heavily and try to talk or in this case, write. Wrong. I only said this because it sounded good to me. But now to turn serious, I will unleash my newly-found powers of the Inner-Truth Vehicle and travel back in time to May 1972, toward the first moments that I graduated with my five true friends in a class of 110 classmates in our new gymnasium made possible in 1969 by Lurleen Wallace, wife of Segregationist Governor, George Wallace, who was limited in his gubernatorial terms, so being the sly politician with the slick black hair and pointed tongue, convinced Lurleen to run. Oh, she not only ran, but embarrassed her four male opponents leaving them in the dust as it was said in The Birmingham News in the aftermath of her landslide.

In the opening of this first-person narrative, I mentioned the superbly-talented, the late Dr. Hunter S. Thompson and my high school graduation in the latter part of May 1972. I conjoured up the spirit of Dr. Thompson who was busy writing scathing pieces about the Culture of The After Life, and asked him to accompany me in this first-ever type of journey ever. Hey, I needed someone to drive my Inner Truth Vehicle and if you think that Marty McFly's Deloran (Back to The Future, 1985) was fast, then Marty's car makes mine look like a broken-down '55 Buick sitting on some highway in northern Alabama. Probably the fault of a blown head gasket.

When I get back to May 1972, and the virgin moments of my graduation, there are a few select people (I used this term loosely) whom I want to make some things right and get them to hear the things that has stewed inside my spirit for over 40 plus years. Enough is enough. What harm could me facing these "people" (I really meant to say jerks) and telling them how they treated me now it affected me since 1972. What can they do? Nothing. None of them are employed as lawyers, teachers, or common laborers.

The first jerk whom I want to see is a guy named Steve. For sake of legalities, there was this guy named Steve whom I first met in second grade, 1962, at then Hamilton Grammar School. He was then like he was throughout school: a jerk inside and out. From the unfounded slurs that he aimed at me, to that sick Hyena's laugh. Sickening. He even looked jerkish. His parents were good folks. And lived in the city of Hamilton, but that I never held against them. And I am very sure that Steve-O's parents never sat him down and taught him how to be nasty toward students whom are not from a city home. Nope. Ol' Stevie did that all by himself. And the thing was, he only grew more jerky in the years to come.

If I were to go back and meet him the first thing that I would ask him is: Steve, what did I ever do to you? Be honest, if you can. Remember in years to come, you will marry a pretty cheerleader one grade ahead of you and your life will be rosy for a few years and then you will discover that your pretty cheerleader wife has been sleeping with a convict on a Work Release Program and both of them run away. Awwww. I really hate it.

I don't subscribe to Karma, Instant (released by John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band) or otherwise. What I do subscribe to is what the Bible says about "whatsoever a man sows, that he shall also reap." You see, Stevie, you became an aggressor toward me simply because I came from a poor background and made fun of that most all of the time. And the painful thing was: I took it. Even the teachers knew you were a jerk and looked the other way.

If you had been mentally-challenged, I would have overlooked it, but you were smart, even athletic. I won't go into how you ended up living with your mom serving you hand and foot. I think that justice has been served. If I had wanted to write Yoko Ono's name mingled with John and the Plastic Ono Band, I would have put it there, but I didn't deem it worth the trouble.

The second person whom I'd like to meet and chat with for a few minutes would be (a) Rodney; Johnny; Karen and their gang. City children with parents who had money. I would ask them the same thing: Why did you run everything in our years in school? Why? Was it a turn-on for you? Or did you enjoy taking over and depriving me and those of my background the joy of taking part? I never said taking ALL, just part. Why? Would you humor me and just tell me. I want to know. Oh, I see (a) Johnny in this gang. Why are you looking sad and at the tops of your shoes? You and your pretty wife are going to be successful and live in a big town eastward of Hamilton, Ala., where you are a noted trial lawyer, so you are the one who I need to ask my question of why did you think it necessary to walk us (like Steve) as if we were dirt? I hope you can tell me the truth, but "we" the poor kids did not want to take over your place of entitlement, no, sir. We just wanted to be considered a part of the class. Notice: a "part."

Then I would approach (a) Susie and two other girls who loved to make fun of me. Why? I cannot tell you. But Susie, years later, went on to be a county government official and then left her office and we never knew why. But in our adulthood's, she would always tell me how good of a friend that I was to her. But not at the only class reunion I attended. Susie and her friend, who shall remain nameless, made open fun at me and I never provoked them. So it is up to you to tell me why?

And to the teachers from 1961 through 1972, why did you, the adults see the students like me, poor, and from a poor background, some like me had parents who had to work so we could eat, let the city students get by with assassinating our character and you only laughed? I guess you can say that "we" became bitter and displaced in your world. But the truth is, "we" were the first Caucasian Black People in 1962, to ever segregate your City School System. Tough, but true. I wished many times when the time came and the African-American students were forced to attend our high school that I was one of them. They were looked at a whole lot better than you teachers did us.

I have lived on the faith that when all of humanity stands before the All-Knowing God on His White Throne of Judgment, and the books are opened, every person's life will be just that--an open book to every act, bad and good we did and how you teachers made us poverty-laden children be treated better than some of your house dogs. And even the rich hunters in the bunch who bred and raised expensive hunting dogs. "We" did not matter.

So with the confrontations finished and people whom I wanted to ask a few questions over, I find myself standing in a silent gymnasium in 1972 and not hearing anything but the almost-muted heartbeats by me and the elite classmates who made the lives of the poor students and myself miserable. Just by answering one question: Why?

And even as one or two of you start to open your mouth, as stupid as you thought that "we" were, at least we knew enough to know how to read the face of a liar before he speaks. And you might as well keep your mouths shut.

I have not the time or strength to listen to the lies you told us and endured the suffering you put us through over the years. I hope that this time around . . .things might be better. What do you say?

© 2017 Kenneth Avery

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