Becoming a Warrior – Fate or Free Will?
by
James D. Brewer
Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee
greenest state in the land of the free
raised in the woods so he knew every tree
killed him a bar when he was only three.
Davy, Davy Crockett
King of the wild frontier
(“The Ballad of Davy Crockett”)
As a warrior who could ride, shoot, and fight, Davy Crockett captured the popular imagination of both children and adults in the early-to-mid 1950’s. I was no exception. But do you have any idea how difficult it is for a little boy to live up to the exploits of a legend? The day-to-day grind of having to grin down grizzly bears, talk raccoons out of trees, and wrestle alligators was far more than any four-year-old should have been expected to manage. And yet, as the photo in Figure 1.1 shows, I was a Davy Crockett wannabe in full effect.
[Figure 1: A Davy Crockett Wannabe]
Like Davy, I was born in Tennessee — the “greenest state in the land of the free.” And I suppose I could blame fate, or Walt Disney or Fess Parker, or perhaps even ol’ Crockett himself for placing such a mantle of responsibility upon me. But as I recall, I readily accepted the yoke of duty and went about trying to be a frontier boy in 1950’s west Tennessee. Take a closer look at that photograph. Note the defiant eyes, the weapon in hand, the cocky stance of confidence. As I look back over my life, it seems that the seeds of what I would become were already present and germinating on that warm, June day in 1955. When my older sister carefully aimed her Kodak box camera and snapped this picture along the sidewalk of a tiny, rural town, my journey to become a warrior had already begun.
Boxing – the Sport of Kings, a Little Boy and an Old Scotsman
I was five years old when Mr. and Mrs. Akin, relatives by marriage, took care of me when my mother had to work in the evenings. My father, a hopeless drunk, had left within my first year. My mother threw him out after he came home drunk one night and attempted to set my crib on fire with me in it. Mr. Akin, who I always called “Scotty,” (Figure 1.2) was perhaps in his early mid-to-late sixties, but in those days, he seemed even older to me.
[Figure 2: Scotty the geriatric pugilist]
Scotty was a short, lanky man with a heavy Scottish brogue that lingered from his not-so-distant immigration. He called me ‘Bud.’ Every Friday night I could count on Scotty having the television tuned in to the Gillette Friday Night Fights. I can still remember that Gillette® theme song.
Dah, Dah, Daaahhh, Dah-dah, dah, dah-dah,
Dah, Dah, Daaahhh, Dah-dah, dah, dah-dah …
A plethora of pugilistic pleasure it was, as grown men pounded each other into a bloody pulp on national television. Little did I know that I was watching some of the greatest fighters of history (Marciano, Sugar Ray Robinson, Graziano, Archie Moore, Willie Pep, etc.). I cannot remember which was more exciting — watching the actual fights or watching Scotty. This old man, whose movement was slow and deliberate during the day, would become animated as the bout grew intense, bobbing and weaving in his chair with time-eroded moves that betrayed his boxing prowess as a youth.
“Hit ‘em a lick again,” Scotty would shout at the TV, sending forth a slowed right cross at an imaginary opponent. “He’s gunna knock him out, Bud!”
Between rounds, during the Cavalcade of Sports theme song or the “What’ll you have, ol’ time flavor, Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer” commercial, Scotty rested like a fighter on a corner stool. I half expected a cut-man to emerge from the closet and start applying styptic pencil or Vaseline®. But at the sound of the bell for the next round, Scotty would be up and closing (figuratively). So, this was fightin’, huh? Two guys were going it at it in a ring with thousands cheering, manly men drinking beer and doing manly things like shaving with the advertised Gillette® blades. This created enough excitement to make an old man shadow box on the edge of his chair, and make a young boy want to be a fighter.
Just Like Gene and Roy
I should’ve been a Cowboy
I should’ve learned to rope and ride
Wearing my six-shooter riding my pony on a cattle drive
Stealing the young girl’s hearts
Just like Gene and Roy
(Toby Keith)
My next warrior role models came riding in from the old west. In 1957 we said goodbye to Scotty and Mrs. Akin and moved to a larger town where my mother continued working for the telephone company and raising me by herself. By the time I was in the third grade, I was staying alone in the afternoons after school until my mother got off work. Gene Autry and Roy Rogers became not only my heroes, but they were also my babysitters. I remember rushing home from school in the afternoon, dashing in our small apartment on Cumberland Street, tossing my books on the metal dinette set, and turning on the black & white Motorola® television. I would grab a Coca-cola® out of the refrigerator, remove the cap, and plop down on the floor in front of the TV set. I would sit there transfixed by the power of Gene’s left hook, the glint off Roy’s shiny revolver, and the beauty of Trigger.
Like most young men of the 1950s and early 60s, I was fascinated and inspired by Gene and Roy and a host of other western hero role-models. Steve McQueen portrayed Josh Randall on Wanted Dead or Alive and Richard Boone played the cultured warrior, Paladin, on Have Gun Will Travel. Butwhat did all these TV heroes have in common? They were warriors who embodied indomitable spirit. They faced the world by themselves, depending on just themselves and their weapons. They faced adversity with a sense of humor and determination, and they operated by a behavioral code — the “code of the west.” It was known by many names and incarnations.
- Gene Autry’s Code of Honor
- Hopalong Cassidy’s Creed for American Boys and Girls
- The Lone Ranger Creed
- Roy Roger’s Riders Club Rules
- Wild Bill Hickock Deputy Marshal Code of Conduct
- Texas Ranger’s Deputy Ranger Oath
What I did not know at that young age was that other codes existed that would establish values in my life. Was I being guided by some unseen fate, or were the values I was developing the consequences of my own choices? I am convinced that the cowboy codes provided a behavioral underpinning that influenced countless youngsters in the 1930s, 40s, 50s and early 60s. I was no exception.
With my father absent, it fell to my mother to teach me right from wrong. Other people in my life, i.e., my older brother and sister, a dear uncle, coaches and teachers, reinforced the values of honesty, integrity, respect, and perseverance. Churches and religious orders certainly taught morality and decency; but for me and millions of kids across the country, our heroes were cowboys, and they helped to shape our values. I watched carefully how my heroes related to other people, and how they treated women, the poor, and those overlooked by society, and I marked how they addressed the question of honesty and honor. Former University of Colorado Marketing professor, Dr. Morris Massey, explains the impact of values programming at a very young age:
- What we are now, directly relates to when, and where, we were value programmed
- We are programmed with gut values by age 10
- Values will not change unless a significant emotional event (SEE) occurs
The 1950s was the time in my life that Morris calls the “Imprint Period,” where “up to the age of seven, we are like sponges, absorbing everything around us and accepting much of it as true, especially when it comes from our parents.” He emphasizes that the “critical thing here is to learn a sense of right and wrong, good and bad.” The cowboy codes certainly reinforced that understanding. But during the latter part of the 1950s when I was between the ages of eight and thirteen, I grew into what Massey calls the “Modeling Period,” when children copy not only their parents, but also other people they respect. So, many of the young people, particularly young boys, copied the behaviors of their heroes, on-screen and off.
The tenets of those various cowboy/old-west codes – often dismissed as hokey and simplistic by many modern-day pseudo-intellectuals — have very much to offer our society. Amid the violent, amoral, and often vicious society in which we find ourselves living and raising children today, I cannot help but believe a little dose of old-fashioned “cowboy code” would serve to improve the situation. I doubt I will ever get to ask him, but I am pretty sure that is what the famous martial artist and actor, Chuck Norris, had in mind when he produced the television series, Walker, Texas Ranger. I am convinced that a large part of the tremendous success of that show came from the audience’s hunger for a return to basic values, ethics, and decency. Norris’ production allowed the audience to not have to guess which character is the good guy and which is the bad guy. Even so, that desire to return to “those thrilling days of yester-year,” with its simple, direct behavioral code, comes with a tremendous responsibility. As adults, we should behave in our daily lives in such a way that, without the aid of a white or black hat, no one must guess which side we are on.
Victimization by Fate or Prevailing by Self-determination?
The 1950s offered no courses on anti-bullying, there were no national media campaigns to raise awareness of the problem, and schools had no “safe zones” where a child could go to report bullying. So, what did children do, you ask? We got bullied. And we had to figure out how to handle it. What we didn’t do, however, was bring a gun to school and shoot our fellow students because they took our lunch money. In the 1950s south we were raised in a “gun culture” that people, seeking simplistic answers to complicated modern problems, love to deplore and blame for every ill in society. But we didn’t steal our parents’ weapons and engage in mass shootings. Fate or circumstance presented us with the same raw materials (e.g., guns, knives, etc.), but we made the decision not to use them. We solved controversies with our fists. Just like many kids during this time, I had my share of scrapes during the elementary school and junior high years. We had the usual playground altercations, the obligatory school bullies, etc. I won some and I lost some of those encounters, but I learned some lessons along the way about fighting, standing up for yourself, and the cost of defeat. Was fate drawing me to these situations like a tractor beam in a Star Trek episode, or where these adventures or misadventures the result of my own decision making?
One of those lessons occurred on a summer morning when I was about seven years old. I was playing “war” alone on the street behind the house. I had single-handedly routed an entire enemy battalion from my foxhole (a ditch near the sidewalk) using only my toy M1911 .45 caliber pistol. Sergeant York would have been proud. As I started up the hill toward the house to get a drink of cold, iced tea, someone called to me from the street below.
“Come over here,” said a tall young man perhaps twelve or thirteen years old.
When I walked down the hill to see what he wanted, he pointed at the pistol and said, “What you got?”
“Gun.”
“Let me see it.”
“No,” I replied.
Without any further discussion, he grabbed for the pistol. I resisted and we wrestled for a few seconds. But a seven-year-old was no match for this older kid. Not only did he succeed in taking the gun from me, but he also knocked me down to the concrete where my right knee struck a piece of broken glass that tore into the flesh about a half inch deep. He didn’t laugh or frown or smile or say a single other word; he just tucked the plastic pistol in his pants and walked away, leaving me bleeding on the street. I got to my feet, and upon seeing the blood pouring out of my leg, I began to cry. Now, I knew that cowboys don’t cry, but I was angry and embarrassed. Maybe Gene and Roy would have granted me a pass on the tears, but the very fact that I was crying made me even angrier!
Dr. T.K. Ballard, the family physician who would suture me up a lot during my childhood, stitched up my knee and dressed it; but he could do nothing about the greater wound to my pride. When Mother and my older brother got home that day and heard what happened, they vowed to look for the perp. But I had already decided that it was my job. And for weeks afterward, I limped around the scene of the crime watching for my assailant. I have no idea what I would have done if he had showed up. I would have probably gotten whipped even worse, but I felt like I should at least try. He never appeared and I never got that heavy plastic replica M1911 back. What I got from the deal was two scars: the one on my leg and the one in my psyche. The wound on my knee healed quickly, but the one in my mind took a much longer, twisting path to recovery. Dr. Massey might say I had a “significant emotional event (SEE)” that affected my value imprinting that day. You see, when you are a victim of a crime – even one as simple as a child beating you down and taking your toy gun – it changes the way you view the world. As I would write many years later in a book on personal protection, being a victim of a violent crime is like hitting a bug on your windshield at 60 mph. The wipers can remove the big pieces, but the whole incident ends up streaking your view for the rest of the trip. Fate taught me something that day. I learned how it feels to be a victim. And I didn’t like the way I felt. So, I determined from that day forward that I wasn’t ever again going down without a fight.
A second incident about a year later taught me a couple of other valuable lessons about becoming a warrior and employing the Gene and Roy approach to dealing with adversity. One day after school I was hanging out with several friends near the site of the previous encounter. A neighborhood play controversy developed involving some older kid named Hewett who I had never seen before. However, a second older kid was present that I did know. His name was Mike. He was three years older than I, but we had become buddies over the past few months, playing baseball together, electric football, and defending the rooftop of his garage from various imagined assailants. You see, all good cowboy heroes in those days had a goofy, funny sidekick. Well, mine was goofy, but nothing about the behavior he was about to exhibit was funny.
Hewett began to bully, demanding his way in the controversy and getting a little physical with a couple of the other kids. Since the incident with the toy gun remained fresh in my mind, I decided I was not going to stand for that. I was particularly emboldened to face-down this older kid because my friend, Mike, was sitting on his bicycle watching the entire situation develop from just a few feet up the hill. So, I threw my chest out and demanded to know just exactly who this Hewett kid thought he was, ordering us around and telling us what to do. I boldly informed him that I wasn’t going to take it.
Hewitt stepped in close to me. “You gonna do something about it?” he asked. I got scared, and though I had the urge to back down, I recalled how I felt when I gave in without a fight. I calculated that humiliation was worse than physical pain. Still, I hedged my bet.
“Yeah, well, maybe I am. But even if I don’t,” I declared confidently, pointing up to Mike who was still sitting just up the hill, “my friend, Mike, will.”
Hewett looked up the hill. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said.
Hewett turned back to me. “What grade are you in?”
“Third grade,” I announced, figuring I had him on the run now. For some reason, in kids’ minds what grade you were in was supposed to correlate to your fighting skill. Then I added defiantly, “but Mike’s in the sixth grade.” My hands on my hips, I thought that would put an end to Hewitt’s threats, until I heard his gut-wrenching reply.
“Yeah, well, I’m in the seventh grade,” he said, tossing Mike a menacing stare.
You know that sinking feeling you get when you realize you have over-committed? Are you familiar with that lump in your throat that feels like a cantaloupe when you realize your reach has exceeded your grasp? That your mouth has written a check that your body can’t cash? Well, that is how I felt as I watched Mike deliberately place his right foot on the pedal, turn the wheel of his bike eastward toward his house, and ride away without saying a word.
So much for counting on back-up! But I only had to stand there alone, out on a limb, for just a few seconds before my beat-down commenced. I never forgave Mike for deserting me that day. Yes, fate may have led to my encounter with Hewitt, but it was my choice to confront him. And while I had no business committing Mike to fight on my behalf, I figured he could have at least taken a beating with me. Gabby Hayes would never have deserted Roy. “Frog” Millhouse would never have left Gene like that. However, I Learned a valuable lesson from the significant emotional event (SEE) that day. As embarrassed as I felt about getting whipped in front of the other kids, it didn’t feel as bad as surrender.
A third encounter occurred sometime toward the end of the sixth grade, when I got into a serious fight a few weeks before school ended. Ugly words, dirty looks, and threats had been coming for weeks from a kid I will call Carl. The threats were not only directed at me, but others as well because Carl was a thug. We had come close to blows on several occasions on the playground, during kickball, or other recess activities. One afternoon after school, some two or three-hundred yards off school property, I was walking past a drug store, and as I rounded a corner Carl passed me and uttered some insult. Something in me snapped. It was the last straw, and I reacted instantly, pounding on this kid with reckless abandonment. In an instant, Carl became the physical embodiment of everything and everyone I hated. I began pummeling this kid in an un-thinking rage. Fortunately, a passerby intervened to stop the carnage. My violent attack had overwhelmed Carl, yet I evidenced not a scratch when we were parted. But I never heard another word out of Carl the rest of the year, and since we went to different junior high schools, we never crossed paths again. Perhaps fate inserted Carl into my life that afternoon, but how I reacted to his insults was my choice.
Over the next few years, I ultimately came to realize that I could not respond to the challenges of life with only force, anger, or violence. But I also recognized that as long as the world (fate) confronts us with evil and violence, then we must be prepared to execute, through free will, the controlled, measured violence required to stop it. I think that’s what Davy Crockett and my cowboy heroes were trying to teach me.
As I grew older, I took to heart the sentiment attributed to George Orwell. “We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.” You see, when faced with threats, one can only be considered “good” if he or she has the capability to respond to that violence but chooses not to do so. Failing to act from a position of powerlessness and weakness is not an act of virtue. It only becomes an act of virtue if one – possessing the power and will to execute violence – acts with restraint. Robert Heinlein wrote, “pacifism is a shifty doctrine under which a man accepts the benefits of the social group without being willing to pay-and claims a halo for his dishonesty.” I chose a life in uniform so that I might pay my way. So, at least in my experience, the dance between fate and free will is a couple’s dance, not a solo recital or a group ensemble. And it always will be.