Southwestern College - Moundbuilder Yearbook (Winfield, KS)

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He is sixteen and comfortably over six feet in height. The masculinity of his build is betrayed by the boyishness talmost Childishnesst of his features. The Iankiness of ado- lescence is not present in his form. Instead, there is the hulking thickness of a laborer. His hair is short; I am told that he had gotten drunk a few months ago and had it shaved off. The great steel door at the end of the bloc has been slammed shut, and for a while the cell doors are open. We may visit with each other and speak uninterrupted a except, occasionally, tor the melodic roar of some distant toilet being flushed. Ted was brought in two nights ago. Both cheeks were swollen and red to the point that his eyes were almost obscured. Blisters and cuts covered his lips, and the shirt he wore was painted with his own dried blood He told me that two dudes in Liberal, Kansas, had gotten the impres- sion that he was a t'narc and as a result had beaten and kicked him to the point of semi-Consciousness. The welts on his back proved that he was not lying when he said a belt buckle had also been employed. As soon as he could walk. he had stumbled out to the road and been promptly arrested for vagrancy. His father left home when Ted was three. For two years he lived at home with his four brothers and sisters. School was trouble for him, and it appeared to his teachers that he had a serious rebellious streak. He habitually got into tights, As a result he tasted institutional lite tor the first time at the age 01 five, when he was sent for six weeks of observation to the Atchison school. From here it was back to his family; but the axe tell when Ted was ten. III was sitting in class one day, when these two detective guys walked in. They told me right off that my mother was gone, and that my brothers and sisters had been sent away. They told me that they were gonna send me to a special school. They dragged me down to the health room, but I kicked and scratched those mothers all the way. Chuckling, he quickly jerked his foot as though he were getting one more opportunity at their grounst I cannot grow used to the matter-ot-tactness in his voice. He rattles off the details of his life with a bizarre absence oI emotion, the way a shipping clerk rattles ott the day's Inventory. The tone is as flat and institutional as the silver- metallic paint that covers everything here. This quality is common in jail. Every prisoner who avails himself regularly oI its Iacilities reeks of a numbness, a hopeless acceptance 01 one's tuture. There is not a would- be Bogart here who would entertain the notion of rattling his cup along the bars a for he knows he simply would not drink Even the most devout Cagney Ian would not tling his tray defiantly at the wall a for he knows he simply would not eat. Perhaps the potatoes are laced with some strange lobotomizing agent. or possibly the constant Clank of steel upon steel chips away pieces of the spirit It is merely survival The prisoner knows well that it he were to muster his entire arsenal of rage and tap every reserve of indignation, he would cause nothing more than mild amusement on the other side of the bars. He leaves his dignity at the front desk in an El Producto box, along with his belt and his wallet, And when the best attack the mind can stage is met only with Irustration, then the organism must detend. As in the London blitz, every light of emotion must go out, leave ing the intruders in darkness. Around itself, the mind digs a moat of apathy, a Maginot line of indifference. The result is a glassy-eyed euphoria that no amount 01 alcohol or opium could match llThey sent me to Larned, which Is a place for nuts. He told me that after two years he ran away with a companion to town; it wasnt long before the two criminals were apprehended swimming at the local water hole. They sent him next to the Big Brothers of Joplin, Mis- souri. After about a month and a half. at the age of 14. he again ran away. This time, however, he and a friend stole a car. Like Larned, this institution had a solitary continement room for Its trouble-makers. I'They stuck me in that dam- ned box for a months It was about as big as this cell tQXGt, and it was winter-time. I froze my ass oft; all you are allowed to wear is a pair of underpants Ted was sent to a foster home in Gueda, Kansas. There he lived with a couple in their titties. HGrandma and Grandpa treated me real good They were nice to me and gave me things. One day, atter l was there, the case worker came. She gave me a piece ot paper that I had to go to this place in Topeka. I didn't want to go. I liked it where I was. I split again. From that point on, his story is one 01 waywardness and arrest. His first contact with the county jail was a two-week stint for waywardness. His relationship with jail has since been like that of a yo-yo'. He has served sentences as long as 45 days. Currently he hasn't the slightest idea of what his destiny will be. The only certain thing concerning his destiny Is the tact that it is not In his own hands. Sitting cross-Iegged on his cot, smoking a roII-your-own cigarette, he asks me what I think of his lite. Pretty t----d up, huh? he laughs. I try to roll with the joke but I'm not a good actor. He picks up one of my books from the table, and as he begins to read it becomes apparent that his reading level is no more than that of a tourth-graderl He seems a bit embar- rassed, as he obviously does not know what the words in the college textbook mean. After I read him a story on juvenile corrections from HReader's Digest, the lights begin to dim. A twisted little man at the end of the cell bloc motions me back into my cell. The bars Clank shut as Cowley County decrees it time to sleep. I switch my pillow tblue jeanst to the end 01 the cot that is tarther from the sinkrtoilet; the smell ot urine does little for my sleeping habits. You know what Id like to do when I get out on my own? . HWhat's that, Ted? I cautiously draw the vulgar blanket over me, wondering what amounts of seIt-induoed semen the past has dumped on it. Hl'd like to get a place and raise horses. I love horses. I can ride any horse in the world. I know horses and horses know me. My mind is beginning to wander, but I am drawn back by the emotion in his voice. 'tHorses, huh? 'tYeah, but you know one thing I hate?'t t'What? Guys that beat horses. It I had a ranch and I saw a guy using a switch or a pair of spurs, ltd fire him right on the spot. I hate to see anyone treat animals bad . . . any kind of animal. Even pets. It just ain't right. Ted is soon asleep. I listen to the wheezing as he yanks air through the passages of his battered nose. The wall to which my cot is attached tells me that Ted once made 32 days worth of scratch marks in this cell. The gratittl goes on to explain that DR. loves D.W.; that Ray from Colorado was here; that Linda L, is an easy lay. I begin to feel disgusted tor thinking myselt unfortunate. I come from a spot in society where most people's biggest concern is that which can be sprayed under the armpits, or driven over 100 mph. or spread on the wrinkles of some multi-Chinned facet His story upset me. Even though we are worlds apart, I have one thing in common with Ted, I too hate to see ani- mals mistreated . . . any kind of animal.

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The Virtue Of Hypocrisy by Bill Lawhead Last year, I taught a mini- course in Western Culture II, which had the dubious title of HArchaeological Explorations into the Twentieth Centuryfl The purpose of the course was to critically examine our own decade and culture as though we were archaeologists from another culture and another age. A basic premise was that the key ltartitactsll 01 our soci- ety, those that would give us the most insight into the spirit of this age, were the popular advertisements which saturate the mass media. Why did I suggest we look to popular ads to understand this decade and not the profound writings of contemporary philosophers and intellectuals? Quite simply, philosophers 0f they live up to that namet seek to make clear what our values ought to be. On the other hand, Madison Avenue advertisers are quite untroubled by such ethereal questions and concern them- selves solely with what our val- ues actually are. it was some time back in the fifties that the ad-men first dis- covered that there was an incredibly wide discrepancy between our seIf-images and our real selves. What we think our values ought to be, what we hope they are, or what we affirm they are is one thing and what our values really happen to be is another thing alto- gether. This lesson was pain- fully learned by market researchers after numerous failures in trying to predict what the public would buy. Vance Packard, in his highly popularized look at advertising, The Hidden Persuaders, points out that researchers in this field gradually came to reject three basic assumptions they had made. llFirst, they decided, you can't assume that people know what they want . Second, some marketers concluded, you can't assume people will tell you the truth about their wants and dislikes even if they know them. What you are more likely to get, they decided, are answers that will protect the informants in their steadfast endeavor to appear to the world as really sensible. intelligent, rational beings t . . Finally, the marketers decided it is dangerous to assume that people can be trusted to behave in a rational way. As a result of all this, the llimage- makers' and the Hhidden per- suaderslt have developed a whole science consisting of techniques to motivate us to buy their product or vote tor their candidate. Although this is an over-sim- plification, we could say that the advertiser-persuader uses two kinds of techniques. First, he tries to assure us that we are the kind of persons we would like to think we are. Thus, we are told that if we buy his product we can be confident that we are: at a good husbandrwiferpar- ent by concernedrawarersensi- tive ct rationalrshrewdrjudicious dt appealingrfun-lovingr young Of course, such a list is end- less. However, these are some of the qualities we would like to have and which the ads conti- dently tell us we can have it we buy their product. Secondly, the ad-man attempts to appeal indirectly to those values by which we actually live and make our decisions, even though we may not be aware of this level of our motives. According to Packard, the mar- ket researchers see us as ltbundles ot daydreams, misty hidden yearnings, guilt com- plexes, irrational emotional blockages. We are image lov- ers given to impulsive and compulsive acts. We annoy them with our seemingly senseless quirks, but we please them with our growing docility in responding to their manipu- lation of symbols that stir us to action?' Thus the valueswhich unconsciously motivate us may be greed, status, power, secu- rity, and others of this sort. The purpose of this article was not to llagellate the adver- tisers once more. Rather, I wanted to take a look at the way our values and ideals