Sea Foam: Area author documents color-blind friendship

Thanks to the Island Writers' Network and member James Edward Alexander of Bluffton for offering a glimpse into a new anthology from the group: "Hilton Headings."

This is the group's second anthology, following "Hilton Head Island: Unpacked and Staying" published in 2007 by Catawba Publishing of Charlotte.

It includes fiction, nonfiction, memoir, humor and poetry written by 24 local authors. It also contains art and photography by area artists. The book will debut at the Coastal Discovery Museum's Lowcountry Holiday Market from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Friday at Honey Horn. Contributing authors will be available to sign their pieces.

The book will be sold in about a dozen local outlets, including the museum and several art galleries and hotel gift shops. A complete list of vendors is available at www.iwn-hhi.org.

The 10-year-old nonprofit writers group received a grant from the Arts Council of Beaufort County for the purpose of publishing the anthology. Notable alumnae include Kathryn Wall, author of nine Bay Tanner mysteries through St. Martin's Press; and Vicky Hunnings, author of three mysteries through Avalon Press.

The group meets on the first Monday of each month at 7 p.m. at the Heritage Library on the second floor of the Savannah Bank Building, 852 William Hilton Parkway, Hilton Head Island. Meetings and membership are open to all; visitors are welcome.

Alexander has three pieces in the book. After a career in the U.S. Air Force, he earned a law degree. He also has written three books: "Half Way Home from Kinderlou," "If I Should Die Before I Wake ... What Happens to My Stuff?" and "Approaching the Fork in the Road." Here's an abbreviated version of an essay from "Approaching the Fork":

THE BLIND LEADING THE BLIND: TWO NAVIGATORS

By James Edward Alexander

There had never been a time in my life when I had shared a meal at the same table with a white man.

Dining with friends and associates often is a social event, and I was emerging from a system where coloreds and whites, "us and them," were channeled along different social paths by omnipresent "colored" and "whites only" signs.

Basic training had changed that, but in that setting each man fed himself. Now, I literally held in my hands the awesome power to decide what and in what manner a white man would receive his basic nourishment.

Almost every day in 1951, giant medical air-evacuation planes landed at Kelly Air Force Base near San Antonio. They were bringing wounded warriors from the Korean skies and battlefields to the hospital at Lackland Air Force Base adjacent to Kelly.

One day on Ward 18, we greeted a jet pilot whose face was hidden behind thick bandages. His eyes had been severely damaged in an aerial dogfight, and he was spending his days in darkness. My assignment, as a medical corpsman, was to see and do for him some things he hoped to resume doing for himself someday.

Entering his room, I offered, "Good morning, Lieutenant. Welcome home."

He immediately asked, "What's your name; and are you a doctor, officer, sergeant or civilian?"

My answer was quick and impolite: "I'm none of the above, sir. I'm a PFC, so I work for a living."

His laughter was so loud that the nurse rushed to his door. It was good to see him in high spirits. When I finally introduced myself as "PFC Alexander, James Edward," he asked what name I preferred: Alex, James, Jim, PFC Alexander or smart ass.

I told him I preferred James Edward Alexander; and that at least once a day, it would be nice to hear him pronounce it properly.

He responded that he would call me Alex and added, "If you don't like what I call you, just make funny faces at me; since I can't see you, I won't have to ignore you." He laughed some more.

BONDING OVER MEALS

Shortly thereafter I delivered the first meal to my special patient, very much sensitive to and appreciating that my distance from home in Valdosta, Ga., could be measured in miles; but there was no way to measure the nuances of the social transition taking place.

This person, whose education and training qualified him to pilot a highly technical jet, now was vulnerable to and relying on the goodness of a stranger. We had traveled along separate passages to the same fork in the road. Fate dictated that we now jointly navigate our new path; but only one traveler, a 17-year-old colored boy from Georgia, could see where to steer.

As I observed the variety of edibles on the patient's tray, I asked, "Do you want me to feed you? Or should I identify your food choices and guide your hand to your plate? Or should I cut your food and fill your fork or spoon so that you can feed yourself?" I simply could not resist adding, "Remember, Lieutenant, if you don't pronounce my name properly, all you'll get will be bread and water."

His answer was acceptable: "James Edward Alexander, you're a disgusting person who was probably run out of your hometown."

I interrupted him. "OK, sir, I'll feed you."

Before we proceeded, he said, "Alex, when we're in this room together, please call me Bill." Then he opened his mouth, and I offered Bill the first bite.

LEARNING TOGETHER

One day Bill asked me to read to him portions of the San Antonio Light, the daily newspaper. In the middle of one article he stopped me and offered this observation and a unique gift: "Alex, I have been observing your manner; and I'll bet that you will one day be a well-educated man. Let me help you get started. It will help me stay alert, and it will help you prepare for college."

His bandages hid from his view the tears that welled in my eyes as I remembered the awful experience during basic training less than three months earlier when, because of my lack of scholarship, I could not complete a simple library assignment. On that day I had knelt in agony and vowed to educate myself. On this day I announced, "Bill, you're repeating the expectations of my grandfather, and you're offering to help me keep a promise to myself. I would appreciate your help."

He then asked me to resume reading but warned that he would stop me when I mispronounced anything and promised to define for me unfamiliar words.

On another day, as we visited the Red Cross lounge, we shopped at the nearby Post Exchange, where I purchased a small pocket dictionary. Bill also bought for me a small notebook and a fountain pen. When I arrived for duty the next day, he had memorized a list of subjects that he thought I should know.

He started alphabetically. Antigone. I told him to spell his name. He said, "Her name is spelled A-N-T-I-G-O-N-E," then added, "That will naturally lead you to know something about her father Oedipus, spelled O-E-D-I-P-U-S, which will introduce you to Greek mythology."

My initial pronunciations of Antigone and Oedipus were "anti-gone" and "o-e-dip-ass." We laughed some more and extended the list to include both history and mythology; the names of famous personalities, living and dead; important dates in history; and a long list of literary classics and music composers.

SEPARATE ROADS

When we were not learning new things, we were sharing our own histories. In high school he studied chemistry and biology and performed experiments in laboratories. He practiced basketball in a gymnasium and occasionally played in the school's marching band. There was no question that he would go to college, and so he did. Within three months after graduating from college he was enrolled in the Air Force Flight Training Program.

He heard that my segregated schools did not have a science lab, gymnasium or marching band; so I studied chemistry and biology in the same classroom and read about experiments in used books from the white high school. Then, because our family resources were inadequate for me to attend college, 21 days after my high school graduation I also entered the Air Force. Our separate roads brought us to this day.

We continued our feeding, reading and learning rituals. After a couple of months, the doctors removed his bandages but shielded his eyes with specially fitted cups that allowed only a trace of light to enter his visual field. Shortly thereafter the doctors informed Bill that he was to be transferred to a VA hospital near his hometown.

TIME FOR GOODBYE

Hello is the prelude to goodbye. Between our greeting and the imminent farewell we had exchanged friendship, knowledge, respect and most profoundly, trust -- that sense of mutual faith and confidence. The morning of his departure he wanted to wear his uniform rather than pajamas and robe. We did not talk much as I helped him dress.

When he asked, "Alex, how do I look?" I imitated my basic training flight chief/drill sergeant and said, "I can't hear you." He knew the drill and answered, "James Edward Alexander, you reprobate from Valdosta, Georgia, how do I look?" I gave my approval and walked him to an ambulance for a ride back to Kelly Air Force Base.

We had said hello three months ago; and as we said goodbye, he asked for my hand and said, "Thank you, James Edward Alexander. I hope to see you one of these days."

I replied, "If you do, sir, I'll salute you again." And I withdrew my right hand from his, saluted and added, "Just as I'm doing now."

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