I am spending a quiet, sedate, educational afternoon in the BOQ. This morning was rainy and chill but the day has become fair and warm.
Since I arose late, about 11:30, I was not able to get to the mail room which closes at 12:00 p.m.; therefore I have no way of knowing whether or not there is any mail from you. I presume there will be an abundance awaiting me on Monday.
It was good for me to talk to you Friday night. As a result I have been in good humor--a state that promises to continue for the entire week-end.
Since early this afternoon I have been recording my voice for posterity. It seems the Iranian Officers feel--after much testing--that of all the America Officers, here, my pronunciation and voice are the est. I am recording for them the English of an Iranian English book. We also recorded a sort of informal interview, in which I answered spontaneous questions about various subjects. I do not recognize my voice on playback. It is a distinct surprise to me, somewhat deeper than I pictured it, much better inflection than I had supposed, and having many fewer defects than I would have believed. As I was told long ago, I have a radio voice.
I am listening now to Mozart's "The Magic Flute". I am not too familiar with the opera but it has some beautiful music which am enjoying. The lyrics are in English and HORRIBLE.
Did my letter worry you? I hope you did not think you were in any way responsible for the outburst of irrationality. These moods do not come over me frequently enough to be of any consequence. It is just that at a time that I was generally angry, having no specific object to vent my ire, I came upon your letter. Suddenly, inexplicably, this anger turned inward.
It was quite a thrill to hear Djinna say "Hello, Daddy." She pronounces it "Da--dd-y". Last night I was invited to the Lt. Millwee's. Captain Hahn, his wife, and Lt. Marrero, a Puerto Rican Officer were also there. I had a very interesting evening.
Capt. Hahn and his wife, though married some ten years, are childless. They are both very devoted to their Boxer, which apparently takes the place in their affections of a child. They appear to me to despise each other and I gather from observation and scarps of conversation that she possesses an ardor that he rebuffs. She is a very attractive girl, tall, petulant, nice eyes and full mouth, kittenish, deceptive in that she exudes a kind of naivete which I suspect is put on, and outspoken with regard to "sin", cheapness, etc. Her husband is short, about 32, though he looks older due to approaching baldness, a heavy drinker--he is a govt inspector for "Old Grandad", outspoken with regard for his preference for other women than his wife (in her presence)--probably due to his failure to produce and offspring, a common source of inferiority feeling in men. She is jealous.
Lt. Millwee looks like a Presbyterian Minister. He is about my height, stocky, nearing thirty and his eyes are hidden by very thick tinted spectacles. He is very sensitive about his eyes. Though very mild-spoken, with a deep Kentucky accent, I learned via the conversation that he has frequent outbursts of abusive meanness to his wife and three children. He works for a personal loan company (finance).
The children are all blonde--very--blue eyed and extremely pretty. The oldest, about five, is precocious. The youngest, who will be two April 6 was going through the "eye, nose, mouth" routine and it made me very homesick. The middle child is a mere boy and needs no mention.
Mrs. Millwee is very young, having married at twenty, has had her Fallopian tubes severed so as to preclude the possibility of another pregnancy. She speaks very frankly about her relationship with her husband, chides him for his lack of "attention" in a physical sense, speaks semi-jokingly about a divorce, "If ah knowed what to do 'bout the three young'uns." She asked me if I treat my wife "thata way," and I thought evasion was the best course in view of the circumstances.
Neither one of these men dance though their wives claim to be good dancers.
I would not not be surprised to learn that one day, two men will be shocked out of their complacency.
Luitpolodo-Juan-xxxxxx is the Puerto Rican Officer. He speaks fair English with a very thick accent. He is about 30 and quite handsome. . .fine featured, black straight hair, milk white teeth and a small mustache. He takes to very few of the officers, is sensitive and easily offended. It is more apparent to me every day that even when the supposedly discriminated against are overtly accepted, their suspicion seldom diminishes. It will take many more generations.
Among his particular problems is a Patriarchal father (he is an only son of well to do parents) a pregnant mistress and the love for a girl his father does not approve of.* He has decided to move to Michigan, marry the girl "without parental blessing", and enroll in a college for his MA in Police Science. I suspect he is too disturbed to ever find adjustment in this or any other country. *Not the impregnated one.
Once a long time ago, a French girl told me that a man should find a young, naive, child-like girl. . .
Once a long time ago I found.
It seems like only yesterday I fell in love
Buddy.
April 3 was the last letter my father wrote as he came home on that week-end having completed the course that helped with finances at home. I found these letters when I was very young, maybe 10 or 11, and yes, I read them right away. I was blown away by my parents' (as far as I could tell without having her side of the correspondence) apparent affection for each other. When I was old enough to be aware of family dynamics, I had the sense that they didn't much like each other. They seemed like two roommates more than a married couple, except when there was a dispute between them. Then my mother would go deadly silent, while my father, who admits to his tendency toward anger, fumed.
I like these letters--though one friend has called the ones he has read on these pages so far--sterile. It is true my parents did not exude emotion--they were raised at a time when emotion was considered bad taste and they had hardships in their lives concomitant with the turmoil of the mid-twentieth century. What is nice to know is that at one point, whether or not I saw it, they had a little romance. I think my father had to work very hard with my mother and she was not easily pleased. But he obviously cared enough to work at it.
So, only two things to add to these concluding Letters from Georgia. First, a calendar from Camp (later named Fort) Gordon, with a handwritten addendum from Dad. And a picture of the whole class, American, Korean, Iranian and Puerto Rican, when they and the world was young.
