As I indicated in my last post, I have developed a strong desire to understand homelessness. The more I reflect on the subject, the more I realize that despite having never lived on the streets, the best way to understand the homeless is to examine my own life.
On the day of my discharge—9 September 1968—I had a twofold plan for my reentry into the civilian world. The first was to reinvent myself: from a Marine Corps sergeant…
…to a bona fide member of the Sixties counterculture.
The second part of the plan was to study philosophy, resulting in a couple of degrees in that discipline. After earning my bachelor’s at Sonoma State University, I received an offer from the University of Wyoming which included teaching Philosophy 101 classes while earning a master’s degree. I found out very quickly that teaching undergraduates did not appeal to me in the way reading and writing philosophy did. Clearly, that was a problem since there isn’t much one can do with a philosophy degree other than teach and write academic papers and books. Nevertheless, I applied to the doctoral program at the University of Arizona and was accepted. You might suppose, based on my aversion to teaching, that I was not enthusiastic about earning my Ph.D. You would be correct. I only went because UA had a top-notch philosophy department, and, as I said, I may not have been career-minded, but I loved the discipline. The year I spent there was worth it, if for no other reason than having attended a seminar taught by Professor Jeffrie Murphy, a well-known philosopher who specialized in moral philosophy and philosophy of law. I kept the grade notice I received at the end of that semester:
I was not shy or insecure. I was like a homeless person—emotionally isolated, living in my own mind. Professor Murphy and I did talk about it…38 years later when I emailed him in 2015. We became close friends, corresponding regularly for five years. The last five years of Jeff’s life.
Leaving Tucson and returning to the Ozarks, my first effort as a freelance writer was in 1979. It was a six-page magazine piece on my war and postwar experience. I submitted it with the title, “Leaving the War Behind.” The editor apparently knew better. He changed it to, “He’s Still Leaving the War Behind.”
Rather than paving the way out of the war, that article threw me back into it. Ron, an Army Vietnam vet who read the piece, persuaded me to join him in organizing Vietnam vets. That resulted in the founding of an American Legion post, which we named the Vietnam War Memorial Post, and an outreach center for Vietnam vets in the Ozarks.
Sometime in the summer of 1981, we were contacted by a veterans group in St. Louis who needed our help. Unbeknownst to us, they had organized a national Vietnam vets symposium and pig roast in Springfield scheduled for Labor Day weekend. At the last minute, the owner of the property on which the event was to take place backed out, bowing to the pressure from his neighbors. They didn’t want a bunch of crazy Vietnam veterans anywhere near their homes. We helped them secure a new location.
The event went smoothly, without a hint of craziness. The two-day symposium covered the entire range of Vietnam veteran-related issues. Some great bands performed at the pig roast including Country Joe McDonald. For me, the highlight was the appearance of David Carradine who brought a film titled, Americana, which he co-produced, directed, and starred in. It was the story of a returning Vietnam veteran struggling to regain a sense of peace and dignity.
Since I was the guy willing to put on a suit and tie and stand in front of TV cameras pleading for some large property owner to host the event, the only thing I wanted in return was the privilege of picking up David Carradine at the airport and escorting him around for three days. Our first stop was the North Town Mall Theater where Americana was shown.
Gary Harlan and David Carradine 4 September 1981
I’ve never been particularly impressed by celebrities. I was, however, a huge fan of the TV series, “Kung Fu,” starring Carradine as Kwai Chang Caine, a Shaolin monk wandering around the American West, fighting for the underdog, enlightening those who are experiencing a turning point in their life. As it turned out, meeting David coincided with a turning point in my life. The day after he returned to California, my wife took off to Florida with an old friend of mine.
So, there I was, having a pity party, just me and my Doberman and a large trash bag full of primo homegrown buds. In addition to staying high on pot most of the time, I had also spent a lot of money fueling a recently acquired cocaine habit. I couldn’t imagine why Martha, my wife, split.
Around that time, a Vietnam vet named Rick became active at our vets center. He was a businessman. And a born-again Christian who was constantly trying to give me a copy of the New Testament. The war experience had hardened my attitude toward God and religion, but the guy was so persistent that I finally gave in and agreed to read it. Compared to the works of philosophy I was required to master in my previous life, the New Testament was easy to read. I read it straight through three times, focusing primarily on Jesus’ teachings in the Gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. I concluded that over and above the countless ways in which Christianity has been exploited—to justify wars, to con believers out of their money, to gain popularity in order to enhance careers, to judge others, to control others, and to rationalize bad behavior, to name a few—there was something fundamentally real in the teachings of Jesus.
If I were to tell you that from that moment on I felt at home in the world, I would be lying. The truth is, I was still an outsider. Despite being sheltered by four walls and a ceiling, I was homeless.
I gave church-going a try. I attended several churches, including one that was more New Age and less fire and brimstone than the others. The experience only made me feel like more of an outsider. However, there was one experience in my early days as a believer that validated my “self-conversion.” One night I prayed that God would eliminate my addiction to cocaine. Amazingly, it worked. From that point on, I couldn’t be around it or even think about that drug without experiencing a discomforting sensation in my throat. It no longer had any appeal.
I remarried a couple of years after my self-conversion. Ginny did not have a college degree, but spiritually, she was light years ahead of me. She had two kids—Cindy, thirteen, and Abram, five. I loved those kids. I still do. But during our ten years together, I continually thought about checking out and considering ways of doing it. For instance, driving to San Francisco and jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. Another was crashing my motorcycle into a boulder. No matter how it would be effected, I was adamant about being completely sober when I did it.
Following our divorce, I went to the VA for help. Not surprisingly, I was diagnosed with PTSD—chronic depression being the root cause. Trauma is common among people who experience homelessness. It eventually became clear to me that for decades I had felt more at home in Vietnam than I did in my own country.
I had been single for seven years when I met Marissa, seventeen years younger than me. The relationship worked out successfully for two reasons. One, I was not anxious to get married when we met; and two, I developed a friendship with her and her twelve-year-old son, Lance, before we jumped into bed. Given Marissa’s firm stance against the use of illegal drugs, I gave up pot. This year we celebrated our 25th anniversary.
I introduced Marissa to Cindy and Abram and their families, all of whom live in St. Louis. One night we were sitting around drinking wine with Cindy and her husband Ryan when I recalled some incident or other that occurred back when I was Cindy’s stepdad. I said, “Hey, Cindy! Do you remember the time back when we were growing up that…” I stopped talking, astounded by the words I had just uttered, which doubtless came straight from the unconscious awareness that despite the difference in our age and life experiences, we were growing up together.
There you have it. The story of one man who might easily have become another homeless veteran on the streets were it not for the support of a loving family and caring friends. As a means of expressing gratitude for my good fortune, I intend to spend part of this, the final chapter of my life, helping the homeless. As it says in that book the veteran gave me years ago:
“Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, you have done it unto me.”
Please share this with others, and suggest they subscribe to Night Thoughts.
Thank you.
Gary Harlan
I felt sadness and happiness reading your Oct. 1, 2023 post. I hurt for you. I was surprised, but I feel more proud of you than anything. God does answer prayers.