Major Obsession

By Raymond Turner

Major Obsession is the story of an African American, who as a teenage combat medic, found himself in the jungles of South Vietnam. Dr. Turner shares his experiences before, during, and after Vietnam. He served in the jungles of Vietnam during the assassinations of both Senator Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Coming home from the war was uneventful and depressing so he hitchhiked to Brooklyn, New York as a teenager and never looked back. Turner sets out to prove to others that they were wrong about him. He tells of his academic and military successes while dealing with PTSD and rejection. As a deeply religious grandson of a Pentecostal minister from Dominica, WI, Dr. Turner hopes that his story can be used to motivate young people who feel dejected and for whom hope appears to be beyond their reach.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781304999214

Book preview

Major Obsession

Major Obsession

Memoir of a Teenage Combat Medic

Survivor of the Vietnam War

Raymond Turner

Revised Edition

Boston, Massachusetts 02026

US Copyright ©2014

ISBN# 978-1-304-99921-4

Edited by Margaret E. Turner

Acknowledgements

I dedicate this book to all Vietnam veterans and particularly to those of color, who also fought the racial war at home.

I am particularly grateful to the soldiers mentioned in this book, whose names I changed to protect their identities.

Special thanks to the Boston Veteran Center, especially the group counselor and members of my group.

Thanks also to my wife, Margaret E. Turner for her editorial assistance and support.

Preface

Major Obsession is the story of an African American, who as a teenage combat medic, found himself in the jungles of South Vietnam. Throughout his tour of duty, he was attached to a recon infantry platoon. In search of respect, he volunteered to serve despite his medical exemptions. Turner shares his experiences before, during, and after Vietnam in an attempt to highlight the life of teenage African Americans in Vietnam during the height of the civil rights movement.  Turner was in Vietnam during the assassinations of Senator Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King. African Americans from the Jim Crow south fought for dignity and self-respect, which eluded them at home. This was an extra burden not shared by their white comrades.

Chapter 1: Point of Origin

I live in a peaceful town located just outside of Boston, Massachusetts.  Several yards across from my home is a sanctuary for birds, deer, ducks, and some other creatures.  The Charles River snakes through the site and divides the rather peaceful terrain.  I watch over this pristine environment with a great sense of satisfaction.  However, there were many times in the past when, like the birds, I sought sanctuary. Despite obstacles, I dared to dream beyond the boundaries set for me by other people.  My story would be like many others except for a burning desire to succeed despite difficult times. I share my memoir with some trepidation because Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) has humbled me over the years. Visions of contact with the North Vietnamese Army trigger flashbacks.  I can still see the faces of young wounded soldiers calling for their mothers as blood drained from their bodies. Yet, I feel compelled to tell my story.

I can still see the faces of young wounded soldiers calling for their mothers as blood drained from their bodies.  Help me. I want my Mom! the cry would ring out.

I have fond memories of my parents struggling to care for us children at a time of racial tensions resulting from Jim Crow laws.  Black people assembled for regular protest marches in my hometown of Portsmouth, Virginia.  I remember being down on my knees while our local black leaders made us sing we shall overcome even as we were being spat upon and laughed at by militant whites. 

Parades down High Street had a large number of confederate flags, a practice despised by many black people.  For reasons hard to explain, I wanted to be part of the celebration. Black people accumulated in areas on High Street mostly behind the whites during holiday parades. Soldiers and bands passed by as we cheered. Our school bands, S.H. Clarke and I.C. Norcom, were last, but we waited with great pride. Our bands were the best and the white people knew it. That really meant something to us. Proving ourselves to them appeared to be a precondition for civility and acceptance by our oppressors. Many of us suffered from an inferiority complex, especially when white faces sticking out of car windows would yell horrible racial slurs at us. 

The movie theaters were separate.  There was the black people’s theater and the white people’s theater and they were located within three or four blocks of each other.  Whenever we walked too close to white girls, we dared not stare at them or you may hear, Hey N_____, watch your eyes! These insults were commonplace and we were expected to grin and bear it. While blacks could shop in downtown stores, we could not eat at the same lunch counter as whites because of the law at that time.  You always knew where the lunch counter for black people was located in department stores.  All one had to do was go to the back and just before the bathroom for blacks only, there the small, unattractive counter would be.  You had to take a seat and wait until all the whites had ordered in their section and if you were lucky enough, someone would come over and take your order. That was just the way things were at that time.

Imagine a nice sunny day when the sky is so blue it becomes your favorite color. The fluffy white clouds took the shape of dreams that you hoped would solidify someday in the future. Like the clouds, change in our small town may have been slow, but we had our moments of excitement. This is why a particular day in question never leaves my mind. That day, my mother and I boarded a city bus.  The rules for Negroes, read like a what-not-to-do list on city buses. One could hardly forget the procedure. We never sit ahead of white people. We could sit only in the rear of the bus. 

Hello, can I sit here? I asked. Yes, she replied with a smile and I smiled back. Get up and go to the back N_____! the bus driver yelled. I will not move this bus until you go to the back. I am not going anywhere, I replied. I am calling the police, said he. I could hear the bus radio crackle.

As we boarded the bus that day, I happened to see an attractive white girl sitting in the second seat from the front.  The seat next to her was empty so I sat down. My mother begged me to get up and go to the back of the bus.  I thought the girl was cute.  My heart was skipping all kinds of beats.  It felt a lot like love at first sight. The bus driver refused to drive until I got up.  He turned in his seat and stared at me defiantly. Then he looked at my mother and threatened to call the police.  Momma began to whine and cry about how much trouble I was causing. 

I do not care what this guy says!  I blurted out. I can sit wherever I choose.

The bus driver again threatened to call the police.  It was at that moment Momma started to call on Jesus.  That was more than I could bear.  I was not worried about the bus driver or the police, but I was not prepared to fight Jesus.  For my mother’s sake, I went to the back of the bus and the driver continued his route.  I do not know if that girl is alive today, but she too has probably never forgotten that incident.  Her cute face and smile indicated to me that if it were up to her, we could have sat together and had a conversation. To be honest, race did not matter to me because I felt love.

Another day some of us kids were walking down Elm Avenue toward Glasgow Street. We were not engaged in any particular activity at the time.  Suddenly, a car passed us at a high rate of speed, as if out of nowhere.  Several white boys yelled N_____ out of the car windows at us.  They skidded to a stop long enough to throw out what appeared to be a body with a black face.  My first thought was they had thrown out the body of my brother. I nearly fainted until I stared at the object long enough to realize that it was just a dummy and not a dead body, and certainly not my brother.  I was very relieved.  He and I were very close then and I could not bear for anything to happen to him, especially since he often stood up for me in fights.

I remember how debtors would sometimes harass my mother. Not paying bills on time was a routine exercise for us, almost on a weekly basis.

I want my money now and I do not care about your problems, the man yelled while swearing other hurtful words. I am doing all I can, sir, my mother answered as tears ran down her eyes. Can I pay $20 next week? She asked. Hell, no! was the man’s response. I will send a truck to pick up the furniture out of your house, he screamed.

One would be hard-pressed in my neighborhood to find anyone who was not hiding from the bill collectors. After receiving several telephone calls, my mother stopped at a furniture store one day to explain that she did not have enough money to pay an overdue bill.  The man, who happened to be white, yelled and swore at her while threatening what he was going to do if she did not pay her bill at that moment.

I witnessed the abuse of my mother by that man. It was very hurtful to me that I could do nothing. The fact that our daddy was acting like a boy and not as a man was also troubling to me.  This was not going to be my future.  I was going to see to that.  This is not to say I did not love and respect my parents, but it was now up to me to level the playing field. My mother stayed focused on the Word of God and she never lost faith. On her knees late in the night, she called on the Lord to help her and provide for her children. The fear of God sunk deeply within my spiritual matrix. Soon I was beginning to link her prayer with survival. My mother was a blessing from God. There were obviously two opposing forces at play. Why were some people so loving and peaceful and others so hateful and determined to divide and conquer?  These questions would guide my life. There had to be a greater purpose to my presence on the planet. Existence without purpose seemed to be the reason for all the hatred around the globe.

Peace appeared to be elusive. It seemed as if these laws were created and necessary to protect the interests of the status quo. Change did not appear to be within the reach of black people. There was an atmosphere of respect afforded me as a child, however. I remember older people asking me if I were Reverend Ely’s grandson. When I answered yes, I got special treatment. Reverend Ely’s reputation spread throughout the city of Portsmouth. This was not the norm for most people of color.  We were isolated from the severe racial tensions felt by our parents and that was to their credit. The burning desire to express myself was simmering within the boilerplate of my soul.

My mother, unlike her father, was born in America and suffered hard racial prejudices. Imagine this:  her father was receiving special treatment while the whites were mistreating her and her relatives. Despite the blackness of my grandfather’s skin, he was in the eyes of whites, a British subject and not a Negro. Such a dilemma probably contributed to my confusion about being a person of color and finding success in the city of Portsmouth. The fear of the Lord could not have gripped me tighter. Uncertainty was the flavor of the day as the civil rights movement grew throughout the nation. The papers were full of racial discourse, flag burning, and defiance. Where everything was heading was anyone’s guess.

As an adolescent male, I became mischievous along with other black youth. The fear of God kept me from getting into serious trouble, but the potential was always there. The four of us siblings formed a pact from an early age and my brother was the leader. We obeyed his commands for the most part, but when we got older, he lost control of us. This may have affected his life in a negative way. We may never understand the post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) he suffered because of taking responsibility for things beyond his age. This included serving as a human shield between my parents during their marital fights. 

scan0013.jpg

Figure 1. Kate Ely Turner (my mother) loved to sing, play piano, and teach for God. Gifted to play by ear or by notes, she declined her father’s offer to study music in Paris. The reason is that she did not want to leave her mother.

I was named after my Uncle Raymond, daddy’s younger brother.  However, I prefer Ray, as it sounds so much better to me.  My uncle’s name is on a plaque located on the