OF COWBOYS AND MARHARAJAS: The Paul Ackerman Story

By Paul Ackerman PhD and Bob Walling

This book, in the form of a memoir, is not a compilation of good deeds and recollections. There is nostalgia within, old pictures of family life, and diverse anecdotes. It leads the reader to the “why’s” of major decisions and actions. It reveals a secret I held as a child and disguised as an adult. I am bisexual. It demonstrates the harm of being stigmatized by a large number of colleagues—and my parents-- who cannot discuss their perception of my sexuality with me but can only treat it negatively and passively. This story shows how my acceptance of the whole me and a determined reform of my interactions changed my life—and creativity. I could be a cowboy. I could dream of meeting a Maharaja.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798369419328

Paul Ackerman PhD

Dr. Paul Ackerman lived a life of many accomplishments. Talented in piano, writing, and creativity, he was able to adapt himself to many diverse situations and achieve success in his work beyond imagining. He was a pioneer in developing the field of special education, benefitting practitioners, children, adults and families. He stimulated research and change at a global level. He wrote three commercial books with a co-author on the subject of responsible parenting. He entertained and enlightened himself and others with his music. He was supported by his loving siblings, his talented children, some extraordinary friends and a nurturing husband during low periods. As a victim of personal stigma throughout most of his life, his writings reveal the “real” Paul Ackerman.

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Copyright © 2024 by Paul Ackerman, PhD.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover Illustration Credit: View of Shenandoah Valley from Cabin.

Rev. date: 04/09/2024

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

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Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FOREWORD

CHAPTER 1. FROM CRIB TO COWBOY

Here I Am!

My Music, My Muse

Adulthood Looms

A Cowboy—at Home on the Range

A Breakdown 12 Miles from Anywhere

CHAPTER 2. EDUCATION AND INSIGHTS: PERSONAL, VOCATIONAL AND MARITAL

Willamette University. Go! Bearcats.

You’re In the Army Now, Private Ackerman!

Marry Me, Billie

The Real World—Jobs

…And I’ll Take the Highlands… (Hospital)

The Menninger Foundation

Other Jobs and/or Learning Experiences in Kansas

Time Out! Starting a Family in Kansas—and Beyond

Clinical Psychology at KU and a Minor $ Miracle

Life Goal Setting—Work as a School Psychologist

How I Learn to Succeed Through Experiences

Vive la Révolution ! The Birth of Special Ed. and Rehabilitation

I Chose Columbia

A Student Internship/Consultantship/Fellowship/Think-tankship

A Village for Inclusion

Columbia. The Gem of the Ocean?

CHAPTER 3. CAREER TIME—HOW MANY GOALS COULD I REACH?

The Council for Exceptional Children (CEC)—and Me

I Joined the U.S. Department of Education—the Making of a Fed

A White House Assignment—The First and Pleasant Exile

Stresses, But Successes—Exile or Not. Exile II

Exile III—Ho, Hum

Exile IV—Should I be Getting Paranoid?

Yet Another Exile, But the Last One

Endings Can be Happy If You Are Patient

CHAPTER 4. LOVE AND LEARNING—NO BOUNDARIES

Being an Ex-Fed

Murray--A Life and Soul Changer

Just Call Me Paul

Weldon—Not Wendell

A Harmonious Job: Playing for Christian Scientists

Life With My Children AD (After Divorce)—Installment #2

Fathering—Soft and Hard Loving

My Indian Love Affair

Meenakshi: my Princess God Daughter

CHAPTER 5. CONSULTANTSHIPS—FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC

Retirement Led to New Jobs, New Directions, New Worlds

Paula Goldberg: It’s All About Relationships.

Bangladesh? Where’s That?

The Protestant Guild—Not a Boston tea party

Discovering the Discovery Center in the Catskills of New York

United Arab Emirates (UAE)—Oil Rich and Savvy

Poland—Just a Good Place to Visit

The Fulbright

Exotic Cairo With Jo Shepard

Jo and I In Afghanistan

CHAPTER 6. FREE-LANCING MUSIC AND MUSICIANS

Big Frogs in A Little Musical Pond—Hot and Cool

Blanche, the User

Betty, a.k.a. Sherry

Nathan, a.k.a. Denny Toyy, the Impressario

CHAPTER 7. TRAVEL BROADENS IN SO MANY WAYS

Where In The World?

Weldon, Me and an Atlas

A Maharaja’s Palace on Wheels: Getting Used to Royal Treatment

Best Friends/Sisters Threesome to India

Good, pre-bonded friends to India

Good Evening, Maharaja, Sir

I Met My Maharaja!

The Last Two Trips to India—Reprised

CHAPTER 8. A CADENZA

A Professor Again—of Music This Time

The Paul Ackerman Endowment for Inclusive Arts Engagement

CHAPTER 9. THE CABIN—THE DREAM CATCHER

There Is No Place Like…

Meet Doe, a.k.a. Doreen

Art

Writing

Music

Mystery

Barn-Raising

Cousin Doe

EPILOGUE

TO

CLARAINE

She wanted to write this. She could have. She just did not have time.

Acknowledgements

As I approach my 90th birthday, I am startled that I wrote this biography/memoir. It never occurred to me to do so, until one night, when Bob Walling and Carole Douras were at my house and having our usual late-night brandies and open talk of friends. Bob brought it up: You know, Paul, we’ve been friends for over 40 years, and I still don’t feel like I really know you. I acknowledged that I was usually reticent to talk about myself.

From what little I know, he said, you seem to have had a very diverse, creative and secretive background. I know you’re a writer. I know you have time. You need to write about yourself, even if only to clarify you to you. Many people I know would love to be introduced to the real Paul Ackerman.

I demurred. But then Bob offered to help me write such a tome. I knew that he was right about the good it could do me, but I also know I was slowing down with my super maturity. I didn’t know if I could still write. I knew that the research could be painful. Unresolved incidents and episodes lurked. I needed some push to overcome inertia. Could I still compose on a computer with my motor clumsiness? Bob came up with a plan, deadlines, editorial consultation and direct help. How could I say no?

You are reading the results of our collaboration—plus contributions from many others who were needed to help get the manuscript to a stage that would suit my obsessive need for correctness, diplomacy and fairness. That required a lot of post-mortem editing, correcting, and sharing with my actors to make sure they were represented accurately. Special kudos go to my two professional third and fourth-read editors, Carole Douras, Dr. Brenda Seals and my husband, Weldon Bagwell. They helped with not only readability, but with tone and phrasing. I needed to update it my sixty-year old vocabulary.

Terri, my daughter, and Stephen (Steve), my son, contributed details about themselves and corrected some of my fears about parenting them. Meenakshi, my Indian-American goddaughter, also contributed to her story, and gave me wise advice about the form and content. Cousin Doe reviewed The Cabin section and experienced the joy I had in writing it.

I have included some pictures from my collections. I cannot attempt to date them at this stage in life, but hey, this story is about nostalgia, and I have it on authority that the women in my life do not want to be dated. We are all happy to remember the good parts of the past.

Truly, this was a shared—and therapeutic--labor of love.

Foreword

Some of the book will sound like an open conversation between two friends. Much of it was. I was grateful to have asked Bob to collaborate with me as consultant, editor and content collaborator in writing this. He and I held many conversations on Zoom, and we transcribed them. Later he proposed chapters and some of their content. Bob felt that our collaboration would be more productive with the help of Carole, and she joined with much success in editing and consulting. I also came to rely on my in-house proofreader, Weldon Bagwell and my scholar and fellow author, Brenda Seals, to keep me from over-the-top language, content and grammar problems—and on schedule.

There is no question that writing this helps me find me. Writing helped me clean up and clear up some of the major issues of my life. I probably should be paying Bob and Carole for this therapy.

I want to share this story with you, the reader, for several reasons. There are many threads to my life that are very common to everyone. Maybe one or two of those threads are not common to everyone. Some threads lead to happiness, some to discontent, and some to insecurities. I have attempted in this book to share all those threads very openly and as honestly as I can. I invite you to see your lives by threads, also. Draw parallels if you can, and simply observe the workings of those that have no parallels. You will not be able to forget that I am trained and think in psychological terms. I was, however, forbidden by Bob and Carole from using psychological labels.

There are many characters in this book that I have given aliases. This is because I have not been able to contact them or their families. I want to protect their privacy.

Also, I do not encourage any reader to make any assumptions or provide labels for any of my characters. Yes, among my friends are gay people, straight people and people of all colors and persuasions of the rainbow—I do not label them except by their names. The threads of their lives are their own, and I am honored if my thread is intertwined with theirs.

To many people, this may be seen as a coming out book—a final declaration that I am bisexual. To most of my close friends, this is a ho-hum section. Their attitude has been Who cares? To some others, those, for instance who have never met Weldon, it might be a bit shocking.

It is the purpose of this book not to shock but show a major thread in my life—this thread that caused me much pain in childhood and an estrangement from my father. It is also a thread that caused me to be stigmatized in my career. This thread is thus a part of the biography that cannot be ignored. I introduce it before the chapter on finding my husband to explain the changed attitude and acceptance of the thread—by me.

As I wrap up the manuscript, I realize that what is in it is only about a third of what I could have written. My anecdotes and timelines are sketchy. I’ll keep it that way. Most younger people I know are uncomfortable with long drawn-out tales spun by old duffers.

I start with my birth. I do not end with my death. I’m still going strong at 90 and expect to for a little while longer. I am in good health for my age. I’m looking forward, with Weldon, to move to a super retirement community in the next few years.

Maybe I can start collecting life stories for the next book.

Chapter 1

From Crib To Cowboy

001_a_lbj23.jpg

Mom and Dad and me

Here I Am!

Science and Economics Are

Found to Be Sadly Altered"

"Sylvia B. Martin’s Fiancé Listed

as Stamford Hairdresser"

"Ryan, Aide to NYC Mayor,

Sues Recent Bride"

I will mention some of the forces that shaped who I am today. I will give a rather complicated and somewhat psychological summary. Please give me some artistic license. I am trained as a clinical psychologist.

These headlines from the New York Times show that May 3,1934 was a slow day for news. The more exciting action, it turns out, was 116 miles north, in a Hartford, Connecticut hospital, where Nellie Badley Ackerman was giving birth to a yowling, porky, baby boy named, Paul Roland Ackerman, Jr.

As Nellie, my mom, held me in her arms, she said a little thank you to God, because she and Paul Sr. had tried for a long time and worried that they would never have a child. My Dad, of course, attributed it to God’s Grace. But there I was, a wiggling, vocal, male of Western European and Ashkenazi decent, a WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant), bright, bisexual, and beginning to activate all those inherited genes of elite muscles, long-life, quick healing and brown/green eyes (see 23 & Me for genetic confirmation).

We left the hospital after a few days and returned home to the parsonage of the Methodist Church in Andover, Connecticut, where my parents lived and where my father was the pastor and my mother the Sunday School teacher while they finished classes and theological degrees at Hartford Theological Seminary, affiliated with Yale University. (They had graduated earlier with bachelor’s degrees from Willamette University.) They had two goals to which they gave all their effort and love: children and missionary status to travel to India, where my mother’s uncle was a Methodist Bishop and had promised them a job.

The first goal, children, was realized when I was born—the starting gun for their dream of a large family. The second goal, India missionaries, was not accomplished. The Indian Government passed legislation to prohibit missionaries. That was the beginning of a long path of disillusion with the Methodist Church that plagued my father for the rest of his life.

After two years in Connecticut, my parents cranked up their Model-T Ford and headed west—back to Oregon where Mom’s father lived. It was a precarious trip; the Model-T heated up when going over the Colorado Rockies and my mother had to sit on the hood and pour water into the radiator as they traveled. This daring acceptance of adventure, however, shaped the psyche of our family. We did, routinely, what many families would never consider.

My father accepted a pastor position of a small rural Methodist Church in Molalla, Oregon. This part of my life was meaningful in two ways: 1) I had the perfect music teacher who started me on piano and nurtured my creativity by letting me compose and improvise, and 2) I started my work career chores, among which included a two- blocks daily walk to the post office to bring back the mail, the only four-year-old in Molalla allowed such responsibility.

After a few years, my father was offered a suburban Church near Portland. I remember it as a happy time. We loved the parishioners and vice versa. Our family grew to three siblings, Neldra and Claraine, (a mix of relatives’ names), and we all thrived as a family, basking in our father’s revered status in the community.

That basking was interrupted with the bomb-like effect of my father’s imprisonment. When the federal Draft Act was passed, the Methodist Church claimed non-combatant status and advised its pastors not to register for the draft. My father obeyed. Federal courts in Portland, then, decided to prosecute those who did not register and, starting alphabetically, tried my father, finding him guilty and sentencing him to a year at an Army detention station in Fort Lewis, Washington.

My mother’s father, a County Commissioner in the area, could not influence the judge for a minor charge, but did help us financially, and found us a run-down home in Wichita, Oregon, (near Milwaukee, Oregon). There, my mother became the Pioneer Woman with us. All the siblings remember this as a happy time in our lives. We had a garden, we canned, made root beer, and played together. I even started elementary school there and loved it. My mother was a consummate teacher for pre-school children. We gladly learned to like poverty food: bread crusts, potato peels, milk toast, raw lettuce with sugar etc.

When my father returned from prison, our whole lives changed.

He had had enough with the Methodist Church, he told Mom. I want to move. But where?

My mother had four brothers and two sisters. One brother, who lived in Southern California, was the most willing to help Dad find a job, so we moved to the first of what was to be about four moves. We spent about eight years in California, during which our family increased to a total of seven—David, born two years after Claraine, and Candice, born six years later than David.

Dad had a variety of jobs in California. He ran a YMCA camp in the summers. He was a mail deliverer at holidays, and a counselor and coach at California Institute of Technology. He was a very hard worker and worked his way up to an executive position at a business run by another of my Mom’s brothers, a business that trained people to be diesel engineers—by correspondence.

Those years in California were formative for all of us. They overlapped WW II, rationing, and shortages. One of our many homes was near a roller-skating rink. All night we heard the organ inside belting out the latest pop songs. I think that is why I remember so many to this day.

Our family was helped by the Quakers in Southern California, who were also pacifists. They gave comfort to my parents and started food co-ops to help us afford food through group buying. They even started an experimental school on desert land (that now houses Knott’s Berry Farm) where we watched cattle breed, killed our chickens and ate them after an anatomy lesson, and prayed Quaker-style every morning. I did really poorly at math in this school; they were too permissive about it to make it mandatory for me.

Our final move in California was to the outskirts of Pasadena. I started school in a public elementary school that gave me a one-on-one test by a psychologist who recommended that I be placed in an advanced class. I did well in academics, but poorly in socializing. I was a loner, with a strange and cynical sense of humor (like my father’s), and soon the school decided that I would be better placed at another school. My parents agreed, against my wishes, and, for the next two years I had to bike a mile to school each day and be challenged, not by advanced classes, but by mandatory work in the school’s cafeteria and helping teachers grade papers.

My all-important work? My parents enrolled me in the local newspaper company as a newspaper home-deliverer. There was a morning delivery and an evening delivery of that paper. It was all done on my bike, with many hills to climb and coast down. I also had to collect from each subscriber each month, sometimes being scammed by people refusing to come to the door. Major obstacles were bad weather, dogs, and early Sunday morning deliveries. I made only a little money, but, by my parents’ directions, I put it into a savings account.

About this time, my parents began sending me to my father’s parents in Monroe, Washington for a summer. My grandmother was loving and open. My grandfather, a rather Prussian-like German was supportive, but gruff. I have to say that I loved those summers. Although contact letters from my family were infrequent and usually addressed only to my grandparents, I felt loved and accepted. I could know I was loved: my grandmother told me, and hugged me, and my grandfather told stories around the dinner table. My grandmother had a piano and encouraged me to practice and improvise. This was so different from home life, where no one hugged or touched us, especially my parents, and we never, never received praise. They were strongly convinced that any praise or affection would spoil us. A common phrase at that time: Spare the rod and spoil the child. The rod was never spare in our house.

Oh, yes, there was work there, also. The small Washington State town where my grandparents lived was agricultural. The biggest crop was strawberries. I hitch-hiked to the strawberry fields every day. I did not have to bank my measly pay. Instead, I bought my first 78 rpm album of classical music, Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto, which had to be listened to by my grandmother and myself almost every day.

When I was about fourteen, Dad, as an executive in the Tractor Training business, had saved enough money to purchase a two-story older house in Oak Grove Oregon, about 30 miles south of Portland. (We could go into Portland on an old-fashioned streetcar.). Our house had only one bathroom for the now eight of us (after Cookie was born) but had four bedrooms on the second floor where all the siblings slept. We were surrounded by cherry and apple trees, and about a half-acre marshy meadow in the back. During my adolescent years, we had a cow that I had to milk twice a day, and, briefly, an old horse that was almost too short for me to ride.

I started 7th grade in the elementary school in Oak Grove and was immediately put to work grading the papers and assisting the teachers of my classes.

I spent my first two years at Milwaukee (OR) High School and my second two years in Jordan Valley High School. I loved those first two years. I had friends, I liked the academics, and I liked the extra-curricular activities. Another friend in school founded the Harmaniacs, a harmonica trio, and asked me to join. I found out that playing the bass harmonica was very easy; it was like eating corn off the cob and blowing. The Harmaniacs became locally famous. We were asked to join the Young Oregonians, a talented group of teen-aged vaudeville troupers who toured all around Oregon. All this was before anyone in the state of Oregon had television.

In 1949, the Ted Mack Original Amateur Hour, a nationwide radio show, came to Portland. The main prize of the show was a trip to New York, where you would perform on television. (You had to live in the East to see it, however, TV was not available in Oregon.) After about six grueling auditions in all hours of the day and night, the Harmaniacs were picked to be the opening act. The thrill of all this was dampened for me because my father decided to take all the family to his mother’s house in Washington State on the same day as the performance; the family would not share my experience in the biggest auditorium in Portland. Yet I have fond memories of that event: walking with the