Who I am

I’m Uncle Chuckie, the deplorable mad scientist.

Ok, that is having a bit of fun, but this dreadful election has made me realize that deep down inside I’m something that a couple years ago I would rather have shot myself than admit to, much less rejoice in.  I’m working class.

I’m not middle classs.  I’m not upper class, though I have moved comfortably among both.

I was raised to be middle class by parents and grandparents who had worked their way into it.  My father came off the factory floor to run a business.  His father was an illiterate immigrant coal miner in South Fork, Pennsylvania.  My maternal grandfather came off the warehouse floor to become an official in the Teamsters Union.  I went to a rather expensive, private college and never needed a penny of financial aid.  I went to grad school and never needed a penny of financial aid.  I’ve written in the BDSM context that when Guy Baldwin felt happy to share a bottle of beer with his band of brothers, I was drinking Chartreuse with people who would not have let his band of brothers near their horses.

I spoke the language.  I could speak another language.

When I as in graduate school I became involved with Pentecostals.  My immediate friends were a pretty smart bunch.  My girlfriend was a linguist.  Another friend a mathematician.  But there were those not as gifted and I found I could communicate with them as well as I could with the others, sometimes better.  To me they were just people, kind of dumb, but people and nice people most of the time.  I didn’t think much of it at the time but the group leader was jealous of me for that.  The folks he thought should be going to him were going to me.  “He doesn’t talk down to me,” one of them told him.  I thought it was funny at the time.

Then I came home and put on my upper middle class three piece suit and made money in the stock market.  One of the reasons I joined the Theosophical Society was that they were “my kind of people.”  They thought that too.  Only problem was they weren’t.  I didn’t know what my kind of people were.  I thought I knew.  Yes, I had my rough edges but they loved that.  It gave me character and I knew how to get a tea bag without a string out of the cup without using my fingers.

Through my financial reverses I kept the illusion.  I had to.  It gave meaning to my life in a weird sort of way.  The illusion nearly killed me.  It kept me from doing the things I needed to do but I was the educated man, the scholar and thinker, and a bit of a mad scientist as well as a reasonably competant magician.  And I was doing wonders, leaving glowing holes in the ground in my wake.

I became Uncle Chuckie, the terror of the Cosmos.

Something was buried in me that I did not know was there.  I would have been horrified to think it was there.

A year ago something happened that would have destroyed another man.  Our feud with the landlord came to a head and we needed a new place to live.  I was not concerned.  I expected to get a much better place and be rid of the scumbag, otherwise I would have used my psionics and he would have ceased to be a problem for anyone.  My plan blew up

My wife and I found ourselves looking at an approaching deadline and not finding a place to live.  The Vittelius Option was getting pretty close and I was preparing a psychic hit list.  We  came up to twelve hours of implementation but the money came and we bought, horror of horrors, a mobile home.

Status be damned, we needed a roof.

And something funny happened.  We got the keys and took possession.  I opened a couple of folding lawn chairs to sit on and for the first time in a long time I felt at home.  It was as if the trailer had been waiting for me.

I did not think much of it at the time.  I had lived in a trailer in graduate school and I knew how to function in one, things you need to know that make living in a mobile home a lot different than living in an apartment. It is more like a house and I know about that.

Winter came and we dealt with our new environment, still thinking that when spring came we would look for something more, er, proper.  Only problem was that by the time spring came we didn’t care.  We were happy here.  I was happier than I had been in a long long time.

I was home.

We met our neighbors.  Our neighbors are good people.  Some could use some dental work but so what?  At our age it is lucky if we even have teeth.  There was a party last summer, a sort of block party in the park and as I met a lot of our neighbors I knew why I liked it here.

These were my people.  I belonged here.

No need to worry about which fork to use now.  No need to know the right thing to say to keep up the image.  No need for an image.  For the first time in my life I could just be me. I didn’t have to live up to my parents ambitions for me.  They were good ambitions and I would never hold it against them.  I have lived a good life because of them.  The pretensions and the ambition opened a lot of doors for me.  They made me an educated man who has traveled in circles that most people read about in novels and enabled me to play with things that most sane people would never have dreamed of playing with.

I can call demons from the depths of Hell and they come when I call them.

I can reach out and touch minds on the other side of the world.

I can do a lot of things that I can only speak of in fiction because, frankly, no one would believe them and it would unsafe for me if they did.

And I’m a trailer living, working class, gun toting deplorable.  I’m a misogynist and I enjoy every minute of if.  I can be damned racist when I want to be and often I want to be.  I don’t give a damn.  I can sit on my porch and watch the sunset.  I can barbecue in the back yard and sit among the roses and flowers.  I can wave to my neighbors and help them work on their cars and know that if I need help with mine they are there.

I don’t care what some usless students think of me.  I don’t have to.  I don’t care what media folks think.  I don’t have to.  I don’t have to follow their rules.  I have my life, my wife and my neighbors.  So why would I care if some politician bitch calls me deplorable?  It’s my right and I have the power to enforce that right.  It’s a machine sitting on the desk right in front of me.

I’m happy.  Finally, I’m happy.

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3 Responses to “Who I am”

  1. Ross Chamings Says:

    Thank you for writing this, Uncle Chucky ….!

  2. Ron Boutwell Says:

    Chuckie, we swapped messages on the Yahoo boards a bit since around 2006. You’ve been on my Face Book friends list for quite a few years now too. I purchased a few of your books back in 1989 – about 1991 when I first graduated from college. You introduced me to the idea of psionics. Karl Welz came along and made me lazy when I realized I could afford to purchase some of these devices rather than build them (and his are by far the most expensive). I can honestly say you have had an effect on my life that was positive – even during those years when I was just reading your books and we had never spoken. I was overjoyed to realize that the person I was speaking to on Yahoo Groups was actually you. That irreverent, “I don’t give a damned if you approve of me. I am what I am so deal with it or I will make your head explode.” attitude rubbed off. It’s a huge part of why my ex-wife is my ex-wife and my now-wife is still my now-wife. I realize gratitude probably does not mean much to you or perhaps it means about as much as other people’s approval but thanks anyway. Seriously.

  3. drpsionic Says:

    Gratitude means a lot.

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