Well, this
morning’s news tells of the NCAA’s penalties on Penn State for its role in the
Jerry Sandusky debacle. Penn State, wisely,
seems appropriately repentant, and rightly compliant, to the NCAA’s
rulings. Joe Paterno’s formerly stellar
record has been irreparably tarnished, and his statue, now a symbol of how
winning as “the only thing” will go so far as to torture innocent children, is
no longer visible in front of Beaver Stadium.
(Perhaps the bronze could be melted down and remolded into a depiction
of the “Massacre of the Innocents” and then returned to the entrance of the
stadium.)
How is it
that competent, reasonable professionals can fall into such ignominy? That question, which is probably on the minds
of most of us following this reign of rape, has triggered a memory out of my
own past. One of the blessings of
retirement is that matters, which formerly were submerged during the busy years
of day-to-day career activity, make their way to conscious awareness again. The developmental psychologist, Erik Erikson,
argues that this is a normal process in the final stage of life, as if the
individual psyche/soul is doing a review of all that has happened, asking which
of one’s life experiences have been worth it and which have not.
The memory
involves the son of a wealthy financier/industrialist who, unlike his father,
became wealthy as well, the old-fashioned way: he inherited the largess his
father had earned. The father, Wheeler
H. Bachman, of Wheeling, WV, fame, landed his wealth by investing in the dry
goods market, later expanding his capital in the stock market as well as other
industrial exploits, including the Carr China Company of Grafton, WV, not too
far from where our family now resides.
(When in 1952 “WH” learned that the employees at Carr China were considering
the possibility of unionizing, he promptly closed down the plant, and today
there is no remnant left of its ever having existed. Yes, “WH” was a staunch Republican.)
His son,
Wheeler Carr Bachman, the recipient of the Bachman estate, was in his
forties/fifties during my teenage years.
“WC” never worked a day in his life, and I doubt that he even served on
boards of banks or charitable organizations, as had his father before him, but
I’m not sure of that. But he did find
time to engage in other activities that shall become clear in a moment.
As a high
school senior I was hired as a “Desk Clerk” at the Wheeling YMCA, a position
that included checking-in “Y” members to the various athletic “clubs” housed in
the facility, operating the switchboard, cashier responsibilities such as
receiving rental income from the men who lived on the residential floors or
collecting sales receipts from purchasers of “Y” t-shirts, shorts, jock-straps,
candy, etc., and other clerical chores.
Also, when the night clerk was off or on vacation, I filled-in for him,
and that included some additional chores, mostly custodial in the areas
adjacent to the front desk.
“WC” had a
reputation around the “Y” of spending inordinate amounts of time with high
school boys, and as a member of the Business Men’s Club, the most exclusive area
in the “Y,” which included such amenities as a sauna, tanning lamp and even a full-time masseur, I
often checked him, along with his young “guests,” into the BMC. It was just another part of the job that one
performed automatically without giving it any thought. Sure there were rumors, and some of his “regular”
companions let it be known that “WC” was very generous toward them (Were they subtly
soliciting other companions per his request?), but still, being naïve, any
thought of something more than what appeared as a charitable interest in young
lads quickly dispersed, and the routine carried on.
But, one time
while on night duty, reality slapped me is if right in the face. Evidently “WC” and his entourage entered the
BMC while the clerk before I came on duty was working. As it was way past closing time for the
athletic side of the building, I assumed that those facilities were closed for
the day. All was quiet as I proceeded to
mop and buff the lobby floor when, off to the right I noticed a bright light
emanating from underneath the door to the BMC.
Hmmmm, someone forgot to turn out the lights. I took out my master key and let myself in to
the area just in time to see six or seven naked boys scattering in all
directions. The one young man who seemed
to be “WC’s” regular bud, a rather cocky fellow, approached me in a threatening
guise, his cocky manner not the only thing obviously standing out. But before anything was spoken, WC followed
right behind him, speaking words I can’t remember in uneasy tones I do
remember. “WC’s” face was covered with
(how can I say this delicately) male reproductive fluids. I walked out of the BMC, allowing the door to
slam behind me.
The next day
I made an appointment to talk with the “Y” General Secretary, the equivalent of
the Executive Director or CEO of this purportedly “Christian” organization. After all, its stated purpose was to put
Christian principles into practice by developing a healthy “body, mind and
spirit.” The “Y” logo, a red triangle,
is meant to symbolize these three sides of essential human development.
The General
Secretary’s response to what I had witnessed and reported was as casual as his rosy-cheeked
appearance as he leaned back in his overstuffed chair behind his desk smoking
his pipe. He mentioned ancient Greek
culture in particular, and explained in words I do not remember that what I had
witnessed has always gone on and there was no need pursue the matter. To do so would be to bring disfavor on the “Y,”
and we certainly would not want that to happen.
The twin facts that the high school boys were probably younger than the
age of consent at the time (21 in those days) and that sexual favors were being
elicited in exchange for money (legally a crime even today, I believe) hadn’t
occurred to me when I spoke with the General Secretary, and he certainly seemed
to be unaware of such considerations, or at least, he didn’t mention them. So, that’s where the matter ended, and until
this blog, it has so far as I know never been mentioned again.
This
erection of an episode out of the deep niches of memory helps me understand
something of what went on at Penn State, and chances are that if what happened
there in the last (what? 20, 30 maybe even 40) years had come out back in the
late fifties or early sixties, it still would have been brushed under the
carpet, but the difference being that it would have stayed a secret. And the Penn State football legends would
have remained permanently imbedded in bronze for all time.
Please
understand, this is not a condemnation of homosexuality. Quite the contrary, I am absolutely in favor
of consenting same-gendered adults who are in love being able to find fulfillment
and the depth of wonder resident in their relationship. Unfortunately, my denomination (The United
Methodist Church) forbids its clergy from participating in marriage ceremonies
of same-gendered individuals. If that
were not the case, I would delight in the opportunity to bless love wherever I
could find it.
But that’s
another issue. What went on at Penn
State involved corruption, and consequent violence against children, of
inconceivable proportions. It was rape
and rape is not about love ever; rather, it’s raw hatred in all of its hideousness. The actions condoned by top-level
administrative officials were committed against mostly disadvantaged minors, reinforcing
once again the notion that those less obviously favored among us are to be
thought of as slaves. It’s okay to “use”
defenseless lower-class youth, even to ridicule and humiliate them, because
their purpose in life is to gratify the needs of those whom God must love more—those
with extraordinary power and wealth must be more deserving. Even Joel Olsteen and his Gospel of
Prosperity agrees. Not!
The one hopeful prospect in this sad episode of
human degradation is that, whereas in the fifties and sixties Penn State probably
would have gotten away with it, as did Wheeler Carr Bachman, a new day of
openness and the technological miracle of instant communication has made it
less and less likely that such things will ever be swept under the rug again
