After 23 years as a land surveyor and nearly 2 years unemployed, I miss my career and my old hands. I kneel nights and clutch new hands together, praying we all can recover what seems lost. May God guide your hands to mould our future.
Thank you for listening to the Citizen
I am,
Bobby Ingram
CHAPTER 2
Bobby Ingram,
April 16, 2009
OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI
That last line and the closing are important. Notice the line break in between? That was intentional. Without that you could read it as “Thank you for listening to the citizen that I am,” which would throw everything off. He didn’t mean it that way. He didn’t mean to tell the president thank you for listening just to him, Bobby Ingram of Oxford, Mississippi. He wrote “Citizen” with a capital C to suggest the citizen in general, the collective—everyone in the United States of America—in a way, he determined, that only a capital C could accurately indicate. But is that even a thing, grammatically speaking? He stressed over that, sitting there in his den, at that ancient tower computer (we’re talking floppy drive) in the old armchair, with Babbitt, his cat, in his lap. Probably not, he thought. That is probably not grammatically a thing. You can’t imagine how many drafts he wrote of that letter. How important it was that he got it just right. This was 2009, sort of at the bottom of things. Yeah, you could say he had hit bottom. He was glad about Obama coming in. Maybe something good would happen. Obama would be a president who would listen to the Citizen. Bobby wanted the president to know he believed that. (He did.) When he’d first conceived of the letter, his plan was that it be the first one Obama got when he reported to work at 8:35 A.M. on January 21, 2009. He wanted Obama to know: Hey, here’s a guy who is not like him, not Ivy League, not from Chicago, not African American. Hey, here’s a skinny white guy from rural Mississippi without a super impressive education whose life is pretty terrible at the moment. Here’s this guy out here; he’s, like, the last kid in the class you’d expect to raise his hand to be called on, but his hand is up for him to say: “Dude, I like you. I want you to do well.”
In between drafts (this was over a period of months) and sometimes just to clear his head, Bobby studied the postal route the letter would likely take, and he ticked off days on his calendar, working on the timing so the letter, when he sent it, would have the best chance of being the first thing Obama got when he sat down at his desk. Well, of course he studied the postal route. You are talking about Bobby Ingram here. He knows a little bit about everything. More precisely: He knows a lot about everything. That was the way of life his grandfather instilled in him, on his deathbed, when he called the grandbabies in one by one to give them each their personalized goodbye message. “Do everything” was what he told Bobby. “Try it for six months. If you like it, continue.”
Anyway, with the whole grammar thing. Martha, his wife, usually gets the final say. They go over most things together. Ethical dilemmas and such. Fortunately, she’s loose. Not like her mom, Atomic Betty. Martha understands that being incorrect is not, in itself, always an undesirable outcome. Witness: Michael’s deplorable grammar. Michael is Bobby’s baby brother, a long-haul trucker who usually writes while waiting his turn for a shower at the Pilot or the Flying J. His letters? You should see his letters. Oddest syntax, misspellings all over the place. The errors have a way of adding nuance to the sentences, Michael’s signature nuance, that makes you feel his presence on the page. “He’s flowing, Martha!” Bobby will say, marveling at the way Michael’s letters move. The feeling he gets on the page. “He’s flowing good now, Martha!” Bobby knows he’ll never be the writer Michael is. But it’s okay. It’s okay.
Letters, Bobby thinks, are important in a man’s life. He also writes to his sister, his dad, his friend Brian who’s stuck in prison, and to a family of stamp collectors—good people. Letters are emotion on the page. Letters are a gift. When you write to someone, and they write back, you establish a bond. It validates both of you. He likes to throw in big words, but only if they’re beautiful. Like when he said “dextrous touch” in the president’s letter. Bobby is not sure, to this day, if he nailed that one. A hand can be dextrous, but a touch? Should it have been a “light touch”? But see, that doesn’t do it. He needed some syllables. Some rhythm. “Let it go,” Martha said. “Let it go.” Bobby’s favorite word of all, by the way, is “éclaircissement,” which means the experience of being enlightened by a subject. See how you got “clarity” as your root word there? That is a hell of a word.
For Bobby, letter writing started with Michael. They began corresponding maybe fifty years ago, back when Bobby went off to basic training. Do you know how hard it is to enlist in the army when you’re a Quaker? How many forms, how many variances? The army thinks if you’re a Quaker, you’re a conscientious objector, and you’re going to poison the troops. That was not Bobby’s intention. He was curious about the concepts he had been protesting along with all those elders in his church marching in antiwar rallies. It started to feel hollow—protesting others doing something you had never even tried. He became curious about war and politics—to say nothing of bugs, spiders, birds, turtles, sign language, antique cars, poetry, kilts, bamboo, bridges, and forestry. Everything. Do everything.
The army sent him to Munich, and he learned how to put rotors on helicopters, and he wrote to Michael to tell him about it. Michael wrote back about converting a Volkswagen to a dune buggy. They never stopped writing after that.
A letter is brotherhood. You start off by extending your hand. That is exactly what Bobby did with the president. Literally. He sat at that computer with Babbitt in his lap, and he extended his hand, and he saw how pathetically soft it was, and he needed to explain why. Not to overdramatize, but honestly, the collapse of his entire being, his psyche, his sense of self, his body, and his soul is captured in that image of his hands devoid of calluses.
Maybe you don’t think calluses when you think land surveying. You probably don’t know about the sledgehammer—eight pounds—and the way to swing it, around and around, bam, bam, just so, banging the stake six inches in. The sledgehammer is his second favorite tool. He bought it in 1983. His first favorite tool is the bush axe. Here again it’s the swinging motion; if you stand back, he will demonstrate. Then there is the plumb bob. You hold it like this, and when it stops swinging, it tells you where the center of the earth is. The center of the earth. That is an ancient tool. That’s just your plumb bob. Between all his tools, he carried eighty pounds of equipment on him every day. Walking through the woods, swamps, all kinds of terrain. He was doing what George Washington did. He was doing what Lewis and Clark did. Land surveying was connecting yourself to somebody from long ago. Getting to know the intent of the landowners. The deeds. You had to read these things and follow. Like that one time he traced the property back to a King George land grant. “Start at the post on the first crest past the water’s edge.” Well, which water’s edge? Which post? “Ride four days by mule to the next corner, head north, sun to your cheek, two days by mule.” Well, how fast can a mule walk? He had to figure out the speed of a mule of the size available at the time of King George. And the weather at the time they were surveying it. He figured it out. It was 110 miles. Basically two hours by car. He found that post. Oh, he found it! And then it was just good math to figure out the boundaries of the tract of land. Close the box for that tract of land. Good math. Mind you, when he first started, this was all by slide rule. Tangent. Cosine tables. You looked up the cosine of an angle. Multiplying by that would give you that tangent distance, and that’s the angle you need to calculate to match this triangle. Fantastic. Fantastic. Five increments of pi, check it against the radius of the arc. All that stuff, it just meshed with him. He would slop through the swamps with his slide rule doing math and finding hundred-year-old locust posts, and he would think about why the Egyptians, the ones who figured out all this stuff, were
of course mystical people.
That’s how good land surveying was. It was just that good.
Anyway, by now you’re probably wondering about that sound. The bark? Then the trill? That is a pileated woodpecker. A lot of people don’t pronounce that right. Pi-lee-ay-ted. That’s the tallest woodpecker in Mississippi. Eighteen inches. Bark-bark-bark, bark-bark-bark, then too-too-too-too-too-too. His favorite bird is the summer tanager. His favorite tree is the mimosa (a.k.a. Persian silk tree). Martha hates the bamboo down back here. Also, Martha has a spider phobia. Nevertheless, she tolerates his having this spider habitat out here. That’s love. The common brown wood spider’s web is larger than Bobby’s kitchen table. The southern box turtle is also an important species to promote. That turtle on the rock there is named BooHiss. Among the varieties of snakes Bobby promotes are the eastern hognose, the puff adder, and the speckled king. Lizards, of course. This whole yard is about promoting certain species. Indian pink, that’s a perennial weed. He’s promoting it. Same with swamp irises, chives, lilies, thistles, garlic.
A lot of this knowledge comes from land surveying. You’re out there with nature all day, every day.
Until one day they tell you to go home. When the recession hit in December 2007, people all across America lost their jobs. Construction was among the hardest hit industries. No more building, no more properties bought and sold, no more land disputes, no more land surveying.
Bobby was out. He and Martha could get by for a while on Martha’s admin work at the university, but that was hardly the point.
He’d lost his purpose. The grief was like if someone had died. Or a divorce. Just any of those big ones that suck all the air from your lungs until you’re doubled over. Two years of doubled over. Two years. He applied for jobs everywhere, offered to relocate to Texas. He was fifty-two years old. Nobody needed him.
He followed the news. Barack Obama appealed to him. The idea of hope. But the main thing he saw with Obama was, Wow, this guy is inheriting a shit show. A mess of a country. He needed help. Everyone needs help. It was like, let’s do this together. That’s how Bobby started the letter in his mind.
Extending his hand. That was hello. That was: It’s me. The guy who used to have the calluses. Middle- to lower-class. Not so much education. That guy. Who is also—this guy. Curious, constantly questioning, a self-taught renaissance man. An enigma. A contradiction. I’m both guys. “I am large, I contain multitudes,” Walt Whitman said. Don’t forget that, Mr. President: multitudes.
Bobby missed the chance at getting his letter to the president on January 21, 2009. He wasn’t done writing the letter until April.
After he got it just right, he sat back, exhaled, scooted the cat, and reached for the loose-leaf paper. Printing it in his own hand was paramount. A letter is a part of you. He wanted it to fit on one page, fit exactly, and he wanted it to be block style. It took many attempts. (He has five trash cans in his den.) Then he sent it. Then he forgot about it. Sending it was the main thing. He got it said. In that way, it was like every letter he’s ever written. A letter is a prayer.
He came out of his depression shortly after he sent the letter. A switch. I can’t live like this. Just a switch. Martha needed him. Atomic Betty was dying, which was an incomprehensible concept. The life-force of that woman. He was good with her. Just holding her hand all those days when nobody else could bear it. Then he started with his LOLs. The Little Old Ladies who needed help with daily chores. They needed him. He can soothe people. (He can put a cat to sleep in seconds.) Then of course, BooHiss and all the habitats outside. My God, the birds alone. Pretty soon Jeff was calling. He needed help rebuilding a boat. Everybody needs help! He and Jeff work together now. Jeff does the talking. Bobby can carry six two-by-fours in one go, up a ladder, in the worst heat imaginable.
He’s that guy in the background with the bandana, sweating his brains out. You know that guy. But he’s this guy too. He’s got poetry in his head, and he knows which bird is singing, and he has math equations going on, and now he’s trying to solve the hydrology problem down at the lake.
Some months after he sent the letter to the president, he got a response, on a white note card labeled, “The White House.”
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
Bobby—
Thanks for the powerful letter. I’m working as hard as I can to make sure that hard working Americans like you have the opportunities you so richly deserve.
Barack Obama
* * *
—
He and Martha stood together in the den scrutinizing that thing to determine if it was written in Obama’s own hand. Martha said yes, holding it up to the light from the window. He said maybe, squinting over her shoulder. And then he stepped away, and it was like, well, hold on a second there, Martha. The president writes back?
TO: ANYONE WITH ANY COMMON SENSE AT THE WHITE HOUSE,
Bonuses?? BONUSES??? For what? Losing the companies money at a record pace??
A.I.G….Freddie Mac…Fannie Mae…Morgan Stanley…Wells Fargo…Merrill Lynch…The list goes on & on!!
I realize I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but for the life of me, I cannot understand what in the world is going on in our business sector! And in our Gov’t.!! Can just ONE of you up there please explain to me how in the world this can be justified?? And please, don’t start with the “best minds in the biz” routine…heard it all before. If that’s the best we got, we’re all in a world of hurt!!
Is this what we’re teaching our kids to do when they move into the world by themselves…steal? Scam?? All in the name of the almighty dollar??
Since when do we reward incompetence?? Please tell me so I can pass it on to my boss!! Perhaps he’s missing something! Since this “recession” showed it’s ugly face, I have been cut back to working only 4 days a week. I struggle to pay my bills, gas the car, put food on my table. We watch every dime. I pay my taxes on time and mind my own business, but I now realize I’ve been doing wrong this whole time. What I really need to do to get ahead in the world is put on a coat & tie, get a wig, and smile like I’m everybodies best friend then SCAM the Hell out of them for all they got!!
And now, not only do you guys give my money away to the greedy ones who made
the very mistakes that put us in this mess, but you GIVE THEM BONUSES?????
I, for one, have had enough. It’s time the citizens of this country take back our Gov’t. & find someone who will not only tell us the TRUTH, (remember that word??), and who will not reward these idiots because they’re the BEST WE GOT!!
BONUSES?? Come on…WAKE UP WASHINGTON!!!!!!
Timothy H. Mullin
LYNCHBURG, VIRGINIA
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
Tim—
Thanks for your letter. I share your sentiments, and we are moving as quick as we can to restore some common sense to the financial system.
Barack Obama
Mr. Timothy Mullin
Lynchburg, Virginia
Date: 9/29/2009 10:05:18 AM
Subject: Foreign Affairs
President Obama, I am very disappointed that you believe campaigning for the Olympics to be hosted in your home town is more important than my childs safety in Afghanistan! I did not care for George Bush, but at least I felt safe when he was in office. I cannot say the same now that you are President. I fear for my childs safety serving in the military in Afghanistan, I fear for me and my familys safety here in the United States. Your lack of decision making ability is putting us in jeopardy for attacks from terrorists. Please stop campaigning and do your job!
Linette
Jones
North Yarmouth
ME
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
Dear Linette—
I received your note. I am grateful for your child’s service, and have no more important job than keeping America safe. That’s why I am puzzled that you would think a one day trip on the Olympics—a trip in which I met with General McCrystal, our commander in Afghanistan, to discuss war strategy—would somehow distract me from my duties as (over)
Commander-in-Chief. You may not like all my policies (that is something you quickly get use to as President), but rest assured that I wake up in the morning and go to bed at night thinking about our soldiers and my responsibilities to them.
Sincerely,
Barack Obama
20/Jan/09
President Barack Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave, NW
Washington, DC 20500
Dear President Obama;
Hello, my name is Michael P. Powers, and I was born in Waukegan, Illinois on July 4, 1954…Enclosed is a picture of my father, and I have carried it for almost 30 years now…His name was Benjamin Maurice Powers Sr. and like me he was born in Waukegan, Illinois on April 1, 1929…Now the reason I have sent you this picture of my father, (You may keep it if you like), is that he smoked 3 packs of cigarettes a day, and on August 21, 1979 at the age of 50 he died from smoking 3 packs a day…I was 25 years old at the time, and since than their has been roughly about one million times that I wanted, and needed to talk to him…I remember watching you on TV in Grant Park when you won, as you walked out I heard one of your daughters almost scream, “Hi Daddy” and at that moment I missed my father more than I think I ever have, because I did the same thing when I was a kid, and he would get home from work…He was and always will be my best friend…If you always want to be there for your girls, than stop smoking NOW! Someday they are going to need you for something, (we all do need our parents for something at sometime or another), and I want you to be there for them, and also I think The United States, and the World need you now more than ever, and I want you to be there for all of us…I just know you are going to do a knockout job for the next eight years, so like Red Skeleton used to say, “Good day and May God Bless”…
To Obama Page 3
