To Celebrate the Life of

Ralph Larsen

February 24, 1931 - August 7, 2018

 

I imagine the greatest challenge I will ever face as a writer is the attempt to condense the long life of Ralph Larsen into a couple pages of text. Is it even possible to do justice to 87+ years of enthusiastic living in such a short space? 

We first find Our Ralphie as a squalling (I imagine) infant in Brooklyn NY on February 24, 1931. He claimed to have made his entrance at Norwegian Hospital, but I find no written proof of this.  The only certificate that has surfaced is a Certification of Birth issued by the City of New York on October 11, 1966, stating that a Birth Record No. 7826 of Ralph Larsen being born on Feb. 24, 1931, was filed in the Brooklyn Office of the Bureau of Records and Statistics, Department of Health, The City of New York on February 27, 1931. It will have to suffice.

It makes sense that he should be born at Norwegian Hospital in Brooklyn since his father, Rolf Larsen, was a Norwegian seaman from (to the best of Ralph’s knowledge) Bergan, Norway, and in the 1930s Brooklyn had a large Scandinavian population. His mother, Bertha Larsen, nee Polomski, was part Russian, her mother’s maiden name being Kuroczka. This eulogy effort makes me wish I had written these stories down at the time Ralph told them. The good news is that there is much personal history in Ralph’s four novels, No Place for Charlie, Cushlamachree, Evangeline and The Amazing Adventures of Joshua Survivo. If you would know the man better, read his novels. Not every aspect of those plots is drawn from real life of course, but many are, especially in No Place For Charlie.

https://www.amazon.com/default/e/B009UW83D0/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1532476549&sr=1-2-ent&redirectedFromKindleDbs=true

At the age of three, Ralph and his half-brother John Larsen were put into the care of Catholic Charities. Apparently Ralph made such a fuss when the two boys were separated that they were eventually placed together with foster parents on Long Island where they flourished in spite of the antipathy of many toward “county kids.”  He describes it briefly here: My first home was a garbage scow on the East River. Then I lived in apartment houses and once on a house on stilts over the ocean in Ramblersville, Howard Beach, Long Island.”  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Beach,_Queens There are scenes from the Ramblersville era in both No Place For Charlie and The Amazing Adventures of Joshua Survivo. Also this from the Grandparent’s Questionaire he once filled out: #7. What were clothes like? “I wore whatever I had. I was a “county kid” a foster child, so I wasn’t taken school shopping. I do remember one pair of parachute jumper boots of which I was particularly fond that my foster father got from army surplus at Fort Hamilton where he worked. Mostly we just wore dungarees for school and play and I also had a brown Eisenhower jacket that I liked. When I was a kid (+/- 1935-1945) all little girls wore short dresses to school and changed into old short dresses to play in after school. Some very young girls were allowed to wear overalls. Adults dressed up whenever they left the house. Ladies wore dresses, hats, dress shoes (often high heeled shoes) and gloves and always carried purses. Men, even working class men, wore jackets when out in public.”

Ralph describes sliding down the drain pipe from his second story bedroom window and spending the nights running around in the woods with other neighborhood children, roasting potatoes on a fire and playing war, etc. He was, apparently, the leader of the gang and mostly their activities were benign…except for the few described in his writings. Years later, he met a man on the subway, an adult neighbor from that era, who remembered him and said that he couldn’t wait to get home from work each evening in order to hear about what Ralph and his little gang had been up to that day.

His elementary school life was great fun by all accounts until he was skipped a grade and was put into a class where he was the smallest and the least mature. He never felt at home with the new group and missed being the president of the class each year. Test scores qualified him to attend a special high school in Manhattan that drew students from all the NY boroughs and he attended for a couple/few years until his then foster mother died and our Ralphie began his hobo adventures. I’ve heard these stories so many times and now I see I should have paid closer attention for I am pathetically bereft of details.

One detail I did capture: he fell in love with the State of Maine during his hobo wanderings. This article tells the tale:

Falling In Love With Maine

by

Ralph Larsen

as told to

Burndett Andres

September, 2003

In the autumn of 1946, I was fifteen years old, about five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.   I had lived in foster homes under the aegis of Catholic Charities for more than a decade and got into a lot of scrapes because I was a “home kid.”  I also got into scrapes with bullies.  They didn’t pick on me because I was a home kid; like all bullies, they picked on me because I was small and not so good at defending myself.  I was little for my age; I was really cute, with black curls and the girls loved me, but I was a shrimp. 

I had picked up a slim volume, probably in the candy shop or the drug store, about a number of sports figures.  One of them was Jack Dempsey.  When his trainer, Doc Kearns, had wanted to toughen up Dempsey’s hands he had taken him to a lumber camp; he said there was no better place to toughen up.  I wanted to get tough fast, so I decided to take a page out of this book, so to speak.

My brother Johnny and I were living with the McAlisters on Long Island at the time, in Howard Beach, on a canal that went out to Jamaica Bay.  Our house was built on pilings right at the water’s edge; at high tide we could dive out the second story windows into the water.  We were dirt poor, but so was everyone around us, so we didn’t really know it.  My foster mother had just died and there was no one else around who cared if I stayed in school or not, so one day I just packed up an old cardboard satchel I’d found in the house, said good-bye to my brother and left.   I was heading to Maine to be a lumberjack.

I don’t remember what I took with me.  A shirt perhaps.  Some underwear, I guess.  Everything I owned would have fit in that satchel.  I had my hunting knife for protection.  Mr. McAllister was a truck driver and managed to get our clothes from the U.S. Army at Fort Hamilton by one means or another, so I imagine I was wearing my olive drab Eisenhower jacket and I surely would have had on my paratrooper boots with high tops and laces.  I was very proud of those boots; they were very macho and considered to be quite a trophy at a time when I had precious few trophies of any kind.

I had a little money from caddying at the North Hills and the Glen Oaks Country Clubs and from doing odd jobs, raking leaves and such, and I believe I must have taken a Greyhound bus to Bangor, or perhaps to Portland and then hitchhiked the rest of the way to Bangor.   I really don’t remember how I got there; it was fifty-seven years ago.  I do remember inquiring around about where to apply for work and being told to go home, that the only work available for kids in a lumber camp was sweeping out shacks and such.  Well, I hadn’t come up there to clean house, so I started hitchhiking south. 

I remember walking along country roads and getting rides for a few miles off and on.  They were all country roads; I didn’t have a map, so I don’t know exactly where I was.  I know I was out of money; I had expected to get a job so hadn’t allowed money for getting home.  I subsisted entirely on apples for a couple of days.  The trees where I walked were laden with them.  They were so crisp; I remember the snap when I bit into them and the juice running down my chin.  I often think of that experience at harvest time as they spoiled me for apples forever; store bought apples are unbearable by comparison and the farther removed in time the experience becomes, the greater the difference seems to grow. 

A few times I stopped at farmhouses.  “I’m hungry,” I would say and the woman of the house would take pity on me and give me some cookies and a glass of milk.  Like I said, I was a cute kid.  I don’t remember getting a meal although I might have done.   I slept in the fields in the grass; the air was so cool and fresh.  One sunny afternoon, I remember just lying down in a field by the roadside and taking a nap.  You could do that then.

I remember sitting on a hill somewhere along the coast, under some pine trees, just gazing in awe at the crashing surf and the jagged shoreline covered with evergreens right down to the water’s edge.  That sight is etched in my mind till this day, even though I don’t know exactly where it was.

By the time I got to Portland, I was dead broke and very hungry.  I hung around, looked around and walked around, trying to nose out some sort of lumberjacking connection.  When the hunger got beyond bearing I would go to this little drugstore/luncheonette in Congress Square and order a hamburger.  After I ate, I’d go into the bathroom and crawl out the window.   Hamburgers were five cents then and I didn’t even have the five cents.  Some indication of how hungry I was can be gleaned from the fact that I had the nerve to go back there more than once.  Looking back, I think the waitress must have liked me because she never squealed and a few times she gave me pie and coffee, too. 

When I finally accepted the fact that I was not going to become a lumberjack, I decided to return to New York.  I started hitchhiking again and got a ride just south of Portland.  The driver dropped me off in a little coastal village.  It was late at night and only one street lamp eerily penetrated the fog.   I remember walking to the water’s edge and sleeping there that night huddled up against some building.  I’ve always called that place Wales by the Sea, but since there is no such town on the coast (or anywhere else for that matter), I have come to believe it must have been Wells Beach. 

The next day I got a ride with a trucker into Boston.  I remember being outside Fenway Park that night; the Red Sox were playing St. Louis in the 1946 World Series.  I eventually hitchhiked back to New York.  The truckers loved me because I helped keep them awake; I never shut up.  I grew another foot before all was said and done, got into weight lifting, personal training and even some professional boxing and ceased being a target for bullies. 

I have vacationed in the state many times over the years and finally moved to Cherryfield in 2002 at the age of seventy-one, because I fell in love with Maine in the autumn of ’46 and never did get over it.”  

Ralph spent his young adulthood living with his mother, her then husband Bob Jochim and his three half-brothers, Billy, Gerald and Bobby. They lived in various apartment buildings in NYC where Bob was the building superintendent and Ralph worked as porter. The family also spent some years in Fleischmanns, NY where, from what I understand,  Ralph’s maternal grandmother kept a farmstead with a barn filled with antiques rather than animals. Ralph worked as an electrician, serviced refrigeration units in many of the big resorts in the Catskills with his friend Charlie and worked as a custodian at the local high school. Apparently, although they kept a boarding house while in Fleischmanns, the family must have been in some straits while they lived there because Ralph told many stories of robbing food from the store and developing the ability to win at high-low poker in addition to pretty much running the school single-handedly, i.e. shoveling coal, driving the school bus, cleaning, etc. etc.

Although I find no written evidence of these years, fortunately the 1950s are well documented on film for it was during this time that Ralph became an avid self-taught stereo photographer. He obtained the book 3 Dimensional Photography – Principles of Stereoscopy by Herbert C. McKay, bought the cameras and tripods, timers and filters and mounting supplies and took hundreds of pictures of family and environs, mostly New York City and Fleischmanns. He became a student of the subject, did his own developing and experimented with lighting and timed exposures, etc. etc. etc. and kept detailed notes on each photo. Fortunately these 3-D slides with notes survived Ralph’s first marriage to one Lillie Santos.

Ralph and Lillie were wed in NYC on August 14, 1964. Lillie was born in Bayamon, Puerto Rico, on May 1, 1919. It is my understanding that Ralph picked Lillie because she was tough and more than a match for Ralph’s domineering mother who had interfered with a number of previous liaisons. Lillie might have been high strung and have a hot Latin temperament, but by all accounts she was never dull and she could cook with the best of them – rice and beans in particular. She was extremely proud of her handsome, younger husband and loved to show him off by having him hoist her aloft and spin her around, which he declares was easy because she was “a little thing.” It was from his years with her that Ralph developed an intolerance of vacuum cleaning because Lillie vacuumed at all hours of the day or night whether it was appropriate or not. Ralph appreciated Lillie because she got him away from his mother, but their relationship was fraught with strife and in January of 1967 we find them in Family Court being ordered to “remain away from the other until further direction of the court.” She was extremely jealous and Ralph swears she had no cause to be. In the end, she destroyed everything they owned that she could get her hands on including his clothes and memorabilia, their furniture and subtle sabotage of his 3-D camera. She even made a couple of attempts on his life including hiring someone to kill him. On February 1, 1967, because of Lillie’s outlandish behavior, he resigned his job with Anne Popkin Real Estate Inc. as superintendent of their building at 225 E. 79^th Street. He LOVED working for them and told so many interesting stories of the occupants of that building. He received the following letter from Anne Popkin:

“Dear Mr. Larsen:

Mr. Popkin and I regret very much that circumstances beyond your control have necessitated your leaving our employ.

We want to tell you that you have been the best superintendent we have ever had and that we were always proud of 225 E. 79^th street because you made it so attractive and kept it so beautifully.

We hope that when your affairs are in order, that you will contact us and hope that in the future we may be able to re-engage you.

If there are any inquiries for references we will be very pleased to answer them promptly.

Good luck in whatever you do and many thanks again for your loyalty and for all you have done.

Very truly yours,

Anne Popkin.       

The next document we find in the file is a divorce decree issued in Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico, on May 16, 1967 liberating Ralph and Lillie Larsen for reason of Incompatibility of Temperaments.

Next we find documentation of the annulment of the marriage between Barbara Larsen and Ralph Larsen dated July 1, 1969. I was told her maiden name was Ness, but that doesn’t strike me as a Jewish name and was given to me after Ralph’s memory was totally reliable…if it ever was. I’ve heard some bad stuff about the reliability of memory at the best of times. Anyway, this marriage was short-lived, but lived very intensely while it lasted.  Barbara helped him get his High School Equivalency Diploma and encouraged him to begin studying on the college level which he did, first at Miami Dade and later at the New School in NYC.  He began writing while he was with Barbara and that became a life-long interest and practice – fiction and poetry. He and Barbara even wrote a song together, “Breathe The Wind.”  

I rather think this marriage was annulled because our Ralphie wanted to marry Karen Marie Wilhelm of Akron, Ohio. The Marriage License is dated November, 1969, and Karen was a practicing Roman Catholic and therefore unable to marry a divorced man. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Or as Winston Churchill famously said, “Where there is a will, I want to be in it.”

This third marriage was enduring and produced an adored daughter, Cynthia Ann on Thursday, February 11, 1971 at 8:20 p.m. Cynthia is alive and well and can tell her own tale. Suffice it to say that never was a daughter more dearly loved. 

I am the last in the long line of wives and lovers. He liked me because I “could pick and shovel, too.” You will learn all about my relationship with Himself when I croak and my obituary becomes available…or not. For the past sixteen years, our lives have been as open a book as they’re ever going to be and you can read all about it in Maine, At Last available from Amazon.com. 

https://www.amazon.com/default/e/B004SJIDOO/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1?redirectedFromKindleDbs=true 11 volumes and more on the way.    

If you know Ralph at all you know of his great love for Christmas and most especially his enthusiasm for his Christmas village, Christmas Crossing. The following pictures were taken by my son-in-law Eric Nicklos:

I imagine the folks in Cherryfield will remember him mostly for our outdoor Christmas decorations – picture by Lisa Jacoby:

Creating that village gave Ralph more pleasure than perhaps any other single pursuit with the possible exception of his flower gardens in Sparta NJ and Cherryfield ME. It always amused him to wonder what his friends of yore, from the rough and tumble days of his youth and those many years as a cigar-smoking, tough  New Yorker, would make of him tending roses. Finally, this summer, the pink climbing roses in our back yard covered the arbor and I declared he could now die happy, so he did.

Ralph was a true renaissance man. I’ve written all this and have only scratched the surface. I haven’t mentioned how he tamed a chipmunk named Charlie (all Ralph’s pets were named Charlie), how his heroes were Randolph Scott and Don Quixote, how he spent years working on self-improvement and tried to share his knowledge with his friends until he learned better. He was into throw-back fly fishing decades before it became de rigueur, LOVED baseball, boxing, and weight-lifting and kept up an exercise regimen well into his eighties. He was interested in everything and his home library of 3,000+ volumes is proof of the range of his interests.

His handsome face, high-energy personality and bad boy aura made him irresistible to women and like everything else that had an upside and a downside. His official photographer, Cat Cirone, says, “He was the only man I knew personally over eighty who was still sexy. He had “it.”’

Ralph Larsen is survived by his daughter Cynthia and her husband Stanton Michael Mobley and their two daughters, Amelia & Dagny of Doylestown, PA and by his ex-wife, Karen, also of Doylestown. He was the half-brother of Bobby, Billy and Gerald Jochim. The late John Larsen was also his half-brother. (Although everyone including John thought they were full-blooded brothers, they shared only the same mother.) Ralph is also survived by a variety of half-nieces and nephews. We recently became acquainted with John’s son, Kirk, an impressive person and artist and are thankful for this connection to the next generation. https://kirklarsenfineart.com/works

A series of memorial parties are planned to celebrate the life of the man, the myth, the legend.

September 1 – Sparta NJ; September 8 – Doylestown PA; Late September – Cherryfield ME

Please call me or Cynthia for details.

If you wish to remember Himself with a gift, please make a donation to the fabulous hospice organization that cared for Himself in his final days: http://www.chcs-me.org/index.php?id=2&sub_id=186 and/or to http://projecthealingwaters.org/

Ralph’s passion for living was contagious and my life with him has been a joy to me beyond what words can convey. As one of our favorite vocalists, Nana Mouskouri sings, “Loving Him Was Easier Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again.”  

Whale on Driftwood by Cathy Cirone.

Lafayette Consolidated School, Class of 1962
Back row left to right: Len Robinson, Alan Yucius, Tom Phillips, Delbert Leach, Jack Snook, Jim Drew, Albert Post.
Middle row l to r: Patty Decker, Cathy Utter, Richard Ruch, Joyce Neal, Brian McCann, Jerry Simons, Linda Decker, Cliff Daniels, Ann Gruver, Linda Boyd.
Front row l to r: Casey DeGroot, Shirley Beemer, Bob Miller, Burndett Shank, Valerie Markowski, Mike Tisler, Barbara Wilgus, Bill Sparling.

Lafayette Consolidated School 8th Grade Class of 1962 Reunion Picnic, August 20, 2016
From left to right: Jerry Simons, Bill Sparling, Patty Decker, Linda Decker, Diane Wendt, Jim Drew, Burndett Shank, Mike Tisler, Cathy Utter, Jack Snook, Richard Ruch.

Cherryfield, Maine, celebrates its Bicentennial.

That's Harold and Janet Sprague in the top photo serving as Grand Marshals.  Neil & Ellen Tenan stood in for the town's founding couple, Mr. & Mrs. Icabod Willey.

Englishman's Bed & Breakfast - Cherryfield, Maine

New Life for Cherryfield Landmark

The Archibald-Adams House, built in 1793, is one of the oldest houses in Cherryfield  and has been placed on the National Register of Historic Places.  This classic foursquare Federal home at 122 Main Street was built by Thomas Archibald in the then “modern” New English Adam style, and although this was also the style of the highway taverns of the day, this mansion was constructed as a family home and housed Archibalds, Adamses and Campbells and their Celtic-American descendents until the mid-1900s. 

Like most old houses, this one, locally known as the Adams House, underwent renovations and updates over the course of two centuries that reflected new ideas and modern technologies.  Not all these “improvements” were kind to the house.   Then in the 1990s the house fell into loving and knowledgeable hands and its original conservative post-revolutionary interior decoration was restored.  A modern country kitchen was added, fireplaces were once again exposed and the house was returned to its original colonial splendor.

It seems entirely fitting that the house is once again in the hands of a person from the British Isles, Englishman Peter Winham and his wife Kathy.  The Winhams met in England on an archeological dig and lived on the plains of South Dakota for twenty years where they worked at their profession and raised their family.  It was the desire for a change of geography that prompted them to consider moving to New England.  As a teenager, Kathy had lived in Connecticut and now, as an empty-nester, she wanted to return east.  She had little trouble selling Peter on the idea.

After a fruitless search for archeology positions, they began an Internet search for a place that would provide both a home and a living.  In the autumn of 2004 they visited the Adams House on the last day of looking at possibilities in Washington County.  The house spoke to their archeologists’ hearts and in January of 2005 they moved in with Mickey, the friendly house cat, and boxes and boxes of “stuff,” but little furniture.  Then began a crash course in period decorating and the work of creating a unique Bed and Breakfast.  

Like native Mainers, the Winhams use the side entrance and stepping into the Englishman’s B & B is like stepping back in time, with subtle differences.  The house is furnished with antiques and period pieces culled from local shops, auctions and estate sales.  Quality reproductions fill in the gaps and touches of chinoiserie, as might be found in any such stately home in a New England sea-faring village, strike just the right note of sophistication, restrained elegance and country charm.

The guest lounge originally served as the Archibald’s formal parlor and later as Judge Joseph Adams’ courtroom.  In the closet museum one can see the judge’s court log book documenting in his own handwriting what transpired there between 1819-1835.  The book has pride of place in the collection of relics on display and was reportedly found under a floorboard in the attic when the house was renovated in the 1990s.  A complete history of the house is available for perusal over a cuppa, for here in the lounge guests are also treated to tea in the English tradition. 

Officially, tea is served to guests who arrive by five o’clock, but being English, Peter can be persuaded to make tea at almost any hour.  Teas of Cherryfield is another new venture for the Winhams and dovetails nicely with the Bed and Breakfast business.  They distribute gourmet teas at wholesale and retail and serve the fresh-brewed beverage to their guests along with a variety of elegant teacakes, including the scones and Eccles cakes for which Peter’s native land is justly famous.   Being in Cherryfield, the Wild Blueberry Capitol of the World, one is not surprised to find blueberry pound cake and blueberry muffins on the teacart as well.

In the Keeping Room, guests may choose a complete English breakfast – a hearty offering of eggs, bacon, sausage, fried tomato, baked beans and fried potatoes – or just about anything else they may desire.  The Winhams aim to please and “since we’re small, we can take personal care of guests preferences,” they say, thinking perhaps of customizing their service to provide just what the guest requires, including, but not limited to, catering to special diets, providing car service or taking guests to places of special interest.  They hope to develop services that will fill a niche market and are presently feeling their way along to discover just what their particular niche will be.

It could be as simple as providing a front row seat for watching bald eagles fishing on the Narraguagus River that runs behind the property.  The original twelve-over-twelve windows in the spacious guest rooms provide spectacular views of the river and in autumn and winter, eagles can often be seen perched in the bare trees waiting for supper to swim within range.   In warmer weather, both the veranda that runs around half the house and the screened gazebo out in the yard provide inviting venues for just settin’ a spell with a cup of tea and a good view.   

Especially agreeable guests might even get to see the old Post Office - now part of the proprietor’s quarters – for the Winhams are nothing if not enthusiastic about their new role as custodians of this museum quality national landmark and their new and very welcome venture in historic Cherryfield.  For more information visit on-line at www.englishmansbandb.com and www.teasofcherryfield.com or call 207-546-2337.           

                

  

Somebodies & Nobodies - Book Review

Somebodies and Nobodies

Overcoming the Abuse of Rank

by Robert W. Fuller

211 pp Gabriola Island, BC Canada

New Society Publishers  $16.95

Reviewed by Burndett Andres

“Rankism” is the mother of all isms.  It’s children, sexism, ageism, and racism, are spawn of this most basic form of injustice – discrimination based on rank, which has given rise to all other isms.  Low rank – which manifests as weakness, vulnerability and the absence of power – marks people for abuse in much the same way that race, religion, gender and sexual orientation have long done.  Although far more pervasive, rankism may be harder to confront, for there are no obvious differences in persons, i.e. gender or skin color, to mark its victims.

In truth, as Robert W. Fuller eloquently demonstrates in Somebodies and Nobodies, nearly everyone has been a victim of rankism at one time or another in their life.  Each one of us knows what it feels like to be a “nobody” from some experience at home, at play, in school or work or in some social situation.  In the off chance that one’s own personal dignity has never been violated, we have surely witnessed some instance of  rankism that made us feel uncomfortable or perhaps we have been guilty of  “pulling rank” on someone ourselves.  When an individual gains some measure of power, he/she becomes a “somebody.”  When that somebody then impugns the natural human dignity of anyone below them in rank, rankism has occurred.  In other words, rank itself is not the problem any more than gender or race are the problem; it’s the abuse of rank that is the problem.

Fuller goes to considerable length to explain the need for rank and the legitimate uses of rank versus the abuses of rank and why rank matters in any organization from the family to the international community.  “Within each niche where it has been earned, rank has proven utility, legitimacy, and deserves our respect.”  There follows a detailed analysis of the toll rank abuse takes on personal relationships, productivity, learning, leadership and spirit.  

He explores the human hunger for recognition as identity food and the disorders that can manifest when this need is not met.  “Chronic recognition deficiencies can culminate in recognition disorders (analogous to eating disorders) that are so severe, they take the form of aggressive behavior- even war and genocide.  And once the tables are turned and former oppressors seen as “nobodies,” consciences are disengaged and anything goes.  A simple test for telling if a group of people is in the grip of evil is whether the dignity of people outside the group is completely disregarded.  Equally as dangerous as the much discussed gap between the rich and the poor is the dignity-indignity gap.” 

A closer look at Somebodies and Nobodies reveals that “recognition is not about whether we are a somebody or a nobody, but rather about whether we feel we’re taken for a somebody or a nobody.  The willingness of others to acknowledge us is a measure of their respect.  Unrecognized, we feel rejected; we’re cast as non-persons, pawns in other peoples’ employ.  Recognized, we count, we matter, we may even find ourselves in charge.”

Screenwriter Lowell Ganz (with Babaloo Mandel), Hollywood screenwriters, are credited with saying, “Nobody in America wants to be a nobody.  As a nation, as a society, we’re supposed to get somewhere.  It’s not ‘Well, my grandfather was a carpenter, my father was a carpenter and I’ll be a carpenter.’  That’s very European.  Here, everybody is supposed to reach for the brass ring.  God forbid you fail.”   Fuller explains this hunger for recognition in considerable length in a segment entitled “Up and Down the Status Ladder,” which leads unerringly to a study of “The Somebody Mystique” and the fascination in our culture with those of genius, celebrity, fame and success. 

This examination of how we’ve gotten to where we are paves the way for Fuller to present some suggestions for beginning “The Quest for Dignity.”  Any problem must be identified if it is to be understood and overcome.  Thus “rankism” is the name given to abuse of power and discrimination based on rank.  I found the section “Beyond Political Correctness” particularly insightful, wherein Fuller observes, “If moral instruction is to take hold, it must be given in a way that honors the dignity of learner and teacher alike.  Delivered with the slightest whiff of patronization, it is doomed to failure.  You can’t overcome rankism with rankism.” 

Fuller sees “an unheralded, unnamed revolution...unfolding in our midst.  Everywhere, people are becoming less willing to put up with disrespect.  And, like all revolutions, this one is about the distribution of power.”  In this case it is about the relative power of the individual and he calls it “A Dignitarian Movement.”  “The full democratic vision [of real equality for all] will remain unrealized until its motivating principle – circumscribing rank – is applied to the social institutions that shape our lives on a daily basis,” or, stated another way, until our homes and interpersonal relationships, our schools, churches, health providers and business enterprises democratize authority.

Like any grass roots revolution, it begins with the individual’s willingness and ability to win respect and safeguard personal dignity and extend that consideration to the next person.  “At first mention, the notion of Nobodies’ Liberation sounds like a joke” Fuller says.  “It appears naive and utopian to imagine that nobodies might someday join together as a group and move the world to respect their dignity.  The histories of the black and women’s movements suggest, however, that what begins in the hearts of a few as an intimation of fairness and justice can become social reality within generations.”

“One new idea is needed to fuel this movement: that discrimination based on power disparities is no more justified than that based on differences in race or gender.  One new word can ignite it: ‘rankism.’”