Thinking Out Loud - Living With Compassion and Hope

"Always Think Out Loud"

"The words inside your head, the ones you do not speak, will often lead you astray.  They are like secrets - and unspoken thoughts sometimes are dark and terrible things.  If you think out loud, soon these bad thoughts will rarely appear."

"You see, shameful, evil or cruel thoughts will flee from the light of day... and if you think out loud they will lose their power over you.  Remember this always:  They are not real, they are stray thoughts, and they often create confusion, distraction  and bad decisions."

When I was nine years old, my greatest - perhaps my first teacher (besides my blessed Mother) was my Uncle, Earnest J. Nesius.

Born on a 40 acre hardscrabble farm in Indiana about thirty-five miles North of Lafayette, his Father my Grandpa John Nesius (I was his namesake) had seven children, who were raised on rich but very difficult Indiana farm land, swampy, with brush and sand dunes, thick with mosquitoes and swept by constant winds.  They grew wonderful crops, on the parts of the farm they could drain well enough to avoid the inevitable heavy rains.



My Great-Grandfather slaved like an Alabama mule, and he and his three brothers each claimed a 40 acre section - contiguous land, and then as the law required, first built 12X14 rough wood shacks from timber hewn in stinking, mud filled sawpits, and began clearing the
massive, 50, 60 foot tall old-growth hardwood that covered what had been a great swamp from Indiana deep into Illinois South of Chicago.

They were 12 miles in both directions from the nearest small communities - Remington to the South, Rensellaer to the North.  Rensellear was protestant, wealthy by the standards of the day.







Remington was for the outcasts of Klan-Indiana, the Catholics, the few remaining people with red Indian blood, and a few blacks who worked shoveling waste in the large, stinking slaughterhouse that still rides the rails South of town only a few blocks from the beautiful stone-and-brick Catholic church my people helped build.


Earnest Nesius was a bright, strong, tall young man - and realizing that education mattered, he worked hard, so very hard, and completed a 4-H project (similar to a modern high-school science project) on his lifelong interest, agriculture and crop husbandry.

Faculty, Purdue School of Agriculture Economics, 1930

Earnest Nesius won that contest locally, and then the State contest that followed.  His reward was a
scholarship to Purdue University, in Lafayette - only 50 miles from the home place.

Uncle Ernie went on to obtain an advanced degree, and then was invited to take his PhD at the University of Iowa.  By then, due to his example and efforts, four of his seven brothers and sisters had also completed college educations.

Uncle Ernie's Farm Work Coat

Not bad - considering Grandpa in 1934 had to slaughter his oldest cow in July, then tan the hides, and make
shoes for the kids...  because you had to wear shoes to school.

This man, this leader - this Teacher, was both my Uncle, and my lifelong friend.  With his every breath he spoke in kindness, in compassion, and with a broad knowledge of nature and the farms and agricultural economies he so dearly loved.

If you visit Morgantown West Virginia, you will see his name, in 20 inch-tall letters - on a large brick building at the University of West Virginia.  The "Earnest J. Nesius School of Agriculture."

His awards, honors and degrees, both genuine and honorary, would fill a page.

Uncle Ernie and Me

But he always had time for a child.

I was that child that hot Summer's day in 1969, a troubled kid really, what nowadays would be labelled ADHD.  I was adopted, a second adoption for my parents - and I had significant birth defects.... but you see, like her brother, my Mom was a teacher.

When I entered first grade, I was reading at the eighth grade level.  Not bad for a lonely kid with braces on his legs and attention/learning disabilities.

Earnest J. Nesius, With Prominent Leaders of Morgantown

What I loved the most, what really informed, lifted and defined my family, my entire family on both sides, was learning.  We love to learn.  To teach, one must first be a hungry, yearning mind - a true learner.  Only those who can, indeed must learn, become great teachers.

Uncle Ernie walked down the gravel road with me alone that day, as he always seemed to find time for me.  I didn't know then it was because he knew I needed extra attention - I just loved my Uncle Ernie.

In that slow, soft clear and pleasant voice, that perfect Hoosier voice, he told me then....

"John, listen to me now."  "Always think out loud."

Always think out loud.

Uncle Ernie told me that if you think out loud, it will discipline your thoughts, fill your mind with kindness, with compassion, with good humor and the need to pause your thoughts to listen.  That last part, is HARD.

I'm fifty-eight years old, and to this Day I have trouble with listening.

He then went on to tell me, "The words inside your head, the ones you do not speak, will often lead you astray.  They are like secrets - and unspoken thoughts sometimes are dark and terrible things.  If you think out loud, soon these bad thoughts will rarely appear."

"You see, shameful, evil or cruel thoughts will flee from the light of day... and if you think out loud they will lose their power over you.  Remember this always:  They are not real, they are stray thoughts, and they often create confusion, distraction  and bad decisions."

I forgot this lesson for a while, as I got degrees and honors, awards and money, and steadily climbed the ladder of American "success".   I climbed so fast and kept so many secrets that along the way I lost my family, I lost my reputation, I lost my way - and I damn near lost my life.

Pendleton Penitentiary, Indiana

Two years of homelessness following a serious head-injury accident and an ugly, terrible Catholic divorce laid me low.  In prison for stealing a bus (and keeping it), I got a letter from Uncle Ernie.

"Dear John" he wrote, "I can only assume from the address on this letter, that you have had difficulty in your life, and you have erred."  (Erred is an old word, that means seriously f*cked up)

In that letter he reminded me of that long Summer afternoon, of that walk, and that perhaps it could be assumed that I forgotten that very important lesson.

"Always think out loud."

Indeed, for years, perhaps for a dozen or more years, I had forgotten that.

So - I began again.

I now am writing this from the comfortable office I maintain in my Father's house - which I inherited.  Ernie, indeed all the people of his generation, are now long gone.  I am the old man now.

This house, this mind of mine, the use that I am to others, my abilities, my opportunities to teach and to learn, all spring from that hot Summer's day.

Think out loud.  It may not make you popular, but your life will be so abundant with friendships, opportunites to learn and to teach, the chance to help others, and most importantly - a relationship with Yourself, you will never look back.

Always Think Out Loud  

About the New Hope Project (click link)

Why a Free and Public Worldwide Internet Matters - A History Lesson

From the Antikythera mechanism to the Dead Sea Scrolls, it takes only a passing knowledge of history to realize that ideas=power, and the powerful often try to destroy or suppress ideas.  From the original discovery of pi to the glassmaking secrets of ancient Rome, we have historical proof that time and again, knowledge is destroyed or sharply restricted by the ruling elite.

Only the invention of moveable type allowed the 'common man' to rise out of the ashes of the Dark Ages, because in the centuries prior to Gutenberg's bible the printed word and the thoughts that could be transmitted in books were held hostage by Kings and Popes.

This infographic tells only part of the story.  "Read it and weep" is a trite phrase, but it applies here.  Click on the underlined link to see full size:

CLICK HERE:  INFOGRAPHIC: Information Destruction through History

Now we watch in horror as corporation after corporation tries to pry open the gates and destroy the free and open internet.  From hundreds of millions of DMCA takedown notices without trial or appeal to the most recent assault called 'Pay for Play', the rich corporations and wealthy individuals who run this world are fighting and fighting hard to burn the library and shutter the doors.

People talk about Genghis Khan, Hitler's holocaust or the blood-drenched streets of the Inquisition as mankind's darkest hours.  I disagree.  It is my belief that the darkest hour in human history was the burning of the great library in Alexadria 40 years before the birth of Christ.

Will future generations ask, "Why did they not act?" (To protect the free, open and fair internet).

Two days ago, the governing body in the United States that controls regulations relating to internet access, repealed rules that prevented Internet Service Providers (the access points for all of us) from metering, restricting, censoring and outright blocking websites - without oversight, without standards, without limitations.

This is not a United States issue - this grotesque, profit-driven and political-control driven change has the potential to harm all people around the globe, stifle political discourse, isolate the poor from information and opportunity, and destroy this magnificent "library of man" called the internet.

.

I'm fairly confident that no human being alive right now wants that to be the historical legacy of this period in human history - the problem is that corporations are soulless beasts who give not a damn for human needs or cultural heritage.

Continue Reading - What is the New Hope Project?

Donald Trump, Roy Moore, and $23 Cigarettes (Public Health and Money)

Today I was reflecting on and worrying about the possibility that a verified child molester, a person who was banned from his local mall, a person who harassed schoolgirls while they were in class, might be elected to the United States Senate, which is the highest legislative office in the United States.

These Men and Women wield incredible power here in the United States, and their office has always stood for wisdom, integrity, and the guiding hand of the American Elite - very much similar to the British House of Lords vs the House of Commons.

But now we have Donald Trump, and a verified child molester, both men who have flaunted and/or been confirmed beyond a reasonable doubt as people who assault vulnerable young women.

How can this happen?  Why does this happen?  The answer?  $23.00 cigarettes.

You see, in 2016, the White House was essentially purchased for Donald Trump and Michael Pence, both men who have a lifetime of misogyny (hatred of women), legislative incompetence, inexperience or worse - personal records of selfishness, arrogance and the worst kind of racist, Plutocratic (rule by the rich) records in both their personal and professional lives.

Why did they get elected? Well, frankly, a lot of it was tobacco money. (click to linked article)

That link is to an article by an independent, international newspaper, the London's Guardian.  A source of truth and impeccable, unimpeachable true journalism for generations.
Tobacco companies tighten hold on Washington under Trump

Top White House figures – including the vice-president and health secretary – have deep ties to an industry whose donations began pouring in on day one

What does this have to do with $23 cigarettes?  In a word, Australia.

In 2004, Australia passed a law that banned all tobacco advertising, and required that each pack of cigarettes have a photograph of either a diseased lung or diseased rotting teeth and gums.  No branding was allowed, just a small-font identification of brand on the base of the pack.

The reason for this, is their lawmakers after decades of resistance from corporate interests, responded to these facts.  This is 2017 data from the World Health Organization.

Tobacco

Fact sheet
Updated May 2017

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Key facts

• Tobacco kills up to half of its users.
• Tobacco kills more than 7 million people each year. More than 6 million of those deaths are the result of direct tobacco use while around 890 000 are the result of non-smokers being exposed to second-hand smoke.
• Nearly 80% of the world's more than 1 billion smokers live in low- and middle-income countries.

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Leading cause of death, illness and impoverishment

The tobacco epidemic is one of the biggest public health threats the world has ever faced, killing more than 7 million people a year. More than 6 million of those deaths are the result of direct tobacco use while around 890 000 are the result of non-smokers being exposed to second-hand smoke.

Nearly 80% of the more than 1 billion smokers worldwide live in low- and middle-income countries, where the burden of tobacco-related illness and death is heaviest.

Tobacco users who die prematurely deprive their families of income, raise the cost of health care and hinder economic development.

In some countries, children from poor households are frequently employed in tobacco farming to provide family income. These children are especially vulnerable to "green tobacco sickness", which is caused by the nicotine that is absorbed through the skin from the handling of wet tobacco leaves.

Here is the link, if you wish to read more.

In response to this real and present danger, incredible social and economic cost, and the human hardships deliberately created by the sale, manufacture and for-profit industries that represent "big tobacco" worldwide, Australia chose to finally take action.  

The punitive taxes they established which (and this is critically important) included provisions forbidding the tobacco companies from raising prices to adjust for reduced demand, or take advantage of these taxes, raised the cost of cigarettes to an adjusted cost of $23 US per package of 20 cigarettes.

Well, in response, the tobacco companies, based in Europe, the UK and primarily, these United States of America, instantly moved all corporate operations to Hong Kong, and then filed suit in international court for restraint of trade.

It is estimated their legal team contained between 1200 and 4000 full-time attorneys, plus associated staff.

After over a decade of fighting these legal challenges, Australia - at a cost of nearly $700,000,000 - after that colossal waste of money, they were able to exercise their national sovereignty.  

You see, while "big tobacco" does lose some product sales due to high per-package prices, they have adjusted this by correspondingly and immediately raising their per-package profit. 

But - and this is critical - both the American Democratic Party and especially Hillary Clinton declared that they wanted to also take on the industry of death that is tobacco. 

So - big tobacco (in America's Wide-Open and completely corrupted political system) poured literally billions of dollars into being damn sure that Donald Trump and Michael Pence, their loyal minions, got elected.

Now they have poured an estimated 3 million dollars into interim campaigns to keep Democrats away from holding office - so they can continue to sell death to children.

To children.

You see, in 2017 in Australia, only 2% of children under 18 smoke - a 84% decline since the new prices and pack art laws took effect.

11% of American children smoke.

16% of European children smoke.

26% - 35% of children in the poorest countries smoke.

Because...  of evil wealthy men and women, and nameless, faceless, soulless corporations.  Immortal corporations - companies that can trace their roots to the genocide that accompanied the original importation of tobacco from the Americas during the Spanish conquests.

For Shame.

I'm not including links for the bottom half of this article, because if you are reading this, you have Google.  I hope - indeed I pray that you will try to catch me in a lie or find a flaw in this article.

My name is John Edward Hubertz, and my Dad smoked.  Three of my four housemates smoke, and lately, perhaps due to their secondhand smoke, I'm up to about four cigarettes a day.

Now please excuse me, while I take a smoke break.

Continue Reading - About the New Hope Project and other Posts

Unity versus Division, by H.I.M. Haile Selassie

Published by the New Hope Project - click here to learn more.

The Day My Father Met Malcolm X (contains previously unpublished quote)

"The next time we have to rise up, it isn't going to be about the color of your skin, but about the color of your money."  Malcolm X, Detroit Michigan, February 13, 1965

Malcolm X and Reverend Martin Luther King, 1965

My name is John Hubertz - my father was Carl Hubertz, of Lafayette Indiana.

Be aware - this is not a short story, but it is an important story.  

My dad walked into World War II a private, a boy with few prospects, just an ordinary young man from Indiana.  Dad had his High School diploma, average grades, limited ambition, and his pre-war career was humble.  Before the war my father drove a bread truck just like this one.

Up at 4:00 AM.  Dad always loved mornings.

Bread Truck and Driver, 1941

The Army needed truck drivers, and had no time to train 17 million men... so naturally, my Father was given perfunctory training, quickly promoted to corporal, and he was sent to drive Army trucks, at Fort Leavenworth, in Kansas.

Then something happened. Something important.  Something that changed Carl Hubertz' life.

Just as today, before and during WWII, there was very limited upward mobility.  The spectacular economies of the 1950s and 60s were an anomaly caused by US prosperity immediately following the war.

Yes, during the 50s and 60s rapid growth, strong unions and the spirit of equality that grew from a country united (rich and poor) to fight a common enemy created real economic prosperity for all.

Before the war?  Not so much.  The rich were rich, and the poor stayed poor.

During WWII, college graduates and West Pointers were officers, and everyone else remained enlisted.  Only rarely - and then only through the necessities of battlefield casualties and battlefield promotions, were men who did not meet this standard promoted into the officer ranks.  The Army reflected human society, which historically has been divided into two distinct social classes - the "haves and the have-nots" as my Dad used to say.

The son of a janitor, Carl Hubertz was definitely a have-not.  Yet my Father, Carl Hubertz, walked out of that war a Captain, an officer, a gentleman - indeed, he was a multiply decorated field combat officer in the Pacific theater.

How did this happen?  Dad was not a genius or a savant, Dad was just another enlisted soldier, just a cog in the mighty machine - a nobody, one of a million identical corporals doing a million humble jobs.  My Dad.

But something happened.  You see suddenly, there was the negro problem.

The Tuskegee Program was not just the air force.  Roosevelt and his blessed wife Eleanor ordered the officer ranks be opened up to ALL soldiers, regardless of race - and for the first time, this opportunity was by specific mandate extended to black Americans, and this applied to every branch of the armed services of the United States.

In the Army though, the existing officers, well - they rebelled.  NO - not nigger officers... that was just too much to stomach.

The white officers refused to participate - and all of them, every Goddamn one of them, deliberately avoided assignment to teach blacks to lead.

US Army officers and recruits, 1941

So - for a brief moment the Generals who were obligated to follow Roosevelt's orders, they decided "Oh what the hell" - and they for a few weeks opened the officer candidate program to any enlisted man or woman - if they would agree to teach black men to be officers.

My Dad - My blessed wonderful Father, My Father volunteered instantly.  He didn't have to think, he didn't have to hesitate.

Two months later he was leading and training a platoon of African-American officer candidates in Georgia.



Dad's brand new lieutenant's uniform itched in the blazing hot sun.  He was an officer - leading the men he chose to lead.

Later in the war, my Dad was promoted and transferred to the Pacific Theater - a rare honor for a non West-Point officer with no college education.  He was in combat, commanding Army anti-aircraft batteries during MacArthur's relentless march toward the Japanese mainland.

Eventually Dad found himself commanding all the anti-aircraft batteries emplaced on the islands of Iwo Jima - and he was charged with protecting the landing forces from wave after wave of
Japanese planes - as Iwo Jima was within range of planes from mainland Japan.

The numbers were staggering...  1000, 1200, even 1600 enemy planes at once.

During the landing and even after the island was taken, they attacked American forces, usually twice, sometimes three times a day.  Night raids were just as persistent.




These attacks often included hundreds of the dreaded 'smart bomb' kamikaze suicide planes.

My father's job was to shoot planes out of the sky.  It is impossible to imagine what his men endured.  The
noise, the relentless firing of the rapid-fire AA batteries - the smell, the smoke, the fear and the appalling conditions of fighting a mechanized war in jungle conditions, or worse - on the huge swaths of land laid barren by a month of ceaseless bombardment before during and after the main battle.  Dad didn't talk about it much, but he did say that often the sky was dark with aircraft and the smoke of exploding shells.

|Those rapid-fire guns got so hot in the broiling heat the barrels had to be constantly cooled with foul, stinking oil and water to prevent them from deforming from the heat and causing the gun to explode - killing the gun crew.

Gun emplacements were dug in all over the island, and the filthy water and waste oil in those pits, plus the heat and the environmental conditions would chew through a pair of leather boots in a week.  A lot of men were permanently disabled from trenchfoot due to working 18 hours a day knee-deep in mud.

Those guns fired hundreds of thousands of AA rounds a day, probably over a million during the Iwo Jima battle alone.  160,000 casualties, and I have a photo of my father, malaria thin, naked to the waist, wearing a pencil mustache and standing next to a pile of brass (expended ammo) as tall as a house.

So, that was what my Father did in the war.  He shot down planes.  Lots and lots of planes.

That isn't the real story - because the real story here, is not what he did, but exactly WHY my Dad chose to become an officer.  What made an Indiana boy volunteer for such a thankless task as teaching negroes to be officers?  Indiana in 1941 was the heart of "Klan Kountry" after all - the national Klan was based here, and for decades Klan governors had ruled and Klansmen freely roamed the halls of power in Indianapolis.

Indiana was well known among people of color as having "sunset" communities - places where you would be beaten or even killed for daring to try to stay the night, if your skin wasn't white.  That was Indiana then, and honestly - if you look at Vice President Mike Pence's legislative priorities and record as Indiana governor, it is Indiana now.

Charlottesville Virginia, October, 2017

One thing the Trump presidency, the Republican majority, the new "tax plan" and certainly the appalling truth of Virginia torch march taught us - racial hatred is alive and well in the United States in 2017.

That is the reason this article is being published now.  This story must be told.







So what did make my Dad volunteer to lead blacks into the officer ranks of the US Army?

Well, for at least the last 300 years, my entire family, both sides - you see, we are Roman Catholic.  My Dad's father, the blessed Edward Hubertz, even worked at the Cathedral Catholic school in Lafayette Indiana.


He was a janitor.  Just a janitor.  He had built their humble home from found materials - built it himself, at the crest of a ridge in West Lafayette, Indiana.  29 McGrath Avenue, on
land deemed worthless as it was up a steep slope from the Cathedral Church and was overshadowed by the Bishop's residence on Lafayette's mansion row...  but of course, the janitor has to be close, in case there was a leak or an accident at the Cathedral school.

And in 1933, the Ku Klux Klan burned a cross in my Grandfather's front yard, and broke all their windows, and screamed and drank and vandalized the car.   They burned a cross in my Grandfather's yard.

What was Grandpa's crime?  Being Catholic - and the fact that Catholic schools in Klan Indiana before WWII allowed black students to come to Catholic Schools - and by Jim Crow tradition and Klan law (the Indiana Governor was Klan for decades) the Klan forbid blacks to attend school after grade six.  Period.

But not the Catholics.  So the black young men and women, the brave ones, the ones whose parents could pay the fee, make the sacrifice and take the risk, came to Catholic school.

Where my blessed Grandfather was the janitor.

So, because of this, my Dad always knew people of color, because he knew black kids from school.

Stokely Carmichael with Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.

I'm not sure of the details, but at some point, before Iwo Jima, Dad had leave from the Army and visited New York, and while their he befriended a Taxi Driver named Adolf (Adolphus) Carmichael.

For some reason, Dad and Mr. Carmichael became friends.  Probably because Adolphus Carmichael was from Trinidad - and Dad always wanted to travel.  When Adolphus died at age 40 and left behind a wife and young son, Dad got in touch with the young man.  His name was Stokely Carmichael, who was an infant in the early 40s when Dad was in New York.

Dad encouraged Stokely and each year would send and receive several letters - he loved the fact the young man got an education, something Dad never accomplished.  Stokely even visited us once when I was little, and I remember he was very tall.

Stokely Carmichael and Julian Bond, year unknown

Yes, he was the same Stokely Carmichael who became Malcolm X's friend, and later became Martin Luther King's lieutenant, who became a famous black advocate and educator, and who originally had fully embraced non-violence.  In the late 60s, after the death of Doctor King, Stokely joined the Nation of Islam, and abandoned the path of peace.  You see, the day they shot Reverend Martin Luther King in Memphis.  Stokely Carmichael was there - about two feet away.

Then as now, the Nation of Islam/Black Muslim faith is a faith of action, of black vs. white, of an absolute commitment to self-defense, and an open challenge to the power struggle of white prejudice and law enforcement vs. civil rights.  The Nation of Islam stood tall during those dark early days of the American battle for civil rights, and they vowed to respond to violence with resistance, and force with force.

Stokely had changed, and so did his name.  His new name was Kwame Ture.

Yet through it all, he still had a white friend - a former Army officer and friend of his father - a man named Carl Hubertz.  In 1965, Dad and our family lived in Fort Wayne.  Stokely Carmichael called Dad, and asked if he wanted to travel to Detroit to meet someone important.  Dad said yes.

So one cold, windy saturday in February - February 13, 1965, my Father got in his white 1963 Chevrolet Impala and drove the winding two-lane road that was old US 24 from Fort Wayne to Toledo, then rolled into Detroit on the brand-new I-75.  He told me about the amazing raised section over River Rouge - an 8 mile stretch of highway more than 100 feet in the air.

He got there safe - and I even have somewhere his  hotel receipt from the Cadillac tower hotel downtown.  He got there just in time for dinner, and he shucked his Brooks Brother's wool coat, carefully took off his Dobbs Fifth Avenue black fedora, and joined Stokely and Malcolm X at the small dining table in Stokely's room.  In 1965, black men were not exactly welcome in nice restaurants, even in Detroit.  Oh, they could be served, it wasn't Alabama - but they would suffer the indignity of a table in the back, near the kitchen and the bathroom doors.

Frank's Fedora

About that Dobbs black fedora.  Dad got that in New York during the war.  We still have it, and I'm holding that hat right now - and looking at the receipt from the bottom of the hatbox - an $28 hat. 

I love this hat - my Dad, an Indiana kid, in the big city, buying a hat.  You could buy a good running older used car in 1943 for $30. My Dad had style.

So here is Dad, sitting at a small table in a stuffy hotel room with Stokely Carmichael, eating a meal with Malcolm X.  The story is that after Stokely finished his meal, he excused himself and went into the next room to make a phone call.  I presume that Dad's cigarette smoke filled the air.

Malcolm X then looked at my Dad - and they did not speak.  Malcolm X... just looking at this hoosier man named Carl Hubertz, the time seemed to drag, and according to Dad, at that moment, he never felt so white in his life.

Then, Malcolm removed his glasses and cleaned them carefully.  Malcolm X looked tired. Silence filled the room.  Upon Stokely's return from his call Dad rose to leave - it was late, and he had to get to Mass and drive home in the morning.

So there stood these two tall, serious, dignified black men, showing my Father to the door.  Stokely Carmichael and Malcolm X,  and my Dad.  Malcolm X then spoke directly to my father for the first and only time.

"Carl, the next time we have to rise up, it won't be about the color of your skin, but about the color of your money."

Truer words - more prophetic words, have never been spoken.  My Dad repeated that story to me at least 10 times, the first time being after the election of Ronald Reagan, when he broke the unions and announced trickle-down economics.  Dad was appalled - because he voted for Reagan.  He told me that the only thing he ever saw trickle down was something that his Dad had to mop up in the bathroom.

Stokely Carmichael and Martin Luther King, 1967

Dad believed in the words of Malcolm X - and he still respected and supported his friend's son, Stokely Carmichael.  Even after the death of Doctor King, and Stokely became Nation of Islam and radicalized and changed his name to Kwame Ture, Dad still spoke of him with pride.

I met Stokely Carmichael ne Kwame Ture myself, in 1986.  I was in graduate school at Miami of Ohio, and as the President of the Graduate Student Council I had gotten Dad to invite him to come speak at our campus.

"Do what I say, and Give me your Money!"

I handed him the check we had prepared, for $3200.  We had dinner at the Student Union, and when I
asked that tall angry man what the title was of his speech, he replied "Why I Hate White People."  I think he was kidding, but that was a pretty good summary of the speech.

I loved that guy.  As my Dad would say, "He called a spade a spade."

Well, Dad died in 2001 - and this little story of equality, racism and strength of character has never before been told.  But I am my Father's son - and just as he was appalled by Reagan, I stood in horror watching my fellow citizens here in Indiana, vote for Trump/Pence.

Dad would have called Trump and Pence a couple of selfish rich men, and he would have labelled Mike Pence exactly what he is and always has been.  Pence, a misogynistic racist, another example of Klan Indiana, rising up from the filth of racism and elitism like a snake in a nursery school...  just as evil, just as dangerous, and just as horrible.

Dad would have told me (because I am a writer), he would have told me that right now is the time, the time to tell my his story - and for me to take that opportunity to once again let Brother Malcolm's clean, clear voice of truth, his angry voice of honor, dignity and strength - time for his voice to once again ring out and be HEARD in Donald Trump's America.

My Dad was a patriot.  Every day he and I would raise the flag in the morning, and fold it at sunset.  Every single day.  And each and every day, for 60 years, he and Mom would go to Mass at Saint Henry's church - and I am writing this sitting in the large home he built for us a block from that church, where I lived, where I attended school   We are Catholic.

We are Catholic, and we are Proud to respect, honor and know men like Stokely Carmichael, Malcolm X, and countless other black friends and neighbors.  Our neighborhood changed in the 1970s, it is now mixed, with at least 50% of our neighbors now african american.  Dad and Mom never even considered selling and moving to white territory on the traffic cluttered North Side of this town.

Because you see, since he was a boy, Dad knew black people as People.  And while he was not an educated man, Dad knew that negroes had changed and molded and created his success, his character, and his wealth.

Negroes changed the arc of my Dad's life, and thus changed my life, and the life of my children.  Negroes set my Dad's feet on a path that quite literally, is still our family's path - because I got that education my Father so valued and hoped for, and I am not a racist, and neither are my daughters.

Dad broke free of poverty and prejudice thanks to becoming an officer during the war.  My eldest daughter Elizabeth Hubertz graduated from Wellesley College in Boston, and my youngest, Lori Hubertz, not only followed me to get a Purdue degree, she went ROTC, and like her Grandfather is now an officer in the United States Army.  You see, that is what it means to be the children of Carl Hubertz - the bread truck driver who became an officer and a gentleman.

Well, the years have passed as they always do - and after long lives, Mom and Dad died.  I was there, because I had returned to Fort Wayne due to an accident, disability, and the kind of shame and pain that only a divorced Catholic will ever know.

I live to this day in the house Dad built for us, and it is a large home, and I have too many treasures, and like most Americans I am too fat, too rich, and too ignorant of the harsh realities of the world.  

2816 Palisade Drive, Fort Wayne, Indiana

But if my home was on fire - I would run into the flames, to save my most precious possession - to save that one thing that defines me, that defined my Dad, and that has made my life possible.

It is my Dad's high school yearbook  In that book, a few years after my Dad died in November, 2001 - I learned who my Dad really was, and Why.  You see, I discovered he was not a popular boy.  There are only two signatures in his yearbook.

Helen Burkhardt signed it, and a young man named William Lamberson.  Apparently, William Lamberson was my father's friend - maybe his closest friend.  You see, William Lamberson, was black.

Who and what I am, my wonderful education my faith, the New Hope faith, all my money, this huge home, my two beautiful tall strong daughters with their college diplomas - all exist because of a young black man, named William Lamberson.

I wonder what William would say about the United States of America, in 2017?

Read More - About the New Hope Project

Notes on Loving and Being Loved

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Notes on Loving and Being Loved - A Human Tragedy

The first part of this article is an update.  To read the original article written a few weeks after my marriage, skip to the title line below.

Update - 2017.  I wrote this article about love, and loss, in 2009. In fact, it was the first thing I published in my journey of faith that resulted in the New Hope faith.

Our new faith – our doctrine, has grown in 2017 from 32 people, to over 10,000 worldwide.  20 countries, 11 languages.  Our new faith…  and this article was the beginning.  An article about life and death.

You see my friends – my brothers and sisters, you never got to know Judy – because In 2015, in October, my new wife, the inspiration for this article... died.  

My beloved wife Judy Ann Jones-Hubertz caught a cancer, and she died 7 months later.  She died as she lived - bravely, and deeply hurting, but she never would accept or run from pain.

She had a sore hip, and the diagnosis was terminal lung cancer, already spreading through her bones and into her brain. 

She had a sore hip.

And she is dead - and I nearly died also.  I accepted this, and gave most of my money to my children, mortgatged my home and ran up all my credit cards.  I got drunk a few times, cried a few times, and waited to die.  

But - I live on, it has been three years, and I lived.  Not through any fault of my own - I tried to die, and was going to kill myself when it snowed here in Northeast Indiana...  it always snows.  

It never snowed.  For two terrible, awful winters, it never snowed more than an inch at a time in zip code 46806 in Fort Wayne, Indiana.  Look it up.

This spring, I did something I have never in my life done before.  I broke my promise and solemn vow to myself, and decided not to die.  I removed the kerosene heater and the comfortable chair from my tiny closet, and walked out into the world.

My writing project that was God’s mandate to me 41 years ago was finally finished.  And the New Hope Church was ready for the world.... not a new faith, but a doctrine of how and why we are alive, and how to live a life of faith, truth and glory.

How to perform miracles – each and every day of your life.

How to become a Savior – to answer the call to Apostleship that was Jesus’ mandate to all mankind, and to save the world.

A doctrine of truth – not a “religion”, we seek neither to convince nor convert.  Bring your own beliefs with you – we honor them and we honor you and your heritage.

And God came to me then, in the Spring, and spoke to me again - the same voice heard by Buddha and Jesus, Abraham and Moses, the voice that has guided my writing since I was just a boy so long ago.

And God said this - "John, Stop Waiting to be Perfect."

Authors Note:  This article was lost to the world, but somehow I came across it today.  The journey this article represents, is now complete.  I am home.  

Deacon John Hubertz at Fort Wayne Indiana, December, 2017

Notes on Loving and Being Loved - 

On June 11th, I lost my Blessed Mother to Dementia at age 92. This was a fairly early death for my family - many of us live to be 100 years old or beyond.  In September I married the hospice lady - a love story.  But, as middle-aged men tend to be "maudlin" (thinking of the past with fond sorrow), tonight over a whiskey sour (a drink), I began to think about Mom, and my new wife, and the future.  

Not always a good idea, but hey - I've shed a tear before and it didn't kill me.  I'm no spring chicken.

Why was I thinking about this, during the happiest yet saddest year of my life?  It was a TV show.  There was a character who was immortal - or almost.  He said, being alive for a long time is not always desirable...  and he was right.  That TV character spoke for my Mother in a way....

"To live a long life is a mixed blessing - for you are destined to watch everyone and everything pass away as your life goes on and on."

Tom Hank's character on the movie "The Green Mile" said essentially the same thing - a very touching scene.  

Here it is...  just listen.  "I am 108 years old..."  

My mother lived long - almost all the people she knew, her husband, her daughter (My sister Mary), and hundreds and hundreds of deeply loved people, places, jobs and moments all long past; dead, gone, turned to dust and cherished sadness of sweet memory.

A few days before my Father died, the twin towers fell.  Hundreds of citizens of Great Britain died in the ruins of those towers.  

Queen Elizabeth was already dealing with grief - in fact, a few days later, she gave a eulogy to the man who acted as her father while her dad, the King of England, was busy saving the world in the years before and during the war.

In that eulogy, the Queen, as she always does, was speaking to the world.

The Queen said her final goodbye to the man she so deeply loved, the man who helped raise her, her favorite Uncle, and yet this was just a few days after September 11th, 2001.  

But as the Queen of England she was speaking (as is her duty) not just to family and friends, but to the nation and indeed the world.  The September 11th tragedy made it more meaningful that every word be chosen to speak to sorrow, to acknowledge pain, to honor loss.

Queen Elizabeth wrote the speech herself.  She said then that just as each birth guarantees a death, to choose to live with vigor, to love, not just once and when young but as an ongoing commitment to life is a terrible sacrifice, but also an obligation.

To Love is to Lose - you cannot cling to this life, all things will pass - it is the condition of the human experience as we walk the river of time through birth, growth, life and eventually, death.

To Love is to Lose. But she said then, and as I strongly believe, that the only path of life, faith and hope is to take the risk, accept the pain and agonizing knowing, and to choose love.

On September 9th I married a wonderful woman - the hospice lady for my Mother, the widow Mrs. Judy A. Jones. I'm an older man... and know only too well my time with her will be limited by fate, health and the relentless ticking

of the clock. 

Here she is - she and I, at our wedding. It is a wonderful, strong and terrible love we share - knowing that the time and season of our years (we are both 50) is well past noon - and our days of life and love will someday come to an ending.

I simply thank God, reality, whatever it is that creates this moment, for giving me the great good fortune to meet her... and to once more and for perhaps the last time, choose love.

John Hubertz, Fort Wayne, Indiana, December 2009.

What is the New Hope Faith?

Why is New Hope a Doctrine, Not a Religion?

Why don't you ask for money donations?

Who are you, how dare you establish a new religion?