Loud Mouth

Sometimes it’s fun to state the obvious: You know, like saying I’m a loud mouth. In case you missed that: I’m a loud mouth.

The fact is I have a lot to say. I can’t help it. I’ve always had something to say about everything and I’ve never been able to keep my mouth shut. There are very few people who truly understand my motives and intent with my loud-mouth-ness, but those few who get it know that while I have opinions about everything, and freely express them, I don’t expect or even want everyone to agree with me. But that’s a complicated matter to explain, so I’ll just leave it at that.

What I really want to share here is this: I was recently rifling through files on my computer, in search of something (I now have no idea what it was—got sidetracked—ADD anyone?). In the process, I came across some documentation of my family history that I hadn’t thought about for a while, and I was reminded that I come from a long line of loud mouths. It’s in my blood, so you must forgive me. I’ll never again try to fight it. Instead, I will fully embrace it. It is part of me, it is part of my family, my history, my heritage if you will.

Floyd Ramp, my great-grandfather, was imprisoned for being a loud mouth. [Let’s hope it never comes to that for me!] He was a loud mouth with socialist/communist and anti-war beliefs, and he lived during a time when it wasn’t allowed to be a dissenter. He was put in prison for giving an anti-war speech to a group of soldiers. Following is the text of something he wrote while in prison, on a length of toilet tissue. I get weepy every time I read this, but there is something about the words, "on a length of toilet tissue" that really hit me. He had something to say and the fact that he had nothing to write on other than toilet paper would not stop him from doing so.

March 6, 1918: Never to see the sun come up or go down for 2 long years. In a cage, behind great gray stone walls—shut in from the beauties of a sunset, denied the inspiration of a glorious sunrise—could anything be more wrong? When the days are nice we are out on the bank with our picks and shovels, our bars and sledges, our cars and—I must not forget—our guard, too. But at evening when everything is so soft, so soothing, and at the same time so glorious, we are behind the iron bars.

The island is beautiful I know—I often look off across the little fields to the rolling hills behind, partially covered with timber, and think how I would like to wander out there and explore the rest of the island. I know that when the warm sun comes and the flowers are blooming there, my desire to go will be so much stronger. We are always kept behind the bars and the iron gate—the great high fence with its barbed wire.

Yes, we are always watched—sharp eyes and hard looks are always greeting us and that in itself makes us feel guilty. Never a smile—not one expression of sympathy—no manifestation of friendliness is ever our greeting. Always the cold, hard expressions and of course we grow to avoid even looking at our keepers. I sometimes wonder if they are really like they look or whether they are just carrying out their orders. Let us hope it is the latter.

I watch the gulls on the sound—they have freedom. The mud-hens float on the smooth surface, finding their meals, quietly and in peace. Sometimes the porpoises play in the sun out there a mile away—all seem so happy, so free from care; but we, who are in our “pen.” Penned up, away from the world, either being punished or striving to reform ourselves.

As I have said, this great nation, the greatest in the world, who is fighting for democracy with all their might, has failed to solve this simple problem of prisons. I am sometimes forced to wonder whether they are really in earnest about democracy. -Floyd Ramp

[There is a whole collection of documents called the “Floyd Ramp papers” housed at the University of Oregon that I plan to go through someday. For now, I’ve only located two documents on the web. Here’s a link to the above document, and one more, written after he was out of prison: "Workers, Free Yourselves!"]

I only knew this man as a young child, before he died at the age of 101. Yes, that’s correct, 101. Sorry to break it to you, but if my genetic history is any indicator of my future, this loud mouth is going to be around for a long time. So don’t expect me shut it any time soon. I’m a loud mouth, and proud of it. Thanks for reminding me, Floyd Ramp, my great-grandfather.