History On My Chin –
I am fairly surprised that I have a beard. All through the 1970s, I mourned my scraggly facial fuzz. But thanks to the era of Covid, I just let the fuzz grow until I bore a resemblance to Steve Bannon. Rather than scrape the whole thing off, I left a patch at the bottom of my chin. I kept it at a nominal size, using the beard shears. Then I just let the darn thing grow.
I now have a rather respectable four or five inches of white falling from my chin. My countenance resembles that of Civil War veterans in the 1920s. My father, Bill Moorman, never had such fortune and had to buy an “Honorary Beard” button to wear during the Kansas Centennial celebrations. My grandfather, E.O. Moorman, was facially naked and sported baldness on top. His father, William Henry Moorman, who stood 6’4” (6’6” in family lore), not only had a brisk brush descending down from his chin – he served in the Civil War.
Which, in one way, was to be expected. His parents were station masters on the Underground Railroad, hiding fugitive people in their basement and risking the wrath of their town. On the other hand, they lived in a community of Friends of Christ, which quietly approved of abolition. However, when William Henry chose to join the battle against this evil abomination, his neighbors were not exactly pleased. They were Quakers, and their pacifism ran through their whole existence. One is not just a Quaker because of beliefs or affirmations or even theological notions. A Quaker lives with a spark, a holy spark, a divine presence in the center of his or her being. A Quaker uses the words “Thee” and “Thou” to signify the personal and extraordinary relationships they have with everyone in their lives. For William Henry to choose to go and potentially harm other humans with such a spark of the divine was antithetical to their faith and their lives.
Yet he went on to become the flag bearer of his regiment. Flag bearers had an important job during a battle. They were to lead the way into a breach, leading the men of his company toward the objective. The chances of survival were obviously very, very low.
But this was just the position for a militant pacifist. And the proclivities of history moved him through the war. (Which, I am sure, you already gathered because he is my great-grandfather and I am here telling the story.) Among other battles, he served at the siege of Vicksburg. And by some grace, his unit was never called to charge into the breach. Thus, he survived the war and was among the men sent to Galveston and Houston for the reading of the Emancipation Proclamation.
This was the real, final Proclamation, which fulfilled the ultimate purpose of the conflagration. At its reading, every person in these United States of America was free. Never again could a human being be treated like a plow, or a cow, or a horse, or a dog. Humans are human, created with certain inalienable rights such as Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. This reading happened on June 19, 1865, and has been an unofficial national holiday ever since – among those whose lives and future were completely changed by the promise. We have finally recognized this date and the importance attended to it with the holiday “Juneteenth.”
My great-grandfather returned to Iowa and his Quaker community and felt the negative opinions of his neighbors. He married and decided that the closed world of the Friends was leading to too much inbreeding. His wife stood just five feet tall, next to his six feet seven inches. He took his family to Kansas to homestead the Flint Hills. After some time trying to scratch a life out of the dry, dusty, rocky ground, he found a job with the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, working from a repair shop in Nickerson, Kansas. He pumped a handcar as a lineman along the railroad’s major right of way. He reported being there when the first automatic couplers were introduced, which contributed to the safety of workers connecting cars.
His story has one more important point. He became known for his stubborn pacifism and annually carried the Stars and Stripes to the Wildmead Cemetery in Nickerson on Memorial Day.
A certain citizen of diminutive size taunted him incessantly for being a “scaredy-cat Quaker.” One day, as we tell the story, William was on his horse, riding through town. This constant heckler came up and said, “You there – so high and mighty on that steed. You do not have the courage to get down and face me like a man.”
William Henry Moorman pulled the horse to a stop and dismounted. He stepped up to the belligerent little man, towering a full foot above him, and said, “Friend, I would not for the world harm thee, but right now your face is exactly where I am about to put my fist.”
Writer’s note: All the factual things in this story are true – to the best of my knowledge. Some things are true only in the sense that this is how my family remembers William Henry Moorman.
And so, in honor of my great-grandfather, and in honor of those who have put their lives on the line for the liberty of every human, and for that day when we officially noted those foundational truths, I dedicate my beard to the unending arc of history, which bends, amidst a constant war of ideas, in the direction of justice.
