How Does Your Light Shine, In the Halls of Shambala?

Spring Equinox, 1975. Doctors told my mother I was a dead thing in my mother's womb.

Susan Phyllis Keir Faucher was a reluctant flower-child hippie in mid-70's Memphis, TN. Her father, Stephen Duncan Keir, was a WWII veteran officer who had volunteered to venture into Vietnam. Susan's classmates at Millington Central High School had denigrated her as the daughter of a collaborator. A daughter of The Man. Peer pressure led her to personal drug experimentation, which led her to a "rehab facility," where she met William Franklin Faucher. Like her, Bill was the son of a Naval Air Force veteran. His family were lower-class; his father never achieved officer status. Both families were children of the Great Depression, and in terms of 70's socioeconomics -- the rehab-clinic military connection was more than enough to constitute a fresh start. A new beginning.

"Wash away my troubles, wash away my pain

With the rain in Shambala
Wash away my sorrow, wash away my shame
With the rain in Shambala

Ah, ooh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Everyone is helpful, everyone is kind
On the road to Shambala
Everyone is lucky, everyone is so kind
On the road to Shambala

Ah, ooh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

How does your light shine, in the halls of Shambala?"

I was born in the spring of 1975. Family lore tells me my father cried that day, because my mom had had 4 previous miscarriages. I've no evidence of this, but it makes sense, given her history & lifestyle. Susan was the child of a Yankee military father and a Southern belle mother. She was born in 1951 on a military base at Chincoteague, VA (famously home of feral horses). A crucial part of her adolescence was spent at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.


My father (who may or may not have raped me) was born in San Diego, CA in 1953. His father's (unknown) people came from Orange County, Massachusetts. His mother's came from rural TN. Somehow, Bill & Susan ended up in the same rehab clinic in Memphis in 1974. Just in time to fall in love... and merge to make ME.


I was a dead thing in Susan's womb, corrupt and weak. I should never have been born. Against all odds, I stole my first breath on 23 May, 1975. Bill and Susan wept.


I am sharing this to explain what an improbably angry hippie I am. Poverty tends to nix IQ scores. Performance is strongly correlated with socioeconomic status. But there are exceptions.

I myself am "exceptional."

I consciously chose (free will? maybe?) to mate with an exception. Therefore, my offspring are even more consciously exceptional, even more self-aware, than I am. I'd caution you, except I'm hoping they'll take you all UNAWARE.