Mariann G. Wizard
In 1987, Jaxon and I collaborated on The Adventures of Oat Willie (copyright Austintatious Comix), then operated in partial partnership by Doug Brown and Mike Kleinman. (Planet K didn’t yet exist.) A daily question in every Oat’s store was, “Who the heck is Oat Willie?” Mike and Doug wanted a comic response.
We talked with Jack about the art for about a year. Supportive and agreeable, he’d say, “Come see me when you have a story!” But when I had a script, he wasn’t totally thrilled! He’d been working hard to establish himself as a historical artist and historian, struggling with opposition and outright disrespect because of his underground past. Now we wanted him to draw Austin’s silliest iconic hero: a skinny guy in shorts in a wheeled bucket of … oats???
But he started reading it, laughing, seeing how to draw it, and exclaimed, “It’s a history of Austin’s counterculture!” Although we did only one issue before Doug and Mike split the sheets, it was a start: An innocent kid comes to the Big University seeking Truth and Purpose, finds instead Parties and Lies, Takes Acid, Runs Amok, and Changes the World … or at least himself. Oat Willie is our Pilgrim, our Everyman, his life a metaphor for our lives and times. Though many stories remain untold, I’m so proud that Jack saw the people’s history in my words and gave them life with his craft and pen.
We went to a comics convention in California. Dozens of people came to see Jaxon, bringing cherished copies of Comanche Moon and Skull, Family Dog posters, even ancient God Noses – not only for autographs but to thank him for his work. Jack was amazed; he had no idea he was a legend.
Growing up, I didn’t know many college folks. My parents, though, expected me not only to go to college but somehow to select one. My friend Nancy had a sister in school here who sent the Texas Ranger home to Fort Worth. A total teenage misfit, I devoured it – proof that college weirdness existed outside of the out-of-reach The Harvard Lampoon. “I’m going to Austin,” I decided and did so, against all common sense. Whatever I’ve done with my life since then, it’s the fault of Jack and the other Rangeroos, my real-life heroes, without whose dubious influence I might have been a conservative talk-show hostess or a NASCAR fan.
Jack was my friend. But it was only at the Austin memorial service that I began to see his contribution to Texas history. Not writing or teaching, although he did that, but his own potential role in it. Jaxon showed us what we must grasp if Texas is to survive as anything but a theme-park subsidiary of the earth-eating octopus of multinational greed. He told us a great economic and demographic truth of our time, recalled by Reies Tijerina: “Somos tejanos.” Could we, his Anglo friends, truly comprehend and embrace that fact, then history would be made, and Jack Edward Jackson be remembered as its agent.
And if he left any drawings of old forts along the Red, can we please harden up that pesky northern border?
Vaya bien, hermano. – Mariann G. Wizard
This article appears in August 11 • 2006.