Posted on by CP · 7 Comments

Luck or Earned Success

People have called me a lucky bastard my entire life. If I’m being honest, I’m not quite sure how to take it. My friend Mark was told he couldn’t board a Cessna to the Maldives last year because the plane had a weight limit and they had met the limit. The plane went down on route and everyone was killed; Mark is lucky. I ask people why they think I’m lucky and they tell me it’s because everything comes to me so easily.

I beg to differ. First and foremost, I was born black. I was born blacker than any other black person within 1000 miles of my town. Second, I was born poor. I’m talkin’ about the kind of poor you never shake; like third world poor. And lastly, I was a foster child. Do you still think I’m lucky? Do you think the shade of black you are doesn’t matter?

Yes, maybe I was lucky that I was born in the good old U.S. of A.; a country where your skin color only matters if you need a job, or you want to live anywhere, or you want to marry anyone. Needless to say I had my struggles growing up. I want to tell you about all of my foster homes, but a few stand out.

The Mississippi department of Social Services decided that my single mother was unfit to raise me. She worked at McDonald’s and left me home alone a lot. I guess our neighbors heard me crying and reported my mother to the police. I was only two years old when I went into my first foster home so there’s not much I can tell you about it. Subsequent foster parents told me that I was one of 12 fostered children in that home — Social Services had to lock those people up because they were trafficking the kids. Fortunately, I was too young to even be groomed.

When I was five years old I ended up with this older couple that took me to New Jersey. They were nice people, but they were too old to take care of me and I ended up with people who were younger, but they only took kids for the money. Social Services figured out their scheme and shipped me back to Mississippi. My dark skin made it difficult to find parents for me.

When I was 12 years old I was brought to a nice house Outside of Atlanta, Georgia. I could tell these people had money because they had five bedrooms in their house, wood floors, and a couple of nice cars. It was a Caucasian family of four — their two children were not adopted. I liked this family and this house a lot. I realized the only way they’d ever adopt me, was if I behaved well and showed them I was worth having around. They were kind people from the start, not allowing me to do more chores than their own children. There were rules, but they were fair and easy enough to follow. I was actually happy for the first time in my life. But, it wasn’t all good and easy.

People stared wherever we went. Bonnie and Everett made it clear that Anne and Mark were their parents and I was a social experiment. I was meant to make them feel better about their abundant lives. I was fully aware of my role and I was determined to play the part well.

The first thing I did was ask Anne and Mark if they would call me Scott and sign me up to junior high school as Scott. They said they’d do it with no questions asked. I mimicked Everett’s every move so that I wouldn’t stand out; blending in was the only way to survive. When Anne took me clothes shopping, I picked out clothes Everette would wear. Lastly, I pretended to enjoy every dish prepared for the family. No signs of the food I was familiar with and I certainly wasn’t going to ask for it.

What I did ask for was writing utensils and notebooks. Anne was happy to purchase them for me. I was quiet, studious, and I stayed out of trouble — never mentioning my past and keeping my eyes on the future.

About a year after I joined the family, Anne and Mark told me that I should dress for a nice restaurant because we were all going to dinner in the evening. It seemed like an ordinary family get together, therefore, I didn’t anticipate what was to take place that night.

We were all seated and two bottles of bubbles arrived, one had alcohol and the other didn’t. Glasses were filled and the waitstaff left the table. Mark asked us all to raise our glasses. I had no idea what was going on, having never seen this sort of ritual.

“This is to officially welcome Scott into the family. That is of course if Scott wants to be a part of this crazy crew. Do you Scott?”

I was thrown off-guard; shocked really.

“Scott, what do you say?”

“Umm, ummm, yes, I would like that.”

“Well, Scott says yes, after some surprising hesitation, he agrees.”

Anne gets up from her seat at the table and runs over to hug and kiss me. Bonnie and Everett were coaxed by Mark to join her. This is what I’d always wanted, why wasn’t I thrilled? It didn’t take long to find out why my intuition was right.

That was one wild rollercoaster of a year. My last name was changed to Stanton and my new parents had to figure out how to hide their regret. Some friends stopped calling, others made excuses. Invitations to parties and dinners became less frequent. My newly dubbed siblings were suddenly distant.

For me it was an old, familiar story. I knew exactly why the honeymoon was over; I was once again alone; fighting for my right to exist. Anne and Mark tried. They said nice things, bought me nice clothes, they talked to me about piano lessons, soccer camp, and a racing bike. I could tell they wanted this arrangement to work, but I was cautious and dubious. I stayed in the shadows. I kept my head in the books. I focused on the prize.

By the time I started Harvard, my parents had adjusted to the hate and Bonnie and Everett barely tolerated me. I did everything I could to stay out of everybody’s way. I got a full scholarship based on my SAT scores and academic record. Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) was not a factor, but I’m certain everyone assumed that DEI got me in. So once again, I had to work harder than anyone else to prove myself worthy.

I joined every club, competed in athletic programs, and I considered the things in life that were attainable. During my quiet moments I often thought about my birth mom: why did she give me up? Was she alive? Where did she live? I’m not sure why, but my biological father didn’t enter my thoughts; perhaps I was fed too much propaganda about black fathers.

I was sitting in Harvard’s main dining hall one day and a beautiful woman sat across from me. She said hi and asked me if I was enjoying Art History. I realized she must have been in the same class, but there were over a hundred students in that class and I had long ago taught myself not to look around or get distracted. She introduced herself as Claire.

“Nice to meet you Claire, I’m Scott.”

Claire noticed that I was socially awkward, but it didn’t stop her from talking. I listened, asked a couple of questions, and hoped she’d move on. Claire eventually stood up.

“Scott, it was nice meeting you, I’ll see you in class.”

I nodded and went back to finishing my sandwich.

For the next few weeks, Claire sat next to me in class. She was friendly, but not pushy; I remained somewhat distant. I was attracted to her, but the number of red flags made me very cautious. Claire was white, ambitious, outspoken, and attractive. Any sort of closeness was way too risky. I concentrated on Art History.

I noticed Claire’s absence for the next few lectures. At the start of her third absence, our professor asked if anyone had seen or heard from Claire. We all looked at one another and then I noticed everyone looking at me. Our professor asked me to stay after class; he once again asked if I’d see her. He told me that she had been reported missing a few days prior. I told him that I had not had any contact with her since the last lecture she’d attended.

That night the police came to my dorm room. They asked me if I would go with them to the Cambridge police station. They escorted me out of the dorm while several of my fellow students watched. At the station, they informed me that several students had reported seeing Claire and I together. I shared how we were acquainted, however, that did not seem to dissuade them. The media got hold of the story and I was vilified.

The police couldn’t actually charge me with a crime being that at that point Claire was only reported missing. Still, my photograph was all over social media and I was guilty in the eyes of a jury of my peers. In fact, the University was considering suspending me, I assume in order to show that they were being proactive about Claire’s case.

My birth mother read about the adoption story and figured out that I was her son. My mother was in a much better place, often wondering about me throughout the years. She did a bit of research and found me at Harvard. When I received her message, I was elated. I had long ago given up on any hope of finding her. My adoptive parents claimed that the records of my birth mother and birthplace were sealed.

We met at a coffee shop on campus the next morning. Her name is Cassandra. She’s smart and beautiful. She expressed no regret about her youth, having had a very difficult upbringing and very little opportunity early on in her life. She is currently an advocate for single mothers in Mississippi. Cassandra believed me when I told her I had nothing to do with Claire’s disappearance.

A few days later, Claire returned to campus. She had apparently met a guy a couple of weeks prior. They decided to take his boat out to sea; she failed to tell anyone where she was going. Once she did think about it, she was already halfway to the Caribbean with no cell service. When she arrived in Jamaica, she discovered family, friends, and the authorities were looking for her. Claire immediately flew back to New Haven and apologized.

What I found disturbing was that no one contacted me to apologize. All that I had known and worked for was in jeopardy at that time. I had no support from anyone except for my birth mother. I truly believe my parents and siblings thought that I was somehow involved with Claire’s disappearance.

Years later Claire did manage to find me and apologize. She had some lame excuse about being caught up in her homecoming and not knowing I was questioned by the police. For a time I had considered suing Harvard and the New Haven police department, however, Cassandra advised me to move on. She said that I should channel my anger into graduating and finding the right professional position.

Today I am a U.S. Congressman for the state of Georgia. My parents have often reached out to me, but I am guarded. Turning my back on them would come to no good. My brother and sister have their own lives; they have never shown remorse or interest and that’s fine with me.

Cassandra and I visit often. I credit her with being elected to Congress. She is often by my side for official ceremonies. I consider her opinions and advice in everything I do. Someday soon, I hope to introduce her to my future wife.

As a Congressmen I have fought for DEI; not because I am a product of its practice, but because I know and believe that the world is a cruel place for anyone who is different. Creating ways to ensure some resemblance of equality and fairness, is my life’s work.

By the way, please call me by my given name, Jamal Jackson.

State-of Mind

You might be thinking, “How can he write in the first person, as a black American male?” Truth is, I couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to be a black man in America. It’s all conjecture and creative writing, but isn’t that usually the case? Men writing female characters and vice versa. A straight writer writing gay characters; you get the picture. I’m angry about the current politicizing of DEI in the U.S.; politicians and citizens wishing to further divide the country along racial and ideological lines.

Being a minority in the U.S. is at a huge disadvantage on many levels. White men hold the power and they are afraid of losing it and they will do everything they can to keep it. Of course there are good white men and of course there are people of color who should never have been put in positions they weren’t skilled for; however, the numbers are disproportionate. Sadly, it has been this way since our forefathers won the revolution and wrote the constitution — all men are not created equal and they never have been. DEI is an woke attempt to level the playing field. As a woke white male, I support protecting the rights of individuals; further, I support any opportunity to ensure diversity, equity and inclusion in all aspects of life.

I’ve shared this before and I still believe it to be true. I applied for a position over thirty years ago, when affirmative action was the law in federally funded institutions. I lost out to a woman of color. At the time I was angry. I thought myself the better candidate. I soon after realized that I was not the best choice and that the administration at the university had done the right thing for many reasons. White men have had the advantage in the U.S. for centuries, why not ensure that everyone is given an equal opportunity to succeed.

I’m enjoying my stable life in Portugal; my home, Paco, my friends, and Portuguese/EU Politics (flawed, but progressive and working toward making life better for its residents). Dwelling on the rise of authoritarian rule in the U.S. is difficult, tragic and more than I choose to handle. Choose your platform and fight for what you believe in.

“One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings.— Franklin Thomas

Posted on by CP · 10 Comments

One Dog’s POV

Author: Paco Papagni

I want to be clear that I’m writing this to set the record straight; not for recognition or because I have nothing better to do. Dogs have historically contributed more to humankind than we are given credit for; we all have a story. My name is Paco and I belong to Chris. I don’t like the “belong” verb, but it’s better than “owned by” or “property of.”

More than three years ago I was abandoned and left for dead in a wooded area in Estoi, Portugal. There is not much I can say about my former owners, except that they are pond scum who had no business taking me into their home in the first place. I had a chip that was never registered. I suspect my mother was a stray who either lived on the derelict property or wandered close to it by mistake when she was pregnant with me and my siblings. Some of this is me filling in the gaps — it was a difficult introduction to the world and I’ve blocked the bad bits out.

I’m four years old (that’s a guess) and I’ve survived a lifetime of trauma already. After being left to fend for myself in a place where rats, wild dogs, poisonous insects, and who knows what else, thrive; I kept myself alive and I’m ready to tell you how it all went down. Please don’t feel sorry for me, I’m a dog, having a survival instinct is my secret weapon. It’s a world where humans rule and some of us pets get to help make their lives more livable — our sole purpose. Where, how and when this pairing-up situation plays out, is purely random. We know this at birth, even before we learn to speak.

There are things about me that made it somewhat easier to be paired with a human: I am blond, my hair is as soft as cotton, I am tiny, and my eyes are soulful. I only know these things about myself because others have told me. I’ve heard stories of ugly dogs being put down because nobody wanted them. I knew I was not of that variety very early on — this explains why I prance when I walk. I know who I am.

Still, I was literally thrown into a dire situation and before I could even try to find my person, I had to survive despicable humans and the wrath of nature. I awoke before the sun one morning not long after I was cast out into the wild. Small parasites discovered I was a host without protection. They attached themselves to my body and left me defenseless against their harmful pathogens. As a result, I became weak and unable to hunt for food. I feared my mother and siblings were far away and the wooded brush was my only blanket. Days and weeks passed and I became quite delirious — a state I was grateful for . . . for obvious reasons.

Weeks after the start of my affliction, I wandered onto a dirt road; a shipping container used as a house in the distance. Although it was a cold and rainy December day, I could smell a dog who may have been guarding the property. I approached the container hoping I would be seen or smelled. Hours passed as I shivered in the storm, breathing what I was fairly certain were my final breaths. Nearby voices woke me from my stupor and warm hands scooped me up from the side of the road. Two humans gently lifted me up and carried me to their home. The dog I’d smelled earlier kept trying to attack, although he did not know I was not a threat. I was weak, wet, and tired, and these humans thankfully kept this dog away from me. They tried to feed me, but eating was impossible. My instincts told me that this illness had made it certain that I would perish. All I wanted was to sleep.

A night passed and the humans took me to a place they thought might help. I was starving, thin, weak, and my breathing was labored. A gentle woman examined me and told the couple that there were tests she could do to determine why I was dying. The kind humans had no money, therefore, the best they could do was take me home and hope for the best. In the meantime, they spread the word that they had found me hoping to locate my owner — that would never happen. Some humans view us as expendable.

It must have been difficult to keep that other dog away from me because the humans seemed anxious all the time. They also mentioned taking me to the doctor, but they didn’t have the means. Someone who lived nearby told them that there was a local American man on Facebook looking for a dog in need of a home. This person said that he couldn’t come to meet me for two weeks, but she seemed to think that he would want me and that he’d be able to take me to the doctor. Knowing that I might soon have a forever home made me feel a little better. I started to eat a little and I know that I slept most of the time. The Scots, I believe they were Scots, had named me Whisper and I thought that sounded sort of lame. Still, I knew that I should be grateful.

Time passed slowly and I started to believe that I might die before this man came to meet me. One day one of the Scots answered the phone and it was Chris, the American they’d heard about. They told me that he’d be there to meet me later that day. At least I think that’s what they said.

Indeed, a car pulled into the driveway and two tall men and a woman got out. They seemed excited to see me and each of them held me in their arms. They were nice humans. I knew which one was Chris right away, because when he held me tears ran down his face and he kissed me about twenty times. I was pretty grungy from living in the woods, so I was a bit embarrassed. Before they left me, Chris said he would be back for me and I believed him. The Scots seemed relieved and happy, so was I.

I’m not 100% certain this part is true, but I seem to recall that my first owners (the scum) spoke Portuguese. When I was rescued by the Scots on the road by their house, they spoke funny; it might have been English. I was grateful that they’d found me, but I couldn’t understand anything they said. Then when Chris came to get me, I was pretty certain he spoke English. His words in the beginning made him sound angry, but I later learned that he was from Brooklyn and I’ve overheard his friends tease him about that; apparently Italian Brooklyn men sometimes come off as gruff. He’s a big guy so he can be intimidating. It doesn’t really matter, I understand everything now.

Chris took me to a doctor the day he brought me home. Maria (vet) told him I had a serious viral infection and that because I was so weak and my red blood count low, I might not make it. She said I was about 11 months old. Maria said she would do what she could to make me well. Chris’ friend Michele removed all the matted parts of my coat and gave me a bath. Being that I was matted everywhere, she had to remove most of it, but I didn’t mind. I already knew I was one of the fortunate ones.

My dad is a good human for the most part. I think he travels way too much and he often seems to get upset about how slow things move in Portugal. I know that no human or animal for that matter, is perfect, so I forgive him. The other thing he does that I wish he wouldn’t do, is fool with this little cellular thing. He’s constantly pushing on it and is talking to it and it mumbles back to him. I think he may be more in love with that thing than he is me, but again, nobody’s perfect.

It’s been three years now. Early on we had this government enforced stay at home restriction called a lockdown and it was just Chris and I, all day every day, for a long time — this happened twice. I liked that time with Chris. We would go outside and the streets would be empty. There is a dog park near our apartment and we would go there to run around. Everything was still and it was peaceful. I hoped it would last forever, but it didn’t.

I’ve been deathly ill several times. Aside from that killer virus I had when they found me, I’ve had an operable tumor on my paw, bronchitis I caught from a stray that came close to ending me, and one time we even had to go to a hospital in the middle of the night because I was having trouble breathing. Chris cries whenever I’m very sick. I wish that I could tell him that I’ll be okay and that I’m not going anywhere. I don’t think I could ever leave our home; it’s warm, quiet, and has a lot of soft surfaces. I have a bowl full of toys I play with everyday. I eat really well and apparently the doctor says that even though I could have died from that tick bite in the woods, I am now 100% healthy.

This was during lockdown. Chris talks to with a silly voice sometimes.

Things can get a bit crazy on our street. Two weeks ago a dog that I used to play with, Loki, was attacked by a big dog who got loose from his owner. The dog broke Loki’s spine in several places and he died; the owner was bitten as well. Some dog’s instincts tell them to attack, I was born to comfort. I’m sad about Loki because I know his owner would have prevented the attack if he could. I know Chris would be very sad if that had happened to me; we’re both extra careful now. All animals, including humans, are unpredictable.

I have a friend, Patricia, who stays with me whenever Chris leaves town. She has a dog named Petucha; she’s like a sister (see photo below). Petucha lives across the street, so I get to see her a lot. I’m glad she doesn’t live with us, I like things just the way they are.

I think I might be the happiest dog alive. There are only two things I truly need in my life: treats and Chris, in that order. My dad tells me he loves me a lot; even though I can’t say the words, I let him know, in my own way, that I love him too. Blond and tiny or not, I know that I’m a pretty lucky dog. Lastly, Chris renamed me Paco the day he brought me home; my new name suits me just fine.

Patucha and me on my terrace