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Redemption From Beyond III

Last Chapter of a Three Part Novella

It was no longer about what Steven had asked of him, it was much bigger than that. Jake was more driven, less concerned with what others thought of him. He was beginning to feel more alive, more empathetic, more like himself. He noticed his interaction with others was becoming fluid and genuine. What had brought this about he’d wondered.

When he left Esther’s house, he was feeling euphoric. The look on the old woman’s face was imprinted in his memory. In the car, on the way back to Berlin, he called Eric at Arolsen to let him know what happened in Rüdesheim. He felt that he could trust Eric at this point and share everything, but before he could tell Eric the details of what took place, Eric asked him to meet him for dinner.

“Jake, this is exciting news, can you tell me all about it over dinner tonight?”

Jake was pleased to be able to ask Eric for another favor in person. He could probably do some research on Rachel’s child himself, but Eric had been such a big help and he seemed eager to do whatever he could for Jake. Jake was grateful for Eric’s invitation. He thought to himself, what a great guy that Eric is.

They met at a very nice Thai restaurant close to Jake’s hotel. Eric was probably the most soft spoken man that Jake had ever met. He realized only moments after Eric arrived, that he was both nervous and excited; feelings about another man he had not had for a very long time. And then Eric said this:

“Jake, I hope you don’t mind my inviting you to dinner. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we last met. I’m usually not this forward, but then, I’m usually not this smitten.”

Jake felt himself blushing. He did not hesitate to let Eric know that the feeling was mutual. He proceeded to fill in the Esther Roseman story with more detail. He watched Eric’s smile grow broader with every word — together they shared a moment of absolute satisfaction.

Eric knew this dinner was not just to spend time with Jake, although he was happy to do just that. He asked Jake what it was he wanted to speak to him about.

“I was able to find out that Rachel Schwartz was moved to one of the other camps, but also that she was pregnant when she left Auschwitz . I know this won’t be easy, but I was hoping you could help me find out if her child is still alive. Also, if he or she is living, where they currently reside. I’d like to find the rightful owner of Rachel’s ring.”

There was no question in Eric’s mind that although he’d need to do quite a bit of digging, he’d eventually find one of Rachel’s relatives. The rest of the evening would be all about getting to know one another, indeed they did just that.

Eric dove into the files the very next day. There were so many Rachel Schwartz’s listed in the database, but he had an approximate age, her pregnancy, and hopefully a record of her having given birth. He combed over the files from each camp for hours. Finally it was at Bergen-Belsen in Northern Germany where he finally got somewhere. Rachel Schwartz was recorded as deceased, however, she left behind a baby boy named Ian, with the same last name. Unfortunately, Ian’s whereabouts were unrecorded. Hmm, another common Jewish name, but he had an approximate age and a possible location. Ian was hopefully still in Bergen-Belsen when the war ended.

Eric discovered that anyone who remained alive at Bergen-Belsen, was put on a train to be processed in Berlin. He’d go through those records in the morning. He phoned Jake to let him know that he had made some progress, but that Jake shouldn’t get his hopes up. Jake was happy to hear Eric’s voice; this time it was Jake who asked Eric to dinner. Eric happily accepted. The two were enjoying getting to know one another.

When he got back to his hotel, Jake called his friend Ashley in New York and told her he’d met someone in Germany. Ashley could only say,

“Well it’s about fucking time.”

Dinner was even better than the night before. Jake surprised himself by not thinking about little things that bothered him. By now there were usually red flags and petty considerations; Jake had a huge crush. Eric didn’t want Jake to leave Berlin, but he also knew it wouldn’t be fair to prolong the inevitable.

The next morning he sat down with his laptop and found Rachel’s son — Ian Schwartz was living in Vienna. Ian was in his early seventies, director of the Holocaust Museum Vienna, and he was married to Isabel. Eric went straight to Jake’s hotel and called him from the lobby. Jake could tell Eric had good news from the sound of his voice. They had coffee and the hotel’s café and Eric shared what he’d learned.

Jake jumped up to hug Eric; Steven’s task was nearly complete. The two sat with one another in silence. Hope and adoration filled the air around them.

“Eric come with me to Vienna to meet Ian. We need to do this together.”

“Are you kidding, I would have gone whether you’d asked me or not, but you’ve made it easier.”

They arrived on a Friday afternoon. The next few days were some of the best days of Jake’s life. They stayed in a very sweet boutique hotel across from the Holocaust Museum. Eric knew and loved Vienna; showing it off to Jake was a pleasure for him. They were having a wonderful weekend while waiting for the museum to open. They weren’t certain Ian Schwartz would be at work on Monday, but at that point Ian didn’t know about Steven and the stolen ring, a few more days before he’d learn of the found ring wouldn’t make a difference.

When Monday morning came, they had a quiet breakfast at the hotel. They had more time at the hotel than seeing the sites and they were both okay with that. At 9:30 a.m. they crossed the street to the museum. They both realized they were a nervous wreck; Eric even more so than Jake. The Museum staff led them to Ian’s office where they waited to see him. They had informed a staff member that they had urgent business and that Ian Schwartz would be interested in their news; Eric’s Arolsen Archives business card didn’t hurt.

After five minutes with Ian, it was clear that Ian was Rachel’s son and he had survived the camps. When Jake told him about his mother’s ring, he fell silent. When he spoke, he informed Jake and Eric that he had no memory of his mother whatsoever. His life’s work had been about bringing this atrocity to light. For Ian, the ring represented his journey and how it had come full circle. For Jake and Eric to experience Ian’s joy was a true gift; an experience that would be a part of their story.

After a few more days of exploring Vienna, Jake and Eric held each other at the airport knowing that this was the beginning of a love that would have pleased Steven; perhaps it was part of his plan.

The Camps

I know, it was a shmaltzy fantasy, but I’m in a good place and I wanted this story to have multiple happy endings. I also realize I speed up my stories at the end — I’m enjoying the writing, but I’m ready for the next thing. Thank you for indulging me.

State-of-Mind

Personal list — does not apply to all. I prefer to stay out of trouble lately.

Ten Things I Care More About As I Get Older (not in order of importance)

  • My health and the health of the people and pets I care about
  • How I spend my time
  • My finances (can I stretch my savings/retirement allocation until my death?)
  • My safety
  • My comfort (physical, mental, and emotional)
  • The well-being of my friends & family (beyond health)
  • What I will be remembered for (but I care about this less and less each day)
  • Being more practical
  • Peace and the quality of my sleep
  • Good food & wine

Ten Things I Care Less About

  • What others think (I stopped shaving every day)
  • Partying excessively
  • Things I have that would impress others
  • Expensive meals
  • Doing risky things that might put my life in danger (no more skydiving, hang gliding, climbing tall ladders, running across the street, recreational drugs, etc.)
  • Fancy products
  • Checking every item off off my bucket list (I destroyed mine a few years ago — self-imposed pressure)
  • The past (in terms of reliving or regretting)
  • What I could have accomplished
  • Finding the right partner

What did I forget?

“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.” 

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Redemption From Beyond II

A Three Part Novella

Jake was normally not the type to beat himself up. Steven’s letter left him with undeniable and painful guilt. He thought about all the times he hated Steven for his silence. Finding the owners of the jewelry pieces would at the very least give him something to focus on. Besides, this sort of sleuthing was right up his alley.

Tyler, Steven’s attorney, made two things clear: first, what Steven shared with him beyond what was in Jake’s letter was client/attorney privilege, and second, no matter who came around asking, Tyler knew nothing. Jake asked Tyler if he had any idea what the pieces were worth. Tyler said that the age, craftmanship, and size of the diamonds made them valuable; he estimated a few hundred grand. He suspected it wasn’t the monetary value Steven was thinking about when he reached out to Jake for help.

Jake cleared his schedule for the next few weeks. He didn’t think it would be wise to go straight to Germany. He’d start with some on-line research and see what came up. He had an alarm system installed at his apartment, just in case whomever was looking for the jewelry knew of his existence. Thieves stop at nothing and Jake wasn’t taking any chances.

Assuming Rachel Schwartz and/or Esther Roseman lived in Germany at some point in the last 50 years, finding them or their families would not be easy. Jake hoped that once he learned more about one of the two, finding the other or their family should not be that difficult.

Jake realized he was being cagey with friends; he trusted no one — not that anyone he knew would try to steal the jewelry, but that they might blab it to the wrong person.

Not knowing where to begin, he went to Facebook and entered the two women´s names. In fact, there were several of both with their names (also the same family name) living in or near Frankfurt. He didn’t see either woman in Rüdesheim.

It was time to reach out to Steven’s cousin Marie whom he hoped still lived in Berlin. Fortunately, Tyler was able to provide him with her contact information. When Marie got back to Jake, he found her to be very warm and personable. He was surprised to learn that Marie knew about him. She even relayed that Steven had hoped to someday marry Jake; obviously news to Jake. After speaking with her, he decided to take a trip to Berlin to learn more about Steven and his family. Hopefully, the information she would provide would help him in his search.

Marie picked Jake up from the airport and brought him to a hotel in the center of Berlin. She was fully aware of Jake’s motives for being there. She’d of course known Steven since he was a boy, but Steven and his parents did not visit Berlin often and Marie did not visit them in the States. Still, there were things spoken throughout the years that might be helpful to Jake. Marie was anxious to get to know someone who cared for her cousin.

They met over drinks later that evening. Marie found Jake to be personable and sincere. She told Jake that as children, Steven was always laughing and that he loved practical jokes. This was not the Steven he remembered. It made him smile to think that Steven was once lighthearted, even playful. Marie also shared that Steven’s father was not a likeable person. She said that most of the family stayed away from him. He was her father’s brother, but they were very different. Marie was aware of the war crimes and trials, but it all took place before she was born. Marie was 20 years older than Steven.

Jake wanted to tell Marie about the two pieces Steven’s father stole from the women in Germany. He was hesitant to jeopardize his goal of finding them or their relatives. Marie knew nothing of the town Steven’s father served in; in fact she didn’t seem to be aware that there were still people looking for survivors and relatives of victims. Jake didn’t understand how detached people could be; perhaps it was a survival tactic.

Being in Germany was very strange. He of course knew about the six million or more Jews who were murdered under Hitler’s orders during the Holocaust, but as a gay man, it was the knowledge of the thousands of homosexuals and suspected homosexuals who were tortured and killed. The idea that anyone could be murdered for their religious beliefs or sexuality was abhorrent to Jake. Beyond these groups, there were also people with disabilities, opposing political views, other religions (Jehovah’s Witness), and those labeled as Gypsies. More than one person marginalized or persecuted, was too many. For the first time in his life, Jake felt empowered to do something.

Jake thanked Marie for seeing him. He sincerely hoped that someday they’d have the opportunity to meet again. While in Berlin, Jake learned of the Arolsen Archives which is a mainly on-line organization that houses files and documents on individuals who were victims of Nazi persecution. The organization had a major presence in Berlin and Jake knew someone in the U.S. Department of State whom he hoped could make a connection. His hunch panned out.

Jake met with Eric Haverman at his office. Eric was one of Arolsen’s archivists and, as it turns out, someone who could be a big help in Jake’s search. Again, Jake was cautious about sharing too much information, however, considering Eric’s credentials, he was certain he could provide some background that might help him get to the two women or their relatives more quickly. It was clear that Eric could offer great guidance.

Jake decided to spend one more day in Berlin after meeting with Eric. Eric’s words were promising; any information could be helpful. Eric called Jake on his cell phone later the same day. He was fairly certain that Esther Roseman was alive and still living in Rüdesheim. Esther was 94 years old. She’d never been on Facebook and she had escaped from Auschwitz in 1944; she was 14 years old. Both of Esther’s parents died or were killed in the camps.

Jake asked Eric how he could contact Esther without invading her privacy. Eric told Jake that Esther had agreed to interviews in the past and that she might still be up for a conversation. Eric was willing to call her. Jake was impressed with how respectful Eric was; he didn’t pry or ask questions. Feeling hopeful and determined, Jake waited to hear back from Eric. He found himself thinking about Eric a lot. He seldom met men with such integrity and empathy.

The next morning Jake received a call that unbeknownst to him, would change his path for months to come. Esther’s daughter Tovah Schneider was currently living in Frankfurt. Fortunately, she spoke English and she was eager to learn about Jake’s reason for wanting to speak to her mother. Not knowing for certain that this Esther was the “right” Esther. He told Tovah that he was the friend of someone in the United States who might have some information about Esther’s parents and their home in Rüdesheim. It was not entirely true, but a rationale he was certain she’d later understand. He told Tovah that he was in Berlin and that he could be wherever she needed him to be as early as the next day.

Tovah told Jake that her mother was frail, but very sharp. She’d apparently spent her entire life educating people about the Holocaust: ensuring nothing of its kind would or could ever happen again. She would try her best to arrange a meeting within the next few days. She was also happy to accompany Jake as interpreter; Esther spoke very little English. That afternoon, Jake hopped a train to Frankfurt.

Tovah was able to arrange a meeting at Esther’s home the day after he arrived in Frankfurt. She told him that Rüdesheim was one hour outside of Frankfurt and that she’d be happy to drive him to her mother’s house and take him back to Berlin. Jake was certain she was concerned for her elderly mother, he would be too if he were her. She had also let Jake know he’d have one hour with Esther. At this point he wasn’t even 100% certain that she was the right woman he was looking for; one hour would be more than enough.

At 9:00 a.m. Tovah arrived at his hotel in Frankfurt. He was surprised to learn she was in her 70s. It made sense, but up until now, he hadn’t thought about it. She was very welcoming and she seemed eager to get to know him. They talked about Esther and her parents and their lives before she was born. She told Jake that her mother met her father at Auschwitz, but unfortunately, he didn’t survive the camp. Her mother escaped pregnant with Tovah, after learning that her husband had been killed. At the time, Esther did not know that he was more than likely killed in a gas chamber.

By the time they arrived at Esther’s home, he was certain she was the woman he was searching for. Esther was old and frail, but clear headed, she received Jake with open arms. After some tea and small talk, they began their conversation.

“Esther, it means a great deal to me that you were willing to meet with me. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your life before and after Auschwitz. I know your life’s work has been to help others who went through WWII and to help all of us better understand what it was like to be sent to the camps. I’ve read several transcripts from talks you’ve given and I have to say I am humbled by what you have been through.”

Esther spoke slowly, with great care. Tovah was a good interpreter; she was happy to add details and clarify when necessary. About 15 minutes into the conversation, Jake asked the question that would give him the answer he was looking for.

“Esther, when you were a young girl living here in this town before you took the train to Auschwitz, was anything of yours taken from you?”

Esther’s eyes teared up. She looked down, composed herself, turned to Tovah and said,

“When I was 14 years old, my mother gave me a diamond and jade necklace that she had received from her parents as a wedding gift. My mother was fairly certain that she and my father would soon be taken away — several neighbors had already disappeared. She told me that the necklace was very valuable and that it might someday help her purchase a house. My mother told me to hide it in a safe place and to not tell a soul that she had it. I hid it in a box under my clothing. Two days later, my parents were taken away. The night they left home, I was alone in the house. In the middle of the night someone came into the house, covered my eyes and told me to stay quiet. Minutes later, the man left with whatever valuables were left in the house, including my necklace. After having said goodbye to my parents, losing the necklace sent me into a very deep depression. I couldn’t tell anyone about the stolen necklace. I knew that when I saw my mother, she would be very upset. The town was small, but I couldn’t imagine who would have known about it and taken it.”

Jake took a deep breath. His heart was beating quickly. He took Esther’s hands, realizing he was trembling, and looked at her and Tovah,

“Tovah, please tell your mother I have the necklace. It’s waiting for her in a safe place in New York.”

Tovah gasped, “Are you sure Jake. I don’t want to break my mother’s heart. She has spoken to me of this necklace, but she let go of the notion that she might never see it again, a long time ago.”

Jake nodded and Tovah relayed the message to Esther. Esther stopped breathing, then sobbed with her head in her hands for several minutes; finally looking up at Jake with immense joy. She reached over to take Jake’s face in her frail hands.

Tovah shared what her mother said to Jake.

“You have made an old woman happier than you could ever imagine. I have no other words.”

Esther sat in silence for a while. Jake used this opportunity to speak to Tovah about Rachel Schwartz and where she might be. Jake learned that the Schwartz family lived in the house next to the Roseman’s before they were all taken away. Esther and Rachel were inseparable, even in the camps. Esther told Tovah that Rachel was raped by a Nazi soldier; they were told she was moved to another camp after she started showing signs of pregnancy. Tovah thought it would be best not to bring up Rachel in front of her mother. The old woman deserved some time with the news that her stolen necklace would be returned after all these years.

Yes, there will be a Part III. Thank you for staying with me.

Why write a story with the Holocaust as a backdrop? My mother’s mother was a Russian Jew who migrated to the United States in 1906, converted to Catholicism when she met my Sicilian grandfather in Brooklyn. She was blind, which explains how a Russian and Sicilian ended up together. She lived in the U.S. during the Holocaust; oddly, she never spoke of it to anyone. I was nine years old when she died. Jewish history has always been a fascination and the realities of the Holocaust remains a part of history I will never fully grasp.

State of Mind

I am sensitive. I’m not embarrassed about it or ashamed of it; it’s who I am — took lots of therapy to get here. Sometimes friends or acquaintances make a comment to me about it, as if I’m either unaware or hearing it for the first time. If I confront you because you have failed to respond to me or you have shown no emotional or empathetic support when I’m in need, that’s not me being sensitive, it’s you not being accountable for your bad behavior. Most of you out there are smart enough to know the difference. It seems impossible to address these issues with individuals lately, people are either incapable of looking within or they dismiss the issue as your problem and not theirs. My tolerance for this sort of behavior from a “supposed” friend is waning. We all have problems and insecurities. There are a few things I need to tell myself as I consider this reality. First, I need to be patient and remind myself that I am not the center of the universe. Second, I can sound judgmental and impatient when I speak my truth, and lastly, forgiveness after sincerity is the caring and compassionate way to proceed. If you find a friendship becoming too difficult to sustain, address it or walk away. Ironically, the friends who will read this and nod their heads, are not the friends I am speaking to.

“It seems a lot of relationships fail, because when tough times come around … People want to give up too easily (sic). The fact of the matter is every relationship is going to experience difficult times sooner or later. Don’t throw away a potential good lasting relationship just because things got a little hard.” — Bryan Burden

I agree with this quote, but I believe there are red line values and situations. For example, if you believe (for whatever reason) that homosexuals are an abomination (def.: An abomination is a thing or action that inspires disgust, hatred, or loathing due to being vile, wicked, or offensive.), that’s a red line.

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Closure in Unexpected Places: A Martini Glass Story

I purchased a single martini glass for several hundred dollars this week. Before you judge me, let me explain. I was speaking with a friend of over thirty years about this; she pointed something out that I hadn’t thought much about, she said,

“You normally don’t attach yourself to things, so I know this martini glass means something to you, so the cost doesn’t matter.”

Yes it does; it means a great deal to me. The person who gifted me a set of four of these gorgeous Salviati Murano glasses is no longer with us. The two of us had the most complicated relationship of my life. It lasted 16 years and however twisted it was, it will reside in my memory for the rest of my life.

As with all relationships, both she and I had our own baggage. When I started working for her, I was young and naive. I did not report directly to her; therefore, there was a buffer between us — my immediate supervisor both protected me and shielded me from her darker side. Early on, I only got to experience the compelling and positive aspects of her narcissism — when the narcissist treats you as if you are the only one in the room. Praise, gifts, promises; all showered upon me whenever in her presence.

When anyone said that she was opportunistic or loved the spotlight, I would argue that it was difficult for women to stand out in a man’s world. I defended and deflected for a long time. As the years progressed, she and I became closer. I spent time with her at her country estate and she introduced me to celebrities, famous writers, and artists. If she needed something from me, it was always a gracious request. It took me years to realize that I had fallen in love with her. Not romantic love, but the love you might feel for someone you idolize.

People warned me not to get too close. I would either tell them they were wrong or I’d tell myself they were jealous. My supervisor had warned me as well, but he modeled similar behavior with her. I was promoted with salary increases several times; to the best of my knowledge, always merit based. In my 13th year of employment, my supervisor left his position and I found myself working directly for her. We had a honeymoon phase that lasted a few months. During this period, she pulled me off to the side at a party and told me that she loved me. I remained on a delusional cloud until the shit hit the fan. She had a personal situation in her life that made her angry and bitter. The softness faded and the edges became sharper. I started to see what others had warned me about.

I’d like to interject that she gifted the martini glasses to her executive team during a time of tremendous business success. We were at the height of profit and industry awards. I cherished those glasses; one because I’d felt I’d earned them and two, they were one of the most beautiful gifts I’d ever received. A few months after getting the glasses, I actually visited Murano in Venice where they were hand crafted. That trip made them even more special to me.

Returning to my final years working with this woman: I went back and forth between being blown away by her intelligence and power, to disgusted and bewildered. She started asking me to do things that I didn’t think were good for the business; nothing untoward or illegal, just not in our best interest.

I realize I’m being somewhat cryptic; I promise to explain why later. Life is not black and white and I have come to realize that living in the gray is not easy for me. I like things to be near perfect; neat and tidy and tied up in a bow.

When it became impossible for me to comply with her direction, I pushed back — not easy, she was a force and I was expendable. Of course I didn’t think so, but I knew from how she treated others, that I most certainly was. We traveled to Italy together for work. I didn’t need to be there, so I suspect I was being tested. Her loyalty test was beyond brutal and I failed. It was at that point that I realized if I didn’t resign, I would be terminated. I’d seen many before me go through similar trials. When we returned from Italy, I resigned. Sixteen years of passion for the work, compromise, falling in and out of love, and brutal disillusionment.

I’m fully aware that I was equally responsible for the disintegration of our relationship. I could have sucked it up, massaged her ego, acted as if all was honky-dory, but at the time, I was both in therapy and seeing a life coach. I felt as if the weight of the world was on my shoulders and I was finding it difficult to grin and bear it. I caved and my world shattered. That position defined me in every way. I withdrew, relocated, and reinvented myself. Survival mode can either break you or force you to see the world in a new way.

A couple of years after I left my position and my New York City life, this individual died in a tragic automobile accident. I took it harder than I imagined I would. No matter what my misgivings about my final months with her might have been, I would have never wished her to perish. That is why I chose not to name her in my story. I never had closure; therefore, I will never know what drove her to do the things she did and why she tossed me aside before I resigned. I couldn’t even bring myself to attend her memorial.

When I decided to relocate to Portugal, shedding 99% of my belongings was easy; I was seeking to start anew. One of the few gifts I could not walk away from was those martini glasses. They were the one part of that relationship I couldn’t let go of. I love these glasses, I love martinis, and I loved the former life they represent. Prior to leaving the United States, I shipped two boxes to my new address in Portugal. One of these boxes contained the four well wrapped martini glasses. Little did I know that they’d have to go through customers when entering Portugal. It took months and many telephone calls to finally locate the boxes. Because I did not have receipts for the contents, it cost me a small fortune to get the two boxes out of customs. When they were finally delivered to my home, one of the four martini glasses was broken. I wept openly and lost several nights of sleep.

I engaged in a failed search for a replacement glass. I contacted all of the other executive team members who had received the same gift; none of them still owned the glasses. I learned that Salviati only made a limited number, explaining why they were impossible to find. I gave up. I placed the three remaining glasses in a prominent spot in my new home. I have never used a single glass from the collection.

It’s been eight years since I placed those four glasses in that mailed box. I have checked eBay no less than a dozen times over the years. A few days ago, just for giggles and laughs. I looked on eBay. There it was, a single Salviati martini glass. The irony is that each of the four glasses has a different design and the one listed was the same glass that broke in the box that was shipped. I made an offer and after a bit of haggling, the glass was mine. It will arrive any day now and I will happily complete my collection. Early in my story I asked you not to judge me, I hope now you understand. I’m not sure why (and I may never know), but for me, this helps bring closure to an open wound. Sometimes an object can represent a time in your life, a person in your life, or a notion you’re hanging onto. These four glasses are all of those things for me. The challenge will be to keep them from breaking — they are extremely fragile. They mark a time in my life with tremendous growth and the ability to walk away when my integrity depended on it.

Is it true that everything happens for a reason? I would answer that sometimes it does seem so. The missing glass pictured above, will soon arrive.

State-of Mind

The story told here is non-fiction.

An individual I care about recently informed me that it was inappropriate for me to flaunt my lifestyle on social media. A part of me knows that I do not over-post. My intention has always been to stay in touch with people in my life that I do not see on a regular basis. When I moved to Portugal it seemed even more important to share my life experiences for the benefit of those in my circle of friends and acquaintances. But this comment shook me to my core. Perhaps a part of me thought I might be over-sharing or that people in my life that did not have the means to travel as I do, might feel that I am rubbing it in their faces.

I ran this by a few of my friends who told me to ignore the comment. They said that my travels inspire them and others. No one I spoke to seemed to believe that I over-post. But if I’m going to be honest, there are a few people in my orbit that I believe should pull back a bit on social media. Usually because they post on Facebook everyday and sometimes very superficial (i.e., I lost my keys and found them) posts. Or they post a different selfie daily. I feel very judgmental and that I might be a bit unfair about this subject, but still, it’s how I feel. And so, I have not posted about my travels or adventures in a long while. Last week a good friend said that I should go back to posting. He said that people like him missed seeing what I was up to. I heard him loud and clear, however, as I mentioned earlier, I was stung badly. I guess I’m searching for some middle ground. Perhaps I will use this platform for social sharing. I’ll figure it out.

“It’s very easy to be judgmental until you know someone’s truth.”

Kate Winslet

I hate proofreading, therefore, please excuse any grammatical or typographical errors.

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Neal’s Protected World

A wonderful world is hidden in the far corners of Neal’s mind. He created this world when he was four years old. It was safe and easy to get to. What Neal loved most about his world were all the people in his life that he knew would never go there. Neal would steal himself away as his real world got scarier.

He would frequently retreat there, but he wouldn’t stay long — the adults in his life were always bringing him back. The journey was usually triggered by something he chose not to face. There was this one time when he was about seven years old playing in his room. He’d heard his aunt Jean and Uncle Mike in the living room, but he was hoping they’d stay there. A few minutes later, someone knocked on his door.

He tentatively whispered, “come in.”

It was his Aunt Jean. She was all dressed up for church. I thought I’d heard her giving his mother a hard time for not wanting to go with them to church. They argued about this a lot; Neal mostly ignored them: Neal ignored most adults.

“Well hello Neal. Every time I see you, you seem to be a foot taller. What are you playing with? Is that a doll? You don’t think you’re a bit too old to be playing with dolls? Do you want me to tell your cousins that you play with dolls? Put them away and play with your computer games. Come on Neal, be a big boy.”

He looked down and didn’t say a word. When his aunt left, he quickly retreated to his world, where dolls were okay and grown ups didn’t tell him what to do. His uncle Mike never said anything, but he’d give him a disapproving look if he wasn’t hitting a ball or playing games that boys played.

One day Neal’s mother was in the kitchen baking. She called Neal’s name numerous times, needing him to run to the market for butter. She opened the back door and he was lying down in the grass. She shouted his name again and he didn’t answer. She marched over to where he was and screamed,

“Neal, where are you?”

He looked at her and said, “I’m right here mom, don’t you see me?”

This sort of thing happened all the time; Neal’s mother lost sleep over his behavior. She thought it might be time to take him to see a specialist. She suspected he was not like the other boys his age. She didn’t dare consider what was wrong with him, Neal’s father wouldn’t accept anything other than “normal.”

And why wouldn’t Neal escape whenever he could? His was a world where the moon filled half of the sky; where animals roamed free; where there were no other children or adults; it was quiet and safe and his.

Neal was fully aware that at some point, if his mother and father discovered his world, he’d be forbidden to go there. He’d have to keep it secret. Marie, Neal’s mother was loving and kind, but she always seemed worried about him.

Neal became a Boy Scout when reached his tenth birthday. He slowly began to feel more comfortable with his peers. Although he remained guarded where adults were concerned, he hid his reticence fairly well. One scout leader in particular took a liking to Neal, often coaching him on outdoor survival skills and recruiting him for special projects. After about a year of camping and hiking, Fred, his scout leader, selected three boys to do an overnight hike to a ridge, some 20 miles from the scout camp base.

Neal was pleased to be included and excited about the outing. He and the other two boys prepared for the trip, ready to go at 5:00 a.m. on the designated morning. The hike was difficult, but not impossible. The boys stayed close to Fred as he led them to the ridge.

Neal was feeling awkward that day; something was off and he couldn’t place what was bothering him. That evening Fred asked Neal to grab a five gallon water jug and walk with him to the stream for fresh water. Neal was happy to help, but feeling tentative about going nonetheless. They walked quietly for about a quarter mile. When they got to the stream, Fred put his hand on Neal’s shoulder,

“We walked all this way, we might as well take a dip in the stream.”

“But I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”

“Come on Neal, it’s just us, we don’t need a suit.”

Neal wanted to run away, but where would he go? He wasn’t even sure he knew the way back. He reluctantly removed his t-shirt and jeans and sat on the ground in his underwear.

“Come on, your underwear is going to get wet, be a man and take them off.”

Neal stripped down and ran into the water to cover up. Fred began undressing, keeping an eye on Neal. Before Fred even got into the water, Neal jumped out and headed toward his clothing.

“Where are you going, you weren’t in the water for 30 seconds.”

“It’s too cold, I’m shivering.”

Fred walked over to Neal, assuring him that he could warm him up. Neal noticed that Fred was erect. He had never seen a grown man’s erect penis, but he’d heard the boys talk about it at school.

“I’m okay Fred, I’ll just get dressed.”

“No, no, let me get you dried off first.”

“But we don’t have towels with us.”

“Geez Neal, you sure do worry a lot.”

Fred began drying Neal off with his own t-shirt. Neal stood by the stream frozen and frightened. Fred complimented Neal on his leg muscles, telling him that he had strong legs. Fred then touched Neal in places he did not want to be touched. Neal started to quietly weep. He hated how it felt. Fred tried to quiet Neal, but Neal began crying louder and begging Fred to stop.

Fred eventually did stop. Neal quickly put his clothes on and asked to return to camp.

On the walk home, Fred spoke softly,

“I’m not sure why you’re so upset, all I did was dry you off. I like you Neal. You’re safe with me, I’ll never hurt you. Next time relax, I promise you’ll like it.”

Fred wasn’t finished with Neal and months of sexual abuse would follow. Neal retreated to his world daily, sometimes for hours on end. Neal’s mother became so concerned that she decided to have him speak to a therapist. The only thing Neal would tell the therapist was that he was fine. The therapist referred Neal’s parents to a psychiatrist. The doctor put Neal on anti-anxiety medication; he told Neal’s parents that Neal was an introvert who suffered from social anxiety and communication issues. Neal’s mother was beside herself. By the time Neal was 11 years old, he barely spoke and rarely came out of his room.

Neal’s school announced a Scout’s day. The leaders would be coming to the school to show the children what the scouts were about. They would be recruited to join at the end of the school day. Neal was sitting off to the side (as he often did) and Fred walked over to him to say hello. Neal’s teacher was observing the interaction and noticed Neal pull away from Fred. Beth immediately knew why. She had seen this behavior before. She now had a better understanding of why Neal was so often alone.

That afternoon she called Neal’s mother and asked to see her after school. When Marie arrived, Beth was waiting for her. They discussed what Beth had observed and Marie was pensive. She was concerned, but knew that she would dare not share this with Neal’s father. Marie thought about how she might approach this with Neal and decided to sleep on it.

Marie woke up angry and resolute the following morning. She decided that the only way to know for sure was to see Fred try to touch Neal. Marie needed a plan, she needed help, and she needed her son to be okay.

She called Beth, Neal’s teacher. She shared her plan with Beth about having a BBQ and inviting Fred. She thought it would be best if they discovered Fred’s preying behavior together; erasing any doubt of guilt.

In order to protect her son and avoid getting him upset about the invite, she told Neal that Fred would be going away for a long time and that she was hosting a barbeque for him. When she talked to Neal and told him that Beth would be there, he seemed relieved.

Marie wanted to be certain no further harm would be done to her son. She would create a trap that would minimize the amount of time Neal would need to be with Fred. This was probably the hardest thing Marie would ever need to do, but Neal was in trouble and nothing could stop her.

As Marie knew he would, Fred agreed to join them for a BBQ. She asked Beth to come a few minutes early to discuss the plan. She once again reassured Neal that Beth was coming as well. Neal’s father would be out playing golf all day.

Before Marie’s guests arrived, she had work to do in Neal’s bedroom. She sent him to the market near the house for some butter and eggs. She found a couple of photos of Neal when he was two and three years old running in and out of the garden sprinkler without any clothing; she set those out on his dresser. She went into Neal’s underwear drawer and stacked four pairs on top of the dresser next to the photos. She then closed Neal’s door. When Beth got there, she showed her what she had done to prepare Neal’s bedroom. They discussed Marie’s plan.

When Fred arrived, Marie immediately noticed Neal’s body language. She was fuming mad, but she knew she’d have to hide her contempt. Beth gave Marie a look in order to show Marie that they were on solid ground. Beth adored Neal and felt protective of him, however, today was for all the children Fred had ever harmed or might someday harm.

Marie grilled some burgers while Beth kept her eyes on Fred; also making sure Neal was away from him and comfortable. She’d brought a new computer game she knew he’d enjoy. Beth was also certain Fred would behave himself in front of other adults. After dinner Beth whispered a request into Neal’s ear.

“Here’s $5.00, please run and get some ice cream, your mom completely forgot dessert.”

Neal gladly ran off to the store without Fred noticing the exchange. Two minutes later Marie acted concerned, but tried not to be too dramatic.

“Hey you two, I can’t find Neal anywhere and we’re about to have some dessert. Beth please check the shed, Neal’s been working on building something in there. Fred, can you go up and see if he’s in his room? It’s upstairs.”

Fred made a beeline for the stairs. In the meantime, Neal returned with the ice cream and Beth thanked him. Marie pulled Neal to the side.

“Don’t say anything to Fred about running to the store, I’m embarrassed that I’d forgotten dessert.”

Fred came down the stairs and said, “There you are, you little rascal.”

Beth quickly ascended the stairs, noticed the missing items and called the police. She explained that there was a pedophile in her friend’s house. She asked that they come quickly and apprehend him.

Marie had arranged for Neal to be at her neighbor Fran’s house when the police arrived. The police asked for Fred to empty his pockets. He resisted at first, but when they threatened to take him to the police station, he complied. He had taken the two pairs of Neal’s underwear and the photos. They arrested Fred on theft charges and escorted him out of Marie’s house in handcuffs.

Over the next few weeks Fred was held in a corrections facility and investigated. Several boy scouts shared horrendous instances of sexual abuse. Fred Irving was charged on multiple counts of child molestation; he confessed and was convicted. He is currently serving a twenty year sentence. Neal is seeing a professional therapist who specifically deals with sexual abuse. He is much happier these days. The world he created in order to escape reality, is a distant memory. Marie and Beth have become very close friends. Neal’s parents divorced months after Fred’s arrest.

State-of-Mind

I was one of the lucky ones, I’ve never been molested. When I lived in Maine, a teacher I had great respect for, confided in me. He told me about a Catholic priest who groomed and sexually abused him for several years. It’s a world I had always shielded myself from; too unpleasant to think about. This man’s pain was greater than I would have imagined. I still think about what he told me and his journey to wellness. Predators of children need to be fully exposed and their enablers forced to deal with the damage they have permitted. In my mind, all parties involved share equal guilt.

Paco has had an ear infection since March. After six vet visits, it has finally gone away. I know it seems like a small thing, but he was bothered by it and it was a daily struggle to keep it under control. Apparently, these bacteria are growing stronger, becoming more resistant to antibiotics and other remedies. My pet owner friends will appreciate my anxiety over this.

I’ve been feeling vulnerable, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It forces me to examine my life and all of its parts. Looking in the mirror requires one to face the blemishes one might see. At the end of the day, I need to own my mistakes and forgive myself — grace for oneself and grace with others. I guess the only other caveat is the hope that others will fully accept me as well. If they choose not to, I need to move on.

“We don’t have to wait until we are on our deathbed to realize what a waste of our precious lives it is to carry the belief that something is wrong with us.”

~Tara Brach

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 · 6 Comments

When Obsession Turns Toxic: Pippin Knows Best

It started with an occasional glance over his shoulder. A crazy feeling, an odd sensation that someone was watching. Each time Peter would dismiss this notion, knowing that being paranoid is neither reasonable nor founded in truth. After all, he was a nobody, a non-entity.

Two weeks went by and his cell phone rang at 3:00 a.m. Peter looked down at his phone and saw that it was an unknown caller; he ignored it. It happened again the next night and the next. He’d tried blocking the number, the same ring at the same hour, the caller persisted. It got Peter thinking about several people he might have pissed off over the years; there have been a few. There was that car he sold to this guy on Facebook Marketplace. It was a Dodge Dart that looked pretty good on the outside, but had been a lemon from the start — let it be someone else’s lemon he thought. The buyer’s name was Steve; Steve wasn’t very happy. Then there was this woman Sharon he’d met on Tinder. Sharon was a bit too needy and Peter tended to be emotionally unavailable. Her free flowing tears became a problem and he forgot to leave a note. Then there was this cousin who couldn’t handle who Peter voted for in the most recent election. He told Peter that blood was everything and Peter told him to fuck off and search for his soul, being certain he’d lost it some time ago.

The ‘do not disturb button’ on Peter’s phone did not deter the caller. He became incredulous; refusing to consider how far this person would go. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he should pick up the phone the next time. Later that evening, as predicted, Peter’s mobile phone rang and he answered, “Who is this?”

Beth said, “No need to be rude Peter.”

“It’s 3:00 a.m. and I’m being rude? What the fuck do you want Beth?”

“Just to say hello, it’s been a long time.”

Peter cut off the call and turned off his phone. He sat and mulled over what he had done to Beth to drive her to this point. She’d stalked him, annoyed him with middle of the night calls, what else had she done that he was unaware of? Peter couldn’t recall how their relationship had ended. He recalled meeting Beth in Art History at Uni. She was attractive, opinionated, and approachable. They’d gone out for a coffee after a lecture on Caravaggio. Beth found him to be provocative and progressive and Peter believed him to be subversive and propped-up by the far left of his day. They’d had a heated conversation that got him all worked-up and horny; he had to have her.

Peter hadn’t given her much thought lately, but come to think of it, Beth did seem a bit off; maybe that’s why he had run away so fast. There were moments he’d checked out, but to be fair, there was that intense passion; hard to resist and Beth knew it. When he did finally leave her, she wasn’t having it. They had a bit of a public screaming match and she finally got the message. Peter had been through similar break-ups before, so he shrugged it off. He knew he could be an asshole, but he was young and cocky.

A week after he’d hung up on Beth, there was an incident that had him confused. He was sitting at his desk at work and a DM popped up on his Mac. It was from a woman he had dated over five years ago; her name was Lisa. Lisa insisted they meet as soon as possible. Peter was half hoping she was interested in seeing him again and half hoping it was something completely unrelated to their romantic involvement. He had a drink with Lisa the following night. She told him that she’d been contacted by the FBI. She had agreed to talk to an agent who questioned her about Peter and their history. At the end of a 15 minute phone interview, the agent told her that Peter was being investigated for treason. Lisa said that since she never had a problem with Peter and because she was certain he wasn’t capable of treason, she´d decided to tell him. Peter was upset about what Lisa shared, but he considered it ridiculous and probably a mistake. They both agreed that he was a schmuck, however, not cut out for crimes against his country.

Then it happened again a few days later with Lauren, a girl he’d dated briefly in college. Lauren said the conversation with the FBI agent was brief, but concerning. It had gotten to the point where Peter thought he should contact the FBI to find out more about what they were investigating — thinking cooperation would help his case.

The D.C. FBI office had no record of these phone calls. They told him that this sort of thing happened all the time; scorned lovers and angry neighbors. Peter put two and two together and decided to speak to Beth. He didn’t think calling her would be very effective, so he went down to the bar in the Village where they’d met.

Sure enough, there she was having a drink at the bar. Peter casually walked over to say hello. Beth was unapproachable, in fact she behaved as if she’d never met him. He had never experienced anything like it before. He quickly realized she was playing games with him and he wasn’t interested in taking part. He told her to stay away from him.

“If you continue to harass me Beth, I’ll involve the police.”

Beth looked straight into his eyes, “I’ve never even met you, let alone harass you.”

Peter just walked away. Things were quiet for a few days, leading Peter to believe his threat worked. That Saturday, he decided to visit his mom at her home in Queens. He usually just showed up and let himself in. As he entered the house, he heard voices in his mother’s living room. Peter walked in and there was Beth just chatting with his mom.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Beth didn’t flinch, “I came to see your mom, is that not allowed?”

“Mom, can you come to the kitchen right now please.”

Peter’s mom followed him to the kitchen. She told him that Beth had shown up at the door saying she just happened to be in the neighborhood. Beth had only been at the house ten minutes before he arrived. When they walked back into the living room, Beth was gone. Peter told his mom what had been happening and insisted that she not let Beth in the next time she showed up.

Peter was out-of-his-mind with anger, having no idea how to handle the situation. After some thought he remembered that Beth had a small Lhasa Apso. He’d never been to Beth’s apartment, but he followed her home from the bar one night and found out where she lived. He watched her walk the dog from a few houses over. Beth seemed annoyed, practically dragging the dog down the sidewalk. Peter knew what to do and he had to do it sooner than later.

A friend once showed him how to pick-a-lock; a skill he knew would one day come in handy. Peter wore a hoodie and sunglasses and looked down, in case she had a camera at the door. Getting in was pretty easy. Peter thought Beth had said her dog’s name was Pippin, so Peter called out his name. Pippin came over to him wagging his tail — he scooped him up and carried him to his car. The neighborhood was quiet. Peter drove off with Pippin’s head out the window, enjoying the breeze. He figured he’d have to keep the whole affair on the downlow; Beth knew where he lived. Peter fortunately had a roof garden, making it easy enough to stay away from the streets. He was certain that two weeks of keeping Pippin would shake Beth up a bit.

Peter didn’t feel great about what he’d done, but clearly this woman needed to be taught a lesson. Pippin was a delight to have around the house. He was well-trained and a great companion, but after a week Peter’s guilt was too much to bear. He had searched social media to see if Beth had put out word that Pippin was missing, but he saw nothing. Still, he thought it best to return him to Beth. When he brought him back to her neighborhood, he didn’t see any street signs asking for help finding Pippin. It didn’t seem like Beth cared that he was gone.

Peter quietly returned Pippin to Beth’s house. The little guy was whimpering and giving him the saddest face he’d ever seen. It hurt Peter to leave him. The following morning Peter was leaving his building and there Pippin was sitting with his doorman Sal. Sal asked me if Pippin was his dog because he’d seen him carrying him out the day before. He said that he was and Peter took him upstairs to his apartment. He unblocked Beth’s phone number and texted her that he had Pippin and that she should come for him. An hour letter he received a text from her:

“Hey Peter, I know you took Pippin, but he seems to prefer you to me and to be frank, I don’t want him anymore anyway. So keep the little runt. I’ll stop bothering you, but you should know the gonorrhea you left me with was pretty shitty. I hope I never see you again . . . ever!”

Ironically, Peter was fairly positive she didn’t get the gonorrhea from him, seeing that he’d never had gonorrhea. He didn’t return Beth’s text or Pippin. Pippin turned out to be a great companion and Beth became a distant memory.

Side Note: My medical doctor ex read my story and wrote to tell me that he loved it, but that I should know that one could be a carrier of gonorrhea; however, not be aware of it. So then, Peter could have left Beth with that unwanted present. I thought it added a nice little twist and now I know all I needed to know about gonorrhea.

State-of-Mind

“I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” G.K. Chesterton

It’s been a while and I’m tempted to share why that is, but I’m thinking it’s boring and tedious and it might be best to just leave it behind.

I recently had the great pleasure of hosting two new friends who live in my neighborhood. Both women went to the high school across the street from my apartment. It was one of the most enjoyable afternoons I’ve shared for a long time. A reminder of the joy of getting to know new people, the pride in sharing your nest, and the warmth felt when realizing you are in the exact place where you should be. It’s quite an amazing feeling and I am grateful for recognizing it.

There has been a major shift in my life and my priorities. This new direction will inform me of my choices. I have come to realize I’ve been spending way too much precious time concerning myself with matters I cannot control. I have never been one to spend a great deal of time on regrets, but I also do not spend enough time on gratitude. My focus for now is taking stock of all that is good and satisfying and real in my life. After all, what else matters?

“Enough is a feast.” Buddhist proverb

Sometimes people write and tell me that I should either finish a story or expand on one; that’s fair. I will if the spirit moves me, until then, they will remain as they are.

Thank you for reading and have a great summer.

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Coping with Politics: Finding Peace Amid Chaos

Keep in mind: my thoughts, not gospel, not all based on fact, and not meant to persuade or dissuade. Merely suggestions for getting through the muck & mire.

First and foremost, no matter how bad it gets — and it will get worse, I cannot allow what is happening in the United States or the world, to drag me down. I honestly believe Trump and his sycophants are attempting to distract, exhaust, confuse, and lead us to helplessness. To the point where many will just give up or even worse give in.

Next, I realize as a childless, older adult living abroad, American politics has less impact on my life, then it does for others. Having said this, I would also add that the influence of American Politics is felt throughout the free world. Further, any discrimination, stripping of basic human rights, corruption, and/or abuse of power, directly impacts my life.

Some ways that I have learned to cope (in no particular order):

  • By filtering all that I read, see, and hear. There is currently a lot of noise, news, and opinions about the Trump era. Some of it is of course factual and has grave consequences. To be well informed, one must be certain to sort out what is hearsay or false. I feel empowered by standing with those that know what they are talking about.
  • I cannot control those members of my family that have decided to stand by and support this administration. I can, however, distance myself from them and/or insist that they not try to persuade me to join them.
  • When you are in pain or discomfort, the best thing you can do is find a healthy way to soothe the pain. Go to the gym, immerse yourself in your hobbies, watch mindless films, have a glass of good wine, a well-made cocktail, or a cold beer, read, go for a hike or walk alone or with a friend.
  • Keep a journal. Clear out your mind on paper; it helps keep things in perspective without sweeping your thoughts under the carpet or worse, denying they exist.
  • Speak your truth when questioned. Hiding your thoughts or your truth, can ruin a relationship and make you feel guilty or angry with yourself.
  • Always keep in mind that this too shall pass. There have been times in history when adversity led to more progressive change.
  • Get away. Nothing is better for clearing my head than a change of scenery.
  • Make a worst case scenario plan. Always better to be prepared.
  • Be a bit frugal, just in case you need funds in the future.
  • Pick your battles. You cannot take everyone and everything on. Write to your congressmen and senators, vote in every election, and campaign if you can — even if it’s on a grass roots level.
  • Celebrate the small victories.
  • Cook and/or eat comforting food.
  • Spend time with a friend or loved one that is like-minded and supports one another. Try to avoid a negative rabbit hole.
  • Having taken advantage of therapy for much of my life, I am a strong advocate of finding a professional you can trust and talk to. A psychiatrist may be more appropriate; especially if medication is to be prescribed. Medication can be a lifeline for those suffering from depression or mental illness. No shame in self-care.
  • Meditation is a very effective tool. I find sitting in a quiet space and concentrating on my breathing, works well for keeping outside influences in perspective.
  • I discovered gratitude not too long ago. Taking stock of all of the people you love who love you in return, and the gifts provided by the universe, is an excellent reminder of how good it is to be alive. And then there are pets to bring you joy.
  • Lastly, getting rid of toxic individuals in your life is essential for good mental health. People in your life who are broken, may attempt to bring you down with them — don’t allow it. If necessary and when necessary, walk away.

Whatever works for you, is the way to manage the chaos and strife; so long as you have tools.

What we have is worth fighting for

Oh How these words spoke to me

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”

T.S. Elliot

I’m worried about a few people in my life that are feeling defeated and suffering from intense melancholy. I hope that they come to realize that there are ways to rise above the negativity. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not enough.

I’ve been enjoying listening to Mel Robbins on her podcast. The Let Them Theory makes a great deal of sense. https://www.melrobbins.com/podcasts/episode-70

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Stephen’s Journey

Stephen watched and listened to the news: an endless loop of burning neighborhoods, tsunami warnings, earthquake devastation, and political unrest. Never before had his thoughts mimicked what was happening outside, so precisely. Chaos and confusion.

What had Stephen learned from his Zen Master? In the midst of the insanity, there is peace. That elusive peace, difficult to find in the past, now seemed far, far away. A voice deep within his unconscious mind told him that giving up meant abandoning humanity and himself. Stephen was a fighter, he fought for the right to be his authentic self, he fought for community justice, he fought for the underserved, and he fought for an ideal he knew in his heart was unattainable.

After all, it wasn’t his war and the drought did not directly affect him. It wasn’t his house or even his cousin’s house. It wasn’t his sister’s body they were trying to manage and manipulate. It wasn’t his religion being used to brainwash and control. It wouldn’t be his home in twenty years or his oceanfront Airbnb in thirty years. Wouldn’t they find a cure for cancer soon? Weren’t pills meant to mask the pain and wouldn’t technology save the planet?

The answers to the questions he grappled with were way too obvious to overlook. He knew in his heart that there truly was only one force that would determine the course of time; that force is and has always been Mother Nature. Was she pissed off? No, Stephen knew she wasn’t angry. Her only focus is correction. The balance the universe seeks to maintain is non-negotiable; solutions imply that there is a problem to be solved — there is no problem, there is only inevitability. What led Stephen to these complex thoughts?

When Stephen was 50 years old he suffered a massive heart attack which nearly ended his life. He had always questioned his existence, but this near death experience forced him to take inventory of his life and its meaning. Was he working in the right field and in the right place? Were his friends supportive? Was he communicating with his life partner effectively and did this person do everything possible to lift him up? Was he the partner he thought he could and should be? And so many other questions which he hoped he could find answers to. Not only answers, but a positive path forward as well. If he was going to live, he wanted to live with purpose and fulfillment.

Stephen contemplated the future of the world, his inner and outer circle, his place. Although it is a lifelong process, he found himself slightly more accepting of the reality of his limitations and grateful for the gifts the universe provides. And his conclusions?

AI generated

In his quest to find answers and inner peace, few things were clear to him. First and foremost, his own being was but a minuscule part of the whole — no more or less than any other being, next: however small, each eventually amounted to the totality, and therefore, mattered equally. Lastly, Stephen had the ability to determine his contribution. Would he change the course of nature? The answer was a resounding, no, but he could make an impact on his immediate surroundings. He could make the older woman who lived next door’s day a little easier, he could share a story with his niece that would help her to understand her mother, he could model kindness and consideration. What he learned from experience and feedback, is that all of these things collectively would make a difference in the now. Although the future would be whatever it was meant to be, Stephen could embrace the present and enjoy the sun and a delicious burger.

Stephen is a fictional Everyman character. We are all seeking answers and punting as time quickly passes. Some of us fill in the blanks with nonsense, some of us see the answers, but refuse to acknowledge them, some of us do not have the capacity to decipher fact from fiction, a few of us realize the search is part of the journey, and some of us want to change facts to suit our own needs. Nature is equipped to deal with an unstable and defensive environment, giving us one less thing to concern ourselves with — all that is wrong with our vessel will eventually be made right.

I know this story was somewhat hokey, but this is where my head is these days; needing to find meaning in the madness. Today, I will enjoy a burger. Looking forward to some time away on the west coast of France in a couple of weeks. But first, a visit from a good friend living in the U.S.

“It is change, continuing change, inevitable change, that is the dominant factor in society today. No sensible decision can be made any longer without taking into account not only the world as it is, but the world as it will be.”

Isaac Asimov

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A World Where a Head of Hair No Longer Matters

I woke up one morning a few years ago running my fingers through what I thought was a thick head of hair. As reality hit, so did the realization that I had been dreaming and I was in fact bald. I considered those few moments of joy when I thought I had a full head of hair; better than winning the lottery. My name is Tom and I am follicly challenged. It’s an interesting world to navigate when everyone around you seems to have more hair than they need.

Lately, I have been imagining a reality where a head of hair doesn’t matter. Why not, we already live in a world where intelligence doesn’t matter, good taste doesn’t matter, and integrity doesn’t matter. So what does this utopia look like:

For one, we as humans have come to accept our differences. Blue eyes and brown eyes are seen as equally magnificent features. Height, weight, skin color; none of these are considered superior attributes. The old are respected for their wisdom and longevity; the young are celebrated for their energy and ideas for the future. We are all magnificent.

Let’s get to the root of all evil, the almighty legal tender. We have to have money, but having more than you need is obscene and unnecessary. In this new world, people have an opportunity to do well and make just enough money to have the things they desire. Limits are set based on access and excess. It wouldn’t be fair to take more than you need, because if you are permitted to do so, there won’t be anything left for others. In this world, that doesn’t fly. The earth’s resources are not infinite; therefore, limits are applied and compliance is a given.

There are infinite freedoms that allow for individuality and choice. People are free to choose how they identify and how they dress; if indeed they choose to dress. There is no such thing as normal, conventional, or standard. Too much, outlandish, excess, greed, over-the-top, are words and phrases that are never spoken.

Vegetables are all grown organically and widely appreciated. A plant-based diet is celebrated and enjoyed. Waste is used to fuel heating, operate vehicles, and power homes. People are acutely aware of how much they take, how much they discard, and how much they contribute.

Political leaders volunteer for their positions and do not benefit from serving. The strengths and talents of all individuals are made public in order to serve the greater good. As humans age, they are encouraged to rest and share their wisdom; storytelling is the way that young people are taught history. We finally learn from our past.

Social media died decades ago, along with plastic surgery, luxury brands, mansions, estates, and jet planes. Travel is done on foot, bicycle, train or people movers. All individuals are expected to consider the least invasive form of transportation when going from A to B. The internet is used for research and as a tool for the betterment of society.

There are no longer borders. Countries have held onto their culture, but none are seen as superior to the other. Leadership exists for all humans across the board. Healthcare is a global right and so is food and shelter. Animals are only caged if they pose a danger to others, otherwise they are permitted to roam free; after all we are all inhabitants of a planet none of us own.

Holidays are internationally recognized and celebrated. The energy of the entire world celebrating together is explosive. Religion is rightfully of historical importance; however, it has long been debunked and is no longer practiced. In its place, the universe and its wonders provides for spiritual empowerment and what a universe it is.

Peace is revered, cherished, and a way of life. War, unrest, starvation, are all words long forgotten. All sexes are seen as equal. Death is an accepted eventuality; as with birth, it is celebrated, we live as long as we are meant to live. Illness is rare, however, when it occurs, an individual is cared for and pain is minimized. Addiction, alcoholism, and life threatening diseases and cancers, have all been eradicated.

You’re wondering what people do for fun? Fair question. Human beings find immense pleasure and happiness in witnessing the joy of others. We see life as a gift. Being with one another and supporting each other, preserves that gift. The sexual experience is never perverse, never imposed upon another without consent, and never taken for granted. Fun is derived from a simple life, enjoying nature and the wonders of the universe.

____________________________________________

My name is Tom and this is a world I will never live in. Escapism provides momentary relief.

Just My Opinion

I’m an avid TikToker. I love the level of creativity you find in this application, I love the length of the videos, I love the people I’ve been introduced to, and I love that so many have been able to monetize their experience. I seldom post content, but I like the freedom I have to choose if and when and how I contribute. The U.S. government has decided to ban TikTok due to security reasons. If this Chinese company is not soon sold to an American, U.S. individuals will no longer have access to the platform. There are many different theories about why some lawmakers would like to see TikTok go away. It seems to me that there are many Chinese (and other foreign agents) operating in the U.S. If all of these businesses were banned it would be devastating for the U.S. economy and all Americans. Personally, I believe this is government overreach and a bridge too far. I’m happy in this case to be living in Portugal where the platform is in no danger of being banned.

Please forgive all grammatical and typographical errors. I hate proofreading.

Posted on by CP · 6 Comments

The Stain on the Cross

Each and every time I see someone genuflect, it reminds me of my uncle, Father Simon. My father’s brother was larger than life; pious, soft spoken and a deplorable pedophile. Twenty years after his death, and not a single family member is willing to call him out for who he really was and the damage he did. I can no longer remain silent.

Father Simon, not sure why, but that’s what I was forced to call him. He would come for Sunday supper after delivering Mass in the Bronx. His parish was in the Bronx; one of the only things I was grateful for. Whenever he walked through the door, it was as if Jesus himself appeared. The women in the family would yell and scream and the men would hug and kiss him. Nobody ever said anything bad about Father Simon. I mostly hid in the shed outside the house.

The shed was always musty and dark, but it was safe because Father Simon would never go there. He would always be looking at me, didn’t anyone notice? He’d pick me up to kiss me when I didn’t want to be kissed. He’d bring me candy, but I didn’t want it.

“You’re such a sweet boy and you look just like me.”

“Come here Sean, sit on your uncle’s knee. Come here so I can tickle you. Let me put sunscreen on you.” Let me violate you.

Father Simon was a drunk too. He liked red wine. Nobody cared that he laughed too loud or drank too much or that he fondled me in my bedroom. I asked him to stop touching me, but he would tell me that uncles were allowed to touch their nephews and that priests were doing God’s work.

“It’s a way of showing you my love Sean. I love you very much. But if you tell your parents, you’ll go to hell — they’ll go to hell. Remember I am a man of God and he always listens to me.”

When I was 10 years old I put six Ex-Lax pills in Father Simon’s chocolate pudding. He stayed in the bathroom for three hours that day. I didn’t care where he ended up so long as he stayed away from me.

This business of Father Simon putting his hands all over me went on for years. When I was 14 years old I threatened him with a pair of scissors and he never came near me again. I was angry at myself for being mean to Father Simon. Everyone loved him, so it had to be me that was the problem.

I’ve been in therapy for several years; although I think it’s helpful, I know that I am damaged goods; emotionally and psychologically. A recent conversation with my mother went like this:

“Mom, do you have any idea what Father Simon did to me when I was a child?”

“Come on Sean, that was a long time ago and things were different back then.”

“Are you telling me that you knew what was happening?”

“I didn’t know anything back then Sean, and for the life of me I don’t understand why you want to talk about this now. Your father and I loved your uncle very much. He did so much good for his community and he was adored by so many. Telling people about what happened to you will not change anyone’s mind about Father Simon; he was a man of God and we need to let him rest. You’re going to put your father underground if you keep this up.”

I’m not sure what is worse, the abuse or the denial. How can I love a God who would allow this to happen to so many innocent children? Trust that there is a reason so many suffer? I am sorry, but Father Simon destroyed any faith I may have had. There are two things I know for certain: first, there are known monsters among us who are permitted to destroy lives in the name of God, and second, they need to be stopped.

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Just a reminder that my current stories are fictional. I have never actually had a priest lay a hand on me.

State-of-Mind

The scary and precarious political situation in the United States is throwing me off-balance. My thinking is dark, therefore, my writing is darker. I’m not sure where we are headed and despite what’s going on all around me, I am hopeful — I know it’s Pollyanna, but I’m not sure how else to be. I am very concerned about Gaza and Ukraine, I cannot imagine that the current state of affairs in either place is sustainable. Innocent people are dying due to extreme positions around religion and land ownership. I cannot imagine any favorable outcome.

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