Papagni Pages

Tag: writing

  • 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.

  • 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

  • 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

  • When Obsession Turns Toxic: Pippin Knows Best

    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.

  • A Sperm Donor’s Life Is Suddenly Turned Upside Down

    Marc was the kind of guy that nobody noticed. His quiet demeanor and average looks made him almost invisible in most social situations. Marc’s life goals were not meant for public consumption; he was discrete. He didn’t mean to hide anything from anyone, but he rarely mentioned his intentions or personal details about his life. People didn’t ask and Marc didn’t tell.

    His life was absolutely boring, just the way he liked it. He’d wake up early, read the news on his phone, turn on his computer and work remotely. Marc had very little contact with humans, his work being all about numbers and moving money around for clients he’d never met. As long as he completed his quota for the day, nobody bothered him.

    Marc pretty much ate the same food at the same time everyday. He had no desire to try new restaurants, drink at bars, meet friends for a walk, or watch sports on television. Marc’s aspirations were simple: keep breathing and stay out of trouble. There was one thing he truly wished for:

    Marc dreamed that he’d one day own a Ford Mustang. He had seen one when he was at an automobile show with his father when he was ten years old and it had been the only material thing he had ever wanted. Sadly, his job didn’t pay him well enough to afford a Mustang. He began passing time by thinking up ways to acquire enough money to buy one. He figured $30,000 might get him a fairly nice 1965 model.

    Marc had been able to save about $20,000 over the last ten years, still short, he was feeling anxious about whether or not he’d ever get there. One spring day, on the bus on his way to the barber, an ad caught his eye — a nearby fertility clinic was looking for sperm donors. He had once read that this sort of thing paid fairly well, so he decided to check it out.

    The following Monday he made an appointment and began pondering what they’d think about his candidacy. He already knew he’d probably never marry and therefore, never father a child. Donating sperm would be a very practical way to increase his savings.

    A few days later he met with a clinician, he fulfilled all that was required, and was told he could donate twice per week for $850 per month. By his calculations, he could purchase the Mustang in one year. Marc didn’t get excited very much, but he found himself smiling on the ride back to his apartment.

    The year passed fairly quickly; thoughts of that Mustang still very much on Marc’s mind. He had been scouring the internet for the right vehicle for months and had finally found one 45 minutes away on the city bus route; Detroit was known for excellent public transportation. Marc made an appointment to see the car and it did not disappoint. He was able to purchase the red 1965 Mustang for $28,000, leaving him enough money to have it detailed.

    Marc parked his Mustang in his driveway, where it was safe and where he could admire it from his living room window. He thought about building a carport. The old man he purchased the car from, told him about an antique car show that would take place in Detroit in three weeks. At first Marc dismissed the idea of going; however, after some thought, he decided that it wouldn’t hurt to attend.

    The Detroit Coliseum was huge and filled with many beautiful antique cars. Marc spoke to a few of the owners and he showed them photos of his new acquisition. People seemed to know his car, further, they encouraged him to show it off. Marc decided that he liked the other car owners, they were friendly and he thought that they all had a lot in common. He found himself diving head first into the culture. He found himself traveling with June (the name he’d given to his car, named for the month in which he purchased it), to various cities in the midwest. June was very popular at automotive shows; featured in many attendees photographs. Marc found himself making friends easily and enjoying his new life.

    When he purchased June he thought he’d give up sperm donations, but staying in hotels and dining out could be costly. He continued to donate several times per month. Marc had not given any thought to what happened with his sperm until one day long after he quit making donations.

    After twenty years of enjoying his beautiful automobile and making his way around the antique car show circuit, Marc experienced something that rocked his world to its core. Marc was walking around the Toronto Coliseum floor admiring the other antique cars on display and he recognized a young man standing by a beautiful aqua blue 1952 Chrysler Windsor. Marc was surveying the automobile when its owner, Stephen, walked up to him. Marc said hello, but he couldn’t recall how he knew the young man. He was frustrated and flustered as he listened to Stephen describe the overwhelming amount of attention the car had been receiving at the show.

    Marc tried to be engaging, however, he was stuck on Stephen’s familiar mannerisms. He decided to ask a few questions in order to determine how he knew Stephen. Unfortunately, none of what Stephen told him resonated with Marc and he walked away baffled.

    Some time passed and Marc forgot about the encounter. Fast forward a few months and Marc was shopping at a Kroger in downtown Detroit. Stephen, whom he had met in Toronto, saw him and approached him. They exchanged pleasantries and decided to have a coffee next door. Marc realized their car connection was strong and he wanted to know more about Stephen’s involvement.

    The conversation at the coffee shop was fairly ordinary by any measure. Marc would occasionally go back to the feeling that he knew Stephen. At one point he point blank asked him. Stephen didn’t want Marc to feel badly, but he suspected his response may have been considered obtuse.

    “You’re not that old to already have memory problems.”

    Marc just laughed it off, knowing he must have met Stephen a while back and has just forgotten where and how. They said their goodbyes and agreed to meet for breakfast the next day. Marc didn’t sleep well. Something was bugging him, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

    The next day, they met at the dining room in their hotel. It was a buffet breakfast and Marc kept bumping into Stephen at the breakfast bar. When they sat down at the table, Marc looked at Stephen’s plate and it looked like a mirror image of his own. They realized it at about the same time, chuckled, and shrugged.

    At about halfway through breakfast, Marc asked Stephen about his parents.

    “What does your father think about your expensive hobby?”

    “I don’t know what my father thinks, I never met him.”

    “That’s a shame, he might have enjoyed antique cars as well. Did he die before you were born?”

    “No,” said Stephen, “I was conceived in a lab, my father was a sperm donor.”

    Marc suddenly became very disoriented. He had to excuse himself from the table for a breather. Was he Stephen’s father? Is that why he thought he knew him so well? What are the odds? Should he say something? He never imagined this could ever happen; he was overwhelmed and confused.

    This Story From Here

    I’m somewhat invested in this little piece of fiction. I’ve thought a lot about these sperm donors who may have fathered many, many children. I’m going to expand on the story sometime soon. As I’ve said before, writing has been an organic process for me; I suspect I’ll be motivated to finish the story sometime soon.

    AI Feedback I will consider in the future:

    – The narrative has a unique and engaging premise; consider refining character development to enhance emotional connection with readers.

    – Ensure consistent pacing; some sections might benefit from tighter editing to maintain reader interest.

    – The transitions between Marc’s story and the personal reflection sections could be smoother for better flow.

    – Consider adding more sensory details to descriptions to create a richer atmosphere.

    From the www:

    A sperm donor could potentially fertilize a large number of eggs, with guidelines suggesting a limit of 25 births per donor in a population of 800,000 to minimize the risk of consanguinity. 

    Here’s a more detailed explanation:

    • No Universal Limit: There isn’t a uniform limit across the US on the number of donations a single donor can make, but the American Society for Reproductive Medicine (ASRM) recommends restricting conceptions by individual donors to 25 births per population of 800,000. 
    • ASRM Guidelines: The ASRM guidelines state that clinics and sperm banks should keep sufficient records to allow a limit to be set for the number of pregnancies for which a donor is responsible. 
    • Minimizing Consanguinity: The ASRM’s recommendation aims to minimize the risk of inadvertent consanguineous conception (where children are genetically related). 

    Current state of Affairs

    I’ve been very introspective lately; more so than usual. I think it’s mostly related to politics and feeling helpless. I know I’m not alone in this. I remain hopeful that a bleak outlook will somehow change into something more positive. A good friend reminded me that history shows us that we go through cycles; therefore, no matter what this is or where it takes us, this too shall pass. I’m hoping the collateral damage is not irreparable.

    Two things happened this week, both initiating reflection: first, someone close to me accused me of flaunting my lifestyle online. The next thing surprised me: someone I know well and think very highly of, asked me why I haven’t written a story in a while. I’ve thought a great deal about both of these occurrences. I don’t want to disappoint any of you, but I am going to choose to keep my thoughts on these topics private. I will say one thing and leave it at that: I am at a point in my life where what people say matters, because I think it should; however, what I think and feel about my own life matters more. I will do as I please and work toward goals I set for myself. I’m happy to know that there are people who would like me to continue writing.

    “Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. He who cannot look into himself cannot look into the world.” – Carl Jung