Please Leave your Shoes at the Door

I enter the door of Cheonanyoungam elementary school for the first time after sleeping just a few hours from my journey that lasted more than twenty-four hours. I am exhausted and anxious about the new opportunity that awaits me on the other side of the double glass doors to this large brick building an entire block long. Just three steps in and my new manager stops me and points to my shoes. Then directs me to the cubbyholes where the slippers for guests are kept and instructs me to take mine off and replace them with the slippers that have Korean writing along the top. I internally smirk at the idea that I brought with me a good pair of shoes just to be professional at work and I will never where them in the building during my one year commitment here as an esl teacher.

For many years, I have practiced the Buddhist tradition of taking off footwear before entering the home. The physical and mental decision to leave the outside world outside has been valuable and supportive to me in my spiritual development. During my two weeks of notice before coming to Korea, I had forgotten that detail and was not aware that in Korea, public schools are treated like homes and no shoes are worn in the building.

As cumbersome as it can be when leaving for lunch or something to switch back and forth between shoes and slippers, I enjoy working in slippers. I like teaching in slippers and the feeling of warmth and family that it creates. Besides, they are much more comfortable and relaxing to stand all day teaching. I bought my own pair to keep at the school and the vice-principal who is very worried how a man who is single will survive alone in Korea has given me my very own cubbyhole near the middle entrance to keep my slippers in.

When parents or even construction-type workers enter the building, they either bring their own slippers or wear the guest pairs available to anyone. It brings me great joy to see men gutting and putting together the two new computer rooms and the new English teachers office in a form of slippers. Quite different than the heavy work boots that men wear when working in the USA. It reminds me of a piece on 60 Minutes I watched five years ago after a football game about mowing the lawn and gender. The reporter explained how men wear heavy work boots when mowing the lawn with clothes built for protection from something dangerous. He then showed brief videos of women mowing the lawn in pretty sundresses and sandals with summer hats and fashionable sunglasses. His point was that men see any kind if outdoor work as an expression of their manhood and women try to find a way to enjoy experiences when possible (and get a “tan”) and see no reason to put on their “battle fatigues” to mow the lawn. This is the image I maintain in my head about the contrast of intention and mentality of men that are Korean and American. One is proving the size of his penis while the other is proving that being a man includes caring about children and the sense of home.

This is one of the ways that Koreans make schools feel like an extension of home to children. There is no feeling if sterility, austerity or power from the teachers to the students. The kids offer too much respect for that to happen, even if a teacher thought that it might be helpful. Kids do not give teachers the finger, curse at them, sit in the back of the class with hands folded sulking or storm out of the room dramatically. A child would not do this because it is not what you do to teachers AND it would be embarrassing to act that way in front of your friends. It would demonstrate traits that children do not appreciate, so to act that way would cause them to be friendless and lose respect from their teacher and parents. Here, losing respect is a big deal and something that children work very hard to avoid. They want to be thought of as smart, hard working and caring, anything less is a reason for a child to cry out of internal shame.

I enjoy living and working in a land where slippers are worn in homes and schools, and a sense of home is more important than a sense of self-importance among principals, teachers, parents and kids.

Friendship

Connection
Love
Welcoming
Laughter
Fun
Hands
Hugs
Respect
Sharing
Listening
Gazing
Napping
Honesty
Risk
Trust
Mirrors
Tremble
Jump
Acknowledgement
Leap
Treat
Surprise
Delight
Right
Relief
Reflection
Reason
Being
Unity
One
Complete
Whole
The Goal

Curves

That Own me
That Throw me
That Sow me
That Hoe me
That Know me
That Flow me
That Blow me
That Grow me
That Show me
That Tow me
That Go me
That Mow me
That Bow me
That Row me
That Stow me
That Wuw me
That Slow me
That Owe me
That Bone me
That Hone me
That Hormone me
That Testosterone me
That Condone me
That Throne me
That Stone me
That Moan me
That Shun me
That Sun me
That Stun me
That Fun me
That Done me
That Hun me
That Nun me
That Run me
That Ton me
That Won me
That Spun me
That Swerve me
That Nerve me
That Perve me
That Serve me
That Curve me
That Bend me
That Send me
That Tend me
That Verve me
That Lend me
That Trend me
That Fend me
That Mend me
That Spend me
That Spoon me
That Noon me
That Moon me
That Goon me
That June me
That Loon me
That Soon me
That Tune me
That Buffoon me
That Balloon me
That Kaboom me
That Ruin me
That Root me
That Toot me
That Boot me
That Mute me
That Hoot me
That Lute me
That Nuet me
That Cute me
That Befuddle me
That Cuddle me
That Muddle me
That Subtle me
That Huddle me
That Puddle me
That Found me
That Bound me
That Confound me
That Surround me
That Hound me
That Mound me
That Drowned me
That Nouned me
That Clowned me
That Pound me
That Round me
That Wound me
That Astound me
That Ascend me
That Unend me
That Suspend me
That Upend me
That Transcend me

The Man in The Lighthouse

The Man in The Lighthouse

He sits quietly
Thoughtful
Alive
Reflective
They learn from him
Life
Connection
Tradition
He creates worlds other cannot see
Vision
Conception
Redemption
They bow in awe
Respect
Direct
Insightful
He listens to words not yet said
Open
Sensitive
Intuitive
They think he knows something, everything
Silent
Proud
Alone

Rediscovering Latin American Soul in Seoul

Discovering Latin American Soul in Seoul

I spent part of my afternoon at Deoksugung Palace and the Korean National Museum of Art after escaping Itaewon and all the American tourists buying Puma or Nike sneakers, Gap shorts and Levis jeans in Seoul, South Korea. I have never understood why Americans fly all over the world to go shopping for things they can purchase at their local mall. It is not like America doesn’t have enough malls, although I am not a very good American tourist, I must have missed the class on how to be a quality American tourist no matter where you go.

The Palace was elegant, homey, fun and stirred some old memories from different times and places from before I was michael. I have been here before; not as who I am today in this body. It’s nice to visit home away from home every now and then. My heart felt full of times when I lived more focused and committed than I do today. There was no remorse for the steps I have taken backwards, it was more about remembering who I am, and what and where I have come from as a human and as a Presence.

As invigorating as the Palace experience was for me, the art museum reached deeper. It never occurred to me while riding the yellow, orange, brown and blues lines downtown that I would end up at a Korean art museum exhibiting Latin American art in downtown Seoul. I giggled internally when walking up the steps and could feel the smirk on my face.

The exhibit rocked. Each viewing room and its theme touched a different part of me. The first room full of work expressing The Revolution connected with The Revolutionary in me that is never too far from the surface. Diego Rivera’s work got me the most fired-up with his passion and use of colors and texture that soothe and stir simultaneously.

The exhibit on mixing of cultures and races with black, brown and every shade of woman in between with their varied bodies, fashion, joy and pain reminded me of how long women have struggled for recognition and respect.

The final two rooms exhibited work focused on cultural and individual identity. Of course, this is when I felt most connected with the artists and the brushstrokes and heart strokes of their lives as people. Folks seemed to be moved by Frida Cahlo’s pieces the most, me, it was the force of Wilfredo Lam, Alexandro Xul Solar and Roberto Matta Echaurren.

Apparently I needed a dose of Latin American culture while visiting Seoul. I am grateful to have experienced such beauty and passion here next to City Hall in Seoul.

Two Old Friends

Earlier today while waiting for the Orange #3 line subway to downtown Seoul, I observed something that has stayed with me all day.

A gentleman of at least sixty-five years of age was patiently, relaxing seated on a slatted wooden bench next to two women far enough away to probably not be traveling together. He had that soft comfortable face that demonstrates successful life; one that has obtained success economically, socially and lovingly. His eyes were focused in a non-focused manner. He looked like he could sit there all day in his off-white cotton pants and white shirt with thin stripes were those of a man who can buy anything but doesn’t need to impress anyone any more.

All of a sudden, his expression changed to elation with his brown eyes wide, cheeks full and warm smile exuding joy. He immediately stood up as he sees a friend walking towards him. They both looked so happy and surprised to see each other. I didn’t need to speak the language or understand HanGul to recognize that.

His friend was dressed similarly with thicker stripes on his shirt and slightly darker pants. They both looked like what happens when life works.

The thin striped man gestured for his friend to sit next to him on the bench. The energy and exchanges of words, smiles and warmth filled me up, as it did even more so to both of them beaming for all to see in Suseo station. They mad me want to be old, to have experienced enough peaks and valleys to know they are neither peaks nor valleys, and just keep on walking.

It provides such hope to me to witness men sharing these kinds of moments together. The moments were extended when it turned out they were both going to the same place, or just decided to after talking. I sat next to them to continue to soak up the appreciation of these two old friends that bumped into each other while waiting for the Orange #3 line going towards Dahwia. I didn’t go that far. I followed the advice of everyone I spoke to that said I should go to Itaewon, “Where all the foreigners are”. My gut told me that foreigners meant white tourists shopping and looking for American culture in the heart of Seoul, South Korea. My suspicion was correct, they were all buying Puma, Nike, Louis Vetonne and Levis all the way in Seoul, instead of their local mall. I wished I had listened to my gut and avoided Itaewon altogether and sat next to the two old men and landed wherever they landed.

The richness of their eye contact, soft cheeks, warm words, voice tomes and energy is still with me eight hours later on that same orange #3 line headed back to the suburbs of Bandung. These memories have made this ride almost as enjoyable as the one sitting next to the two old friends riding the orange #3 this afternoon.

His Moment

It was the bottom of the sixth inning on Meadowbrook’s best field. All we had to do was hang on for three more outs and we would win in front of all the people in the bleachers at the older kids field on opening day. Before the game, I felt weird about playing in “c” league when all my friends were in “a” league but that was in the first inning before I hit safely three times including an inside the park home run.

I love playing shortstop because I receive the most hits and I made a bunch of good one’s already this game. The best was the hot grounder I scooped up after passing the third baseman and threw it just in time to get the hitter out at first base.

Joey, the teams pitcher was starting to get tired. He had pitched a great first game. He walked their first batter and the second one hit a double to center field making it second and third with no outs. He walked the third batter in four pitches- bases loaded and no outs and only a 4-1 lead. Coach Eddie called time and walked out to the pitcher’s mound to talk with Joey. A minute later he signaled me to come to the mound to join them, since I was the team captain.

“Michael, I need you to get me three outs.” And he handed me the ball and walked away with Joey trotting over to play shortstop.

I froze. I had never pitched before in a real game at any level. Here we were with the bleachers full at the good field, bases loaded, no outs, bottom of the sixth and the ball was in my hands now.

I took a deep breath and my seven warm-up pitches, only two were over the plate and would have been strikes. A big red-headed boy with freckles stepped up to the plate and the umpire yelled, “OK. Let’s play ball”.

I fixed my glasses, turned the ball around in my hand three times, leaned forward to start my wind-up, kicked my leg up in the air, reared my arm back and threw it as hard as I could to the plate. The red-headed boy swung, missed and the umpire yelled, “Steeerike One”. Phew ! Made it through the first one. Since that worked, I did everything all over again and threw it as hard as I could and the red-headed boy with freckles swung and missed again, “Steerike Two”. Another deep breath and starting with fixing my glasses I went through the whole routine again and the red-headed boy swung again and missed, “Steerike Three. Batter Out”.

One down, two to go. All the kids on my team were yelling stuff and the peopel in the bleachers were starting to get into too.

The next batter stepped up to the plate and he was a lefty. None of my friends were lefties, so I had no experience trying to pitch to any of them. OK, here we go again. Fixed my glasses, rolled the ball around in my hand, kicked my leg and threw it as hard as I could and Bang, right into the catchers’s mitt with the lefty missing the ball by about two feet. “Steerike One”.

“Steerike Two,” this time the lefty didn’t even swing. My first called strike.

All right, I got this one now. I was starting to sweat a lot now in my grey uniform with blue trim. “Steerike Three. Batter Out. Two Outs”.

Now everybody was really yelling from both teams. They were down to their last out and we were one out away from winning the first game of the year on the good field. My heart was pounding and I had to take my blue hat with a “C” on it for Chargers off to wipe the sweat off my forehead that was dripping down onto my glasses. I wiped them off on my jersey. Kenny Costa was up next and stepping up to the plate. When he connects with the ball, it is gone every time. No room for error here with the game on the line.

I threw it as hard as I could, even harder than the other two kids and Crack!, he hit a long fly ball down the left line, the ump runs over to watch the ball, then yells, “Foul Ball. Steerike One”. Both benches were screaming and then there was a big exhale for everybody. It’s just strike one.

I did my whole thing again but this time instead of throwing it as hard as I could, I threw it softly and Kenny missed it by a mile. “Steerike Two”. A bunch of kids laughed and Kenny banged the bat on the plate with his face all red.

One pitch to go, just one pitch. I took a little longer this time before starting my delivery. Kenny Costa looked straight at me with his face red and gripping the bat like his life depended on it. I looked at all the three runners since they would be running on two strikes with two outs. I went through my whole routine, and this time I threw it harder than I ever had in my life, Kenny took a big swing and just missed the ball, “Steerike Three. Batter Out. Game Over!”

My whole team ran to the pitcher’s mound and jumped all over me, even Coach Eddie.

Nine pitches, nine strikes and a one two, three relief appearance my first time on the mound in a real game on the good field.

I started eleven of the final twelve games that year winning every one of them. My name was in the West Essex Tribune every Thursday that summer. But my favorite memory of that season was the first game of the year when I got to pitch in the bottom of the sixth with the bases loaded and no outs for a one, two, three inning on the good field.

If I Could Change One Thing

If I could change one thing,
I would smile more.
Pay more attention to you,
I would listen.

Listen, yeah, that's it,
I would listen more.
Hear what you have to say,
And really hear you.

No, i would pay more attention to you,
You deserve it.
It has been hard for you,
I know this about you.

Smiling is the thing to do,
Smiles, genuine warm smiles heal.
They make me come alive and sing,
Smiles like misery can be contagious.

If i could change one thing,
It would be none of them.
Loving Boldly with no limitations or restraints,
We deserve it!

Smiles are great but Loving Boldly,
There is no distance too great,
We can dissolve and dissipate hate.
Loving Boldly is the one thing i would change.

The Road Not Taken

It had been more than ten years since we last spoke. It was all so raw and painful back then. Her presence still felt like a hand cultivator clawing and scraping up and down my spine, slowly and deliberately. Just like the way I plant Lacinato kale every April except this one- slow and deliberate. Even though I was so happy she found the right man for her, I had not really ever let go of the questions in my mind.

Did I give up too quickly?

When Pastor Matt consoled me that I was not breaking my commitments with God by ending our engagement, did I use that as my get-out-of –jail-free-card?

Was I just not man enough to really handle commitment from all the pain and disappointment over the years?

Did I bail on the one woman I totally fell in love with and ached to be near night and day?

Ten years. So much has happened since then. All the physical scars from the biting, scratching and pinching have healed and been replaced with fresh new skin many times now that all physical evidence is filed away in a box with all the other Cold Cases. I had grown and gotten stuck and grown again so many times. She had gotten engaged again, broke up got married to a Navy man and lives in the suburbs of Virginia with their daughter Mary Elizabeth, she must be three by now. And then there was last year when she was placed in a state mental hospital by her husband and stepfather, losing rights to leave him with their daughter when she was finally released. After ten years, I knew it was time to face my demons and visit, not knowing why, just knew to visit.

“So you will really be here in a half an hour?”

“Yes, I think it will take me that long.”

“Really! I can’t wait for you to meet M.E. she is amazing. OK, so I need to take a shower before you get here, I look awful. Just let yourself in the front door. And since you know that if we are going to have lunch, you will have to make it. So, just come in, and look around for something to make us for lunch. I can’t believe you are really coming. I am so excited!”

I hung up my cell phone and took a deep breath. Am I ready for this? Funny, it is like history has stopped. I will be walking in her place because she is not ready, preparing food for us in her kitchen because she doesn’t do kitchens and no greeting at the door, no hug hello, no “I can’t believe you are actually here!” Just, “Let yourself in and make us something to eat for lunch.” Ten years, married, child and nothing has changed.

I got lost once on the way over but that means I will only have to wait about twenty minutes for her instead of thirty, the food won’t be completely cold by then. I slowly open the front door to their suburban mass manufactured house in a Desperate Wives look-a-like “community”. The blue Ford Explorer she told me to look for was in the driveway, so I knew I was at the right house and not just walking into somebody else’s house in this military families neighborhood. I did not want to get shot or deported. The house smells just like I remember her. This is a mistake, what am I doing here?

“Hello” I say loud enough for anybody upstairs to hear.

“You’re here? Already” I am not dressed yet. Just look in the fridge and make whatever you want.” “Mary Elizabeth, mommy’s old friend is here. Do you want to go down and say Hi to him?” “She’s being shy.” Loud enough for me to hear. She probably won’t come down without me, she is a bit agoraphobic just like her mother.”

I scrounge around the fridge and only see various kinds of over-processed foods I would not feed President Bush, let alone a little girl or myself. Oscar Meyer bologna, Wonder white bread, Pillsbury flake biscuits, Ahh, eggs an actual real food. Oh yuck, Kraft individually wrapped cheese food for my protection.

“Did you find anything? How about scrambled eggs with cheese, M.E. loves that.”

“I found that. I can make that if that is what she likes. Are you going to eat that as well?”

“I don’t really eat food anymore. The meds they have me on have depressed my appetite. Just make enough for you and M.E. I will eat whatever she doesn’t finish.” Her voice sounds closer and I hear two adult and two little feet starting to come down the steps. When they come within my view, a shot goes up my spine to my brain and the only word that comes to mind is “Crazy!” She has the look of all the clients I have worked with that are crazy. OK, we don’t call them crazy but that doesn’t mean they aren’t crazy. I can see it in her eyes and feel it in her energy. Crazy. I knew right at that moment that the road not taken was a road needn’t be taken. Freedom: all the questions have now been answered. No more questions, no more doubt and no more shoulda, coulda, woulda. Done. No, definitely did not need to have taken this road. Phew! By the Grace of God in spite of ourselves every now and then we step on the path that is ours and leave behind the road not taken forever. Freedom… at least for me.

But Not When Hiding

When does waiting end
and fear begin?
Patience is a Virtue,
but not when hiding.

When does Now begin
and the past conclude?
Now is all we have,
but not when hiding.

When does the future start
and become the present?
Karma clears the Path,
but not when hiding.

When does a day
last a whole lifetime?
Today is our Redemption,
but not when hiding.

When does the night
escape without notice?
Life is short,
but not when hiding.

When does a calendar
freeze and disappear?
Birth and death are quick,
But not when hiding.

When does time
prevail forever?
Love is the answer,
but not when hiding

The Korean Haircut

Looking in hair salon and barbershop windows like a stalker in search of his prey, I roamed the streets of Ssang-yangdong neighborhood for a place to get a haircut. No, not the place with the hairdressers in fake brown hair. I’ll pass on the salon with the sign stating their cheapest haircut is 29,000 won, equal to about $29.00 US dollars. I keep looking and staring in windows. As I pass the Lotte Mart on the right across from the Baskin Robbins Ice Cream shop, I see a sign for 4,000 won in the large glass window of a hair place. Of course, it must be 4,000 won for some specific service that is additional to the haircut itself, maybe shampoo or a shave?

I step up the single step to enter their front door and an older man wearing black slacks and a button down shirt comes from the back of the shop and greets me and says, “Do you want a haircut?” in perfect English! What a relief.

I ask, “How much?”

He replies promptly, “Are you a member?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been here before?”

I knew there was a catch or something to the 4,000-won haircut. “No.”

“OK. It is 4,000 won. Do you want a haircut?”

“Yes.”

He points to a seat on the couch on the other side of a coffee table covered with scattered newspapers that have been read and reread throughout the day, or week. “Sit down.”

I sit following orders. I scan the newspapers in HanGul and see a picture of a baseball player. It must be the sports section. I pick it up and remember I cannot read HanGul yet. I put it back down and sit patiently staring at nothing.

Less than five minutes go by and he walks over and says, “OK.” And points to an open station in front of a young woman wearing a nice comfortable black dress with short black hair simple but stylish.

I get up and start to sit and he points to a little plastic covered series of men’s pictures to demonstrate styles of men’s haircuts. They are all cuts made for Asian hair, not my thick, heavy Italian hair. I get nervous thinking of having to pick one that will not be successful for me. He recognizes my confusion and asks, “Do you se a style you want?”

“I would like the same I have but shorter” pointing to my head. As if he didn’t know wear my hair was.

“OK” He then has a brief conversation with the woman about to cut my hair in HanGul and she starts right in while he is still carrying on a conversation with me. “Where are you from?”

“New Jersey, I mean America, right outside of New York City.”

“Good.” He nods his head in affirmation of something and walks away. She is cutting away like a trained technician. In America, it seems there is more of a need for making the customer feel special, cared for. They are not technicians as much as service providers. She was a technician.

At one point about five minutes later, she said something in one word that I did not understand that I think was q question. I just nodded my head yes and hoped I did not just give her permission to shave my head. She continued cutting.

The rest of the haircut was in silence. I have never had a silent haircut before. I am not sure I have even ever had a haircut when I was not flirted with as part of the “service” whether woman or gay man cutting my hair. I closed my eyes and relaxed. One of the benefits of very poor vision is the lack of ability to see your hair being cut. When you put on your glasses after completion, it doesn’t matter if you like it or not; it is already cut.

When I was in my early twenties, I tried wearing hard contacts for a little while. During those few months of dry eyes and always being tired with headaches; I got a haircut at a neighborhood salon by a killer babe with long brownish-black hair, a dangerous body and a soft smile. I saw every chop and clip of my hair falling away for the first time in my life and it was horrific. I stopped wearing haircuts and made a promise to myself I would never wear glasses, contacts or anything else while receiving a haircut again. I have kept my promise so far.

She said something in a short phrase and looked at me for a response. I assumed she was asking me if I liked it or wanted it shorter. I pointed to my glasses with a smile and when she handed them to me gently, I put them on and looked. I liked the cut, simple and short. She is a technician. The man came over and asked, “Is it OK?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

He nods and walked away. She cleaned me up including this really cool wide vacuum hose that took all the little hairs off my scalp and head in just ten seconds! She finishes and nodded at me.

I got up, put my glasses back on and went to see the man at the small black counter near the front door. I asked, “Should I give her a tip?” Since there is no tipping at restaurants, I thought it was a fair question.

He laughed a little and said warmly, “No.” Then a minute later, he added, “If you want to give her 1,000 won that would be OK” I did. The total for my haircut was 5,000-won including tip! This is about $5 US dollars. No flirting or conversations about celebrities while being flirted with and an occasional breast rub against the back of the neck for extra service but she was a technician I and I got a 5,000 won haircut. Things certainly are different here. A haircut costs less than the tip in America. And, I did not have to hear the latest about Britney, Lindsay, Angelina’s new baby or Paris being naked
August 5, 2008

A Snapshot of A Moment

Raw. Juicy. Marooned and purple. Bruises up and down her upper arms.

She was still sleeping from the night before. Cuddling and clutching her favorite little lavender and magenta flowered pillow and semi-curled up like a little child. It is hard to imagine this beautiful, peaceful and sweet-looking woman could also be that other woman last night, and those other nights. Was it just a nightmare or did it really happen? Hummm. The bruises tell him it did really happen.

He is trying to hard to remember exactly how she got the bruises just above her elbows all the way up to her shoulders on both sides. He starts to recall some of the events of the night before and the other ones he has forcefully denied in his mind till now. She always says it is not important how she gets the bruises and who did what. Of course, she doesn’t want anyone to point the microscope anywhere near her, especially not for this. But he needs to know what happened and what he is responsible for. How else can he correct his mistakes if he doesn’t know what they are?



“But I love you!” he said to her right splat in the middle of their worst fight yet. “I really do!” His face squished up tightly and his arms flailing about as he cried and managed to get this words out almost coherently.

She shook her head in disgust, almost laughing and pitying his lack of spine. “Is he actually a man or a teenage girl?” she asks herself. Then she opens her mouth slowly and speaks slowly and carefully making certain he will hear every word and again firmly states to him the same words she knows will always make him break, “I knew the first time I met you that were the wrong man for me.” She hesitates and then continues even slower, “I don’t love you and never have, never will. This has been the biggest mistake I have ever made in my life. You are not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with! No, definitely not you.” Shaking her head again, she then pulls her right leg back and BAM! She kicks him right smack in the belly!

He swallows hard and gasps for air to breath, coughs a couple of times and just sits there with no affect or response. It has happened enough times now that he doesn’t even react when she kicks him like that anymore. She sees this and appears disturbed. She cocks her right arm back and punches him with a half-closed fist in the middle of his chest firmly, just like his older brother did when he was a little boy. He flinches. She almost smiles and does it again and then again and then a fourth time! He cannot control the tears any longer that are streaming down his red cheeks. She notices this opening in his fortress and scratches him with her barely painted red nails on his biceps and chest. That was the breaking point. She finally got a reaction from him. She always said that the only way you can find out if a man loves you or not is by how mad he gets during an fight. “Good he loves me.” She thinks silently.

He grabs her and quickly pushes her onto her back across the white couch covered with a soft white blanket that she claims as her bed. He is holding her down by her biceps with both hands with all his strength. Adrenalin makes holding her down easier but she somehow finds a way to buck and try to kick him in his testicles with her legs under his body. He shifts his weight and she can no longer move her legs or arms. She is trying but he is bigger and stronger than her while reliving the terrors of his childhood at this very second on this couch with the girl he adores, just like he did with his brother David when they were kids. He adored him just as much, if not more.

She starts yelling fiercely, “ I never loved you! I never loved you! I never loved you!”

He raises his right arm above his shoulder and makes a very tight fist. He can feel the veins popping out in his forearm, his heart pounding inside him and the sweat in his hand hovering above her.

She stops fighting back and goes limp. He is ready to show her who is boss around here once and for all. No more sensitive-New-Age-guy-routine for him. Nope, time to take care of business. He cocks his arm back a little bit farther and then BANG! It hits him like a ton of bricks across his head.

“I am not about to become one of those guys!” He releases his fist and lets go of her arm all at once and then gently climbs off her without saying a word or even looking back at her as he walks slowly into the bedroom. “No. I am not one of those guys.” He says in his mind and wonders if he said it out loud too, changes direction and walks out of their apartment.


He is still watching her sleep. His fiancé’, and the woman he let himself really fall in love with. The only one he asked to marry him. The only one he stayed with after the first signs of trouble. Her breathing is so soft, just like her voice and the skin on her hands when they are holding hands in prayer before every meal together.

There will be no more meals together, holding hands in prayer or her soft voice and radiant smile. He is finally going to leave her.

“Mark, what the hell are you doing still with her?” Terry asks as if Mark has just about lost his mind. He said this to him on the basketball court while shooting hoops together minutes before the Friday night men’s A.A. meeting that is both of their home group. “Are you nuts? You know better. You are a counselor and you know better. What are doing?”


“Yeah, I do know better.” He sighs before walking into the bedroom to begin packing his stuff. He looks back at her one more time wanting to hold this version of her in his mind as a snapshot of her and of them, for when he walks out that door for good in just a few moments.

She stirs and awakens. In her soft gentle voice she asks him, “What are you doing?” As if nothing happened last night, or any of the nights. She has the benefit of a finely tuned selective-memory system. It is has helped her survive through everything that she experienced in the last thirty-four years. He does not have the luxury of such blackouts. She continues to stare at him inquisitively.

“Yep, time to go.” He says to himself, “definitely time to go.”

All It Takes is The Courage to Step Out

I remember as a child hearing about all the protests and riots. It was the sixties, when young and old were inspired by the force of change. People were willing to risk their jobs, education, families and freedom to stand for what they believed in. I have vague memories of feeling that I too wanted to be part of The Movement, The Revolution.
By the time I was old enough, the voices had been silenced and I was swirling in Hurricane Cocaine. 



Tonight I watched the movie Walkout. WOW! I cried about every ten minutes, I was moved to the core by the force of the collective human spirit. It seems there is nothing we can't achieve together when inspired by the Higher Good. 


I was trembling with the illustrations of the suffering Chicano students in East L.A. during the sixties.

Why do we do this to each other?

Why is "Looking out for #1" such a way of life for us?

Have we had enough yet?

Several times during the movie, I reflected on how comfortable we have become as a culture in the last thirty years. Where has that collective human spirit gone?

Has taking care of our own, replaced taking care of each other?

Have we had enough yet?

This past January, I reformatted one of the programs I am involved with to include a Youth March on MLK Day. Four hundred or so, predominantly youth of color, put on their coats and bared eighteen-degree weather during a heavy snowstorm to march for youth education and rights, much like the Chicano students did in East L.A. If you have ever participated in any marches/protests, especially a youth lead rally, it reaches deep down inside in a way that few things in life can. 




Abraham Herschel once said something to the effect of, "Marching is praying with your feet". When was the last time you prayed with your feet?

Have we had enough yet?

Please watch Walkout. It is a powerful experience. I can't imagine what the real events must have been like for those high school students. 


Have we had enough yet?

Being One Of Them

Today I was a consumer. Not just normal Michael-type consumption; today I was one of them.

Typically for me, shopping consists of several visits to the local thrifts shops. It entails being open-minded enough to letting the store lead me toward the style I want, as opposed a pre-conceived notion of what “I need”. Thrift shops serve many supportive functions. They are the original and most effective form of recycling I know of. Modern day recycling of glass, plastic, paper and cans, use more energy resources than producing new products. This gives us the illusion, an unspoken license to use, use, use, as long as we put the USED item in the city-recycling bin. So, I have a genuine appreciation for the real recycling that transpires at thrift shops.

Thrift shops are also an effective means of sweatshops. Simply put, if nothing new is sold, therefore, production goes down and the twelve year old who works eleven-hour days for one dollar will actually see his/her family that day. Less use, less abuse.

It is so much fun walking out of a thrift shop with an Old Navy or J. Crew pair of jeans for $2.99. It is my way of giving corporate America the finger. They will not get my money. My Soul is too precious, and I have worked too hard to reclaim it. It is no longer up for grabs, especially not for them. This is my way to let The Gap, Tommy Hilfiger, Nike, Wal-Mart, Kmart or any other mart feel the consequences of their actions; I am not for sale thank you!

No ownership. Thrift shops are typically not owned by anyone. There are the privately owned “vintage” shops, but they are a different breed that typically charges more for a lime green polyester sport coat from 1978 than you would pay for anew one-and a more attractive version too. I feel good about giving my money to no one. Mr. or Mrs. No One cannot do much cannot do much with the money I give them. In fact, they do the reverse, they hire people that typically not very employable or volunteers. And, they give their profits away. They actually give the money they make away to an organization or church or temple or something non-profit. For me, if there is no Co-op in town, this is how Michaels shop.

But not today. I tried the thrift shops in search of something specific to no avail. I tried to bend to meet the available selections but it really wasn’t what I needed. So, I broke my rule and went into franchise/chain stores.

People like me do not do well in these kinds of stores. The music annoys me since I am not seventeen anymore. The fragrances offend me since I like the way humans actually smell, as well as air. The energy is sterile prostitution and the semi-dressed, twenty year old girls that haven’t eaten since 2005 sales associates remind me of everything wrong with this country. Their pre-programmed smile, verbiage and perky demeanor smell of Hell- the place where Spirit and love are devoid. Corporate Hell. I visited C.H. today, willingly. The first sweet young thing with cleavage, midriff and the curves of the brim of her butt exposed was entertaining, even a little seductive in a sick kind of creep middle-aged guy kind of way. I mildly reciprocated her flirting for a brief moment. Then I said to myself, “OK, so these are not really what I wanted to buy, but she is really cute, friendly and attentive… maybe I need to be more flexible in my purchases.” Then I noticed how tightly she was clutching her shiny, red cell phone for dear life and remembered how old I am, and NO; these are not what I need to buy- regardless of cleavage, midriff or butt-crack! After a few of these experiences replicated to varying degrees, I found a store that had what I was looking for and I bought it. I bought it knowing that a woman or child with their sweat made it in China and suffering on the sandals, even before I will wear them. Knowing that this corporate chain has put mom and pop shoe stores out of business all over the country. Knowing that I am now “one of them”- Corporate Consumer. I am almost was in tears when I left wearing my new Spalding sandals.

After further review, the replay shows indisputable evidence I AM NOT ONE OF THEM! I rode my beat-up, black Trek bike what ended up to be five or six miles to get there – I could have used my van. My shirt and shorts were bought at Savers last spring. I did not accept the temptation of BOGO just because I could. I put my old sandals in my canvas bag that a local grower at the Eastside farmers Market in Madison, WI gave me two seasons ago as a gift for being such a strong supporter of local growers and her. I do not need your plastic shopping bag, a second pair of footwear at half off or anything else. Eleven dollars. Brand new Spalding athletic sandals for eleven dollars. An incredible deal but at what cost to those whose sweat mixed with my while pedaling my bike in the hot Virginia sun?

I am not one of them
I am not one of them

Me and my Soul are not for sale. We are not on the open market.
WE ARE NOT FOR SALE ANYMORE!

Thunderstorms

Here in the mountains, folks are always talking about thunderstorms. What they did, do and might do. When and where and stories about past storms weathered.

It is interesting how in different geographic areas and climates, what the metrological buzz is about. In New Jersey, snowstorms in the winter and sometimes hurricanes in the summer. Indiana- tornadoes; Wisconsin- cold, snow, ice and tornadoes; Florida- hurricanes, heart and thunderstorms. And here in North Carolina, it is the storm de jour.
It does not matter whether rain or snow, mild or cold, they are very concerned about storms and their consequences- past, present and future.

Growing up in New Jersey, we never really paid much attention to weather ad its real or imagined concerns. Unless of course, it effected a sports event as spectator or participant. I did not grow up with fear of weather and its hazards. I consider this a blessing. When I am aware of serious weather conditions; I purchase groceries and I am good. I do not sweat this kind of stuff.

It is not that I have not experienced severe weather conditions; Hurricane Georges in Clearwater Florida- we were all forced to evacuate the area. Twice I have been on a boat when an unexpected tornado touched down. There was the time with three of snow and no power for a day and a half at a farmhouse. I hiked solo for six weeks during the summer of 95’ when we the nation was rarely below 95 degrees the whole summer. Bike-riding in Wisconsin in –twenty0-five degree weather. Hurricanes that knocked trees on my home in Indiana. I have done 360s and slid across a four-lane highway on black ice, and my car was crashed into while sitting there unable to move. I was fine; the car was totaled.

Immediately after writing that last line, the power went out here. We scrambled for flashlights and lighter oil lamps. Now things have calmed down. I am writing with pen by lamp oil. If I were motivated, I would get out my calligraphy pen and do this by nip and ink. So, here I am writing on a wood table that is several generations older than I, at a historic lodge in the middle of nowhere by lamp oil. I was told I was like Abe Lincoln; I will not go to theater this evening.

Thunderstorms come in other forms as well. There are the thunderstorms that as humans, we rain upon others. Sometimes, they are expected and we can properly prepare for the damage, other times, they are not expected we get caught in the thunder and lightening with out a raincoat or rubber boots to protect us. It is these kinds of thunderstorms that have been on my mind lately. Mother nature has hers; we have ours.

How can we properly prepare for these kinds of storms? Today, and recently, I have needed to weather some “severe weather:” that someone has been bursting all over the place. The first few times, I shrunk and became small. I was totally unprepared for the flood of rage spilling on anything in its path. After having weathered a few of these storms, (I couldn’t resist) I reacted with anger to protect myself. Unfortunately anger does not come with raincoats and rubber boots and, therefore, was still unprotected.

I am now learning weather human thunderstorms in a different manner, or at least trying. OK, maybe just experimenting at this point. The raincoats and boots I am trying to keep me safe are the same garments that work in life’s other challenges- Prayer, Breathing, Humility and staying grounded in who I am. Thunder, lightening, snow, heat, tornadoes, hurricanes, cold, wind or sleet cannot take that from me. I am Michael.

We do not need to get small,
we do not do anything for anybody by shrinking,
We do not need to lash back,
Thunderstorms do not put out thunderstorms any more than fire puts out fire.
We do not need to bring back whatever memories this brings up for us,
Inner Strength and Courage seem limitless when we need it. Stand tall!
We do not need to be anyone’s doormat,
We can remember whom we are and where we have come form, challenges overcome, and know we are not the problem, cause or root. I am who I am and that is good enough.

I am aware having written this; I have now raised the bar on how I will weather natural or “un-natural” thunderstorms. And with writing and sharing things with others, forces me to step up to the plate, and stopping thinking and talking about a choice and start living it!

I Pray we all weather whatever storms we each experience as calmly and safely as possible. And may my pen and oil lamp shine brightly and strong, so that we may see clearly through the damage caused by these broken power lines. Thunderstorms of any kind are Teachers if we choose to become students.

TV Dinners

“Mom. Why can’t we have TV dinners like everybody else? Are they too expensive?” David asked in his typical demanding manners that never really felt like a question.

“Yeah. Why can’t we have TV dinners mom?” I was only eleven but was q quick learner; if it worked for David for fifteen years, why not try it myself?

Her face turned red, her head tilted a little like it does when she doesn’t like the conversation or people. This time it was the conversation. “Because they’re no good, that’s why.”

“But we want them! Why can’t we have them just once to try them?” Again he used the question that was a demand more than a question. “Just one time and then we won’t ask again.” Not remembering when “we” became a “we” in this plan of his but I sat there silent to see if it would work.

Mom hesitated for a moment. Her face got redder, her forehead got all squished up and she was shrugging her shoulders, “OK. You want TV diners, we’ll have TV dinners tomorrow night for supper.”

“YAY!” We both yelled in harmony.

Thanks mom,” I said as David walked away with that smirk he has after successfully bullying somebody, especially adults.

All day in school all I could think about was having TV dinners tonight. What are TV dinners I wondered? Do you eat them while watching TV? Why would anybody want to eat while watching TV? Do you eat them differently than regular food?

When it started getting dark, I stopped playing kickball at the cul-de-sac at the bottom of Berkeley Terrace with my friends to see what a TV dinner looked like. I had already three times seen commercials on TV about them, since I really only watch Saturday morning cartoons on TV, three times was a lot. And, we were going to have one for dinner tonight.

I threw open the front door, ran up the steps through the living room to the kitchen and asked out of breathe, “Are the TV dinners done yet mom?”

“Don’t run through the living room, use the steps from the hallway! David will be home any minute and the TV dinners are almost done. Go wash your hands and set up the den for dinner.”

I ran down the hallway steps to the bathroom on the right past the laundry room before the den and washed my hands. I noticed the only book we ever had in the bathroom was Race Riots, which was jokes about everybody from Micks to Spics, whatever that meant. I ran back up the steps to the kitchen and asked, “How do you get ready to eat TV dinners in the den mom?”

She handed me three plastic trays with cups, forks, knifes and spoons for the three of us. I guess dad isn’t coming home for dinner again tonight, too bad he’ll miss out on TV dinners. I slowly walk down the steps to not drop and break anything and through the hallway to the den with the colorful, shag flowered carpet and black leather couch. We had a color TV, so the TV dinners will probably even taste better than when we had just a black and white TV.

David came barreling through the front door slamming it as he ran up the living room steps to the kitchen and again my mom yells, “David, don’t go through the living room to the kitchen, use the hallway steps!”

“Are the TV dinners done yet?” not even acknowledging mom spoke.

“Yes, we were just waiting for you.” She opens the door to the oven with both of us staring wide-eyed, grabs her oven pads and takes out these little bendable metal trays with three little compartments that separated the Eggplant Parmigiana from the Linguine with Marinara Sauce and applesauce in the left hand corner compartment. “Go get the three trays your brother left in the den and bring them back with you, hurry.”

David was back in a jiffy. We each carried our own TV dinner down to the den and sat on the black leather couch that had the Afghan my mother crotched last winter. We were so excited we didn’t even notice the TV wasn’t on for our TV dinner. My mom turned on the TV with its cool remote control device she held in her hand that was able to turn the TV on and off, and change channels without even getting up. She put on the evening news with Walter Cronkite on CBS but we didn’t care because we were eating our TV dinners. After a few minutes, I noticed that our TV dinner was identical to what we ate last night and most nights in our home. Eventually David got mom to confess that she borrowed the little metal trays from The Graifmans and just put last night’s leftovers in the three little compartments and heated them up in the oven. “I just can’t feed my children frozen TV dinners!” she said.

Like with everything and everybody else in life then and till the day he died in 1997, David wore her out and she gave in and bought “real” TV dinners for us the next night. We had Swanson Hungry Man Turkey Dinner with dried out turkey with a boring gravy, fake mashed potatoes and awful peach cobbler. They sucked. We all went up to the kitchen, threw them in the garbage and raided the fridge for some Rigatoni in the white Corner Ware dish and my mom made some fresh salad in the big dark brown wooden bowl we always ate salad in.

It turned out David was telling the truth when he said if she would let us try them once we would never ask again, we didn’t. But my mom wanted us to feel like we were like the other kids in the neighborhood, so she would make a real meal in the soft metal trays with three little compartments about once a week and eat in front of the TV in the den together as a family. It was the only time we didn’t talk, laugh and have fun during dinner in my family because the TV was on.

She filled up the big downstairs freezer with these TV dinners for “Whenever I am too busy or tired to make a fresh dinner.” They lasted in that freezer for quite a while until my mom got breast cancer, whatever “cancer” was and my grandmother stayed with us while she was in the hospital getting “chemo”. My mom wanted to be sure we still had her food even while she was on the verge of death herself. My grandmother used to walk around complaining, “I don’t know why your mother wasted all that time making you kids these frozen dinners when I can make you dinner myself.” That was my mom, always seeing dinner as how you show and share love. It worked

There is More Work to be Done

Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo. I will eat at a Mexican restaurant here in Charlottesville, VA. So far, it seems like a great town and UV is really nice. The students all seem soft and friendly.

I’m sitting in my van in a mostly empty parking garage a little past midnight. I was at the library but it just closed. How does a library close at midnight on the Sunday night before finals week? I was online catching up on stuff, emailing couch surfers and one of my former supervisors at the Urban League Ed. Oh yeah, I applied for a job at Villa Julie U in Maryland in my shorts, t-shirt and sandals.

Today was my second travel day after leaving Danbury. Somehow my door fixed itself enough for me to be able to open and close my door to get I and out but more importantly- push the switch that opens my gas lid on the outside of the van. I stuck a small mirror that I bought to be a temporary replacement for the driver’s side mirror, which was crushed. Not the best situation but it works till I get it all fixed. I guess I need to stay somewhere long enough in order for that to happen.

I emailed a bunch of couch surfers earlier this evening but both that responded that they were too busy with exams to host tonight; I will sleep in my van. After I finish writing, I will search for a place for me to hide and rest without being bothering or being bothered by others. This being a college town, I need to be more attentive. It was warm today here, so I will not have to worry about the temperature tonight.

Last night I couch surfed with a young woman who rents a loft out in the country on a horse farm about 30-40 miles from Baltimore and a little further form D.C. She was nice, friendly and accommodating but we really never hit it off. We are different in too many critical ways. A few are pace/speed of life, need for control/freedom and general ease with life. We went to an old town named Ellicott Coty this afternoon. That went better but our variance in walking speed was a little uncomfortable. She lives alone and has no friends in the rural area she lives in. This affected her social skills and need for connection I think.

While being tourists, we visited historic “Colored School” that was restored. The history and feel of the place were re-assuring to me. Somehow I felt hope form being there and seeing and feeling the courage that was necessary for them to have such a school. I take schooling and so many other privileges for granted. This was subtle ad heartfelt reminder of the struggles that many folks have endured and still do. There is more work to be done. We are not free yet.

I have experienced what Reiki students go through that I had not personally felt in a real long time. It is the fall-off in intensity, focus and rhythm after a group intensive. The separation from the Teacher and the group energy has demonstrated that I have just begun this new process with new meditations. What we feel in the force, depth and connection to the energy deceases significantly when we are by ourselves in the world again. I already miss the intensive and the group. There is more work to be done.

Qi Healer

Today was the day I was looking forward to. The Qi Healer Intensive was at the point of the class where all the students would be practicing Qi Healing on each other. This \ is what I cam to do Danbury, Ct to experience.

As a Reiki Teaching Master for many years, I have plenty of experience with energy and working with others. Because of this, I knew that profound experiences would be shared together. I was not disappointed.

The intensity and focus of the Qi and the students was impressive. It is really neat to participate in a group with such committed people. The one member who was in a different [place, was having some external challenges and decided to leave against the Teacher and classmates recommendations. The four other group members are all experienced and dedicated Qi Gong, Tai Ji or Shiatsu practitioners and teachers. I am not in a group with a bunch of lightweights. The four of them continue to impress with their knowledge, wisdom and balance, and they are all fun and funny to hangout with. W have a series of “inside” jokes ranging from The Skilled Clipboard Holder to The Room with a Window and the Ice Cream Goddess. We have enjoyed each other’s company and friendship while experiencing this process together, especially those of us that have also slept here at night.

So I was in good company when we got down to actually working on each other. I received five healing in total, and with each one felt a release of dead energy or physical discomfort. Since I have not been sleeping well, I was especially grateful fort he clearing, balancing and strengthening each healer did on my head without it being discussed. I feel so much better tonight from the healings.

After dinner tonight, one of the guys and myself were leaving for a nice evening walk after we all made our jokes about the Ice Cream Goddess. We were about fifteen feet into the residential style parking lot when he noticed somebody drove their car into his, which literally moved his SUV sideways about six feet and crashed into my driver’s side door! It almost seems impossible based on the small size of the parking lot for a vehicle to actually make this happen, but it did. My door is completely knocked in, as well as my side view mirror. An interesting event with t he intensive ending tomorrow and my van being my transportation, “home” and private space these days. It seems bizarre and comical that I am homeless, unemployed, broke and now the owner of a banged up, un-drivable van AND feeling better than I can remember! The clarity, focus, softness, connection and vitality are all things I have been working on; who knew this is how and when they would manifest? The Universe certainly does things in ways simple men like myself cannot figure out. And I think this is the way it is supposed to be.

Old Bricks

I love the way old bricks feel under my bare feet in the summer. They have many seemingly contradictory but actually contrasting textures; smooth and rough, soft and hard, natural and manufactured. I cam feel some of the cracks on the ball of my foot letting me know they are real. This is especially true when the bricks are old, and time, water and footsteps have created a surface with out any sharp edges. These reed bricks are aged well into greens and browns as well. The William and Mary campus only has red bricks like these on al their walkways.

Leaning back against a short brick wall of three layers equally about eight inches, I feel at home here. The steps, eight in number lead to and from the Sunken Gardens. I still do not know why they are called “gardens” since it is just a grass field, one that I enjoy but still just a field surrounded by a dozen sets of brick steps with a lining of the shrubs on the horizontal sides and trees on the ends. The trees appeal to me more then the shrubs. Shrubs usually look too manicured and un-natural to me, these are no exception. Trees, well they’re tress and tell me great stories, sometimes I can hear them. They tell us where we came from and who we are and our greatness.

There is a white male sunbathing at the far end. He brought a folding chair with him but he is now lying face down on a blanket, no correct that, face up. It is not as easy to tell which is which with a man at a distance as it is for a woman. Women’s sunbathing attire is drastically different front and back, not men's. Why do white people sunbathe? Why do they not like their natural skin color? It s interesting to me that many of the folks who sunbathe are prejudice and discriminate against people of color but spend hours ad days sunbathing every summer trying to get darker. And then they pay to go in microwave-type machines in the winter to further avoid looking like themselves. What is wrong with their skin that they need to try to change races to appear sexy? Why does they attach healthiness to tanning? For people like me, it is not a matter of health or anything else. My skin gets darker even when bike riding in the snow of winter.

If one knows the history of “tanning”, they know that before passenger planes were invented, having a “tan” meant you were a low-income, uneducated outside worker. Those with money and wealth would go to great lengths to not be exposed to the sun to not be confused with “the servants” who had “tanned” during the summer. The came passenger planes and vacations to Florid and other southern USA beach destinations. The cultural climate changes because now having a “tan” in the winter demonstrated wealth. Even “the servants” were not “tan” in the winter like them. Then came the bikini, the supermodel and finally “tanning salons”/microwave ovens for humans. Why do white people want top change their skin color, hair color, nail color, lip color and now with fake colored contact lenses, their eye color so much? If “white is right” then why are they are trying so hard not to be white?

Of course, this is just one example of us humans not accepting ourselves for who we are. White peoples obsession with looking different is not ht beginning nor the most glaring example of lacking self-acceptance. For me personally, this takes many shapes and forms. As an Italian male like many others similar to me, I have a lot of body hair. Depending on the day and my feelings about myself on that day, will determine whether I will be wearing a tank top on the beach or shirtless. Ironically, two of the women that I have been serious partners of mine, partially chose me because they like men with thick dark body hair. But this did nothing to ease my insecurities.

The red bricks are still here. After sitting ion them for a while, my butt is starting to hurt. What felt pleasurable then, now feels rough and stiff on the heals of my feet. Time to go. I say goodbye to a good friend at dinner tonight. I will miss her even though I am the one leaving. I will miss these Sunken Gardens without a garden. Time to go…

Persian Red or Indian Textile?

Persian Red. The label said “Indian textile” but for me, it is Persian Red. Decorated with blue and green little leaves, dark, almost Navy blue hearts and multi-colored crowns of lotus. But still Persian Red; the color of many great Islamic ceramic and mosaic dishes, bowls and vases; skullcaps worn by Sufis while dancing The Turn and the background cover of my first book of Rumi poems given to me with a flower in a glass jar by an ex-lover who thought I needed more Rumi in my life, she was correct. The book was Essential Rumi translated by Coleman Barks.

Jallaluddin Rumi. Mevlana. Of h Great Teacher of Mine, thank you. Thank you for your passion and desire. Thank you for your live and devotion. Thank you for your wisdom and knowledge. Your words are what I compare all other words next to. No wonder my words never reach the apex I fantasize about creating. And finally, than you for showing me how to dream and for showing up in my dreams. Your Presence when I am sitting in my chair in the morning is that of an old, welcomed Friend. Much like the Friend you used to write, sing and dance about.

Persian red. That is the color of my new writing book. It has a nice firm, solid cover with double-ringed, black spirals. The paper is soft and smooth; my pen is having a field day gliding across the faded charcoal lines. This is a good book for me to write in.

I bought it last month with a Barnes and Noble Gift Card I was given at a school training a year and a half ago. The problem with gift cards is my eyes are bigger than the amount they are designated for. I always end up spending more on my gift card than if I did not have one altogether. In this case, the gift card was $25 and I ended up spending $27 above the card amount. But, I did end up with this fabulous Persian Red notebook and books by Natalie Goldberg and Alice Walker, a book on writing that I have not gotten yet and Diane Ackerman’s A Natural History of the Senses. It is sitting next to me right now leaning on my black book bag splattered across the old, wooden bench “we: are sitting on in Bicentennial Park. Just the title and looking at the succulent green leaves on the cover have aroused my senses enough to hear all the different varieties, to smell the cedar chips and fresh blooming flowers and enjoy the wilting branches with their leaves tickling the back of my neck head with every breeze that caresses them. Yep, this book is definitely in the on deck circle.

The on deck circle. I am glad to even have an on deck circle again. I am able to actually read again. Between the prescription reading glasses, focus and not working; reading has gently nudged itself back into my world. Lots of words. Written words have firmly rooted themselves right in front of me and said with conviction, “READ ME! I am here and you need me. Read me and write me. I am here and I am not going away!”. So, written words are back into my circle of friends. Welcome back written words and welcome, my new Persian red notebook. May the next two hundred pages make you both proud.

How Do You Walk Away?

“Yes, we can meet at the storage place at 5:00p.m… Perfect... You have the directions right?... Good.” I turn around to see a man sitting on the cement bench behind me with paperwork spread out next to his brief case talking on his cell phone pointing at me hesitantly. I recognize him, nod in conformation and mouth his name. I hold up my index finger signaling to wait a minute, and finish my phone call. “WOW. I just ran into an old friend… I’ll see you there. Thanks, Bye.”

I walk towards him. He has his hand extended to shake mine. I move right past it and give him a big hug. A real hug with full embrace that acknowledges what he has been through since we last hugged in June of 1995 in my former office for the last time.

We were co-workers that became fiends. Technically, I was his supervisor but that is not how we related to each other. Gosh, where do I start?

“So, what have you been doing since I last saw you?” he asks as if nothing has happened.

“Well, I‘ve lived in Indiana, Florida, Wisconsin, North Carolina and Virginia and have been on the road traveling the east coast in my can the last five months or so.” I answered matter of factly, not knowing how to approach the subject.

He asks casually, “How have you been?”

“Good, How are you?” I make direct eye contact and allow my face to become appropriately serious trying hard not to be too intense. I think I failed.

“Good,” cheerfully.

“When did you get out?” No more beating around the bush.

“Two months ago”.

“WOW. So you are still are getting your feet on the ground then?”

“Actually things are going real well.” His voice was less casual now. The elephant in the living room has been acknowledged and pleasantries are neither needed nor acceptable any more.

“I didn’t hear about it till almost a year later. I was backpacking for about six months and just wasn’t ready to call and hear how things were going with the program. It was still too soon and didn’t want to tempt myself into going back there again and bail on what I was doing in Indiana. That’s when I heard. I knew in my heart it couldn’t all be true. I know you. Of course, there had to be some string of truth to every accusation but I knew that you had not molested any of the boys we were working with. I knew it. I wanted to help but it was already too late and I didn’t now the truth, just second and third generation stories. I really wanted to help but didn’t know what to do.” I wanted to say more but was about to cry and sensed he was not prepared for that right now. Neither was I.

He said without a flinch, “I understand.” I didn’t believe him but let it go.

There was a pause, maybe even long enough to qualify as silence.

“How long were you in?” I asked.

“More than ten years with the other count still pending.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah. I haven’t gone to court on that one yet.” I could feel his anger and frustration in his words, voice and energy.

“So, you might need to go back again?”

“Yeah,” he said softer, defeated.

“Where did you do your time?”

“Avanel”.

“Duh, of course. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“I could have gone to Rahway but I wanted to be in the sex offenders program to prove that I didn’t do what they claimed I did and was found guilty of. That’s why it took so long to get out.”

“I am so sorry. Listen; let me give you my email address. I am going to Korea for a year in the morning for one year. But I want to help. If you need a letter of reference for this other case, I will write one for you.” I am ready to cry again. Why am I leaving tomorrow? Why am I here with him today?

“Well I know you have to go meet your friend. I won’t keep you any longer,” said like a news reporter speaking of a fire in Brooklyn killing three people with no affect or expression in his voice.

“I have to go store my van while I’m gone. Then to Newark to be ready in the morning to get to the airport on time.” I stand up. So does he.

We embrace again, deeper. We hold it long enough to share the moment and our friendship.

“Have a good trip to Korea.”

“Be well my friend. Write if you need that letter. Take care buddy. It was nice seeing you. Be well.”

How do you walk away from a friend and co-worker who served youth and families with such passion and commitment that they would get well on the shear force of his love alone? A man who has spent the last decade in a prison for sex offenders and you couldn’t help him or support him? A man who may not be done serving his time yet. A man working hard to stay positive and move forward with his life in a new career. A friend you knew did something that was not OK while I was probably still his supervisor or soon after I left but definitely did not do what he was charged and found guilty of and paid a severe price for. A man who has to report himself in every town he lives in for the rest of his life. A man who will never be able to work with kids again.

Somehow, putting my van in storage seems so menial- almost insignificant. He is facing real life with real life consequences and challenges. My consequences for my illegal actions amount to listing offenses on job applications, and of course, guilt and remorse and sometimes trouble feeling whole. He is experiencing real consequences.

How do you walk away from this interaction to cover your old 86 Dodge Ram van with an extended bed with a blue tarp knowing it will get shredded to pieces from the weather while I am gone anyway?

How do you walk away not profoundly effected?

How do you walk away?
How do you walk away?

Beth

We were both attending meetings of the same self-help group. It had been six months since the first time I saw her. I fell for her before she even opened her mouth. She was soft, warm and genuine in her walk and demeanor. When she opened her mouth and spoke, there were no more questions: I would pursue her.

As common for me then and now, I was shy and intimidate by her physical beauty. Besides the obvious challenge of being shy, in my case that meant acting differently than myself around her. This is a self-defeating system; if she likes the way I am acting, then she won’t like me when I am myself. Worse yet, if she doesn’t, she may never get to actually meet the real me. I still live this pattern to a lesser degree today.

So, after six months, all of my friends were sick of me talking but not acting, while adoring and admiring Beth from afar. They pushed and poked me to finally ask her out. It was a Monday night when I made the decision to go for it. I listened to nothing during the meeting; my mind was consumed with fear and doubt. I knew she would say no, I just knew it. Why would she say yes? Beth was talented, smart, popular, fun, genuinely gorgeous, loved by family and friends, good job, finishing school and a joy to be around. Beth was the perfect woman for me.

After the meeting, in noticed she was helping clean up, so I joined the clean-up crew. I was patient as the room cleared. Finally, it was just Beth and I. No more stalling, time to step up! I looked her in the eyes, trembling, and went for it.
“Beth, would you like to go out on a date?” I cringed and braced for the rejection.
She then responded as natural and casual as can be, “Sure”.
I panicked; I never made a plan that included her saying yes.
We then awkwardly made plans to go out a week from next Saturday; she would be out of town the upcoming weekend.

She handed me a piece of stationary that said Expect A Miracle across the top and below she had written Beth followed by her phone number. We said good-bye, hugged and walked out together.
Expect A Miracle, it just happened: Beth said YES.

The following Monday night we had some casual conversation about our weekends and then she said, “Instead of waiting till Saturday, how about we go to the Diner and scoff down some food tonight?” Oh shit, tonight? Now? I was not ready, I did not prepare. “That would be great” I was able to squeak out. We left together in separate cars.

The five-minute ride both took forever and went by in a flash. We walked in together and I was nervous, real nervous. I think she could tell, or maybe not. I was always nervous around her, like all attractive women.

We asst down, talked about food and what to order, followed by meaningless conversation to kill airtime. It was what we needed to do to work through the awkwardness, now that we were on a “date”. Is it like this for everyone?

The food came; we started eating and talking. Fortunately, she did most of the talking.

At some point, I mentally faded out of the conversation and into my head. I remember thinking, “WOW! My life has really changed. I am out with Beth! Beth! She’s gorgeous, intelligent, fun, warm, loving, honest, popular, a good person, everybody loves her, good relationships with her family, good job and going back to school. She is perfect! How did this happen?” Then I faded back into the conversation. I flinched realizing what I had just done. Did she notice? Did I look like an idiot? Then what I heard floored me:

“I’m fat, ugly, no friends, nobody likes me, my family hates me, stupid, failing school, worthless job and I have been thinking about suicide a lot lately.”

What did I just here? I quickly switched out of my own head to Beth and her needs. We talked for several hours, till she felt better. We hugged, said good-bye and walked out together again.

My ride home was filled with questions, lots of questions. The one that was the loudest and most forceful was, “If Beth is so attractive and she thinks she is fat and ugly, maybe I am not ugly. Maybe I have been wrong all these years. Maybe.”

When I arrived home, I skipped telling everyone about my night with Beth; I scurried directly to my room. I took off my clothes and looked into the mirror. And there it was. I wasn’t ugly. I did not make the leap to good-looking. Not ugly was a huge step for me. That was the last time I ever saw myself as ugly. I have been either somewhere from average to good-looking since.

Besides opening my eyes to the fact that I was not ugly, I learned a valuable lesson. Our inner chatter can lie, and usually for the worse. We buy the lies because we don’t accept the evidence that contradicts these negative voices. We create a self-image that may not resemble the Truth even remotely. We live a lie; not even knowing it is based on nothing but fear and deception. I actually got better looking from that night further. It was not just my perception that had changed, but my face, body and presentation of self were now altered by that perception. And from these physical changes, women found me more attractive. Their attraction provided evidence to support my newfound appreciation of my looks. The relationship between the inner, outer and interactions with women now all fed each other. The ugly guy became the average guy that grew into the above average guy. In fact, the ego started inserting a new lie, “You are the best looking guy”. This phase did not last long. It eventually landed at where I am typically today; I am not ugly, nor a model- I am somewhere from average to above average, AND THAT IS OK. The same ego that lies and tells us we are ugly will then lie and tell us we are “it”.

Humility is being right size- not too big, not too small. I wonder if any of this would have manifested if Beth didn’t share her self-loathing and suicidal thoughts that night? Would I still be walking around thinking I was an ugly guy?

As for Beth, she needed time and space to get her self back together. I eventually introduced her to a friend; they fell in love and got married. They were perfect for each other. We stayed in touch for a while. I am still grateful for Beth and that night she altered my perception forever. Thank you Beth…

De-Expresion

It is now white, very white. You can see the spots that are not as white but still very white. I am sure the landlord will only see the places that the orange, blue, red, green, purple and black refused to be hidden. Just like early in the twentieth century when American women refused to have their voices and votes hidden any longer. Just like when the Voice of Nelson Mandela refused to be hidden or silenced by prison, hate or violence. When Brother Malcolm returned from his Pilgrimage in Mecca and refused to support division, and in fact promoted inclusion, and reformed, open-heartedly a vision of what we need to do to be free. The Creative and Inspired Voice has a way of making itself known no matter how many coats of paint one tries to hide it with.

How can we accurately represent or portray six months of days and nights filled with love, tears, songs, laughter, dances, sharing, huge hugs and community after its visual evidence has been whitewashed away? Did we just commit treason of the highest order by submitting to the system constructed to whitewash creativity and uniqueness? But, who would be better assigned to such a task than the creators and lovers themselves? Is there anyone else qualified to dissolve James De La Vega’s chalk masterpieces on the sidewalks of Harlem than De La Vega himself or Mother Nature herself? NO, I think not.

I am writing this knowing the answer but fighting hard to hold back the tears. Real hard. I am leaning against the cement base of the UVA flagpole in front of the newly painted columns of The Rotunda. It’s a gorgeous Sunday morning including tourists with cameras, and Christians in Khakis coming from Church strolling around campus. This is not where and when someone cries hysterically over participating in the process of de-expression. No, not here or now. Maybe I am not courageous enough to let myself breakdown and mourn over being one of the Brillo-scrubbers this morning. I am not strong enough to be that man. After centuries and millennium of witnessing de-expression, the wounds in my belly, heart, mind, ears and eyes are too deep, I am not man enough to embrace the kind of paint that deep.
But they are.

They, the ones who together produced the playlists on his MacBook that was the soundtrack of this loving family of a small, special group of humans. Young humans with friendship, trust, passion and wide open arms perfectly sculpted for hugs that make my knees weak by the sheer force of their love, compassion, hope and humility. They drew the purple sketches of the girl with the amazingly straight nose standing tall next to her soft, pillowy cheeks. They wrote The Welcome in all its bright undeniable colors that spoke the Universal language of Welcome to anyone fortunate enough to enter this Temple of love and community. They who as a group created their own Ten Commandments that lift and include us all, while simultaneously letting us know that we may not be there yet, but know where to go and why.

Purple and blue was the hardest to de-express. The vitality and boldness of these two pigments would make The Buddha, Jesus, Abraham, Kwan Yin and Mohammed proud parents of children like blue and purple. Just look at the sky or any flower garden for proof of their force. The orange was easy to de-express, just like the bag of tangelos we inhaled to quench our thirsts on this hot day while scrubbing.

The handprints on the ceiling had pigments glorifying the colors of the rainbow and de-expressing them took our whole bodies to distinguish. We had to stretch and bend to make sure all evidence of this experience never happened, the lost votes in Florida in 2000 were easier to hide than the tempura paint handprints holding and hugging all below them with love, warmth and forgiveness. These hands caressed and massaged the wounded hearts that Mother Culture beat and abused. The hands reached down to them providing safety and protection. A place where being you was what was expected of you. Not in spite of who you are, but because if who you are!

When I walked up the stairs to the living room this morning, the whiteness startled me. I have many friends of Color who experience being startled by whiteness every day of their lives, for me, this morning was too much. No, I am not man enough to face this pain. How can I allow these tears trying to purify and cleanse my heart and Soul for this act of heresy but I will de-express them too.

If I am experiencing this level of violation and stripping of their outward expression of their days and nights they shared meals, words, arms and dreams together; what about them? I am just a weary traveler grateful for a place to rest my head. This is their collective creation.
When will we choose expression over oppression?

Today, my vote in the primary of life is to express and create. No more de-expression, not one more day!

May 25, 2008, Charlottesville, VA