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