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.

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.

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!

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…