To recap, I learned that the doctor had faced serious sexual assault charges, including allegations involving a minor in 2020. I was unable to find out the final verdict, and it appeared that the records had been sealed.
As I said in my previous blog post, “On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.”
The incident left me shaken, and my mind began to wander down dark paths. I felt angry and self-righteous, wondering how people who did commit such heinous acts could get away with it. This was the final straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to my faith in people.
To backtrack, I started seeing the doctor in question two years ago after receiving a postcard advertising his services. Prior to that, I had been going to an optometrist for routine eye exams for over a decade. Optometrists are not medical doctors and cannot perform surgery, unlike ophthalmologists, who specialize in the diagnosis and treatment of eye diseases and vision problems.
Mind you, I had NO eye problems, but I switched to an ophthalmologist last year thinking that a doctor with more credentials would be better. To make matters worse, the new doctor found that my eye pressure was elevated during my routine eye exam this year. I didn’t learn about the incriminating information about him until after my appointment, when I had a month to wait for my follow-up visit.
So, my imagination ran even more wild. I obsessed about going blind without a doctor “in sight.”
I called my old optometrist, Dr. S., with my tail between my legs. She held no resentments against me and scheduled an appointment for me within the week.
Upon entering her office, she did not inquire about the reasons for my sudden departure or my return, nor did she probe me about my “personal reasons” for not going back to the other doctor. Instead, she focused on running a battery of tests on me.
I sat in a chair that felt as if it were getting harder by the minute, waiting for the final results. I thought about all the people in the universe who were at that very moment waiting, waiting in a doctor’s office or hospital, waiting to receive some catastrophic medical results that could potentially turn their neatly made worlds into a tsunami that would leave nothing unharmed and shaken.
I had spent so much time in the past “learning to breathe,” but now I had totally forgotten how.
On the verge of passing out from lack of oxygen, I inhaled sharply at the sight of a white cat with gray patches poking its head into the examination room. The cat was so pudgy that I wondered how it could fit inside a litter box. Its face was slightly askew, and when I got off the chair and reached for it, it darted away, only to return out of curiosity.
“Kitty! Kitty!” I called.
“I guess you met Marlon.”
“Yes.” My reply was followed by my long pause of anticipation.
Without further ado, Dr. S. explained everything I ever wanted to know about eye pressure, including the fact that eye pressure ranges could change in a course of a day. In the end, she told me that there was nothing wrong with my eyes.
“Really?” I asked in total relief.
I had been sickened by all the bad in the world as of late, but I knew that I would rather see it than be blind to it. I needed to be aware of the world’s problems in order to make a difference. Now, I was breathing with a familiar comfort again, relieved to know that there were still some good eggs out there.
Marlon jumped onto Dr. S’s floral skirt at this point, his gaze fixed on her soft-featured face and brown hair. It came as no surprise that she had rescued him, as she had rescued so many other cats over the many years I knew her.
Marlon was different, though. He was a sweet and loving feral cat that she had rescued after an animal rescue organization said he would never be domesticated. But she did it!
Soon after, Marla became Marlon and was nursed back to health, neutered, and domesticated against all odds by Dr. S.
Marlon’s safe home for the last few years has been Dr. S’s office, since three other rescues live at her home. Marlon is locked inside at night and comes and goes as he pleases during the day.
On a couple of different occasions, the sweet and loving cat has brought a few kitten rescues to the good doctor.
“Kittens are always easy to place,” she told me as she explained the wonderful world of Marlon.
World? At least on this territory. Marlon and the good doctor helped me to remember that there are still good people in the world. I’m just grateful to SEE them and to SEE the not-so-good and the awful lot of awful too.
After hitting some of my lowest points recently, following nearly four years as a halved person, I left the doctor’s office clicking my heels, my renewed sense of faith purring throughout my body.
Smart. Cute. Not-so-cute. We all have inner self-identifiers.
We all have ways of defining ourselves, whether consciously or unconsciously. We might think of ourselves as smart, funny, kind or brave. We might also think of ourselves as less than perfect, with flaws and limitations.
A few weeks ago, I started to understand all on my own that I am now a “half person” as opposed to the whole person I once was before our family tragedy. For me, I find it very empowering to define myself in this manner.
I used to be afraid of my limitations. I thought they made me weak and inadequate. But now I see them as a source of strength. They’ve taught me to be more realistic about my expectations and to appreciate the things I can do.
Looking back, I appreciate even more the time I spent watching the aging process of my parents. As they grew older, they became acutely aware of their limitations. For instance, after my dad’s retirement at 70, he used to be able to work about eight hours a day in the garden. But as he grew older, he cut his gardening back to a daily hour or two. My dad would come into the house after gardening, his face, the color of the beets he grew in the rich soil, and dripping from sweat, and announce with conviction, “I’m not so good anymore.”
There wasn’t a hint of self-pity in his tone. Instead, it sounded as if he had landed at a new place in life, and he opened his arms wide with acceptance. He left me with a poignant picture of what it means “to age gracefully.”
That place parallels with how I feel about being a half person. I’ve retired from my Atlas position of holding up the world, and now I just lean into it.
I used to think I had to be strong and capable all the time. I needed to be the Atlas of my family and friends, holding up the world for them too. But now I know I can’t do that. I’m just a half person, and that’s okay.
Given this new state, I am proactive and fiercely protective of myself. I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of me or make me feel bad about myself and how I feel. Walking on egg shells is becoming an impossible feat for me.
For obvious reasons, I steer clear of the real-life nemesis in my life and others who fall into that category. Right now I’m not up to exposure therapy of any form. And just because that particular therapy is not in the cards at the moment, it may be at another time.
Anyway, all this being said, I want to address two things.
First, I recently learned that my eye doctor had faced some serious sexual assault criminal charges in 2020. I’m still processing the information and at the current time, I have no updates about the crimes, which also allegedly included a minor. On the one hand, I’ve never had any personal experience with him that would make me think he’s guilty of any criminal acts. On the other hand, I’m a half person, and, as already mentioned, I guard myself fiercely and certainly don’t intend to invite any more stress than necessary into my life.
Second, my birthday is coming up next Tuesday. I’m really not looking forward to it. I wasn’t too thrilled about my birthday before I became a half person, but now it’s utterly meaningless. I used to be afraid of growing old and becoming wrinkled and frightful, but now I couldn’t care less. So it’s not about growing old and falling out of grace. It’s about staying in grace, which means being true to myself, and, to me, the day symbolizes just another day of the year.
So, here’s what I’m going to do on my birthday. I’m going to be alone. I’m going to minister to my half person. I’m going to be honest with myself and with others, the way I used to be with my son. He would always listen to me without judgment, and he would always say, “That sucks!” I miss that.
My life as a half person has made me surrender so much unnecessary energy. It has also made me realize that nothing has the same meaning as it used to. Everything is vanilla now. But I’m okay with that, too, and vanilla has always been one of my favorite flavor choices.
I do, however, find meaning in other people’s lives and in the joy they find. It fills my empty vessel with hope and faith. I know that I’ve been passed up for a number of invitations over the years because people see me as a walking image of pain. But I don’t take it personally. I’m grateful for the joys I’ve had the opportunity to share in, such as my dear friend Pat’s 85th birthday surprise party in 2020. It was a time of such raw pain, but it was also a time of great joy. I remember Pat’s radiant joy, and I felt her deep connection and compassion for life, however fleeting it was for me. These are the moments that get me through my vanilla life. These are the moments that make it all worth it.
I’m not sure what the future holds for me. I may never find meaning in life again. But I’m okay with that too. I’m content to live my life in vanilla, as long as I have the occasional cherry on top.
Last Monday night, the weather was perfect, having cooled down after a stifling heatwave, when Santana and his band took the stage at 8 p.m. sharp at the nearly sold-out 1001 Rainbows, 2023 Tour, performance at the Hartford HealthCare Amphitheater in Bridgeport, Connecticut. I attended the concert with Anna, one of my dearest friends since childhood.
Oye Como Va! The show started off with a bang and the energy immediately electric. Carlos Santana’s guitar playing was as virtuosic as ever, and the band’s backing vocals sounded soulful and soaring.
The setlist was a mix of Santana’s greatest hits, and some from the band’s latest album, Blessings and Miracles. We were treated to classics like “Smooth,” “Maria Maria,” and “Evil Ways,” as well as newer songs like “Joy.”
As the concert went on, Carlos announced to the audience that he felt Jerry Garcia, among others, playing alongside him. I had a strong sense of my deceased brother Mike and me singing together again in a dingy, off-the-beaten-track bar in Tallahassee, Florida, our voices gliding through the air as if the seventies would never end.
Years fade, and with them, people and some of their talents. But Carlos remains one of the greatest guitarists of all time, and his band members are also masters of their craft. I was also particularly impressed by the drummer, Cindy Blackman Santana.
She’s been married to Carlos since 2010. All I can say is, her drumming blew us and the audience away. She played with such passion and intensity that it felt like a supernatural experience. I kid you not, I had goosebumps during her solo acts.
The Wikipedia article about her states: “Blackman cultivates spirituality in her musicianship. “I believe that music is so sacred that once you’re playing music you are doing the work of prayer, whether you’re conscious of it or not, because you have a focused intent,” says Blackman.
Hearing her and the band was holier than a prayer. On one hand, it brought everybody together, and I mean, EVERYBODY, including elders who danced the night away while donning cataract surgery sunglasses. What really struck me was the sight of a quadriplegic man who appeared to be in his thirties. He was stationed in his wheelchair on the upper level of the theater. The man could only move his head slightly, but had no facial expression.
I was really touched by this man’s determination to enjoy the concert despite his significant challenges. Then I wondered how he felt watching other audience members out of their seats, dancing, singing, and moving in perfect harmony with the music, flowing along with the oxygen.
I didn’t know if he was envious of the movement, or, on the other hand, simply savoring the sights, sounds, and tasting every moment like snacking on a buttery concoction.
At first, I thought how lucky the rest of us were to have mobility, until I realized maybe he was the lucky one. I liked to believe that he didn’t rush from one thing to the next, consumed to the point of falling in step with the armies of walking mummies, failing to appreciate simple things like a soft breeze brushing against a pair of moving limbs.
Perhaps this particular man piqued my curiosity because grief is an isolating experience, especially for me. It can be easy to feel like you’re the only one going through it, out of sync with the rest of the world (even if they are walking mummies!). As I scanned the venue, it appeared that the young man really was the only one in a wheelchair, but I hoped that the music would connect us all in the same spiritual way that Cindy feels it, in a miraculous way that would flush out our disunion and differences.
It was interesting to see Anna’s reaction when Cindy first performed her solo drum act. She shouted out, “She’s a woman!” in a way that said, “Yes, sister! We can do anything.”
Cindy Blackman Santana
Later, Carlos made a point to say that many men have passed out from drumming in the vigorous manner that Cindy is able to.
Wikipedia’s article further defines Cindy as “a rarity as a female jazz percussionist.”
It goes on to quote her, “In the past, there were a lot of stigmas attached to women playing certain instruments,” Blackman says. “Any woman, or anyone facing race prejudice, weight prejudice, hair prejudice … if you let somebody stop you because of their opinions, then the only thing you’re doing is hurting yourself. I don’t want to give somebody that power over me.”
The keyword in her quote is “power.” There’s a loaded definition behind that word, but when we pray in the purest spiritual realm, we transcend feelings of exclusion, rejection and not belonging. As a result, hair, nails, body image – the physical plane melts, sort of like in harmony with a slow, fluid dance. That’s the power of music, a special prayer to turn to for comfort. There’s something about the combination of lyrics and melody that can reach into the soul and make you feel less alone. And when I see someone, such as the quadriplegic man at Santana’s concert, who has pushed through what people can define as limitations, and reigns over his own power of thought, it reminds me that there is always hope.
Music is a universal language that brings people together from all walks – and wheels – of life. It doesn’t matter if you’re able-bodied or not, young or old, rich or poor. Music has the power to connect us all, and it can be a powerful tool for healing and hope. In this way, it is the most powerful prayer of all.
For years, my mom and I had a daily telephone ritual. When she called, her words, “How are you?” would slam me right through the phone like a bowling ball hitting a strike.
“Fine!” I would reply.
Things were never fine with my mom. Never. And, sooner or later, she’d push, and I’d be cornered into telling her the truth about what was really going on in our household, whether it involved the car breaking down or my kids losing their lunch money. Interestingly, I felt better after unloading the daily grievances.
Then my mom would often complain about the behavior of a few people — sometimes including me. She had her favorite targets, and I would sometimes find her complaints humorous, while other times I found them downright mean. But I always listened, because it would eventually turn out that she was right. At least 99% of the time.
It was as if she had a special lens that detected everyone’s flaws. She didn’t hold back; she was always honest, even if it was painful to hear. Admittedly, I spent years trying to hush her up, soften and polish her, but she continued to speak her mind. Period.
Finally, after I had children of my own, I eased up on my mom and gave her the space she needed to be herself. In fact, I owe a great debt to my children, because they were the ones who taught me just how endearing my mom was despite all her imperfections. Once I could step back from my own expectations and give her the space, I saw her humor, her creativity, and her incredible insights and sparks — many, many sparks! I was able to change my behavior toward her by asking myself the question, “Who was I to kill her spirit?”
Over the years, as I experienced betrayal and deception from others in my life, I appreciated my mom even more. She was my anchor, because I always knew where I stood with her.
As I backed off and eased up on my judgments of her, she learned the importance of tact and discretion on her own. She learned that sometimes, it’s better to say nothing at all. And this resulted from my not intervening and trying to mold her character in my image!
What I appreciate most about my mom is that she taught me the importance of having a voice by her own example. She was who she was, flaws and all.
I reflected a lot on my mom last week after I heard that Sinéad O’Connor had passed away. You wouldn’t think that the two women had much in common, but they shared a solidarity of pain and a few other things that connected them.
Anyway, I heard the news on the radio while I was driving in the car. “We have some sad news. The great Irish singer, Sinéad O’Connor, has passed away,” the news anchor announced. “She was 56 years old.”
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as I listened to the report. A wave of shock and sadness washed over me. I pulled over to the side of the road and started crying. As much as I couldn’t believe it, it was something I had worried about after the talented woman’s son, Shane, had died by suicide a year ago.
I felt as if I had lost yet another partner in our solidarity in pain. I sat there for a few minutes, just crying and listening to her music that the station started to play in a tribute to the late singer. No denying, she was a spitfire, but she was so much more.
Often when people hurt and grieve, they fall deeply inward. What never ceased to amaze me was how during her grief journey, Sinéad did not forget about other mothers who were in her position. She may have suffered from grief and mental illnesses, but she made room to remember others who hurt.
If you could look past her infamous moments, many of which were misunderstood and none of which she regretted, Sinéad O’Connor was a lifelong advocate for the vulnerable and, in essence, gave so many people faith and hope. In fact, during one of her interviews, she said she wanted her concerts to represent a church for some audience members, a place where they could find faith and hope.
I thought about how many people she had helped over the years. She had given them a voice, a platform, and a sense of community. She had shown them that they were not alone, and that they were worthy of love and respect.
Our society often encourages people to have diverse voices, stands and opinions. However, it is also true that people who speak out against the status quo, especially against the principles of the norm, often face backlash. Sinéad, like my mom, spoke their truth, even in the face of opposition. My dear friend Kit always reminded me that it’s easy to blend in with the crowd, but it takes real courage to be the lone voice of dissent.
Taking a deep breath, I started the car. I would go home and listen to Sinéad’s music some more. I would cry some more, but I would also remember the times when I was young and single, feeling as if I were the only person on Earth. But when I turned on the radio and heard Sinéad’s voice, I found the strength to not only keep moving, but to even kick up my heels and dance.
I imagined Sinéad, hopefully, finally at peace alongside her beloved son. I saw her calling it the way she saw it, in the company of my mom, their spitfire spirits floating around, sparking their own brand of music, driving everybody batty but never backing down.
I knew that the two spitfire figures would continue to inspire me, even in death. They had taught me the importance of speaking my truth, even when it was difficult. They taught me that it was okay to be different and that it was possible to find strength in your pain.
The chilly fall air nipped at my cheeks as I rolled the garbage receptacle down the driveway to the street for the next day’s pickup.
“Meow! Meow!”
I scanned the landscape, looking for the source of the sound that had strummed my heartstrings. There, in the bushes, was a partially white, tiger-faced kitten. She was small and fluffy, but appeared well fed and reminded me of a powder puff. Next thing you know, she vanished and in case she had not a home, I left a dish of cat food for her across the way. Over the course of the following months, I assumed someone owned her since I only saw her a couple times more.
Fast forward to about a month ago, and I officially discovered “Tuna’s” story shortly after she reappeared at my house. Her feral mom had birthed Tuna, along with her four brothers and sisters under my neighbor’s shed. A few compassionate neighbors cared for the cat and her litter while a cat rescue charity had become involved trying to trap, spay, neuter and place the kitties for adoption.
Gazing into Tuna’s eyes, I felt crushed. I could tell that she was familiar with hunger, homelessness and fear. She had to hide from the pack of blood-thirsty coyotes that prowled around at night. She had never known what a human touch felt like, or a warm bed and blanket. She had only slept on hard, mud-packed ground infested with bugs. I wondered if she even knew how to purr. If I got too close, her meows would turn into low, threatening hisses.
I couldn’t help but wonder why some animals and people are born into such difficult circumstances, while others are born into privilege. The question weighed on me like an indigestible lump of sausage in my stomach. Needless to say, I became attached to Tuna and her family and tried to help as best as I could by doing things like checking to see if any of the felines were captured in the cage that had been set by the rescue group.
After I got involved, three weeks later, Tuna and her family disappeared. Our neighborhood cat watch party feared the worst. We searched for them everywhere, but we couldn’t find them.
Another week went by, and we received some good news. The feline family had relocated to a different area of the neighborhood, where they took shelter under another neighbor’s shed. I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve been assured that they’re doing well. The rescue group is still trying to trap and rescue them, and I’m hopeful that they’ll be able to do so soon.
I was glad that Tuna and her family were safe, but I couldn’t help but think about all the other animals and people who were living in difficult circumstances.The question was one I didn’t have the answer to, but the mere thought of it triggered a flood of memories deep inside.
It all started when I got into my car in the parking lot after a rather extensive grocery shopping trip, feeling particularly exhausted.
When I started it up, a familiar song, “Fast Car,” on a random top-hits radio station caught my attention. It was Luke Combs’ remake of Tracy Chapman’s iconic 1988 hit “Fast Car.” Combs’ version had just hit the top of Billboard’s Country Airplay chart a few weeks ago, but I hadn’t paid close attention to it. I had listened to Tracy’s version countless times back in the ’80s, though.
Combs’ version is a faithful cover of the original, but he brings his own unique style to it. His voice is deeper and more soulful than Chapman’s, and he adds a bit of a country twang. The result is a powerful and emotional rendition of the song.
Little did I realize Luke Combs is the oversized, rust-colored bearded version of my beloved son, Marshall
The lyrics of the song caught me off guard that day. Instead of bolting out of the parking lot, I sank into the driver’s seat, wet from nostalgic tears. I recalled someone, around 15, with dirty blonde, long, wavy hair, flying like a bed sheet drying on a clothesline, outside of an oversized, open 1956 Ford Crown Victoria window.
“Lucy” was what Mac called me back then (and “Lug Nuts,” but that’s another story). He was the one piloting the Crown Vic. Probably one of my only true friends in high school, he sat grinning at my antics, his smile as bright as the perfectly white steering wheel of the car he had lovingly restored. We roared down the road, singing along to the radio as it blasted.
Our favorite song was Rufus & Chaka Khan’s “Tell Me Something Good.” So picture this: Mac would slow the car and pull over to an innocent pedestrian, and I would stretch my body like a piece of taffy and rocket out of the Crown Vic, belting the lyrics at the top of my lungs.
“Your problem is you ain’t been loved like you should What I got to give will sure ‘nough do you good Tell me something good (Tell me, tell me, tell me) Tell me that you love me, yeah”
Luckily, no one took offense or took us seriously, regardless of their gender or age. (I think I really gave a much-needed adrenaline rush to some of the older guys’ egos, though!)
I had often thought back to those cruising days with Mac, but I never truly understood their poignant meaning until I broke down in tears while listening to Combs’ lyrics. For the first time ever, I had an epiphany: Mac had a fast car and I felt like I belonged! We also crossed the invisible line that separated our suburban neighborhood from the city (“Won’t have to drive too far, Just across the border and into the city.”)
Here are the lyrics that transported me back to those many afternoons spent in Mac’s Crown Vic, a visceral realm where I could relive the memories of those days and understand why they mattered so much:
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I do believe that these two words are some of the most powerful words in human history: I belonged.
Listening to the song’s lyrics about poverty and hardship resonated with me in that moment.
That being said, I was the kid who got kicked out of sixth grade for asking too many questions, but over the years I knew him, I only asked Mac once about his estranged dad.
You see, Mac’s mom was a single mother of five other children. Only one sister was his biological sister; the rest were half-siblings from his mom’s other relationships. They lived in a dangerous, impoverished neighborhood of the city that we loved to cruise through, naïve as we were.
“I don’t know him.” Mac said, his voice flat and emotionless when I had asked him about his father. But the deep-rooted pain in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. It was the kind of pain you can detect in a feral cat’s eyes. The kind I detected in Tuna. Decades ago, like Tuna, I too wondered why Mac’s mom was forced to live in a ransacked two-room apartment with her children.
(At one point, Tuna was safely trapped, but her cage was accidentally unhinged and she escaped the animal rescue efforts!)
Once, in fact, Mac and I had just pulled up to visit his mom and siblings when a white van pulled in. There he was, Jack or John (Mack whispered his inaudible name under his breath) as he hopped out onto the asphalt, his face hidden under dark sunglasses and wearing an inconspicuous pair of jeans and t-shirt, pounding the pavement in a pair of new work boots.
Mac and I sat in the Crown Vic like two upright light bulbs without a fixture. Once Jack or John disappeared into the ransacked apartment building, we drove away. I did not ask questions.The only question that mattered to me was, “How much more hurt could Mac take?”
As it stood, Mac lived with his aunt, who had escaped poverty against all odds to live in suburbia. She managed to just get by on government assistance along with wages from odd jobs. The single mom and her six children lived in a small, rundown house that was once a meat store. She may have narrowly escaped poverty, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape the judgment of the “Fat Cats” of our town, who frowned upon the welfare-enabled “feral cats.”
Mac was the eighth resident in the tiny place. He was happy to pay rent, even though he had to sleep on a five-foot slab cot on the floor. He did it to go to our high school, where I had met him. Apparently, it was a lot better than getting bullied and beaten up at his previous high school in the city where he grew up.
From the moment I met him, the student who had been held back three times in school would proudly proclaim, “I’m a grease monkey!” and emphasize the point by bouncing in his chunky, five-inch, shiny black platform shoes down the hallways of our high school.
The second the final school bell rang, he whipped out of school in his Crown Vic in order to get to the service station where he worked as a self-taught mechanic. Although he paid rent to his aunt, whether out of guilt for abandoning his family or out of simple necessity, Mac gave most of his money to his mother. Between Mac’s money and her work as a caterer, his mother managed to obtain her nursing degree, and it looked like the cycle of poverty was about to be broken. It did, for a while.
Going into her second year of nursing, his mother was diagnosed with a rare cancer and died within three months. The other fathers of her children stepped up and took on their responsibilities. There was no room on Mac’s cot, and his sister was left to fend for herself and moved in with a friend. Mac grieved, and he did it over beers at a club in his native city that was notorious for allowing minors to drink alcohol. Then one day, one of the fat cat bullies lit his pants on fire. Fortunately, he was able to extinguish the flames, but he drank alone after that incident.
So there I sat in the grocery store’s parking lot, feeling the wind embrace me once again as I remembered how I nearly tumbled out of Mac’s Crown Victoria as I serenaded my audience in a notoriously unsavory neighborhood. As day turned into night, I would slide down the seat and snuggle up to Mac. He ignited my fire, and he never extinguished it—most of the world had done that at the time, kicking off the lifelong theme of my life.
So, I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped around my shoulder And I, I, had a feeling that I belonged I, I, had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
I was no longer too fat, too thin, too zany, too quiet, too foreign, too dumb, too smart, or too much — I simply belonged in our own private classic-car world like a well-worn robe that had lost half of its original weight.
After we graduated from high school, our Crown Vic cruises became a thing of the past. I would see him sporadically, but he was a recluse. Although he did show up for our 20th high school reunion, he ended up holing himself up in a cheap hotel instead of coming to the party, despite my pleas.
Years later, after fighting his own demons, it seemed he had turned a corner. He had married, had children, and became a successful business owner. It was the life he deserved. But then things turned again. At 45 years old, he finally came out, claiming his true authenticity. I was devastated to learn, he died two years later from AIDS complications. I felt a deep sense of grief, because I had lost a dear friend and a part of my own history.
Wiping the last of my tears, I finally pulled out of the parking lot. I couldn’t help but ponder on the bad luck and bad fate that seemed to follow people like Mac, like feral cats in a world of fat cats.
Throughout my life, I have been passionate about animal rescue. My friends know that they will never win an argument with me about buying bred pets, and I have opened my heart and home to numerous rescue cats and one dog, Crouton. On the other hand, I don’t know what kind of influence I had on Mac, but I know he rescued me in ways I can’t even explain. He certainly gave me faith when I had none.
Decades later, sometimes when the days feel long and dark and static, I remember Mac’s indigo tiny slits of eyes lighting up like fireflies. Like the headlights of a classic Crown Vic, they illuminate the path, guiding me through the darkness.
Enduring divorce and a host of other hardships and tragedies, I can’t seem to stop opening Pandora’s Box. The only consolation is that I am at the sunset of my life. As I mentioned in last week’s blog post, I spend most of my days in insolation (detachment) rather than isolation (seclusion). I also try to remind myself that I cannot understand certain things, such as the apathy of certain ill-wishers in my life.
In my previous blog post, I also wrote about “a symbolic nemesis that had infiltrated my world.”
This week, I’m lifting the lid on a real-life nemesis who has been a source of friction in my life like a thigh-sized bur since I was 14. I try to understand that she is struggling with her own issues, and that she is simply incapable of showing love and compassion. In addition, the woman’s continuous erratic behavior suggests that she may have dissociative identity disorder (DID).
I need to remember that I am not responsible for her traumatic childhood or her behavior, no matter what the reason. I can only control my own actions and reactions.
Fortunately, I don’t struggle to keep the faith when I am able to believe that things are the way they are meant to be. This belief takes the pressure off me, and I can leave the rest to the great creator, God, all there is, Greater Good, or whatever he or she or it may be. As long as my ego doesn’t get enmeshed into things out of my hands, it’s going to be a good day.
I also know that I am worthy of love and respect. I am a valuable person, and I deserve to be treated with kindness and compassion. The real-life nemesis in my life, most times, quite frankly, I wish she would simply disappear. But I remember back in the 80s when a few of my mentors advised me that she was here to teach me valuable lessons.
What these lessons are, I don’t know. I do know, in retrospect, that at the lowest points of my life, she tried to beat me even lower. Did her acts of cruelty make me a better person? No, I can’t say they did. Hurt supersedes all the memories of her in my life. Typically, my only desire is to shovel my hurt on her until she seeps into it like quicksand.
I suppose, though, one thing I’ve learned from her is how to bar out the negative thoughts and erase a real-life nemesis from my mind. Release her back to her own creator and go about my life, channeling whatever positive energy is left. That’s what it’s about.
“Don’t give up. It may take time to heal from the pain of indifference and deep wounds, but it’s important to remember that you can get through the pain. Don’t give up on yourself or on your faith.”
That’s the message I find without my having to consult any particular guru, because the inner voice is divine, and I don’t mess with divinity.
In the same vein as my recent blog post, Bow-Tie Breakthrough, I clearly remember the first ominous sign that things were about to change in the idyllic world of my poetic imagination.
While making my way towards the entrance of a now-defunct men’s clothing store in our hometown, I found myself juggling my toddler daughter and son. As I approached the main door, a seemingly healthy and muscular man in his thirties made no effort to move out of our path or open the door for us. He stood there resolutely, with an air of entitlement reminiscent of a lamppost that compelled me to turn sideways to gain entry into the establishment.
Initially perplexed by this behavior, anger was not an emotion that suited my state at that moment. Nonetheless, as I ruminated on this incident later that day, I became incensed trying to fathom why someone who appeared physically capable would not extend even so much as common courtesy towards a young mother by simply stepping aside or opening the door for her!
Fast forward through the decades, and the nameless man who refused to open the door of the onetime men’s store somehow opened the door on a symbolic nemesis that had infiltrated my world like an old-fashioned hobo sneaking aboard a caboose on a train.
One example of the insidious adversary, far from appearing as a hobo, who presented herself as an affluent and entitled middle-aged woman at a grocery store a few years later, refused to allow me to go ahead of her at the bottle return — although she had about thirty bottles while I only had two. Was this justifiable?
Another incident, soon after, involved a parent-teacher conference that was divided into fifteen-minute intervals, the entitled couple in our well-heeled suburb that preceded my ex-husband and me consumed ten minutes of our allotted time as we waited patiently. Why did they do this? We were perplexed as we assumed that each pair would receive their full fifteen minutes. However, when it came to our turn, we were granted merely five minutes before being hastily dismissed from the premises. (Thankfully, there were no significant matters to address concerning our son; otherwise, we would have insisted on utilizing the entire duration allocated to us.)
As previously mentioned, my ex-husband frequently voiced his favorite adage: “Don’t expect anything and you won’t be disappointed.”
The first time I heard him say it, I was stunned but did not allow the sword of an idea to penetrate my idyllic world of my poetic imagination — until a certain and final act of self-centered conduct shattered it.
I think the day I woke up to smell the coffee, as my dear friend Bruce had often suggested during my youthful and carefree years, I stepped into insolation (detachment) rather than isolation (seclusion). It was the day when I met head-on the selfish act of my ex-husband’s aunt, which I’ve already elaborated on in previous blog posts. The day she felt entitled and justified to close the door on me and my daughter’s soul by shutting us out and declining our plea for moral support following our firsthand experience with tragedy after having already endured countless hardships.
I suppose it is the day when I lost faith in people, but in the subsequent years that followed, remarkably, gained it in myself. Instead of plummeting down, I rose up into a place of acceptance and peace, not to mention a deeper realization of gratitude.
Fast forward to about a month ago when I was driving one evening and noticed headlights flashing behind me. Despite this, I chose to ignore what I assumed was another adversary poised to disrupt my existence. However, the vehicle pulled up next to me and revealed a male and a female inside. Even so, I pretended not to see them as I did not want any kind of altercation for something unknown or unintentional on my part. After spending over a minute attempting to grab my attention without success, they eventually gave up and drove away — much to my relief. It wasn’t until later that I realized they were trying to signal me that my car lights were carelessly turned off.
Following this incident, it saddened me how one would expect strangers only pose threats rather than good deeds; however, it served as an example of how Richard’s statement in Bow-Tie Breakthrough, rings true for me: “This is not my world anymore.”
Collectively, the abrasive experiences, though, have not led me to abandon the use of affirmations or positive thinking techniques, but rather opt to exercise prudence and safeguard myself. In essence, I am embracing a universal truth that many already acknowledge — Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest. I joke around to my friends and say if I have grandchildren, I will teach them all about Darwin’s theory first and foremost.
My late brother Mike, who was a highly decorated Vietnam Veteran, and whom I’ve frequently written about, categorized people into two groups: draft dodgers or non-draft dodgers. War aside, when you truly contemplate it, who would risk their own life for others? Although my brother did so himself, I doubt many people would do the same. I don’t know if I would!
As a matter of fact, (let’s go back to the topic of war for a moment), only recently did I learn about the Confederate conscription law during the Civil War that allowed draftees to hire someone exempt from the draft to replace them — this could be someone under or over the mandatory conscription age or one whose trade or profession exempted him; even foreign nationals were eligible. The fee was $300 and obviously only affordable to those with wealth, such as Andrew Carnegie, one of the richest Americans in history (In fact, I read about the Confederate conscription law in Carnegie’s Maid by Marie Benedict, but that’s another story!). Many casualties were substitutes who tended to be young men aged 18 or 19 years — old enough to serve but too young to be drafted — representing some of society’s most vulnerable including Irish citizens seeking “a better life.” This all helped me understand why my father warned me about those hiding behind privilege and degrees since it is simple for such individuals to manipulate their way ahead without any regard for morality or ethics.
However, there is an upside midst all this downside …
Soul! Seriously.
The essence of our being transcends the hustle and bustle of commerce in the world, enabling us to reconnect with our inner selves. Furthermore, the part that connects us to something bigger than ourselves — you can call it Good Orderly Direction. It is what gives us purpose, meaning and fulfillment in life. And among all the negativity and manipulation that can come with the Darwin-versed modern world, privilege and degrees, it is our soul that can keep us grounded and true to our values.
When we focus on nurturing our soul, we become more resilient to the challenges that come with what we deem as success. We are able to stay humble and grateful for what we have (or think we have) achieved, rather than becoming arrogant or entitled. We are also more likely to use our presumed success for good, using our resources and influence to make a positive impact on the world around us — and sometimes all that it means is opening the door for another!
So while it may be easy for those with privilege, as well as those who feel entitled to dominate and manipulate their way ahead, it is ultimately their soul (or lack thereof) that will determine their true success in life. As my father warned me, never underestimate the power of a strong moral compass and a well-nurtured soul.
“Yell-oh! Yell-oh!” My mom’s heavily accented voice exclaimed every time she spotted a yellow flower or garment.
I distinctly remember that when she accompanied our family, regardless of how preoccupied we were with our daily tasks, such as running errands, her outburst would cause us to pause in our tracks, focus on, for example, yellow roses and transcend ourselves in order to appreciate their beauty.
My mom sounded like a yellow canary chirping in perfect rhythm, “Yell-oh! Yell-oh!” After about three minutes, we reluctantly interrupted her captivated state and peeled her away in order to resume our daily activities.
I became reminiscent of these halcyon times when yellow wildflowers caught me off guard as I was walking at the end of my friend Michelle’s cul-de-sac. All at once, my mom’s voice reverberated through the sky in tandem with a radiant sun.
End of my friend Michelle’s cul-de-sac
Ironically, despite planting numerous perennial flower seeds last year, only a single variety of the daisy blossomed. The color? Yellow — a vibrant shade of Yell-OH!
Our Yell-OH! daisies
My mom not only had a penchant for all things yellow, but actually, all things, down to a modest piece of bread that the 98-pound woman stashed in her fake leather purse. And, most times, before consuming it, she’d kiss the crust in gratitude.
As I have previously written about, my mother was a proud American and WWII survivor who endured forced labor under the Nazis during her youth. Prior to her passing in 2015, she exhibited profound gratitude for each moment of the day. Many Americans, myself included, may require reminders of the things to be grateful about. I believe that for most American immigrants, gratitude starts the minute a pair of feet hit free soil.
The Fourth of July is a time to celebrate America’s independence and all that it stands for. It’s a day filled with parades, fireworks, and most importantly, the colors that represent this great nation —red, white and blue. But for me, there’s one more color that holds a special place in my heart — yellow — yell-oh!
You see, my mom, was not only one of the most grateful persons I’ve every known, but also one of the most patriotic people. (Don’t these two qualities go hand in hand?) Additionally, she was a proud mother of two veterans who courageously served in active duty during the Vietnam War.
To her, each day held the same revelry as the Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Flag Day and every other holiday on the American calendar. She would joyfully declare, “Every day is Sunday!”
She also enthusiastically expressed her appreciation for America by exclaiming: “God Bless America!” to everyone she encountered — from store clerks to librarians, you name it.
Don’t think though that America handed her an easy life on a silver platter. She and my dad experienced discrimination and were exploited by many individuals. Every Monday, for instance, a bulldog of a neighbor would plop an enormous pile of dirty laundry (excluding any yellow clothes!) on our porch, causing my mom to groan from the weight when lifting the basket. Throughout the week, Mom tirelessly ironed and starched each garment while juggling her other responsibilities, a skill she acquired firsthand from the Nazis’ emphasis on producing flawless results. The same neighbor would retrieve the laundered articles on Friday or Saturday, while simultaneously expressing dissatisfaction with my mother’s work. Consequently, she would begrudgingly offer my mother meager compensation consisting of only a few coins or occasionally one dollar.
On Sundays, my parents never failed to attend church. I can vividly imagine my mother prostrating herself on the ground in prayer, grateful for the opportunity to worship her personal understanding of God without fear of being subjected to violence or even death. On her way out, Mom never failed to contribute half of her earnings into the charitable receptacle of the church.
“It’s for the poor people. God Bless America,” she’d whisper to me after we left church.
In the final decade of her life, my mother grieved the passing of her eldest son, Mike, as a result of illness; nonetheless, she retained an unwavering appreciation for her freedom to mourn openly and, in fact, helped others who suffered comparable loses.
When one considers the experiences of enduring war, division, hatred and brutality or suffering from inadequate footwear during blizzard-like weather conditions, minor discomforts faced by those in the middle- and, certainly, upper-class, such as a power outage for the day, pale in comparison.
Regardless of the hardships she endured in America, my mother never lost her faith in America even during its darkest moments. Her attention remained fixed on the selfless acts of our nation’s forefathers and their successors, including her own sons, in upholding our liberty and autonomy.
When I find my self amid personal struggles, I am grateful for her legacy that rarely fails to empower me. Fortunately, during summer months, her positive spirit is especially evident as I stroll along the path towards my house and behold the sunny faces of flowers beaming at me. Meanwhile, a melodious tune chirps within my mind, singing out “Yell-oh! Yell-oh!”
As we celebrate the holiday today, let us remember those who have gone before us and the traditions they held dear. Let us honor their memory and carry on their legacy, whether we wear red, white, blue or even yellow — Yell-oh! —because we are FREE to do so! Happy Fourth of July!
About six years ago, when my friend, Richard, a retired art director, celebrated his two-year sobriety milestone, he donned an eye-catching crimson bow tie that juxtaposed his somber expression. The poignant declaration he uttered at that moment has remained ingrained in my memory ever since: “This is not my world anymore.”
Richard was faced with the realization that his marriage of 50 years was not only coming to a close, but also that his children had grown distant from him. In addition, he also needed to reconcile with the reality that he had wasted a considerable amount of his earlier years as an alcoholic who functioned nevertheless.
His faith in what once was, had come crashing down.
Richard’s realization that “This is not my world anymore” is a sentiment that we all may encounter at some point in our lives. It represents the stark (sober) realization of what truly holds significance in life, and conversely, what does not; such as an unfulfilling marriage that has become a matter of convenience and habit rather than one that is rooted in love and admiration.
Over the past two decades, and particularly during the last three years, I have encountered numerous epiphanies that have left me feeling disconnected from my surroundings. These experiences forced me to recognize who my true friends are while accepting that most of them, for various reasons, have vanished from my life. Furthermore, it is clear that the path I had once envisioned for myself will never come to fruition. Each time I catch sight of my age-spotted hands that no longer resemble my own, I can’t escape the fact that before I know it, a significant birthday is just around the corner. In truth, “This is not my world anymore” often morphs into “This is not the world I imagined at 19,” which serves as a poignant reminder of life’s perpetual evolution.
Richard’s and my journey serves as an example to illustrate how life is constantly changing. We may not always be in control of these changes, but we can choose how we respond to them. While conceding that there are numerous occasions when my faith falters and my perseverance wanes, it is evident that I am able to persist through such moments due in large part to inspirational figures, such as Richard.
Richard is not, as far as I know, a religious man. However, he does believe that there is something that is ultimately good and benevolent and, despite all his challenges, Richard never lost faith that things would turn out okay. He faced each obstacle head-on and emerged stronger from it all. Sure, it’s still not “his world” anymore, but he never falters as he adds a colorful array of bow ties to his wardrobe reminiscent of a blooming garden filled with vibrant peonies.
If my daughter’s best friend, Alabaster, had two homemade granola bars (his mother was a health food nut) packed in his lunch tote, and another student was struggling emotionally, he’d show his support by giving him or her both granola bars – as well as a smile on his face burning bright like a sliver of a crescent moon. He had a knack for connecting with people and making them feel seen, heard and valued. I can personally attest to the fact that his character never failed to change the day for the better.
Alabaster and my daughter were besties from grammar school through high school and then after the lanky, spirited young man left for college, he completely vanished without a trace. He never responded to any text messages my daughter or any of his other friends sent. Years later, he finally revealed to a mutual friend of my daughter’s that growing up in our primarily well-heeled town, especially if someone didn’t fit the heterosexual norm, was difficult. His family’s wealth was not enough to ease the pressures of being different from everyone else. He had faced discrimination and ridicule from his peers, which left him feeling isolated and alone.
For Alabaster, it was too much to bear, and he eventually disassociated himself from our hometown due to the painful memories that he associated with it. He escaped the expectations of his peers, self-righteous, religious zealots and those others that condemned him and God’s handiwork and found a kinder, less egotistic place where he could start anew without judgment or criticism.
A few weeks ago, my daughter sent me a beautiful write-up about Alabaster in honor of Pride Month. It was published in a business journal. Today, as it turns out, he lives in a progressive state a few thousand miles away where he is a star in the techy world. In the article, he expounds upon how important it is to live authentically and without shame. He not only lives this way, but encourages others to do the same. Explaining what Pride means to him, he adds, “It means being proud of who you are at your core and not letting any single person or group of people stop you from being yourself.”
I’d recognize Alabaster’s handsome face with deep-colored eyes anywhere, and I just cried with emotions, knowing he had found the freedom at last to be who he was born to be.
Over the weekend, I thought a lot about Alabaster as I recalled another interesting occurrence at our home that happened two Wednesdays ago when my dear friend Pat and I were loading the car with a box of donations for Goodwill. We noticed a large roly-poly blob in the neighbor’s yard in our suburban neighborhood. A black bear was on the loose, ambling around, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was in a human-populated area and he “didn’t belong.”
At first, I was shocked and scared enough to call the police, only for them to tell me that I was the third caller of the day and the bear was perfectly harmless. So, I also felt a sense of awe. Here was this wild creature, out of its natural habitat, but still unafraid.
I thought about why this bear had found its way into our neighborhood. He had probably been driven out of his natural habitat by development or by humans encroaching on his territory. And yet, even in the face of these challenges, the bear had not given up. He had found a way to survive and thrive.
I realized this bear, beary-much like Alabaster, who, despite the odds, survived in his own way. Others, as I am all too well aware, are not as fortunate.
We all live in a world filled with imperfections and hardships. Yet, despite the struggles and pain we face, some of us are lucky enough to find solace in faith. It is through faith that we can see hope, beauty and wonder in our flawed world. Unfortunately, not everyone has the capacity of being able to access this power of faith.
I think it’s also important to remember that faith can come in many different forms. It doesn’t have to be religious faith. It can be faith in ourselves, in our loved ones, or in something greater than ourselves. Whatever form it takes, faith can give us the strength to face whatever challenges come our way. It is like a sliver of the crescent moon – small but powerful enough to bring light into the darkness.
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 