Bullies

Bullies…

They’re not just for kids.

Even as adults we can run into them:  On the road, at work, stores, sporting events, when we are out trying to have a good time with our friends or families. We can also find them on Face Book, Instagram and other forms of social media…especially today, as we are in the midst of an election season.

We see bullies both celebrated and vilified in our culture, with some becoming very famous and powerful, mostly based on building themselves up while bringing others down. However, this also reminds us that most bullies lack any real substance, they are mostly bluff and bluster, but they can still have an impact.

Sometimes, all we need to do is look in a mirror to see a bully….as none of us are without sin.

This is a good thing to remember when others fall short, it can help us to be more forgiving, just as we too have been forgiven.

And we all have our own bullies to face.

Like my friend Harold. He was often bullied, for his weight, his stutter, lack of athletic prowess, and the fact that he was socially awkward (which was not helped by being bullied).

Now Harold became used to being bullied, and found the getting angry didn’t help as it often got physical, and that would get him into trouble – and his anger only seemed to embolden the bullies; that was what they were looking for.

In time, he learned it was best if he didn’t rock the boat.

Instead, he came up with other ways to cope with it…mostly by doing what he could to avoid conflict. If kids started to pick on him, he would sometimes often join in with them, and make a joke out it, like if someone called him ugly or stupid, he would agree with them in order to take some of their steam away. Often though, he would just find a way to walk away.

Then, one day, when he was between classes at High School, Harold came upon a crowd of kids blocking the hall! His instincts told him to turn around and go another way…as that many kids gathered together was usually meant trouble for him, trouble he did not want. Curiosity got the better of him though, and he stopped to see what was going on.

As Harold moved to the edge of the crowd, he saw one of the school’s bullies tormenting a kid named Jack.

Jack was a little bit ‘different’ with a dry sense of humor that was often misunderstood, and he was even more awkward than Harold. Because of this, most of the kids thought he was a little weird and definitely a bit of a nerd, long before shows like The Big Bang Theory made it almost cool to be dorky.

So, Jack was a frequent target of the bullies, who thought it was fun when they could make him angry, or even better…cry!

Because they were both bullied on a regular basis, Harold and Jack became friends, and gave each other support in the face of the taunts and teasing.

Harold saw that Jack was on the verge of tears right now, his face was getting red, he was shaking, and trying very hard not to lose control.  The crowd saw his vulnerability started laughing harder, with a few more of the kids moving from being spectators to actively teasing.

Harold saw what was happening and knew he should do something…

He knew what it was like to be bullied, and while he felt bad for his friend, he was also glad that he was not the target this time. Harold wanted to help, but was afraid that if he spoke up for Jack, he would wind up at the mercy of the bullies!

Just then one of kids pointed at Jack and called out: “Oh no, he’s starting to cry!”

Sure enough, the tears came, and everyone started to laugh and shout at him, including Harold!

When he realized what he was doing, Harold felt horrible!

How could he turn on his friend like that?

That was when Harold finally decided that he had to do something, even though he really didn’t want to, because he was afraid.

Putting his fear aside, Harold pushed his way through the crowd, walked over to Jack, and yelled at everyone to “Stop!” He told them that Jack did not deserve to be treated so badly…no one did, not even the bullies!

The crowd went silent for a moment, and then one of the kids pointed out: “You were just laughing too!” “You’re right, I did, and I was wrong…now I want to do what’s right.” Harold admitted, and then he turned to Jack and said “I’m sorry, I got caught up with the crowd, I shouldn’t have joined in!”

Jack just stood there looking sad and broken…

Some of the kids continued to laugh, but many just turned away without saying anything, looking embarrassed.

Then a teacher walked over to see what was going on…and with that, the rest of the kids walking away as well.

For a moment, Harold felt proud of himself for standing up for Jack, and he put his arm around Jack’s shoulder. Jack moved away from him and asked, “What took you so long?” and then walked away himself.

While Jack eventually forgave Harold, he soon transferred schools because the bullying just got too much him to handle…and this left Harold wondering if things might have been different, if he had spoken up sooner, or more often.

From then on, Harold made an effort to speak out and stand up to bullies, but it was still difficult for him, because he was afraid that if he said anything the bullies would turn on him, and sometimes they did…but as he got older, he did begin to speak out more often. Speaking up did not always work out well, but it did make a difference, it did get some people to think about how they were treating each other. On a few occasions those who were doing the bullying changed their ways, but more often, those who stood by and watched began to speak up more often themselves.

Speaking out also helped Harold to feel better about himself, and it assuaged some of his guilt, as he never wanted to let someone down, like he had done to Jack…ever again.

Through these experiences, Harold has learned that sometimes all it takes is a little bit of courage, to stand up for what is right.

The Small Packages

 

It was the small packages that bothered me the most…

I’ve become familiar with death, and have learned to accept it.

As a part-time Hospital Chaplain, I have been with people who were dying, sitting with them as their lives faded away, talking with them, sharing jokes and stories, making sure that they were not alone as they faded.

Saying prayers as their breathing became labored, and holding their hands as they exhaled for the last time…

As I watched the life leave their bodies, it was as if they deflated, and I knew that they had moved on.

I have spent time with families in waiting rooms and chapels as they prepared for loss, and stood with them at the bedside when the lights had been lowered, and shared a prayer, or simply listened as they began to mourn. I have also made arrangements and performed funerals, for both friends and strangers…and in the end, I said the final words over the grave as I poured the sand “In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection…”

I have also stood with a priest (in training) as he said the Last Rites for the first time by without another Man of the Cloth, and helped him with his anxiety.

As a Patient Transporter a a big hospital, I have watched as bodies were prepared to be taken from the room and have even made the trip to the morgue myself.

We always went as a team, as we had to move the body on to a transport cart and then cover it with a sheet before carefully taking it to the basement, avoiding all public areas.

The morgue was not like the ones you see on TV, there were no banks of stainless-steel vaults where the body could be stored and then rolled out dramatically for identification or examination. That would not be practical for a busy morgue, sadly, there would not be enough room.

Instead, the morgue was a large refrigerated room, with shelves along the walls, and filled with row upon row of dull metal carts, while some empty, most were occupied by a body, zipped into a thin, white plastic bag.

The room was lit by banks of florescent lights, institutional, without warmth or hope.

I got used to being in the company of death…at least for the most part. I have come to see that it really is a part of life, and nothing to fear. I have never seen any one who was screaming and sobbing at the end, they all moved on peacefully…most asleep or unconscious, although some were praying, looking at loved ones or simply smiling, and there was one man, who told me he was an Atheist, and “…didn’t need no preacher” when he met me, but was calling out to Jesus when the end came.

After all I have seen and experienced, I can’t believe that death is the end…although I do not know what comes next.

However, this is not to say that I never find death painful…or unfair, as I mourn those I have lost, and feel sorrow for those who have died due to addiction, accidents, illness or violence.

And felt injustice at those who have died too young…

This is what bothered me the most about those trips to the morgue, about the small packages.

They were placed on the shelves the lined the walls of the room, in neat little bundles. At first glance, it was hard to tell what they were. I had to ask, and when I learned the truth, it made me incredibly sad.

Children are not supposed to die.

Our children should be playing in the Sun, laughing at cartoons, complaining about school work and vegetables, and sleeping in soft beds, not held hostage to the evils of this world, or laid out on a cold steel shelf, in a room beyond hope.

They are supposed to wrapped in love, enveloped by the warmth of family and all those who care for them, but sadly, we know that this is not true for every child. Many face challenges and trials that are not of their own making. They have faced violence, abuse, disease and poverty…neglect and loneliness.

The world is not always fair to the innocent, nor does it always deal justly with the guilty, leaving most of us simply shaking our heads.

Looking at those small packages, laying in that institutional room, was evidence of just how unfair the world can be.

They also brought back some of my earliest memories…from before I became who I am, maybe even before I knew my parents.

Those are memories of being on a cold ward, filled with metal cribs, of toys pushed through the bars, of being alone, of being cared for by the doctors and nurses who sought to recover children who had been on the verge of being lost.

Of looking up every time a door opened, to see if there was a familiar face…come to take me home, wherever that may be.

Those small packages also reminded me of how fortunate I am, to have been given the life I have…

Because I know that I too could have been wrapped up in one of those small packages, were it not for the Grace of God, and the intervention of the compassionate.

And this reminds me to practice compassion in all that I do.

The Biologicals

I have wondered about them my whole life, who they were, what happened, if they were still alive, and if I had any siblings.

As I grew up, I made up some fantastic scenarios, like imagining that they were rich or had become famous, powerful, or even notorious. However, as I got older, I my speculations became more realistic, and figured that they were either young people who got in over their heads, and/or that there was probably some kind of substance abuse involved.

When I was in my late teens, I learned that the latter was closer to the truth when my adoptive parents told me that I had been abused as an infant, which was why I was put up for adoption to begin with.

It turns out that the abuse was so bad that the neighbors called the police, who took me to the Emergency Room at what eventually became The University of Medicine & Dentistry of New Jersey. It was November of 1963, and I was six months old. While there, I was seen by a doctor, a well-known Orthopedic surgeon who knew the signs of abuse and took custody of me and treated my injuries free of charge, just as he had with other abused children…and he also made sure that my biological parents never got me back.

This was quite a feat for the early ‘60s, when people were not as aware of the impact of abuse, making it more difficult to take action.

When I heard this story, I finally began to see how fortunate I was to wind up with a good family, who had to tell me I was adopted, because I never felt like I was, in fact I think that even they forgot about my status.

However, in spite of knowing about the abuse, I still wondered about my birth parents.

Although a naturally curious person, my search for answers never became a burning desire, but I did some research based on what my parents knew about the Biologicals: supposedly one was into the arts, perhaps a graphic designer, they had lived in the Bronx (where I was born) and later moved to Newark NJ, where I was taken away from them. I was also told that the hospital I was born, was in the Tremont section of the Bronx, but it had burned down…and that was about all that I knew.

However, they also told me my original name…as they knew it, information which would turn out to be helpful.

As this was before the internet, my research was restricted to libraries (these were large buildings that were filled with books, magazines and all kinds of records – often municipal, though many were also found at schools). At the college where my dad taught, I searched through birth announcements in the micro-fiche of the New York Times, Daily News and the New York Post, from May of 1963, but found nothing.

The East Orange Public Library was actually less helpful, and a bit creepy, as it was a nice place for the homeless to hang out during the cold days of winter, who were better than the teenagers who went there to cut classes.

Later, when I moved to Staten Island and started working in Manhattan, I spent some time at the New York Public Library, where I looked up birth records, and actually found a listing that could have mine, everything fit, except that the name was wrong!

I later found out that my parents were given the wrong name by the adoption agency, it wasn’t my name, but that of my biological father.

After my trip to the library, my search stalled as life took me on all kinds of new adventures, including working on Wall Street, my own Substance Abuse, marriage, Sobriety and parenthood!

Then, in the late 90’s I read an article about the Kessler Institute, founded by the doctor who saved my life, and I reached out to the hospital telling my story as I knew it…and heard nothing, for a while. Then, one evening, I got a call from Dr. Kessler’s personal assistant, who sounded on the verge of tears as she told me “…you must have been one of the babies that I bought clothes for!”

She went on to explain that most of the babies that he saved from abuse arrived with nothing but a diaper and a blanket, meaning that she often had to go out and buy clothing for the children.

We had a nice conversation, but I did not learn anything new about the Biologicals, as she was retired and did not have access to any records, and even if she did, some of the information was considered private, and it would have been hard to figure out which baby I was. Dr. Kessler had helped many children, not only victims of abuse like myself, but also those with birth defects.

Inspired by this call I began to search the nascent (to me) internet, where I found a message board (this was way before Face Book) where I posted what information I had learned about my past on the site, asking if anyone knew my story. Then I pretty much forgot about it…for two years.

Two very eventful years, during which I lost a family member, my marriage, and discovered the joys of single parenting. Then, out of the blue, I got an email!

The writer introduced himself as ‘Bob’, and said that he thought he might be my biological father. In the email he confirmed some of what I wrote in the posting, and then he provided some information that I hadn’t supplied, but which fit what I already knew!

After a few more emails, we decided to have a phone call. During our phone conversations, Bob filled me in on some family history. He told me neither of them were artists; however, my biological mother had been an aspiring dancer. She was also troubled with mental health issues, and yes…substance abuse. During their marriage she fell deeper into Addiction, got involved with some “strange people” and eventually died from her Addiction before she turned 40 (years after I had been taken away). Of course, Bob made it a point to tell me that he had nothing to do with the abuse.

As Bob told it, he was working long hours in Manhattan while living in Newark, having left The Bronx shortly after I was born (he did not explain why, but my guess is that things were already getting out of hand there and drew the attention of the authorities). He claimed that the abuse happened while he was at work and that he had no idea (I was doubtful, considering the extent of my injuries, and knowing that it is easy to blame someone who is dead). Supposedly, the neighbors heard the noise, the sound of me being abused and screaming, and they finally had enough and called the Police.

I was about six months old when I was taken away from them.

I find it hard to believe that such abuse took place without Bob’s knowledge; however, I did not press the issue when we talked on the phone.

Bob also told me about his second wife, his two sons with her (my half-brothers), and his life since I was taken out of it. He told me about his family, who were all from the Fall River Massachusetts area, how his mother was still alive and in her 90s, etc.

He also mentioned that (as far as he knew) my ancestry was mostly Irish, Eastern European (possibly Ukrainian) and a smidge of French Canadian.

Note that I have yet to take one of those DNA tests to see if he told me the truth.

After talking with Bob on the phone a few times, I was confident enough in his story to agree to meet him. He explained that he would be driving up the Northeast Extension of the Turnpike while returning home to New York State, from a trip to Florida, and we decided it would be a good opportunity to meet.

Before the meeting, I went to see my mother (the one who raised me, put up with me and loved me) and told her about Bob. I remember that she was anxious about the meeting, at the time I wondered if it was because she was feeling jealous, but now I realize that she was afraid about opening old and painful wounds.

In a rare show of common sense, I figured that it would be best if I didn’t meet Bob alone, so I asked one of my best friends to come along with me, this also allowed me to take my daughter along…knowing that there would be safety in numbers.

Of course, I was feeling very anxious about the meeting myself, as I was not sure what to expect, and still had a lot of questions…like whether or not Bob was REALLY my Biological Father.

This, I had to take on faith…for the time being.

That meeting took place in March of 1999, at the restaurant attached to the Best Western in Quakertown, PA.

I do not remember who got there first, our crew or Bob and one of my half-brothers. I do remember that when my friend Al first saw Bob, he picked him out right away, leaning over and whispering to me “He looks just like you!”

The meeting was friendly, we had coffee and my daughter had ice cream, while we talked and I found out some more about my biological mother’s colorful family history!

It turns out that one of my great-uncles had been convicted of murder sometime in the late 20s, and was pulled from the clutches of the electric chair twice, before having his sentence commuted to life. All in all, he wound up spending over 20 years in prison. During this time, he was befriended by Lucky Luciano, after telling him about a plot to jump him in the yard (which made his prison time easier) and he became well-known for his art work, which lead to him having his being released by the Governor of New York, for having rehabilitated himself.

There was even a movie made about him, called Convicts 4, which came out in the early 60’s!

I also learned that my great-grandfather was a bridge-tender, who won a Carnegie Award for jumping into the river in an attempt to save two girls who had fallen in and were drowning…unfortunately, the prize was awarded posthumously, as there were no survivors…but the effort was appreciated.

Although meeting Bob and my half-brother was weird and awkward, it was still an enjoyable evening, and I got a copy of the book written about my great-uncle.

However, I came away from the meeting feeling as if Bob was disappointed that I did not have any money to share with him. Throughout our conversations he continued to tell me about his money woes and how he was waiting for money from a law suit to come through…as far as I know it never did.

Shortly after the meeting, I went to see my mother, and I got down on my knees to thank her for all she and my father had done for me. I could see that I had dodged a bullet when I was taken away from my Biologicals, and adopted by my real family.

A few months after our meeting, Bob’s second wife died suddenly, and I felt it would be nice for me to go to the memorial, and offer some support. It wasn’t a bad visit – considering the reason for it, but it was still awkward, and the last time I saw Bob and my half-brothers.

And it reminded me once again of how very fortunate I was to have been made a part of my family, and I actually felt badly for my half-brothers.

I have only had a few other contacts with Bob, and have not heard from either of my half-brothers since our brief meetings. Not long after his wife passed, Bob sent a series of emails about how he had gotten involved with a Russian woman he met on the internet, and supposedly they married. It seems like she was looking forward to coming to America, but he had other ideas, as he moved to Russia for a while…I assume to escape creditors.

I got one more note from Bob, after many years of silence, when I received Birthday card that was printed in Russian, but had been mailed from North Carolina, it included good wishes, but no news…and that is where the story ends.

Or at least that is what I thought.

I came to the point where I figured that Bob had probably shuffled off this mortal coil; however, I got one of those DNA tests for Christmas, and wasted no time in submitting it. As a result, I reconnected with my half-brothers once again.

I began exchanging emails, and found out that Bob was still with us, and had a birthday coming up, and he wanted me to help celebrate. Therefore, I found myself making plans to travel down to Baltimore in mid-March, to meet up with a family I did not know.

Of course, I had not planned on a pandemic hitting around the same time. I was hesitant about making the trip, but realized that I was not sure where the crisis would leave us…so I went any way. As it turned out, it was the right move, and everything went on lock-down about a week later.

I drove down on a Sunday, and the weather and traffic were in my favor. I got there before my two step brothers, and got a chance to actually sit and talk with Bob. I took advantage of the time to ask questions about what happened to me, about my mother, and what he knew. Of course, he was not very forthcoming with details, and continued to tell me that he had not known the extent of the damage that had been done to me.

He did tell me more that my mother’s problems in life, and how he was not even sure how she died, but that no one really seemed to care about her at the end.

I was also able to offer him forgiveness…if he accepted it or not, I do not know.

What I do know is that before you can accept forgiveness, you must first admit that to what was done. I am not sure he can do that, but I did see the sadness in his eyes, and that was enough for me. Enough for me to think that maybe he understood, even if he did not say anything.

And when it comes right down to it, I have to remember that forgiveness is not about acceptance, just as it is not about saying that what was done is now all right…as if it never happened. Forgiveness is more about letting go of resentment, putting the past to rest.

After this, I also got to spend some time with my half-brothers, and get to know them…a little. We actually got to have a nice lunch together, along with Bob’s current wife, a woman from Russia, and one of their girlfriends, who helped break some of the ice. Sharing a meal is a good way to get to know each other.

I am glad I got the chance to reconnect with these people, this other part of my life, and hope to get to know them better in the future, perhaps once the pandemic is behind us…or has, as least, become manageable.

After taking the first steps in getting to know my biological family, I have come to believe, even more strongly, that any speculation I engaged in about my REAL family, when I was younger, was a waste of time. I knew my real family all along, they were the ones who raised me, were there for me, put up with my Bull Shit and loved me in spite of it all.

These are the people who gave me the best parts of who I am…and for this I will always be grateful.

I hope yo u enjoyed this essay, to read more like it, you can purchase or download the book: Ordinary Adventures from Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/Ordinary-Adventures-Essays-itself-ordinary/dp/B08BWGWDXW