The First Christmas…

Christmas was always a time to party, but then, every day was a good time to party! The difference was that at Christmas there were more opportunities to eat and drink for free! There were multiple company parties and plenty of free booze given by our clients. There were also get-togethers with friends and family, as well as trips to the bar, and plenty of shared joints, lines, and other accoutrements.

It was a great time of year to have a drinking problem, because it was so easy to blend in, as many people seemed to be over-doing it during the Holidays! No one seemed to care that I was a sloppy drunk at a time when there were so many drunks around. The problem was that I was a sloppy drunk the rest of the year, when most of those ‘others’ went back to being upright citizens…or so seemed to me.

Then, I finally had enough, and I stopped drinking.

Now, I had a question about what I was going to do with myself now that I didn’t drink any longer? What was I going to do with my time? Would I ever have any fun again? And…what about the Holidays?

I was fortunate to have understanding family members. They may not have fully understood Alcoholism and seldom saw me at my worst, but they were glad that I was taking action. Work was different though. While it seemed like half of my office went to AA meetings, the other half did not get it – I was looked down because I did not go to the office Christmas party and had stopped going to the bars with everyone after work, and at lunch…and I was even teased for being sober, a little. When the boss gave out gifts that year, he gave us all bottles of cheap champagne…I declined.

In many ways I felt left out of the Holiday fun, and I was resentful. I was also worried about how I would handle it all…if I could stay sober. However, I went to a lot of meetings, stayed close to my sponsor, and avoided all those people, places and things (like Holiday parties) that I was warned about! It helped that my wife (at the time) was also working on her sobriety. Yet, it still wasn’t easy, and I needed a lot of meetings!

This included Christmas Eve, when my sponsor told me I was going to the Staten Island Alcathon…approximately 24 hours of AA meetings, broken up by lots of food, and some fun, like a visit from Santa for the kids, and music for the adults! While we had family commitments, we also had some down-time and were able to attend about eight hours of the meetings! When we first got there, I felt awkward, but then I was never socially well adjusted. It did help that I was among many other people that already knew, and who had similar issues, but still…I was at loose ends for a little while.

Within an hour, we had eaten, met up with friends and we were thinking of leaving, when the call came out for help in the kitchen. Most of the food was supplied ala potluck, and there was a high demand, the problem was that the mashed potatoes, veggies, ham, turkey and gravy were all getting cold before they could be served up. My sponsor knew that I had experience working in restaurants, and so he volunteered me to help!

I remember being led to the serving area, and finding the food on the steam-line, but the line was not turned on. No one seemed to know how to use it, but I did, having worked on one just like it at college. I directed my co-volunteers to fill it with water, then turned it on and began to heat up the food! Then I got to stand there and serve everyone who came through the line…for hours!

People would come through the line, we’d fill up their plates, trade Holiday wishes, jokes and even the occasional story. Of course, we also had those who were frequent flyers, coming back over and over, and the kids, who were the most fun! They were excited for Christmas, loved the cookies, and gushed over the extra gravy!

Looking back now, I realize that for some of these people, including the kids, this was their only Christmas dinner, and maybe the best one that they had in years…some of them might have spent the last Christmas dealing with active addiction, domestic turmoil, and even homelessness. It is even possible that the next Christmas was not any better, it was nice to know that we might have made someone’s holiday brighter, they certainly made ours better!

My wife also helped out, serving food, and then helping to pick up the trash from the tables, and swapping out the trays when they were empty. We did get to a break during the meetings, to listen to the speakers and participate in the discussions, but after every meeting, we had a new rush of hungry people to deal with…and then we had to clean up after every rush. There were dishes to wash and we had to wipe off the steam-line, change the water in the pans and make sure that the food stayed hot during the breaks.

While I did not intend to help out at the Alcathon that day, doing so helped me a lot!

It was also a lot of fun!

It was hard work, but it gave me something to do, other than being socially awkward and having to go home early. Volunteering also let me meet a lot of people, and my wife and I made a lot of new friends and new connections that proved beneficial. Staten Island was not a big place, and for while I still lived there, I kept running into people I first got to know at the Alcathon, or met through folks I had met there!

Even today, when I go back, I’ll occasionally run into someone who I knew back then…and once, I ran into someone here in the wilds of Pennsylvania that I met at that same Alcathon!

This is how it works…we recover by helping each other, and in the process, we build strong connections, true friendships and can even have fun!

This is one of the main gifts of sobriety, that we learn what ‘the joy of living’ truly means…even when life does not always go the way we expect it to. We learn that it does not come at the bottom of a bottle, at the end of joint, or at the tip of a needle…it comes from making real connections with others!

Even today, 30 years later, I think of that Christmas Eve, and how it was hot, tiring and very busy…but it was also an amazing day, one that helped to set my sobriety on a good path!

Since that day, I have volunteered many times, for a variety of groups and causes, and I have met some really great people. Some were fellow volunteers, and some were people who needed my help, but who also helped me…like the man I worked with at the AIDS hospice, or the patients I visited as a volunteer chaplain. These opportunities gave me the chance to pay back some of the good that was shown to me when I was struggling, to show others the same help and support…the same hope that was offered to me.

Recovery is not easy, but not as hard as we sometimes make it out to be…doing good for others and making connections that last are very important to our success in sobriety, for we need each other to recover, to remind ourselves that we are not alone!

This is the true gift for us this to remember this holiday season: that we do not trudge the road of happy destiny alone, and when we travel together, we will discover that life is not all toil and trial, but can also be a lot of fun at times!

Journaling

I  have been keeping a journal for 40 years now; I began my first journal on February 13, 1980. That afternoon I walked into Bloomfield with my friend Bill Freyberger, so we could buy Valentine’s cards for our parents. I can’t remember what store we went too, probably a drug store, because I wound up buying a big bag of peanut M&Ms and a red spiral bound notebook, as well as the card for my folks. Later that night, I sat in my cold room (my parents did not believe in paying the gas company hundreds of dollars a month for heat) and I made my first entry. It was about my day, what had happened at school and later at home, and what I thought about it all.

Even then, when I was in High School, I wanted to be a writer. My hope was to write a story that would get me published at an early age. I would sit home and write for hours and hours…making it all up as I went along. I first thought of a journal as a way of recording and remembering my real life experiences, which would feed my fiction; but I never followed through with the idea.

Then we began to study the nature of dreams in one of my High School classes (psych, English?), and interested in learning more I checked out Freud’s “Interpretation of Dreams” from the Upsala College Library. After reading through the book (not every word mind you), I started writing down my dreams (including one where the Pope was shot…about a year and a half before it happened); as I wrote down some of my dreams, I began to write more and more of my own thoughts, and about events I experienced during the day, and this lead me to start keeping a real journal (‘diary’ just did not sound right to me).

In the beginning, I was very faithful about updating the journal every day; I wrote about things I did, things that happened to me and around me, and how I felt about it all. At first I used some codes and my own version of shorthand for some entries…those I did not want my mother to read in case she found it and got curious. Being in High School at the time I really did not have much hide…except for some petty vandalism, the occasional pot smoking, the beers I snuck into my room, and the girls I liked, and how I felt sad and frustrated about not being able to get them to like me back.

Then, of course, I also wrote about my struggles with my parents, mostly my mother, as we did not see eye to eye on much, and would get into some intense fights. It was what I wrote after these battles that I really did not want her to read.

Looking back now (and I can because I wrote it all down) it seems pretty lame; even the fights, but these things were very important to me at the time.

And I wanted to have a safe place to express how I was feeling.

By the time I was a freshman in college, the entries had taken a darker tone.  I wrote more about how disappointed I was with life, and how I could not wait to move on from where I was. I was frustrated because nothing seemed to work out for me…other people got to find success with women, money, friends, etc…but I felt like these things were out of reach for me.

Things were not a bleak as I made them out to be, but I did face many challenges, mostly of my own making.  The darkest and strangest entries were written while I was drunk and/or stoned; and looking back now, it is clear that it was my issues with these substances that de-railed my life so badly and kept me in that cycle of failure.

Even through my years of drugs and alcohol, I continued to write in the journal, but that was really the only writing I was doing. I stopped writing my stories, poems, walked away from the beginnings of a promising career in journalism. Instead I would write these long, rambling, and mostly incoherent entries in my journal.

By the time I met my ex-wife, I had graduated from college and was working on Wall Street. I had also fallen out of the habit of writing in the journal every day. Then I found myself too caught up in the relationship and whirl-wind marriage that followed, not to mention my continued drinking and drugging and the turmoil that came along with it, to keep up with my writing.

My journaling picked up a little bit around the time I got sober, as I wrote long essays about coming back to life after a long, cold season of darkness; but then after a few years, I left my job (now in Publishing) and went to Seminary, where I was busy writing all day and journaling became an occasional activity…and then it slowed down even more when my daughter was born, and I was busy taking care of my home and school responsibilities.

The journal remained on the back burner until the next major life change occurred, the disintegration of my marriage, quickly followed by the loss of my older brother and the end of the career that I had been training so hard for…a career that was over before it could even start.

That was when I started writing a lot more, as a form of therapy, a way of working through the pain and grief that I was feeling. I would sometimes write for hours, just getting out the poison and sorrow that was filling up my life, and trying to find my feet during a time when I felt as if I was caught up in the tumbling surf.

Eventually, my life got back on track (more or less) I got a new jobs, involved in new relationships, became more active in my church, and got even busier with my daughter, handling the school, social and growing issues with that come along with raising a child.

Then, when we hit the teen years, and my daughter found herself struggling with some of the same Addiction issues I had, there was even less time journal. Living with an active Addiction can really suck up all the energy in the room.

Today, I still keep a journal next to my bed. It is a hard bound book, given to me by a friend, who was going to use it as her own journal, but did not get far before she died. Now, when I do write in it, I remember the person who gave it to me, as a friend and a fellow person in Recovery, and I am honored that I was given such a gift.

That said, I do not write in it every day, but only when I am moved by events or emotions…or an anniversary of significance. 

It is not that I do not have anything to write about, clearly I have been writing quite a bit these past few years; however, many of the essays that I have posted on-line and have had published in books and magazines would probably have gone into my journal in the past; but by the time my day ends (which was usually when I would write in my journal) I am simply too tired to want to re-write what I had already written.

Joiurnaling helps me to handle that average, every day stresses of life, the ordinary life on life’s terms stuff that are tough to deal with all the same. This kind of writing gives me a place to vent, and to think through my feelings and reactions.

It also gives me the opportunity to look back on the hard days I have survived. To read through the pages of turmoil, frustration and worry, and experiencing the joy that life has moved on, I have survived, and that seasons have changed.

My journal is a living history of my life, a re-telling of the ordinary and every day drama; the story of who I was, who I am, and who I wish to be.  It is not an amazing story, or even a really fascinating one, but it is mine, and the only one that I can really tell…my challenge is to make it interesting enough to read one day, when someone stumbles across the dusty stack of spiral bound notebooks, and decides to open them up and take a look.

Flipped

I was Sober for a change…that’s important to note.

It had been at least two weeks since I had a drink or illegal drug, because I had been very sick. In fact, I had spent ten days in the hospital, and only got home a few days earlier, just in time for Christmas.

It was December 29^th 1982, and the joy of being home from the hospital, along with the ‘magic’ of Christmas, had faded. I was already becoming bored. Due to my illness I could not drink, there was no pot to smoke, and while I was a student at Upsala College, right down the street, most of my friends had headed home for the Holidays.

Fortunately, my sister and her kids had come over, which broke up the boredom; however, she was having car trouble and was worried about making it back home to Staten Island, so our father volunteered to go with her in case the car broke down, and asked me to follow in the Toyota, so I could give him a ride home. I was happy to have something to do and jumped at the chance.

My two nieces, who were 8 and 6 wanted to ride with me, so I made sure they were safely secured in the back seat, with their seat-belts before we left.

As her car was questionable, and her mechanic was on the Staten Island side of the bridge, my sister decided to take the local route, through Bayonne and across the bridge. There were lights on almost every corner and I was having trouble keeping up with her dying Volvo. I usually drive pretty fast, but I had my nieces in the car…and it is pretty difficult to drive fast on the streets of Bayonne…even without all those traffic lights.

I remember making a comment about the importance of not having an accident while trying to keep up, but before long we got to the bridge, and we were right behind the Volvo…all was going to be fine, we were almost to our destination.

As we got onto the bridge, I was going around 40 or 45 (though the limit was about 35), but I was keeping up with traffic. I distinctly remember passing the Police car, reminding myself to be careful, as I did not want a ticket. Then, I ignored my own warning…knowing there was a toll on the other end of the bridge, I took my eyes off the road for a moment, as I reached over to the passenger seat to get my wallet.

When I did, my hand must have slipped on the wheel, because when I looked up, we were heading straight toward the high divider! I turned the wheel sharply but still caught the edge and the car when up the divider and turned on its side! Before I knew what was going on, I looked out of the passenger window and could see only asphalt going by…and I knew that this could not be right!

At that point, all I wanted was to get the car back up on its wheels, I thought this would fix everything, and so I turned the wheel, although I knew that it was useless, none of the tires were touching the ground as this point…but somehow, it worked and the car righted itself and I was able to turn on my signal and pull over to the shoulder.

Note that all this happened in heavy traffic, but we did not hit any other cars!

Once we were stopped, I released the death-grip I had on the wheel, put on the emergency brake and turned around to check on my nieces…above all else, I prayed that they were not hurt!

My older niece was hysterical and crying, but said she wasn’t hurt…to be honest, I felt the same way, bordering on shock! My younger niece, who was about 6, was laughing and asked me “Can we do that again?”

I looked out of the windshield and saw that the Volvo had stopped a few yards ahead and my father and sister were running towards us. However, before they reached the car, there was a knock on my side window, it was a cop!

I rolled my window down and he asked if we were all okay, and I told I thought we were, he saw that the girls were in the back with seat-belts on, and just then my sister appeared and began checking on them. Once it was clear that we were okay…just shaken up, the cop told me that he was impressed that I had gotten such distance and altitude out of the Toyota, and asked “How did you get it back up on the road?”

I honestly answered, “I don’t know, I just kept turning the wheel and that worked!”

By then, other cops had arrived, and the officer I was talking to asked me how fast I was going. I told him about 45, and he said “No, the speed limit is 35, you were going 35, right?” I did not get it at first, and wanted to be honest but he insisted, and I got it just in time to confirm “Yes, I was going 35!” just as another cop showed up to hear it!

My thinking is that he was not anxious to give me a speeding ticket, or to see me get any charges, considering that I did not hit anyone else, the girls were belted and safe, and I was clearly sober.

Although it had been on its side, sliding along the on-ramp to the Bayonne bridge, my father (I was done driving for the day) was able to drive the Toyota off the bridge and to my sister’s mechanic a few blocks away. From there we got a flatbed to take my father, myself and the wounded Toyota back to New Jersey, where we met up with my mother.

I was terrified that she would be mad at me…I mean really mad, she had a temper, and this time, it would have been justified. When we got out of the truck, I approached her with caution, telling her how sorry I was (that was not a lie) and I braced for whatever punishment I would receive, but instead she hugged me, telling me she was just glad that we were all okay, and that “…sheet metal can be replaced, but we could not!”

Later, she said that it was probably too soon for me to be driving again after being so sick, but I never bought it, I knew that I had been distracted by the kids and worrying about paying the toll, but in the long-run, I had to admit that it really was just an accident, and I learned to forgive myself.

And, the Toyota was eventually fixed, and eventually, I bought it off of my parents and drove it until the Summer of ’87, when once more it wound up on its side…this time it was parked in front of my apartment on Staten Island (having moved down the street from my sister, when I worked on Wall Street), and another driver backed into it, ending its valiant life!

As for my nieces, they are now adults with families of their own, and doing just fine; although, my older niece did flip over a Ford Aerostar when she was a teen, but maybe the experience in the Toyota helped her, as she and her passengers survived that crash with no problems.

Funny how life comes around like that…from time to time.

 

A depiction of the crash I drew shortly after the event.

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

Independence Day

The squirrels were playing, just outside of the window. They scampered across the yard, up the tree and then back again…they were a great distraction.

It was a ground-floor room, and while he had it all to himself, he wasn’t alone…most of us were there with him, and had been throughout the vigil. The only one missing that day was one of my brothers, the plan was that he would visit the next day, the Fourth of July.

My father was fading fast, he was having trouble breathing, was on oxygen and could no longer respond. I knew that he would not like being this way, and hoped that he did not know. He was a good man, well educated, hard-working, fun, and taught Math and Computer Science at the college level.

He was also a man of faith, and dedicated to his family.

Lying in that bed, he was not the man he once was, and part of me was looking forward to his struggled being over, to his independence for Parkinson’s.

After a few hours, I said my good byes and we drove back to Staten Island to wait for the phone call we knew would be coming soon…in many ways, the waiting would be harder than the loss.

The next morning was foggy and humid, but not terribly hot.

I made myself go to one of my 12-step meetings, and the speaker was talking about the day his father died, ten years earlier, to the day: July 4^th. Coincidentally, I also heard this guy speak at my very first meeting, when his stories of being in prison for a crime committed while in a black-out, freaked me out, and I did not go to another meeting for a few weeks.

By contrast, the message he shared that morning helped me to face what was to come.

I remember getting home just before noon, thinking there would be news (there were no cell phones then), but there was nothing…I resigned myself to waiting, and tried to get on with my day. Although it was a holiday, I did not feel like celebrating and had no plans to do so. My wife (at the time) tried to be supportive, but I was on edge.

The call came early in the afternoon.

My father died just after my brother arrived, the last of our family to visit, he was able to say his good byes, and surrounded by his family (including those who could not be there) my father breathed his last and was at peace. His long battle was now finished.

Of course, I wanted to get right in the car and drive back down to South Jersey, but my mother asked me to wait, she had enough on her hands, and explained that it would be easier if I stayed home for a day or two while arrangements.

It really wasn’t that long, but as always, waiting is difficult.

After the news, we walked down the hill, near Wagner College, where I could look out over the Verrazano Bridge, and tried to see the tall ships come in for the celebration, but it was too cloudy and I could not see much. Back home, I was too wound to sit still, so we went to another meeting that afternoon, where I shared my loss and got lots of support.

After the meeting, my wife and I decided to go see one of the Lethal Weapon movies, and wound up surrounded by more of our friends from the meetings…there was no way to escape them, which was just fine with me! Then, we ended the day at a third meeting (right after the movie) and finally made it home to eat, pack up and wait some more.

That evening I also began writing a tribute to my dad, which I would read at his funeral, but this seemed far off on that long Saturday evening.

The time past, and soon we were on our way south. My mom wanted to make arrangements for us we decided to rent a motel room (choosing the same place one of my brothers was staying in), so we could have a place to take a break from the intensity. It was not the nicest place, but it worked for us, and I was glad we had our own space.

The next day, my father’s remaining brothers arrived, along with other extended family and friends, turning out mourning into kind of a reunion, as often happens. There was food and stories, and a few tears, along with preparations for the services and burial.

The funeral was nice, and very moving, with many tributes to a good man whose life was unfairly cut short by this devastating disease.

He was 76, but most of his family lived well, into their 90’s.

My father (and later my mother) was buried in Linden New Jersey. When they bought the plots, the cemetery had been close to home and surrounded by a meadows and trees, but was near highways and within sight of some refineries. Still, he had a nice spot, near some trees…and I was okay with it, as I believe that who my father was had already passed on the next world, as a spirit as strong as his could never be stilled.

We were back home that evening, but had little rest, as the next few days were spent showing the uncles around New York and other family obligations…and that was kind of fun, as we got a chance to sightsee places I would not have gone to otherwise, like Ellis Island.

It was not until the end of the week, when everyone had gone home, and my wife went back to work. I was home alone, when it all began to sink in. I remember that it was early afternoon, when I found myself contemplating a patch of sunlight on the living room floor, and felt like I could just capture that moment and hold it forever. 

That was when I realized that life would not ever be “the same”. In a few days I would go back to work, and take up the fabric of my life, but following a new thread…one which would lead to some dramatic changes.

In the years to come, more threads would be pulled, and I would come back to that moment, when all was still and quiet…and I gave myself time to grieve.

And with all the places I have been, and things I have seen since then, I still find myself returning to that little patch of sunlight from time to time, when seeking peace.

I take it as a gift, one of many, from my father.

The Great Lady and the Long Bridge

This is just a story I want to tell…no overt learning opportunities, no attempt to pass on some great wisdom, though this story points out plenty of things NOT to do…it is just a story about something that happened to me a long time ago…when I got to start the Fourth of July on the top of the world, and end it at the base of a great bridge.

And a day when I unwittingly touched my future…

It was the summer of ’86, and I was newly graduated from college, unemployed, and living in a rented room that I would soon be booted out of…but not before getting down less than a dollar to my name, half a loaf of stale bread, and peanut butter.

But all this happened before things got so bad.

I was still living in East Orange, and seeing this girl (on and off) whose dad worked in the AT&T building in Manhattan. As an employee, he got an invitation to watch the re-dedication of the Statue of Liberty from the roof of the building, on the Fourth of July, 1986, and I was invited to come along.

Now, I was drinking back then, and had to promise the girl that I would not drink too much and embarrass her and her dad. I agreed, understanding what a great opportunity this was, and how I would probably be stranded in the city if I did wind up getting trashed. Therefore, I was actually on good behavior that day…which is probably why I remember so much about the event.

As it was a holiday the drive to the city was pretty quick, and before long we parked and walked to the building, where we took the elevator to the roof, which was covered with that fake green grass that was not quite AstroTurf. There were balloons and music, as well as tables set up with food, soda, beer and the stronger stuff. There were also several grills set up and already being put to good use, although it was before 10am.

I was impressed by the set-up, but was amazed when I walked up to the wall at the edge of the roof, and looked out over the harbor!

We had a great view of the statue, which was surrounded by tall ships, fireboats, ferries, a couple of battleships, and numerous smaller boats. While we were too far away to actually see or hear the ceremonies, there were monitors set up on the roof, so we could watch the ceremonies.

It was a beautiful summer day, was warm and the skies were mostly blue, with a slight haze, and there was a good breeze on top of the building, making things pretty comfortable for us as we watched the festivities gearing up.

After a while, we could hear music coming across the water, as a band began to play. Then the monitors came on and the speeches began. I paid half attention to what was being said, even when Reagan came on and spoke, there was way too much going on around me.

After the speeches, the Blue Angels did a flyover, streaming red, white and blue smoke. During their flight a blimp hovered overhead, I assume to stay out of the way. While waiting they dropped a line down to one of the cooks, who took a basket filled with beer, hotdogs and hamburgers, and tied it to the rope, which was pulled back up into the blimp. When the airshow was over, there were fireworks. When the skies finally cleared, the blimp slowly moved away from the building and floated out over the city and into the harbor for a better view.

I can remember the food, and the beer, and trying very hard not to get out of hand. At one point I did catch myself about to let go, but made myself stop (promising that I would catch up later). I think the thing that saved me from getting completely plastered was that I stuck close to the girl, and stayed away from the whiskey that was calling my name from the open-bar!

I know we left after the fireworks, but don’t quite remember when, it could not have been too early, because I was back home in my small rented room by late afternoon. The girl and her father had gone off to a barbecue or something, and I was on my own, wishing I had been able to take some of the beer and leftover food back with me…as I had little at home, but I knew that this would not have gone over well…and I was so proud of how well I had behaved so far!

So, there I was, sitting at home, watching my old black and white TV, sweating in front of the fan when I got a call from my big sister, who invited me to come to Staten Island for an evening barbecue and fireworks.

The traffic gods smiled on me and I made the usually 40-minute trip in about 40 minutes, just in time for hamburgers and grilled sausages! Looking back, it was a good thing that I had not had too much to drink at the earlier event, or I never would have been able to make the trip…or have fun hanging out with my nieces, nephew and friends!

I remember watching part of one of the Nightmare on Elm Street movies on the VHS, and then…we piled into the Aerostar and drove down to the base of the Verrazano Bridge for my second round of fireworks of the day!

I was a big gravel covered lot, but it had a great view of Manhattan! We got there early enough to get a good spot near the water, where we could see the bridge and the fireworks clearly! I was there with my sister, brother-in-law, their kids, along with his Aunt Selma and Uncle Axel!

To be honest, I had a better time there than I had on the top of the AT&T building, especially as I did not have to be quite so careful there…but I still had to watch my drinking, not only did I not want my sister to see me wasted, but I did not want the kids to get upset either. At that time, I was still able to keep a happy balance, at least when I had to!

It is not that I spent that night completely Sober, but I was still able to function, and that is why I can remember the night as well as I can.

The site was crowded, and really excited, with some in the crowd cheering when the lights on the bridge came on! Then, just before the show began, a police boat came up to seawall, stirring up a lot of activity…at first I thought it was because people were tossing fireworks into the water, but later found out that one of those small pleasure craft had capsized in the harbor, and this boat may have been a first-responder.

I forgot all about this, as soon as the fireworks started to go off!

It was an amazing show, but one thing that stands out for me was hearing the fireworks launch across the harbor, echoing off of the buildings, and then waiting a few seconds before we could see them exploding over the bridge! Those few seconds of anticipation made the show all the more exciting.

Then…it was all over, and we all marched back to the mini-van for the ride back to my sister’s. It seemed like it took hours to get out of the lot, which helped me to sober up, allowing me to be able to drive home safely that night.

It was one of the best Fourth of July’s I ever had, and one that had implications for my future, although I did not know it then.

A year later, after some major changes, including a brief period of living in my car, followed by time in a friend’s unfinished basement, I wound up living in Staten Island, and a year after that, I met my future ex-wife! And as we were getting to know each other, I found out that we had come very close to meeting, back on that Fourth of July. It turns out that she was there, at the base of the bridge at the same time I was…but this is a story for another day, one that is difficult to tell, but that deserves telling.

As for subsequent Fourth of Julys, some were good, and others were simply days to get through.

Six years after that day of fireworks, in 1992, my father lost his struggle with Parkinson’s disease, which kind of soured me on the holiday. Then, in 1996 my marriage truly began to disintegrate right after the Fourth, and I began to really dread the day.

In addition, after I found Sobriety, I lost my tolerance for drunk people and fireworks.

However, having my daughter to raise helped me to get back into the spirit, together we went to see the local fireworks, and even spent one year watching the event in DC with my older brother.

My long-term girlfriend has also helped…she is not wild about the holiday either, but it does help to have someone to share the celebration with, to build new memories.

Today, the first girl who took me to the top of the AT&T building is a distant memory, and my ex-wife and I don’t talk much (though the relationship is still amiable — getting divorced was the best thing to happen to that relationship), and I am coming up on thirty three years clean and sober…while time moves on, and a new history has been built, the memories linger…and I am grateful for them.

Milo’s Dad

 

I remember how the old train car rattled and creaked.

It still had the old wicker seats, the ones where the backs moved so you could change the direction you sat, either facing the front or the back on the train. It also had the globe lights and faded brass fittings. Fortunately, the windows also opened, which was our only source of ‘air conditioning’ as the fans mounted along the ceiling were ineffective.

Milo’s dad took this train every day during his commute to his Publishing job in New York City (almost the same commute as I would be taking about 15 years later), and he explained that this was one of the old Eerie Lackawanna train cars, untouched since the 1920’s (fifty years in the past); I was impressed, but I think he was being sarcastic. We were on our way to Hoboken, where we would visit the famous (though I did not know it then) Clam Broth House, where we would feast on steamed clams!

I was disappointed that there were not fried, until I got a good taste of the fare.

I am not sure if we made it into Manhattan that day…though I do not think so, as the point was to make it to Hoboken, where Milo’s dad had some errands to run, and to visit the restaurant.

“Milo” was one of my best friends.

I had known him so long that I do not even remember when we met, although we knew each other from church, where our parents had become friends. Milo and I would hang out a lot together, both at church and when we could get rides to each other’s houses. He lived in West Orange; I was in East Orange. Although he lived in a nicer neighborhood, he had smaller house. I remember the he shared a room with his sister, there was small partition between the rooms, closed off by a curtain, but she had to walk through his room to get to the hall, bathroom and stairs. This was annoying for them both, but irrelevant in terms of this story, except that it did lead to some Barbie and GI Joe interaction from time to time (always platonic) when I was over there playing.

I also remember that Milo had a great comic book collection, and could skateboard better than me (not really difficult to do).

During the winter, we would sometimes go to the sledding hill at South Mountain, until it was closed for safety (at the bottom of the hill was a busy street, and there were no fences, which led to some unfortunate results), during the summers we’d sometimes go to the YMCA, Vacation Bible School, or just explore the neighborhood with the other kids.

But mostly, we saw each other at church. In fact it was after the service one day, during the Social Hour, that Milo and I were wrestling, when he pushed me, causing me to crack head on a step…leading to yet another trip to the ER and another cool scar!

This did not hurt our friendship at all, as I never thought to blame him, it was only an accident, just like when I broke my toe while playing Batman and The Joker with another friend.

However, our friendship did end a short time later, very suddenly during a summer vacation trip.

Because my father was a College Professor, we would often take long summer vacation trips to see friends and family of to go camping. As this was before the internet or smartphones, when on these trips, we were out of the loop in regard to news from home.

Therefore, every few days my mother would call home and talk to one of my older brothers to check on the house, dogs, etc. It was during one of these calls that she found out that Milo’s dad ‘came-out’ to his mom, which was not well received after 20 years of marriage, and she abruptly took the kids and moved home to Iowa.

I never knew my parents to engage in gossip, but this was pretty big news…especially for the mid-seventies, and being friends, my parents were worried about the impact on the whole family.

I was shocked when I heard the news, and found it hard to understand what had actually happened. Remember, I was a kid and I really did not k now a lot about what it meant to be Gay back then…only what I saw on TV and heard from my friends.

With this as a reference, I thought that this was terrible news, and felt so sad for Milo, his sister and their mother…and I was sad that I had lost a friend.

By the time we got home from vacation, the rumor-mill was in overdrive, and it was not kind to Milo’s dad as no one was feeling a whole lot of sympathy for him. The focus was on the rest of the family, and he was seen as being selfish and cruel to have been ‘living a lie’ for so long.

As if he had a choice.

Despite all the talk, and the occasional dirty look, Milo’s dad continued to come to church, but was kept at arm’s length by most of the kids who had known him through Milo and his sister. Although it was never said out loud, and there was never any reason for it, there was the vague perception he might be a threat to us…especially the boys.

While this was very ignorant of us, we were kids, the sad thing is that it was not just kids who felt this way.

It was not that we meant to be mean, we just missed our friend, and we didn’t get it…we did not understand.

A few years after the break-up and divorce, Milo and his sister came back for a visit. Unfortunately, I did not get to spend much time with my friends. I only saw them once after church, and due to the circumstances and gossip, it was awkward – no one knew what to say and it was as if they were strangers. Within the week they were back on their way to Iowa, and I never saw them again.

As far as I remember, my parents did not buy into all this talk. They continued to show friendship and support to Milo’s dad and offered their support. Any time they caught me repeating gossip or expressing any other Homophobia, I would be chastised and told to learn more about the subject, instead of listening to rumors.

I would like to say I listened…but learning would take some time.

It wasn’t until I was well into my high school years, that my thinking began to change. That was when I found out that (gasp) I knew more than one LGBTQ person, and once I really got to really know these people, I realized that they are just that: people!

It was one of those real ‘duh’ moments.

As I continued to grow up and learn, I began to see the challenges that LGBTQ people have had to face in their lives, simply for being themselves, and looking for their own happiness in life. They have been denied housing, education, jobs, marriage, parenthood, and they have been marginalized, imprisoned, beaten and killed.

While in Seminary, I got the opportunity to spend time with people who were struggling with, and dying from, AIDS. I also got to see how many other people were suffering due to this new prejudice (on top of all the old ones), which was caused by the fear of this disease. I had the opportunity to listen to their stories and I was moved by them.

This is how I learned, and learning opens minds.

Today, I will sometimes remember Milo’s dad, and wonder about what it must have been like for him, how difficult it must have been for him. So many of us were focused on Milo, his sister and mom, and tended to think of his dad as a ‘bad guy’ for up-ending their lives.

Yet, he paid a heavy price for coming out. His confession broke his family, his kids were taken away from him, he lost friendships, which took away a lot of the support that could have seen him through these difficult times. I remember him as a good person, kind and thoughtful, and he did not deserve the treatment he received.

It is easy to excuse my behavior, by saying I not know any better, that I was just a kid, but to do so ignores what I was taught, both by my parents and by my church.

Every Sunday we heard preaching about the Grace of God, which was given for ALL people through the sacrifice of Christ. We heard how Jesus reached out to those who were homeless, imprisoned, marginalized, and embraced all people as God’s children.

We learned that Jesus was concerned about how we treated each other, calling upon all his followers to treat others with compassion, with love.

From all that I learned, I do not believe that Jesus would have been joining in on the gossip and recrimination, but he would have embraced Milo’s dad with understanding, and offered him comfort in the midst of his struggles and pain.

What I should have learned (if I was paying attention) was that none of us have any business throwing stones, but that we should be following the example of Jesus, who spoke out for those who knew injustice and prejudice.

The truth is that we should have known better, I knew Milo’s dad for most of my life, should have been able to see him as the person he was, and not as a label.

Looking back, I realize it took real courage for him to stay involved in our church and community after he came out. It might have been easier for him if he had moved away, and started over somewhere new, like Manhattan, which was a little more welcoming, and closer to his work.

Yet, he stayed long enough to find some small measure of acceptance once again.

Recently, there has been some controversy about the Pride events being held in June, with a few saying “Why do THEY have to make a big deal out of it, why can’t they just live their lives?” There was even a call for a “Straight Pride” march in Boston!

These calls miss the whole point of the Pride events…

It would be great if “they” could just live their lives as choose, in peace, without having to face prejudice and scorn. However, even today it is not that easy. LGBTQ people are still facing grave injustice and stereotypes, and they are still being beaten and killed for being who they are.

It certainly wasn’t that easy for Milo’s dad.

I liked him and looked up to him when I was still friends with Milo, before he told his truth. Today, I can admire him for his courage, and am sorry for how I treated him and others before I grew-up and learned better.

Knowing better is helpful, but I am no saint, and still have so much to learn (or unlearn), I still struggle with many prejudices, but at least I am aware of them and am trying to be a better person.

I am also looking forward to the time when we won’t give a second thought to who anyone chooses to love and care for, because what really matters is LOVE, expressed and shared!

For in this broken and divisive world herein lies our hope: that we follow the call of Christ to Love one another above and beyond all the other bullshit that can get in the way.

 

Going Public

There are guys sit there in the middle of Lincoln Financial Field, during a game, and not care one bit…there they would be, in all their glory, cheering on the team, happy to have such a great seat, right on the field and did not have to miss any part of the action!

I am not one of these guys! 

I am much more private in regard to these personal matters, and have never been a fan of using public facilities to participate in more focused activities. I think they are nasty, and I don’t enjoy over-sharing with others, like strangers and co-workers. This includes my family and my Significant Other – some things need to remain mysterious, even in a long-term relationship!

If it’s a routine trip, where I can remain standing, I am okay with using a public restroom. However, if it requires me to take a seat, I am less than enthusiastic. If possible, I usually wait until I get home, or at least at a more suitable location.

This has tended to be problematic, especially when on a long road-trip, like when driving out to South Dakota or down to Florida. I got exposed to many gas station restrooms during these trips, and one that was still segregated in 1971…where I drank out of the ‘wrong’ water fountain because I was a kid and it was lower to the ground.

The water tasted just fine.

This quirk of mine was also a problem at Summer Camp, where the facilities were cleaned by High School and College students making some summer cash, and more interested in hanging out with their friends once work was done! With dirty cement floors, half-cleaned utilities, and open to insects, the worst part was having the other kids know exactly what was going on in the stalls! This is why I did my best to find some alone time!

At camp our time was structured, and to have the bathroom all to myself, I’d have to sneak off during free-time, when everyone else was playing softball or exploring the woods. I would hope that no one else had the same idea, and that it was relatively clean…although there were weeks when these opportunities only presented themselves once or twice, and I only found relief when I made it home!

When I went camping with my family, if there was one available, I could sneak over to the bath-house later in the evening, or early in the morning, and would usually have the place to myself, though it was still gross, at least I was alone.

However, when we went camping in the Maine woods, I was presented with another challenge: having to use an outhouse!

I have often thought that I would not have lived long if I had been born 100 years earlier, because outhouses are really disgusting: the smell, the dirt, the bugs…and did I mention the smell?

During that week in Maine there was no other choice! I was reluctant to use the outhouse to begin with, and then my brother Pete warned me to be careful because that the pit might have raccoons living in it. When he saw that this scared me (I was 7) he added that it was probably okay, because the snakes might have eaten them all!

I became very close to nature that week, and am still surprised that I didn’t wind up with a case of poison ivy!

However, there was one outhouse that I was okay with…because I helped to build it!

Some friends had a place in Massachusetts, it was basically half of an old house. The previous owner was going to add an addition, but for some reason the project was abandoned. This left the house without adequate bathroom facilities (if it ever had them) so on our first visit, I got to help dig the hole and build the privy out of logs! I did not mind using that one…at least when it was new!

While I am not sure where my aversion to public toilets came from, a contributing factor could be trauma suffered as a young child.

When I was very little (preschool age) my friends and I would tag along with our mothers on their shopping trips. We’d often get lunch out of the deal, and get to play on the coin operated rides outside of the Acme, as well as just generally get into trouble.

After drinking lots of soda, the inevitable would occur, and we’d have to visit the facilities. Stores like Korevettes or Two Guys had pay toilets, so our mothers would give us each a dime; however, since we wanted to keep the money for candy, we would usually slide underneath the stall doors!

We thought we were so clever, and we got away with it, we were little kids, so no one really cared. This plane worked out just fine…until it did not!

The one time that this plan did not work out so well led to some ‘unfortunate’ consequences and it was the last time I ever tried defraud the pay-toilet industry.

I am sure that this incident had a negative impact on my opinion of public restrooms, but this is not the only reason, there were other unpleasant events that I have encountered during my time here on earth.

In fact, there are some bathrooms I would not even use in a dire emergency.

The facilities at the Staten Island Ferry terminals and the Port Authority are atrocious. People actually live in some of the stalls! And then there were the bar bathrooms that were equally horrific! Most of these were unisex and only had room for one person and the cockroaches, but this did not stop me from using the back of the tank to do lines of cocaine!

One of the worst bar bathrooms I ever encounter was at Studio 54. I went there for a work event, the club was a shadow of what it used to be, and on its last legs! The signs denoting gender were largely ignored, which was understandable because the bathrooms no longer had any doors, and neither did the stalls! Everything was sticky, and there were all sorts of inappropriate activities going on in there!

Unfortunately, there are very few public facilities in New York City, this along with being under the influence of drugs and alcohol led to some choices that were not very well thought out.

The fact that this is no longer an issue is another gift of Sobriety, it is amazing how that solved so many of life’s nuisances.

However, there are some nicer public restrooms in the city, like the big one in Times Square (my has THAT area changed) and two spots with very nice facilities are in 30 Rockefeller Center  and the Empire State Building (although these can be hard to find), and the higher-priced mid-town hotels have even nicer facilities…these are actually tolerable!

And before you ask: I have never used the facilities in Trump Tower, although I was once briefly in the lobby, and thought I saw a bad comb-over through the crowd, but I may have been mistaken.

Train stations, museums, shopping malls, and retail stores usually have tolerable facilities; however, I am sure that many of these now have cameras in them, for security reasons. This assumption is based on anecdotal evidence provided by certain associates who have availed themselves of the restrooms at Walmart, only to have been confronted by store security upon exiting, and then invited to chat with representatives of local law enforcement.

The acceptability of work bathrooms can be a toss-up.

Most are fairly well maintained, but I have been in some where the sinks turned into fountains, and the floor was always wet with trash on the floors. There were stalls were coated with filth and graffiti, and many that were clean in the morning, but a disaster by noon.

Once, when I worked in an old office building in Lower Manhattan, one of the ‘units’ in the Men’s Room had a plumbing issue that lasted for months, unfortunately, its integrity had been ‘compromised’ prior to being closed off. The stall was sealed with tape and plastic, but the oblivious (or curious) found their way inside, and the conditions found inside were very troubling. The bathroom also smelled terrible and there were flies but it seemed that the roaches and rats were too grossed out and stayed away.

Fortunately, I had networked my way into the ‘executive’ facilities on the next floor up. These were not all that much nicer, but they were cleaner and did not stink as much. Our Men’s room remained unusable for several months, until a VP walked into it, and walked right out, that a cleaning crew and a plumber were called in.

Speaking of which, it is important that we recognize those brave people who are tasked with keeping these bathrooms clean.

To this day, although I am a Middle-Aged man, with many years Sober, who has been married, divorced, raised a child, held many jobs and earned two degrees, I am still reluctant to take full advantage of public facilities…and while it can be problematic at times (and silly), I can live with it. I still find them gross, and still feel that somethings just don’t need to be shared with the world (which makes it writing this essay a bit of a contradiction).

However, this is one thing that all people have in common, no matter who we are, what our political or spiritual beliefs are, or where we are from, we all need clean water to drink, food to eat, and, at some point, we all will need use the bathroom, and often these are public facilities!

These are the great common denominators in our humanity: what Maslow referred to as the Hierarchy of Needs:

As humans we also share one more thing: that we all have our quirks, yet we are still loved, which meets the important need of companionship…for most of all, we need each other!

The fact that we can find love and acceptance in spite of ourselves says something about the people in our lives. For they put up with our quirks, and more annoying tendencies, but they still care for us!

And this is what really matters: for while I know that using a public restroom will most likely not be the end of me, losing these people that I care for, and who care for me very well could be.

 

Orange Head & Pink Hair

We moved into the big house in East Orange in July of 1969, right around the time of the moon landing. It was a beautiful house, on a tree-lined street of well-kept homes, and much larger than our old house in West Orange.

I had left behind my old school, my neighborhood friends, and moved to a new town. Although it was not a great distance, the move changed everything. The new neighborhood looked nice, and it was close to where my dad worked as a College Professor, but there weren’t a lot of kids my age, and the once who were there did not want to make friends. The folks already living there were well off, and we were not (though we were not poor either) and they came off as somewhat snobby.

In addition, about the time we were moving in, many of the neighbors were making plans to move out!

It was less than two years after the Newark Riots, and ‘White Flight’ was underway. It did not help that the riots took place only a few miles away. One kid told me about watching the National Guard trucks going up Park Avenue (at the end of our street) on their way to the riots.

This is probably why we got our house at such a good price, the family who lived there before us were among the many who were getting out of town. Within the next two years the ‘demographic’ of the neighborhood changed, as the old residents moved away! All of the new families were African-American, and much nicer than those who left…and I actually made a few friends.

When I started first grade in the fall of 1970, I found that I was one of a few white kids in the school, and the only one with bright red hair and blue eyes! This proved to be problematic for me, although most of the kids were fine, a few (like in any other school) enjoyed teasing and bullying me!

Before long, even my friends were calling me “Orange Head”; which was not as bad as getting threatened and chased (with intent to injure) because I looked different from anyone else. This made me a frequent target, and on more than one occasion, the kids who were my friends, helped me to get out of the back door of the school, telling me to hit the ground running…because the bullies were waiting for me at the front door!

This was not the first time being a red-head caused me problems, and while it was an extreme case, it would not be the last time in my life that having red hair caused me problems.

All my life, people have been reminding me of my hair color!

I was adopted by my family after having come as a foster child. As I was the only one in my family who was not biological, it was clear that I did not quite fit in with everyone else! They all had dark blond or brunette hair (except for my dad, who really was mostly bald) and I did not.

Of course, people were not shy about pointing this out! Often, when I was out and about with my family, people would point out “You have red hair!”

Of course, I knew I had red hair, it would be hard not to know that, and if I forgot, there were plenty of people to remind me of that fact!

Then, this initial revelation was usually followed up by the question “Where did you get that from?” to which I would happily answer “Because I was adopted!” Which seemed like a solid reasoning to me…it is true, I was the only one with red hair because I was adopted!

The old ladies at church would comment on how amazing my hair was, and tell me that “…the girls are going to LOVE you!” This made me blush at first, but as I got closer to my teens, I began to wonder when this might happen. While I might have been disappointed, at least they weren’t teasing me…they actually thought my hair was nice.

However, there were plenty of adults who did tease. Although they were good natured about it, I was still bothered. At the Chicken Delight where my brothers worked (and where I had my first job), the boss, Ritchie, took to saying that I had “pink hair”! Something he continued to tease me with until he passed away, and then came back when I wound up working with some of the Chicken Delight people at The Town Pub in 1983!

They called me “Jimmy Olsen” because I was interning with a newspaper, until Frank reminded me that I had “pink hair”! I got teased a lot, but it was a guy thing…and meant that I was now a part of the team (or so I like to tell myself).

Even when I went to a new school halfway through third grade, where my class was more diverse, the red hair made me stand out. Even through college, and entering the workforce, I was always reminded that I had an “orange head” and “pink hair”….that I was different!

No wonder I have often struggled to ‘find my place’ in the world, between being an adoptee and a red head, not to mention that I have never been very good at sports (and generally klutzy). However, I do not believe I was every treated like I did not belong in my family, quite the opposite! As for my lack of skill (or interest) in sports, this has freed me up for other pursuits, like my (attempt at) writing, love of movies and books…as well as hiking, and other activities.

My red hair has caused me to stand out. It has gotten me a lot of attention, both good and bad, and it has led me to become less self-centered (a work in progress), and think more about the feelings of others, giving me empathy for those who are facing their own struggles – even (to a point) for the bullies themselves…as they are often very broken people.

The teasing that I got for my hair color (and a few other things) also helped me to grow a thick skin, I had to…if I took all that to heart, I would have never survived. This thick skin has served me well in business, when working with customers, and in my personal life and volunteering, allowing me to face some awful situations without panic…even when I really wanted to!

My life has also taught me how we are all different, but also have so much in common with each other. I have learned the value of acceptance, and respect for each other, because there are no “minorities” when we are all part of the same human family, and being a part of the family doesn’t mean we have to agree on everything, or even always like each other; it does mean that we are all in this together, and the only way we can move forward is together.

Today, while the color has faded, my hair is still reddish, but my main reason for gratitude is that I still have most of it! Red hair has impacted the course of my life, for better and for worse, but I am glad that I was born with it.

I was also nice pass on this trait to my lovely daughter, who has thick bright red hair…which has caused her some embarrassment. She has tried to tone down her hair color by using black dye, but has been only relatively successful, as her natural color cannot be completely hidden away, much like her personality. Today she is the one who is constant reminded “You have red hair” over and over again!

At least it’s not orange or pink!