Is a Ghetto always to be a Ghetto?

Just returned from Chicago and I was reminded why I left. The traffic, the cost and the crime. I was there to work.

So I am working a case of a police officer shooting and killing a 20 y.o man who I shall call Damon. The bullet entered in through Damon’s back. The young man was allegedly shooting at the plain-clothed police officer, but no gun was ever recovered. No debate that the officer fired 16 times at Damon. No debate it was his bullet which killed Damon. No doubt that at some point Damon was running away from the cop. He died about a half block from where the officer says Damon was shooting at the officer. But this post is not about Damon per se, but about where he lived.

My investigation took me into an area of Chicago which is depressed. It is called West Englewood. Up until the early 70s I believe it was a white community. Now it is 98% Black/African American.

Where my time was spent is an area of mostly single family homes. Some homes were so very well-kept. Many others were boarded up. I interviewed about 20 people or more. This is what struck me. Most of the residents have been in prison, which includes men and women. Most are jobless. Most know someone or themselves have been shot. Most would probably qualify as suffering from some level of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder based on experiencing or witnessing traumatic events.

This community and many others have been distressed a long time. It is brutally ugly to come face to face with. I ask, where are the governmental concerns, plans and objectives to improve the community. Why would Chicago news media not have constant stories about the task forces, resources and enhancements to the community? Why are the lake front and the North Side so gentrified and beautified and the South Side so bereft of assistance? When school gets out in Englewood, there are yellow- vested personnel everywhere who are part of Safe Passage. http://www.suntimes.com/news/education/19113214-418/cps-to-hire-more-safe-passage-patrols-to-watch-over-kids-going-to-different-schools.html#.VE7Q8_nF98E

The reason for these people is that as schools are closed and students transferred their lives are in jeopardy. So, these Safe Passage folks have to try and facilitate the safe transit of these children. A neighborhood so dangerous that people are hired to stand on the street and try to get the school kids home safely!!!

Well Chicagoans often can be heard bemoaning the prevalence of guns in Chicago. Those are not ghetto folks generally. You can’t hear the bemoaning emanating from the inner-city. It is drowned out by tears, poverty and violence. Where is your fucking indignation at the conditions that your fellow Chicagoans are living in? How can the mayor advocate for health, safety and welfare of his town without holding press conferences about the persistent, consistent and massive efforts to help those in poverty?

I see it this way. A prison record can hamper someone from getting a job. Lack of jobs requires resourcefulness. Drug dealers are resourceful. Drug dealers get busted and get prison records. Prisoners become ex-prisoners who can’t find jobs. Jobless people get hungry and are required to be resourceful. Resourceful people often become drug dealers. Drug dealers get busted.

Good houses must be boarded up as soon as they are vacant to prevent being sacked by thieves. Boarded homes are unattractive. Property values are not as high in unattractive communities. Lower property values in neighborhoods where local citizens can’t afford to buy property leads to predatory practices by outside landlords. Ex-cons without jobs sit on stoops drinking beer all day. Fathers are in prison. Children grow up without dad. Boys without dads often land up in prison. 4 generations later, boys have no relationship with Middle America. Their relationships, value system, and education are derived from their experience in prisons and streets. The prevailing social system in prison is gangs. Gang members return to the community and further blight the already depressed community. They prey upon other gangs and the innocent. The innocents move away or join gangs for protection. They adopt the values of the gangs. They are no longer innocents.

Stores have a higher cost of operation in the inner-city because of crime and poverty. So major stores abandon he area because of the difficulties associated with operating there. Instead, small convenience stores owned and run by daring immigrants become the primary providers of dry goods, prepared foods and restaurants. They charge more money because they have less buying power and more risk. The people in the community have less spending power, spend more for what they do get and have they fewer choices in products.

So the politicians convince the Haves that the Have Nots are a burden on society. They convince the Haves that the Have Nots are just sucking at the tit of society, parasitic and ungrateful to boot. The solutions is often to cut welfare as if then poor people will suddenly jump in their make believe cars, drive to the make believe jobs and bring home the make believe pay. Notwithstanding the lack of education, mobility and money, what could possibly be wrong with such a plan?

If we start right now, it will take generations to unravel the Gordian knot which is the inner-city. You can hate Blacks and other inner-city dwellers. You can cast aspersions on their ethics, values and lifestyles. But if you do not expend the resources to bring up the least of us the chickens will of necessity come home to roost. Inner-city dwellers have higher birth rates than others. They have a greater propensity for violence and crime. They run the drug trade at the street level. At some point you will be unable to gentrify them out of existence. They will not leave the city to become farmers nor will they relax and while away their remaining years on the porches of the new suburbs you push them to.

So if it were up to me, I would harness the best brains and capital and I would invest in these communities. I would empower the people to work and derive income in their communities. I would make it so attractive to businesses to relocate and hire the locals that someday, some day in the future, the mindset of the inner-city dweller would be very much like that of people not confined to the ghetto and gangs. In a future I may not live long enough to see, there would suddenly be born a generation that breaks the inclination towards incarceration. Someday, a new generation would adopt a value system and pride itself on education and production. Someday we would have a generation where gang kids are an aberration not a logical outcome of the environment.

The people I interviewed were just lovely. Most all had been convicted of crimes thus they were criminals by societal definition. But all were more likely to know their neighbors than any other community I have worked in. These persons who were generally kind to me, a stranger, were used to gunshots. They expressed fear of violence and theft. They shared a sense that cops were there to protect society from them not protect them from predators.

I do not have the psychological mindset to face, as a lawyer, a system that lacks concern for the salvation of the lives brought before it. It is a system which emphasizes punishment at every turn versus rehabilitation and reformation. Hell, you should be very afraid of all the convicts and ex-cons who have been required to survive an environment where dog eats and rapes dog. Some of my clients deserved prison but most didn’t deserve to be sent to a hell which was controlled externally by the government. The crimes which loom largest are those of a government which makes laws which work to the advantage of criminal cartels and their bankers.

Oh well, I am tired and you have read stuff like this many times before. I didn’t write anything new. Just cannot understand how years and years go by without the recruitment of the best minds, (not political hacks) and a monumental commitment of financial and intellectual resources to solving the dilemma that is our entrenched acceptance of persons residing in poverty with its attendant assault on the mental, psychological and physical well-being.

A walk on the beach and was it random?

A walk on the beach

Walking the Chicago North Avenue beach at night, moon is yellow. I smoke and put on my shades. Nice hues. Bright lights of the city all around behind me. Navy pier, Bloomingdale’s towers and the old Playboy building. Went out on pier and tried to sit, but came back because I don’t like the dark and the lights seem to be the energy of the city which is what I came for. Try to tune the high.

I am struck by the presence of lights. Are they here for safety or aesthetics, or what? Seems to be overkill.

I note to myself that I don’t like the taste in my mouth of cigar. I put mine out. Note to file, do I need this crap?

How do I describe verbally what I see? Can I capture the lights and the cars; the moon perched just above the horizon and the water reflecting a beautiful white line from the moon? The pier, the lake shore drive. It’s coming together. So I walk the lake to the new boathouse and the muscle beach. Just missed the roller hockey game. So I walk the beach and sightsee.

Lots of people out; couples, joggers, bikers. The obvious backpack versus the stripped down biker/skater distinguishes commuter from exerciser. I am alert but there are no Cholos. Where have all the cholos gone? Sung to the tune of flowers gone.

A black couple approaching acting real loud and drunk. He is a Loud mutha fcka! Such a cultural chasm on this city’s near north side.

The night can cover the blemishes of a city and they can create new ones from the day.

Here come the cops. It is curfew. They spit out the words through their loud speaker. “The beach is closed. Leave immediately. The beach is closed. Leave immediately.”

IN 1967 This Box Tops song got to #24.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5xORduJt9Q

The city lights, the pretty lights,
They can warm the coldest nights.
All the people going places,
Smiling with electric faces.
What they find the glow erases,
And what they loose the glow replaces, and life is love
In a neon rainbow, a neon rainbow.
Moving lines, flashing signs,
Blinking faster than the minds.
Leading people with suggestions,
Leaving no unanswered questions.
You can live without direction,
And it don’t have to be perfection, and life is love
In a neon rainbow, a neon rainbow.
But in the daytime everything changes,
Nothing remains the same.
No one smiles anymore,
And no one will open his door
Until the night time comes.
And then the …
City lights, the pretty lights,
They can warm the coldest nights.
All the people going places,

“It is in pardoning that we are pardoned” St Francis

I was born into chaos of sorts. It was a fine middle-class family. There was no lack of stability. When I was old enough to know where I was, I was living on Chicago’s South Side in a nice three story house. the bedrooms were on the second floor where I shared a room with my older brother. The maid lived in the next room over. My older sisters lived in the attic at that time. The attic seemed ok with its own bathroom.

The neighborhood was full of nice homes filled with professionals and entrepreneurs and their families. The elm trees created a tunnel over each street. My dad a college grad, had stepped into the management role in the family business, a retail lumber yard. We had membership in a country club and we never wanted for clean clothes and good food. All the children in our family went to religious school at the local synagogue.

I never liked my father. I cannot recall a childhood moment where I liked him. I think if I ever liked him it was just 2 weeks and some days out of each year. The 2 weeks represents our family vacation. He rarely hit me on vacation and he let me read comic books for those 2 weeks, something I was never allowed to do at home.

The few days out of the year I did not hate him were the visits to Mitchell’s Ice Cream parlor. For some peculiar reason he didn’t treat me badly when we went there for milk shakes. It was a time when he, my brother and I would shoot spitballs at each other and laugh. Otherwise, I have no fond memories of my dad. I thought he was evil and mean. He didn’t beat me badly, just frequently. My earliest memories were of being afraid of him. The list of perceived harms would detract now from my tome because it is a lengthy undertaking. Suffice to say that my earliest dreams were of killing him. Those dreams finally took concrete shape when I was 10 and in the 6th or 7th grade.

I think it was early fall. I remember I was ordered to stay in the house all day on Saturday and read some periodicals my dad had chosen for me to read and write reports on. I recall after several hours, looking out the window in the afternoon and seeing kids gathered in front of my neighbor Bobby’s house, playing running bases. I loved playing that. I was relatively fast and enjoyed being a runner.

I decided to sneak out and play. My parents were not home yet and I guess I didn’t expect them soon. But as luck would have it, I was not outside long before I saw my dad’s black Cadillac turn the corner a block away. I ran like hell back to my house and threw myself into my seat where I had been working. I tried to look nonchalant, and hoped I hadn’t been seen. But we wouldn’t have much of a story if that were true. He pulled up the driveway and entered the house. I am not sure exactly what was said or in what order. But I remember being taken to my bedroom and being whooped. I remember the belt repeatedly rising and falling across my arms and legs. I remember the hate pouring out of my eyes trying to burn him alive. When he was done, he stopped and went to his bedroom.

Shortly, he called me to his room. He told me to go downstairs and get him a cup of tea. This was familiar territory because I was treated as his personal valet. Part of our daily ritual was for me to get him everything he needed to take a shower, 2 towels and a washcloth. Then I was summoned after his shower to bring him his underwear and slippers. Then I was ordered to get him something from the kitchen while he lounged in bed before his dinner. Then I was called to the dinner table to turn on the television and adjust the channel and antennae until he had what he wanted. Getting him tea was a long established practice by age 10.

This time I deviated from routine after I heated the water and poured it into a cup with a Lipton tea bag. On my way back upstairs to deliver it, I stopped at the downstairs bathroom and looked in the cabinet. I desperately hoped to find a substance with skull and cross bones to mix into the cup. I took every bottle out that I thought might be helpful. Mercurochrome, baby oil, Bactine and so forth. Nothing! So I defaulted to using something that said “do not take internally”. It was the old style 6-12 liquid insect repellant.

Suffice to say, my attempt to kill him that day didn’t succeed. He lived many more years. During many of those years I still hoped to cause his death. As I matured into my 30s, I went through drug treatment. I began to pray for him and for me. I prayed for relief from the hate. I prayed that he would defeat his heart disease and then his cancer. I prayed for his good health. I also prayed that he would die during his heart operation. I was torn between love and hate. This differed from my youth when I felt no love and no conflict.

I spent years in therapy and would often relate the sickness I felt being his son. At various times I worked for him in the family business and tried to get his approval and hated that I couldn’t. I hated that I cared. I made a valiant effort to turn my back on anything he had to offer I began the path to independence starting at age 15. I returned to the family business for short periods only when I thought it was on my terms. It never was.

I paid for my college degree. I bought my own house and car. I asked for nothing. When I did ask, not surprisingly, his response was always that I must accept his terms. So I would brush aside any help. Fuck him.

It came to pass that he offered to pay for law school when I was in my early thirties and I was still a social worker. I was attracted to the possibility of helping people and making a living. But I accepted only after my therapist pointed out that I was so dependent on not taking his help that it was no different than if I took his help. He pointed out that I was controlled either way. I knew it was true when I heard it. So I surrendered and went to law school and became a lawyer. This was possible because my family foot the bill and because I was active in a 12 step program. One gave me financial support and the other gave me psychological support.

My dad became more docile with age. He was thrilled to have me pursue lawyering. He encouraged and supported my efforts any way he could. And when I had my law license he did what he could to get me business. He invited me to join his club and took me golfing with him often. We had a relatively enjoyable relationship going. And then he died.

Now to the point of all of this. I struggled most of my life with residual hostility towards my father. Despite therapy, 12 step recovery and maturity, I could never quite let him off the hook. I always wondered how a man like him, obviously intelligent, liberal with hints of compassion could have inflicted such suffering on his own child. Intellectually I trusted that it was not personal. Clearly he didn’t live for the purpose of tormenting me. I knew he treated others badly; I was not his only victim. But why? How come he could give himself permission to repeatedly hurt me and deprive me of the joy of childhood?

And the beginnings of an answer came to me on one of my many mountain hikes. Although he had already passed, that day I truly accepted that he had mental problems and demons I would never fathom. He had an abusive mom and he was simply incapable of rising above his own personal dramas and despair. What and how he perceived his life would never be accessible to me. He had never shared and all I had were third party anecdotes about his early life. It was the beginning of the final phase of the journey to redemption. The rest came through the Buddhist practice of metta, meaning loving/kindness. I became a practioner and student of meditation. I ordained as a monk for several months. During that time I lived in Arizona in a Buddhist temple amongst life-long monastics from Thailand.

So a couple of years after that initial realization that I could never understand him, I arrived at a place of forgiveness. I will never forget that moment. I suddenly wished in my heart that I could have taken his suffering from him for just one day. I wished that he could have had one day free from any and all spiritual suffering. I arrived at a place in my heart and soul where I would be willing to have suffered in his place to give him that gift.

In that moment the anger dissolved after 55 years. It has never returned. I am sorry that any living being has suffering emanating from any cause. What a marvelous moment when I realized that I was capable of letting go. What a great thing to have lifted the yoke of resentment and breathed pure fresh air. Untainted by hate or resentment, I felt better about him and better about myself. Over the years I have heard the lament of many a person over the abuse, misuse and pain they have had inflicted upon them. I know they generally cannot believe me when I tell them there is a better way of life, life free of resentments. I teach others how to reflect on loving/kindness in hopes that someday they will experience the loss of their anger and hostilities. Reflecting on Loving kindness for me brought down a lifelong wall of hostility and animosity. It freed me to turn my efforts to helping others in my life who, while I didn’t have the same history as them, I still had the same result. I still bath in hatred and hostility at times. Sometimes it seems I take out a resentment and nurture it and feed it until it is as strong as a bull. But I can now reflect on my experience with my dad and realize that I am capable of overcoming my negative thoughts and emotions.

My pal, Chuck Horn memorial

If you didn’t know Chuck and you have come across this writing, excuse me. Chuck died suddenly. Just shy of 60 years of age, he had struggled with addiction for several years. He died while actively participating in 12 step recovery. Likely he died of causes related to his health. I am to speak at the memorial for him today. In anticipation I wrote of him and for him….

I assume that Chuck skated into heaven, Valhalla etc. without a glitch. But there is a possibility that there were obstacles to Chuck’s passage. Like most people Chuck had a flawed character. The most prominent flaw was his proclivity for substance abuse. In his addiction he harbored thoughts and feelings that were negative and destructive. These thoughts ate at his core and caused many a day to be spent in darkness, abiding only his demons. When these demons of darkness descended upon him, he surrendered to his defects of character. However, we would not be here if addiction summed up Chuck’s life.
What really characterized Chuck was his propensity to care for, provide for and stand by people in need. Even people who were in better straits than Chuck were treated to his grace and his generosity. No one was beneath him and no one undeserving of his affection and charity. People who I would never have lifted a hand to help because I saw no value in them, he would reach out to. In the depths of his addiction he would take time out to offer solace and sustenance. It was a remarkable thing to see and hear.
We spoke for hours about justice and kindness. We spoke about spiritual bankruptcy and the consequences. We spoke about life’s trials and tribulations. Life’s joys and life’s disappointments. He wanted to be pure. He deeply desired to be free of his resentments all the while nurturing them and strengthening them. He manifested powerlessness in every breath. Honesty eluded him and then slammed him against the wall.
We are gathered and in doing so present the argument, the defense that demands that Chuck is entitled to admission to the finest club the afterlife has to offer. The evidence of his actions in the balance persuades us to stand by, advocate for and remember our friend.
I traveled with Chuck, ate meals and meditated with him. He was no less a student of spiritual health than the Buddhist monks I lived with. What he lacked was discipline. What he lacked was focus. What was missing was the mental toughness that once came so readily to him when he was young. Of late he fought to reclaim memory, physical acuity and compassion. He battled to forgive and to be forgiven. Thus did his condition rob him of the ability to shine spiritually.
I sit in AA meetings and I hear various dead persons quoted ad infinitum for their wise homilies and aphorisms. Chuck will not be remembered thusly. His good words resonated in the moment but he wasn’t around long enough to be touted as an AA guru. But to the lives he touched, he will be remembered as a man with a strong moral compass and backbone who but for his addiction would have loomed far taller than his height restricted.
Chuck was born into a large family of 5 siblings. He often talked about how he didn’t need or have lots of friends in his early years because his family was full of kids. His mom is often described by Chuck and siblings as a rageaholic. His father as a solid hard-working man of the middle class. Chuck would excel in sports in high school and always lamented that he had to leave his high school in Amarillo, where he had friends and respect, to attend school elsewhere. He returned to Amarillo his last year but never seems to have recouped the status he felt he occupied in his earlier years. His college life was memorable for him. He loved to tell me what a great school Richland Community college was. He loved its diversity and campus life. Then it was onto U T where he created some bonds that would waver but endure the rest of his life. Sometimes described as a genius oftentimes described as a rascal, Chuck entertained and befuddled everyone in his world.
Nancy and he met early on but didn’t marry until later in life. While they didn’t have kids, they had dogs. The home would never be considered full unless there were their dogs yipping and leaping about.
When Chuck finally got sober his one certain daily task was to care for the dogs. And this he did with diligence. He knew that his wife Nanci would not abide his neglecting the dogs the same way he neglected himself. And he loved Nanci. He feared she would realize she was better off without him and leave. He fretted that his life would be empty without her. But like most people who drink and/or drug he couldn’t stop the train once it left the station. He could not help disappointing loved ones as his addiction gave no quarter. A masterful liar in the beginning, Nanci says he finally gave up the lies and just resigned himself to being an addict. Henceforth, when I met him, he would confess, upon interrogation, to his slips. I was amazed that he could relapse at night and be at a meeting the next morning. I was stunned that he could have nothing left in his addiction, no friends, money or health and yet return there after fellowshipping each morning with us. Why were we not enough to keep him sober? Who is this man to frustrate my every attempt to carry the message? Equally important is why did I bother after repeatedly babysitting him through his detoxification?
Chuck lured his loved ones back with a hug and a puppy dog face. And his sincere remorse after each slip and the guilt he expressed made me stay the course. It kept Nanci by his side. It drew everyone here to his side despite the frustration and anger we felt with each failure.
Unlike many addicts though Chuck had a distinguishing feature about him. In the depths of his addiction, despite self-will run riot, he never forgot the less fortunate and he was always willing to help a friend. When I was an addict I never had time for anyone outside my immediate family. I stayed cloistered. But Chuck would always make the offer. I would say to him, you worthless asshole, what can you do to help me. You cannot help yourself. And he would hang his head and say half apologetically, I know, but I’ll do what I can”.

And in this way did we find ourselves driving to Tucson to see my family and detox Chuck. He was by my side 18 hours a day. Trying to help and getting berated at every turn because his idea of helping was most people’s idea of hindering. He wanted to help perfectly and in so doing was a nuisance. Paralyzed by his wannabe perfection, we would throw our hands up and take the task back from Chuck. His addicted mind could not perform what his heart so wanted to do. I offered him every resource, tool, and support that I could think of and muster. He was a drowning man who could not be certain enough he wanted to live to grab the life raft. He flailed about in the water. I would get mouthfuls of splashed water trying to reach him. I would swear off trying and then swim again towards him for one more attempt.
We were both tired of his struggle. He begged me not to give up on him. I threatened to kill him for his own good. If not for Nanci and his love for her I think he and I could have reached an agreement to finish him off.
So we drove back to Dallas from Tucson. Another 17 hour ride, 1000 miles with only ourselves for companionship. He lamented how everyone near and dear to him had fucked him over. How many times I heard this lament I cannot say. But this time I spoke with conviction and heart. I told him to stop! I told him to listen to me with every fiber of his body. And I related to him that I had been put in his life by God to help him. That I was his messenger and that God could not be any louder or any clearer. That God wanted him to let go of his resentments because they were killing him.
I believe in Karma. I believe as Buddhists do, that everyone and everything comes into our life as a result of cause and effect. I met Chuck because our lives dictated it. We needed each other. I needed to be taught patience and tolerance. I needed to be reminded of the power of unconditional love. He needed someone who would amplify the message that he had been told many times but couldn’t hear. My voice broke through the background noise of Chuck’s addiction. But for Nanci though, Chuck would have slipped and died in the abyss before I ever met him. But for her steadfastness and relentless love for Chuck he could not have mustered enough concern or esteem for himself to stay alive much less thrive. All of us here who offered a hand to Chuck would never have had the opportunity if not for Nanci. He just didn’t care enough about himself to have made the effort. The care and concern he showed all of us would never have shown through his craziness if he didn’t have Nanci at home waiting with love and compassion for his sick soul.
I do not expect to ever meet another person like Chuck in my life. I know everyone feels unique and I am sure you are. But Chuck will resonate with me always. I will revere him as my teacher. I will curse his untimely demise. I will lament the briefness of his sobriety. I will always celebrate his humor and presence. I will miss him at meetings, breakfast, on the road, at the dozen movies and the myriad of other places we ventured like Hamm’s Peach orchard. His seat will always be empty at the twice weekly meditation. His car will always be missing in his parking spot. But he will never be missing in my heart.
Thus do I say to the powers that be, God or Gods, to the gatekeepers of the heavens, my friend shall proceed unimpeded into your care! He has earned his place in a way few ever will. The content of his character even in the midst of great illness qualifies him for the status reserved for the deserving. His presence with his family and friends has come to an end. Let him now reside in the sunshine of God’s everlasting love.
I imagined Chuck sharing this Irish prayer with us
Don’t grieve for me, for now I’m free!
I follow the plan God laid for me.
I saw His face, I heard His call,
I took His hand and left it all…
I could not stay another day,
To love, to laugh, to work or play;
Tasks left undone must stay that way.
And if my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembered joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss…
Ah yes, these things I, too, shall miss.
My life’s been full, I’ve savoured much:
Good times, good friends, a loved-one’s touch.
Perhaps my time seemed all too brief—
Don’t shorten yours with undue grief.
Be not burdened with tears of sorrow,
Enjoy the sunshine of the morrow.

And may we pray for Chuck Horn
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

And for those he left behind
May God give you…
For every storm, a rainbow,
For every tear, a smile,
For every care, a promise,
And a blessing in each trial.
For every problem life sends,
A faithful friend like Chuck to share,
For every sigh, a sweet song,
And an answer for each prayer.

Remembering September 11, 2001 is a chance to grow.

The events of 9/11 were horrific and large and brutal. If it affected you because of its brutality and because it destroyed your sense of invulnerability, then join the crowd. In fact, join a large segment of the human race. This is and has always been a teachable moment. To experience the shock of the World Trade Center destruction is to experience what tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of people around the world have felt when American bombers dropped their payload on foreign soil.

I do not suggest that a single bomb was wrongly placed or morally wrong. I suggest that to be touched by the event is to experience a common experience with our enemy. Imagine sitting in the Middle East somewhere having your meal with family. Suddenly the roof collapses, bricks tumble down and death touches everything around you. Your family is dead or bleeding. Your belongings burned or blown away. Your neighbors staggering in shock and disbelief. The intensity and ferocity of our bombs can be beyond comprehension. The intended target was military. You are simply collateral damage. You are neither warrior nor opponent. You are resident/citizen of a land foreign, mysterious and alien to Americans. You are expendable because the value of the target exceeded the value of your safety. You are dead or wounded because we calculated that your health, safety and welfare was less important than ours given the possibility or probability that someday persons in close proximity to you could cause violence to be perpetrated against us, citizens of a far away land. These third world country folks don’t even imagine they will ever travel beyond there own country’s borders much less do they plan to visit and terrorize the United States.

But when the fires are out and the damage assessed, they too will never forget. They will commemorate their horror and losses and vow to do everything they can to avenge the dead.

September 11,2001 is an opportunity to grow and recognize how horrific it is to have large numbers of civilians murdered in the course of their peaceful pursuits. We should always devote this day to those in New York, Washington DC and Pennsylvania, who were struck down in the attack, and those who died or were injured trying to save others.

I wish to God we had never had a 9/11. I wish I didn’t know and know of so many whose lives were touched, violated and traumatized. I am sorry if it offends you that I wish we could all share in the mutual humanity of the physical, psychological and spiritual destruction of violence.

When I was Black.

God willing, that got your attention. Sometime in my life I strove to be a young black man. It all starts when I was real young and got picked on a lot. I will not engage in the minutiae of my life but early years were filled with fear and potential violence due to my crazy dad and the crazy Catholics who hated Jews.

Along about 8th grade, my school began to experience a dramatic shift in demographics. There was a significant influx of black families. Remarkably, this change became a source of salvation. The new black students frowned on kids bullying me. They expressed disdain for those that would pick on me given I was one of the youngest, shortest kids in our class. Jeffrey Branch (JB) in particular became “my bodyguard”. He was the toughest kid in our grade school. He became a street gang leader and star athlete on the playground. And he exhibited a moral compass that had previously eluded my classmates. He interfered, disrupted and dissuaded the local bullies, white and black from messing with the weakest of his classmates. He chased away the parochial school kids who had long persecuted small Jewish kids.

When we got to high school, JB and some of my other grade school classmates were there and still willing to dissuade predators in the new school. If you look like lunch you will be eaten. In high school, being 12 years old and 4′ 11″, I looked like lunch. But even some of the black girls I went to grade school with came to my assistance. Norma Taylor and Jenina Daniels personally saved me from separate violent attacks.

I was still white at this point. But jump ahead to when I lived as a runway for months at a time. I found it was easier to hide in the inner-city than in my own middle class community. I was absorbed into the black culture that gave me shelter from the storm of my home life. I attempted to blend into my new environment. I dressed, spoke and gestured like my black peers.

I probably looked weird to blacks and whites alike. I am certain I stuck out like a sore thumb. So peculiar that I may have seemed insane at times. I became uncomfortable and awkward around white people. I lost sense of what my white peers would act like. I had white friends, mostly alternative lifestyle sorts like hippies. So I didn’t stick out as badly as if I was mingling with straight-laced whites but awkward just the same.

When I drove my car, I leaned my body hard to the right. I wore “pimp tint” sunglasses all time of night and day. I supported the Black Panther party. I wore leather jackets and carried a gun. My words came out in a quasi-southern drawl and my language was slang. I wasn’t just trying to be black. I was trying to be ghetto black. I was trying to convince the world I was a scary felonious person who wished to be left alone or else. And I learned to hide fear. I learned to take simple acts of aggression and escalate them to scary heights. I preferred to be perceived as a predator than prey. I was introduced to and and dove deep into the waters of the criminal subculture. I got a buzz from moving seamlessly through the ghetto, its bars, chop shops and drug houses.

I took my 17 year old self down to the blues lounges to hear Muddy Waters and Buddy Guy before they were mainstream. I threw back shots and snorted drugs, sitting in automobile repair shops in the deep ghetto that doubled as stolen merchandise exchanges.

I met force with greater force. My boys were tougher than your boys. My guys were better armed. We were smarter, more cunning and savvier. We didn’t fear the police, incarceration or death. In truth I feared all of it but I learned to never, ever show fear. No crime was beyond us and no consequence harsh enough to dissuade us from our tasks. We didn’t bully. We didn’t prey upon women or weaker persons. In fact we stood up for others when we saw them being picked on. Our intervention was almost always enough to alter the equation of the situation. Picking on a women was easy until we showed up.

I tell you there was a language and a movement to the inner-city which stayed in my speech and walk for many years. I still have episodes every day where I hear the voices of my youth in my head. They are phrases and combinations of words which are unique, colorful, and pointed. A day did not go by then that was not infused with a way of communicating that most whites will only hear in movies or read in books.

It was crazy. It was just wild. My sisters could probably describe best how I appeared to their world. It was when visiting my own middle class family that the strangeness must have been most pronounced. The friendships made in the ghetto during those years seemed so solid and real. How could we really be different if we were all in, all the way? It took years to re-segregate and observe that I was always odd and expendable. The truth at the end of the day was that I could modify my dress and voice and gestures and disappear into the mainstream. But my ghetto pals could never hide in plain view. They would never have the financial resources to protect themselves from the harsh reality of being an inner-city black in Chicago. They knew intuitively that I was a visitor. A committed one. A sincere one. But ultimately, a visitor.

Years later as I began to mature and leave the immediacy of the streets behind for the pursuit of a profession and education, the trappings of the inner-city lost their luster. While I could hide it, I could not escape the constant fear in the streets of being killed or going to prison.

My experiences have held me in good stead. I regret nothing. I learned things, saw stuff and lived with realities that most people in my world will never know. I have used my experience to help hundreds of clients as a social worker and lawyer. I learned empathy. I saw the obstacles to success quite clearly and never suffered the delusion that exiting the ghetto was simply a matter of choice. It was mostly luck. And I am a better lawyer and counselor as a direct result of my years in the inner-city. Truth be told, I never completely left it all behind and I never forget. Sometimes I set out to recall the details and write them down. Like so many other life events they seem too layered and nuanced and detailed to share.

musings

Death is so special. It is final, inevitable and for most of us frightening. My friend Chuck died, suddenly. I get it, I know it. But this morning, I looked for his car at our regular meeting place. And when I realized he wouldn’t ever be there again, I felt weird and sad. I can hold him near and dear. I can tell his story. But he will fade into the rearview mirror. One day I will try to talk about Chuck and no one will know who I am talking about. Just so, this will be my fate also.

Not only do I want the story of Chuck to be told, I want it to be my version. I am uncomfortable if I find out there is a different Chuck story out there. I want my story of my life to be the one that is told. I am afraid of the alternative version.

I want to sit with Chuck before he goes. I want us to get our story straight before it is too late. Even now I struggle with how to memorialize him and honor him. I intended to ordain in my Buddhist tradition for a short time to give my pal the best chance at a good rebirth. I want to share with Chuck how the Buddhist system works and how beneficial it may serve him. I want to comfort him that I will be there for him in death as much as I was in life. I want to talk about how he will be remembered, solidify the story such that the memorial will create itself.

I want to be a spiritual companion in death as I was in life. But reality is intruding in my wants and wishes. The opportunity to create the memorial I wish is severely limited by my lack of credentials, training and experience. It is limited by existing social structures, religious institutions and spiritual communities.

Death is just so challenging to the living. I have no clue what happens…heaven and hell, rebirth, reincarnation, mere energy, or what. I do not hold a concrete idea about after. I can freak myself out meditating on death. I meditate on how I will have a dignified exit and my loved ones will be comforted by my dignity. I want to take the fear of death out of my family’s life so they won’t have to concern themselves with scary existential issues. Let them enjoy life without fear of death. As if!

I just quit a year of hellacious entrepeneurial activity. I am stressed, tired and soul weary. Today was the first day of liberation. I am free to spend some time as I wish. I want to go back to Chicago and spend more time with my mom. At 97, she should have the gift of family. Her friends are long gone. Amazingly, all her kids are still here. And I am a bright light for her. I can sense her appreciation for my existence, which appreciation often eluded both of us.

I want to take my spouse and vacation. I want us to both feel the yolk of financial desperation lifted. Ditch the kids. Let her enjoy some time doing stuff now while she is young enough to be mentally and physically capable and present.

It is time to regroup. It was a regrouping which Chuck was undertaking also. He was making the effort to improve spiritually. He was working to be there for his spouse. Had he known a year ago of his untimely demise, he would have put the pedal to the metal. As the Buddhist say, death is certain, only the when is unknown. To be continued……

To all living beings

When I drive or bike why do I stare at objects in the road which appear to be animals that may have been run over. I am drawn to the sight to verify what I often think. Frequently it is just a pile of leaves or debris. Sometimes it is a dead squirrel or rabbit, cat etc. And my reaction is always the same. I am pained by the sight and then I say a silent prayer that it died quickly and painlessly. But I cannot explain why I even look closely to see what it is that seems to be laying in the street.

So while I was biking Sunday, I pondered this ritual of mine. It stimulated me to think how I desire to have all living being be free from suffering. I pray that all living beings be free from all forms of suffering. I pray that no living thing live or die in fear. I pray that there is a power in the universe which will protect sufferers such that their physical or mental anguish will be mitigated by the higher power.

I cannot imagine the suffering someone like the 3 women in captivity by Ariel Castro. How much suffering is associated with being held captive, no one knowing where you are and never knowing if you will ever be freed. Or what is it like to be Jaycee Dugard, the abducted girl who was held captive for 18 years.

I especially hurt for kids lost, kidnapped, ill or injured who have not developed the coping skills of someone much older. Defenseless! Is God there to provide some relief from untold fear and suffering?

And then how about the men and women who just struggle every day to make a living and support themselves and family. Never having enough to be comfortable. Always fearful of losing a job, having an auto repair or a medical expense which creates anxiety about being able to pay the rent or utilities. I pray for them too.

I pray for people who have emotional, psychological, mental or physical handicaps that result in their isolation and seclusion from others. Living alone with their illness, alone without family or friends to comfort them or assist them.

I wonder how to support my country against its “enemies”. Often those that wish us harm are those we harmed. I didn’t start it. I didn’t wish it. I do not want young Americans placed in harms way and I do not want them to suffer further upon their return because of my aversion to inject our country into these armed-conflicts. So I pray for our troops and I pray for our enemies.

I pray for those in prisons and I pray for those who imprison. I pray for the wage slave and the corporate plantation owners. I pray for the prey and I pray for the predator. Once I start on a course of compassion and loving kindness for any as described by the Buddha, I find little freedom to not pray for all. My willingness to be selective in my compassion has dissipated and now I am compelled to include all. Evil is no less deserving of my prayers than goodness. Sinners no less than saints.

I can’t explain how I got here. It started with a spark of love which was always in me. It was enough to make me an advocate for those I felt needed an advocate. It was enough to make me believe in and act on behalf of street kids, gang-bangers and drug addicts. But not enough love was left for the persecutors, bullies and predators. What I had left over was a lot of judgement.

My policy statement was found in Ezekiel 25:17 “And I will execute great vengeance upon them with furious rebukes; and they shall know that I am the LORD, when I shall lay my vengeance upon them.”

Now age and maturation fueled by the practice of Buddhism and Metta (loving/kindness) has broadened the group which I classified as deserving and diminished the group who were undeserving.

I am difficult. Easy to anger, quick to fight. I do not tolerate any threats, physical or other of any sort against me. I will resort to verbal or physical violence if prodded. I prefer to be kind but I am not hesitant to show anger. I wish it were not so, but until future progress, I think we can safely say this is where I reside. But despite all the violence and difficulties, love grows through practice. Compassion is slowly demanding more of a seat at the table. Equal time is now given to the practice of metta and I always include the reflection on loving/kindness before I end a meditation.

I don’t know why I stare at the crash. But at least I pray for the well-being of the victims. And I know that this practice of mine is good and wholesome. And I know that if everyone were practicing metta, that the world would be a better place. I don’t need someone to tell me that. I don’t need to see it. I just know its truth.

Death and dying

The shooting at the Florida movie theater has me thinking. The crowd/media is clamoring for the head of the shooter. But I get what happened. I get that you reach a point with people who show disdain for good manners and act out. I get how it escalates.

I have asked people in movies to turn off their phone. I have had some people quickly put the phone away and no more was said. I have others ignore me or talk back. Sometimes I moved. Others, the theater was crowded and moving was a bad option. Sometimes it has escalated but ultimately no one got hurt physically.

I feel old. My shoulders hurt constantly and sometimes I can barely raise my arms above chest height anymore without pain. I look ok. But my back aches, my pants too tight, my butt shakes from left to right. I can’t always meet physical challenges like I used to.

I don’t have a lot of physical fights left in me. But I have a lot of verbal altercations left in me. Temper doesn’t require physical agility or strength. My mental faculties are still such I can verbally express love or disdain. If I tell you to put your phone away, I am asking you to abide by the established rules and social norms. I am not making up my own rules. I am not arbitrarily singling you out for embarrassment and ridicule. But I said something because you are bothering me and impairing my ability to enjoy the theater.

So, you don’t like me telling you what to do, even if I asked nicely. We have an altercation. You think we are having a verbal dispute. I see hostility in your face, thus I am having a potentially dangerous encounter. Do not assume that I am perceiving this the same way you are. For your own safety you should assume nothing and consider all possibilities. I am armed. I react badly when I experience fear. I am unwilling to take a beating from anyone. I will not wait until I have been physically attacked to protect myself. Any sign of aggression on your part may be treated as an indication that you mean to harm me.

Sometimes, I just rent movies and stay home . If I am ill, I stay home so as not to put the public at risk. If I don’t have a baby sitter, I stay home. Maybe I need to wait for an important phone call, I stay home. When I arrive at the movie theater, I turn off the sound on my phone. So does my family. If the phone vibrates, I either ignore it, or go to the lobby to answer it or reply to a text. My phone has rung out loud in places I did not mean it to. I was embarrassed and apologized to those present.

You want to show me that I can’t tell you what to do in the theater. You tell me to fuck off. You stand up and throw popcorn at me. I stand up. You think you are in the right. I say, you might be dead right.

Bad night for little critters or I don’t want to die but I am not sure I know how to live.

I rode my bicycle today, October 13, 2013. Seemed there were more dead rabbits and squirrels than usual on the streets I rode. Run over by cars. I always feel vulnerable when I ride my bike. The animals are a reminder of the consequence of being hit by a much larger, heavier object.

I have always wondered what is to live a good life. Is it doing good works? Am I wasting my life every night as I watch TV? Should I be reading great literature? I haven’t read much since law school where I had to read thousands of pages of legal documents for 2.5 years. That beat the desire out of me for reading.
Are my many hours spent in movie theaters and reading fitness magazines the same as missed opportunities to live meaningfully? Is it enough to go to work, be a good friend/relative, and attend church?

I have continually tried to live right. But I don’t know what that is. Is it being of constant service to my fellow earthlings and environment? Is it to pray often and keep the commandments? Is it ok to just work hard and play well. Would I have lived a right life if I worked hard, been fair to others in my dealings and raised children to be good stewards of the earth?

I am a practicing Buddhist in the Theravada tradition. As such I took 5 vows.

1. To abstain from taking the lives of living beings.
2. To abstain from stealing or taking that which is not given.
3. To abstain from sexual misconduct.
4. To abstain from telling falsehoods or gossip.
5. To abstain from partaking of intoxicants.

I have lived by those vows and quite proud that my wife and kids have made an effort to live by them also. On the other hand I know numerous folks who consider themselves Buddhist who are not as committed to the vows but are very determined to practice meditation, study scripture, the 4 Noble Truths and the concept of impermanence. A difference of approach I guess.

Does my dedication to my vows make my life a “right” life? Would it be a right life if I worked in corporate America, went to the gym every day and gave money to the poor? Or not give money to the poor. My heart is heavy when I see the dead animals. I feel bad for people who struggle to make ends meet and who must struggle to have time and resources to enjoy their lives. I worry about people I have never seen but am fully aware that the act of finding enough food may consume the entire day.

A Buddhist monk named Lama Marut spoke to a group I was part of and said that to be born into western civilized society in these times was a karmic gift. He said 2/3rds of the world struggled just to subsist and that we Westerners have the time, leisure and comfort to work on our spiritual life. He admonished us not to squander this very special opportunity.

Instead of biking every Sunday morning for hours maybe I should be in a temple or church somewhere. What will I feel at the end of my life if there is time to feel? Proud I raised two fine daughters? Proud of my donations and contributions to many fine causes and all the pro bono work I did for legal clients. Pleased that I spent years contributing to society as a social worker on the mean streets.

I used to want to be extraordinary and make significant, memorable contributions in the legal and social arenas. But despite my wish to stand above the crowd, I just sank into the same normal routine most people live. Martin Luther King Jr. was one of my greatest inspirations as a young man. I aspired to walk the talk and sacrifice anything and everything if called upon. I felt disappointment when I abandoned social work because I felt I had come up short in the sacrifice category. It happened again when I abandoned my law practice where I had daily opportunities to help desperate people who were my clients.

Today I run a mundane auto repair business. When I arrive home I turn on the television and watch another episode of the old TV show, Gunsmoke, then some Daily Show and Colbert. I spend lots of time with my family. Three days a week I lead mediation for groups and I give talks to school groups on the subject of Buddhism. But I am agitated frequently when I ruminate on death and wonder if I will let go when my life is over, satisfied that I lived a right life. I know I don’t want to die, I am just not sure I know how to live.

Dedicated to my friend Tiny

When I was 17, in 1970, I was up to my eyeballs in illegal activity. I lived on the south side of Chicago. I would wake up around 9AM and about 10AM I would go out burglarizing apartments till 3PM with my partner in crime Tony James. This was the time of day most people were at work and their apartments sat empty. Then in the evening we would sell drugs we bought with the money we got from selling hot (as in stolen) merchandise. The pay phone at a local Persian restaurant (Ahmads} was the best way to contact me.

Sometime around this period I met Marshall Jackson, aka Tiny. Some who were around then will remember Tiny and no one who knew him will forget him. He was black, stood about 6′ 3″ and weighed about 350. He had a stutter and a bubbly, intense personality. He was10 years older than me, and he was a stone criminal also. We became quite close and I took him for a mentor as well as a friend. His specialty was stealing cars and chopping them up for sale. But like myself, he remained open to any criminal activity.

Tiny had very few white people he liked growing up in Lawndale on the West Side. He was enamored with our neighborhood and the young white kids in Hyde Park. White kids here had grown up in this wonderfully ethnically diverse community and exhibited little of the racism he was used to. He concluded he had misjudged us as a race. He thought the general lack of street smarts and the open nature of Hyde Park whites was endearing. It became his neighborhood.

Tiny taught me a lot about being a criminal. He taught me the advanced rules of intimidation, deception, and manipulation. He introduced me to car repair shops where we hung out and bought and sold stolen goods. Tiny was fascinated with all the drugs we young bloods were doing. Our hood was one of those which early dove deep into recreational drugs. His knowledge of drugs until then was limited to his girlfriend’s heroin addiction.

Tiny acquainted me with his criminal pals and I introduced him to mine. But I also introduced him to the Blue Gargoyle coffeehouse at the University Church for the Disciples of Christ and the Reverend Loel Callahan. Loel had befriended me and subsequently convinced me to help him launch an alternative youth program (non-religious) at the church, which was located in the shadow of the University of Chicago.

So, I recruited Tiny and all my other street pals to hang out at the church and help out with our youth program there. That is a whole ‘nother story. Adding his pals definitely strained the notion of “youth” add increased the mean age of the group. But lest you get the wrong idea, we were a mix of teens some who were straight-laced, drug free, high school students and many like me, street kids. We had two things in common, intelligent and a sincere desire in the improvement of the human condition.

So, Tiny and I shared adventures. Panhandling bail money for friends at a nightclub called Alices Restaurant on the North Side, hitting blues bars, camping in Missouri, stealing credit cards and saving damsels in distress. If you knew Gene Rogers, you would be interested in the night Tiny knocked him the fuck out for messing with university students at the Blue Gargoyle.

I can’t do justice to what such a relationship was like and the indelible impression it left on me. We had a bunch of laughs, at jokes and at danger. Tiny took me for my first (and last) armed robbery. at a meat-packing plant on the south side. Supposed to be easy in and out, just show our guns, grab the cash from the safe and go. But the man at the door of the plant seemed suspicious of us from the git and reluctant to let us in. Tiny nicely pushed on the door while chatting friendly about how we just wanted to buy some meat. The man tried to dig in and keep the door from opening wide, but his feet were sliding backwards as he lost the pushing match. Nothing felt right and so I yanked hard to stop Tiny which aborted our heist.

Tiny took a long time to forgive me. He had to round up a new crew to finish the job another day. He gave me a chance to redeem myself later and offered me the opportunity go on an armed robbery spree across Illinois. He wanted me to bring my quite ominous M1 military carbine which had a folding stock, a telescopic sight, flash suppressor and a 30 round magazine. His theory was that no one would resist us if we displayed my rifle. I had to admit to him that in my heart I was really just a property crimes kind of guy and not cut out for armed robberies.

As I was saying earlier, Tiny became involved in the youth program at the Blue Gargoyle and was usually there with his pals to provide security when our youth group put on an event, like a dance. Because of the church location, it was not uncommon to find Disciples and Stones in attendance. For the uninitiated, those were the two large, very large, black gangs on Chicago’s south side. Tiny had this way of walking into conflict and deescalating it. His size was so persuasive that I saw him stop gang violence with a smile.

But we didn’t physically hurt innocents. Neither Tiny nor I liked bullies. Hard to explain but we stood together against violent predators who we encountered trying to hurt those we perceived as weaker. He used his size and demeanor to calm some folks but others like the aforementioned Gene, he beat into submission. The opportunities to use our street smarts and strength were manifold. Tiny taught me that if you have to mete out a whooping, make sure you do so convincingly thus do you discourage comeback. He taught me to refrain from making threats of revenge, because you increase the probability of getting caught while getting said revenge. He said, “do not threaten, just do”.

It was new years eve about 1971 when I accompanied Tiny and another older pal, Butch, on their first hallucinogenic LSD trip. It started in Hyde Park at a party at my friend Norman Nakama’s apartment, with a bunch of drunk, stoned and tripping hippies. My friend Preston somehow talked my 2 pals, definitely not hippie, into taking the LSD. I joined in, but it was far from my first trip.

We left HP and headed to downtown Chicago for the holiday celebration. It was a horror show with drunks fighting, the crowd swelling, and the police pushing back on the surging crowd as you neared the epicenter at the corner of State and Randolph, by the Marshall Field building. The crowd was so big it swallowed Tiny up, beyond my grasp. That freaked me out, so I grabbed Butch till the clock struck midnight and the crowd dispersed. After most people had walked off, there was Tiny, his eyes closed and swaying with the crowd that was no longer there. I remember Chicago was so cold that night and Tiny was generating so much heat that when he took off his cap his head was smoking.

Having recovered Tiny, we headed back to my Hyde Park apartment. I lived alone at the end of a parking lot of a supermarket. My furniture consisted of 3 chairs and a piece of foam rubber that I slept on and a stereo. We had a few hours of hallucinogenic chat as Tiny and Butch strolled through their minds now turned psychedelic.

Many a night of fun like this was followed by our usual morning ritual. Breakfast(!) at some ghetto shack for large amounts of bacon, eggs and toast or the 3 of us would buy and cook a couple of pounds of bacon, 2 loaves of bread and a couple of dozen eggs to cook up.

But, one night he took his new found affection for whites and headed with some pals to a neighborhood carnival in a white community known as Back of the Yards. BOYs was a white stronghold in Chicago. VERY racist. Tiny described for me the next day how that turned out. Some white guys started trouble and when the fight started it “seemed like the entire place jumped on us”. He said that, “I was continually throwing guys off my back and constantly fighting my way to the others to help them”. He said it took a while before the police could push back the crowd and escort our friends from the carnival. I chastised him for going off on his own to such a hostile place. Tiny, delightfully naive in his own way, declared that he would be more selective in the future about what white people he hung around.

Gosh, we sure had a bunch of adventures. Tiny taught me how to power shift my 1965 Chevy Impala 396 Super Sport. That is shifting through all gears with the accelerator pedal held continuously to the floor. A mutual friend of ours had personally stitched together my car interior in a white leather, diamond, tuck and roll design. .

\ 1965_chevrolet_impala_ss+left_rear_view.jpg

It had a custom green paint job with gold flakes shot in and a white vinyl top and tinted windows. I do not have any photos of my ride but included the photos as samples of the style .

He knew I had his back and I knew he had mine I relied upon his size and he upon my wits. He knew I exploited his size to our advantage and he used my whiteness to gain admission to situations he could then exploit. So we explored a lot of dangerous territory together with our merry band of fellow criminal pranksters.

We went separate ways eventually, but kept in touch. Years later he told me that he and some of the guys had talked about kidnapping me for ransom since my family had money. We never discussed whether they planned to kill me to protect their identities but I am sure it was part of the discussion. He also admitted he had harbored a grudging respect and even fear of some other street pals I ran with occasionally who had a propensity for violence.

When Tiny was in his 40s, he got caught and prosecuted for a bank robbery in Uptown. By then I was a social worker with street kids. We hung out some before he went off to prison. He was very stoic about his fate, wouldn’t give the names of his accomplices in exchange for a lighter sentence. He was sent to a federal hospital prison because he had diabetes and suffered from chronic pain which was the result of a stomach bypass back when the stapled your stomach.

When he came out of prison he was older, calmer and sicker. He took a job as a janitor at the Museum of Science and Industry and bought a used funeral hearse and painted it bright yellow as his daily transport. He slowly started to lose his battle with his diabetes. In his early 50s, his right leg was amputated because his circulation suffered.

I was now a lawyer and he my client because a Chicago transit authority bus improperly secured him on a return trip from the hospital. A sudden stop by the transport, threw him to the ground and ruptured his stitches where he had just had his leg amputated.

Before I could resolve his personal injury claim, he died. His brother told me he suffered badly in the end as further amputations were needed. He died in the hospital.

At the funeral I saw and sat with some of the old gang, most I had not seen in many years. We scoffed as we listened to a eulogy that was sterilized for public consumption.

Some day I will recollect more. Nothing learned in those days ever went to waste. My skills as a social worker and lawyer were well-served by my time spent with Marshall Jackson aka Tiny. So many lived so fast and died too young.

Just practising

So let us make a run at being amused and amusing. Is there anyone left naive enough to believe these politicians care a wit about us. Does someone believe these clowns care about The People? This has become about survival of the political beasts which will shrivel up and die if they do not suck our blood, cash and freedom dry.

The best thing that ever happened to the awareness of the United States was the military draft. It made middle America interested in politics and war. When and only when their babies were going to go off to die did they take a hard look at why, where, who. Only did the babies themselves care enough when they found out they were to be used as so much cannon fodder in VietNam, did they lift themselves out of their complacency and protest.

It is time to rise up angry. It is time to expand our awareness. Hallucinogens accelerated the stimulation of youths who in turn brought down Nixon, ended the war and launched the age of enlightenment. The deal fell apart when the youth sold out for comfort and prosperity. We didn’t have to. Comfort comes with a price. A price beyond the dollars. It cost souls. We should never have let the war in Iraq happen. We should have not letall these young men go off to die and be maimed by IEDs. We should be protesting their treatment for the psychological and physical maladies they returned with.

Phil Ochs sang ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bqpy5E72nd0 )

Silent soldiers on a silver screen
Framed in fantasies and dragged in dream
Unpaid actors of the mystery
The mad director knows that freedom will not make you free
And what’s this got to do with me

I declare the war is over
It’s over, it’s over

Drums are drizzling on a grain of sand

Fading rhythms of a fading land
Prove your courage in the proud parade
Trust your leaders where mistakes are almost never made
And they’re afraid that I’m afraid

I’m afraid the war is over
It’s over, it’s over

Angry artists painting angry signs
Use their vision just to blind the blind
Poisoned players of a grizzly game
One is guilty and the other gets the point to blame
Pardon me if I refrain

I declare the war is over
It’s over, it’s over

So do your duty, boys, and join with pride
Serve your country in her suicide
Find the flags so you can wave goodbye
But just before the end even treason might be worth a try
This country is too young to die

I declare the war is over
It’s over, it’s over

One-legged veterans will greet the dawn
And they’re whistling marches as they mow the lawn
And the gargoyles only sit and grieve
The gypsy fortune teller told me that we’d been deceived
You only are what you believe

I believe the war is over
It’s over, it’s over

Report: Boy Scouts hid allegations of sexual abuse

http://content.usatoday.com/communities/ondeadline/post/2012/09/17/boy-scouts-molesters-sexual-abuse/70000490/1

Sandusky, Catholic Church, Air Force Academy. Sexual predators hiding in the tall grass of society. There have been years of hypothosizing about the number of women who were sexually abused as children. There has been very little in the way conjecture about the number of men who are sexually abused. Our institutions have failed us.If you are not safe in the church with your clergy, if you are not safe in your scouting group, then where will you find safety.

So, where do predators get permission to prey.? What makes fathers, priests, scoutmasters, coaches take advantage of their young charges? What makes highly disciplined airmen and other military personnel prey on their own? Is there a mental-illness issue or a moral issue? We have not begun to ferret out the reasons for or solutions to abating sexual assault. I think it is a tragedy when you become sexual fodder. I think it is worse than most other forms of physical abuse except for some malicious tortue.

I was physically beaten as a child by someone who society assumed would protect me. And yet I can say that I am grateful I was never sexually abused. It is merely anecdotal for me but those who were sexually abused seem damaged in a deeper way than me. And it seems more difficult for the victims to process the motivations which led to the abuse.

I am lucky. I grew up hating my abuser and it protected me until I matured enough to reconcile myself to what transpired. My dad and I still had a semblance of a healthy relationship in his life. I have always thought that if I were the victim of sexual abuse, I would simply kill the perpetrator at some point. The Menendez brothers successfully raised sexual abuse as a defense in their first trial for killing their parents. I thought it was well-reasoned and appropriate defense to use. The jury was hung and when they went to trial a second time, the new judge ruled the defense could not bring up the sexual abuse because it was not relevant because it had not taken place in years. I beg to differ. Sexual abuse by a parent should always be relevant. Revenge is not possible while you are still a child. If one is to lash back violently it will not be possible until one has grown large enough and strong enough to respond. It is always relevant to a subsequent crime if sexual assault can be proven.

I cannot support my revenge theory morally or theoretically with any studies done. Just personal

Thus was I told….

I met this nice lady by the name of Winona at a counseling center in Dallas. I asked her could she help me with what was a difficult adjustment returning to Dallas from Tucson. I was getting angrier and angrier at the driving habits of people in Dallas. I felt on the edge of violence. Winona thought I had PTSD from watching serial acts of violence when I was young.

I made the comment that I was hardwired for aggression. I said that because it has been my default position for so long that I assumed its truth. I have experienced so much violence but more so imagined so many acts of violence. I would draw upon the fantasy life I have, from the teaching of deadly force to others, and to revisits of my own real life experiences. Winona replied. It was something she said which I probably heard others say in other ways. But this time it sunk in. Winona said, “it is not a hardware problem, it is a software problem.”

And I knew its truth and I have been working diligently to reprogram. I had a good start with my Buddhist studies, my background in social work and my upbringing in Hyde Park in the late 60s and early 70s. It was there that LSD and the hippie movement introduced me to universal love and respect. It was then and there that I learned to resist killing others in the cause of spreading democracy and freedom.

But something was terribly wrong in my head. My heart was good. But man oh man could I go to dark places, hang with rough crowds, and slip in and out of violence as readily as some people sat for lunch. I thought nothing of threatening violence. I thought nothing of having it threatened upon me.

When I was 19 or so, a man working as a cook at the Medici in Hyde Park threatened retaliation against me for threatening him. I scoffed at his threat. He replied by suddenly taking out a gun and pushing it into my forehead. My response was “you better shoot me now or I will find you, take your gun and shove it so far up your ass it will blow out your throat.”

I was scared but my street ethic prevented me from responding with fear. That ethic served me well at times. Kept me safe in dangerous situations. Made me formidable as a social worker and as a lawyer. In the main, as a life attitude and response it did me poor emotionally. But I didn’t know I was writing the script to my own play. I didn’t realize I could change the way my stories unfolded. I didn’t believe there was a more appropriate or more sensible approach. I believed my own lies about my life and my lies became my truths. Hard and fast did I cling to these values and behaviors.

So I know another truth. I can change the story.

Blah blah blah, or is it blog blog blog?

I just read this story about Sierra Blanca TX. It is the home of a federal checkpoint on Interstate 10 East bound, although I do not know if it is near the border. I have been through it at least 15 times and its mate going west, in Las Cruces. They are looking for drugs and immigrants. When I first encountered checkpoints in the 70s they were a 3 man operation. Today they are manned by at least a dozen officers, some with rifles, and always a dog and several vehicles. None of them would be complete without a pair of dark sunglasses, and I mean that seriously. Wackenhut sends its private buses by to pick up the illegal immigrants which have been seized at the checkpoint. Sierra Blanca like many checkpoints is in the middle of nowhere. The nearest city is about El Paso TX. 88 miles away. Interstate 10 is a major artery going East and West from LA. to Jacksonville FL. I find this article on drug busts in Sierra Blanca for a few reasons, one of which is you could never afford to defend a case there. Travel, access and housing are obstacles no one could afford to overcome.

This war on drug users benefits no one. Not the government, not its citizens, not the perpetrators, not the children nor the environment. It is similar to the wars we are waging against peoples worldwide. kIlling in the name of freedom. Dead people cannot enjoy freedom. We are using military might to export a way of life from a country which imprisons more of its citizens than any other country. Either we are the most criminal country and shouldn’t be looking down on anyone, or we are the most penal country.

My dad punished me regularly. Based on a frequency scale I was one of the baddest kids in my area. But the reality is that I was just another kid who couldn’t stay out of trouble because the definition of trouble included “being a kid”.

Here is a link to the story that caught my attention. I think it funny that the sheriff finds the cases a burden. If that don’t beat all. Try being the defendant!

Small drug busts are big burden for West Texas sheriff

http://www.wfaa.com/news/225744991.html

A funny thing happened to me on my way from meditation.

So I was leaving the Buddhist temple in Dallas (Wat Dallas aka Buddhist Center of Dallas) last night. The temple has numerous feral cats/kittens which roam the grounds. I was petting a kitten while another kitten was nearby. Suddenly I heard high pitched squealing in the dark. It seems the other kitten caught a mouse and the mouse was doing the squealing. And it continued as I paused and pondered. Then I left with the following thought. “This is the natural order of events, predator and prey but I hate hearing the cries of death from any living being.”

Why am I so squeamish? My history would suggest a level of comfort with pain, death and violence. I have been involved in several hundred violent situations or near death experiences. I have been in car accidents, slipped on mountain slopes and had guns threateningly pressed to my head. I worked on inner-city streets and in hospitals. I acted as though death and destruction were my lifelong pals. Lifelong acquaintances, true. Pals? hardly. I learned at an early age to “act as if”. So I always acted nonplussed by the smell or presence of death. The reality is that I harbored abject fear throughout these moments. (I really hated to hear the hospital’s public address system announce “CODE!”, and see the crash-cart bearers come racing down the hallway.)

So, the truth is that within me there was always a voice of fear, leisurely lingering around, a persistent demon in my gut. I rarely actually wanted to hurt someone in my many violent encounters with others. I used to think to myself, “I wish this opponent wouldn’t make me hurt them”. Like somehow my decision to visit violence on a person was strictly in their control. As if they would just stop threatening me in some fashion we could all walk away. My perception was that I was reacting to legitimate threats and appropriately responding with righteous indignation. But it wasn’t true. It often wasn’t true that I was being threatened or that the threat required a response given the nominal level of said threat. It was such that I had groomed myself at an early age to face down every slight with intimidation, aggression and then if necessary, violence.

Back to death. I hate dealing with death. Accidental, natural or otherwise. I can’t watch television shows that depict real animals in nature being killed and killing. I never watched a snuff film. I do watch “shoot em ups” in film and tv but never mixed that fantasy with reality.

When I ride my bicycle I see animals all the time who have been crushed by cars, usually, squirrels, rabbits, cats and birds. I hate to see them and I usually say a prayer for them all, that they died without suffering.

So, I know I am squeamish. Despite this self-knowledge, I will consistently and persistently rise to each new “threat” with aggression. I am incorrigible. I scoff at death. But age and meditation and Buddhism have softened my temper. They have made me a cautious driver and an alert cyclist.

I am gentler, less easy to agitate and less prone to violence now. My default action, to meet any perceived harm by threatening greater harm and beating my chest in defiance, may someday abate. Such did I ponder as I walked away from the squealing mouse, it’s death cry echoing in my ears and heart.

How do I say,……. STOP?

Ok, thought for the day. It is startling to me to see the persistent hatred of President Obama. I abhorred President Bush. I thought he made terrible mistakes regarding foreign policy which I believe tanked the economy and our good-will the world over. But I never attacked him with the gusto and zest and duration of my friends who hate Obama.

I think I am reasonably intelligent. That is borne out by many factors such as education, business experience and feedback from my friends and neighbors. I am often sought after for my advise and counsel by many whom I consider intelligent and knowledgeable. So, why do I not agree with all you intelligent friends who hate Obama and believe that he wants to undermine everything you hold dear?

Why am I alarmed and amazed that you think Obama is a socialist, communist, racist, leader of the New World Order? At my worst moments, I never thought that Bush was a tool of powers dedicated to destroying America. I did not believe that he planned or allowed 9/11/01, Twin Towers. So, even though I held him in low regard, I didn’t think the worst of him. But many of my friends think horrible things about Obama without evidence. Conjecture! That is the foundation upon which much of this hatred exists. I believe that to hate Obama and believe he wants to destroy America requires a suspension of reason and a significant disdain for evidence.

Any president who was in office at the time of a major murder such as took place in Connecticut would be under tremendous pressure to institute gun control!!! Romney would be excreting bricks of waste now if it was he presiding over the government. Gun control is a movement which awaits opportunity to further its agenda and mass murders are fodder for the movement.

I think you do yourself a disservice to raise the flag of hate for Obama. I think you do your countrymen a disservice to publish things on Facebook indicating that left-wing represents stupid or sissy, or anti-American. You are participating in further polarizing the distinctions between the left and the right. I am liberal. Yet I have dozens of friends who are not. I love my guns but I have many friends who do not. I do not have to tear them down to feel good about myself. In fact, my thoughts, positions and feelings may be ill-advised. I am a bad judge of the truth of life. History and experience have shown that I can be wrong despite my conviction I am right.

And so I implore my friends who hate or distrust Obama to stop attributing the meanest and most despicable motives to everything he does. His children deserve protection, just as every president’s children have. It is not a legitimate issue in the debate over gun control. I know you think you bring value to the discourse of gun control when you point out Obama’s short-comings. But in the end, it will take an entire Congress to modify the laws. There will be political casualties on both sides. Some of those casualties will be people of fine character who simply did not agree with the side which prevails.

I don’t like Obama. But I am freaking proud to have been around when the United States elected its first non-white president. I am proud of what it says about the progress that has been made and whatever ills are associated with his administration, I remain proud of the country for voting him into office. I look forward to our first woman president and first Latino/Latina.

I do not believe that the United States is the moral leader of the Western World. Our politicians are bought and paid for the same as politicians everywhere. We are not the only beacon of liberty in a dark and dreary world. But neither is there evidence that this administration is planning to invite the UN to invade the U.S. This administration is not encroaching on our civil liberties more so than past administrations. Look at the Patriot Act if you want to see what happened to the concept of civil rights. Look at the drug war launched during the Nixon administration if you want to see the bleeding of the 4th amendment regarding search and seizures.

A high horse is a bad thing to fall off or get bucked off of.

Civil War in the United States

People who despise guns and wish to control access or ban them altogether have no idea what they are embarking on. The war over abortion and other divisive issues will be minor in contrast to the polarization of this country if you attempt to criminalize and further demonize gun owners. If you could succeed which I do not believe you can, you would lose. You would have a country that mirrors Chicago, where gun specific courts overflow and the homicides rates are extremely high.

I marvel at how little I feel threatened in Dallas. There are areas to avoid but if I need to go there I take protection and I don’t need to get agitated that I am having to be there. I can enter communities which I could never safely enter in Chicago. There is very little graffiti here in contrast to Chicago. Poverty is always a threat to the stability of a community. Violence is always a companion of poverty it seems.

We allow people who have never had a felony convictions, who have not been convicted of a misdemeanor and who have no convictions for family violence, to carry a concealed gun here. They must pass a 10 hour class, take a shooting test and submit fingerprints to the state police. If they meet the requirements the state must issue the concealed carry license.

Blood does not run in the streets. Persons with CCWs do not randomly shoot people. They do not resolve disputes by pulling a gun on someone or shooting someone. They can defend themselves or third-persons from assaults when threatened with great bodily harm. Police officers who pull over a CCW holder, know instantly, more than they would ever know about someone who can only produce a driver’s license. A DL tells an officer that the bearer has a home address, and has passed a driver’s test. It does not speak to criminal history.

This path of criminalizing the possession of firearms will not succeed and what would be worse is if it did. If I could wave off those on this road, I surely would. If you think the people who own firearms are crazy now, wait till someone tries to disarm them.

Sadly, I am one of those who will resist if my government makes such an effort. Know who I am and where I live. It matters not. I wouldn’t be marched to an death camp given what I know about the Holocaust. I will not be disarmed even if it is mandatory and involuntary.And I am one of the nicer ones.

Is no place sacred?

I see this question being asked regularly. When a church or school or movie theater is shot up, this question echos in the media. I raise my hand dutifully, I think I know the answer. No place is sacred. No place is safe. The reason is simple. Craziness and evil do not recognize restraints.

This is mental disease spreading throughout our world. Its tentacles know no bounds or boundaries. Let me digress for a moment. The US is bound by certain international treaties on warfare and yet those we choose to lead our country commit atrocities upon civilian populations repeatedly. These leaders allow the bombing of school children and innocents and rationalize that it is the result of collateral damage. As if that makes it acceptable.

Now we have violence being progressively more commonplace in the US. No one has been able to attack the United States from abroad. We are insulated from enemies by oceans and friendly neighbors. But we will never be insulated from ourselves. Do you believe a country of such diversity accompanied by racial, religious and sexual animus would be exempt from acts of hatred tinged violence?

What makes us so special that tragedy should not visit us daily. We are a country proud of its heritage of blood spilled. We demonize what we do not understand or like. Fags, Niggers, Spics, Kikes, Sandniggers. Words of hate. Westboro Baptist Church is just a more sublime representation of our society. I have heard such hatred for Muslims, minorities, majorities, criminals, homeless, crazies and on and on. Even from the lips of those I know to be well-educated I have heard venom which I found ignorant and unworthy of reply.

I do not suggest that we deserve tragedy. I just mean that violence is woven into the fabric of our society. Even those so genteel as to sniff when it comes to the idea of owning guns find no fault permitting the imprisonment of drug users or the ongoing existence of a Guantanamo.

I do not practice law anymore. One of the big reasons is because prosecutors and judges hand out incarceration as if it was no big deal. How do you negotiate for your client with a foe who believes that your client cannot be punished harshly enough? How could I return to a system which incarcerates 14 year old boys to life in prison without the possibility of parole. That is unbridled violence to me. Prison is a sentence to a life of constant fear and violence.

So, I carry a gun. I have guns in my home. I do not delude myself for a minute into believing that a crazy killer will honor the societal restraints and not perpetrate on a Church or amusement park or school. I teach my children to be cautious and guarded when I am not home. Keep the doors locked and be wary of persons arriving unexpected. (I have yet to read a single interview with a mass murderer who said he intended to shoot up a grade school, but couldn’t figure out how to avoid arrest for illegal possession of a firearm on school property.)

There is no place safe or sacred. I accept that. I choose to anticipate and prepare for the worst. If you oppose gun ownership, you want the worst to never take place. You want the right to be safe in a house of worship and schools. I want the same thing you want, and the possibility of backing my peaceful efforts with a firearm. Let me know how that sacred thing works out for you.

Gong to ban Oxycotin

http://www.cnn.com/2012/12/14/health/kentucky-overdoses/index.html?hpt=us_c2

The government has been considering a ban on this drug. It is generally considered one of the most effective pain killers on the market. Those that use it responsibly are horrified at the prospect of losing access to this protection from chronic and acute pain. But there is such widespread abuse of this drug by opioid addicts that the probability looms large that it will be banned.

I argue that the drug should remain available and that we should address the misuse of it as a public health issue but the government continues to respond from a law enforcement position. When Canada declared that heroin use was a health issue and not a criminal issue, the US government suggested closing the border with Canada.

Or maybe we can limit the problem to a bunch of Appalachian nobodies who are barely citizens anyway and a few dead hill-billies is an “acceptable collateral loss”.

	lawdisorder on This just in!!!
	Seth Dean on This just in!!!
	lawdisorder on A Perfect Flaw.
	lawdisorder on Compassion and empathy….…
	lawdisorder on Meditation changed my Per…

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Small drug busts are big burden for West Texas sheriff

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