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I have been a friend to many incredible people who have changed my life and the lives of my children just by becoming part of our extended family. I have been a teacher to amazing students from all cultures and countries who have changed my life forever by sharing their stories and surviving and succeeding despite overwhelming odds. I have been a mother to three sons who have changed my life by choosing me, sharing their passions, and giving me important life lessons simply by being who they are.
All three of my sons have been in situations where they could have easily lost their lives. One was thrown to the concrete on his head in a fight, taken for an MRI by a police officer, and ultimately invited to spend a night in jail. One allowed a bleeding man being chased by several weapon-wielding men to get into his car, not knowing if in so doing he would risk his own safety. One severed his PCL, and spent a night in the emergency room after being hit by a car while riding his bike; his friend died a year later in a similar accident. One was severely beaten, ending up in the hospital broken and bruised. One missed a bullet by millimeters. These incidents have changed them and me and those whose lives they touch. I am grateful they are alive.
It is from this perspective of friend, teacher, and mother that I respond to the last few weeks of unrest in my personal, local, and national life. I am not participating in the debate. I am not qualified to respond to racial unrest, the long-term effects of poverty, the history of police brutality, or the debate over violent versus peaceful protests. My heart has always been vulnerable and I feel some level of empathy for all stakeholders in this debate.
Originally, I was planning to summarize many of the articles I’ve read and videos or news reels that I’ve watched. As the weeks have passed, I think we all have probably done our own work in that regard – or not – depending on how we deal with these kinds of issues. Instead, I’m just going to respond in the aftermath of one of the most difficult Aprils of my own personal life. As a friend. As a teacher. As a mother.
In the morning hours of my 60th birthday, shots were being fired in City Heights on a street just blocks from the inner city school where I spent the last 16 years. A young man who could have sat in my English class reading Pablo Neruda, came within millimeters of killing innocent people. According to 7 News San Diego, he was surrounded by police, but also by his own family and friends who, rather than coming to his assistance, stayed behind locked doors. The report said that residents of the apartment complex called the police for help when they saw an armed man who “appeared to be casing the building and allegedly attempting to break into apartments.” We now know that just days before, he murdered an innocent bystander in an AM/PM for a few dollars. The news reported that the suspect was hiding in a community room next to a barbecue and playground area. From the door, he fired multiple rounds at officers, whereupon police returned fire, wounding him before his arrest. He was later identified as Ahmed Hussan Mumin.
One day later, April 19th, Freddie Gray died of a spinal cord injury, possibly caused by police brutality during his arrest.
On April 27th, Ahmed Mumin, who could have lost his life and taken innocent lives of officers and families with him, was released from the hospital, arraigned, and sent to jail. He was charged with murder, armed robbery and attempted murder of two police officers. The day of his arrest was the day the young man he murdered was buried. Also on April 27th, hundreds of peaceful protestors took to the streets of Baltimore to send a message about safety and equality and broken systems.
I would venture to say that if I asked you, you could tell me at least two stories of someone you know well who was or is sick, was in an accident, was incarcerated, or who was unfairly treated or abused in some way. You could tell me about people close to you who are grieving, are afraid, are suicidal, are bullied, or are just fed up. These experiences are universal. They don’t know color or culture or economic status. We all hurt the same way. We all cry the same tears. We all are profoundly affected and changed when someone we care about is injured, survives a dangerous situation, contracts an illness, or loses a friend or family member.
If I remove myself for just a moment from the crowd mentality, I can see the ripple effect of each unrelated incident of the last two weeks:
Freddie Gray is injured during a police intervention. He goes into a coma. His 25-year-old life has been altered forever. I have been poring over articles, and there are many uncorroborated stories about his involvement selling drugs and being arrested several times over the last years. The bottom line is that he is some mother’s son. She, along with her family, is grieving his life, his possibility, the hope for what could have been.
Five officers are implicated. One or more of them may have been brutal, using unnecessary force, causing Freddie’s spinal cord injury. Those five officers are suspended, and their lives are changed forever – perhaps rightly so. Their wives, parents, and children are scared, grieving, overwhelmed. Other officers covering their duties are overtaxed, maybe angry or resentful. Those officers’ families are affected as well. Every friend, acquaintance, family member, teacher, pastor, grocery clerk involved in Freddie’s day or any of the officers’ days are affected.
A young man walks into an AM/PM and shoots an innocent person who went down to the corner for a cup of coffee. The victim dies and is buried by his family. Their lives have now changed forever and the effects trickle out into his community and touch all whom he touched. The clerk has to re-live seeing the blood life run out of the victim onto the floor of his business. The clerk’s family and friends feel the impact of their loved one’s close encounter with death. The neighborhood is traumatized. A near-by gas station attendant, watching from a distance, feels the impact and goes home to his wife to process the event.
Ahmed Mumin’s family and friends soon know something is up. Maybe they are afraid of him, for him, wanting to protect themselves and their families, yet wanting to hold onto this lost family member’s inner child and innocence. Some of his family members live in an apartment complex in San Diego. All of the families in the apartment complex, hidden behind their locked doors, hearing shots and shouting, sirens and cries, will not soon forget what happened right outside their doors. What if the shooting had been at a different time of day, while their children were playing on the nearby playground? What if they had come home from work just 15 minutes earlier or later? These thoughts will go round and round in their heads, causing their own nightmares and paranoia.
The officers who returned fire after Mumin fired his weapon at them will go over and over those critical moments again and again, wondering if they did the right thing at the right time, following the right protocol. They will be suspended and investigated in even the cleanest shooting. What trauma will they carry for having nearly lost their lives, for having to shoot their weapons? How will the aftermath of such violence affect their wives and children and parents when they go home that night, and for many nights thereafter?
I have read so many reports and watched so many videos about the events in Baltimore over the last week. I have seen what you, my friends, have posted and how you have tried to synthesize and process the events. Most of us have the luxury of analyzing from a distance, but there are so many people from every walk of life experiencing these incidents from the front lines. Whether they got hit by a bottle or a baton, inhaled fumes from a smoke bomb, fell to the ground in the chaos, had their stores robbed and trashed, these individual lives are changed and the trickle-down from their personal moments are going to affect families, friends, jobs, and the quality of their lives in some way, no matter how small or large.
The gang members, police officers, community officials, mothers, peaceful marchers, families, teenagers, pastors, and protest leaders who have spoken out, all say the same thing: We are not responsible for those who choose violence, brutality, racism, rioting, and looting. We cannot continue to lump together all people in a group or culture, whether that group is police officers, gangsters, teenagers, protestors, or any American or non-American of any color or non-color or any culture living in any neighborhood of any economic status. We must stop this insanity.
Thanks to my friends, Cristina, Monica, P’Gail, Amy, Amanda, Lindsay, and others for the articles posted to bring clarity to so many issues embedded in the Baltimore protests. You encourage me to read, question, listen, and glean from these conversations what I believe, what my heart says to me about these issues.
“Found” in the articles:
Baltimore burns as anger boils over
5,000 National Guard troops respond
state of emergency
no school today
young people act out
violence has its roots in the city
police, crowds gather on Baltimore Streets
CNN live, breaking news
Bishop Douglas Miles
United in leadership
Downtown is redeveloped
Uptown is neglected
Anger and frustration spills
over from denial and neglect
Who has failed the city?
Corporate community is not engaged
Politicians lack vision
Unwilling to listen
Faith community is lost in praise and worship
These are our children and grandchildren
Policing style changes depending on
the color of the neighborhood
Lift up the police officers and firefighters
who do their jobs every day
One portion of police is out of control
Faith leaders go to the street
to seek calm
Gang members do the same – WBALTV
Freddie Gray’s sister loves her brother
John Stewart
Have the police become the surrogate for
every problem? Economics? Housing?
Mayors, officers
Associate professors of criminal justice
History of Baltimore police force
47 million incarcerations
fighting for a more human police force
rebellion represents age-old issues
Martin Luther King
Genuine equality
Income and jobs
Right to live in sanitary, decent housing
Integrated quality education
Saving the cultures on the street
may save us all
C.C. Rogers
Not all cops are bad
Not all black people are criminals
Not all white people are racist
Stop Labeling
Martin Luther King
A riot is the language of the unheard
It’s ironic that my last entry on Slightly Squinting was about SUN magazine, introduced to me by Rita and Lee. Today it is Rita who is filling my entire being with love and gratitude and prayers of healing. On April 11th, Rita was hit by a car while walking her daughter’s dog. She was in ICU for several days, had two surgeries, and has multiple fractures, bruises, and contusions. She has been moved three times, most recently to the rehabilitation facility where she will spend the next many weeks trying to get all of her parts to work fully again.
I can’t see Rita. I’m not family or her closest friend. I am an acquaintance who has crossed her path in our work with high school students and faculty. And yet. She has a hold on me, and I am smothered under the weight of her injuries. The weight of my worry presses where worry always presses for me: Right behind my slightly squinting eyeballs … on top of my tear ducts … like pressure on a full bladder.
I am not the only one worrying. There are hundreds of us. Students and faculty, friends, and family. If visiting was open to everyone, the line would circle around the hospital. This is no exaggeration. So I bought some flowers and cards and began to read and write. For me, there is no alternative to pain, but to redirect it into words.
I started by going through past issues of SUN magazine, and writing down quotes from their “Sunbeams” page.
July, 2014
“The happiness of life . . . is made up of fractions: the little, soon-forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a gentle word, a heartfelt compliment” (Samuel Taylor Coleridge).
“In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit” (Albert Schweitzer).
Rita and Lee are often called “Leeta” by accident when we are trying to say their names together. They are life-long friends, teachers, and supporters of teachers. They wear the professional development hats of our school, which means they, like The Giver, are the holders of memory. There is hardly a teacher on campus who has not gone to them in tears about a student or an administrator or a lesson plan gone bad … really, really bad. Rita has given kisses on both cheeks, accompanied by warm, perfect French condolences that few understand. Leeta have given me more than my share of kind looks, gentle words, and complements that bolster me enough to dry my tears, rekindle my inner spirit, and return to my classroom.
September, 2014
“Perhaps this quiet, yet unquiet waiting is the harbinger of grace, or perhaps it is grace itself” (Franz Kafka, as quoted by Steve Rasnic Tem).
I imagine there will be a lot of waiting for Rita. The noises of hospital pain and discontent are often disquieting at the very least. I imagine there will be quiet moments as well where she will be alone with her thoughts and her worries. I imagine that some of the unquiet moments will be filled with the voices of love: her family, her daughters, the cry or laugh of her beautiful granddaughter. I think these moments could be harbingers of grace. They may carry her through until she is ready for grace in its entirety.
November, 2014
“You live on from year’s end, surrounded by those whom you love, and chatting together; but it is rare to be thrown alone with any one individual and have [a] really intimate talk with him or her . . . unless some effort is made for it, or unless circumstances are unusually favorable, the very members of the same family live, one might say, on parallel lines, without ever touching” (Charles Buxton).
If I were alone with Rita, would I make idle chat? Or would I take the opportunity to be intimate? Would I ask if she saw the car coming? If her entire life passed before her eyes? Would I ask what happened in her heart before, during, after? Is the dog okay? Is the driver who hit her grieving for the body she had only moments before? Have the new circumstances of her life brought opportunities for healing more than her body? Will she do anything differently after this experience? Have those living on parallel lines touched her differently now and forever?
“One of the marvelous things about community is that it enables us to welcome and help people in a way we couldn’t as individuals. When we pool our strength and share the work and responsibility, we can welcome many people, even those in deep distress” (Jean Vanier).
Rita, we are your community. We are here now, ready to share the work and responsibility. When you are ready, and to whatever extent you feel comfortable, we will pool our strength to bolster yours. In your deepest distress, know that we are here for you.
Puisse l’amour vous donner de la force. May love give you strength.
Etre bien, mon ami. Be well, my friend.
Joyeux anniversaire. Happy Birthday.
The Sun is one of my favorite magazines. I was given my first subscription by my dear friends, Rita and Lee many years ago. I have continued to order it year after year. The Sun is the kind of magazine you want to read cover to cover while drinking a cup of hot tea in the Zen garden, begging the sunlight to make the easy journey through the leaveless tree branches in the center of the labyrinth. I am always drawn to the section called “Readers Write” where common folk like me can submit short pieces on a theme. I had always wanted to write a story for this favorite magazine and see my name reflected in print. No better time than retirement, right?
The Sun makes it clear that stories won’t be returned and that they only notify you if your story is accepted. Writers are required to send in their creations months ahead of the printing schedule for a particular theme. For example, one of the themes I liked was “Clothes.” The deadline to submit was August 1st, 2014 and if accepted I would not see my story until February, 2015.
You may have noticed that it’s February now, and my February edition of Sun arrived a few days ago. I knew my story would not be present because I would have been notified, but I looked for it anyway (maybe their acceptance got lost in my email … it could happen). I read the stories that were chosen over mine. What was mine lacking? Why wasn’t my story, “Levi Blues” accepted while these stories were? Gregg Levoy says rejection is my friend. I feel so loved.
The readers whose stories were written in the February edition of The Sun were stellar as they always are, even if mine was not among them. There was the story about a young man dressing up in his mother’s clothes, the act “transporting me to a place where I belonged.” There was the social worker who bought clothes for a teenage prostitute after her release from juvenile hall, only to find that the young girl returned to her pimp within 24 hours, leaving the bag of clothes behind. There were two sisters, one wears used clothes and “buys understated outfits in muted colors” but has a husband that looks in awe at her every day, while the author who likes to be “the center of attention” and who “sometimes buys new clothes just to treat myself” feels adored by no one. There were clothes covering up low self-esteem, hiding sexual identity, and camouflaging weight issues. There was a story about wearing no clothes at all: a woman visits a nudist colony to learn to accept her less-than-perfect body. Like jewels embedded in fine silver, all of the stories held moments of epiphany and change.
Bo Bennett says “A rejection is nothing more than a necessary step in the pursuit of success.” Probably more to the point, Samuel Johnson says, “Your manuscript is both good and original, but the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good.” Ha! My not so original story of adolescence, insecurity, and first kisses … all hidden behind a pair of 501 Levis. Hope it brings a little sun into your day.
“In the 60s and 70s, 13-year-old girls and guys wore straight-leg 501 Levi’s. No slim fit, original fit, slim straight, loose straight, shrink-to-fit, or boot cut. No choice. No complication. Done. The down side was that Levi’s were not ready to wear like they are now. If you didn’t want to walk like you had cardboard legs, you had to wash them at least three times. And you had to make sure you didn’t wash them with anything not blue because the wash water – and everything in it – would turn as blue as the veins pulsating towards our adolescent hearts.
In preparation for the youth group end-of-summer beach night, my new Levi’s were spinning in the washer at the end of their second cycle. Everything needed to be perfect. Richard Weckerly was planning to kiss me. Bill had told Paula, and Marty had confirmed with Joanne. It was end of summer, too cold to swim, but there would be the blush-streaked sunset, the tumbling waves and our salty kisses. I had just enough time to sew the white cotton peasant blouse with gathered neckline and puff sleeves I had already cut out. My new blouse, my 501 Levi’s, and my multi-coated mascara eyelashes batting over my baby blues would make me irresistible.
We arrived just before the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, but it was still too light to experiment with anything more than innocent giggling, seductive walking, bawdy talking, or serendipitous touching in the flirtation games of our teenage species. Even in my insecurity, my plan was to destroy the rumor that I was a well-behaved, Puritanical daddy’s girl. I wanted to be reckless and primordial that night. When some of the boys decided to jump waves in their clothes, my liberated-Bo-Derek-gazelle-like body ran through the waves, hair blowing behind me, hips undulating in front of Richard Weckerly, inviting the promised kisses.
When it was dark enough, couples split up, and put space between us down the beach until we could barely make out each other’s shadows in the moonlight. Richard held my hand, and we finally claimed our beachfront property by branding our footprints into the wet sand. The moment might have been more romantic except that my Levi jeans were wet and stiff, chafing my body with every movement. My white peasant blouse, crisp and clean when we arrived, had turned blue wherever it touched the jeans. I smelled like salt and seaweed and fish-scented Tide. I was shivering in the night air, and Richard’s tentative kiss, matched with my anxious pucker, was not enough to warm me up.
Later when I undressed in my room and saw my reflection in the bedroom mirror, I could see why Richard had not been more enamored with me. My legs and stomach were dyed blue. Apparently every time I had slid my hands into my pockets, they had become a little bluer, and the salt water mixed with sand had helped to grind the color up my arms. I even had blue grit in my armpits. And then there was my face. The moment my Bo Derek body had gracefully jogged into the water, splashing my sexual tension onto the sea breeze, my mascara had run all around my eyes, creating a raccoon mask.
Richard Weckerly never came back to youth group. He told Marty that his family was moving away. I had to throw the blue-stained peasant blouse away. It took days before all the dye was completely gone from my body, a new blue crevice discovered every time I showered. It took months before that pair of Levi’s was washed enough times to be comfortable on my humiliated skin. It took years before I was brave enough and confident enough to ditch the mascara, slip on my worn jeans and soft cotton t-shirt, and look forward to warm, carefree kisses.”
I’ve decided to acknowledge that the sun is still coming out on these cool San Diego mornings. I’m going with this saying from Dianne Rosena Jones.
I’m going with Barbara Kingsolver, one of my favorite authors of all time: “This manuscript of yours that has just come back from another editor is a precious package. Don’t consider it rejected. Consider that you’ve addressed it ‘to the editor who can appreciate my work’ and it has simply come back stamped ‘Not at this address.’ Just keep looking for the right address.”
Gotta love rejection.
I know I dropped the story, but I’ve been busy writing…apparently everywhere but here. I kept searching for answers for a while. I took days off, but the not knowing continued to feel cumbersome. I journaled about how I was feeling, but as you know, I didn’t blog about it. Sometimes, after a phone call, I had a new piece of information to add to the puzzle. The young man’s name was Michael. He was visiting from Nebraska. He was cremated. His aunt and cousin came to San Diego to pick up his belongings. His remains were flown back to Nebraska. Maybe if I lied better, I could have found out more, but pretty much these meager details were the end of the story.
A couple weeks after the witnessing, I was surfing the sites where San Diego writers hang out, and I heard about a two-day class offered by San Diego Writer’s Ink for anyone interested in writing a book in a month with National November Writing Month. What? I decided writing a book might get my mind off of what I didn’t know and would never know, so I signed up for the class. During the first Saturday class, we went around the circle introducing ourselves and sharing what we thought we would write about. I had no clue. Clues had not been forthcoming lately. Somehow by the time it was my turn, I knew.
The leader had shared that she often wrote about what she didn’t know. For example, she would read a headline about a child who disappeared or an unsolved crime, and she would begin to imagine what might have happened. She has written six books with this strategy. When it was my turn, I shared what had happened to me two weeks before, and said I was haunted by what I didn’t know. The leader said, “Perfect. Make it up.”
And so I did. I wrote a 50,000 word book in 30 days. Here is an excerpt from Chapter 3 to fill you in on what I found out about my Ninja warrior. And the rest? I made it up.
“Therapy, spiritual healing, and Al-Anon, just three of the things that keep me stitched together. It’s not that my life is a mess; it’s just that it might return to a mess if I stop going to the people that helped put my life back together again. I know that doesn’t sound very confident. I just don’t ever want to be in that place again.
Looking back on this now, a week later — post-shock — the whole thing is preposterous. I’ve got a spiritual healer. There’s a person who needed healing but didn’t get any. The hotel has a “loss prevention supervisor,” and he is kindly telling me that he really can’t tell me anything. Secrets, always secrets. This time the secrets really are none of my business, but I’ve never been able to accept that anything is not my business. Does this kind of thing happen at the Marriott often enough to have a “loss prevention supervisor” or does he spend most of his time looking for lost luggage or stolen cell phones taken off the bar when the guests have had a few too many?
I emailed the medical examiner the next day, by the way.
“I witnessed the fall and death of a young man who jumped off the 16th floor of the Marriott Hotel on Monday, September 29, 2014. Your name and the case number was given to me by Daniel Diego, the Loss Prevention Supervisor at the hotel, whom I met on that day. I have told both him and the police officer who took the report that my phone number could be given to the family if they had any questions about the last five minutes of this young man’s life. I was sitting in my car and watched him come out onto his balcony twice, climb over the rail, do what looked like gymnastic moves, and after positioning himself in what appeared to be a “dismount” move, fall to his death. It would help my own grieving process if I were able to know his name and any information about his family. I do not see his death listed on the press release page for the medical examiner’s office. Please feel free to give my information to the family. I would be honored to attend a memorial service if there is one. Thank you for any help you can provide me.”
I thought it was well-written and professional. It didn’t sound too needy.
No answer ever.
I waited three days and texted Jake: “If I gave you the medical examiner’s name and case number would you be able to find out a name or any details?”
“No . . . You sure you want to know all that?”
Officially reprimanded. So I did what all parents do when they don’t want to listen to their adult children. I called the next day myself. I used the phone number Marriott Daniel gave me, and the person answering the phone looked up the case number I gave her. She came back on the line:
“That case is closed. The body has been sent back to Nebraska. Are you family?”
“No, I was the only witness to the death.”
“Oh, well, that’s all I can tell you.”
“I don’t understand why there is no record of this death in the press release information on the County Medical Examiner’s web site.”
“Ma’am, suicides are not public record! This information is only for the family.”
“I didn’t know. It is hard to not even have a name when I am grieving and remembering him in my prayers.”
“God knows his name.”
Silence.
“If you need to have a name, pray for Michael.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
My voice was all emotional at the end. I hate that. I wanted to be angry and forthright and get answers. Why is suicide just one more secret? I, of course, went on line because what does one do when they can’t do anything? I looked up suicides in San Diego and Nebraska, suicide help lines, and tried every combination of “Nebraska man falls to his death,” and “Suicides at San Diego Hotels” and “Michael – Nebraska.” Nothing. This young man doesn’t exist. He never existed. This never happened. You, woman, we all agree, are nuts.”
So that, dear Slightly Squinting friends, is what I’ve been doing. For 30 days I wrote for three hours every morning, and then I stopped. It was one of the most disciplined, healing, exhausting things I’ve ever done. I didn’t write a word in December except my Christmas letter. It’s January 13th today and I’m working on growing into this life of being a writer. My first book (“shitty first draft” as Anne Lamott says) is done. My first short story was accepted by City Works Press and will be published in the fall. Other pieces are out there in cyberspace. There will be many rejections. It’s time to fit being a writer into my schedule.
A wise person recently said to me, “Blog entries do not equal being a writer. Sometimes you write poetry, sometimes you blog, sometimes you read, sometimes you write short stories, sometimes you think, sometimes you talk about what you might write, sometimes you submit your work and pray for acceptance. Ever since I’ve known you, you have been a writer.” Thanks, Friend. I needed to hear that.
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Day Four: October 2, 2014
I have been doing spiritual work with Parminder for the past year, and even though I knew what to expect when I arrived at her office at 10 a.m., I didn’t know exactly what my intention was today nor how much anything I received would help. I did wake up feeling emotion for the first day since the witnessing, perhaps coming out of shock. One thing I am always sure of is that I will be allowed to express my feelings, confusion, joy, or sadness with Parminder, and will be held and supported.
I begin by telling Parminder the story. In this safe place, three days removed from the event, I cry for the first time since the witnessing occurred. I ask her why I didn’t feel any anguish from this person innocently standing on his hotel room balcony. I ask her what my purpose was for witnessing the young man’s death. What am I supposed to do? Does he need me to tell his story? Does his family need me? How will I know? Parminder hugs me.
We stand for the bioenergetic practices that release toxins and stuck energy from trauma through movement. I mimic Parminder’s dance, shaking the toxins off and out. I brush my arms off into a trash can with a candle burning in the center. I brush my chest, my stomach, my abdomen, my back, my legs, my shoulders, my head, my neck, my feet. I release the shock of seeing him climb to the outside of the balcony rail and position himself for the falling. I release the pain of seeing his body fall 16 floors. I release the pain of his landing and the solemnness of his body on the ground, curled in the fetal position.
For the first time in the 32 years since my father’s death, I also see my father’s body fall out of the tree he was trimming, soaring thirty feet to his death. I begin to cry out. The sobs choke out of my chest and the tears cleanse my face. Parminder reminds me that there are many cultures who literally cry out, wailing for their losses. I am astonished by the way I’m feeling … like old and new pain are being released, one from a place deeply secreted for many, many years.
My body and soul already feel the difference. We continue the biogenetic healing release, this time with me lying down on a blanket on the floor. I am on my back, legs straight. She instructs me to put my feet together in sort of a lotus position, floating above my body. She tells me to slowly bring my knees up, one centimeter at a time. She tells me to stop when my body starts shaking on its own. It takes a while to trust my body and I have to start over once. When I let my body do its work, my legs begin to shake — just a little at first — then more and more. I stay in the position for several seconds … seconds that feel more like minutes.
As the shaking intensifies, I release more tears and more toxins, but gentler now, like the breaths we catch after a worthwhile cry. I am releasing the loss of this young man, his innocence, his family, any possibility for him in this life time. I release, once more, my father and the other family members that have gone on before me. I feel tired, yet comforted … and grateful.
Parminder leads me in a visualization as I roll over on my side in the fetal position. She has me picture the young man, either in body form or in his essence, formless, or as a light, any way that represents him for me. I choose the body that has lived in my mind every moment since Monday afternoon at 1:45 p.m., the image I cannot remove from the film my eye has taken. The young man is in a perfect free fall, feet first, hands at his sides. It isn’t difficult to call him up; he is present, waiting for me to acknowledge him. I can feel his presence, but I am not anxious or afraid.
Parminder tells me to bless him and love him. I do. She tells me I can say anything I want to him. I ask him what he needs me to do. I wish him safe passage. Parminder tells me to ask spirit to wrap him in love and light and guide him on his way. I do.
I slowly rise from the floor, exhausted and evacuated. Parminder leads me outside for a Shamanic clearing. She uses smoke, feathers, and other tools as I stand, hands and face turned up to the sky, eyes closed. I am aware of the sunshine and the breeze, and a deep renewal of self and soul. No small wonder. Parminder tells me she is replacing the toxins that I have worked out of my body with light and energy.
We go back inside, and Parminder has me choose two Angel cards. First I choose the Compassion card. This was the second time the Compassion card had appeared in the last two days, Parminder choosing it for me when I told her about the suicide. It’s message: “Soften your heart with respect to this situation and all the people involved, including yourself.”
The second card I chose was new to me, Divine Order. “Everything is how it needs to be right now. Look past the illusion, and see underlying order.” The additional message was “A win-win situation is brewing, one with solutions that are fair to everyone involved. This requires you to have blind faith that Heaven is working behind the scenes to extract the highest good for all. Ask Archangel Raguel to buoy your faith if it wavers. Use positive affirmations and prayers to keep your spirits high. Above all, make sure that your conversations about this situation involve positive and optimistic words and phrases. You are so powerful that your positive thoughts can speed the resolution along even quicker.”
How often do we say in the face of tragedy, “What good can possibly come of this,” and yet often much later we see a silver lining?
I lay down on the massage table, and breathe in lavender. Parminder places a stone in each of my hands. She has me breathe in a pungent smell that makes my eyes water. Parminder leads me in visualization and, through the act of Reiki, focuses on my six chakras, my energy centers, filling them with light and love. She loves my head, my heart, my abdomen, my back, my legs, my knees, my feet. She loves every inch of my body. She listens for my body’s response. As always, since my first gentle Reiki session, I feel relaxed and open. I always want to remain in this state forever.
Parminder received two messages for me during the Reiki session:
The first message is from the Angel of Compassion. My compassion is my gift and my purpose for being on earth. But I must learn to balance my compassion. Compassion is neutral. I must learn to give an act of compassion to a person and situation, and then the moment is over. I must let it go. I must learn to act from a place of neutrality. This is the wisdom coming to me. Projecting my leftover pain from my own experiences onto the situation is not productive and represents my fear.
The second message represents a shift in thinking. Parminder explains to me that in the natural law of the universe there is the desire to offer ourselves to someone or something else, and in that offering there is the potential of reciprocity. There was an agreement of reciprocity between the young man’s soul and mine. I gave him the gift of witnessing his death and caring for his body afterwards. In return, I must ask, “What lesson am I receiving from his spirit? What do I want to learn or heal as a gift of this witnessing? What has been my opportunity in this experience?”
He helped shed light on my gift. He helped me to recognize the grief that is left from my father’s accidental fall to his death.
The idea that I would be given a gift in exchange for witnessing a suicide was beyond my imagination on Monday. Today, it is an idea that fills me with amazing grace.
Day Three: Wednesday, October 1st
I worked at Hoover today in my new retired part-time status. I received hugs from students and teachers who I had not seen yet this school year, and who knew nothing about my pain of the last two days. It was what I needed today.
In the afternoon, my grandchildren came over. They, of course, didn’t know anything either. Perfect today to be loved and to love back with no obligation to think about the story. This time away from the scene replaying in my mind over and over gave me time to think about how grateful I am for the love and joy of my life, but also for the pain.
Last night, Captain Random took me to see The Giver. He knew how much I loved the book and how much I wanted to see the movie. He thought it would make me feel better, and I thought so too.
Many of us have read this iconic book, some of us several times. Tom had never read it before, nor had he heard anything about it. I didn’t tell him anything. I watched him watch the movie … it’s one of the things I love about my husband … that we love watching each other watch TV, movies, our children, our grandchildren … because we know what each other will love or be inspired by or feel sad by or be scared by. So I watched him watching, and I knew he would love Jonas.
Jonas had everything, right? He had joy and perfection and friends. He had a house, two parents, his own room, and plenty of food. He was assigned the job of being the next receiver of memory. The job held power in the community, even though no one really understood why. He began his training with The Giver, the man who held the memories of long-ago-time before their community was ever established. The Giver gave Jonas memories of joy and color, seasons and holidays, love and laughter. Jonas didn’t understand why everyone could not have these beautiful memories.
When the Giver gave Jonas his first memory of pain, it did not frighten him. The thrill of riding down a mountain covered with snow on a sled was worth any risk of pain. When he began to learn about what was really happening to his family, neighbors, and friends in this perfect community, he felt a different kind of pain. When he saw that his own father, in his position as nurturer, injected babies with drugs that killed them simply because they were not growing fast enough or did not have a calm enough disposition, Jonas was sickened. This was yet a different kind of pain.
As The Giver gave more and more painful memories to Jonas, The Giver began to feel lighter, happier, and he realized that what made his pain less was sharing it with Jonas. From this realization, The Giver and Jonas made their plan for Jonas’ escape. When Jonas crossed into Elsewhere, the memories he had received from The Giver would be released into the community he left behind. The Giver would be there to help the community process the pain they were receiving. All of the pain that The Giver had handled alone, would be disseminated into hundreds of people, and all could share the burden.
The Giver was exactly the movie I needed to see last night. It reminded me that pain is inevitable … but so is love. We cannot truly experience one without the other. I am grateful that my love was present when a stranger’s pain was so great that he took his life. I was the receiver of his pain, but because of the amazing love I have experienced from so many people these last few days, my pain has been lessened.
As he gave Jonas a happy memory, The Giver asked Jonas, “‘What did you perceive?’ ‘Warmth,’ Jonas replied, ‘and happiness, and let me think. Family. That it was a celebration of some sort, a holiday. And something else — I can’t quite get the word for it.'” The Giver replied, “Love.” Jonas knew at that moment that he would never be able to return to a world of no feelings.
The Giver acknowledged that “Memories are forever.” Jonas replied, “The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”
Thank you all for receiving my memory with such grace and love.
Day Two: Tuesday, September 30, 2014
8:00 a.m. I wake up in the morning and immediately see my despondent interloper’s body flying down through the heavy air, floor after floor until he lands in fetal prayer 16 floors below.
I surf through the internet, looking for any remembrance of his last day of life. There is nothing. I look on the medical examiner’s press release site. There is nothing. How is it that the world just keeps going, internet stories accumulating like fall leaves in a changing season, but there is not one mention of a young man who did live and did have a story. How can this be right?
9:07 a.m. I get a text that I forgot a morning appointment with Parminder, my spiritual healer. I apologize and we text about an alternative appointment. I text my daughter-in-law, who knows nothing of my altered state, confirming that she, her mom, and I will get together at 10 a.m. I decide that I should text Parminder again, and tell her what happened so she can surround me and my warrior with spirit … the sooner the better.
10:00 a.m. I pull out the business card given to me by the hotel clerk, and decide to email him.
“I am the woman who witnessed the suicide at the Marriott yesterday afternoon at 1:45 p.m. I am having a difficult time, of course, and would like to know any details that you can share. I do not see this incident recorded at the County yet nor anywhere else. Have you learned anything about his circumstances? I feel so sad for him and his family. Was there a note? Will the name and information eventually be released by the police or coroner’s office? Any information you can provide will be helpful to me as I grieve this incident.”
The girls arrive as I’m finishing my email, and we move … from this new place I live inside myself to the backyard to plan the purchase of plants for the yard… and my life continues on as if yesterday never happened.
Before we leave, I check to see if I have a response to my email:
“Good morning. Thank you for your email and all your assistance yesterday. I understand and we are all grieving as we also wait for any additional details. I can provide you with the Medical Examiner’s information. I am sure she will be able to provide you with more details and the current information available.” I hope this helps. I also copied our Director of Engineering as a contact. If you have any additional concerns, please feel free to contact us.”
Included was the name and phone number of the examiner, along with the case number assigned to the incident.
10:16 a.m. Parminder sends me a picture of a card she selected for me, a message from Archangel Zadkiel: Compassion. “Soften your heart with respect to this situation, and all the people involved, including yourself. I can help you forgive yourself and others, or to compassionately see everyone’s point of view. You needn’t change your stand or behavior. It simply means approaching the situation with a loving heart which empowers you and allows creative solutions to pour forth.” She sends me distance Reiki and says, “May your heart find love and healing as you move forward.”
11:15 a.m. While we are in El Cajon buying plants, I receive a phone call from the Marriott Director of Engineering. He tells me that the family has not been notified yet, and they cannot release the young man’s name. He offers me his condolences as if I am the mother, grieving her son.
1:00 p.m. In the afternoon, after planning and buying plants for my Zen garden … which now I’m going to need more than ever … we go to lunch and I tell my story … for me and for the warrior and for my therapist.
When I am explaining the gymnastic moves of the young man, my daughter-in-law says, “That sounds like parkour. I’ve seen it on Youtube.”
4:00 p.m. My afternoon is filled with more internet searches:
Parkour is defined by Wikipedia as “a holistic training discipline using movement that developed from military obstacle course training. Practitioners aim to get from A to B in the most efficient way possible. This is done using only the human body and the surroundings for propulsion, with a focus on maintaining as much momentum as possible while still remaining safe.”
I quickly find multiple videos of parkour in action. As happens with any athletic activity, an extreme version develops over time. In Russia, three men climb to extreme heights and do gymnastic feats on balconies and steel structures without being tied off for safety. They have over 3 million hits on their video.
While watching one of these men, I see the exact moves that my young man made before he fell to his death. The difference was he let go. Without any sign of struggle or error, he simply let go. Was he into parkour? Did he love the excitement of extreme heights? I spend hours watching videos as if the videos will give me the answers I am searching for. None of this makes sense. Why did this young man choose to die?
I can’t possibly finish this young man’s story for him. I don’t know if his fall was accidental or suicidal. I don’t know if he was drunk or drugged or sober. I don’t know whether he left a note, or left anyone behind. I don’t know whether he was heartbroken or soul broken; I only know he is broken now.
I know that 24 hours later, family still has not been notified. I am his surrogate mother today and I pray for his soul. I forgive him for making the choices that took his life from the world. I pray that he can find peace in death to replace a life where he must have felt pain. I worry for his mother and father that when they hear of their son’s death, they will have questions about what the last five minutes of his life looked like from the only witness 16 floors below.
I email the Marriott manager and remind him that once the coroner notifies the family, I will be available to tell my story one more time.
My sister calls me about something else, and I tell my story again. I tell her that it is difficult for me not to know his story. Later, when she tells her husband that I had been making up a story about him in my mind right before he jumped, he said, “She has a story now. Maybe it’s her story that will affect many.” It was a nice thing to say.
I don’t know why I sat in my car yesterday instead of going right into my therapist’s office like I usually do. I don’t know whether my witnessing the young many jump will have significance or change a future outcome. I know that I am a writer of stories and that if I don’t give voice to my stories, I become stifled and lonely and sometimes afraid. Maybe this fragment of a story will become whole later. Maybe through this story my nameless warrior will be remembered.
Thank you all for your kind messages yesterday and today. Some of you have had similar experiences and I appreciate that you are helping me make sense of this story. I am grateful for all of you.
In a minute, you may be asking why I want to write about witnessing a suicide. I have been thinking of an answer to that question all week. Right after this happened to me and to this young man, my therapist asked me what I thought the greater purpose was in witnessing the end of this one, individual life. I still don’t know the answer to that question, but I am compelled to record my journal entries for the last week for many reasons that will unfold in these entries. If this subject is too disturbing, please avoid Slightly Squinting for several days.
Day One: September 29, 2014
On Monday, September 29, 2014, at 1:45 p.m., I watched a young man fall to his death. At 1:46 p.m., I dialed 911 and said, “I just watched someone jump off the balcony one floor from the top of the Mission Valley Marriott Hotel.” I told the operator that I thought I had witnessed a stunt and there must be a producer or a coach down below prepared to save this athlete. I couldn’t see “down below” from my parked car because of the trees separating the lot from the hotel.
She said, “I’ll send an ambulance just in case.”
I walked over to the hotel where he lay, directly next to the building, not even one inch from the wall. His fall did not match any suicide fall I’ve seen in any movie ever made. His fall was perfect, legs together, arms by his sides, as if he were going to stick a perfect landing coming off the parallel bars in the Olympics.
At 1:41, four minutes before the witnessing, I pulled into the parking lot on Rio San Diego Drive, stopping in a spot facing west, the 17-story Marriott Hotel looming in front of me. I was nineteen minutes early for an appointment with my therapist. I was listening to NPR, an interview with Lena Dunham, writer, producer and actress of the new hit series, Girls, about the experiences of a group of girls in their early twenties. She was talking about her real life experiences and how they translated into the script and scenes of the show. I was relaxing against the driver’s seat, looking up through the front windshield at the balconies and windows of the high-rise Marriott.
A young man came out onto the balcony one story from the top of the building. I began to make up a story about this stranger, asking myself questions about his life, listening to Lena create her story on the radio behind my own story.
“Where is he from? Why is he staying at the Marriott? Why did he come out on the balcony? What is he drinking? Water? A mid- afternoon cocktail? What does he have in his right hand? A cigarette? A joint? Did he step out for a smoke break?”
I was too far away to see what he flicked away with that hand. It could have been anything. He suddenly turned and went quickly inside. Had someone called him? Did his phone ring? Is he fighting with someone who said something to incite him?
He was gone for a minute or two. I took the time to count over five windows from the left, one floor from the top … for my story. He returned to the balcony empty-handed. “Why did he keep coming out? Was he distraught? Might he jump?” I was trying to write his story like you do when you’re sitting in a bar or restaurant and you wonder about the couple sitting across the room.
He put both hands on top of the rail and then lifted one leg over the rail. He looked around at the other windows and balconies and made a sweeping look below him.
What the hell? Hang on, Dude. That’s not safe.
His right leg followed his left, and his back was to me. He held onto one perpendicular upright of the balcony rail with both hands and brought his legs straight and strong, out parallel to the balcony, like a Ninja warrior, holding the position for some seconds. Was he exercising on the wrong side of the balcony? … because this was no TV show and if he slipped, the drop was 16 stories instead of the short drop into the water of an obstacle course.
His next move took superhuman strength as he swung his legs back to perpendicular, only holding onto the balcony with his right hand, doing a one-handed side pull-up. When his body was perfectly aligned, not facing me, but turned perfectly to the side, facing south, legs straight, his left arm at his side, he simply let go and dropped through the air in a formation that would have won an Olympic gold medal.
I realized in the middle of my 911 call that most of me still believed the gymnastic moves I’d just seen were a stunt. It was all just too perfect. The trees obstructing my view must be hiding a super-sized blow-up air mattress or a deep pool to receive his high jump trick. My voice started to crumble and I said to the operator, “I think I’m realizing what probably just happened.” My body started to shake from my lips down to my toes. I ended the call, got out of my car, and walked for a slow-motion eternity across the parking lot, past the trees, to the Marriott.
About ten floors down from the 16th floor, three people had come out on their balcony to peer down. Had they seen the stunt man fly past their window? They must have called the front desk because they kept whistling and pointing to where the body lay behind a row of bushes in a skinny sidewalk of concrete, right next to the building, barely wide enough to walk on. The hotel man in his blue uniform and shiny gold name tag got to the warrior at the same time I did. He reached for his cell phone with one hand, and bent over the body to look for a pulse with the other hand. I told him I had already called an ambulance.
I stayed on my side of the low bush, seeing the top of a young man’s body, lying on his side in the fetal position. The doorman shook his head from side to side and I asked, “Is he gone?” He said, “Yes.”
The doorman said he’d be right back, and I stood shaking, communing with the lingering spirit of this stranger who had entered my space in time.
The doorman returned with a black cloth and covered the body. A hotel manager came out to join us. We could hear the sirens in the distance. I told my story to the hotel manager, and then a minute later to one of the ambulance crew, and then a few minutes later to a police officer.
All the while, the young, nameless warrior lay dead, the black shroud covering a body that only moments ago was filled with the superhuman strength of adolescence. His troubled soul must already be hovering above. What was his message? What was his story?
My shaking body was threatening to collapse, and the hotel staff, now three men and one woman, asked me if I wanted to go inside and sit down. I said I had an appointment with my therapist, just steps away, and she would help me.
On my way across the parking lot to my therapist’s office, she called me on my cell, wondering why I was 15 minutes late. “I’m almost there. I’ll tell you in a minute.” She met me in the lobby, sensing from my voice that something was wrong. She held me up with her hug. She had also been through a traumatic experience earlier that day, and we shared our stories, needing no other topic for the day. We felt that we were participating in an ill-fated day.
It didn’t seem enough to stay in her office, and after a half hour, we walked arm in arm over to the Marriott, where the protagonist of my story was still underneath his black cloak of death, two officers standing vigil. One solitary piece of yellow caution tape floated above his body keeping his soul company. A hotel manager was present also, and walked forward to meet us and direct us away from the body we all knew was there. He went into the hotel to retrieve his business card for me should I need anything later or have any questions. He informed me that the man had been alone in his room. That’s all he could tell me. I offered that he could share my cell number with the family when and if he knew who they were.
My therapist told me to tell my story as many times as I could over the next few days and to write it down. She said the more times I told the story, the less chance that it would hide itself inside of me, where it might darken my own soul over time. She asked me who I would tell and I began to visualize those people, listing them in my mind.
You are all part of that group now, and I thank you for being brave enough to hear my story.
I watched a movie this summer called Never Again, starring Jeffrey Tambor and Jill Clayburgh playing the roles of Christopher and Grace. I later found out it got terrible reviews — not because of the performance of its amazing stars, but because of the actual script, which was found by Roger Ebert to be “willfully blind to human nature” and a “head-on collision between two ideas in conflict.” Ebert acknowledges that the actors “do everything humanly possible to create characters who are sweet and believable.” He says they “are defeated by a screenplay that forces them into bizarre, implausible behavior.”
I found this bizarre, unlikely story absolutely hysterical. I didn’t care if it was unbelievable. I have not laughed so hard in months…maybe years. Captain Random was otherwise engaged that evening, so I was on an artist’s date with myself. The movie was about a middle-aged man and woman searching for themselves, but also searching for a partner to share themselves with…if they could just figure out who they were.
The man was an exterminator and a jazz pianist. He had six-month flings with younger women who were enamored by his piano playing…and probably not so much with his middle-aged, soft body and balding head. After a night when he was not able to perform with one of these young women, he had a dream about having sex with a man. He thought perhaps he should explore whether he was gay or not. After seeing an ad in a magazine, he met up with a transvestite in a hotel room where he was bitterly disappointed that her looks did not match up with the hot woman in the magazine.
The woman, in the meantime, is pushed by her girlfriends to join an online dating agency. She chooses a tall, dark, handsome man whose photograph pictures him in a suit of armor. She arranges for a date, and finds he is a “little person.” She bumbles over one inappropriate comment about his size after another, until the man leaves, saying she was not what he was looking for.
Both Christopher and Grace end up in the same bar, she to meet her girlfriends after the failed date, and he to see what might come of a gay encounter. The two meet on the dance floor, where he mistakes her for a transvestite and propositions her. They go for coffee and begin a bizarre, but frank, honest, and pretty real — for the moment — relationship.
Don’t watch this movie if you’re offended by multiple sexual themes or the “F” word. Even though the “F” word can intimidate me in certain situations, my laugh-so-hard-you-have-to-gulp-for-breath shenanigans proved that apparently I don’t mind it mixed with hysterical, bizarre struggles where two people my age just try to get it right.
There is a visit to a sex toy shop by her, followed by a scene where she can’t get certain male paraphernalia off of her body when her apartment doorbell rings. On the other side of the door is Christopher with his mother and she tries to hide her newly-acquired body part under her robe…unsuccessfully. There are poignant scenes of conversations and realizations between them in quiet moments after love-making. There is the six-month mark when he gives her that look, the one she knows means it’s over. There is the scene when he tries to be real and tell her why he is breaking up with her …because they promised they would always be real with each other to the end. Her “F-you” flurry showed that maybe she couldn’t take his “realness” after all, especially if “real” meant “I love you, but I’m scared.” There is the moment he realizes he can’t live without her and the moment she realizes that she is his knight in shining armor and he is the damsel in distress.
I thought about all the times in 35 years I have loved my husband. I thought about all the times I haven’t. I thought about the loneliness, the laughs, the fights, the sweet, sweet kisses. I thought about the life we have shared, the children we have tried to raise. I thought about the moment that we just didn’t think we could do it for one more second. I thought about the times we’ve used the “F” word, and the times we’ve said, “I love you.” I thought about the times Captain Random has been my knight in shining armor and the times I have been his.
I’ve often said that if something happened to Tom, “never again” would I struggle through another relationship. This in no way reflects how much I love my husband. It would just be too much work to begin again. This movie showed that no matter how hard, ridiculous, hilarious, fucked up a relationship is, we all beg for someone to “get” us, to cherish us, to honor us, to dance with us. Whether that person ends up being same sex, different sex, transvestite, little person, larger than life person, or a combination thereof, doesn’t really matter.
Tom didn’t get to watch “Never Again” with me that day, but we put it on our “movies to watch together list.” When we did watch it, he laughed like I knew he would. He gave me that look of adoration like I knew he would, and asked me if I was his knight in shining armor. I said, “Yes, forever and ever…and never again.”
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A few weeks ago, I went to a beautiful, historical house in Golden Hills to meet the latest authors published by San Diego City Press, a group of City College faculty and writers and art supporters from all around San Diego. I made a donation, and received a bag full of incredible books published in the previous years. I met fun, talented writers and came away inspired and motivated to be in their numbers.
City Works Press was established in 2003 when the editors of City Works, a literary journal published by City College, “decided it was time for San Diego to have its own literary press.” Continuing on from their website: “We dared to think that one of the largest cities in the United States could support a small press. Untainted by the narrow bottom line ethos of corporate publishing, and the frequently exclusionary world of academic presses, our goal is to publish the finest work by local writers. With no institutional funding from City College, we did it ourselves.” City Press is “committed to publish a diverse range of San Diego’s emerging voices in fiction, poetry, and nonfiction.”
The books in my bag? You’ll be hearing more about them. Today, I’m going to feature Steve Kowit, professor of English at Southwestern College in Chula Vista. See the City Works Press site for his bio. Steve’s book is called The Gods of Rapture: Poems in the erotic mood.” Since the book is sitting on my bedside table, Captain Random has been telling everyone that in my retirement I’m getting into erotic poems. That’s okay. I don’t mind.
I am featuring this first poem because when I read it I thought of the young men and women represented in the July 4th Stars and Stripes post. I hope Steve doesn’t mind if I dedicate it to the young soldiers who never return to their loved ones.
It was a warm night. A bright gibbous moon
shone through the bedroom window
of the small house
they had recently purchased
for the sake of the family
they were planning to start.
The next morning he would leave for the front.
They lay, after love, talking softly
of how wonderful, when he returned,
everything was going to be.
Then they grew silent & he touched his index
finger slowly to the bridge of her nose,
traced the lines of her lips,
& brushed with its tip, ever so softly,
the lids of her eyes.
A peacock cried out from a neighbor’s yard.
Then he whispered her name
& thanked her —
though for what he did not say,
nor did she ask.
How well & often lying there
in that very bed, by herself,
those many years since that night,
she remembered
that bright gibbous moon, the peacock’s cry
in the dark, the touch
of his finger tracing her face, his voice
thanking her, quietly, without explanation.
after the Tamil
The next three poems reflect young love; scorned love; and old love (that would be me).
Young love
Because she has been running thru a summer downpour
& arrives at the young man’s apartment all
disheveled, breathless, rain –
drops dripping from her hair, her sandals drenched, her sheer
blue sundress wringing wet
& clinging to her,
is it any wonder
after only one embrace,
solicitous of his beloved’s welfare,
the young man quickly helps her out of her wet things?
Scorned love
That smudge of mascara by your mouth
& the stench of perfume
clinging to your hair
speak eloquently,
O my beloved. Therefore
do not waste your breath
& put me off with silly lies.
What of it –
you had a night out on the town
with some rouged midinette
with pretty curls
& caught up on all the latest
subtleties of lovemaking.
Do you think I begrudge you that pleasure?
We are not children.
As for the girl, I envy
the loveliness & grace
that must have held you captive
& salute the good luck she had
to have used her night
to such advantage.
But please, O my dearest,
do not, in some attack
of misguided remorse,
blurt out her name –
for having heard it
I will have no recourse
but to find the little
bitch & scratch her eyes out.
after Vidyapati
Old love
Cosmetics do no good:
not shadow, rouge, mascara, lipstick —
nothing helps.
However artfully I comb my hair, embellishing my throat & wrists with jewels,
it is no use — there is
no semblance of the beautiful young girl
I was
& long for still.
My loveliness is past.
& no one could be more aware than I am
that coquettishness at this age
only renders me ridiculous.
I know it. Nonetheless,
I primp myself before the glass
like an infatuated schoolgirl
fussing over every detail,
practicing whatever subtlety
may please him.
I cannot help myself.
The God of Passion has his will of me
& I am tossed about
between humiliation & desire,
rectitude & lust,
disintegration & renewal,
ruin & salvation.
after Vidyapati
I loved Steve’s “even now” poems. He had four . . . here’s one.
Even now
I recall
how shyly
she tried to disentangle
herself
from my arms,
raising the rose
I had brought
to her small face.
— O how lovely
the scent!
she cried out,
hoping, thereby,
to shield
her heart
from that flame
kindled
a moment before
at our lips.
after Bilhana
Even now, 35 years later, I remember some of that passion when I met Captain Random, and young love took hold of my heart . . . so I thought I’d try a couple “even now” poems.
Even now,
I remember the night we
stood in my living room
to say good-bye for the evening.
You were so tall and warm.
I stood on my tippy toes,
afraid if I fell to my heels
our lips would come undone.
after Steve Kowit
. . . one more
Even now,
I remember you knocking
on my door,
me answering,
asking you to come another evening
when I was not otherwise engaged.
You smiled and gently
pushed the door open.
You greeted my gentleman caller,
shook his hand
sat down
made mundane conversation,
staying longer than was polite,
until he awkwardly got up to leave.
When the door shut,
I told you how rude you were.
You smiled that smile and
said, “He didn’t have to leave.”
Then you kissed me
and I had no defense.
after Steve Kowit
Thanks, Steve Kowit and City Works Press for the great book. All proceeds of book sales published by City Works Press go back to the press in order to publish future authors, so please, Slightly Squinting readers, support your local authors. Go to www.cityworkspress.org and order The Gods of Rapture for yourself. Your lover will thank you.
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