Author: frankisemptiness

March 15th, 2024

Yesterday I read some mindless article about an apparent scandal at West Point, my alma mater. I shouldn’t have done that. The whole story was simply annoying. The article featured quotes from Elon Musk, the bazillionaire, and from Jeff Kuhner, some conservative radio show host, and neither of those people had any idea of what they were talking about, which really isn’t that surprising. I doubt that either of them has ever set foot at the United States Military Academy or can even find it on a map.

The whole point of the article was that the folks running the academy removed the phrase “duty, honor, country” from the institution’s mission statement. This outraged a number of commentators who insisted that West Point had gone “woke”. That is ludicrous on the face of it. If there is any organization on the face of the planet that is not woke, it’s USMA. The academy has not jettisoned the phrase “duty, honor, country”. That motto is literally engraved in stone on the campus. More to the point, the motto is engraved on the hearts of its graduates.

When I was a cadet, there was an alternative motto for West Point that was used as a joke. I heard this said about West Point,

“175 years of tradition unhampered by progress.”

Indeed.

I haven’t been back to the school since 1980, so I don’t know what the place is like now, but I can’t even imagine USMA being woke. The institution has this deeply ingrained conservativism that makes The Roman Catholic Church look like a hotbed of radical change. Seriously, just look at the cadet uniforms. Those hark back to the War of 1812, for God’s sake. Nothing there changes unless it has to change.

I was a plebe (freshman) at West Point in 1976, the first year that women were allowed to be cadets. Prior to that, USMA was kind of a monastic community with excessive amounts of testosterone. Then it was all different. For many people the acceptance of female cadets was akin to the Apocalypse. A lot of old grads were convinced that their Hudson Highland Home was going to hell in a handbasket. Yet, somehow, the institution survived and managed to churn out another generation of Army officers. We got over it.

“Duty, Honor, Country” will never not be a part of the culture of West Point. It doesn’t matter of it is in the mission statement. Those words are in the DNA of USMA. Even now, after 44 years, the phrase affects my life. “Duty” is part of who I am, maybe not with regards to the military, but certainly in other ways. I have a sense of duty toward my family, especially now that I am raising our toddler grandson. Even though the notion of “honor” is countercultural and seemingly anachronistic nowadays, it’s important to me. Love of “country” is what moved me to teach a citizenship class for years. I want immigrants to feel at home here.

I am not woke. Neither is West Point.

March 15th, 2024

I have been reading articles about how young men are currently choosing to forego a college education. Actually, the number of men going to four-year colleges and universities has been declining ever since 2011, so this is not a new trend. The authors of these articles see the declining number of male college students as being a crisis for the United States. I’m not sure that it is.

Back when I was in high school, fifty years ago, I made plans to go to college. There was never really any doubt that I would go. It was a given at that time that if a person wanted to get ahead in the world, they had to have a college degree. The only question I had was how I was going to pay for college. My parents had no money, so I would need a loan and/or a scholarship. Somehow, I managed to score an appointment to West Point, so money was no longer a factor. Instead of paying for my education with dollars, I paid for it with six years of my life.

Now, a half century later, the cost of higher education is astronomical, and the time needed to pay back student loans is measured in decades. The extreme price tag attached to a college education would be tolerable if there was some certainty that a graduate would find employment that could make the expenditure of money and effort worthwhile. However, that is not the case. There are young guys with bachelor’s degrees who are slinging coffee at Starbucks. The college degree, by itself, does not open doors like it did a generation ago.

So, young men have to find other paths in life. There are careers available to them that do not require a four-year degree. I am thinking about working in the trades. This country is chronically short of electricians, plumbers, ironworkers, mason, and carpenters. These are usually skilled positions, and they have good pay and benefits. Compensation depends on a number of factors, such as geographical location, union membership, and specialization of skills.

My two sons are both in the trades. Hans, my eldest son, pumps concrete for a living. He operates a pump truck with a 58-meter boom. It’s a job that requires planning skills, mechanical ability, and an intuitive sense of three-dimensional space. It is also physically demanding. My youngest son, Stefan, is in the Ironworkers Union. He is a journeyman and mostly does welding high up on tall buildings. He is also the welding instructor for his union local. He trains the new apprentices.

Hans and Stefan both have excellent pay and good benefits. They have no student debt. On the other hand, they both work their asses off. They often work outside in unpleasant weather, and they put in long hours. They earn their money, every nickel of it.

When Stefan teaches the fresh-faced apprentices how to weld, he also gives them the lowdown on what their career will be like. He explains to all of his students what benefits they can expect as an Ironworker. They are generally impressed by those. Then Stefan asks them some pointed questions.

“Are you afraid of heights? At the jobsites, they will be putting you up on the steel the first week. Do you mind being on top of a beam 100 feet up?”

“Do you have clothes for working outside in cold weather? Do you mind welding when the temperature is zero degrees, not counting the wind chill?”

At that point, some of the apprentices choose another line of work. They want the big money, but they want the pain that goes with it.

Hans and Stefan both have solid work ethics. They expect to be well compensated, but they are willing to work hard for that. Some of their contemporaries do not have a work ethic. These other young men somehow expect to make good money without actually earning it. In fairness, I knew plenty of guys in my generation who also lacked a work ethic. They wound up poor.

There are plenty of jobs out there for young guys who are willing to hustle. They don’t need a fancy degree. They just need courage, ambition, and resilience.

March 13th, 2024

She sat on the stoop of the front porch, watching her little boy ride his scooter down the driveway. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she stared at her son as he rolled toward the street. There is a slight bump in the asphalt where the driveway meets the road. That is his hint to stop the scooter. We don’t get a lot of traffic in our neighborhood, but sometimes drivers don’t notice a three-year-old heading in their direction.

It was late in the afternoon, and it was exceedingly warm for the time of year. A strong wind blew through the branches of the pine tree in the front yard, and our border collie sniffed around in the grass nearby. The sun was getting lower in the west. It looked like it wasn’t quite in the right place. It seemed to be slightly too far to the south, but then it’s only early March, and the spring equinox hasn’t even arrived.

Earlier, the woman had been busy packing a bag, while I had been watching over her son. I had to take her to the hospital. They had a bed waiting for her at 6:00 PM.

The young woman continued to watch her boy race around on the scooter, as he occasionally shouted, “Woohoo!”, or something like that. He would glance back at his mama and say, “Look at me! I’m going fast!”

Not taking her eyes from the boy, she asked me,

“How long do I have to stay away before I can come back?’

I replied, “I don’t know. You can’t live here until we can trust that you won’t have a relapse. Maybe a year.”

She exclaimed, “I’ve been blacklisted from all the sober living houses!”, and then she sobbed.

I told her, “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Take one thing at a time. We have to get to through rehab first. Wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, we’ll make sure that you have time together with him.”

She kept looking at the little guy. She nodded. Her eyes were moist with tears.

Her son stopped riding the scooter, and he ran up to her. As she sat on the step, he threw his arms around her, and hugged her close. There was a trace of a smile on her lips, but the tears didn’t stop.

I looked at my phone. I told her, “We have to get ready to go.”

The little boy asked her, “Where are we going?’

She got up to go to the front door. “I’m going bye-bye.”

He asked, “Am I coming too?’

She smiled at him. “Yes, you’re coming.”

We got into the car. As we drove along the freeway, the boy asked his mom where she was going.

She told him, “I’m going away to live somewhere else.”

That answer did not satisfy him. She tried to explain. He still didn’t understand. That’s okay. I don’t understand either. None of us do.

I pulled up to the entrance to the hospital. She turned to the boy in his car seat and asked him to give her a kiss. He was asleep. So, she bent over toward him, and gave him a kiss instead.

She got out of the car.

She said to me as she walked away, “Thanks for taking me here.”

I replied, “I hope it all goes okay.”

She didn’t answer, and she didn’t look back.

I drove way while the little boy slept.

March 11th, 2024

Asher is asleep in my bed. Asher is three years old, and he generally sleeps with me. I usually go to bed quite early. Asher will barge into my room just after I doze off and shout,

“Grandpa! I want a bottle (of oat milk)!”

I mumble from under the comforter, “I’m not getting up to get you a bottle.”

“But I want a bottle.”

“I’m not getting up.”

There is a pause as Asher stands in the darkness at the edge of the bed, then he says,

“I want to cuddle.”

The bed mattress is thick and high, so I reach over the edge and grab his little hand to pull the boy on to the bed. He clamors aboard.

I ask him, “Do you want to lie on top of the covers or underneath.”

He makes a choice and then I cradle him in my arms. Asher slowly relaxes. His breathing becomes calm and regular. Within minutes the little guy is fast asleep.

I often fall asleep along with him. I wake up hours later with my right hand numb and tingling because his heavy head has been resting on my bicep. I slowly and cautiously slide my arm from underneath his noggin.

Sometimes, Asher sleeps restlessly. He rolls around. He occasionally cries in his sleeps. Sometimes, but not often, he chuckles softly to himself. Amazingly, I have discovered that a toddler can take up an entire Kingsize bed. Sometimes, when he lies on his back spreadeagled, he is absolutely still. I have to place my hand on his chest to find out if he is breathing. Sometimes, I touch his wrist with my forefinger to check for a pulse. He’s alive, but he’s deep in a world I cannot reach.

Asher wakes up at least twice every night. I hear his voice in the darkness.

“Grandpa, carry me.”

“Where are we going?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“I want a bottle.”

I carry him into the kitchen. His head lies heavily on my right shoulder. I make him a bottle. We sit in an armchair and he drinks from it. He falls asleep. After several minutes, I rise up and carry him back to bed. The cycle begins anew.

Why does Asher sleep with me? I don’t know. We have much sadness and anxiety in our house. I know that he can sense that. Perhaps, he feels safe with me. Perhaps, I can ease his mind. I don’t know.

All I know is that he wants to be with me, at least at night.

March 3rd, 2024

Stefan came to visit us today. Stefan is our youngest son. He’s tall and muscular. His arms are completely covered with animal tattoos. He has a menagerie drawn with multicolored ink on his biceps and forearms. He sports a short reddish beard and moustache. He shaves his head. He gives people the impression that he is not a man to mess with, and that is accurate. Stefan does not suffer fools gladly.

Our son is a journeyman in the Ironworkers Union. He belongs to a macho culture, one that is perhaps even more so than the military. He is currently the welding instructor for his local, which is impressive seeing as he is only thirty years old. Generally, an older, more experienced member of the union would hold that position. However, he was selected to teach the fresh-faced new apprentices. When he isn’t teaching, Stefan is working at jobsites. Lately, he’s been working on a new high rise that is going up on the Milwaukee lakefront. He’s been working on the Couture.

When he stopped at the house, he talked to me about the project he is going to start tomorrow at that construction site. He is going be working with a crew to dismantle the tower crane that has been used to build the structure. This is a big deal for him. It is the tallest crane in Wisconsin, and this is a type of work he has never done before.

The Couture is 44 stories high. The yellow crane in the foreground of the picture is taller than the building. That tower crane is what Stefan, and the other Ironworkers, will take apart piece by piece. They will be walking on the crane as they dismantle it. Stefan tried to explain the process to me, and he sent me a video to watch. It seems very sketchy. The Ironworkers will remove sections of the tower, starting at the top just under the boom, and then, one by one, take off each section below the first piece to be removed. Essentially, the crane will collapse upon itself in slow motion. This will take days to accomplish. The last thing to be dismantled will be the boom itself.

Stefan is both excited and terrified by the project. He told me how nervous he was, but he also made it clear that he wanted to do it. He will get massive overtime by participating in this project, but he could get overtime in a number of other ways. No, he wants to be part of this particular mission.

I asked him why.

He told me, “It isn’t often that you ever get to take down a crane like this. I will get to say I did it. It will keep me from getting shit from these other guys.”

I asked him, “You get shit from the other guys?”

He replied, “I’m a teacher. Guys go at me because they think the grass is greener where I am. They don’t realize that I have to water the fucking grass every day to keep it green.”

He went on, “Very few guys ever do something like this. It takes fucking enormous balls to go up the crane and tear it down.”

“So, you’re anxious about this job?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway?”

“Fuck yeah.”

I smiled to myself.

That’s my boy.

February 29th, 2024

I go to a lot of libraries. Mostly, I go to them with my toddler grandson, Asher. Especially in winter, when the weather is nasty outside, a library can be an oasis for a little person who is getting cabin fever. Libraries have changed over the years. They are more child-friendly than they were when I was a kid. There are many more activities for young ones in the children’s library nowadays. Sure, there are still plenty of books to read, but there are also games to play. And there are story times. The story times are the big draw.

Asher and I go to a different library each day. Every library has a story time that is a bit different from the others. There are some commonalities. Every story time involves reading a book or two. All of them have some type of physical activity to get the kids moving. Often there is an effort to slip in some kind of academic instruction. Maybe, the story has something to do with letters or numbers or shapes or colors. I think any child who goes to a story time will learn something, without any specific educational goal. Trying to teach a three-year-old a skill that might help later in school is mostly a sop to the parents and caregivers.

Depending on the library, there can be different emphases and styles. On Tuesdays, Asher and I go to the Islamic Resource Center. It has the largest collection of books about Islam in the state of Wisconsin, and it also has a decent children’s library. Story time there is usually an intimate gathering, with maybe half a dozen kids. Ms. Jenny generally reads two books to the children. The first is a story about a Muslim child. That makes sense considering that most of the audience is Muslim. Almost all the moms there are wearing hijabs. Asher isn’t Muslim. Nor am I. However, we like the stories anyway. A story, a good story, can have strong cultural connotations, but the story also transcends the culture. A classic story, like a centuries’ old fairy tale, is universal and can strike a chord in the soul of any child regardless of their background.

Ms. Emma at the Oak Creek library reads from a book too. We saw her yesterday. She, like Ms. Jenny, incorporates music into her presentation. She uses a stuffed animal, Opal the Owl, to help explain things to the kids. She likes to show some things on a screen, like song lyrics. I’m not a fan of having Asher look at a screen more than absolutely necessary, but that is how things are in our day and age. Both Ms. Emma and Ms. Jenny get the children involved. They do a good job.

Today we went to the Greenfield library to listen to Mr. Mark. Mr. Mark has a very different style than Ms. Jenny and Ms. Emma. Ms. Jenny and Ms. Emma read from the book and show the pictures to the children as they read. Mr. Mark has the story memorized. He stands in front of the kids and tells the story with his voice, face, and body. He shouts or whispers. He smiles or grimaces. He waves his arms and stomps on the floor. He is the story. Today he told the children a Vietnamese folk tale about a toad and some other animals who went to the Jade Emperor to end a worldwide drought. Mr. Mark asked the kids to croak like toads. He asked them to roar like tigers. He asked them if they could thunder like the god of lightning. Asher laid on his belly and watched and listened to this myth from long ago. Asher was entranced.

Not everyone can tell a good story. Storytelling is an art, just like painting or music. In traditional cultures, storytellers are admired and respected. These men and women pass down the history and values of their people. As I listened to Mr. Mark, I could imagine him standing in front of a fire at night, surrounded by children. He is follower of an age-old tradition. He is the spiritual descendent of shamans.

A true storyteller sucks the listener into the tale. A child who listens to a good story told be a gifted speaker will learn things, but not about numbers or letters. A story that touches the heart is not like a lesson plan or a sermon. It is more than that. The child will learn about courage and loyalty and kindness, and not even realizes that he or she is learning those things. The child just falls in love with the story, and that is enough.

March 6th, 2024

Years ago, the pastor at our church gave a homily in which he mentioned addictions. The priest, Father Aufdermauer, stated that an addict is trying to fill a hole in his soul with drugs and other material things. However, because the longing their soul is insatiable, it can only be filled by something or someone that is infinite, which is by definition, God.

At the time, I thought that insight was profound. It sounded simple and truthful. Now, after having had a couple more decades of life experiences, I think his explanation was a bit simplistic. I don’t mean that our pastor was wrong. I mean that the issue is more complicated.

A few weeks ago, I had coffee with a friend of mine. He is a retired physician, and we met at a Bible study a long time ago. He made the comment that all people are addicts in some way. The main question is: “What are you addicted to?” The follow up question is: “Is the addiction harmful, and can it be changed to something more positive?”

My friend’s observation is actually very Buddhist in a way. In Zen, a great deal of emphasis is placed on detachment. Attachment to people or things is what causes unhappiness. For an individual to get off the turning wheel of suffering requires that they are not attached, or addicted, to anything, including ideas. We tend to look at the obvious and gross forms of addiction: drugs, booze, gambling, sex, whatever. Ideas and beliefs are also hooks.

There are many rehab programs to help people to deal with destructive addictions. These recovery programs generally focus on the most harmful attachment: maybe alcohol or smack. Other addictions are tolerated or actively encouraged. It is not unusual to see a group of people standing outside of a building and smoking just before a 12-step meeting starts. Coffee always flows freely at these meetings. Hard drugs are considered to be bad. Nicotine and caffeine, not so much.

It seems that at these meetings the goal is to shift the addiction from whatever is causing the person serious problems to an attachment to a “higher power”. Sometimes, having the addict hook up with God works splendidly. Sometimes it doesn’t. Is the individual connecting with a higher power, or is that person simply listening to the voices in their head? Has the person only found a more socially acceptable drug? Is it just a new idol? If you worship something or someone, you’re addicted to that thing or that person. It doesn’t matter if it’s heroin or Jesus.

Meister Eckhart, the 13th century priest and mystic, once prayed,

“God, rid me of God.”

That’s a rather enigmatic prayer, but a valid one.

Meister Eckhart wasn’t trying to literally free himself from God. He was trying to get free of his notions about God. He wanted God to clear away his illusions, so he could see the truth. Since God is infinite, and humans are not, we can’t ever see all the aspects of the Divine. That’s okay. We are drinking from a bottomless well. We don’t need all the answers. The joy is in the search.

How does a person know if they are addicted to God, or to a mental construct? There is a litmus test in the real world. If my relationship with God makes me angry, resentful, and bigoted, then I am probably hooked up with an idol of my own making. If my attachment makes me humble, generous, and tolerant, then I’m on the right track.

I’m going to be an addict regardless of what I do. I might as well get hooked on something good.

February 20th, 2024

“Dad. Hey Dad.”

Those words slipped into a dream I was having. I couldn’t match the words with the voice of anyone in the dream. Then I heard them again, a bit more insistent.

“Dad. Hey Dad!”

I suddenly became aware that the words were coming from outside of the dream. I woke up with a start and looked toward the open bedroom door.

There was a faint light in the hallway from the solatube in the ceiling. The silhouette of my youngest son was in the doorway. This caused some initial confusion in my mind.

Stefan immediately began to speak as I started to get up. He said,

“I’m sorry to wake you up, but I need the key to the Corolla. I got a job starting at 6:00, and I forgot to take my work stuff out of the back seat. If you give me the key, I’ll grab my shit and go.”

I had trouble understanding what was happening. I was trying to mesh the jagged remnants of a dream with pieces of a new reality, and it wasn’t going well. I vaguely remembered that Stefan had borrowed the Toyota for a few days while his truck was in the shop. I also remembered that he had brought it back to our house during the previous afternoon. I then remembered that Stefan had a house key, which explained why he was in my bedroom.

I stumbled to my feet and asked him,

“What time is it?”

“10:30.”

I had been sleeping for maybe two hours when he came to the house. Everyone else was still asleep. I preferred to keep it that way, as did Stefan.

I found my pants and pulled the car keys out of right pocket. I handed them to Stefan. I became aware that I needed to piss.

Stefan was very apologetic. He quickly told me,

“Thanks. I’ll get my tools and be on my way. I’ll leave the keys on the kitchen counter. Sorry about the night terrors.”

He walked away. I heard the front door open and close. I then realized that I was standing there holding my pants, and that I still needed to piss.

Eventually, I laid down again. I was no longer sleepy. I thought about what Stefan had said about night terrors. It’s true that I had been abruptly awakened, but that did not qualify as night terrors. Oh no, night terrors are a whole different animal. That much I know.

A few nights after that, my wife got me up. She was not nearly as gentle as Stefan.

“WAKE UP! You’re screaming in your sleep again! You’ll wake up Asher!”

I woke up. Karin was standing at the edge of the bed. She sounded annoyed.

She asked me, “Are you okay?”

I mumbled, “Yeah.”

She didn’t hear me. She asked again, “Are you okay?”

I said a bit more loudly, “Yeah.”

She stated, “You were dreaming again. You almost woke up Asher.”

Asher is our three-year-old grandson.

I replied faintly, “Okay”.

Karin left the bedroom.

I laid back on the pillow. I had just participated in night terrors again. It’s really hard to describe them, because I don’t remember much of the experience. Night terrors are like virtual reality gone bad. The dreams are absolutely terrifying and real while I am inside of them. Usually, all I can recall is that I was in a life-or-death struggle with some amorphous, dark force, something blacker than black and utterly evil.

As I laid in the bed after Karin left me, I felt totally drained. The bed cover was thrown all around me. My throat hurt from screaming. My heart was pounding way too fast. All my muscles were still tense. There was adrenaline pulsing through my body. I was wide awake.

My wife is wary when she tries to wake me up from night terrors. While in the dream, I flail about with my arms and legs, so she keeps a safe distance away. I am in the fight-or-flight mode, and in the past, she has been hurt trying to rouse me. I’ve seen the bruises. Her current technique is to yell at me until I come back from the Matrix. It works.

I am loud during night terrors. My daughter told me,

“When you dream, you scream things like: ‘I’ll fucking kill you, you cocksucker!’ It’s pretty intense.”

Indeed.

Night terrors leave a bitter aftertaste. Sometimes, my throat aches and my muscles hurt the next day. I feel like I have been in a street fight, and actually I have. My mind has been in a psychic battle royale, and my body went along for the ride.

I am scared after night terrors. It takes a long time to fall asleep again. I don’t want to go back to sleep, because the I don’t know if the demon is still lurking in my unconscious. I never have repeat performances during the same night, but I am still on edge.

I don’t know what causes my night terrors. I don’t think anyone knows. There are no warning signs. The episodes appear to be completely random, which increases the fear factor. They just happen, and they have been happening for years.

Stefan startled me during the night, but that wasn’t too scary. Night terrors are scary. Really scary.

February 24th

This is a letter to the editor from me to The Dallas Morning News. It was published this morning. It concerns Texas AG Paxton’s suit to shut down Annunciation House in El Paso. Annunciation House has been helping migrants for almost fifty years.

“I had the opportunity to spend several days at Annunciation House in El Paso back in 2019. I help with migrants in my home state of Wisconsin, and I wanted to learn about the situation on the border. I was deeply impressed with the work performed by the volunteers at Annunciation House. They were selfless and compassionate toward the people who came to them for assistance. I learned a great deal during my visit to the shelter. The volunteers live the Gospel.

I am shocked and appalled that Attorney General Ken Paxton wants to shut Annunciation House down. That is both cruel and unnecessary. His actions will cause enormous suffering among people who just want to be part of our great country.”

February 20th, 2024

We arrived in the lobby outside of the courtroom half an hour early. We were there for the woman’s third court appearance. The young woman expected to meet up with her newly appointed lawyer from the public defender’s office before the hearing started. She had not yet met the lawyer, and they had business to discuss. We waited and waited. Finally, the woman looked at the time on her phone and asked me,

“Should we just go in?”

I nodded.

We walked into the courtroom and the young woman checked in with the bailiff. We waited for the public defender to come. She didn’t. No reason was given for the lawyer’s absence. The court commissioner called the woman’s name. She came forward. The commissioner set up a preliminary hearing for March 4th. The woman never had the chance to enter a plea. Nothing changed. Nothing was resolved. Basically, she was told to come back in three weeks and try again.

The whole process took less than half an hour. As we exited the courtroom, I said,

“We didn’t get anything done in there.”

She replied by saying, “Well, at least I wasn’t sitting in jail waiting for it.”

True.

The young woman is not in custody. She is out on a signature bond, at least for another three weeks. She was in custody for a week back in December. That was unpleasant. Some people sit in jail until they get to see a judge, and that can take weeks or even months. The young woman had been with other women while in jail. She told me that they were there mostly because “they hit somebody”. I found that to be interesting, considering that this woman is also accused of a violent crime. Why is she free and other women are not?

I don’t know the answer to that. There seems to be a certain amount of randomness in our judicial system. It might be that other women were repeat offenders or flight risks. It might also have to do with the fact that some people cannot come up with the bail money. That means that these folks are incarcerated prior to their hearing just because they are poor.

Even though the young woman is on the outside of a jail cell, it does not mean that things are all good. At some point in the future, the hammer will fall. We just don’t know when or how. It’s not like when we walk into a courtroom for the fourth time, the attorney for the State of Wisconsin will just shrug and say,

“You know, we thought about it, and we are just going to drop the battery charge. Go on home. Have a nice day. ”

No, that’s not going to happen. In some as yet unknown way, the woman’s life will be turned upside down. This slow and arduous process is subtle form of torture. She cannot make any plans for the future. Neither can the other people in her life. Everything is tentative, and that causes enormous anxiety. She has this doom hanging over her head, even though she not incarcerated. She is free, but not really. This is American justice at work.

The young woman has a little boy in her life. Her son adores her. If she goes to prison, she will be temporarily absent and that will hurt the lad. Even when she was only in jail for a week, her boy asked me,

“Where is mama? When is she coming home? Why isn’t she here?”

I had no answer that would have made sense to him. I had no answer that even makes sense to me.

I have often heard the statement, “Play stupid games. Get stupid prizes.” That’s true. If someone commits a crime, they should be punished. The problem is that there is always collateral damage. Innocent people suffer along with the offender. If this young woman does time, her son will be traumatized. That is guaranteed. He did nothing wrong, but he will be hurt.

I don’t know what the final verdict will be. I don’t know what is in the future of this young woman. All I know is whatever happens will affect both me and a three-year-old boy.