Author: frankisemptiness

February 4th, 2020

“My ACTIONS should draw people to the God I serve, not my SALES PITCH. If people want what I have, they’ll ask me how to get it. If not, that’s their business.”
― Stefne Miller

“I want to be where there are out and out pagans.”
― St. Francis Xavier

I have a friend who is a missionary. Well, I think that he is still a friend, but it’s hard to tell. I am almost certain that I have offended him, and he may have finally given up on me. In any case, he is an Evangelical, and he has been in Germany for the last ten years. He is absolutely convinced that he is doing the Lord’s work there. I am not so sure.

For a decade now, my friend has been telling anybody who cares to listen about his ministry in Germany. I finally wrote to him last week and said that I cannot make any sense of his work. I told him that I don’t see how his activities relate to Christianity at all. He seems to be constantly busy, but I can’t comprehend how all this busyness brings God into the lives of other people. Basically, I called into question his entire career path, and I do not expect that he appreciated that.

I just don’t get it.

When my friend moved to Bonn, it was under the auspices of a large missionary organization. He quickly started a blog, and sent out monthly updates on his life overseas. The posts read like a travelogue. He always seemed to be going to beautiful, exotic places in Europe for seminars, conferences, and workshops. I was never able to figure out what he actually did. All I know for certain is that at the end of each post, he would ask for prayers…and money. I stopped reading the posts. They were redundant. I stopped sending him money. I still send prayers on occasion.

So, what is he really trying to do? His standard answer to that question is that he bringing the Gospel to a people who “have forgotten that they have forgotten about God”. What the hell does that mean? How is he bringing the Gospel? By going to an endless succession of strategic planning sessions? By attending Evangelical lovefests? What is he actually doing for anybody?

I know some other missionaries. I met Father Peter and Sister Betty in Ciudad Juarez back in October. They live in Anapra, one of the poorest and most dangerous neighborhoods in Juarez. They have been in Mexico since 1995, living among the people, as members of that poverty-stricken community. These two elderly missionaries have the same standard of living as the folks that they help. They reside in a tiny house, and their material needs are minimal. They share whatever they have. They do whatever they can to support their neighbors, especially the women. Sister Betty and Father Peter never asked anybody for money while I was with them. I don’t know where they get their financial support, but somehow they make do.

I totally admire those people. They are bringing Jesus to the residents of Anapra by being Jesus to them, not just by talking about Jesus.

My friend lives a first world lifestyle in a first world country. I am sure that he makes some sacrifices. After all, he is away from his loved ones most of the time. However, he isn’t making sacrifices like Peter and Betty. I know that my friend has his struggles. He has some serious health issues, but he also has access to good health care. He has access to decent food and clean water. He is not in danger of being shot down on the street. My friend went from a comfortable way of life in America to another comfortable way of life in Germany. Is that how missionaries are supposed to live?

My friend has interacted with immigrants in Germany, in particular the Kurds. I give him credit for that. Maybe he has performed countless acts of compassion during his decade in Germany, actions that I don’t know anything about. He has seldom, if ever, talked about doing simple acts of kindness. His emphasis is always on major events, the big time.

Other missionaries I know talk about what they have learned from the people they have met. I am not sure that my friend has learned much from the locals. He has always been interested in teaching about Jesus. It has always felt to me like he is doing other people a favor by just being there. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he has learned many things from the people he’s met. I don’t know.

My friend is often asking for money. That is a standard topic in his posts and his conversations. Does it have to be that way? There is a biblical alternative. In the Acts of the Apostles, St. Paul pays his own way. He works as a tentmaker, and he never ask for support from anyone during his journeys around the eastern Mediterranean. Paul works for a living. That’s an interesting concept.

I have no problem with people going to faraway places to serve the needs of others, whether those needs are material or spiritual. More power to them. I am happy to help them.

I just want it to be real.

 

 

 

 

February 4th, 2020

“I screwed up.”

I hate it when she says that.

I was driving the young woman back home after her workout session at the gym. Against my better judgment, I asked,”

“How so?”

“I relapsed on Thursday night.”

“How so?”

She was near tears. “I got high on dextromethorphan.”

“You got high on what?”

“Dextromethorphan. It’s in cough medicine.”

“Oh.”

“But I didn’t drink!”

Then she went on, “I’m trying to do the twelve-step thing and be honest! I don’t like this!”

It was quiet for a minute.

She asked, “Should I tell my mom?”

I replied, “You might want to wait on that. Call your sponsor, and ask her what to do. She would know who you should tell, and when.”

Then I added, “I’m not saying anything.”

The girl called her sponsor, and then told her mother what she told me. The response was surprisingly subdued.

Eventually, she also told her therapist and her parole officer. The PO didn’t seem terribly concerned. The therapist told the young woman to start going to weekly group therapy meetings, in addition to her weekly private therapy sessions. That sounds like a good idea, except for the fact that I have to get her to these sessions. The girl has no drivers license (four drunk driving convictions will do that), so I have to be her chauffeur.

She asked me, “Are you mad about this?”

I told her, “No.”

I’m not mad. I’m a bit frustrated perhaps, but I am glad that she fessed up to what she did, and that she is taking the necessary steps to avoid it happening again. That is a big step for her, and it is something new in my experience. I am not very worried about the relapse. Everybody relapses into bad habits at some point. It’s part of the human condition. We all fall down, and then we get up. We fall down again, and then get up again.

It is essential to look at the big picture. How is this young woman functioning overall, now that she has been out of prison for a month?

She is doing pretty well. She goes to twelve-step meetings every day. She works out at the gym every day. She calls her sponsor every day. She studies each day. She reaches out to friends, both new and old. It looks like she may have job in a couple weeks. She expects to be working as a barista at a new coffee shop in the local area. The owner is willing to display and sell the girl’s artwork.

The young woman is starting to draw and paint again. This is huge. She has always been a phenomenal artist. She has a gift for finding the best color, perspective, and proportion. She has an intuitive feel for how things should look. The girl’s emotions are visible in her work, sometimes in subtle ways. For years, she has avoided her pencils, pens, and brushes. Now her Muse has returned, and the images are beginning to flow.

Healing takes time, and it happens in its own way. There is both growth and failure. Maybe failure is just a necessary part of growth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 28th, 2020

Last October, I went with thirteen other people to El Paso/Ciudad Juarez to learn about the struggles of migrants and asylum seekers on the southern border. It was an intense period for everybody in our group. We participated in a five day immersion program, and we all came out different. It changed us.

Now, we have had time to sort through our feelings. Some of us have put together a very brief video of our experience. I generally do not put videos on this blog. However, this one rocks.

We are all part of the Catholic Coaltion for Migrants and Refugees, in case you care.

This is the link to the video.

Borders by Frank Pauc

January 27th, 2020

Last Friday our congressman came to town and held a one-hour-long listening session at the Oak Creek City Hall. I attended the meeting. I found it curious that the gathering was called a “listening session”. At times, it was hard to tell if anybody was actually listening.

Everybody in that room had come to talk, including Representative Steil. Congressman Steil is a first term Republican. He was elected in 2018 to take over Paul Ryan’s old district. I have had a bit of face-to-face interaction with the congressman during the past year. Steil is young and ambitious. His whole goal at this point is to get re-elected. He is in favor of veterans, puppy dogs, and apple pie. Steil does his best to steer away from controversial issues. He is perhaps wise to do so.

Although I disagree with the congressman on many issues, I still like him. Of course, liking him does not mean that I would ever vote for him, but he seems to be a decent guy. He tried to set the tone for the meeting by saying,

“Things in Wisconsin are a lot different than in Washington. People here know how to ‘disagree without being disagreeable’. Right?”

I’m not so sure about that. The guy in the front row with the MAGA cap made me a little concerned about how this session was going to go. People who show up for listening sessions or town hall meetings tend to be very passionate about a particular topic, otherwise they wouldn’t bother to show up. The challenge for Steil was to get these people to participate in the discussion without it turning into a free-for-all. I could tell that it was going to be a struggle.

People who show up for a listening session also tend to be old. I am certain that many of the folks in the room were retired, like me. The meeting was held in the middle of a workday, so who else would have been able to be there? The demographics tend to skew the discussion. The people at the meeting were much more interested in Medicare, Social Security, and the price of prescription drugs than members of the general public. It would have been interesting to have had more young people in attendance.

Steil spent the first twenty minutes of the hour long session talking about himself. He’s running for re-election, and it was his chance to blow his own horn. He spoke about his successes at bipartisan legislation. Most of the bills he supported involved safe topics. We didn’t hear about any bold initiatives. As a freshman congressman from a swing district, he won’t try anything risky. He kept saying that it will be difficult to pass any bills until after the November election. That means nothing will get done until next year.

Steil opened the floor for questions and comments. The congressman called on people to speak. There were probably forty or more people at the meeting, each of them wanting to give an opinion. That included me. With the time remaining, it was unlikely that more than ten persons would be able to say anything. The atmosphere was tense.

The first person called by Steil wanted to talk about climate change. The citizen cited studies by the Pentagon indicating that climate change was a threat to the national security. When he was finished speaking, Steil said,

“I believe that climate change is real.”

That blew me away. I was unaware that there were any Republicans that accepted climate change.

Then the conversation got murky. When asked about what we should do about climate change, the congressman fell back on saying that technological innovations driven by the free market would fix it all. He also stated that the United States should not make efforts to curb emissions until the other polluters (e.g. India and China) did the same. In short, Steil told us that the U.S. government should do nothing.

The conversations went back and forth. People raged and raved about student loan debt. Steil’s answer to the problem was that students ought to get through college in a shorter period of time, because then they would have less debt. Seriously, he said this.

One young man (there was a young man there) pushed Steil hard about his vote against the impeachment of Donald Trump. The congressman obviously wanted to avoid this discussion, but I think that Steil knew it was coming.

Steil said, “I analyzed the documents and I did not find an impeachable offense.”

End of story.

Honestly, what else would our representative have said? The man who asked the question already knew the answer. The questioner just wanted to make Steil squirm.

Later in the melee, an older gentleman asked Steil about the building of a new Post Office annex in Oak Creek. This new construction was very offensive to this citizen. The man was clearly upset, and he told Steil, in no uncertain terms, that the congressman had not done jack shit to prevent its development.

Steil was dumbfounded. Think for a moment: Steil needs to be concerned about various issues throughout southeastern Wisconsin. That is impossible, even for a man with people who work for him. The citizen who ripped on our elected official caught Steil off guard. Steil did not like that.

The congressman stammered. He had no good answers, but he promised to get back to his angry constituant. That didn’t really help. Steil momentarily looked clueless, and that is never a good thing for a politician.

The session ended with many issues unadressed. I think it is always like that.

I would never want Steil’s job. I could never do it. I admire him because he is at least trying to do the right thing. I find that to be very impressive.

This is what democracy looks like, and it truly a mess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 26th, 2020

As I age, I get to go to more funerals. That’s part of the deal with getting old. Mortuaries usually look very proper, and they try to be comforting in a quite, conservative sort of way. Every funeral home is basically a Motel 6 for the dead: each place looks like all the others, and nobody stays in a room for very long.

I went to a funeral yesterday. It felt awkward, but then I think most funerals feel awkward. This one was called a “memorial service”. I am not quite sure what the difference is between a “funeral” and “memorial service”, but apparently there is one.

The memorial service was for Rick. Rick was a friend of mine, although to this day, I’m not sure why. We really didn’t have that much in common. Rick was thirteen years older than me, and his political views were radically different than mine. We would argue fiercely at times, but we were always able to maintain a level of mutual respect and affection. It is rare for people to do that, especially now. I admired Rick for his ability to listen.

We had some things in common. Both of us had been Army officers. Rick had been an Armor platoon leader during the Vietnam era. I was/am a West Point graduate, and I was the operations officer for a helicopter company during the 1980’s. We could talk about the Army. We understood each that way. We both had strong connections with Germany. Rick studied German, and he sponsored German business students when they came to visit the United States. I lived in Germany for three years, courtesy of the U.S. Army, and I married my German wife there. We both participated in a German Bible study group for at least a decade. That brought us closer together.

During the last couple years, Rick suffered mightily from Parkinson’s disease. I visited him a couple times in the local VA hospital. I was hard to see him hurting so badly, but I’m glad that I was there with him, at least for a little while.

I met Rick’s widow, Teri, at the memorial service. She looked a bit rough, but then how else could she look? I also spoke with Rick’s son, Ricky. Ricky was going to give part of the eulogy.

I told him, “That’s going to be hard.”

He nodded and said, “Yes, I know, but I want to do it.”

I shook his hand and said, “Good for you.”

There were several speakers at the funeral. Most of them were classmates of Rick from when he was a student/ROTC cadet at Ripon College back in the early 1960’s. They all talked about “the good old days” at school. That weirded me out. Maybe it shouldn’t have. After all, most West Pointers usually have a deep nostalgia for their alma mater. I don’t. That shit is over and done. It is difficult for me to understand how people can still hark back to their days as students after forty or fifty years have gone by. I just don’t get it.

Ricky gave his portion of the eulogy at the end. He repeatedly choked up when talking about his father. He did well. His love and his grief showed through everything. I was impressed.

At the end of the service there was a military flag salute and the playing of “Taps”. Two Army sergeants in their dress blue uniforms came into the room to present Teri with an American flag. They moved in a robotic manner, and they took their time unfolding and refolding the flag. It was all part of a ritual, and it was meant to be an honor for Rick and his family. At the end of the ceremony, one of the soldiers bent down toward Teri and said,

“On behalf of the President, and the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept the gift of this flag.”

She accepted the flag.

I cannot imagine this happening when I die. For one thing, Karin, my wife, is a lifelong pacifist, and she would be shocked and offended by the entire process. I plan to make it abundantly clear to her that I don’t want it either. I was a soldier, but I am not one any more.

Then the funeral home folks played a recording of “Taps”. It is a beautiful piece of music that can be deeply moving. However, it has a limited appeal.

I don’t want that either.

 

 

 

January 22nd, 2020

“One day at a time, sweet Jesus. Whoever wrote that one hadn’t a clue. A day is a fuckin’ eternity”
― Roddy Doyle, Paula Spencer

Alcoholism.

Drug addiction.

All that bad shit.

And here we are.

I took the young woman to a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous yesterday. I take her to a meeting almost every day. I dropped her off at a small Lutheran church in our hometown. The meetings generally last for an hour. I came back for her, and I waited in the parking lot for her group to finish. I stared at the church. I know it well.

I went to AA meetings there twenty-eight years ago.

Twenty-eight years ago I was a mess, an even bigger mess than I am now. I was drinking all the time, and I was out of control. My wife wanted to leave me. Things were bad.

I asked one of my uncles to take me to AA meetings. He did. He had started going to them back n 1985, and he has been sober ever since. I guess he qualifies as a success story, but I’ll get back to that topic some other time. In any case, I went meetings at least three times a week, every week, for about six months. I was involved with three or four different groups. I really tried to follow the program. I wanted to change my life.

I got a sponsor. A sponsor like a mentor in AA. This a person who has a history of sobriety, and is willing to guide a newbie along that same path. Choosing a sponsor requires a high level of courage and trust on the part of the person who is just starting to get sober. Basically, the person who is just beginning with AA puts his or her life into the hands of a totally stranger. The sponsor can and will order their protege to do certain things. In return, the sponsor promises to be there to help their AA apprentice when things go bad, and things invariably do go bad.

Things went bad for me. I was working third shift at a trucking company, running a complicated dock operation all on my own. It was a remarkably stressful job, and I slept poorly. Karin and I had two small children at home. Karin’s parents came to visit us from Germany, and they brought along Karin’s young niece. This should have been a thoroughly pleasant experience, but it wasn’t.

Remember that this is back in 1992. This all occurred when people only had landline phones. There was no caller ID. It happened that the niece’s mother kept calling to check on her little girl. The woman called from Germany every five minutes for hours on end. We could have unplugged the phone, but I had to be available if somebody from work wanted to contact me. So I listened to the phone ring at all hours of the day and night. I couldn’t sleep, and I was ready to have a meltdown.

My sponsor was a guy who had been sober for ten years or so. He was a very active in one of the AA groups that I attended. He was a take charge kind of guy. He was kind of flashy; he liked his bling. I asked him to be my sponsor. He agreed and he immediately gave me a set of rules to follow. He made it clear that he was a busy man, and that he wasn’t going to babysit me. He told me to call him if I was in trouble, but only to call him when I was sober. He didn’t want to risk his own sobriety by talking on the phone with a drunk. I said okay. I only called him one time, and that was when I was in trouble.

I finally called my sponsor after the endless phone calls from a psychotic mother in Germany got to be too much for me to handle. I told him what was happening. I can remember his response as if he had spoken to me just yesterday. He sighed and said,

“You know, I don’t think we are good match. I can’t really help you. You need to find somebody else.”

Then he hung up on me.

I went to meetings. I remember going to three of them in a row. I told my story at each of the meetings, and at each of them somebody pulled me aside and told me that my problem was not an appropriate topic for the group. They wanted to talk about alcohol, and only alcohol. I said that all this stress was going to end my sobriety. I was told to tell my sponsor about my issue. I replied that I no longer had one. I was told to find another.

One person actually laughed and told me, “Looks like you need another meeting!”

Fuck all you guys.

I had been led to believe that the people in the AA meetings cared about me. I was led to believe that the people in these groups were somehow more spiritually advanced than the general population. I believed that these people were there for me.

I was wrong.

The people at AA meetings were just people like everyone else. They were no better and no worse. A few folks really did care about me, and I am grateful to them. Most of the people were friendly enough, but they were wrapped up in their own problems as much as I was wrapped up in mine. We had no real connection. We had no real relationship. They were not my friends, not at all.

AA is founded on trust. A person can only work the program if they can trust the other people there. That is one reason the it is called “Alcoholics Anonymous”. The Anonymous part is there to make people feel safe. I didn’t feel safe any more at the meetings, and I did not trust anybody any more. I felt betrayed, and I still feel that way. It was like looking behind the curtain and finding out that the Wizard of Oz was just another schlep like me.

AA obviously works for a lot of people. I am praying that it works for the young woman I know. I want her to get healthy and stay healthy. At this point, I will go along with anything she wants to do, as long as it saves her life.

I have often thought about going into a meeting with her. I have concluded that would be a bad idea. First of all, she would not want me to be in the same room with her. More importantly, I would not be helpful to anyone there. I don’t believe in the program, and I would say so. AA has some of the aspects of a cult. You never question the program. Ever. You buy the entire package or you leave.

I left a long time ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 20th, 2020

It’s been exactly two weeks since the girl got out of prison. It seems like a helluva lot longer than that. I knew beforehand that she would rock my world. That was a given. I just didn’t know how, or when, or why.

That first Monday was brutal. It started with me picking the young woman up at Ellsworth Prison at 7:00 AM. Eight hours later she relapsed. Catastrophic failure. Then there was a series of frantic phone calls to her parole officer, a trip to an ER, and general chaos. We both made it through that day, although I honestly don’t know how we did it. It all ended with Dove bars and Netflix. It could have been much worse.

I think that we were both a bit traumatized for the next few days. We functioned, sort of. On Thursday, Butch, the PO, came to our house with his loyal assistant to do a “home visit”. That went okay. Being a veteran, I established a little bit of credibility with Mr. Butcher.

Time goes on. Because my wife is away, it’s just me taking care of the girl that we love. We are slowly establishing a new relationship. This all takes time.

The last few days have been much better. The young woman has set up a plan to get her life together. She is actively doing things to change her situation. She works out at the gym. She goes everyday to 12-step meetings. She sees a therapist. The young woman goes out with sober friends. She wants to do all the right things. She wants to live. 

The girl told me, “I want to get my head straight before I start looking for a job. I want my mental health stuff to be set up first.”

I wholeheartedly concur with that. We have been spinning together in this dance for over a decade now. Pushing her too hard and too early guarantees failure. This young woman has been though a lot, more than most other humans. She needs to work hard on rebuilding her life, but she also needs to rest when it is necessary. We have time.

I was just re-reading Dracula from Bram Stoker. That book is all about addiction and madness and redemption. It was the right to time to read it again.

Right now, my life revolves around her life. My schedule is her schedule. It won’t be like that forever, but it is now. This is a life and death struggle. I don’t exaggerate. She needs me now. Later, if there is a later, maybe not so much. This young woman needs to heal. She has deep wounds, and they are physical, emotional, and spiritual. Our house is her field hospital for now.

How does this all end? I have no idea. In a way, it doesn’t matter. The ending is not my concern. The girl’s destiny is up to God, not me.

I can only help.

 

 

 

 

January 18th, 2020

The week before Christmas, a few of us met at Andrea’s house for a party. It was Liz’s idea, and it was a good one. Everybody there was from our old German Bible study, so the gathering was about as wild as an AA meeting. I didn’t mind. I just wanted to hang out for a while and talk. Liz wanted us all to sing German Christmas carols. We did so, with some reluctance. Honestly, I have never been to a Christmas party where people actually wanted to sing carols. We did so out of a skewed sense of Teutonic duty, and a feeling of gratitude toward Liz.

Once the out-of-tune caroling was done,  we sat around and snacked for a while. I sat at the living room table with Ed and Rob. They are both very interesting men, so perhaps I should describe them in more detail.

Rob is in some ways a modern Renaissance man. Rob is brilliant, and he has an interest in almost everything. He was trained as an engineer, and then he became a physician. He just retired from his job as an emergency room doctor at the local VA hospital. Rob hates retirement, with a passion. I don’t really understand that. Retirement is a gift from God. Seriously. Most of the people on this planet will never retire. They will work until they die. Those of us who are retired owe the rest of the world something of our lives. We, few though that we are, have the time and money and health to make a small difference in the world. We have been given a second chance in life. So, I don’t really get why Rob is so averse to his current situation. I would have thought that he would be rejoicing in his new status.

Ed is a wonderful man. He is at least eighty now. His life story is fascinating. He spent his early days in Wuppertal in post-war Germany. Ed’s father had been a German soldier in World War II. The man was Russian prisoner of war until 1955. Ed’s father came back home alive, but in many ways he was ruined. Ed’s father told his son never to go to war. Ed took that to heart. Ed is a strict Bible-thumping Baptist, but he is also a serious pacifist. I have to admire that. Ed has an integrity that is impressive. He is an honorable man, and he has a big heart.

The three of us got to talking about children. I told them about the struggles that my kids face.

Ed said, “You should give them some guidance. Share what you have learned in life.”

I looked at Ed, and then I told him, “I have given up on giving advice.”

He seemed confused by that. He asked me, “Why?”

I told Ed, “Giving advice is counter-productive.”

Rob chimed in, “It can also be dangerous.”

Ed didn’t understand that at all. “What do you mean? You are the parents.”

I sighed. “It’s the message as opposed to the messenger. My kids don’t mind the message. They just don’t want to hear it from me.”

Ed replied, “But they should respect you.”

“They do, but they also want to do it all on their own.”

Ed shook his head.

I really don’t think life was much different when Ed was young. I think he only remembers certain parts of it. Each generation tries to reinvent the wheel. Somehow it always works out the same way. Human nature doesn’t change.

By the way, I love the Book of Genesis. Yes, some of the passages seem like silly fables. However, most of the stories are honest descriptions of dysfunctional families that somehow survived and kept going. The stories in Genesis are just as timely as anything in the daily news. These events in the Bible could be happening now, and they probably are.

I look at our kids, and I don’t see the future. I see the past. I look at Hans and his deep emotional scars from the war in Iraq, and all I can see is his grandfather, Max, who fought on the Russian front in WWII. I look at Stefan and his valiant efforts to be a “Working Class Hero”, but I only see my grandfather, and his endless struggles during the union strikes of the Depression. There are echoes.

Advice is a gift that nobody really wants. In truth, advice is of limited value. My memories may bear some slight resemblance to the experiences of my children, but there is a disconnect. Times change. People change. It is true that some basic things in human life remain constant, but those things are slippery and elusive. Some things cannot be taught. Some things cannot be learned vicariously. Some things can only be experienced.

I believe that most people, including my children, already know what to do. They only need to articulate these ideas and then act upon them. They don’t need me to give advice. They don’t need me to talk. They need me to listen. Just listen. I may agree with a comment they make, or I may encourage them when they suggest something positive, but I don’t give advice. I let them find their path, even though that path is twisted and tortuous. They have to do it. I cannot do it for them.

Nobody could do it for me either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 13th, 2020

I am slowly starting to understand some of the difficulties involved with the transition from prison to the outside world. I have not been to prison myself, but somebody close to me has. She is out now, and things are really interesting.

The girl and I were talking one day, and I mentioned that I didn’t want her to stay holed up in her room all the time.

She gave me a cold stare and said, “I’m not planning on isolating myself. You know, I haven’t had any “alone time” for the last nine months. I was never by myself.”

Oh.

I hadn’t thought about that. She’s right. The young woman was totally without any privacy for most of a year. How did that affect her? How would that affect me?

I have been thinking back on my time at West Point, forty years ago. Both prison and the military academy share some unfortunate similarities. When I was at West Point, “alone time” was scarce. I was almost always with somebody else. Privacy was an alien concept. I was being observed by somebody (classmates, instructors, tactical officers, etc.) constantly. I remember how weird it felt once I graduated and became an officer. Suddenly, I had a place of my own, and it took me a while to adapt to being by myself.

The young woman has told me more than once that being “on the outside” is stressful for her. She has been in an environment where she has not been able to make any decisions on her own. Once again, this much like being in the military. Every day somebody told her what to wear, what to eat, where to go, what work to do, and when to sleep. In short, she really had no need to think. Now she does needs to do that. She has to take control of her life, and her skills for do that have atrophied during the last several months.

I really don’t understand the logic behind throwing people into prison. I am aware that some people (e.g. ax murderers and the like) need to be locked up for the safety of the general public. However, persons who have committed nonviolent crimes (many of whom have mental health issues) are also in prison, and that might not be the best place for them. Think of it this way: Why put a group of felons together in the same place for an extended period of time? What will they actually learn from each other?  The odds are good that they will all trade notes and become more competent criminals. If the goal of prison is rehabilitation ( and it isn’t), then it would make more sense to put offenders in an environment filled with law-abiding people. That means placing offenders with people on the “outside”. We usually refuse to do that. We want to punish them.

This particular situation will require me to learn patience. I have never been good at that. This young woman needs time to get a grip on the next chapter in her life, and I need to give her enough time. I don’t know what is all going on in her head. I’m not sure that I even want to know. I do know that some things cannot be forced. The girl’s new identity as a free person will emerge in due time. I don’t know how long that will take. I can’t know. I don’t need to know.

I am supposed to learn a lesson from all of this. Once again, God is trying to teach me something. I wish He/She would stop do that.

Oh well, today was a good day. Maybe I have learned something from that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 9th, 2020

Mr. Butcher arrived at our house for a “home visit” this morning. Mr. Butcher is a parole officer for the Wisconsin Department of Corrections. I always think of him as “Butch”. He looks like a “Butch”. He is a big, heavyset guy with a crew cut. He could easily pass for a bouncer, or an assistant football coach at some high school in the north country.

Butch brought his partner along, a woman named Jenny. Jenny is also with the Department of Corrections (DOC). She has that hard look that says quite clearly, “Don’t even think about fucking with me.” I don’t recall her smiling even once during the visit. However, she is a dog lover, so she can’t be all bad.

Jenny glanced at me with suspicion. I don’t really blame her. I don’t have an appearance that necessarily inspires confidence. People often assume that I am either a burned out Harley rider or a Muslim terrorist. I have a ridiculously long beard with dreads in it. Karin says that it makes me look like an old Jew. In any case, people usually don’t have a favorable first impression of me.

Butch and Jenny came to see the young woman who is currently staying in our home. I had thought that the home visit would entail an inspection of some sort. It did not. Butch spent most of the visit explaining to the young woman about the portable breathalyzer that he had brought along for her to use.

The breathalyzer is actually a cool device. It is compact, small enough to fit into a purse. A person blows into the device, and it simultaneously takes a photo of the blower. The breathalyzer then immediately sends a message to the DOC. The message is either “I’m clean” or “Come arrest me”. The girl needs to blow into it four times a day. As a convenience, she receives texts on her phone to remind her to blow into the machine. Technology is amazing.

Butch asked the young woman how she’s doing, and if she is getting some support. She is. He spoke to her about how to deal with relapses. He made a point of telling her to open and honest when there is a relapse, so that she can get help.

I mentioned that I do not want this girl to go back to jail and/or prison. Jenny remarked that they are court ordered to ensure the public safety, and that some actions might require incarceration. I told her that I understand that, but I also know that prison did this young woman no good whatsoever. Jenny and Butch fell back on the fact that whatever happens is dependent on the actions of this girl. They are just going to do their jobs.

Butch gently told the young woman to be amenable to me checking her bags for contraband, if we go shopping. The girl nodded. I piped up,

“I don’t want to check her bags. I want to trust her.”

This sort of thing is a sore point with me. I don’t want to be a CBP agent for my own home. Drug interdiction seldom works. I have no intention of searching her for stuff she shouldn’t have. That’s a loser’s game.

It is also something that harks back to my youth. I grew up in a home utterly lacking in trust. My father was a raving paranoid. He was always interrogating his kids, and always accusing us of various illegal and/or immoral activities. The vast majority of the time he was way off base. However his chronic mistrust of damn near everybody poisoned our relationships. People will meet your expectations, good or bad. Why try to do the right thing if somebody is constantly assuming that you are doing something wrong? I would rather trust somebody and get burned, than not trust at all.

Butch gave the girl a note with the time and date of her next appointment at his office. Jenny petted the the girl’s border collie. Then they got ready to leave.

On his way out, Butch noticed my old Army footlocker. It has my name and rank stenciled on it: “2LT Francis K. Pauc”.

Butch turned to me, and asked, “Second lieutenant, huh?”

“Yeah, that was a long time ago.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I went to West Point.”

“Really? That’s impressive.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“So, you were in the Army?”

“Yeah, I flew helicopters.”

Butch smiled, “Cool.”

I may have established some street cred with Butch. I hope so. I made need it sometime.