Frank is Emptiness

January 6th, 2019

This morning the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel is printing the following letter from me:

“I don’t often agree with Donald Trump, and when I do, I start to doubt my own judgment. However, the President, on occasion, does something makes total sense. In this case, I am referring to his decision to remove U.S. troops from Syria. Likewise, his plan to bring back American soldiers from Afghanistan is a refreshing moment of sanity on his part.

We don’t need to be in these countries. We never needed to be there. After seventeen years of U.S. military commitment, Afghanistan is still a basket case. Syria is a chaotic mess that we can’t fix with soldiers and weapons. Now that I think of it, we shouldn’t be in Iraq either. The Iraqis don’t want us there anymore.

A nation shows its wisdom by carefully choosing its battles. During the last seventeen years, we have rushed headlong into wars that have both impoverished us and ruined other countries. I dare anyone to name a single conflict that has resulted in a successful outcome for the United States. Trump is right this time. We need to come home.”

January 2nd, 2019

“Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now
I know we don’t deserve it but we need it anyhow
We hang in the balance dangle ‘tween hell and hallowed ground
And every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Every single one of us could use some mercy now”

“Mercy Now” by Mary Gauthier

I drove over to her new home today. She got out of the halfway house a week ago, and now the DOC (Department of Corrections) has her in TLP (Temporary Living Placement). TLP roughly translates to a shitty apartment in the hood. It’s better than being on the streets, but not that much better. Yeah, she won’t freeze to death, and she has a bed and a bathroom. It’s something. And I guess that something is better than nothing. We should be grateful for little things.

She has a curfew. She was on lock down on New Year’s Eve, and on New Year’s Day. She had to stay in her apartment. Her probation officer has her on a very short leash. She wears an ankle bracelet, and the cops can track her by her phone, if need be. She’s not in jail, but she is pretty damn close. Every day is an exercise in semi-freedom. Her first bold, revolutionary move after getting out of rehab was to dye her hair hot pink. I’m glad that she did that.

She needed to do some laundry today, and she needed to do it our house.  We drove home in the snow. Her dog, Shocky, greeted her with enthusiasm at the door. She put her clothes into the washer, and then she settled down into an bedroom to snuggle with Shocky and watch Netflix. I watched with her.

We decided to watch/join “Bandersnatch”, the new interactive film from “Black Mirror”. It’s a high tech version of the paperback books we used to read that had multiple possible endings. She made the choices offered for the characters on the screen, and then we observed the consequences. It wasn’t quite as scary as I thought it might be. Some of the movie was funny. The protagonist, a video game inventor from 1984, gets a mysterious message on his ancient computer that says: “I am watching you on Netflix”. It’s hilarious in a dark, twisted way.

She asked me, “What if somebody is watching us, just like we are watching the guy in this story?”

I don’t really want to go there.

Eventually, her laundry was done, and so was the movie. Shocky was bored. She asked if I wanted to drive her home. I told her I would do so whenever she was ready. In about half an hour, we started the trip south to Kenosha. Traffic wasn’t as bad as I had expected. It took only forty-five minutes to get her place.

She spent most of the ride switching radio stations at odd moments. It was her ADD kicking in. At other times she looked at her phone. Sometimes, she just stared straight ahead.

At one point, she told me in a voice devoid of emotion,

“Thanks for taking me to your house. Thanks for everything today.”

I replied, “It’s okay. I am glad to do it.”

I went on, “I want to do this.”

The truth is that I really did want to do it. I’ve come way too close to losing this girl forever. I have been scared too many times.  All I want to do is be with her a bit longer. I just want for us to be together while we can be together.

I am haunted by the words of a elderly religious sister. Out of ignorance, I went to this woman for spiritual direction. She told me bitterly that this young woman was using me, just manipulating me. I told the sister,

“I don’t fucking care. I know that sometimes she is playing me. So what? It doesn’t matter to me any more. She is suffering. I am going to help her.”

We could all use some mercy now.

 

 

 

December 31st, 2018

The roads will suck tonight. It’s been raining most of the day, but now it’s turning colder. The sky is full of fat, wet snowflakes. So far, only a few of them are sticking, but soon the streets will be slick as frog snot. I’m not going out again. It’s New Year’s Eve, but I don’t have any place to go anyway. Stefan went to friend’s house, and he will probably sleep over there. I’ll just hunker down with the two dogs. They’re not much for conversation, but then they don’t drink my beer either.

I am trying to reflect on the events of the last year, because that is what people do on New Year’s Eve. Well, some people do that. Other people go to Times Square in New York City to welcome the New Year. I’ve been to Times Square. That is not the place where I would want to be at the beginning of 2019. Why begin a new year with the equivalent of an epileptic seizure? Good Lord…

Sorry, I digressed. Anyway, I have been reflecting. This last year has been interesting. That cannot be denied. I have not been cursed with a boring life. If anything, I would be okay if my life eased back on the throttle just a bit. That won’t happen. It won’t happen because I actively look for new experiences, and people usually find what they seek.

My memories of 2018 are incoherent. There were a lot of different things going on at once. The early part of the year was consumed by my adventures with the Native Americans. Honestly, that, by itself, was enough stimulation to last for the entire year. It will take me along time to really sort through what I learned during those weeks I spent with the Indians. Simultaneously, there was intense drama with a girl we love: a series of small deaths and resurrections. During the course of the year, my father died and our first grandson was born. One son wrestled with his PTSD, and also became a father. One son became an Iron Worker, and split from his girlfriend. Karin and I stayed and prayed at monasteries. I took a course in immigration law, and then realized how little I actually know. I escorted undocumented immigrants to court. I tutored Syrian kids. I participated in a few peace demonstrations. I studied Spanish and Hebrew. I got drunk a few times. It was a busy year.

Did I learn anything? Hell, I don’t know. Probably not. I’m good at not learning from my experiences. I can be pretty dense that way.

I have an image in my mind. I see a long string, stretching endlessly from the past into the future. I see myself as just one bead on this string. There are many other beads. I am only one of an infinite number, but I am necessary to the pattern. This image came into my thoughts after my dad died, and especially after our grandson was born. I’m part of a pattern.

Many years ago, I spent time with a man named Peter. He is from Texas, and he does spiritual healing. I had a session with him. He watched my spirit, as a part of a vision. Later he told me what my spirit had been doing. It was hard to follow his explanation because his vision was symbolic and non-linear. Visions are like that.

Peter told me this: he saw me surrounded by my ancestors. They were all singing. Then a voice (maybe that of an angel) said, “Frank no longer needs to sing the song of his ancestors. He can sing his own song now.”

Do my children sing their own songs now? Do they still sing mine? What will our grandson sing?

It’s just a song. A song that echoes through the years, that may be heard by future generations. A song that has endless variations and harmonies.

Or maybe, it’s just a bead on a string.

 

 

 

 

December 29th, 2018

This letter of mine was printed by the Racine Journal Times on the 27th. It was also posted by the Capital Times in Madison, WI.

“Donald Trump and his lawless administration have done everything they can to hurt refugees and asylum seekers. I describe the President’s administration as lawless, because that is exactly what they are.

Over and over, his underlings, including his Secretary of Homeland Security, Kirstjen Nielsen, have violated both federal and international law in order to keep asylum seekers out of the United States. They have tried to make it impossible for asylum seekers to enter the U.S. They have made it extremely difficult for these people to even speak with immigration officials. They have done their best to deny asylum seekers due process. How is it possible for an asylum seeker to plead their case before a U.S. immigration court if they are forced to remain in Mexico?

Trump’s actions are not just immoral; they are also illegal. The fact is that Donald Trump does not care that these decisions hurt people who are already desperate and frightened. Even more disturbing is the fact that he does not care that his actions are illegal. He is truly lawless.”

 

December 28th, 2018

Rob has a Christmas party every year at his house. It is the only party that I ever attend. This is probably because it is the only party to which I am ever invited. The party always has a German flavor to it. Rob has a strong German heritage, and he displays it proudly at Christmas ( known in Germany as “Weihnachten”). He provides copious amounts of German food, beer, and wine. The highlight of the evening is when he lights up the Feuerzangenbowle, which is a traditional German alcoholic drink produced by setting a rum-soaked sugarloaf on fire and then letting it drip into mulled wine. The blue flame from the sugarloaf is beautiful to watch, and it also seems like a good way to torch your house. The party qualifies as “eine Weihnachtsfeier”.

Despite Rob’s best efforts, the party seems slightly less festive with each passing year. I think about why that is. Most of the people attending the party are former members of the German Bible study group. We used to get together almost every Saturday for a decade. Now we usually only all meet at Rob’s house for Christmas. It is a paradox. Over the years, we have all changed, but we have also become stuck somehow. The trajectories of our lives have diverged, but our opinions on certain topics have remained the same. One reason that I stopped participating in the Bible study was that nobody seemed to listen any more, including me. There was no longer a true exchange of ideas. Each of us had fortified our positions, and we defended our respective viewpoints. This process has continued over the years. If anything, the hardening of attitudes has increased.

Simultaneously, our lives have radically changed. We’ve aged, and we’ve all had crises. In my case, my perspective on a number of things has been greatly altered. What was important ten years ago means nothing to me now, and things that seemed trivial back then are now vital to me. I am sure that others at the party have had similar experiences, but they have interpreted them in other ways. We have lost much of our common ground.

I’m not trying to say that the party was a dismal affair. It was still fun. I had a number of meaningful conversations with some very good people. One of those people was Rick.

I saw Rick just as Karin and I entered Rob’s house. He was sitting at the kitchen table, and he greeted me with a smile. I sat down next to him. Rick looked frail. For several years Rick has been fighting against Parkinson’s disease and, slowly but surely, he has been losing. Rick looked thinner and slower and weaker than I remembered. He was tired, but he was glad to see me. I was glad to see him.

A decade ago, Rick and I would argue, mostly about politics. Those arguments formed a barrier between us. Now those conflicts are gone. Both of us are much more aware of our mortality, and we just appreciate the time that we can have together. We are both grateful for the opportunity to meet at Rob’s house for Christmas, because we don’t know if we will meet again next year. I think that Rick and I feel closer, because we both know that time is short. We just need to be friends. Friendship is the only thing that still matters.

Rick and I agreed to meet for lunch soon. Maybe it won’t happen, but that is our intention. That intention made Rob’s party a real Christmas party.

 

 

 

 

Christmas Day, 2018

Hans might be holding Weston right now.

In general, I prefer not to post pictures. Actually, this is probably the first time that I have ever posted a picture on this blog. I am a writer, and I take pride in the fact that I can paint a picture with words. However, I know the limits of my talent. Sometimes words fall short. So, in this case, I am reluctantly posting two images. One of them shows Hans cradling his infant son. The other image is of Weston when he was only a day old.

When I look at the picture of Hans and Weston, I remember how I felt when I looked at Hans almost thirty-two years ago. I am sure that I had the same expression on my face, and that I felt the same sense of wonder and anxiety. I don’t know how a mother feels when she holds her tiny child. I do know how a father feels. There is a mixture of pride and love and raw terror.

The feeling of terror comes from contemplating a new and totally unfamiliar future. Who is this child? Who will he become? How will I care for him? It might not be articulated, but I know that there is the sudden and powerful realization that the father is entering a whole new world. The kid did not come with an operators manual. There is an overwhelming sense of responsibility accompanied by excitement and hope.

Does every father feel these things? Maybe, maybe not. Some fathers see fit to just abandon their child. They refuse to take the next step in life as a man. Perhaps they understand that they don’t know what the hell they are doing. Well, I would argue that no father knows what he is doing. You just kind of make this shit up as you go along. Every child is a brand new adventure, and there is not template for raising a kid. Every baby is unique, and every parent likewise. A father usually only has is own childhood experiences to follow, and those can be woefully inadequate for the new situation.

I know that Hans wants certain things for Weston. He wants him to learn how to hunt and fish and drive pick up trucks. Hans often worries that Weston will grow up feeling “entitled”, like some other young people. I doubt that will be a problem. Hans wants Weston to understand the value of hard work. Hans sees a particular future for his firstborn son. Hans will be partially disappointed. Weston will become Weston, and that may not match anything that Hans imagines.

Hans will pass on certain values to his boy. Hans may not recognize this until many years from now, but someday he will see it. Hans is brave, loyal, honest, and a bit crazy. Those are all good things. Weston will be blessed if he grows up with those same traits.

Weston may very well grow up to be a Texas redneck. I’m good with that. Rednecks are fine people. They have a certain earthiness and honesty that I like. They are generous to a fault. They care for their own.

Weston may grow up liking cowboy boots, guns, and Shiner Bock. Or, maybe he won’t. Weston will be Weston, just like Hans is Hans. I may not live long enough to see who this boy becomes. I am confident that he will be a good man.

 

 

 

December 21st, 2018

No, this essay is not about Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction.

This is about “shiva”, the Jewish mourning ritual. A friend from the synagogue lost his father this week, shiva was incorporated into Mincha/Maariv service at the shul yesterday evening. The prayer service also marked the beginning of Shabbat.

Be advised that I am not Jewish, and that, even after nine years of participating in various services at the synagogue, there are many things that I do not understand. That being the case, if I say something in this post which is glaringly wrong, please forgive me. Better yet, take the time to correct me.

I have been to Mincha in past, but it still sometimes difficult for me to follow along. Last night there seemed to be more than the usual amount of unexpected page-turning in the siddur (prayer book). There were also an unusually large number of people in the synagogue. It’s not often that the place fills up. This time there was no problem finding ten men to form a minyan.

The service started when Larry, the man whose father died, arrived on the scene. He was welcomed by the other members of the congregation. The rabbi spoke about Larry’s father, and he commented that life is a cycle of sadness and joy. Each of us grieves and rejoices at different times. The rabbi pointed out that Larry is now mourning. Then he looked at me and said,

“Frank, a friend of the synagogue, is here. He just became a grandfather. You have a grandson. When was the child born?”

I replied, “Yesterday.”

“So, Frank is rejoicing in his new grandson. Even in the midst of sadness, God brings good things.”

Then the rabbi explained a particular custom that they follow when somebody who is sitting shiva attends Mincha. There are a series of psalms read during Mincha, all of which have a joyful tone. Just prior to the reading of these psalms, the mourner is asked to leave the congregation for a brief time. It is not that he or she is being thrown out. It is more that the other congregants are aware that the person is grieving, and that this individual cannot, at that moment, fully participate in the joy found in these psalms. Once the psalms are finished, the mourner is asked to return and rejoin his friends.

Larry left the room for a bit while the psalms were read. Upon his return, the rabbi explained a bit more about what had transpired. The rabbi said,

“There were a series of six psalms, most of them attributed to David the King. However, there was one psalm that came from the Sons of Korah (Korach). Now, we know from the Torah that Korah rebelled against Moses. God was angered by this, and Korah and his followers were swallowed up by the earth. So, why do we read a psalm from the sons of a rebel? The Sons of Korah survived and lived lives of righteousness. They got something from their father that made them righteous.

When Korah met God, I suspect that God told him, ‘You really screwed up!’, but then He may have also added, ‘But your kids turned out okay.’ The point is that it’s not just our  actions that make a difference in this world. It is also the legacy that we leave.

Look at the legacy of Larry’s father, Ron. Here we all are: davoning (praying), singing, and being here together for Larry. This is a beautiful legacy! This is what Ron has left behind for us.”

During the rest of the service, Larry was able to recite the Mourners Kaddish. That was a comfort to him, and probably to everyone else. It’s a beautiful prayer. It comes from the heart.

There is a power and peace that come when friends pray together. Souls are united. Wounds are healed.

I am glad that was there.

 

 

 

December 17th, 2018

I do not fly very often. I dislike being in an aircraft. This is odd, seeing as I was once a helicopter pilot for five years, but it’s true. I find flying commercially to be cramped and uncomfortable. The trip is some thing to endure, not to enjoy.

My flight home from D.C. took me via Newark, New Jersey. I don’t know why. That’s just how it went. By some stroke of luck, I had a window seat. That made me feel slightly less claustrophobic. It was early evening when the plane took off from Washington National, and it was already quite dark. The sky was clear and cloudless. From the tarmac I could see a thin slice of the crescent moon setting in the west.

The route taken by the pilot took us over highly urbanized areas. The stretch between Washington and Newark is essentially one big city. From an altitude of twenty thousand feet, any dark spaces on the ground looked to be rivers or lakes. All of the land was brightly lit up. The lights were fascinating in a curious way.

From where I was sitting I could look to the east. There was an orange haze on the horizon. Rising above it, I could make out the constellation of Orion. Below the horizon were thousand upon thousands of man made stars. The sky above seemed dim and empty, but the sky below was alive with the patterns of a restless humanity. Our species has forged a new Milky Way, a band of lights uncountable and of endless variety.

Last year, Karin and I spent a few days at a monastery in New Mexico. It was place so dark that the night sky was ablaze with the frozen fire of countless stars. I remember that looking up into the heavens was an overwhelming experience. Strangely, when I was in the airplane, I felt the same way, except that I was looking down instead of up.

I am always grateful when I feel a sense of wonder, a feeling of awe. Usually, this feeling comes from contact with the natural world. However, sometimes, although not very often, this feeling is a result of the works of men and women. Humanity is part of nature, so I guess this makes sense.

I rejoice in any kind of beauty. I rejoiced to see the flickering lights of the stars below us.

 

December 16th, 2018

I met a young woman at the national immigration conference who remarked that it was a “professional” gathering. That’s one way to look at it. In some ways, it felt “corporate” to me. It reminded me of some of the conferences I attended when I worked at the trucking company. I didn’t know anybody this gathering, so every meeting was a chance for a first impression. I found people to be friendly, but wary.

It seemed like everybody had a business card, except for me. Almost everyone was better dressed than I was. Even the would-be revolutionaries looked more formal than I did. I got the sense early on that many people at the conference were there to impress somebody. They were there to make a sales pitch to someone. I felt like many of the participants were wearing a mask, at least at first. It was a show.

Often when I asked a person what they did, they answered me by stating their job title. You know: “executive director”, “assistant administrator”,”grand poobah”, whatever. I can only assume that they hoped to get my attention by telling their rank and position within their respective organizations. I wanted to know what they actually did, which is a completely different matter. I’ve had plenty of titles during the course of my life: “captain”, “platoon leader”, “operations officer”, “supervisor”. None of those ever meant a damn thing, not to me or to anybody else.

I’m not entirely sure why I was there, except that it was just some weird karma. I felt out of place as soon as I entered the hotel. The Crystal Gateway Marriott is, by far, the fanciest place that I have ever stayed. I couldn’t understand why a conference focusing on poor immigrants would choose to meet in facility that none of these immigrants could ever possibly afford to stay at themselves. It was eventually explained to me that some of the attendees were “funders”, the people with the big bucks. Then the location kind of made sense. It’s about attracting the money.

I don’t network, so maybe I shouldn’t have been at the conference at all. I don’t like to meet people simply to find out if they can advance my agenda. That seems mercenary, and somehow manipulative. I just tried to get to know people because I was curious about them. I wanted to understand what made them tick. I wanted to know who they really were.

I don’t have an agenda. I don’t have a job title. I don’t have a business card.

I’m not part of the game.

 

 

 

 

December 15th, 2018

“Know your enemies.”

A woman on a panel in one of the break out sessions said those words. She said them at the very end of the meeting. The session was about how to combat hate groups, such as the white nationalists and related organizations. She then said,

“I know we are supposed to get along with everybody, but I don’t believe in that.”

Her comments bothered me. She had a point in that there are obviously people who hate immigrants. There are also obviously people that are out to get us because we support immigrants. It’s not a bad idea to identify those persons who may pose a direct threat. However, I don’t believe there are many of these individuals. The panelist seemed very interested in determining who is on the opposing side, maybe too interested.

This woman was not the only person at the conference who was eager to talk about enemies. During the last plenary session, a young man got up to speak. He was a member of Nakasec, an organization for immigrants coming from Asia. The man was a DACA recipient, and his future is currently in limbo. As he spoke he became increasingly angry. Finally, he blurted out,

“Fuck Trump!”

That came straight from the heart. Based on all of the things that our president has done to immigrants during the last two years, it is hard to argue with the young man’s sentiment. Nearly everyone at the conference despised Trump, often with great enthusiasm and passion.

Another speaker told everyone in the room, “If you’re white, you are the oppressor!”

Several women railed bitterly against “patriarchy” during one of the plenary sessions. I never quite understood what that word meant to them. One of the speakers attempted to clarify the term by saying,

“We are not against all men. We appreciate our feminist brothers, who walk with us, and don’t get in our way.”

Good to know.

Perhaps I interpreted the comments incorrectly, but I got the distinct impression that counted among the enemies of the immigration movement were old white guys.

That doesn’t give me much room to work, seeing as I am an old white guy, and I expect to remain one. In a conference where diversity of race, nationality, and gender were all celebrated, I felt oddly excluded. I had the sense that my presence was merely being tolerated. Some of the speeches were less than welcoming.

When I interacted with individuals at the conference, it was all good. I could be on friendly terms with each person I met. It was just when the various speakers needed to rally the progressive base, that I felt uncomfortable. It’s nice to know that Donald Trump isn’t the only one who knows how to get a group wound up.

One of the break out sessions was designed show people how to make cross cultural connections. That was very interesting to me. One of the speakers explained how members of his organization went to ninety red, rural counties across the U.S., and how they met with the residents of these communities. The organization did no polling. Instead people went door to door, and they asked each person they met one question:

“What do you need in your neighborhood?”

Then the members of this organization just listened. They didn’t make suggestions. They didn’t present an agenda. They just listened.

And they learned things.

The thrust of the break out session was how to identify potential friends, and then how to get them interested and involved in what we are doing. As one presenter stated,

“You have meet people where they are at, but you can’t just leave them there.”

The panel accepted questions from the audience at the end of the session. I had a question, but I felt like I need to preface it first. I told them,

“I have a son. He lives in Texas and he is an Iraqi War vet. He’s redneck as hell. He thinks I am a damn liberal. But we can talk. We can have a civil conversation, and we can learn from each other. Obviously we have a history together, and we are both veterans. My  question is this: how do I have these kinds of conversations with a stranger?”

The panelists never really answered my question. In a way the question was rhetorical, because I already know the answer. I have those kinds of conversations quite often. To do so, I have to listen and I have to respect the other person. This requires time and patience. The discussion may be uncomfortable, and ultimately fruitless. That doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I recognize and honor the other person’s humanity.

Jesus said, “Love you enemy.” That’s a tall order. The paradox is that, if I can love my enemy, he or she is no longer an enemy. That person is a friend.