Frank is Emptiness

January 30st, 2018

The following letter from me will be published by the Chicago Tribune tomorrow in the Voice of the People section. It will also be in the Racine Journal times and the Capital Times (Madison, WI).

“Dreamers are being used as pawns in a political game. Trump and his Republican allies are the most obvious manipulators of these young people, but the Democrats don’t have their hands clean either. Approximately 800,000 persons who were brought here illegally as children are facing an uncertain future because American politicians insist on using them in a cynical power struggle. I am convinced that very few of the legislators in Washington actually care about these immigrants. I’m sure that Trump doesn’t care. These kids just represent another issue that can be used to fire up a base.”

“I know some Dreamers. I know them as friends. I know them as co-workers. I know them as human beings who have the same fears and hopes that I do. These youths want to build a life in America, the only country that most of them have ever known. They deserve to be treated with decency. They deserve to be treated with respect. They are just like me. They are just like you.”

“Right now, these Dreamers, through no fault of their own, are living in constant fear. I wouldn’t want to live in fear. Would you?”

 

 

 

January 29th, 2018

There was a strong wind blowing out of the north this morning, as I made my way home from Mocha Lisa, the coffee shop that Karin and I most often frequent. Usually, I drive home from Mocha Lisa with Karin. It is five miles from the coffee shop to our house. However, I need to get ready for the really long walk that is fast approaching. So, I tucked my head down and walked along the bike trail past the WEPCO power plant. Snowflakes stung my cheeks, and I was suddenly grateful that I have a beard. Even a beard couldn’t keep my entire face warm. My eyes filled with tears at times. Some of the tears were not from the cold.

Walks are conducive to pondering. My thoughts wandered even as my feet did. I gazed at the billowing clouds of white steam coming from the dual stacks of the power plant, but my mind was elsewhere. I kept thinking about the girl we love.

The girl told us that the sheriff’s office got back the results of her blood test. Not so good. On one hand, with the results available, the DA and the public defender can cut a deal. The case can move forward to some kind of resolution. On the other hand, the resolution will most likely include time in prison. That’s the way everything is pointing. It might be a year in prison. It might be two. The only sure thing is that she will do time.

I have been doing some research for the young woman. She indicated to me that she needs to have a place to stay once she gets released. If she has housing set up, it is more likely that she will be released on time or early. So, I have been looking for her. In particular, I have been looking for a home in a communal environment. The young woman functions best in a group setting, some place where people simultaneously encourage her and hold her accountable. She is not good at flying solo.

So far, I have a Catholic Worker farm in California that will take her in, and today somebody from a Catholic Worker farm in western Wisconsin told me that his community would be willing to welcome the young woman into their midst. Does the girl we love want to go to these places? I don’t know. Will she even be able to go to these homes after she gets released? Once again, I don’t know. As I told the loved one, “I am exploring.”

We live in a culture that is totally result oriented. Everything is about the bottom line. Everything is about efficiency and effectiveness. I am not sure that I am being efficient or effective. I don’t know if I will be able to find an appropriate home for the loved one. I don’t know if I will be at all successful in getting her a place to stay. I have no idea if my efforts will bear fruit, or if all will be in vain.

That’s okay. This is where twelve years of Zen practice come into play. Zen is not about results. Zen is about intentions. What is my intention in all this? The answer is that I want to help the girl. I am doing whatever I am doing out of love. Well, anyway, I think I am. If I really am acting out of love, then the results don’t matter as much. Maybe, God (or whoever is in charge) has something else in mind for the girl we love. That doesn’t mean that my act of love is pointless. Perhaps what I do is all destined to complete an entirely different purpose. I don’t know. All I know is that love never goes to waste. Love always accomplishes some good. Always.

I will continue to help (or attempt to help) the girl we love. I may fail utterly in my efforts. It doesn’t matter. What matters is my intention and the effort I make. That’s all I can do. I intend to do all I can do.

 

 

 

January 27th, 2018

Hans called us yesterday afternoon. Mostly, he talked about work. He works for a concrete firm down in Texas, and he is going to operate the company’s 56-meter boom truck. The truck has pipes and hoses to pump concrete from cement mixers to wherever the job site is. He pumps the concrete, and then a crew of finishers smooth it out. In theory, the boom truck can pump concrete up to fifty-six meters away. That’s more than half a football field. It’s a big truck, and it is a big responsibility. Hans loves machines. He has always been good with them. He sees this chance to operate the boom truck as an opportunity to challenge himself and to make some more money. He went on and on about this truck, with its six sets of wheels and all of its odd quirks. After a while, Hans acquires a feel for the machines under his care. He learns to know them by how they sound and how they move. His understanding becomes intuitive.

We also got a call (actually, two calls) from the girl we love. She called from jail. She was having a bad day. Well, every day in jail is a bad day, but some are worse than others. The young woman sounded very anxious. She was sobbing on the phone.

Karin wasn’t at home when the first call came. The girl we love initially wanted to talk to Karin, but I was the only person available.  The young woman is sick of all the uncertainty concerning her future. She just wants to get it all over with. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. Nothing can be resolved in her court case until the DA gets the results of her blood tests. For reasons beyond my understanding, it takes months for the court to get these results. The DA seems believes that the results will be there before this girl has her next court appearance in March. The one we love is not so convinced. She had been trying without success to contact her lawyer to find out about getting a speedy trail, whatever that is.

I told our loved one that I could email the lawyer for her. She might answer my email. The loved one told me that would help, and she seemed to calm down just a little bit.

I am not good at soothing people. This partly due to the fact that I don’t lie well. The girl told me that she was scared and worried. She was at a loss as to what to do. I told her,

“I’m not you and I’m not in there. I don’t know.”

I’ve been in jail before, but not for an extended period. I don’t know what this girl is feeling. I can’t fix this situation.

I also said, “We love you. We are trying to help. We will be there with you on Sunday.”

That’s all the game I got.

The young woman called again later to tell us that she finally got hold of her lawyer. The speedy trial thing is not a good move, per her public defender. The girl will have to ride it out. I gave the phone to Karin. Karin spoke with the loved one. Karin’s style is very different than mine. She speaks in soft tones and offers soft solutions to hard problems. Sometimes that works better than my cold and heartless manner. Karin told the loved one to concentrate on her breathing and to try and relax a bit. The loved one pushed back on that suggestion, but she didn’t totally refuse to try it. Men and women work differently. Maybe it is better so.

During the call from Hans, Karin mentioned to him that his fiancee, Gabi, wanted to see some baby pictures from him. That’s usually a red flag. Hans reluctantly agreed that Karin could send some photos to Gabi. Karin was thrilled by that answer and proceeded to dig through old photo albums to find the cutest pictures of the infant Hans.

This is not the first time that somebody has asked to see baby pictures. Stefan’s long time girlfriend, July, has asked us to look at pictures of Stefan from when he was little. Stefan balked at this suggestion.

“I look fat in those pictures!”

We replied, “No, you look healthy.”

“I look chubby in those photos!”

“The pediatrician told us that you were healthy and happy.”

July looked at the pictures, smiled, and said, “Awwww.”

Stefan sighed and shook his head.

The fact is that it is nearly impossible for a guy to look macho in a baby photo. Stefan looked cute. Totally cuddly. I think girlfriends want to see baby pictures to somehow get some idea of the man’s genetic background. If the guy was just adorable as a little kid, then there is hope for the future.

It was nearly impossible for Karin to find pictures of Hans that excluded his siblings and others. Karin found a picture of Hans with the girl we love. Karin laughed and said to me,

“See! We had fun back then!”

Yeah, we did. Unfortunately, my memories are partially covered with the patina of current events. Even things that seemed innocent and joyful years ago have a slightly darker tone to them.

Karin will scan some pictures for Gabi. I am sure that Gabi will like them. Hans really was a happy and playful child. He was a joy to us.

I don’t often look at old pictures. It hurts me to do so. I try to be in the present, a place where I might make a difference. The past is gone, and so are all the people in those faded photos.  It doesn’t matter if the people in the pictures are living or dead. None of them exist any more.

 

 

 

 

January 23rd, 2018 (4:00 PM)

I just came home after walking eight miles. I’m a little tired and a more than a little stiff. We live in a suburb that is still semi-rural in places. It snowed last night, and some roads were clean and some weren’t. Most of the streets were just wet, having been plowed and salted early in the morning. I walked for a while along a bike path that was still covered with a couple inches of heavy, sloppy snow. My footprints were the first to mark that trail.

I like to walk. It can be a meditative practice. Walking forces a person to slow down. It allows the individual to observe his or her surroundings in a way that is impossible while driving a car. While I hiked the bike path, I had time to look at the snow covering the tree branches, weighing them down. Occasionally. a breeze would move the branches, and the wet snow would fall softly to the ground. I was struck by the universal whiteness of the fresh snow. Even with grey, overcast skies, the reflection of the light off of the snow was bright and glaring. I heard birds twittering in the trees. I saw a hawk floating on a thermal up above the trail. I had time to look and listen and feel and think.

I usually don’t walk so far. I have been increasing the distance of my travels because in three weeks I will be participating in the longest walk that I have ever attempted. The “Longest Walk 5.3” goes from near Seattle to Washington DC. That’s 2800 miles, give or take a hundred or two. I am guessing that we will walk at least fifteen miles a day. I need to be in some kind of shape before I join the journey. I am gradually working myself up to where I think I need to be to keep up with everyone else.

The walk starts in Blaine, WA, on Friday, February 16th. It probably won’t be as cold as it is here in Wisconsin, but it will be cold. It will probably be rainy too, if I remember the weather in the Pacific Northwest. So, wandering around here in the snow and wind is not a bad way of getting ready for the big walk. It won’t be a shock when I get there and start the pilgrimage.

Our loved one called us from jail today. She is concerned about me going on the Longest Walk. She is worried that I won’t be available to help her. Realistically, there is nothing that I can do here that I can’t do from two thousand miles away. Karin will handle the day-to-day affairs while I am on the road. If there are problems, Karin can contact me. If there is an emergency, the loved one call call me on my cell phone (collect).

The loved one asked me to be present when she gets sentenced. I don’t know when that will be. She doesn’t know when that will be. Nobody knows yet. The sentencing won’t happen for a couple months, at the earliest. However, it’s likely that the hearing will take place before the walk ends on July 14th in Washington DC. I promised the young woman that I will be there, along with Karin, in that courtroom for the sentencing. I will be with that girl. When I find out the date of the hearing, wherever I am, I will quit the walk, and find my way back home.

So, now I know that I won’t complete the entire journey. I will just do as much as I can.

 

January 21st, 2017

“Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped
My hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere
I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.”

Bob Dylan

 

It’s strange how time and words catch up with a person. Many years ago I bought the vinyl version of “Mr. Tambourine Man” as sung by the Byrds. This afternoon, I listened to Roger McGuinn and David Crosby sing the lyrics, more than once, more than twice. Today, for some reason, I played that record and it meant something new. Suddenly, a song from my youth became very pertinent.

In three weeks I will go to Blaine, Washington, to start a walk (Longest Walk 5.3) with strangers that ends somewhere unknown to me. I know where the walk begins, but that is all I know. I don’t know the route. I don’t know where I will eat or sleep. I don’t know how far I will go. I don’t know how I will get home.

Up until recently, I would never have attempted a journey like this one. I always needed to be organized. I always needed to have everything planned out. I always needed to be safe, or as safe as I could be.

Now, I don’t care.  Now “I am ready to go anywhere”, and “I am ready for to fade”. Whatever happens, happens. It’s all up to God.

What a strange, scary, wonderful, exciting feeling.

 

 

January 18th, 2018

“Can you help me with this?”

Bashar asked me that, as he brought his laptop into the room. I had just finished reading a story with Bashar’s younger siblings: Muhamed, Nisrin, and Nizar. Bashar is a high school student, and he is much older than most of the other children. The oldest boy in the family is Hussein. He is also in high school, but I am not sure what grade he’s in.

Bashar sat down next to me, and showed me his homework. He needed to complete an online worksheet about civil disobedience.

I thought to myself, “Cool! I know something about this shit!”

In a burst of enthusiasm, I told Bashar that I too have participated in civil disobedience. We looked up the photos from the demonstration at Creech AFB, and I told Bashar the strange, twisted tale of my arrest. Bashar was interested, but perhaps a bit confused by my account of the events in Nevada. I asked him if he wanted to use my story in his homework assignment.

Bashar shook his head, and said, “No, we have to write about one of these people”, and he pointed at a short list of names of civilly disobedient persons. The list had Martin Luther King Jr. and Gandhi on it. Hell, these were the apostles of civil disobedience. I am just a rank amateur. The folks on the list are way out of my league.

Oh well, Bashar and I worked on explaining the life of MLK. I tried to tell Bashar some facts about Martin Luther King. He kept telling me, “I know.” Really? Then why am I helping you with this? Maybe the “I know” response is an adolescent thing. At my age, I am fully aware that I don’t know much of anything, and I am at peace with that.

We got briefly sidetracked in our work. Bashar asked me, “You know Arabic?”

“I know a little bit. I studied Arabic in the Army, but I can’t remember many of the words any more.”

Bashar told me, “I have that problem too. I am forgetting Arabic. It is seven years since I speak Arabic all the time. Mostly during that time I speak Turkish, and now English.”

I tried to tell Bashar about my son, Hans, who fought in Iraq. I attempted to talk about Hans in Arabic. I told Bashar that Hans killed a man during the war. Bashar listened and paid attention to what I said.

Then Bashar smiled and said, “You speak good Arabic.”

I shook my head, “Just a little.”

Bashar told me something about the fighting in his native Syria. I didn’t quite understand what he told me, but I gathered that it was nothing good. It bothered me. Bashar has gone through some horrific experiences, but he is still optimistic about his future. I wish that I knew more about his past, so I could understand who he is now.

Bashar’s mother brought me hot, sweet tea.

Bashar asked me, “You like tea?”

“Yes”, I replied as I drank some of it.

“You want more?”

I told Bashar, “No, that is enough for now.”

“But you say that you like it.”

“I do, but I can’t drink any more right now.”

We worked some more on his homework assignment. I tried to explain to him what civil disobedience really meant. He understood, kinda sorta. We need to have a much longer conversation on this topic.

We finished the worksheet. Bashar smiled.

“That is good. Very good.”

“Well, I have to go home now.”

“More tea?”

What is it with the tea?

“Uh no. I really am full.”

Bashar shook my hand. “Thank you for your help.”

I told him, “I’m glad to help you.” I meant it.

“Maybe next time I write about you.”

I said, “Yeah, maybe. It’s okay.”

“Good night.”

We shook hands again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 13th, 2017

When things work out, I like to get up early on Saturday mornings and start my day at the Great Lake Zen Center. The center is part of the Kwan Um School of Zen, which is a Korean flavor of the tradition. I will not attempt to explain Zen. The very act of explaining is self-defeating. Zen is best summed up (for me) as “sit down and shut up”. Anything else is superfluous. We spend an hour chanting (in Korean), sitting in silence, and walking in silence. There is usually a brief reading from the works of the founder, Sueng Sahn, and then an even briefer discussion of his obscure and cryptic lessons. After that, we go for coffee at some shop that is connected to some fundamentalist, Bible-based local church. Why not?

The coffee time is sometimes the best part of Zen practice. We have a very tight sangha (community). People at the center care about each other, and it feels like a family. We meditate together, and we always seem to be in each other’s hearts. This is a big deal to me. When we sit and suck coffee after our practice, I feel strongly connected with those around me. I can’t adequately describe the feeling. It’s not rational. It’s totally intuitive. However, it is very, very real.

When things work out, I drive from the Zen Center to Lake Park Synagogue. Lake Park is another spiritual home for me. The synagogue is an Orthodox shul. Intensely Jewish. Big time Halacha. The folks at this shul take their tradition very seriously, but somehow, some way, they have accepted me into their midst. I’m not Jewish, and I never will be. They know that, and I know that. However, this synagogue is my home. For real. I belong there. I don’t know why. It makes no sense. It doesn’t really matter. I need to be with these people. I feel it in my gut. And they want me there with them. That’s the weird part. They know that I should be there.

Shlomo was there in the shul. Shlomo was the first rabbi that I ever met. He was the perfect person to introduce me to Judaism. He was the rabbi at Lake Park when I first visited there in October of 2009. He was welcoming and tolerant and patient. He is my friend. On Saturday morning, when I walked into the synagogue late (because of Zen and coffee), he greeted me and asked me to sit next to him. That felt good. It felt right.

Shacharit (the morning prayer on Shabbat) is almost entirely said in Hebrew. My knowledge of Hebrew is minimal. I know just enough to listen to the Hebrew that is spoken, and then connect it with the English translation in the siddur. I can follow along with most of the prayers. Some of them I can say with everyone else. It’s strange. My experience with Hebrew prayers is similar to my experience with Korean chants. I understand very little, but I flow with the words and the cadence.  I feel the meaning, even when I can’t think through the verbiage. It all feels right. It all feels true.

After shacharit, we have kiddush at the shul. It’s the Jewish equivalent to Zen coffee. We eat kosher snacks, and we do shots of scotch. We talk about what is important in our lives. We care about each other. We give a damn about people we do not often see. We connect. We are one.

What am I? The Zen answer is: “Don’t know.”

If pressed for more details, my answer is: “Zenjew.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 17th, 2018

Karin let the candles on the Christmas tree burn down last night. The Christmas tree itself didn’t burn down, just the candles that were on it. Karin always puts real candles on a real Christmas tree every year.  She has little metal candle holders that attach to the tree branches. She places candles in the holders, and we light them once or twice during the Christmas season. Finally, Karin burns the candles all the way down until the wax is completely consumed. Then the holidays are officially over, and we celebrate the fact that we haven’t burned the house down.

You may at this point ask, “Why do you have candles on your Christmas tree?”

The answer to that question is: “Because Karin is a German.” She isn’t just a descendant of German immigrants. She is a bonafide, genuine Deutscher Frau. Germans like to have real Christmas trees (preferably Douglas firs or some type of spruce). They like to have candles on their trees, and they like to see those candles burn. They just do.

Honestly, watching candles flicker on a fir tree in a darkened room is truly a glorious sight. The scene has kind of an edgy beauty. It is nice to sit and look at the tree, while sipping a warm mug of Gluehwein. The smell of evergreen and beeswax fills the air. Maybe some cheesy German Weihnachtslieder are playing on the stereo. A person closely observes the ephemeral beauty of the the tiny, golden lights. This is due to the fact that a moment’s inattention could result in the whole tree going up in flames. One does not wander off while the tree is lit.

Karin and I start the Christmas season later than most people. This partly due to our desire to follow the Church calendar and actually experience Advent. It is also partly due to our procrastination. We generally don’t buy a tree until the last possible minute. If Karin has the tree decorated by Christmas Eve, we consider that to be a major win. Karin prefers wooden or straw ornaments. We do have a metal star on the top of the tree. Stefan welded it for us. It’s a tad heavy, but it really looks cool.

We do not light the candles often. As a rule, they get lit on Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, and the Feast of the Epiphany. If there is still any wax left after that, then Karin burns the candles down to nothing, and I hope to God that our insurance is paid up.

Holiday traditions are unique to every family. Every home has its own way of celebrating their festivals. Everybody has a different story and a different tradition.

We just like to live dangerously.

Frohe Weihnachten!

 

 

 

 

January 16th, 2018

It only took five minutes. Our loved one had been nervously awaiting this arraignment hearing for months, and the whole process was absurdly brief. The whole point of it was for the public defender to enter the young woman’s “not guilty” plea, and then set up the date for the next hearing. Beyond that, nothing was decided. The girl goes back to jail for two more months with her future still undetermined.

Our loved one wanted Karin and I to be there with her for the arraignment. I am not entirely sure why she needed us, unless it was to have us physically there with her. Karin and I were not involved at all in the hearing. We just sat on a wooden bench across the room from the girl. We weren’t allowed to communicate with the woman, although we did that anyway in subtle ways. Karin smiled at the girl and made movements as if she were hugging her. I nodded at the young woman. In return, our loved one gave us a quick finger wave. She didn’t smile back. She was completely silent and stone-faced.

The young woman sat stiffly in a chair, wearing her dark blue jail uniform with bright orange slippers on her feet. I remember that the jail in Las Vegas had those slippers too. They must be standard issue for most jails. The girl was handcuffed, and she wore leg shackles.

I cannot get rid of the image of this young woman in chains. If I close my eyes right now, I see her as clearly as I did a few hours ago in that courtroom. That picture is seared into my memory. I can’t forget it because it felt (and still feels) so wrong. I know that I was there and I know that I saw her like that, but my mind rebels at this memory. Part of me screams, “No, it wasn’t like that. It couldn’t be like that!”

A while ago, I had a good friend ask me, in all seriousness, if this troubled young woman was just using me. That question puzzled and angered me. If she is playing me, she is doing a terrible job of it. I suspect that she is not trying to take advantage of me. But, even if she is, who cares? If it eases her suffering to have me help her, even if she doesn’t deserve that help, then it’s okay by me. Karin and I drove for hour through a snowstorm this morning to spend a whole five minutes in the same room as this girl, and we would gladly do it again.

Sometimes we do a thing without considering the results or the costs. Sometimes we do something simply because it the right thing to do and it needs to be done. Sometimes we do a thing out of love.

 

 

January 11th, 2018

Last night I went to help teach the citizenship class at Voces de la Frontera. It was a slow night. We didn’t have many students. Sergio walked in a little after 6:00 PM. I sat down with him to work on the questions for his retest at the immigration office. He failed his first attempt at the citizenship exam, and he has to go for it again in less than a week.

Sergio is a few years older than I am.  He’s a retired widower. He’s been living in the U.S. for decades. Sergio is an intelligent man, and he seems to be very conscientious. He failed the test because the examiner determined that Sergio didn’t understand English well enough. The problem is not so much with Sergio’s fluency in English. I’ve worked with other students who had a much weaker grasp of the language. Sergio’s problem is that he does not always listen.

Sergio and I went over a series of questions from his N-400, the citizenship application.

“Sergio, when was your son born?”

He looked at me quizzically and asked, “My son?”

“Yes, your son. When was he born?”

Sergio replied, “In Mexico.”

I sighed. “NO, not where was he born. When was he born?”

Sergio finally gave me his son’s birth date, we proceeded to the next question.

Later I asked him to answer some of the civics questions.

“What did the Declaration of Independence do?”

Sergio looked puzzled. “The Declaration of Independence?”

“Yes. The Declaration of Independence. What did it do?”

Sergio said, “Freedom of speech?”

I rubbed my eyes. “Uh no. The Constitution gave us freedom of speech. The Declaration of Independence declared our independence from Great Britain. The answer to the question is in the name: ‘Declaration of Independence’. The Declaration of Independence declared our independence. You see?”

Sergio nodded, “Yes, I see.”

No, you don’t.

After a while, I said to Sergio, “At the test you need to really listen to the examiner. Sometimes you don’t understand what I am asking you. If you don’t understand the examiner, ask him to repeat the question.”

Sergio nodded. “Yes, I ask him to repeat.”

“Yeah, or ask him to say it in another way. Or ask him to say it more slooooowly. Make sure you understand the question before you try to answer. Don’t guess.”

“Okay, Frank, I do that.” Sergio seemed tired and worried.

I told him, “Sergio, you are going to be fine. You’ll be okay. I believe in you. You’re going to pass.”

Another teacher, Mary Pat, asked Sergio if he wanted to practice some more on Saturday morning. He said yes to that.

I told Sergio, “You retest is on Tuesday morning. If you want, I can meet you here on Monday to work on the questions again. You just have to let me know. I don’t want you in class again after Tuesday.

Mary Pat told him, “We don’t want to see you again”, and she laughed at her own joke.

I told Sergio, “Actually, we do want to see you again. We want you to tell everybody here how well you did, and how happy you are to be a citizen.”

Mary Pat added, “Yes, exactly.”

Sergio said, “Okay, Frank. Thank you.” We shook hands.

I got ready to leave. Sergio said, “I gonna pass.”