Frank is Emptiness

December 25th, 2017

Karin and I attended Midnight Mass at St. Rita. I stood in front of the congregation late last night to proclaim the Prayers of the Faithful. I made a mistake during one of the petitions. In the prayer, as written, we ask God, our Father-Forever, to “help your children” who are suffering on Christmas, especially those who are imprisoned. For whatever reason, I actually said “our children”. I guess I said it that way because I really was thinking about “our children”, at least about one child in particular. It was difficult to get through that prayer because it was all up close and personal. It hurt.

Yesterday afternoon Karin and I drove to the Kenosha County Jail. We went to visit our loved one. She was worried that we would not be able to come to her because it was Christmas Eve. I had called the jail earlier in the week and they told me that it didn’t matter that it was Christmas Eve. As far as they were concerned, it was just another Sunday afternoon. The drive to Kenosha was a little stressful. It had been snowing. The roads were slick and the drivers were stupid. We got there.

I had my ten minutes with our loved one. We talked shop. We talked about when she would get the results of her blood test (drug scan). We talked about her public defender. We talked about everything except Christmas. I refused to bring it up. It just seemed too painful for the loved one and for me. In a way it doesn’t matter what the jail does to celebrate Christmas with the inmates. Anything that the jail does is simply a reminder of what the inmates cannot do. It would seem best to just ignore the holiday. It would be easier to pretend that Christmas did not exist.

At the end of the prayer for those imprisoned, I asked God to let them “feel Your loving embrace”. Does our loved one feel that embrace? Do I feel it?

 

 

 

 

December 24th, 2017

I’ve been thinking in German. This is the result of binge-watching a German Netflix series with Karin. The title of the series is “Dark”, and it is completely appropriate. It matches the show’s subject matter, the scenery, and the language. The series addresses a number of heavy themes: free will (Freier Wille), fate (Schicksal), the purpose of our lives, and the existence of God. I am convinced that no American TV show would even attempt to incorporate these topics into a drama. As it is, “Dark” combines wormholes, time travel, and the dangers of nuclear energy into a story of generations of tangled family relationships. Most of my time was spent trying to figure out who was connected to whom, as the series progressed.

“Dark” appeals to me for a couple reasons. The story takes place in a town called Winden, which is actually not terribly far from where Karin lived all those years ago. Part of the show, since it has to do with time travel, takes place in 1986. I was stationed in Germany in the early 80’s, so the images on the screen bring back some memories for me. It is impossible to completely re-create the past, but the show does a tolerable job of it. The mood in the series is spot on. I remember Germany as being often dark and rainy. Most of the action in the series takes place at night, or in caves, or in dimly-lit, Teutonic forests: dark places conducive to thinking dark thoughts. The premise of the show is a bit silly, but the feeling is accurate. The language accentuates the tension and the gloom. I don’t think this show would work nearly as well in Spanish or Italian: those languages are too light and too sunny.

One of the show’s hooks is that it touches upon the very human desire to go back in time, and tweak the past. People often want to unsay words or undo actions. There is a scene where an old woman tells her grandson, ”

“Wenn ich die Zeit zurückdrehen könnte, würde ich viele Dinge anders machen.”

“If I could turn back Time, I would do many things differently.”

I wonder about that. If I could go back, would I really change things? I doubt it.

The series has a strong Buddhist vibe. There is a heavy emphasis on the interconnections between all things. There is also the notion of being in the present moment. One character in the show is a elderly watchmaker/inventor/scientist. At one point he converses with a time traveler. The time traveler ask the scientist if he has any desire to see the future or to revisit the past. The old man replies,

“Nein, ich würde nicht in die Zukunft oder in die Vergangenheit gehen wollen. Ich gehöre hier … jetzt.”

“No, I would not want to go to the future or to the past. I belong here…now.”

That is totally Zen.

Generally, I don’t watch television. I find most shows to be mindless and superficial.

This one haunts me.

 

 

December 21st, 2017

We got a letter in the mail yesterday from our loved one. She tries to communicate with us via snail mail, seeing as she has no access to the Internet whatsoever, and any phone calls she makes to us are horrendously expensive. The girl will call us if she is in the middle of a panic attack, or there is some pressing business that she needs for us to handle. Otherwise, she takes pen to paper and does things the old school way.

There is a beauty and a warmth in receiving a handwritten letter. It is soulful in a way that other correspondence can never be. To feel the paper in my hands and to look at the soft curves of her penmanship is enjoyable. Even her occasional spelling errors are oddly endearing. A handwritten letter, especially if adorned with little drawings, can be a work of art. It feels more human. I can’t explain why that is so, but it is.

The loved one often writes about being bored and/or anxious. Those two things go together, especially for a young woman who has both PTSD and an anxiety disorder. Jail is a warehouse for humans, and there is generally no effort made by the State to keep the inmates entertained, or even occupied. For our young woman, who has no idea how long she will be incarcerated, the hours drag. She has lots of time to worry. She has lots of time to think. She has too much time.

Once, during a brief phone call, my wife suggested to this girl that she might try meditation. That provoked an angry and frustrated reaction from the loved one. Our young woman also has ADD, which makes it a bit difficult for her to focus on anything for more than a few seconds. She has attempted meditation in the past, and it hasn’t worked for her. Well, it hasn’t worked for her yet. I didn’t start meditating until I was forty-seven years old. A person has to be ready for that sort of practice. It’s not something that can be forced.

In the most recent letter, our loved one mentioned that it was her anniversary: thirty days of sobriety and thirty days in the slammer. It is commendable that she has been clean for a month, but it would have been easier on everybody if she had been able to accomplish that in other circumstances. If she remains incarcerated for an extended period of time (and she probably will), then this young woman will reach other sobriety milestones. Hopefully, that long, dry stretch will clear her mind. It may give her the opportunity to see things as they really are. That would be wonderful.

Karin and I will visit our loved one at the jail on Sunday afternoon, which just happens to be Christmas Eve. It’s the only present we can give to her right now. It’s the only present that we are certain she will appreciate. Karin will give her ten minutes of her life. I will do the same. Ten minutes is not very much, but it is everything.

 

 

 

December 16th, 2017

Rob has a Christmas party almost every year. It’s always a German Christmas party, “eine Weihnachtsfeier”. This is because most everyone in attendance, including Rob, has some deep connection with Germany. Some people, like my wife, are natives of Deutschland. Others, like myself, lived there for several years. A few folks are wannabe Germans; they just like the language and the culture. Anyway, the Teutonic thing is a common denominator for most of the folks who come to Rob’s house for the annual festivities.

There is something else that binds most of us together: we were part of the same Bible study group for almost a decade. We started meeting on Saturdays at Dan’s house back in 2003. We came together each weekend to study Scripture in German. Usually, we had to shift back into English after a while. Discussing theology in a foreign language is a daunting task. Even the native German speakers sometimes didn’t have the necessary vocabulary to keep the conversation moving.

It still amazes me that we came together in the small study group. I certainly didn’t fit in with that crowd. Karin, Sister Diane, and I were the only Catholics there. Everyone else was (is) some flavor of Evangelical. The discussions had a definite Baptist feel to them. We often had “spirited discussions”, which is a nice way of saying we argued. Well, I argued. Sometimes I did that out of sheer perversity; I like to be contrary. Sometimes I argued with people because I couldn’t tolerate their smug self-certainty. Most of the group agreed on some fundamental assumptions about God and the world, and I felt the need to challenge those notions. That didn’t always go well.

I didn’t argue in the group because I was Catholic. Any number of people will testify that I’m not very good at following the precepts of the Church. It was more that I had (have) a very different view of what Scripture is and does. The Evangelicals (at least some of them) look at the Bible as kind of a spiritual operators manual. I will over-generalize here, but they assume that, if a person follows the rules in the Book, then everything will be cool. God will bless a believer. They often seek definitive, immutable answers to messy, open-ended questions. They want The Truth, whatever that is (I think that Pontius Pilate asked the right question in John’s Gospel). They want the world to be black and white, with none of those pesky grey areas. I would also like to have some answers to the basic issues in my life, but I am more interested in wrestling with the questions. I am usually okay with some uncertainty and ambivalence. I am more interested in the process than the final result.

Eventually, after about ten years, Karin and I left the Bible study. For a while we had learned quite a bit with the group. I gained a new appreciation and reverence for the Bible. Then, members in the group, including myself, got kind of stuck. We kept revisiting the same controversies, and arriving at the same inconclusive conclusions. Sometimes it’s best to cut your losses. Despite disagreements, Karin and I remained close friends with the other people in the study group. They are all fine human beings, and we love them. They love us.

It’s ironic in a way. Joining that Bible study was my first foray out of the Catholic cocoon. Two years after joining the Evangelicals, I started going to a Zen Center to meditate with the Buddhists. I still do that. Two years after that, I started attending an Orthodox synagogue. I also started visiting a mosque and the local Sikh Temple. Some of the people from the Bible study are convinced that I have left the true path, but the fact is that they got me started on this journey.

In any case, we get together at Rob’s house once a year. That is about all we can handle. Well, it’s about all that I can handle. Thankfully, Rob provides plenty of good food and drink. The guests supplement his humble buffet with homemade treats. While eating, we talk about about various things. Some of the conversations bring up fascinating new topics. Some of the discussions hurry down to the usual dead ends. Some people are comfortable with rehashing old ideas. Some of us aren’t.

People change. Fourteen years can make a huge difference in a person’s life. Some of our friends are going through some severe health issues: cancer, Parkinson’s disease, heart problems. Mortality has reared its ugly head. Others have had intense personal struggles with family members. Life has not been gentle with most of Rob’s guests.

These sorts of challenges have different effects on different people. Some of our friends have found new strength in their faith, and they have become more tolerant and compassionate toward others who are suffering. Some have become more cynical. I am probably in that group. Some people have become more rigid, and they cling ever more tightly to the life preserver of their theology. Mostly, people have matured. We seem to be more accepting of our fate, perhaps because we understand that there is no other choice. We play the hand that we have been dealt.

I had one extraordinary conversation at the party. I spoke with a young man named Theo. He seemed to be utterly lost in the crowd of older people. I don’t how he got to Rob’s house. Some older relative must have dragged him to the gathering. Theo was sitting alone in a corner, silent and brooding. I went up to him and spoke.

I asked Theo, “So, what do you really like to do?”

He replied slowly, “Well, I play guitar and bass.”

“Really? I play bass too!”

After that, Theo and I discussed music. He talked about wanting to join a band. I told him about playing bass with my son, Stefan. We talked about the blues. I described to him the joys of Klezmer. After I told Theo about Tab Benoit, he looked up the guy on his smart phone. We told each other about our favorite artists. We discussed the bass lines in Jimi Hendrix songs.

Theo told me about how he wanted to play music for a living, but he didn’t want to prostitute himself to producer just to make a buck. I explained to Theo that almost nobody earns a living by playing music. It’s an art that has to be practiced for its own sake. I have a friend who plays blues guitar, and he drives a truck to support his family. Music isn’t usually a job. It’s a passion.

Karin was tired after about three hours at Rob’s house. We got ready to go home. We said farewell to Rob and to the other guests.

I shook Theo’s hand. He held on to mine firmly.

I told him, “I was really glad to meet you.”

He smiled and said, “Me too.”

 

 

 

December 14th, 2017

I’m usually pretty good with words. I can shape them and make them do my bidding. Usually. I found out their limitations, and my limitations, on Thursday.

Our loved one called from jail around noon that day. I was the only one at home, so I talked with her. I told the young woman about a meeting that Karin and I had with a friend named Carl. Carl runs a shelter/soup kitchen in Racine. He also works closely with ex-inmates. He is himself an ex-prisoner.

I tried to explain to our loved one that she really need to push for mental health support before she goes in front of the judge for sentencing. Carl had told Karin and myself that mental health help is very difficult to get in prison unless a person is a behavioral problem for the guards. That’s not a good way to get assistance. I apparently freaked out the young woman, because she was sobbing at the end of our conversation. That was totally not my intention. I just wanted her to be aware that she needed to advocate for herself with her public defender to get the help she needs. Unfortunately, all I accomplished was to push her into an anxiety attack.

Later in the day, I went to tutor the Syrian refugee kids. I spent most of my time working with Nada. She had a homework assignment from her science class. The worksheet was designed to teach a student about how to conduct an experiment. Nada needed to learn how to formulate a research question. She needed to understand the terms “independent variable”, “dependent variable”, and “constant variable”. She needed to be able to design a scientific experiment.

I am convinced that our time together was a dead loss, at least with regards to the subject matter. I don’t think she understood even 10% of what was being presented. Part of that is due to her limited English comprehension, and also due to my equally limited Arabic vocabulary.  Neither of us had enough words. I tried to explain what the terms meant, but I was floundering. Honestly, it is even difficult to define those terms to a native English-speaker. The concepts in the homework were not easy, and when I asked Nada if she understood, she just nodded shyly. That told me that she didn’t get it. Not at all.

I left Nada’s home deeply frustrated. What was the point? What was accomplished?

I talked with Karin about the session with Nada. Karin suggested that it was good for me to simply practice English with the girl. Even if she only learned a few new words or ideas, that was something. Also, Karin is convinced that just the fact that I was there to help Nada showed her that somebody cared. Nada knows that at least I want to help her.

Karin also told me that later on Thursday our loved one called back. She had spoken with her lawyer after I talked with her, and had resolved some of her questions about getting psychological help. Karin said that the young woman sounded much more relaxed and grounded than she had during my earlier conversation with her. Good.

Maybe I did something right.

 

 

December 10th, 2017

Karin and I went to visit our loved one in jail. I was the first one called into the room to speak with her. I sat down and she motioned me to pick up the telephone receiver. Her buzz cut is starting to grow out. She no longer has that funky, Sinead O’Conner look. Her hair is still a reddish color from some dye she used several weeks ago. I wonder what her natural hair color actually is. I can’t seem to remember.

The young woman looked visibly upset. She seemed to be at the verge of crying.

I asked her, “What’s up?” I didn’t ask her how she was, because I already knew the answer to that question.

The loved one started weeping softly. Then she calmed herself and said, “When I leave this place, they will probably send me to Taycheedah, near Fond du Lac. That’s where they sort out which prison to send you to. They decide how violent you are, and then you go to either maximum security or minimum. I don’t think I’ll be going to maximum. I had that battery charge, but they downgraded it to disorderly conduct.”

“Okay”, I replied.

She started sobbing, “I don’t know what to do about visits when I get there. I have to send you guys a letter or something…but I don’t know the procedure.”

She paused and said haltingly, “I’m worried that I won’t ever get to see you guys again!”

I looked away for a moment.

Then I told her, “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out. With all the stuff that’s happened before…we figured it out. We always figure it out.”

She wiped away her tears with her hand. Her breathing became more regular.

“Okay”, she said.

I looked at her, and said softly, “We’ll figure it out.”

 

 

 

December 6th, 2017

“Woe to you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites; because you are like to whited sepulchres, which outwardly appear to men beautiful, but within are full of dead men’s bones, and of all filthiness.” -Matthew 23:27

Washington D.C. is truly a beautiful city, especially at night. After eating supper, our group of demonstrators walked from the National Museum of the American Indian to the Lincoln Memorial. That long stroll took us from near the Capitol Building almost all the way down to the Potomac River. Floodlights illuminated many of the monuments and memorials.  The structures looked almost like they were glowing in the dark, the white marble reflecting the artificial light. We went past the Smithsonian Institute and the Washington Monument. We wandered around in the WWII Memorial. We hiked up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, and were subsequently told by a cop to leave because we still had our protest signs with us. The figures of soldiers in the Korean War Memorial looked eerie in the half-light of the street lamps nearby. The Martin Luther King Memorial was impressive in a massive, heroic sort of way.

In some of the locations I felt a sort of reverent awe. This was particularly true when I stood inside of the Lincoln Memorial, reading the man’s words carved into the stone walls. The MLK Memorial also made me stop and think. I’m not sure why that was. Maybe it’s because these men served their country so well, and I felt the need to honor their memory.

Two other buildings were lit up: the White House and the Capitol Building. If we turned around as we walked, we could see them shining in the night. I felt nothing at all for those two buildings. To use the words of Jesus, those are just whitewashed tombs. They are beautiful and majestic from the outside, but within they are full of greed and the lust for power. People say and do terrible things in those places.

The White House and the Capitol should be left dark at night. It’s bad enough we can see them during the day.           

December 6th, 2017

[Father:]

I was once like you are now, and I know that it’s not easy
To be calm when you’ve found something going on
But take your time, think a lot
Why, think of everything you’ve got
For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not

[Son:]
How can I try to explain, cause when I do he turns away again
It’s always been the same, same old story
From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen
Now there’s a way and I know that I have to go away
I know I have to go

-Cat Stevens, from “Father and Son”

 

Nothing makes me feel old like being in the company of a group of teenagers. I don’t dislike being with them, but it is difficult for us to connect. At least, I find it a bit difficult to do so. It is hard for me to remember what it was like for me to be that age. Hell, it’s hard for me to remember what it was like for my kids to be that age. In many ways these young people are just like I was, but some things really are different for them, and that is disconcerting.

I spent two full days hanging out with a large number of high school students, and a few of their friends who have already graduated.  We rode on a bus (actually there were two buses) to Washington, D.C. to join a rally to prod Congress into passing a clean Dream Act. Since Trump discontinued DACA, about 800,000 young people (like the ones on the bus), are now or will be subject to possible deportation. They will also lose their ability to work or pursue an education. About one hundred of us went to D.C. to demonstrate. We did it because, as one of the older people in our group pointed out, “The issue is no longer theoretical”. The longer these youths go unprotected, the greater the chances that they will get hurt.

Many of the young people on the bus were Latino. A few were not, but even they realized what is at stake. They all have skin in the game. Every one of those kids either is undocumented or knows somebody who is. Each one of those teenagers is painfully aware of how important this issue is. They didn’t come on the trip just to get out of a couple days of classes. As one of them said, they came because “it is a noble cause”.

The journey was organized by Voces de la Frontera and its subsidiary, YES (Youth Empowered in the Struggle). All the students were somehow involved with YES. Besides the transportation, Voces and YES made the banners and signs. They also ensured that there was plentiful food and water for the trip. We all got two massive sandwiches, and everyone seemed to have snacks with them.

It wasn’t like everything was completely serious. After all, we are talking about teenagers. There was a kind of wild energy on the bus as we left Racine in the afternoon. There were many lively discussions, and more than enough loud music on the ride. Sleep was optional, at least on the way to Washington. Folks were too wound up, even those of us who qualify as old. A few of the elders were designated as chaperons. Somehow Voces never thought to use me as a chaperon, and I am eternally grateful for that. I’ve spent most of my adult life herding people, and I was very pleased to just be an innocent bystander this time.

I got to know a few of the teens on the bus ride. Anthony and Emelio sat behind me. Anthony is an old hand at this sort of thing. He was in YES for several years, and he worked at the Voces office in Milwaukee. Now he manages a restaurant. Emelio is still in high school. He’s interested in joining the military. I tried to clue him in that there are costs involved with that kind of decision. I’m not sure that he understood, but then how could he? There are things that a person can only learn by experience, and he doesn’t have much of that yet.

Somebody cranked up the tunes as the evening progressed. I was deeply impressed by the fact that the kids sang along with “Killing Me Softly with His Song”. I don’t think they were listening to the Roberta Flack version. I think it was the Fugees cover. However, they knew all the words. Then they played tracks from Kid Cudi. I actually own a Kid Cudi album (Man on the Moon II). He’s not bad at all. Then they shifted over to some Mexican music. Some of riders sang along in Spanish. It sounded pretty cool. After that, they played hip hop, rap, and whatever else they liked. At 11:00 PM the party stopped. The bus was quieter, but not entirely silent. Too much tension.

We had breakfast at Bob and Edith’s Diner in Arlington, Virginia. It’s an old school diner. I really don’t think the management expected to see fifty people walk into their restaurant at one time. However, they handled the crowd well. We all found a seat. I sat in a booth by myself for a while. Nobody wanted to sit with a scary-looking old guy. Finally, a boy named Tyler slid into the booth. Then two girls showed up: Gabi and her blue-haired friend (whose name I have forgotten).

The conversation was awkward. I asked the usual, lame, adult questions. You know, like “What classes are you in?” and “Do you like sports?”. They gave me mostly monosyllabic answers. It was pathetic. The girls were juniors at Horlick High School, and Tyler was a freshman there. I wanted to have a conversation, but it seemed forced. The teens and I were looking at life from opposite ends of the continuum. Besides the fact that we were all motivated to help immigrants, we had almost nothing in common. The gap was just too big.

We got off the bus at Union Station and we all walked to the Capitol Building. Most people carried signs. I helped to carry a big, black parachute which had the image of a mother and child on it. In both English and Spanish, there was the message: “Keep Families Together”. It was impressive to see. It was a bit hard to maneuver with the parachute, but it was fun to flap it once it was all stretched out.

It was cold and windy outside the Capitol. The sun peeked through a grey sky. The crowd was big. There were people there from all over the country. There seemed to be an endless amount of speeches. We stood around for a while, and then moved into a strategic position to get near the front of the march. It’s easier to get media attention if you are in the front.

Civil disobedience was scheduled for 3:00 PM at the Senate side of the building. We were going to march there, and support the people risking arrest. The action was planned well in advance, and was going to be about as spontaneous as a space shuttle launch. That’s just how those things work. A number of people were going to sit on the steps of the Senate wing, and then refuse to get up. The Washington cops would arrest them, and the media would take note. It’s kind of political version of Kabuki theater.

Christine from Voces was one of the folks waiting to get busted. She sat with at least one hundred other people on the stone steps. The police were there, heavily armed and looking all badass and shit. The show would have been amusing if the underlying problem wasn’t so critical.

The people sitting on the steps came in all shapes and sizes. There were members of the clergy there, dressed in their religious garb. Each of them wore neon green gloves, and each one had a green band around their right arm. I found this to be odd. It occurred to me that maybe this was a way to ensure that the group of protesters wasn’t infiltrated by some hooligans. The idea was to have a peaceful, non-violent action. One or two idiots would screw that up quickly.

The police gave the sitters a chance to leave. Nobody budged. Then the cops slowly, but surely, arrested each one of them. From my vantage point, it was really hard to see who was getting busted. The crowd was thick, and people were huddled close together. I tried in vain to find Christine on the stairs.

Al, one of the chaperons, told me, “We don’t need to watch. The kids need to see this.”

He was right. The older protesters in our group didn’t need to watch the event. All of us have either already watched friends get arrested, or we have been arrested ourselves at some point. However, the teens really did need to watch the arrests. They needed to see that there are costs involved in working for justice. They needed to see that free speech isn’t always free. They needed to know first hand, up close and personal, what happens when you buck the system. They needed to be made aware.

When the demonstration finally ended, and we left the park, people were a bit more subdued. We were all kind of tired. The experience was sobering.

The high school students all left that place just a little bit older.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

December 6th, 2017

“Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

-Hunter S. Thompson 

“The dream is over
What can I say?
The dream is over
Yesterday”

-John Lennon, from the song “God”

“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’ ”

-Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

 

We were riding in a cramped bus through the December darkness along the Ohio Toll Way. We were all on our way to Washington, D.C., for a political rally to support a clean Dream Act. Fifty people were crammed into tiny seats, and for most of the ride I was surrounded by loud talking and music. I sat next to Ron, an older gentleman with a pony tail and a bad left knee. His knee caused him great discomfort during the bus ride, as there was no room at all to stretch out or move his leg. Sometimes Ron would painfully get up and walk toward the back of the bus, where he would stand for a while. I stayed in my seat and stared out the window, watching the shadows of the landscape flow past me in the moonlight.

Moonlight is conducive to remembering and dreaming. This wasn’t my first bus trip to D.C.. I had been on a similar bus almost eleven years ago, tracing the same route eastward through the night. It was in January of 2007. I was with a group from Peace Action Wisconsin. We were going to the Capitol to protest against George W. Bush and the Iraq War. On that earlier journey, the bus had been filled with anti-war activists of all varieties: aging hippies, Che Guevara wannabes, radical feminists, Vietnam vets, and the Skinheads for Peace. The two skinheads were my favorites; they dressed just like their rightwing comrades, but they were totally against the war. There was one other person on that peace bus who was important to me: my son, Hans.

As I sat on this newer bus, I thought about Hans. He had been sitting next to me on the trip we took eleven years ago. He was nineteen at the time. His memories of the journey are different than mine. He claims that I conned him into going to the peace demonstration. I remember him whining that I was going to Washington, but he wasn’t. In any case, we both wound up on that Peace Action bus. We both sat there for hours on end, alternately observing the scene and attempting to catch some sleep.

The population on this week’s bus was different from the one I took all those years ago. Ron and I were riding with a group of high school students from Racine, Wisconsin. They were mostly Latino, and they were all somehow affiliated with YES, Youth Empowered in the Struggle. YES works to promote social justice issues, primarily the rights of immigrants. The students had all the hallmarks of youth: boundless energy, intense idealism, and a total inability to focus. The few elders on the bus were excited about the rally, but we also exuded a sort of melancholy. As Ron stated, “This isn’t our first rodeo.” We had all been places and done things. Some of the kids probably had never even been out of Racine before. Did having a mix of old and young mean that we had experience versus enthusiasm? Maybe experience combined with enthusiasm.

A multi-hour bus ride gives a person a chance to engage in lengthy conversations. Ron and I did just that. Ron told me about his time as a pastor in the Church of the Brethren. He also went to law school and worked as a corporate lawyer. I told Ron about my time at West Point and my years as a Army helicopter pilot. We talked about our families. Ron told me about how he very nearly joined the military back in 1967. He changed his mind after speaking to a high school classmate who had just returned from his first tour in Vietnam. Several of Ron’s friends had gone to Vietnam, but he didn’t. Ron spoke with a certain amount of sadness because those separate paths divide him from his friends, even today.

In the pre-dawn hours we stopped for a break at a rest stop in western Pennsylvania. The students went to the bathrooms, and then sat down in small groups to chat and to gaze intently at their smart phones. I wandered aimlessly past the closed food kiosks, and I stood by the main entrance, simply grateful for the opportunity to stand for a while. Elliott was there too. Elliott is a thin, young man with glasses and an infectious smile. He was the captain of the bus, although he shared that duty with Valeria, a young Latina from Racine. Neither Elliott nor I had any desire to get back on the bus just yet, so we struck up a conversation.

Elliott and I talked about the rally in Washington. I told him about how Hans and I took this same path a decade ago. I told him about the crowds there, and how Hans spent his time in the museums while I stood around listening to leftwing rhetoric. I frowned when I mentioned the aftermath of the journey. I told Elliott about how, just two years later, Hans joined the Army, and how he went to Iraq in 2011. I felt a wave of sadness when I told him that Hans killed people in the same war that I wanted to end. The irony was bitter.

Elliott listened. He said that we can’t expect that this demonstration will get us all that we want. We might not get a clean Dream Act. Our efforts may be for naught. Then he said,

“But what is the alternative? Do nothing?”

He went on, “I want us to succeed. I want to be smart and get results.”

I want us to succeed too. Both Elliott and I realize that this long trip may not achieve that. However, we both also know that it may be a catalyst for other things. We may succeed in ways we don’t understand and that we can’t imagine. Sometimes, the intention is the most important thing. Sometimes, we just need to try.

Much later, after the rally was over, and we were all walking around in the dark near the Tidal Basin, we stumbled on to the Martin Luther King Memorial. The lighting made the image of MLK seem heroic. I was astounded by the detail in the stone. I could even see the veins in King’s hands. I read some of the quotes in the wall behind the stone carving. Martin Luther King had not achieved his dream during his lifetime, but he hadn’t failed either.

A dream achieved is no longer a dream. It is reality.

I’m home again. Hans called me on the phone last night. He wanted to tell me that it was snowing like hell down in Bryan, Texas. He said that Gabi, his bride-to-be and a Texas native, loved it. I could hear her laughing in the background.

Hans asked me, “Where did you go?”

I told him, “I went to Washington for another demonstration.”

Hans sighed, “What was this one about?”

“Immigration. We were trying to keep undocumented kids from getting deported.”

Hans said, “Yeah, they should have a law that lets people stay here if they got brought to this country when they were little.”

“Well, yeah. That’s what we were trying to get Congress to do.”

“That’s okay.”

There was giggling in the background again.

“Well, Dad, I just called to tell you about the snow. Talk to you later.”

“Bye Hans.”

“Yeah, Bye.”

Hans remembers our trip to D.C.. He wants his own kids. He has his own dreams for them.

 

 

 

December 3rd, 2017

Another Sunday, another trip to the Kenosha County Jail. It’s amazing how quickly we adjust to new patterns in our lives. What initially seemed horrendous is now the new normal. An arrest and incarceration of a family member is shocking at first, but then it just becomes an accepted part of our reality. The visits to the jail are just as much part of a typical Sunday for us as going to Mass is. Now, it’s just what we do.

Karin and I went to the jail early, but we were not the first ones there. There were already two other people in the lobby, and they seemed a bit confused. I don’t think that is all that unusual. The jail is an environment that breeds confusion. Visiting hours are usually only on the weekend, and there is often nobody available during that time to give direction and guidance to the people who are showing up for the first time. It’s not a good system.

A woman in the lobby of the building spoke to Karin and me as soon as we walked into the place. She said,

“Whatever you do, don’t use the stairwell!”

“Ooooookaaaay…”, I replied.

She went on, “I was here on Friday, and tried to use the stairs. I got myself locked in the stairwell!”

I wondered about that. There are signs in the hallway indicating where to go. The signs clearly direct a visitor to the elevator that goes to the second floor of the jail. Why would this woman use the stairs? How did she get out of the stairwell? Why was she even here on a Friday?

I shook my head to clear my mind. The lady kept up her monologue. It was pure stream of consciousness. I tuned out most of what she was saying. We all took the elevator to the second floor. We walked down another hallway, and she said,

“Look! The office is closed! There is nobody at the window!”

“Uh, no…that’s not the correct window. We have to go a little further down this hallway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

We arrived at the window where we had to fill out a small slip of paper and show our ID cards. The woman had clearly never been to this place before. It was all new to her. I kept wondering, “So, where was she on Friday, if she never made it here?”

There was a already a crowd of people waiting in the narrow hallway, and visitation didn’t even start for another ten minutes. The seats were all taken, so Karin and I stood next to the wall. Karin took out her drop spindle, and started to spin raw wool with it. A man near us was rather impressed with Karin’s skills. Karin always has some knitting or spinning with her. She is never bored.

The visits started. Each person only got ten minutes with an inmate, so things went fast. I saw our loved one first, then Karin came into the room immediately after I was finished. Our family member was in good spirits, relatively speaking. There wasn’t that sense of utter panic and hopelessness. I was grateful for that.

On our way out, I stopped at the kiosk to put more money into our inmate’s commissary account. When I finished using my credit card, a black woman came up to the computer kiosk to do the same thing. She had never used it before, so I stayed and walked her through the process. Like everything else in the jail, this device is not user friendly. I was lucky that somebody held my hand when I first tried to enter money into the account. Otherwise, I am sure that I would have eventually given up in despair. I took the woman through each step. Even so, it was still a tedious task. I get the impression that this kiosk was designed by somebody who knew that it would be the only option available to people, and that there was no need to worry about them taking their business elsewhere. Monopolies don’t have to be concerned with customer service.

We’ll try  all this again next Sunday.