Settled snow banks steam
An April rill runs downward
Kindled in the sun
Buried flowers dream
Stirred by the heat of the day
Deer - dream of nibbles
Sleeping buds awake
To barren boughs without leaves
Last years, feed - below
Grass peeks from beneath
Frozen ground thaws under leaves
Sheds its winter coat
Ripples over rocks
Brooks run down sending up life
Spring water for drink
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Nat The Soldier
Over the past thirty years I have met many men who served our country during World War Two. What treasures they are. I have recently been blessed to make the acquaintance of an 85 year old man named Nat who was drafted right out of high school to serve in the army at the age of 17.
He recalled to me about a day while on patrol in France; As they were walking down a dirt road, he curiously noticed dust flying up around him. He couldn't make sense of it when he suddenly realized that they were being shot at from a distance. The shooter was so far away that they couldn't hear the gunfire. He yelled, “Hey, they’re shooting at us.” Everybody hit the ground. Pinned down by enemy fire, Nat could feel the bullets penetrating the ground beneath him. They guy in front of him yelled “Mother, I’m hit.” Nat reached up and put his hand on the foot of the wailing soldier and said “You’ll be okay.” The boy never answered. This was the first of many soldiers Nat would see die.
Another time, Nat was in a trench and was again pinned down by enemy fire. He was waiting for support when suddenly a Panzer tank rolled over him and stopped. It began firing and he said it was both deafening and terrifying. Every time the tank fired, the ground shook, the ditch he was curled up in was crumbling around him. Nat thought that that was going to be the end of him. American tank support approached from the other side and the Panzer tank retreated. Nat would live to see another day.
Nat remembers it being very cold his first winter over there. Many boys had frost bite on their feet and were taken out on stretchers because they couldn’t walk anymore. Some even had to have their feet amputated. Nat didn’t smoke but took every opportunity to scavenge cigarettes which he would light and hold them cupped in his hands in an attempt to keep his fingers warm. He would sometimes tunnel in the snow at night in an effort to keep warm from the deep, still cold.
Nat and ten other men found themselves being shelled one day. A bomb exploded nearby and everyone was hit by shrapnel. Nat was hit in the heel of his foot. Everyone was lying on the ground either unconscious or unable to move. Nat, on his butt, grabbed each man by their armpits one at a time and on his butt, dragged them to safety and lifted them each over a nearby stone wall. One boy told Nat to save himself and leave him but Nat said no and saved everyone there. He later received a Purple Heart, Bronze Star, and Silver Star for saving the lives of his fellow soldiers that day.
Nat often spoke of killing many Germans but would never go into detail about what happened. He would pause, choke, stare off, and at times tears would well up in his eyes. He considered what he did to be murder. It has been sixty years and he still breaks down into tears when he talks about what happened. When Nat returned home, his dad was standing on the train platform waiting for him. As Nat got off the train, his dad ran up to him and hugged him. Nat said that that was the first time his dad ever hugged him. Again, Nat breaks into tears as he tells the story. He has asked me many times to drive him to the cemetery where he always weeps at the grave of his parents.
Nat was taken advantage of by some smooth talking, slow, methodical and unspectacular young man with some sort of a felony conviction in his past. He told Nat that he would take care of him for life if Nat signed his house over to him. Nat did. Nat didn't want to risk winding up in a nursing home but wanted to die in his own home. This young man was his salvation. Nat had almost a million dollars in savings and it was willed to his nieces and nephews, his only living relatives. The young man knew that the only way he could get the money was to spend it. He had an addition put on the house, new roof, new wiring, new appliances, AC and began purchasing antiques. The house is filled with so much antique furniture that there is only a narrow path through any one room. The garage has three brand new Cadillac cars in it. Nat told me that the latest purchases had been a $30,000 sofa and $20,000 tub. The young man just makes the purchases and expects Nat to sign the checks, which he does.
Family and friends have all contacted the police, social services or the department of the aging but technically no crime has been committed. When questioned by authorities, Nat says everything is okay. He did confess to me one day that he made a terrible, terrible mistake. Despite all of that, the man is taking care of Nat in his own home and Nat's dying wish will be completed. A promise is not to be despised, not even when its advocate is no gentleman.
He recalled to me about a day while on patrol in France; As they were walking down a dirt road, he curiously noticed dust flying up around him. He couldn't make sense of it when he suddenly realized that they were being shot at from a distance. The shooter was so far away that they couldn't hear the gunfire. He yelled, “Hey, they’re shooting at us.” Everybody hit the ground. Pinned down by enemy fire, Nat could feel the bullets penetrating the ground beneath him. They guy in front of him yelled “Mother, I’m hit.” Nat reached up and put his hand on the foot of the wailing soldier and said “You’ll be okay.” The boy never answered. This was the first of many soldiers Nat would see die.
Another time, Nat was in a trench and was again pinned down by enemy fire. He was waiting for support when suddenly a Panzer tank rolled over him and stopped. It began firing and he said it was both deafening and terrifying. Every time the tank fired, the ground shook, the ditch he was curled up in was crumbling around him. Nat thought that that was going to be the end of him. American tank support approached from the other side and the Panzer tank retreated. Nat would live to see another day.
Nat remembers it being very cold his first winter over there. Many boys had frost bite on their feet and were taken out on stretchers because they couldn’t walk anymore. Some even had to have their feet amputated. Nat didn’t smoke but took every opportunity to scavenge cigarettes which he would light and hold them cupped in his hands in an attempt to keep his fingers warm. He would sometimes tunnel in the snow at night in an effort to keep warm from the deep, still cold.
Nat and ten other men found themselves being shelled one day. A bomb exploded nearby and everyone was hit by shrapnel. Nat was hit in the heel of his foot. Everyone was lying on the ground either unconscious or unable to move. Nat, on his butt, grabbed each man by their armpits one at a time and on his butt, dragged them to safety and lifted them each over a nearby stone wall. One boy told Nat to save himself and leave him but Nat said no and saved everyone there. He later received a Purple Heart, Bronze Star, and Silver Star for saving the lives of his fellow soldiers that day.
Nat often spoke of killing many Germans but would never go into detail about what happened. He would pause, choke, stare off, and at times tears would well up in his eyes. He considered what he did to be murder. It has been sixty years and he still breaks down into tears when he talks about what happened. When Nat returned home, his dad was standing on the train platform waiting for him. As Nat got off the train, his dad ran up to him and hugged him. Nat said that that was the first time his dad ever hugged him. Again, Nat breaks into tears as he tells the story. He has asked me many times to drive him to the cemetery where he always weeps at the grave of his parents.
Nat was taken advantage of by some smooth talking, slow, methodical and unspectacular young man with some sort of a felony conviction in his past. He told Nat that he would take care of him for life if Nat signed his house over to him. Nat did. Nat didn't want to risk winding up in a nursing home but wanted to die in his own home. This young man was his salvation. Nat had almost a million dollars in savings and it was willed to his nieces and nephews, his only living relatives. The young man knew that the only way he could get the money was to spend it. He had an addition put on the house, new roof, new wiring, new appliances, AC and began purchasing antiques. The house is filled with so much antique furniture that there is only a narrow path through any one room. The garage has three brand new Cadillac cars in it. Nat told me that the latest purchases had been a $30,000 sofa and $20,000 tub. The young man just makes the purchases and expects Nat to sign the checks, which he does.
Family and friends have all contacted the police, social services or the department of the aging but technically no crime has been committed. When questioned by authorities, Nat says everything is okay. He did confess to me one day that he made a terrible, terrible mistake. Despite all of that, the man is taking care of Nat in his own home and Nat's dying wish will be completed. A promise is not to be despised, not even when its advocate is no gentleman.
Heal Thyself
I once presented a series of workshops around the northeast called "Playing with Fire." It was designed with musicians in mind but I have healed many people from various professions. Not everyone has the capacity to heal themselves and much like Ellen Burstyn's "Edna" character in "Resurrection," I don't offer the workshop anymore.
Tendinitis is a particularly nasty injury because it's mostly caused by inflammation due to improper usage or prolonged use of certain parts of the body. If you ignore it, most likely it will get worse. Left untreated, you will get scar tissue which will cause more pain and discomfort. Tendinitis takes a long time to heal. As the tendons become inflamed, they can press on nerves. One particular nerve which is susceptible to tendon inflammation is the median nerve in the wrist. The pain and numbness resulting from that is often called carpal tunnel syndrome. That problem has been around for centuries and has been called many different things, usually associated with occupations which are repetitive. Pain is the body's way letting you know it needs something or that something worse is about to happen. Never ignore pain. Continuing to stress it will only cause more damage and more pain. When the pain becomes excruciating and you finally seek medical help there may be more damage than can be corrected.
It is actually quite easy to heal through movement modification because proper movement promotes healing. I had tendonitis and I was in so much pain for a six month period that I couldn't sleep. I couldn't even pick up a piece of paper. I drove with my knees. Monday through Friday I did absolutely nothing (well, I got a great tan) and saved myself up for playing the organ for six Masses on the weekend only to find myself doing hours of contrast baths every Sunday evening to ameliorate the agony from the weekend abuse. It wasn't until I sought the help of a woman who "healed" me in minutes. At the very least, she had me playing the piano pain-free. After an hour of special exercises, she asked me how my hands felt and for the first time in six months, they felt normal. Of course, it took six months of intensive re-training to actually heal but, I healed. The really cool effect was that I began experiencing snapping sensations in my forearms as scar tissue was releasing and healing.
Healing does not have to be some elusive elemental thing. Many people think that surgery is a quick and easy solution for median nerve entrapment - provided you don't continue doing the movements which caused the problem in the first place. Surgery solves the symptom but the underlying problem still exists and the problem is that we are simply moving incorrectly. Current medical treatment consists of rest, medication, shots, physical therapy or surgery. The best analogy I can come up with is if you have a nail in your shoe which is causing you pain and bleeding in your foot, you can rest until you heal. But the moment you begin walking again, the nail is still there and the symptoms of pain and bleeding come back. You can "walk it off," work through it or try to build up muscle but that won't work. You can take off the shoe and put on a band-aid but, the moment you put the shoe back on the problem will still be there. You can take medication so that you don't feel the nail and its attendant pain but, the nail is still there. The only solution is to remove the nail and the foot will heal.
If your car is out of alignment you will eat through your tires. The worn tires are the symptom of the poor alignment. You can always put on new tires but those will wear, too. The solution is to fix the alignment. Our bodies are fulcrums, levers, pulleys and rubber bands. They are designed to work at prodigious efficiency. Can they work inefficiently? Absolutely. Poor posture and misalignment has a respectable place in our repertoire of movement. Misuse isn't the problem, overuse isn't the problem; it is when we combine both misuse with overuse that we cause problems.
Surgery will open up the carpal tunnel so that our inflamed tendons are no longer be pressing on the median nerve. The pain and numbness will go away but you still have inflamed tendons. What happens when they become even more inflamed? How many surgeries can we have to open up the tunnel more and more? For someone who depends on fine and efficient movements such as a musician, at what technical cost is there in changing the landscape of this efficient and tightly compact design? Think of removing the miles of intestine within our gut, then packing it all back in. Sure, it can be done. Will it be the same?
Anyone who fishes knows that you can't cast a broken fishing pole. Sure you can tape it together but it won't work as efficiently as an unbroken one. Musicians all have the capacity to enjoy pain free virtuoso techniques but first we need to undo the motor memory of the very first flawed times we touched our instruments. Not many of us had the right teacher at our first lesson. Pianistically, this teacher would have been someone who only let us play one key, with one finger, for several weeks before we were allowed to employ a second finger.
As I said, I was suffering from a bout of long flexor tendinitis as result of overuse and misuse. It was actually while building a deck in my back yard when I first noticed a twinge of pain. Eventually, as I played the piano I was occasionally charged with a stabbing pain in my forearm. It started off intermittently but then became constant with every use of my fingers or hands. I went to see the doctor and he started me on a course of anti-inflammatory drugs. They actually helped for a brief period. The problem with these drugs was that they were taking away the pain or, masking the symptoms but not solving the problem. The problem was that I was misusing my hands. Since the drugs relieved the inflammation which was causing the pain, feeling better, I continued to misuse my hands. This made my tendonitis worse. Eventually the pain became bilateral and my arms were in pain 24 hours a day. My doctor sent me to see the physical therapist who prescribed more movement which only made my symptoms worse. In addition to the constant aching, I was unable to perform the simplest tasks. I couldn’t pick up a pencil, I couldn’t brush my teeth, I couldn’t comb my hair, holding a fork was painful, flushing the toilet, zipping a zipper, driving, tying my shoes. Everything caused pain and exasperated my symptoms.
After about a year of therapy, drugs, and rest, I thought my career as a piano player was over. Movement re-education gave me my life back. Mind you, I was not cured, rather, I just discontinued misusing my hands, proper movement put everything in natural alighnment and my body healed itself. Every once in a great, great while I get a twinge of pain when I thoughtlessly revert back to my old way of moving but a quick readjustment of my alignment fixes everything. I actually found that moving properly not only permitted me to move again, but it made me feel better in everything I did. It took over a year when I realized that I forgot that I ever had the pain. Those lessons have since been transposed into every aspect of my moving life. Everything about me improved. My music, skiing, hiking, even driving my car.
As I asserted earlier, I do not heal people anymore but, know that there are alternative and amelioratative ways to mitigate this apparent failure of medical enterprise. Having been there, I am very disappointed that the medical community has not embraced the over 300 year old solution but continues to perpetuate false dogma. Although, I suspect the blame lies with those of us who want a solution now, at whatever cost - along the path of least resistance.
Tendinitis is a particularly nasty injury because it's mostly caused by inflammation due to improper usage or prolonged use of certain parts of the body. If you ignore it, most likely it will get worse. Left untreated, you will get scar tissue which will cause more pain and discomfort. Tendinitis takes a long time to heal. As the tendons become inflamed, they can press on nerves. One particular nerve which is susceptible to tendon inflammation is the median nerve in the wrist. The pain and numbness resulting from that is often called carpal tunnel syndrome. That problem has been around for centuries and has been called many different things, usually associated with occupations which are repetitive. Pain is the body's way letting you know it needs something or that something worse is about to happen. Never ignore pain. Continuing to stress it will only cause more damage and more pain. When the pain becomes excruciating and you finally seek medical help there may be more damage than can be corrected.
It is actually quite easy to heal through movement modification because proper movement promotes healing. I had tendonitis and I was in so much pain for a six month period that I couldn't sleep. I couldn't even pick up a piece of paper. I drove with my knees. Monday through Friday I did absolutely nothing (well, I got a great tan) and saved myself up for playing the organ for six Masses on the weekend only to find myself doing hours of contrast baths every Sunday evening to ameliorate the agony from the weekend abuse. It wasn't until I sought the help of a woman who "healed" me in minutes. At the very least, she had me playing the piano pain-free. After an hour of special exercises, she asked me how my hands felt and for the first time in six months, they felt normal. Of course, it took six months of intensive re-training to actually heal but, I healed. The really cool effect was that I began experiencing snapping sensations in my forearms as scar tissue was releasing and healing.
Healing does not have to be some elusive elemental thing. Many people think that surgery is a quick and easy solution for median nerve entrapment - provided you don't continue doing the movements which caused the problem in the first place. Surgery solves the symptom but the underlying problem still exists and the problem is that we are simply moving incorrectly. Current medical treatment consists of rest, medication, shots, physical therapy or surgery. The best analogy I can come up with is if you have a nail in your shoe which is causing you pain and bleeding in your foot, you can rest until you heal. But the moment you begin walking again, the nail is still there and the symptoms of pain and bleeding come back. You can "walk it off," work through it or try to build up muscle but that won't work. You can take off the shoe and put on a band-aid but, the moment you put the shoe back on the problem will still be there. You can take medication so that you don't feel the nail and its attendant pain but, the nail is still there. The only solution is to remove the nail and the foot will heal.
If your car is out of alignment you will eat through your tires. The worn tires are the symptom of the poor alignment. You can always put on new tires but those will wear, too. The solution is to fix the alignment. Our bodies are fulcrums, levers, pulleys and rubber bands. They are designed to work at prodigious efficiency. Can they work inefficiently? Absolutely. Poor posture and misalignment has a respectable place in our repertoire of movement. Misuse isn't the problem, overuse isn't the problem; it is when we combine both misuse with overuse that we cause problems.
Surgery will open up the carpal tunnel so that our inflamed tendons are no longer be pressing on the median nerve. The pain and numbness will go away but you still have inflamed tendons. What happens when they become even more inflamed? How many surgeries can we have to open up the tunnel more and more? For someone who depends on fine and efficient movements such as a musician, at what technical cost is there in changing the landscape of this efficient and tightly compact design? Think of removing the miles of intestine within our gut, then packing it all back in. Sure, it can be done. Will it be the same?
Anyone who fishes knows that you can't cast a broken fishing pole. Sure you can tape it together but it won't work as efficiently as an unbroken one. Musicians all have the capacity to enjoy pain free virtuoso techniques but first we need to undo the motor memory of the very first flawed times we touched our instruments. Not many of us had the right teacher at our first lesson. Pianistically, this teacher would have been someone who only let us play one key, with one finger, for several weeks before we were allowed to employ a second finger.
As I said, I was suffering from a bout of long flexor tendinitis as result of overuse and misuse. It was actually while building a deck in my back yard when I first noticed a twinge of pain. Eventually, as I played the piano I was occasionally charged with a stabbing pain in my forearm. It started off intermittently but then became constant with every use of my fingers or hands. I went to see the doctor and he started me on a course of anti-inflammatory drugs. They actually helped for a brief period. The problem with these drugs was that they were taking away the pain or, masking the symptoms but not solving the problem. The problem was that I was misusing my hands. Since the drugs relieved the inflammation which was causing the pain, feeling better, I continued to misuse my hands. This made my tendonitis worse. Eventually the pain became bilateral and my arms were in pain 24 hours a day. My doctor sent me to see the physical therapist who prescribed more movement which only made my symptoms worse. In addition to the constant aching, I was unable to perform the simplest tasks. I couldn’t pick up a pencil, I couldn’t brush my teeth, I couldn’t comb my hair, holding a fork was painful, flushing the toilet, zipping a zipper, driving, tying my shoes. Everything caused pain and exasperated my symptoms.
After about a year of therapy, drugs, and rest, I thought my career as a piano player was over. Movement re-education gave me my life back. Mind you, I was not cured, rather, I just discontinued misusing my hands, proper movement put everything in natural alighnment and my body healed itself. Every once in a great, great while I get a twinge of pain when I thoughtlessly revert back to my old way of moving but a quick readjustment of my alignment fixes everything. I actually found that moving properly not only permitted me to move again, but it made me feel better in everything I did. It took over a year when I realized that I forgot that I ever had the pain. Those lessons have since been transposed into every aspect of my moving life. Everything about me improved. My music, skiing, hiking, even driving my car.
As I asserted earlier, I do not heal people anymore but, know that there are alternative and amelioratative ways to mitigate this apparent failure of medical enterprise. Having been there, I am very disappointed that the medical community has not embraced the over 300 year old solution but continues to perpetuate false dogma. Although, I suspect the blame lies with those of us who want a solution now, at whatever cost - along the path of least resistance.
"B" and the GED
I am regularly asked by a local community action program to tutor people who are looking to obtain their GED. I am not the brightest ornament on the tree but, I am a very good teacher capable of finding ways to get a point across or teach a concept through real world application. All of these students are high school dropouts for one reason or another. Some were punitively expelled while others quit. Some were forced out of school due to the economic situation at home, were arrested for youthful indiscretions or succumbed to the downward spiral of drugs and alcohol.
“B,” his gang name, was about ten years old when he witnessed both his parents murdered in a drug deal gone bad. The person doing the shooting was a police officer. “B” remembers the uniform and badge in his mind's eye as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Having been raised on the street, he was taught not to trust the police, or the “po-po” as he called them and that night he forever kept what he saw to himself.
His grandmother took him in and it wasn't long before he realized that she didn't have the means to support both him and her. He grew up fast and big. He lifted weights on the streets with friends and consumed copious amounts of food. He began selling drugs to procure money which he promptly turned over to his “Nah-ni.” It greatly annoyed him that she gave a large portion of it to the local pastor who began making weekly home visits since she started to come into the money however, “B” kept his mouth shut. He loved Nah-ni and was eternally grateful for all she had done for him so, he resigned to the truth that she could do anything she wanted with the money he gave her. He just wished that she did more for herself than for giving it to others. Her selfless sacrifice and continued need only increased the desire within him to make more money.
“B” quickly realized that going to school was cutting into his business and it wasn't like he was learning anything anyway. Many of his teachers didn't express much interest in the well being of the students and a few of them were even his customers. Ironically, this did not garner much respect for them in his eyes.
“B” eventually moved out of his grandmother's house and joined a gang but kept giving money to his Nah-ni. He refused to talk about the gang or their activities with me but I surmise that he was part of the Bloods. He had been arrested a few times for possession and they were only misdemeanors but an arrest is an arrest. It was now part of his permanent record which he will never be able to atone for in the eyes of our predominantly unforgiving society. “B” eventually did do three or four years in prison for a felony and when he got out, he saw the affect it had on Nah-ni. The greatest good that came out of his long term incarceration, "B" said, was that the leech pastor stopped coming by.
“B” was going to go straight and forsake criminal activity but not because of any punitive measures or the vicissitude of incarceration. Prison was fun for "B," a temporary relief from work, an opportunity to make new criminal contacts and it was somewhat of a badge of honor in the gang community. “B” was proud and respected but he wanted most to make his Nah-ni proud. He was going to get his GED and get a real job. The money would not be as good but it will be honest and that is what Nah-ni wanted all along. Love conquers all.
“B” was a wiz at math. He knew the metric system better than I did. All those years dealing drugs made him quite adept at crunching numbers in his head. While in prison he learned a considerable amount of math from a Chinese man who was in on a sex offense charge. As good as that teacher was, "B" had a problem with comprehension and application. Finding the area, volume or square feet of something didn't make sense to him until I brought in carpet tiles and we calculated how many we needed to carpet our little study room. He soon began to wake up to the possibilities. Calculating travel time and distances all made sense when it was broken down into drug measurements, planning a drop or calculating time off for good behavior. Suddenly, math had practical application in his life. It always did, he just didn't know it.
Now that you know where “B” came from, I can tell my part of the story. I was doing work for a theater company a few blocks from this community action center. While parked in the theater parking lot earlier one day, someone broke into my car and stole my iPod which I foolishly left displayed in all its glory on my back seat. The thieves shot my rear passenger window out from a distance using a slingshot and broken pieces of a spark plug. The plug part was on my seat amidst small shards of glass. I noticed that there were several glistening piles of broken glass peppered throughout the parking lot. I was obviously not the first. I later found out that car break-ins were common at the theater. I called the police THREE TIMES and they finally arrived two and a half hours later.
I was perturbed as I met with “B” later that evening for his lesson. He was concerned and told me that he thought he knew who did it. His fists clenched as a look of anger washed over his face. He asked me if I wanted him to take care of them. I told him no and to leave it alone. He wanted to know all about the theater, when and what I was doing there. We then calculated repair costs for my car and of course, how much coke, meth or weed the repair was equal to.
The next day, I pulled into the theater parking lot and a black Escalade quickly pulled up behind me. The window rolled down and inside were two scary looking guys with gold and silver bling hanging from the rear view mirror, around their huge necks and in their teeth. They ask if I was Kogut. I said yes. They told me that “B” asked them to watch out for me and my car for the next few weeks. I told them that it wasn't necessary but they said “B” asked them so they were going to do it. I said thanks and went inside. Every day that I was at the theater, that black Escalade was parked either in the parking lot or across the street. I had a warm and fuzzy chuckle inside when I overheard the director commenting about the theater's string of luck and how nobody's car had been broken into lately. For sure, our good fortune was not due to the diligent work of the po-po.
“B” failed the GED test twice and ironically it was always the math section that did him in. “B” had a reading comprehension problem and it was the way the questions were worded that always confounded him. If someone could read the questions to him, he would get it. My heart weeps for "B." What was done to him created him. He is an inevitable reaction to an action. His story is not over, he still has Nah-ni.
“B,” his gang name, was about ten years old when he witnessed both his parents murdered in a drug deal gone bad. The person doing the shooting was a police officer. “B” remembers the uniform and badge in his mind's eye as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Having been raised on the street, he was taught not to trust the police, or the “po-po” as he called them and that night he forever kept what he saw to himself.
His grandmother took him in and it wasn't long before he realized that she didn't have the means to support both him and her. He grew up fast and big. He lifted weights on the streets with friends and consumed copious amounts of food. He began selling drugs to procure money which he promptly turned over to his “Nah-ni.” It greatly annoyed him that she gave a large portion of it to the local pastor who began making weekly home visits since she started to come into the money however, “B” kept his mouth shut. He loved Nah-ni and was eternally grateful for all she had done for him so, he resigned to the truth that she could do anything she wanted with the money he gave her. He just wished that she did more for herself than for giving it to others. Her selfless sacrifice and continued need only increased the desire within him to make more money.
“B” quickly realized that going to school was cutting into his business and it wasn't like he was learning anything anyway. Many of his teachers didn't express much interest in the well being of the students and a few of them were even his customers. Ironically, this did not garner much respect for them in his eyes.
“B” eventually moved out of his grandmother's house and joined a gang but kept giving money to his Nah-ni. He refused to talk about the gang or their activities with me but I surmise that he was part of the Bloods. He had been arrested a few times for possession and they were only misdemeanors but an arrest is an arrest. It was now part of his permanent record which he will never be able to atone for in the eyes of our predominantly unforgiving society. “B” eventually did do three or four years in prison for a felony and when he got out, he saw the affect it had on Nah-ni. The greatest good that came out of his long term incarceration, "B" said, was that the leech pastor stopped coming by.
“B” was going to go straight and forsake criminal activity but not because of any punitive measures or the vicissitude of incarceration. Prison was fun for "B," a temporary relief from work, an opportunity to make new criminal contacts and it was somewhat of a badge of honor in the gang community. “B” was proud and respected but he wanted most to make his Nah-ni proud. He was going to get his GED and get a real job. The money would not be as good but it will be honest and that is what Nah-ni wanted all along. Love conquers all.
“B” was a wiz at math. He knew the metric system better than I did. All those years dealing drugs made him quite adept at crunching numbers in his head. While in prison he learned a considerable amount of math from a Chinese man who was in on a sex offense charge. As good as that teacher was, "B" had a problem with comprehension and application. Finding the area, volume or square feet of something didn't make sense to him until I brought in carpet tiles and we calculated how many we needed to carpet our little study room. He soon began to wake up to the possibilities. Calculating travel time and distances all made sense when it was broken down into drug measurements, planning a drop or calculating time off for good behavior. Suddenly, math had practical application in his life. It always did, he just didn't know it.
Now that you know where “B” came from, I can tell my part of the story. I was doing work for a theater company a few blocks from this community action center. While parked in the theater parking lot earlier one day, someone broke into my car and stole my iPod which I foolishly left displayed in all its glory on my back seat. The thieves shot my rear passenger window out from a distance using a slingshot and broken pieces of a spark plug. The plug part was on my seat amidst small shards of glass. I noticed that there were several glistening piles of broken glass peppered throughout the parking lot. I was obviously not the first. I later found out that car break-ins were common at the theater. I called the police THREE TIMES and they finally arrived two and a half hours later.
I was perturbed as I met with “B” later that evening for his lesson. He was concerned and told me that he thought he knew who did it. His fists clenched as a look of anger washed over his face. He asked me if I wanted him to take care of them. I told him no and to leave it alone. He wanted to know all about the theater, when and what I was doing there. We then calculated repair costs for my car and of course, how much coke, meth or weed the repair was equal to.
The next day, I pulled into the theater parking lot and a black Escalade quickly pulled up behind me. The window rolled down and inside were two scary looking guys with gold and silver bling hanging from the rear view mirror, around their huge necks and in their teeth. They ask if I was Kogut. I said yes. They told me that “B” asked them to watch out for me and my car for the next few weeks. I told them that it wasn't necessary but they said “B” asked them so they were going to do it. I said thanks and went inside. Every day that I was at the theater, that black Escalade was parked either in the parking lot or across the street. I had a warm and fuzzy chuckle inside when I overheard the director commenting about the theater's string of luck and how nobody's car had been broken into lately. For sure, our good fortune was not due to the diligent work of the po-po.
“B” failed the GED test twice and ironically it was always the math section that did him in. “B” had a reading comprehension problem and it was the way the questions were worded that always confounded him. If someone could read the questions to him, he would get it. My heart weeps for "B." What was done to him created him. He is an inevitable reaction to an action. His story is not over, he still has Nah-ni.
The Names Have Been Changed . . .
I love to tell stories. Especially stories about real people and real experiences. It is amazing what people will share with you when you give them a listening ear. Leo Buscaglia, a tireless advocate of the power of love, once said, “Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” Henri Nouwen also said, "The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not-knowing, not-curing, not-healing, and face with us the reality of our powerlessness that is the friend who cares."
The following stories come from a variety of sources. Having always been generous with my time and talents and never turned down an opportunity to serve my community, I always made a sincere effort to determine the needs of others and commit myself to helping in whatever way I could.
I have come in contact with a many and great variety of people. I was a volunteer at my local VA Hospital for over 25 years, I answered two suicide hotlines, answered the phones for 211, and even kept vigil once a week at a homeless shelter. In every instance I always take the time to listen to the people I am serving. Since people love to talk about themselves (hence, this blog), they sometimes share their innermost secrets, fears, failures and dreams. I would like to share some of those stories with anyone who is also a lover of people and the stories we weave with our lives. Of course, all the names have been changed to protect the innocent and, there are many stories I can't tell because they were shared in the strictest of confidence.
Getting to know someone does bring up an interesting question: Does a person change because you know more about them? The answer is no but we change if we let it change us. In the extreme, consider Dr. Frankenstein's creation, "Adam." Did the angry mob seek to destroy the creature that they thought they knew? Hopefully new knowledge does not release the latent monster which could be within us.
The following stories come from a variety of sources. Having always been generous with my time and talents and never turned down an opportunity to serve my community, I always made a sincere effort to determine the needs of others and commit myself to helping in whatever way I could.
I have come in contact with a many and great variety of people. I was a volunteer at my local VA Hospital for over 25 years, I answered two suicide hotlines, answered the phones for 211, and even kept vigil once a week at a homeless shelter. In every instance I always take the time to listen to the people I am serving. Since people love to talk about themselves (hence, this blog), they sometimes share their innermost secrets, fears, failures and dreams. I would like to share some of those stories with anyone who is also a lover of people and the stories we weave with our lives. Of course, all the names have been changed to protect the innocent and, there are many stories I can't tell because they were shared in the strictest of confidence.
Getting to know someone does bring up an interesting question: Does a person change because you know more about them? The answer is no but we change if we let it change us. In the extreme, consider Dr. Frankenstein's creation, "Adam." Did the angry mob seek to destroy the creature that they thought they knew? Hopefully new knowledge does not release the latent monster which could be within us.
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