It is amazing to me, and it will always be amazing to me, that Ashaki loves me even with all the dark secrets of my past exposed to her. She does not flinch even when I express to her the inner conflict I feel about many things. She does not shy away when I tell her that I have trouble "repenting" of some of my actions -- actions that most people would say were terribly wrong. I think about situations I was in, relationships I had, and I still can't always see clearly. I still can't say that I know I should have done "x" instead of "y." Sometimes there are shadows when I reflect on my past -- shades of grey more than black and white. I struggle with sorting and sifting the "right" from the "wrong." I wonder if there even is a "right" answer to certain things. Is there a moral absolute? And, if there is a moral absolute, what is it and have I violated it? I struggle with my conscience. And I don't know if -- when I want to defend myself and what I have done -- it is out of a knowledge that I have acted correctly, or if I am simply avoiding the pain it would cause me to admit that I have acted in hurtful and selfish ways.
When I confess these things to Ashaki -- these deep, inner thoughts and movements of my soul -- she does not judge me. She listens. She holds me close. And she quietly says, "You are good. Your struggles show me that you are good. Evil people do not struggle with themselves. And trust that you are loved. Trust in my love. Love gives us the strength to face ourselves, because love assures us that we will be held close. That we will not be rejected. But, you must be patient with yourself. You must allow yourself to struggle. In the end, your struggle -- if it is an honest one -- will bring you clarity and peace."
So, with my secrets being secrets no more to this beautiful woman, she truly became MY beautiful woman -- my Ashaki, my wife. And I became her husband. We were married in the midst of her people -- our people -- one beautiful morning. There was much laughter and food, music and dancing. And the fact that I was this white guy? Well, there was some eyebrow raising. But, I have found that most people -- when the proverbial rubber hits the proverbial road -- want their children, their loved ones, and their friends to be happy, to be with a person who truly loves them. And it was clear that Ashaki and I loved each other. In my own heart, I was rather taken aback at the thought that I could love a woman as I love Ashaki. I didn't think I had it in me to really want to spend my whole life with one person. I never thought I could enter a marriage actually having confidence that it could last "'til death do us part." Who believes that, anymore? I mean, yes, you say it -- because that's what you're supposed to say. But, I always figured that in the back of my mind there would be the thought that it might not actually work out. Surprisingly, though, that thought was not in the back of my mind -- or in any other part of my mind. I found that when I made my vows to my Ashaki, looking into her smiling eyes and her trusting face, I actually meant them -- every word of them.
I am sure that you will now all imagine that our lovemaking that night was perfect -- full of passion. Well, if it was, it almost wasn't. And that was my fault. I can still be an idiot. As my sweet new wife and I prepared for bed, she noticed the box of condoms I had placed by my pillow. And tears filled her eyes. We had talked about children. As I said, Ashaki would often teasingly tell me that she hoped for four or five. Now, though, I realized that she was not teasing. Yes, she would say it in a playful manner, but she actually meant it. I had also assumed that we would wait for a little while -- like maybe a year or so -- before actually "trying for a baby." Well, Ashaki had not assumed this. She had assumed the opposite. Can you even believe it? With all the things we were careful to talk about before our wedding, we had somehow neglected to talk about when we would start a family.
"Why don't you want a baby now?" she asked me, the tears running down her cheeks. "We love each other. We are married. We have a home. What else do we need? And I am young -- healthy and strong and fertile. It is the perfect time. What if we wait and something happens? What if we wait and it ends up that I can't get pregnant easily?"
I looked at this lovely creature who was now my wife, and I could not refuse her. I didn't want to refuse her. I didn't really understand it -- this deep and unrelenting desire for a child -- but, I realized I didn't have to understand it. Her desire was a fact. So, I tossed the condoms in the trash and took my now giggling wife into my arms -- took her to me. And she took me to her. And we were together -- perfectly, happily, joyfully together. For the first time, I actually made love. I had fucked a lot of women, hooked up with others. But, I had never made love to anybody before making love to my Ashaki. And, in making love to her, I finally realized how you can be an 80-year-old man making love to your 80-year-old wife and still find the whole thing to be quite satisfying.
Now you know the story of how I came to be lying here in the hot, still darkness -- next to this beautiful woman who is mine. This woman heavy with our child. And I am happy -- and I am scared. Will I be a good father? Do I know how to be a good father? Ashaki believes I will be. I cannot let her down. I refuse to let her down. And so I breathe and I touch her softness and I wait for our baby to come...
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Ben Sherman -- Epilogue, Part 8
There is a part of me that is actually quite silly. A part I had almost forgotten about. It used to come out often, when I was younger -- in high school and college. Even when Sammy and I were partners, before all the shit hit the fan, the fun side of me used to surface. Filling Sammy's car with birds -- now that was one for the record. Or duct taping his locker closed when he was in the shower, just a few minutes before roll call. Priceless. And I used to enjoy using my ability with a variety of amusing facial expressions and "cartoon character voices" to entertain friends and acquaintances quite often, back in the "old days."
As I spent more time with Ashaki, this silly part of my began to re-emerge. I could have her literally doubled over in laughter if I raised my eyebrows in a certain way or talked in what I call my "scooby-doo" voice. And I can't lie. It pleased me to no end to be able to make her smile and laugh with what seemed like very little effort. And her smile and her laughter caused me to smile and laugh, in turn.
Time went on. Ashaki and I spent as much time together as possible, though in socially acceptable ways. Her family would have me over for meals quite often. And then she and I would walk together at sunset, across the little valley and over the small hills, talking of many things -- our educations, literature, music, art, politics, religion, philosophy. Did we agree on everything? Most definitely not. As I mentioned before, Ashaki has a strong faith in God. In a God who actually loves us. I have a harder time with that. Also, she finds modern art "irksome" and "hard on the nervous system." I, on the other hand, have a storage unit full of the stuff back in L.A. (My modern art collection is the one thing that I did not dispose of before coming to Africa. Well, along with the pills. The pills that I now knew I would never use.) Ashaki told me, grinning mischievously, "We will have to make a bonfire of that 'art' of yours, if we ever have the opportunity." Often, we would not be alone on our walks. The children and young people of the village frequently accompanied us. And the teenagers enjoyed joining our conversations, and we enjoyed their input. I did not feel as though my time with Ashaki was intruded upon by the "company" we had on our evening sojourns. I reveled in the presence of all these people. And seeing Ashaki with them only made me come to appreciate her more. I was falling in love with her, though I didn't want to admit it to myself.
Why didn't I want to admit it to myself? If I admitted it to myself, I would have had to think about the dreaded "m" word -- marriage. There was no way Ashaki and I could live together without being married, not in this place. And neither of us wanted to leave this place. Also, to tell you the truth, I don't think she would have consented to that arrangement, anyway. Not that she was a prude, or anything. She was raised for a good part of her life in England. She had gone to university there. She was a beautiful woman. There had been men. She never really spoke of them, but I knew there had been boyfriends. In her move back to her homeland, though, in the way she valued the traditional culture of her people, I knew where her heart really stood. She was the kind of woman who would want commitment -- as in the dreaded "m" word -- before moving in with a man. She also wanted children. She didn't speak of it that often, probably because she didn't want to scare me off, but she would occasionally mention her desire for children. Four or five of them, she would teasingly say, with a rather whistful look in her eye. And I would watch her cuddle the babies of the village. I would watch her chase the toddlers. And I knew she wanted little ones of her own. And I knew she would be a beautiful mother. The best kind of mother. But, I wasn't convinced I could be any kind of a good father. I mean, I loved our students. I loved the children of my new home. But, that was a completely different thing than having my own kids. The thought of having my own kids, my own wife, my own family? Well, the idea of those things pretty much completely freaked me out.
So, I just avoided thinking about the future. I also avoided thinking about sex. When it got difficult to avoid thinking about sex, I would go for a good 5-mile run in the heat. That would solve my problem, at least for a little while. I just struggled to stay in the present. I just tried to enjoy being with Ashaki without having a physical relationship, without thinking about the dreaded "m" word. And I was fairly successful.
Until...
Until I was given a little "talking to" one day by Ashaki's brother. This young man was not quite as bright as his sister, but he was pretty smart. And his English was very good, as he had spent a lot of time with some missionary priests as he was growing up.
He asked me if I wanted to have a beer. Yes, there was beer. Courtesy of some friends of Ashaki, who sent it over from Europe on a regular basis. It was late afternoon on a day when school wasn't in session. We sat in the shade and "chewed the fat" for a while. And then he dropped it on me. The bomb. "You know she cries every night," he told me. "She's been crying every night for at least a month."
"What? Who cries?" I asked him, rather taken aback.
"Ashaki," he answered. And he looked at me carefully, and then he continued. "Finally, I asked her what was wrong. At first, I tried to leave her be. Thought it was a passing thing. You know how women are. But, it did not pass. So, I went and spoke to her one night, as she was crying. I asked her to tell me the cause of her sadness. She didn't want to, but I persisted. Got the truth out of her. And the truth, Ben, is that she loves you. She told me that she thought you loved her, too, but now she's starting to wonder. Because, basically, you haven't 'made your move.' You haven't said anything to her about how you feel. You haven't said if you feel anything at all. And she doesn't know what to think. Or do. And she can't bear the thought of losing you. So, my man, it's time to 'take a stand,' if you will. Do you love her, or not? It's fine if you don't. My sister deserves the best, deserves someone who truly wants her. So, if you don't want to be with her, then speak up. But, if you do love her, it's time to say it. And, frankly, you've had plenty of time to make up your mind."
"I do love her," I told him, my voice barely above a whisper. "More than anything. More than anybody. But, you know man, there are things. Things about myself, my past. If she really knew everything about me, everything there is to know... Well, I don't know if she'd love me so much, anymore. She loves the "me" that she has gotten to know here. She didn't know me before. She doesn't know what I was like. She doesn't know what I'm capable of -- the bad things, the evil things I've done. The things I did when I was a cop. The things I rationalized."
"If she knew those things and still loved you, what would you want?" Ashaki's brother gently prodded.
I didn't answer immediately. I couldn't imagine somebody knowing my past -- really knowing it -- and still loving me, still wanting to be my wife. So, I didn't quite know what to say. After a few moments, though, I replied, "If she still loved me, then I would want her to be with me always. I would want to marry her. But, I'm scared to tell her. I'm scared to lose -- not only her -- but everything beautiful that my life has come to hold here."
"You need to talk to her, Ben," the brother of the woman I love said to me quietly. "You need to trust her. You CAN trust her. This I know."
After a rather sleepless night, I walked -- rather slowly -- to Ashaki's home in the early morning sunlight. She was standing in the doorway when I got there. Perhaps she had been expecting me? And she looked so strong, and yet so vulnerable, as she gazed up at me with those eyes. Those eyes which seemed to hold an infinity in their dark depths. I hoped the infinity they held would be one of happiness -- for both of us.
And so we talked. And, between this woman and I, there were no more secrets...
To be continued...
As I spent more time with Ashaki, this silly part of my began to re-emerge. I could have her literally doubled over in laughter if I raised my eyebrows in a certain way or talked in what I call my "scooby-doo" voice. And I can't lie. It pleased me to no end to be able to make her smile and laugh with what seemed like very little effort. And her smile and her laughter caused me to smile and laugh, in turn.
Time went on. Ashaki and I spent as much time together as possible, though in socially acceptable ways. Her family would have me over for meals quite often. And then she and I would walk together at sunset, across the little valley and over the small hills, talking of many things -- our educations, literature, music, art, politics, religion, philosophy. Did we agree on everything? Most definitely not. As I mentioned before, Ashaki has a strong faith in God. In a God who actually loves us. I have a harder time with that. Also, she finds modern art "irksome" and "hard on the nervous system." I, on the other hand, have a storage unit full of the stuff back in L.A. (My modern art collection is the one thing that I did not dispose of before coming to Africa. Well, along with the pills. The pills that I now knew I would never use.) Ashaki told me, grinning mischievously, "We will have to make a bonfire of that 'art' of yours, if we ever have the opportunity." Often, we would not be alone on our walks. The children and young people of the village frequently accompanied us. And the teenagers enjoyed joining our conversations, and we enjoyed their input. I did not feel as though my time with Ashaki was intruded upon by the "company" we had on our evening sojourns. I reveled in the presence of all these people. And seeing Ashaki with them only made me come to appreciate her more. I was falling in love with her, though I didn't want to admit it to myself.
Why didn't I want to admit it to myself? If I admitted it to myself, I would have had to think about the dreaded "m" word -- marriage. There was no way Ashaki and I could live together without being married, not in this place. And neither of us wanted to leave this place. Also, to tell you the truth, I don't think she would have consented to that arrangement, anyway. Not that she was a prude, or anything. She was raised for a good part of her life in England. She had gone to university there. She was a beautiful woman. There had been men. She never really spoke of them, but I knew there had been boyfriends. In her move back to her homeland, though, in the way she valued the traditional culture of her people, I knew where her heart really stood. She was the kind of woman who would want commitment -- as in the dreaded "m" word -- before moving in with a man. She also wanted children. She didn't speak of it that often, probably because she didn't want to scare me off, but she would occasionally mention her desire for children. Four or five of them, she would teasingly say, with a rather whistful look in her eye. And I would watch her cuddle the babies of the village. I would watch her chase the toddlers. And I knew she wanted little ones of her own. And I knew she would be a beautiful mother. The best kind of mother. But, I wasn't convinced I could be any kind of a good father. I mean, I loved our students. I loved the children of my new home. But, that was a completely different thing than having my own kids. The thought of having my own kids, my own wife, my own family? Well, the idea of those things pretty much completely freaked me out.
So, I just avoided thinking about the future. I also avoided thinking about sex. When it got difficult to avoid thinking about sex, I would go for a good 5-mile run in the heat. That would solve my problem, at least for a little while. I just struggled to stay in the present. I just tried to enjoy being with Ashaki without having a physical relationship, without thinking about the dreaded "m" word. And I was fairly successful.
Until...
Until I was given a little "talking to" one day by Ashaki's brother. This young man was not quite as bright as his sister, but he was pretty smart. And his English was very good, as he had spent a lot of time with some missionary priests as he was growing up.
He asked me if I wanted to have a beer. Yes, there was beer. Courtesy of some friends of Ashaki, who sent it over from Europe on a regular basis. It was late afternoon on a day when school wasn't in session. We sat in the shade and "chewed the fat" for a while. And then he dropped it on me. The bomb. "You know she cries every night," he told me. "She's been crying every night for at least a month."
"What? Who cries?" I asked him, rather taken aback.
"Ashaki," he answered. And he looked at me carefully, and then he continued. "Finally, I asked her what was wrong. At first, I tried to leave her be. Thought it was a passing thing. You know how women are. But, it did not pass. So, I went and spoke to her one night, as she was crying. I asked her to tell me the cause of her sadness. She didn't want to, but I persisted. Got the truth out of her. And the truth, Ben, is that she loves you. She told me that she thought you loved her, too, but now she's starting to wonder. Because, basically, you haven't 'made your move.' You haven't said anything to her about how you feel. You haven't said if you feel anything at all. And she doesn't know what to think. Or do. And she can't bear the thought of losing you. So, my man, it's time to 'take a stand,' if you will. Do you love her, or not? It's fine if you don't. My sister deserves the best, deserves someone who truly wants her. So, if you don't want to be with her, then speak up. But, if you do love her, it's time to say it. And, frankly, you've had plenty of time to make up your mind."
"I do love her," I told him, my voice barely above a whisper. "More than anything. More than anybody. But, you know man, there are things. Things about myself, my past. If she really knew everything about me, everything there is to know... Well, I don't know if she'd love me so much, anymore. She loves the "me" that she has gotten to know here. She didn't know me before. She doesn't know what I was like. She doesn't know what I'm capable of -- the bad things, the evil things I've done. The things I did when I was a cop. The things I rationalized."
"If she knew those things and still loved you, what would you want?" Ashaki's brother gently prodded.
I didn't answer immediately. I couldn't imagine somebody knowing my past -- really knowing it -- and still loving me, still wanting to be my wife. So, I didn't quite know what to say. After a few moments, though, I replied, "If she still loved me, then I would want her to be with me always. I would want to marry her. But, I'm scared to tell her. I'm scared to lose -- not only her -- but everything beautiful that my life has come to hold here."
"You need to talk to her, Ben," the brother of the woman I love said to me quietly. "You need to trust her. You CAN trust her. This I know."
After a rather sleepless night, I walked -- rather slowly -- to Ashaki's home in the early morning sunlight. She was standing in the doorway when I got there. Perhaps she had been expecting me? And she looked so strong, and yet so vulnerable, as she gazed up at me with those eyes. Those eyes which seemed to hold an infinity in their dark depths. I hoped the infinity they held would be one of happiness -- for both of us.
And so we talked. And, between this woman and I, there were no more secrets...
To be continued...
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Ben Sherman -- Epilogue, Part 7
Ashaki quickly became an invaluable member of the team in our little one-room schoolhouse. Her naturally joyful nature and quick sense of humor offset my more melancholy tendencies. Although, I have to say that being in Africa, doing this new work, was slowly transforming my disposition into a more upbeat one. I had always thought I naturally tended towards negativity. But, maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe I just needed to be around different kinds of people, in a different kind of environment, in order for my optimistic side to surface. In any case, working alongside George and Ashaki -- teaching our enthusiastic young students -- brought a lightness to my heart and my outward manner that was new to me.
And this woman was so lovely, just being in her presence made me happy. It was a new thing, too, being around a beautiful woman and not trying to get her into the sack with me. As I said before, George had warned me sternly to "keep it zipped." And that admonition applied to my relationship with Ashaki, as well as to all the other women among whom I was now living. For even though Ashaki was my peer -- as a fellow teacher -- she was also a member of the country and culture in which I was a guest. If she were to be caught in my bed, well... The ramifications would not be very pleasant, for either of us. Her culture, after all, was fairly traditional. A local woman sleeping with a visiting American guy would have been unfairly and negatively labeled. And the visiting American guy would no longer be very welcome. The thought of being unwelcome in my new home was incentive enough for me to behave myself. I loved this place, these people. Having to leave them -- especially in disgrace -- would have broken my heart more than anything had broken it before. Also, the thought of having Ashaki be treated with even a tiny bit of scorn by anybody was unbearable to me. This woman was so kind, so gracious, so vibrant. If her reputation were to be tarnished because of me... That was unthinkable.
You may be wondering how this woman who became mine was able to become a university graduate, being that she was from the place in which I was now teaching. A place in which virtually nobody had any type of formal education. When she was a small child, her parents noticed that she was incredibly gifted. She was eager and able to learn to read the few books that were in her family home. She loved working arithmetic problems, and would beg the adults around her to indulge her in this pleasure. So her parents, wanting what all parents want -- the best for their child -- made a great personal sacrifice and sent their daughter to a relative's home in England, as soon as she was old enough to make such a journey. In England, Ashaki received a fine education. And, thankfully, she was able to return home for many vacations. Thus, she retained a strong identity as a member of her own country and culture -- an identity which led her to want to return to her homeland permanently when she completed her formal education. Yes, Ashaki had no desire to ever leave the home of her childhood again. She had a great love for her people and culture. She still does. She always will.
So I found myself, for the first time in many years, becoming an actual friend to a woman I could not bed. We spent a lot of time together, making excuses to stay in our little schoolhouse far later each day than what was actually necessary to prepare our lessons. But, we were also careful to avoid causing any kind of gossip or "eyebrow raising" amongst the people. Although, I'm sure many of them knew something was up. As long as I behaved honorably, though, people were tolerant of my friendship with this "sister" of theirs. And so we grew closer -- Ashaki and I.
To be continued...
And this woman was so lovely, just being in her presence made me happy. It was a new thing, too, being around a beautiful woman and not trying to get her into the sack with me. As I said before, George had warned me sternly to "keep it zipped." And that admonition applied to my relationship with Ashaki, as well as to all the other women among whom I was now living. For even though Ashaki was my peer -- as a fellow teacher -- she was also a member of the country and culture in which I was a guest. If she were to be caught in my bed, well... The ramifications would not be very pleasant, for either of us. Her culture, after all, was fairly traditional. A local woman sleeping with a visiting American guy would have been unfairly and negatively labeled. And the visiting American guy would no longer be very welcome. The thought of being unwelcome in my new home was incentive enough for me to behave myself. I loved this place, these people. Having to leave them -- especially in disgrace -- would have broken my heart more than anything had broken it before. Also, the thought of having Ashaki be treated with even a tiny bit of scorn by anybody was unbearable to me. This woman was so kind, so gracious, so vibrant. If her reputation were to be tarnished because of me... That was unthinkable.
You may be wondering how this woman who became mine was able to become a university graduate, being that she was from the place in which I was now teaching. A place in which virtually nobody had any type of formal education. When she was a small child, her parents noticed that she was incredibly gifted. She was eager and able to learn to read the few books that were in her family home. She loved working arithmetic problems, and would beg the adults around her to indulge her in this pleasure. So her parents, wanting what all parents want -- the best for their child -- made a great personal sacrifice and sent their daughter to a relative's home in England, as soon as she was old enough to make such a journey. In England, Ashaki received a fine education. And, thankfully, she was able to return home for many vacations. Thus, she retained a strong identity as a member of her own country and culture -- an identity which led her to want to return to her homeland permanently when she completed her formal education. Yes, Ashaki had no desire to ever leave the home of her childhood again. She had a great love for her people and culture. She still does. She always will.
So I found myself, for the first time in many years, becoming an actual friend to a woman I could not bed. We spent a lot of time together, making excuses to stay in our little schoolhouse far later each day than what was actually necessary to prepare our lessons. But, we were also careful to avoid causing any kind of gossip or "eyebrow raising" amongst the people. Although, I'm sure many of them knew something was up. As long as I behaved honorably, though, people were tolerant of my friendship with this "sister" of theirs. And so we grew closer -- Ashaki and I.
To be continued...
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Ben Sherman -- Epilogue, Part 6
** For those of you who may be new to this blog and/or story, I am a great fan of the TV show "SouthLAnd" -- a show which was not renewed for a sixth season (boo-hoo). The main characters of that show were left in a variety of states -- some good, some not-so-good. And I started to wonder -- as did other fans -- what would have become of Officer Ben Sherman (played by Ben McKenzie) if the series had been allowed to continue. After all, the series finale left him lying on the ground in seeming moral defeat. So, I decided to let my imagination run a little wild, and I have been having a lot of fun coming up with a continuing story for Officer Ben. It's probably a little cheesy, but I'm enjoying myself here. ;-) **
School had been in session for a little less than a month. I was happier than I had ever been. The kids were doing well, and were more enthused than any kids I had ever been in a classroom with during my childhood. They actually seemed to enjoy learning the alphabet, learning how to put letters together into the words of a new language. Using pictures -- and, of course, George's knowledge of the native tongue -- we taught them English a little at a time. English that could actually be useful. I remember learning Spanish back in high school. I knew how to say "the lady has blue hair" before I could have asked somebody where to find a restroom. I was happy that George's nonprofit was taking a this approach. We were teaching our students how to apply what they were learning in practical ways. I have often thought that if American kids could make a connection between their educations and their actual lives, the "system" would be more effective. Here -- in a land far away from that in which I was born -- I was seeing the fruits of such a learning environment.
So, yes, we did a lot of the so-called "three R's" with our kids -- reading, writing, arithmetic. But, there was also ample time for art, music, physical activity. We didn't have fancy "equipment" for these subjects, but George's group provided good, basic materials. And the kids themselves often brought musical instruments and art supplies from home. We were, after all, living in the midst of a culture where these things are valued. We taught our students about the history of their nation. We studied their culture. And when I say "we" studied -- well, that's exactly what I mean. I had as much learning to do as they. But, as many seasoned teachers have said, "You've just got to stay one chapter ahead." Not that we really had textbooks, to speak of. There were a few of those. Mostly, though, a generous number of seemingly random books were provided by George's organization. Books that covered a variety of subjects. I found, though, that when I put together my own ideas with the ideas and knowledge I found in these books, I could come up with some pretty creative lesson plans.
So, as I said, I was feeling happy. There were still nightmares and self-doubt. Hell, there still are. But, the tangle of negative emotions in my heart was starting to loosen a little. And in the midst of this -- on one hot afternoon as I was trying to explain to my charges why the letters "c" and "h", when put together as "ch", make the unpredictable sound that they do -- I looked up to see a face in the doorway of the little schoolhouse. A face I had never seen before. A woman's face. Young, but somehow ageless. Breathtaking. A face the color of chocolate -- chocolate infused with gold dust. Eyes large and black, but open somehow -- open to life and love and joy. High cheekbones that somehow managed to exude a pinkish hue, even for being so wonderfully and softly dark. And that face was smiling at me -- smiling a kind, yet wise and knowing smile. A smile that belied an understanding and experience of the difficulties and hurts of life. A smile that also belied a willingness to embrace that life, as hard as it can sometimes be. And I knew, somehow, that I wanted the life which that smile embraced to embrace me.
Her name was Ashaki -- which means "light". She certainly became that for me, this woman who became my wife. She was the aunt of one of my students -- a lively, bright 10-year-old boy. She had recently graduated from University in England, where she studied linguistics. Finally -- someone besides George with whom I could easily converse. Why had she come back here? Why didn't she stay in England, or even go to America? She would be welcome in either place, given her intelligence, her education. She had learned of the school George's nonprofit had started here, in the place of her birth, and she wanted to help out. That was fine by me. George was often in demand by the organization -- needed for various administrative decisions and tasks. That left him with little time for actual hands-on teaching in the school, which meant that I was responsible for most of it. Therefore, this lovely lady's assistance would be most welcome. And little did I know, when I first set eyes on her, that she would not only be of utmost value in our little classroom. She would become of utmost value to me, for the whole of my life.
To be continued...
School had been in session for a little less than a month. I was happier than I had ever been. The kids were doing well, and were more enthused than any kids I had ever been in a classroom with during my childhood. They actually seemed to enjoy learning the alphabet, learning how to put letters together into the words of a new language. Using pictures -- and, of course, George's knowledge of the native tongue -- we taught them English a little at a time. English that could actually be useful. I remember learning Spanish back in high school. I knew how to say "the lady has blue hair" before I could have asked somebody where to find a restroom. I was happy that George's nonprofit was taking a this approach. We were teaching our students how to apply what they were learning in practical ways. I have often thought that if American kids could make a connection between their educations and their actual lives, the "system" would be more effective. Here -- in a land far away from that in which I was born -- I was seeing the fruits of such a learning environment.
So, yes, we did a lot of the so-called "three R's" with our kids -- reading, writing, arithmetic. But, there was also ample time for art, music, physical activity. We didn't have fancy "equipment" for these subjects, but George's group provided good, basic materials. And the kids themselves often brought musical instruments and art supplies from home. We were, after all, living in the midst of a culture where these things are valued. We taught our students about the history of their nation. We studied their culture. And when I say "we" studied -- well, that's exactly what I mean. I had as much learning to do as they. But, as many seasoned teachers have said, "You've just got to stay one chapter ahead." Not that we really had textbooks, to speak of. There were a few of those. Mostly, though, a generous number of seemingly random books were provided by George's organization. Books that covered a variety of subjects. I found, though, that when I put together my own ideas with the ideas and knowledge I found in these books, I could come up with some pretty creative lesson plans.
So, as I said, I was feeling happy. There were still nightmares and self-doubt. Hell, there still are. But, the tangle of negative emotions in my heart was starting to loosen a little. And in the midst of this -- on one hot afternoon as I was trying to explain to my charges why the letters "c" and "h", when put together as "ch", make the unpredictable sound that they do -- I looked up to see a face in the doorway of the little schoolhouse. A face I had never seen before. A woman's face. Young, but somehow ageless. Breathtaking. A face the color of chocolate -- chocolate infused with gold dust. Eyes large and black, but open somehow -- open to life and love and joy. High cheekbones that somehow managed to exude a pinkish hue, even for being so wonderfully and softly dark. And that face was smiling at me -- smiling a kind, yet wise and knowing smile. A smile that belied an understanding and experience of the difficulties and hurts of life. A smile that also belied a willingness to embrace that life, as hard as it can sometimes be. And I knew, somehow, that I wanted the life which that smile embraced to embrace me.
Her name was Ashaki -- which means "light". She certainly became that for me, this woman who became my wife. She was the aunt of one of my students -- a lively, bright 10-year-old boy. She had recently graduated from University in England, where she studied linguistics. Finally -- someone besides George with whom I could easily converse. Why had she come back here? Why didn't she stay in England, or even go to America? She would be welcome in either place, given her intelligence, her education. She had learned of the school George's nonprofit had started here, in the place of her birth, and she wanted to help out. That was fine by me. George was often in demand by the organization -- needed for various administrative decisions and tasks. That left him with little time for actual hands-on teaching in the school, which meant that I was responsible for most of it. Therefore, this lovely lady's assistance would be most welcome. And little did I know, when I first set eyes on her, that she would not only be of utmost value in our little classroom. She would become of utmost value to me, for the whole of my life.
To be continued...
Monday, May 20, 2013
Ben Sherman -- Epilogue, Part 5
** This is going on much longer than I expected. But, I'm just having so much fun here! Thanks to everyone who is reading! **
The first month of my new life was an adjustment, to say the least. A good one, though. Pleasant, even. George and I were given a small home in the village where the new school was located. Happy people provided us with good, simple food and were eager for our company. Little children peeked out at us from behind door frames and their mothers' skirts, giggling and ducking when we smiled or waved. The residents of the village seemed especially amused by me. In fact, I believe the native word for "ghost" was occasionally -- though fondly -- used to describe me. Let's face it. Even for an American, I am rather pale. But -- I am also quick and athletic -- and the local youngsters were happy to have me join in their games, often playfully arguing about which team would get to have "the ghost" as a member. The male residents of the village would point at my biceps and grin, giving me the universally understood "thumbs up" sign, and flexing their own arms in a sign of masculine solidarity. Occasionally, a bolder girl would squeeze my shoulder and smile becomingly, although any "hanky-panky" was clearly off limits. And I wanted it that way. I realized that sex had become less and less of a pleasure for me over the years. A physical release, yes. But a growing emotional burden, too. So, George's admonition to "keep it zipped" was actually quite welcome, believe it or not.
George and I were also quite busy, during the first several weeks of our stay, getting the school ready for its opening. The structure was intact when we arrived, but painting was required. The local people wanted bright colors -- red trim and yellow walls for the outside. For the inside, blues and greens reminiscent of the ocean were chosen. The ocean which none of these people had actually ever seen, but which was alive in their imaginations. George's non-profit provided tables and chairs, a chalkboard (including chalk), a modicum of books, writing tablets and pencils.
The most difficult challenge? The students in our little one-room schoolhouse would range from 7 to 13 years of age. There would be twenty of them. None of them had ever been to a formal school before. So, we had to carefully plan out how to arrange the school day to accommodate the needs of all these different children who were entrusting their futures to us. Maybe it sounds like a bit of an exaggeration to say that they were "entrusting their futures to us." But, in a way, that's what they were doing -- academically, anyhow. If they were to have any chance of having an advanced education -- of going to secondary school, or even university -- they were relying on George and me to give them the necessary foundation. As a person who had always taken my own education a little bit for granted, this thought did weigh upon me. George, though, with his outgoing ways, quick sense of humor, and positive attitude, proved a good counterweight to my more melancholy tendencies. "Sherman," he would say, smiling good-naturedly, "you think you're making this about them. But, you're not. You're making it about you. You always do. Your ego is talking here. Your ego is riding on our success or failure. If these kids are actually what's important to you, things will snap into perspective. You'll realize not everything is up to you. Not everything is under your control. You do the work. You do the best you can. The results are not up to you. And if we get good results, that's not about you, either. So, King Ben, climb down off that high-and-mighty little throne of yours and help me set up these tables." Hell, maybe this little speech of George's is what Sammy was trying to tell me all along. Maybe it was just a little easier to hear in this environment -- this environment with smiling, laughing kids who just wanted me to play games with them. This environment where I didn't need handcuffs and a gun to survive. Fuck that Sammy. I'm not quite ready to forgive him yet, as willing as he was to throw me under the bus to comfort his own messed up conscience.
Sometimes I think about Sammy. I think about his little guy, Nate. I did love Nate. I was his Uncle Ben. I loved Sammy, too. He was my friend. I would have done anything for him. Hell, I did do everything for him. For us. For our partnership, our careers, our future. And somehow, everything just got out of control. I wonder if Sammy hates me. Some nights I wake up -- hot in my bed, in this land far from everything I've ever known -- and I think about these things. And I can't breathe. And then I look at the beautiful woman, full with my babe, lying next to me and I put everything from my old life out of my mind. I imagine my past as a dark cloud just blowing by me, a cloud which disintegrates into nothingness as it passes. And then I can breathe again. And I reach for this woman, for her softness, for her warmth -- and she smiles at me in the darkness, the darkness that is gently lit by the moon and the stars, and she takes me into herself. Loving me. Making me realize that nobody has ever loved me before. Not really. Making me realize that I have never loved anyone before. Not really. Not even Elena. As I said, I did love Elena. But it was a selfish, taking kind of a love. Not like the love I have for this woman who lies next to me now, who will lie next to me every night for the rest of our lives.
You may be wondering how I met this incredible woman who became mine. When did I first see her, speak with her, know that I loved her? How did we come to be together? How did she come to be my wife?
To be continued...
The first month of my new life was an adjustment, to say the least. A good one, though. Pleasant, even. George and I were given a small home in the village where the new school was located. Happy people provided us with good, simple food and were eager for our company. Little children peeked out at us from behind door frames and their mothers' skirts, giggling and ducking when we smiled or waved. The residents of the village seemed especially amused by me. In fact, I believe the native word for "ghost" was occasionally -- though fondly -- used to describe me. Let's face it. Even for an American, I am rather pale. But -- I am also quick and athletic -- and the local youngsters were happy to have me join in their games, often playfully arguing about which team would get to have "the ghost" as a member. The male residents of the village would point at my biceps and grin, giving me the universally understood "thumbs up" sign, and flexing their own arms in a sign of masculine solidarity. Occasionally, a bolder girl would squeeze my shoulder and smile becomingly, although any "hanky-panky" was clearly off limits. And I wanted it that way. I realized that sex had become less and less of a pleasure for me over the years. A physical release, yes. But a growing emotional burden, too. So, George's admonition to "keep it zipped" was actually quite welcome, believe it or not.
George and I were also quite busy, during the first several weeks of our stay, getting the school ready for its opening. The structure was intact when we arrived, but painting was required. The local people wanted bright colors -- red trim and yellow walls for the outside. For the inside, blues and greens reminiscent of the ocean were chosen. The ocean which none of these people had actually ever seen, but which was alive in their imaginations. George's non-profit provided tables and chairs, a chalkboard (including chalk), a modicum of books, writing tablets and pencils.
The most difficult challenge? The students in our little one-room schoolhouse would range from 7 to 13 years of age. There would be twenty of them. None of them had ever been to a formal school before. So, we had to carefully plan out how to arrange the school day to accommodate the needs of all these different children who were entrusting their futures to us. Maybe it sounds like a bit of an exaggeration to say that they were "entrusting their futures to us." But, in a way, that's what they were doing -- academically, anyhow. If they were to have any chance of having an advanced education -- of going to secondary school, or even university -- they were relying on George and me to give them the necessary foundation. As a person who had always taken my own education a little bit for granted, this thought did weigh upon me. George, though, with his outgoing ways, quick sense of humor, and positive attitude, proved a good counterweight to my more melancholy tendencies. "Sherman," he would say, smiling good-naturedly, "you think you're making this about them. But, you're not. You're making it about you. You always do. Your ego is talking here. Your ego is riding on our success or failure. If these kids are actually what's important to you, things will snap into perspective. You'll realize not everything is up to you. Not everything is under your control. You do the work. You do the best you can. The results are not up to you. And if we get good results, that's not about you, either. So, King Ben, climb down off that high-and-mighty little throne of yours and help me set up these tables." Hell, maybe this little speech of George's is what Sammy was trying to tell me all along. Maybe it was just a little easier to hear in this environment -- this environment with smiling, laughing kids who just wanted me to play games with them. This environment where I didn't need handcuffs and a gun to survive. Fuck that Sammy. I'm not quite ready to forgive him yet, as willing as he was to throw me under the bus to comfort his own messed up conscience.
Sometimes I think about Sammy. I think about his little guy, Nate. I did love Nate. I was his Uncle Ben. I loved Sammy, too. He was my friend. I would have done anything for him. Hell, I did do everything for him. For us. For our partnership, our careers, our future. And somehow, everything just got out of control. I wonder if Sammy hates me. Some nights I wake up -- hot in my bed, in this land far from everything I've ever known -- and I think about these things. And I can't breathe. And then I look at the beautiful woman, full with my babe, lying next to me and I put everything from my old life out of my mind. I imagine my past as a dark cloud just blowing by me, a cloud which disintegrates into nothingness as it passes. And then I can breathe again. And I reach for this woman, for her softness, for her warmth -- and she smiles at me in the darkness, the darkness that is gently lit by the moon and the stars, and she takes me into herself. Loving me. Making me realize that nobody has ever loved me before. Not really. Making me realize that I have never loved anyone before. Not really. Not even Elena. As I said, I did love Elena. But it was a selfish, taking kind of a love. Not like the love I have for this woman who lies next to me now, who will lie next to me every night for the rest of our lives.
You may be wondering how I met this incredible woman who became mine. When did I first see her, speak with her, know that I loved her? How did we come to be together? How did she come to be my wife?
To be continued...
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Ben Sherman -- Epilogue, Part 4
I was ready. I had my pills. The scotch with which to wash them down. I had even made sure my "Last Will And Testament" was up-to-date. After all, I wanted to make sure my sisters got that Trust Fund. I didn't want it reverting to my son-of-a-bitch father. And my mother? She was taken care of financially, so she didn't need my money. But, Olivia and Chloe? They could use it. I just had to make sure that, legally, there was no way that "actor" who married into my family could get his hands on any of it. I also had all my bills paid. My checkbook was balanced. Even my laundry was done. Everything ready so that my exit would be as painless as possible on everyone involved.
And then that phone call. It was almost a "movie moment." "Providence," my beautiful lady said.
"Hey, Sherman!" said a familiar voice on the other end of the line. "It's George. What's up?"
"Not a whole lot, man." I answered, somewhat impatient to get on with my well-prepared plan, but a bit intrigued, as well. I hadn't heard from this guy since college. And he had been a good friend.
"I'm calling to collect on that debt," he replied, a bit of a playful tone in his voice. George had always been playful. Somewhat of a joker. But, he knew when to be serious. And he was smart as hell. Magna cum laude smart.
The debt he was referring to? I had been in an accident my junior year. Bike versus car. And I had been on the bike -- not the motorcycle kind, either. The kind you pedal. And I had needed some blood, which George very graciously donated to me. He didn't want me taking chances on the "blood supply." As safe as the "blood supply" is, George is a skeptical kind of guy. He wanted 100% assurance that I would be receiving a safe product. And being that he and I are the same blood type -- a fact we had discovered during a lab activity in a required undergraduate biology course -- he wanted to give me that assurance. And he had teased me afterwards, when I thanked him. "Well," he had said, laugh lines crinkling in the corners of his jolly brown eyes, "I look at it this way. Now you are in my debt. I think I got the sweet end of the deal."
As I heard George's voice on the phone after all this time, I felt a bit like making my excuses and hanging up on him. But, he had given me his blood, for Christ's sake. And he had been a good friend -- always. A lot of memories of better times arose out of the depths of my mind. So, I decided to hear him out.
"Ok, George," I said. "What kind of crazy idea have you cooked up now?" Because George -- in his "brilliance" -- had always been cooking up some rather crazy idea or another.
That's when he told me about this trip to Africa he was putting together. George, evidently, had started a bank when he graduated from college. And the bank had actually succeeded. The bank became fuckin' PROFITABLE, in this fuckin' economy. Leave it to old George to pull off a stunt like that. And so my friend, always one to give it all away -- including his very own blood -- sold every single one of his shares in said financial institution and started a non-profit. And this non-profit was opening little one-room schoolhouses in the midst of Africa -- the land of his forefathers -- and he wanted me to go over there with him as a teacher. A fuckin' teacher.
"George," I said. "I have a job."
"So I've heard, Sherman. So I've heard. You're a cop." He sort of giggle-snorted. "I have nothin' against cops, man, nothin' at all. You know that. But -- Sherman, my man -- you're no cop. I remember when you were choosing between Teach For America and the Police Academy. I figured you'd pick the cop gig for the gun and the glory. You always liked that shit. But, man, I'm betting you're pretty miserable right about now. You know why? Because -- I bet -- you're feeling not so appreciated by those whom you 'serve and protect.' You always liked to be a little hero-worshipped, man. Nothing against you. Just the manly ego thing. But, I bet you've discovered it by now. Nobody appreciates cops too much. Even when they try to 'make a difference,' which is what you always said you wanted to do. So -- I'm giving you the opportunity, man -- to actually be hero-worshipped. By a bunch of little kids. And you know why they'll hero-worship you? Because they're too fuckin' young to know any better. Come on, Sherman. How about it? And remember -- you owe me. You don't want my ghost fuckin' haunting you if I die in a plane crash on my way over there. Because -- yeah -- I'm going over there myself. And if I die in a plane crash -- you can sure as hell bet I'll be haunting your sorry ass if you renege on your debt. And, my man, I just wanna see your puny pale self frolicking around over there amonst my beautiful dark-skinned brothers and sisters. The memory of that sight will keep me entertained all through my old age."
As ridiculous as it sounds, I figured I might as well take George up on his offer. I packed the pills away in a safe-deposit box. If things didn't work out, I could still use them. I resigned from the force, sold my house, gave away my stuff, got some innoculations, and was on a plane with my old friend in six weeks. I already had a passport, and George's non-profit took care of the rest of the beauracratic nonsense. I was even given "training" -- if you could call the stack of pamphlets I was given "training" -- in how to teach a bunch of elementary-school-kids a variety of elementary-school-subjects (including English). I was actually starting to get a little excited.
And, yes, in the back of my mind was the idea of atonement. Because, when all was said and done, I knew I had "sinned," if you want to call it that. And if you don't want to call it that, you can just say that I knew I had fucked up. Totally. Yes, I could justify myself, my actions. Like shooting Ronnie. He had pimped out his young daughter, pimped out and beaten the girl's mother, come after Sammy. The guy deserved to die -- needed to die, even -- before he actually killed Sammy or some other innocent person. But, deep down, I knew the crap that I had done. I couldn't escape it -- couldn't escape the guilt. And maybe that guilt, more than anything else, was what made me want to die. So, perhaps, this trip to Africa -- this new work -- could be a way to atone. Leave everything behind -- sell everything, give everything away -- and atone.
To be continued...
And then that phone call. It was almost a "movie moment." "Providence," my beautiful lady said.
"Hey, Sherman!" said a familiar voice on the other end of the line. "It's George. What's up?"
"Not a whole lot, man." I answered, somewhat impatient to get on with my well-prepared plan, but a bit intrigued, as well. I hadn't heard from this guy since college. And he had been a good friend.
"I'm calling to collect on that debt," he replied, a bit of a playful tone in his voice. George had always been playful. Somewhat of a joker. But, he knew when to be serious. And he was smart as hell. Magna cum laude smart.
The debt he was referring to? I had been in an accident my junior year. Bike versus car. And I had been on the bike -- not the motorcycle kind, either. The kind you pedal. And I had needed some blood, which George very graciously donated to me. He didn't want me taking chances on the "blood supply." As safe as the "blood supply" is, George is a skeptical kind of guy. He wanted 100% assurance that I would be receiving a safe product. And being that he and I are the same blood type -- a fact we had discovered during a lab activity in a required undergraduate biology course -- he wanted to give me that assurance. And he had teased me afterwards, when I thanked him. "Well," he had said, laugh lines crinkling in the corners of his jolly brown eyes, "I look at it this way. Now you are in my debt. I think I got the sweet end of the deal."
As I heard George's voice on the phone after all this time, I felt a bit like making my excuses and hanging up on him. But, he had given me his blood, for Christ's sake. And he had been a good friend -- always. A lot of memories of better times arose out of the depths of my mind. So, I decided to hear him out.
"Ok, George," I said. "What kind of crazy idea have you cooked up now?" Because George -- in his "brilliance" -- had always been cooking up some rather crazy idea or another.
That's when he told me about this trip to Africa he was putting together. George, evidently, had started a bank when he graduated from college. And the bank had actually succeeded. The bank became fuckin' PROFITABLE, in this fuckin' economy. Leave it to old George to pull off a stunt like that. And so my friend, always one to give it all away -- including his very own blood -- sold every single one of his shares in said financial institution and started a non-profit. And this non-profit was opening little one-room schoolhouses in the midst of Africa -- the land of his forefathers -- and he wanted me to go over there with him as a teacher. A fuckin' teacher.
"George," I said. "I have a job."
"So I've heard, Sherman. So I've heard. You're a cop." He sort of giggle-snorted. "I have nothin' against cops, man, nothin' at all. You know that. But -- Sherman, my man -- you're no cop. I remember when you were choosing between Teach For America and the Police Academy. I figured you'd pick the cop gig for the gun and the glory. You always liked that shit. But, man, I'm betting you're pretty miserable right about now. You know why? Because -- I bet -- you're feeling not so appreciated by those whom you 'serve and protect.' You always liked to be a little hero-worshipped, man. Nothing against you. Just the manly ego thing. But, I bet you've discovered it by now. Nobody appreciates cops too much. Even when they try to 'make a difference,' which is what you always said you wanted to do. So -- I'm giving you the opportunity, man -- to actually be hero-worshipped. By a bunch of little kids. And you know why they'll hero-worship you? Because they're too fuckin' young to know any better. Come on, Sherman. How about it? And remember -- you owe me. You don't want my ghost fuckin' haunting you if I die in a plane crash on my way over there. Because -- yeah -- I'm going over there myself. And if I die in a plane crash -- you can sure as hell bet I'll be haunting your sorry ass if you renege on your debt. And, my man, I just wanna see your puny pale self frolicking around over there amonst my beautiful dark-skinned brothers and sisters. The memory of that sight will keep me entertained all through my old age."
As ridiculous as it sounds, I figured I might as well take George up on his offer. I packed the pills away in a safe-deposit box. If things didn't work out, I could still use them. I resigned from the force, sold my house, gave away my stuff, got some innoculations, and was on a plane with my old friend in six weeks. I already had a passport, and George's non-profit took care of the rest of the beauracratic nonsense. I was even given "training" -- if you could call the stack of pamphlets I was given "training" -- in how to teach a bunch of elementary-school-kids a variety of elementary-school-subjects (including English). I was actually starting to get a little excited.
And, yes, in the back of my mind was the idea of atonement. Because, when all was said and done, I knew I had "sinned," if you want to call it that. And if you don't want to call it that, you can just say that I knew I had fucked up. Totally. Yes, I could justify myself, my actions. Like shooting Ronnie. He had pimped out his young daughter, pimped out and beaten the girl's mother, come after Sammy. The guy deserved to die -- needed to die, even -- before he actually killed Sammy or some other innocent person. But, deep down, I knew the crap that I had done. I couldn't escape it -- couldn't escape the guilt. And maybe that guilt, more than anything else, was what made me want to die. So, perhaps, this trip to Africa -- this new work -- could be a way to atone. Leave everything behind -- sell everything, give everything away -- and atone.
To be continued...
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Ben Sherman -- Epilogue, Part 3
Do you believe in God? I'm not sure I do. And if there is a God for me to believe in, I'm not quite sure what rendition of that supernatural being I should put my faith in. Does He care? Or did He just start this world a-spinning; and does He just look with amusement upon what we do with it, what we do with each other? Or is God even a He? Could God be a She? Or an It? Or is the universe somehow conscious -- being aware of and impacting us in an active manner? Some people believe that. You know what I don't believe in? Many Gods. They would have just wiped each other out long ago in some great, grand battle -- ending, along with themselves, what they had created. I mean, can creation survive without its Creator? I don't think so. I guess it is easiest -- for me -- to believe in a God people would call "He." Even if He contains female attributes. Logically, He could not create what He does not possess. So, He has to have female characteristics, I guess. If He exists. And it's easier to believe in this kind of God -- for me, anyway -- because He would be a God who could piss you off. A God you could get angry with -- like your own earthly father. And, "God knows," I have plenty of experience getting angry with my own earthly father. So, it's easy for me to imagine this kind of a God. A God whom I could call "He." A God who tells you everything He does is for your good, but to whom "your good" seems to involve one hell of a lot of pain. A God who says He loves you and is close to you, even though you feel quite ignored by Him most of the time. So, maybe I do believe in God. But, is He any better than my own biological father? I don't know.
The woman lying next to me, stirring gently, she believes in God. She believes He is good. She believes He brought me to her -- that I am His "gift" to her. Why she would believe that I am a gift, I have no idea. She knows my past, my secrets. For some reason -- that I don't understand at all -- I have always felt compelled to let her in on those things, the things I keep locked away from everyone else. She knows my faults. She knows I lack her kind of faith, and that I probably always will. But, she says I am a "gift." She says that there is within me kindness and gentleness. She believes -- foolishly, in my mind -- that I am good. She tells me that the evil I have done is because the good in me couldn't bear the evil I was seeing -- the evil I was experiencing on a day-to-day basis. Yes, I think she is a rather delusional fool for believing I have any goodness in me. But, I let her love me. I let her love me because it is a love that does not expect anything, that just accepts everything. Her love is my peace. And I can't help loving her back. Loving her and the child. The child who was so unexpected. The child whom I didn't even really want at first. But, she wanted him -- or her. And so it is to be, because I find that I cannot refuse her.
Why do I bring these things up? These things about God and faith and doubt and love? Well, they have to do with why I didn't die. I was determined to die. I had made my preparations. And then I was stopped by a phone call. A phone call from somebody I had not seen in years, or even thought about. The woman who loves me -- she believes it was something she calls "providence." What do I believe? Hell if I know. Hell if I know why God would have waited so long, watching with seeming callousness all of my mistakes, watching me hurt many of His so-called "children" before stepping in. That doesn't make any sense to me. If I were God, I certainly wouldn't have done it that way. If I were God, I would have either stopped me before I could inflict any damage, or I would have let me kill myself. And then I would have sent me to "hell" -- if such a place actually exists. For, if the Judeo-Christian version of God has any truth to it, "hell" is where that particular philosophy certainly would have said I deserved to go.
My beautiful woman -- she talks about "mercy." She says God treated me with "mercy." I have a really hard time believing that. Where is His "mercy" in the middle of urban Los Angeles, I would like to know?
So, back to that phone call...
To be continued...
The woman lying next to me, stirring gently, she believes in God. She believes He is good. She believes He brought me to her -- that I am His "gift" to her. Why she would believe that I am a gift, I have no idea. She knows my past, my secrets. For some reason -- that I don't understand at all -- I have always felt compelled to let her in on those things, the things I keep locked away from everyone else. She knows my faults. She knows I lack her kind of faith, and that I probably always will. But, she says I am a "gift." She says that there is within me kindness and gentleness. She believes -- foolishly, in my mind -- that I am good. She tells me that the evil I have done is because the good in me couldn't bear the evil I was seeing -- the evil I was experiencing on a day-to-day basis. Yes, I think she is a rather delusional fool for believing I have any goodness in me. But, I let her love me. I let her love me because it is a love that does not expect anything, that just accepts everything. Her love is my peace. And I can't help loving her back. Loving her and the child. The child who was so unexpected. The child whom I didn't even really want at first. But, she wanted him -- or her. And so it is to be, because I find that I cannot refuse her.
Why do I bring these things up? These things about God and faith and doubt and love? Well, they have to do with why I didn't die. I was determined to die. I had made my preparations. And then I was stopped by a phone call. A phone call from somebody I had not seen in years, or even thought about. The woman who loves me -- she believes it was something she calls "providence." What do I believe? Hell if I know. Hell if I know why God would have waited so long, watching with seeming callousness all of my mistakes, watching me hurt many of His so-called "children" before stepping in. That doesn't make any sense to me. If I were God, I certainly wouldn't have done it that way. If I were God, I would have either stopped me before I could inflict any damage, or I would have let me kill myself. And then I would have sent me to "hell" -- if such a place actually exists. For, if the Judeo-Christian version of God has any truth to it, "hell" is where that particular philosophy certainly would have said I deserved to go.
My beautiful woman -- she talks about "mercy." She says God treated me with "mercy." I have a really hard time believing that. Where is His "mercy" in the middle of urban Los Angeles, I would like to know?
So, back to that phone call...
To be continued...
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