We Still Need To Dream

I’ve been wondering how I could commemorate Martin Luther King’s “I Have A Dream” speech, on the fiftieth anniversary this week of that watershed event in American society. I was ten years old, in 1963, and his words were part of that fire starting in my soul, the start of a passion for justice and possibility for every person. That fire burns in me still.

And, within an hour yesterday, I was immersed in an intensive, hands on, exploration of racism and prejudice in my community, and the experiences tested that fire inside of me, and got it to blazing into a righteous bonfire.

I’d gone into town for a haircut and a cup of coffee, maybe working out at the gym. My regular barber wasn’t working, so I slipped into the chair of another hair stylist at the salon, telling her the few things I wanted in the haircut.

Another customer came in, interrupting us, insistent on getting her hair styled. I felt my stylist tense up, her jaw tight.

“I’m not able to take you today,” my stylist said, a slight edge in her voice. “Someone else will be here in fifteen minutes. You can come back then.”

The customer left, and my stylist flew into an animated discussion with me and the other stylist in the shop, about how that customer had ranted and raved about the “wetbacks” and “lazy Mexicans” the last time she was here for an appointment.

“Look, I’m Mexican,” the stylist said, her arms flailing, her scissors nearly flying out of her hand. “My family works hard. My husband is working two jobs, jobs most Americans won’t do. We’re not on welfare, we don’t have food stamps. We work hard for everything we have here.
“How dare she say we should go back to where we came from. Her ancestors were immigrants, too. If we go ‘back’, then, she should, too,” she said, her rapid snips with her scissors shaping up my shaggy mane.

“I’m not going to cut her hair. I’m not putting up with people who are racists, people who judge people by the color of their skin, or where they came from. I just don’t understand people like that.”

She cooled off a bit, then, and we had a rich conversation about prejudice, and bigotry, and people who lump a big group into some category, and have opinions that ignore the facts, ignoring how people work hard, and struggle, so that their kids can have good, productive lives.

I left the salon with one of the quickest haircuts I’ve ever had, newly energized by her anger, and again saddened by the rudeness and bigotry that was still alive and thriving in my hometown. My stylist wasn’t afraid about speaking her mind. And, if she can speak up, maybe I can, too. Her power and her courage were at my back as I headed for my car.
Ten feet out the door, a young friend came up and spoke to me, inviting me to go have a cup of coffee. We’d spent a day not long ago looking at universities, exploring options for him to study for his bachelor’s degree. We’d both learned a lot that day, and it would be fun to debrief a little, and find out what he’d been thinking about, what he was planning for his future.

As I unlocked the car, my phone rang. One of the guys I’ve been mentoring, a young man I now consider to be a son, was calling.

“I need some advice,” he said. “People at work want to know about my past, but if I tell them everything, then I think they will judge me, they will just think I’m just a criminal, they won’t really look beyond that, and see me for who I really am.”

We had a rich conversation, about prejudice, and bigotry, and how we all need to not let bigots get close to us, and put us down, judging us without really knowing us. About how we don’t need to let others manipulate us, and put us in pigeon holes, so that we don’t have to play the role of being less than someone else. Each of us has value, we are children of God, we are beautiful people. We are more than our skin color, or where our ancestors came from, we are more than one thing we might have done in the past.

We talked about self care, and standing up for yourself, about living life with pride and direction, purpose. We talked about appreciating people by their character, by their ethics and morals, and not by some preconceived, uninformed stereotype.

I told him the story of my hair stylist, how she had drawn the line in the sand, refusing to work with a client who would stereotype her, and put her down, to degrade and prejudge her life and her family.

He took that all in, and figured out a strategy on coping with people who would prejudge him and gossip about him, people who would easily put him into a category of “others”, people who wouldn’t appreciate him for the beautiful, creative, and loving person that he is inside.

I drove down the road to the coffee shop, running a bit late after my deep conversation with my son. My buddy was already sipping his coffee, his nose deep in a thick textbook, one that absorbed his curious mind about the science of his new job.

We talked about what he’d been learning about all the colleges and programs he could apply for, and all the careers he could explore.

And, we also talked about the conversation I had with the hair stylist, and her bigoted customer.

“I’m a wetback, too,” he said, with a bit of pride. “I came here when I was eight, because my mom wanted me to get an education, and make something out of my life.”

He talked about his struggles to make it through high school, and then community college. He talked about not being able to get a driver’s license, about working under the table at a farm, so he could help his family and find a few bucks for school clothes and books, and gas.

He talked about the farmer he used to work for, and how the farmer would rant and rave about all the wetbacks and illegal immigration, and how the government was wasting a lot of welfare money on the “dirty Mexicans”. And, then the farmer would pay him under the table, and not take anything out of his pay for taxes and social security, and how the farmer didn’t see the disconnect in his thinking, and about how the farmer was breaking the law, and taking advantage of those “dirty Mexicans”, the “dirty Mexicans” he happily underpaid to milk his cows and shovel manure and do all the other hard work that he couldn’t find anyone else around this town to do.

He talked about how tough it was to go through all the hoops and finally get an immigration card that lets him be here legally, as long as he’s going to school, and how it is still another ten years before he might become a citizen. And, how his parents still drive to work without a valid license, and how they can never become citizens, even though they’ve lived here for the last twelve years, they have jobs, and they make sure their kids get to school, how they are good people, people this country should be proud to have as citizens.

People just like my ancestors, my people who came over on the boat, who took the awful, low paying jobs, so that their kids could go to school, and their grandkids could be doctors, lawyers, and engineers.

He talked about getting stopped by a cop late one night, just him and the cop on a lonely, dark country road; and how the cop yelled at him for breaking the law, for finding a way to get a driver’s license from another state, so my buddy could still get back and forth to work, and college, and take care of his family. He talked about how the cop called him a “wetback” and how “you people” should go back where you came from.

I know this cop. I’ve been a lawyer and a judge and I’ve had the cop in court many times. I’ve never heard that viewpoint from him, and it’s probably good for him that I didn’t. I have a dream, too, thanks in part to Martin Luther King’s work and beliefs that society can change, that we can accept others for who they are, and not to judge people by the color of their skin, but instead by the strength of their character.

If we really believe in the rule of law, if we really believe that each one of us is a child of God, that we are here to live lives of service, and compassion, and understanding, that every person is precious, and has endless possibilities to live a life of beauty and love and value.

That cop would hear that speech from me, again, and I think I’d be pretty impassioned about it, drawing on the passion my hair stylist had about dealing with racists and bigots.

I was pretty worked up by the time I got home, inspired to read Dr. King’s speech again, to dig a bit deep inside of me, to explore my prejudices and my biases. What I was wanting to say was on the stove, still warm, simmering, waiting for the muse to strike, to get my words down on the computer.

Then, last night, I’m taking a troll through Facebook. I see a young friend has posted a video. “Funny” he writes, so I take a look.

The video shows a white guy advertising a laundromat that only washes white clothes. It’s the “white’s only” laundry. The next scene is him again, saying that the first ad has riled up some people, so he’s changed the name to “no coloreds”, and offers Black people a side entrance to the laundry.

As my blood begins to boil, I struggle to keep watching, dreading what the next scene might be.
The white man comes on again, saying that the “no colored’s” name bothered some people, so he was going to change the name again to “Uncle Tom’s Laundry”, but that there would still be “no coloreds” washed and dried there.

I sat there, stunned, not really knowing how to react.

After all, it has been more than fifty years that Rosa Parks sat in the front of the bus, it has been fifty years since the March on Selma, and Dr. King’s speech at the Lincoln Memorial.

It’s been a shorter period of time since my home town repealed the “sundown law” that said Blacks had to leave town at the end of the day. It’s been a shorter period of time since some of the social clubs in town have allowed Blacks and women to sit in their bars and have a drink, and become members, even officers.

And, it’s been less than a day since a young friend posts a video about “no coloreds” for all the community to see, and maybe even guffaw about.

We have a black president, we have a black attorney general, we have black judges and members of Congress.

Yet, 2013 also has the Trayvon Martin shooting trial, and an agonizing, disjointed national discussion about what that was and what that means. We have the US Attorney General, on national TV, talking about how he feels he needs to tell his son, a black teenager, about the dangers and risks of being young and black on the streets of our national capital late at night, about how to be leery of cops, about being judged because of the color of his skin.

And, 2013, in my town, we have these conversations, and these racist, bigoted comments and attitudes, and videos posted in social media that are thought of as “funny”, but are as racist and bigoted as the cross burnings and Klan marches, and segregated busses and lunch counters and schools of the 1960s.

We aren’t there, yet, not by a long shot. But, I can still dream. And, I can still be angry, and intolerant of racism and prejudice, and putting people down because of where they came from, or the color of their skin, or the language they might speak.

We have a ways to go. We still need to dream.

Neal Lemery, 8/24/2013

Punishment or Rehabilitation

Punishment or rehabilitation?

We have a choice. We can change lives.

Punishment Fails. Rehabilitation Works.

James Gilligan, a clinical professor of psychiatry and an adjunct professor of law at New York University, is the author of, among other books, “Preventing Violence” and “Why Some Politicians Are More Dangerous Than Others.”
UPDATED DECEMBER 19, 2012, 11:43 AM (originally published in the New York Times)

“If any other institutions in America were as unsuccessful in achieving their ostensible purpose as our prisons are, we would shut them down tomorrow. Two-thirds of prisoners reoffend within three years of leaving prison, often with a more serious and violent offense. More than 90 percent of prisoners return to the community within a few years (otherwise our prisons would be even more overcrowded than they already are). That is why it is vitally important how we treat them while they are incarcerated.

“How could we change our prison system to make it both more effective and less expensive?

“The only rational purpose for a prison is to restrain those who are violent, while we help them to change their behavior and return to the community.

“We would need to begin by recognizing the difference between punishment and restraint. When people are dangerous to themselves or others, we restrain them – whether they are children or adults. But that is altogether different from gratuitously inflicting pain on them for the sake of revenge or to “teach them a lesson” – for the only lesson learned is to inflict pain on others. People learn by example: Generations of research has shown that the more severely children are punished, the more violent they become, as children and as adults. The same is true of adults, especially those in prison. So the only rational purpose for a prison is to restrain those who are violent from inflicting harm on themselves or others, while we help them to change their behavior from that pattern to one that is nonviolent and even constructive, so that they can return to the community.

“It would be beneficial to every man, woman and child in America, and harmful to no one, if we were to demolish every prison in this country and replace them with locked, safe and secure home-like residential communities – what we might call an anti-prison. Such a community would be devoted to providing every form of therapy its residents needed (substance abuse treatment, psychotherapy, medical and dental care) and every form of education for which the residents were motivated and capable (from elementary school to college and graduate school). Getting a college degree while in prison is the only program that has ever been shown to be 100 percent effective for years or decades at a time in preventing recidivism. Prisoners should be treated with exactly the same degree of respect and kindness as we would hope they would show to others after they return to the community. As I said, people learn by example.

“My colleague Bandy Lee and I have shown that an intensive re-educational program with violent male offenders in the San Francisco jails reduced the level of violence in the jail to zero for a year at a time. Even more important, participation in this program for as little as four months reduced the frequency of violent reoffending after leaving the jail by 83 percent, compared with a matched control group in a conventional jail. In addition to enhancing public safety, this program saved the taxpayers $4 for every $1 spent on it, since the lower reincarceration rate saved roughly $30,000 a year per person. The only mystery is: Why is this program not being adopted by every jail and prison in the country? Why are taxpayers not demanding that this be done?”

Why indeed?

The Power of One

“It’s the action, not the fruit of the action, that’s important. You have to do the right thing. It may not be in your power, may not be in your time, that there’ll be any fruit. But that doesn’t mean you stop doing the right thing. You may never know what results come from your action. But if you do nothing, there will be no result.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

Can I really make a difference in the world? Does what I do really matter?

The other day, I ran into a young man I’d worked with, having long talks about his future. We became friends, and I was a cheerleader in his life. I watched him refocus in high school, and graduating there. I walked with him and held his hand as he thought about college, and enrolling.

A few years later, I watched him receive his community college diploma, laughing with him as he posed for a family picture, diploma in hand. His wife, and his sister, now both in college, stood proudly beside him.

At the store, he shared a photo of his new baby, and his dream of a bright future, getting his bachelor’s degree, creating a bright future for him and his family.

“Thanks,” he said, quietly. “Without you pushing me, encouraging me, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

A few weeks ago, I took a young man to a university, walking with him into the registrar’s office to schedule his classes, and get him ready for fall term. We’d worked together last spring, to get him admitted, and transferring all his credits he’d earned for his associates degree, ready to start his junior year. He’s been aiming for a bachelor’s degree for a long time, and was finally able to make the move into a four year university, one that has an excellent program in his area of interest.

He’d been dragging his feet, not making the phone call to schedule his class registration, and all the other paperwork that needed to get done before he was really ready to begin classes. The plan was for me to drive him there, make a day of it, and to celebrate his achievements. But, he was dropping the ball, ignoring my increasingly less than subtle hints to take that drive, and move on with his life.

I nudged, I prodded, and I waited. Procrastination and fear took over, even a bit of resentment towards me, for being the quiet voice urging him forward, encouraging him to go live his dream.

Time was running out, and I spoke up, becoming direct, calling out for him to confront the elephant in the living room, and get moving here, moving ahead with his life. We met, finally, to have that hard conversation. We argued, we struggled, we finally got to the heart of his struggle, we each teared up, our guts churning.

We named the elephant, and we argued some more. He asked me where he thought I’d be in a few years, if he didn’t go to college, if he didn’t make that short trip to the university’s registrar that week, and be ready for fall term.

I got blunt, and painted a realistic picture.

“If you don’t live your dream, if you don’t work towards achieving your goals, life will be hard, and life will be disappointing. You will end up being disappointed in yourself. Is that what you want?”

He admitted he really did want to go to college, but the old voices, the voices of childhood that had always whispered that he wasn’t good enough, that he wasn’t deserving of success, those were the voices speaking loudly in his head lately.

We refocused. We didn’t dwell on “failure” and “I’m not good enough”. Instead, we moved on, living in today. And, looking towards the future, planning for it, taking real time steps to get where he wanted to go.

I grabbed the car keys, and his cold, sweaty hand, and walked him to my car. Amazingly, at least to him, within an hour, we were at the registrar’s office in the university, organizing his schedule, planning for his graduation in two years. He registered for classes, accepted his healthy array of scholarships, and sent in his student loan application.

On the way out the door, we picked up his student body card and scheduled a time for him to meet his department head and double check his class schedule, to make sure he was on the right track with his major.

Along the way, every college staff person was courteous, informative, and dedicated to getting him enrolled and off to a good start. Each one of them took the time to take an interest in him, focus on his needs, and help him achieve his goals for the day, and for the next two years of his life.

Each one of them, taking the time, being interested, investing in him. He saw that in how they treated him, how they were living their day. The caring about one other person, one at a time, with all of their focus, all of their energies, all of their wisdom.

And, so it begins, the new student and the teachers, the first lesson, building on the past, and aiming at the future.

One person at a time.

Neal Lemery, August, 2013

Being the Candle and the Mirror

“There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that receives it.” —Edith Wharton

I am both the candle and the mirror.

Every morning when I awake, when I pause for a cup of coffee, or to watch a bird in the garden, in every moment in life, I have a choice on how I live my life. It is for me to shape my intention, to go forth with my mind set on what it is I want to do, who it is I want to be, where it is I want to go, how I will live, and grow, and how I will spread light and love.

What am I doing now to reflect that Love and Light I find in the world, so that I can share that with others, thereby changing the world?

And, what am I doing to create Love and Light, and, likewise, give that away to the world?

Once you find the words to ask the question, then, and only then, will the answer come.

I have so many of the tools I need inside of me. And, if a tool is lacking, then it is up to me to ask of the Universe for the tool that works.

It is up to me to find my own story. That story has been gathering within me since I was born, and it is ever-changing, ever growing into an even more beautiful story.

It is up to me to draw upon the resources I need in order to live with purpose, and with meaning. I just need to ask, and, then, I need to be willing to receive. I need to be open, and to receive the gifts of the Light, and to be loved.

When I connect with the world around me and when I am in sync with the energies and rhythms of the universe, then I am aware of the light within me, and of the power of intention in my life. And, then, I must be open to receiving those gifts, those tools so that I can be a better lover, a better candle and mirror of the Light. Indeed, it is easier to give than to receive. I need to be humble, and open, and accepting of these eternal gifts.

I am a human being, and not a human doing. I can lose myself in endless tasks and projects, and I need to continually ask myself, what is my intention? Am I creating Light and Love in what I am doing here? Or, is my doing getting in the way of my Be-ing, am I living life with intention, congruent with the true reasons for why we are all here today.

I need to be able to ask the question, and also be open to listen to the answer, hearing it with my heart and soul.

I need to tend to my candle, and I need to polish my mirror.

Neal Lemery, July 22, 2013.

Stepping Back

I get pretty involved in the lives of the people I mentor. I worry about their grades in school, how they are managing their lives, if they are taking care of themselves, and making good choices.

We talk a lot about all that, especially the “good choices” part. Their lives haven’t been marked by a lot of good choices, though if I was to lay blame for that, most of the blame would fall elsewhere. If you don’t have good role models, and you don’t have some solid, compassionate people at your side, life gets harder to navigate through.

And, sometimes I give advice. I like to think it is just commentary, or, to be polite, “direction and concern”. But, really, it is advice.

When I do that, it is always a good idea to be asked. Micromanaging someone else’s life, or being the co-dependent fatherly type isn’t my style. I don’t have the energy for that, and, besides, I’m pretty busy just trying to manage my own life. I don’t do “rescue” very well, and the big lessons in life are best learned by experiencing the consequences of one’s own decisions.

Granted, if I see you head towards the cliff and your foot is on the gas, I will be moved to open my mouth and speak my mind. I might even grab the wheel for a bit, until you are headed away from the pending apocalypse. Still, I prefer the diplomatic approach, and I use “suggest”, or “what are some other options you’ve thought about”.

But, tact and being politically correct aren’t always my guiding forces, and I tend to speak my mind, especially when I see someone I care about heading for the cliff.

And, I might even step back, and let them come close to their cliff, and get their feet muddy in the quagmire of their actions. Good lessons are often taught when you are up your ass in alligators, deep in the swamp.

Not that I want my buddy to get chomped on by the alligator, but that swamp offers some good, solid lessons. It has for me.

Stepping back. Maybe it is the time of year for that. After all, people are taking a summer break, and various organizations, and schools, have shut down for the summer. The usual frenzy of meetings and activities has slowed quite a bit, and I find the calendar to be blissfully empty of a lot of the usual activities. People are taking care of themselves, going on vacation, taking a breath. They are letting go, and letting the world go on a bit without them at the helm.

And, as the young men I worry about start stepping out into the world, flapping their wings a bit, and testing the winds of the adult world, I need to let them go, let them fly out near the abyss on their solo flight. They will be stronger for taking that flight on their own, stronger, and a bit wiser. Haven’t we been working on that, getting them ready to fly?

Isn’t that the goal of all this, to build strong men, able to fly on their own, to bear the consequences of their own decisions?

Not that I don’t get to worry, and fret, just like the mama eagle frets when that fledgling steps out of the nest and catches the air, to fly free.

Neal Lemery, July 19, 2013

I Watch the Son, Sleeping

Like the others before him, this son sleeps deep, snoring, heavy into his night thoughts, his weekend away. He comes here tired, worn out from life. We feed his belly, he finds the hot tub and the beach, even the stars at night, a cat to pet and love. All the food and time in our quiet starts unwinding his shoulders, lifting worry from his eyes.

We talk at dinner, or on the deck, or on the road to the beach, catching up on his life, and his adventures. I listen, and rarely advise, though this journey of his is a familiar story, told by the sons who have come before, and the sons who will come later.

I practice patience, waiting for a pause, or a question.

“I might be lost.”

“What should I do?”

I do not know, but I can offer praise, and understanding, and tell my own story a bit.

“You are not the first on this path,” I try to say, knowing that he must take his own steps, and find his own road.

“You have the tools you need. Just look inside of you,” I offer, sometimes out loud.

And, he must fall and skin his knee sometimes, that bit of blood marking his own journey. I can offer the bandage, but I cannot always prevent the fall.

I look down on his sleeping face, seeing how he has grown, knowing, deep inside of me, that he has all he needs inside of him to be the man he wants to be. I can only help him find his patience, and his stamina, and his courage, and then he will walk his path with strong legs and a loving heart.

I can only be behind him, offering a few words of encouragement, and unlimited love, knowing that will be enough, and he will blossom and come into his own.

Our time now at an end, we have one last meal, he, again, eating as if we’ve starved him all weekend long. Bottomless, in many ways, he thinks he might, finally, be full.

I drop him off at work, his week just beginning. We hug, one final time, and he whispers “thanks”.

Any more words and we would have both cried.

Shoulders back, the old smile again, he is on his way again, renewed.

Neal Lemery, July 8, 2013

“What I’ve found about it is that there are some folks you can talk to until you’re blue in the face–they’re never going to get it and they’re never going to change. But every once in a while, you’ll run into someone who is eager to listen, eager to learn, and willing to try new things. Those are the people we need to reach. We have a responsibility as parents, older people, teachers, people in the neighborhood to recognize that.”
― Tyler Perry, Don’t Make a Black Woman Take Off Her Earrings: Madea’s Uninhibited Commentaries on Love and Life

Freedom Day

I call it Freedom Day. One of my friends, who experienced it from the prisoner-getting-out viewpoint calls it the best day, but the hardest day of his life.

After six or seven years, being locked up since you were sixteen, you are free. There’s so much going on in your head, you can’t even cry. Oh, we shout, and I honk the horn as we drive away, but the young men fall quiet, and just look at the road ahead, the countryside, as we drive away.

Part of me wants the Mormon Tabernacle Choir here, singing the Hallelujah Chorus, as we march out to a parade of confetti and balloons. But, usually, it is just a staff member or two, and a cartful of their worldly possessions, their parole papers clutched in their sweaty hands, their faces stony with a mixture of fear, joy, and anticipation.

Everything they’ve known for the last seven years is back there, behind the fence, behind the locked door. The trunk has a duffle bag, a day pack, and a few garbage sacks of all they have in this world.

They even dawdle a bit, hugging buddies goodbye, everyone a bit teary, even though they are getting out, they are free now.

They slip into the front seat, put on their seatbelt. It’s their first ride in a vehicle in seven years without wearing a jumpsuit, their hands cuffed, and chained to their ankles. There’s a deep silence now, as that bit of their new reality sets in. No handcuffs. Just going for a ride down the road. Just like the rest of the world.

Two of the guys I’ve driven away from their life behind bars have clutched their Bibles, hands sweaty as we turn onto the road, and head away. One guy grabs the wood carving he’s making, a Raven mask, symbol of his tribe, his heritage, and the long, courageous road he’s already traveled in his young life.

I took a couple of them to the beach, a place they’ve been close to for a third of their lives, but have never walked on, never felt the bit of spray from the waves, or smelled the salty, fresh air in their lungs. They both hesitated, as we got out of the car, the early morning salt air cold against their faces.

“Aren’t you coming?” they each asked.

No. This is your time. Go. Walk. Run. Talk to God. Yell. Put your feet in the water, and feel it. Experience it. Be the wild boy you need to be. This is your day, this is your time.

You haven’t been alone for all these years, except in your mind, on your bunk in a dorm of twenty five, late at night. It is time to walk your beach, to be free, to be on your own. If anyone deserves to talk on their own, on the beach at dawn, it is you, my fledgling eagle.

Go fly a bit. Stretch those wings.

For two men, on their Freedom Day, they both looked back, to make sure I was still there, and then they moved forward, purposefully, manfully heading to the water. The waves crashed, the breeze freshened a bit, and the gulls mewed, as these brave young men gaze out to sea, so many thoughts racing through their minds. I stood there, in silent witness, a tear of joy, of exultation running down my cheek.

I say a silent prayer, a prayer of thanksgiving, and guardianship, wanting them to be protected, wanting them to blossom into strong, healthy men, men who embrace and cherish freedom and living a good, loving life. May this be their last day ever in prison.

Yes, I would wait for them, I would stand guard for them, these brave young men, taking flight, testing their wings and singing their songs, beginning a new life.

For one man, we celebrate Freedom Day and his birthday with a big breakfast. And candles, cake, and ice cream for dessert, on our best china, toasting to his freedom with sparkling cider and crystal goblets. It’s his second birthday cake in seven years, and the first time he’s had candles on a cake since he was ten. I broke out my mother’s silver, and cloth napkins. Time for a little spoiling, I think. After all, it is Freedom Day.

“More, please,” our young Pippen asks, and I pass him the platter of his special ordered sausage, bacon and biscuits. He fills his plate, mentioning that the knife and fork in his hand are metal. He’s only used plastic for six years.

“I guess I’ll have to get used to this,” he chuckles.

We sing “Happy Birthday extra sweetly for this man-child today, our hearts finally feeling what this day means. He blows out the candles, making a wish, as a tear slides down his face.

“Mom would never let us have cake for breakfast,” he says. “But, I guess we can break the rules today.”

Oh, yeah. We laugh when he asks for seconds on dessert.

One man comes to my house to shower, after his run on the beach. He’s in the bathroom quite a while, and comes out wondering what to do with his towel. He giggles a bit.

“First time I’ve had a shower all by myself in a bathroom in seven years. I had to just enjoy it.”

The rest of those Freedom Days become whirls of activities, of challenges, and adventures. We drive through the forest, far away from walls, and inmate counts, and lining up for a meal, or to go to a class, or any of the other institutional rituals in his day. We stop when we need to pee, or have a meal, or when we spot a herd of elk beside the road.

The closer we get to their new home, and their new challenges, their new life, the meaning of it all hits hard. They fall silent, their whirling minds even reaching me, tensing me up with their anxiety.

I’ve traveled these roads a lot, but on those Freedom Days, I, too, am feeling the freedom, sensing the beauty and peace of the forest, and fields, and little towns, the sun bright in a blue sky, unmarked by a fence, or a wall, or the numbing tedium of prison life. The routine of this trip isn’t ordinary today, and I start to appreciate the simple things, the ability to make some choices. Near the end of the trip, I take another road, just because I can.

We hit the variety store, picking up some necessities, getting a cell phone, one of today’s essentials. And, the mayhem, the crowds, the frenzies of others, normal to me, wash over my young men, overwhelming them with sensations. All their treatment work, all their counseling work on how to live now, out in society, as normal, healthy men, hasn’t prepared them for this, the chaos, the cacophony of our daily world. All this isn’t book learning, or “the future”, now. It’s reality, and it’s hard. And, it doesn’t stop. This class doesn’t end.

One Freedom Day, we head to a family lunch, in a busy restaurant, and I get to see some of the old family dynamics unfold, my buddy trying to deal with that, and how to order food, and how to deal with the chaos and drama at the tables around us. He finds words to say to his brother, a guy he hasn’t talked to in seven years. I see them ease up a little, sharing a joke.

He asks me what to order.

“Anything you want,” I grin.

And, we laugh, on every level.

I catch his eye and grin, giving him a wink. He lets out a chestful of air, and grins back. Yes, this is your new reality. You can do this. We are doing this. And, it will be all right.

A Graduation Speech to Knock Your Socks Off

Graduation Speech

Trask River High School

Tillamook, Oregon

Stephen Kaplan, Valedictorian

June 8, 2013

Well, here we are. Graduation. It has always been bizarre to me why we make it such a big event. All we had to do was show up to class, turn in some homework and pass a few tests. I actually felt that way until I was asked to write a speech on the subject. It wasn’t until I sat down and thought about what really went into graduating that I realized that it is a big event.

Having worked so hard to pass those tests, attending those classes, at becoming the man that could stand in front of you and speak on such a subject, I found that it is a great occasion. I found that, especially for these sixteen graduates who are up here today, three things make it memorable:

The opportunities that got us here.
The work we did to get here.
What it can tell us about our futures, ourselves, and our lives.

The opportunities that we were given were unlikely. Most of us came from places that we would never have had the chance to accomplish such a thing. Some from bad neighborhoods, others from dysfunctional families, wherever it was, school was not much of a priority.

Then we got locked up. In a place equated with loss of our lives as we knew them, freedom, and most, a little sanity.

Though some doors may have been locked behind us, many have opened in front of us. We were given the opportunities to be here today.

The biggest thing that makes this such an important occasion are the sixteen men in front of you. They took such an unlikely opportunity and ran. They saw that door and walked through it, each facing their own struggles in doing so. And whether it was the alphabet in math, where the comma goes in writing, or for myself, two long terms in fiber arts, we all overcame them in order to be graduating today.

As for the future, well, it’s what we make it. I feel that I can speak for all of us when I say that these opportunities were a second chance in showing ourselves and others that it’s not time to give up yet; that we still have things to accomplish no matter how small or great. And more than anything it shows us that we all have the ability to achieve what seemed so unlikely.

I want to finish with a quote that really sums up the importance of this event and what it means to each of us. By my fellow graduate, Kenneth J.

He says, “A seed that wishes to thrive will blossom through concrete.”

And that is exactly what we did.

—–

(I’m sharing this with Oregon Governor John Kitzhaber, the directors of the Oregon Youth Authority and the Oregon Dept. of Corrections, as well as my state senator and state representative.) This young man is now taking college classes, and just got an A in his second term of an on line calculus class. His academic goal is to earn an MBA.

Finding The Right Fathers’ Day Card

I walk past the large display of Fathers’ Day cards in the store, not even stopping to browse, to find the perfect card to send to a father. A twinge of sadness stings my gut, bringing back that old feeling, a mixture of grief, loss, and an emptiness that can’t be filled.

The greeting card companies and the TV ads tell me I’m supposed to make Fathers’ Day a special day for my dad.. But, they’re missing the point, and they sure don’t understand my life and how I think about Fathers’ Day.

Dad has been gone for most of my life. And even when he was around and I got him a card, he’d just nod, barely saying the “thank you” I’d been craving. My step dad has been gone a long time, too. I knew he liked my cards. He’d smile and give me a hearty handshake. We knew where we stood with each other.We just didn’t say them. Talking about love and fathering wasn’t part of our conversations. But, we knew. And, that was enough for me.

My father in law liked my cards, too. He’s chuckle and laugh, and there’d be a twinkle in his eye. He got a lot of attention on Fathers’ Day, and he knew he was loved. He gave it back, too. In spades.

This is the second year without him, and the emptiness inside of me as I look at all the choices on the card rack gets a bit deeper with me.

I’m on the other side of the coin now. I have a bunch of sons. My step son and I are close, even though he’s about six hundred miles away. We can share our love easily, with just a smile, a joke, or something funny we e-mail to each other. We still joke with each other, still playing pranks on each other with a silly plastic lobster. A few weeks ago, I found Mr. Lobster, again, and he starred in my movie, the one I made on my iPad, and sent to my 42 year old son.

A few hours later, my son sends me an e-mail. He’s in hysterics over my three minute movie, and invites me to share it with the rest of the family. I’m not sure he thought I would, but I did, showing him I, too, can make my way around You Tube, and make some jokes again, with Mr. Lobster.

One of my foster sons flies his paraglider way up in the air, sending me videos once in a while, looking down at the far away ground, or a jet liner flying under him. He knows I’m scared of heights, and I worry about him jumping off cliffs and flying high in the air, turning summersaults and making loops. I know he’s laughing every time he sends me his latest aerial adventures. It’s his way of saying he loves me, that he’s doing just fine.

I have other sons now, too, the young guys I mentor in prison, and some of the other guys there, too. The young man who makes the coffee drinks at the prison canteen on visiting days knows my usual order, and gets it started the moment I walk in the door. Other guys show me their art work, or tell me about doing well on a test, or moving ahead in their treatment. I get a lot of “Hi, Neal”s when I show up on their special days, or sit in on one of their activities, being a dad in their lives.

Their own dads don’t show up much, if at all. So, I like to give them a smile and a handshake, just to say hi, just to say that they are important.

I don’t find the “sons” section in the Fathers’ Day cards. There are the golfing joke ones, the religious ones, the silly ones, even the stepdad ones now. But, there aren’t any cards that say what I want to say, “Good job, son. Thanks for being the son. Without the son, there’d be no Fathers’ Day.”

“I’m proud of who you are, what you’ve become.”

That’s what this day is really about, sons and daughters. The dad takes on the job of helping to raise the child, to teach, to listen, to wipe snotty noses and change dirty diapers, and help them with their homework. And, to listen and counsel, and show them, by example, how it is to be a man, to move along in the world, being healthy, and wise.

I don’t have daughters, but I know they’re watching their dads, too.
“How are you at this man stuff? How do I live with you? What kind of man do I want in my life? And, while you are at it, teach me about trust.”

It is the biggest job I’ve ever had. A lot of teaching of respect, and capability, and a lot of unconditional love.

We’re supposed to show them what love is all about. And, respect. And, compassion and learning about this crazy world.

Being a dad is really learning how to be a good example, to be watched, and judged.

“How ARE you doing as a man?”

“Show me. But, I expect you to do it right.”

No pressure there!

And, by the way, the manual on all this stuff is out of print, and I can’t find an old copy on Amazon.

We’re the guys that wait by the door at night, making sure they get home safe from that party, or that big date. We’re there to listen, to nod, to simply be there, keeping the porch light burning, to be the guy who cares that they do have a home to come back to, after a day of being a teenager in a harsh, often indifferent, cruel world.

We give the hugs, wipe the tears, and look them in the eye, quietly telling them we believe in them. All things are possible. And, they are loved.

Such simple things we do. But, when that simple stuff gets neglected, or no guy is behind the front door when they do come home late at night, then all hell can break loose, and their fragile ships at sea too often crash onto the reefs and sink in the storms.

And, we’re the guys that haul the laundry sack to the laundry room, when they come home for the weekend. And, we fire up the barbecue, and cook their favorite foods, letting them hang out with their old friends. We often take a back seat then, letting them visit and laugh with their friends, as we flip the burgers, and get more potato salad out of the frig.

There will come the time when they’ll sit down with us on the couch, after the party, and after a long day at the beach with their friends. Then, they’ll talk, a bit shy at first, then going deep, talking about the serious questions of life that a young man has, once they get out in the world, and have to deal with all of life’s adult problems and worries.
Then, we listen, and we listen hard. Sometimes, they ask for advice, but mainly, they just want to talk, to show you they are doing OK, that they learned a lot from you about life, that they are doing pretty good at it.

And, we let them know, right back at them, that they’re doing a good job, and they we believe in them, and take pride in who they are becoming.
It’s pretty easy to sit there and listen, and to nod, to say a few words of encouragement.

You see, fatherhood is a whole bunch of just showing up, just being present in someone’s life.

You don’t need to give them your DNA, but you do need to give them your time, and your love. That’s fatherhood. That’s being a real man.
The good work comes in just answering the phone, or texting something sweet back, in the middle of the night, letting them know you are around, that you care.

I get my thanks, then, for being the dad. I get that when they don’t call for a couple of weeks at a time. I know they are fine, they are making their way, needing their independence, flexing their big boy muscles and making their way through life.

Someday, Hallmark might figure it out, and start selling “I love my kids” cards for Fathers’ Day. But, until they do, I’ll just keep on doing what I do best, loving all my kids with all my heart, and telling them, every chance I get, that I love them.

–Neal Lemery
June 11, 2013