“The Hanging Tree” by Rex Sexton


(Image by Bart Galle)

Jumble, fumble.  The alarms go off.  Faster than a speeding bullet the cops show up.

Camacho catches the El train, rooftops interrupted by flashes of lightning.  Cold, alone, pounding rain.

Full pedal, passing the bottle, Plugger races the car down the side-streets at a hundred or more.  You don’t ride often in a flying coffin but ain’t that what life is for?

“So he gave me inches seven,” the wild white girls sing some anglo “bottle of beer on the wall” song variation in the back seat.  “I said honey this is heaven.”

Two wheeled corners, slides, skids, the radio blasting something about things going better with Coke.

Someone say coke? Yeah man.

“So he gave me inches ten, I said double it again.”

Houses a blur, whoosh, whoosh.  Minds in a whirl, whoosh, whoosh.

ENCHILADAS

They flash past a curbside stand in the industrial district where their parents slave every day for minimum wage.

“Enchiladas!”  The white girls giggle.

Plugger slams the breaks, slides, skids.  Camacho laughs as Plugger jams it into reverse and they fish-tail back.

“You no can do that.”  The proprietor shakes his head.  “Park on the sidewalk.”

They all pig out. The wild white girls with relish. They wash down the food with whiskey and malt.

“So he gave me inches twenty,” the girls sing, gleefully, greasy goodness stuffed in their mouths,  “I said honey that’s sure plenty.”

They creep cautiously down the darkened streets, through the blackened gangways, along the unlit alleys.  They spot their hit while cruising the main strip – a cluster of punks drinking beers in the bowling alley parking lot.

“Geronimo!” They whisper.

They park Plugger’s junker in an alley around the corner – an old beat-up taxi painted black and lettered eerily with “Tales From The Crypt,” and “Death You Deserve IT,” scrawled on the sides in swirls of white – an American flag flying from the antenna.

There are a dozen of the enemy. They have to do it quickly, before the bowling alley gang gets wind of their guerilla attack and piles out on them en masse.  Plugger walks straight at them, Mr. Goodwrench hidden in his army surplus jacket.

“You guys seen my brother?”

They fan out around the cars gripping tire-irons, crowbars.

“Who’s this jerk?”

“It’s me, Tony.”

“Anyone know this punk?”

They rush them, swinging.  The punks are fast.  Camacho blocks a bottle.  Sixteen stitches along his arm later, no problem.  They beat the punks bloody.  Bam, bam.  No one died.

The punks must have had God on their side.  Next day the punks jump them back, outside their pool hall.  Have themselves a ball.  Good training for war.  With jobs scarce, everyone is thinking about joining up when they are old enough.  Even Camacho.  Why not?  The streets of Iraq or here?  At least you get paid for being over there.   Someone has to fight the wars.  Nothing in it for the sons of doctors and lawyers.

A good run.  Camacho leaves the pool hall, pockets the fives, ones, puts the tens and twenties in the duty booty for his parents.  Too good to leave behind, he takes his beer with him and drinks it in the alley.

Dissolving night over urban blight, the rising sun pointing at the “on the run” like a gun.  All over the Dead Zone the junkies are searching the catacombs for that breakfast of champions hidden in the labyrinths.

Being, being, nothingness.

Camacho closes his eyes and downs the beer, feels the darkness of the universe and all its shadows disappear.

“We’re done man!”  Skinner’s teeth chatter as they sit shackled together on a lockup bench waiting for the Sergeant.  “Murder one!  Life man!  Unless they give us death!  You don’t think they’ll do that?”

Things happen.  This one had happened fast.  Camacho said: “Stick ‘em up” and the gun went off.  They had bolted out the back door and down the alley.  Camacho threw the gun in a frenzy at a backyard tree where it disappeared in the leaves.

The cops were right there.  They must have been cruising by and heard the shot.  Camacho watched the tree as they grabbed them, put them in cuffs, roughed them up – two troublesome looking teenagers in the middle of suspicious circumstances.  It didn’t fall, the gun.  It must have got stuck in some branch, something like a golfer’s hole-in-one, or a basketball player’s one-in-a-million full court shot.

“Look Skinner,” Camacho whispers, “we went in the front and came out the back.  No one saw us enter or exit.  No one was in the old man’s shop.  Hey, we were just cutting through the alley.  As far as they know, whoever blasted the old man went out the front while the cops were wasting their time arresting us.  They got nothing except us being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Not even in it, just near it.  They got no weapon, loot, and it ain’t like we got long rap sheets like hardened criminals.”

“Unless the gun comes down!” Skinner hisses.  “Then it’s homicide!”

“Calm down Skinner.  We got luck on our side.  Enjoy the ride.  Unless some little bird talks, we walk.”

They walked all right –morning, noon and night, Camacho and Skinner, alone or together in any kind of weather, up and down the alley past the tree, braced to jump the fence and snatch the evidence before it fell from some branch on the grass and the old couple who lived there found the gun and the cops had their ass.

“I’m going in there.”  Skinner hollered.  “I’m climbing that tree and getting that fucking thing!”

“You ain’t doing shit, half-wit.”  Camacho spat at a garbage can.  They were sweating bullets.

It was the dog days.  Flies swarmed around them.  “When the leaves fall we’ll be able to spot it up there.  Maybe.  I’ll jimmy up there faster than you can.  Bim bam the monkey man.  For now we leave it alone.  I don’t need your skinny, clumsy white ass clowning around and falling down.

It’s a miracle.”  Camacho’s voice was hushed as he stared at the tree.  “It’s like divine intervention or something. Like God said: ‘Wait, fate, give them a break.’”

“Miracle?  It’s a curse!  It’s torture!  If you think God’s protecting us you’re nuts!  We’re killers – at least you are.  If God’s doing anything he’s giving us a taste of hell before we go to jail!”

“So it just dumb luck!  Don’t fuck it up!  You’re as guilty as I am and just as damned in the eyes of God or in the eyes of The Man.  Get your head together, amigo, you’re going loco!”

They never even charged them at the station with anything, although they questioned them long and hard for hours.  Skinner almost broke.  He started crying like a baby and babbling incoherently.  Luckily all he bawled was, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do anything, leave me alone.”  Meanwhile the pigs combed the shop, alley, backyards, rooftops, and finally had to let them go when they came up with zero.  Camacho had washed his hands as soon as they hit the station, jumping up and down and complaining he was about to pee in his pants.  They never did the forensic test.

“Skinner, look.  It’ll be OK.  We’ll get the gun.  The shooting was an accident.  We just wanted to scare the old man.  We didn’t want nothing like that to happen.  God, fate, whatever, we got a break.  Maybe a chance to change, repent, do good things not bad.  Think about that.

You know what they say: God works in mysterious ways.”

Jesus Skinner was a handful.  No cojones.

Skinner was dangerous.  In his tiny, sports-poster-filled bedroom, Camacho lay propped up by pillows on his bed and stared at his rumpled reflection in the dresser mirror. With his sweat matted hair and haggard face, he already looked incarcerated.  Skinner would squawk, Camacho knew, and soon.  He would get some neighborhood mouthpiece.  They came cheap enough.

Quick and dirty plea-bargains were what they were all about.  He would show the cops where the gun was, testify.  The miracle tree and the magically hanging gun were a gamble that Skinner’s nerves couldn’t handle.  Could Camacho blame him?  Freedom or life, all or nothing.  They would try them as adults, two slum punks with nothing and no one to prop them up or hold their hand. The court would pull the chain and flush them down.  But Skinner could be out before he was thirty if he played his cards right.  Point the finger at Camacho.  Would he do the same if it were the other way around?  God if it only had been!  If only he had not been holding the gun that shot the old man.

The room was a hot box.  Camacho pulled off his shirt.  He tried to mop the sweat off his face and chest, but the shirt was sopping wet and his efforts were useless.  Through the paper-thin walls, he could hear his family talking and laughing – his mother and sisters in the kitchen cooking, his father and brothers noisily watching the baseball game in the living room.  He closed his eyes and shuddered as he listened.  This would kill them.  His father would die inside.

His mother would go crazy. His brothers and sisters would be locked up in their own little prisons with him, and would miss him on Christmas, birthdays, weddings, births, graduations; all the times a family came together, he wouldn’t be there.

For the thousandth time he reran the nightmare in his mind.  It was a two-bit jewelry store, no cameras, alarms, but enough gold school rings, trinkets, wedding bands to make a take even the head honchos in the neighborhood could celebrate.  Fence it, melt it down.  The price of gold was climbing through the clouds.  The place was a piece of cake. He was amazed that no one had hit the store before.

But the gun went off and the old man dropped.  He dropped like a rock.  It wasn’t like the shootings you see on TV.  It was like the old man was a puppet and Camacho cut his strings.

“Julio we gonna eat now!”

His sister Maria shouted from the kitchen.  He could hear the clatter of plates and utensils, the sliding of chairs.  He couldn’t face them.

“Pronto Julio!”  His sister Nanette shouted and laughed.  “You don’t come quick we gonna eat it all!”

“Eat it all!  Eat it all!”  Little Fernando laughed and stomped around the living room floor.

Camacho rose slowly and faced his reflection in the mirror.  Julio Camacho, he brooded, the pretty boy with the ugly name.  Camacho meant humpback.  “We’re all humpbacks in this neighborhood,” was one of his father’s favorite jokes, “we’re all bent over by the burdens of the poor.”  He felt another weight on his back now.  The weight of a murderer.  This weight he couldn’t throw off, despite his sculpted muscles.  He was a champion wrestler on the high school team, at least in his weight class, short like most Mexicans but strong and quick.  If he stuck out two more years of high school and managed to pass, he could probably get a college scholarship.  But that was a gamble he couldn’t handle.  Try as he might, he could never understand the complexities of math or science, or the world of chemicals and gases, all those protons, electrons, neutrons, formulas, equations, astronaut stuff.  Camacho felt a fool in school. The champion with his muscles was El Stupido in the classroom. This delighted his teachers who liked to stick it to him, ‘that cocky Camacho kid.’ “Mr. Camacho, today’s lesson seems to have you in a strangle hold.

Maybe you should exercise your brain now and then. Instead of biceps and pecs, try to put some muscles in your head.” To save face he played it down, swaggered around.  “Fuck that book shit!”  He would blow it off to his friends.  “Who needs it?”  They felt the same way.  Brains were a liability.  Didn’t that honor student in the black neighborhood just get beaten to death because he wanted to study and not join the gang?  Besides, did book brains ever do anyone any good in the hood?  His odds for getting out of the ghetto, like theirs, were zero. So, say he did get into college, how long would he last?   So he could wrestle, was he Olympic material?  The gangs were all he was good for, Camacho knew, committing crimes, running drugs.  His glory days were here and now on the streets where he could flash money and strut his stuff.  But that street of dreams had its dead end coming.  It was written on the walls with graffiti scrawls. “Eat, drink and be merry amigos.”  Their leader Pena would salute them with his toast.  “If you don’t die on the streets you’ll die in jail.”

“Poppy, I got to get out of here.” Six months ago, he had sat down at the kitchen table with his father after the party they had given him on his sixteenth birthday.  The tiny, appliance cluttered room with its faded walls and warped linoleum was still decorated with streamers and balloons, as the rest of the house had been, courtesy of his sister’s talented hands. “I want to join up.  Next year, if you sign for me, I can go in now.  Be a Marine.  I can get my GED while I’m there.  Pursue a military career.”

His father was sipping a beer.  He looked tired and old beyond his years.  He had spent his life in these South Side slums, before and after he had served in Desert Storm; and the mystery to Camacho was that he never seemed to regret a day of it, even though he must have seen and lived a life of hardship without letup.

“You want to go to Iraq?”  His father had lifted his eyebrows.  “You want to get blown up?”

Do you know what war is, muchacho?  I don’t think so.  No.  You finish school, get a job, wife, have a life.  Of course, when you turn eighteen you can do what you want. Like I told you, Camacho means hump, you want also to walk with a limp, be blind, crippled?  Be my guest.”

“But it’s no good here, Poppy.”  Camacho’s mind swirled with the life in the hood, drugs, guns, gangs. Things were different now than they had been for his father when he was a kid, no matter how bad things were back then. It was a different world.  If you didn’t join a gang now you were a marked man.  “Es muy malo aqui, Poppy.”  Camacho pleaded.

“Malo?  Bueno?  If it’s no good here,” his father tapped his heart, “it’s no good anywhere.”

“Julio, we’re waiting!”

“Un momento, Mama.  I got to change my shirt!”

Camacho fished a tank-top from the dresser and pulled it on.  He pondered his biceps, dark eyes, wavy hair.  What the zombies wouldn’t do to him if he landed in stir.

“I’m almost there! Presto, Change-O!”

He glanced at the window as he ran a comb through his hair.  After everyone was in bed he would slip down the fire escape.  He would meet Juanita in the church yard, go drinking with his friends.  He had to get out of there, get some air, get high, forget about Skinner, the murder, before he lost his mind.

A peek-a-boo moon in a storm chased sky, like an avenger’s eye peering through its cosmic keyhole at the sinner below, watching for the chance to transform the night into God’s holy wrath and cut his throat with a lightning bolt.

Skinner moved through dark and street glow past the poolrooms and the taverns, the seedy blue-lit lounges, down into the back alleys of the catacombs amidst the midnight prowl of shadows. No one went at night to No Man’s Land.  Even during the day you didn’t want to go alone.  You went after school in pairs or groups to your favorite trick to get your treat clicking switchblades and looking mean. Hands in his pockets, sweating bullets, Skinner stumbled down the unlit streets, over the broken sidewalks, amidst the abandoned buildings, most of them fire-scorched shells, like they weren’t in America but some third-world war zone.  The hanging tree waits for me.  Skinner sang to himself tunelessly. Phantom figures stalked him.  He didn’t care.

Hanging tree, hanging tree.

For the thousandth time, he reran the robbery in his mind.  How scared he had been when he saw Camacho’s gun. “How else we gonna rob him?  Say: ‘Give me your money or I’ll kick you in the shin?’”   They went in as soon as the old man opened.  No customers then. They lifted their t-shirts over their noses, pulled down their hats, wore dark sunglasses.  But the gun went off.  Boom.  Skinner had never seen anything like it, the way the old man dropped.

“If we repent and are serious and we beg god’s forgiveness with all our heart and soul.”

Camacho put his arm around Skinner’s shoulder as they patrolled the alley. “God will forgive us, amigo.  God wants to give us another chance. It was an accident.  I’ll get the gun.  We won’t go to prison.”

Was Camacho feeding him some jive, as if he were stupid?  Maybe Camacho really believed all that bullshit?  Camacho was not so bad.  Camacho was his only friend.  If it wasn’t for Camacho, Skinner knew, he probably would have been dead long ago.  Eventually the gangs would have stomped him good.  They had come pretty close more than once.  Maybe they would have set him on fire with gasoline, or whatever, like the gangs did to that white kid on the news.

“What you doin’ here white trash?”  They surrounded him after his first day at school.

Skinner’s family moved to the neighborhood a year ago. “You come to give me some money?  No? I think maybe you better have some tomorrow.”

Skinner’s father had lost his job.  They lost their house, savings, everything.  Both his parents worked in the packing plant now for minimum wage and were lucky to have that.  The new life was a shock.  They came from the suburbs, good schools, jobs.  The more Skinner tried to fit in the worse it got.  The gangs would taunt him, shake him down, beat him up – the blonde, blue-eyed target.  Now everyone left him alone.  He hung with Camacho.  “Muy intellegente.”

Camacho would pat Skinner on the back when they ran into his pack.  “A master mind.”

Camacho would tap his temple.  “He gonna rob a bank with his brains and put you Frito banditos to shame.”

“Dealer.”  Skinner whispered and tapped at a sheet metal door across which “Death” was spray painted.  The building was an old, brick, boarded-up warehouse. The phantom shapes behind him ghosted away.  “Dealer.”  He tapped harder.

“Nada mas.”  A dark voice hissed.  “Go away.  We closed.”

“It’s Skinner.”  Skinner stammered.  “Camacho’s friend.  You know – Blanco.”

“Beat it.”

“I got money.  Plenty.”

“Stick it up you ass.”

“It’s an emergency.”  Skinner pleaded.  “Camacho sent me.”  He lied.  “We got this party, these chicks.  Camacho begs you.”

Skinner had stolen a hundred dollars from his parents’ savings.  He could sell the crack over the next few days and put it back.  He was going crazy.  He had to talk to dealer.  His mind was in a frenzy.

“How much is plenty?”

“A hundred?”  Skinner held his breath.

“That’s plenty?  Shit!”

The door swung open.  Looking at Dealer made you shudder.  He had wild hair and a shock theater face, nose ringed, eyebrow ringed, the forehead, cheeks, chin slashed with zipper-like scars.   His eyes could stare down a firing squad.  Camacho had gotten the gun from him.

“Blanco.”

Dealer swayed in the doorway and sneered at Skinner.  He stood stark naked, holding a gun.

His sinuous brown body shimmered with tattoos: devils, demons, screaming faces, snakes, magic numbers, voodoo writings.

“Let’s have it.”  Dealer stuck out his hand.  Skinner’s pale one shook as he paid him.  “Stay there.”  Dealer pointed at the doorstep with his gun.  “Lilliana!”  He turned and disappeared.

“Bring me my box.  It’s in the closet!”

The room beyond the doorway looked like a psychopath’s nightmare. Skinner had been in it with Camacho a few weeks ago.  It was a huge, dimly-lit space. Somehow Dealer managed to reclaim part of the warehouse from extinction with plumbing and electricity.  Miracles like that happened in the hood everywhere – mystery electricity, phone connections, cable TV.  In the vast, warehouse space, naked light bulbs dangled from steel beams.  The walls were painted with surrealistic street scenes in which giant, garishly colored figures, twisted in a hell that raged from floor to ceiling.  Hell was the hood on fire.  The jumble of toppling tenements and gaudy storefronts were whipped by flames and peopled with demons.  In every building’s windows, Hispanic families howled with torment. Dealer must have gotten the neighborhood graffiti artists in there and supplied them with paints and brushes.  Their vision was a holocaust of chaos, despair and destruction. Dilapidated furniture was scattered throughout the room. In a corner there was a kitchen, television, computer, CD player.  Beyond Dealer’s torture chamber, blocked off by a maze of cinder brick walls, was a gutted shell filled with rubble and junk, inhabited by stray dogs, winos, druggies and rodents.

“Enjoy your blow.”  Dealer reappeared and tossed him a bag.  “Don’t do this no more, Blanco.  Never.  When I say ‘no mas’ you get lost, fast.”

“Dealer.”  Skinner stammered.  “Can I ask you a question?  I don’t have a computer anymore so I can’t look up the answer.  Do guns attract lightning?  I mean they’re made of metal.  I know cops wear guns everywhere.  But say a cop stands by a tree in a storm.  Trees get struck all the time. Would a gun increase the odds of lightning striking?  If anyone would know, you would.

Dealer?”

Night winds whispered around them in the tangled parish garden, like chanting saints or nuns at prayer.  Or maybe it was more like midnight angels fluttering in the dark, or priests reciting sermons, or choirs caroling incantations.  Sweet sin, the sensations on their skin as they kissed, tangled in delight, naked in the garden moonlight.

“Bueno.”  Camacho groaned. He leaned over Juanita and searched her features, tasted her breath, felt her quiver.  The heavens opened up on a world that is enough.  “Bueno.”  He repeated.  “Amen”

They had attended the night mass, knelt together, prayed, or at least Camacho did.  It was his idea.  He had showered after dinner, put on a silk shirt and new chinos, had an impulse to attend the service, “Oh, I don’t know Julio.”  Juanita hesitated before the great doors of the grand cathedral with its ringing bells, towering steeple.  “It doesn’t seem right.  We can’t pray, then go out in the garden and – you know.”

“It’s OK.”  Camacho squeezed her hand.  “We’ll pray for a baby.”

“I don’t think so!  I think I pray the other way!  Julio you crazy!”

Darkness adorned with candlelight, silver and gold flickering in the shadows, stained glass windows that sparkled like jewels, sacred statues, the alter, the pulpit, the crucifix, the priest, alter boys, hallowed music, heads bowed they closed their eyes and crossed themselves, silent before the holy rituals and the mystical aura of a transcendent world.

Camacho had quit going to church long ago.  He would pretend he went, saying to his parents that he would attend a later mass.  He was too tired Sunday mornings from his week of school and wrestling practice.  The mysteries of birth, death, living, dying, creation, sin, meant less and less to him as he grew up in the hood.  “Bless me Father for I have sinned.”  What did that mean?  He lived in a no man’s land of stab and grab, where everyone was on the make, take, fake – not just the barrio but the whole country –  everyone running around with their bag of tricks, rip-offs, tip-offs, payoffs, shakedowns.  Where were the goodies in his Christmas stocking?

He figured out real fast he had to fill it on his own.  And it wasn’t through worship and  prayer – that never got anyone anywhere.

“If it’s no good here,” his father tapped his heart, “it’s no good anywhere.”

 

Rex Sexton is an award winning Surrealist painter exhibiting in Chicago, and his writing tends to have that illusory element about it. His novel “Desert Flower” was published by B&R Samizdat Express. His short story “Holy Night,” which received the Eric Hoffer Critic’s Choice Award, was published in Best New Writing 2007. His poems have been published in Willow Review, Mobius, Waterways, Edgz and others.

“Going In” by Patty Somlo

 

At first, there was only one.  His name was Alan Waite.  That Monday morning, Alan drove his immaculate Honda Accord into the parking lot at five minutes before eight o’clock.

As he had done for the past fifteen years, he pulled into an empty spot two hundred yards from the agency’s back door.  After stepping out of the car, he lifted a black leather briefcase from the open trunk.  Then he took an extra moment to study his reflection in the back window on the driver’s side.  He walked across the parking lot next and around to the building’s front door.

As usual, he arrived while the receptionist was still getting settled.  Anna noticed Alan heading toward the elevator.  She didn’t think anything might be wrong.  Anna had worked for the agency going on six and a half years now. Besides herself, she knew that Alan Waite was the earliest employee to arrive.

Alan took the elevator to the third floor.  The elevator made a light last lift and thumped ever so modestly down.  Alan waited for the elevator doors to slide apart. When the doors opened, Alan found himself staring at the beige carpeting in the third-floor hall.  He stepped out.  Overhead fluorescent lights hummed, brightening the already bright white walls.  Alan turned left, then a quick right, walked midway down and entered through a glass-topped door.

He looked at the empty desk up front.  His assistant Joanna was probably going to show up late or call in sick, claiming a sore throat.  He made his way past the reception area and a few feet before his door.  Then he realized Joanna would not be coming in at all.  Joanna had been laid off.

With a quiet sigh, he stepped into his office and looked around.  The desk was bare.  So were the walls.  Other than some scattered pieces of furniture, a computer and phone, the office had been relieved of its contents.

Alan set his briefcase down on the floor.  It was too early to know if anyone else would show.

Like his assistant, Alan, had been laid off.  After fifteen years that capped an unblemished career, Alan’s boss had given him the news and two weeks’ notice.  Those last ten days, Alan waited.  Every day, he expected his boss, in a slightly apologetic tone but without taking an ounce of blame, to explain that she had found funds to keep Alan at his job.  This was what Alan assumed because there had been financial crises before.  He’d always managed to stay on.

But no one called Alan in and instructed him not to go.  One by one, he took his framed photographs of snow-covered mountains and lakes and palm trees in Hawaii off the walls.  He thought as he did, I’ll show them. The city manager, the mayor and the director of HR didn’t believe he’d leave, is what Alan thought.

All weekend, Alan waited for the call.  On Sunday night, the phone rang.

“Some of us met this afternoon.”  It was Ray Starr.

Like Alan, Ray had gotten his notice and was not expected to return to the agency on Monday morning.

“Alan,” Ray said, almost in a whisper.  “Are you there?”

“Yes.  I’m here.”

“We’ve decided,” Ray said.

Alan began to fidget with a piece of fringe on the sofa.

“What is it that you’ve decided, Ray?”

“We’re going in.”

There was silence on the other end.  Alan grabbed hold of the pause to try and make sense out of what Ray had said.

“Going in, Ray?  I’m not sure I get what it is you’re telling me.”

“We’re going in to work.  Tomorrow morning.”

“Who’s we, Ray?”

“All of us.  All of us who’ve been given the ax.  We want you to come in with us too.”

It was starting to make sense, what Ray had been trying to say.

“Why?” Alan asked.  “Why would we do that?”

“Don’t you see, Alan?  We make the point.  We’re willing to work without pay, a certain number of days anyway, to keep our jobs.  They never gave us the chance.  They never even asked.  We’re going to have all the local TV stations there.  Hey, we might even make it to the national news.”

“So, it’s all a gimmick.  To get on TV,” Alan concluded.

“This is no gimmick, Alan,” Ray answered back.

Alan could hear Ray breathing hard now.

“Alan, this is the only way we can think of to try and get our jobs back. Have you seen what it’s like out there?  I don’t know about you but I haven’t looked for a job for twenty years.  Hell, I started workin’ at that agency when Reagan was president.  If I don’t get this job back, I’m probably never gonna work again.  Who wants to hire some old man like me?  I walk in for the interview and first thing the kid interviewin’ me thinks is how much I remind him of his grandfather.”

Alan let Ray’s invitation start to slowly settle in his mind.

After Alan’s wife went upstairs to bed, he poured himself a glass of red wine.  Normally, he never drank on what he and his wife Ellen referred to as “school nights.”  But now that he’d been laid off, Alan figured he had the right.

He sat down in the wide comfortable olive green chair across from the television and took several sips.  He cupped the goblet in his right hand and held it up to the light.  All this time working at the agency, what he’d most enjoyed were the two weeks he and Ellen spent in Hawaii each year.  At the end of the day before throwing some steaks or a couple fresh pieces of Mahi Mahi on the grill, Alan would sit with Ellen on the lanai and watch the sun set over the water.  Alan liked to drink one glass of dry red wine, while Ellen sipped a slightly sweet white.  The hours spent watching the clock at work and the humiliation Alan suffered from his boss, checking and re-checking his work, disappeared.  All of what Alan knew now was a perfectly meaningless life felt worthwhile when Ellen reached for his hand and the last of the sun’s glow disappeared below the horizon.

Alan woke as usual the following morning at six o’clock.  He touched Ellen’s shoulder and said, “Honey.  It’s six o’clock.”

He walked downstairs to the half-bath he and Ellen thought of as his bathroom.  As he’d done every Monday through Friday morning the past fifteen years, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, gargled and shaved, before combing his hair and giving himself a long hard stare in the mirror.

“Everyone’s decided to go in,” he said to Ellen.

She had just entered the kitchen, dressed in a navy blue knit pantsuit.

“What are you talking about?”

She pulled the refrigerator door open, leaned over and grabbed a carton of one percent milk.

“Ray Starr called last night,” Alan explained.

“Ray Starr?  How did he get your number?”

“I don’t know.  Probably from one of the agency lists.”

“What did Ray want?”

“To tell me that they were all going in.”

“Who’s they?

“Everybody,” Alan said.

He shoveled in a spoonful of raisin bran.

“Everybody that got laid off.”

He finished chewing the last bite.

Since he’d been laid off, Alan didn’t think it would be right to walk down to the break room and pour himself a cup of coffee.  He recalled that during a previous budget shortfall, the boss had proposed that employees pay for coffee and tea.  The staff figured they might as well walk across the parking lot to Starbuck’s if they had to pay.  The pay-for-coffee-policy was soon abandoned.

Instead of walking down the hall, Alan dropped into his chair and turned to face the window.  The sun had climbed and now cast a rosy glow on the snow blanketing the mountain.  When Alan first started working here, he couldn’t believe that he had an office with such a view.  He recalled his and Ellen’s first trip to the city.  They had taken the early morning flight.  Moving down the long corridor from the plane to the baggage claim area, Alan noticed a billboard of the mountain that was lit from behind.  He’d said to Ellen that they should learn to cross-country ski, if he got the job and they relocated here.  Every winter, Ellen brought it up.  Looking at the mountain, Alan realized that they  hadn’t taken a single lesson.

“Alan.”

He knew it was his boss without having to turn around.

“Katherine,” Alan said, keeping his eye on the mountain and his back facing the door.

“What are you doing here?”

Alan heard the tremor in Katherine’s voice.  He realized how this must look.  A sudden crazy urge to slide the fingers of his right hand in between the buttons of his shirt, making her think he was carrying a pistol, slammed into his thoughts.

“Did you forget something?”

He dropped his right hand down to his side.  Turning around, he buried the hand in his pants pocket.

Katherine stood with her arms wrapped around her chest, across the narrow expanse of the office.  Yes, he had forgotten something.  But at the moment he couldn’t remember what.  He studied Katherine without emotion.  Yes, he could admit it now.  He was no longer cowering in her presence like a beaten dog.  She was, he could see, exceptionally small.  In the years he had worked for the agency, the petite woman had grown old.  Her flat black hair lacked the brilliance of random highlights, indicating that her straight bobbed locks were dyed, probably at home.  Katherine was neither pretty nor ugly, but – and this surprised Alan most of all – she had a completely forgettable look.

In fact, nothing about this woman would have encouraged Alan to stay if, as he crazily thought now, someone had set them up for a blind date.  He would have lingered a polite time, over an hour but hardly a second beyond an hour and a half.  Then he would have punched his right fist into the air, freed his watch from under his blue shirt sleeve, and said, “I’ve got to get going.”

Katherine continued waiting for a response.  She’d clenched her jaw.  The small muscles were causing tiny indentations on each side.  He had never pondered a response to Katherine, in the ten years since the city manager appointed her to head the department, without offering Alan a chance to apply.  Watching her, Alan knew now.  If he’d hesitated just once, he would have shown her who really was boss.

“I think you’d better leave, Alan,” Katherine said.  Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper.  “I’m going to call Security.”

With that, Katherine wheeled around and out the door.

Alan didn’t move, relishing the rare sensation of having won a battle he’d been fighting most of his life.  Ellen had scolded him for years.  “Just speak up,” she’d chided.

Instead, Alan complained.  Some nights, he made light of his work, laughing and saying how stupid his boss was.  He stared at the empty hall now, wondering why he had waited so long.

The silence was broken by shouts coming from the parking lot.  Alan stepped out the door and over to the window on the other side of the hall.

They were carrying signs.  A cameraman appeared to be filming.

The man with the large black video camera followed the crowd moving toward the door.  Ray Starr was marching at the head of the line.

Alan could hear chanting but was unable to make out the words.  His heart started to rattle high in his chest, pulsing at the sides of his throat.

As he stood at the window, the crowd filed in the door, followed by two more cameramen.  There had been a time when he would have been out there, shouting and waving a sign.  The thought made him clench his fists, though he didn’t realize that’s what he’d done.

Alan turned just as Clarence Spencer arrived.

“Hello, Clarence,” he said.

Clarence was a large man with a round face and skin the shade of burnt toast.  His ID badge hung at the end of chain.  The badge stopped inches below his belt.

“Hello, sir,” Clarence said.

Alan looked at Clarence.  He realized that he hadn’t actually hadn’t seen this man for years and in that time, Clarence’s neatly clipped hair had grown gray.  Clarence had applied for the security job and interviewed initially with Alan.  Alan thought back to that day.  Had it been ten years?

“Katherine asked me to come up here, sir,” Clarence said, after clearing his throat.  “I’m gonna have to escort you out.”

For some reason, Alan’s mind fixated on the word escort. That’s what they’d been taught to say, once an employee had been terminated.  There was this notion that by saying the word escort, you were taking the heat off a potentially explosive situation.  Alan had done his share of escorting the shamed and sorrowful to their cars.  In most cases, the women cried.  Men made abusive remarks, using foul language, or stewed in silence.

“There won’t be any need for that, Clarence.”

Alan started to walk toward the door.

“That’s my orders, sir,” Clarence answered.  He stepped aside just a few feet or so from the door.  “I can’t let you walk out alone.”

Alan nodded his assent but continued to walk across the hall, into his old office.  The sun had climbed high enough so the snow on the mountain appeared clean and white.

After another thirty seconds or so, Alan swung back around.  Clarence reached for his phone.

Yes, Alan agreed, as he scoured the room with his eyes.  There was not a single shred of evidence that the office had ever been occupied.  One day soon, in a month or a year’s time, another sap would walk in and tack his favorite photographs on the wall.

When he was done, Alan felt sure the new guy would step over to the window and gaze out.  The sun would probably just be coming up.

He’d see the sun turn the snow a golden-edged shade of rose.  At that instant, the entire universe would appear to be glowing.

Alan made eye contact with Clarence, as he pressed down the phone.

“Let’s go, Clarence,” Alan said, and he let Clarence escort him down.

 

Patty Somlo has had her articles, reviews, fiction, poetry and creative nonfiction published in numerous journals and newspapers including the San Francisco Chronicle, the San Francisco Examiner, the Star Bulletin, the Baltimore Sun, the Santa Clara Review, and Fringe Fiction, among others. Her short story “Bird Women” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

The Epidemic of ’53

The ride itself was not a long one, two hours at most. Such significance was attached to it in later years that it seemed to Billy as if a caravan journey from ancient Tyre to the land of Hind would have been more brief.

Searing August held the land in thrall. The man-mites coursed the burning pavements and the tar-pit streets in a weary plod, searching for oasis-like relief from the torpid, scorching day. The hospital orderlies grunted inarticulate curses at the sun, the heavy, awkward stretcher that grew heavier by the minute and their miserable fate at having to work, instead of being able to join the mass city exodus to the beach. They kept up a constant clamor about the delights they were missing at the fabled seashore.

The very word “beach,” to the unenlightened, conjures up an image of deep blue, tropical waters, rolling rhythmically upon a white-sandy shore. Coney Island was nothing like this serene image. Visited by the empty beer-can scattering tribe of man, Coney Island was an arena of delight for ten-thousand devils, fiendishly gloating over the tortures inflicted daily on all who were foolish enough to enter this arena of torment. First the bold adventurers ran the gambit of the boardwalk, bounded on one side by food stands selling all the viands that clog arteries; cotton-candy, hot-dogs, french-fries, soft-drinks, beer and ice-cream. On the other side, there was a rusting iron fence overlooking the beach, with an occasional pay telescope for the convenience of the optically challenged to peer at the bathing-suited maidens without having to venture into the fray.

Next, visitors descend a flight of stairs leading to the beach, pausing to shed their shoes before they became filled with coarse, grating sand. Then, they pursue a course designed to leave them as close as possible to the inviting water, followed by the indignant shrieks of outlying fragments of the dense mass, unappreciative of  possessions and persons being trod upon by sand-burned feet, echoing behind them. Finally, there was the spreading of the blanket, disrobing, racing across the hot sand and plunging into icy water, splashing around briefly, and then coming out to lie on a blanket atop gritty sand containing the discarded refuse of ten thousand fellow sufferers. The excursion culminates in broiling in the baking sun until it’s time to return to hot, uncomfortable homes. This was what our faithful bearers, unhappy with their princely burden, yearned for.

They had deposited the frightened boy on a traveling stretcher, in the hearse-like ambulance. Billy thought of the many times he had seen similar vehicles racing through the city streets, siren wailing, carrying someone to the hands of crisp, efficient doctors, who he imagined would coolly mend battered and broken frames. With the feeling that this shouldn’t be happening to him, and still finding it difficult to accept that he had the dreaded disease, he carefully watched the orderlies for any clue to his condition.

The ambulance drove along the waterfront section of the Belt Parkway, through the drab greyness of one of the many tenement neighborhoods of Brooklyn. Trapped on the uncomfortable traveling stretcher, Billy craned his neck so that he could see the ancient, rusty freighters loading their mysterious cargo that would go to strange, exotic ports of the earth. Then they raced through the tiled smoothness of the Battery Tunnel, with the faint pressure beneath the river pressing on his ears and the exhaust stench of the noxious engine fumes filling his nose and throat with a stinging touch that made his eyes water.

Finally, after feeling that sunlight was forever lost, they came out of the tunnel and Billy saw the large sign advertising gasoline greeting the jaded traveler entering Manhattan. They drove up the cobblestoned ramp, with Billy breathing a silent prayer to beat the automobile racing alongside his once ambulance, now racing car. Urging his heroic driver to go faster, despite the risk, then accepting defeat as the high-powered car of his opponent, Crash Kelly, roared past with a dangerous burst of speed.

Billy found consolation looking at the great, sleek ocean liners, snugly secured to vast wharfs jutting out on the dark flow of the Hudson River. On the far side of the river, the unknown land of New Jersey was gaudily bedecked with huge billboards and neon signs, blatantly attracting attention to the virtues of their products. Tall water, gasoline and oil towers stood awkwardly on craggy cliffs, surrounded by grim factories and warehouses. In the distance, there was the magical allure of an amusement park, whose wonders and delights had never been tasted.

On the New York side of the river, Billy watched with yearning eyes when he saw the fast-moving bodies of young boys playing ball in the parks that bordered the highway, each of them separated by ordered swatches of green. His mother spoke, breaking the reverie of remembered games. “The rehabilitation hospital is supposed to be very nice.” ‘How could a hospital be nice?’ he thought, nodding vaguely. His mother retreated into her own thoughts again. He tried to think of something to say indicating interest, but was distracted when he saw the George Washington Bridge connecting them to the unknown world growing larger, as the ambulance sped on.

They went through a series of sharp turns, then entered the access road leading across the vast, shiny structure. Billy looked down at the water and saw small boats chugging up and down river. Their remoteness, due to the height from which he was looking, made each boat seem like a tiny realm inhabited by sprite-like creatures. The ambulance paused as the driver paid the toll, then they continued on the road, with turnoffs leading to turnpikes, thruways and highways, each one preferable, but the driver, with malicious cunning, found the road that led to the hospital, where Billy would spend the next year of his stolen youth.

As they drove on, Billy stared with avid hunger at the boys seen momentarily in the small towns they passed, running and playing with abandon. This brought /images of himself and all the games and activities of his childhood, inexorably vanished with the coming of polio. He watched the trees bordering the road with their leaves turned yellow by the hot, pulsing sun. When the clouds occasionally parted, he could see the deep, flowing tides of the Hudson River, making his past life seem distant and strange. Higher and higher they climbed, as the road went into the Catskill Mountains and he looked upon the vastness of the unknown land and fear was born; the peculiar fear that comes when one first painfully learns that the carefree, unthinking time of youth is forever lost.

They passed a faceless small town and the driver, in venomous perversity, remarked: “We’re just about there.” Then the boy knew that this was no tortured nightmare, with salvation imminent by awakening. He began to accept the full significance of his condition for the first time; he was paralyzed.

The ambulance turned across the highway and went up a steep, narrow road bounded by slopes of seared grass. He saw a drab, grey and white columned building that looked like a shabby plantation in the movies. They passed a blur of low, red-bricked buildings that all looked the same. They stopped by the building which he knew would be his home. His stretcher was wheeled up a ramp, through a door to the ward nurse’s office, then into a temporary isolation room where he was placed on a bed.

His mother, with affectionate and tender words, said farewell, promising to visit as soon as possible. The boy saw the anguish and unspeakable torment in his mother’s eyes, but was too young to understand that affliction is a searing pain to those who love the afflicted one. So he watched her go, unaware of her isolated anguish during the long, silent ride back to the city, unaware of her impotent and frustrating vigils to come in the stillness of long, sleepless nights, and unaware of the agony brought about by the crippling of the child of her flesh. And the boy felt the first dagger-thrust of aloneness that would bind him adamantly for the rest of his life.

The New York State Adaption Institute is located north of New York City, upon a hill that overlooks the Hudson River. It sits on the ancient site of one of the many battles George Washington lost in the Revolutionary War. The institute consists of red-bricked buildings with green-tiled roofs that had a factory-like efficient appearance, shaped roughly in a quadrangle, with outcroppings of buildings including a laundry, resident personnel dormitories, and others whose mystery was never penetrated. The buildings were surrounded by neat but scraggly grass patches, giving the entire area the appearance of a sterile, small town college, where the local progressive citizenry might send their barely functional offspring to incubate and not embarrass the family.

The buildings in the quadrangle comprised the working area of the institute that the patients had contact with. They included two main ward buildings; one for male patients, with one floor for those over sixteen years of age, called the ‘men’s ward’, and the other floor for those below sixteen, called the ‘boy’s ward’. The building for female patients was similarly arranged.

Once he was left alone, he lay there on the bed petrified and silent. His mouth was dry in an agony of fright. The doctors had said that he would never walk again. The words burned through his brain in hot, unbelievable flames that consumed all his courage, all his strength. It was just a few days ago, running down the street with his friend Tommy, never knowing that it would be the last wild use of his limbs. He didn’t want to recognize that he was the immobile body concealed under the covers, already taking on the look of the imprisoned. He stared from captive wounded eyes, asking the same question over and over; ‘Why me?’

Darkness fell, bringing the first hospital night for the boy. Lights suddenly flared, throwing grotesque, hovering shadows on the bile-green walls. The scuffing footsteps of nurses in the hallway brought him memories of recent summer nights and the distant whispers of unknown strangers, passing in the darkness. Nurse Wheeler, the night ward nurse who he would get to know well and who had grown dismal from the sufferings that each night brought, stopped at the door of the isolation room. “And how do we feel tonight?” she mumbled, then hurried on without waiting for an answer. And the night slowly passed and he lay alone with his new unmoving body as the hours crept by, and he struggled to endure the fearful, sleepless watch. And when no sleep came no dreams came and he was trapped in his inert flesh with no hope of escape.

He remembered the terrible events of the last two weeks that brought him here. He had been working as a junior counselor in a day camp in Brooklyn. He was fifteen years old and it was the first job that gave him responsibility over others; he was thriving on it. He had worked as a bicycle delivery boy at the age of eleven, getting up each morning at 5:00 A.M. to deliver the Brooklyn Eagle to its enlightened readership. He had been the youngest and smallest delivery boy, suddenly introduced to the carnivorous world of work, bullied and harassed, until he learned how to deal with his peers. Two years later the demise of the Eagle ended his ride. When he was fourteen, a neighbor got him a job in the mail room of Warwick and Legler, a politically connected law firm, that included John Foster Dulles as a senior partner, a powerful player in Republican circles. Billy was politically ignorant and didn’t grasp the stature of the firm and no one bothered to educate him. So the summer passed in mechanical chores performed by rote, although he learned how to interact with sophisticated adults.

In the summer of ’53 he was strong, fit and full of juices. He had joined the high school gym team the year before as a sophomore and had blossomed physically. He was a shade under six feet, with curly brown hair and intense brown eyes that hungrily probed everything around him. He had a striking rather than a handsome face, a persona that instantly attracted friends and enemies, and a growing confidence in his abilities. By the second day of camp he had established himself by the assured way he did whatever was asked of him. He was treated the same way as the older counselors, the college boys, and despite their difference in years, felt equal to some and superior to most. By the end of the first week he was flirting with three girls, the youngest of whom was seventeen, and he had a short, but exciting sexual encounter with a girl of twenty-two.

For the first time in his life Billy was happy. He came from a poor family, with a harsh father who took out his failures and frustrations on his son. Only recently had he become strong enough to put an end to the oppressive beatings that had gone on since early childhood. Now his father still cursed and yelled at him, but it was a minor annoyance compared to regular violent attacks. His father never struck his mother, but she had been worn down by his endless verbal assaults. He had hated his mother for not protecting him when he was a child, but he finally recognized her inability to deal with the ugliness of confrontation and now felt sorry for her. He was doing well in school, getting good marks and he had actually made some friends. He had a series of girlfriends, several of whom significantly added to his sexual education. He started to believe that there might be a tomorrow for him, up to the day he got sick.

He hadn’t noticed anything physically significant in the second week of July. He went to work, tended the kids, flirted with the girl counselors and was really enjoying himself. He came home one day and his mother remarked that his face seemed flushed. She felt his forehead and told him he was burning up. He felt alright and started to go out for the evening, but she insisted he see the doctor. She phoned the family physician, Doctor Pearlman, who had taken care of their family for years. He urged her to bring Billy to his office immediately. The country was in the midst of a polio epidemic that was terrifying people everywhere, particularly in the big cities. When Dr. Pearlman made a preliminary diagnosis of polio, Billy thought he was joking. “Are you trying to scare me?” he asked scornfully. “I feel fine.” But it was no joke. The doctor sent for an ambulance that took Billy to Kingston Hospital and an isolation room.

Despite the doctor’s assertion and the contagious warnings on the doors, Billy still felt fine. After lying on his bed for two hours with nothing to do, he got restless and went for a walk. When he got back, the nurses, doctors and administrators were frantic and screamed at him to get back into bed. He began to understand how lepers felt. They put him in restraints and gave him a spinal tap, an agonizing experience, confirming the diagnosis. When he woke up in the morning, he was completely paralyzed from neck to feet. He didn’t believe it at first. It was only when he tried to move and couldn’t that the horrifying reality begin to sink in. He had no idea what to do or think, so he retreated to that inner place that let him endure his father’s beatings. The doctors were pleased to tell him that morning that he would never walk again. He couldn’t believe that they could say something like that and his “Fuck you. I will,” was not received cordially. But he didn’t care and vowed that he would walk again, no matter how long it took. The doctors spitefully told him that as soon as he was no longer contagious he would be transferred to a rehabilitation hospital, somewhere in upstate New York.

So here he was at 5:30 A.M., trapped in his bed, when Nurse Harmon, the ward nurse who he would later come to detest for her callous, frigid indifference to the patients, brought in the juice cart. There was a limited choice; concentrated orange, tomato, or grapefruit, in tiny cans dripping with early morning sweat. “Do you always bring juice this early?” he asked. Nurse Harmon stared at him coldly and ignored his question. “Orange, tomato, or grapefruit?” she asked implacably. “Orange, please.” Their eyes locked and the roots of conflict were born. “You didn’t answer me. Why do we have to get up so early?” She glared at him, hands on hips. “It’s ward policy. Are you going to give me trouble?” He managed to bite back a smartass retort. “No. What happens after juice?” “We wait until breakfast.” “When is that?” “7:30,” she answered, looking at him challengingly. He didn’t respond, beginning to realize that he was trapped in an alien world, with unknown rules.

The wait until breakfast felt interminable. He started to doze off several times, but each time Nurse Harmon appeared, as if by remote control, and stridently said: “No sleeping before breakfast.” “Is there something I have to do?” he asked reasonably. “No.” “Then why can’t I sleep?” “Ward policy. Do you have a problem with that?” He decided not to argue with her until he knew more about the place. “What happens after breakfast?” She stared at him for a moment, then answered in a monotone: “Toilet and personal hygiene at 8:00. School from 8:30 to 12:00. Lunch at 12:30. Physical therapy from 1:30 to 2:30. Hydro therapy from 3:00 to 4:00. Occupational therapy from 4:30 to 5:15. Dinner at 5:30. Ward lights out at 9:00 on the boy’s ward, where you’ll be moved after dinner. Questions?” “I can’t move. How can I do those things?” “This is a rehabilitation hospital,” she explained scornfully. “We’ll help you.” “Oh.”

The only palatable part of breakfast was the ward attendant who fed him. She was a local girl, who in another section of the country would have been a hillbilly. She had stringy brown hair, a pale face, washed out blue eyes, but a ripe body that swelled in the appropriate places. The corn flakes were pasty, the milk watery, the breakfast roll stale, the butter tasteless, but her hand that casually stroked him as she fed him with her other hand, made him forget what passed for a meal. “What’s your name?” she asked nasally. “Billy. What’s yours?” “Lizzie Jo. But you can call me Liz.” And while they talked her hand kept wandering his body and he didn’t know what to do or say. “This your first day?” she asked, while her hand asked something else. “Yeah. What kind of place is this?” “It’s a hospital for paralyzed people.” “I know. I mean what’s it like?” “You’ll find out,” she answered with a giggle. “I’ve got other patients to feed. See ya.” And off she went, leaving him trying to figure out what she was up to.

The rest of his first day at the hospital was as strange as breakfast and passed in a blur. The school teachers treated their physically dysfunctional students as if they were mentally challenged. The level of classroom work was designed for the retarded and that’s how it was presented. He didn’t say anything as he tried to understand what was going on. His unmoving body was shuttled from therapy to therapy. At physical therapy, Stan, a short, stocky, extremely hairy man, seemed to take pleasure in stretching Billy’s limbs until he screamed in pain. Then he explained how it was for his own good. By the end of the day Billy was so exhausted that he had no objections when the lights went out for the night. He lay there in the darkness feeling the shame of being processed like a piece of meat, with as much consideration for his sensibilities. Just before he fell asleep, he vowed to himself that he would deal with this nightmare and someday walk again.

Sleep was an intermittent torment of terrifying dreams of pursuit that he couldn’t escape. A band of ravenous wolves chased him across a snow-covered mountain. He ran faster and faster, but so did the wolves. They caught up, surrounded him and were about to pounce, when he woke up in a cold sweat that he was helpless to wipe off. He lay there quietly trying to calm down, until he drifted off. A group of brutal-looking men threatened him on a surreal city street. He turned and ran and they followed. The street got narrower and narrower and they got closer and closer, cornering him in a dead end. They reached out to grab him and he woke up again in a cold sweat.

He didn’t dare go back to sleep after that and lay awake, a prisoner in his immobile body. He couldn’t move, so all he could do was ask himself why this happened to him. He didn’t know what would come next, so for the first time in his life he tried to pray. He didn’t know how to do it, so he just asked for help. There was no reassuring sign, or soothing voice and he tried not to feel sorry for himself. Suddenly the harsh fluorescent ward lights flashed on, blinding him momentarily. The cold, grating voice of the ward nurse snapped: “It’s 5:00 a.m. Time for juice.” When the cart reached his cubicle, he asked: “Why do we have juice now? It’s still dark out.” She glared at him implacably. “Hospital routine. You’ll get used to it. You can go back to sleep until 7:00.” Instant antipathy flared between them, but they said nothing more. A moment later she put the lights out and he began to understand that he was in a battle and would have to find some way to survive this alien world.

 

Author Unknown. If you are the author of this essay or know who is, please let us know at r.kv.r.y.editor(at)gmail(dot)com. We lost records when the old website imploded, and would like to fully credit all authors who have generously shared their work with us. Thank you.

 

questions to 3-dimensionalize your characters

Thanks to USC fiction-writing professor Rita Williams (whose memoir If the Creek Don’t Rise

is a model of character development) we’re passing along just the few of many questions she

asks her writing students to answer about their characters:

 

 

What does your character do under pressure?

 

  • dissociate
  • regress
  • take a downer
  • take an upper
  • over eat
  • under eat
  • have sex
  • become a sex worker
  • get implants or plastic surgery
  • write a memoir
  • go hunting
  • go to the gym
  • call a lawyer
  • go to law school
  • become a survivalist
  • become a vegan
  • join a gang, a convent, a coven, a cult, the carnival, the circus

Rita has four pages of questions like this.  At our writers’ group the other night she asked, what would you have if your answered all these questions and I responded:  my first novel!

 

Rita, by the way, is a great writing coach.  If you’re looking for one, contact me (Vickie Pynchon at vpynchon@settlenow.com) and I’ll put you in touch with her.

“Meltdown” by Liz Afton

Every day it grows, the placid iceberg
on the table between our plates–
the monolith of your grief.  I can barely
make out your eyebrows above its peak.
Your eyes glitter shut, and its edges slick
a bit more meanly, simmer in freezy
smoke. You frown salting dinner, you
stiffly sugar waffles, and new blusters
settle on the pinnacle. Penguins
waddle in the frost furrows,
little avian parades.

Every day I crouch over pale food and
send my silverware clattering together,
dumb as a Neanderthal, frantic as
a Boy Scout practicing in the rec room.
I fantasize attacking it with chisels,
taking up ice sculpture, flinging it through
the meat grinder in a whoop de doo
of cold confetti, burning it in the dark
with our own insistent friction,
your fingers’ sparks.

I forget post-heat– puddles in our laps
like pee, sea-bottom sneakers,
hands splayed like scared starfish,
eyes wide and nothing to see then
but each other, nowhere to turn
but to swim.

 

 

Liz Afton is an MSW student at Hunter College School of Social Work.  Her current field placement is providing intensive mental health case management at a family shelter in the South Bronx.  She received her BA in English and the Study of Women and Gender from Smith College, for which she was one of two poets selected to represent at the Five College Student Poetryfest.  Her poetry is forthcoming in Brink, Numinous, and Shampoo.  A native New Yorker, she lives in Brooklyn with two kittens.

why i’m not an alcoholic



From The “Grapevine” May 2006


What It Was Like…


These days, I don’t so much fall asleep as pass out.

 

I go to work because my legal career is the Potemkin village of my denial.  As long as I’m working, I’m not an alcoholic. I don’t think this, of course, because it never occurs to me until much later that I might be an alcoholic. There are other strategies, too, all of them so transparent in retrospect that it’s embarrassing to mention them unless I’m in a roomful of alcoholics, all of whom understand this type of thinking.

 

I’m not an alcoholic, for instance, because I don’t drink in the morning. Unless it’s a weekend morning, or a holiday, of course, in which case lots of normal people drink, so I can, too. These morning drinks are festive but are not necessary, or compulsive. They sport vegetables or umbrellas. They carry the names of flowers and contain juices.  Mimosas, for instance. A mixture of good healthy orange juice and the most celebratory beverage around–cheap champagne. Or Bloody Marys. Good normal morning drinks. There’s a stalk of celery in a Bloody Mary, for God’s sake. It’s a breakfast food.

 

I’m also not an alcoholic because I don’t get drunk every night. This, of course, by now, is strictly untrue. I do get drunk every night. But I don’t intend to get drunk every night, and that’s nearly the same thing. I’m going through some tough professional and personal times right now and I haven’t always gotten drunk every night, and I certainly intend to stop getting drunk every night once my therapy and the new medication gets me through this rough spot.

 

Because I’ve had to give up a lot of reasons why I’m not an alcoholic, the list at this point is pretty short. I drink alone, for instance, so I can’t say I’m only a social drinker. And I pretty much always drink until I’m drunk, though I’ve lowered the bar on this one–I don’t consider myself drunk if the bed doesn’t spin like a Tilt-a-Whirl on the Santa Monica pier when I’m ready for sleep. I guess by this point the only other convincing reason I’m not an alcoholic is that I never have liquor in the house. Meaning, I don’t keep liquor in the house because I am going to stop drinking tomorrow. Same for the cigarettes, and for that little nightly marijuana habit I’ve had since my divorce. Five years ago.

 

So, this is my routine. Most days I make it into work. I’m working by the hour now so I don’t have to feel guilty if I have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. If I don’t work, I don’t earn. It’s up to me. I’m in control of that. When I do work, I’m the same hard worker I’ve always been. I mean, I’m a pretty good lawyer. I should be. I learned how to practice in a semi-drugged state–prescription pills, mostly. Valium. I’m serious about this, but won’t realize it until later. If you learn to swim with lead weights attached to your arms and legs, you build strong muscles. I genuinely was a good lawyer, as long as I showed up.

 

So I’m working for this one-man law firm in Westwood, California, right on Wilshire Boulevard across the street from Westwood Village, the little college town at the foot of the UCLA campus. I’m in therapy with a woman who specializes in substance abuse. I picked her because I used to have some substance abuse problems. A little amphetamine addiction when I was nineteen, cocaine at thirty, cigarettes on and off. Someone told me once that I had an “addictive” personality and I’m down with that. But marijuana isn’t a drug–even the experts say it’s not addictive–and the drinking? Well, like I said, I might have a little drinking problem right now, but an alcoholic? Not quite.

 

I’ve known alcoholics. My best friend in high school, Alice, her dad was an alcoholic. You knew he was one because he didn’t work, just sat at home in front of the television set during the day, a dark presence we tiptoed past on our way to Alice’s bedroom where, in exchange for a donut, she deigned to tutor me in geometry. Alice’s dad has been dead for some time. I still remember him pretty vividly, though. It was at Alice’s wedding, when I was in law school in the late seventies, when I last saw him. Robert was his name. Bob. I’ll never forget that day. Partly because those were the days when bridesmaids were forced to wear homemade dresses the color of after-dinner mints with fabric that poofed up in the shoulders and sleeves. So I remember the day because of just how awkward I felt, hiding from the wedding photographer and feeling foolish.

 

But this is what I remember the most clearly. Alice’s dad, Robert, watched his daughter’s semi-formal garden wedding from his wheelchair on the wide veranda of his mother’s Victorian mansion in San Diego. I remember thinking what a waste his life had been. He’d been working on his Ph.D. in psychology pretty much the whole time I knew Alice–ninth grade through college, and then graduate school. He’d tried that anti-alcohol medication, the pill that makes you violently ill if you drink. But he’d still drink and get violently ill. Or skip taking the pills and drink. He never got sober. And there he was, the victim, finally, of something other than his own alcoholism. A stroke. The mother of the bride, Alice’s mom, who supported him, along with the rest of the family, for nearly thirty years, was caring for a true invalid. It was really sad. So, you see, Robert was an alcoholic. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to put myself in that league. It might very well have been a relief to have a problem I could do something about. But alcoholism clearly wasn’t among them.

 

 


 

What Happened. . .

The day I stop drinking begins like any other. (My refrigerator usually contains only alcohol and things to eat with alcohol–finger food: canapes, frozen dumplings, that sort of thing. Last night, however, I had a rare visit from old friends who knew me well enough to bring their own non-alcoholic beverages with them.) Picturing the cranberry sparkler, I’m thinking it might be a good day to ease up on my drinking a little. Just for today, I tell myself, I won’t drink.

 

When I open the refrigerator door to grab a sparkler, however, my hand closes instead around a nearly full bottle of chardonnay. I pop the cork and pour a glass. Since I’m “not drinking” on Saturday afternoon, I might as well fire up my bong as well.

 

An hour later, with the early afternoon sun streaming through the French doors to my balcony, I am once again sitting at my computer–drunk and stoned.

 

Why?

 

This obvious question pops into my mind for the first time in my adult life.

 

Why?

 

Why am I sitting alone in my apartment at the age of forty-two, on a beautiful Southern California day, disabled, for all intents and purposes, from doing anything productive, or even fun?

 

Like Philip Roth’s paranoid writer character in Operation Shylock, I can think of only one thing to do when a panicky new thought arrives. Sit in a chair, at a desk, and attempt to “tame temporarily with a string of words the unruly tyranny of my incoherence”:


I was once addicted, I write, to amphetamines. 


When I dropped out of college at age nineteen, I took a job in downtown San Diego alphabetizing “trade slips” for a small stock brokerage firm. The speed nailed my otherwise notoriously short attention span to this mind-numbing task. Drinking was just becoming a big part of my life and the speed helped that, too. I could drink with more energy, stay awake longer, and felt nauseated less often. One pill a day, however, quickly morphed into five. I stayed high all week and crashed on the weekends, crying in bewilderment in my small shuttered studio apartment.


Three months later I was sick, unemployed, and evicted. I put my tail between my legs and moved back home. There, under my mother’s disapproving stare, I kicked the habit cold turkey and re-enrolled in college. I did well, met my first husband, and headed off to law school.


Then the eighties arrived. I fell in with a fast and “sophisticated” crowd of hard-drinking trial lawyers, figuring that if I emulated their lifestyle, I’d be capable of mimicking their cross-examination skills. In a matter of months, I was sitting in my living room at 3 A.M. while my husband slept, watching old movies, drinking .from a cold half-gallon of Chablis and scraping cocaine dust off the Oriental carpet.


Here’s the thing, I write: I’ve never been able to moderate my use of any substance.

 

I think about this for a while, take a drag on a cigarette, grind it out in an old ceramic saucer and light another. I take a deep breath and watch the smoke rise to the ceiling.


I think, I continue, that I am an alcoholic.


Suddenly, it seems so simple. Easy even. The thought opens a floodgate of exhaustion, demoralization and, most importantly, surrender. I am–as I’ll later learn Bill W. was–simply “beat.” My “battle with the bottle” is over. At five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in early February 1994, I head off to the bedroom where I sleep, on and off, the rest of the weekend.

 

That was ten years ago, and I haven’t had a drink since.

What It’s Like Now . . .

Hundreds of AA meetings later, I have my own business as an attorney-mediator and am genuinely happy doing what I love–helping people achieve peaceful and economic resolutions to the inevitable conflicts in which we all inevitably find ourselves. I’m also a student again, earning a master’s degree (an LL.M.) in dispute resolution at Pepperdine University in Malibu, California.

 

I’m recently married and have acquired two of the most beautiful and loving stepchildren any woman–particularly this childless woman–could ever hope to have. My life is full of challenges. And it is full of joy. I am active in AA, work the Steps with my sponsor, and help a loving and courageous group of sponsees work their Steps, too.

 

I am of service and I am at peace.

“Threshold” by Richard Holinger

 

I hate retirement homes, even the good ones. Especially the good ones. When you cross the threshold through automatic doors, a perfectly manicured woman wearing a pressed white blouse and too much perfume welcomes you with a smile that says, “I’m sorry you have to be here, sir, but we’ll try to make your stay more like doing penance than serving time.” I sign my name, Tansey Martin, pour a cup of coffee from the silver urn costing me thousands of dollars each month, and stride down the hall hung with framed Audubon prints to elevators where a metal cage houses a large brown and white rabbit attractive to grandchildren.

Not my grandchildren. I never married. Well, technically, I did, but it was over before the month was out. Dahlia and I were both virgins, our choice, and we thought our abstinence would bring us closer. On our wedding night, my wife cried when I walked out of the bathroom naked. She jumped in the hot tub, thinking, perhaps, coitus couldn’t occur under water. Her father, a Baptist minister, had led her to believe, she explained later that night, that God allowed only Adam and Eve bare-skinned bodies. He told her that it was a sin to lust after a man’s body, and penetration should occur solely for the purpose of procreation, and then only fully clothed—or the nearest thing to it.

After five days of feeling cotton breasts and a denim ass, I got horny enough to propose we have a baby. That night she wore men’s pajama bottoms, a turtleneck and ski socks.

A few years later, she married a Jew and went with him to live in Israel. She kept in touch, sending me periodic updates on her conversion not to Judaism, but to an offshoot of Christianity that defied title, as far as I could tell. Her letters rang with the conviction of church bells: God’s presence was accessible as a cell phone call, Jesus sat at a 911 desk 24-7, the difference between life and death, here and there, was all in our heads.

Any time you felt the need to leave earth to enter heaven, the threshold would open admittance, with the right spiritual leaning, guaranteed.

A liberal Methodist minister, my father would never have bought such rot, and I, a contentious agnostic (after only one college physics class), thought Dahlia had stepped into the Twilight Zone, but she didn’t press her views on anybody, as far as I knew, so I treated her new-formed faith as harmless. When hearing Dahlia had finally found her right match, my mother, who loved to go on giggling shopping trips with her, was delighted.

After our divorce, she spoke to Dahlia more than when she was my wife, Mother ringing Israel from the States so her ex-daughter-in-law could save on phone calls, their relationship sparked by opposite charges, jolted by a wicked beauty each beheld in the other.

Some twenty years after the divorce, I wrote to let Dahlia know my mother was dying. I hadn’t remarried, having found solace in the silence of home and the solemnity of a prestigious law firm.

Father had died before my marriage, dropping during a Sunday sermon as though offering his congregation an example of how to deliver oneself into God’s domain with the sanctity such crossing deserved. A doctor performed mouth-to-mouth and pushed on his chest while the masses prayed. Neither worked. If he had an out-of-body post-life experience, if he hovered in the rafters and looked down on us like an ethereal end zone camera, if he breezed down a long tunnel bedecked with angels and dead relatives ending in a bright light, he must have liked what he saw there more than the promise of life back here.

My mother lost her mind not through a dramatic mid-morning stroke, but gradually. She forgot first the little things, like where she put her makeup, looking in kitchen drawers, then the big-ticket items, setting out in the car to a hair appointment with a coiffeuse who had left the business twenty years previously. When she fell asleep with pork ribs broiling, smoke leaked into neighboring condos, resulting in firefighters breaking a window to purge the apartment and take out the overdone ribs, burned the color of Sterling silver.

That’s when I moved her into Brewster McFain. I visit every Sunday when the Bears play a noon game. She appears happy to see me, but often doesn’t use my name. I kiss her on the cheek, then, for half an hour, listen to phrases echoed every few minutes, each time voiced with the same inflection and enthusiasm.

“I love that shirt. It must be new. It makes your eyes look lovely and blue.”

Attendants keep her hair combed, fingernails clipped, lipstick applied. Less than a minute after leaving, I know she’ll recall shovel and pail days on Jones Beach, her Chicago speakeasy dates, and her honeymoon at Lake Banff more clearly than where the foot-high plastic Christmas tree came from she watched me weave with lights and tinsel.

I got the call at around 2:00 a.m.

“Mr. Martin? It’s the Brewster McFain Home. I need to convey some information.”

I already had the light on, and was sitting on the edge of the bed ready to write. “Yes, yes. Go ahead.”

“It’s about your mother. She’s, well, she’s disappeared.”

I saw her empty room, the tree’s tiny white lights illuminating a bed with the covers thrown off and the private bathroom door hiding dim shadows inside. “Go on.”

“She’s been known to leave her room at night. She comes to the desk to ask when her husband is coming home. She accuses him of faithlessness. Ordinarily, she returns to her room. Tonight the attendant was called away from the desk, and apparently your mother got into the elevator.”

“When did this happen?”

“The attendant last saw her at around 11:30.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“The police have been notified. Our own security is searching the building and grounds. It would be a fluke for her to have gotten out of the home. We’re quite sure she is still in the building.”

I made sure she had my cell phone number before hanging up. In less than ten minutes, I was in the car, even though the voice had encouraged non-participation. “There’s really nothing you can do that our staff and authorities aren’t already doing,” she advised.

Half and hour later, I pumped the brakes to a stop on the black ice lake of the home’s parking lot, empty except for cars driven by graveyard shift staff. I took a handicap space next to the door and left the car running, the heater on. Even though visiting hours ended long ago, I wanted to be nearby. A snowstorm the day before covered everything in blue light from a full moon. I scanned the channels until Christmas carols filled the car. “Silent Night, Holy Night.” “Away in a Manger.” “White Christmas.” An ambulance came and went. Somewhere a siren wailed. I dozed.

My cell phone’s 60s rock and roll classic woke me.

“Mr. Martin? We found her. Security discovered her in a closet next to the elevators where they store the pet supplies. An empty rabbit cage alerted the guard. Your mother was inside holding it on her lap.”

“I’m in the parking lot. Let me in.”

“Mr. Martin.” The woman’s voice paused. “Mr. Martin, she’s not here. We sent her to the hospital. Her left side did not respond. It seems she lost some voluntary movement.”

I turned off the radio and drove to the hospital. Christmas music, call-in shows, infomercials, nothing seemed appropriate. Only dead air soothed. Dementia had transformed my mother psychologically, and now her brain was attacking her physically. Slurred speech, too, the woman said. However, she added, her condition could improve.

“Oh, and one more thing you need to know, Mr. Martin. For your mother to stay here, she needs to be able to eat independently. In her present condition, she’ll find it more suitable in our Lewis Cotton facility. They are prepared to work with people who have advanced assisted living needs.”

The night staff asked me to have a seat in the waiting room. Two hours later, an Indian doctor told me the obvious, that they were going to run tests today and tomorrow. She had a private room, and I could see her during visiting hours. She had been given a sedative, and would not be much fun right now.

With her room’s telephone number in my pocket, I went home, showered, tried to read, then watched the weather, its clean, bright graphics sweeping white clouds our way.

Then I called Dahlia to give her the latest. She wanted to know everything, so I gave her everything. After that, I let my law office know, and followed up by personally talking to clients who might need a partner’s advice. Most people understood.

I started out, most of the way luckily following a salt truck scraping snow and pelting salt. The three-tiered parking garage looked too much like a mausoleum, so I risked losing my car under a foot of snow by parking in the roofless lot, plodding my way to the canopied entrance. With visitor card in hand, I rode the elevator to the third floor, wishing I had gotten Dahlia this morning instead of leaving the terse message that covered the basics: stroke, paralysis, phone number.

My mother’s eyes spoke for her. One eye, her right, worked well, zigzagging furiously, telling at me to make everything normal. Her other eyelid hung half-closed and inert. From her mouth came guttural groans punctuated by intakes of breath or fits of coughing. A soap opera blared on TV. She never watched soap operas. I turned down the sound and looked at the screen. A young man and woman sat at a restaurant table with white linen and a red and green seasonal floral centerpiece. He ate, looking solemn; she refrained, looking angry.

I leaned over and kissed my mother on the cheek. A few minutes later, the doctor walked in. After perfunctory greetings, he said without smiling, “If your mother will not calm herself, we will give her another sedative. Distress has taken your mother hostage. There is no reason for suffering in today’s world.”

When I didn’t say anything, he continued, “Physical therapy will help your mother. They have made great leaps.”

For the next five minutes, this young Indian doctor in blue jeans and running shoes sticking out beneath his white hospital coat assured me that victims of stroke today could count on science, therapy and hope. When he had gone, I sat by the bed and watched her eyeball run an invisible track around the ceiling. She won’t remember any of this, I reminded myself. She lives in the moment. How wonderful. How dreadful.

The bedside phone rang. Mother’s good eye darted at me. She didn’t know it would be Dahlia, of course. How could she? She said something that might have been, “I know you have been told.”

“Hello?”

“Tansey, tell me everything that’s happened since you left your message.”

Mother’s eye quieted as I relayed what I knew, promising to send mother’s new Brewster McFain assisted living phone number. After I finished, she said, “You know, don’t you, the end is near?”

She was beginning to sound like an Old Testament prophet. “They can do wonderful things,” I told her. “They work with them in bath-warm swimming pools.”

Unbelievably, she laughed. “Get a grip. Face it, your mom’s mind is a cracked record stuck playing the same thing over and over. Now she can’t even wipe herself. You know what she loved: parties, people, gift-giving, vodka, volunteer work, raising you.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Put the phone up to her ear,” Dahlia ordered. “Right now.”

I reached over and pressed the receiver to her ear. After about a minute, she mumbled something and handed it back to me.

“I can’t come see her,” Dahlia told me, “but I’ll get back to you. Bye.”

“That was Dahlia, Mom,” I said like an idiot. “She’ll call again. Soon.”

I held her hand. When I said goodbye, there was a slight increase in pressure.

Two days later, the advanced assisted living wing called. When they were transporting her into her new room, she had fallen out of the wheelchair and hit her head on the floor.

“I thought you attendants were trained to move patients safely.”

“It was not the attendant’s fault,” the voice said flatly.

Did that imply intentionality? Furious, I thought about who at the firm could help me sue the incompetent staff. Before I got to the hospital, however, I realized my reaction only revealed my denial that the mother who raised me had left this woman’s body long ago. I was in love with a stranger.

The nurses’ station told me my mother was getting a brain scan, so I waited in the room she shared with a woman recovering from “cardiac infarction.” A man I took to be her son said gravely, “She never stopped smoking.”  Dressed for a business meeting in shiny black shoes, black suit, and a black overcoat he had left on, he nodded toward the empty bed. “What’s your problem?”

“Stroke.” I wished he would go back to his mother’s side to watch TV with her.

The man had left by the time they wheeled in my mother and slid her onto the bed. There was a gauze bandage taped to her forehead, but other than that, she looked the same.

“Mom?” I took her hand. No pressure. Cold as cheese.

That’s when I called Dahlia.

“What happened?” she asked as if knowing the phone’s ring brought bad news.

I told her about the fall, the incomprehension, the lack of responsiveness.

“Tansey. Tell  her this. Tell her the threshold is open.”

“What?”

“Just tell her, ‘The threshold is open. You can go through now.’”

“You’re nuts.”

“Look, do you want your mom to keep suffering, or do you want her happy?”

“I don’t remember any ‘threshold’ mentioned in Sunday school. What sect are you into over there? What kabala are you quoting?”

“Does it need a name and a justification if it’s true?”

“I know you love my mother and wouldn’t hurt her, but death is personal. Not to mention eternal.”

“And you, an unbeliever, are willing to risk her comfort for principles as inconclusive as ours. Do what you want, but your mom and I have an understanding. Connections you will never understand.”

The businessman strolled around the curtain. “Oh, on the phone. Won’t disturb.”

I nodded. “All right,” I promised Dahlia. “I’ll tell her. Do you want to hang on?”

“I’m in Israel, stupid. No, I don’t want to hang on. Call me back.”

I hung up.

“Everything okay?” The man’s GQ face wore an understanding half smile.

My bitterness melted. This guy who I didn’t know from Dr. Seuss was asking if everything was okay. I couldn’t hold back the tears.

“Coffee shop brews a good latte,” he said. “I’ll bring you up one.”

“Is it allowed?”

“If they don’t see it.”

He smiled again, gave me a thumbs-up and disappeared. After wiping my eyes with a corner of the bed sheet, I sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. The good eye swept the ceiling.

“Mom. I heard from Dahlia. She said to tell you the portal is open. No, wait. The threshold.” I looked around to make sure the businessman wasn’t listening to this nonsense. “Whatever. Anyway, it’s open now and you’re supposed to go through. If that makes any sense.”

The eyeball slowed, looked up, then down, then floated back home. The lid fluttered, considered closing, thought better of it, rose, then shut tight. Something left the hand I was holding.

I lifted the bony hand, stroked its freckled knuckles, fingered the unpainted nails. Once full of gold rings topped with giant gems, these long, elegant fingers expertly played a three no-trump.

“Didn’t know if you took extra cream,” a voice whispered behind me. “I’ll just leave it on your mom’s tray. Nice she finally got to sleep.”

I let go of her hand. Or, rather, I let go of her. Standing up, I turned and swung back the curtain. The man, halfway into the visitor’s armchair, pushed himself up with a look of surprise.

“Thank you.” I thrust out my hand. “Thank you very much for the coffee. I’ll pay you back. No. I’ll get the next round.”

He shook my hand. I held onto it until he eased his grip, then I walked backwards, pulled closed the curtain and dialed Dahlia. After telling her what I knew, I hung up and reached for the cord to the neon light over my mother’s bed. The late afternoon sun was out and wanting to come through the curtains. I threw them open, then went to look for someone in charge.

On the way out, I picked up the coffee cup, and drained it in long, sure swallows.

 

 

 

Richard Holinger has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times. His fiction has appeared in The Iowa Review, Witness, Other Voices, The Madison Review, Whiskey Island Magazine; creative nonfiction and book reviews in The Southern Review, Midwest Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Crazyhorse, Northwest Review; and poetry in Boulevard, Chelsea, Southern Poetry Review, The Ledge, the new renaissance, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, ACM, The Texas Review, among others.  Ph.D. in Creative Writing from The University of Illinois at Chicago and an M.A. in English from Washington University.  He is the recipient of the Illinois Arts Council Artists Grant for poetry. Richard teaches English at Marmion Academy, a college prep school, in Aurora, Illinois, and has facilitated several writing workshops in northeast Illinois. He lives in Geneva, Illinois, with his wife and two children.

“The Death of a Child” by Elizabeth Miles Chester


(photograph by Cole Rise)

As they approach the dread of night
Whose darkness is the horror of that day;

As they confront their failure to protect

Or even offer comfort in the dying;
As they cry There is no God –
Or if there is I hate him

O God, in your absence, walk with them.

As they cling to the umbilical cord
Severed once yet still attached;
As they grieve, not for themselves,
But for their child’s loss,
As they cry There is no Heaven –
Or if there is why am I not there too?

O God, in their suffering, let their love be at peace

As they waken in the morning
And in those brief Spring moments
Forget;
As truth forces its way into their minds
But their hearts refuse to believe;
As reality cruelly dawns and there is no escaping

O God, in their weeping, share their pain.

As they move through that dark tunnel which is the future
In fear that each step will taken them further from their love,
As they walk blindly forward,
Heavy footed, blinkered, no questions left to ask;
As they sing no songs and laugh no laughter –
Or if they do, despise themselves for it

O God, in their despair, bring hope.
Elizabeth Miles Chester is a company director from Bristol UK. This poem/prayer was written in response to the Dunblane massacre of small children in 1996 and was a reflection on her own experience of losing two baby boys in 1974 and 1976.

“Standing and Waiting: A Triptych” by Joel Deutsch

I.

a block away, the light turns green
and the bus starts forward again,
head sign scrolling route number, name and destination

over and over
like a TV news crawl
with nothing else left to report.

It’s hot, very hot. 85, says a digital thermometer atop a bank.
The afternoon traffic crawls over scorching asphalt
Most windows rolled up tight to hold in the A/C,
the occasional open one blaring some kind of music.

Beside him at the bus stop are Two small, dark-haired women,
identical twins in matching Disneyland T-shirts
that hang untucked over thickening midriffs and the tops of stretch fabric jeans,
one clutching the handles of a supermarket bag
Crammed with rags, sponges and trigger-spray housecleaner, the other
Holding up a yellow umbrella, wide open,
under the bright, cloudless sky.

The twin with the bag smiles  and he smiles back,
Glancing sidelong at the other one, crunching his face to ask, wordlessly,
why the umbrella?

Her eyes follow his to the object in question
and back again.

“My sister,” she says with a Spanish accent, a look of resignation
and a small shrug, as if that
explains everything.

Suddenly, there’s a din, the clatter of small hard wheels
and sidewalk cracks. It’s a girl, 18 at the most
Tanned, supple, hair tied back,
clad in a cherry-red tank top, Baggy blue shorts and scuffed white sneakers
Like a skateboarding American flag
She flashes by with careless, ordinary grace, Thin wires trailing from both ears
to some propulsive pop tune in her pocket
and then is gone.

Across the street, a dreadlocked black man in a big straw hat
is arguing about something with a little white lady
whose gray head would scarcely reach his chest
if they were close enough,
but they’re facing each other
from behind nose-to-nose shopping carts,
his covered with cardboard, hers draped in green plastic garbage bags
and then the bus, arriving, blocks them from his view.

The sister thumbs a button, collapsing her umbrella onto its stem
like a wilted sunflower.
He waves the women ahead, hangs back,
looks at  the poster on the side of the bus
and there’s the Mayor, in shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled back and necktie pulled loose, brandishing the levered nozzle of a green garden hose
that’s still dripping, as if he’s just now stopped the flow.

Let’s Save Water! it says in big letters
above the Mayor’s head.

The women are aboard now, starting down the aisle. He ascends
into air conditioning,
digging into his pocket for the fare.
II.

It’s hot. Very hot. Vehicular Fragments–dark and light sheet metal, glimmers of chrome, glints of sun struck glass– ratchet across his patchwork view like film frames sputtering through the sprockets of a poorly-threaded projector.
Now and again some kind of music blares,
then dies out.

There are two other people there with him. Short adult shadows, female.
Above one of their heads, something yellow hovers.
An umbrella? , he holds out an upturned palm,just to be sure. No, of course
It’s not raining.

Suddenly, there’s a din, the clatter of small hard wheels
and sidewalk cracks. A youthful figure shoots by,
Bare skin, muscle, flashes of red white and blue,
gone.

The bus, an enormous shadow bodying forth out of nowhere, pulls up.
He hears a click, and what he’s sure now is an umbrella
comes down, disappears.

Pasele,” says one of the women, with a flicker of deferential arm motion. “You go ahead.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Gracias.” He makes out the doorway
and ascends into air conditioning,
digging into his pocket for the fare.

III.

It’s hot. Very hot. He hears a stop and go stream of traffic sounds and an occasional burst of music.

Then suddenly, there’s a din, the clatter
of a  skateboard, if he guesses right,
Coming, going, gone,
its sound sponged up in the general din.

The bus arrives, a bulky presence blocking the weak breeze.
there’s a mechanical click very close beside him.

Pasele.” You go ahead,” says someone. Female, Latina by the accent, much shorter than him, judging by where the voice is coming from.

“Thanks,” he says, moving forward, sweeping his white cane in short purposeful arcs until its tip touches the curb. “Step up,” calls the driver, and he ascends
into air conditioning,
digging into his pocket for the fare.

 

 

Joel Deutsch. A long time ago, in a galaxy  far, far away, as the opening scrolls of ancient films  would have it, writing confessional narrative poetry seemed to him as close to unfettered space flight as he could ever wish to come. And  lo, the flat bluish Olivetti, the solid green Hermes, the upright black Remington from the Mission Street thrift store were fruitful, and the poems multiplied, and were published in many a little mag. Won him a degree, won him awards. “You’re a good poet, Joel,” Charles Bukowski rasped at him over the phone, once. “Not as good as me, but pretty damn good.”  Then he started feeling less like Hans Solo or Charlie Parker than a hungover diamond cutter with his glass loupe tightly screwed into one eye, desperately trying to chip beauty out of the already-precious stone beneath a flickering lamp, and it was then that other forms beckoned. Articles and profiles, stories and essays. Which led, eventually, inevitably, to working on the first draft of a first novel (the book of danny), a youth’s apprenticeship in a time of chronollogical seniority.  But sometimes the song says it will stick in the throat if you try to sing it any other way. At which point humbling words come to mind, most especially those of poet Charles Olsen in “Maximus, to Himself.”

 

“Mediators Beyond Borders: Pathways to Peace and Reconciliation” by Kenneth Cloke

“We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the vitriolic words or actions of the bad people, but for the appalling silence of the good people. We must come to see that human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability. It comes through the tireless efforts and persistent work of men … and without this hard work time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, and forever realize that the time is always ripe to do right.” 

~Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

While listening to news about the latest disasters from wars to terrorist attacks
around the world, I sometimes fantasize about what would happen if, instead of
dropping bombs on civilian populations, mediators by the tens of thousands
were parachuted into war zones to initiate conversations across battle lines; if,
instead of shooting bullets, we organized public dialogues and shot questions at
each side; if, instead of mourning the loss of children’s lives by visiting equal or
greater losses on the children of the enemy, we became surrogate mourners,
turning every lost life into the name of a school, hospital, library, road, or olive
grove, dedicated to those who died because we lacked the skills to get along.

I realize these are wishful fantasies, yet within their whimsy lies a startling truth
that surfaces when we ask: what would we do after parachuting in once we hit
the ground? We can then begin to see that it is possible for us to have an impact,
even on the willingness of embittered, intransigent opponents to avoid war and
terrorism by building people’s capacity to promote alternative ways of
expressing, negotiating, and resolving their differences. I began referring to this
idea as “Mediators Beyond Borders.”

Conflict as a Border or Boundary

All conflicts take place between people; that is, at the borders or boundaries that
separate individuals, cultures, organizations, and nations. Every conflict can
therefore be regarded as creating or reinforcing a border or boundary that divides
us, drawing a line of demarcation that separates us into opposing sides,
antagonistic positions, alien cultures, foreign experiences, and hostile camps,
isolating and alienating us from one another.

Yet every boundary is also a connection, a potentially unifying element, a place
where two sides can come together. As a result, we can therefore regard
resolution as a consensual crossing of the borders and boundaries that separate
us. Non-consensual border crossings are experienced as boundary violations,
and may be vigorously resisted. Consensual border crossings, on the other hand,
are experienced as acts of empathy and friendship, indicators of love and
affection, and precursors to collaboration, problem solving, forgiveness, and
reconciliation.

Conflict, in this sense, is a chasm cutting us off from our own commonality. It is a
fault line isolating us from our estranged family, a schism within wholeness. As a
result, conflicts can be prevented, resolved, transformed, and transcended by
identifying the boundaries that separate us, and consensually crossing them; by
communicating across the internal and external borders we have erected to keep
ourselves safe; and by using empathy and compassion to dismantle the sources
of opposition to the Other within the Self, and within the systems we have
created to defend ourselves from others.

There are two principal reasons for doing so: first, to create positive, enjoyable
learning relationships; and second, to solve common problems. While the first is
optional, the second is mandatory. The problems we are increasingly forced to
confront have no borders, threaten our very survival, and cannot be solved except
collaboratively, i.e., by crossing social, economic, political, religious, ethnic,
gender, and cultural borders, and by building relationships as a result that allow
us to transcend and move beyond them. As discussed in Chapter 1, some of the
problems that clearly require us to move beyond borders presently include:

• global warming • exhaustion of the oceans
• species extinction • decreasing bio-diversity
• air and water pollution • deforestation
• resort to warfare • nuclear proliferation
• drug-resistant diseases • global pandemics
• overuse of fertilizers • loss of arable land
• religious intolerance • terrorism
• torture • prejudice and intolerance
• genocide • “ethnic cleansing”
• AIDS and bird flu • sexual trafficking and abuse
• narcotics smuggling • organized crime

What would it take to successfully mediate these conflicts? If time, money, laws,
bureaucracy, expertise, and willingness to participate were not obstacles, what
methods and programs might we employ to reduce the bloodshed and return to
peace and unity once upheavals subside? What could the United Nations,
national governments, or non-governmental organizations do to discourage evil,
war, injustice, and terrorism before they begin? [For more on what the United
Nations could do, see Chapter 19 of Mediating Dangerously.]

Political conflicts are simultaneously public and private, intellectual and
emotional, procedural and structural, preventive and reactive, relational and
systemic. Because these disputes are highly complex and multi-layered,
successful resolution efforts will need to focus on supporting diverse local
collaborative initiatives, and on developing a combination of techniques and
approaches democratically, rather than simply importing or blindly imposing USspecific
solutions.

Solving any of these problems will not be simple. In the face of such difficulties,
it is easy to think: we are so few, so isolated, so imperfect, so poorly prepared,
and the problems we face are so vast, universal, multifaceted, and ingrained,
how could we possibly make a difference? The real question, however, is: how
can we stand by and not try to make a difference, no matter how imperfect our
efforts may be?

On a global level, it does not matter whose end of the ship is sinking. We inhabit a
planetary island in a vast, expanding universe. As a result, regardless of who
created these problems, we are all impacted by them, and have no sustainable
option other than to learn to discuss, negotiate, and resolve our conflicts, and
prevent them by acting together.

In truth, we already know – not just intellectually, but in our hearts, as human beings and conflict resolvers – that there are many tangible, practical ways we can make a difference, as imperfect as we are. Over the last few decades, we have developed a number of techniques for successfully communicating across much smaller, less defended interpersonal borders and cultural divides, and resolving disputes in families and communities without warfare or coercion. And it is precisely these skills that the world now needs in order to solve its problems.

An Elicitive Approach to Mediating Between Cultures

In order to achieve these goals, it is necessary first to learn how to work humbly,
ethically, and respectfully across cultural lines. Cultural differences inevitably
exacerbate conflicts, as do prejudices based on nationality, ethnicity, gender,
sexual orientation, religion, personality, and style. It is therefore critical in
working beyond borders that we learn ways of communicating, working
collaboratively, solving problems, and resolving conflicts within, between, and
across cultures that are not our own.

I have found the most effective approach in developing conflict resolution
capacity across diverse cultures is the elicitive, collaborative, democratic
methodology best articulated and practiced by Mennonite mediator John Paul
Lederach. This method focuses on supplementing rather than replacing
indigenous resolution strategies, while simultaneously learning from other
cultures and developing improvements in local methods and practices. Here are
a few of the techniques I have used to bridge cross-cultural gaps, either between
the mediator and the parties, or between the parties themselves:

• Take time to warmly welcome both sides. Serve food or drink and
break bread together. Ask them to create a culturally appropriate
heartfelt context and opening for the conversation they want to
have.

• Ask each person to clarify who they think you are, or how they
define your role, or what they expect of you and the mediation
process.

• Ask each side to identify the ground rules that will make them feel
respected, communicate effectively, and better able to resolve their
problems.

• Elicit a prioritization of conflicts from each side. What are the words for different kinds of conflict? Which are most serious and which are least? What is commonly done in response to each? Compare similarities and differences between cultures, then do the same for conflict styles and resolution techniques.

• Ask people to rank their available options from war to surrender,
and explore the reasons they might choose one over another.

• Ask people to state, pantomime, role-play, draw, or script how
conflicts are resolved in their culture. To whom do they go to for
assistance? What roles do third parties traditionally play? Which
techniques do they use when, and why? How do they mediate,
forgive, and reconcile? Where do they get stuck and why?

• Invite volunteers from opposing cultures to jointly design a
culturally inclusive, enriched, multilayered, comprehensive
conflict resolution system to help them avoid future disputes.

• Ask each side to meet separately and list the words that describe
the communication, negotiation, or conflict style of the opposing
culture and, next to it, the words that describe their own. Exchange
lists and ask each side to respond. Do the same with conflicting
ideas, feelings such as anger, or attitudes toward the issues.

• Establish common points of reference by asking someone from each
culture to indicate their values, or goals for their relationship with
the other culture, or aspirations for the resolution process.

• Ask questions like: “What does that mean to you?” “What does the
word ‘fairness’ indicate or imply to you?” “Can you give an
example?”

• Acknowledge and model respect for differences, and ask questions
if you are not sure what things mean.

• Ask each person to say one thing they are proud of with regard to
their culture, ethnicity, or group, and why.

• If appropriate, ask if there is anything they dislike about their
culture, ethnicity, or group, and why.

• Ask groups in conflict to say what they most appreciate about the
opposing group or culture and why.

• Ask them to bring cultural artifacts, such as poems, music, or
artifacts, and share stories that would help an outsider understand
and appreciate their culture.

• Ask each side to identify a common stereotype regarding their
culture, what it feels like, and why. Then ask them to describe what
their culture is actually like, why the stereotype is inaccurate, and
what they would most like others to know about them.

• Ask what rituals are used in each culture to end conflicts or reach
forgiveness, such as shaking hands, then design combined or
simultaneous rituals for closure and reconciliation.

In many countries that lack significant long-term experience with social,
economic, or political democracy, many ancient indigenous tribal or civil societal
conflict resolution traditions that originally emphasized collaboration, and
democratic, interest-based interactions were gradually supplanted by or
subordinated to conformist, competitive, autocratic, power-based processes that
relied on directives and hierarchical authority from above, rather than on
democratic participation, curiosity, community, and insight from below.

While both of these have proven useful, prevention, resolution, transformation,
and transcendence occur more often when ancient interest-based resolution
processes can be revived and reintegrated using elicitive techniques. An example
is the panchayat system in India and Pakistan, which originally resolved disputes
communally, but in many places became dependent on local political leaders
who had been hierarchically selected from outside. Another example is palaver,
which consists largely of continuous community dialogue, and is still used in
parts of Angola, Mozambique, and other countries in Southern Africa. Yet with
the rise of large, urban centers, the old techniques have been bypassed, or
become institutionalized and less effective in recent years. Yet when revived and
combined with modern methodologies, these ancient practices can invigorate the
process of dispute resolution and help us all learn from one other.

Race, Class, Ethnic, and Cross-Cultural Conflicts

It has become increasingly clear, especially since the devastation of New Orleans
by Hurricane Katrina and a number of disputes alleging police brutality in ethnic
urban communities, that resolving conflicts requires us to learn ways of crossing
the invisible boundaries that separate genders, races, classes, ethnicities, and
cultures.

Indeed, gender, race, class, ethnic, and cross-cultural conflicts are now common
occurrences, not only in the US, but Europe and elsewhere around the world. In
many large cities, poverty, underfunded schools, violence, delinquency, gang
warfare, drive-by shootings, and drugs as big business are everyday events that
have habituated us to the spectacle of people destroying themselves and their
communities. Rapid changes in demographics, cultural rivalries, and economic
inequalities inevitably accentuate these conflicts.

Of course, there have always been conflicts between people living in close
proximity to one another whose cultures, religions, and languages are
fundamentally different. There have been conflicts throughout history between
men and women, white and black, rich and poor, gay and straight, privileged
and dispossessed, hard working and laid back. There have also been conflicts
between people who simply think and behave differently, as for example,
between those who occupy positions of power and those who do not, those who
want to protect natural resources and those who seek to profit by them, those
who advocate change and those who struggle to hold onto traditions.

These conflicts take place within a context, environment, or system that has been
shaped by a wide range of cultural, familial, organizational, social, economic,
and political influences, all of which can dramatically impact the ways people
behave when they are in conflict. We easily recognize, for example, that there are
cultures that actively promote avoidance and obedience while others promote
engagement and dissent. There are family systems that support secrecy and
authority, while others encourage openness and dialogue. There are
organizations that reward individuality and distrust, while others build
teamwork and trust. There are social systems that promote inequality and
inequity, while others try to reduce them. There are economic systems that prize
competition and individual efforts, while others support collaboration and social
engagement. And there are political systems that are dictatorial and corrupt,
while others are more democratic and transparent.

In periods of social chaos, economic crisis, and profound political change,
conflicts between these different orientations and tendencies inevitably increase.
These conflicts are nearly always experienced as personal, emotional, isolating,
and unique, yet it is clear, most often in retrospect, that these are systemic
conflicts that are inspired and influenced by cultural, social, economic, and
political factors.

Five Intervention Strategies

In order to recover from the aftermath of severe conflicts such as war and
genocide, people in divided communities need to develop a broad range of skills,
including Communication skills in order to reduce bias and prejudice and engage
in constructive dialogue; negotiation skills to solve problems and settle
differences; emotional processing skills to work through rage and guilt and
assuage grief and loss; mediation skills to resolve disputes collaboratively;
community building skills to develop interest-based, collaborative leadership and
become productive, functional communities again; heart and spirit enhancing
skills to rebuild empathy and compassion and encourage forgiveness and
reconciliation; and conflict resolution systems design skills to prevent and resolve
future disputes before they become intractable.

In working with diverse cultures, communities, and nations to build local
capacity to resolve conflicts, it is essential to develop skills in each of these areas.
There are dozens of additional ways of assisting people to recover from their
conflicts and to learn practical methods for preventing, resolving, transforming,
and transcending them. Combining these together, we can identify five
fundamental intervention strategies that have proven useful in my experience in
building local capacity to achieve these goals.

1. Responding to Grief and Loss

The first strategy is to actively encourage the open expression of grief and rage
that were triggered by the conflict, but to do so by first creating a context, process,
and setting that are constructive and oriented to resolution and reconciliation,
such as that invented by the South African Truth and Reconciliation
Commission.

Grief, along with denial and rage, are natural emotions in processing loss,
whether it be the loss of a loved one, a way of life, or material goods, position, or
influence. It is normal to blame others for one’s loss and feed enmity and conflict
with accusations and blaming. Yet healing comes when people face their losses,
express profound grief, tell stories about what happened, describe their feelings,
hear each other’s subjective truths, open their hearts to forgiveness and
reconciliation, and collaboratively seek to prevent future clashes.

Modern psychology has created a useful set of tools for responding to grief, loss,
understanding the desire for revenge, and helping people overcome them. Every
culture has its own rituals for handling painful emotions, and these rituals
should be respected and included in the conflict resolution process. Yet there are
times, places, and individuals for whom these rituals will be inapplicable or
ineffective, and all rituals can be creatively improved and supplemented using
insights drawn from experiences in conflict resolution.

Responding to loss can be seen as requiring efforts in four principal stages.

1) Design an environment within which it becomes possible to
encourage and support expressions of grief and rage.

2) Examine prejudicial views being spread about “the enemy” and
explore alternatives such as forgiveness, reconciliation,
collaboration, and heartfelt communication.

3) Develop skills in directing future expressions of grief and rage in
the direction of problem solving, negotiation, collaboration, and
mediation.

4) Use these skills to create a sense of larger community, so that future
conflicts are resolved in ways that do not require the use of
violence.

By way of illustration, I have asked hostile racial, religious, and ethnic groups to
meet in mixed or self-same teams to discuss and answer the following questions:

• What is one thing you lost as a result of this conflict, or one thing
that happened that you are still grieving over?

• What is one thing someone said or did to you or others that you
find it difficult to forgive, and never, ever want to experience
again?

• What is one thing someone said or did that supported you or
others when this happened, or that gave you strength or courage,
or helped you recover?

• What is one thing the people who are here could do right now to
help make sure that what happened to you will never happen
again?

• What is one thing you would be willing to do to help make sure
that occurs?

• What is one wish you have for your future relationship with each
other, or for the relationship between your children and
grandchildren?

• What is one thing you would be willing to do starting now to help
those children have the relationship you would like them to have?

2. Dismantling Prejudice and Bias

A second strategy is to systematically dismantle the prejudices and stereotypes of
the “enemy” through a combination of sensitivity to others, awareness of one’s
own biases and prejudices, storytelling, honest dialogue over differences,
problem solving, collaborative negotiation, conflict resolution, and jointly
planning how to face common problems in the future.

Every community experiences cross-cultural, ethnic, racial, national, and
religious conflicts, and in every community these conflicts interfere with peace
and cooperation, unity and progress. These conflicts grow out of biases and
prejudices regarding culture, ethnicity, gender, religion, politics, nationality,
language skills, handicap, sexual orientation, and countless other differences that
can be surfaced and successfully resolved in open-dialogue sessions that teach
people how to become aware of their biases and prejudices and resolve crosscultural
conflicts.

Creative interventions, techniques, and exercises can assist people in becoming
more aware of their biases and realizing that differences can be a source of
strength and celebration. These exercises encourage pride in one’s culture or
background without denigrating anyone else’s right to feel pride in theirs. They
use storytelling to elicit empathy and person-to-person understanding, and
group presentations to promote learning from each other.

Specific conflicts can then be analyzed through simulations, and alternative
solutions generated through joint analysis of group experiences. For example, I
have used the following exercises, even in large community groups, to reduce
prejudices and cross-cultural conflicts:

• Introductions: Ask people to turn to the person next to them and
introduce themselves by describing their personal history and
cultural background.

• Reclaiming Pride: Ask participants to state their names, the groups
with which they identity, and why they are proud to belong to
them, as in “I am a _____, _____, _____, and _____,” listing different
sources of identity.

• What’s in a Name? In mixed dyads, ask people to describe the origin
and meaning of their names and how they came by them.

• Storytelling: Each person finds someone from a different group or
culture and tells a story about what it felt like to grow up as a
member of their group or culture.

• Assessing Group Identity: Participants discuss what they get by
identifying with a group, and what they give in return.

• Personalizing Discrimination: In mixed dyads or small groups,
participants describe a time when they felt disrespected or
discriminated against for any reason, and compare their
experiences.

• Reframing Stereotypes: In mixed or self-same dyads, people describe
the stereotypes and prejudices others have about their group while
their partners write down key descriptive words and phrases,
which they later compare and reframe as positives.

• Observing Discrimination: In mixed dyads, participants describe a
time when they witnessed discrimination against someone else.

What did they do? How successful was it? What might they have
done instead? What kept them from doing more? How could they
overcome these obstacles?

• Owning Prejudice: Participants in teams write down all the
prejudicial statements they can think of, analyze them, identify
their common elements, and read these elements out to the group.

• Overcoming Prejudice: In dyads, participants describe a personal
prejudice or stereotype they had or have, what they did or are
doing to overcome it, then ask for and receive coaching, preferably
from someone in that group, on what else they might do.

• Which Minority are You?: Participants list all the ways they are a
minority, report on the total number of ways, and discuss them.

• Explaining Prejudice: Participants in self-same groups identify the
prejudices and stereotypes other groups have of them, then explain
the truth about their culture and answer questions others have
about their group but were afraid to ask.

• A Celebration of Differences: Participants are asked to stand and be
applauded for their differences, in age, family backgrounds, skills,
languages, cultures, and personal life experiences.
[Based partly on work by the National Coalition Building Institute]

3. Developing Skills in Interest-Based Processes

A third intervention strategy is to develop skills within local neighborhoods and
communities in implementing these strategies, as well as in interest-based
processes such as group facilitation, public dialogue, strategic planning,
collaborative negotiation, and peer mediation. Teams of volunteers can then
conduct skill-building workshops, not only for conflict resolvers, but for mixed
groups of neighbors, community activists, therapists, clergy, managers, union
leaders, judges, attorneys, government officials, and leaders in civil society.

For example, in Los Angeles following the civil unrest in response to the beating
of Rodney King, I helped train Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA)
workers to facilitate community dialogues between hostile racial and ethnic
groups, and go door-to-door to de-escalate potentially explosive conflicts. Here
are some of the exercises I used:

• Communication and Miscommunication: Self-same groups identify the
communications, behaviors, and signals they or other groups do
not understand about their culture, and suggest ways to clear up
misunderstandings.

• Mock Conflict: Participants demonstrate a typical cross-cultural
conflict in a fishbowl while observers describe their reactions and
volunteers offer suggestions on how to mediate.

• Offensive Remarks: A volunteer starts to make an offensive comment
or joke, and observers offer coaching on possible ways to respond.

• Observing Cultural Bias: As homework, participants collect
examples of biases and prejudices in the media and share them.

• Social Change: Cross-cultural teams discuss what they could do to
change prejudicial attitudes and behaviors among family, friends,
and peers, brainstorm suggestions, and agree to implement them.

• Institutional Change: Participants discuss what their organizations
and institutions could do to counteract prejudice, and what they
might do together to encourage them to change.

• Breaking Bread: Ask each participant to invite someone from the
other groups or cultures in their community to their home for a
potluck dinner, and exchange food, music, poetry, artifacts, and
stories from their cultures. Then, ask each of them to do the same
next month, and pass it on.

• What I Will Do: Each person indicates one thing they learned and are
willing to do differently in the future to reduce cross-cultural conflict.

4. Encouraging Forgiveness and Reconciliation

A fourth strategy is to encourage forgiveness and reconciliation by creating
profound, spiritual, open-hearted communications and direct, heart-to-heart
dialogue between former antagonists. I discuss these techniques in greater detail
in Mediating Dangerously and The Crossroads of Conflict, but have often found it
useful, for example, to ask adversaries to:

• tell their opponent directly what they most want or need to hear in
order for the conflict to be over for them

• acknowledge the positive intentions or character of the other person or group

• apologize for what they did or did not do in the conflict that was
counterproductive, or allowed the conflict to continue

• clarify through stories the price they have paid for the conflict, and
why it is difficult for them to forgive

• list all the reasons for not forgiving them, then identify what it will
cost them in their lives to hold on to each of those reasons

• say what they most want to say to each other, straight from the
heart, as though this were the last conversation they were ever
going to have

• articulate what they each believe are the most important lessons
they learned from their conflict and what they are willing to do
differently

• design a ritual of release, completion, or closure that expresses their
desire for forgiveness and reconciliation, and agree to execute it

5. Redesigning Systems and Institutionalizing Conflict Resolution

A fifth strategy consists of redesigning systems and institutionalizing conflict
resolution skills so that future disputes can be prevented or resolved without
violence or coercion. This strategy consists of using conflict resolution systems
design principles that have been discussed in earlier chapters to identify what
the organization, institution, or system contributed to the conflict, and work
together to change it.

For example, I have created mixed “conflict audit teams” to identify the systemic
sources of conflict in specific organizations and institutions by asking the
following questions drawn from Resolving Conflicts at Work:

• How much time and money have been spent on lawyers, litigation,
and human resources personnel regarding conflict?

• How much time does the average manager, human resource
personnel, union representative, and employee spend each week
preventing, managing and resolving conflicts? At what salary rate
and total cost?

• What has been lost due to stress-related illnesses and conflict-related
turnovers?

• How much time has been spent on rumors, gossip, lost productivity,
and reduced collaboration due to conflict?

• What impact has conflict had on morale and motivation?

• How many conflicts have recurred because they were never fully
resolved?

What personal and organizational opportunities have been lost due to conflict?

• Where might the organization be by now if it had not experienced these conflicts?

• What are the organization’s unspoken expectations and values
regarding conflict?

• What are the main messages sent by the organizational culture
regarding conflict?

• Are negative conflict behaviors being rewarded? If so, how?

• How do leaders and managers typically respond to conflicts? How
might they respond better?

• Have people been trained in conflict resolution techniques? Why
not?

• What do different people do when they experience conflicts? Where
do they go for help?

• Is there an internal conflict resolution procedure? Who is allowed to
use it? How often is it used? Do people know about it?

• How satisfied are people with existing conflict resolution processes?

• How skilled are they in using those processes?

• What obstacles hinder prevention, resolution, transformation, and
transcendence of conflicts?

• How can people be motivated to resolve their disputes more quickly
and completely?

• What skills do people need to resolve conflicts more successfully?

• What systemic changes would reduce or help to resolve future
conflicts?

Conflict audit teams in communities and countries could easily adapt these
questions, then join with dispute resolvers, organizations, agencies, and others to
design programs that would provide a broad array of resolution alternatives and
strategically integrate the initiatives that are aimed at prevention across social,
economic, political, and cultural lines.

Block-by-Block, House-by-House

In the aftermath of wars, urban riots, and natural disasters, cleaning up the ashes
and debris is the least formidable challenge. Something far more difficult must be
done to heal the fury, mistrust, rage, and sense of loss that prevents healing from
these outbursts, thereby triggering renewed outbreaks. As Israeli novelist David
Grossman eloquently recorded:

I feel the heavy toll that I, and the people I know and see around me, pay
for this ongoing state of war. The shrinking of the “surface area” of the
soul that comes in contact with the bloody and menacing world out there.
The limiting of one’s ability and willingness to identify, even a little, with
the pain of others; the suspension of moral judgment. The despair most of
us experience of possibly understanding our own true thoughts in a state
of affairs that is so terrifying and deceptive and complex, both morally
and practically… Because of the perpetual — and all-too-real — fear of
being hurt, or of death, or of unbearable loss, or even of “mere”
humiliation, each and every one of us, the conflict’s citizens, its prisoners,
trim down our own vivacity, our internal mental and cognitive diaspora,
ever enveloping ourselves with protective layers, which end up
suffocating us.

In response to such overwhelming challenges, what can we possibly do? While
large-scale, long-term solutions to war and catastrophe can only be put in motion
through political action, it is possible for each of us in our communities to begin
the healing process. Most often, this means working locally and preventatively to
resolve on-going conflicts, and simultaneously build the capacity and the skills
needed to interact differently.

This means teaching people ways of communicating effectively across cultural
divides, solving common problems creatively, negotiating collaboratively,
resolving disputes without violence, and encouraging forgiveness and
reconciliation, even after the worst atrocities. Without these skills, the suffering
will simply continue, bringing new suffering in its wake.

It is possible, for example, for local communities to establish an expanding
network of simple, replicable, peer-based community mediation projects in crisis
areas, in which multicultural mediators volunteer, or are elected by their
neighbors in the blocks where they live, given training and hands-on experience,
and develop the capacity to expand outward into new communities on a blockby-
block, house-by-house, community-by-community basis.

A simple “block-by-block” project might begin by selecting a small number of
blocks representing diverse neighborhoods, then bringing hostile or divergent
groups together, asking them to identify the sources of conflict between them,
and analyzing the techniques most needed to resolve them. It would then be
possible to train cross-cultural co-mediation/community facilitation teams to
help prevent, resolve, transform, and transcend local conflicts; reach consensus
on shared cultural values; facilitate open dialogues and problem-solving sessions
on community problems, and design conflict resolution systems for preventing
future conflicts between diverse cultures.

In many US neighborhoods, for example, cross-cultural teams of mediators
representing African-American, Hispanic, Asian Pacific-American and White
communities, might be trained in processing people’s feelings of grief and loss
regarding recent tragedies, or solving problems and negotiating with other
communities, or facilitating community meetings, or reducing prejudice against
people from different cultures who are seen as “enemies,” or using state-of-theart
mediation techniques to resolve community and cross-cultural conflicts, or
reaching forgiveness and reconciliation.

A Twelve-Step Program

These strategies and techniques, in combination and adopted as a whole, suggest
a generic 12-step plan that might be used to increase the capacity of communities
and countries to help prevent, resolve, transform, and transcend their conflicts.
These 12 steps can be modified to match local conditions and used to break the
cycle and addiction to local violence that ultimately impacts all of us:

1. Identify potential partners and allies and convene a cross-cultural team of
experienced trainers to conduct research and deepen understanding of
what is required.

2. Meet with leaders of hostile groups, cultures, or factions to secure
agreement on a common plan, build trust, and encourage ongoing
support.

3. Interview leaders of opposing groups, cultures, and factions, listen
empathetically to their issues, and clarify cultural mores, values, interests,
goals, and concerns.

4. Elicit from each group, culture, or faction the methods currently being
used to resolve disputes, and identify ways of validating, supplementing,
and expanding these core strategies, while introducing new strategies to
adapt and try out to see which are successful.

5. Select or elect a team of volunteers from each group who would like to be
trained as mediators, facilitators, and trainers.

6. Form cross-cultural teams of volunteer mediators and facilitators to work
in communities, schools, workplaces, government offices, and other
locations where conflicts occur.

7. Train volunteer facilitators in techniques for processing grief and loss,
reducing prejudice, facilitating public dialogue, organizing Truth and
Reconciliation Commissions, and similar efforts to build collaborative
relationships and improve trust.

8. Train teams to facilitate public dialogues, arbitrate disputes, encourage
forgiveness and reconciliation, and conduct conflict audits.

9. Form cross-cultural teams to train trainers in these techniques throughout
civil society, and support for them to train others.

10. Conduct periodic feedback, evaluations, audits, and course corrections to
improve the capacity of volunteers and identify where future support may
be required.

11. Develop case studies revealing successes and failures and build ongoing
popular, financial, and institutional support for resolution programs.

12. Design conflict resolution systems for civil society, economic
organizations, political parties, and government agencies that provide
increased opportunities for early intervention, open dialogue, problem
solving, collaborative negotiation mediation, and between adversaries.
Implementing these steps and modifying them to fit each situation will allow us
to substantially reduce the destructiveness of conflict and create a platform on
which deeper social and political changes might take place. By comparison with
the long-term costs of conflict, the most ambitious program imaginable would be
inexpensive and well worth undertaking.

Postscript: A New Organization

Since writing about this idea, Mediators Beyond Borders: Pathways to Peace and
Reconciliation (MBB) has become a reality, and is now a fully functioning
organization working to bring a rich array of conflict resolution techniques to
people internationally. Its goal is to recruit volunteers within the dispute
resolution community to support projects and programs that build conflict
resolution capacity globally.

The work of MBB is principally accomplished through project teams in which
people commit to work in a particular country, community, or region over a
period of several years. Each project team consists of a small, diverse group of
people who travel to a designated area several times a year to learn about
conflicts from local sources and assist in designing and delivering conflict
resolution trainings and services without charge. Members also work in
committees and content groups to deepen our understanding of the field and the
methods and techniques that prove most useful.

MBB is not alone or unique in attempting to assist people in other countries and
cultures to resolve disputes without warfare, and works in partnership with
other individuals, groups and organizations. What is unique about MBB is its
focus on building local capacity in a variety of skills, including mediating family,
community, environmental, and public policy disputes; reducing bias and
prejudice; developing restorative justice and victim-offender programs;
implementing multidoor courthouses; applying conflict resolution systems
design principles; and encouraging forgiveness and reconciliation.

MBB also seeks to improve skills in group facilitation, informal problem-solving,
team building, consensus decision-making, linking leadership, strategic
planning, community building, and organizational development, both
internationally and in the US. It uses computer technology, including the
Internet, blog sites, websites, and audio and video uploads to transfer conflict
resolution information, build networks and ongoing relationships, and allow
people in any country to become directly involved in providing assistance where
it is needed.

MBB chapters and individual members provide ongoing communication,
research, training materials, and Internet support to local mediators, conflict
revolutionists, disputing parties, and project teams. They assist in developing,
refining, and disseminating best practices in dispute resolution, including
training designs, materials, role-plays, and turnkey programs.

MBB is committed to a comprehensive, holistic approach that seeks to integrate
innovative conflict resolution methods with traditional and local techniques, and
develop a strategic methodology for addressing the sources of conflict within
organizations, communities and societies. It is committed to a sustainable, longterm
approach to local capacity building, together with a systems design
orientation that focuses on prevention, transparency and sustainability.

30 Things You Can Do

If you would like to support this work or create your own local projects to
encourage conflict resolution in other communities, countries, and cultures, there
are countless actions you can take, some small and quick, others large and long
lasting, each of which can be immensely helpful. To illustrate, here are 30 ways
you might decide to contribute:

1. Join MBB or similar organizations and help publicize their work. To
contact MBB, visit the website at www.mediatorsbeyondborders.org, or
email mediatorsbeyondborders@gmail.com.

2. Send a donation to MBB or similar organizations and assist them in
locating potential funders and making media contacts in your area.

3. If you have expertise in a particular region, country, language, or conflict
and would like to help or become a member of a project team and work in
that country for a period of several years, contact MBB and specify your
interest.

4. If you have training materials in communication, dialogue, problemsolving,
negotiation, mediation, prejudice reduction, conflict resolution,
and similar topics that might be useful to people in conflict areas,
especially if they are in other languages, send them to the MBB Library.

5. If you have useful information regarding a country or region where
conflicts are occurring, contact MBB and share or coordinate your
information with others through our newly created “conflictpedia”.

6. Select a country or region where conflicts are occurring, form a small
group of like-minded people, or create a local chapter of MBB to study,
think about, and discuss what is happening there.

7. Go online to see what has already been written about the conflict and
synthesize it in a briefing paper that others can supplement online or read
before traveling there.

8. Prepare a summary of the history of a conflict; or description of the
dominant political forces and constituencies, economic factors, or
environmental concerns that impact it; or list the main sources of impasse
and similar information that might be useful in briefing groups or project
teams working there.

9. Adopt one or more pen pals in an area you select and wherever possible
add correspondents from the opposing side.

10. Once you make contact, ask questions to expand your knowledge and
understanding of what is taking place there, then pass it on.

11. Find out what is needed or desired by way of assistance and let MBB or
similar organizations know.

12. Identify important cultural “dos and don’ts” and publicize them.

13. Prepare a list of useful quotations from indigenous authors, including
poetry, stories, folklore, novels, religious tracts, and political ideas and
send them to the MBB Library.

14. Develop a list of stereotypes used by each group against their opponents
and send it to MBB.

15. Start a local area blog, or send information and ideas to MBB’s blog site at
www.mwoborders.blogspot.com.

16. Collect important news articles from media in and around the area,
translate them, and forward them to others.

17. Create a list with useful descriptions and contact information identifying
mediators, facilitators, trainers, and allied professionals in the country or
region who might be willing to assist.

18. List other potentially useful contacts, such as leaders in government and
hostile organizations, for use by groups or project teams in the area.

19. Identify institutions and organizations already contributing to peace,
including descriptions and contact information.

20. Organize a public dialogue in your community to discuss global conflicts,
pass resolutions supporting conflict resolution, and publicize facts and
stories that raise people’s awareness.

21. Send pen pals information about MBB and other organizations, and assist
them in forming chapters or supporting conflict resolution activities in
their area.

22. Send useful books, training materials, and articles to conflict resolvers in
other areas.

23. Assist in preparing or revising training materials targeted to areas you
select.

24. Contact media to increase awareness of conflict resolution, write letters to
the editor, or op-ed pieces advocating meditative approaches to conflict.

25. Contact political representatives to encourage support for conflict
resolution.

26. Write to the United Nations, especially country representatives, and
encourage use of conflict resolution.

27. Contact schools, religious gatherings, etc., and ask to speak about conflict
resolution and conflicted areas.

28. Invite friends from ethnically diverse communities to dinner, ask them to
bring cultural food, artifacts, and materials to share, discuss conflicts in
the area, and agree on ways you can help.

29. Travel to an area to gather information first-hand, but do not intervene in
conflicts without adequate training, preparation, support, and assistance.

30. Make copies of this list and pass it on. If these ideas don’t succeed, invent
others. Don’t give up. Remember that a journey of a thousand miles starts
with a single step.

What is most important in reducing the level of global conflict is for each of us to
recognize that if we cannot learn to resolve our conflicts without war, injustice,
coercion, and catastrophic loss, we will be unable to survive, either as a species
or as a planet.

More profoundly, by responding to global conflicts in these preventative,
heartfelt, systemic ways, we may actually prepare the groundwork for the next
great leap in human history – the leap into international cooperation and
coexistence without war. Through these efforts, we may someday achieve the
transformation promised in a pamphlet issued by the South African Truth and
Reconciliation Commission:

Instead of revenge, there will be reconciliation.
Instead of forgetfulness, there will be knowledge and acknowledgement.
Instead of rejection, there will be acceptance by a compassionate state.
Instead of violations of human rights, there will be restoration of the
moral order and respect for the rule of law.


Let’s make it happen. Right now. Starting with us.

 

 

Kenneth Cloke is Director of the Center for Dispute Resolution and a mediator, arbitrator, attorney, coach, consultant, and trainer.  Cloke is a nationally recognized speaker and author of many journal articles and books.  His coaching, consulting, facilitation, and training practice includes work with leaders of public, private and non-profit organizations on effective communications, collaborative negotiation, relationship building, conflict resolution, leadership development, strategic planning, team building, and organizational change.  He has been an Adjunct Professor at Pepperdine University’s School of Law; Harvard University School of Law, Program on Negotiation, Insight Initiative; Global Negotiation Insight Institute; Albert Einstein College of Medicine, Cape Cod Institute; University of Amsterdam ADR Institute; and Saybrook University.  He has done conflict resolution work in Austria, Bahamas, Brazil, Canada, China, Cuba, England, Georgia, India, Ireland, Japan, Latin America, Mexico, Netherlands, New Zealand, Nicaragua, Pakistan, Puerto Rico, Thailand, Ukraine, former USSR, United Kingdom, and Zimbabwe.  He is President of Mediators Beyond Borders.