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On the Park Bench

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

“Good morning, sir. How are you?”

“Oh, hello. Fine, thank you.”

“Name’s Charles Boling.”

“Oh. Yes. Nice to meet you.” 

And, with that, the busy man placed his headphones on and tuned out the rest of the world.

Charles Boling continued to sit on the same park bench he’d sat at for nearly a year. At the corner of Elm Street and Craven Avenue, the bench had a nice view of the park, a grocery store, small shops, and a bus stop. A few blocks east was city hall, and, to the west, neighborhoods turned into suburbs, suburbs turned into farmland, and farmland turned into not much else. 

“Been too hot lately, hasn’t it?” Charles barked, attempting to speak over the busy man’s music. The busy man did not reply. And, within a few minutes, he stood and walked away from the bench, lost in his busy-ness.

People streamed down Elm Street, passing Charles left and right. Most lost in their thoughts. Some noted his shabby clothes — blue work pants, a white undershirt tinged gray and straining some at the chest and belly, and old brown boots. Others noticed his bushy brown beard, which traveled down his neck to the point of meeting the chest hair sprigging out of the top of his undershirt. A few noted the thick arms and hands calloused with work, but, for most all, Charles rated only as an animated accessory to the park bench. 

“Good morning.”

“Hello. Hello, Father,” Charles responded, caught off guard by not being the first to speak.

The priest sat down on the park, placing his bag between himself and Charles. 

“Lovely day, isn’t it? A little cooler.”

“Yes it is, Father. Been too hot lately for my tastes. Name’s Charles Boling,” Charles said, extending his hand.

“Michael Yates, nice to meet you Charles.” The priest took his hand. “Are you waiting for the bus too?”

“No. No, I don’t take the bus, Father. I’m just sitting here enjoying the day,” Charles answered, honestly.

Father Yates gave Charles a subtle once-over as he pulled out his bus ticket and looked up at the bus stop sign. 

“Do you come here often, Charles?”

“Every day.”

“Where do you work?” Father Yates knew his question was a little forward, but he asked with a practiced, warm smile that signaled his good intentions. 

Charles paused and then answered, “No. No, I haven’t worked in years. I was a mechanic. Long ago. Long time ago.” Charles leaned back on the bench, watching the people in the park.

The priest noted Charles’s hands. “That’s interesting work.”

“Well, when you can get it, yes.” Charles answered.

“Do you live nearby? It would be nice to be able to come to a park like this everyday.” Father Yates was no amateur.

“I live here and there,” Charles said. “I like the park.”

“Charles, my church is five blocks from here. Maybe you’ve heard of it, St. Mark’s?”

Charles shook his head.

“Well, it’s a great place, and we have a lot of programs to help folks that haven’t worked in a while or are living ‘here and there.’ Father Yates opened his bag and fished out a card, handing it to Charles. “I’d really like you to stop by. I think you’d like it.”

Charles looked at the card, flipping it over and back again in his hand.

Father Yates continued, “At St. Mark’s, we’re most concerned with your spiritual well-being. It’s not just about a job or a place to sleep.”

“I see,” Charles nodded.

Across the street, a bus pulled up, and Father Yates closed his bag and stood up. “Charles, it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope I see you again.”

“Have a good day, Father.” 

Charles watched the priest cross the street and climb into the bus. Shortly, the bus pulled away, and Charles sat, lost in his thoughts. He’d been a good mechanic, or at least he thought so. Got a job during high school and never left. He liked the people, the challenge of solving a problem. Working with his hands. Everything seemed to work for a while. Met a girl. Sarah. Sweet secretary at an accountant’s office. Got married. Had a little house. Went for walks at night. They got by. 

A crowd rounded the corner, led by Representative Janet Skilling. Following in her impressive wake were journalists, cameramen, numerous aides, and dozens of supporters. Charles noted the oncoming throng and observed that the group seemed to gain mass as it neared. 

“Ladies and Gentleman,” Representative Skilling began as she stopped thirty feet from Charles’s bench, “I’ve come to Asher Park today to announce a new jobs and housing initiative in the city.” 

Cameras rolled, journalists scribbled, aides listened, and supporters gave polite applause. 

“The downturn in the economy hurt everyone, but our most vulnerable have felt the impact in a way not known to most of us. The city’s unemployment and homeless rates have increased significantly, and we have not just a social responsibility to address this, but a moral one.” 

More applause. More scribbles.  

Charles listened as best he could from his park bench. As the representative spoke, the crowd around her undulated and swayed. The representative came into and out of Charles’s sight. On multiple occasions, he locked eyes with her. 

“…and with these additional funds, we will institute new job training programs and, just a few blocks from this park, we will construct a new homeless shelter to house and care for the city’s most vulnerable, the most at-risk.”

“Representative Skilling, Tom Junken from The Telegraph. The crime rate in Asher Park has increased significantly in the past year. Assaults, batteries, thefts. Residents also complain about intrusive panhandling. How will your jobs initiative address those concerns?”

“Tom,” Representative Skilling began as she pulled taut her suit jacket, “you bring up symptoms of the larger problem of unemployment and homelessness. Our goal is to reduce unemployment and homelessness. When those numbers drop, so do crime, so do panhandling. Believe me, no one wants to make Asher Park safe for families again more than I do. When a person has a job, when a person has a home, they feel different, they act different. Less crime. Less panhandling. We want to tend to not just their economic needs, but their needs as a member of this community.”

Scribbles, nodding of heads, and applause. 

The throng drifted away from the park, following the bold lead of Representative Skilling. Charles thought about the representative’s words, and then thought about Sarah. She was short, freckled, with auburn hair that went down to her shoulders. She was pretty, but not gorgeous. Charles especially liked that. There was nothing pretentious about Sarah. She was comfortable. Real. Real with freckles. He missed that.

“May I sit here?”

Charles looked around to see a short, squat woman, dirty, with wild hair. She was pulling a cart from the grocery across the street, loaded down with what was obviously all her worldly possessions. She wore a tattered t-shirt and stained slacks. 

“Yes mam, of course you may sit here,” was Charles’s kind reply.

“Thank you. I’m so hot. It’s been a little cooler today, but I get so warm walking around. It will be nice to sit for a while. I’m Nancy.”

“Charles. Nice to meet you, Nancy.”

“Same to you,” she huffed as she flopped down.

Charles could tell from the slight slur in her words that Nancy had been drinking. Her nails were dirty.

“Do you come here often?” she asked, still a little breathless.

“Every day.”

Nancy smiled a smile of recognition. “I haven’t seen you around. Are you new to town?”

“No,” Charles said. “Lived here a long time. Been coming here ‘bout a year.”

“Well, in case you don’t know, there’s a great kitchen a few blocks west of here. Nice people. I go there just about every day.”

“So, what do they want at this kitchen, besides to give you food? What’s their concern?” Charles asked.

Nancy looked puzzled. “Nothing, that I know of. I just go there and eat.” She pulled her cart around in front of her, resting her feet on it. “I’ve never gotten in any trouble for that.”

“I see.”

“You by yourself? Have any family around here, Charles?”

“No. No, it’s just me.”

Nancy stared at Charles, a little drunk.

“I was married,” Charles replied. “My wife passed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. All you want is a little happiness, isn’t it? Tell me about her,” Nancy said.

Charles smiled back, hesitantly. “And what do you want?”

Nancy understood his question. “Just to listen.”

“I loved Sarah with all my heart,” Charles began.

On an Annual Goodbye

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Edith Thomas slowly guided her silver sedan around the lush hills of Sparrow’s Trace Cemetery. It was a clear, sunny day in early October, but, at 79, she no longer trusted her eyes and reflexes as she once did. So, she drove slowly, humming her favorite hymns and pulling her hair back gently with her left hand. She slowed as she crested the high hill, pausing to look at the Gentry mausoleum as she always did. Still standing and still beautiful.

Edith glided down the hill, past the Smiths, the Flannigans, and the Browns, and she turned gently left at the Turners and the Vincents. As she arrived at the Memory Pond, she pulled over onto the side of the road and parked. A look in the mirror, a flutter of the eyes, a purse of the lips, a sniff of the nose, and an application of makeup later, she gingerly opened the door and stepped out.

Underneath the car landed two black flats, worn but still presentable at church. Like a series of blocks landing on each other came the hose, black skirt, thin black belt, cream blouse, black jacket with jade broach, and jade necklace. The assemblage was topped by a surprisingly youthful face, rose cheeks and deep eyes surrounded by an oval perimeter further fenced by short silver hair. Small wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth betrayed her, but she bore a posture and pose of a woman twenty years her junior.

Edith took her flowers from the rear seat, shut the car door, and walked across the road and onto the grass leading to the Memory Pond. The grass was thick with the summer’s growth, and it appeared her slight frame did little to challenge the combined strength of the blades. She arrived at a small stone bench, her favorite, and sat, admiring the complete view of the pond. Ringed by Northern Red Oak trees, the blue-green water of the pond shimmered as if on fire when the breeze danced across. She closed her eyes, felt the sun on her face, and leaned back on her hands. She could hear the wind and the birds and a stray insect or two, as always, and, most importantly, she could hear nothing else.

She had first come to Sparrow’s Trace Cemetery thirty years ago to bury her parents. Then, she had the strength of her husband Kevin and daughter Emily to lean on. To depend on, really. Ten years later, with Emily living on the other coast, it was much more difficult when it came time to say goodbye to Kevin. Her college sweetheart. Her best friend. Her everything.

Her mind wandered to the breakfast table 21 years earlier. That’s when it started. Like every other morning, she had made Kevin his oatmeal and sliced his apple. It was just one of the daily rituals that gave their lives meaning and order and, honestly, happiness. They talked about Emily’s impending marriage, town gossip, and other things that surely seemed important. An hour later, that’s the first time Kevin felt ill. A pain in the stomach. She wrote it off to indigestion, but it didn’t resolve for hours. A few days later, the same thing. The next week, again.  Then, Edith and Kevin began the dance so many knew so awfully well: doctors, tests, more doctors, more tests, the Big C, tears, treatment, tears, treatment, exhaustion, treatment, hope, more treatment, more exhaustion, more tears.

A year later, at Kevin’s bedside in the hospital, while Emily had gone downstairs to get some coffee, Edith held Kevin’s hand as she watched him slip away. There was no commotion, no dramatics, no furious heroics from doctors and nurses. Fear becoming reality was surprisingly quiet. Edith just sat and held his hand. She knew the thought — that if she never let go he wouldn’t either — was foolish, but she couldn’t will herself to move. Edith felt Emily come into the room with the coffee, but to move to acknowledge her, to recognize her own daughter, entailed finishing her final moment with Kevin. No force in the universe could have caused that. She stared at Kevin, frantically trying to take as much in as possible, clawing against time, fighting in silence against an undefeated foe. It was not until Emily’s hand landed gently on her shoulder that the spell was broken. Still undefeated. Emily never knew that Edith’s subsequent tears embodied her anger at her for breaking the spell as much as they represented the pain of losing her husband.

Edith glanced around the pond and watched the ducks swim. For many years after Kevin’s death, Edith felt just like those ducks — grace on the surface, but kicking and struggling like hell underneath the whole time. She came to the cemetery often to visit and that helped ease the pain to some extent. Like oatmeal and sliced apples, the ritual of the cemetery visit gave her grief order. Maybe even meaning. Eventually, she visited only on Kevin’s birthday, October 4. And, so, today, it was time for Edith and her grief to take a visit. And today, she had an important message for Kevin.

She got up from the bench and carried her flowers halfway around the pond. She carefully walked up and over a slight hill and into a large expanse dotted with trees and shrubs. She smiled as she passed the Callahans and the Benders, the Julians and the Roosevelts. Edith finally came to a large, gray headstone, beautiful in its simplicity. “Kevin Bryant Thomas, October 4, 1936 to May 17, 1995, Father, Husband, Son, and Friend” As she knelt to put the white roses down in front of the tombstone, her left hand rested on top of the stone and felt its warmth. She enjoyed the sensation more than she would have thought. After all these years, she still wanted Kevin comfortable, as silly as it was, and after all that had happened.

She stepped back and took in the scene. Behind the stone and white roses, the hill fell away gradually, undulating as far as the eyes could see. Trees dotted everywhere and melted into the sky. It was a beautiful vista, one of endless possibility for spirits with no possibility. She looked around and noticed numerous flowers in front of various tombstones and took comfort in at least that level of life in this place. She cleared her throat and looked again at Kevin’s tombstone.

“I’m back. Happy birthday. You’d be 79 today, Kevin. I always did like being married to a younger man.”

She looked away, smoothing her skirt with her hand. The wind had picked up.

“I think about you every day. I do. And I know I don’t cry anymore. I can’t cry anymore, Kevin. I don’t think you’d want me to cry.”

Her eyes watered.

“Well,” she began to laugh at herself, “maybe I still cry every once in a while.”

Her small chest began to heave a little, and she wrapped her arms around herself. She stood contrapposto, fighting for the right angle to balance her sadness against the wind. Her oval face trembled now, the emotions of decades acting like tectonics, moving, shifting, shearing underneath and overtop one another, all under the surface, evidence by the slightest twitch of her eyes, jerk of her lip.

“Twenty years, Kevin. Twenty years. I have come here every year for twenty God damn years.”

She smoothed her hair back and relaxed her shoulders. The wind had died down, mirroring the slow release of all that Edith had held back for the last year.

“Last year, Emily and Joe came here with me on your birthday. We stood here, told Joe our favorite memories of you. Made him laugh. You would have been a good father-in-law to him. That night, they asked me to move out to California with them. And Kevin,” the tears were tumbling down to the thick, full, green grass, “Kevin, I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to leave you. I know, I know, but I didn’t want to leave you. Leave these visits. It was our life. Our life, Kevin, it was here. And it was a happy life.”

Edith stopped, pausing over her last words, looking away, unable to face Kevin or at least his earthly stone representative. Her shoulders had drawn up again, her hand cupping the broach he had given her on their 20th wedding anniversary.

“I told Emily and Joe that I would have to think about it.”

She wiped the tears away and caught her breath. Red leaves tumbled about her feet, one brilliant red leaf lodging in the white roses.

“While they were here on their visit. They helped me move some things up and down from the attic. Joe’s a strapping boy. He lugged those boxes up and down like it’s nothing. He brought down your old trunk from the attic. One of your old football programs caught his eye. We enjoyed looking at our college yearbooks. We were so young, Kevin. So young. When they left to go back to California, I looked around in your trunk some more.”

She paused again. Her tight face hid the delicate balancing occurring in her heart. Then, more tectonics. One plate slid underneath another, shearing off the scab she had worked so hard for the last year to build.

“I found the letters, Kevin.”

The beasts of hell had been released in slow motion.

“I’m sure you never counted on getting sick and dying so young. Were you going to get rid of them at some later date? Did you get too weak to go up to the attic to get them? Was that one thing you couldn’t ask me to help you with after your treatments? ‘Hey Kitty Kat, will you scurry on up to the attic and fetch the evidence that shows how our marriage is a scam? Thanks, hon.'”

“Did you die thinking about them? Were you keeping them to take trips down memory lane? Trips to remind you of your unfaithfulness. Trips to remind you how, with a small daughter and wife at home, you carried on a double life with a cheap office harlot for four years?  I guess we weren’t enough. Was that it? Did you want a trophy? Was it a conquest? Was I not exciting enough? Was I not dedicated enough? Did I not give you enough? Twenty God forsaken years, Kevin. Twenty years coming here. Twenty!”

Her scream ran down the hills. The grass and the leaves listened. Her emotional weight bent the light around her.

“You didn’t even have the creativity to come up with new pet names. Kitty Kat, how stupid was I! How many more were there? Did you get it out of your system, or was I an ongoing fool? Was it nothing to you, all an act? Or was our family all an act? Was I on stage or in the audience? Please let me know, I want to know.”

She stopped and breathed. Her first parry complete. Exactly as rehearsed. For months.

“I want to know, Kevin. I deserve to know, Kevin. I deserve….”

She trailed off as a car rounded a corner in the distance. She straightened her jacket, smoothed her blouse, reset her shoulders.

“I deserved better.”

The tears that had been dried by the heat of anger rolled onto the shore again.

“I’ve come here for twenty years. It gave me strength to remember this amazing man. This amazing husband. This amazing father of my child. Do you think I liked being alone? Do you think this is how I wrote my future? Do you think I wanted this, this, this non-life? I’m known for the past, not the present, much less the future. I’m a living museum exhibit. I’m spread so thin, Kevin. Why, Kevin, why?”

“But I held on to you, because you were wonderful to me. And, then, I read the letters. And I’m holding on to a dream. Holding on to a lie. A fiction.”

“Did you regret it? I wish you could tell me you regretted it. Tell me it was your worst mistake, made you love me more, made you even more committed. Tell me any one of the lies people tell each other in such situations. Tell me something. Anything.”

Edith’s shoulder’s slumped, her youthful posture and strength sapped.

“I haven’t told Emily. I won’t tell Emily. Not because I’m protecting you. I’m not. I feel sorry for you, that’s why. You cheated yourself out of loving someone completely. I don’t want your daughter to know you did that. She would think less of you, as I do. I still love you. I cannot change that, but I also can’t un-know. I will forgive you in time, but I won’t forget.”

The plates rested. An equilibrium had been reached. The trees, the leaves, and the grass were still.

“I’m moving to California next week. I won’t be back here again. I’m taking Emily and Joe up on their offer. I gave you twenty years of widowhood. That’s nineteen too many.”

She turned to walk away, took three steps, and stopped. Edith wheeled around, walked to the headstone, and removed the red leaf from the middle of the white roses. Kneeling, she whispered, “I still love you, Kevin. I’m angry, but I still love you. I was faithful, and nothing ever changes that. I loved you. I gave you what I had to give.”

Edith continued to kneel, for a long time, hugging the tombstone, crying, and offering “I loved you” as a quiet, rhythmic chant that rolled over the hills, among the leaves, and through the thick green grass.

When there were no more tears, when she had wrung all of the farewells and goodbyes from her soul, she turned and walked away over the hill, never to visit her husband, her only true love, ever again.

*******************************************

As Edith approached her car, a landscape worker was fixing some equipment near a tree, and she stopped and watched.

“Oh, hello mam. How are you?” the young man asked as he walked toward her.

“I’m okay, thank you,” Edith responded, her red eyes and streaked cheeks attesting to something different.

The young man had had many such encounters and tried to be as respectful and as unobtrusive as he could be, but felt moved in this instance to add, “It’s never easy to lose someone, is it?”

Edith took a long look at him. So long that he feared he had been inappropriate, only to hear her respond, “No, it’s not, especially when you learn that you had lost them long before you thought you had.”

The young man didn’t understand.

“May I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Yes, mam, of course.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes I am. We have two little boys.”

“You must have your hands full.”

“We do, but we get by. We’re happy.”

“Good, now I have a favor to ask you.”

Confused again, the young man replied, “Yes mam?”

“What’s your wife’s name”

“Theresa.”

“Tonight, when you get home, I want you to take an envelope and write on it ‘I love Theresa and my sons.’ That’s all. Don’t write anymore. And put the envelope in your dresser, where you’ll see it everyday.”

“Mam, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I want you to remember that everyday, and, if you ever get tempted to put any other letters in there, you’ll see that envelope. Give yourself the chance to love someone completely.”

The young man still unsure what the elderly woman meant simply replied, “Yes mam. I think that’s a good idea.”

“Trust me, I know it is.”

*******************************************

Edith got in her car, wiped clean her face, and began winding around the hills of the cemetery toward the exit. She no longer felt the inertia of the place, that grounding force that retains and retards. The trees and the leaves and the grass passed by, no longer interlopers on her pain, but a more unified whole.

She pulled under the ornate iron gate, paused, and turned right toward home. The feel of the last tenon releasing was not the snap she had expected. More of a gentle release. From her own hand.

On Finding Love

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Sit with me in a quiet place in my soul,
shut out the world and rest.
I looked for so very long and am weary,
false starts and many deceptions.

I was always looking for you,
You without a name.
Why did you make me wait,
why all the concessions?

All the missed years, the happy times
that could have filled them.
But I shuffled the sorrow and loss,
biding my time for you.

But you were cruel and unkind,
and why must I suffer?
What debt did I owe, why,
Why must I prove my worth?

Commanding the seen and unseen,
launching my ship and more.
How do you guide those,
those unknown and foreign to you?

Everyone desired to find,
all wanting one, one wanting all.
Selfish joy, greed, and envy, hiding you.
But I was always looking for you.

But you no longer tarry.
No more misses or wrong tries.
Seven years of unending light,
to love, to live, and to marry.

I bask in the radiant sun, warm,
Pink fleshed, clear eyed,
Feeling whole with you.
Feeling whole without you.

Your quiet calm, your smile,
Greet me each day without fail.
No wrong reaches me now,
my protective balm.

Sweet nothings are nothing,
My pledge means more,
to rise and meet you
and worry together nevermore.

Take my hand, and I will take yours.
Let us be together, here, now.
A peace, a pause,
My personal and permanent vow.

Sit with me in a quiet place in my soul,
shut out the world and rest.
I was always looking for you,
I was always looking for you.

On the First Scuff

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

They say the first cut is the deepest, but that’s not quite right, is it? It’s the first scuff that’s the deepest.

Last week, I notice the first scuffs on our new car. A year old, I knew it was inevitable, but, still, as I rounded the corner in the garage, my heart skipped a beat when I saw the scuffs over the rear driver-side wheel. I didn’t run into anything, so I can only surmise a rock hit the car. The damage is minimal, and you wouldn’t notice it unless I pointed it out, but, still, I know. My wonderful, beautiful new car, well, it’s not ruined, but it felt that way for a moment.

We’ve all been there. If not with a car, after buying a great new pair of shoes. They look so clean and snazzy on your feet. The gleaming white, the spotless sole, the vibrant colors. And, then, after a trudge through the mall food court, you spot the black streak down the corner of the toe box. In that moment, something inside you dies.

Your love is never the same, is it? The funny thing is, it’s something of a relief when the first bump, the first scratch, the first scuff happens. You can finally exhale, no longer protecting its flawlessness. You can relax. It’s as if you achieve a healthy equilibrium, a healthy perspective on something that is, ultimately, not important. But, until that first scuff, all bets are off on rationality. We are the guardians of the unblemished.

We treat people the same way. As parents, we protect children from any and all harms. We know it’s a losing battle, but that doesn’t stop us from going above and beyond (and beyond that) to insulate little Timmy from all the ills of the world, physical, mental, and emotional. As neurotic as we are at keeping our kids unblemished, we oddly value adults that have been around the block a few times. That have a few scuffs and scrapes. We call it life experience. Wisdom.

I’ve never considered my shoes or car wise, but I have noticed that, once broken in, once stripped of the veneer of perfection, I actually enjoy them more. These things wear into a level of comfort, of ease that brings me happiness and satisfaction. You learn the feel of the car, and you love the feel of the shoe. Not perfect, but just right.

It’s a good reminder that, sometimes, the mistakes people make, the flaws they exhibit, well, that’s just their journey to wisdom. Their journey to being, feeling, and doing good.

On a Letter to Your Pain

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

How long will you hold on to the hurt?

The years stretched by, and the hurts mounted up. Piled up, acquiring their own gravity, their own orbit. Hurts of omission and commission. Subtle and grotesque, battering and bruising. But you were good. You kept quiet. The smiles hiding the gnawing pain inside. You smoothed things over.  Didn’t talk about it. Composure over chaos. Choosing the unreal over the real. Telling yourself that your strength allowed you to take the pain without complaint.

The pain feels so good, so comfortable now. An old, awful friend. Almost powerful, but still a lameness, a brokenness. A ready excuse for all future hurts; it’s always been this way and will forever more. You set it aside, ignore it, pretend it’s not there. Give it its space, its due, its terrible respect.

But you know.

You hate its cancerous torment.

You are an expert cataloguer of pain, of misdeeds, of hurt. They are a currency for you, a system of exchange filling your mental coffer. You know the balance and anticipate future deposits. Withdrawals are never allowed. A tormented usury.

No one ever told you the secret that there aren’t boogeymen. There aren’t monsters. Just the prisons we construct in our hearts. Beautiful, horrific prisons, trapping parts of ourselves, cleaving them off. An amputation. A condemnation of our own doing. Prisons of pain. We can leave any time, but choose not to. We take solace in the confinement. Maybe even revel in it. Share it. Bare it for all to see. Or keep it hidden, a private stash to be uncovered alone. Take it out, marvel in its potent ugliness, and hide it again. Hide it again. Hide it again.

All your joy, all your happiness is muted by this yoke. Rubbed out, erased. Such a heavy mass; nothing escapes from it for long. Or so it seems. You will always snap back to it. At the end of days, you will stare at it. Alone. It has held off all others, all light, all good. It has consumed you.

Replaced you.

It is heavy and black, but not infinitely so. You can sense the light bending around its periphery. Small, dim, but there. Traveling millions of miles in your soul. No amount of pain, no hurt can extinguish it. It never leaves you. It is always there, a companion just like your pain. It does not have a voice, it does not call out. You cannot listen for it. But you can sense it. And you can follow it. Follow it against the awful pull of the pile of hurts. It is not slowed by tears, anger, or sadness.

It is beauty. It is grace. It is all these things, and more. It is forgiveness. For you and others. But mainly for you. It can tear down the prison, the confinement, the isolation. The cleaved can be made whole. The darkness lifted, the pain abated. The years of hurts slipping through your fingers into the beyond, blessedly out of reach.

How long will you hold on to the hurt?

On A Trip to the Clinic

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

Obese and pregnant,
hobbled and old,
parents and child,
meek and bold.

To the clinic they come,
hurting most are.
Scrapes and scuffs and cuts,
All the future scars.

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
and an old bed pan.

Crinkle the paper,
hop on up.
Look over here,
pee in the cup.

Cough right here,
turn this way,
Wiggle your toes,
how much do you weigh?

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
and an old bed pan.

Feeling sorta sad?
Been kinda blue?
You can smile lots more
Or pills take a few.

Needles and pricks,
topical and optical,
sign this consent,
been anywhere tropical?

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
and an old bed pan.

X-rays and eye charts,
and an MRI,
Could be anything probably,
but maybe just pink eye.

Here’s your script,
written all for you.
Hurry along now,
You’ll be as good as new.

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
and an old bed pan.

Almost done at last,
ready to start your day.
Just stand in line some more,
with your co-pay.

It’s all over now,
you’ll be better soon.
Back to feeling good,
probably before noon.

Sinks and soaps,
gloves on hands.
Gowns and socks,
And an old bed pan.

On Mountains and Molehills

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

Duke University assigned Alison Bechdel’s 2006 graphic memoir “Fun Home” to its incoming freshmen as a summer reading assignment this year. The summer reading assignment is a standard way colleges prepare their students for reading books they care nothing about. I remember being assigned a book before my freshman year; I remember going to a professor’s house to discuss the book; I remember how forced it felt; but I could not name the book if my life depended on it. Essentially, it’s an exercise where everyone gets to feel intellectual without actually being intellectual.

This all would have passed with nothing more than lots of annoyed, bored freshmen but for a Facebook posting by incoming class member Brian Grasso. Mr. Grasso objected to what he deemed graphic depictions of sexuality (women masturbating and women performing oral sex on one another) in the book, and he refused to read it. It’s unclear how Mr. Grasso learned of the images without reading it, but he labeled it immoral, distinguishing lascivious texts from lascivious images. His social media post caused quite the kerfuffle among other incoming freshmen, and, before you know it, the “controversy” had been picked up by major news outlets, bloggers, and those on any and every possible side this story could have. I now happily stoke the fire.

Let me recap this story for you: A college assigned a book to its freshman class. A student objected, calling the book immoral. That’s it.

Let’s set aside the obvious fact that Mr. Grasso, admittedly very young, has not yet grasped that the college experience revolves around exposure to new ideas one had not considered or had previously discounted. Let’s also set aside the fact that it’s difficult to credit a critic who has not read a book but is ready to deem it immoral. It’s always that way, though, isn’t it? Let’s also set aside the very fruitful area of examination of why Mr. Grasso felt the need to publicize his objections, instead of privately expressing them to faculty or staff at Duke. Mr. Grasso says he posted his objections on Facebook “to comfort those with similar beliefs.” Bless his heart.

Of all the myriad threads of this non-story one can tug on, let’s tug on its elemental nature as a non-story. Is this another internet dust-up forgotten as quickly as it roared to life? Will we all be back to cute cat videos soon? Let’s hope so, but it doesn’t change the fact that it became a story. One snot-nosed kid’s objection to a summer reading assignment. Sure, most of us are drawn to the silly, entitled rationale put forward by Mr. Grasso, including his belief that his professors should warn him of titillating material not because he might consider it offensive or discomforting, but because he considers it immoral, but like rubber-necking on the highway, it just slows down progress for the rest of us.

An unfortunate byproduct of the attention heaped upon Mr. Grasso and his ilk is not a reexamination of their intellectually stunted approach to education, but, rather, it is the further calcification of their closed-mindedness towards those ideas and images they label immoral. And now, surely, Mr. Grasso has friends. He’ll be lauded for his courage, his values. There will be other Mr. Grassos. Over time, if successful, we can whittle down the approved college level reading list to the Bible. Of course, once folks get a load of Song of Solomon, the Bible’s steamy hot chapter, that will be out too. At that point, we can all sit around, look at each other, and enjoy not being offended.

If the goal is to support and advocate for the development in America’s college students an intellectual rigor unafraid to tackle any idea or image, we need to stop breathlessly fretting about one student’s objection to one assignment at one college. It’s not newsworthy. It’s not blog worthy (except for this one). Let’s have the confidence that should come from the knowledge that a great education is one that asks students to examine their values, not hide behind them.

On the Boy With Three Donkeys

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

On April 1, 2010, while being driven down a beautiful dirt road in the Sacred Valley of Peru, our car came upon a young boy, no older than 10, walking three donkeys. The sky was clear, the fields all around us were green and lush, the donkeys bore woven striped blankets, and the young boy looked as if he was walking right out of a postcard.

I asked the driver to pull over, and we got out to talk to the young boy. In my best Spanish, which is not very good, we asked if we could take his picture, and he eagerly nodded his head. He showed the donkeys to us, and, after a few minutes, we departed. Before we did, I gave the boy the Peruvian equivalent of ten dollars. I knew he was poor, and I gave him the money, in part, knowing it would be a rich gift to him. His eyes widened when I handed it to him; it was obvious he did not expect any money. After all, he was simply walking down the road. I turned and left, wondering how the money would change his day.

Approximately twenty-five years earlier, I sat anxiously in Ms. Laney’s third grade classroom. It was the day before Christmas break, and I was excited because our classroom Christmas party was about to begin. I don’t know if schools still allow gift exchanges at holiday time, but this was a true school year highlight in my day. Christmas was a week off, but this really kicked off the gift giving season or, in my case, the gift receiving season.

At the time of the party, we randomly drew names for the classmate that would receive the gift we had brought. I’m sure my parents had prepared me with an appropriate gift, but I can’t recall what it was. Again, my mind was on the gift receiving, not the gift giving. Once we had the name of our classmate, we took turns getting out of our seats and delivering our gift. Never was better attention paid in that classroom; we were at DEFCON 1.

It was in that context that I saw Willie ambling up to my desk with a gift. Willie was mentally challenged, poor, and usually dirty. He was overweight and wore ill-fitting clothing most days. Even at eight years old, I knew Willie was different and lived a very different life than me. At that age, you have no concept of money, but you have a concept of want, of poverty, and I knew that Willie lived in that. My selfish childish mind was immediately deflated, knowing I would not be opening the fun, amazing gift I had been hoping for. I don’t know how well I hid my disappointment, but I’m sure I made every effort to do so. I was always a good little boy in that way.

When I opened Willie’s gift, it was a blue and orange plastic toy car. It was old and used, and I could see the dirt on the wheels. I heard the squeals of the other students, lots of murmurs and chatter. The clickety-clack of new wonders against desktops. I could see GI Joes, Hot Wheels cars, yo-yos, Slinkys, and every other variety of fun one can imagine all around me. I sat and held the car in my hands, the gift wrap separating my hands from the dirty car. I never took the car out of the paper. I placed it on my desk and just sat as the party swirled around me. I didn’t look at Willie. I didn’t look at Ms. Laney. I just sat there. I’m sure my brain could not make sense of the juxtaposition between my hopes and my reality.

It’s tempting to romanticize the situation. To conclude that Willie’s family could not afford a gift and tried to make the best of a bad situation. Maybe Willie had given up one of the few toys he had. Maybe. Perhaps even probably. Just as those important considerations didn’t immediately resonate with me in 1984, I imagine the nuances of the exchange didn’t resonate with Willie either.

I’m not sure my gift to the boy with three donkeys was any more right, any more admirable. Was it just a big ego trip for me, parting with a paltry sum to me so I could enjoy the look of wonder from someone for whom the amount was not paltry? There’s something slightly gross about the encounter in hindsight. In the moment, I thought it was a kind gesture; now, I’m not so sure. Did I treat the boy humanely, or was he simply, to me, a prop in a story from my holiday in Peru?

It seems that why you do something should be at least as important as what you do. I gave ten dollars to a boy with three donkeys, but I cannot answer, with any great certainty, why I did it. At least I cannot produce an honest, fully realized answer I am happy with. Willie gave me a gift, and he did so with no motive other than class participation. I assume my gift of ten dollars was more favorably received than Willie’s old car, but whether the gift was better given is less clear. Maybe even doubtful.

I think about Willie from time to time. I wonder what happened to him, where his life took him. I’m sure he never considers our third grade Christmas party, but I do. And, maybe, one day, when I untangle the riddle of why I gave ten dollars to a boy with three donkeys, Willie’s gift will turn out to be one of the best gifts I ever received.

On Party People

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ Leave a comment

One of the best and worst aspects of getting older is those moments where your self-knowledge crystallizes into permanency. The tumblers of your inner-self fall into place, and you find yourself untethered from the exhausting search for self-identity. I’ve had a few of those moments, and I’d like to talk about one: I am not a party person.

You’ve met party people. Maybe you’re a party person. Party people always know the hottest new restaurant, the craziest new club, the most thrilling new art exhibit. And, they have lots of friends. I mean lots of friends. Their social media cup runneth over, and, for them, this is right and fitting. Friday and Saturday nights, as well every other night for that matter, the agenda is full. The invitations never end. The posts and pics attest to a life lived at a level of exhuberance befitting an epic poem. The fun never, ever, ever stops.

I find this all utterly exhausting.

Most evenings, as I head home, I smile knowing that the rest of my day will be spent in the company of one — my husband — and consist of dinner, good conversation, a book or entertaining television program, and a restful slumber. Peace and wonderful quiet. If this is boring, I must confess my guilt. My guilt without remorse. This is enough for me. This makes me happy, even more so knowing hubby feels the exact same way.

Parties suffer from their artificial nature. When you get a party invitation, what it’s basically saying is: come to this place at this time, and you will experience positive emotions! Well, what if my emotions don’t like being bossed around? What if my emotions can’t be bought so easily? Maybe you have to take my emotions out to dinner first. It’s really pretty pushy when you think about it. Hey, come over here, stuff some tiny food in your pie hole, engage in awkward conversation with people you barely know about things you barely care about, and have an absolute blast!

Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating just a bit. I’ve gone to some fun parties, and I admit it. Still, in a world that’s more complex by the day, that continually invents new ways to be ever-more connected to people you barely know, I think it’s important to make a stand for quiet nights reading by the fire. For nights curled up in a blanket watching a great movie. For simply being still. For reflecting. For enjoying calm and peace.

It’s not a sexy social media moment. You don’t need any hors d’oeuvres or booze. You don’t have to RSVP. No one will be talking about it next week at work. But it is worth celebrating…all by your self.

On Belonging

~ Maxwell Xavier ~ 1 Comment

This weekend, I toured the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. The campus is a National Historic Landmark for good reason; it’s 340 acres of enormous, awe-inspiring buildings, sports fields, hedge rows, iron gates, monuments, memorials, and last but not least — mascot Bill the Goat.

The students were returning to campus to begin classes this week. It took me back twenty years to a time when I eagerly awaited the start of the new school year. I loved my college; it was an amazing four years. In hindsight, I would change only a few minor things about my college experience, but there is one decision I made that I genuinely regret: joining a fraternity.

Social life on our small campus was dominated by Greek life. Six fraternities, three sororities. Weekend nights (and many weekday nights), the Greek houses were alive with parties. Early on in your freshman year, THE question was not your prospective major but rather the fraternity or sorority you would pledge.

I knew I wasn’t into the drinking and the partying, but I liked the idea of being one of the guys. When I was accepted into a fraternity, I was excited. Over the next two months, that excitement turned into frustration, then resentment, and then anger. I had not realized the hazing that I would endure as part of the initiation process. Never violent, it was, nonetheless, an awful experience. I lacked the capacity to see the hazing as a funny game played by the upperclassmen on the freshmen. Sleep deprivation, humiliating “games,” inane responsibilities, mock military lineups, and total control over your time, I was completely miserable. We were all miserable, but no one brought up quitting. No one thought about questioning why it was necessary that we crawl around the fraternity basement with an imaginary ceiling only two feet off the floor. Maybe we were all worried about the implications of quitting: a social death. On a small, isolated campus, there was not a worse fate.

My pledging experience ended only once the administration became aware of the hazing and stepped in to stop it. We were initiated, but upperclassmen grumbled for a long time that we had missed out. That, somehow, not going through the hazing made us less-than-full members of the group.

My regret isn’t joining the fraternity as much as it is not having the strength to walk away during the pledging process. I wish I had had the strength to call out the upperclassmen on their behavior and simply quit, to recognize that the process was not consistent with my values and how I thought people should be treated. But, I was 18, and, more importantly, I wanted to belong.

Wanting to belong is a powerful force, more powerful than most of us are ready to acknowledge. It feels good to identify with something larger than ourselves. And, often, it is a good thing. But, this compulsion to belong to the group, to be “one of the guys” is also how unfair, unethical, and sometimes illegal behavior gets overlooked. Abuses get excused. The weak are picked on. Hurts are passed on from one group to another, one generation to another, all in the name of tradition or honor or some other bullshit like that.

I tried to change the system when it was my turn to be an upperclassman in the fraternity. I actively worked against the other fraternity members, telling pledges all the “secrets,” preparing them for “surprises,” and doing anything else to make their lives easier. The pledges were thankful at the time, but, the following year, they turned into some of the worst hazers I ever saw. They went along with the program, even though they professed to hate it. I guess the pull of the group, of belonging, had erased their memories. The group, with all its attendant power and social significance, justified the behavior, the mistreatment of others. It was a cycle of abuse.

A few years after I graduated, my fraternity was kicked off campus. When I learned the news, I said good riddance in my mind, my fraternity swag long abandoned. Ultimately, it was all stupid stuff, most hazing is. What’s not insignificant, though, are the mental gymnastics most folks engage in to excuse the bad behavior, all in the name of belonging. In the end, I learned that it’s great to want to belong, but it’s even better to know when you don’t.