On Fear

Where does fear come from? In most respects it seems instinctive, although it must certainly have a link to evil.  Being scared of the dark and being scared of the darkness. Fear of what we can not see and fear of what we can not understand or fathom. I have some distinct memories of fear from my childhood, and some recent exposure to fear as an adult.


I remember very well, perhaps too well, curling in my father's lap, shaking to my core at the appearance of the Dust Witch in the movie portrayal of Ray Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. We had rented the movie and the VCR from Palmer video and viewed it in our basement. Although now my watching of the movie is an annual Autumn tradition, the fright I remember is still locked in my mind.

Another memory of fear I have is also associated with that old basement (It was finished, had a heart and body warming pot-belly stove, our "dining room," and toys, so it wasn't scary by nature). This memory, though, is linked to a dream. In my youth I had this recurring dream that a wolf, the most evil wolf, was after me. I can picture its eyes, and fangs, staring through the small window to the left of the stove. What does it mean? What did it mean? Beats the hell out of me, but I remember the fear it elicited.

And now to my contemporary experiences - my current perspective on fear. As stated, I think fear it often related to darkness, to the unseen. Several years ago, early in my quickly lengthening career, I had an unforgettable call. It was just after 3am (see, there it is again, nothing good happens at 3am). My partner and I responded to a noise complaint on the other side of town. We arrived within seconds of each other and observed a dark, two story dwelling with a light on over the side porch. We approached the porch with some caution, observing the signs of a party as we neared. The odor of beer emanating from the yard, red solo cups strewn across the lawn. Ok, I got this figured out. Some underage kids having a drinking party on a Friday night (which became Saturday morning). The black and whites appear and out go the lights. Pretend there is no one here - that'll work, they'll never know! I wasn't wrong - I just wasn't right either.

As we awaited the upstairs tenant, I got that feeling - you know the one where you feel someone is watching you, and the little hairs on the back of your neck stand-up - that one. With my head on a swivel, I caught the silhouette of someone just as the horizontal slats of the wooden blinds fell closed again. At least I knew there was someone in that rear room. We entered a small vestibule with a door to the left, a door to the right, and stairs ascending to the second floor apartment in front of us. Ascending the stairs with an eye on the foyer, my partner and I accompanied the caller to the upper entry to her apartment. "I'm scared!" she explained. "I just moved in and they are moving out so I don't want to even bother them, but I'm scared." Scared of what? a few underage kids getting shit-faced? To each their own I guess. Ok, we got this. Well just talk to them, wake up some parents, finish this thing off for the morning.  "I am going to go and stay with my parents, if that's ok," she went on. Even better. My partner escorts her out and now it's on to the downstairs interlopers.

Knock, knock, knock. . .Wait. . . Bang, bang, bang (Why is it always in threes? I don't know). Bang, bang, bang - on the door of the rear, "occupied" room. Ok, how about the other door. It's slightly ajar. Cue the hair on the back of the neck again and . . . enter the darkness. Partner has my back, watching the door to the "occupied" room. Enter a kitchen area. Draw flashlight and shed light into this darkness. (An aside - I learned, from television no less, that one of the best ways to look for something is with a flashlight, even in a lit room - it keeps the eyes focused on only what is targeted by the beam). Another good thing about darkness - it heightens our other senses. As I pan and scan, cue the crying. And my brain begins to catch up with the impulses of my sensory system. What am I seeing? What am I hearing? Four or five teens, prone on the floor, hands duct-taped behind their backs. Draw weapon. And try to understand what is unseen. What is in the darkness? What is around the corner? What is behind the other door? Fear.

When my mind catches up we go to work. Get help, set up a perimeter, release the bound hostages. But the evil element is gone. It slipped away out the other side of the house. (They were later caught and convicted on DNA evidence and a thorough investigation and now enjoying good meals, working out, and television courtesy of Dept. of Corrections.) It was later corroborated that upon our approach of the house, when that creeping feeling of being watched fell over me, one of the convicted felons was aiming a handgun at me and my partner. But fear made him retreat. We shed light into his darkness. And I learned a lot about my senses, my perceptions - they doth deceive. 

Fear can be good. It can help us survive (there is the tie to instinct). And if we shed light into its darkness, we can overcome it. What are your fears? Are you afraid of the dark?

On Love and Violence

First things first - cause they just can't go second, - Watch "The Human Experience," a captivating documentary filmed by my friend Chuck Kinnane of Grassroots Films. (www.grassrootsfilms.com). It shows one of the most meaningful ways of gaining perspective - shared experience.

Let's examine a way in which we share experiences: Sympathy and empathy. A short explanastory (yeah, I made that up). Your friend is in the hospital for an appendectomy - you send a get well card - or sympathy card. You feel badly for them and hope for a swift recovery. You still have that defunct organ and really don't know why, but neither have you experienced the process of having it surgically removed. On the other hand, there is no such thing as an empathy card, or at least I don't think it exists (someone contact Hallmark!) But when we know the troubles of life that one is facing because we have actually been there before, we can communicate our real understanding. Empathy  "most often refers to a vicarious participation in the emotions, ideas, or opinions of others, the ability to imagine oneself in the condition or predicament of another" (Webster's). Shared experience can be the best teacher and give the best understanding.

In "The Human Experience," the Azize brothers came from a family of alcoholism and abuse. These evils surround me every day. In a way, they are job security - terrible as that may be. Violence in the home has many ugly faces.  Because emotions flow from the same chemicals in the body, it seems that where there is love, there can also be hate. The extremes go together. We just don't really care about the people we don't care about. But when we have a relationship with another, that intimacy can manifest love or hate, or even both. The cycle of violence seems to be rooted in the basest nature of man's free will. And at this root, we want to find the good in people - even in those who would use and abuse. But that also can perpetuate the cycle of violence. When a battered spouse forgives, and transfers blame, we ask why. For them, there is no asking, at least not anymore. So the stages- Tension building, Acute Battering, Honeymoon Stage - continue; then start all over again. 

It can be difficult to see this cycle of violence turn over and over like a hamster turning its wheel. Why, just this morning I came in to find one half of a pair of wheel turners that are known all too well to me, sitting comfortably in the holding area. It was no surprise. The problem for me is that I know that I can't really help anymore. Not with some explanation. No more savvy relationship tips. Not even an explanation of the process of the courts will work - they've been there, done that. I do what I must to stop the immediate violence, then just wait for our next response -and with it the danger for me grows. It's the complacency toward man's destructiveness and hatred that bothers me - but is also somewhat essential in my psychological longevity. 

So what do I take from this? How has this formed my perspective? Well, I believe that I understand love and violence a little better than the average bear. I have learned some coping skills that help me and that I employ in other interactions in my job. And I haven't given up all of my hope in man. For many there will be a time to start over. To grasp at the reaching hands of love around them - hands that  may not be seen while clouded in their own distress. And perhaps I can be that hand - the last one offered, when all others have been withdrawn after years of being unseen or rejected.  Can you be the one with an outstretched hand - reaching out in love to catch your fellow man who is falling? I think you can.

On Sorrow

I suppose we are all on some sort of journey to discover the essence of humanity - of what it is that we are all a part of. If you haven't already done so, "I'd say it's time you've begun" (TNBC, Burton).

Having been raised a Roman Catholic, it is rote that we are "made in the image and likeness of God." Leaving the theology of this confounding idea to those much more learned than me, I am left with little more than - my perspective. So what do I know about the image of God in the picture of man? Huh, let me think on that. I will attempt to break down this complexity into a few experiences of man and examine his choices, his emotions, his society.

I see man from a somewhat interesting perspective. By the nature of my business I am dropped amidst lives so often on a cliff dive into dark, murky waters. Trouble has befallen someone's world and they just can't make sense of it all. I see heartache, tears, violence, and death. You would be amazed what lives hold hidden behind closed doors - in your own neighborhood. And I'm often left with the question, "where does it come from?" Is this man?

Perhaps one of the hardest things I've ever done happened early in my career. Before I divulge the story, let me just say this- nothing good really ever happens at 3am. Bradbury said it best, it's the "soul's midnight." So, around 3am, I needed to be a messenger. I needed to be dropped into a family for a brief time - the bearer of sorrowful tidings. A 23-year-old  had been driving his car on his way home from a local college bar, impaired by alcohol. On a winding road that parallels the mighty Raritan, he - a brother, a son - lost control of his vehicle, at which time it tumbled of its own accord, careening across the road and into a tree - trapping and killing him.

Ok, I've got this, this is easy to dissect: Should not have driven. Should have called for a ride. Or a cab. Or just plain used some self-control while imbibing, knowing he had to drive home. And the invincibility of youth is challenged, and loses - again. But here's my dilemma: How do you explain this to his parents?

How about - Life is short? You never know the time or place? No, probably not gonna cut it here. So with as much compassion as I can muster, and with a firmness that expresses the finality of death, I break it to the father. I don't remember the words I used, but the response of his cry was indelible. And then to his wife - we all know it is not fair, a mother should never lose a child. And reality sets in; then her denial, fear, sadness, and grief: Sorrow.

The brother, woken by the torment coming from downstairs, descended with a glazed look. And then the shock really sets in. "But I was just with him? How did this happen? Was this my fault?" And reality sets in, then denial, fear, sadness, and grief: Sorrow.

So I find myself not addressing death, but rather the sorrow of loss. How do we move on? We may find the answer in our body. On my right wrist, on my left knee. Scars. When we are so torn that our skin can not cover our broken flesh, the body has an answer - connective tissue. It is different, is doesn't tan on the Jersey shore, but it gets the job done. When I look at my own I remember how they got there. There cause may still be hidden under the surface, though the pain once there is long gone. So when the sorrow hits, and tears us apart - where do we find our connective tissue. Perhaps it is meant to be found in the connectivity of family, friends, and God's gracious arms. Or at least that's what I see through my window. 

Beginning

I guess I just start at the beginning. I have been following my sister's blog, feminismthecatholicfword, and was intrigued that her writer's voice was so similar to what I think of as my own. That is to say, reading her posts captured something in my own literary mind; something inspirational not only about her "hanging the truth out on the line" content, but also a captivation that rustled my inner writing voice.

So I decided to introduce you to my window on the world. I suppose we all have a unique vantage point on the world that surrounds us. It differs by home, work, local, and even country. For me, it was the country change that helped shape me, my perspectives, my aspirations.

In 1992, at the ripe old age of 15 I was given the amazing opportunity to spend a month overseas. It was in-part a vacation - a vacation is more like a week in the Carribean, a trip to Disney, or perhaps a few days in Paris - so this proved to be much more than that. A new language, a new culture, a new pace. A new picture into family and commitment. Pretty deep for a 15 year old, I know. I saw the countryside of Belgium and France; I learned what "old" really is - when a building from 1910 isn't. But most importantly I began to see people and humanity. It was seen in the gentle strength of my friend's mother and the generosity of his father, who took in workers who traveled from Poland searching for employment to send money home to their families. It was as the Star led the Wisemen to the Christ Child that these workers found Mike's father in the countryside of Belgium. And they had work, and they were blessed by his kindness.

Not to disillusion, I really did't put together what it was that I was seeing or experiencing at that time, but through the eyes of a spoiled, youngest of four from Jersey, I did my best. My vision and scope widened much more the following year when I again was blessed to be able to visit with my friend Mike and his large, loving, diverse family. So I felt I was in-part returning home at we drove past the outskirts of Brussels and into the Belgium countryside. It was there that I began to take-in a simplicity in life.

This was magnified to the enth degree when I accompanied Mike, his brothers, and father to Poland. (An historical note - it was only three years earlier that the Solidarność party, under Lech Wałęsa, had overrun communist control and held democratic elections in Poland.) Once there, southeast of Krakow, we made our way to a moment of change for me. One of the Polish workers, whom I had met the previous summer, had invited us to his house. It was small, it was made of brick, and stood only feet from the dirt road that delivered you to it. We arrived at lunch. With the most proud of all expressions worn about his face and body, our host announced that our pork meal was the freshest he could provide - killed that morning - the center of our feast. His son and daughter sang songs, entertained and waited on us. It was our host's humble way to say thank you, and it was profound. After eating, we toured the farm. A few animals, some small crops, and across the street, a pile of bricks. Upon further inspection we found it to be more. A small foundation had been erected with three or so layers of brick atop. "That is my daughter's house." Or it would be upon completion. Brick by brick. Guess there is really no other way to build, but he meant literally "brick by brick." His daughter was about 10 and this was to be her wedding present - a house, a home, built brick by brick in her father's loving hands! Profound? I think so.

So this is my best and first memory of developing  . . . perspective.

And twenty years later it is still all about perspective. What do we see when we look at the world? What is our angle? Everyone has an angle.