Posted in Beauty, Health

The Aftermath

25 years ago today, a jury acquitted Stacey Koon, Laurence Powell, Theodore Briseno, and Timothy Wind on charges of assault and use of excessive force in the now infamous caught on tape beating of Rodney King. In some ways not much has changed in 25 years. Now the footage is captured on iPhones instead of camcorders. But police brutality, especially against people of color, is still rampant in the United States. Victims of police brutality are still scrutinized and blamed. Rodney King certainly wasn’t an innocent man. Amadou Diallo was! But in either case – or any of the plethora of like cases we have been inundated with over the past quarter of a century – the narrative is always similar. It always becomes a story about how much the victim did or did not deserve the severity of force rather than primarily about those who abuse the power of a badge and a gun.

These are things I have been thinking about, at least since the fall of 1992. Ice Cube released his third solo album, The Predator. From beginning to end it was a scathing indictment of police brutality and race relations in America. And from “We Had to Tear This Mothafucka Up” to “Who Got the Camera?” it was a completely different commentary than what I got from the Evening news with Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather and drastically different than what I heard from my parents. I am not being hyperbolic or speaking flippantly when I say that listening to that album with my headphones on was a large part of why I ended up going to seminary. I just no longer see the church pulpit as my avenue for trying to be an agent of change in a sick and heartbroken society.

What I haven’thought a lot about is the aftermath of a highly publicized event on a city and all of its inhabitants. From the violence that erupted in L.A. to the mostly peaceful demonstrators and vigils in Ferguson, there is some level of violence, lots of civil unrest, negative impact on local businesses, whether from looting or the enforcement of curfews. Already tense relationships between law enforcement and disenfranchised communities are heightened. And in this state of affairs the media descends on a city and saturates the entire country with coverage of their story… until the next big headline. I say none of this to minimize the importance of the people being heard. It is more of a judgement about our poor listening skills, about how we only talk about ugly truths when the worst things happen, we turn people and whole cities into talking points until there is another headline about a President’s tweet, or the unrest in Syria or a viral video of a bluegrass band covering AC/DC diverts our attention.

I am thinking a lot today about what the aftermath must be like for the communities affected. I am thinking about it largely for two reasons. Yesterday I listened to a heartbreaking report on NPR on how L.A. Mayor Tom Bradley and sports and business mogul, Peter Ueberroth’s attempts to Rebuild L.A. were in large part a failure. And in many ways the city is still reeling from the aftermath of the verdict and the subsequent civil unrest.

I am also thinking about it because one year ago today in a much less publicized case I was a “defendant” for the first time in my life. The plaintiff was my ex-wife. We stood in front of a judge. There were no lawyers. He didn’t even bang a gavel. He simply pronounced us divorced. We had already been separated for 6 months. We had been growing apart for years, creating a void that was almost unbearable for all, including our two children. People find all sorts of ways to cope with the dysfunction of an unhappy home. I was distant and drank too much. I threw myself headlong first into the search for ministry placement. Then after a heartbreaking two year search and a very short lived time as an underpaid “resident pastor” I threw myself into being an online, Christian “social justice warrior.” My family suffered, I suffered, my art suffered. But divorce, while many things, is not a cure for dysfunction or broken hearts. The civil unrest of divorce creates a vortex of new pain and an aftermath that requires a lot of rebuilding.

I am working my ass off to rebuild. I am working to resurrect a bridge of communication that was completely dismantled between my ex-wife and myself, so that we can successfully co-parent two children whose dreams of a happy home and a white picket fence, with both parents together were shattered. I am working on reestablishing a relationship with the two most important people in my life, my 9 year old daughter with trust issues and clinical anxiety and my wide-eyed, usually optimistic but heartbroken 7 year old son. Some days the effort seems futile and fruitless when my daughter calls me the night before a “daddy’s weekend” and says she is not coming to my house anymore and hangs up on me. There are lots of fits, temper tantrums and some trying to play mom and dad against each other. But there is also a lot of precious time spent playing baseball in the yard, letting my son get unlimited turns at bat to kick my ass and letting my daughter make up her own 15 strikes before your out rule. There is ice cream and hugs and snuggles. And I cannot let myself forget things when they break my heart or during the void I feel, the 10 out of every 14 days that they are not here with me.

The aftermath is hard. Somethings take a lifetime and constant effort to rebuild. Time certainly does not heal all wounds. But love – love and tireless effort – can bandage those wounds and hold us tight as we walk through the flames and sift through the ashes and strain towards compassion, growth and new ways of navigating life and finding joy.

Posted in Health

Lent 38

This is the night it purportedly all went down. Betrayed with a kiss. Abandoned by his followers. Peter denouncing his connection to him three times.

I remember the first time I felt truly and deeply betrayed. As I’ve mentioned in several of these post my parents fought a lot while I was growing up. My dad would move out of the house for months on end. Without fail, I always saw things from my mother’s point of view. I always took her side.

Then when I was 15, during one of my father’s long absences, my mother kicked me out too. I was already double grounded for listening to rock and roll music while my mother was at church and I was supposed to be, well… grounded. Now the stakes had doubled. My mother was in her bedroom crying away the weekend about the problems between her and my dad. My brother and I were given extra household chores, on top of chores to keep us busy. I made my brother laugh. That was my crime. I was supposed to be grounded, not enjoying myself. And the house was supposed to be filled with sadness.

My brother and I were dusting the living room and I was singing songs from Beauty and the Beast with the candlesticks. At the sound of our laughter, my mother came raging out of her bedroom. She told me that I was in denial. I was in denial about the pain, sickness, and “sin” in our household. It was the only time I remember her ever really laying hands on me. When I was young she had spanked me with boards and belts across my ass. On this day she set me down in a chair plummeted my chest with her fists.

I had always taken her side! Now she was sending her demon seed to live with his devil of a father. Over the course of the next couple of months, I began to believe my dad’s account of things. He said that he had not been drinking again. He said that my mother was paranoid and imagining things. The pastor and the youth pastor of the church we attended reinforced his narrative. I was a believer! I jumped at what I felt like was the first real opportunity in my life to really connect with my dad. Over the course of a couple of months, we had some nice time in the sleazy little one-bedroom apartment that he rented for us.

Then one morning I woke up to the smell of alcohol permeating the apartment. I saw the back of a man’s head with his arm around a woman passed out on the floor. How Could my father do this? It was the only time in my life I ever thought seriously about harming another individual. I thought about it intensely. I imagined violently attacking the man on the floor.

Then a man that I recognized as my dad’s old drinking buddy Carl pulled the covers off and said “Good morning Wayney.” He told me my dad was in no condition to drive home and sent him to look after me for the night. My dad made it home later that night. We sat in darkness as he told me that everything my mother said about him was true, the drinking and worse things.

I came home from school a few days later to see my mother and my father holding hands in living room. In retrospect, I am glad they made up. I’m glad my dad finally stopped binge drinking for real. I am glad that my brother and my sister knew a somewhat happier adolescence than I did. And I am glad my dad was there during my mother’s final days. It is a really shitty way to learn to be a better man. But the experience of my mother’s death changed my already sobered up father into a better man. A good man.

But on that day, in the shitty little apartment, having defended them both, having found out their allegations against each other both proved to be somewhat true, my mom was a little neurotic, my dad was a drunk up until that very day, I had never felt more betrayed. None of my teen angst, or justified hurt and anger at their lack of apology for what they have put me through could keep them apart. Maybe it was true love after all. My mother never apologized until two or three years later. My Dad apologized for those difficult times when I was a young man in my twenties and took him out for breakfast.  I told him I love him, and confronted him about the hurt and the pain.

I have hinted at this story once before and public writing. I have shared it over beers with friends. It has made appearances in poetry committed to memory that I’ve never written down. But here it is as bare and open as possible. I think my parents really loved each other. But up until that day much of their loved had been toxic. I packed my bags and my dad and I drove home that weekend. There is a picture my mom took of us in the doorway on our return. It wasn’t Calvary. At the time it felt more like Gehenna. I might forever hold inside of me the tension of wishing things were different, and being glad they happened the way they did. But on that day all I felt was betrayal as I watched my father kiss my mother and a new chapter in our life began.