The Book of When? – Chapter Nineteen

I suppose I was somewhere around the age of 18 or 19 when I started to realize that I had been lied to.
I had been stolen, in a sense, and corralled in another.
I was misled by own blindness and misguided by the inaccuracies of my environment and my peers and the poor assumptions of leadership in my so-called surroundings. I was taught by imperfect teachers and believed the lies of those who were fed the same lies before me.
It’s a torch, or a baton in some relay race and, yes, the word race fits well in this entry.

I am mindful of my own imperfections. I am mindful of my thoughts the trickery of my old beliefs. However, I am mindful that I have grown. Because I have grown, I have come to the understanding that the depth of my love can outweigh and reach further than the span of my hate.
At the same time, love and tolerance leads to vulnerability. Vulnerability allows for weakness. My hate used to despise these things. Then again, I used to despise everybody –
because I was taught to.

I suppose the moment of awareness is best summarized by one of my favorite inspirations and poets. This comes from Saul Williams who chanted, “Stealing us was the smartest thing they ever did. Too bad they don’t teach the truth to their kids.”
Of course, this line relates to me in a different sense. I, myself, did not grow up black nor am I from the same culture as Saul. Yet, at the same time, I am a firm believer that there are thefts of all kinds. And there are mistruths and dishonesties, projections, imperfect teachers, poisoned realities, and moments like the time when my eyes opened wide enough to realize that the lies I was fed were not just sad and false, but degenerative and degrading as well.

I grew up in a very basic working, middle-class neighborhood. I say it this way to remain consistent. My aim is to always be consistent, at least when I’m here (with you) and so, when it comes to where I come from, I want to be consistent when referring to my old neighborhood.
No one was excessively rich or poor in my neighborhood. Then again, I was only a kid, which means I had no idea what it meant to be rich or poor, at least not beyond my own perspective.
I had no idea what it meant to pay bills nor did I understand the concept of mortgages or the awareness of gas prices or the cost of food.
I had no idea what went into working for a living and having to care, feed, and to support a family. I was just another kid in the playground of my suburban community.
I was a kid, but I was still a member of my community. I was part of the basic, everyday dysfunctions, and I was part of the ignorance. I fully and completely admit to subscribing to the different brands of hate which I was taught and which I learned, and which I assumed were true—and I did because how could they not be true if people were teaching me about this?

Race, color, creed and religion.
These are the lines of separation. Money, positions, and job titles, bank accounts and economic levels of living or being and the different levels of social snobbery and the focus on name-brand consciousness has always been apparent to me.

“It’s not who you are, it’s what you wear!” Right?

I remember a shirt that said this.
I remember the punchline or more like the exclamation point of this idea was written across the bottom and said, “After all, nobody really cares who you are anyway.”
Right?

This was another concept of theft, in my opinion.
Image. Where you live.
Who you know.
Who knows you.
How you dress.
How you stand out in the crowd (or not).
This was always apparent to me.
I remember believing that the substance of a person and their worth were based on these priorities—which in fairness to my moment of awakening, I realize that my priorities were sad and misled and that I had been lied to and stolen.
I was caught like a fish.
Hook, line, and sinker.

I was taught about hate; and therefore in my fear of being “the one” who was rejected or unacceptable, and equally hated, and in my fear of being the focus of someone’s taunts or insults, and to defend my own rage and to support my own anger for being socially uncomfortable or believing that I was just as unacceptable for living, looking, or believing differently, and to defend my awkwardness and fear—I allowed myself to hide my vulnerabilities by subscribing to the popularity of hate and rage and the actions of violence.
But truthfully,
this was not me.

I remember a cross that was placed on my neighbor’s lawn and lit on fire.
The cross itself was no bigger than perhaps 3’ tall. But the statement of hate and rage and the clear sign which yelled “not welcome,” was clear and larger than the cross itself.

My Old Man despised racism. And I suppose I did as well. After all, I was a mix of different heritage. I am Irish, Dutch, Welch, and Cherokee Indian on my Mother’s side. But that’s just one half.
As for The Old Man, he was full-blooded Austrian, Ashkenazi, Jewish and all together, I grew up with a mixed understanding of life and how people come from different parts of the world. I learned that religion is religion and that yes, there is such a thing as an Irish, Dutch, and Welch Jew, because I grew up in a Jewish household but I lived in a predominantly Irish, Roman Catholic neighborhood. Nevertheless, it wasn’t particularly cool to be Jewish.

I cannot say that everyone was racist. But I can say that I did grow up around racism. I experienced hate. I know what Antisemitism is on a first-name basis.

I had always assumed that hate was natural and that, unfortunately, hate was more dominant than patience and love.
I was taught that everyone hates Jews. I was taught that Jews were seen as the enemy and a financial burden and worse, or as for other minorities, I was taught that “they” were nothing like me, or that “they” and, of course, I emphasize the word “they” to embody the broadness of hate and the ever-expanding hand of the racist dialogue which is taught and preached. At the same time, I emphasize this as another theft which took place—and yes, it’s too bad that no one teaches the truth to their kids on both sides of the line.

Hate is highly contagious, especially in places where anger prevails.

I was stolen by hate and stolen by lies stolen by the misguided support that symptoms are the problems. Therefore, as I unfold my regrettable yesterdays, and while I uncover the span of my younger hate—I expose that I was a coward. I was a bully. I was bullied and hated and therefore, I decided to pass the torch in whichever and whatever way possible.

I was both told and taught about my enemies and about an obvious and unspoken war.
I was taught that I should always fail safely to my own kind—yet I was a special kind of refuse in my own mind. So who could I fail safely to?

I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know where I stood or how I fit in. I knew about the poison of people and the inaccurate teachings or who goes where or who does what, which I assumed were laws because why else would hate be so popular if it were not true.

I was so small.
Not in size. No, I was small-minded and narrow and ignorant and sad; therefore, before I allow the list to go on—in all my young life, I never assumed that the first man who I would say is the man who saved my life would be black.
Thank you, A. Mathias.
Thank you for your brotherhood and mentorship and for being a father to me when I was somewhat abandoned (in a sense) and lost, like the Prodigal son, seeking to be home again and to return under the wing of my own true Father.

Who would have thought that another man, black as well, aside from Mathias, or a man who lived the poorest life, who hid in box cars and drank cheap wine, or a man who never owned a new pair of pants, or who never knew peace in his life, who’s skin was black as night—or who would have thought that this man would pull me to the side in a treatment facility where I was “the kid,” and stupid, and playing adult games that are deadly by nature and corrupted with outrage and sin—and who would have thought that this man who never owned anything new in his entire life, everything was a hand-me-down, or from Goodwill, and him, a black man, or should I say a man who was different from me, or from a different tribe (so-to-speak) and man who at one point, I would have looked down upon or I might have called him something awful, and certainly something worse than homeless or a bum—in a million years, who would have thought that this man would call me into his room in a treatment facility, and with tears in his eyes, who would have thought that this man would offer me such an unforgettable gift.

He told me that he never had a new pair of pants. He never experienced the feeling of having new clothes or new anything, and then he handed me a pair of brand-new, folded blue jeans.
He said, these will fit you.
He told me that he didn’t want me to go to the next facility and not have something new. He told me that the life I was living was not the life I deserved.
He said this while crying, “Please, son.”
He told me, “Do what they tell you to do. I don’t want you to have to see any of the things that I had to see.”
He said “That life doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Please don’t go back to it.”

Here it is, live and in the flesh.
Stealing me was the smartest thing they ever did—too bad someone taught the truth to this kid.

My mind was misled and misguided by outrage and blindness. I was so hateful and so lost and missing in my own swamps of misperception—and there it was, the light of truth, that people are people and assholes are assholes and lies are lies and that all which is taught is not always true.

I remember when I realized that I was lied to.
I remember when I was awakened to the fact that I believed in false truths. I believed what I was told and that yes, I was stolen. I was gullible enough to believe without question or without the knowledge, or wisdom, or the understanding to inquire or look for deception.

I think of Mathias.
I think about the kindness that he offered to me.
I think of the people who I never assumed would be my friend, let alone, love me in return or show me a moment of kindness or patience. I think about those who showed the loving tolerance of one person who understands the fact that teaching means learning and that not everyone has the benefits of understanding.

I am learning. Always.
Constantly.
I am the teacher and the learner and there are times when I am taught by students, which is ever reminding to always be teachable.

It is okay to question the lessons we are taught, and yes, this is a sign of maturity and emotional intelligence.
It’s okay to question the lessons we have been taught by our parents. And, although I love Mom and The Old Man, and as great as they are (and were) to me, Mom and The Old Man were human too, which means they were wrong too—it’s just that I never thought to question them until later in my life.

It’s always good to question and understand the lessons we are taught. This is not disrespectful. This is inquiring. There’s a difference.
This shows that we want to understand clearly and, if needed, we want to evaluate the lessons taught—as if to inspect them and ask are they true? Are they worthy?
Do they serve us well?
If so, why?
Or –
is this information which has been labeled as true (or at least true to someone) just another’s projection of a lie that they were taught?

Lies are passed like the torch or the baton in relay races too.

To close this out –
I have friends who have decided to be born again and there are times when we find ourselves in heated debates about our versions of God.
I don’t yell or argue.
Then again, I don’t have to.
I know where my heart is and I know what’s true to me; therefore, since my belief is true and comfortable to me, I don’t have to push or impose my beliefs on someone else.
I don’t have to fight or argue.

This is what faith is to me.
If I had weak faith, then perhaps I would argue and yell about my version of God, or my version of living without the dependance on God or the so-called godless ideas that I have.

I think this is why people push their narratives—maybe they know they’re wrong—but if more people believe in their ways—then hey, it must be true, right?

In fairness—I don’t always know what’s true.
But I do know what’s true to me.
And yes, I have been taught lies.
I have been stolen and lied to more than once.
And I’m sure this will happen again.
But at some point, a time will come when my eyes open wide enough to see–and just like it was with Mathias—the truth will be revealed.

Dear Matthias,

I’m still here, my old friend. I never forgot you or what you did for me.
I will never forget my promise to you. I never have and I never will.
I never tried “it” again—but I’ll admit to coming close.
Suicide is not the answer.
You taught me that.
I just wish I was there for you the way you were there for me that night.
Maybe if I was—you’d still be around.

See you in the afterlife my friend.

Thank you for saving me.

B—