Act 2: Scene 1
A new phase of life. October 1989 . . .
Late autumn, just before winter takes place.
Enter my time in the Upstate, New York mountains
Enter my moments of subtle awareness that became too painful and obvious to avoid.
Enter my moments of truth and enter the awakening that I had lived, believed, and that I surrendered and subscribed to a series of lies, deceptions, and internal dishhonesties.
Enter all of this
Enter my time which was elsewhere, aside from where I deserved to be, which was locked away and sitting in a cage and suffering my incarceration like any other convict. However, and instead, I took a deal. I took a shot and so, I assumed that I made a score and pulled a trick. Or better, I made a deal and willingly went into treatment instead one one year, plus 90 days in prison.
I took this deal, not because I believed this was better and nor had I decided to subscribe to a life without drugs or the drug-life culture. No . . .
I took the deal to beat jail.
But I had more in store for me.
I was just uncertain what else would come my way.
I grew up in a small, Long Island town. I was the youngest in a decent, modest home and born as the son of a Mother who was more typical of the times. She was a housewife to say the least, and unaware of the world outside of her previous upbringing in a small neighborhood down in Carlsbad, New Mexico.
New York was different for Mom.
Then again, I suppose New York is different for everybody, including New Yorkers.
There are different parts and different sections, different cultures and different people who make up New York.
Then again, location means everything. Neighborhoods vary and so do the languages, the customs, the local sayings, and of course, there are the financial, racial, and religious differences that make up the differences between, say my side of the neighborhood or the other.
I am not like most and nor am I typical with my looks. I never seemed to fit the stereotypical looks when it comes to those who are born and bred from a Jewish household. I do not have the so-called typical features of someone from the Jewish faith; and yes depending upon the person or the speech patterns, the word Jew can be intended with pride or seen as an Antisemitic insult.
Hate is definitely taught and yes, I learned young.
I learned about hate from an early age.
I saw hate.
I saw a cross being burned on my neighbor’s front lawn.
I heard racial slurs and anti-black sayings and yes, the term “nigger” was never used poetically or with pride and to me; I always saw this word as an insult on an entire society, which always made me curious as to why a race of people would flower a word like this and use this more as a badge of honor. I never saw this clearly when in fact; the intention of the word “nigger” was to define and degrade an entire race of people.
I grew up in a mainly white, Roman-Catholic, or Irish Catholic neighborhood. There were some families who came from the Greek-Orthodox belief system and as for other ethnicities, there were few who disturbed the common themes. And as for the Jews, well, there was a section in my neighborhood which was called and known as Jewville or Jew-town.
I did not live on that side of town. I was not typical.
Then again, I never believed that I was typical or like anyone else.
I am a man who was born in a Jewish household. I am someone who has a mixture of different backgrounds that range from Austria on my Father’s side, who is full-blooded, and from this I go to a wide range of different backgrounds on my Mother’s side.
I am Irish, Dutch, Welch, Cherokee Indian on my Mother’s side and Austrian from my Father’s.
I have white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant features and I was often told, “you don’t look like the rest of them.”
And if I asked, “the rest of who,” I was told, “The Jews!” as if to look this way would be a disgusting thing.
Mom and The Old Man were liberal. They did not support the racial tensions and in fact; my parents did what they could to spread love and not hate in our household.
I remember when they opened our home to a Vietnamese boat family who escaped Vietnam, which was still intense and the Northern part of their country was slaying people at their doorstep.
This did not go over well with the neighbors.
I remember some of my friends would tell their folks at home. And some would ask me “who is living in your house?
I would tell them “a boat family,” because they came from a boat escaping Vietnam
“And how long are they going to be there?”
“A few weeks,” i said
But no. it was not a few weeks . . .
I did not mix well in my town because my outside influence was harder and colder and thus; I hated my skin. I hated who I was. I hated that there was always something different about me. I hated that my parents were kind and generous.
I hated that I was told that despite my bloodline not being pure as a Jew that in one direction, I was okay, but still; I came from a religion that was blamed for being the great degradation in our society
“Your people are the enemy,” is what I was told.
I was called, “a good jew.” and in all fairness, I never asked to be “a good jew,” or anything like that.
I just wanted to be me.
I wanted to be “enough.”
I never asked for these lessons in hate and nor did I ever ask to be shown or taught the different versions of hatred.
I never asked for the explanations, such as I am white and therefore, black people are my enemy.
Black people are different.
They are sneaky, just like Jews, only Jews are worse and lower than the dirt.
I was told that the American dream was for ever nigger in town swimming back to Africa with two Jews under each arm.
And my apologies for the use of any words that offend anyone.
But honest and integrity forces me to use the words I regret most in my past
I was told about loyalty from people who were never loyal and never dared to understand the dignity of what it means to be loyal.
Enter my time and bout to face a sentence in prison.
Enter my aftermath and the wake of all that happened.
Enter the violence.
Enter the crime spree that came to an end.
And next . . .
Enter my time in my first rehabilitation facility.
Enter my first trip to the hospital after trying to hang myself and end my own life.
Enter my realization that none of my friends were ever my friends.
Enter the understanding that I finally opened up and exposed the concept of what it means to be molested or touched and enter the realization that I, myself, was somehow a disease or a waste and yes, I believed this.
I believed all the above.
I remember the day after my attempt to end my life.
I remember sitting with a man named Mathias. He sat with me, a big man, tough as nails, and this was a man who lived a hard, painful life. He sat with me.
He wept with me.
In fact, there was another person in the facility who thought it would be a good idea to bully me and laugh after my suicide attempt. Mathias and a few others cornered this man in his room and explained that perhaps he should treat me differently.
No one ever stuck up for me like this.
Mathais was not a counselor. He was a patient (or inmate, depending who you’d ask) and in all fairness, Matthias was just another man in this world.
Mathias spoke with me for hours.
He loved me more than anyone else dared to.
I never heard a grown man speak this way. I never thought anyone would explain something in a way that would explain things that I never dared to tell people about myself.
Then again, I never had the language to explain myself; and, in fact, I never knew language like this existed.
Mathias did not speak to me like I was a child or like I was an idiot or stupid. No . . .
In a way, Mathias spoke for me.
He said the words I never had the language to explain.
But there was more.
There was another man too. He knew my story,
He knew that I was not sold on the idea of being clean or living a life without a drink or a drug.
He understood why too.
This man was homeless for most of his adult life. He drank and he drank heavily. He was an old-time hobo and lived in box cars and worked as a picker, picking fruit and drinking his earnings away.
“I never had a new pair of pants,” he told me.
“Not once in my life did I ever have new sneakers that were never worn by somebody else. And I never had new clothes or a new pair of pants.”
I was told that I’d be going to a new facility.
But I wanted to run.
I was told that I’d have to move to a new spot for another 42 days.
But I didn;t want to go
However, despite my arguing, I agreed to go with reservations, of course, and the idea that I would run away at some point.
But no.
The man who was otherwise homeless and seen as “nothing but a bum,” asked me to come to his room
He brought me over to the closet were he kept his things
He handed me a pair of jeans.
I can see his face in my head as I report this to you.
“This is the first brand new pair of pants that anyone has ever given me.”
He handed me the pants.
And please, I hope or wish you could hear my voice as I try to narrate this for you.
I hope with all of my heart that you can hear me and feel the understanding and the awareness that everything I was told or taught was a lie.
He prefaced with, “That drug life doesn’t need you, son.”
He told me (and I paraphrase slightly) to listen to him.
“Go to that place they told you about.”
“Don’t listen to nobody else! you just go.”
He told me, “Please, son. Do not end up like me.”
His eyes welled with tears.
No one in my life has ever given me a gift with so much heartfelt emotion.
“You go on now, son.”
he handed me the jeans
“You do what they tell you to do.”
This man never had a new pair of jeans in his life. And for whatever the reason is or was; he gave them to me.
He said this was because he did not want me to go to the next rehab and not know what it means to be able to put on a pair of brand new jeans.
This man is someone who saved my life.
And Mathias . . .
He saved my life as well.
They both sat and wept with me and protected me when I could not protect myself.
Years later, Mathias hung himself, alone, and in his apartment.
Therefore, I understand why he understood me.
Ah, Mathias . . .”I wish you knew what you did for me
how you saved me.
how I admire you
how I wish you were still a brother to me, alive and well
I grew up thinking I knew who my enemies were.
I was told about black people . . .
By the way
Mathias and the homeless man with the new jeans . . .
Their skin was black as night
Understand?
I think this was the first time I ever realized that I have to unlearn what I was taught.
But how?
How do you rid yourself of ignorance or hate?
I suppose life was about to show me though.
I suppose I wasn’t ready for the big and drastic changes ahead.
Hate . . . Nothing killed me worse than this
Not the heroin
Not the drugs.
Not even the gunshots.
No.
Hate was the biggest murderer I have ever met.
End scene –
