Act 2: Scene 1
November, 1989.
Everything was about to change
All the leaves on the sides of the mountains changed from green to orange and red. Most of the leaves fell in the beginning of November, but some of the remnants of autumn had yet to let go, despite the upcoming moments of winter.
It had snowed a few times.
The view was spectacular, but where I was at the time was more for a legal and therapeutic reaction to a sentenced and legal response.
It is a colder place in the Upstate mountains. It is a different climate, for sure, and the mood as well as my life was far different from the way it was before the summer went away.
It was just a few months ago when I was running around the drug spots in Harlem, or East new York Brooklyn.
it was just a few months ago that I was found in an abandoned car by some of my old friends.
it was just a few months ago that I was runing from the cops.
it was a few months ago when i saw a bullet go through a mans chest.
I was still unsure though.
I was still lost.
I was still holding some kind of hope that I could cheat the game and find that so-called “easier, soft way,” but there was none.
Life on a farm is far different from the way my life was before.
My habit was no longer with me from a physical perspective but the ghosts and narrative of my inner thoughts were just as betraying as my previous and unfortunate life.
The farm had rules . . .
I was up before dawn. I was out of my bunk and on the floor by the count 20 because of the bunkhouse and dorm manager and supervisors.
Get up!
Let’s move!
I went from being a troubled teen to a farmhand. I went from being a sneak-thief and break-ins to getting yelled at to move, move, move and told “let’s go,” and more than any of this, I went from godless to having to pray before every meal.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner – We sang:
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
Praise Him all creatures, here below.
Praise Him above thee, Heavenly Host.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen!”
I had to attend a prayer meeting every night.
I was told there is only one God and that I had to find him, otherwise sobriety and my transformational change would be literally impossible.
I was not built for this place.
I was not made to be a farmhand. And more, I had never seen pigs or cows and nor was I ever up-close and personal with them.
I thought pigs were small.
No. They are not small.
Not at all.
Except for the piglets.
I was initially unafraid of the little pigs. However, I was advised pretty quickly that the big pigs are less motivated to move fast.
“It’s the piglets that you have to look out for.”
I learned this firsthand too because my first day on the barn crew was enough to show me how different my new life was about to be . . .
It was enough to see that the piglets were crazy. It was obvious to me when a team of screaming piglets freaked out when I leapt into the pigpen to clean it and they knocked me down.
They knocked me down fast and they knocked me down hard too!
I was knocked to the ground, leaving me on the floor and nearly face first in a huge pile of little baby pig shit.
I did not know this is what I signed up for.
I went from one treatment place to another. But those places were different.
The first place was short term. The second place was another short-term program for adolescents but I was taken from there to gain my bed at this place
The Farm
And this place . . .
This place was long-term and this place was more of a “T.C.” which stood for Therapeutic Community.
I had long hair when I arrived at the farm.
They cut my hair short.
I had my regular street clothes.
But the farm took away my clothes away from me.
They took anything that linked me back to my previous image.
They took my leather jacket because they said that was part of my image. And when I say ‘they” I mean the powers that be on the farm, which was somewhat like a Boys Town, similar to the movie about Father Flanagan with Spencer Tracey and Mickey Rooney back in 1938.
The place was run by the kids too. And we ran on an honor system, which was hard for me because I was not honorable.
They stripped me down . . .
They took my concert t-shirts away from me because the music I listened to was part of my negative lifestyle and hence, this was part of my image too,
I was stripped down to my bare minimum. No long hair. No loud music. I can sing about God all I wanted to but God forbid I sing a song from one of my favorite bands or discuss some of my favorite songs.
This would lead to a loud reprimand.
I was made to sit in corners. I was yelled at.
I was shot down.
I had to wear a sign around my neck that said, “Ask me why I’m a spoiled brat,” and I would have to answer this both honestly and respectfully if I were asked about the sign.
I was told that my pride and my ego were deadly assassins and so; this was all part of a self-destructive and social, emotional, and perhaps even the physical reasons why I was trying to kill myself for so long.
I went from a street kid to a church boy, which was odd to me since I grew up in a Jewish home.
I went from no prayers to what was known as “foxhole prayers,” and from this, I was taught the Hail Mary and the Rosary, which were prayers that are opposite of my raised and supposed faith.
I did not like to talk about God. I did not like the thought of God and nor was I comfortable facing God, by any means.
I was damned to hell as far as I was concerned. So, why pray or why bother?
I was not comfortable in Church. I was never comfortable when I’d see Jesus on the cross, his head tilted to the side as he hung, crucified and tortured, and stabbed at the rib to check if he had finally gone.
This was me and yet, this was not me.
This was not me at all.
I was told about the gifts of sobriety and to be honest, I was not sold on this idea.
At the same time, I had recently returned from a home visit after appearing in court to settle my crimes.
I was sentenced and remanded by the courts to a completion of drug and alcohol treatment.
I remember this well too because my Father, The Old Man took me to court.
They sentenced me but I did not have to face my sentencing alone.
The Old Man and I were sitting in the car when he told me, “Just so you know, I’m not mad at you anymore.”
Wow . . .
I was numb at the time and yet, there was something to this. I could not recall the last time when The Old Man and I were on good terms. I could not recall the last time I heard the Old Man speak with me in such a warm or kinder regard.
It was a long time . . .
A very long time
And yet, there we were, living on borrowed time and there he was, telling me something I wished I had always heard from him
“I’m not mad at you anymore.”
I was not sold on the idea that I had to stay on the farm but either way, I had to play the part.
I had to follow through with the court’s decision or else I would have to serve one year, plus 90 days in a correctional facility.
it was clear to me that I did not have a “doing time,” kind of body or spirit.
Rehab might not have been the place for me. But as I saw it, rehab is like kindergarten when compared to the unwanted details of jailhouse living and fighting for my sneakers or to save my asshole from the brutality and rapes in the shower rooms.
The upcoming season was upon us.
Thanksgiving meant Christmas was around the corner.
This has always been an odd time of year for me.
I live with depression but my seasonal and holiday depression has always been brutal as well
The farm planned a special Thanksgiving for us all.
This meant good food.
This meant all the families would be up and we, the students, or the patients, or the inmates (according to some people) would serve our families and show them how we have changed and who we have become.
I do not remember the Thanksgivings of my youth. I do not remember much of any Thanksgiving dinners.
But I do remember this one.
I gained weight.
My skin returned back to a better color.
I was not so sickly or skinny.
I cleaned up.
I spoke better.
I was not kicking the chemical reactions from a high that was obviously killing me.
I looked better and to all who watched me from the outside, I appeared to feel better too.
To add more color; I must admit that the area on the farm was beautiful. The grounds were huge and the fields were on rolling hills. I loved the big red barn and how it looked. I might not have loved it back then but I have pictures now. I look at them sometimes I weep a little too.
And all of this was set in like a cup-like dish in the palm of a few taller New York mountains.
We would see long-winger birds flying overhead. The world was cleaner up here.
And so was I.
ah, the farm . . .
I never thought about places like this. I never thought about towns, so far away, and so quaint or how wintertime and holiday season mirrored an old-world charm, almost like a painting from a Norman Rockwell theme.
And so, as I offer you my soliloquy, I offer my sentiments as well.
Life changes.
I was changing.
And life changes even still and more unexpectedly, life can offer you a glimpse of something, like a foreshadowing nature and too, sometimes, you see someone for the last time and neither you nor they realized this would be the last Thanksgiving dinner you ever had with each other.
I wish . . .
I wish I told my Father more.
I wish I explained more.
I wish he knew my truths,
I wish we had more of an understanding.
I wish he knew how much he meant to me and that despite our bouts and arguments; my Old Man was my first and greatest hero.
I wish he knew. . .
No one ever tells you, “hey, this is the last call for something like this.”
I go back to a song that I heard years ago.
“Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.”
We spend way too much time worrying, bothering, fighting, and complaining and meanwhile; this might be the last day you see your greatest friend, your greatest love, or your greatest hero.
Enjoy yourself
It’s later than you think.
Better yet,
Enjoy your loved ones
It’s later than you think . . .
To my love . . .
I do not want the last time to be the last time
But hey, that’s the bitch about “last times,” because you never know.
you know?
Enjoy yourself
it’s later than you think
