Violence begets violence begets more violence. Broken trust. Hate. Rage. Racist cops versus poorly trained cops vs criminals vs innocent people murdered over a routine traffic stop. Gun control for the ones who would protect us instead striking fear into our urban communities. This has never changed but is a trend in the media. The double edge sword, of the light it sheds on an ongoing struggle in these communities to the social outrage it causes resulting in the death of police officers. My, what a savage place this has become. And yet has anything really changed. I remember growing up and seeing it in on television in he 90's, let alone my own neighborhood. Harassment and profiling from these "protectors." Hearing about a friend that was beaten in the middle of the street by a police officer because he was walking down the street on the wrong day, wrong time, wearing the wrong clothes and fitting the wrong description of the wrong person. Myself being held at gun point (more than once) for fitting a description then being let go with a "warning." The feeling of helplessness. Vulnerable, angry, rage filled. This can cloud a perception of the many out there trying to make a difference. The realization that a police officer has never helped me directly but maybe an arrest or traffic ticket to someone else help save my family in this butterfly affect. Confusion and angst comes with a maturity of guilt concerning this attitude of "We aren't going to take this laying down anymore. We can't just keep letting this happen to our people. It's time to fight back against those who swore to keep us safe." Then seeing it bubble over in Dallas. And more murder. And more Murder. You resist, you die. You comply, you die. How can we restore faith in a system that's lost faith in the community it's supposed to work for, for a better tomorrow. I HAVE A KID for god's sake.
Where does the change come from? Who can change this from continuing? Can this change from being the status quo? How can faith be restored? Can all this social outrage lead to a solution without anybody dying? Where are the politicians voices on this issue? Is this a distraction propagated by unseen forces to keep us from really seeing past the smoke and mirrors? Is another human worth that price? Is it worth your life? Is pride worth your life? Is your ego worth human life? Why are they so nervous and scared? Why do we have to live in fear? Why is it so easy?
There's no point to this, just screaming in the dark. On facebook, screaming in the dark, on twitter, screaming in the dark, bloggers, screaming in the dark, protesters, screaming in the dark. Where's all the political bullshit now. Silence is all I hear. Just another black kid. Just another cop using deadly force on an unarmed, non resisting minority. It's not close to me. That stuff is in the news. That's why I live in the suburbs. That's why I don't stay out late. That's why I don't....blah blah.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Oct. 20 something Part 3
Carolyn arrives...
She arrives before the crowd shows. Carolyn sits next to me. She doesn't say anything but her presents is tolerable and comforting. She's been through this before. She has pain similar to this. Her brother through similar devices is gone also.
The chattering of family members interrupts our solemness. They come to mourn. They come to pity. They come out of respect. They arrive together. The seats start to be taken. They leave a pew's distance to separate us from them for whatever reason. Don't they know it's just us. George and Pauline sit on Jackie's side. Somebody walks up and bends down to talk to Pauline. They agree on something. The lights, already dim, turn lower. A projection screen descends from over the casket. It's a slide show of Patrick. Yuck. It opens with a picture him. A social media picture of him. Fades in a date which resembles his birthday but is clearly not Patrick's because the person who put this slide show together is off by 2 years and 8 days. Jackie snaps out of her stupor to yell out, "What the fuck? His birthday is March 10, 1985!" She says this to the screen. This slide show was done poorly with haste. Maybe it was done today. Maybe this morning. It continues with more social media pictures. Apparently whoever made this production didn't know Patrick or bother to ask for older photos. The music is disgusting and even worse than the situation. Some early 90's ode to suicide with an Eddie Vedder knock off voice.
This is all going to be hilarious one day. The pictures continue. Finally it fades to black. A family member takes the podium. Vague tones about loss and Patrick being too young fall out of their mouth and then George relieves them. Thank God. Wait. Now George is introducing a pastor or reverend or preacher. What the fuck is this? It's no secret Patrick didn't believe in the Bible or whatever this guy is about to say. He's a light skinned black man. Glasses with expensive frames. Rings of success on his fingers. Maybe it's the tone of the situation. But I immediately hate this guy and everything he believes in. The man slides to the podium with a confidence of faith but more likely he was paid upfront. I hate this man. I look at Jackie and her scowl is as sharp as the man is dressed. The fury is bubbling over. Outrage and audacity are footnotes to the hatred we feel for this man. It isn't the man's fault, he's probably honest and does good and blah blah. His presence is unwanted. Funerals are for the living not the dead, I know this now.
There is tension in this place and it's coming from Jackie and I as we are determined to let it be known this is not what Patrick would've wanted. It's all we have considering reasoning and understanding are on hiatus for the time being. This integrity to keep "what Patrick would've wanted" doesn't make any sense. Patrick didn't want anything, he didn't even want to be here, this is so other people can feel good about themselves and leave bad thoughts of where Patrick is or could be here, in the hands of a man who didn't know Patrick. A thought inhabits me and I smile for a second. If this were somebody else and Patrick were sitting next to Jackie and I, we would be laughing at the ridiculousness. I can almost hear his laugh before the present moment wakes me up.
The Man leads in with:
"Now before I get started, I would like to say a prayer for everybody here. Lawd, thank you for your blessings and thank you for this day. We are here because Paul has brought us together with our love for him and Lawd, thank you for that. Amen,"
Room full of people. "Amen."
"Now everybody Paul was a good boy"
Jackie and I, "It's Patrick you fucking idiot!"
"Now, now we are all upset, now now, Patrick was a good boy and as he lay, you know Jesus has him in his heart."
Jackie and I, "He didn't believe in that you fucking idiot!"
"Alright now, now, we are all sad with the loss of this young man, now please don't yell out things, we are all sad here."
Jackie screams out loud with no other purpose than to drown out this man's nonsense.
"Okay everybody bow your head. Lawd, please help this family in their time of need. Amen."
Room full of people. "Amen."
The preacher or pastor or reverend leaves the podium. You can almost see him pull his collar and say, "tough crowd."
Now is the time for family members to say something, I guess, because a family member announces if anybody has anything they would like to say about Patrick to please come to the podium. Only a handful of people seemed to muster up the courage to take the podium. All family members, with nothing really to say, just trying to say something nice about him. Keyword "trying".
Patrick dealt in absolutes and so he himself was one also. You either loved Patrick or you hated him. Now to have a room full of people and half of them are there out of politeness? Some of them with enough guilt to actually take the podium? They said facts. Just facts. Things like " Patrick was my cousin and even though he had his ways, I'm very sad for his family" or "Patrick used to pick on me growing up and was mean, but he really loved his family." This is a circus. This is a parade of awkward stumbles. A just cause of the effect of how much of an asshole Patrick is.
This all comes to an end. An announcement is made telling people to line up and see Patrick one last time. Most people don't. A few stragglers make their way up to the casket where I see Patrick is almost smiling. Some, gay men, perhaps lovers, friends, crying and touching Patrick's hands before turning and walking straight out. Women, girls, lovers perhaps friends, again crying and touching Patrick before the heaviness forced them to exit as well.
This charade is over. The closure is in everybody's pocket and they will take it home. Except for George, Pauline, Jackie, myself, everyone else is satisfied. A collective sigh is at the door waiting for the audience members. Jackie and George stay seated. Pauline and I make it to the outside hall before most of the on lookers make their way to exit. We make our way to the two grand chairs poised near the ledger. The ledger where people sign in and write kind words to the dead or surviving family. Again funeral keepsakes. A year book signing idea. So we can look back and see who signed Patrick's death book. I hate society.
Pauline sits and loses herself to a thousand yard stare. I'm watching people as they leave. Some smiling and laughing, others trying not to stare at Pauline. Others quickly leaving to other obligations. Michael weaves through the crowd and makes his way up to Pauline. Michael is Pauline's nephew from her younger brother Peter. Michael's small stature invades our space. "I'm so sorry for your loss Tia." He says this as he bends over and touches Pauline's arm. This makes me uncomfortable. I know he's about to say something awful or stupid. Sure enough, without fail, Michael continues "So, like, I had to take off of work for this, so do I get a note from you or from somebody that works here?" This would be hilarious if I wasn't in this moment. As Michael says this he looks at Pauline, then me, then back to Pauline. Pauline never makes eye contact and turns her head away from Michael. "Mikey get the fuck away from my mother." Everybody knows Michael works at McDonald's. Everybody knows this because he tells everybody how great it is and the benefits. It's McDonald's and they'll need a note for his absence and he thought it would be a perfect time to bother his grieving aunt who was barely able to dress herself for this occasion. He has a straight face the whole time. "I was just asking Georgie, you don't have to be a jerk."
"Get your stupid ass away or I'm going to break your neck." Michael gives a look of defiance before he walks away. I hate him. I hate McDonald's.
Everybody leaves finally except us. At last silence is free to consume the building minus the sounds of footsteps as they echo throughout the halls. The side doors open to the chapel. A silver van with no windows backs up to the doors just outside. Workers have us step out as they put Patrick in a card board box and load him into the van. His body is something to be moved now. Not a person or even fragile. Just a job people have to carry out. We are to follow the van now.
The van leads us to San Fernando Cemetery III. It's a long drive on the other side of town but it feels like short minutes when we arrive. We enter the cemetery passing large weathered black iron gates. It's another long drive to the back of the cemetery. We pass other funerals along the way. People holding one another and you can see flower stands with long colorful ribbons. The patterns of fresh cut grass. The sun not holding anything back. We pull up to a small old stone house. It's gray with black shadows in the corners. The van pulls in and backs up to the side of the house. We step off the car to another entrance parallel to the van entrance. The van opens its back doors and Patrick in the card board box is hoisted on a rolling belt like he's a package. The garage doors to the van's entrance closes behind the box. The van takes off. Maybe to fetch another package. The entrance we walk through into the house has a counter on the right side center and a large window showing the garage area where Patrick is being handled by a worker. George goes to the counter where there's a lady posted. Words exchange. The garage worker guides the box of Patrick into a large burnt iron oven with another flame kissed window so you can witness. The worker exits the garage area and walks through another door separating the two rooms for safety.
George walks back and says that we can watch the cremation and the ashes will be available at the funeral home in 3 days where we are to pick them up. Without any warning. Flames ignite and engulf the box of Patrick. The flames make it hard to see anything. I walk outside. It will take an hour to burn Patrick's body to ash.
We decide not to stay.
I hate sunny days. I hate people. I hate October. I hate family. I hate McDonald's. I hate the fact Patrick doesn't know my daughter or Jackie's son. I hate holidays. I hate this time after Patrick.
I wrote this for me. Memories fade and after 8 years time is catching up to me. It's hard to remember Patrick's voice. It's hard to remember his laugh. It's hard to remember his pain. Only glimpses of images come into view when I'm alone. Some memories keep replaying constantly so as not to forget his smell or his smile or his walk. This is for me. Forgetting is a terrible human trait. You can forget pain along with happiness as life moves forward. Always moving forward.
Thank you for reading this and if you got anything out of it, good for you.
She arrives before the crowd shows. Carolyn sits next to me. She doesn't say anything but her presents is tolerable and comforting. She's been through this before. She has pain similar to this. Her brother through similar devices is gone also.
The chattering of family members interrupts our solemness. They come to mourn. They come to pity. They come out of respect. They arrive together. The seats start to be taken. They leave a pew's distance to separate us from them for whatever reason. Don't they know it's just us. George and Pauline sit on Jackie's side. Somebody walks up and bends down to talk to Pauline. They agree on something. The lights, already dim, turn lower. A projection screen descends from over the casket. It's a slide show of Patrick. Yuck. It opens with a picture him. A social media picture of him. Fades in a date which resembles his birthday but is clearly not Patrick's because the person who put this slide show together is off by 2 years and 8 days. Jackie snaps out of her stupor to yell out, "What the fuck? His birthday is March 10, 1985!" She says this to the screen. This slide show was done poorly with haste. Maybe it was done today. Maybe this morning. It continues with more social media pictures. Apparently whoever made this production didn't know Patrick or bother to ask for older photos. The music is disgusting and even worse than the situation. Some early 90's ode to suicide with an Eddie Vedder knock off voice.
This is all going to be hilarious one day. The pictures continue. Finally it fades to black. A family member takes the podium. Vague tones about loss and Patrick being too young fall out of their mouth and then George relieves them. Thank God. Wait. Now George is introducing a pastor or reverend or preacher. What the fuck is this? It's no secret Patrick didn't believe in the Bible or whatever this guy is about to say. He's a light skinned black man. Glasses with expensive frames. Rings of success on his fingers. Maybe it's the tone of the situation. But I immediately hate this guy and everything he believes in. The man slides to the podium with a confidence of faith but more likely he was paid upfront. I hate this man. I look at Jackie and her scowl is as sharp as the man is dressed. The fury is bubbling over. Outrage and audacity are footnotes to the hatred we feel for this man. It isn't the man's fault, he's probably honest and does good and blah blah. His presence is unwanted. Funerals are for the living not the dead, I know this now.
There is tension in this place and it's coming from Jackie and I as we are determined to let it be known this is not what Patrick would've wanted. It's all we have considering reasoning and understanding are on hiatus for the time being. This integrity to keep "what Patrick would've wanted" doesn't make any sense. Patrick didn't want anything, he didn't even want to be here, this is so other people can feel good about themselves and leave bad thoughts of where Patrick is or could be here, in the hands of a man who didn't know Patrick. A thought inhabits me and I smile for a second. If this were somebody else and Patrick were sitting next to Jackie and I, we would be laughing at the ridiculousness. I can almost hear his laugh before the present moment wakes me up.
The Man leads in with:
"Now before I get started, I would like to say a prayer for everybody here. Lawd, thank you for your blessings and thank you for this day. We are here because Paul has brought us together with our love for him and Lawd, thank you for that. Amen,"
Room full of people. "Amen."
"Now everybody Paul was a good boy"
Jackie and I, "It's Patrick you fucking idiot!"
"Now, now we are all upset, now now, Patrick was a good boy and as he lay, you know Jesus has him in his heart."
Jackie and I, "He didn't believe in that you fucking idiot!"
"Alright now, now, we are all sad with the loss of this young man, now please don't yell out things, we are all sad here."
Jackie screams out loud with no other purpose than to drown out this man's nonsense.
"Okay everybody bow your head. Lawd, please help this family in their time of need. Amen."
Room full of people. "Amen."
The preacher or pastor or reverend leaves the podium. You can almost see him pull his collar and say, "tough crowd."
Now is the time for family members to say something, I guess, because a family member announces if anybody has anything they would like to say about Patrick to please come to the podium. Only a handful of people seemed to muster up the courage to take the podium. All family members, with nothing really to say, just trying to say something nice about him. Keyword "trying".
Patrick dealt in absolutes and so he himself was one also. You either loved Patrick or you hated him. Now to have a room full of people and half of them are there out of politeness? Some of them with enough guilt to actually take the podium? They said facts. Just facts. Things like " Patrick was my cousin and even though he had his ways, I'm very sad for his family" or "Patrick used to pick on me growing up and was mean, but he really loved his family." This is a circus. This is a parade of awkward stumbles. A just cause of the effect of how much of an asshole Patrick is.
This all comes to an end. An announcement is made telling people to line up and see Patrick one last time. Most people don't. A few stragglers make their way up to the casket where I see Patrick is almost smiling. Some, gay men, perhaps lovers, friends, crying and touching Patrick's hands before turning and walking straight out. Women, girls, lovers perhaps friends, again crying and touching Patrick before the heaviness forced them to exit as well.
This charade is over. The closure is in everybody's pocket and they will take it home. Except for George, Pauline, Jackie, myself, everyone else is satisfied. A collective sigh is at the door waiting for the audience members. Jackie and George stay seated. Pauline and I make it to the outside hall before most of the on lookers make their way to exit. We make our way to the two grand chairs poised near the ledger. The ledger where people sign in and write kind words to the dead or surviving family. Again funeral keepsakes. A year book signing idea. So we can look back and see who signed Patrick's death book. I hate society.
Pauline sits and loses herself to a thousand yard stare. I'm watching people as they leave. Some smiling and laughing, others trying not to stare at Pauline. Others quickly leaving to other obligations. Michael weaves through the crowd and makes his way up to Pauline. Michael is Pauline's nephew from her younger brother Peter. Michael's small stature invades our space. "I'm so sorry for your loss Tia." He says this as he bends over and touches Pauline's arm. This makes me uncomfortable. I know he's about to say something awful or stupid. Sure enough, without fail, Michael continues "So, like, I had to take off of work for this, so do I get a note from you or from somebody that works here?" This would be hilarious if I wasn't in this moment. As Michael says this he looks at Pauline, then me, then back to Pauline. Pauline never makes eye contact and turns her head away from Michael. "Mikey get the fuck away from my mother." Everybody knows Michael works at McDonald's. Everybody knows this because he tells everybody how great it is and the benefits. It's McDonald's and they'll need a note for his absence and he thought it would be a perfect time to bother his grieving aunt who was barely able to dress herself for this occasion. He has a straight face the whole time. "I was just asking Georgie, you don't have to be a jerk."
"Get your stupid ass away or I'm going to break your neck." Michael gives a look of defiance before he walks away. I hate him. I hate McDonald's.
Everybody leaves finally except us. At last silence is free to consume the building minus the sounds of footsteps as they echo throughout the halls. The side doors open to the chapel. A silver van with no windows backs up to the doors just outside. Workers have us step out as they put Patrick in a card board box and load him into the van. His body is something to be moved now. Not a person or even fragile. Just a job people have to carry out. We are to follow the van now.
The van leads us to San Fernando Cemetery III. It's a long drive on the other side of town but it feels like short minutes when we arrive. We enter the cemetery passing large weathered black iron gates. It's another long drive to the back of the cemetery. We pass other funerals along the way. People holding one another and you can see flower stands with long colorful ribbons. The patterns of fresh cut grass. The sun not holding anything back. We pull up to a small old stone house. It's gray with black shadows in the corners. The van pulls in and backs up to the side of the house. We step off the car to another entrance parallel to the van entrance. The van opens its back doors and Patrick in the card board box is hoisted on a rolling belt like he's a package. The garage doors to the van's entrance closes behind the box. The van takes off. Maybe to fetch another package. The entrance we walk through into the house has a counter on the right side center and a large window showing the garage area where Patrick is being handled by a worker. George goes to the counter where there's a lady posted. Words exchange. The garage worker guides the box of Patrick into a large burnt iron oven with another flame kissed window so you can witness. The worker exits the garage area and walks through another door separating the two rooms for safety.
George walks back and says that we can watch the cremation and the ashes will be available at the funeral home in 3 days where we are to pick them up. Without any warning. Flames ignite and engulf the box of Patrick. The flames make it hard to see anything. I walk outside. It will take an hour to burn Patrick's body to ash.
We decide not to stay.
I hate sunny days. I hate people. I hate October. I hate family. I hate McDonald's. I hate the fact Patrick doesn't know my daughter or Jackie's son. I hate holidays. I hate this time after Patrick.
I wrote this for me. Memories fade and after 8 years time is catching up to me. It's hard to remember Patrick's voice. It's hard to remember his laugh. It's hard to remember his pain. Only glimpses of images come into view when I'm alone. Some memories keep replaying constantly so as not to forget his smell or his smile or his walk. This is for me. Forgetting is a terrible human trait. You can forget pain along with happiness as life moves forward. Always moving forward.
Thank you for reading this and if you got anything out of it, good for you.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Oct. 20 something part 2
It's quiet, here, in the chapel of graceful degradation where George and Pauline keep Patrick. It's only us here. In a few short hours other people will come to say goodbye to Patrick. He lays in a generic casket, wearing his favorite band's shirt and clothes that I knew he would have worn if he were living. I was tasked with shopping and deciding his "viewing" clothes. My younger brother as well as George and Pauline's son and Jackie's near twin lay, too good for his surroundings. His eyes glued shut. The gray enveloping his should be fair completion and pigment. He is very cold. Stiff. Silent. His hands rest on his belly in a well known fashion. His head propped by a small pillow. I notice that the clothes were cut along the sides. The person responsible for putting his clothes on has learned a trick to this staging process. An illusion we never wanted to know.
How contrary the weather is, it eludes tragedy. I can hear the birds outside singing and the sway of the trees as they dance with the breeze. I can hardly remember anything routine from the last few days concerning hygiene or driving or sleeping, yet somehow Jackie and myself are sitting in the front pews, as George and Pauline hold each other standing over Patrick, quietly sobbing. Jackie is catatonic. Her stare, piercing and focused. Her eyes need not blink due to the constant tears.
This funeral home is understandably fake and smells like an old library. It's a mock chapel. No religious fixtures anywhere so as to accommodate the dead and their mourners with ambiguity. The lights are dim and the ambiance is calming. Immediately after the "viewing" Patrick is to be put in a van and taken to a crematorium. These employees of the funeral home or vultures of human emotion, keep using words and phrases that annoy me. On the surface, compassion, but hanging over us, just above our heads, they pluck for the $2000 urn, because "Patrick deserves the best." These fucking animals. There are cards all around, on the pews, at the podium, with a prayer and Patrick's full name. Fucking vultures. Funeral keepsakes? People are going to show up soon and ruin the quietness. Whispering nonsense, trying not to stare, keeping time, looking at their cell phone, planning dinner, thinking about work. My anger and rage make me hate them for nothing.
I'm so angry. Today is the day we say goodbye to his body. I'm so sad. His smile and spirit will never fade but torment me until I lose my mind. I really hate this. Patrick was never much on social graces. He loved who he loved and dismissed everything else. Violent and beautiful swam through his blood constantly battling to the surface. He dealt in absolutes. There is no in-between with Patrick. An intelligent, good looking, 22 year old boy lay and will never wake up again. He is no saint by any means. He is no villain to those he loved. Just a person with all the flaws to be considered human. He suffered from mental afflictions from boyhood. As kids we found his medical chart in Pauline's records and read his many diagnosis's. That was not a good time. He cried. The records revealed the words "Abnormal", "homosexual" and "depressive", "bipolar". He questioned the world. The 80's were less understanding than now and so were we considering we were children. He started to really spiral out of control in his teens with self mutilation. Cutting himself to "take the pain away". I still don't understand that concept. He would sow himself up and would wait until he was sober to start. He never said why he did any of it. He would just shrug and smile to himself as you asked him 10's of thousands of times to stop. Ten's of thousands of times why, 10's of thousands of times saying that's not helping and to get help, stop hurting yourself, things will get better, I love you, you're hurting mom.
He was institutionalized for drug use. I remember that day. He had been up for days. He was scared to go to sleep. Something was tormenting him. A drug he had taken 3 days before fried his brain. He was just a child. Pauline, Jackie and myself were watching TV and he stood at the doorway. He said, "Mom I need to go to the hospital." He said it so calmly and as a matter of fact. Before Pauline had a chance to ask why, he yelled it again and began to cry but not before raising a blade to his wrist and slicing the flesh. He began to wipe the blood on the walls and scream, "Now! Now!"
Those times were not out weighed by the good times. His smile. His sense of humor. Our provocative conversations about God and sex. His laugh. His ability to make a point and have it hit even if you didn't agree with him. He would make you loathe the fact that his point of view was undeniable. The jokes, the stories, the scariest times were all floating in the air. They were so tangent that you could grab one and hold it until reality stripped it from you and pointed to the casket.
How contrary the weather is, it eludes tragedy. I can hear the birds outside singing and the sway of the trees as they dance with the breeze. I can hardly remember anything routine from the last few days concerning hygiene or driving or sleeping, yet somehow Jackie and myself are sitting in the front pews, as George and Pauline hold each other standing over Patrick, quietly sobbing. Jackie is catatonic. Her stare, piercing and focused. Her eyes need not blink due to the constant tears.
This funeral home is understandably fake and smells like an old library. It's a mock chapel. No religious fixtures anywhere so as to accommodate the dead and their mourners with ambiguity. The lights are dim and the ambiance is calming. Immediately after the "viewing" Patrick is to be put in a van and taken to a crematorium. These employees of the funeral home or vultures of human emotion, keep using words and phrases that annoy me. On the surface, compassion, but hanging over us, just above our heads, they pluck for the $2000 urn, because "Patrick deserves the best." These fucking animals. There are cards all around, on the pews, at the podium, with a prayer and Patrick's full name. Fucking vultures. Funeral keepsakes? People are going to show up soon and ruin the quietness. Whispering nonsense, trying not to stare, keeping time, looking at their cell phone, planning dinner, thinking about work. My anger and rage make me hate them for nothing.
I'm so angry. Today is the day we say goodbye to his body. I'm so sad. His smile and spirit will never fade but torment me until I lose my mind. I really hate this. Patrick was never much on social graces. He loved who he loved and dismissed everything else. Violent and beautiful swam through his blood constantly battling to the surface. He dealt in absolutes. There is no in-between with Patrick. An intelligent, good looking, 22 year old boy lay and will never wake up again. He is no saint by any means. He is no villain to those he loved. Just a person with all the flaws to be considered human. He suffered from mental afflictions from boyhood. As kids we found his medical chart in Pauline's records and read his many diagnosis's. That was not a good time. He cried. The records revealed the words "Abnormal", "homosexual" and "depressive", "bipolar". He questioned the world. The 80's were less understanding than now and so were we considering we were children. He started to really spiral out of control in his teens with self mutilation. Cutting himself to "take the pain away". I still don't understand that concept. He would sow himself up and would wait until he was sober to start. He never said why he did any of it. He would just shrug and smile to himself as you asked him 10's of thousands of times to stop. Ten's of thousands of times why, 10's of thousands of times saying that's not helping and to get help, stop hurting yourself, things will get better, I love you, you're hurting mom.
He was institutionalized for drug use. I remember that day. He had been up for days. He was scared to go to sleep. Something was tormenting him. A drug he had taken 3 days before fried his brain. He was just a child. Pauline, Jackie and myself were watching TV and he stood at the doorway. He said, "Mom I need to go to the hospital." He said it so calmly and as a matter of fact. Before Pauline had a chance to ask why, he yelled it again and began to cry but not before raising a blade to his wrist and slicing the flesh. He began to wipe the blood on the walls and scream, "Now! Now!"
Those times were not out weighed by the good times. His smile. His sense of humor. Our provocative conversations about God and sex. His laugh. His ability to make a point and have it hit even if you didn't agree with him. He would make you loathe the fact that his point of view was undeniable. The jokes, the stories, the scariest times were all floating in the air. They were so tangent that you could grab one and hold it until reality stripped it from you and pointed to the casket.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Oct 20 Something Part 1
Some time has passed....
I'm not too sure what day it is or the time but the sun is out. I'm not sure what to feel. Like a washing machine of rage, sadness, anger, guilt, relief, trying to get clean, while spinning and cycling, swooshing and smashing, and drowning. News of Patrick relayed through tears from Pauline and George. He was sent to a morgue downtown somewhere. Suicide is always first treated like a homicide. He's alone. His body is being examined. They tried to take his corneas despite the fact he is not a donor. Word came back that they could not use them because we , as a family, were over seas for a time while mad cows were terrorizing America. The 90's were a great time. Patrick has no sight.
Some time between crying and fits of screaming in the fallout of chaos, Jackie has managed to tell me what happen in the moments before insanity. Patrick stayed with her from time to time because of routine fights with his boyfriend. He was awake that morning and smiling and they talked briefly before she left for work as they did almost everyday. George is suppose to pick up Patrick that day, so he can drop off job applications.
Jackie came home for lunch Oct. 18th. The front door was unlocked and she explained she never leaves her apartment unlocked. She calls Patrick. Nothing but silence. She goes to her bedroom and something, she says, tells her to check closet. She opens the closet door and among the clutter of clothes and shoes, Patrick is hanging by his neck from the closet hanger bar. She describes Patrick in a way that a child would. Jackie sees Patrick folded on himself because the bar was only four feet from the ground. His legs bent and his knees hanging just above the carpet floor of the closet. His eyes closed and his tongue is poking out of his mouth. The rope is cutting into his flesh around his neck. Her first instinct is to help him stand, so she tries to pick up Patrick with her 5' 2", 125 lb frame. It is no help. She runs to the kitchen to grab a knife and runs back to Patrick. She cuts the rope and Patrick falls. She says he falls with no pain, no noise except the sound his body makes from folding on the floor. In a panic Jackie calls George. George did not pick up Patrick.
George did not pick up Patrick. He over slept. He is to be at Jackie's apartment at 9 am but he does not show. George arrives at Jackie's apartment during Jackie's lunch Oct. 18th. Jackie is screaming. She can't stop screaming. Don't let him die! George checks Patrick's pulse. No pulse. He calls 911. He starts CPR on Patrick. George describes Patrick's breath as a terrible odor coming from Patrick's stomach. Such a terrible taste, the taste of death. The rope left a deep ring around his neck. He hates this rope and later finds it came from the dumpster near the back of the apartment. George is still doing CPR. Patrick is making soft grunts but only as reaction to George. Patrick has no pulse. No breath. No life. Patrick is dead.
I'm not too sure what day it is or the time but the sun is out. I'm not sure what to feel. Like a washing machine of rage, sadness, anger, guilt, relief, trying to get clean, while spinning and cycling, swooshing and smashing, and drowning. News of Patrick relayed through tears from Pauline and George. He was sent to a morgue downtown somewhere. Suicide is always first treated like a homicide. He's alone. His body is being examined. They tried to take his corneas despite the fact he is not a donor. Word came back that they could not use them because we , as a family, were over seas for a time while mad cows were terrorizing America. The 90's were a great time. Patrick has no sight.
Some time between crying and fits of screaming in the fallout of chaos, Jackie has managed to tell me what happen in the moments before insanity. Patrick stayed with her from time to time because of routine fights with his boyfriend. He was awake that morning and smiling and they talked briefly before she left for work as they did almost everyday. George is suppose to pick up Patrick that day, so he can drop off job applications.
Jackie came home for lunch Oct. 18th. The front door was unlocked and she explained she never leaves her apartment unlocked. She calls Patrick. Nothing but silence. She goes to her bedroom and something, she says, tells her to check closet. She opens the closet door and among the clutter of clothes and shoes, Patrick is hanging by his neck from the closet hanger bar. She describes Patrick in a way that a child would. Jackie sees Patrick folded on himself because the bar was only four feet from the ground. His legs bent and his knees hanging just above the carpet floor of the closet. His eyes closed and his tongue is poking out of his mouth. The rope is cutting into his flesh around his neck. Her first instinct is to help him stand, so she tries to pick up Patrick with her 5' 2", 125 lb frame. It is no help. She runs to the kitchen to grab a knife and runs back to Patrick. She cuts the rope and Patrick falls. She says he falls with no pain, no noise except the sound his body makes from folding on the floor. In a panic Jackie calls George. George did not pick up Patrick.
George did not pick up Patrick. He over slept. He is to be at Jackie's apartment at 9 am but he does not show. George arrives at Jackie's apartment during Jackie's lunch Oct. 18th. Jackie is screaming. She can't stop screaming. Don't let him die! George checks Patrick's pulse. No pulse. He calls 911. He starts CPR on Patrick. George describes Patrick's breath as a terrible odor coming from Patrick's stomach. Such a terrible taste, the taste of death. The rope left a deep ring around his neck. He hates this rope and later finds it came from the dumpster near the back of the apartment. George is still doing CPR. Patrick is making soft grunts but only as reaction to George. Patrick has no pulse. No breath. No life. Patrick is dead.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Oct. 18 Part 2
Pulling up to the apartment complex....
The sun is shinning. The clouds are all but tiny streaks across the sky. It is such a rich blue tattered canopy. The air is thin and cool yet somehow still. Jackie is sitting at the foot of the steps with eyes heavy and confused. Her poorly dyed hair, wild as always. Her work uniform a mess. Hands in a knot in her lap as the ground rises up making it too short so her legs have to bend. Tears have stained her face. The distance her fixed gaze seems infinite. I brush pass her as I take the two flights of stairs. In four large steps I take the faulty stair case exposed to the elements. The cracked cement steps and hand rails with chipped paint shake as I reach the rest of my life.
906 stood at the top as I embrace the door way. I had not noticed the ambulance outside, but two uniformed men and George stood over Patrick, with heads hung low in failure. George slightly raised his head as my shadow interrupted his stare. His large arms are folded. The weight of agony overwhelming his large stature. There is no comfort in his face. There's a yellow tarp or sheet or picnic table covering over Patrick, over his torso and face. His long arms and legs were exposed due to the size of broad shoulders of a 6' 1" frame. I float to his side. Tragedy is all around me and invading my chest making it hard to breathe. I kneel down and tug on the yellow covering revealing his face. His eyes slightly open and lost. No life or breath in his lips. A gray blue tint consuming his fading pigment. This was not Patrick but a shell left behind. A vacancy. Blue and dark at the corners of his mouth. His jaw open and pushed back as he lay. A stillness like no other. His large hands and fingers relaxed on the dingy carpet.
As I examined Patrick, George started to cross the threshold from where he and the two paramedics were standing. As a group they yelled, "Get away from him!" The shock I fell under took over and "Fuck you, he's my brother!" came out. I repeated the word "No!" every time my brain dealt with reality until it lost meaning. George's arms held my arms down and pushed me to the door. Patrick is dead. This is forever. This is not real. This hurts unlike any other pain. I am outside of 906 and Patrick lay on a dingy carpet. I walk down the stairs sit next to Jackie. Our silence is not peaceful. The muted sorrow is only disturbed by a car that pulls into a parking space facing the apartment.
A strange, fat woman opens and exits the driver side. Walks to same side passenger door and opens it. Pauline emerges from the strange woman's car. Her disposition emanates from the moment her foot steps out of the car like a mist of despair. Carrying her satchel of a purse, she slowly makes her way towards Jackie and myself. The fat strange woman turns off her car and proceeds to follow Pauline. Pauline makes a timid yet determined walk to the stairs and marches past two almost lifeless fixtures half blocking the steps. She makes a gesture to the woman beside her and the woman stays behind. A slow deliberate pace up the stairs as she makes her way. Pauline enters the apartment and closes the door behind her.
Silence is ruled by Jackie and I as the stranger's nervous energy has no affect on us. Time is irrelevant as the apartment door opens once again. George and Pauline come out into the day. As they make their way down the stairs a large van pulls into the parking lot and blocks the cars in as it stops suddenly. A fat short man and a short thin partner retrieve a stretcher from the back of the van. On the stretcher is a large, dark, dirty blue, heavy blanket. They make a glance at the family of lost hope with a stranger looming. The men make no sound except the banging of the stretcher's wheels as they slide over diffuse pavement broken by time. Up the weathered stairs to commence a job the men were to answer. It took no time to wrap up Patrick in the blanket and strap him down to the stretcher. They almost rushed past George, Pauline, Jackie and myself with a destination too far to waste time.
Just then, Pauline stops these men and says, "Wait," with a soft surrendering voice. The two men looked at eachother and haulted. Only Patrick's face is exposed to the sky. Emotions swelled beyond capacity in all of us except the three strangers. Tears and half broken tender words trickled as we all laid hands and lips to Patrick's face and covered body. One by one we say a few sweet meaningless words and with the end, the two men continue to carry out their mission.
The sun is shinning. The clouds are all but tiny streaks across the sky. It is such a rich blue tattered canopy. The air is thin and cool yet somehow still. Jackie is sitting at the foot of the steps with eyes heavy and confused. Her poorly dyed hair, wild as always. Her work uniform a mess. Hands in a knot in her lap as the ground rises up making it too short so her legs have to bend. Tears have stained her face. The distance her fixed gaze seems infinite. I brush pass her as I take the two flights of stairs. In four large steps I take the faulty stair case exposed to the elements. The cracked cement steps and hand rails with chipped paint shake as I reach the rest of my life.
906 stood at the top as I embrace the door way. I had not noticed the ambulance outside, but two uniformed men and George stood over Patrick, with heads hung low in failure. George slightly raised his head as my shadow interrupted his stare. His large arms are folded. The weight of agony overwhelming his large stature. There is no comfort in his face. There's a yellow tarp or sheet or picnic table covering over Patrick, over his torso and face. His long arms and legs were exposed due to the size of broad shoulders of a 6' 1" frame. I float to his side. Tragedy is all around me and invading my chest making it hard to breathe. I kneel down and tug on the yellow covering revealing his face. His eyes slightly open and lost. No life or breath in his lips. A gray blue tint consuming his fading pigment. This was not Patrick but a shell left behind. A vacancy. Blue and dark at the corners of his mouth. His jaw open and pushed back as he lay. A stillness like no other. His large hands and fingers relaxed on the dingy carpet.
As I examined Patrick, George started to cross the threshold from where he and the two paramedics were standing. As a group they yelled, "Get away from him!" The shock I fell under took over and "Fuck you, he's my brother!" came out. I repeated the word "No!" every time my brain dealt with reality until it lost meaning. George's arms held my arms down and pushed me to the door. Patrick is dead. This is forever. This is not real. This hurts unlike any other pain. I am outside of 906 and Patrick lay on a dingy carpet. I walk down the stairs sit next to Jackie. Our silence is not peaceful. The muted sorrow is only disturbed by a car that pulls into a parking space facing the apartment.
A strange, fat woman opens and exits the driver side. Walks to same side passenger door and opens it. Pauline emerges from the strange woman's car. Her disposition emanates from the moment her foot steps out of the car like a mist of despair. Carrying her satchel of a purse, she slowly makes her way towards Jackie and myself. The fat strange woman turns off her car and proceeds to follow Pauline. Pauline makes a timid yet determined walk to the stairs and marches past two almost lifeless fixtures half blocking the steps. She makes a gesture to the woman beside her and the woman stays behind. A slow deliberate pace up the stairs as she makes her way. Pauline enters the apartment and closes the door behind her.
Silence is ruled by Jackie and I as the stranger's nervous energy has no affect on us. Time is irrelevant as the apartment door opens once again. George and Pauline come out into the day. As they make their way down the stairs a large van pulls into the parking lot and blocks the cars in as it stops suddenly. A fat short man and a short thin partner retrieve a stretcher from the back of the van. On the stretcher is a large, dark, dirty blue, heavy blanket. They make a glance at the family of lost hope with a stranger looming. The men make no sound except the banging of the stretcher's wheels as they slide over diffuse pavement broken by time. Up the weathered stairs to commence a job the men were to answer. It took no time to wrap up Patrick in the blanket and strap him down to the stretcher. They almost rushed past George, Pauline, Jackie and myself with a destination too far to waste time.
Just then, Pauline stops these men and says, "Wait," with a soft surrendering voice. The two men looked at eachother and haulted. Only Patrick's face is exposed to the sky. Emotions swelled beyond capacity in all of us except the three strangers. Tears and half broken tender words trickled as we all laid hands and lips to Patrick's face and covered body. One by one we say a few sweet meaningless words and with the end, the two men continue to carry out their mission.
Friday, August 7, 2015
Oct 18th Part 1
Oct 17 texts
_____________
Patrick
I can't take it anymore brother. I'll see you on the other side
George:
You can't be a pussy your whole life. Everybody has problems. Shut up with that shit
Patrick:
Fuck you, you fucking faggot. I'm going to do something with my life and be better than you.
______________________________________________________________________
Waking up before the sun has always seemed over zealous but I have to be at work today by 7 am. I wake up dragging ass like I have most of my life. I look at my cell phone and it's 6:15am. I look over at Carolyn. My 220lbs shifts the entire bed and she doesn't even move because she's lost in peaceful sleep. I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my wrinkled scrubs. I will eventually wake up at work.
The morning drive to the hospital is always as quiet as possible. No music, no sound, except the cool October air rushing against my window. My eyes are still heavy with sleep and the thought of quitting dances across my mind in a worn path. I've never been a morning human.
I arrive at work. Looking tired but not from the night, I pass co-workers and say, "Good Morning", in my best voice. The morning comes and goes, and with time the burden of sleep on my eyes eases. My body is awake and my mind is focus to get through another day in the life of George. I have my cell phone in my back pocket occasionally pulling it out in secret to text Carolyn, like an ordinary day.
Walking through the QC area my phone vibrates. I rush to the back reading area where privacy is warranted. The screen shows DAD. I hesitate to answer as he will probably just want to chat and because of policy number 5 section 2, that could be a problem with my supervisor. I answer it anyway.
George: "What up Pop."
George: "Georgie"
George: "Yeah dad, what's up. I'm at work"
George: "Georgie.....Patrick....Patrick committed suicide"
George: "What? What are you saying? Is he hurt? Where is he? What?
George: "Georgie, Patrick committed suicide. He's dead mijo."
George: "Ok! Where are you? Are you doing cpr? I'm on my way?!"
George: "I'm here at Jackie's apartment."
George: "I'm on my way, keep doing cpr, Dad!"
Blood is rushing. Blood is rushing to my face, hands, legs. Blood is rushing in my ears as if I can hear it. Blood is rushing away from logic. I push the exit door to the back. The thought of telling a co-worker before I leave floods an irrational surge to my brain. I run, not walk or fast walk or jog, I fucking run to the front of the department. I pass by my supervisor and the front desk clerk. I pause for only a moment to utter the words, " I have to leave, my brother died." Saying those words made my eyes pour and my voice squeek. The reality of those words were still fresh as I was only repeating my father.
The drive towards forever seemed like a blurr. I was driving well over the speed limit, weaving in and out of caution. No matter how much I pushed safety, it still felt slow. These emotions were waves crashing against doubt and disbelief. My dad's intelligence questioned. Patrick wasn't dead. What if he was? How can he be dead? What the fuck is going on?
_____________
Patrick
I can't take it anymore brother. I'll see you on the other side
George:
You can't be a pussy your whole life. Everybody has problems. Shut up with that shit
Patrick:
Fuck you, you fucking faggot. I'm going to do something with my life and be better than you.
______________________________________________________________________
Waking up before the sun has always seemed over zealous but I have to be at work today by 7 am. I wake up dragging ass like I have most of my life. I look at my cell phone and it's 6:15am. I look over at Carolyn. My 220lbs shifts the entire bed and she doesn't even move because she's lost in peaceful sleep. I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my wrinkled scrubs. I will eventually wake up at work.
The morning drive to the hospital is always as quiet as possible. No music, no sound, except the cool October air rushing against my window. My eyes are still heavy with sleep and the thought of quitting dances across my mind in a worn path. I've never been a morning human.
I arrive at work. Looking tired but not from the night, I pass co-workers and say, "Good Morning", in my best voice. The morning comes and goes, and with time the burden of sleep on my eyes eases. My body is awake and my mind is focus to get through another day in the life of George. I have my cell phone in my back pocket occasionally pulling it out in secret to text Carolyn, like an ordinary day.
Walking through the QC area my phone vibrates. I rush to the back reading area where privacy is warranted. The screen shows DAD. I hesitate to answer as he will probably just want to chat and because of policy number 5 section 2, that could be a problem with my supervisor. I answer it anyway.
George: "What up Pop."
George: "Georgie"
George: "Yeah dad, what's up. I'm at work"
George: "Georgie.....Patrick....Patrick committed suicide"
George: "What? What are you saying? Is he hurt? Where is he? What?
George: "Georgie, Patrick committed suicide. He's dead mijo."
George: "Ok! Where are you? Are you doing cpr? I'm on my way?!"
George: "I'm here at Jackie's apartment."
George: "I'm on my way, keep doing cpr, Dad!"
Blood is rushing. Blood is rushing to my face, hands, legs. Blood is rushing in my ears as if I can hear it. Blood is rushing away from logic. I push the exit door to the back. The thought of telling a co-worker before I leave floods an irrational surge to my brain. I run, not walk or fast walk or jog, I fucking run to the front of the department. I pass by my supervisor and the front desk clerk. I pause for only a moment to utter the words, " I have to leave, my brother died." Saying those words made my eyes pour and my voice squeek. The reality of those words were still fresh as I was only repeating my father.
The drive towards forever seemed like a blurr. I was driving well over the speed limit, weaving in and out of caution. No matter how much I pushed safety, it still felt slow. These emotions were waves crashing against doubt and disbelief. My dad's intelligence questioned. Patrick wasn't dead. What if he was? How can he be dead? What the fuck is going on?
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