Lucid, Not Afraid: Part 2

8 years ago I wrote a blog entry after seeing a picture of a baby boy, washed up on the shores of the Mediterranean. His family were fleeing a war so brutal they took their chances crossing the sea on a small raft. 2,000 miles away, Europe seemed like their only hope. 

The soles of his tiny baby shoes looked like a toy cartoon as he lay there, frozen in his innocent, precious baby death. He will be etched in my memory forever. His name was Alan.

In Alan, I saw my own son.

“That could be my son.” I thought. “My little curly-haired hobbit baby. That could be him.”

I internalized the tragedy and felt a potent outrage. My outrage felt powerful and insignificant at the same time. You know the feeling, I’m sure of it.

That day, I used an analogy: I cannot control everything in this world, but I still have agency. I still need to buckle my seatbelt to survive a car crash (it’s what saved my son’s life in 2013). 

Tragically, the war in Syria seemed to slip away from the public consciousness. It checked all the boxes as one of, if not the worst wars in our time – a war so dangerous the media would not dare venture into the battlefield to show you. But it brought no marches, no rallies for a ceasefire. Chances are most Americans felt little agency to impact this conflict. Maybe they weren't sure who to blame. 

All the same, my country’s government sent millions worth of weapons to help fight the Assad army that was dropping barrel bombs and Chlorine gas on Alan’s homeland.

But justice felt far away and arbitrary. I was furious at how feckless the world can seem in the face of such historic destruction.

"If that could happen there, it could happen anywhere. I thought to myself. “The world will not protect us.”

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Years later, once again the world feels like it’s ripping itself apart, gently rapping demise at our doorstep.

Last year I saw a video of Anna, a young beautiful Ukrainian woman with long brown hair. Her mother, too weak to bury her daughter, covered her unburied ruin with a broken door – anything she could find to keep the feral dogs from eating her. Her petite legs in yoga pants and sneakers were poking out from under the ground, smothered in the mud.

I recognized Anna’s sneakers. I once had a darling girlfriend that wore the same ones.

Again, I internalized the tragedy.

“That could be my gentle sweetheart, her soft legs, unburied, unwept, and unsung. That could be her.” I said.

Within weeks, Anna’s city, Mariupol, was raised to the ground.

And again, my country’s government sent millions worth of weapons to fight back the Russian army that invaded Anna’s homeland.

But still, the justice for Anna’s death felt ephemeral.

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Fast forward to today and again, the rapping, tapping of demise hammers closer.

Once again, my country’s government sent millions in weapons to help a country fight for their homeland against a people trying to fight off those people trying to take their homeland.

Does that sound fucked? That’s cuz it is.

We’ve all seen the horrific videos coming out of Gaza and Israel. The scenes were not different from the ones in Syria, but this time the media was there to report back and show us the horror. And once again, fucking NBC sensationalized their reporting with a soundtrack that elicited O Fortuna.

Finally, this conflict hit a nerve for many of my community friends. Scores of them mobilized for rallies and marches. Pick a side, my social media feed is flooded with their reposts, evoking a familiar tone: "If you're not with us, then you're against us"

The conflict scrapes on sensitive topics ranging from anti-colonialism, ethnic cleansing, civilian deaths, occupation resistance, the whole gamut. Again, not exceptional from the war in Syria, but it somehow resonated more with them – perhaps a couple shades less opaque of who to blame – perhaps ourselves this time. Maybe it was O Fortuna.

Either way, this time I internalized something that felt distinctly different.

I saw a video of a father gently wiping dust from his daughter’s lifeless face. He loved her. Even in her death he tended to her cuteness. The father wept with a forsaken sorrow and agony for which I can only bear to damn God.

And my thoughts raced back to the men of these wars. The ones doing the fighting, the ones dropping bombs, shooting rockets, killing and murdering, the calloused and vengeful, the ones that hate.

I internalized that too and for the briefest of moments, I saw it. The Red.

“Holy shit, that could be ... me”.

The Red flashed into my mind and sank me with a hard truth: I’m hardwired to become like them, to become merciless.

“You don’t want me as your enemy.” I brooded.

I know that my fighting spirit is bestowed upon me to protect those I love, but it can easily become a path toward utter destruction.

“If I had that kind of agony, I wouldn’t stop. From the dry depths of my sorrow, I’d damn myself and fuckin eat your dead and go mad. Cuz fuck you all.” I said to myself, internalizing what it must feel like to endure such hatred and fury.

And yes, I internalized both sides.

I’m lucidly aware that rage is a madness - a sickness. And I’m not immune. At times it is more bewitching and more entrancing than love or compassion, not stronger, but more potent and fast-flowing. I have seen The Red before – a place without peace, without forgiveness, and painfully, I admit I have hurt people because of it, even people I cared about. I’ve even seen it in some of you lately.


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Amidst this jumble of thoughts, it's important to remember where this writing began – without fear.

But this is the world we live in, the really real world. A world where the balance of order and chaos have not changed – a world that is brutal yet fragile, feckless and wild, gentle and precious, and disgustingly vile.

So where do we go from here? 

First off, take a deep breath.

I remain unafraid. And so should you.

Because here’s the kicker: our scourge may not be war and violence. We may never live to witness our country Balkanize itself – at least not yet. Our scourge could easily be … an earthquake.

Did you buckle your seatbelt?

We cannot control everything in this world and it’s not always clear what we should do about it. There’s so much to worry about. But there’s no transcendence in complacency. And we now inherit a world that our forefathers built, for better or for worse.

I know it’s a lot to take in – global war games, pandemics, your aging parents, goddamn credit card bills, climate change, fuckin microplastics... I get it. You’re dealing with a lot.

But one thing is for certain: We’ll need each other to get through any of it. You’re too important in this story. 

I’ve accepted that although I may not be able to stop the calamity, I can damn sure help you survive it. And I remain steadfast to do my best to try. I will help you buckle your seatbelt too. There’s too much nebulous mind control that aims to turn us against one another, or worse, convince us that we’re powerless.

We can protect each other. We can save someone else’s hobbit baby. We can evacuate a gentle woman before it’s too late. And we can bring peace to a tortured soul trapped in The Red.

Stand together with me. Face it head on. Don’t look away.

I’m holding your hand right now. Together. Lucid and Unafraid.

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Teach a Man to Fish

The following is a memoir and tribute to my high school mentor, Wayne MacDonald. 

Chapter 1: No Baby Steps

“Can I trust you with my life?” I asked her. 

The girl looked back at me with gentle eyes and smiled. Her hand holding the end of my rope line, she replied. 

“Yes, you can trust me with your life.” 

I didn’t know her. This was only the second day of school. But here I was, on the precipice of a sharp cliff. I wondered how the hell I ended up here. 

The cliff was 70-80 feet high, but I remember feeling like it seemed bigger.  The scent of wet morning grass mingled with the old leather of my gloves. 

I couldn’t bring myself to look down. I just focused on the rope in front of me, the instructions they gave me. The rope, my own life, ran through my hands. I trusted the girl with it now too. Commit.

““Don’t die…bring the rope down to your thigh to brake…. lift the rope to release…don’t fuckin die.” I repeated to myself. 

But soon I started feeling more confident. I eventually released my brake to take large jumps from the rock. Just like the guys in the movies. A few agile bounces, and boom, I completed the descent. Exhilarated.

“..savage” I whispered to myself.

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Chapter 2: New Bootie

“Muahrcus, we’re transfarring you to a special pwrogram. I think you’ll like it theah”. 

My Art Director, Mr Rosenblatt, looked at me concerned. In his thick New York accent, he recommended I attend an alternative school program - Urban Pioneers (UP).

You see, high school was a tough time for me. There were too many pretty girls, distractions, and psychoactive drugs for me to give a shit about getting good grades. I felt rebellious and convinced myself that "learning in school" was dumb and I wanted no part of it. (I was a dumbass, I know)

 

“Oh shit, you’re going to Urban?” a kid chuckled. “Watch out, that’s like, for ghetto kids who are about to drop out” 

…Well, fuck him cuz he was wrong. But I understand how that could be misconstrued. 

The program operated independently out of a group of bungalows in the parking lot of a separate high school. From the outside, a passerby might only notice the large graffiti-style letters spelling out Urban Pioneers spray painted on the side of the wall. Oh, and Juvenile Hall stood ominously across the street -- a not-so-subtle reminder of detours on the path of education. Good stuff! 

“Man, fuck school” I told myself.

Walking into the bungalow, there was a blend of aromas; moldy classroom, bubblegum, and a hint of someone’s weed.

I quickly scanned the room and immediately recognized some of the kids there. And I wasn’t exactly happy about it. I knew them from different neighborhoods – kids from the housing projects in Hunters Point and specifically, kids from the “HITSquad'' on Highland Street. If I'm honest, I was kinda scared of them. At the time, I thought one of their older friends had tried to rob me when I was little. Doesn't matter now anyway. Either way, I thought they were all assholes. 

The classroom was laid out with a few couches and chairs arranged casually. A graffiti-style banner stretched across one wall - a visual reminder of the program's ethos:

'Give a man a fish, he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish, he eats for life.' 

My teacher, Jay Lee, confident and nonchalant, leaned back on the edge of a table, twirling his long dreads with his fingers and spoke in a husky voice. 

“So…yeah…tomorrow, don't come to campus. Meet us in the canyon for the wall repel.” 

When I arrived I noticed some kids had already set up. And guess who was there. Yep. One of those dipshits from HITSquad. Turns out one of them had already gone through the program and earned the privilege to return for a second semester. As a “Returnee”, he was charged with mentoring the newcomers – the “new booties”.

“Christ. HE’s gonna train us?!” I whispered to myself.

But something was different about him. He wasn’t being an asshole. He was legit. This dude had straight up morphed. 

I thought I knew this kid to be a jerk, but there he was, a hyper-vigilant leader, diligently guiding the new students through the complexities of tying a figure-eight knot. And let me tell you, if you were screwing around, you heard it from him. He really wanted us to listen and learn. 

“Dang, he really knows his stuff” I said to the kid next to me. 

“Yeah. He’s a sav.” a girl responded. 

I stood there, fascinated, in awe, like I just discovered fire.  

 

“Huh… a sav.” I thought.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, a “sav”, short for “savage”, is loosely defined as a mythical idealization of an intelligent, driven, mature, brave, athletic, challenge-ready survivalist with endless skills, and all-around capabilities (I could go on and on). And here is this bratty-ass kid, exemplifying exactly those traits. This was a big deal.

…Now, granted, this dude might have still come off as a dipshit teenager in the streets, but UP provided a context that brought out the absolute best in these kids, revealing a side of them that most people, including myself, hadn't even known existed. These weren't just bratty street kids; they could exercise the highest levels of maturity and brought a unique blend of passion, energy, and loyalty. Someone just needed to bring it out. 

I liked the kid now. I respected him; He WAS a sav. And we’re still friends to this day.