Now!: The Profundity of Life

By Paul Santy

In my concern for the spiritual state of the world, I felt compelled to share my life story where I felt there was a progression toward the holy spirit ever so gradually but at least it was a progression. I did explore various ways of life. As a high school student, I was happy to be university-bound. As a university student, I was happy to explore freethinking as well as pursue dance, which was a repressed desire ever so gradually coming towards fruition. This art form brought another dimension of self-discovery through choreography and performing, and through the people that I met. This led to a spiritual conversion which is exemplified by a trip to Israel and the fruits that it brought forth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645365884

Paul Santy

Paul Santy was born in upstate New York. He then moved into New York City when he was 23, where he felt for the first time that he was living life, being his own person. There, he expanded on his career as a professional dancer and choreographer, creating dance operas with artists, singers, dancers, and musicians to create a meaningful theatrical experience. After some years, he felt a spiritual wind change his direction toward a spiritual minimalism and a contentment that moved him away from ego and toward a deeper humility.

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Afterthoughts

About the Author

Paul Santy was born in upstate New York. He then moved into New York City when he was 23, where he felt for the first time that he was living life, being his own person. There, he expanded on his career as a professional dancer and choreographer, creating dance operas with artists, singers, dancers, and musicians to create a meaningful theatrical experience. After some years, he felt a spiritual wind change his direction toward a spiritual minimalism and a contentment that moved him away from ego and toward a deeper humility.

Dedication

Lisa, Dana, Michael, and Christopher.

God, because I had ten dreams related to writing a book that

I believe were of Him.

I just hope this is the book that He wanted me to write.

You, the reader, who doesn’t know me. In other words, I didn’t want anybody who knows me to read this book, other than the names written above. However, I felt I needed to share my story, even though this is difficult for me.

This is my story. God entered into my story in order to take me into His.

Copyright Information ©

Paul Santy (2020)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of the author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Santy, Paul

Now!

ISBN 9781643785264 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781643785271 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645365884 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020917082

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgement

My Lord and my God.

And to those, in all of time, who overcame by the blood of the Lamb and the word of their testimony, I hope to be with you.

NOW!

Deep Valley – Broken Humanity

High Mountains – Challenges Never Faced

Rising Moon – Ambitions Failed

Setting Sun – Today’s Challenges Gone

Stormy Days – Bad Thoughts Arise

Shelter – Comfort

Rivers Flowing – Water Under the Bridge

Ocean’s Roar – The Spirit Moaning

The Sun’s Clarity – Praise

Star’s Twinkle – Glimmer of Hope

Wind – Forgiveness

Breeze – Love

Time – Now!

I used to think that love had no limits. Now I don’t. There are some things we should say no to when we love.

Part 1

Behind the Doors of 2573 4th Avenue,

Schenectady, N.Y. 12303

I remember since my childhood, being fascinated with the difference between reality and fantasy. I would lay on my bed at night with my door mostly closed. The dimmed bathroom light that was adjacent to my room would shine subtly between the crack of the door’s edge and the doorframe. In a meditative way, I would bend my arm and reach my hand up until it formed a right angle. I would watch the light on my hand and then look to the wall in order to see the shadow and which shapes would be produced.

For me, where the light was, was reality, and where the darkness formed a shape, was fantasy. For many, their egos bring them into the fantasy and there they establish their ‘reality.’ When I looked at the darkness, the shapes could be numerous, but when I looked at my hand in the light, it always appeared as just a hand.

The fantasy world was brilliant with options, but with reality there was just one. A truth prevailed. Once in the fantasy world, the fantasy prevailed. Which would I choose? There always seemed to be this versus that – a war. A struggle which to submit to. The light was beautiful the way it would shine on my hand, but the darkness was magical.

I’d ask myself, as I’d be lying there trying to go to sleep as a young boy, maybe six years old, in which do I want to live, reality or fantasy, life or movies, humbleness or pride, satisfaction or unhappiness? Reality was hard and exposed. It meant dealing with things, while fantasy meant being aloof, uncaring, far away, dramatic, and unrealistic. These were things that I didn’t enjoy in other people. I remember consciously thinking that I want to stay humble and be thankful for what I have.

Not facing reality was very difficult for me and confusing. I didn’t want to be artificial, nor did I want to be around people that were. A dramatic life seemed to be exhausting and pretentious and lost. Yet for many, their egos bring them to an unrealistic place and they can’t ever escape the pull of fantasy or darkness. The ego hates the truth and will try to manipulate others into its own illusion. It runs to shallowness. It wants to believe lies about itself or cover up what it knows to be true about itself, subconsciously. People hide from the truth behind the ego and as they keep feeding it their lies, the layers of their masque keep increasing. Their lives are a pose, for they live as if they are an actor in a movie. They determine the role of the character that they play. The director is their ego.

This is a story about a person’s quest for truth and trying to bring it to the stage yet finding that the stage was not a place for the absolute truth. I believe that it can represent the truth and even be used for the quest of it, as it was for me, but ultimately salvation is not a performance. The stage is an illusion and it’s larger than life. It’s a place for the ego to showcase itself. The stage is the ego magnified. Within the ego the truth does not exist, and the stage can expose that. One can search for it there all that they want, yet it is not the end all. So, a split had to be made, just as the light on the hand could not be the darkness on the wall reflecting its shape. The light could showcase the darkness as if to say, We are not one, yet we can define each other by saying, I am not you. So, the actors in a play and reality define each other, but they are not the same. If one were to turn off the lights in a theater, there would be no show, yet the actors would still live, in truth. A story may be true, but the actors are not the characters they are playing. That’s the reality. I think the closest one can get to truth on a stage, is with improvisation. Then one is living in the moment. Otherwise it is premeditated. Jesus Christ summed it up in one brief sentence about food, clothes, and shelter that I think entails living in the truth on all levels when He said, Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Matthew 6:34

Part 2

Searching

My first memory seems to be before I was 18 months old. I say this because it was in my grandparents’ farmhouse which they had sold when I was 18 months old. I remember going through the house, first the kitchen then stepping up to the living room which had a wood burning stove in it. Then up the stairs that had a grandfather clock on them, at the corner, where the stairs turned. Upstairs, I remember being elevated while in one of the bedrooms, so I was probably in a crib. I remember seeing flypaper hanging from the ceiling and smelling my grandma’s dung after she went to the bathroom, and how pungent it was.

My mom was so impressed with this memory exclaiming, How do you remember that? Some things in life are mysterious. I can also remember the smell of the house.

I also remember my dad laying on his back and lifting me above him and trying to balance me. I remember it being difficult to balance. I heard he once dropped me on my head. Another powerful memory was rushing to greet him at the door when he got home from work. I was in my pajamas, because it was getting to be bedtime and he was in his work clothes. I was very small, maybe two or three years old. He’d pick me up with his strong arms and put his lips to my cheek and say something like Where’s my cheek, and then slobbered all over it. I liked the affection, but the smell of his breath and saliva was so pungent that I preferred that it did not stay on my cheek. I wiped it off with my pajama sleeve.

As a child, the world of alcohol and cigarettes made no sense to me. They both smelled and tasted horrible, plus they were forbidden to the youth. Well, why not for the adults too? My two sisters got hold of a cigarette and we found the three of us in the garage secretly trying to smoke it. When I tried to inhale and started coughing, I experienced that burning sensation, and the instinct to prevent smoke from going down into my lungs. I thought to myself, It must only be because someone wants to look cool that they would start such a habit. That peace sign people make, with a cigarette between it, while kissing the air with dragon smoke coming out of the mouth, presented contradictions that looked cool, but stank.

Also, in my youth maybe around six years old, I remember looking into my closet with many clothes. My two older sisters and my mom and I were getting ready to go somewhere. We were all upstairs. As I stared into my closet, I could not decide what to wear, and I wanted to ask my dad. At this moment, I realized that his presence was very absent in my life. My mom and two sisters always seemed to be right there. The contrast was great, too great. I felt the balance was off and I specifically thought about it then and got frustrated that I was going to be raised by women, a dynamic that I didn’t always feel comfortable to be around, especially when I had a dad. Why was he so absent? Why was he not home?

Yet what would happen was that I could become a product of that energy. Like a chameleon being able to change its colors, I would be able to adapt to a womanly environment so well, because of the familiarity of it. Deep down, I wanted to be around men. But unfortunately, the examples of men that I saw in my life didn’t seem to be aware or caring, but instead callous, cold, reviling, drunken, foolish, and distant. I’d ask myself, What was I brought into? and then tell myself, Now I will have to wait to be an adult in order to escape. It seemed like a very long time to wait, but the peaceful thing to do was to submit. There was a short time where a family adjacent to our house had three young boys who I could play with but that was short-lived. They moved to Pennsylvania around the first grade.

From my youth until adulthood, Sharon was my neighbor. We were the same age and probably best friends no matter how much both of us decided never to admit it. Without her, my childhood would have felt childless. My days and nights of playing games would have remained left hand against the right and a constant begging to my older and more mature sisters who had passed the stage of playing ‘Cross Over the Bridge’ and ‘Monopoly.’ Sharon’s mom, Irene, would often participate in our games adding extra excitement to them when she’d yell, Come on, baby needs a new pair of blue shoes or diapers, when throwing the dice. As the trees and hedges grew in each other’s yard, so did the distance between Sharon and me.

One day when relatives came over to enjoy our pleasant backyard and to go swimming, my Uncle Pucci insisted that he bring me to the Rotterdam Fire Department in order to sign me up for Little League. I was probably six years old. He knew that my dad wouldn’t do it. I remember hearing him try to persuade him. Maybe this was one of the few things my dad did right, not to bring me. What a nightmare. I thought it was a game. I hated competition and still do to this day. As if winning a game or getting a higher grade makes someone a better person. It makes no sense. But I did value getting good grades, because I respected intelligent people, but not proud or arrogant ones. I had an arrogant cousin who would look so ugly in his arrogance. His intimidating behavior made me freeze and I’d think how I wouldn’t want to make anyone feel that way. Maybe it was my Catholic upbringing, but I always felt that humility was more appealing, nicer to be around, and it’s better to be humble than proud. The image of Jesus I had was one of being willing to suffer for others. When things grew to be quite intolerable in my family, I would pray as a young boy that He would someday deliver me from the situation. I would cry so often from my parents arguing, what I remember to be every night.

I dreaded putting on the purple Carmen Little League shirt with the matching purple hat. I felt like a sluggard going up to bat, because that’s what the other team would scream at me. Oh, he’s a sluggard. Were they liars or were they telling the truth? Weren’t we to speak the truth, especially with all those adults around? I was often placed in the right outfield and wished the stupid ball would never come my way, because when it did, I’d mess up in some way. Come to find out years later, I have trouble focusing properly with my eyes. The coach would yell and curse. I couldn’t believe it. Was this what fun was supposed to be? Because if it was, I didn’t want to have fun. Thankfully, before practice, I’d get these migraine headaches to where I couldn’t function. Yes, I’d rather stay home on the couch and suffer than to submit myself willingly to more verbal abuse. I already had enough at home.

When my dad was home early on the on weekends, which was rare, he’d be distracted with watching sports on television and betting on the game. At times he’d get excited, but it just didn’t seem to be him. It didn’t look real, as if it was a role, he’d play to distract himself from us, his family, or himself.

One weekend day while Dad was watching wrestling, Regina came over. She lived far into the neighborhood. We both were in the second grade together at the time. I was seven years old. Somehow, I was encouraged to go down into the basement with her to play. Our basement was kept very nice with furniture and plants and a bar with a telephone on it. As we played, she was getting quite aggressive toward me sexually. I was surprised and didn’t know how to react. She’d say things like, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. She would lift up her shirt and throw herself at me. I didn’t find this girl’s behavior appealing then, but it was something that seemed to follow me through life, being around aggressive women while wanting to be around men. It was as if I was stuck in this role as my Dad was stuck in his role either behind a bar somewhere or behind a television set. Being stuck and slow sexually, I never felt ready to advance. I didn’t know how to. How could I? My problems weren’t solved.

I had gone back upstairs to the original wrestling match leaving the one downstairs. This was the first day I remember being sexually aroused. I didn’t like the feeling. It felt like an uncomfortable burning. Was it from Regina or was it from the wrestling match? The wrestling made my dad excited. Is this what life is about? Wrestling? I hated to fight. I hated to be ignored and I hated all that attention Regina just gave me. Things just seemed to be off.

Growing up, things could have been much worse. I knew this by hearing about starving children around the world, with the UNICEF and Sally Struthers commercials for Christian Children’s Fund. In general, I was a well-behaved child, yet at times, my frustrations would mount. One day while my parents were out, I broke out in a rage toward my two sisters, probably instigated by at least one of them. I got a knife out of the drawer and chased them around the house and out the door. Finally, I was taking charge for a change. I was maybe six years old. Boy did I get a spanking and some attention from my dad, from my mom egging him on. I feel that it helped me to understand some standard, some line not to cross. Pain gets right to the point. Suffering deepens understanding.

Also, there was a time when my sister was in the front yard and stuck out her tongue at me. I was in the house, behind a glass in a metal framed door. I got so upset that when I went to push the door open, I missed the metal frame and instead pushed my hand through the glass. What resulted was the glass shredding my skin and flesh to where I needed to get stitches. I still have a scar on my right wrist today from that incident.

Over time, I gave into the feminine environment that surrounded me. It became normal with the additions of Grandma and Aunt Mary and many of my sisters’ girlfriends. We had a nice in-ground pool so that lead to practically naked female bodies swimming and sunbathing. Very little male presence in my life continued throughout the years into my teens. When a male neighbor friend of my dad would come over, he’d usually insult me, calling me twinkle toes, and my dad would laugh. I’d shrug off the pain with a smile. I was afraid to add any more conflict to our already conflict-ridden home. There would be so much provocation.

Usually the arguments involved the subject of money or my mom telling my dad that he should spend more time with me and if he doesn’t, I could turn gay. I was astonished by something he said, in overhearing him talk about this subject. He said, If my son is gay, I wish he’d get AIDS and die. I was shown another line not to cross, this time with words. It’s hard for me to capture the meaning of that sentence from a dad who showed no love toward me. I got reminded recently when my sister and I were talking about my dad and she said, He totally ignored you. That is the word to sum it up – ignored. He ignored me. And to be gay, he’d wish me dead. Somehow it seems to relate to his ego being hurt. When I was born, he was so happy that he got a stem, as he would put it. My mom kept the card that had that written on it in a special box for me after she died in 2016. But I ask now, why bring a child into this world if one is going to ignore him? I guess that he didn’t know that he’d do that. I heard today that the effects of neglect on a child are worse than if one is abandoned. I can see how that would be true related to the reiteration of the negligence day after day.

Growing up, I was astonished that there was no real presence of men in my life, while even having a father who lived with us and yet I rarely saw him. If I saw him, he was usually drunk. When I discovered around 14 years old that he worked two days a week, I was heartbroken. I had thought throughout the years him being at work justified his absence. But to then come to this realization, it must only mean he hates us or just loved his alcohol more than us. There were times he’d take me to the bar and sit me in the corner of the room alone on a chair while he’d fraternize. This was maybe the most attention I got. I would be sad in spirit while trying to pretend outwardly everything was all right, but I was realistic and knew it wasn’t.

As for the arguments about money, I got to the point that I didn’t want to ask for anything thinking my asking would cause more of a strain on their money problems. Not until I applied to universities did I understand what my dad made within a year. I was astonished to find out that he made over $100,000. He would often boast that when he dies, everything would go to me. Well, I didn’t see the money when he died. His sister got his $300,000 fortune by hook or by crook from our family. I truly never wanted his money. I just wanted him to spend time with me even if it meant having dirt floors or going camping.

What seemed to keep me sane in my life was my desire to dance. As a child, I saw a child performer on television sing a song. She’d wave her hand around in circles as if she were cleaning a window and get so dramatic. Somehow viewing this freed me to believe that I could perform too. So, I’d go around the house imitating her, as if I had a microphone in my left hand, while also waving my right hand in a circle as if I was making that glass shine.

So, I’d make up dances with my favorite songs from Casey Kasem’s weekly top 40 radio show. I’d so look forward to sitting in a rocking chair for hours, listening to it, rocking away. I was transported. I’d try to support my favorite artist by buying their ‘45’ at the local record store. I’d spend much time trying to decide who was worthy of my 99 cents. Eric Carmen’s All by Myself, Donna Summer’s Love to Love You Baby, and Captain and Tennille’s Love Will Keep Us Together are some examples that got my money. The stereo and song became my friend and guide into a world of dance, choreography, and performance for years. I could visualize dances in my head while rocking. I’d pop up out of the chair when inspired to dance and give it my all. I’d even perform for company. It was the perfect escape. So much better than doing drugs or alcohol, plus I was at home and it was free.

Whenever I made money from cutting lawns or doing chores, I’d usually support my favorite artist as mentioned. But there was another envelope in my savings book I wanted to contribute to. I was four years old when I saw the Swiss Alps on television. I became obsessed with going there. Then watching The Sound of Music made it even more desirable. So, I put aside money for the day that I could go. But oh, when would that be?

Fortunately, in 1980, ten years later at 14 years old, my mom beat me to it. She saved thousands of dollars by being a hairdresser in the basement of our house a couple days a week in order to bring her family to Europe. She and I spent days and hours looking through tour books trying to choose the right itinerary for us all. Surprisingly, my dad would come too. I was amazed that he’d get out of his rut, as he would call it. He was like a quiet little boy, not masked with alcohol and loud macho behavior. How I wished I could get to know him.

For the most part, those two weeks were a joy for me and I think for us all except for my dad. He was a grouch. We were pulled out of our comfort zone and placed into another. With the beautiful scenery, the pushed schedule, being led like sheep, the nice restaurants and the nice hotels, how could anyone complain? Plus, we were making friends with the people on the tour, again all women.

In Switzerland, we went to Zurich, Brianz, Bern, Montreaux, Luzern, and Zermatt in order to view the Matterhorn where a man died at the viewing sight, probably due to the altitude. In Italy, we visited Milan, Florence seeing the statue of David, onto the Leaning Tower of Pisa where I went to the top and walked around the disorienting rim, because I had to walk crooked. The gravitational pull was intense. I was stunned that there were no rails. America would not allow this. Then after a long drive, we made it to Rome passing the Mediterranean Sea. We saw many ruins, a lot of churches, the changing of the guards, Vatican City where the Pope makes his speech on Sundays. We went on to the Island of Capri taking a small boat into the blue grotto. Pompeii, Assisi, San Marino, and Venice were also included.

Here is a journal writing from my creative writing class in 1983 about the trip:

9-23-83. My family and I had gone on a trip overseas travelling through the countryside by bus. This was about seven hours each day. Each person in my family had an opinion about the itinerary and trip. My father will reject the idea of ever travelling by bus like that again. He is very impatient and cannot sit more than one hour without being in discomfort. He was a grouch. My sisters didn’t like the bus, because of the stale air and how the smokers on the bus would pollute the air. They seemed to get very tired throughout the day with so much sitting. My mother and I loved every bit of the trip. To me, the more I see the better. We got to see the outskirts as well as the cities. Bussing shows the diversity of a country. I would rather rely on a bus than drive myself in a foreign country.

***

Even though I enjoyed the experience, I knew that there was a better, and probably a cheaper, way of doing things and that I’d explore in my future. But for then, it was what it was, and it worked. I’m very grateful to my mom for that introduction to Europe. I loved it, got hooked, and knew I’d be back.

It was like those times going down to N.Y.C for the day or overnight with her and my sisters. I would feel it just wasn’t enough for me. I’d see the lights of the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center with a lady dressed in a pink velvet skirt with a matching pink top and hat spinning on the ice skating rink. She looked so free, so uninhibited. How could she not care with so many people watching? Wow, 5th Avenue was so exciting. One time, we stayed in the Warwick Hotel on something like the eleventh floor. To sleep so high off the ground was fascinating to me. I’d look out the window at night down onto the pavement and watch people walk way down there until the wee hours of the night. Ironically, it looked so liberating to wander into what people would call the Concrete Jungle, the City That Never Sleeps, or the Big Apple. Is that because of all the temptation there? I could not wait until I was old enough to be able to walk those streets as an adult. What did they hold? What mystery? Somehow, I knew that I’d find the answer in them.

I didn’t have any serious girlfriends in junior high or high school. It seemed so immature how people could be possessive of each other. I was more into Let’s all have fun and get along, trying to be friendly to everyone. This approach failed, because I’d get beat up. I think it had to do with getting along with other girls quite well, due to my upbringing, but the boys didn’t like to see it. Even one day, my sixth grade social studies teacher, Mr. Miller, came up to me in the lunch room cafeteria while I was in the eighth grade. By surprise, he slapped my face and told me to stop talking to the girls. I was dumbfounded. Since when is someone slapped for talking to girls in the year 1980?

One day while in junior high, I heard the rumor that I was going to get beat up that day. Honestly, I don’t know what I did wrong? I can still remember the first and last name of the three bullies that were after me. I was in a tizzy. Walking between classes was a nightmare. What to do? If I told a teacher, would it be prevented? But I wasn’t sure it was even going to happen. Hopefully it was just a scare tactic, being all words and no action. Yeah right, these bullies meant business. What to do but just let it happen. I knew that I was not going to fight back. I liked them too much to hurt them, plus I didn’t know how to fight and why should I learn. I didn’t want to hurt anybody. Maybe in part that is why they picked on me.

I was beaten so badly with serious bruises on my face. My mom was beside herself and provided sympathy and strength. She said, Paul, you are going back to school tomorrow so that everybody can see what they did. I remember liking her response and appreciating that it wasn’t about revenge. Of course, she called the school. I don’t remember the punishment they got if any. I didn’t care. It was probably a small suspension that they would have been happy about. What did it matter? Would it change them? I doubt it. Can one change the spots of a leopard?

After some time, I decided to tone down my relationship with girls because of the male testosterone thing, and I didn’t want to play with girls’ emotions then shutting the door. I decided to refrain from sex all together. It seemed so safe. Plus, it didn’t interest me. It seemed so sleazy the way it could be practiced. There was pressure to give into it, but to give in seemed so cheap. I am so happy that I did it this way. I encourage others not to have sex until they are married. I know that this is easier said than done, but I believe God will honor it. This way the relationship is not to be built on sex, but on a friendship. Then one can see if the person is proper company for them without the sex. Our happiness should not depend on the other person, for that can be burdensome. I believe two stable and happy individuals should come together in order to enhance each other’s happiness.

Plus, I abstained from drugs. One time while in junior high, I was invited to a party given by the popular people. It was around this time that my mom, who would put clippings of articles on the refrigerator that she would want us to see, had posted one about pot. It was stating how long it stays in one’s system. I was surprised that it said it remained there for 30 days. It made it sound like a bad drug and unappealing. She was willing to drive me to the party and then told me that if I feel uncomfortable with anything, just give her a call. It was the right thing to say, because when they broke out the pot, I didn’t feel comfortable. A completely different spirit came into the room. It is like when I am talking to someone on the street and then he tries to sell me drugs, his whole manner changes.

As I aged, I grew more concerned about my dad’s treatment toward my mom. I saw the wear and tear their relationship had on her as she’d watch more and more money be spent on his gambling and drinking. She felt she had to stop it someday, somehow. I got the sense that she was waiting for us kids to grow up and get out of the house in order to leave him. One day, while my dad and I were in the car together driving away from the house, I thought to ask him, Do you love Mommy? It had been something that I had wanted to ask him for a very long time. His response was so like him. He said, What is love? Return a question with a question. He would never let me into his world, how much more his mind? Plus, I didn’t know what love is, but I thought, Hey there, Dad, aren’t you to teach me about love? Don’t pretend it doesn’t exist. After all you married and brought children into this world, and what? You don’t know what love is, are you seriously asking me? Why did you marry and bring children into this world if you don’t know what love is? Or was he putting me back into my oppressed role that I was to play in my family? Shut up and be ignored.

In 1983-84, my senior year of high school, I took a creative writing course with Miss Corbitt. She was a chubby woman, maybe in her forties, who would generally give me As. She died shortly after I had her as a teacher. We had a special teacher-student relationship and she had a way of pulling things out of me. She was sensitive and caring, which helped me to be the same. It was in her class that I wrote ‘And I Cried’ that included an incident from the year before. It was about my relationship with my dad. Some of the things I shared already, but I’d like to share the beginning and the end and some excerpts in the middle.

And I Cried (excerpts)

When I was little, I would dream of a park where everything would happen to make my world happy. It would be a park filled with tons of people laughing and enjoying their relaxing day. The sun would shine while the air would smell sweet with excitement. Reserved for me would be a swing that my father would so carefully lead me to. He would take my little delicate hand into his strong calloused one and lead me to the swing as it swayed in the breeze. His strength would push me higher than all the other children – to the top of the sky. This is where my heart would have been.

But when I was little, I would only dream of the way everything could be… I thought that I would one day change my father, making him regret what he had done to his family, to his son. So, I asked him why he had to drink so much, thinking maybe it would make him snap to, like it always had on all of those after school television shows. His reply was, You’ll understand why I drink when you are older.

… Right now, you have to understand why I don’t spend much time with you. You’re too young. But when you are bigger, we will be a team and I’ll bring you many places, deal? I knew I needed him at that time, and his statement told me that I would not get him then. So, I waited, keeping track of time and remembering his promise. His definition of older was 16-17. I was around 10 at the time. What a feeling I had thinking our relationship had to be postponed for many years. Once postponed, always postponed.

… I knew of the relationship that my father and I were missing. It was a life that every father and son should cherish and not store away in some dark corner… He thought money was all that is needed to provide happiness and to fulfill his duty as a father.

… There is a young boy that lives down the street. In the summers, my father gives this boy so much attention, asking him questions he never asked me. He is constantly bragging about this kid. How intelligent he is for his age, how courageous he is, or how sorry he feels for him because his mother does not prepare good meals. He picks up this boy, hugging him and caring for him like he never did his own children. He invites the child over and takes him to central park. Why? Why does the kid next door take in a minute what I wanted for a lifetime? He is not even a nice kid. He steals from our house and pulls our dog’s hair. I always did everything so perfectly, hoping my father would notice. But he never did.

Then one day last year it finally happened. My dad was not drinking, and it was a Sunday and spring breezes were blowing. My dad took me to Central Park in Schenectady, N.Y., to walk for exercise like his friend does. I did not go for the exercise. He put on his sneakers that were hard to tie because of his pop belly. I had boots on. We drove then we got out of the car. All through the years, I had always tried to make conversation. This time I thought to not say much in order to hear what he would have to say, if anything. We started to walk together, but there was a thick wall between us. We both knew our relationship was not good enough to get personal. He knew nothing of my life except what my mother had told him a month ago. Still he got it wrong. So, we just talked about other people. When I started to feel comfortable with… I didn’t have time to sense what it was, he escaped. He took off in a pace that provided a better quality of exercise that told me he wanted to be ahead of me rather than by my side, where he did not feel right. For me to keep one more moment of conversation, I would have to run. The conversation said nothing, as I stayed behind him. The day was like all the others, as the sun set over the bare trees. And I cried. (End of journal writing)

***

What is most striking about this account is that I can’t blame it on the alcohol. It was clear and deep that he does not want to be with me.

Junior year of high school was approaching, and I received an invitation to go to France with a friend named Steve and his family. For me, this was very exciting. I just needed to get permission from my parents. I don’t remember my dad partaking in the decision-making, but I’m sure that he was addressed by my mom. The only issues that seemed to need addressing were, where would the money come from for the airfare, and that I would have to miss the first week of school. Otherwise, I was ready to go. Somehow it worked out to go and I was with Steve and his parents on a flight to Paris. I could see that it was difficult for my mom to let me go emotionally, but I tried to ignore it.

My friend Steve had a sister that was a nun in St. Malo, France. A convent in Paris would allow us to stay a week with them. While touring the city, I really wanted to go up to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but Steve’s family did not. They offered to wait for me, so I took them up on it. It took many hours of waiting because of the long line, but I was persistent thinking that I may never get the chance again. Little did I know that I would be back to Paris many times. While at university, I wrote a paper comparing the scheduled tour with the more relaxed voyage to Paris, St. Malo, and Mont Saint Michel. It was called Travelling at Different Speeds.

Traveling at Different Speeds

Traveling to Europe twice, both in a two-week period, I experienced two different types of travel. The first trip was with my family and with a tour bus to Switzerland and Italy. It involved constant travel. Viewing the European sites with a tour was like viewing a motion picture, where only the highlights were remembered. On the contrary, the second trip to St. Malo, France, with my friend and his family was like a photograph. There was one resting place that allowed an in-depth study of just one area.

The tour provided a constant schedule that did not even allow time for intermission. The days were so compact and strictly planned. There was no room for spontaneity. Each day had a purpose so that each minute was contributed to fulfill that purpose. As vacationers, we felt restricted to a narrow pathway that never seemed to widen. We were like actors on location with a director always leading us in a particular direction. A sense of control was lost as the freedom of choice became null.

Experiencing beyond the perimeters of the touristy section was impossible. The time allotted was very limited so that attraction was never experienced to its full potential. I had a narrow and a distant focus. On the Bridge of Sighs, I felt the need to sigh and I looked to the bridges beyond and I wished to be deeper into the narrow streets of Venice. I wanted to feel the rhythm of its heart rather than feel the tension of its skin. And Capri was disappointing when I discovered that we would not have time to go to the top of the tropical island to view its grandness and beauty from up above. I would not be placed on that pedestal. Instead, I was tantalized by the beautiful scene that was a silhouette in the sun. I was left in the resulting shadow.

The freedom of choice was limited. What would have been glamorous to my friends or to me three weeks earlier became a chore. In contrast to our motion, monotony settled in with the predictability of the itinerary. We were led like children off a school bus, taken by the hand to be filled with more historical information of one church that could be confused with the last church visited. Saturation became inevitable, as I began to confuse the Cathedral of St. Anthony with the Cathedral of St. Paul, and confusing St. Peter’s Square with the Vatican City. I forgot if the Statue of David was in Milan or Florence, and if I bought a knockwurst sandwich in Zurich or Zermatt. It was like experiencing more than the average 18 frames per second of normal film.

Each day, there was expected at least four hours of traveling, the countryside could be viewed through a darkened window that tainted the real color of the mountains, the snow, and the architecture. The window was my shield from experiencing the world beyond it. A constant refection reminded me of who I was. I was playing the role of a tourist on a bus with other Americans, trying to get cultured. Yet we were not integrated. We were forced to interact in our own American society on the bus, rarely interacting with the European people. We all just sat back in our comfortable seat, wondering what it would be like to take part in the scene that zoomed past the window that was viewed as the screen.

Two years later, a picture was developed in St. Malo, France, where there was a settled foundation to speculate. The surrounding environment became my study with an intense focus. The hands of the clock slowed down, alleviating the pressure to pursue a particular dimension in a certain time period. Things happened naturally. There were no producers and no actors. The freedom of choice allowed days of relaxation. There was no schedule of deadlines, so events could be enjoyed to their fullest potential. Time could be spent however we desired, rather than being led to some insignificant monument.

With no pressure felt, our days could be filled with daily excursions to nearby attractions. My friend’s family and I went to Mont Saint Michele, a 13th century castle. It was visited twice without a darkened lens. The first time, we walked around the humungous wonder, getting every angle. Then we climbed up to the top to view the horizons of the green land and the blue ocean. There was no rush to be filled with the history of the intriguing castle. Instead, we took pictures and strolled around its base.

At Mont Saint Michele revisited, we were able to view the high tide which would come to engulf its broad base. We packed a picnic lunch with many loaves of French bread in preparation for the anticipated tide. During this wait, we had time to explore more of the gothic castle. We took a tour of the monastery, where a walled-in society lived at its peak. Information brought me back in time to view the cathedral as they experienced it. There was time to realize where I was and time to appreciate my surroundings. The perfect lighting provided clarity and definite edges. There was no confusion as to what existed at that picturesque site.

I felt that I was becoming a part of St. Malo after becoming familiar with the customs and attitudes of its people. I was in a stable environment where a routine could be established along with an identity. A role was being developed. Comfort and conformity took place once the days began to add up. Different needs had to be satisfied to make me click. Every morning I would need to have hot milk with my cornflakes and eat a large amount of cheese after my meal. I would also take walks after breakfast through the hilly street. Just feeling like a Frenchman, shopping for the fresh morning bread, ordering it in French and carrying it home under my arm like the French. Then