Finding Pride: From the Inside Out

By Tad Kaphar

For as much as he ever wanted to do the right thing, it seemed Tad Kaphar never could. With a life of gangs, drugs, and alcohol came a rash of subsequent consequence. Waking up every morning after to the realities of whatever aftermath he was faced with did nothing to change him. The hurt of a cheating wife, the pain of losing his children, and the depth of sorrow that lay deeply embedded within his emptiness served only to keep him stuck in the muck of life.

Knowing that only he held the key to his having a better life, Tad realized that he would have to overcome personal demons disguised as emotions, reconstruct a negative self-concept that was built by others, and learn how to deal with the mountain of guilt he was storing inside. Dealing with difficulties head-on was never his style before, but that all changed when he realized that this, in fact, was the key he was searching for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973625308

Tad Kaphar

Tad Kaphar hasnt had an easy life. He was drug involved by the age of nine, had had his first drop of alcohol by age twelve, was shot at age twelve, became a parent by the time he was fifteen, and a convicted felon before he knew it. High school never became an option and prison became all too familiar. Without any appropriate guidance, he became gang-involved at a very young age and found himself in constant trouble. Mr. Kaphar built upon the nothing he knew, only growing his miseducation. Obtaining his G.E.D. while incarcerated, this felon knew there was more to himself than the atrocities others could see. As Mr. Kaphar set out to find something more, his search led him to find so much more than he had ever bargained for.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

All it took was a few hours of sleep for the drunken haze to begin to lift. My heart sank deep into my chest when the realization set in that Hilda would be sleeping alone once again. I could not believe I was back in jail again, for this of all things. What in the world was I thinking? I knew this was the consequence—the lesser penalty of all that could have been. All I could think about was Hilda. She gave up everything for me and there I sat—a total loser.

Alcohol had won yet again. It had been beating me up for years, ever since I could remember. But at thirty-seven years old, I no longer had any excuses. I had been giving less than my best. I do not need alcohol. I had to be the absolute biggest idiot in the world to end up back in jail after all that I had been through, after all that I had been through because of alcohol.

How could I be so stupid to expect a different outcome? What would my wife think when she woke to find herself in bed alone? How would she know what had happened? How would she know where I was? Would she even care? How could I do this to her? To myself? So many questions, and the guilt of all their answers, swirled through my head as I prepared to sit before the judge via television screen.

Later, as the two-way video conference began, I could see Hilda sitting there in the almost-empty courtroom. I knew she should be at work, and I did not expect her to be there for me that morning. Only a handful of hours had passed since my arrest but, somehow, she was there. Who knew how much sleep she had gotten that night or what might have been going through her mind as she watched me, hardly sober, on the screen? I wondered, Does she hate me yet?

After a few short telephone conversations with my wife, I knew what I was going to have to do. And after only a couple of brief court appearances, I was prepared to do it. To be shackled up in a courtroom again, this time, was very different than anything I had ever experienced before. My wife—whom I love with all my heart and who depends on me to love her and be there for her—sat there in the very front row of a standing-room only courtroom with tears welling up in her eyes. My heart felt something that day that it had never felt before: a strangely deep and burdensome pain and emptiness. I hurt because I knew I had hurt her. I hurt because I knew I was leaving her all alone.

I had never known anyone who believed in me like this woman did. I knew no-one who loved me the way that she did—unconditionally and without reservation. Hilda wanted me in her life enough to accept me just as I was—flawed. A number of years had passed since I had received that very first letter from her. And if I remember right, that was the year 2005. I had been incarcerated, at that point, for about two years of my ten year sentence.

When I initially received that first letter from Hilda, I did not recognize the last name or the return address. I thought for sure I had received someone else’s mail by mistake. But as I checked the mailing information on the envelope, it became evident that this letter was in fact in the right hands. Someone very familiar was reaching out to me. But who?

By this point in my life, I had closed myself off to much of the outside world as a way to avoid the pain of continually being let down. Aside from the occasional phone call to my mother and brother, I had either lost or eliminated all desire to add or maintain outside relationships. And because I had become so closed off, I did not realize that Hilda’s last name had changed as a result of marriage.

I had known Hilda for many years growing up. She always seemed to be bouncing into or out of my life. There were no bad memories or experiences between us. As a matter of fact, most of my memories of her were from a good and innocent time in my life—the time before life really grabbed hold of me and beat me down. Somehow, every now and again, Hilda popped back into my world.

There had been many times since I had last seen her that I had thought about her. I wondered how she was doing, who she was with, and what she might be up to. Truth be told, I had even secretly fantasized about her. Before I ever made my way to prison, I had even run into one of Hilda’s younger brothers in the county jail. Given the fact that this jail was so enormous, I wondered the odds of my just so happening to run into one of this girl’s five brothers there—of all places. But as I said, she always appeared to be bouncing into or out of my life somehow.

Meeting that young man who claimed to be Hilda’s brother had brought back a lot of memories—memories of a much simpler time. And her return to my life all these years later, wearing a new name and all, brought these memories to surface all over again. After mulling over the idea of possibly responding to her letter, I concluded that it probably was not a good idea to do so. And I set her letter aside.

Hilda had reached out to me at a time when I was watching my own marriage die. I was dealing with a lot of pain and confusion and had become very protective of myself. I had already arrived at the conclusion that I was done with relationships. I had become settled in the understanding that my wife and I were finished and I had become perfectly content with the prospect of flying solo.

I held onto Hilda’s letter for a while, and after a bit of time I concluded that the least I could do was send a reply. And to be completely honest, I was a bit curious as to how she was doing. I had thought of her a few times over the years and I had become conscious of the fact that she had children just about the same age as my own sons.

When I sat down to write that first letter to her, I had absolutely no intention of starting anything with her. I was just beginning to get used to doing my time without any outside influences, distractions, or connections. I can still remember going back and forth with myself about whether or not I should actually put the letter into the mail bag. Finally, I just dropped it in.

Though I had already learned not to expect too much from people, I could feel myself smiling on the inside when I received her second letter. Not much time had passed since I had replied to her first, and from that point on Hilda began writing on a regular basis. From the time I received that very first letter, however, I had begun to think back to that pretty little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl I had once attended church with as a child.

I was quite young when I first met Hilda. She and her brothers would ride to church with us each week. I was not interested in girls at that age—or in having a girlfriend for that matter. She was just one of the four other children in the car when Brother Joel would drive us to church on Sunday—three boys, one girl.

Sundays were fun for me as a child. We would go to church with my mother only to sneak out and run around the neighborhood with these other kids. We would all play around the church building or run down to the little store at the end of the street. These children were just about the same age as my brothers and me; one in particular was the same age as me exactly. My mother liked these children and sometimes appeared to dote upon the little girl.

As time pushed forward, my family moved from one neighborhood to another. I had lost contact with Hilda at some point prior to this move, but this same little girl soon appeared in my new neighborhood—this time much more grown up. The big girl that this little girl had grown into was very good looking. My mother became quite skeptical of the little girl she had once adored because, as she grew up, Hilda had begun to wear very short skirts. She seemed to always be dressing to attract the attention of others.

As beautiful as she was, I always seemed to look right past her. It was obvious to me—and to others—that she liked me, but I just wasn’t very interested in girls at that time. During my preteen years, I was more consumed by my own appearance. I was very much into proper hygiene and felt my best when I was all slicked up and smelling good. I knew I was different from the other guys my age. They did not seem to care as much about how they looked. Their hair always seemed to be a mess, and sometimes you could even find dry spit or toothpaste on the corner of their mouths or a booger hanging from one of their noses.

As I entered my teenage years, Hilda almost always found her way into the background somewhere. To this day, I still do not know why I never attempted to become more involved with her back then. But at that time, I had just begun dabbling in the gang life and experimenting with drugs. Most of my days, back then, were spent running the streets and getting into whatever mischief I might find.

Not too much time had passed before my family moved once again, though not too far away. This move marked my official entry into the gang. I was welcomed right in by the older guys because I had already proven myself to them in a number of ways. At that time there were only a few shorties, and we were the originals for that set. I went on to meet Lisa shortly after the move and Hilda simply disappeared when Lisa became pregnant.

I had thought about Hilda throughout the years and now, after all these years, I had received a letter from her. Our correspondence started out simple and basic. But it did not take very long at all for Hilda to start asking a lot of questions. I had always been a rather private person and had grown even more so after being let down by so many of the people I cared about most. I had learned that it was a lot less likely anyone could hurt me if I did not share my thoughts and feelings.

Hilda, on the other hand, was very open with me about her life. I viewed this as a good quality. This woman would tell me the truth even when it did not sound so good. I had never known honesty like Hilda laid it out. But as blunt and honest as she was, I knew I was not going to tell her all of my hurts and heartaches. I had learned to suppress things so much that I had become numb to a lot of the pain. Over time, I had learned not to volunteer information about my personal life or plans I might have. The way I saw it, that was my business.

The more I got to know her, the more I noticed that this woman was behaving in a manner that I was not altogether familiar with. Hilda seemed to genuinely trust me. She appeared to be comfortable with me in the most peculiar of ways. No matter what we talked about, Hilda trusted me with things I would not have expected her to—without any visible concern for what I might do with that trust. But how? Why?

Her letters always made me smile. They were usually cheery and colorful and were, more often than not, rather funny. It seemed to me that her goal was to make me feel good. This was something I was not used to. Most of the people I had ever known could have cared less about making me feel anything positive. There were many times when those who claimed to care for me lied right to my face so that they would look good while seeking their own self-interests. And on the occasion someone did seem to be doing something genuinely nice for me—something like coming for a visit or sending me a few bucks—their gesture would often reveal itself as a perceived obligation or a guilty conscience of some sort.

I had never wanted or expected anything from Hilda. Her story simply served to encourage me. She and I had come from the same places and, amazingly enough, our stories had turned out to be just about as identical as they possibly could have. By the time she found me there in prison back in 2005, I was walking with the Lord like I had never experienced before. And she confessed the same.

In my heart, I was glad. I was very glad to know Hilda had hung onto Jesus all these years just as I had. I remembered witnessing her baptism one Sunday in 2001, the only Sunday I ever remember visiting her church. I did not know she even attended this church and she was, honestly, the furthest thing from my mind that day. It just so happened that Hilda attended the same church my sister had been attending; I only knew of the church because my sister was attending there.

I was attempting to hide from my parole officer that day because I knew he was going to test me for drugs, and I knew that I would not test clean. I thought church would be a good place to hide. As I sat there, still hung over from the night before, I worried about how I was going to avoid my parole officer long enough for the drugs to leave my system. I was shocked to see Hilda that day—her and her brother actually. It was pretty weird seeing the little girl from church, both of us all grown up now.

I do not remember saying very much to Hilda that day. I met her in the hallway and we shared a few words. Lisa was still sitting in the sanctuary and I knew how jealous she could be. I certainly did not want to cause any trouble. Hilda had mentioned that her husband was also quite jealous and that he was also sitting in the sanctuary. I did not meet her husband that day. I was so hung over that I barely remember speaking with her brother. Once I sobered up, though, I caught myself thinking about her. And now here we were, a handful of years later, and she reported that she was still doing her best to walk with Jesus.

In an eerie sort of way, this woman just seemed too perfect. Everything she said seemed to be just the thing I had always wanted or needed to hear. I began to wonder if she was truly sincere about all of the things she said or whether she might have had ulterior motives. I had found myself in a pretty vulnerable state and wondered if she might have had some hidden agenda behind what could possibly be nothing more than sweet talk. I had built my walls up pretty high by that point, so if that was in fact the case, she did not stand a chance.

Over time, however, it became quite apparent that Hilda was for real. And as more and more time passed, I began to open up to her about subjects and matters that I had once held strictly reserved as private. I was beginning to see that this woman was sincere in her desire to know more about me. And she seemed eager to help me know me more too. My trust in her was scary to say the least. We hardly knew one another, but somehow she knew me better than anyone else ever had.

Hilda did not seem to care about any of the ugly things that others claimed defined me. She did not see me with the same set of eyes I saw myself with every time I looked into that warped piece of plastic the state called a mirror. She knew how I had acquired my prison bid but she did not hold it against me. She sought to build me up in spite of my past. I could not figure her out no matter how hard I tried. So, eventually, I stopped trying.

Hilda reappeared in my life at a time when having a best friend was the furthest thing from my mind. But as she wedged herself back into my world, it became clear to me that she was exactly what I needed at this most precise time in my life. I had grown so distanced from anything good that I could no longer see anything positive as even being possible for me. I saw myself as many things—none of them good.

I saw myself as a drunken murderer, a man whose careless lack of responsibility made him solely responsible for the life that was claimed when he got behind the wheel that day. I saw myself as a reckless young father whose selfishness had cost him his children’s childhoods. I saw myself as a husband who could not please his wife and a son whose parents could not be any less proud of him. I was a brother nobody cared to be around and a drunk when life became too heavy.

Hilda did not see these things in me, though. Instead of getting down on me for getting behind the wheel that fateful morning with my children riding along in the back seat, Hilda asked why nobody ever got mad at the man who had allowed me to do so—the man who rode shotgun, the man who was having a blatant affair with my wife. Hilda questioned why nobody saw his role in the wreck, why he was not sitting in jail as well. She noted that this man had been perfectly sober when he handed me the keys to his vehicle that morning, knowing full well I was intoxicated and that my children would be riding along.

Hilda asked if it could possibly be the case that this man had found the perfect way to remove me from the sick triangular relationship that we had both become a part of. It just seemed to amaze her that nobody else questioned this man’s role in the crash that cost me eight and a half years of my life and an innocent man his. She could not understand how everyone’s fingers only seemed to point at me. But her questions were all questions I had never cared to ask before. I simply accepted the opinions of others as fact. I was a piece of garbage, and I allowed the world to treat me as such.

CHAPTER 2

Never in a million years could I have guessed that this is how my life would have turned out. I should have known better when I met my first wife, but I was only a child then. How could I know that inviting myself into her life would cause so much pain or create so much confusion? I was barely entering puberty, yet I was accepting an adult role in an adult world—a world I was not really a part of.

I was just fourteen years old when I met Lisa, and one of the youngest in my gang. She was walking down my block the first time I ran into her. She was with two of her friends and they were dressed with one goal in mind: attract attention. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that, though. Many of the girls dressed with that very same and specific goal. It was a common intention then and it is common still today.

I commented, though I cannot remember what comment I made, and caught their attention. It was obvious that these girls were much older than I was so I thought nothing of it. I was one of the youngest in our crowd back then, and I was often told by some of the older girls that I would flirt with that I was simply too young for them. I was always fully aware of the fact that my age made my attempts at successfully hitting on one of the older girls a total long shot. But when I did make the attempt, they would usually warn me that as soon as I was old enough I was going to be all theirs.

Later that evening—that same day I had first met Lisa walking down our block—some of the guys had become aware of a party that was being held nearby. This party was supposedly being hosted by another gang in our neighborhood, so we decided to make an appearance. When I arrived at the party, Lisa was sitting on the porch drinking a beer. My guess is that she remembered me from earlier in the day because she and I began talking right there on the front porch.

A party was in full swing inside of what turned out to be Lisa’s apartment, but she and I sat outside carrying on a conversation. I had a bit of money on me so I offered to buy some more drinks. I was not sure what to buy, though, so I bought more of the brand she was already drinking. The last thing I remember was pouring a bottle of vodka into a half empty 40-ounce bottle of beer. To say that this was not exactly a good idea would be putting it mildly. I woke up the next morning lying on her living room floor with a horrendous hangover.

Realizing that Lisa was twenty-four years old, I lied to her and told her that I was nineteen. I did not think twice about the indisputable disconnect between how old I said I was and how old I actually looked but, apparently, neither did she. This twenty-four-year-old mother of three soon became my new girlfriend. Exactly what she saw in me that day is just as much a mystery to me today as it was back then.

Shortly after that party, Lisa lost the apartment she and her friend had been renting together because it had been trashed during the party. The guys had spray-painted graffiti on every available space, on every wall, in every room. Lisa moved back home with her mother but eventually ended up living with friends again. And it was not very long at all before I chose to leave home to follow Lisa.

When I left home to be with Lisa, I left behind any possible parental guidance I might have had left. I was pretty much swapping out mothers without even realizing it. Maybe I figured I was upgrading by switching to one that gave no boundaries or rules, but the rules at home had never really been enforced anyhow so I cannot say for sure. Soon after I left home, however, Lisa and I found ourselves sleeping on other people’s back porches some nights and on a slide at a nearby playground other nights. Because I was just a child, I never thought it was strange that we were spending our nights this way. I just enjoyed the attention I was receiving.

I can still remember going home one day, packing a small plastic shopping bag with some clothes and an extra pair of Chuck Taylors, and leaving my home for