The night before last, I saw a glimpse of the past and beheld in my gaze the days of my youth The night before last I gathered the dust that had been swept beneath my bed And held it in my hands
The night before last I grasped the filings of days long ago forgotten Tactile sediment laced with memories of youthful endeavor To have again in my hands the past was like finding buried treasure
The night before last, I saw a child’s eyes as bright as the light of the stars above The night before last I saw myself looking In the mirror of life Through the haze of years gone by I saw a child standing by the river
The night before last, I walked along the river’s edge until I came upon a stone I picked it up and held it in my hand It was the same stone that I once held as a youth I tossed it into the river and watched with delight the ripples it caused.
Barack Obama came from Hawaii to Chicago to begin his life while I was leaving Chicago for Hawaii to end mine. Epiphany It was September 11 when God Himself, came down and saved me. It was a drastic measure, but one necessary to prevent me from walking into the mighty Pacific without looking back. It was my way, the only way. Oh, beautiful Kauai, my heaven on earth! It would be there where I'd take my last glass of wine, my final shot of scotch and my last breath. I had planned it so well, I thought. I had booked a flight from Chicago to arrive Kauai on September 12, 1992 - the day before my final birthday - September 13. I wanted to perform my "dead man walking" on my birthday. You all know the story, "Leaving Las Vegas," right? That is the movie where the character played by Nicolas Cage goes to Las Vegas to drink himself to death. Well, I was "Leaving Kauai" and why, you may ask. Because I had grown tired of witnessing all the pain and suffering in this world, the cruelty, the disregard for each other. Also, I had enough of my own struggles, the constant battles fighting my alcoholism, the harsh memories of finding my father dead after he had died about three days before I had gone to visit him. I also had enough of the past, my past where every turn seemed to take me to another dead end. But something happened, something so powerful that I was stopped from performing my final dance upon the shorelines of Kauai. I must believe, this time, it took God Himself to stop me. On the evening of September 11, 1992, the night before my flight I was sitting in Tony's Tavern, saying my goodbyes, downing my scotch when suddenly the news broke. A Special Report on the television: "A fierce hurricane had hit Kauai head on." Half drunk, I thought maybe I was not really hearing right. I got up off my stool, moved closer to the television. Through the smoke and the haze I focused on it as much as my half-drunkenness would allow. Projected to me on the blurry screen were the twisted palm trees, the over-turned homes, the upended boats. I recognized what once was the idyllic shoreline of Poipu, now in twisted disarray. I cried, cried some more. Now what am I going to do? All ports would surely be closed now, I thought. I immediately went to the phone booth and called United Airlines. It was confirmed. My flight tomorrow to Kauai was canceled. Now what? I went back to my stool, and with tears running down my cheeks, I faced the truth. I was probably better off alive. I took the last gulp of my drink and left the tavern and walked to the neighborhood park, where I sat and thought and cried. I asked myself over and over, Why? How could this possibly have happened? Why was I stopped from going to Kauai to kill myself? Am I really better off alive? ******************************************************* This was a new beginning. I was reborn and finally I was able to quit the drinking, and with a new zest for life, I began the process of healing. For the next year I had sat down every morning and relived my life through writing. I relived the pain, the tears, the sometime laughter and put it all down, black on white. It was my catharsis. Finally, I was freed from the chains that had bound me all my adult life. And I was finally able to forgive. Hurricane Iniki, I am sorry for your destruction. But I am forever grateful to you for saving my life . . . And then, September 11, 2001, now living in Las Vegas, I was intent on celebrating the anniversary of my rebirth. I hopped in my car and was on my way to breakfast when the news broke through the song I was listening to, "Silent Lucidity." At first, I thought it was a practical joke, reminding me of that old Orson Welle's Halloween prank, the one broadcast on the radio: "We're being invaded by Martians" which ultimately caused pandemonium and mass hysteria throughout the land. I quickly turned to another radio station. Same thing. This can’t be happening, there’s no way. This has to be some kind of cruel joke. Another Station: "Both World Trade Center Buildings are on fire!" I kept driving, my heart pounding, the palms of my hands gripping the steering wheel, trying desperately to retain control. "A passenger jet had slammed into the Pentagon." No, this can’t be real! I turned on another station. "News just in from Pennsylvania - a plane had crashed in a field." What the hell is going on? Is this the end of the world? I arrived at the restaurant, and with my own two eyes, witnessed on their television, the horrific events. I really had not the stomach for egg omelets or pancakes. Not now. "Miss Waitress, just bring me a large glass of cranberry juice." I sat and slowly drank the juice, tears falling down my cheeks. Patrons all around, also staring intently at the television in disbelief, their own faces reddened from sadness. I knew I had to get home. Pass McCarran International airport I drove. There was not a plane in the sky, neither coming in nor taking off. All was quiet now except the beating of my heart. Many questions arose and struck hard at my conscience but still I drove on, aiming for home. Coincidence? See also Hurricane Fico Note: I truly believe Barack Obama's commitment to the middle class, and yes, the disenfranchised and those who suffered injustices. On this level, I can relate to him very much. I know that he truly cares and he has been in touch with "real" people throughout his entire life - from the streets of Indonesia to the streets of Chicago. Me? From the streets of Chicago to the streets of Thailand and beyond. And I, too, know firsthand the injustices, the inequalities and understand the sometime disappointment of the hard-working whose rug had been taken away from under them. Oh, I know! One Voice It takes just one voice – the voice within, And one choice, for a new day to begin We are together; they say no man an island Oh, how I’ve always known this truth And it is the mountain that keeps me climbin’ …climbin’ since the days of my youth It takes just one voice – the voice within my eyes getting moist, my face with a grin Ricky J. Fico
Addendum:
It's not socialism, it's not at all communism, it's realism. Simple at that! As Barack Obama has iterated throughout this campaign, it is not about hand-outs. It's about providing opportunity. Those who worked all their lives, on the front lines - in the steel mills, the auto factories - those jobs were lost and at the same time, in the name of profits and stockholders equity, the fatter got fatter - bigger houses, more houses, while the hard-working were reduced to losing their homes, their dreams. So simple! Reduce the taxes of the multi-millionaire Corporate CEO who laid off thousands of dedicated, hard-working Americans, only to manufacture in low wage countries, all in the name of increasing the bottom line - padding the pockets of the wealthiest. I've seen those with calloused hands and broken dreams, now living in squalor and not because they are lazy or don't want to work, because they do, but the jobs that they worked all their lives are gone, long gone and their house taken away. At the same time the CEO has just bought his 5th house - a little 10,000 square foot cabin in Aspen. Give me a frickin' break! It's time!
Blessings, Ricky J. Fico
History heeds our call
Victory leads us all,
Stopped at the intersection
Victory guarantees…
a new direction
November four and beyond
Cheers, too, from across the pond
The audacity of hope, a new challenge
Hope that leads…
to a world more balanced
By: Ricky J. Fico
Triumphs of Humanity
OK, here's the deal . . . I'm not racist by any means. My grandmother, though, she was prejudiced against others who were of a different color. She was brought up in the south-- where a lot of these racist views were promulgated from one generation to the next. A lot of Southerners still want to blame the Civil War on the black race.Although I loved my grandmother dearly, I could never understand her racist views. Sorry grandma, but racism is ignorance. And those who practice and preach racism are ignorant slaves to some predetermined notion that stands unqualified and unwarranted.Let me tell you . . .. When I was about thirteen years of age, I'd met Sammy Davis Jr. This was at the Hyatt O'Hare. After he exited from the elevator he stopped to sign his autograph for me. I was thrilled. Also, he handed me the wine glass he was clutching. A souvenir, man was I excited. Later that night, I told my grandma the good news. "You'd never guess who I met today.""Who?""Sammy Davis Jr. I got his autograph and he gave me his wine glass."Ricky," she said, "Don't you ever drink out of that glass.""Why not.""Because a Negro drank from it."I, to say the least, was dumbfounded. I could not believe my own grandmother had just made that impossible remark. It was ignorance in the most egregious form. If I didn't love my grandmother, I would have disowned her right then and there.Racism, I will never understand it. I am a man who has the capability to understand and appreciate a lot of things, but not that. Neither my mind nor heart has the capability to appreciate this type of ignorance. I'm not wired for that type of hypocrisy.One of my favorite movies when I was a kid was "Guess who's coming to Dinner." Another, "In the Heat of the Night." Yes, and one of my favorite actors is Sidney Portier.You can call me Tibbs, Mister Tibbs. . . . .Oh, and "To Sir With Love." You want to know how many times I cried as a kid watching that movie? At least six times. Yeah, I'm a sentimentalist . . . . .And no, I won't stoop down and bash, denigrate, ostracize, ridicule just to get fucking ratings. I don't care if you don't read my work. I'm not a Howard Stern wannabe, no siree. And surely not another Jerry Falwell.I wish my grandmother were still alive. I think she may share my views on Barack Obama. I think if we were given the chance to sit down uninterrupted and she would listen to some of my own philosophies and viewpoints she just might consider judging a person not by color but by character... the very message that Dr. Martin Luther King espoused in seeking the rights and freedoms for all people."Our world is full of many tragedies but the biggest tragedy is the one that is bred from ignorance."
Ricky J. Fico
Please join me and view my new blog, Obama and Me
Here I will be sharing not only my own story but our story.
I will be commenting on the daily goings-on of the Barack campaign and provide my own personal viewpoints.
Who is this Ricky? you may ask. I am just a citizen, nohing more, nothing less. I believe in happiness, in harmorny and in that old adage "an honest day's pay for an honest day's work."
Simple really!
Obama can, I have no doubt, that he can help to solidify that ideal - the one that is embedded in our Constitution; the one that is embedded in our psyches and most importantly, embedded in our children and grandchildren. - the ideal that says "I am living or had lived a good life."
Being blessed with a great amount of insight and logic, I see no other candidate more suited for the next Presidency than Barack Obama. I am currently reading his memoir, "Dreams From My Father," and it is not only a fascinating read but it is truly well-written and very inspiring. Although Obama's path took a different course than my own, it matters not, I can see clearly that both he and I share many of the same traits: Compassion, Understanding, Intelligence, Belief in Humanity, Belief in Communication, Belief in Oneself.
As a writer (memoirist, essayist, inspirational writer, poet, sometime humorist), I will continue to do what I can to add to the luster of this new age. It's time we make the change; it's time we advance ourselves into a more harmonious world. It's time for you, it's time for me, and it's time for Barack Obama to take the next step in his amazing journey. Vote Obama 2008!
We are standing on the threshold of what I call the "Golden Renaissance."
And now:
A Brief Introduction: Marsilio Ficino (Latin name: Marsilius Ficinus; Figline Valdarno, October 19, 1433 - Careggi, October 1, 1499) was one of the most influential humanist philosophers of the early Italian Renaissance, an astrologer, a reviver of Neoplatonism who was in touch with every major academic thinker and writer of his day, and the first translator of Plato's complete extant works into Latin। His Florentine Academy, an attempt to revive Plato's school, had enormous influence on the direction and tenor of the Italian Renaissance and the development of European philosophy.
Now, in part, through transcendence and clarity, a revival of such time and magnificence is happening and I, Richard (Ricky) J. Fico had been summoned to deliver upon a promise...one that seemingly I made a long time ago.
I haven't much in formal education but what I do have is much more valuable. And part of this knowledge and understanding that I had promised to impart to you can only be made possible if you, and let me stress this emphatically, share with me your knowledge and understanding as I am still a mere student. I've a simple quote I wrote not so long ago: "A Greedy mind is to learn, yet not teach & A Lazy mind is to yearn, yet not reach." I think you understand what I am saying.
Oh, and this quote is inscribed nicely upon my inspirational gifts: Power of Mind As the days progress brightly into the nearer horizons of the "Golden Renaissance" you will, in large measure, be more resourceful, more tranquil, more successful...oh, I know it, I always knew this simple fact.... Although, to a certain degree, our very nature stems from a past most often hidden, our present embodiment is guided in part, by that past but to a larger degree by circumstances that are more evident, more temporal. And it is with this thought of mine, that I will attempt to synthesize these two elements. In other words, what I will utilize in my journey forward are the lessons from the past with the lessons of today... For those who believe in the concepts of the eternal soul, synchronicity, even reincarnation, you will have a clearer understanding to much of what I will be relating here as much as I will have a greater understanding of what you, in turn, hopefully reveal or relate to me....
Beyond my deepest beliefs and more profound philosophies, still, on the surface it is Barack Obama who is the ideal candidate to lead this country after we've been mired in a lot of uncertainty the last seven years. One thing about Obama that I truly agree with is his commitment to diplomacy, open communication and his faith in dialogue. I don't see him at all as I did Bush (before his first election) as trigger-happy. I knew Bush was the type to jump the gun and Barack Obama doesn't possess this trait at all, a reassuring quality --one that is truly needed as President of the United States....
Because Obama understands the importance of open communication and has committed himself to dialogue and diplomacy with leaders of all nations I, again, endorse his platform. Here is another one of my quotes: "Remember that the door that may separate is more valuable than any wall."
Sincerely, Ricky J. Fico
I am currently writing an autobiographical story tentatively titled "Obama and Me" which I truly believe will open some eyes... Obama and I share many of the same attributes, traits, ideals etc. but the difference in our stories is the one that begins during both our childhoods.
In my story I will show that although I was born with leadership abilities, high intelligence, lots of compassion and empathy for others (same traits that Obama was born with) my path took a sharp turn because of extraneous circumstances in which I had no control over....
This is not a "woe is me" story but a story of triumphing over adversity and being able to return to one's roots. Thus, my philosophy: "The roots are the strongest part of the tree."
And now an excerpt:
Hearing what sounded like backfire he opened his eyes. He pulled back the curtain, looked out the window. It was just getting light--a few pallid squawkers silhouetted in ash huddled nearby. A grayish cloud of smoke rose just beyond their periphery, then disappeared. He looked down at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly 6 a.m. He slowly climbed out of bed, remembering that he had an early flight to catch.
He was going home, back to Chicago, where the past, his past was lurching in the shadows, waiting. It would probably catch him by surprise as it did some twenty-odd years ago.
New York, too, was a big city - a city that knew too little sleep, and on this morning the haggard hustlers and street urchins were plying their wares to the unsuspecting and to those who gave too little a damn to worry about ending up with much more than they bargained for.
He checked out of the cheap fly-by-night hotel and walked down to the corner. A small diner, hidden behind barred window and nondescript door was about to open and the smell of coffee brewing in its pots lingered beneath the canopy, giving direction to those who might otherwise remain lost without a quick morning jolt. Ricky was such a man, but not always though. Not so long ago he was headed in a different direction - one that led straight into the bowels of hell. The only jolts he got then were from the shocks imposed on him by a current of unsuspecting events - some triggered by too much alcohol and others by dancing on the wrong side of destiny's door.
After securing a Styrofoam cup of Columbian black he hailed a passing taxi and urged the driver to get him to the Kennedy in ample time to grab an upgrade to First Class for the flight home. He had recently hurt his back and the additional legroom would certainly help the situation. Besides, the extra room would help him lay out his dashed hopes and broken dreams- the hundreds of pages of loose leaf where two years of his best fiction now reside wasted-refused by every single publishing house in New York City. He thought for sure he'd come back a winner, an overnight sensation but again he wound up on the wrong side of destiny's door - the story of his life.
Two hours later, legs stretched long, papers scattered about, he knew he shouldn't but he did. "Hell with it," he said under his breath before voicing his desires to the flight attendant. "Bring me two bottles of the red label and a Heineken's."
Sobriety is just not worth it he reasoned as he crumpled page-by-page The Night Before Last. Before going to New York he was convinced that this was not only his best work but everybody, even his old drinking buddies from Tony's assured him that this novel was better than anything they'd ever read. Couldn't possibly miss.
Two more Heineken's later coupled with an upgrade of Chivas provided him the altitude to do what he should've done before - get rid of the garbage he'd been hauling around for the last two years. This trip to New York was a waste of time and money - money he really didn't have. He pushed the "summon flight attendant" button. He quickly threw all the crumpled balls of nonsense back into his briefcase.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Yes. Can you do me a big favor and bring me one of those trash bags?" "Do you have some trash you need to throw away?"
He looked down at the brief case, the eyes of the flight attendant followed. "Nothing but garbage," he confessed.
"One second, sir."
Arriving in Chicago a failure, his grandiose dreams and ambitions now gone - compiled with the empty beer cans, pop cans and pretzel wrappers destined for the city dump, what better way to face his old friends than the way they know him best - a drunken loser whose pipe dreams end up where they probably belong - down the drain. He exited the terminal and hailed a taxi.
"Where to, bud?" said the cabbie, glancing back at him through the rear-view while displaying a worn Cubs baseball cap and a two-day stubble. Ricky quickly looked at his watch. Well, still early enough for a few Bloody Marys. Hadn't one of those lately.
"Take me to a good bar, nothing too fancy," he said.
"What part of town?"
"Anywhere away from here. How about the near west side, my old neighborhood."
"You got it, bud." The cabbie engaged the meter and merged into the traffic of sleek limousines and harried motorists, many who wore the same weathered look, though a few of them revealed allegiance to the opposite side of town - their Chicago White Sox caps worn defensively, yet proudly.
***********
Two weeks later... "The hell with it all," he told Jimmy. "I can't go on like this. Do you hear me? Jimmy? See what I mean, I just don't matter. You won't even give me the time of day. There you go, passing out on me. And I thought you were my friend." Ricky pushed Jimmy's beer away from his head, and then motioned to Pete that it was time for another scotch. "Make it a double."
After downing the scotch he was ready to make that call. No turning back now. Kauai, his heaven on earth-the perfect setting for the perfect ending. How could he possibly miss?
Reservation made, he returned to his stool. In better spirits he threw down a fifty on the bar and offered up drinks for the house. Next week at this time he would be in Kauai celebrating his birthday by walking into the Pacific without looking back. How could he possibly miss?
Jimmy lifted his head up off the bar. "Ahem, what time is it?" Ricky pushed his beer back to him.
"Time to get drunk," he said. "Oh, and Jimmy-"
"Yeah?"
"Next week, on the 12th of September - the day before my birthday I leave for Kauai."
"That's good."
For the next week Ricky made the rounds-old haunts and long-gone friends. He wanted so much to visit the other cemetery--the one where his father was buried. He tried but he just couldn't bring himself to it-the nightmare was still too real. But that nightmare along with all the other nightmares would soon be gone . . .gone forever. There was no turning back.
Back at Tony's, with less than twenty hours to go before boarding that flight, he opted for something smooth, perhaps a little bit exotic. "A Malibu and cranberry, Tony."
"You got it, comrade."
Yet early, the long notched oak still barren, he knew though, that a few more turns of the clock and the old crowd would be shuffling in. Rollie, Mr. Boler, The Black Widow, Roseanne, Jimmy, Hans, that little hottie, Jennie-for God's sake let them all in. Tonight's going to be the night of the final dance-the final dance on the other side of destiny's door. After a few drinks a bit too smooth Ricky returned to the old, familiar tone-double scotches and sides of the MGD. Why not, let's get drunk.
The bell above the door signals the first familiar face-- The Black Widow, dressed in slinky black dress, most appropriate for this occasion. "Over here," Ricky summons to her, waving his freedom flag-an old bandana once worn by Jack Daniels.
The Black Widow smiles, nods, then reveals a little bit more cleavage-the perfect greeting for what may turn out to be the perfect night.
After a few nice rounds and an exchange of "hand-me-downs" with The Black Widow while Tony was down in the storage-basement taking inventory of his stock Ricky decided he'd better run down the street to the bank before it closed and withdraw the rest of his savings. With his proceeds maybe he'd buy some cocaine or something-something that'd make his final birthday ritual that much easier. Enough booze would probably do the trick but he didn't want to take any chances. With a good combination how could he possibly miss?
"Keep my seat warm," he urged The Black Widow.
"Oh, you know I will," she replied, teasingly playing with her straw.
On the way to the bank, for some odd reason, Ricky felt more aware of his surroundings than he had ever before. Although a bit drunk - he felt more connected to the city, the people, even the squirrels he passed along the way. Although the day after tomorrow he would be dead he felt more alive now than he had ever before-a strange, liberating sensation. Maybe this is how most people feel before committing suicide, he rationalized. Kind of like "the calm before the storm."
Thoughts were now on Kauai-his heaven on earth. He remembered how beautiful, how green, how lush with foliage it was. He remembered how peaceful he felt sitting on Poipu Beach, the waves gently caressing the shore. He and his girlfriend then - the two of them sharing such an idyllic rendezvous with paradise. He also remembered the sacrifices they both made- saving every penny for that dream vacation they took four years ago- the November of 1988. He remembered the moment he had to leave the Garden Island, a sad farewell indeed but he vowed that he'd return. Come tomorrow, the promise would be granted.
After securing the twelve hundred dollars in the inner pocket of his jean jacket he decided it best if he, at least stopped by Katie's to let her know once and for all that he didn't mean to hurt her some three years before when she walked in on him while he was engaging rituals with a loose stripper he met while conducting business with a fifth of Jack Daniels. At the time Katie was everything to him, and certainly the stripper was nothing more than a quick release and a camouflaged boost to the ego. He hadn't seen her in three years now but he'd been told that "yes, I saw her a few weeks ago and yes, she still lives in that same studio apartment, the one above the Laundromat on Irving near Central Park Avenue."
By: Ricky J. Fico (Drawn from my memoirs)
Tragedies, Triumphs & Trampolines
I am a Chicagoan, a citizen of the United States and of this world. As a writer, advocate of change and one who experienced firsthand many issues that Barack is committed to addressing I will do all in my power to help broaden the horizons. Barack Obama shares many of my own ideals and visions and although there are many challenges ahead, I, like he, will remain tenacious, perseverant and committed.
I may not have much in finances but what I do have is heart, soul, a great mind. I am currently building upon the foundation which I had recently established. Much of my writing, philosophies and thoughts could be viewed on my website: www.tri-umphs.com. In part, it is here where I am making inroads and it is here, where I ask you to partake as well....
My simplest of philosophies are:
"The Triumph of Humanity is achieved only through the vast collection of good deeds." RJF
"A foundation is but the base and it is the collection of building blocks that creates what many should strive to ascend." RJF
I think it time we get to basics, considering what's most important. I think it time we consider the importance of unity, community and the sense of camaraderie. I think it time we devote ourselves to more humanistic causes and ideals.
Unequivocally, Barack Obama is the type of leader who has been blessed with an abundance of attributes, which include honesty, integrity and foresight. He possesses the will of the people, good people, who too believe in a more harmonious world. Yes, Barack Obama shares many of the same beliefs and visions as I do. As we do.
Since Barack Obama had announced his candidacy I am more optimistic, more committed in my own works. I've been inspired. Visit: Ricky's Musical Odysseys
And because of the tragedy at Virginia Tech I wrote this piece: Tell Me: A Plea
My Sites:
www.tri-umphs.comwww.linkinlasvegas.comwww.chicago4all.com
04-16-07
Today, it's my Aunt Dorothy's birthday, mom's only sibling. We all miss Aunt Dorothy, as some of you know, she passed away last October-- finally succumbing to her battle with the lung cancer. The smoking, it really sucks. I used to smoke but I slapped myself in the face and quit--that was some 14 years ago. Mom, she still smokes, I really wish she wouldn't. I try to stay away from that second-hand smoke, it's not good to breathe in somebody's second-hand smoke. I don't mind second-hand stuff but not the smoke. I sometimes wear the second-class clothes, I guess some people call them hand-me-downs. Hands-down, I am not too proud of a man not to wear the hand-me-downs. I am not one of those of Rocketfellas--you know, I am not rich and if my pockets were padded with the almighty dollars I'd probably still wear the hand-me-downs. Instead of the fancy suits I'd lay my money down on an animal shelter or a shelter for those who are still a bit lost. I, too, was once lost so I can truly empathize with those who still may be traveling with a broken compass. I'd use my money to provide compasses, that's what I'd do if I were to come into a wealth of finances.
Today, it's a sad day. Besides, the thoughts on Aunt Dorothy, her physical presence no longer a reality the news on the television is broadcasting the reality of a mass shooting at the Virginia Tech-- the numbers keep climbing--thirty two killed. "Ricky, " Mom says, "what the hell's going on in this world?" I wish I had all the answers but I don't. It's so tragic what happened in Virginia, I want to cry for the families and the friends of those who were swept away like that by a deranged trigger from a deranged man. What possesses a human being to commit such atrocities?
"Mom," I say, "this world is so much more complicated than when you were growing up and with the proliferation of guns, violent video games and a plethora of other factors in today's society such atrocities are becoming more prevalent. I think it time we look deeper into who we are! I think it time I reread the essay I wrote back in 1994.
"Which essay is that, Ricky?"
"It's called Community."
I, a Chicagoan who once planned on going to Hawaii (Kauai) to kill myself but my plans were thwarted on September 11, 1992 the day before my flight was scheduled to land there. I was stopped by Hurricane Iniki. It's funny how things happen.
Ironic how I had planned to leave Chicago and go to Hawaii to kill myself while Obama left Hawaii for Chicago to live and begin his career in public service. As a writer and advocate of change I know deep in my heart and soul that we are standing upon the threshold of a renaissance-- one that is reminiscent of the High Renaissance that began in Florence, Italy. We've so much work to do yet and I had dedicated myself to helping build upon this great foundation.
I write on many issues that had affected my life personally and those that are near enough the periphery to cause me great concern. I see in Barack Obama the integrity, the fortitude, the compassion and these are just a few of the traits that I consider highly in a human being.
With his great communication and diplomatic skills; his intelligence, his knowledge and foresight I haven't any doubt that Barack will help ensure us a celebration of humanity while bringing down the walls that had been erected most recently. One of my simplest of philosophies is this: "The door between us is more valuable than any wall." I know profoundly that Barack Obam
a shares my vision and with enough support I truly believe that Obama will prevail in this campaign and help re-set the course, You deserve it, I deserve it, the world deserves it.
Tri-umphs.com: Tragedies, Triumphs and Trampolines
Chicago, IL.
"It is often the most simplest of acts that can make the greatest of differences." Thus, I hold my simplest of philosophies close as I do what I can to make a difference. Barack Obama, too, agrees that each one of us can make the greatest of differences by the most simplest of acts. Whether it on the small stage or the larger one it is the nature of our performance that can make the greatest of differences.
While living in Las Vegas and helping supplement my income by delivering pizzas it was the simplest of acts that I performed that made the greatest of difference to those who I chose to establish a dialogue with... I'd like to share this story with my fellow Obama acolytes.
If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers,it shows that he is a citizen of the world,and that his heart is no island cut off from other lands,but a continent that joins to them.~Francis Bacon~
Living the life of a pizza deliveryman, I'd often find reason to rejoice. More than the occasional $5 or $10 tip were the smiles of the children waiting at the door, and every once in a while, the unexpected.
I had just pulled into the busy parking lot after a string of deliveries. As I neared the pizza parlor I saw two people running toward me. A man and a woman, Asian looking, carrying big shopping bags emblazoned with the logo from one of the clothing stores that helped to anchor the strip mall. I turned into my parking space, a few rows back from the pizza parlor. I put the car in park and looked up. There they were, smiling, looking relieved.
All of a sudden, the back door of my car opened. I turned around. The couple had jumped into the backseat of my car. At first, I was confused as to why they would jump into a pizza delivery car; after all, it was evident from the sign on the top of the car that read "PIZZA" in large bold letters. Then, it made sense. They couldn't read English; they saw the car-topper and thought I was a taxi. That had to be it.
I got out of the car. They looked bewildered and followed. I pointed to the pizza parlor. They realized their mistake. Obviously embarrassed, they laughed nervously and walked briskly away. I went back into the store, thinking little of it.
A few minutes later, I stepped outside and noticed the same couple, across from me, looking like they were waiting for something. The woman walked away and a few seconds later she returned. I heard the phone ringing and took the call. A pickup. "Pie on screen," I told my coworker.
I went to the front window and looked out. Again, the woman walked away, the man shaking his head. A minute passed, the woman returned, now shaking her head. That's it, I must find out what's going on.
"I'll be right back," I told my co-worker.
Before I approached, the woman had walked away again. The man looked exasperated. I looked toward the Starbucks. The public phones, I thought. That's where the woman went. She returned.
"No taxi come," she said tearfully in what was obviously the few words that she knew in English.
I noticed a card in her hand. "Can I see?" I asked.
She handed it to me. It was from North Las Vegas Cab, miles and miles from where we were.
I had my cell phone and called the number. Busy signal. Tried again. Busy signal. I looked up at the couple; they looked exhausted, defeated.
"What country are you from?" I asked.
"Japan," the woman answered.
"Where are you staying?"
She looked at me, confused. "No understand."
"Hotel?"
She nodded sheepishly. She opened her purse, pulled out another card.
"Ah, the Mandalay Bay . . . nice hotel," I replied. "How long have you been in Las Vegas?"
"Three day," the woman said, smiling. "First time, America."
I wish that I could take them to their hotel, I thought. But it was too far and I'm sure my boss wouldn't go for it. I was the only delivery guy. What I needed to do was to call another taxi service, one closer. There was a phone book in the pizza store. I motioned for the couple to follow me.
"Rest your legs," I said pointing to the chairs in the waiting area. They smiled and sat, relieved. They were exhausted and maybe hungry too.
I went around the counter and pulled out the phone book. I found the right number and dialed. "Where to?" said the dispatcher.
"Mandalay Bay."
"About twenty minutes," was the reply.
I related this to the woman who, in turn, relayed it in her Japanese to her husband. He nodded a sigh of relief.
I went around the counter back to the pick-up area. "Are you hungry?" I asked them, pointing up toward the big pizza sign.
"Yes, yes, yes," the woman answered.
"Would you like a pizza?"
The woman looked at the man, said something in Japanese. He smiled a very big smile.
"Yes, yes . . . cheese, cheese," the woman answered.
I put together a large cheese pizza, and slipped it into the oven.
"Six minutes," I said to the couple.
And then I asked them if they were thirsty.
"Yes, cola," the woman replied.
I pulled two 20-ounce bottles from the cooler, a few napkins, and two paper plates and handed them to my new friends. The woman rose, bowed slightly, and opened her purse. She pulled out a wad of American dollars of various denominations.
"No, no," I said. "On me."
She insisted. Again, I refused. "Please, pizza's on me. No charge."
She smiled, sat down.
When the pizza was ready, I sliced and boxed it before handing it to the Japanese couple.
The man drew a camera from his pocket. He took a picture of the pizza box and then had his wife pose with the two plates. Then, he gestured for me to stand with his wife, and he took another picture.
The man opened the box, and with the hot steam rising, he took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile.
"Good, good, good," the woman said. And then she set her plate down and opened her purse. She pulled out a little notebook, rose and handed it to me.
"You write address."
I wrote it down and then a few minutes later, the cab arrived and the driver came in.
"Somebody call a cab?"
"Yes, please take my friends visiting from Japan to the Mandalay. They're tired. You know, they came over here to do some serious shopping."
He smiled.
Two weeks later, I received a package. Inside was a beautiful Japanese card inscribed with: "We had heard about American hospitality but it was not until we met you that we had experienced it." Beneath the card was a beautiful tin containing an assortment of Japanese crackers. Three weeks before Christmas, it was my first and best present.
Doing Good
Help a Traveler or Tourist
· At or near popular tourist destinations, if you see someone reading a map, offer your assistance.
· Look out for confused travelers on the subway, train, or bus. Ask if they need help.
· Offer to carry heavy luggage, especially getting on and off transportation.
· Help people who might need exact change for trains and buses.
· If a traveler is stranded and needs to place a phone call, offer to do it for them on your cell phone.
· If you know their language, assist in interpretation.
· Volunteer to take a photo for a group so that everyone may be included.
· Make recommendations to help tourists find favorite local restaurants, beaches, hikes, grocery stores, pharmacies, or accommodations.
· Be a tourist's guide for the day, and show them around your town.
· When someone you know is traveling, leave a kind note in their luggage.
· Buy a small souvenir for a tourist to take home with them.
Excerpted from Doing Good for Goodness' Sake: Heartwarming Stories and Inspiring Ideas to Help You Help Others by Steve Zikman (Inner Ocean Publishing). No portion of this material may be used, copied, transmitted, distributed or sent electronically, or by any other means, either in whole or in part, without the express written permission of the author. All rights reserved, Steve Zikman, 2004
Tragedies, Triumphs and Trampolines
Concerns: Homelessness, poverty, corporate greed, crime, drug addictions, alcoholism, loss of direction. As a writer and activist living in Chicago I'd like to share this excerpt with you, my fellow proponent of change and Obama 2008 crusader. Also, I have many peers and fellow crusaders who are living in balmy Las Vegas who too, had taken to crusading for Barack Obama -- the one who, we all strongly believe, can help change the direction.
World Ain't Good Enough
"This world ain't good enough for the caring man," Cousin Jed said, his dishevelment a cause for concern. The last week or so, he's been out of sorts--bedraggled and doleful--his outlook on life once again shadowed by too heavy a look beyond the periphery. He threw down the old Time Magazine, got up off the barrel and limped over to the tree to relieve himself.
Mammie was tending the fire, Little Sis taken serious to the two squirrels chasing each other around the base of an Oak Tree. The Mayor was down at the frozen lagoon, most likely in reminiscence—his talk often includes a few snippets of the boyhood—framed in memory for the evermore. “Yeah, Pappy at me would get up at the break of dawn and we’d go down to the crick and before the sun rose high enough to arouse the roosters we’d already have our daily catch.”
Cousin Jed returned to our makeshift encampment, muttering still: “This world ain’t good enough for the caring man.” Mammie turned from the fire and gave Cousin Jed one of those looks—the one that says, Come on now, it ain’t that bad. You’re among friends. Cousin Jed limped over to her, shook his head, and then threw the old magazine into the fire.
“That’s more like it,” Mammie replied. Little Sis agreed, clapping incessantly at Cousin Jed’s sudden surrender. Mammie handed Jed her cask. “Here, warm that blood of yours.”
Although I understood very well Cousin Jed’s disenchantment with the world; the senselessness of all that bore bereavement upon the staunchest of souls, I knew it’d be best if I voiced not too high an opinion on such matters. Our encampment depends on equanimity—because, as the story goes, it is we who’ve been purported to be teetering on the edge. Surely, a few of our nervous breakdowns may have been attributed to the extraneous circumstances—those, in which we fought to control.
Mammie threw on the fire a few Spam Steaks, peppered and spiced—a few gifts of recompense from the Soup Kitchen, where I had been bartering my time with the clean-up detail…sometimes doing an extra run upon the floor with both bristle and brush.
Linkin' Las Vegas
Why am I campaigning for Barack Obama? Why do I think he's the right person to lead this country in the right direction? Because I believe in what's right. I believe in integrity, in compassion, in selfless pursuit, in understanding. I believe in honesty and honorable causes. I believe in democracy and fairness. I believe in the American people. I believe in our neighbors. I believe in this country. I believe in goodwill. I believe in taking responsibility. I believe in diligence, in tenacity and perseverance. I believe in tomorrow, I believe in myself. And I believe in Barack Obama.
And now, a brief biography:
In my life I had witnessed so much, and at times, perhaps not enough. Sometimes what I witnessed compelled me to stand taller than I would otherwise; other times, unfortunately, I had but no choice than to take refuge in some god-forsaken trench, cowering to the whims of my world. Perhaps then I was too weak to fight back. Drugs and alcohol could weaken one's resolve, this I know.
I had come many a mile in my journey, all for good reason of course.
In my life I had witnessed so much. Through discourse and gain, through triumph and tragedy, I had traveled. And learned. There were times when I laughed and times when I cried. Some could say I'm a true warrior, and perhaps the scars of battle etched within the inner sanctum of my being could reveal this simple truth. But, like any warrior, I fought to defend. Honor, dignity, integrity - they mean so much to me. As does compassion, understanding, forgiveness.
In my life I had shared what meager possessions I held. Selfishness, I could never subscribe to. . . no, it is much easier for me to give than take.
In my time I had been a martyr, sometimes out of necessity, other times by choice. At times I had sacrificed but knowingly. An old line from an old song echoes in my head: "Sacrifice, the future has its price and today is only yesterday's tomorrow."
Even when I was living in the park, cold and rained upon, I smiled back at the world. Deep down, I knew. My inner strength had compelled me, moved me and yes, there were times when I felt like giving in. But they were only momentary lapses of reason. I would gather myself and move on, today is only yesterday's tomorrow. Yes, I will fight my way through yet another storm.
In my life there had been so much to be grateful for; sometimes it is easier to remember what I do have versus what I don't. Quite possibly, that is why I had made it here. Simple philosophies, I assure you. I had read a few of the classical philosophers and their philosophies are beyond the realms of simplicity. For now, I will be my own philosopher. Much simpler.
I do not adhere much to the doctrines of any set religion. Spiritually, I'm at the helm. Politics, a way of the world, at times I must take a stand, but not one that I find to be incorrigible. I'm against a lot of what is taking place in the world, and a lot of what I witness saddens me, really it does. Again, a simple philosophy: "I cannot carry the world on my shoulders but on my shoulders it is my world that must carry me." I cannot worry as much as I once did what happens outside my window. I can only do what I can in my own small ways to change what I can; whether it be through the written word and/or through the powers of being. I had, in the past, witnessed what many may deem to have been miracles. A matter of perspective, perhaps. But there have been events in my own life that defy convention, perhaps could be viewed as mere coincidence. As a realist, I also must determine the odds though my idealism would provide me enough reason to judge otherwise.
Do not judge me as a victim of unforseen circumstances, I'm a result of what these circumstances had provided me. I harbor no ill-feelings of what course my life had taken for I've been strengthened by it. Through my ordeals battling alcoholism and witnessing the dissolution of my family, I had found solace, perhaps a much keener understanding. I still wish, I still pray, I still want.
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Again, a long night has led me back here - Today. The sun is shining brightly. I'm reminded of an old song: "The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older and one day closer to death." Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon. Yes, one day closer to death, one day further from birth. Ah, birth. . . I love that word. It means so much to me. I must admit, I'm not too fond of the word death though. Death could connotate the end while birth signifies the beginning.
The beginning: I was born a poor white boy. So what? Who cares? It matters not to me if I was born a poor white boy nor would I mind if I was born a poor black boy . . . Opportunities exist, bottom line. Adversity, I love that word too. It provokes challenge. Ah, challenges. So many challenges in life, aren't there? Writing could be a challenge. Writing about your life as a poor white boy could be more of a challenge. So what? Who cares?
From an early age, I wondered about things. Most of us do, makes us human. I wondered about the world in which I had entered. With all its many colors and textures and its people. I learned early on that people are capable of many different things. Like building. And at the same time, destroying. But I was a curious poor white boy. And if I was born a poor black boy, I would've been just as curious, I know I would, I just know it. A blue boy, a white boy, a purple boy, a black boy - all human, I swear. Same with the white girl, black girl, also human. Interesting concept, these humans are;
From an early age I sought answers. Didn't you? When I was young I had more questions than answers. And today, well, I don't have all the answers, never will. Not if I'm human. In which I am. My mother, she gave birth to me like any other human mother would. Yes, she held me in her womb for nine months. I'm classified as a mammal. But humans are not the only mammals in this world. There are others, I swear. I've been to the zoo you must know. At an early age I saw Sinbad the Gorilla and Leo the lion. Behind bars, made me cry. "Why Momma? Why are those animals in jail?" No easy answer for a four year old. At four years old, I had questions. Sometimes answers never came though. As I got older, some of my earlier questions were answered and some of them, still made me cry. I'm an emotional being, most humans are. I swear they are. Some humans, they may have a lesser conscience though. Some, I guess are behind bars now. Maybe it's better that way, I don't know.
Broken Dreams,leavin' me cold...lonely in the nightMy empty heart growing so oldseems to be no hope in sight
Promises that hadn't been keptlingering deep in my mindrememberin' all the times I'd wept,feeling helpless and blindSo sure that there's no way outseems to be no cure in this final bout
Voices calling my name Through the silent night Shadows of an eternal flame,flickering so bright
Weakened and distraught,I search for the doorIt seems I've been caughtin this endless war
But then September 11, 1992a hurricane flew thoughand helped to open my eyes I was stopped from doingwhat I had planned to doI was given back my life,a gift, a cherished prize
I took the train yesterday into the suburbs and I don't know if things had drastically changed since the last time or I was just too high then on some foreign substance not to notice the crazy shenanigans of train travel. If I wouldn't have known better, I swear I got on the same station as Benny Hill. Or perhaps this particular train was actually destined for a cast calling of The All Night Freak Show- a new reality show I heard about but never had the temerity to fully investigate. I'll wait until it comes on the tube and competes with my other favorites, "Bringing Up a Bonded Duce" and"Ah See, I Was Born" Show- you know,the one about an aging rocker and his pet poodle.
The man across from me, resembling a cross between a young Clark Gable and an old Henny Youngman looks around, then surreptitiously inserts a Chesterfield in the side of his mouth nearest the window. The conductor, who had recently been assigned a generous 20-20 by an impatient optometrist, bamboozles his way down the aisle and quickly espouses his authority.
"Sir, no smoking on this train."
The reflective grimace of the man attests not only his consternation but also the quick extinguishment of his craving. He spits the Chesterfield out of his mouth and with enough velocity to propel a warhead to Planet Doom the cigarette hits its target--an unintended target possibly but a target nonetheless. It's the big lady in the first row. She erupts out of her seat.
"Now, what point was that?" she says, surveying the rest of us passengers, trying to discern the perpetrator. At this time, the conductor is shaking his head.
"By the way," he says, "was that one of those expensive Cuban Cigars?"
With that soft question comes the hard evidence and the big lady adorned in a habit comes rushing down the aisle, pulling from her satchel a yardstick. Oh no, I think. I know what this means. My feeble memory had not forgotten the corporal punishment inflicted upon my skinny ass for coming late to the Catechism classes. No fault of my own, of course.
Nervously, the Gableguy tries to affect an apology but has a hard time annunciating his words. So instead, he looks up to the conductor and says, "Who is that woman?" The conductor, with no time for small talk, spits out a wad of gum, Wrigley's Spearmint I think, and sternly looks the Gable guy in the eye and says,
"Nun of your business."
Having enough of this and not wanting to bear witness to the yardstick spanking-- for fear it might trigger off a few suppressed emotions-- and I certainly don't want to be accused of faking an orgasm on a train, I decided it best if I move to another car.
I get up, the conductor looks at me like I'm a traitor and begrudgingly tries to block my passage. "Excuse me, sir." He won't move. "Please, can I get by?"
"Hey listen, if I can get by on this measly conductor pay then I am sure you can get by with whatever you do. What do you do?"
"I'm a writer," I say, thinking he'd feel sorry for me. He steps aside.
"Hey, you got any gum?"
"No, but I have a newspaper. The headline reads: Obama 2008."
"Is that right? Well then, I guess you're on the right train after all."
" I just hope we're all getting off at the same station though."
Triumphs, Tragedies and Trampolines
Today, I awoke an optimist but as the hours rolled along I became somewhat of a pessimistic optimist and now at this late hour I had turned into a complete pessimist. Nothing's going to work. All my efforts will remain futile attempts at mediocrity. There's no gold at the end of the rainbow. No, at the end of the rainbow is Joe's junkyard. Just another plight added to the urban landscape.
Across from Joe's, an old factory. It does nothing but emit black, dangerous smoke into the atmosphere. Lately, new cases of leukemia had been reported within a ten-mile radius of the old factory. The owners of the factory also are slum owners. They do nothing but buy dilapidated buildings on the cheap and rent them out to desperate people; people who work under the table for four dollars an hour. These people had been convinced that it's that or nothing. They'd been told when they were young, "You will never amount to anything." That was before they tried out for the neighborhood gang and before they started to shoot heroin in dark alleys and abandoned buildings, the same buildings that they would eventually call home.
This morning, I watched the news. More deaths in Iraq, another senseless shooting on Seventh Street. Something about a man killing his estranged wife. "If I can't have you, nobody can," he probably said before pointing his 38 to her temple. She was a schoolteacher, honest and dedicated. Could have taught a future President but now it's too late. Oh, another car wreck on Main and Charleston. Two dead. Empty beer bottles found in car of teenagers. Fake IDs are a big business nowadays.
Another business executive caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Has a fourteen million dollar apartment in Manhattan, not far from where the two Trade Center Towers once stood, so tall, so valiant. The people on the front lines lost the whole of their pensions, their company crumbled under the weight of misappropriated funds and false profits. Somebody has to pay the piper.
I just heard from a neighbor that there's big money in oil. He bought himself a Hummer, "to help the economy," he says. And if that weren't enough he purchased a bunch of stock in a big company which imports athletic shoes from third-world countries. My neighbor says, "I will retire before I'm fifty. I will live the good life, go and see the world." A little girl scout knocks on his door. She's selling cookies. But he won't answer. He'll pretend he's not home. Did the same thing on Halloween.
Greed, I despise it! Arrogance, it grinds on my nerves! Ignorance, no need for it! People who lack Compassion! Go to hell! People who are so self-absorbed that they forget to wipe their butts! Who are you shitting? People who rob and steal and plunder – get a real job!
Oh, but I mustn’t forget my simple philosophy: “I cannot carry the world on my shoulders but on my shoulders it is my world that must carry me.”
Oh, and another one of my philosophies: “I cannot care the ills of the world but I will do all that I can not to contribute to them.”
And I will continue to do what I can to help ensure Barack becomes our next president. After all, deep down I am a true optimist though as of late, the last few years, my optimism has been tested and tested again. It's time for change.
Triumphs Over Adversity
With Barack Obama as President, I believe he'd do what this current administration couldn't or were reluctant to do...that is, simply instill the trust between nations, between neighbors, between citizens. Since September 11, 2001 xenophobia had become a major issue of concern and because of the unmitigated paranoia and in some cases, hatred, there had been many instances where otherwise ordinary citizens were treated as enemies. Unprovoked violence against those of innocence shattering the ideals of democracy. I must admit, right after 911 I, too, suffered a case of xenpohobia and my narrow-mindedness was quickly met with a display of true citizenship. I had learned a valuable lesson. I'd like to share my story with you:
FLIGHT
The third week of October, 2001 I'm at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport waiting for my departure to Las Vegas. I had just concluded a five day visit home. I arrived at the airport two hours early as requested. As I'm going through security I notice two black-bearded men wearing turbans. Immediately, my imagination takes over. I see two members of Al-Qaida or the Taliban who are up to no good. After going clean through the metal-detectors I walk through the terminal toward my gate. Behind me, the two black-bearded men with turbans. I feel uneasy. I just hope they aren't going to be on the same flight as me. I arrive at my gate and sit down, watching the two Al-Qaida members pass, apparently on their way to another gate, thank goodness. I still have well over an hour before departure. My mind transitions itself from horrible thoughts of September 11 to pleasant, innocuous thoughts of my family. And how it was so good to see them again. Through pleasant memory and heart-warming reverie,I sit before the big jet that would soon whisk me safely to my adopted home of Las Vegas.
The pre-boarding announcement is made just as I'm envisioning myself as a small child, tucked securely in my bed as Mother sings to me a nursery rhyme. I watch the wheel-chair bound passengers board, then the first-classers. A bit later, us -- the coach section. Just as I stand, I almost fell right back down. They're back! Oh no, Al-Qaida. . . on the same plane as me. What should I do? Should I turn back? Skip this flight? I don't want to make a scene but images of September 11 are pounding a heavy hammer against my skull. . .
But wait, if that little boy and girl who are smiling aren't afraid, then neither am I. Right? . . . Right! I board and go dizzy down the aisle to my seat. . . . I take a deep breath, then fasten my seat belt . . . And then, I look up. . . They're here, looking right at me . . .I take another deep breath and then turn toward the window. I feel something bumping me in the back. I slightly turn my head. My peripheral vision ensnares a black beard . . . a turban . . . Oh no, Al-Qaida sitting right behind me . . . I'm doomed. My neck will be the first, the first to be slashed. . . They'll reach up over the back of my seat with their box knives and cut. . .cccccuuutttt my thro. . .my throat.
We're up in the air, above Nebraska or something. I had calmed down, take a magazine from the flight attendant and immerse myself in it. . . . And then, fumbling behind me . . . and whispering . . . Oh no, this is it . . . they're getting ready . . .
A bit of turbulence . . . perhaps a good thing. . . a diversion to their plan. But then, more fumbling, fumbling for their knives. I'm a goner . . . I brace myself, close my eyes and think of my family again, - my niece in her beautiful wedding gown, the happy faces as she walks down the aisle.
The fumbling has stopped. A few hundred miles later, calm skies. A big sigh of relief.
Time passes . . . Below, mountains . . . too late to turn back and ram this jet into the Sears Tower. . . maybe we're safe . . . But, again . . . whispering, fumbling, feet under my seat scrambling. . . maybe they have a different target in mind. . . Again, I brace myself, close my eyes, relive my life... After a long spell, I reopen my eyes. I'm still alive. I look out the window.
Below, brown desert-looking land. My ears pop. We must be descending . . . And then, the "Fasten your seatbelt" sign lights. And, the pilot speaks. "We're approximately fifteen minutes out of Las Vegas. Please stay in your seats . . . .
Right then, one of the men behind me, the Al-Qaida guy with the black beard and turban rises, saying, "I speak Spanish." The flight attendant says, "Follow me." The man slips into the aisle and follows the flight attendant to the front. We're dropping, my ears are popping. I look around at my fellow passengers. Most of them seem calm, composed. If a black-bearded man wearing a black turban walking toward the cockpit behind a flight attendant during final approach doesn't scare them a month after September 11, then what the hell am I doing? Jumping to conclusions, that's what I 'm doing.
The plane lands safely, everybody's happy. Rolling toward the tarmac, outside my window the Statue of Liberty looming large next to the Pyramid with the Sphinx guarding its entrance. . . The New York, New York and The Luxor, yes I'm home, thank goodness. . . .
As I deplane I thanked the two men behind me, the two men with the black beards and black turbans. I simply said, "THANK YOU!"I'll never forget that day, never. I was provided another lesson, and for that, I'm most grateful. . .
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Our true work begins at home!
Beyond the broken door, poverty, famine and warBeyond the broken mantoo far the distant shoreWithin the broken manrests the fragile coreWe must rememberOur world begins at home...the home nearest the shoreTragedies, Triumphs and Trampolines
Beyond the broken door, poverty, famine and warBeyond the broken mantoo far the distant shoreWithin the broken manrests the fragile coreWe must rememberOur world begins at home...the home nearest the shore
This is a narrative taken from my memoirs concerning the murders of two Chicago Police Officers. Two senseless murders that, I believe could've been prevented. Issues such as these are what I concern myself with as does Barack Obama. Crime, education, drug addictions, self-identity issues, fatherless homes, poverty, positive role models, self-esteem issues, corporate citizenship....just a few of the issues I had dedicated myself to, through writing and through networking.
It was while waiting at the bus stop when I met the two police officers who were both killed a week later in the line of duty. I met them while I was waiting to catch the C.T.A. bus that would take me to O’Hare International Airport for my first trip to Las Vegas. The year was 1990 and this was the first year of the Las Vegas Mega-Resort. The Mirage with its resident entertainers Siegfried and Roy, along with their White Bengal tigers was a place to go as were all the other points of interest I had been hearing about but never really had the desire to go and see for myself. Maybe I was turned off by Las Vegas because of its reputation as a gambling mecca. Maybe because it was the place I was so excited about moving to when I was eight years old after my mother’s cousin encouraged my father that Las Vegas was the place for a man to stake his claim in the burgeoning casino industry. Cousin Bob told my father, “Vince, with your bartending experience and mathematical aptitude you could make yourself a very decent living for you and your family.” It never panned out though. My father’s bartender experience and mathematical aptitude led him to drink up his earnings while neglecting the bills that were piling up at home. And by the time I was ten years old, my dad’s bartender skills impressed one of his female customers so much that she fell in love with him as I suppose he did with her. His mathematical aptitude suffered greatly after he left his family on Thanksgiving Day of my tenth year. The subtraction of five people who loved him and depended on him didn’t fit into his equation as he left for Florida with his new love interest.
But now, I was becoming a changed man and the sour taste I had for Las Vegas was sweetened up a bit by the idea of an inexpensive getaway to a place where the sun was promised to shine endlessly and the wine flowed freely. In some ways, I was becoming a lot like my father. With my own mathematical aptitude and philosophical approach as well as an insatiable appetite for anything that contained alcohol, Las Vegas was a great idea. “And Ricky, wait to you see the showgirls there.” It didn’t take me too much effort to book a four-night vacation in glitzy Vegas.
That morning of my departure I awoke to the Chicago sun, blazing in through my easterly window. I went over to close the blinds and in doing so, noticed a few squad cars at the corner, near the drug store and next to the bus stop where I would catch my bus. Hmm, I wonder what’s going on?’ I hadn’t time to ponder too much; I had to get a quick shower and a shave.
I got to the bus stop and noticed the big plate glass window of the drug store gone. Two Chicago police officers remained on the scene until a crew came out to board up the window. One policeman, he was rather hefty, a jolly looking man with a red face. The other, smaller in frame, he kind of reminded me of Barney Fife, but a more rotund Barny Fife. I asked,
"What happened?"
"The drug store was broken into early this morning," said the heftier officer, lighting up a smoke. "Whoever broke in, got away with a helluva lot of drugs. That part of the store had been ransacked."
"Destroyed," interjected the other cop. "By the way, do you live around here?" he asked.
I set my suitcase down. "Yes, right there," I said as I pointed to the apartment building a half block down the street.
"Did you happen to see or hear anything, say, about four or five this morning?" the other cop asked, flipping his cigarette to the ground, then stomping on it.
I thought about it for a moment and realizing that I was sound asleep about that time with the window closed I knew I couldn't have possibly heard a thing except maybe my cat chasing a ball around.
"No, I'm sorry, I hadn't heard a thing," I said.
I could see that they were staring intently at my suitcase. Considering the circumstances I’m sure they were probably a bit suspicious of the contents. For all they knew I could’ve been the perpetrator and the suitcase was actually full of prescription drugs instead of my three pair of shorts, two dress shirts and three pairs of pants. Oh, and a few pairs of socks plus my toiletries.
“So, it looks like you’re going on vacation,” the bigger cop said, now smiling.
“Yeah, I am,” I answered. The tension was broken; I was no longer a suspect, thank goodness. I felt more at ease. “I’m going to Las Vegas, my first time.”
Really?” he said, pulling another cigarette out of his shirt pocket. “Me and my wife went there three years ago and we had a blast. Saw a few good shows and lost a bit of money but it was worth it. Just be careful and have some fun,” he added, lighting up his cigarette. He took a long draw off it and blew out an enormous white cloud of smoke. “Well, I wish you lots of luck.”
“Yeah, me too,” said the other officer. “And if you get a chance, go see Hoover Dam. It’s an engineering marvel.”
“I’ll try to do that,” I said. Coming down the street was my bus. I was becoming more excited. I can’t wait to get to Vegas. “Well, here comes my bus.” I picked up my suitcase and walked toward the bus stop sign. “Well, it was nice meeting you two. I hope you find whoever was responsible for this break-in.”
“Oh, we will,” said the bigger cop. “Remember, win lots of money and think of us while you’re sitting poolside.”
“I will,” I said. The bus pulled up, the door opened. I climbed aboard and deposited my dollar-fifty in the fare box. As the bus pulled away, the two police officers were standing away from the curb, waving and smiling. Those guys were two of the nicest police officers I had ever met. I wish more were like them. I took my seat and closed my eyes. As the bus bounced down the big city street my mind turned a hard corner and suddenly I was taken to a darker time, a perilous place. I was thirteen years old. Alone, I stood against the world.
The shopping cart is heavy, full of pop bottles, occasionally the wheels get stuck in the cracks and clefts of the alley, causing strain and tear on my young, weakened muscles. I push hard though, I must make it to the Jewel Food Store to exchange the pop bottles for the deposit money; money that I’d use to buy macaroni, cans of tuna and jars of peanut butter and jelly – stuff that would save Wendy and me from dying of starvation. I hope she’s okay. I hope her Cindy Doll is comforting her while I’m on my mission. I hear a car; it’s behind me. Chills run down my spine. I pull the cart to the side, crash into a garbage can. Suddenly, I hear walkie-talkies – the distinct sound of static and transmitted voices. I become paralyzed.
Two doors open. The blare from reports of crime-infested activity becomes louder. Heavy footsteps follow. I slowly turn my head. Two blue men with their hands on their holsters are approaching. I struggle hard to become disentangled from both fear and hunger but I can’t move. I close my eyes, fearing the worst. Suddenly, a heavy object strikes my shoulder, pushes me down hard to the ground.
“Don’t you move, you low-life piece of scum.” And then, a heavy foot presses hard against my back, the smell of shoeshine polish and leather penetrates my nostrils. I feel like I’m going to vomit but there’s nothing in my stomach so instead I choke, now knowing that soon my life will be over.
“Where did you throw that bag of dope?”
I struggle hard to answer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, officer. I didn’t have any bag of dope.”
“Don’t get smart with me, you fucking piece of shit. We saw you run and throw it as we were coming down the alley.”
I try to turn my head so that I could look up. But his foot changes position and moves up my spine to my neck. He puts all his weight down. I’m starting to choke again, nearing convulsions. Goodbye Momma, goodbye Dad. Goodbye Trish and Lenny and Wendy. I love you all.
In memory: Police Officer Raymond C. Kilroy & Police Officer Gregory A. Hauser
As a man given another chance at life and provided with a more profound understanding of the world in which I continue to dwell I believe, as does Barack Obama in taking more responsibilty for our own actions. Whether it be the honor of fatherhood or the privlege of student or the role of worker we must remain diligent, committed and dedicated to our foundations. Something I wrote not so long ago: "Life is not so much what you make it but what you are able to make out of it." Individually and then collectively we can move mountains. I believe in strong leadership and each one of us possesses the inherent ability to lead...and set a great example for those, still in the formative years, to follow.
Barack Obama has set the course, let us follow his example and do what we can to individually and collectively fortify the foundations on which this great country and her citizenry were established. Let us join together and rejoice in prosperity.
Although we currently live in an extremely complex world it is time we get back to basics. My belief: "An idea is nothing but a mere abstraction of a concrete undertaking."
Now a brief history:
It was September 11 when God Himself, came down and saved me. It was a drastic measure, but one necessary to prevent me from walking into the mighty Pacific without looking back. It was my way, the only way.
Oh, beautiful Kauai, my heaven on earth! It would be there where I'd take my last glass of wine, my final shot of scotch and my last breath. I had planned it so well, I thought. I had booked a flight from Chicago to arrive Kauai on September 12, 1992 - the day before my final birthday - September 13. I wanted to perform my "dead man walking" on my birthday. You all know the story, "Leaving Las Vegas," right?
That is the movie where the character played by Nicolas Cage goes to Las Vegas to drink himself to death. Well, I was "Leaving Kauai" and why, you may ask. Because I had grown tired of witnessing all the pain and suffering in this world, the cruelty, the disregard for each other. Also, I had enough of my own struggles, the constant battles fighting my alcoholism, the harsh memories of finding my father dead after he had died about three days before I had gone to visit him. I also had enough of the past, my past where every turn seemed to take me to another dead end.
But something happened, something so powerful that I was stopped from performing my final dance upon the shorelines of Kauai. I must believe, this time, it took God Himself to stop me.
On the evening of September 11, 1992 I was sitting in Tony's Tavern, downing my scotch when the news broke. A fierce hurricane had hit Kauai head on. Half drunk, I thought maybe I was not really hearing right. Through the smoke and the haze I focused on the television as much as my half-drunkenness would allow. Projected to me on the blurry screen were the twisted palm trees, the over-turned homes, the upended boats. I recognized what once was the idyllic shoreline of Poipu, now in twisted disarray. Now what am I going to do? All ports would surely be closed now, I thought.
I immediately went to the phone booth and called United Airlines. It was confirmed. My flight tomorrow to Kauai was cancelled. Now what? I went back to my stool, and with tears running down my cheeks, I faced the truth. I was probably better off alive.
I took the last gulp of my drink and left the tavern and walked to the neighborhood park, where I sat and thought. I came to the realization what had really happened. A 911 call had gone out, "This is an emergency." This time, I must believe it was God Himself who answered the call. And my life was spared. I was stopped from going to Kauai to kill myself. This was a new beginning. I was reborn and finally I was able to quit the drinking, and with a new zest for life, I began the process of healing.
For the next year I had sat down every morning and relived my life through writing. I relived the pain, the tears, the sometime laughter and put it all down, black on white. It was my catharsis. Finally, I was freed from the chains that had bound me all my adult life. And I was finally able to forgive. Hurricane Iniki, I am sorry for your destruction. But I am forever grateful to you for saving my life . . .
And then, September 11, 2001! I was intent on celebrating the anniversary of my rebirth. I hopped in my car and was on my way to breakfast, when the news broke through the song I was listening to, "Silent Lucidity." At first, I thought it was a practical joke, reminding me of Orson Welle's Halloween trick, "We're being invaded by Martians" which ultimately caused pandemonium and mass hysteria throughout the land.
I quickly turned to another radio station. Same thing. This can’t be happening, there’s no way. This has to be some kind of cruel joke. Another Station: "Both World Trade Center Buildings are on fire!" I kept driving, my heart pounding, the palms of my hands gripping the steering wheel, trying desperately to retain control. "A passenger jet had slammed into the Pentagon." No, this can’t be real!
I turned on another station. "News just in from Pennsylvania - a plane had crashed in a field." What the hell is going on? Is this the end of the world? I arrived at the restaurant, and with my own two eyes, witnessed on their television, the horrific events. I really had not the stomach for egg omelets or pancakes. Not now. "Miss Waitress, just bring me a large glass of cranberry juice."
I sat and slowly drank the juice, tears falling down my cheeks. Patrons all around, also staring intently at the television in disbelief, their own faces reddened from sadness. I knew I had to get home. Pass McCarran International airport I drove. There was not a plane in the sky, neither coming in nor taking off. All was quiet now except the beating of my heart. Many questions arose and struck hard at my conscience but still I drove on, aiming for home.
