I heard 'Blinded by the Light' by Manfred Mann's Earth Band today. It was playing on Sirius, the satellite radio company, of which I have been a faithful subscriber for 5 years. I immediately added it to my favorites, and here's why: It takes me to another time. I have memories of the 70's that are actually very nice. I was 9 years old when the 70's ended and I still remember them. This song always reminds me of that decade. Probably because my mother was an ex-hippy and got into those post-Flower Child rock bands.
I have early childhood memories. I remember at 5 years old begging my mother to let me watch Saturday Night Live, back when Belushi, Ackroyd, Bill Murray, and Gilda were still on there. I do believe that I got my dry, witty, smart-assed sense of humor from being exposed to this show at such an early age. It also contributed to my enduring love of New York City, where I WILL live at least once before I die (white guy alert!). I would watch the opening credits and skits that referenced the city and thought to myself, how cool would it be to live there? I only confirmed this to myself when I spent time there in 2001, before 9/11.
I remember watching Yankees games on the Armed Forces Network, the only games we could get, when my dad was in the Army in Germany during the 70's. My dad's good friend, named David, was a Newyorkrican from the Bronx. When they went out, which was quite often, they would take me by his place, ostensibly so he could baby-sit for them. I think it was more because he was just thrilled to have a young mind to meld and warp with his love of the Bronx Bombers. And I didn't mind, cause I loved baseball and I loved David, and because of him, I still love the Yankees, the only sports team for whom I would bleed and die and support with unquestioning loyalty. I learned a lot from David, mostly colorful language shouted at the TV in Spanglish, especially considering we were watching during the Billy Martin-Reggie Jackson days. I often wonder what happened to David. I wonder if he's still in the Bronx?
I remember listening to my uncle's LP's of AC/DC, Van Halen, and Aerosmith. I was weaned on classic rock, both from my mom's enduring love for 60's music and his obsession with mullet rock. I remember the awful colors of the 70's. The cafeteria on base in Germany was painted this horrible mixture of very light orange and bright red. My room when we came home from overseas was painted light purple with wallpaper on the bookshelves and closet door that were huge, psychedelic flowers in all shades of purple. I remember awful 70's TV. I loved Sanford and Son, the Gong Show, and WKRP in Cincinnati, my three favorite shows. I remember when we got cable in '79. I remember standing on line for Star Wars in '77 and being scared shitless when a guy dressed as Darth Vader, who worked for the theater, walked down the line shaking hands with the crowd. I remember the '80 Republican Convention and the shock at Reagan being elected, especially since my parents were die-hard Democrats. I remember a whole host of memories that I haven't the time to post now.
Perhaps my most telling memory of the 70s was finding out where I really came from. To look at me, you would think I could trace my lineage back to when white met bread. I assure you that I am exactly 0% WASP. On my way home from the new school I was attending, in downtown Pensacola, after our return from Germany in '78, I was greeted at the street corner (I walked home cause it was so close, down by Pensacola Bay) by a large, very dark skinned man with tight white curly hair. He said, in his marble-mouthed coastal accent that so many second generation fisherman have down here, "Hay Maaaak. Hai yew?" as he held out his meathook of a hand, crusted with callouses gained from hours of working shrimp boats. I took it, uncertain, and he held it firmly but gently as he led me down the street and to my grandmother's house, where we were staying at the time. He dropped me off at the front gate and didn't leave until I went in and shut the door.
Later, I asked my mother who the black man who led me home was, thinking he must be an associate of my grandfather, who was a part-time fisherman in addition to being a part-time house painter and full-time fireman. My mother very matter-of-factly told me that he was my Uncle Bernie. She also told me that he was my blood. She told me my grandmother's people were Cuban, having come to Pensacola from Havana by way of New Orleans. She also informed me that my grandfather's people were Jews from Russia. I didn't exactly know what that meant at the time, though I did recall a couple of trips to Dachau (the old Nazi concentration camp) while a child in Germany. I knew it was a grave and serious place, and that something very bad had happened there. I would later lean that I was also 1/2 Irish from my father's side, a mixture of Scots Irish from Ulster and Irish-Catholic from Cork.
These are the memories that have shaped my life. More than the 80's, where I clumsily came of age, or the 90's, where I learned what it meant to be a strong-willed, independent person. I look back now and realize that I would not be the person I am today if not for those memories of a decade many people scarcely remember except in cornball retro movies and idiotic VH1 "Remember When" specials.
And that song jettisoned me back there in an instant.
I think I went into the wrong profession. I believe that I should have been a psychologist or a clergyman or something. I say this because I have been getting the life stories lately of many of my inmates dropped on me, unsolicited. I guess I've always been the kind of person who listens well. Sometimes this is a fault. Too much listening and not enough talking can lead to significant difficulties in life's little relationships.
So it should come as no surprise to me that when dealing with society's cast-offs, I would lend such a good ear as a listener. Stamp it on my forehead: TELL ME ALL ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS.
Understand that I am not in any way advocating for these men. While I work in a maximum security prison, and while I am around these men all day, I have not developed any sort of a bond or connection with them. I see them as criminals, men who are justifiably incarcerated for crimes committed against society. They have hurt people, total strangers, their families and friends, their employers, and in the most extreme and abhorrent cases, children.
With that caveat stated, realize that it IS my job to act as a counselor to these men. Not in a mental health or a spiritual way, but in a way that transcends mere advice or quick solution. I am their life counselor, in a way. My job involves me in these men's lives from the time they enter prison to the time they leave (and, yes, most people who go to prison WILL one day leave).
I classify every aspect of their lives, from what their custody will be, to how we will manage their behavior, to where they will sleep. I assign them their jobs, determine what kinds of programs they will have, discipline them when they violate the rules. I transfer them closer to their families when their behavior warrants it, assist them when they transition back to life on the outside, and help them maintain their ties to the outside world.
I guess in a weird, dysfunctional way I am like a father figure to some of these guys. I can understand this, as a goodly number of them have never had any sort of strong male presence in their lives that was not in an adversarial role. So when they are faced with one, I believe they cling to him in a familial sort of way.
I tell you all of this to set the scene for the point of my post. Friday I am down in the disciplinary confinement cell block making my rounds. I have to do this every week with inmates under my supervision. I go by their cells and address any concerns they may have, answer questions, and check on their well being in general. I have a good rapport with the security staff on the compound. All of us in classification do, which stands to reason, as we all have to work pretty closely with them. We depend on each other. I am sitting at one of the rec tables in the cell block, as all the disciplinary inmates are locked down. The officers are complaining about a particular inmate who has been giving them trouble for the past week. Not BIG trouble; just being a pain in the neck.
I suggest to them that I go talk to him. This inmate is not on my caseload, but I know him. His officer was out that day, so I figure I can help him out if there’s something wrong. I go to his cell front and talk to him. This guy is spending the next 35 years of his life in prison for a string of armed robberies. He’s been in and out of prison since he was a teenager. Now he’s 45. He will most likely die in prison.
He has caught a disciplinary report for being disrespectful to a female officer. He contends that he was giving hell to another inmate and that she overheard him and assumed he was talking about her. I don’t know the truth cause I didn’t sit on his disciplinary hearing team. But I listened to him anyway. And for the next 20 minutes, I listened. I think it was really cathartic for him. After he stopped, I talked to him some more. We exchanged ideas and stories, and, in the end, I think he really benefited from it. When I left his cell front, I turned my attention to my thoughts of other work I had to do. He called back to me and simply said, “Thank you.” I smiled back at him and said “you’re welcome.” And I left that cold cell block of concrete and steel feeling like I had actually done something worthwhile.
No matter how many times I read this, I learn something new about myself, mostly from the introspection it brings. I have reprinted it here:
From a newspaper column written by Mary Schmich, a columnist for The Chicago Tribune, who said she wrote it "while high on coffee and M&Ms" on May 31, 1997.
Ladies and gentlemen of the class of '97:
Wear sunscreen.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how
fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you.
Sing.
Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.
Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.
Stretch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.
Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble
and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders.
Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.
Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.
But trust me on the sunscreen.
The more anger towards the past you carry in your heart, the less capable you are of loving in the present.
I have this quote on my Facebook page right now. It is a lesson I have learned in a most painful way. For so long after my divorce, I carried around a lot of anger. I was angry at my ex for abandoning me after 10 years of loving bliss. I was angry at my chosen career, which I blamed for turning me into an unfeeling, uncaring, unloving automatron. I was mad with my family and friends for their perceived lack of understanding or caring.
In the end, I was just angry with myself. No one was to blame for the failure of my marriage except me. Certainly, there were other factors, and my ex shouldered some of the blame herself. But I was not responsible for her happiness and I was not responsible for her failings. I was responsible for me.
I neglected my ex. I had heard from others in my career field that my job would do this sometimes. I never believed it. It can’t possibly happen to me. But it did. To make a very long and complicated story short, I shut myself off from her. I saw unbelievable things at my job. Things I had never been exposed to before. Things the average civilian does not see every day. I did not know how to express my feelings. I did not know how to talk about it. My cynicism and bitterness were difficult to express. In retrospect, I know it would have been better if I had.
I forgot to tell her the things she needed to hear. I love you became rarer and rarer when it used to be repeated like a mantra. I did not get close, did not hold her, did not kiss her. Making love became less and less appealing. The environment I exposed myself to on a daily basis killed what used to be a healthy, active libido. Then I forgot Valentines Day. Nothing. Not so much as a card to her, from me or my daughters. No flowers, no candy, no nothing.
When she finally told me it was the end, it was like hitting a brick wall at 60 MPH. I was crushed. I was torn to bits. I entered a long, dark night of the soul from which I have only recently emerged. But she has gone on.
She is engaged again, and is contemplating another baby soon. She has rebuilt her life and is happy.
Now I must be happy also. I must leave my anger at my failings in the past. I would like at some point to be in another relationship and make up for all the things I didn’t do in my last. I would like to get involved in things that hold my interest in more than a superficial way. I would like to promote to upper management at work, even if this means moving far from my home. I would like to keep being the kind of father to my girls that makes them run to me with a yelp of joy, like they do now. A lot of introspection, and the healthy way I leave work at work at the end of each day, has led me to take an inventory of who I am as a person and what it is I want, to know what it is that makes me truly happy.
At 37, I finally have an idea.
