Soapbox

    Dear Woman standing ahead of me at the Speedway gas station at 7:30 in the morning,
            Sweetie, I have something to tell you, and you're not gonna want to hear it, but it's the truth: you are NOT going to win the lottery.
I don't care how many times you play your boyfriends' birth date, and whether you go straight or boxed or what cute pictures are on the card you scratch. You are not going to win.

       Normally I couldn't care less what you do with your money and your time, but right now, I am skating awfully close to being late for work. I just stopped in to grab some coffee, thinking I could run in and run right out but I did not count on being in line behind you and your 2 packs of Marlboro- no the soft packs,  and a Snicker bar, and lets see… how can I pay my stupidity tax today? So many bright and shiney tickets to choose from,  all with different names and different gimmicks, like the midway games at the fair with the crappy, sawdust-stuffed prizes, and then there are numbers, so many numbers to choose!
     I sighed heavily a few times but you did not get the hint and kept laughing and joking with the clerk about how you've just got to start the day with your tickets. Look, we all have something we start our day with. Me, it's this coffee I'm drinking even though I haven't yet paid for.  For the guy in the clothes of a road crew  it's apparently a morning slice of pepperoni pizza and Budweiser (ok, that's a scary thought… I"m gonna tell myself the Bud is going in his truck for lunch break) For the lady behind him in the Michelin man parka, sprayed-on jeans and gold stilletto boots it's probably that doughnut…
     You know, you're like the person with 47 items and 48 coupons, half of them expired, who gets in the 12 items or less express lane in front of you at the grocery store.
      Seriously, lady! This is a convenience store! You're are being very inconvenient right now. You are not going to win! I know, it sucks. But it's true. You could turn around and give me the 20 dollars you are spending on lottery, and be just as well off.
      In fact, tell you what: here's a dollar. Take it to walk out the door right now  and you will get more free money from this deal than you are ever going to get from a lottery ticket.

      Note to self- tomorrow, I am driving thru Tim Hortons.

      My job would be so much more fun if  I got to wear a cape.
     If  only I could stride to the counter when a customer rings the bell and then, hands on hips, feet spread purposefully as my cape settles in behind me, cool theme music clearly implied, say,  "I'm here to help you" I just know the day would go better.

  My work cape would be super-hero length, ending just above the knees and flaring out nicely on every quick turn, which I would do deliberately from time to time, partly just for awesome style points, and also  to let my customers know that they are dealing with a woman of significant taste and ability.
    It would be dark gold with a scarlet lining. The gold color would engender trust, signal that I am honest, competent, forthright, and  they should relax  because know way more about this than they ever will.

   But should a customer get too clingy or whiney, or take a disrespectful attitude with me, I can flip my cape back over my shoulders so that the scarlet lining shows. This flash of red will let them know that I am not a person to be trifled with, say without words  shut up and take my advice.
    If I could stroll into my boss's office in a swirl of scarlet and gold, I can't help thinking that my annual evaluations would go better.  And when driving in heavy traffic, I might let a portion of the cape trail out the window to flutter in the breeze. Other drivers would know that, while I am a safe and courteous driver, they should not mess with me in a merge. You don't cut someone off in traffic when you know they are wearing a super hero cape.   

 I really should have 2 capes, though: Superhero for every day wear, but for those occasions  that require a little more presence, perhaps even a bit of sang-froid, I will need a full length cape of deepest, deepest blue… my Severus Snape cape. One that does not merely flare but billows out behind me like my own trailing entourage.

   In my Severus cape, as I stride the halls of the IRS, the courthouse or even the opera house, people would step out of my way. Because you simply do not fuck with someone in a full-on Severus cape, now do you?

   You know who else would enjoy his job more if he had a cape?  The President.

   I suppose his cape would have to be red white and blue, with stars on the shoulders. Which is cliche, I know, but it would certainly put all those stupid flag-pin wearing congressmen in their place.  Just think how it would swirl around him in an aura of power and authority as he walks from Air Force One for a meeting with some recalcitrant head of state! Suck it, Venezuela!  

   But the president really needs two capes as well. When the shit really hits the fan, when the accusations of "Socialist" and "Muslim" are flying, when they're painting his face with a bone through his nose on watermelons and attacking his wife and daughters in all those "I'm not a racist but" ways that they hit him every day; when the white hoods they have tucked into their pockets are starting to come out, he could go to his closet and pull out his other cape,  his "Leader of the goddamned free world" cape .
        And then he could call a joint session of Congress, assembling all the obstructionist, self-aggrandizing party leaders,  the ones  who are out there doing book tours and speaking tours instead of governing, who charge "traitor!" and "Un-American" but would rather shut down the entire United States government than compromise and inch .
        When the Sargent of Arms bangs his stick for attention, before he can get a word of introduction out of his mouth, the President would brush past him and stalk to the podium wearing his Darth Vader cape in it's full, ridiculous awesomeness, Secret Service detail scurrying behind to keep up. Imperial March clearly implied!
     What a treat it would be then to watch the expressions on the face of the Speaker of the House when the President speaks of protecting civil rights and health care in his Vader cape. Ah-ah ah… careful there pal!   For if some over-excited member of the opposition should have the temerity to hiss or shout "You lie!" the President could pause, slowly turn his head and extend his hand slightly toward the neck of the red-faced man and say, in solemn tones,    

   "Do not fuck with me, Senator, for I am the President of the United States, and you will show some respect. If not for me, then for the office, and if not for the office… then for the cape."   

    Oh yes, I believe everyone's job would be better if they got to wear a cape.

The sins of the fathers are just water under the bridge these days. Forgive and forget!
But oh, God sends the flood to punish the sins of the mothers.

    He does it by creating new life and then breaking it, in ways large and small-
cleft lips, twisted limbs, unseeing eyes, wasting disorders, short-circuiting brains tiny holes in tiny, hummingbird hearts~
this is how the Lord of hosts, who controls the motions of the heavens whose love for the world football players write under their eyes on game days… this is how He punishes a woman.  
    So sayeth the smug politician who vigilantly guards the gates of decency against the incursion of women looking for health services and hoping to limit their family to the number of children they can afford to feed and clothe decently.
    Armed with muddy theology about divine wrath, this man- who can never know the joys and fears of carrying new life-  solemnly intones that God has revealed to him that handicapped children are divine punishment upon a woman for the sin abortion. Terminate your pregnancy, even to save your own life, and God will punish your selfishness by sending you his most precious gift: a child
… with disabilities.

     I am only a flawed and sinful daughter of Eve, so perhaps this is why I am so confused by the fuzzy math of this equation.
 ~ Why does God not similarly punish those who kill children who have already been born,
 ~ and why do so many women who have abortions go on to have healthy, happy children,
 ~  and why have so many mothers of disabled children never had an abortion at all
 ~ and how in heaven could a new, sweet life, however challenged and challenging,  ever be a punishment at all?
Why would a loving God damage a child when the child is not the sinner?
And just where exacty do the sins of the fathers figure into this divine calculus?

   If this is a punishment then, in overwhelming numbers, we are missing the message, Lord. Most of us feel just as blessed by disabled children as by the ones born whole. There are some who even seek out and adopt these instruments of divine punishment and find their lives immeasurably enriched by them.
     Our children are not weapons and their impediments are not punishments: they just draw a different rubric for success.
    When simple tasks for others are challenges the size of a wheelchair for your child, in a house where surgeries are more common than birthdays, each new accomplishment, however small, gets taped to the refrigerator of the parent's heart to be exclaimed over,  bragged about to friends and neighbors with aching pride. When limbs don't want to obey the brain's commands, the child who walks across the room becomes your olympic hero. When words are difficult, each "I love you" is a diamond sharp enough to cut glass.

   So tell me, someone, why would the God of love harm an innocent, unborn child just to make a point to a woman whose sin was harming an innocent, unborn child? Why not just make her infertile,  strike her dumb, visit a plague of insects or send one of his tried but true lightning bolt? Isn't there a clearer way for a deity to get his message across?
     I am still confused about why God killed so many abortion-less people with hurricane Katrina because of abortion. Or was it about all those wanton Mardi Gras parades? Even the peddlers of fire and brimstone can't agree,  which doesn't sound like very omnipotent communication for the guy who made the heavens and the earth.
     Still, we are supposed to believe that God, the all-knowing, all powerful deity, whose eye is upon even the sparrow, has really lousy aim and just fires random shot-gun blasts of hate at his precious children. And while we wade through the rivers of blood and pain we're supposed to figure out what in the hell he got ticked off about this time and who in the hell he was shooting at.
    God, who can put his son's face on a taco shell can't just text someone to tell them to knock it off or draw a giant crop circle in Nebraska with the international symbol for No Gay Marriage.  No, he sends spina bifida and tay sachs- a lifetime of pain to someone who did no wrong, just because he doesn't like their mother.

    Well if you have any messages for me, Lord, really,…
a simple burning bush will do the trick.

He was my hero.

    He seemed larger than life, almost a legend, like Paul Bunyan: a tall, blond, curly-haired, blue-eyed teddy bear of a man, affectionately (and accurately) known as "Big John" Dwyer.

    I met him when he was a counselor my first year at Vinton County camp, when I was 11. He was not my counselor, but I liked him right away. How could you not? He always seemed so full of energy and joy.  Among all the wonderful people I met there, and all the counselors whom I wanted to grow up and be just like, John stood out.
    One night there was a group campfire down by the shelter house, with story-telling and singing. John was sitting near me, and heard me singing harmony. He scooted over closer, complimented me on my singing and we talked about the music we learned from our families. We sang "O Danny Boy" together, his deep voice and my piping treble, and laughed.
   The night was very clear, and while the fire kept my front side warm, my back was cold. John tucked me up against him to stay warm, put a strong arm around me. We looked up at the sky together. I remember wondering aloud why it was that there were so many more stars here than there were at home. He explained to me the effect cities have on your ability to see the stars.
        "Sometimes you have to go away from so many people, get off by yourself, in order to be able to really see" he said and pointed out some constellations to me.
    After a while I got tired and laid my head against him, listened to his  voice rumble quietly through his chest as he spoke, just the way I liked to do with my grandfather. I nearly went to sleep, so warm and comfortable and safe it was there.
   That's my strongest, most enduring memory of John Dwyer: strong as an oak, a gentle, loving soul who kept a scrawny little girl warm one night and showed her the stars. That's the one I hold on to.

   Tonight I learned that John Dwyer died in 2009, right here in Columbus, in fact, after a long and often unsuccessful battle with bipolar disorder.
    I knew he had some sort of mental illness. I was there that night at camp, a few years after i met him, when he had a breakdown, left a camp full of frightened, grief-stricken people behind.

    It was the last night of camp and we were having our closing ceremony where everyone got a chance to say a personal goodbye to everyone else. But before I ever got a chance to say goodbye to John, he was gone.
    There had been some talk among the campers in the last few days. The kids in John's campsite said he was occasionally… erratic, unsettled…. not the John they used to know. The counselors seemed concerned but wouldn't talk about it with us. And like typical kids, most of us assumed it couldn't be anything too serious. I mean, this was Big John Dwyer! We all looked up to him, literally and physically. Maybe he was having a rough time about something, but he'd work it out.
    And then suddenly there was a commotion, and John was storming off, but taking someone with him: one of his campers (and my best friend, as it happened). He wasn't exactly dragging her, wasn't really holding her hostage, but he wouldn't let her go, and he wouldn't come back to the group. My memories of exactly what occurred are a little fuzzy. Maybe I don't want to remember. Mostly I recall the emotion: confusion, anxiety and fear. It billowed and snapped through the milling campers like a flag moves in a windstorm. Counselors tried to pull their campsites together and calm them as other staff quietly spoke to John.
   I do remember very clearly the priest, Father Al, talking in quiet tones like you would use to coax a frightened, snapping dog.
        "Let go of her arm and come back to the group John. Yes, you can. Take a hand John. Take a hand, if you care to".
    I remember that phrase, "Take a hand, John" and that image- Al reaching out his hand, and John looking at it. The only sounds were quiet weeping from some of the girls, and all of us were mentally straining, willing  him to reach out and take it, to be big John Dwyer again, not this frightening, frightened stranger.

    But he couldn't. He wanted to, I"m sure. He wanted to be our friend and mentor and role model again, but that ability was stolen from him by the hideous alchemy in his brain that stole him from us, stole him from himself. He shouted. He wept. He finally let go of my friend's arm, and ran off, jumped in his car and drove away, leaving a camp full of shell-shocked teenagers behind.
    We tried to resume the closing ceremony, but it was more painful than ever. I think everyone cried. After it was over, a bunch of us decided to stay up all night watch the sun rise. We built a campfire and huddled around it, talking for hours, trying to keep the darkness at bay. For the world was a much darker place that night.
     More monsters. Fewer stars.

    In the morning we were told that John's mother reported that he had successfully made it home that night and agreed to see a doctor. Like the kids we were, most of us breathed a sigh of relief and pretended that we thought it would be as simple as that, that prayer and a good doctor would fix what was broken.
    But of course it didn't.

     I never saw or heard of John again after that moment in 1974 when I watched the dust kicked up by his car as he raced out of our lives. I have thought of him with great affection from time to time and hoped he was doing well. But from what I've pieced together, mostly, he wasn't. He was hospitalized many times and was living in a group home right here in Columbus before he died. The obituary didn't mention any illness at all and I cannot help but wonder if he didn't end his own life, to escape his pain at last. But whether or not his illness caused his death, it certainly took his life. Years and years of it. It took his career, probably took from him the chance for a wife and family. It took him and never completely gave him back.
     So many beautiful hearts, dancing on broken glass, leaving footprints of pain behind them.

    And I can't help but wish that I had known he was so near. I would have liked to go to visit him. I'm sure it would have been very painful. I doubt he would have  remembered me, and who knows- maybe not even the place I knew him from. But I still wish I had known, so I could have reached out a hand, even if he could never have taken it.

    Next summer some of us are trying to arrange some sort of a camp reunion to get together with our fellow aging alumni from the deep woods of Vinton County and talk about the old days.
    I know, on that day, I will raise a glass and offer a toast to big John Dwyer, and to getting away from too many people so you can see the stars.

      It wasn't until I had gone 3 or 4 blocks that I realized I never even asked the man his name.