We're Missing the Point

Over the last couple of weeks I've noticed that my fellow bloggers have seemingly taken to fending off cyber abusers. They've been ridiculed, discounted, and in some cases accused of pawning fiction off as fact. Through it all I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop on my little piece of internet heaven. Although this hasn't happened (thankfully) it has prompted me to think about how I would react in a similar situation. A huge part of me wants to get out there and defend my foster brothers and sisters- we're all we've got in some cases. Unfortunately I feel as if I would only be adding to the noise.. and the noise is distracting. You see, in these cases, nobody wins. If the bully is truly just a bully, logic and common sense are not the weapons to bring to their battle. It simply will not work. The only thing we accomplish by entertaining these clowns is to provide a platform for their ignorance.

Such negativity invokes a sickness inside of me and leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'm sure I am not alone. We've all encountered this from time to time. Sure, the people are different but their outlook is the same. In fact, if life were Twitter the following would trend: Why are you still complaining about the past?...It was a long time ago...Are you crying about this again?....Not every case is as bad as yours....You never really had parents, how would you know how to be one?....Abuse breeds abuse....If this really happened somebody would've done something about it by now....You're overreacting...you're overreacting....you're overreacting.

I know that life is better now. That isn't the point. I know that what happened to me happened a long time ago. That isn't the point either... and yes, I know, god I know, that there are others who have had it worse. If you think this is the message that I'm trying to convey, then you're missing the point. The point is that there are children in foster care right now who need advocates. With each passing day, their innocence fades, along with their expectation to come out on the other side a thriving functional adult. Even worse.... there are children out there in this world that are not in foster care but their circumstances are such that they probably should be. These children have seemingly fallen off the grid. They are neglected by their parents and forgotten by the world. Their future is not promising.

Everyone loves a good success story. One look at the box office will tell you that. With hit movies like "The Blind Side" or "The Pursuit of Happyness" you would think that compassionate people are a dime a dozen. So where have all of these people gone? Do they not notice the drama going on right in their own backyards? I am afraid that real life is harder to confront. There is no guarantee that the uneducated boy will make big, or that the homeless man will work his way up the ladder of success. Sometimes the uneducated boy never goes onto college. Sometimes the homeless man just needs a damn beer. Wouldn't you? In life, there isn't always a Sandra Bullock to rush in and save the day... that is to say there isn't if you don't take off your spectators glasses and get your hands dirty. Even then, you should do so knowing that even that might not be enough.

In case my point is not clear, I believe we can make a difference. In an attempt to make a difference, I share my story. Pointing fingers, name calling, judging and bullying - all of that is just noise. It deludes the real message and deters those who may happen to take a stroll by one of our blogs. To my fellow foster brothers and sisters, I hope you know that I stand behind you 100%. I think we all have the same objective and I know we can make a difference. To the internet bullies, should you ever happen across my blog, I welcome you to stay and chat. If chatting is not on your agenda, in the words of Michael Oher, it's time for you to go home.

Of Weddings, Raccoons and Tornadoes (part two)

The road that led to our cabin rounded up the mountainside in one hairpin turn after another. Five years ago, when I still lived in Tennessee, I would've been accustomed to this type of terrain. I am afraid that living in Metro Atlanta has spoiled me a bit, making even the slightest hill seem like Everest.

It was 7pm when we finally pulled onto the gravel parking space in front of our cabin. Having never lodged at a cabin before I didn't know what to expect. When we entered the foyer my first impression was that it was bigger on the inside than it appeared to be on the outside- much bigger. The kitchen was off to the right and fully equipped with a stove, microwave, fridge and dishwasher. The foyer led into a great room that was two stories tall; glass windows from floor to ceiling. The view of the mountain ranges from the great room was absolutely amazing. Although there were multiple cabins along the road, we would find that the back balcony lent itself to total privacy. It gave the impression that we were completely secluded, and although from time to time we could hear a child's laughter, or a passing car, it was very easy to believe that we were alone.

Upon entering the great room I naturally gravitated toward the back door leading out to the balcony. Much to my delight, I found that it had a few surprises of it's own.

"Renee, there's a jacuzzi out here!" I shouted through the door. "There's a jacuzzi, and a grill... and a raccoon!!"

That last word was spoken in a few octaves higher than I care to admit, and while I am being completely honest, I had never moved faster in my life. Renee, who didn't really catch what I had said (shrieked), came over to have a look at what the fuss was all about. The raccoon sat at our window peering inside at us. He was clearly undaunted by my actions. In fact he sat there for quite a while as if this were his usual routine. Whenever I placed my hand on the glass he'd mimic me and place his on the other side. The few times that I (cautiously) opened the door he approached and appeared to sniff the air as if looking for something. I immediately grabbed my iPhone and began shooting pictures. This little guy was a pro. He knew what he wanted and he was not about to leave until he got it.

After I had taken several photos I went to our luggage and rummaged around for a snack. After finding what seemed most likely to attract him, I went back to the door and quickly tossed it out onto the balcony. The raccoon (let's call him Fred, shall we?), immediately picked up the snack in his hands and ran back to the edge of the balcony. He placed the snack into his mouth and climbed up the side of the cabin and out of view. As the weekend progressed, my suspicions would prove to be correct. Fred did return each night at the same time and was rewarded with leftovers courtesy of my refrigerator. I'm very sure this has been the silent arrangement for quite some time between Fred and the cabin's guests.

Later thursday night, long after the sun had set and the fireflies had called it a day (they're called lightning bugs in Tennessee), I thought of Fred, in some sort of absurd concern. The sky outside had opened up once again, pelting rain against the cabin's rooftops. The winds tore through the forest and smacked against the wooden walls. All through the night the weather lady warned residents to take shelter. As I lay and listened to the winds howl I thought of Fred and wondered where a Raccoon would take shelter from a tornado.

Of Weddings, Raccoons and Tornadoes (part one)

"I need a vacation from you" Renee said with an exasperated sigh.

"I need one from you too" I replied back.

This was at the end of a long argument that kept taking us in circles. It was, unfortunately, at the beginning of a five hour car drive in which it was impossible to be in different rooms for a moment, much less take a "vacation" from one another. This was how our long weekend began.

Let me begin by saying that Renee and I have very similar personalities. There is not much we disagree on, but when we do it is pretty tough to keep our tempers in check because we are both very stubborn. Another way in which we differ is how we interact with each other during an argument. There comes a point when all Renee wants and needs is to be left alone. I wish I could say that as her husband I am more than willing to give her all the silence she needs. Unfortunately, while silence is her friend during a debate, it is my enemy. I want a resolution and I want it without delay. Everything inside of me screams to "fix it, fix it now". I persistently try to talk it out and finish the thing; I don't want to let it hang over my head. It's very hard for me to make myself shut up and just walk away. Given this information, you can see why locking the two of us in a small confined space for five hours under such conditions could make for an interesting situation.

I suppose this sort of thing is to be expected when stress levels were so high. You see, Renee's sister, Dawn, was going to be married in Tennessee on Friday, and Renee was the maid of honor (or matron of honor- they've referred to it as both). Our original plan was to leave for the wedding immediately after work on Wednesday. This would have left us with some spare time on Thursday morning to accomplish some last minute errands around town before the chaos ensued. Unfortunately, about ten minutes before our work days were over the skies opened up and the rains began to fall in a heavy downpour. It was only 5pm, but I swear it looked as if the sun had already set. Because of the bad weather, we decided to wait until Thursday morning to leave.

Thursday morning was a blur of last minute packing and pet arrangements. By the time we finally hit the road it was no wonder we had resorted to bickering. Admittedly, I tend to narrate my every thought aloud and without filter (if you don't believe me, click here). What's amazing to me is even with this self awareness, there are moments that I simply cannot keep myself from rambling on and on; just spewing unproductive babble. It is in those moments that I wish I could hire someone whose sole responsibility would be to apply duct tape to my mouth at all of the appropriate moments. I'm sure Renee would support this idea.

Marriage is a funny thing. You commit yourself to someone, knowing that by doing so you have agreed to take on the best and worst versions of that person, and trusting that their love will be strong enough to do the same for you. I believe I am one lucky guy to have found such a person. Now if only I can find that duct tape...

New Memories...Old Traditions

In just a little less than two weeks, I'll finally get to cross off one of the items on my bucket list. On July 4th, I (along with sixty thousand other atlantans) will participate in the Peachtree Road Race- a 10k held annually on Independence Day in Atlanta, Georgia. The Peachtree Road Race is an Atlanta tradition and one that I'm excited to be a part of for the first time.

I must admit that when I signed up to run the Peachtree three months ago, we had just thawed from an unusual snowstorm that us southerners came to refer to as snowpocalypse. At the time, July seemed to be ages away. When I completed the online registration form it was without hesitation, and until last week, race day was still something of the future. All of that changed when I received a package in the mail that included my race number along with some additional race day information. I would like to say that I immediately dropped everything that I was doing to run a few laps around my neighborhood. Instead, I shoved the package and it's contents it into a drawer, as if by doing so I could buy some more time. You see, while even with the best intentions, I have found that it is not always so easy to wake early in the morning to go for a run. Actually, there is nothing easy about it at all. When you get right down to it, I love to sleep.... I am a huge fan of it, and I fully support it's cause. That's not to say that I haven't practiced for the race- I just haven't practiced as much as I would've liked.

Nevertheless, race day is fast approaching and I am not one to give up. Barring a heart attack (I'm not kidding- race participants must conquer a hill known as "cardiac hill"), I will complete the race and wear my t-shirt proudly. What I look forward to the most is that I will not be alone. Rachel, my sister, has enlisted to run the race with me. Whatever the outcome of the race, it's great to know that we will be creating new memories and replacing old family traditions.

Father's Day

Father's Day (much like Mother's Day) is a holiday that provokes me into pulling down the blinds, crawling under the covers, and hiding until it's all over. This urge to avoid everything at all costs usually begins about a week out from the day and only gets worse as time progresses. Each year it gets even more obnoxiously difficult with websites like Facebook, where it seems everyone has changed their profile picture to one of their celebrated parent. The thought has recently crossed my mind to change my profile to a blank picture with the words "vacancy" slapped across the middle, but with much effort I have refrained myself (insert tiny golf clap for Peter here). In keeping with my "moving on" frame of mind, I have decided to focus on something different. Instead of remembering a man who epitomizes everything I strive not to be, I would like to take this opportunity to remember two men who came into my life at the right moment. One of whom I was never close enough to really open up to, and the other I've met only once. I'm not sure that they knew the impact they had on my life, or how grateful I am for it.

Uncle Charlie

He's not really my uncle. In fact I've only ever met him once when I was ten. But for several years, at 4pm each day, his voice would enter my home over the radio waves. Charlie VanderMeer was, at that time, the director and host of a children's radio program called Children's Bible Hour, now known as CBH. The religiously themed program consisted of music and a dramatized story. It was through this radio program that I first learned the difference between punishment and abuse. At the end of each program Uncle Charlie would provide an address that listeners could send letters to. One of the greatest things that my parents allowed me was the opportunity to write to Mr. VanderMeer, and I did so on a regular basis. Much to my delight, I always received a response from Uncle Charlie. I always felt as if I could write to him about anything (and I most certainly did).

Through the years, I'd grown to believe that the host of a radio program would probably have a secretary (and rightfully so), and that my correspondence was most likely with him/her instead. I believed this until very recently when I reconnected with Charlie via email. He remembered my letters and expressed how he had thought of me often. I can't begin to tell you how much that meant to me. The insight that Charlie and his radio program provided to me was invaluable. I would have never received it any other way. He is a constant reminder to me that you can have a huge impact on someone's life, even through the most peculiar circumstances.

Mark

When I was sixteen, I had a job at a pizza restaurant and Mark was the area manager that oversaw our location. Mark was notorious for his strict policies. Whenever we saw his Taurus pull into the parking lot a rush of whispers would echo throughout the store that he had arrived. Mark was stern and could be intimidating, so much so in fact that I recall witnessing him bringing several of his managers to tears. During that time in my life I was very quiet and withdrawn. I just wanted to go to work, do a good job, and perhaps make enough money to pay the bills. Somehow through all of my awkwardness, Mark saw something in me. He began to speak to me about my future, and was the first person to say the words "career" and "try harder". I had the pleasure of working for Mark for six years, and although I never fully came out of my shell around him he continued to invest time in me.

On my last day at the restaurant, before I moved to Atlanta, Mark dropped by my store to see me one last time and wish me well. Before he left, he hugged me and there were tears in his eyes. Like Charlie, I've fallen out of touch with Mark, but the impact that these two men had on my life is ongoing.

On Monday, Father's Day will be over. The greeting cards will have disappeared from the store shelves and all of the tv stations will begin to air Independence Day ads. On Monday, I will breathe a little easier when I log into Facebook; until then I'm going to celebrate in honor of Charlie and Mark.

Moving On

Last night a thunderstorm passed over my home in Metro Atlanta. The winds were so violent in fact, that it knocked some power lines down causing Renee and I to lose power for a period of five hours (much to my disappointment). During that timeframe I discovered that this self-proclaimed quiet guy is not so quiet after all (much to Renee's disappointment). To put it simply, I just couldn't shut up. My laptop was dead, my throat was sore, it was hot inside, I couldn't find the flashlight, I found the flashlight, I broke the flashlight, I couldn't make netflix work on my iPhone (yes, I was THAT desperate), I wanted to see the storm, I went outside, it was windy outside, I couldn't find my jacket.... and the list goes on.

When I finally did shut up long enough to find my jacket and walk outside, I was taken back by the sheer magnitude of the storm as it approached. The whole world outside my home had been transformed. No longer was there green grass, red shutters, brown earth. Instead, everything had been cast in a muted blue, almost as if to point out how ordinary things were on ground level. The real spectacle was in the sky. I cannot properly describe to you how the lightning flashed and lit up the night like a conductor orchestrating a great symphony. Nor could I ever depict the way in which the wind swept in, breathing life and leaving me breathless all in one instance. It reminded me of my hometown in Tennessee, where every Spring and Fall great winds sweep down the mountainside, all the while gaining momentum until it reaches the valley below. Most people rush indoors to bide their time until the winds have passed. I, on the other hand, rush to be outdoors to enjoy the strength of the winds and the sounds of the thunder- there's just something about a good storm that begs for participation.

As I stood outside, marveling at how much time I wasted complaining, a new thought occurred to me. For many years I spent all of my best efforts trying to fix what was already broken. In a sense, I was fumbling around in the dark trying to make it all work, not understanding why it never did. I was unable to accept three simple things that I now believe to be true: My past is imperfect. My past does not define me. My past is past. Last night's storm was an interruption of sorts, but it reminded me that in order to walk away from my past and out of the darkness, I simply need to just walk away. I do not intend to forget it ever happened- I don't think that is possible. I fully expect to continue writing about it and support those who do the same. What I mean is that sometimes I need to just shut up and enjoy the beauty of the storm.

One to Remember....

Rachel

2008

Imagine you are walking down a long hallway with doors on either side of you. None of them are locked, and if you so choose, you can walk right into any number of them. But something in your sub-concience pulls at you. What's so great about whatever lurks behind those doors anyways? The hallway is safe and comfortable. The hallway is predictable. Perhaps once in a while you place your hand on a doorknob to show yourself that you could enter the room if you really wanted to. If you're feeling particularly brave, you press your ear to the door to listen to the muffled sounds coming from the other side. Although you can't make out any of the conversation, the words, or rather the rhythm of the words, sound all too familiar. There is a sense that in some other world, or some other lifetime, all of the doors once stood wide open. That there was, at one tine, a unity between the hallway and whatever lived behind the doors. Sometimes you feel that you have no other choice but to venture into one of the rooms, but you resist, each time with a little more difficulty than the last. Sooner or later you know you will be unable to ignore the urge; that you will put an end to all of it once and for all. But what is it that makes you resist so hard? Is it the fear of the unknown? For no reason at all, you believe you are likely to find monsters inside each room. Monsters that have the ability to render you powerless. But is it really the monsters you fear? Perhaps it is the idea that you may become locked inside one of the rooms, unable to leave, just like you have become out here in this hallway. So with nothing else left to ponder, you walk up to one of the doors and place your hand on the doorknob; this time rotating your wrist. You pull the door open; resolved not to close your eyes no matter what you find. Immediately your fears are confirmed. The monsters have been waiting. You take a deep breath and step inside.

Much like the hallway, I had become trapped inside a small confined area of my mind. This area provided me with all of the safe and predictable memories. All of the others (the ones with monsters in them) had been placed into their own rooms, not locked away, but out of sight just the same. By doing so, complete chapters in my life had seemingly disappeared. I knew where to find them if I really wanted to. It would be as simple as walking into another room. But I knew that by doing so, I had to face down whatever lived behind each door. For months I lived with my hand on the doorknob. Frozen in place for fear of moving forward. Sometimes you need help turning that doorknob; and that's not a bad thing. It just means that someone cares enough about you to face the monsters together. In April, 2008, my sister, Jane, did just that. During a road trip from Atlanta to Tennessee, she and I discussed random things; a new song one of us had heard, which new movie we wanted to see, funny memories from our time spent in foster care (along with the many not so funny memories), but mostly we talked about family members and our opinions regarding their current circumstances. Sometimes we drove in complete silence, taking in the views of the mountain ranges as we neared the Tennessee line. It was during one of these silences that Jane, seemingly out of nowhere, asked me if I remembered anything our parents had done to Rachel. It was the first time any of us had ever spoken of it. With that one simple question, Jane had placed her hand over mine and turned the doorknob for me. Just like that, all of the things I was never allowed to acknowledge came flooding out of me. The violence, the lies, the coverups. Like a broken dam, I could no longer hold it all back. It was horrifying, it was painful, it was beautiful.

By the fall of 2008, I had been married to my wife, Renee, for four years. A young marriage is hardly equipped to bear the weight from a lifetime of lies and grief. It almost seems unfair to ask someone to partner you in such an endeavor. I'm not sure many are up for the task. I must say that I am a very lucky man to have found someone who knew when to hold me when I needed to cry, and kick me into shape when I needed to try harder. That's why I love her- she only puts up with my bullshit when it is legitimate. Over the summer, Renee encouraged me to see a therapist- we'll call her Dr. Goldberg. Unfortunately, I do not make a very good patient. I have spent the majority of my life convincing myself that I am okay, when I am not. Couple that with my ability to read people (which I think I do rather well) and you have a dangerous concoction. I am not a therapist, nor do I ever want to be. But I feel as if my sessions consisted more of me leading Dr. Goldberg to her "conclusions" rather than her realizing what my true issues were. I didn't do it on purpose. I wanted to get as much out of the therapy sessions as I could. Nevertheless, by the end of summer, Dr. Goldberg concluded that I was doing just fine, and that I did not need therapy after all. What I did get out of therapy was the idea that I could contact Rachel again. Of course the idea had been there all along, but in my mind I needed to work on myself for a while (perhaps years even) before I was ready to reunite. Dr. Goldberg saw it a different way. Her suggestion that my life didn't have to be perfect before moving on sat in my mind for a few months. I like to move slow and let things mellow; others call this procrastination. Little did I know, Renee, the one who always knows what I need before I do, was already searching for Rachel on the internet. That December, she found her.

Much like the time I stood before that door with my hand on the doorknob, I could have waited for ages to contact Rachel. But this time I was never alone to begin with. Renee was right by my side. She kept me grounded in reality, debunked all of my fears, and held my hand as I walked through the door. My initial contact with Rachel was via email. It was short and concise. I told her that I would like to speak to her and that if she didn't want to speak to me I would understand. It wasn't very long before I received a response. She was ecstatic to hear from me.

A couple of weeks later, right before Christmas, Renee and I drove to Tennessee. It was strange going back to my old hometown, back to where it all began. We were anxiously waiting in the overflow parking lot of some car dealership. It was after hours and we were the only vehicle on the lot that wasn't for sale. We examined each car that passed by on the busy street below. Even though Rachel had described what type of vehicle she drove, I couldn't help but to watch each one that passed by in anticipation. After what seemed like hours, a maroon SUV pulled onto the gravel lot and parked next to mine. Through the dark window tint I could faintly make out a silhouette in the driver's seat and one of a child, my niece, in the backseat.

"Are you ready for this?" Renee asked.

I just looked at her and shrugged. For years I had wondered if I would ever see Rachel again, always thinking that it was only a possibility in some alternate reality; that real life never reconciled itself in such ways. Now, after all of this time, here we were, just a few feet away from each other. Ready or not, the moment I had dreamed of was here; no turning back now. Standing outside of my car I felt as if I had been granted a second chance. My future no longer seemed burdened with my parent's expectations. No matter what happened from this point on I had been given something that I would keep forever; something that had been stolen from me a very long time ago- truth. However cliche it may be, there is profound meaning in the saying "the truth will set you free". The truth that my parents worked so hard to keep from me, the truth that I fought to hold onto. The truth was what drove me to this moment, standing in the empty parking lot, waiting to reunite with my oldest sister. As she climbed out and made her way around the back of her vehicle, I could feel the weight begin to melt off of my shoulders as the lies I had believed for so long began to fade away. I hadn't failed my parents, my parents had failed me. What happened to Rachel was not my fault. Nothing I did or could have ever done would have made the situation any different. My parents were paying the price for their actions, and Rachel had survived it all, despite their best efforts. After all of the pain and rejection, she held onto the truth. The truth that she was worth more than the lies they told us. That there was a world out there just waiting to be found; that life itself is a gift and it could be amazing. That through all of the pain and sadness there was still something worth living for. After so many years, there she was, my big sister. As if it had only been twelve minutes instead of twelve years. With arms open wide she approached me for an embrace. She was smiling.