This Is Who I Am

Nothing Lasts Forever

Thu, 10 Nov 2005 20:13:22 GMT

I was given some disturbing news last night. I spoke to my friend who was profoundly upset over the health of her mother's dog. He's a 10 month old German Shepard puppy who has evidently been taken down by kidney problems and, according to the vet, has about 3 days to live. Her other dog, a female of the same breed is behaving very anxiously over losing her best friend. We spent a little time talking and crying over it and soon I had to go.

But for the rest of the evening, I reminisced about my favorite dog and one time best friend Andy. Many people out there do not understand the bond that a person can have with their pet; in fact, if I had a nickel for every time somebody said the phrase - It's just a dog - I'd be a wealthy man.

I, however, contend that these people fit into a culture in our society who lack a very specific type of emotional intelligence to understand the cognitive thought processes of people who own animals. For the purposes of this entry, we shall herein refer to these people as - ASS HATS.

Now, perhaps some of you might think that this gross generalization is unfair; and to your credit, perhaps it is. Regrettably (for you), this is MY live journal, and if you don't like it, you may take this opportunity to lick my balls...ASS HAT!!!

But I digress. The original intent here was to share about why I miss Andy and what made him my best friend. The non-ass hats out there who read this probably already know. But it was his incredible character and klieg-lite spirit that taught me so much about myself.

Back in the day (which was about 10 years ago), I found him on the side of the road on a wet, rainy night back home in North Carolina. I was driving home from my afterschool job as a mallrat, and there he was in the bushes...about the size of my hand and the color of a brown paper bag. Naturally, my mother fell for him when I brought him back and he officially became our dog. And since the friend I was with when I found him was named Ann, his name became Andy - her namesake.

An initial veterinary visit to the hunky twentysomething vet - Dr. Libby (wonder whatever happened to him) - at Monroe Road Animal Hospital, gave us a perspective on what the heck kind of dog Andy was. Apparently, he was a collie/labrador mix and we were told he would probably get big...very big. And as promised, in the coming months he became all legs and giant feet. Then, by the time he was a year old, he was as tall as my waist. But his coat turned from paper bag brown to a beautiful, thick cafe au lait and he had a tuft of white on the tip of his tail just like a fox. Andy also had big, floppy ears, and as I recall, he was as dumb as a post...or so I thought.

With time, I eventually had him all figured out. He wasn't really dumb in the least. He just had a philosophy, and it was a philosophy of keeping things simple; Andy separated everything into two categories - things you could eat, and things you could not eat. The only trouble he ever had was when he confused the two. His "eat" list included everything from broken glass, to weird bugs, to even...well, dirt (God bless my mom for the many bags of potting soil she had to buy just to maintain her garden amid his steady dirt diet). Among the things he learned to "not eat" included: me (specifically that pesky femur bone that he like to gnaw on while I slept), my mother's shoes, and candle wax (while still oozing from the burning candle). Furthermore, Andy also had a lot of personality AND (dare I say it) style!

How ironic, though, that that iron belly of his would ultimately be his downfall. When he was two, we had to rush him to the emergency room where we discovered that he had a condition since birth that had gone undetected. It was known as a liver shunt, which meant that he would have to restrict his diet and take medication for the rest of his life (which would, per his diagnosis, be cut drastically short).

Three years later, at the tender age of five, his little system could no longer sustain him. Andy developed kidney stones and they spread all throughout his delicate body - too many to pass and too difficult to operate. Dr. Libby (still as gorgeous as he was on the first day we showed up on his doorstep) urged us to put him out of his misery.

At first, the idea was unthinkable. We would do whatever it took to hold onto him. Money wasn't an issue. We would pay any amount! We'd mortgage the house if it meant saving his life! I'd sell my kidney! I'd donate my own (is inter-species organ transplant even possible???)!

We cried. We fought. We railed against the injustice of it all.

At last, in my hysteria, Dr. Libby held onto me until I calmed down and he told me that the right decision would be the hardest one to make. My mother still tried to refuse. Alas, we knew that he was right. So Dr. Libby let us go into the room where he lay on the table sedated, one by one, to say our final goodbyes.

I went in last. And Andy did the most remarkable thing when I entered. He looked over at me and when he caught my eye, his tail thumped happily against the table and he staggered and scrambled in a feeble attempt to get to his feet. My heart broke into ten thousand little pieces. I couldn't imagine how incredible the pain he was in. Yet selflessly he wanted to comfort me (as usual) in my sorrow.

I wish I could be one sixteenth as brave as my dog.

I had an entire speech that I wanted to say to him as I soothed him back down and stroked his soft head for the last time. But in the end, he was the one who spoke to me. I looked into his sad, puppy eyes and this is what I heard him say:

"Remember me, and remember what I taught you. Life is sometimes hard. And no, it isn't always fair. But keep your faith. Be long on forgiveness, and short on memory. When someone you love comes your way, jump up and down a lot and act like you haven't seen them in forever, even when it's just been a couple of minutes. Lick people when they're in a bad mood (I don't know why, but that seems to work). Never hold a grudge, never seek vengeance, and try not to sulk. Sometimes the people who love you most will hurt you. But they don't mean to do it. They're not like dogs, so they tend to make a lot of mistakes. Believe in the power of love, believe that you can change somebody's mood, and believe that the world is founded on compassion...because it is. And don't forget to say 'I love you'. And say it early and often.

I love you.

I love you.

I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU."

He said some other things too, about sleeping on your back, snoring very loudly, and extolling the virtues of occasionally eating your own poo. But you get the gist of it.

Basically, the lesson I learned is that Andy, like most dogs, loved unconditionally - something that we, as humans with our intricate emotional complexities, are often incapable of doing.

It didn't matter that I was gay, he accepted me.

It didn't matter that I was black, dogs are physically unable to see color.

It didn't matter what I looked like, people should have more fur and wetter noses anyway.

In short, no matter how badly I behaved, how many times I was mean to him, or how poorly he was treated, he never gave up on me. Without fail, he treated me with kindness, love, and generosity all the way up to the very end. How many of us can say that we've done the same with just one person in our lives?

And so, since Andy was the one who did all the talking, all I could do was take his paw and say thanks in return. Thank you, old friend, for the good times. We had a nice run. And I would see him later...

...but not to send for me too soon because I got a lot of things to do!

And that's it, my friends. It took a couple of months of feeling all alone, but one day I dried my tears. Losing someone is never easy, but I can say that it does get easier. And in the meantime, learn to love unconditionally.

I have often said that when I grow up (any day now), I would like to be like my dog. And I do try. Some days I do better than others...but I try.

And to those who look upon us who treat our cats and dogs like members of the family or grieve at their loss with dismay - tell me, how much better to understand yourself would you be if you took the time to learn from those other creatures that share this world around us? Or is that animal still just a dog?

...ASS HAT!

A Mile in My Shoes

Tue, 01 Nov 2005 17:43:01 GMT

In my line of work, sometimes your workday starts at 6am; and today should have been one of those days.

Unfortunately, due to the transportation workers strike, I wasn't as successful as I would have hoped in getting started.

For the benefit of those who don't live nearby...as well as those who are living under a rock...the employees of the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority have gone on strike for a number of reasons - chief among them being the fight for free healthcare benefits. I'll elaborate more at length regarding this matter some other time. Let's just suffice it to say for the time being that at best, this is a minor inconvenience and at worst, this is a nightmare that could potentially put the city of Philadelphia on lockdown if the buses, trolleys, and subways continue to not operate for any length of time.

In retrospect, I probably should have gotten up and accomplished as much as I could on my computer before going into the office, then tried taking a cab at a reasonable hour; but I suppose you live and learn.

Instead, I ended up trying to get up at the crack of dawn and walking from Whitman Plaza all the way to Suburban Station at 15th and Market so I could catch a regional rail train to get out to Bala Cynwyd. The total distance of the trip - 4 miles. It took 50 minutes (a testament to how out of shape I am; but given the fact that I was dressed in my office gear, I am allowing a slight amount of leeway for that pathetic travel time).

I spent the entire time cursing and spitting every step of the way. I was frustrated at my stupidity in not coming up with a better plan, and I was angry with the whole doggone city because it didn't take steps to serve my purposes.

I started hollering into my cell phone to co-workers in the office already so that I could at least get something done before I got into work, and by the time I got out of South Philly, I was practically shoving people on the sidewalk and daring anyone to get in my way.

When I finally made it downtown, I descended the staircase underground at the clothespin sculpture in front of City Hall and continued power walking to the station. As soon as I got past the Dunkin Donuts, I started to hear a chorus of voices singing.

"Please swallow your pride
If I have things you need to borrow
For no one can fill those of your needs
That you don't let show"

They were singing Bill Withers' Lean on Me.

"Lean on me, when you're not strong
And I'll be your friend
I'll help you carry on
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need
Somebody to lean on"

I continued walking down the long hall, rounded the corner and there they were. It was a homely looking crew of four elderly people dressed in what I could only describe as rags. There were two men (black) and two women (one black and one white) and they all appeared to be suffering from varying degrees of blindness, with those milky white planes where their eye color should have been. The two men were on the outside and the two women were on the inside. They all held each other with such tenderness, and they smiled and swayed with the rhythm of the song.

"If there is a load you have to bear
That you can't carry
I'm right up the road
I'll share your load
If you just call me"

I stopped in my tracks and listened to the words of the song. I was absolutely fixed to the spot. First of all, this is such a powerful song. So powerful in fact that it became the theme to a film starring Morgan Freeman of the same name. Second, these people were amazing. I mean, their harmony was undeniably on point. The singing alone was outstanding. They didn't belong underground in a busy train station. They sounded like they belonged on Walnut Street inside the Academy of Music. They were also amazing (even more so for this reason) because of the look on their faces of unrestrained joy!

They sang and moved as if they MEANT it. This wasn't just your average sidewalk performance in order to generate a couple of bucks. They were really feeling the spirit of it...and they were happy.

I was so ashamed.

What right have I to get all caught up like somebody owes me something when there are people in the world who have so little and still manage to make such a joyful noise? Where do I get off misbehaving the way that I do right NEXT to folks who share love and hope through song amid a city full of people who don't even care to hear it? And who would I be to walk right on by their sightless, yet eerily knowing gazes and not be moved by the gift that they share?

A goddam mess is what I am. I need to stop playing myself like I am so damn good. My mother used to tell me that if I wanted my ass up on my shoulders, she didn't have no problems at all kicking it up there for me.

I immediately dropped my attitude and started thinking about the things that are important to me. I have a great home. I have a family who loves and respects me. I have so many people who love me enough to tell me when everything is going to be alright, and break me down when they know I am wrong. It hasn't always been easy, but good God. I have been given so much in my life. I have to understand...and respect...and be grateful for all that.

I opened up my bag and dug around for some money. All I had was my last ten.

I dropped it in the bucket.

The blind man on the far right touched my hand and whispered thank you. Then he blended his rich baritone back into his neighbor's experienced contralto and resumed the last verse without missing a beat.

There was a bored looking police officer who sat in his emergency cart with one foot up on the dashboard. He witnessed the whole thing. As I passed by on my way to the train, he shook his head and said, "They're there every day. When you do that, you're just encouraging them."

I turned back and looked him right in the eye. "Thank goodness you told me. I'll be back tomorrow."

Precious Lord, Take Her Hand

Wed, 26 Oct 2005 01:18:52 GMT

Racism.

Does that word scare you? It should. It scares the hell out of me. But there was a time not that long ago when that word was a lot scarier than it is today.

Last night it seems we lost a good one. At the age of 92, civil rights activist Rosa Parks passed from this world reportedly of natural causes; and a generation of Americans has lost a hero.

I saw the news last night right before I went to bed and it’s really hard to describe how I felt. I closed my eyes as I lay in the dark and felt them burning as the tears stung my eyelids. Saddened by her passing is not the right way to put it. I was grief stricken. My heart caught in my throat as if I knew her personally; and in a sense I did.

What adult my age could open up a history book and not read about how her simple gesture kicked off the Montgomery Bus Boycott? Who in hip hop culture could not recall the upheaval just a couple of years ago that was brought on by the song “Rosa Parks” sung by musical duo Outkast? Rosa Parks has over the years become a household name, as common as George Clooney or Oprah Winfrey.

She was a celebrity in her own right, and later she became a legend. Now she is gone.

But my grief goes deeper than mourning the passing of this one iconic woman. I mourn for the loss of so many civil rights heroes in the past. At the risk of sounding like a crotchety old man before I even hit the ripe old age of 28, I wonder if the great leaders and forward thinkers of yesteryear are ALL gone forever. I look around at my contemporaries today, and I see relatively few people who could carry on in the ways of our predecessors.

So many of us carry on in our day to day lives thinking, “I don’t have the time to become outraged at perceived injustices” or “Let someone else carry the burden of beating the drum and making sure the path is clear for my children and their children to flourish” or “It’s okay now. We’ve gotten the job done. Let us be complacent in what we have already achieved.”

I wonder to myself sometimes, who will lead us now? Who will be the standard bearers for what is right?

The answer to that question is painfully clear. The only person I can look forward to being a leader is myself. In order to affect change, one must be a vessel for it. Every day that I am allowed to wake up and see the sun rise in the east is another opportunity for me to make choices about what I am going to do in order to make my life and the lives of those around me that much better; and it’s not about the major choices that we have all the time either. Sometimes, it’s the little things that can trigger a revolution – like choosing to sit when someone tells you that you must stand.

Rosa taught me that.

Thank you Rosa...that will do. Go have a rest now. You have earned it.

Rosa Parks
1913-2005