Peace of J-Town

 
We wrestled him to the ground in the middle of J-Town Peace Plaza right in front of the pagoda. We were on a field trip to get ice cream. He was becoming defiant and violent, and we were afraid he would hurt himself and others. He was eight, and his meds affected his thyroid. He was large for his age.

"It's okay everyone...No really. We can do this....It is for your own safety. Please back up. He will hit you."

The crowd grew along with his temper and the five other youths' excitement. We were nearing a chaoric melee.

"Go! Take them all back to the Center. Walk back. We'll catch up." I said as I sat on top of him, his arms pounding the concrete, his legs kicking.

"You sure?" She replied.

"Yes. It'll only get worse if you stay. Keep everyone else safe."

The crowd continued growing.

"Really...I'm certified to do this. It is okay." I flashed my badge.

"No! It's not! I'm pressing charges. You wait and see, you FUCKER! Get of me. I'm going to punch you in the face!" He screamed.

Realizing things were okay-ish, the crowd dissipated. His audience gone, he calmed down.

"Everything's going to be okay." I said to him. "I just want to get home safely. You'll feel better there. I promise."

"I'm fine now. I've calmed down. See." His breathing was normal. His voice low. I stood and helped him up.

"Can we go now," he asked.

"Sure," I said. "We're walking back."

We made it back to the Center safely. I had to drag him a block or two when he realized there would be consequences when we returned. He apologized to everyone as a part of his consequences.

Whenever I return to J-Town, I hear his voice and see his face. Sometimes, I smile at the absurdity of the situation. Sometimes, I'm saddened recalling the story that put him in the Center in the first place. Always, I remember him.

The Wedding at Ocean's Edge

They were married at the ocean's edge by Sister Mary Ralph. It was beautiful, and they were handsome. We all laughed and cried and sang and loved.

That is the purpose of weddings and marriage. That is a right that will never be taken away.

Bible School at Pine Ridge

 
I've been to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation on the edge of the Badlands in South Dakota twice. They were mission trips organized by a national Christian organization. The first time I was Catholic. The second time I was not. Both trips consisted of painting homes, cultural exchanges, and bible studies. I was fine with two out of the three purposes.

My second year there I almost got sent home. I wasn't just not Catholic. I was anti-Catholic. The memory of seminary was close and couldn't be ignored. Nor could the Christian's role in the genocide of native peoples. I wouldn't teach bible school. It was disingenuous to require bible school for paint.

The leader pulled me aside.

"You have to do what we're here to do or you will go home."

"Then send me home."

My dad was there too. he talked me down. I complied begrudgingly.

Later, I had the opportunity to speak to an elder of the community.

"How do you put up with us? I barely can."'

"You accept what help you can."

"But...I mean Christianity has done so much harm. How do you reconcile harm against the good?"

"Listening is not the same as accepting or condoning. There are good lessons Jesus taught. They are in line with our history and story. Pay attention to those lessons."

I am still grappling with that wisdom today.

The Scratched Cornea

 
I scratched my cornea dancing one night when my flailing arms ended up poking me in the eye. It was painful and sent me home immediately. It was the night before my brother's confirmation.

I awoke the next morning barely able to keep my eye open, tears dripping rhythmically down my cheek. It was going to be a long day. I thought about not going, but wanted to be there for my brother. I got dressed, and my parents picked my up.

"What happened," asked my mom.

I told her.

Suddenly, my accident was purposeful and meant to ruin the day. I argued back.

"Uh...no it'd not. It was a total accident!"

"You're going out wasn't an accident."

I didn't disagree.

We arrived at the Cathedral in St. Paul. Everyone piled in to the church. My family took a seat near the front. I didn't want to be that close. Still my eye kept dripping and madly blinking.

"Are you okay?"

"What happened?"

"That looks like it hurts."

"I'm fine...It was an accident...Yes, it hurts, but I'll be fine."

Mass started. The stand, sit, kneel, stand again commenced. I sat the entire time. My parents grew more agitated with my actions. They were deliberate.

Then came Communion. The entire row rose and proceeded to empty into the aisle. I still sat there. A tap and nudge ont he shoulder from my mom or dad, I can't recall, urged me to stand. A shake of my head responded.

"Come on. It's Communion."

"I'm not going. I'm not Catholic anymore."

"Don't ruin this for your brother."

"It would be disrespectful for me to take Communion."

They looked at me disdainfully and got in line. I was the only person still sitting in the first seven rows.

Gossip ensued.

I scratched my cornea again in a similar fashion many years later. The next day, however, all I did was stay home. I probably should have done that the first time.

The Damned Unite

Our favorite late night activity occurred on our balcony. We lived on Geary between Larkin and Hyde before the police cleaned it up. (I don't think they were too successful.) Our street was the battleground between the trans* prostitutes of Post Street and the bio-girl hookers of O'Farrell Street. There were lots of fights and yelling.

The activity was simple. We sat on our balcony and when the police came around yelled, "5-0!" They'd duck behind cars, hop in to the only open convenience store (it was only open from 11pm to 5am), try to pull down their non-existent skirts, start walking faster. We did it every weekend.

I miss those nights. It connected me to parts of life other condemn. I am comfortable there for I, too, have been condemned. And the damned must unite.

Library Pencils at Lush Lounge

 
Throwing things is a common theme in our friendship. It came up again at a bar: The Lush Lounge. We were there for a really terrible cabaret night with out-of-pitch singers and an arrhythmic piano player. The combination made it unbearable.

They were taking requests, so they put out pencils and paper at all the tables. It was our neighborhood bar and there was no way we were going to be the ones to leave. So we commenced a plan, something we do quite often, mostly with puckish intentions and wanton outcomes. Largely, our plans never see the light of day. Our martinis made this one possible.

I grabbed a pencil, the short kind you find in libraries, and waited patiently for everyone to turn their heads. He leaned in close and whispered, "Where did all these god damn carrots come from?" I chuckled and tossed. One. Two. Three. SMACK! The pencil hit the wall behind the performer. She looked around but didn't let it phase her.

Now, it was his turn. One. Two. Three. SPLASH! It fell into someone's drink. Everyone looked around for the culprit. No one knew it was us. A few more throws, all of which landed on the floor, and we were bored. We left.

We've grown up a little since then. We don't throw things anymore. We do still laugh uncontrollably. It's what keeps us young. Now, it's at our expense rather than others.

Where Did All These God Damn Carrots Come From?

 
We were bored and stupid and had a lot of left over carrots. We had been partying all night and were sloshed and high. Everything was funny. The night air was warm, humid the kind of summer night in July where mischief beckons. Everyone had left and the only thing to do was clean, so we said "Fuck that!" And went outside.

We smoke a little more on the porch with the bowl of carrots between us. They were not for eating. One of us started. One. Two. Three. Four. THUD. The carrot landed on the hood of a car. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nothing. The carrot only made it to the small patch of grass directly in front of us. Laughter errupted.

More carrots were tossed. Our goal: hit the tops of cars. The noise was hilarious.

This entertained us for hours. There must have been more than 100 carrots littering the city streets by the time we finally went inside. most of them landed in the same place: on or around a black sedan parked across the street. We had no intention of cleaning them up. We wanted people finding them in the morning thinking, "Where did all these god damn carrots come from?"

That became the mantra of our friendship. He's still my best friend to this day.