Wednesday, June 3, 2009

My Friend John

John Freeman is a good friend. We have been friends since we were in Cub Scouts about 150 years ago. Long stretches of time have passed between contacts but, we still have remained good friends.

Today John is listening to Obama's speech to the Middle East from an interesting perspective. He is in the Middle East recuperating from a complicated heart surgery in a hospital room in Istanbul, Turkey.

He had the surgury last week on Memorial Day. The procedure repaired a funky heart valve and uncloged a "critically" clogged artery. John was not over confident about surviving the operation but, it now appears that he is recovering well in Istanbul.

I know for a fact that John likes to travel but, that is not why he went to Turkey for heart surgery. He went there because the healthcare system in the United States was not up to the task. Sure, the same procedure was available here but, the price for an uninsured US citizen(approximately $124,000) could not compete with the Turkish rate of $18,000. His choices were to have the procedure here and face financial ruin or travel alone to Turkey and protect his net worth. Of course, he had a third option which was to die.

John's internationally-respected surgeon was trained at Johns Hopkins Medical School. John thought the entire medical team around him was high quality. The overall care that John recieved sounded more customer-focused than the care I have occasionlly experienced in hospitals in the USA.

As Obama speaks to the people of the Muslim world he probably won't mention healthcare. He is not likely to talk about "medical tourism" or how it could play a part in improving relationships between Middle East and West while helping solve our burgeoning healthcare crisis. Too bad. After John's trip I am going to remember the Turkish altenative if I ever need it.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Be Wary of Barry

I think Barry Saunders is a first rate columnist. His column appears every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday in the Raleigh News and Observer. If you call the phone number listed at the bottom of his column (919-836-2811) you will hear his recorded voice say, “Hi. This is Saunders. Sorry I can’t get the phone right now. Chances are I’m being cursed out by someone else about the column. You can leave a message if you want and I will get back with you.” This is followed by another voice that says, “This voicemail box is not accepting messages.”

If you call Barry’s cell phone number (810-7154) his recorded voice just says, “Leave a message.” If you email Barry at barry.saunders@newsobserver.com he might respond but, only if he needs something from you.

At least, that describes my experience with Barry Saunders. When he needed information from me he was persistent and responsive. When I wanted some follow up information from him he was invisible.

He initiated our first conversation on the day before Thanksgiving holiday last year. He called me because he was interested in a letter that I had sent to the News and Observer regarding the death of a panhandler in Durham. The panhandler’s name was Bulldog. You can read about him elsewhere on this blog.

When Barry contacted me he said that he wanted to write a story about Bulldog. He expressed both an interest and respect for Bulldog’s story. I was excited because I thought Barry could bring attention to Bulldog’s story and broaden the awareness of thousands of people regarding the complicated issues associated with homelessness in Durham.

Over the next few months Barry contacted me several times seeking additional information. I tried my best to hook Barry up with other people who had known Bulldog. I helped him contact Aaron, another panhandler, who was a friend of Bulldog. I gave Barry contact information to reach Reverend Collier, Bulldog’s spiritual guide. Whenever I had information for Barry he was easy to reach or he was quick to return a message.

In January, 2009 Barry lead me to believe that he was going to write the story and that it would be in the N&O soon. I shared this news with Aaron, the panhandler, who, like me, was excited about the prospect of good press for his friend, Bulldog.

Also, in January I gave a talk to a local Kiwanis Club in Chapel Hill about homelessness and panhandling. I told Bulldog’s story to the Kiwanis Club and mentioned that they could read more about it very soon in Barry’s upcoming column.

The column never appeared. I have tried to contact Barry to find out what happened. I have left numerous messages and emails for Barry but, he never responded. I assume that the column may not have appeared for good reasons, but I have no way of knowing. Barry may have determined that Bulldog padded his resume regarding his military service. Barry's editor might have rejected the story. I don’t know. I do know that Barry should have let me know why the story never appeared.

Bulldog’s friend, Aaron, asks me about it a couple of times a week when I see him panhandling at the interstate ramp. He also deserves an explanation.

Note: I was wrong. Barry Saunders does read and respond to his email. I emailed this blog post to him. Within about 15 minutes he sent the following reply:

Mr. Owen, I am indeed still working on the story about Bulldog, but
I am trying to get information from the hospital, which has not been forthcoming. Also, I was unable to verify that Bulldog was a Navy SEAL. No one with whom I checked in the Dept. of Defense could confirm what I'd been told. I never said the story on Bulldog would be in the paper "soon."


I respect Barry's sense of journalistic ethics and his need to fact check Bulldog's story. Personally, I have always assumed that Bulldog may have fabricated (or hallucinated)some of the details. However, the most important parts of his lifestyle and his story were observable.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

More Interesting Than I Thought

Last month I wrote a letter-to-the-editor of the Chapel Hill News. The letter expressed my opinion that Chapel Hill has become a much less interesting place over the last twenty years or so.

You can read the letter ( A Radical but Interesting Idea) in the January archive of the blog.

I saw a play this week at the Paul Green Theatre that both challenges and confirms the point of my letter. The play is called, "Because We’re Still Here (and Moving)." It is a collection of stories based on interviews with over 100 African Americans whose families have lived in Chapel Hill for 150 years or so.

The play weaves together many fragments of oral history in a very moving and creative way. I learned a lot about the proud (but disappearing) history of the black community in Chapel Hill.

The play also tells first person stories of slavery and racism that are a part of our community’s shared history. The play reminded me how easy it is to forget that Chapel Hill is part of the South. I was surprised to hear stories about violence and intimidation by the KKK in Chapel Hill within the relatively recent past. It was interesting to consider that former UNC presidents were slave owners.

I was particularly interested in stories about Lincoln High School (now the Lincoln Center). I have lived here for many years but, I was unaware of the history of extrodinary achievement and community pride that surrounded Lincoln High School. The play effectively communicates the sense of loss associated with the closure of that school - a sense of loss and resentment that still exists within the black community.

I think Chapel Hill is a more interesting place when the timeline of history is extended beyond the narrow limits of the past 30 years. I am once again reminded that I am a newcomer.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Lifestyles: 2190

I got a phone call a year or so ago from a woman who hosts a website for people who use wheel chairs. She asked me if I could write a humorous article for their website. I thought that sounded like an interesting challenge so I submitted the following satire about life in 2190. The satirical piece is still available on their website, www.PeopleonWheels.org.


Welcome to www.AmbulosUnited.org. This is the website of the National Association of Ambulary-Centered People.

The purpose of the National Association of Ambulary-Centered People is to promote walking, running, jogging,...or just standing around.
The Association strives to:
• Combat the stigma associated with individual ambulation.
• Advocate for the needs of people who walk, trot, jog, or just stand around.
• Promote appropriate public access for ambulos.
• Influence legislation and government policies that discourage ambulation.
• Promote the tradition and values associated with walking and other forms of individual ambulation.

About Us
The National Association for Ambulary Centered People is a membership organization founded in 2101 to support people who rely on walking or other natural means of self-mobility. We respect the rights of members of the dominant culture who use motorized wheeled vehicles (formerly known as wheel chairs); however, we are dedicated to maintaining the tradition and constitutional rights of people who use walking or other forms of ambulation as their primary means of personal transportation.

History
In the early days of the 21st century, wheeled forms of individual transportation were used only by people with physical disabilities. By 2050 technological advancements made motorized forms of personal transport more efficient, effective, and affordable; therefore, people without physical disabilities began to adopt wheeled forms of transport.

During the later decades of the 21st century the dominant culture became increasingly reliant on television eye glasses, computerized brain implants, virtual reality applications for home offices, and many other technologies that enhanced passive methods for work and recreation. Walking or running as a means of transportation was regarded as slow, inefficient and ineffective.

Eventually the overwhelming majority of people ceased to recognize the need or lost the desire to walk, run, jog, or even to just stand around. By the early decades of the 22nd century the dominant culture relied solely on technologically enhanced means of wheeled transportation. Ambulation as a practical means of getting around became obsolete.

People who insisted on walking or using other organic forms of ambulation were viewed as anachronistic. By 2075 ninety two percent of all people who could afford wheeled transportation were using it. In many communities ambulos were ridiculed, persecuted, and denied appropriate access to public places.

The Walter M. Class Action Lawsuit.

Recently circumstances for ambulos have improved because of a landmark class action lawsuit. Three years ago the Walter M. class action lawsuit was settled on behalf of ambulos who were denied appropriate accommodations in public places. No longer can ambulos be required to stand for entire basketball games because arenas do not provide seating. Ambulos no longer have to stand at the rear of movie theaters because they do not bring their own seat. The sale of pedometers is no longer illegal. People who jog or run are now protected from harassment. Ambulo school children can no longer be required to stand all day because there are no chairs. Stand up comedians are now free to practice their craft in its original form, and they are protected from unwarranted ridicule.

What can you do?
• Teach your children to walk and to enjoy the benefits of ambulation.
• Learn about the history and tradition of running, jogging, and just standing around.
• Fight against the stigma associated with ambulation.

Bottom Line
Seriously, never forget that walking and running should be a cherished aspect of human experience. Never take walking, running, or just standing around for granted because the right to ambulate can be easily lost.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Melancholy Demons

Duke basketball fans are not a mentally healthy group. I know this because I come into contact with a lot of these people. Some of them I even like. Most of them function pretty well in other life domains. But within the universe of Duke Basketball they suffer.

Their condition always seems to deteriorate in the days leading up to the Carolina/Duke games. This year is no exception. Some of them are delusional and are claiming that Carolina has a recruiting advantage that inevitably produces superior athletes. Others are paranoid. They think UNC’s larger fan base has biased the media against Duke. Some are bi-polar. These poor souls barely have time to enjoy the euphoria of a victory before anticipating Duke’s next big failure. They then crash into a preemptive depression.

I am curious about the epidemiology of Duke Disease. Is it a genetic disorder? The condition does seem to run in families. Or could it be environmental - the result of some toxin within the water supply in New Jersey? This is clearly an area that needs more research.

In the meantime, we should be gentle with Dook fans this week and avoid the temptation to ridicule the Melancholy Demons.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

A Radical but Interesting Idea

I have heard that Jesse Helms once described Chapel Hill as the “North Carolina Zoo.” I am pretty sure he was not trying to be flattering. However, for many people who lived here at that time it was a compliment. It was evidence that Chapel Hill was an interesting and unique place. Too bad Chapel Hill is no longer so interesting.

Perhaps it is time to consider a radical New Year’s resolution. In 2009 let’s raise Chapel Hill’s interest quotient (IQ). The first step in this process may be the hardest. We will have to break through our collective denial and admit that we have become the least interesting point of the three major communities that form the Triangle.

A relatively short time ago it would have been unthinkable to suggest that either Raleigh or Durham was a more interesting place than Chapel Hill. However, over the past fifteen or twenty years both cities have aggressively built on their strengths and added to their IQ. Durham has reinvented old areas and neighborhoods to create an attractive, fun and vibrant sense of place. Raleigh has provided housing and entertainment venues to attract thousands of people to move downtown and add life to the inner city. During the same period Chapel Hill’s most interesting feature has become our proximity to Carrboro.

In 2009 let’s try some new approaches to increase the interest quotient of Chapel Hill. If we make downtown more user-friendly and fun it might attract more people and some of them might be interesting. How about designating a new “free speech zone” on Franklin Street that encourages students and others to transfer some of the on-campus energy from “The Pit” to Franklin Street? How about inviting Carrboro to collaborate with Chapel Hill to expand the Carrboro Music Festival to become a Carrboro/Chapel Hill music extravaganza? How about just making parking downtown free on weekends?

It is possible that the addition of new condos, retail, and office space downtown will add to the interest quotient of Chapel Hill. I doubt it. I think we have paid so much attention to protecting the economic viability of the community that we may have forgotten what previously made Chapel Hill an interesting town. Maybe we should build a new zoo. We could name it after Jesse Helms.
Note: This post was printed as a letter-to-the-editor in the Chapel Hill News in early January, 2009.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Obama's Reach

Entrance to the Apatachee Correctional Institution


Some of you may know Brad. If not, you may know someone like him. He used to be an attorney in Pittsboro and an active soccer dad in our community. He is now serving a fifteen year prison sentence in Florida at the Apatachee Correctional Institution. He has been there for about a year. He was arrested in Pittsboro as part of a “sting operation” conducted by the Florida State Police. Brad pleaded guilty to a series of internet-related sex offenses.

My family knew Brad for several years prior to his arrest and we were shocked when we learned about what he had done. Brad and I have exchanged letters quite a few times since his incarceration.

I got a touching letter from Brad this week. He wrote it on the morning of Inauguration Day. He described his hope that he and his fellow inmates would be allowed to watch the inauguration on television. He was optimistic because they had been allowed to watch television on election night. He wrote, "On election night it was nice to see a number of the older inmates – black and white - teary eyed and quiet when Obama was declared the victor. I was teary eyed, too."

It is impressive that the significance of Obama’s election extends to those who are as forgotten as the inmates at Apatachee Correctional Institution in Sneads, Florida. I hope they were allowed to watch the inauguration.

If interested in Brad’s experience with the criminal justice system you can read an essay I wrote about it at: http://whatsmentalhealth.blogspot.com/2009/01/in-defense-of-friend.html

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Right Wing Radio and the Inauguration

Listening to conservative talk radio is painful. The radio hosts on these programs don't just express their ignorance. They celebrate it. Radio stations that broadcast these programs should require the hosts to read Surgeon General warning labels each hour because their programs are hazardous to our mental health.

Unfortunately for me, I have a perverse curiousity about these programs, their hosts, and their audiences. I often wonder how the hosts will creatively distort reality to match their audience expectations. This week I listened to Rush Limbaugh and his clone-in-the-Triangle, Bill Lemay of WPTF radio. I can listen for only a few minutes at a time (see Surgeon General warning). Therefore, the following is just a sampling of comments about Obama and his inauguration from the right wing radio perspective:
  • True conservatives should hope that Obama fails.
  • Obama's goal is to implement a "socialist agenda."
  • Bill Ayers is going to be running the Dept. of Education from behind the scenes.
  • Obama's inaugural address was "a rambling, disjointed, buzz kill."
  • The audience at the Inauguration was down and depressed.
  • The liberal media would have told us the speech was great "even if Obama read his car's owner's manual."

Perhaps, in the future we can create a public health response to the disease of right wing talk radio. The conservative entertainers will always have a right to speak but, I think young people should be inoculated against illegitimate sources of information that do not even try to speak the truth.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Imagine You Got This Email...


and then guess who really sent it.*

TO: Ewe@yahoo.com
FROM: SupremeBeing@earthlink.net

For reasons that are mysterious to me, I feel compelled to violate an important rule of our relationship. I am offering advice that you have not asked for.

You and I both know that you have not sought my opinion about anything important in a very long time. In fact, we have really lost touch with each other over the years. We just sort of “check in” around holidays, weddings, or funerals. But these “check ins” have become so ritualized that they no longer have much meaning for me. I suspect they have lost meaning for you, too.

I feel like I have been trying for ages to send you subtle, indirect messages. These signals were intended to let you know that we need to start paying more attention to each other. A few times the signals have been very dramatic and temporarily gotten your attention. Yet, I continue to believe that I am not having a significant impact.

Therefore, I am taking a more direct approach. I am emailing this candid appraisal of how I think things are going. Even though you have not asked, I am offering advice that I believe will be helpful. Of course, I accept the fact that you may continue to ignore me as usual.

Here goes.

1) Your priorities have gotten completely out of whack. I think it is time for you to reconsider what is important in your life. Here is a clue.

Relationships are everything.

I know. Salesmen have turned this into a cliché but, it still remains true. No amount of work, money, achievement, or attention can match the value of positive, supportive relationships between people. Nothing is more important. I know that you are aware of this. You just don’t act like it.

2) Stop trying so hard. You appear to be running as fast as you can to get someplace you don’t want to go. Slow down and remember 1).

3) You are not getting wiser with age. In fact, you had a better sense of what you were doing when you were younger. Try to remember what you used to know about living life in the moment. If you need help with this, talk to your children. They have not had as much time to forget what they know.

I hope this is helpful. As you know, I am always available if you want to discuss any of this.

Yours,
S.B.

*I think my wife may have sent this email.

The Value of Doing Nothing


I belong to a Men’s Group at a local church that has a paradoxical mission. Our group strives to do ... nothing. This goal is not a surprise to our wives or significant others. We have no agenda, no curricula, and no program. We seldom start on time. No one brings food. Sometimes somebody will bring a six pack of beer to share. We do make one concession to structure: We start each meeting with a time for individuals to “check in.” This is a brief time for members to introduce a topic or to talk about something important that may have occurred since the last meeting. Sometimes we never move beyond check-in. When we do, someone always has an issue to get us started.

About once a year someone from the church where we meet will ask us to do something. We have been asked to work in soup kitchens and to work on fundraising activities. Once we were even asked to lead a Sunday service. So far, we have respectfully but firmly declined. I do not think we decline because we are lazy. We decline because we already participate in groups that do things. We give much of our lives to job-related teams, volunteer organizations, church committees, family activities, and other collections of people that have needs or demands. Our Men’s Group is the only group that we have ever joined that has no expectations or requirements.

However, over 14 years of getting together we have talked a lot. We have shared our childhoods. We have talked about our fathers and our relationships with them. We have asked each other questions about our wives and how various marriages do or don’t work. We have had gay men share their relationship problems, which sounded just like the relationship problems of the rest of us. We have listened to men going through divorce. We have listened and advised younger (and sometimes older) men on “dating issues.” We have listened to our fellow group members describe periods of deep depression. Some of us have sought advice about dealing with various other physical or mental illnesses. We have all talked and listened a lot. Through it all we remain committed to the principle of not doing anything.

We do not do anything, but I have observed that not doing anything can be enormously helpful. About a year ago, one member of the group was diagnosed with terminal cancer. This man’s circumstance trumped any other issues or needs for the group for several months. His ability and willingness to describe the physical and emotional details of his experience was a gift. He shared details about the mystery of dying that most of us never have access to. He trusted us enough to let us support him during this strange time. We did not do anything, but one of us did manage to help out around his house so his wife could get away for a while. We also had a very funny poker game at his house a few weeks before he died. The group did not do anything, but we were never the same.

Note: This essay was published a couple of years ago in the Urban Hiker, a now-defunct magazine in Durham.

Monday, January 5, 2009

The Inca's Chosen Mistake


A tribute to the late William Hollister, MD

As I walked offstage I was sure Bill would be angry or at least disappointed. I had nearly ruined the opening night of the opera that he had spent the previous eight years of his life writing. My only consolation was that I knew how much worse it could have been.

Bill Hollister’s opera, The Inca’s Chosen Bride, told the story of an ancient South American legend about two lovers whose lives were complicated by politics, family loyalties, and warfare. The concept and musical theme for the opera first occurred to Bill when he read about the legend as a young anthropology student in the early 1930s. The concept and musical theme stuck in his mind.

Many years later Dr. Hollister retired from a remarkable career as an innovative community psychiatrist. For a lot people that would have been enough but, Bill quickly focused his attention on creating the opera that was still in his head. He took university courses to fill gaps in his knowledge of advanced music theory and orchestration. He got advice from experienced musicians, actors, and technical experts. Finally, at the age of eighty-two and after nearly a decade of obsessive dedication, Bill had done it. He had written an opera, and it was being debuted in a beautiful theatre in downtown Durham, North Carolina.

As a novice in opera production, Bill did make a few mistakes. One of his most serious mistakes was asking me to be in it. When he asked me, I said, “Bill, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen an opera, and I don’t even like to hear myself sing.” He laughed and said, “I just need you to be one of the guards. The guards don’t have singing parts. You need to just stand around with a spear and look like a guard.” Bill was not an easy guy to refuse.

After several weeks of rehearsal, I still did not completely understand the opera’s plot, but I understood my role. During the first act my job was to stand in a row of four guards behind the King. I was to hold a spear in one hand and a fancy medallion in the other hand. When the King sang, “I have the medallion to prove it!” I was to slap the medallion into his outstretched hand. The King would then dramatically throw the medallion onto the center of the stage. We had rehearsed this many times, and it worked like a charm until the opening night.

On opening night I left home wearing the costume I had been assigned at the dress rehearsal. I was wearing a brown tunic. Under the tunic I wore a pair of my wife’s skin-colored panty hose. The director required the panty hose because he wanted all of the guards to have legs that looked alike. Around my waist I wore a rope as a belt. On my head was a funny looking triangular hat. I carried a spear that was much taller than me. Since no one really knew what ancient Incan Empire guards wore, I assumed that this costume was appropriate. I left the house with my children laughing hysterically and rolling on the floor.

The theatre was nearly sold out. I was told that critics from the newspaper would be in the audience. The principal cast members nervously walked around singing to themselves. The director gave people last minute instructions. Surrounded by all of this tension, I started to get nervous myself. I made the stupid thinking error of asking myself, “Could I mess this up?” My brain was quick to provide an answer. I began to worry about dropping the fancy medallion. The medallion hung on a chain and was intended to eventually be worn around the King’s neck. The whole thing easily fit in my hand but I worried that I might drop it and create a major distraction. To compensate for this irrational worry, I hung the medallion around my rope belt where I thought it would be safe until I needed it.

The opera got off to a good start. During the first act, I stood in line with the other guards, holding my spear and staring straight ahead. I focused my attention on the King and waited for my cue to hand over the medallion. As the cue approached, I discreetly started to pull the medallion off my rope belt. To my horror the medallion’s chain was tangled around my rope belt. The harder I tugged at the chain, the tighter it clung to my belt. The dialogue was moving closer and closer to my cue, and the characters were singing much faster than they did in rehearsal. I felt beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I suddenly felt at risk of urinating in my wife’s panty hose. Time was running out. I shifted into automatic pilot. I held the spear in my armpit and used both hands to quickly untie the rope belt. I desperately tugged the tangled chain down the rope until I was able to jerk it off of the end. Just as the King sang, “I have the medallion to prove it!” I slammed it into his outreached hand while simultaneously dropping my rope belt onto the stage. My brown tunic ballooned to become a loosely fitting dress. I felt a rush of embarrassment. Now I was the only guard in a row of four who was wearing a brown muu muu and whose rope belt was lying on the stage.

I stared straight ahead until the scene mercifully concluded. The lights dimmed, and I miserably walked off stage for the intermission. I scanned the backstage confusion until I saw Bill sitting in a chair. I approached him to apologize for creating such a mess. I said, “Bill, I am really sorry about that.” Bill looked at me and said, “You are sorry about what?” I tried to explain what had just happened but Bill interrupted me saying, “I am sorry, Michael, but I was watching the lead characters. I wasn’t watching you. I’m sure you did fine.” He smiled. I was both stunned and relieved. Was it possible that the entire audience was watching the lead characters? The moment was a powerful metaphor for one of life’s important lessons. It was not about me.

I sat down and took a deep breath. I could relax now because I did not have to return to the stage until the final scene. My screw up had come and gone, and the opera did not collapse. What more could happen I thought? Before my brain could provide an answer to that foreboding question, the stage manager approached carrying my rope belt. He asked, “Do you know which one of you lost a belt?” He had not noticed my belt drop either.

I took the rope belt and tied it back around my waist. I looked down at my peculiar costume and wondered, “Why am I doing this? Why did I put myself through weeks of rehearsal for the opportunity to look like this in public?” The answer was simple. I was doing this because I liked to be around Bill Hollister.

Bill was a good man to be around because he was a mentally healthy human being. His mental health set him apart from many of his professional peers and contributed to his remarkable reputation. Throughout his medical career, Bill’s personal version of mental health enabled him to bridge the often divergent fields of psychiatry and public health. He eagerly shared his practical concepts for mental health treatment and the prevention of mental illness with anyone who would listen. He was particularly proud of leading a major rural mental health initiative in North Carolina that created hundreds of useful strategies for ordinary people who were motivated to help their friends or neighbors.

After his retirement, Dr. Hollister continued to contribute to the mental health of every community in which he was a member. One of those communities was a men’s group that Bill founded at the Unitarian Fellowship in Durham. It was in this men’s group that my relationship with Bill deepened. At every meeting of this group, Bill quietly demonstrated how to listen, encourage, and support a group of friends. Sometimes he provided a model for confronting someone in a constructive, helpful manner. He earned my respect by showing respect for me. All of this made Bill a good guy to be around and a difficult guy to disappoint.

As the final scene of Bill’s opera approached I had one more chance to make a contribution. Like many operas, The Inca’s Chosen Bride had a fat lady. The fat lady in this opera was a very attractive, talented soprano with long black hair. She played the role of a princess who had been entombed during a war that started in the second act and continued into the third. In the final scene, she was to be released from her tomb and reunited with her lover for the dramatic big finish.

In the final scene, my job was to walk onstage with another guard and pick up the Princess who was lying on a stretcher inside a translucent tomb. We were to carry her out of the tomb on the stretcher, gently place her on a table next to her lover, and walk offstage. In rehearsals four guards carried the Princess. At the last minute the director decided that using two guards would look better. This was his biggest thinking error.

During the intermission my fellow guard and I planned our strategy. He appeared to be the stronger of the two of us, so we agreed that he would lift the rear end and that I would lift the front end of the stretcher. We knew we would need to use the power of our legs to get the Princess off the floor, so we quickly practiced squatting at each end of an imaginary stretcher. I nodded my head three times and on the third nod we both stood up quickly. We practiced two or three times to maximize the powerful thrust necessary for lift off. Then we waited for our cue.

The director motioned for us to go onstage. We walked somberly into the translucent tomb and took our positions. I squatted at the head end of the stretcher, grabbed both handles, nodded three times and then used all of my strength to quickly stand up. The Princess emitted a high pitched squeal that could have only come from a soprano. I was standing on her hair. I thought, “Damn, I did it again.”

Thankfully, the Princess was a true professional. She remained in character. She allowed us to stagger out of the tomb and reunite her with the Prince. The two of them sang the emotional big finish to the opera, and they received a well deserved standing ovation. Afterwards, I was not surprised when the Princess sought me out to “express her feelings” about the little bald spot on the top of her head.

Since that night, The Inca’s Chosen Bride has been performed on several other occasions. A few years ago the opera was performed and recorded in Bulgaria. Although Bill never again asked me to be a guard, he always smiled when I told the story of my performance to our friends in the men’s group.

A few months ago after Bill’s death, his family held a memorial service for him. It was a beautiful touching service. One of the original cast members from Bill’s opera flew to Durham for the occasion. I was hoping it would be the Princess but it was the Prince. He sang the final song from The Inca’s Chosen Bride and created for Bill Hollister another very well deserved big finish.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Recession Proof Holiday

Every afternoon I stop at the light at the intersection of 15-501 and I-40 and I talk to the men who panhandle there. It is usually the only interesting moment in my daily commute. This week I asked one of the panhandlers if he and his friends needed anything. I said, “With the holiday coming up do you guys need anything for Christmas?” The man paused and tilted his head as people often do when considering a question. After a few seconds he smiled and said, “Nope. We’re good.”The light changed and I drove away thinking about the irony of panhandlers who do not need anything.

The man I spoke to is one of several people who live in the woods near the interstate ramp and panhandle every day. Most of these people have lived near the same interstate highway ramp for years. They sleep in tents regardless of the weather. They share their limited resources and help each other out. Their lifestyle is not easy or healthy. Several of the panhandlers have died from serious illnesses or have been murdered over the past few years.

Still, these unusual people have the potential and the willingness to teach the rest of us an interesting lesson. We fret about holiday preparation in the midst of an historic economic crisis and worry about a future in which we may not have “enough.” The panhandlers do not worry about the recession at all. They might not even know that it is going on. They have redefined “enough” to match what they have.

Terrorism Alerts on the Weather Channel

I often feel like the talking heads on television are using the threat of terrorism as a tool to manipulate us. They sometimes appear to exaggerate the threat as a way of appearing patriotic or important. I do not trust them to be accurate in their predictions about the real risks associated with possible terrorist attacks.

Lately, the only television talking heads I do trust are the people at the Weather Channel. I rely on them in the morning to offer solid predictions about the day’s weather based on expert opinions. I rely on them to tell the truth in the middle of the night when I wake up and need to be distracted from myself. The familiar talking heads at the Weather Channel speak to me as trusted, stable, consistent professionals.

The Weather Channel people do not scream at each other like the politicians and pseudo journalists on television. They do not have disguised political objectives that they promote through their weather predictions. They just present the truth as well as they know it in a clear, pleasant, non-judgmental way. When a part of the country experiences a weather-related disaster the Weather Channel people are there to accurately describe what has happened and to give practical, concrete information about relief efforts.

I wish the Weather Channel was the public face of the Department of Homeland Security. I would be so much more inclined to believe my trusted talking heads at the Weather Channel than the government spokespeople or their journalist collaborators. I take some comfort in the fact that the politicians and pseudo-journalists cannot politicize the Weather Channel – yet.

My Brother Thinks He is Rush Limbaugh


My brother and I argue about politics and world affairs. Actually, we have been engaged in a single, ongoing argument for most of our lives. We argue on the telephone. We argue during family dinners. We argue in restaurants, bars and on the golf course. We often make other people uncomfortable because the argument is loud, intense, and angry.

The argument first started when we were in high school, but its intensity did not peak until the early seventies and the Viet Nam War. He enlisted.* I resisted. The only thing we seemed to have in common after the war was the need to argue about it.

During our older adult lives the basic argument branched out to include a wider range of topics. We argued about economics and social issues. We argued about the pros and cons of public welfare. We argued about the threat of corporate greed. We argued about affirmative action, gay rights, abortion rights, the death penalty, and other important issues that mattered. On each of these issues he always chose the wrong position. Go figure.

About fifteen years ago, my brother started listening to Rush Limbaugh on the radio. After a year or so I began to notice a stylistic shift in the argument. He began to argue with me as if the radio right-wing nut was standing over his shoulder and whispering in his ear. Rush Limbaugh became an imaginary consultant for my brother. Unfortunately, “the Rush factor” made the argument far too predictable. The argument started to feel like a role play. We lost some of the passion that made it interesting.

Over the past few years the Iraq War and George Bush reinvigorated our argument. The intensity and emotion returned, but the argument has taken a new twist. Somehow we have learned to argue and respect each other at the same time. Maybe it is just because we are older. Maybe we finally recognized that we are more than our political opinions. Maybe we remembered that we are brothers who share a deep family history. I don’t really know.

I also do not know if this will last but, for now, our relationship is more valuable than the argument. I wish the real Rush Limbaugh could share the same experience.

Note: I once read this on WCHL radio in Chapel Hill. I would love to read it on a Louisville radio station someday. Maybe I should ask my brother to read it.

*My brother called me last night to remind me that he did not enlist. He was drafted. He suggested I change the relevant comment to read, "I resisted and persisted. He got drafted and was shafted."

My Cousin Sharon: Priceless


Forty years ago when we were both children, I was afraid of Sharon Price. I felt uncomfortable around her. I thought her appearance and behavior were strange. Sharon seldom spoke. When she did, I could not understand her. She laughed loudly and randomly. Sharon never looked directly at me or anyone else. She just stared at the floor. I remember my mother whispering to me, "Sharon is mentally retarded." But no one explained to me what that meant. The women in our family referred to her as "poor little Sharon." The men never said a word about her at all.

In those days Sharon's significant cognitive disability was not the most problematic circumstance in her life. She grew up in a difficult neighborhood in Louisville, Kentucky. Her father, Jesse James Price, spent most of her childhood in prison. During his brief periods of freedom, Jesse abused alcohol and engaged in other behaviors that guaranteed return engagements in "the pen." When Sharon was 14, Jesse died in a mattress fire started by his own cigarette. I remember hearing my parents speculate that Jesse must have been very drunk indeed to have slept through a fatal mattress fire.

I never met Sharon's mother. I assume she was a magician, because she disappeared within a few months of Sharon's birth. Her disappearance occurred 48 years ago, and none of us, including Sharon, have seen her since.

Sharon's grandfather, J.O. Price, was around long enough to build a relationship with her, but he died when Sharon was six. His widow, Daisy Price, claimed that J.O. died from an ingrown toenail. Apparently he developed an infection from an untreated ingrown toenail that required the amputation of his foot, then his lower leg, and eventually his entire leg. According to Daisy, "the doctors just kept hacking away at him until there was so little of J.O. left that he just died."

With no one else willing or able to assume responsibility for Sharon, her grandmother Daisy became Sharon's legal guardian. Sharon grew up believing that Daisy was her "mama," and Daisy never said anything to challenge that belief. Daisy was an extremely devoted parent. She was also a devoted member of the Pentecostal Church in her neighborhood. The Pentecostal dress code required women to wear very long drab dresses with long sleeves. Daisy and Sharon strictly adhered to the dress code and to all other expectations of the Pentecostal lifestyle. On the rare occasions that they went out together in public they were a striking couple.

Sharon spent 37 years of her life in the protective custody of her "mama." Daisy believed that Sharon needed to be protected from people who might mistreat her, and she seldom took her eyes off of Sharon. She diligently protected Sharon from any chance of ridicule and risk. Unfortunately, she also isolated her from the kind of stimulation and exposure to social situations that Sharon needed.

When Daisy died, Sharon was faced with a difficult transition. After more than three decades of social isolation, Sharon had very few of the basic skills she needed to live independently.
Once again someone in the family needed to demonstrate responsibility and character. This time it was my mother who stepped up to the plate. She requested and was granted legal guardianship of Sharon.

Sharon had grown up referring to my mother as her "Aunt Sis." Aunt Sis emerged as the only member of the family who could provide what Sharon needed -- unconditional love and commitment. Aunt Sis also provided effective "case management" skills to make sure that Sharon's interests were protected and that her practical needs were met. Most significantly, Aunt Sis encouraged Sharon to take risks and to explore a wider range of personal choices. Over the course of a decade my mother helped Sharon navigate her way into independence.

Sharon now lives in a condo that she shares with her close friend, Judy. Their condo is in a pleasant neighborhood with shops and friendly people within easy walking distance. Sharon is a valued member of a nearby Methodist Church. She has a small dog and is a responsible pet owner. She diligently protects her dog from ridicule and risk.

Aunt Sis is now 83 and needs support herself. It is Sharon's turn at the plate, and she is responding admirably. Sharon calls Aunt Sis every morning at exactly 8:45 to make sure she awake and okay. She calls two or three other times during the day to "check in." She routinely helps her Aunt Sis with laundry, cleaning, and other household chores. Sharon remains "on call" to help Aunt Sis anytime there is a need. Sharon gives Aunt Sis support that no one else can provide.

All families have potential surprises and inevitable role reversals. Our family's most interesting example is the evolving relationship between Aunt Sis and Sharon. Sharon's role in my mother's life and in the life of our family can only be described as -- priceless.

Note: "My Cousin Sharon: Priceless" is also posted on raggededgemagazine.com.

Homeless, Stranded Need Help


Even if you do not see them, they are there. Every day they are standing at the stoplight at the interstate ramp of I-40 at 15-501. They are holding signs that say, “Homeless, Stranded, Need Help.” You might occasionally glance at them but you are careful to avoid eye contact. You wonder if they are really stranded and homeless. You wonder how much money they make. You wonder if they would accept an ordinary day job if someone offered it. You wonder what type of condition, circumstance, or character flaw allows these men to degrade themselves by begging for change at freeway stops. You occasionally take quick glances at their faces and see vacant, distant, pathetic expressions. You begin to notice the same expression on the faces of many other highway beggars in the area. You wonder what their lives are really like.

Maybe you do not wonder about any of this at all, but many of us do. I did. I became curious about two men who I had noticed standing every day at the 15-501 Exit off of I-40. One morning a few months ago (for reasons that I still do not understand) I pulled off the ramp and onto a service road. I walked through the underbrush, over a fence, across the ramp and approached one of the highway beggars. As I approached the homeless man, I mentally rehearsed a few openers to explain my interest. I slowly walked close enough to shake hands and introduce myself.

I said, “I’ve noticed you guys out here for a long time. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” The homeless man said, “What kind of questions?”

“I don’t really know, yet,” I admitted. “I have this idea about making a video that describes what you guys are doing out here. I think a lot of people would be interested.”

“I don’t know about a videotape, but we’ll be happy to talk to you. I’m Charles.”

He looked over into a stand of trees about 30 feet from the ramp. There were two other homeless men sitting on crates in what I later learned was their “break area.” Charles pointed at me and yelled over the traffic noise to one of the other homeless men, “Talk to him!” He smiled at me and said, “His name is Bulldog. I can’t talk to you right now. You can go talk to Bulldog if you want to.”

Bulldog looked like a guy who had earned his nickname. He was a short, sturdy, tattooed guy with long hair. He was sitting with another man who appeared to have some type of skin disorder. I walked over and sat down in the break area and started chatting with Bulldog. He told me that he was a former Navy Seal. He said that he had been on the highway ever since both of his parents died many years ago. He said that he and Charles worked together and that they had been standing at this same ramp for almost two years. I must have looked surprised that they had been at the same spot for so long. Bulldog explained, “We’re all out here waitin’ for something. Charles over there is waitin’ to get his driver’s license back. Ralph here is waitin’ for his disability claim to go through. Everybody out here is waitin’ for something.” I asked, “What are you waiting for Bulldog?” Bulldog looked up to the sky, raised his hands into the air and said, “I’m waitin’ to be taken up by Jesus.”

Eventually Charles joined us in the break area. He appeared to be a respected leader among the group. He told me that he previously worked for thirteen years for an electric company in the area. He had been married and had several children. His life had taken a sour turn a few years ago when he lost his driver’s license. He was a little vague about how this happened, but he said the loss of his driver’s license started a chain reaction of negative events that left him with no way to earn money.

I brought up the idea of making a video to tell some of these stories. Bulldog made it very clear that he was not interested. Charles said, “We don’t know you well enough for something like that. But you can come out here anytime to talk with us if you want.” His invitation led to a series of visits over the next several months. During these visits I learned a great deal about their lives. I also grew to like these guys.

The first few conversations focused primarily on the mechanics of their work as panhandlers. Charles and Bulldog told me that they “own” the ramp at I-40 and 15-501. They sometimes share their ramp with a few other local people, and they are happy to share “shifts” with drifters who are just passing through. I asked Bulldog if other panhandlers ever challenged their ownership of the ramp. He looked over into the trees at a long metal pole and said he was not worried about that. He said it was “sort of a code of the West” that panhandlers respected each others’ property rights. Charles and Bulldog start early enough each morning to catch the rush hour traffic. They take a long break about ten o’clock. They return in the afternoon around three and work through evening rush hour. They work in thirty minute shifts. One of them stands on the ramp with a sign while the other sits on a crate in the break area. They are a team, and they work together well. They pool their revenue and share expenses. They say they each can make about ten to twelve dollars a day, but I suspect that they may make a little more than that. Charles has studied the giving patterns of people passing by and can predict which days will be better than average. For example, he said, “Fridays before holiday weekends are always our best days.”

Charles and Bulldog live together in a campsite in the woods near the Interstate. They do not reveal the location of the campsite but they appear to be very proud of it. They each have a tent, sleeping bag and a propane tank. They live in this campsite year round, regardless of the temperature. They store water in containers and take “half a bath” at the campsite each morning. The other “half a bath” they take in the restroom at Wal-Mart. They take pride and satisfaction in their ability to live independently in the woods. They correctly pointed out that, “Not everybody can to do it.”

Eventually, I learned that Charles and Bulldog have “regulars” who frequently give them food. Bulldog told me that he once returned to the break area after being away for a while, and someone had left food on top of one of the crates. On one occasion while we were talking, they were eating freshly baked bread given to them that morning by a truck driver from a bakery. In fact, they seemed to have plenty of food. “What we really need,” Bulldog said, “is propane fuel and bug repellent to get rid of the ticks.”

Charles and Bulldog told me that each panhandler in Durham must buy a permit for twenty dollars from the city or be subject to a fine. This permit includes a photo ID that the panhandler must wear when working. This requirement became relevant one afternoon when I was at the Interstate ramp during a visit from the Durham police. A young policeman parked his patrol car and approached the break area where I was sitting with four panhandlers. Everyone but me quickly stood up and displayed his ID card. When the cop asked to see my permit, Charles said, “This guy is some kind of social worker. He’s okay.” The friendly cop accepted the harmless but untrue explanation and left.

I think the police actually like the panhandlers at the 15-501 ramp, and I can understand why. On another day while I was visiting the ramp, a car at the intersection started to smoke from under the hood. A young woman driving the car panicked and immediately called 911 on her cell phone. Charles approached the car and asked if he could help. The distraught woman said that she thought her car was on fire. Charles asked for permission to look under the hood where he saw a small leak in one hose. He reassured the woman that her car was fine. He called Bulldog over to help push the car out of the road and onto the curb. Within minutes a police car and a fire truck were at the scene. Charles took charge. He explained the circumstance to the patrolman and told him, “Everything is under control.” The police and fire department quickly moved on to other matters. When the woman’s husband arrived, Charles continued to manage the situation in a way that minimized the young woman’s embarrassment for overreacting. Later Charles told me that he and Bulldog often manage situations like that at “their intersection.”

Charles, Bulldog, and the other panhandlers I met are not ashamed about begging for money. Their acceptance of begging challenges the stereotypes about work and self sufficiency that most men in our culture are stuck with, whether we like it or not. I think Charles and Bulldog have created some sophisticated rationalizations that make them more comfortable with begging. For example, Charles says, “At least we are not stealing money. We would rather accept what people give us than steal it.” Another rationalization is supported by the permit that they wear. They say, “If there was something wrong with panhandling why would the city sell us a permit to do it?” One of their friends said, “I am not proud of standing out here with a sign but I am proud of being able to live on my own in the woods.”

After two years at the same Interstate ramp, Charles and Bulldog have established some very strong relationships beyond the community of fellow panhandlers. The strongest of these relationships is with a group of Divinity School students from Duke University. This handful of students has created the 15-501 Ministry that exists to serve the handful of panhandlers near the 15-501 intersection. Every Sunday afternoon the students set up a small tent at the end of a service road and conduct a Christian church service for the panhandlers. The students return every Monday afternoon and serve a free meal. The students have a very strong friendship with Charles and Bulldog that appears to be based on mutual trust and respect. One of the students is helping Charles get his driver’s license back.

Charles and Bulldog do not have a house, but I do not think they are homeless. They have a comfortable campsite and people who give them enough money and supplies to eat reasonably well. They even have a sense of independence that comes with being free spirits who are able to make a home in the woods. In some ways they have more than a house. They have created a genuine community.

I do think that they are stranded and need help. Charles expressed it best when he said, “If somebody drove by in a car and gave me a thousand dollars it wouldn’t make any difference. I could get an apartment and pay the deposits and two months’ rent. After that I would be right back out here, but I would have lost this ramp and lost my campsite.” I think he is stranded on the Interstate ramp because he cannot take the risk to leave and let go of what little he already has.

Their situation seems similar to many of us who drive by on their ramp. We own cars and live in houses, but many of us are still stranded in one situation or another. Some of us are stranded in painful relationships. Some of us are stranded in dead end jobs or in mindless routines. Some of us are stranded on Interstate ramps. Maybe the common thread is our inability to take our own version of risk that threatens what little we have.

Sparky, another member of the 15-501 panhandling community, told me he has been standing on I-40 with a sign since 1991. I asked, “How long are you going to do this?” He said, “Only three more years. Then I’m going to retire.” He sounded just like countless other people who tread water while waiting for retirement. Maybe we avoid eye contact with the panhandlers because we do not want to face what we have in common.

Note: I submitted this story to the NC Writer's Network essay contest and won a $100 prize. I gave Bulldog and Charles each a $50 bill. Bulldog hugged me and cried. He was drunk, but it was still a very touching moment.

Managed Health Care in 2050: An Enhanced Death Benefit


A satire on the future of healthcare.


Customer Service Representative (CSR): Hello. My name is Susan. I am your Touchstone Health Care Customer Service Representative, CSR for short. This call may be recorded to ensure quality and compliance with federal regulations. How may I help you today?

Ralph: My name is Ralph and I am calling to get an authorization for a medical procedure.

CSR: Ralph, are you a patient or a medical professional?

Ralph: Patient.

CSR: I'm sorry, Ralph, but Touchstone only authorizes procedures that are requested by a licensed physician.

Ralph: But I was told by my doctor that I could directly request an assisted suicide from Touchstone.

CSR: Yes, sir, that is correct. Assisted suicide is an exempt procedure. We need only an automated order from your physician and your verbal statement requesting the procedure. Please give me your account number, and I can verify your doctor's automated request.

Ralph: 2175-002-4569.

CSR: Thank you. The verification will only take a second.

Ralph: While I am waiting, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?

CSR: Of course not. I am your Touchstone customer service representative and happy to help in any way I can.

Ralph: Why is assisted suicide an exempt procedure?

CSR: Assisted suicide is exempt because it does not require medical intervention from a health care provider. It is an in-home procedure that patients may administer themselves.

Ralph: You mean there is no medical supervision at all? What part is "assisted?"

CSR: The term "assisted suicide" was used in the first decades of the century when the practice first became legal nationwide. Back then, physicians administered and monitored high-cost inpatient suicide procedures. Since that time research has proven that self-administered suicide procedures have identical outcomes to physician-assisted suicide and can be provided at a much lower cost. Although the physician-assisted concept has been obsolete for many years, we still refer to the procedure as "assisted suicide."

Ralph: If I administer the suicide myself, why do I even need to use my health care plan?

CSR: It is the law, Ralph. Assisted suicide procedures and methods are regulated by both federal and state governments. It is administered under END-A, the Early Need for Death Act that was passed by Congress in 2030. Since that time, unapproved suicides are illegal and punishable by fine and imprisonment.

Ralph: What's the reason for that?

CSR: Unapproved suicides can be highly ineffective and often result in incomplete suicides. One incomplete suicide can leave a patient and his or her family with extremely high, long-term, health care costs. Ten years ago, Unregulated Incomplete Suicides (UIS) were threatening the viability of the entire Managed Universal Care System. On the other hand, Approved Assisted Suicide is the most cost-effective medical procedure in the history of health care. The Administration of END-A has now established best-practice guidelines and inexpensive toolkits that ensure an effective, safe suicide experience for about 98 percent of patients who are eligible for the procedure.

Ralph: Well, I have always tried to follow the advice of my personal physician.

CSR: Very wise, Ralph. Touchstone Healthcare encourages all eligible patients to use Approved Assisted Suicide. Most patients are highly satisfied with the outcome and benefit package. Oh, good, I see your doctor's order is on my screen. Okay, I can move to the authorization process.
Ralph: How does that work?

CSR: I will ask you a series of questions. I will record your answers for privacy and compliance requirements. Ready?

Ralph: I guess so.

CSR: Okay. Ralph, state your name, date of birth, and patient account number.

Ralph: Ralph Craven. Date of birth was 06/27/1990. My account number is 2175-002-4569.

CSR: Ralph, what is your physician-approved END?

Ralph: What?

CSR: What is your Early Need for Death?

Ralph: I have Predicted Genetic Terminal Illness.

CSR: Has your physician explained what that means?

Ralph: Yes. It means that DNA tests have determined that I definitely will die from something within 20 to 30 years. It is not possible to predict what disease will cause my death, but the DNA predictive test results were conclusive. My doctor said the 20- to 30- year prognosis makes me eligible for Approved Assisted Suicide.

CSR: Ralph, did your physician explain the Suicide Benefit Package?

Ralph: Yes. In fact, the benefit package is what helped me make the decision to go with assisted suicide. The package is just too good to pass up. My family will receive a Suicide Choice Rebate from the Touchstone Healthcare, and they will still collect my life insurance.

CSR: Right, Ralph. For most people it is a real win-win situation. Well, let me go ahead and email you the Patient Suicide Handbook and Toolkit. The Handbook describes the procedure and tells you how to prepare and what to expect from your assisted suicide. The Toolkit includes your choice of a lethal dose of Endal, or a reusable handgun. If you choose the handgun option, a family member must ship the gun back to Touchstone within thirty days or its cost will be deducted from your Suicide Choice Rebate. The Patient Suicide Handbook also is loaded with other practical information about crematoria and other resources that you might be interested in. Shall I ship your Handbook and Toolkit today?

Ralph: Okay. And I will take the Endal option.

CSR: Excellent choice, Ralph. Your Handbook and complete Assisted Suicide Toolkit will arrive by UPS within 24 hours.

Ralph: Thanks.

CSR: Is there anything else I can help you with today, Ralph?

Ralph: No thank you, Susan. You have been very helpful. I'm sure I will be quite satisfied.

Note: This satire also appears on the website of Not Dead Yet (www.notdeadyet.org)

One More Veteran’s Day Memorial



Printed as a letter-to-the-editor, Durham Herald, Nov. 2008

One of the men who panhandle at the intersection of 15-501 and I-40 died this month. His name was Bulldog. He had lived in the woods and panhandled at the same interstate ramp for about six years. Bulldog claimed to be a former Navy Seal. I do not know if that was true but ironically, he was buried on Veteran’s Day.

Bulldog died, in part, due to his lack of health insurance. Like most homeless people, Bulldog’s health history was complex and his treatment inadequate. He had learned to cope with numerous chronic health problems but, he eventually died from a staph infection that went untreated for too long.

Around thirty-five people attended Bulldog’s funeral. Some of the people at the funeral were what Bulldog called “church people.” They were serious Christians who tried for several years to help Bulldog with his spiritual and physical needs. The rest of the people at the funeral were fellow panhandlers who thought of themselves as Bulldog’s family.

Every person at the funeral talked about how Bulldog had touched his or her life. They described him as a strong, but troubled person. They talked about him as a “protector” of his fellow panhandlers. They expressed respect for his willingness to protect his community of panhandlers the same way he was willing to protect his country at an earlier point in his life.

Bulldog was not a hero but, he was a decent person who was willing to help the people around him. Unfortunately, to most of us who drove past him every day he was invisible. His real name was Nick. He died at the age of 49.

What Governor Easley Should Say to People with Mental Illness


Since the days of Aristotle, people have recognized and written about the power of a good apology. When individuals or institutions make mistakes someone must apologize. Without an apology the process of healing gets stuck.

Unfortunately, most elected officials do not seem to understand the ethical necessity and the practical value of just saying, “I am sorry.” Governor Easley is a good example of an elected official who will leave office without seizing one significant opportunity to apologize.

He could start by apologizing for his role in the failure of mental health reform. He could say that he is sorry for not paying enough attention to the mental health system until it was too damaged for him to repair. He could say that he is sorry for not recognizing that some aspects of mental health “reform” were flawed from the beginning and should have been repealed. He could express his regret for not taking stronger action to protect people with disabilities who were victimized by inadequate treatment or incompetent service providers.

If Governor Easley set a good example and apologized, it might inspire many of us who are involved in the mental health system to reflect on our own role and responsibility for the failures of mental health reform. Other apologies might follow and the rebuilding of the system could begin.

In Defense of a Friend

“Turn on Channel 3 News, now!” my wife shouted from upstairs. She sounded serious. I switched channels just in time to see our friend, Sam, being escorted by police into the Chatham County Jail. Sam was in handcuffs. He looked confused. A news reporter was saying, “The suspect, a Pittsboro attorney, was arrested earlier today at his home for a series of Internet sex crimes.” The reporter said that our friend, Sam was charged with sending child pornographic images over the Internet. The report went on to explain that Sam was arrested as part of an interstate sting operation conducted by Florida State Police.

My wife, Carol, came downstairs looking stunned. She said, “Can you believe this? This must be some kind of mistake.” I agreed. At that moment, the news report was unbelievable to me. I thought it was more plausible that the police had made a mistake and arrested the wrong person.

We had known Sam and his family for about five years. We were not close friends but certainly friendly acquaintances. Sam’s son played on a soccer team with our son and Sam had been the team manager. We traveled to many games across North Carolina and had spent a great deal of time on the sidelines with Sam and his ex-wife. On a several occasions Sam and I had killed time together in a sports bar waiting for soccer practice to end so we could pick up our sons.

I knew Sam as a conscientious and responsible parent. He attended almost every game and was very supportive of his son. My wife and I often discussed how well Sam and his ex-wife cooperated with each other. They appeared to have a better relationship than a lot of married people we knew.

The morning after the television news report we were shocked again. A newspaper account provided more detail about the charges against Sam.

“[The suspect] was arrested after soliciting who he thought was a 14-year-old boy, but in fact was an undercover Cyber Crime investigator. [The suspect], 49, approached the ‘child’ in an online chat room for young boys and chatted with him over the course of five months. During their communication, he sent numerous images of child and adult pornography to the boy. He also repeatedly stated his desire to travel to Jacksonville to engage in various sex acts with the boy, according to the arrest warrant. At the time of his arrest, [the suspect] admitted he was the person chatting with the ‘boy’ online.” Sam’s admission that he was the person chatting was enough to crack my denial. I realized that this was not a case of mistaken identity.

A few days later I took my son to soccer practice and saw Sam’s ex-wife surrounded by several soccer moms in the parking lot. She had the look of a person grieving a death in the family. She was explaining to her friends that the allegations were probably true. She said that Sam was a “very troubled person.” She kept repeating, “I do know that Sam has not engaged in inappropriate behavior with any of our children.” The soccer moms were offering support and asking how they could help. Most of the concern was related to the impact this event was having on Sam’s son.

The soccer dads were not focusing on the emotional needs of Sam's family. They were focused on expressions of outrage. They spoke about Sam as if they had always known he was a sex offender. A week ago, he had been a reasonably amiable member of the soccer dad group. His history with the group was now irrelevant. Suddenly he was a sex offender and nothing else. "Pretty sick, huh?" One guy said as I walked up. "I hope they throw away the key on him.” I was more interested in the soccer mom conversation and wandered back to join it.

I learned from Sam's ex-wife that he was likely to be held in the Chatham County Jail until he could be extradited to Florida. I asked her if she thought it would be okay if I wrote a letter to Sam. She said she thought Sam would appreciate it and directed me to the Chatham County Jail website to get the address.

The letter initiated my first (and probably only) pen pal relationship with someone incarcerated for a sex offense. The first few letters focused on circumstances in the present tense. I tried to keep Sam informed about the news of his son’s soccer team. He described to me what his life was like inside county jail. I made it clear in my letters that I was appalled by his criminal behavior. I also wrote, “Your experience has reminded me that even good people can commit very bad and illegal acts.”

Over the next few months Sam and I exchanged letters that became more interesting and revealing. He never denied nor made excuses for the behavior that lead to his arrest. He explained that he was gradually recognizing that he had “unresolved confusion” about sexuality for many years. He wrote that prior to his arrest he had been under a high level of personal stress. He described being deeply depressed and “addicted to the Internet.” He repeatedly expressed his recognition that he needed treatment.

After about a month in the Chatham County, Jail Sam was extradited to a jail in Jacksonville, Florida. Even though he had no prior criminal history, his bond was set at an amount that was impossible for him to meet. Posting the bond set by the court would have left him without with enough money for an adequate defense. So, he waited in the Duval County Detention Facility for another seven months.

During those seven months Sam hoped he would receive mental health treatment or, at least, a mental health evaluation. Unfortunately, no such evaluation was available. Sam wrote that no one he knew in jail had access to mental health services.

I mentioned this circumstance to an attorney in my neighborhood who taught at the UNC School of Law. He said, “A mental health evaluation probably wouldn’t make any difference because sex offenders don’t respond to treatment.” I thought the law professor’s certainty was strange, so later I searched “sex offender treatment and recidivism” on the Internet. I read numerous articles that contradicted the law professor. One was published in 2001 by the National Center for Sex Offender Management. It said, 

 


“Results [from a sample of 11,000 sex offenders] indicated that sex offenders who participated in relapse prevention treatment programs had a combined re-arrest rate of 7.2 percent, compared to 17.6 percent for untreated offenders. The overall re-arrest rate for treated sex offenders in this analysis was 13.2 percent.”

While waiting for seven months in Duval County Detention Facility Sam became more aware of some of the quirks in the justice system. For example, he wondered how the court determined who waited for justice inside a cell and who waited for it outside. He said he met one inmate who had physically assaulted a police officer and was released on $50,000 bond. Another man was charged with impregnating a sixteen-year-old relative ($150,000 bond). A male prostitute with AIDS was charged with a 3rd degree felony for having unprotected sex ($1,500 bond). Sam was charged with sending child pornographic images and other communications over the Internet and was held on five hundred-thousand-dollar bond.

In his letters Sam did not complain about being locked up. He just described his environment and his coping strategies. Sam’s attorney advised him “to stay positive” and Sam seemed to take the advice seriously. He focused much of his attention on helping other inmates. He learned the details of other inmates’ stories and wrote to me about them with deep empathy. He offered informal legal advice to those who requested his help. He also spent time playing checkers or staring out the window of his cell. He and his cell mate referred to their window as “the television that is always on the Weather Channel.”

After eight months of incarceration Sam’s attorney got the bail requirement reduced to $50,000. Sam was released in Jacksonville, Florida to continue waiting for the disposition of his case. The terms of his release required that he find a job and be closely supervised by an officer of the court. Sam quickly found a minimum wage job changing tires at a tire rim plant. After a few weeks, he changed jobs to work as a bagger at a super market.

While out on bail Sam finally was able to get mental health treatment. He met as often as he could with a psychologist who determined that Sam was suffering from severe depression and an obsessive-compulsive disorder. He was seen by a psychiatrist who prescribed Prozac. Sam took the medication and reported that it helped control the obsessive-compulsive part of his disorder. As part of the standard treatment protocol Sam’s psychiatrist conducted a clinical “risk assessment” to predict the likelihood that Sam would re-offend. Sam’s score on the assessment predicted that he was a “low risk” for future sex offenses.

After a complicated and lengthy negotiation Sam’s attorney presented what he considered to be the prosecutor’s “best offer.” The plea bargain would allow Sam to enter a guilty plea and accept a sentence of between 5 and 15 years in prison. Sam’s attorney pointed out that the eight months he had already served would apply to the sentence. He also argued that Sam’s clean criminal history and the positive psychiatric report on risk assessment could further mitigate the length of the sentence. In one of his letters Sam wrote, “There is a remote chance that the Judge could impose a 5-year sentence and suspend part of it. The balance between punishment and treatment is hers to assess.”

Sam seemed satisfied with his plea bargain and optimistic about the sentencing hearing. He asked me to consider writing a letter of support for his hearing. I was glad to write the letter and took the assignment seriously. I described my personal history with Sam and then ended the letter by saying, “I hope that you will recognize that Sam needs treatment and supervision more than he needs additional punishment.”

I have not heard from Sam since. Another friend of his who attended the sentencing hearing told me that the Judge appeared to ignore the mental health assessment and letters of support. The Judge sentenced Sam to the maximum of 15 years in prison and stated that, “I would have imposed a longer sentence if not bound by the plea agreement.” I am not a legal expert but I think Sam’s plea “bargain” was not a very good deal.

He was immediately escorted out of the court room and back into a cell. I learned that he was transferred to a state penitentiary somewhere in Florida, but I have not been able to locate him.

Sam’s sentence has added to my feelings of ambivalence about him and his situation. I continue to believe that he is a decent person who is guilty of a serious crime. I also believe that the price he is paying is out of proportion. Is it reasonable for people who commit sex crimes in cyberspace to receive harsher sentences than criminals whose comparable acts are committed in real space? Instead of long prison sentences for “low risk” sex offenders, wouldn’t communities be better off requiring the less expensive and more effective alternative of mandated mental health treatment and close supervision? Sam’s experience reinforces my opinion that the justice system is often less focused on protecting us from genuine threats and more focused on meeting our collective need for irrational revenge.


Note: I recently got Sam’s new address and mailed a copy of this article to him. He corrected a few details in the story. He and his lawyer are appealing his case. They are not appealing his guilt, just the length of his sentence.