Eighteen years ago at 4:09pm Harrison John O'Neil was born in Oasis Hospital in the Emirati city of Al-Ain. Today all that is left is his first name assuming of course he changed his middle name as well. Why would the boy I know so little of completely rub me out of existence? I am not going to find many who'd agree or find empathy with me on the following, though I think I know why and I don't know if I can make a difference now, on this day.
I knew even before I proposed to his mother this wasn't an intelligent move. Insecurity, an absence, a complete absence, of counsel, I was on my own in this one, and it happened. Marriage. A marriage that shouldn't have happened. Obligation and love and two different creatures, dear, and neither of us knew the difference. So, a few years ago I posted it somewhere, and I knew, if my son ever read this or was told by his Manchurian mother what I had concluded, he'd feel, well, how would you feel? Like a bastard? An illegitimate child, tossed away by a man who didn't believe the consummation shouldn't have had happened in the first place? I'm wrong to guess but when silence is one's choice of communicating, it's hard to know.
I knew this would hurt him, this declaration, perhaps I should have kept my mouth closed but in the past ten years I haven't made an effort worthy of sustaining the relationship between this beautiful boy and myself. I gave up, not because I believe him to be anything other than my son, I just didn't want to see his mother, and if I had to see her to see him then I was going to take the hit. And that is the fact.
I do wish I had had worked at the relationship with his mother but during the entire marriage we saw counseling and I have never prayed harder to God to change my heart for her but God didn't. I accepted the fact that it was I who got my knee and asked her to marry me. All the wrong intentions supported by this woman who had her own agenda and intentions, sealed me in. I am sorry. In the end, there was nothing I could do and nothing God wanted to do. Perhaps my son ought to be a little pissed at God.
Now my son is an adult, he is still without a voice. Perhaps there is nothing good he has to say. What is it he could say? I abandoned him, no, I didn't follow. If the marriage were to have never happened how does that legitimize my relationship with him? If the marriage wasn't supposed to happen, then my birth, my blood, my crazy eyelashes, are aberrations, they mean nothing to him, they mean nothing to you. But they do and that's why I don't forget.
I don't even know if forgiveness is applicable here, but I wish to say I am sorry for the way you think of me, if that is you ever do think of me. I pray each day I do not hinder you in your thoughts. If you have forgotten me and you are a better man for it, then I will accept, for what else can I do?
But everyday, sometimes a dozen times a day, I key your name. All my passwords are a variety of your name, so I have never forgotten. And I never will.
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121 people came for lunch today. I suspect there will be more tomorrow. I listened closely to a few of the regulars in the hospitality room, mindful of Dr. Campbell's unorthodox approach; Sam and Cecilia. Their tragedies make my own stumbling about so miniscule I wondered how they have managed to stay in the race. Sam, 69, was married twice, has 28 grandchildren and great grandchildren but the horrors of death for his children in murder and accident and two wives, divorced, leave him with nothing but memories, distant contact with all the relatives, and a meal every day at the soup kitchen. He enthusiastically regaled in his cross country trips when he was married and how much he loved the West Coast. Next week he is scheduled to have a tooth removed or repaired, a tooth that is somehow connected to a nerve that leaves his right eye in tremendous pain. I will remember Sam, the only fella who plays dominos quietly.
Cecilia is in her mid sixties and I sat down next to her after she asked me if I could pray for her. Both eyes are askew, her tongue thick and with a mind of its own, she was afraid someone was going to steal her television. So I said I prayer for her and asked God to keep away the evil spirits who wanted to rob her of her only legal distraction. The woman with frizzy hair told me of her bunions, her new shoes that help reduce the bunions, and how much she loves court television.
Four hours after the lunch was served we cooked up the leftovers for the Tuesday afternoon meal and a whole new bunch of faces came. Women with little kids always seems so un-Godly, meaning, how in God's name does this happen, and there were no seconds. Chava, the female priest led the service afterwards and shared her pain of having to take two Mexicans to the airport where they were flown to Mexico City. Deportation is really stupid. The NSA says the woman and her 11 year old pose a threat to national security. I spit on such stupidity. Ok, again I spit.
And to cap the day, a forlorn kind of day, hot and humid, with threats of rain that never came, I went out after college students from RIT delivered 350lbs of frozen foods, and I bought three cans of Molson and sat on the banks of the Genesee and contemplated life again in the states. It hasn't been easy but this is where I am and if no one wants to hire me anymore that is the way it's going to be. Amen.
I knew even before I proposed to his mother this wasn't an intelligent move. Insecurity, an absence, a complete absence, of counsel, I was on my own in this one, and it happened. Marriage. A marriage that shouldn't have happened. Obligation and love and two different creatures, dear, and neither of us knew the difference. So, a few years ago I posted it somewhere, and I knew, if my son ever read this or was told by his Manchurian mother what I had concluded, he'd feel, well, how would you feel? Like a bastard? An illegitimate child, tossed away by a man who didn't believe the consummation shouldn't have had happened in the first place? I'm wrong to guess but when silence is one's choice of communicating, it's hard to know.
I knew this would hurt him, this declaration, perhaps I should have kept my mouth closed but in the past ten years I haven't made an effort worthy of sustaining the relationship between this beautiful boy and myself. I gave up, not because I believe him to be anything other than my son, I just didn't want to see his mother, and if I had to see her to see him then I was going to take the hit. And that is the fact.
I do wish I had had worked at the relationship with his mother but during the entire marriage we saw counseling and I have never prayed harder to God to change my heart for her but God didn't. I accepted the fact that it was I who got my knee and asked her to marry me. All the wrong intentions supported by this woman who had her own agenda and intentions, sealed me in. I am sorry. In the end, there was nothing I could do and nothing God wanted to do. Perhaps my son ought to be a little pissed at God.
Now my son is an adult, he is still without a voice. Perhaps there is nothing good he has to say. What is it he could say? I abandoned him, no, I didn't follow. If the marriage were to have never happened how does that legitimize my relationship with him? If the marriage wasn't supposed to happen, then my birth, my blood, my crazy eyelashes, are aberrations, they mean nothing to him, they mean nothing to you. But they do and that's why I don't forget.
I don't even know if forgiveness is applicable here, but I wish to say I am sorry for the way you think of me, if that is you ever do think of me. I pray each day I do not hinder you in your thoughts. If you have forgotten me and you are a better man for it, then I will accept, for what else can I do?
But everyday, sometimes a dozen times a day, I key your name. All my passwords are a variety of your name, so I have never forgotten. And I never will.
----------------------
121 people came for lunch today. I suspect there will be more tomorrow. I listened closely to a few of the regulars in the hospitality room, mindful of Dr. Campbell's unorthodox approach; Sam and Cecilia. Their tragedies make my own stumbling about so miniscule I wondered how they have managed to stay in the race. Sam, 69, was married twice, has 28 grandchildren and great grandchildren but the horrors of death for his children in murder and accident and two wives, divorced, leave him with nothing but memories, distant contact with all the relatives, and a meal every day at the soup kitchen. He enthusiastically regaled in his cross country trips when he was married and how much he loved the West Coast. Next week he is scheduled to have a tooth removed or repaired, a tooth that is somehow connected to a nerve that leaves his right eye in tremendous pain. I will remember Sam, the only fella who plays dominos quietly.
Cecilia is in her mid sixties and I sat down next to her after she asked me if I could pray for her. Both eyes are askew, her tongue thick and with a mind of its own, she was afraid someone was going to steal her television. So I said I prayer for her and asked God to keep away the evil spirits who wanted to rob her of her only legal distraction. The woman with frizzy hair told me of her bunions, her new shoes that help reduce the bunions, and how much she loves court television.
I didn't try any Joseph Campbell on them. Telling anyone to rejoice in their sufferings because they brought it on themselves seems strange but how much do we suffer because of our own choices? Well that's one thing. To suffer because that's how the hell it is for some is hard for me to see any rejoicing unless of course one thinks of those who have excelled in some achievement in spite of a physical or mental disability. I can rejoice with them. At a soup kitchen though, you won't find many doctors or violinists. Just broken and really screwed up people.
Four hours after the lunch was served we cooked up the leftovers for the Tuesday afternoon meal and a whole new bunch of faces came. Women with little kids always seems so un-Godly, meaning, how in God's name does this happen, and there were no seconds. Chava, the female priest led the service afterwards and shared her pain of having to take two Mexicans to the airport where they were flown to Mexico City. Deportation is really stupid. The NSA says the woman and her 11 year old pose a threat to national security. I spit on such stupidity. Ok, again I spit.
And to cap the day, a forlorn kind of day, hot and humid, with threats of rain that never came, I went out after college students from RIT delivered 350lbs of frozen foods, and I bought three cans of Molson and sat on the banks of the Genesee and contemplated life again in the states. It hasn't been easy but this is where I am and if no one wants to hire me anymore that is the way it's going to be. Amen.
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