James Daniel Nelson

One day, there was a knock at my door. I’d been watching the boys play a video game, cheering on whoever was winning at the time so as not to favor one over the other (although I wanted David to win. He was the underdog) I had a nice buzz on. I’d had my morning and afternoon Captain Morgans, and I was feeling nice. 
When I answered the door, there were two women, both wearing smart jackets buttoned at the waist and white blouses underneath. Both had their hair done in tight buns. They could have been twins, except they were different sizes. The taller one wore glasses and carried a clipboard, which she referred to now.
“Mister…Boria?” She asked, looking up at me.
“Yes.”
“My name is Mrs. Hapscomb. This is Miss Harris. We’re with the Children's Bureau. Here’s my card.”
She gave me a white card with the seal of New York on one side, her name, work address, and a phone number on the other. “May we come in?”
I really didn’t want to let them in. I wanted them to go away. I wanted a chance to clean up the place, what with there being dirty dishes and empty fast-food containers all over the coffee table – the dining room table was similarly covered in detritus – and clothes all over the sofa, a load of laundry that was never put away.  I wanted my breath to smell like anything but Captain Morgan. 
I said, “Come on in.” and stood aside to usher them in. While their backs were turned, I waved at the boys to go away, which they did. They left the television on and the video game running.
“Here,” I rushed past the two women and made a space on the sofa so they could sit. There was too much stuff on the loveseat, so I pulled over a chair from the dining room and sat down in front of them. “Have a seat, please.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Hapscomb, Miss. Harris said nothing.
“Okay,” I said, reaching behind me to turn off the TV, trying to look as casual as possible, “how can I help you?”
Hapscomb referred to her clipboard again and said, “Mr. Boria, is it correct that you have two daughters, Jillian, age eight, and Illyana, age six?”
I hesitantly answered, “Yes?”
“And they both attend Public School 182?”
“Okay,” I said, “What’s this about?”
“Just a few more questions for the sake of clarification, please. Your wife, Eleanor,” She kept referring to that damned clipboard. “She is the children’s biological mother, correct?” 
“Correct”
“Perfect,” she said. She took off her glasses and laid them on the clipboard. “Mr. Boria, we’re here to investigate certain incidents reported by school staff.”
“What incidents?”
“On at least three occasions, your wife collapsed while picking your daughters up from their classroom. Did you know about that?”
“No.” and that was the truth. I didn’t know Elly picked them up at all. “Was she okay? Was she…”
“Each time, the school nurse observed that your wife was under the influence.” 
“I didn’t…”
“Is your wife here, Mr. Boria? We’d like to speak with her, please”
“Oh no, She’s…”
The boys suddenly bounded into the room. Julio had a chance to say, “Dad! Mom’s…”
“Bashroom,” Elly slurred, shouting from down the hall. There was a sing-song lilt to her voice; she didn’t have a care in the world as she announced to everyone her intention to go to the toilet. We all heard her bounce off of a wall and ricochet into the bathroom. 
“…Up.” Said Julio.
Both of the investigators were eyeing me now. Miss Harris, in particular, had a disapproving expression on her face, but neither of them looked happy. After a moment, Mrs. Hapscomb put her glasses back on and said, “Thank you, Mr. Boria. I think we’ve seen enough.”
“Hold on,” I said desperately, “What does that mean? You’ve ‘seen enough’? What happens now?”
“Now, you have one chance. We will come back after some unspecified time and reevaluate your case. If we find that the situation has not improved, the children will be removed from the premises until such a time as you are deemed competent by a court of law, Until that time, your daughters will be placed in foster care.”
“Wait,” I said as they stood up. “What do I have to do?”
She sighed and took off her glasses again. She regarded me with a gaze that was not quite pity but something close to it.
“Mr. Boria, I can only give you what I give all parents. Advice. Clean up your act. Make sure we come back to a clean, organized home, preferably where both parents are sober. Make sure your children go to school; they are well-fed and comfortable. Just… clean up your act.” They turned to leave, and I brushed past them to open the door.
“I’ll clean up my act,” I said.
“Mm Hmm.” She replied. Miss Harris said, “Good day, Mr. Boria,” as she walked past me.
I closed the door and leaned against it with my eyes closed. I took a few deep breaths, and when I opened my eyes, Julio and David were on the other side of the room, watching me.
“What’re we gonna do, Dad?” asked David.
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when I sober up.”
 

When I was eighteen, my best friend was Eddie Crespo, a recovering heroin addict twelve years my senior. More than a friend, he was a mentor, a teacher, a kind of father figure – albeit a flawed one. 
He was an amazing guitar player, and a big part of why we hit it off was the guitar lessons he gave me. I’d been fiddling with an acoustic guitar that had been another gift from Mom’s friend Cuco. By the time I met Eddie, my chord library consisted of eleven badly played chords. He made me practice until I played passably well.
It was a give-and-take relationship: he taught me to appreciate the integrity and hard work inherent in music. I helped him to recapture the adolescence that had been stolen from him by heroin. He was also impressed that I kept coming back despite his irascible and gruff nature.  Inexplicably for both of us, the ex-junkie and the naïve church boy forged a bond that persists some forty-some-odd years later. 
At the time, Eddie was employed as a janitor in the boiler room of the dilapidated building he was living in, so, naturally, his jeans were always dirty and greasy. That was the case one day when he accompanied me to church to see my mother. 
I hadn’t gone back to church regularly for two years. I couldn’t be Pentecostal and still play rock music. By this time, I was smoking cigarettes and drinking beer, hanging out in bars with Eddie, and doing minor drugs, just a little weed now and then. Despite all of that, my morality, my ethics remained intact. I was not a lost soul. In fact, I was pretty happy despite the sword of Damocles hanging over my head every night.  I tried my best to ignore it, but deep down, in those moments just before sleep, I felt hell-bound. It wasn't exactly the call of a loving God, more like one of the pastor’s sermons.
Eddie and I walked into the church where I had spent much of my young life. We walked among people I had called family until recently: members of the Martinez family, Rodrigues, and Cotto. Even Enrigue was there. Some of them greeted me. Many didn’t. Enrigue didn’t.
While we waited for Mom to come out of the kitchen, Eddie and I gravitated toward the musical instruments at the front of the church. I showed him the dilapidated drum kit I had spent so many Sundays playing, and he laughed at its condition. We appreciated the amplifiers and Leo's keyboard like any musician would. Gradually, however, I began to feel staring eyes boring into my back, marking our movements with suspicion. I couldn’t understand it. Yes, Eddie was a stranger, and the church was located in a sketchy part of Spanish Harlem, so their reaction to him might have been justified if this wasn’t the house of God. No one greeted us. There was food being served in the kitchen – by my mother, no less – but no one invited us to join in the meal. They whispered and watched. I began to feel uncomfortable, as if I were in a department store with a security guard following me around surreptitiously, waiting for me to stash something in my jacket. When my mother finally came out of the kitchen, dish towel still in hand, she had a sheepish look on her face. She took my arm and, in a small voice, told us the pastor suggested we talk outside. 
By the time we got to the front doors, my hands were balled into fists so tight my fingernails dug into my palms. I thought I might draw blood. As soon as we got outside, words shot out of my mouth in a rage-fueled torrent. 
“Ma, what the hell? How the hell could they treat us like that? I was raised here., I’ve known these people my whole life! They’re a bunch of freaking hypocrites!” People across the street were stopping to see what the commotion was all about. 
“And where the hell is the love of God, huh?” I was gesticulating wildly by now, pacing back and forth like Pastor Ortiz during a heated sermon. “It’s Tasha all over again, but worse! They’re supposed to be like Jesus? When did he ever turn away anybody because they were dirty? Sorry.” I directed that last to Eddie, who stood to the side quietly, 
“s’all right,” he said.
“Ma!” I continued, “They treated us like dirt. Like criminals! Eddie’s a stranger, Ma, why should he ever come back to this fucking bunch of hypocrites!”  I yelled. I didn’t care if the people inside heard me. Rather, I wanted them to hear.   I wanted someone, preferably pastor Ortiz, to come out and confront me.  
More people gathered across the street. No one came out of the church.
Through it all, my mother stood silent, gripping the dish towel tightly in her hands.  I expected her to slap my face for cursing in front of her. I had never done so in my entire life. The slap didn’t come. Instead, when I finally looked at her, I saw she was crying…I had made my mother cry.
My ire evaporated. I’d never made my mother shed tears. I immediately reached out, expecting her to recoil in anger of her own. She didn’t. She let me hug her.
Eddie stood beside us, nonplused. He patted Mom on the back and said, “It’s okay, Ma, it’s okay.”
She was sobbing softly into my shoulder now. I stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry, Ma, I didn’t mean to yell at you like that. It wasn’t you.”
“No, Nene,” she whispered through her tears, “You’re right.” She let me go and turned to Eddie. She drew him close as he held out his arms like he didn’t know what to do with them, and with a confused look on his face, he returned her hug.  She pulled his head down and kissed his cheek.  When she released him, she wiped her tears with the dish rag.
“Go,” she said to me finally,” Go, we’ll talk when I get home.”
“Okay.” 
She turned without another word and went back into the church. I wanted to scream again. How could she bear to go back into that house of cowards? No one had come out to help her. Not even to see what was going on. At least the gawkers across the street showed some interest in what was happening in front of the church. Its inhabitants couldn’t be bothered. 
Then I realized that this was my mother’s home. She didn’t have any other place, and she didn’t know any other way. 
I looked at Eddie, and he said, “Y’know, I’m never coming back to this fucking place, right?”
“I know.” I said, “Me neither.”
And I never did.
 

My grades were seldom stellar, but once or twice, they were good enough—perhaps a couple of Bs, maybe some Cs, and sometimes only one fail. As usual, Mamita would praise the genius but misunderstood level of my IQ. She suggested that the material might be boring me, so mediocre grades were to be expected. Obviously, the material was beneath me. 
Titi would look at the grades, read the comments from the teacher, and nod. 
“Cuchi,” she’d say, using the nickname she’d given me, “You can do better.” I took the reproach gladly because of the unspoken but implied compliment.; the idea that I had it in me to do better. Not the highest of praise, but I’d take it. 
Unfortunately, my aunts were not my legal guardians. Only a parent could sign the report card, so I would have to show it to my father
“Look at you,” he’d snort, “A goddamned genius.  How the hell do you fail English?” He would scrawl his name on the card and fling it back at me. “I’m supposed to praise you; tell you it’s good? I’m not your aunt. Failing English, can’t speak Spanish; what the hell good are you? You’re a bum.” 
I was the bum. That was his cute nickname for me. Bum. 
There were many terms of endearment. Cuchi, Nene. It almost seemed like no one wanted to use my given name. Blackie was hurtful – not to mention racist, but I didn’t think in those terms back then. Blackie just made me feel dirty. The nickname that stuck with me, even to this day, was Bum. It implied that I was nothing, destined to remain nothing. Bum was the child of the ghetto who would never leave it regardless of geography. Bums were dirty and poor like I was. They were often black like I was. They were stupid like I apparently was. They lived on the subway and slept in burned-out and abandoned tenement buildings. They pitched their cardboard tents over the warmth of metal grates in their tatters and grime. They spoke to no one but themselves. 
I wasn’t at that point yet, but that’s where I was obviously headed because bums drew crappy pictures and got shity grades. According to the most influential man in my life, it was inevitable, axiomatic because Bum was not just a nickname but in my nature. It was who I was
 

In 1963, right after I was born, my parents, Eugenio and Virginia Boria, separated. They never got divorced; neither believed in divorce. My mother kept her married name and the apartment on 105th Street in Spanish Harlem. 
It was decided that my two older sisters would stay with Mom, and I would live with my father and his sisters, Louisa and Irene, in the very next building, adjacent to our old place. My mother took me to church, but I spent the rest of my time with my father and aunts in a three-and-a-half-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a six-story walk-up. 
My aunts took care of me. Aunt Louisa, the elder of the two known to me as “Titi,” ensured I was fed and properly clothed. She was strict and stern but never unkind or abrasive. I never knew her to be touchy-feely. That was Irene’s wheelhouse. I called Aunt Irene “Mamita.” She always brought home toys and trinkets for me, and I was showered with hugs and kisses when she was around. I could do no wrong in her eyes. 
My father paid the bills, and that was the extent of his engagement.  Other than that, I don’t think he knew what it meant to be a father, and he didn't seem to want the job. In fact, he seemed to hate the job and me.

***

Like most little kids with lots of time on their hands, I spent lots of time drawing. My chosen medium was crayon on loose-leaf. One such work of art sent Mamita into paroxysms of adoration. She took it from my hands, raised it to the light to get a better look, and began to fawn.  
"You are going to be such a famous little artist one day!" she said, hugging me and kissing the top of my head. I had to agree because, of course I was.
Titi eyed the drawing with cool appraisal. She did not fawn, but she took her time.  Nervous as I was, I got the impression that she was really seeing it, not just placating a child. 
“Very nice, " she declared finally, and coming from Titi, that was high praise indeed. My relief was short-lived, however, when she said, “Go show it to your father.”

***

I trudged, lead-footed, down the long hallway, passing the bathroom and the kitchen, to my father’s bedroom. His room was the one closest to the front door, so I had to pass it as I left the apartment to go to school every morning.
“Bendicion, Papi.” I would call in the way that Spanish children used to ask for their parent’s blessing. He’d respond with a grunt if he responded at all. 
I almost never entered his room, even when he wasn’t home. It smelled of old cigarettes and sweat, a distinct him smell. I stood in the open doorway, waiting for him to notice me.
My father was putting on his suit jacket, lit cigarette in his mouth, getting ready to go to the bar. (as far as I knew. I never saw him go to a job, but I saw him stagger out of the bar all the time.) He looked up and saw me, holding a piece of paper carefully in both hands
“What.” He said.
I took a hesitant step forward and held out the drawing to him. That feeling of pride I got from my aunt’s was gone. This was not a masterpiece, not a fine work of art. It was a square house with a triangle roof and four stick figures standing in front of it. I had taken pains to differentiate Titi from Mamita – They were different shapes and sizes – and I even drew a tie on Papi. I made sure I was not too tall, not too short and that I was holding his hand. I even threw in some bushes and trees next to the house. Of course, I knew we didn’t have trees or bushes. We didn’t live in a house. This was a dream place. A place where I’d like to live someday, like on Father Knows Best. But it was just a childish scrawl, crayon on loose-leaf paper that I handed to my father.
I don’t think he looked at it. He may have glanced, but I couldn’t be sure. He crushed it into a tight little ball and dropped it on the floor. 
“What the hell, you some kinda artist now?”  he asked.
He stalked past me, leaving me in his room with that terrible smell and a piece of tiny, crumpled paper at my feet On his way to the front door, putting on his hat, he half-turned and said, “Pick that up and stop wasting paper. You need that shit for school.”
I didn’t cry until after he left, and I didn’t cry for very long. I didn’t want either of my aunts to know what had happened. It was embarrassing, not what he’d done, but that I thought it could go any other way. I don’t think I ever showed him anything else I drew.
But then, I didn’t draw too much after that.

My mother held my sweaty little seven-year-old hand extra tight so I couldn’t wriggle free. I desperately wanted to join the “bad” kids in their unruly game of tag, weaving up, down, and around the aisles and pews of the church. I watched as my friends, dressed in their Sunday clip-on ties and bright, flowery dresses, whooped and hollered until adults waded into the fray. After a few twisted ears, the games came to a halt, but the giggling and arm-punching continued.

Most of the adults shuffled up the center aisle, fans fluttering and Bibles in hand. They clustered around the red double doors of the exit, which opened onto 112th Street. It was not much cooler outside. The noon sun made the air heavy. Men quickly loosened their ties and opened the top few buttons of their shirts. Women just had to suffer.

Mom stood on tippy-toes and craned her neck, trying to look over the heads of the crowd.  At 5’2” and wearing flat shoes, she was wishful thinking 
The church was more crowded than usual; there were visitors from Iglesia Macedonia. where Mom had first accepted Christ. She’d worshipped there before switching to La Quinta Iglesia de Dios Pentecostal shortly after I was born.  

Her eyes were bright, wide, and sparkling. The smooth skin of her face took ten years off of her. She reminded me of pictures I’d seen of young women waiting excitedly for their husbands and boyfriends to disembark from ships that brought them home from that war.  

She suddenly began to wave wildly. I saw nothing but bellies, but I could tell she’d spotted whoever she'd been looking for. Soon, a tall man in a nondescript grey suit parted the crowd like an ice-breaker. There was a smile under his mustache, a mouthful of white teeth between full cheeks. With a little shout, Mom pulled me. I had a chance to cast the briefest of glances back at my friends, who’d resumed their game of tag. I half-heartedly resisted Mom’s pull for just a second.  Any harder, and I risked the withering Mom face, which wouldn’t be good for anyone. 

The man drew Mom into a big embrace, into which she all but disappeared. He stood about a foot over her, her head resting just under his chin. Then they parted, but he held her at arm’s length.
“Hermana Boria!” His voice boomed above the din of the crowd behind him. “I’m so glad I got to see you! " he said in Spanish. His big face matched his big frame, topped with close-cropped hair that was nicely going grey. He was the only man I could see who hadn’t loosened his tie. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. 
“Oh,” Mom answered, beaming. “Praise God that you came by today! Did you enjoy the service?”
He nodded, “I felt the Spirit move this morning. The sermon was powerful. Pastor Ortiz is a great man of God. I’m glad you found a home in his church.”
“Oh yes, I love it here, " she replied. They continued in Spanish, and I didn’t understand much. Despite my heritage and upbringing, my Spanish was - and remains - horrible.

Finally, he looked down at me as I fidgeted. Mom held me in place by the shoulders in front of her, as if offering me up for inspection, which, I guess, was exactly what she was doing.

He looked down at me, and his brow furrowed, his lips pursed.  In heavily accented English, he said, “And is this little Alcapurrito?” I turned to look up, questioningly, at my mother, but she was still smiling. She laughed and held me out so he could get a better look at me. He bent down so his eyes were just over mine and held a finger under my chin so I would meet his gaze,
“And are you being a good boy?” He asked gravely “Listening to your mother?”
“Yes,” I squeaked, and Mom squeezed my shoulder hard
"Yes, sir.” I quickly corrected.

“Good.” He said. “Listen to your mama. Remember, God is watching you and me too. If you’re bad, I come back and bite your nose.” He gave my nose a little tweak
“Yes, sir,” I replied, a little relieved but still nervous. I knew God was watching me. Mom said so every night when she put me to bed. No one ever said anything about nose-biting.
He stood up, and they continued their conversation. I took that as my cue to slip away, and this time, Mom let me go. I didn’t immediately join my friends and their games, though. I didn’t move more than a few feet away and I watched them talk. I was a little confused; I was accustomed to nicknames -  I was commonly known as Blackie to some of my friends because I was the only dark-skinned kid in church. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t stop them, not without fighting, and I was decidedly not a fighter. 

Some of the people who struggled with English tended to mispronounce my name. It was Eugene back then, Eugene Boria. But for some of them, it was “Lugene.” Even my mom had a hard time pronouncing my name She called me “Jew-gin,” so she decided to go with “Nene.” It was easier to say and less embarrassing.  
“Alcapurrito” was a new one for me.  

As I had been taught, I held my tongue and waited until they hugged again. Before he rejoined the throng, he looked down and said, “Don’t forget; we're watching you.” He ruffled my short, nappy head and disappeared into the crowd. 
Mom knelt to tuck my shirt into my pants. “We walk home today,” she said, and we plunged into the crowd.

***

We walked down Lexington Avenue, with the sun casting our shadows right beneath us, thankful for the occasional breeze. As we walked, she told me about the man in the grey suit in slow Spanish so I’d understand.
“That man,” she said, “was Hermano Gutierres, my old pastor at Macedonia. I used to go there before you were born. God, it feels like such a long time ago. 
“Anyway, that’s where I learned to make pastelillos and those little donuts you like, but my favorite thing to make was alcapurias.  They were everybody’s favorite. When I made them, people used to line up to get one.
“But the kitchen was tiny, much smaller than La Quibta’s. There was no room to cook and no place at all to keep you. So, my little table had a shelf in the bottom, and that's where I used to keep you in your little basket. One day, Pastor Gutierrez came into the kitchen and saw you there. He said something like, ‘Mira! Alcapurrito!” And soon, everybody was calling you that until we moved to La Quinta.”

I was horrified, relieved that the name hadn’t followed me and that none of the other kids heard Pastor Gutierrez call me that. Blackie was bad enough, I thought. Alcapurrito would send me over the edge.

. ⃰⃰⃰  ⃰⃰⃰⃰⃰⃰⃰  ⃰

No one ever called me Alcapurrito. I was blackie until I was old enough to stand up for myself, and even then, I was Blackie behind my back. In time, I became somewhat respected as one of the church musicians, inured to the hurtful nickname.  But it occurs to me that I started my religious life as that baby under a table in the kitchen of La Macedonia. Blackie notwithstanding, I was once Alcapurrito, born destined to worship God and peeking from under a kitchen table, wondering what the hell was going on.
 

Think of that song that you absolutely adore; the one that changed your life or the way you think. The song that you dedicated to your husband or wife; the one you danced to at your wedding. We all have a song that makes us laugh or cry every time we hear it. It draws us into another time and place and reminds us of that first love or that crazy summer.
Yeah, that song.

Now think about this: someone wrote that song. Its inspiration might have come from a bad relationship – or a good one. It might have evolved from a snatch or lyric that popped into the author's head while taking a shower (or a dump). This writer had no idea what effect his song would have on the world or if it would have any effect at all. He was just writing a song.
To me, that’s the magic of music. And it is a kind of magic. You snatch that bit of lyric or melody right out of the ether. It strikes you like lightning or it whispers in your ear. It demands that you forge it like a blacksmith, molding and shaping that bit of nothing into a song. Most of the time, your song, will not be heard by anyone other than a few good friends or family. l. Sometimes it changes the world. It’s like having a baby, its future written in the wind, buffeted by a million unpredictable factors over which you have no control. You write the song; not its journey.

So, it seems that I am a wizard, albeit one whose s spells have unknown outcomes. My songs come from nowhere, or from some deep part of my brain. Both are equally unknowable. I shape them and form them into concrete shapes, then send them out into the world, hoping they strike chords with their listeners (at least one.)

I’m humbled by this great honor. I feel small beneath this wonderful, terrible thing. My only hope is that one of these snatches of lyric makes its way into just the right ear at just the right time and touches someone’s heart. Then I will have done some great magic.
 

I had a stupid morning. A stupid morning is a specific kind of bad or sad morning. A stupid morning is a combination of the two, but for stupid reasons. My reason dajour was this: It took me almost two hours to re-string my guitar.

I was putting light gauge strings on a Fender Stratocaster.   I used to do this as quick as a roadiie at a rock concert, about twenty minutes give-or-take, including the time it takes to takes to get the new strings out of the package. Light gauge strings are super thin, and a Strat has a few sets of tiny holes to get the strings through. On this stupid morning, I couldn’t feel the strings and when I could, I couldn’t get them through the holes. It took about two hours and a lot of "fucks,” and “Goddmnits” to finish the job. I finally had to call my wife in to help me do something I’ve been doing since I was eighteen.

She didn’t see, but after an hour or so I began to cry. I couldn’t believe how low I'd sunk physically, to not be able to sting a guitar. If I’d reached the age where I couldn’t perform simple tasks, then perhaps my musician days were finally, really over.

And there, right there is what made it a stupid morning. The voices in my head. They were lying like they always do, and I was listening. I should have known better but I didn’t.  I was too busy being stupid.  

I don’t believe the notion that we have to accept a new normal when It comes to mental states or life’s circumstances. Every day brings a new normal. There are always opportunities to make yourself better and change the norms.  That’s what recovery is all about.

Having said that though, what you do have to accept are certain immutable facts. Air exists and we need to breathe it whether we believe in it or not, or we die. Gravity is a real thing as you’ll soon discover if you jump off a roof believing you can fly. Some snakes are poisonous, and they will kill you dead even if you believe God will protect you. There are certain immutable physical facts that you just can’t ignore.  

I am diabetic. That’s a fact. I have done some irreversible damage to my body. That is also a fact. I can’t feel my feet anymore. It’s called diabetic neuropathy and it’s a real thing that affects your extremities, so my fingers aren’t as sensitive as they once were. Whether I wanted to accept it or not, I was simply not going to feel guitar strings, especially not the lower ones that are thin as needles.  

I only have one eye thanks to diabetic retinopathy. That means seeing the tiny holes on a Strat is going to be difficult even with my glasses. This is compounded by the fact that I can no longer gauge distance.

I could cry and curse all I wanted, but my physical limitations are just facts. I forgot the serenity prayer, the part that says I needed the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. That stupid morning, I forgot the wisdom part.

I called my wife for help. She chastised me for not calling her sooner, which I should have done as soon as I realized I had a problem. Apparently, she is wiser than I am. No surprise there.

If anything, my new normal is that I sometimes need help. I need to accept that and therein lay serenity, courage, and wisdom. If I can remember that I can tell the voices to shut the hell up.

I’m bipolar, so I’m going to have some sad mornings, even some bad ones. That’s another fact I can’t avoid. But I can damn sure take steps to mitigate the stupid mornings. That much I can do. I’ll just call my wife. Leson learned. 

I used to teach scripture; nothing too fancy, I wasn’t a theologian or a scholar (just like I’m not a writer.) One of my favorite methods of teaching was to take a verse and break it down to its bare essence so it could be thoroughly understood. I’m borrowing from that method here although I’m turning the verse’s meaning on its head. 
 1st Corinthians 13:11-12 says “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12 For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.” 
As a child, I said what my mother said. I had no other frame of reference, so I remembered and repeated. Her words were sacrosanct. She said there were men (primarily men) who proved the existence of God because they spoke to and for Him. These men led people by example and were to be highly regarded as men of God. I believed her, of course, I did.
She told me there was a book authored or inspired by God that proved his existence because it said so. This book was perfect in every way and served as a blueprint for how people should live their lives; it was true because she said it was and I believed her.
She explained that there was proof of God’s existence in the way he made you feel; How he inhabits your heart. If you could feel Him, you would never doubt Him. That was proof enough.
She told me so many other things about Him. He was a being of the purest love who knew absolutely everything, especially everything about you. He could do anything you could imagine, and He listened to you. Sometimes He did the things you asked of Him if it followed a plan He had devised. And He was mysterious.  
And so, she said, there was ample proof that God was real and only we were privy to this knowledge. Everyone else thought they were but they were all wrong. 
I thought everything she said was true because she was my mother and no one else could know the truth that she knew as well as she knew it. There were others who believed all of the same things, but she was the one I listened to because I was a child, and she was my mother.
And then I grew up.
To protect me from misinformation and lies, my mother taught me to think and question for myself. She taught me to observe and learn from what I saw. Sometimes my questions led me in different directions, but she was confident that the answers would lead me back to the truth as she knew it and as she had explained it to me.  She was right, but not in the way she expected, I’m sorry, Mom.
Men, especially men who claimed to speak for God, were as flawed and deceitful as any men (or women). They were subject to all the failings that plagued all humankind. so, they could not be trusted as proof of God’s existence. 
The Bible was not inerrant. There were discrepancies and errors such that no two men could reach the same conclusions. It belied the authorship of a supreme being. If it could not be trusted to lay out the ultimate truth, it could not be counted on as proof of God’s existence. 
I saw for myself that feelings could not be trusted. They were easily influenced and manipulated. They changed from moment to moment and although each heartfelt feeling was powerful enough to claim the truth, they were rarely true.
If none of these claims could be considered evidence, then all of them could be rejected. While I could not with 100% certainty refute the existence of a god, I could absolutely dismiss claims made by men (or women) about God. 
I realized that my mother was wrong. She was human and a slave to her beliefs, but beliefs are not truth. I decided to live my life as if there was no God. It only took me about forty-seven years to come to that conclusion.
I once looked in a mirror and saw myself clouded by superstition and speculation. Anything and everything that the wind blew my way could be true. But then the mirror cleared, and I saw things for what they really were. I saw that horrible things befell good people and bad people could be rewarded for wickedness. There was no rhyme or reason, no plan. There were only the pendulum’s swing, the ouroboros of everyday life. Moreso when you’re bipolar, I saw this reflected in my own face and in the faces of everyone around me, good or bad. 
As a child at my mother’s knee, I saw only what she saw. It was a limited view of the world. Such was her knowledge of it, and she could only impart what she knew.  But there was a bigger picture, one that I couldn’t see fully, but I see more of it now than I did then. In getting to know myself with all my flaws and foibles, I also saw ways to help others with my own experience, with a new sense of purpose and new meaning in my life.   
That’s 1st Corinthians 13:11 and 12 for me right now although I have taken liberties and twisted its meaning. Thanks, in part, to my sacrilegious interpretation of the verse and the heretical thoughts they engender, I no longer walk in fear of Hell or anticipation of Heaven.  I don’t fear God’s wrath or beg for His mercy. I live day to day and face what life brings me to the best of my ability. I follow no superstitions or doctrine except what I impose on myself in an effort to be a good man; a man of morals and ethics. A free man.
 

I have four arms.
That is a very bold statement, I know. Nevertheless, I am telling you, as a simple matter of fact, that I have four arms. There are the two that are obvious, that you can see and touch, but there are also two others that you cannot perceive through normal means. Only a chosen few can see them, and I choose who those few are. I will not tell you if you are among them.
I have four arms and I use the extra arms to make things easier for certain people to reach things or scratch their backs. These people do not always know that I am helping them, but I am. Sometimes people catch the barest glimpse of something moving out of the corner of their eye; something they can’t explain. That’s me. If you’ve experienced anything like that, then you need no further proof of the fact that I have two extra arms. Go with your feelings. They ring true and are therefore all the proof you need.
Should you require further proof, please re-read the previous paragraphs. They tell the whole story. As you can see, I’ve written it all down for you. I labeled it as truth; therefore, it is true, and if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, they obviously cannot see the extra arms and are jealous of those who can. Don’t trust them. Don’t listen to them. They don’t love you. I do. My extra arms are hugging you right now. Can you feel them? I bet you can.
I have four arms. You don’t need to see them; you must only believe in them to make them real for you. You must trust that they exist, or they can’t help you reach things. I can absolutely guarantee that if you want to grab something and you raise your hand and reach for it, and you stretch your arm to its limit, stand on tippy-toes if you have to, and believe that my invisible arms are helping you, you will grab whatever it is you’re reaching for. If it doesn’t work, however, if you just can’t seem to reach that jar of peanut butter that’s on the top shelf, or that tin of sterno in the back of a drawer, it simply means you are not trying hard enough to make my invisible arms real for you. Of course, it could also mean that I don’t want you to eat that peanut butter. I’m only looking out for you because I love you. Otherwise, there’d be no problem with me grabbing that jar for you.
Okay. I’ve beaten this horse to death, I think. You get it. There is not a single person reading this harboring any illusions that I might be telling the truth. You all know that I do not have invisible arms. If anyone in the room you happen to be in right now were to suggest that I might be telling the truth about my arms, the rest of you can laugh them out of the room. And yet, these same sorts of claims are being made by every televangelist, preacher, and Sunday school teacher every day all over the country and everything they say is considered the absolute truth by at least fifty percent of the people listening to them at any given time.
I find it fascinating that if you adhere to any religion, then, you must believe that every other religion in the world is wrong but yours. The degree to which you might believe this varies from religion to religion, but it will be there. You might laugh when it is explained to you that the African God Mbombo vomited up the sun, moon, and stars, and after the sun had evaporated the waters on earth enough to make clouds and land, he vomited up the rest of the things that live on earth. When you are done laughing, you will then turn around and patiently explain, as if to a child, that God – – your God – spoke the world into existence in six days and had to rest on the seventh. And you will see nothing wrong with this picture.
Protestants scoff at Catholics who worship and pray to the Virgin Mary, Mother of God, but they totally believe the entire virgin birth story, based solely on the writings in a two-thousand-year-old book with no clearer claim to validity than Aesop’s Fables or Gulliver’s travels.
Proof. That’s all I’m asking for. Evidence. You can make any claim you want. You can believe anything you want. But if you want to convince me, if you want me to lay down my nets and follow you, you’re going to have to supply some proof.
Do you know what is funny? To someone who is religious, my earlier statement sounds silly. What makes me think that I can ask God for proof of his existence? What gives me the right? Well, I’m not asking God for anything. if you are claiming to have some kind of knowledge about the will of God, or even of his existence, I’m demanding proof from you. God is not making claims, you are. And if you’re making amazing claims, then I’m going to need amazing proof. If you say, “I go to church every Sunday.” I see no reason not to believe you. Good for you. But if you say, “I go to church every Sunday and speak directly to the supreme creator of all things and he answers me all the time,” then you’re going to have to back that up. You should at least be driving a better car.
And you had better be prepared for my incredulity. If we can both laugh at the silliness of Xenu, the scientologist’s three-trillion-year-old warrior God responsible for the creation of humanity, then you cannot be surprised when I laugh at your belief that If I confess that Christ was risen from the dead I will live forever in perfect bliss and joy. To me, it’s all the same thing. Myths and stories, interesting, thought-provoking, funny, sad, whatever, but not truth.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a wicked itch right in the small of my back that can only be reached by one of my invisible arms.
Amen.
 

 I was thirty-four years old, a year or so after my father died, and I was in my mother’s apartment with my sister, Cachie. She and I were having a friendly squabble about something or other. She and I were always at odds on pretty much every subject. Mom was in the kitchen cooking.
Exasperated with our argument, I threw up my hands and joined my mother. 
“Ma,” I said amiably, loud enough so Cachie could hear, “you gotta tell me, Cachie and I couldn't have come from the same father, right? That's why she’s so pig-headed!”
“Oh, shut up!” she called from the living room.
“You shut up!” I called back, laughing. I turned around to make sure she heard me. When I turned back to Mom, she was staring at me, her eyes wide. I was instantly concerned.
“What, Ma,” I asked, “What’s the matter?” She didn’t answer, she only stared at me.
“What did I say? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.” She stared. “Ma?” I franticly played back everything I had said in my head. I hadn’t said anything to offend he or to shock her this way.
Had I?
“Ma,” I was suddenly afraid. I don’t know why. “Was Papi my real father?”
After a minute, she whispered, “No.”
The silence that followed was deafening. There was food cooking on the stove. The television was on in the living room. A fan was whirling in the kitchen window. I didn’t hear any of them, only that whispered, “No.” That and my own breathing, my own heartbeat.
“What?” I managed to say.
“No. He wasn’t”
And I knew. The man who came around every once in a while, who always had a kind word or some encouragement for me.  The man who had bought me a trumpet and a guitar when I wanted to learn music.     “It was Cuco, wasn’t it,” I asked,
She only nodded. There were tears on her face. And something else in her eyes, fear?
Cuco was Victor Nelson, He was a welder by trade, but also a trumpet player in a Latin band that toured all over Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic. When he came around to visit, Mom always made sure I was somewhere within reach. I saw why.  
“He knew, right?” she nodded. “But why didn’t you tell me?”
She sighed deeply and said, “I couldn’t, Nene. I was still married, and I had Suleima and Cachie. If he found out he would have put us out on the street.”
“But he didn’t know?”
“I don’t think so. When I found out I was pregnant, I was so afraid. I had Suleima and Cachie and if Eugenio found out, he would’ve… well, you know. But he was a merchant marine back then and he came home on leave. Every leave was the same; he used to drop off his bags and go drinking with his friends, then would come home drunk and pass out. This was every night until he went back to the ship. This time I grabbed him and demanded he … do his husbandly duties.”
“Ugh,” I said.
“He left and I sent him a letter later telling him II was pregnant again. So, I don’t think he suspected.”
I thought about it for a while. I didn’t know if I should be angry or grateful or a combination of the two. I settled on the latter. There had been so much wasted time. Time under Eugenio’s thumb. I could have accomplished so much more without his voice in my ear telling me what a fuck up I was; how worthless. Instead, I could have been raised by a man who would, at the very least, have shown an interest in me. I had a right to be angry.
On the other hand, Eugenio was not my real father! The revelation sent waves of understanding all through me. I believe he knew. He must have known, I thought. That would explain why he was such a total shit to me. It wasn’t an excuse, just an explanation. It didn’t matter to me if he knew or not. He was still a shitty little man. Not at all like Cuco, who’d had nothing but kind, encouraging words for me in the few times we’d encountered each other.
“I want to meet him,” I said.
“I’ll call him.”

Mom went with me to meet him in his tiny apartment in the South Bronx. When he opened the door, there was no fear in his eyes, no awkward hesitation, only joy. His hug was warm and inviting. He was happy to see me, and it melted my heart almost at once. After we sat down and exchanged pleasantries, he told me he had always wanted to claim me as his son.  He had even picked a name for me. Daniel.  I thought about that. A simple name change would have saved me from several beatings at school. Being named Eugene had been like painting a target on my back. Also, I had been named after the neighborhood drunk. Mom explained it would have been impossible to name me Daniël since Eugenio thought I was his firstborn son and insisted on giving me his name.
Together, they explained why they couldn't reveal my identity, it was a different time, they said. Mom would have been labeled a wanton woman by the entire family and everyone in the church. The latter I could attest to. They would have made Mom’s life a living hell. 
I was still angry. They had kept their secret to keep Mon’s reputation intact, while I suffered years of verbal and emotional abuse. I was refused a loving dad so my mother wouldn’t suffer recrimination.
Then she said two things that turned me around. She said if she had told me while he was still alive, we would have fought, and I would probably have hurt him. That much was true. Sometimes the only thing that kept me from shoving him down a flight of stairs was the notion that he was my father and I could not commit patricide, no matter how appealing that option was. 
Then she told me she hadn’t wanted to see the look in my eyes as she told me. She didn’t want my impressions of her to change. I didn’t even have to think before I said, “Ma, you were twenty-something years old and you were married to a pr...bad man. I wouldn’t have looked at you funny. I love you, Ma.”
In the end, I accepted their explanations and forgave them both. I couldn’t help it. I was so happy to have a real father who loved and accepted me.
Papi (I immediately called him that as if it was the most natural thing in the world.)and I got to know each other over the next few years. I found out I had nineteen brothers and sisters – He was an itinerant musician and apparently, Papa was a rolling stone. He admitted to loving and making love to an impressive number of women, but my mother was always going to be the one that got away. I accepted that.
When I told him I was a recording musician, he jumped up and went to his closet. After rooting around for a minute had produced a large orange hard guitar case and gave it to me. Inside was a vintage Fender Precision Bass in pristine condition except someone put a Puerto Rican flag sticker in the shape of a heart on the pickguard.
“Pa,” I said, “I can’t accept this. This is worth a lot of money.”
“Take it. Nene,”  he had taken to using my mother’s nickname for me “There were many things I wanted to give you, but could only do a few. I’m just glad it’s not too late.”
I still have that bass, it’s one of my most prized possessions.
A few years later, after Mom passed away, Papi moved into a nursing home on 110th Street, only five blocks away from me. I went to visit him every Sunday. In the summer he’d be hanging out in front of the facility listening as the other old men played dominos and traded juicy gossip. He was mostly blind by then,
I would walk up and say, “Hey Papi...”
His face would light up, a smile like a beam would appear on his face,
“Look:” he would say to his friends, “my son is here!” and he said it with such pride and happiness I could barely stand it. No other man in my life had ever been so openly happy to see me.
Then he would try to hook me up with one of his nurses. 
I cherish that memory and so many others, they went a long way towards healing my soul. Eugenio became a paper tiger to me; his contempt and derision could no longer dominate my thoughts. They resurfaced from time to time, but they were no longer constant. My father chased them away because he was proud of me.
I miss that man with all my heart. He passed away in 2002.