James Daniel Nelson

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.
 

In 1963, Eugenio and Virginia Boria separated. I was a baby when they decided my sisters would stay with my mother and I would go with my father and his sisters, Louisa and Irene in the next building. I never knew a time my parents were together even though we all lived on the same block.

Eugenio was an ugly drunk with heavy hands and a heavier tongue. He was ostensibly my father, but he didn't know what that meant, and he didn't particularly want the job. He thought his only responsibility to me was to pay the bills and, on occasion, take me to the barber. We never spoke on those trips. We never held hands, even when crossing the street. My aunts made him take me so he did, grudgingly. Other than that, he had no use for me.

As a child, I remember drawing little pictures. childish scrawls, crayons on looseleaf paper. My aunt Irene would fawn over them, clapping her hands with glee. "You are going to be a famous artist one day!" she'd say, and I would beam.

My aunt Louisa, the elder of the two and much more reserved, would look at the picture appraisingly, hand it back to me and say, “Very nice.” She might even grace me with a rare smile.  

When presented with the drawing, my father would wrinkle his nose, crumple it up and say, “The fuck, you think you're an artist now?"

Sometimes I brought home good grades.  My aunts would reward me with special desserts or little toys. There was always praise. Unfortunately, my father would have to sign the report card and when he did, he would say something along the lines of “Look at him, a fucking genius. How do you fail English? Come back when you get a good report card. Bum.”  That was his cute nickname for me. Bum.

One Halloween, I went with a bunch of kids into the corner bar. Everyone knew a bunch of drunks with slippery hands would bring in a good haul, so that was where we hit first. When we went in, we saw the bar was empty except for my father sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a beer. He called for us to come closer as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket, He pulled out a few singles and made a show of handing out dollar bills to all my friends “One for you, one for you…” about five kids who ran squealing out of the bar. When we were alone, he would fish in his pockets and pull out a quarter. “this is for you,” he said, then he held it just beyond my reach so I had to jump for it. When he finally relented and put the coin in my hand, he turned back to his drink, muttering, “fucking Bum,”

That was life with my father.  

As I recall, he only beat me once, but it was memorable. I must have been around six at the time, but he still used a thick belt to beat me with. At one point, he brought the belt down at a sharp angle and it sliced right through the skin on my knee, exposing the bone. My aunts both screamed and pulled him off me, cursing. They never allowed him to beat me again, although there was always the occasional slap or one swipe of a much thinner belt.

The dynamic changed when I was about fifteen. I already stood a few inches above him and had the trim body of a boy who spent most of his time rough housing with his friends. It must have been around six o'clock. I was walking down the apartment’s long hallway to get to the front door when he came out of the kitchen and stood in front of me, barring my way.  

“Where you think you're going,” he growled. I could smell the booze on his breath even though he hadn't gone out that day. Yeah, I thought, He hides bottles in his room.

“Out,” I said. I tried to brush past him, but he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around,

“Who the fuck you talking to like that?” and he made as if to hit me.

I took two steps back and raised my hands in a defensive stance. I was no fighter, but I was fairly confident I could lay him out. I was certainly willing to try and he saw it too. We stood that way for a few minutes before he grunted and waved me aside dismissively. I don't think we spoke again after that.                                                

He only ever acknowledged me one time. I was playing at a block party with Eddie and our band, Blackberry Brandy. I was singing lead when I saw my father out of the corner of my eye, walking by with a blonde woman I didn't know under his arm. As they passed, Ronnie and I both distinctly heard him say, “Look. That's my son.”

I didn't catch her response, but I saw them walk on. They didn't stop to catch the set.  

After the gig, Eddie brought it up. I told him I didn't feel anything at all, no sense of pride at my father deigning to notice me.  

“He was trying to get into that woman's pants,” I said, “That's all.”

We didn’t speak to each other until the day he died, but I hear his voice still, whenever I fail or fall. He leans in and I can smell the booze on his breath as he whispers in my ear, “You’re always gonna be aa fucking failure.” Sometimes I believe him. 
 

This is my dream:
I am standing at one end of the long hallway in my aunt’s tenement apartment where I was raised. The hallway, lit by a single lightbulb in the middle, runs most of the length of the apartment from the front door to the living room where I now stand. There is a wall on one side covered in floral patterned wallpaper panels, some peeling at the corners, others bulging at the bottom. Opposite the wall are the bathroom door, the kitchen, then one of the bedrooms.
I notice these details clearly in the dream, but there, at the other end of the hallway, is where the clarity ends and the surreal begins as the apartment’s front door is obscured by an opaque, shadowy mist. As I watch, it moves, turbid and roiling, a few feet passed the bedroom door. Somewhere in that fog, in his room, my father sleeps. 
I am not alone. At my side is my grandson, Ender, all of six years old (as he always appears in my dreams). He wears a tee shirt too large for his small frame, and jeans with slashed open knees. He might have looked scruffy if not for his top-of-the-line, brand new sneakers. He holds my hand and sings in a sweet child’s voice, a tune I’ve since forgotten. It is beautiful.
“Stop,” I say, “he’s sleeping.” 
The boy doesn’t hear me, so soft is my voice. 
“Stop.” I say, just a little louder, “Please.” 
He stops singing, opting instead to hum. and looks up at me, questioningly.
A crash echos down the hall, shaking the walls and making the tattered wallpaper flutter. It is a fist pounding the weak tenement walls. The boy and I both jump. 
“Who the fuck is singing?” The words are growled, a low, guttural snarl like a bear preparing to charge. They are slurred so “singing” comes out sounding like “Shinging.”
Ender’s song ends abruptly. He’s never heard such rampaging fury directed at him. He doesn’t know what to do except to cringe, his eyes wide.
There is another crash, followed by a series of loud, floor-rattling footfalls. The wall of darkened mist slowly begins to shift along with the footfalls, closer. It fills the hallway from wall to wall, ceiling to floor.
“Did you hear me?” my father roars in a voice like a thousand cigarettes and a dozen razor blades, “Who d’fuck is singing?”  His words are slurred so “singing” comes out as, “shinging.” He is halfway down the hall now. The fog rolls under the light bulb, effectively snuffing the poor light. We can see the fog
swirling, inexorably closing the distance between us. Our shadows are thrown in front of us by the dim living room lights behind us. “What ‘re you, a fuckin’ shinger now?”
Ender, still holding my hand, cowers. His beautiful song is forgotten. I watch him shrink behind me and my heart breaks. This lovely, talented boy has done nothing wrong. He’s just a boy.  His fear is a wild thing, filling him entirely. I know that fear. It is familiar. but I begin to realize, with some shock, that I am not shrinking in terror. There is something growing, brewing, and bubbling inside of me. I am angry.
The beast from the end of the hall is coming; that same drunken animal that plagued my childhood and infests my dreams. I am assailed by memories; dreams within the dream. I see it all; if I presented a drawing, just a child’s rendering f a dog, “Whata, you think you are? An artist now?” If I brought home a relatively good report card, I got, “What, you’re a fuckin’ genius now?”  I never knew what he wanted from me. He never explained anything, or taught anything. There was only a steady stream of derision without elucidation or end. My anger grew.
The wall of roiling fog passes the kitchen, getting closer to the bathroom door, but I am seeing it for the first time from a different point of view. . It is gradual but steady; a slow assuaging of its opacity. I notice that the fog no longer stretches from wall to wall. I can even see the faint glow of the lightbulb through the mist. 
I’m an adult now, I think, and not a six-year-old boy. The swirling haze continues to dissipate leaving behind nothing more than wispy strands of smoke. And there, clearly visible, is my father. 
He is exactly as I remember him, disheveled and barefoot in his sleep-wrinkled shirt and pissy pants. There is three days growth of scraggly beard on his face with a lit cigarette jutting out of the middle of it. His black skin is pale and his eyes are blotched yellow and red, barely opened. 
I take a deep breath and say, “I heard you.” even as the words roll off of my lips, I begin to understand something that eludes Ender now as it had eluded me at six. This man is not a beast in the dark. He is not a bear in the bedroom at the end of the hall, something to sneak past as you leave the apartment. He is not a giant filling the hall from floor to ceiling; truth be told, he stands a few inches shorter than I am. Hunched as he is, he is even shorter. 
“Are you some kind of... kind of a shinger now?” He blinks. The growl is gone out of his voice, replaced by a kind of drunken confusion, “Are you?” his last was directed at Ender, who he is just noticing.
“Yeah.” I say, surprised by the calmness of my voice, bringing his attention back to me, “I’m a fucking singer now, and an artist and a writer and I still play a fairly good harmonica. I got decent grades back in the day.”  I stand straighter, planting myself between my grandson and my father. “And if you come near my grandson, I’ll fucking kill you.”
I want to say there is fear in his eyes now, but that’s not what I remember. He takes a step closer; his squint deepens. His hand darts out to remove the cigarette from his lips. It’s a feint.  I don't flinch.
“Yeah?” He says, "And what the fuck, you think you a man now, you fuckin’ bum?” His words end in a fit of coughing. I wait for the cough to subside.
“I am a man now,” I say, “a better man, not a drunk pissing himself in a shitty room.”  His eyes grow wider with every word, “I don’t need to take my shit out on a little kid. And,” I paused, “If you try that shit with Ender, I’ll kill you.”
He doesn’t respond with words. Sometimes he eschews words when fists suffice. Instead, he tries to lunge past me to get to the boy.  I understand. He isn’t seeing the familiar fear in my eyes, but he can still scare a six-year-old. He does not make it past me. He is slow.
I reach out easily, languidly, and wrap my fingers around his throat. As I do, I know what he has been hiding from me for so many years: His throat is hollow, his skin paper thin. Made of paper, in fact. He crinkles. I discover that this man who haunts me is nothing more than an origami figure, light as a bag of feathers. There is nothing to him. Nothing. He is a hollow man.
I hold him gingerly so as not to break him. He does not fight me or shower curses on me, his illusion is broken; his power is all gone. His feet leave the floor as I push him away from me.  I don’t hurl him. I don’t need to. I shove him and, like a helium balloon, he floats back towards his room, bouncing off the hallway walls as he goes.
I am not breathing heavily. My heart is not wildly beating in my chest. Neither do I feel a sense of triumph, only sadness and pity. So many needless years of being afraid of this paper man; all of that pointless time and energy. I’d believed him when he told me I was a failure, a fuck up. I ‘d believed him when he told me my life would never amount to anything; when he called me a bum. I had believed it all.
I looked down at Ender, who comes out from behind me, fresh and new. In his young life, he is always praised, always loved. He knows his family is proud of him, especially his grandpa.
“Go on, boy,” I say as I put my hand on his shoulder. I have to reach down a bit to do it.  “Sing your song. I want to hear it.” He smiles that beautiful six-year-old smile and begins to sing. After a few minutes, I join him.
And I wake up.
I remember that dream vividly, like watching a movie. and I relive it whenever I hear that gravelly voice in my head asking, “What, you think you’re a man now? You ain’t a man.”  And still, sometimes I listen to that voice and believe it. 
But sometimes I remember the hollow paper man and how light and empty he’d been. I remember how easy it was to stand up to him in the dream and I draw strength from the memory.  Sometimes, I sing along with my grandson.
 

My aunts, Louisa and Irene,  sometimes hosted what I can only call seances in their apartment. These usually took place on Sundays, partly because Sunday is a universal holy day, but also because my older sister, Cachie, and I spent all day in church so there was no danger of us being exposed to what my mother considered to be nothing short of Satanism. Even my father, who certainly shared his sisters' beliefs, would make himself scarce on Sundays. There was, however, at least one time when Cachie and I had to spend a Sunday at my aunts' house when they held one of their little get-togethers. I don't remember the specific circumstances, but there we were.
Guests started to arrive, mostly older neighborhood women whom I didn't recognize. As soon as the first of them arrived, Aunt Luisa hastily ushered us into the spare room at the end of the apartment. As she was closing the door, she regarded us with a grave expression and whispered ominously that, no matter what we heard, we were not to leave the room or even open the door. Not creepy at all.
Although we had never been around a séance before, Cachie and I were no strangers to what we thought of as demons summoned and set loose. It was quite common in our Pentecostal church. Sometimes, when the presence of God hung over the congregation and drove everyone into spasms of exultation, some poor soul would cry a mournful wail that was heard above the din. Immediately, the pastor would spring from behind the pulpit, flanked by elders with bibles in hand like first responders for Jesus. The crowd would part as the afflicted individual writhed on the floor, frothing on the linoleum. If it was a woman, the elders would throw blankets over her legs to preserve her modesty. All over the congregation, heads would bow, arms shot up, swaying as they cried out to the lord, hollering hallelujahs. Tambourines would jangle and men would sporadically clap their hands together as if applauding God. Women would shed intense tears.
My mother would bend down and harshly whisper for me to keep my eyes closed and pray, lest the devil spirit leap from its host and into me. I would desperately scrunch my eyes shut and join the swaying and hollering, terrified at the ease with which a devil could inhabit my body, but mostly scared of the embarrassment of thrashing about in front of everybody.
Inevitably, the demon would be overpowered and cast out in Jesus' name. The formerly possessed man or woman would fall into a faint as the triumphant congregation shouted praises and went back to their singing with heightened enthusiasm.
I had witnessed this kind of display many times. Of course, curiosity would get the better of me and I'd have to peek out of one squinted eye, looking for a glimpse of green pea soup shooting out of someone's mouth so I could tell my friends about it the next day at school. I was not skeptical, though. I knew with certainty that demons existed. Mom told me that demons were synonymous with spirits, therefore, my aunts were summoning demons in the next room while Cachie and I huddled in the corner of the bedroom that was farthest from the front door.
There was no television or radio - this was long before these things became standard bedroom issue. The only sounds we heard were the muffled waxing and waning of supplicating moans; lamentations from the other side of the door. Periodically we would hear Aunt Irene's voice above the others, strident and guttural. Sometimes she rasped in a language we couldn't identify. We associated this with speaking in tongues, but clearly, this was Satan doing the speaking. When she switched to familiar Spanish, her voice took on a wailing, plaintive tone, as if the act of channeling spirits was arduous and painful. We heard chimes and smelled incense, a pungent combination of burning leaves and rubbing alcohol. Everything about this situation terrified us. Cachie whispered desperate prayers while I clung to her like a buoy in shark-infested waters. It felt like forever.
But we were kids. There are limits to how long kids can huddle and this was just taking too long; certainly, longer than Sunday school would've been. We got bored.
Cachie poked me in the shoulder. With a pinched expression on her face, she dared me to peek out the door and describe what I saw. I emphatically balked. I had no intention of letting evil spirits take over my body just to satisfy my silly sister's curiosity. But then, with a smug expression, she played the “buck buck, chicken” card. I was powerless against her superior tactics.
She prodded me in the small of my back over and over, punctuating each poke with a hushed, "go!" I noticed she was keeping a safe distance from the door, though. I inched on tiptoes towards the door, holding my breath as if the sound of my heavy breathing might alert the Satan worshipers in the next room. I looked back at Cachie hoping for a reprieve, but I got none. Instead, she frantically waved me on.
The bedroom floor tended to creak. The doorknob rattled. I barely moved but I finally reached the knob. With sweaty hands, I clutched it until my knuckles turned white. I turned it slowly, ready to bolt at the slightest change in the tenor of the chanting. I wondered what I might do if such a thing happened. We were on the third floor, so the window was out. Maybe I would simply freeze in place and wait for them to burst through the door and force-feed me a demon.
The door opened a few inches. Cachie wasn't cajoling anymore. She had scooted to the far edge of the bed with her back against the wall, wide-eyed and lips pressed tightly together. With a resigned sigh I steeled myself and peeked through the door, which was open just wide enough to fit one eye.
What I saw in the next room surprised me. There were no naked women with devil masks cavorting around a bassinet holding a red-eyed Satan baby. The fully clothed women held hands around a table with lit candles in the middle. Their heads were bowed. What we thought were moans and groans were simply the sounds of quiet prayer. What our imaginations told us was speaking in tongues was only Spanish. The entire scene was oddly reminiscent of a prayer meeting at my mother's house. I turned to report this to my sister with relief. It wasn't at all what we expected. Maybe Mom was wrong about the goings on in my aunts’ house on Sundays. We could relax.
Without warning, Aunt Irene raised her head and wailed at the top of her lungs. The other women didn't seem surprised, but I almost peed myself. With the door slightly ajar, her voice filled the room. I wanted to run, crazily thinking that the window didn't seem like a bad idea after all, but I couldn't move, Aunt Irene was arching her back and craning her neck so tightly that it seemed her veins would snap and whip around the room like fire hoses. The prayers rose in volume and intensity but none of the women opened their eyes. Perhaps, I thought, they'd heard my mother's admonitions on how to avoid possession. Clearly, I had not. Helplessly, I kept my eyes open.
Irene suddenly bent at the waist. Her chest hit the tabletop with startling force then She threw herself back in the chair, howling. Petrified, I watched as she repeated the back and forth motion of her torso with increasing speed and impossible strength. It was as if her waist was on a hinge. Aunt Louisa released the hands she was holding and raised her arms swaying from side to side rapturously. She began to call out a word I didn't recognize. Some of the others followed suit. It might have been a name, Elegua? I wasn't sure. They were all unperturbed by Irene's crazy motions. Apparently, for them, this was normal, just another Sunday, but I'd never seen anything like this, and I'd seen many a possession in church. Still, on the very bright side, I hadn't been possessed…yet. Devils hadn't jumped out of my aunt and into me although my mouth was opened wide enough that they could have.
Something touched my shoulder.
I don't know how I didn't scream. Instead, I took a deep inhale of breath like I was trying to suck all the air out of the room. My sister had come up behind me. She wasn't trying to scare me. She wasn't laughing. She could see over my head into the séance room.
Aunt Irene's spasms ended abruptly, and she hung her head over the table. Her hair framed her face, having come undone from all of the hairpins that had held it in place. She planted her hands on the tabletop before her and breathed in great gulps of air. Everyone else at the table leaned in, newly opened eyes wide with greedy anticipation before she began to speak.
I don't remember what she said and, frankly, I'm glad I don't. She spoke Spanish so I didn't understand every word but that didn't matter because I stood transfixed by the way she spoke. Her eyes were tightly closed as she leaned forward. She pushed her words through gritted teeth as if she were an unwilling participant. Every syllable was growled, every movement spoke of anguish but everyone else in the room was euphoric. Some were crying.
Just beneath my paralyzing fear, in whatever part of my psyche was able to look at this objectively, I was confused. These horrible women, including my aunt Louisa, had not only known what would happen to Irene, they rejoiced in it. And Irene herself, who appeared to be in distress as she delivered her foul message, had knowingly offered herself as the vessel by which corruption and pain spoke. This had to be devilish, I thought. I was witnessing the kind of thing I had only ever read about in Chic pamphlets. The entire tableau, Irene, Louisa, the women around the table with their candles and incense, everything hurt my understanding of how things worked. I went to church five times a week, twice on Sunday. The spiritual battle spoken of there was a dim concept for me, just filler in an otherwise pedestrian sermon. My mother's admonitions were received in the same way I paid attention to her warnings about walking backward. But here, from the dubious safety of a spare bedroom, was I witnessing actual Principalities and Powers?
I was way too young to fully grasp these things. I was hanging on to understanding with the tips of my fingers, but I knew what was happening in the next room felt wrong. It was off and my mother's warnings were validated.
My aunt spit out the last part of her message and slumped in her chair, visibly exhausted. The prayers rose to a fervent crescendo before subsiding until, one by one, the ladies calmed and smiled at each other, satisfied by the message Aunt Irene had brought them. Gradually, they moved from the table and Louisa ushered them into the kitchen for refreshments. Irene, now alone in the room, raised her head with a long, drawn-out sigh and ran a hand through her hair. After a minute or two, she rose and followed the others.
A few minutes later, Cachie and I finally moved, stiff and tired, coming down from our terror. We sat on the edge of the bed without speaking until we heard the last of the neighborhood ladies leaving and Aunt Louisa returned to let us out of the room. Her body language offered no inkling that she knew what we'd seen as she offered us leftover Italian bread with butter. We both declined.
I was about ten years old when this happened. Fifty years have passed. I'm an atheist now, a rational man. I don't believe in the supernatural. I believe everything my sister and I saw and heard that day can be explained. But I have to be honest, with myself and with you; As I type this story, the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I'm ten again, filled with the stories my mother told me, the movies “based on true events," books by William Peter Blatty and I admit it's all too easy to fall back into the superstition and fear of a ten-year-old boy. So, I have to wonder, if it happened today, at sixty years old, would I take the Italian bread with butter?
 

My therapist, Shelbi, came by for our monthly home visit (of course, this was post-covid) She sat, legs crossed in the corner of my sofa. In tan linen pants and floral print shawl draped over a white button-down shirt, she looked cozy. My living room was dimly lit with just a hint of sunshine peeking through the blinds.
“We’re going to try something a little different today, James, “she said in her soft, therapist voice,”  if you’re up for it”
“Sure,” I said, leaning back in my corner of the sofa
She nodded, “We’ve talked about the inner child that affects our adult lives. Sometimes we can access that child and his memories to help us make sense of our lives now. We might even speak to it. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”
“I wouldn’t know what I’d say…”
“It might come to you, but even if it doesn’t, that’s okay.”
“All right,” I said, closing my eyes and- unprompted - began to breathe deeply just as she’d taught me. She matched me breath for breath, pausing only to whisper guidance. I became acutely aware of my body and its place in the world; my feet planted firmly on the floor, my upper thighs leaving an impression on the sofa; my hands on my lap.
It only took a minute.
“I see him,” I said. 
He was all of ten and black and white like an old photograph. He wore a colorless striped shirt and the kind of jeans we used to call “high-waters” because they were a size or two too small so the feet stuck out a few inches. The popular kids wouldn’t be caught dead in them. I wore them every day.
“I see him,” I repeated. He was alone in a sea of black, watching me warily.
“Can you speak to him?” Shelbi asked, “What do you want to say?”
“Hey,” I spoke in barely a whisper. I reached out to touch him and he flinched.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I tried to sound as soothing as I could. I mimicked how I thought Shelbi would sound. “You’re Eugene, right?” he nodded cautiously. Shelbi was gone now, outside of the black. We were alone.
“I’m James,” I said, and I quickly added, “and I see you.”
His eyes opened like saucers, as I knew they would, but he said nothing.
“I see you and I know you.”
“You do?” He trembled just a little. 
“I do,” I replied. “In fact, I know you spend most of your allowance in that musty used book store, You bought books about Doc Savage and Tarzan of the Apes and the Shadow, the Avenger, all of those heroes from the forties before they all got super.” He smiled, but it was a cautious smile. He said nothing so I continued
“I know you get lost in Bradbury, Sturgeon, Kipling good old Edgar Rice Burroughs, all the writers that take you away… from everything.” His smile faltered a little.
“It’s okay,” I said, “but I know the other stuff too; the bullying and beatings in school, the constant belittling at home, the racism in church. Every day, every day. Everything that made you want to hide and be invisible.”
There were tears forming in his eyes now but he made no move to leave,
“You hate your black skin and your nappy hair. worst of all, the absolute worst:  your father, your Papi, will convince you that you’re a failure and that’s all you’ll ever be. A nothing; a nobody.”
His chest heaved faster with every word. The tears came freely.  I felt terrible doing this to him…me, but I instinctually knew that I had to get through the hurtful truth before I could say what needed to be said.     I put my hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length.
“But, y’know what?” I said, “It’s all bullshit.”   He was still crying but he raised his head and met my eyes
“All of it. Bullshit. It all passes. You won’t even notice it but it does. You wanna know what happens?” He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt and nodded
“Well,” I said, “the beatings at school will make you stronger, smarter. You’ll learn how to handle problems with your mind, not your fists. The bullying and your love of those heroes will make you sympathetic and empathetic. You will always care about people.”
I had his rapt attention now. I continued, “The racism in church will start you on a journey that will lead you to greater truths. You’ll read a lot of books, not just the one.” He smiled then, a wry smile that told me he’d already started this journey He had. I remember being ten.
“Also, you have bipolar disorder, which is a sickness that makes you feel down and lose interest in stuff, you know what that means?” He shook his head.
“Well, it means you’re not a failure. You have a sickness. It’s not your fault.
“And Papi…” The smile immediately disappeared and he froze in my grasp but I held him firmly. 
“Wait.” I said,” You wanna hear this. Papi is not your real father.” His jaw dropped.
“Not…my father?” he stammered
“Not your father. Your dad’s really a musician named Victor Nelson. He will love you. He’ll beam when you walk into the room. He’ll talk to his friends about you with pride,
“He’ll heal your soul.”
He was gobsmacked, much like I was when I’d learned the truth.
“Hey, Eugene,” I said. (He was still Eugene. James Daniel would come much later), “It’s gonna be okay. Let me tell you, you’re a nerd now, but soon nerds will become popular and you’ll be one up on everyone! You’re gonna win prizes and awards not for being athletic, but for being inspirational and talented. Your kids…” I gave him a moment to soak that in, “will be proud to call you their father because you’re gonna break the chain of abuse your not-father inflicted on you. If I do say so myself, you’re gonna be a pretty cool adult.” The smile was back, though one eyebrow was raised, a little dubious.
“Trust me, kid,” I said “you’re gonna be fine” I patted him on the back and stood up, surprised to notice he was no longer black and white. His shirt was striped brown and yellow, his skin chocolate brown and his nappy hair black.
“I gotta go, kid,” I said. “See you in a few years”.
“Bye James,” he said in a small voice and he gave me a little wave.
I turned around and opened my eyes, I was on the sofa with Shelbi.
“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t know I had all that in me.”
“You did,” Shelbi said. “You do. That was powerful, James. How do you feel?”
“A whole hell of a lot lighter,” I replied.
“Where do you feel it most, in your body?”
“Well,” I said, taking stock of myself, “My back is a little straighter. My chest and my shoulders don’t feel so tight. My hands are relaxed. I feel pretty good...”
“And how do you feel about the things you said? Do you believe them?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “I was laying it on pretty thick for the kid’s sake,”
She gave me a side-long glance. I was deflecting. 
“Okay,” She said, “Let me ask a different way; do you think he heard you? Would you have heard you?
I thought about it and gave her question serious consideration.
“No.” I finally said. “I was pretty wrapped up in the misery. It was constant, every day. It would have taken more than one conversation with a stranger to shake that. “
“Now I’m asking the adult you; did you hear you?”
I paused, sitting back on the sofa, relaxed
“Yeah. I think I did. I don’t feel like such a shit person right now.”
“That’s a start,” she said.
It was time to end the session. We scheduled the next month’s visit and she packed up her laptop. As she rose, she said, “We did really good work today, James. Really good.”
I thanked her at the door and she went out into the Arizona air.
After the door closed, I went back to my place on the sofa. I was drained but it was good. My therapist was right. I felt better, Lighter. 
I closed my eyes again, letting my imagination take me back to the boy. He wasn’t in the dark now. He sat cross-legged at the edge of a cliff watching the sunrise. He was still dressed in the brown and yellow striped shirt and high-waters but now he seemed serene in them, comfortable and familiar. He was as relaxed as Shelbi had been on my sofa,
I was behind him. He didn’t turn around but somehow, I felt there was a contented smile on his face,
I thought, “Thanks, kid” and opened my eyes.
 

I was taking my Kiz out for her afternoon walk. It was the kind of bright, blue Saturday afternoons Mesa is famous for so I wasn’t surprised to see my 10-year-old grandson, Ender, hanging out with his friends (an unruly lot to be sure.) When he noticed me and Kiz, his face lit up. All elbows and knees, he ran over to us and enthusiastically showered hugs and kisses upon my obviously delighted dog. He stood up and thrust the Nerf gun was carrying into my face, extolling its many attachments and doo-dads in breathless sentences that flew by like one impossibly long word. I smiled and nodded where appropriate, but I couldn’t help but notice him periodically glancing over to the group of unkempt ruffians from whence he’d come. He was anxious to get to them, I saw. After a minute, I let him off the hook and told him to go back to his friends. He jumped up and ran off in a cloud of smoke and a quick wave, shouting, “Wait up!” to the group of urchins. They’d be up to shenanigans soon enough, I knew. 
I had to pass them to get home and when I did, I started to raise my hand in greeting but they were already deeply engaged in a lively discussion centered on the defensive capabilities of their Nerf arsenal in the face of a zombie horde. An old dude with a little dog couldn’t compete with that. Also, I remembered that boys Ender’s age are amazingly easy to embarrass so I just kept walking. I don’t think he even saw me pass.
When we’d walked a short distance from them, I looked down at my Kiz.
“Well…” I said with a shrug.
“Yep,” she replied, not unkindly, “It’s you and me now, I guess.”
I thought about that a bit. I’ve been here a time or two; the moment when a kid’s attentions and priorities shift just a touch. Their world gets a little bigger and, inevitably, your place in it starts to shrink. Sometimes this occurs with a whispered slide, sometimes with a brittle snap. Either way, it leaves you just a little emptier, like it or not.
It’s bittersweet, I thought. It’s okay, natural even. It’s called change. Progress. Life. It’s the way things work all the time for everybody, and it’s supposed to be this way.
“Still sucks, though,” Kiz said, rubbing her little head against my leg.
“Yeah,” I said and I bent down to scratch behind her ears. She loves that.
Then, from behind us, I heard Ender calling, “Grandpa!” I turned and saw him standing a bit away from his friends, his hands cupped around his mouth. When he saw he had my attention he shouted something that I didn’t quite catch.
“What?” I shouted.
He took a deep breath and slowly, deliberately, called out, “Be careful!”
“Oh, shut up!” I hollered belligerently. He was waving as I turned around with a scowl.  When I was sure he couldn’t see, I looked down at Kiz. She was smiling up at me the way dogs do.
“Not today,” I said. 
“Yeah.” She grunted, “Hold that thought a sec.” And she crouched on shaky legs while hard, warm turds pushed their way out of her ass like brown, smelly children. They landed heavily on the grass, steaming on the morning dew.
“Still you and me, though, right?” she panted.
“Always!” I laughed, and we went home.