Some words just don't feel right in the mouth. Here are a few:



exerciser. It just feels too long to say and the pattern feels rather odd in the mouth. I discovered this fact today at the gym and it totally ruined my workout. I remeber saying, "Well, if I'm an exerciser, then I will just have to cut my workout short today." I just couldn't go on knowing that the word, supposedly representing me, felt funny. I don't like to feel funny when I'm working out. I mean would you? There's nothing funny about tearing a muscle. Nothing! I think that exerciser should be replaced with another word, but unfortunately they ran out of space in the dictionary . . . this year. In my opinion, if the word weren't taken yet, a better word for one who exercises should be exorcist. Think about it. People will even go to the movies to hear that word.



ask. This is one of the most difficult words to say . . . for millions of African-Americans. I personally don't suffer from this ailment, but I feel so bad when I hear a child wanting to 'ax' someone a question and the other person goes running off in the other direction, calling the cops, fearing for their lives. Poor child ending up on probation or in some cell. All because of 'axing' someone . . . a question. The word doesn't feel right because it requires a person to carry out the 's' into an elongated 'ssss'. Why not help the children. Change the spelling to 'assssk' or have the optional pronunciation of 'axe'. This would save a lot of tax payer dollars, in my opinion.



Abercrombie. Need I say more?!?

colonel. Who was the genius who thought up the pronunciation for this word? I mean I can see it now. " . . . and we'll form villages, and the people who live in these villages will be called villagers. And when we put together a bunch of villages, we'll call it a colony, and the leaders of these colonies will be called kernels, but we'll spell it like colony. That way the British will get confused." At least the genius knew that I would have a pet peeve with the correct pronunciation of the word. Now thinking about it, maybe it was because of me that he changed it. Hmmm . . . that's deep and koony (pronounced: Spooky).

Loyola. This one is personal. I hate saying this word. It feels jumbled in my mouth, and when it finally surfaces it sounds more like: Lola or (put a Spanish accent on) Loy'ella. I fully acknowledge that this is my personal issue, but still! It just shouldn't be. What's wrong with naming a college Lola? My sister has a cat named Lola. Or Lolita? People will go to the movies for this name as well. I would you. Wouldn't you?

Hello my friends. what you are about to read is my Christmas letter to my family.



Peace



December 25, 2004



This will be a different type of Christmas letter. This letter is addressed to everyone, though I will have it sectioned off. I thought about this holiday season. I think about it now. I think about how this season is about family, about compassion, about sacrifice, about birth, about beginnings, about endings. I think of the years with which I have been blessed, remembering as a child that I was certain that I would die at an early age. It was ideal for me to dream about that for I saw myself fighting against injustices like Dr. Martin Luther King, seeing no other escape except tragedy. I do not have this dream anymore. I want to continue to live, though I am not afraid of death (most days); I want to see my daughter grow; I want to see my family through these times; I want to continue to mature with Tessin by my side; etc.



I feel reflectively sad this holiday season. We have built a world so entrenched in commercialism that we’ve loss all sense of meaning and purpose. I see the anger on faces everywhere; they’ve traded their “heroes for ghosts,” and exchanged “a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage.” I have never felt this level of anger before, not the anger within me, but within the faces I pass by, the faces that cannot register a hint of a smile to a stranger, never realizing that this stranger, that stranger is a brother or sister. We are all connected. We are all alone. Now, before I hear the rush of religious defenses exclaiming, “You are not alone. God is with you.” I just want to remind you that even Jesus acknowledged his aloneness and loneliness. He realized the cure, though, he connected to people and by doing this he kept in contact with God. I want to see God through the big silly delicious smile of a daughter; through the voiceless pain of a father who has had to start over; through a mother whose emotional pain is revealed through her physical woes; through a sister who has branched into the adult world, no longer a running five year old hopping into my arms; through another sister who has taken punches from Life’s best Struggles and who has integrated the true lesson of love: no boundaries; through a brother whose fought demon after demon, never quitting, never following the voices of the Sirens, though their luscious lies are seductive; through a wife who knows more about belief and forgiveness than most professed holy people, whose love sees the gestalt, the whole. I am reminded of these things on this day. It is when I realize all of this love around me that I see God in all His complexity, all his majesty. It is then that my images come:



“From the people that do the work

From the people that sing the song

From the people that live the life

And from the people that get along

And a bottle of rum.

From the demon that always lurk

From the demon that do me wrong

From the fury that is my love

And from the struggle that is my song.



From the world in which I live

From the world I love so well

From the world of change and life

And from the Lord of which I tell

And a bottle of rum.

From the feelings I cannot give

From the feeling my fears impel

From the screams of a fright filled night

From the time what is spent in hell.



From the pleasure I’ve had before

From the pleasure I am to know

From the pleasure my dreams provide

And from the pleasure I can bestow

And a bottle of rum.

From the trouble that’s at my door

From the trouble where e’er I go

From the misfortune I abide

And from the courage I’m trying to show.



Oh, it get me down sometime. It get me down but only

A little look around and I find that I am not so lonely.

We are in the same boat brother

We are in the same boat sister

And my images come”



Now to each of you.



Roy

I wish you could be here this year, my brother. I sure do miss you. The you we knew as kids, in all your rebellious and loving big brother way. I think about that every once in while. I would think of it more, but it causes an allergic reaction: my eyes get watery, I get shivers, and my throat closes in on me. But every once in a while, it’s worth having that reaction. The reward is great.



I’m glad you are at a better place right now than you were some months ago. It does my heart well to know that you are seeking to find yourself, and I hope you do. I hope that you understand God in spirit, not image. Question everything. Some people would have you believe that the Bible exists in order to close off discussions (i.e., “God said it, I believe it, that settles it” mentality). I tend to believe that the Bible, at the very least is there to broaden and open up discussions. Understand the words in their context, and do not be like so many people today who claim God, but see not love. Do not become like them. You are beautiful as is. Realize your beauty and become who you are supposed to be. I say this to you, I say this to me.

How strange. We are into our 30s and now you’ve spent more years away from my life than together. You left home for the Navy when you were 17, you are now 35. We’ve had our brief moments of time since then, but I wish for that day when you and I will laugh at all that was, and play a baseball game again with cards and tin foil, with me beating your butt again and again. Soon I hope. Soon. I don’t the future and we’ve wasted so much time already. Let us not live with regrets. Let us throw off all which hold us back from being fully realized. I send you love.



Michele

I know I’ve told you this before, but I will share it again. When I’m performing on stage and have to go through some emotional rigors in some of my characters there are times when I bring back memories of some of your pain . . . I use this pain to stir up the depths of sentiment I need to pull off whatever character I’m displaying. I think of all the crazy things as kids we experienced. I think about how close we’ve always been; how deeply troubled I feel when we have a tension in our relationship; how hard-headed you are sometimes; how right I always am . . . wink. Wink. I realize that your headiness is a positive mechanism for you. It helps you survive. You were the first girl in the family, given little voice without taking it for yourself, and so you took it.



You know what? I still cringe when I think about your arrival back from Jamaica when you were younger. The very first day you came back we were so happy to see each other, (I don’t know where Roy was), and we were playing make-believe something. Who knows? But you were so excited you started running and cracked your head on the corner of a wall. I remember the panic I felt. I remember thinking that I might not see you again. I remember feeling guilty, thinking that it was my fault. I was so happy when you were stitched up. I felt so protective of you. I still do.



I remember when you had pneumonia. I remember that kid Eric and his thumb tacks on your seat. (I would personally torture him today! Umm . . . with the love of the Lord, of course.) I remember the pain you would later feel by the double standard (gender-wise) in our home. I remember other pains as well . . .



I remember the loneliness you felt when I went away to college, and I want you to know that I felt it as well. It killed me to know that I couldn’t be there physically for you in some of your darkest hours, but I was always there. Always. I remember how we laugh so freely with each other. How all I need to say is “tingle, tingle,” and you lose it. And most importantly, I love how real I can be with you, nothing is sacred. I love that. And I love you.



Dad

I hear your voice in my voice. Whenever I speak to Saskia I hear you, Dad. It’s a powerful feeling. Your blood it courses through my veins. Tessin claims that some of my faces are your faces. I suppose that’s why they call it genetics, right? I am happy that you never believed in quitting. I am not sure I would be where I am today if I had a father who gave up at every crossroads. You have taught me discipline and as the years have gone on, I’ve had the beautiful opportunity to see your vulnerability as well, and it brings me joy. Not because you feel vulnerable, but because vulnerability is a human facet. It completes us. We are changed into full beings when we make our selves vulnerable. After all, Christianity is based on such a principle. Without vulnerability we would never acknowledge God’s grace, power, or love.

I understand things now that you could never explain to me. I had to experience them for myself. I look back and see a man who was driven to never fail, and you didn’t, Dad. Even when you made mistakes, you bounced back, you grew. I cannot expect anything else from you. I have watched you grow as a man, a father, a fellow traveler, and the journey, though painful at times, has been magnificent to watch.



I hope this coming year will bring you more peace, whatever the outcomes may be. I think about the million of black males who have never known their father, and I stand humbled. I think about the million of people who have never been told to believe in their dreams, and I hear your voice telling me that I’m just as smart, and that defeat is only in the concession. These are the things I will most remember. And without doubt, I know that I love you richly.



Mom

“My mom is such a beautiful soul that she even makes the flowers smile.” And with those words, I inform my audiences everywhere about the powerful influence you have had on my life. Your love WOWs me all the time. I think back to those days when you worked with the mentally challenged (the mental retardation population). I remember how they scared me, how uncomfortable I was when I would go with you to pick up your check. Their difference frightened me, until I saw how comfortable you were around them. You never flinched, nor acted as if they were any different from me. You spread so much love to them. I feel like a fake at times, because when I look at my love in comparison to yours, I feel small. Your love is like great earth, mine is only a mound of dirt. To love like you love, Mom, will be a lifelong process for me. You show love even when you are uncomfortable. It may take you time to become comfortable, but you still love. Thank you for passing this on to me.



I am a lucky person knowing that I have a mother who would have begged on her knees to save her son; a mother who’s been emotionally beat down, but still she rises; a mother who accepts the way things are and tries to change what she can; a mother who has delivered more of God’s voice in her silence, than one thousand ministers who fill churches and television stations with holy rhetoric, rhetoric that clangs with emptiness.



I am better because of you, Mother. I am better because of your love, and it is with this love I shower you today.



Little Boo

I mentioned it earlier, but I still have images of you coming off your Kindergarten bus and running into my arms. It tickles me to replay the images of you bouncing up the stairs and bouncing along the wall. I remember you sleeping and I would whisper the words, “Doo doo. Bathroom. Poo poo,” and when you would wake I would ask you what you dreamt about and you would tell me that you had a weird dream about going to the bathroom. I was so proud of myself.



I remember the days in college when I felt depressed. I would call home and hearing your little voice made me smile. I was at peace.



And then I remember getting into a fight with this girl in Bellingham because she said bad stuff about you. That was the one thing I couldn’t tolerate. I couldn't let anyone harm you in any way. I still feel that way. I know you are an adult now (whatever that means), but I am so protective of you, maybe to a fault, but I don’t think so. I’m not unrealistic about it. I accept the fact that you will one day probably get married (when you’re 36) and have kids right around that time. O.K., maybe not, but you get the point.



I feel somewhat responsible for the way you see life. I like that. I like the fact that we can have talks about art films without ending up feeling disconnected.



I like how sensitive you are, how peaceful. How like me, like mom, you try to see the good in everyone, and maybe we’ll get burnt a little more along the way, but I have no regrets about it. I like how you’re always thinking. I like how we play the game of protecting each other, not sharing certain things with each other for fear of letting the other down; not realizing that letting each other down would be rather difficult.



Oh yeah, the CD is a general map of myself, pieces of myself difficult to express in words at times. Follow it like some crazy map. It’s my journal to you.

I love you.



Tessin

My beautiful nymph. This is a new year for us, certainly, a somewhat challenging one with the new life on hand. I am happy to take this journey with you . . . still. I want you to remember that change is the only constant thing in our lives right now. This is comforting to recognize. I am happy to have a desperately creative soul for a partner in this life. You are an amazing woman. Your love is like the tastiest chocolate; I can’t stop moving; I am high from it. It is truly of God, and though I, at times, show the face of fear, I have never had a doubt that I should be with you. My life without you would be empty space and shadows. You fill me with laughter. You fill me with affection. You never allow us to settle into the IS. You always push us into the MORE. Without you, I would be less than I am now. I mean that. Not just words.



Where do we begin in raising Saskia? How do we teach her how to love and be in love? I look forward to the day when we can reclaim our romantic life. I must be conscious of this aspect, in fear that we may lose it if it is not nourished.



I am certain we will face more challenges than we know of right now, and some of these may test us beyond our human understanding. I hope that in those moments we learn how to reach out for God’s voice in our friends, in our families, in our quiet, tearful prayers; that we learn not to give in before we try everything; that we fight for each other like stifled breath.

Thank you for finding me. There you are, Peter. There you are. “When I get home you’re cooking supper on the stove, and the greatest gift of life is to know love.” – Indigo Girls.

Like love, like always.



Kee Kee

Little Bo Bo. It’s your first Christmas and though you will never remember it, know that you are loved by all. Eventually, you will also know the hate of those who don’t know you. It’s not about you, Baby, it’s about them. Remember that. As the days go on, I hope to see you continue along a path of beauty. I hope that your mother and I will be able to pass on to you our acceptance, an openness that happens only when you get to know people. Never be afraid to love, no matter who it is. Your parents will accept you unconditionally. Your journey is your own. You, my child, belong to a tomorrow that your mom and I are not allowed to visit. So, we’ll take care of you, until you must take care of yourself. Never be afraid to grow, to learn. For by learning and loving you shall embrace your name: Saskia – protector of her people.

Warm kisses. Daddy loves you, Kee Kee. Daddy loves you.



And so there it is. A Christmas letter for the whole family. Revelations of privacy made public. My heart is laid bare. Merry Christmas in this beautiful year of 2004. And onward we go, my family.





Love always,

Michael, Mike, Mikey, Wingy, Daddy, Babe

6 Degrees

as the night comes to a close

i think of sleep . . . deep . . . restful

full and thick with the movement of dreams

i press my lips into this fantasy

hoping not to wake



not yet . . .



monday moves like vipers

a stinging sensation static

constant controlled caresses

her arms these legs

spread touched warmth

the novelty, the newness



and tuesday moves in

strong,

lingering,

like the scent of monday

fading quickly



msf

12/14/04

snapshots. click.



April 25, 1987. Sophomore year high school. went out that night. got trashed. this was a repeating pattern. came home that night. i remember praying to God asking not to wake ever again. i was tired of my life, tired of living. was not going to commit suicide, but i would have been happy if i were to have died. what pain i create. i have been nothing but pain to my parents, to myself. started when i was young.



Click.



1979. I was living in Waltham, Massachusetts. Used to shoplift baseball cards. I was eight. Got caught for the first time that same year. Mom slapped me in the face right in the middle of the store. I stole one of those triple packs, two of them. I gave up one. They never saw the other. Dad read me the ten commandments later that night. He didn't beat me with a belt or fist that time. I thought I got off scotch free. After the 10 commandments, I went to my room and opened up the undiscovered pack.



Click.



1981-1984. Bellingham, Mass. Mike Burke. My best friend. Dangerous. A year older, same grade. Lost his virginity when he was 10 to a girl who was 13. Taught me about girls. Wanted to be like him. One day he asks, "what's your favorite song?" At the time it was Amazing Grace. I told him that and he told me that I didn't know any Rock 'n' Roll and my breath stunk. Two things happened that day. I promised myself that no one would ever tell me that I didn't know music, and no one would ever tell me that my breath stunk. I became obsessive about both.



My parents bought me a total of 8 cassette tapes, and within a year I had accumalated over 150. Stole every one of them. Got busted again. Was supposed to go to juvy, but my mom told the store owner that she would get down on her hands and knees and beg in front of him for the entire store. The store owner said that was unnecessary. He would let me off the hook, if I promised never to return to the store. I still remember her crying. I cry sometimes over that whole incident. The love of my mother . . .



There were other things too. Almost burnt down my house and my parents car. Shot a bottle rocket at a cop car. Lit many fires. Tasted my first beer: age 11. Bunny told me he would beat me up if he ever heard that I was drinking. Scared me. So, I snuck it. Tortured girls. Stole money from people. So much pain. Looked at those magazines with Brett Mulvey. We learned a lot from each other. And then there was Dan R. That was different. He was strange, like so many of my friends, but something was off . . . He was 17, I was 11. I think he might be a child molester today. I forgot for a long time. Then I remembered . . .



Click.



Spring 1993. Then I remembered Dan R. I thought I had forgotten. Took a psychology class at Evangel. Talked about a lot of abuse related material. Physical abuse, sexual abuse, emotional abuse. I wasn't sure what the teacher was talking about. She kept saying that if you've been hit by belts or fists it was abuse. If you've been sexually taken advantage of against your will, it was abuse. If you've been verbally demeaned, constantly screamed at, made to feel frightened or intimidated, that was abuse. She made me laugh because she was wrong. Those things couldn't be abuse, because they happened to me . . .



Felt on the edge. Wanted to jump from this train of Life. Randy Stonehill sang the words screaming from my soul.



"Lost and drifting on this river of longing. Bowed and bloody from the weight of the sky. Longing to call out for someone's forgiveness, but we're not sure who or why. Maybe we're frightened like children in the darkness, chasing shadows in the strangest dreams. Sometimes living feels harder than dying. Sometimes it feels like we're trapped in between."





Tried to talk to my mom. Wasn't working out. Reminded me of another song,



"I can't talk to my mom, I sure wish I could

Can't say what I'm thinking though, 'cause she still thinks I'm good

She'd just start crying, and I'd just feel dumb

So let her think that I'm O.K.

I can't talk to my mom" -- Jim Weber



Charlie was there. I called him up one day at college and told him everything. He didn't judge me. He told me that it was not my fault. I cried for the first time about this. I always thought it was my fault. Sometimes i still think it is. Sometimes I still cry . . . like now.



Click.



April 26, 1987. It was God for me. That's what saved me. I woke up on that Sunday morning and I remember praying, "All of You or none of You." Became a Jesus freak in high school. I was scary. Had no balance -- extremist. Told people that they needed to be like me or they were going to hell. Left Christian leaflets in the boy's bathroom. Scared my sister Michele away. Needed to be that extreme, I guess. I needed to be as far away from the other life I had. I learned more balance along the way, and by the time I hit my senior year in college, I realized that everything was not hunky dorey. Funny, it would be my Christian college that would later temper my extremist attitudes. I saw the "truth," and decided to question all of it until I found some truth.



Click.



December 4th, 2004. Here in Austin, Texas. Met this guy who is in the Army. Was stationed in Iraq for a time. On one excursion, there were four guys in Humvee, two of the guys literally lost their heads, and he was paralyzed with fear. He had never seen someone's head be ripped away from their body. I couldn't help but to think, why them? not him? so close, yet he survived. The inches that save us. It made me think about my own life. why those others? not me? I survived. I never had to go to jail nor abuse others nor wind up dead from my own hands. There were inches for me as well. The inches that saved me.



Click.



December 6, 2004. I feel so thankful!

From a student at a local New Jersey school.



Mykee,

I've been meaning to write to you for a while. You came to my school a few months ago, and I just haven't found the time or energy to write. I'm not one who enjoys school assemblies. I usually feel the only good thing about them is we get out of class! I didn't know what to expect as I went into the auditorium. I was walking alone since I was coming from an honors art class, and I was the only freshman in it.



Then,when i got inside the auditorium, some guy started talking to me, saying hey, how's it going, just doing some small talk. He was a young, pretty cool looking guy, and I couldn't help but thinking, OK, here's the techie or some intern for this doctor guy. When the assembly started, I was shocked to learn the doctor was this guy I perceived to be a "techie"!! Whoops...my bad... I was amazed by the end of the assembly. I felt I could relate to all his characters somehow- either someone I know, a TV character, or even me. I went through so many emotions during the assembly. You'd captivated my attention, and touched my heart.



As a teen, there are so many pressures in life. Drugs, alcohol, boys.... even school. Especially school for me! Every single class of mine is honors, except Gym. I stress enough about school work and grades!! Then, when I joined a sports team, I just said fogedda bout it to my school work. I slacked more and more. Once a conscientious student, I didn't care anymore when I was failing tests. I just lost my zest for life cuz I was too dang tired to care!!! Too much pressure, too much work. I'd start snapping at my parents for no reason, saying hateful stuff I'd never in a million years mean. I just couldn't help but wonder how everybody would feel if I wasn't around anymore. Then, your assembly came. I don't know what happened, maybe I realized that others have it worse than me and my stupid life. I started caring again about my grades and life. I even made A-B honor role!! I still snap at my parents from time to time, and still get depressed, but I'm realizing life is meant to be lived. Why else would I be here? I'm going to try and make a difference in kids lives when I'm older, after college, just like you made in mine. I guess I just wanted to say thanks. I know many of my friends were touched by your assembly, just like I was.



Thanks a lot, cheers...



Response:



I'm always touched by the depths that my show touches in people. It often moves me. That's all I want. I just want people to care . . . more . . . than they did before coming into my show.