The Last Rebel

On Christmas eve, quite unplanned, my mother, father, sister, brother and I were all at the same place, together, just like we always were when we were all much, much younger. Because our family is not exactly large, not in an “immediate” sense anyway, my earliest Christmas memories were just us. Occasionally there would be the special years where one set of grandparents or the other – or both – would make it, and sometimes we’d get together with the very few first cousins along with the attendant aunts and uncle, but that, too, was uncommon, for reasons I will not get into here. My earliest Christmas memories are filled with just us. And it has been a long time since it was just us.

 

But it wasn’t planned that way. It was supposed to be at my parents’ house a day earlier with all that has become a much larger immediate family; with kids and grandkids and a few great grandkids, we still are not what one might call a “big” family, but there are quite a lot more of us now, and that is despite the fact that we have lost a few over the years. All my grandparents have been gone for a while now, but there are others, too, some at a ripe old age, some not.

All five of us would have been there on Saturday, not with all our kids, but with a lot of them and not with all of the great grandkids, but with a few. However, my brother was not able to make it.

 

So, the next day, Christmas eve, we came to him. As it turned, only the five of us would be able to make it that day. And, not a moment to soon. My little brother, two years younger than me, went into the hospital about a week ago and his condition progressively deteriorated. While this particular series of events that lead to his passing this morning seems to be – and is – sudden and a shock, his health, generally, has been on the decline for some time now. Although I was not sure if I’d ever see him again, I did know his condition was terminal and that it would not be long. I was able to tell him I loved him one last time while he was conscious and alert and for that, I am grateful. I was hoping I would be able to again, but the end came very quickly.

 

I have heard folks say that they were “born in the wrong century,” or words to that effect. I have thought that about myself. I have heard people say that about David. While I cannot remember him saying that, exactly, he, more than anyone I know, fits that description best. He would have thrived in Huck Finn's or Tom Sawyer’s day. He would have found himself quite comfortable on the frontier – any frontier. In a place and time when societal conventions, when rules and codes, when laws restricting every little thing were not on anyone’s agenda, he would have been okay. In the modern world with all these norms, with all these conventions, with all these rules and customs and protocols and with all these fucking people, he was suffocating.

 

While it is true that he fought and fought hard, and while it is also true that the institutions and bureaucracies he fought against could not be beaten, he fought anyway. Some might see that as futile, as foolish, as… stupid, but I don’t think he saw it that way. I think he saw it as principled, and he would not turn his back on what he saw as the truth of being real. Authenticity isn’t easy and the principles that define it can (and in his case did) conflict with modern life. He paid a price – emotionally and physically. But he stood his ground, even though that ground disappeared 150 years ago. To put it into context, every law he ever broke and was punished by society for – every.single.one – did not exist a century ago. His natural state was legislated out of existence before he was even born.

 

And now, at 59 years old, he has passed – living twice the life many at his age ever will. It is a sad day for my family, and a very sad day for my parents. But, for a few moments on Christmas eve, it was just the five of us. My little sister, Leslie, noticed it. When she said it, it was, for me, like going back in time. A flood of Christmas memories – good ones – all came back. Later holiday seasons haven’t been that for me; there have been a lot of shit memories. Maybe that was his final Christmas present – the gift of gratitude.

 

Rest in Peace, Dave. Your fight is finally over. If there are riverboats in Heaven, I am quite sure there is a spot on one just for you.

 

All Bad Days

Six thousand, eight hundred and thirty-four days ago was a bad day. It was another in a long string of bad days that would continue for months to come. I can’t recall what, specifically happened on most of those other days that made them bad, but August 6th, 2004, was highlighted by particularly memorable moment — a bad one. It was also the first day since that past December that I had not used any drugs or alcohol. That was not my plan — my plan was to numb the badness of the day as much as possible, but my failure to do so made an already bad day worse.

 In the early evening, 6,834 days ago, my middle son (who was not quite 17), his girlfriend and two puppies dropped me off at the Wayne Brown Correctional Center in Nevada City, CA. It was my second extended stay there, my first was just two years earlier. This time I would be serving 40 days (two thirds of a 60-day sentence) for a probation violation — a violation of the terms of my release two years earlier. After my release, I would spend a week free before reporting to the Calaveras County Jail to serve 60 days of a 90-day sentence — the conviction that violated me in Nevada County.

I was lucky in that my crime was a non-violent misdemeanor and that the old Calaveras County Jail was seriously overcrowded. Every night a count was taken and every night the possibility of my release was palpable — and every night that I missed it by “that much” made that day a little worse. I was released after just eight days — a bit of goodness in what was a long stretch of only bad. Upon my ultimate release sometime in late September, I had almost 60 days “clean and sober” (I had nine months from March to December of 2003). I could not find a job and, although I did return to school in 2003 (with two semesters under my belt), by the time I was free, the fall semester was well under way. More bad days.

Adding to my misery was a prohibition against self-medication. The judge in Nevada County told me that if I produced just one dirty drug test (they tested for alcohol, too), my next home would not be county jail, but state prison. My choices were clear — be miserable and free or miserable in prison. However, despite the clear consequences, the urge to dull the “badness” of my life was strong, and it took a village — literally. That village came from the same place it came from before, the one thing I knew worked — twelve step recovery.

But I had a lot of issues with it, not the least of which was a “cult-like” feeling in some ways and the insistence that they are “spiritual, not religious” programs, yet there is an abundance of Judeo-Christian references throughout all of them. Some more than others, but all refer to, at the very minimum, a capital “G” god. For a non-believer like me, that is a tough hurdle to overcome — but at the time I had little choice. I also had enough prior experience that I knew there were others like me, and the program still worked for them. But… all the way through 2004 and into the beginning of 2005 I cannot remember anything but shitty days. I’m sure they were not all bad, but as a whole, as a slice of my life, there was a significant period of time that spanned the end of my using and drinking and the beginning of my sobriety that was not a good.

One day my perspective shifted — or, probably more accurately, I became aware that my perspective had shifted. It likely happened much earlier before I even realized it, but one day I noticed that I had not been angry in a few days. In fact, I could not remember how long it had been. I knew it wasn’t weeks or months, but it was many days, and I couldn’t recall what my last “irritant” was. This was revelatory because I was pissed off almost all the time. Being angry constantly is exhausting; the other revelation I experienced soon after was that I was not tired — not in general, not of “life.” I just wasn’t all that tired. It was a new feeling. The next thought was unavoidable — this shit was working.

By that time I was back in school, but the tail I developed from the criminal justice system along with other obstacles were still very much part of my life. I was drug testing every week, I was relying on student loans and the kindness of my family for my living expenses (and dealing with a profound loss of trust from them), and I was broke all the time. All the ingredients for bad days were there, yet I was starting to have some good days and I found myself happy from time to time. I was experiencing some success again. And, slowly, I was rebuilding the trust I lost.

By the end of my first year clean and sober, I was done with my education at American River College and was set to transfer to California State University, Sacramento in the fall of 2005. While working toward my bachelor’s degree at Sac State I got an internship at a local newspaper. That internship became a part-time job after just a week or two and, while I was certainly not rolling in dough, I was a lot less broke. Things happened, people came and went. I continued through my BA, entered grad school at Sac State, earned an MA there and then went on to Louisiana State University to earn a PhD. And while I did advance to doctoral candidacy, I finished “ABD” (all but dissertation) and collected another MA from LSU.

All good days? Not even. Many were bad, but there were no years or, really, even months or weeks of badness since early 2005. Shit has happened, life has come at me, I have been less a victim as I have been a volunteer, but not everything was due to my choices — chance is still chance and life is not fair. That is not to say “most” have been good days , either— most are just days. And most days I am content — not “happy” — but content. I do not believe the state of happiness is sustainable. It is and should be fleeting, but serenity, contentedness, peace — those can be sustained.

Usually “we” (those in the so-called “recovery community”) reminisce like this on our sobriety or clean dates, birthdays, or anniversaries. Some are looking for congratulatory pats on the back from those in society who are not alcoholics or addicts, many of whom have paid a price for loving one, or, worse, been victimized by one in his or her quest to get “well.” I do not see it that way; we do and should congratulate each other (that’s part of what the “village” does), but society has every right to say, “great, good job, it’s about fucking time. That’s what you were supposed to be doing all along.” It is not my anniversary — it is not August yet, but I see no reason to keep these stories to ourselves when they can reach those who are not necessarily the rest of society and not necessarily “us,” but, rather, those who are not us — yet. Or, maybe those who are and might just not be feeling it.

There can be peace. For many days in a row — and for the vast majority of my 6,834 days of sobriety — that is what I have, peace. One day at a time.

Decisions, Decisions

Nine years ago today, I was experiencing an existential crisis. Not in terms of my physical existence, but in terms of that which made me who I am. I had embarked on a particular (and particularly difficult) path and I was wholly unsure of my ability to succeed. Today, nine years later, I can report that I was both able to succeed and that I did not succeed - not entirely. However, I did not quit, not then, anyway. There would come a time when I would have to make a decision to end the quest for a PhD, but that would be down the road another couple of years.

I wrote about it and posted it on Facebook. It wasn't the first time I became vulnerable on Facebook, but it was significant. It felt, to me, like so much whining, but I knew it went way deeper and I was literally out of answers. I needed release even if it was a virtual tantrum (don't bother looking for it - it is filtered to "just me" now). I posted it and then went for a ride, neglecting the mountain of work I had to do. My mantra was then as it is now, when in doubt - motorcycle.

By the time I got back, there were more than 100 comments from both real and Facebook friends expressing support - all kinds of support. Some had real-world, similar experience that I could wrap my head around, others said shit like (and this could only come from someone I respect), "Are you fucking crazy, look how far you've come?" Because, among the viable options I laid out, quitting grad school was one of them. In the end I decided I really had little choice but to push on. But it is important to note that had I not vented as I did, leaving it to marinate while I took a ride and then coming back to read what everyone wrote, I very well could have imploded.

What ended up happening, a couple of years later, is that I did quit (sort of), but not in a knee-jerk way that it would have been if I just threw up my arms in frustration and split. And, although I "quit" the PhD (I made it as far as candidacy, what they call ABD - "all but dissertation"), I did have more than enough coursework and other requirements completed for another MA degree - this one from LSU (my first was from Sac State). I also have a shit-ton of experience in a PhD program at an R1 university, went to and taught at an SEC school and I lived in Baton Rouge for almost four years. None of that is nothing. But it's not a PhD. For 360 or so days of the year, I do not regret that decision, but it's a decision I might not have been able to make had I not "whined" to Facebook nine years ago. As far as "who I am?" I'm pretty good with that, too.

Knowhere(ish)

 

This week is Spring Break at California State University, Sacramento. For whatever reason, Sac State “celebrates,” or places Spring Break on a different week than most other schools in the area (most others’ are next week). Be that as it may, this week, for me, has developed a little history and a tradition that also celebrates the coming of spring. It even has a name that MCU fans should recognize – the “Knowhere Ride.” It is the first long, multi-day motorcycle ride of the year and usually consists of at least three days (and could be up to as many as six or seven) and several hundred to more than 1,000 miles. The destination is always the same – Knowhere.

 

The first Knowhere Ride was in 2016. It wasn’t named that yet and it was way more planned than the ride would become – and it was not solo. They do not have to be, it’s not a “rule” (that’s kind of a thing, there are no rules), but it is better that way. That time was with a friend, and it was very much planned; it was a good ride that included the best parts of the PCH. I did PCH the opposite direction again in June, alone. I did not plan to go as far or be gone as long as I was – but I definitely needed some escape. The ride was piggybacked on a trip to Southern California for a friend’s wedding and a visit to my sons’ family to see my grandkids. After that, no plans.

 

That was when the magic happened. That was when the Knowhere Ride was born. It doesn’t have to be during Spring Break, but that is usually the first opportunity. It doesn’t have to be solo, but it is best that way. Once it was a group ride – a “shake-down” ride for those who were going to Sturgis that year. While that was called the Knowhere Ride, too, there wasn’t much knowherey about it. And not every ride that is a solo ride into the spiritual oneness that is the coming together of my bike, the road, and my mind is necessarily a ride to “Knowhere,” either. The ride is at once difficult to define but, at the same time, impossible to miss when upon me.

 

What is true is that there will be no Spring Break Knowhere Ride this year. It was planned (which means only a departure date was planned) but scrubbed a couple of days ago due to a number of factors – and the weather was not the only one. The weather would only delay my departure, there are other factors that made the postponement of the ride a good idea. The next available time is in the latter part of May. That’s okay and there is no sense in making any plans for a thing that defies planning anyway.

 

What will be happening is still motorcycle stuff. I have two motorcycle projects that are waiting to become full-fledged, roadworthy motorcycles. One is and has been in the mock-up stage and the other needs to be torn down for painting. But before that can happen my garage needs a major overhaul. That’s what will be happening this week -that and other stuff I’ve been neglecting that needs attention. While all that stuff is decidedly Somewhere (here), it all contributes to getting somewhere else – Knowhere.