THE NEXT JUNETEENTH

It’s Juneteenth, but I feel no sense of freedom. The company I founded forced my retirement nearly two years ago, and I’ve been restless ever since. Time is less friend than enemy, and any project started makes me anxious about other things I should be doing instead. I sleep well but not long, up twice or three times a night, my bladder calling — but then my brain stalling sleep’s return, turning over lines to write and books left unread or unfinished in piles throughout the house. It’s less a question of what to do than where to start and when. Now’s a good time, a year since I last reflected on my unexpected parenting position and the shackles I’m too ashamed to resent. A lot has happened since, but I needed some space between experience and appreciation.

It’s Juneteenth, and one of the few African Americans I know, one of the few who knows what Dave and La’Nessa will face as they encounter odd looks and open prejudice in a society yawing between left and right extremes, with civil rights debated in an uncivil manner and the pursuit of racial hegemony proceeding unabated, is visiting as morning fog shrouds the horizon. ‘M’ was once a Black Panther from South Central, then a political functionary in a long-lost presidential administration. He sees injustice everywhere and I don’t disagree, but we don’t discuss politics today, but prison, ironic given what day it is.

It’s Juneteenth, and we are joined by ‘J’, who doesn’t share in our stories, though he lived in a prison of his own not long ago, the result of a severe chemical imbalance and severe psychological shock that overwhelmed him enough to land in an institution. ‘M’ is his AA sponsor. Years ago, ‘J’ was my business coach. Now he is heading the new company I’ve started.

It’s Juneteenth, when the news of freedom finally reached the Galveston shores, to tell men and women they’d been emancipated for over two years. It’s an apt metaphor for my situation, suffering the perennial problem of so many alcoholics, regardless of time served: trapped in a psychological mode that craves serenity, but never finds it; lusts for satisfaction, but never feels it; and seeks communion with a Higher Power, but never finds it. There is never enough…more is the operative attitude that makes success seem hollow. It’s never what we thought, we don’t feel we deserve it and are embarrassed by any congratulatory remarks. And so today, three aging men talk of prisons.

It’s Juneteenth, and ‘M’ feels compelled to comment on the prevalence of incarceration among his people. He goes to San Quentin with his Catholic brethren, where they offer spiritual guidance and fellowship to men who will be on the inside for a long time. Racial divisions are still prominent within the walls, a tangible and dangerous microcosm of what we feel, but won’t say, and are still loath to display, in a society determined to dispel differences but failing, always failing. As a Black man, ‘M’ can mingle with other Black men in San Quentin, but will get cold stares and menacing glares from Latins, whites and even other Blacks, if he dares to venture outside colored circles. It’s a pity, he is saying, as I wave to ‘G’, who has come for our weekly pool service. ‘G’ and I have had animated conversations about religion, family and our divided histories. Comfortably crossing racial lines, made easier after he spied Dave, with his dark cast and black hair running around. ‘M’ takes notice of ‘G’. I can see a flash and as ‘G’ leaves, ‘M’ follows him out to his truck and bellows, “Happy Juneteenth, my brother!”

And there it is. A reminder of what I will never know, living a life of white privilege. ‘J’ looks at me and I shrug. Race makes no difference to me, but then it doesn’t need to. It’s a caste system in which I play no role. Even though ‘M’ drives a nicer car than I, lives in a more upscale neighborhood than I, he will never be white. I wonder why it matters, but know it always does, but I am neither ashamed, nor apologetic.

It’s Juneteenth, and the freedom I was granted by a forced retirement is something I neither appreciate, nor enjoy. When irrelevance was thrust upon me, nearly two years ago, I started a consulting practice, which went nowhere, completed another Master’s degree to take me somewhere and wrote two books, which could go anywhere. I became more involved in a couple of partnerships, but it means I have to be nicer than my natural inclinations, producing greater demands on my psyche than my time.

It’s Juneteenth, and we spoke of justice. Not penal reform, not legalities, but fair treatment, caring and compassion. We all have our prisons, whether behind bars or, in the case of we three alcoholics, in front of or under too many. Mostly, it’s barriers we can’t see, due to fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of looking foolish, even fear of success and its ensuing responsibilities. I have a successful marriage, though its cracks are showing. I built a successful business, its foundation weakening since my departure. I’ve successfully avoided drinking and using drugs almost fifty years, it is a struggle at times, less of staying sober than staying sane, or grounded and humble. What angered me as a young man enraged me further as I aged. The problems I used to drink at were now the problems I sought to solve. I wrote two books about them, formed businesses to confront them, engaged in philanthropy dedicated to their abolition and I was seething as we wound our way through them that misty morning on my deck.

Finally, ‘M’ looked at me and said, “What are you going to do about it?”

“More,” I quickly answered. “I’m always doing more.”

  “Like what?”

“I’ve started a new business to do what I did before — but this time, I’ll do it better and take no prisoners in the process.” He smiled at that.

“I’ve dragged ‘J’ into it, and we’ll build it big and loud and base it on the principles we’ve been discussing.”

  “To make money?”

  “To make a difference.”

It’s Juneteenth and it’s quiet now as my words fall heavily on my listeners.

“You’re doing this at your age?”

My age, at which I still hike three miles every morning. Now with a large, lively dog in harness, the fourth in line of “a pet I’ll never get,” until I succumbed to Dave and Kathy’s imprecations, overlooking the pain of putting down two and having the other die in my arms as we rushed him to the vet too late, just before last year’s Juneteenth.

My age, at which I’ve filled two large notebooks, full of plans and ideas of what we could create with the right partners sharing my frustration at how our profession has become more mechanized, losing its humanity in the process.

My age, which bears witness to the loss of good friends and family in recent years — my youngest daughter’s breast cancer and double mastectomy, my wife’s declining vitality along with my virility, the expensive expansion of our house and extensive financial planning, too many glimpses of mortality and my angry refusal to submit.

My age, which weighs heavily on sagging shoulders, often feeling like Atlas but looking more like Prometheus, my insides gutted by worry and fright I cannot show, chained to a remote rock of my own creation, added to the boulders I shoulder already.

My age, at which I should have shed the shackles of child rearing. But God had other plans, though they don’t seem well constructed. I ruminate at night, blinking past the smoke of my cigar and consider where I am now.

Just before the last Juneteenth, La’Nessa came home from the therapeutic boarding school we’d sent her to on the other side of the country. She’d done well academically and blended well with the other misfit toys, tossed there by frustrated parents. She also bonded with her counselor, who we hoped had helped her cope with her myriad demons and disorders. She didn’t come home to us, but to our daughter Amber, who thought a change of scene, away from the raging bull of a parent everyone feared I’d become, would be good for everyone. That experiment lasted three weeks, during which La’Nessa was caught vaping and drinking, and posting bizarre and inappropriate videos on social media. Amber had by then formally adopted Tru, my third great-grandchild (who is now both my grandson and my great-grandson). Amber thought La’Nessa’s presence would be good for them both, but Tru sensed something and kept La’Nessa at bay. After the failure of this experiment, La’Nessa came back to our home, making us always at fault and the default. We couldn’t have her live with her mother, as Mellissa has been in and out of jail and rehab and is now raising her fourth illegitimate child. Moving in with us was no picnic for anyone, especially given that Dave, by now used to getting all our attention, began fighting constantly with La’Nessa.

The local school district still deemed La’Nessa too dangerous to return to her original place and sent her across town, an inconvenience to everyone. We actually liked the new school; oddly, the principal knew us because she was Amber’s friend in high school. Everyone was very supportive and La’Nessa almost fit in — almost.

The trouble began in late October, when Kathy and I got away for a week in Hawaii. Her grandparents were left in charge, but they were no match for the kids. La’Nessa began disappearing for the night, a habit she continued upon our return. We threatened consequences. We took away almost all of her possessions, but “friends” kept giving her old phones and her mother even bought her one and she stayed one step ahead of our constant confiscations. She skipped school. She ran away for days at a time, causing us sleepless nights and fruitless evening calls and searches to determine her whereabouts. No one helped us, while her friends lied and denied they’d seen her, though we later discovered they were harboring her without their parents’ knowledge. It was madness and I was, appropriately, mad. 

            There were more difficulties at school. Missed classes, even whole days. Caught with vaping cartridges. Fights. Defying authority. Over Christmas, she was gone during the entire school break, though this time her mother, out of rehab again, was the one keeping her and not telling us, not even to let us know La’Nessa was safe. While I had been successful at keeping myself from hating Mellissa, until then (fearful of harboring a deep resentment which, as AA’s Big Book says, is “the number one offender” among the litany of travails that could cause us to drink again), this was too much.

After Christmas we had “the talk” and all was quiet for a short time. Until we went away one night and La’Nessa physically attacked Dawn. Until she started skipping school again and we were brought in for multiple meaningless meetings with school officials, as if there was something we could do besides tie her down and hold her hostage, until the school bell rang.

“The horns of a dilemma,” is an apt phrase, as I felt stabbed in the heart for the most part and screwed from behind on the other. Then La’Nessa made it easy — she attacked Kathy.

I was on my early morning hike when my phone buzzed. “La’Nessa knocked me down and kicked me,” Kathy yelled. “What should I do?”

“Call the cops,” I said, a strategy we had agreed on, but one we never thought we’d use.

Kathy did and two police officers greeted me as I came into the house. Stern warnings

were given, but they said they were powerless to act. “Call us if it happens again,” they said. Were they kidding? La’Nessa outweighed Kathy by fifty pounds and had her by three inches. I should wait for another episode?

But La’Nessa made it easy again. She left and didn’t come back. And we let her.

La’Nessa and her mother decided she was better off there, despite the fact that we were her legal guardians. I took the only action available to us and filed for dissolution of our relationship. It was granted — two weeks before the school finally threw her out for beating the crap out of another student. One of Dave’s friends showed me the video. Not only was it sickening to see the fight, but it was equally dispiriting to see all the kids standing around, unwilling to interfere, but all too willing to record it. One female teacher finally broke it up. It was a miracle La’Nessa didn’t attack her, too.

The school gave up, after subjecting us to more meetings.

The courts gave up, after letting us rack up pointless legal bills.

We gave up and finally gave La’Nessa her freedom, and gave her mother back the child she had always said she’d be better able to raise. Now she had a chance to prove it. We almost laughed.

It’s Juneteenth, and the day before I bought Mellissa, La’Nessa and Mellissa’s baby a one-way ticket to Kansas City, where Mellissa said they would make a new start. On this holiday celebrating a release from bondage, I was finally set free, counting the days before they all get on a plane in mid-July.

Don’t call and ask for money.

Don’t call and say you want to come back.  

Don’t call — and La’Nessa never does.

Maybe she hates us now. I don’t know and I don’t care. She is God’s child, not mine. Let’s see how He handles it.

As ‘M’ prepared to leave, he asked “How are the kids?”

I wanted to tell him the whole story. I wanted to share my pain and anguish. I wanted to tell him how Kathy and I have failed one child and are struggling with the other. I wanted to scream and throw a table over the deck and into the pool. 

“They’re fine,” I said.