Singapore has been in the rearview mirror for a week now and Shanghai is where I have landed. It is hot and yet the people move faster here than most anywhere else I have been. It is as though every one of the twenty-four million people are in a hurry. Can they possibly all have somewhere important to go? Of course maybe I am jealous as I meander the streets of this city seeing huge museums, the people’s park, old town, Yu gardens, skyscrapers galore, and wander alongside the Yangtze River, the third longest river in the world. Or maybe they are glad to be out from under the colonial rule of Britain. Britain, for the good of the people of China, declared an Opium War to invade and stay in this country in the 19th century. Who would think that people especially could start a war over opium The English and the West have left their mark on this city. It can be seen as one walks past what is called the Bund today. The stately European style buildings on the Bund are here to stay although the Chinese politely asked the British to leave many years ago. Only one of the Bund era buildings was designed with Chinese architects. It has marks of traditional Chinese architecture in it. It is of course the China Bank building. The world wondered what would happen after the British left. Would the Chinese people be able to survive without the civilizing nature of the British, no longer so strong? After years of sorting out the good and bad the Chinese seem to be able to make it on their own, as one takes their eyes off the staid European buildings and looks across the river. They see the second largest skyscraper in the world and the whimsical Pearl Tower. On one side are the neoclassical Bund buildings and on the other side an explosion of creativity and height few places in the world can boast. They now can pick and choose what European influences they want and the result is huge. So I can see why they needed the British; they have lost their grey gravitas. So the people are in a hurry maybe because they want to make up for the lost time of colonial subjugation. They have built an international city that is strongly influenced by their Chinese culture. Yes the government is still very controlling but the lives of the average Chinese citizens have improved from the days of yore. Housing, food supply, and although it is still probably wise not to drink it, the water supply has improved. Their huge museums show their pride in their history and culture. And yes they still are interested in what the rest of the world is doing, as evidenced by the long lines at the Shanghai Museum’s 100 pieces of art that tell the story of the world from the British Museum. But of course this show is in the midst of four floors that share the glory of the Chinese. And that is the way it should be.
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It is my last night in Singapore and we have chosen a vegetarian Indian restaurant to celebrate. I order one of my favorite dishes, Palak Paneer. Then the waitress ask the question with onion or garlic? What in heaven’s name is she talking about? Apparently Jains do not eat onion and garlic. I believe in diversity but when you are in a restaurant and they ask if you want to have either Palak Paneer with onion or garlic or neither, they have gone too far. I was on board with gay, transgender, black women, children’s, animals, Hispanic, grey panthers, disabilities, and so on rights. I celebrate diversity but I draw the line at separating onion and garlic. It turns out that the Jain population (a religion primarily found in India) which respects all life and does not eat or kill anything, does not mix garlic and onion. They claim garlic is an aphrodisiac and reeks (pun intended) havoc on your meditation. While it may make you horny, I have found that I have less success with garlic breath. I am always horny so I cannot tell if it makes me horny or not. Now I have learned why I cannot meditate for more than an hour at a time. As a result of eating too much garlic I have achieved advanced stages of sexuality which has hampered my meditation, and here I thought it was a lack of discipline. Maybe I am more suited to meditation by kama sutra. It was my last night in Singapore and I was not in the mood for experimentation so I ate garlic and onion in my dish. This new form of diversity was a bridge too far. So at last I realized I am no Singaporean. Singapore has a Chinatown, Little India, a Muslim enclave, the remains of British colonialism, a Peranakan community place, an apparently a significant Jain population: it is a very diverse place. That is its charm. They still have a way to go on gay rights. I cannot believe that this diverse and creative place will not eventually become totally gay friendly but only time will tell. It has been a wonderful place to spend time and learn, to see things differently. Postscript: As a docent at Savannah’s Telfair Museums I would be remiss if I did not point out that the Marina Bay Towers and the lotus-shaped Art Science Building were designed by the same architect that designed the Jepson Center: Moshe Safdie. Of course his original drawings for the Jepson Center included a punch bowl of Chatham Artillery Punch on top but the board at the Telfair rejected this, and we have today a grand museum without a punch bowl on top (this is a little known fact and probably should not be repeated because the less in-the-know people will want to argue with you). We all have them: family stories about us that we wish would not, but will, stick in the family folklore forever. One of mine is when we went off trail at a state park (although we thought we were on a trail) and we came to a creek and the only way across without swimming was to walk across a felled tree to the other side. I watched as my eager dancing teens balanced their way across, barely. And then it was my time. I, not wanting to give the young ones a good laugh when I fell in the river, decided to take another tack. I would straddle the log and scoot across by lifting my body forward with my arms. They looked disappointed at my strategy. There would be no falling Dad. They were disappointed until halfway across the tree I saw for the first time a huge nodule. They had stepped ever so gently over it but my arms were not long enough to lift my body over the nodule. And I came crashing down, testicles first onto the nodule and let out a groan of pain that left the girls laughing in stitches. This is their go to story when they want to humiliate their father. The famous scoot across the log they call it. My other story the girls love to tell behind closed doors involves my privates too. One early morning in a small cabin my two daughters who were sleeping in a loft above us came down the ladder. I was half asleep sat up in my boxers on the side of the bed. Suddenly, the girls, with horrified but amused looks, began to point at me. As I looked down I too was horrified as all of my male genitalia had found its way out of my shorts and were now in plain sight for them. The oldest laughing exclaimed as I was covering myself up, “Thanks for the abstinence lesson Dad.” The youngest guffawing, “I am scarred for life. I need a therapist.” And the one whose name cannot be said threw me a towel to cover-up with shook her head. Regretfully, these are stories that will live with me for the rest of my life. My oldest daughter is famous for creating these stories. She who rushes forward verbally or physically without thinking. She has good instincts and she is smart but to rush forward to where no person has gone before without thinking can lead to disaster. So these stories happen so fast to keep some order we had to name them. So we call them her Maya-isms. One trip on our return she saw some toddlers wading in water having a good time. She gleefully asked me if she could, instead of taking the bridge, wade across. She pointed at the various toddlers and said it would be okay. I relented and left her to take the bridge. It occurred on the first step: a big splash heard around the creek with parents of the toddlers laughing and the toddlers looking puzzled at the inept teenager who could not stand up in the creek. My youngest one, who was to follow, had backed away from the creek as if it had bit her and watched the failed attempts of the oldest falling again and again as she try to stand. The oldest, defeated and humiliated, had to crawl out of the water as a toddler two feet from her looked on. She was soaked and we had a long subway ride home. The youngest and I laughed and pretended to not be with her as she held her head high in a dignified manner, hoping nobody noticed she was drenched. We call this incident the Return of the Sewer Girl. It is, unfortunately for her, now family folklore that the graceful dancer was out graced by toddlers. Now the youngest daughter, who is as cool as a cucumber, has spent her whole lifetime trying not to have a story. She has watched the Maya-isms come and go and wants no part of the family folklore. She will be happy to be the little girl without the story everyone tells. But fate makes us all have our stories. We were in the highest cabin-Farris wheel in the world. We had scored a cabin just for our family. As we, on the thirty minute ride to top, were mesmerized by the mosque we had seen in the Muslim enclave, the pangolin architecture of their Esplande, the National History Museum, the beautiful Gardens by the Bay, and each sight appeared more awesome. The cameras were clicking, the oohs and aahs were unleashed, we were all having a moment. The youngest had been taking pictures on her phone camera as fast as her finger could go. When the fateful words came at the peak of the ride with 360 degrees panoramic awesome views “Oh my I have internet up here!” As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. As everyone looked at her in disbelief and amusement saying with their eyes and body postures ‘Really that is what you have to say right now’. Trying to recapture the moment she quickly explained she was not on the internet but a friend had messaged her on her phone. Her phone which she was using for pictures had alerted her to the message. And thus she said, I thought wow I have internet. And she took one look at us and knew she had her story. She grimaced in horror but it was too late; fate, despite all of her lifetime of efforts, had given her a story. Since then she has made efforts to water down the story by sidling up next to me as I gawk at an ancient shrine and say to me, “Dad guess what I have internet.” But she knows her father and he will never let the story disappear in the trash bins of family stories. He will, until he dies, keep that treasured story on the family mantle to pull down and tell it to everyone who will listen. I am learning so much in this land called Singapore. Singapore became a nation in 1965. Their slogan is We Built a Nation. I am older than this nation of skyscrapers. I am older than dirt, at least Singapore dirt. But what is worse is they built a nation and I have only written one book and a few other things but nothing like a nation. What have I been doing with my time? These overachievers also have, count them, four official languages. I speak only one. I feel so inadequate. Our trusted tour guide says that Singapore has three main parts of their economy: port, financial, and tourism. I have no port. My wife says my economy is broke and broker. But I am a tourist. And let me tell you Singapore knows how to do tourism all the way from one of a kind things to do to emptying any money you may have in your pockets. The head of tourism here must be a dream to work for. One of his employees says, “I think we should build three tall skyscrapers and put a boat on top of it and use it as our iconic architecture.” Another employee says, “I think we should dedicate one floor of our National Gallery to an artist who has lived in a mental institution for the last forty years” and they do it. Another employee says, “Let us have a zoo and only let people see it at night in the dark” and they do it. Another says, “Let us build eight story concrete electric trees and make it one of our iconic symbols” and they do it. They will do anything here for the cause of tourism. And believe it or not we tourists walk around with our mouths agape loving it. But can you imagine when the tourist developers talk to the marketing team and say we need you to promote tall electric concrete trees to the world? And the marketers look confidently and say, ‘oh yea we can do that’. What a country this is. I wish I had a boss who would let me come up with ideas like this. But no, when I proposed a Peace Museum in the shape of the peace symbol they looked at me and shook their heads no and wonder why they hired me in the first place. And because I did not have this Singapore boss, I have not built a nation. My world view was destroyed. You see I thought I had this missing day thing down; this isn’t my first rodeo overseas. Yet for several days I lived in an alternative universe. I was living days that either had not happened or were in the past. I was never in the present in Savannah or Singapore. So where was I? I got in a heated discussion with my companion (she whose name cannot be spoken) over what day it was. She was confused too. I declared it was the twelfth in Singapore because my computer said so in the date and time. For four days I was viewing my computer calendar as being on Singapore time. Now you may think you are on vacation what does it matter? She had an appointment with a curator at the National Gallery of Singapore on the 13th and needed to know for sure what day that was. Well I, eternally trying to be helpful, told her today was the twelfth and therefore tomorrow was the thirteenth. And we went back and forth over what day it was and I quite confidently told her I had been using my computer calendar and time since I had been here and it was the twelfth. So we discussed the endless possibilities of what day it really was for a good ten minutes. But then she did something unfair: she asked the internet for the date and time in Singapore. It was then my whole understanding of the universe was demolished. It said it was the eleventh; apparently my computer clock had not changed and I had been in a twilight zone of no time for several days. I could have denied the facts as our President is want to do. But I faced it like a man and said I was wrong. But now I did not trust anything I previously had known. The world was different and I had unsure footing of even the basics of what day it was. Yet I had to continue to drag myself through this foreign country with sultry steamy weather. So I trudge through natural history and history museums looking for answers. I visit churches, Hindu temples, and mosques hoping for a light to be shown me. I learn about different cultures such as Peranakan, Indian, Chinese, Malay, and Muslim struggling to find my place, to live in this moment and not a moment I have contrived. And slowly the answer came to me: time is a construct. The prophet Kenny Rogers said if you can’t love the one you want then love the one you are with. So I have decided if you can’t be in the time you want then love the time you have. This is messed up: I travel for 28 hours by plane to Singapore and it is hotter and more humid than Savannah. Then they tell me I have lost a whole day. They promise me I will get it back on the return trip. How do I know if this is true? I mean I do not deal in days. For all I know I may have forfeited the best day of my life. My daughter corrects me she says I do not gain my day back but instead I live the same day twice. Yes you heard it I will live the day of the 28 hour plane ride back twice. She thinks this makes me feel better.
What is this thing where they exchange money? I give them American dollars and they give me ‘money’ back. At least they say it is ‘money’ but how do I know this? I cannot spend it to see if it really works until I give them my American dollars. I was not born yesterday you know. Later when I complained to a police officer he said, “I should not have exchanged money with just any joe blow on the street. You will never see that money again. You have to go to a booth that says money exchange on it.” To show him I was not a fool I quoted him the words of President George W. Bush “There's an old saying in Tennessee - I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee - that says, fool me once, shame on - shame on you. Fool me - you can't get fooled again." He appeared impressed; he did not say anything after that quote. And I am not sure this is even a foreign country. I travel 28 hours by plane (did I mention this before?) to see a Starbucks, KFC, Firestone, McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts, Krispy Kreme and many other stores found throughout Savannah. They say the official language is English and it seems most people speak it here unless you need help; then the person you talk to breaks into Chinese. What is with that? They have three official languages here. At least now I know I am in a foreign country because in the United States we have one official language American. So I traveled 28 hours by plane, I think I mentioned it before, and the tour guide tells me the ingenious Brits designed the city so that the Chinese, Muslims, and Indians would have their different sections across the river from the British. Funny, in the South we call that segregation not brilliant city planning, but what I do I know. So the tour guide tells me with great pride that Singapore is a city, an island, and a country. A country and yet you can drive across it in two hours. I cannot even make it to Atlanta in that amount of time. I am so confused I cannot tell if this country is all confused or if (wait for it) the 28 hour plane ride here has left me all jet lagged. I will get back with you later on that. There are sad days. One of mine was in a Chinese restaurant in Louisville Kentucky on Bardstown Road many years ago. I was working in a Baptist Center\Chapel living in semi communal style with homeless, mental health folks in crises, seminary students and other staff. I was the homeless minister for the Center and the associate pastor for the church. My boss was a charismatic woman who was becoming a liberated woman minister.
With much fear and trembling the church had told the Association, which helped pay for salaries and programs in the Center\Chapel, that they wanted her as their minister. This was a bold action as the District Director did not want this at all and it would force the splitting district to address a controversial issue such as the dreaded “women in ministry” conundrum. The end result of this could mean defunding and being thrown out of the building that the congregation and some of us literally called home. Cindy, the woman minister, had at first not seen herself as the replacement for the Minister\Director who was leaving. Many of us encouraged her to think of herself this way because she had the gift and even the call as they say in Baptist life. But at first she was reluctant. But on a fateful night in the basement of the building we called home some staff and church leadership were talking about what we wanted in a minister. The conversation kept turning back to Cindy. But that could not happen and how would we even start to make it happen. When, in one of my rare moments of insight, I said we need to write a letter to the district saying we felt called to call Cindy as our minister. Thus the struggle began. She was constantly under fire. The Director of the District, who was everyone’s boss, played mental games, promoting every male on staff. Pastors decried her to her face, and from the pulpit, and at Associational Meetings. And there was always the congregation and the center’s ministry being held in the balance. Homeless, Mentally Challenged, Senior Citizens, children, youth, and the poverty stricken would all suffer if she persisted in her need to be the Minister. The stress on the congregation and the staff was enormous. She was constantly under the microscope with everyone waiting for the false move that would justify her being fired. The Associational Director floated the idea that the youth minister or me would be good replacements for her and a solution for the woman problem. Regretfully, I was becoming radicalized in my thinking about community and other issues. I was accused of promoting consensus decision-making as a power move. I was deliberately bringing gay people into the church to create a power position. I was allowing a gay seminary group to meet in the building, I was marching in Gay Rights protests. I pushed for us to be more gay-friendly. I was accused of advocating for the homeless ministry to ensure my prominence (this at least made sense since I was pushing for the security of the homeless programs as I was the Minister for the Homeless which by default was my job and by default promoted me). Even though, as I told them, they could recruit a certain person and he might do my job better. When I left, they did hire the certain person and there was no drop in the programming. Cindy was still feeling her way on many of the issues that I could afford to explore because I was not the Jezebel who was wrecking the Association. Although eventually when I was not willing to help the Director, he pointed his finger in my face twice and said, “After I get rid of her you are next.” He was a nice Christian guy. The stress had been hard on our relationship. She was not trusting any of her staff who challenged her. We were all positioning ourselves. She was more conservative than me and we ended on opposite sides of consensus, gay rights, forcing the homeless to attend church services, and so on. I had started an annual Chester Fawbush Day in honor of a homeless man who had sobered up and became a leader in our church but right before he died, he had fallen off the wagon and she did not think we should honor him. Yet another issue we disagreed on. She was a good preacher and minister. But her sermons were not my style. I liked my sermons more hard edged and cynical J. But her sermons were probably the sustenance the church needed at the time. But all these things had led to this Chinese restaurant. I thought somewhere removed from the Church might allow us room to breathe without the stress that lingered over us. I tried to assure her I was with the program of her being the minister especially since the Church wanted it. But no way and no words I could say would make her a believer. I realized in pushing my new radical agenda I had lost a relationship I cherished. I was deeply hurt because I never had anyone question my integrity before; disagree with me yes but my sincerity had always been respected. I realized her agenda was to see me gone or to force me to align myself totally with her agenda. She would not believe I did not want her job. Every act she saw as an effort to displace her. Every effort to advocate for my beliefs was a carefully designed plot against her. She complained that my brother, who was now on staff, voted my way on all issues, something I warned her would happen if she hired him. She complained about another staff who she did not think much of sided with me all the time. We parted the restaurant and I knew eventually I would have to leave. I had failed. My dreams of a community of love and service to the poor would not have me in it. The battle was coming to an end and the church were planning the different scenarios of what they would look like after we left. The church saw no way to include my salary and all the homeless ministries. I would have to stay at the Center and work for the Associational Director. I knew this was an impossibility. I had hoped, or some would say had magical thinking, the Church would be bolder and try to hold to most of what the Center was doing. But the primary goal was to have Cindy as minister and keep some of the more standard programs of the Church; the other programming seemed financially prohibitive and any new space would be too small for the homeless ministries. I left my state of denial and gave my resignation at a meeting. It was taken as a slap to Cindy and some kind of last ditch power move. My heart was broken. It was indeed time to leave. These many years later the Church thrives in a new building and Cindy is their minister. They are recognized as a small peacemaking church. Gay marriages are performed there. They have a monthly coffee house for the homeless and their advocacy for the oppressed is alive and well. Many of the seminarians who were members back then have stayed these many years later. They stood by the woman minister so many years ago and now they reap the harvest of good things. As for me I am an old religious anarchist who writes books and blogs. I have lived in a commune, worked with Persons Impacted by AIDS and the homeless, practiced consensus, worked as a chaplain for the homeless, pastored a small Unitarian Universalist church, and started a non-profit called Joined In Giving. Life has been good. We all have sad days that linger in the back of our mind and soul and hopefully we learn and grow from them. She was told it would be in her best interest if she quit while she was ahead. She replied but I am behind that is why I must keep going. Her father looked at her and realized she was serious. This is who Maya is. She is born to be ahead and if she is not ahead she is not quitting before she is ahead. She is competitive to the nth degree. She hates losing and will give it her all even when defeat is obvious. Defeat today is preparation for victory tomorrow. She enjoys her body and handles herself like Jill the Jock. She enjoys competing with the boys in ultimate Frisbee because they are tougher competition. The boys love her infectious enthusiasm and her lithe body but they do not enjoy losing to her.
She is an adventurer. Both in China and New York she would hit the streets at full tilt rushing ahead even though she did not know where we were going. Destinations be damned we were going to have an adventure. There is a world to be seen and she is behind and must catch up. Part of being an adventure gal she is also a stimulus junkie. Always wanting to be on the run. She enjoys life to the fullest. Her laugh is a love hate thing. You love the infectious enthusiasm in the laugh but at full throttle it is ear piercing and all consuming. When she is in this mode expect to miss the next line or two of the movie or conversation you are in. She is very social. When we returned to China to adopt her sister. Our group of adopting families numbering over twenty would each morning gather with other hotel guests in the elegant and huge dining room. Maya would visit every table of our group saying good morning and asking how their newly adopted child was doing. Twenty minutes later she would join us for breakfast. She is very bright if not sometimes too concrete in her thinking. They call them Mayaism things she says either before she thinks or takes a little too literal. The first Mayaism came when we were on a rural road and passed the local mail carrier and she wondered aloud how they could possibly be delivering the mail. In her head they did not stop at each mail box but as they drove down the road without stopping they opened the mailbox and threw the mail in the mail boxes closed the mailbox without ever slowing down. How else could they do it she ask. She works hard. Not many are smarter than she but she will catch up by hard work if she is behind. She is the great organizer. If it’s organizing an event or her studies she has a plan. Once her teacher who had only started teaching that year was proud when she found online the best organized notes for their chemistry class from a study site. Maya sheepishly raised her hands and said they are my notes. The teacher a little embarrassed said sheepishly in return, ‘Yea, that would make sense.’ She is the goddess of DIYs. When she “slows” down she is found crafting. Papercutting, origami, knitting, weaving you name it is her domain. She loves to cook and bake. All of these things make her popular with her family, friends, and sometimes just passer-byers are the beneficiaries of her creations. She likes to have her way. And if you have a problem with that you first need to dodge the steam engine Maya at full throttle coming at you. She is polite but persistent in her resistance. When she slows down or you make her realize she is behind she will give way. But you always see after the giving way the planning ahead she is doing not to lose this argument again. And now this bundle of steam is full throttle heading out in to the world. She walks fast ahead even though she might not know where she is going. She and those with her will enjoy the adventure and the sound of her laughter. She may fall behind but know she is working hard and planning to outpace you. After all, it is not in her best interest to quit while she is ahead. We were two volunteers at a commune founded in the 1940’s in rural southwest Georgia called Koinonia. It was a legendary place where Habitat for Humanity had its beginnings and an off Broadway musical based on an interpretation of the bible of the founder, Clarence Jordan. His name was John Cole Vodicka. He was a journalist and prison reform and anti-death penalty advocate. He was an undiscovered legend. In the Dead Man Walking book (later made into a movie starring Sean Penn and Susan Sarandon) by Sr. Helen Prejean he is the unnamed person who first involved her in visiting Death Row.
I was leaving my work and ministry in the inner-city of Louisville, Ky with the homeless and mentally ill and he was leaving a hospitality house for family and friends of the women prisoners in a West Virginia prison. Of all the volunteers in that group we had a natural affinity. He had been working in prison reform and against the death penalty for most of his adult life. He was hard core. He arranged for the downtown Americus protest on Good Friday to remind people that their Savior had been crucified in an unjust death penalty case. He was the one who we held a silent protest at the biggest event in Sumter County the annual Andersonville July 4th Celebration. People were dressed in Confederate uniforms and hoop skirts. It was about as Dixie of an affair you could get. But he felt it was good to be there as a silent witness holding our signs for the conservative Congressman who was to give his patriotic speech. He was also the one that started several of us visiting different individuals who may be future death penalty cases in the surrounding jails. Even in rural south Georgia he was workng how to change the system. He and I would visit Joseph who was accused of murdering two individuals in a very violent way. Now I had worked with mentally challenged but not like Joseph. He was a decent artist and personable. But I noticed whenever a female guard or visitor passed he would stare and then his eyes would roll back in his head. I would try to distract him from this habit but it was too reflexive. When one heard his story you knew that his childhood had contributed to his current mental state. His mother’s punishment as a toddler was to turn on an electric eye of the stove and set his naked body down on it. He literally had scars of the coils from the electric stove on his butt. He was beaten often and severely by his mother’s various lovers. We would never know if things had been different if his sanity would have been different. The idea was for me to become his advocate especially if he was ever given the death penalty. This never happen for various reasons. But Joseph enjoyed our visit and the one or two I did by myself. Things got eerie twice. The sheriff had been in the local paper the day before my visit because they head found three women’s bodies buried in a field who had been mutilated. This was similar to the two women Joseph had killed. When I arrived he was anxious and was asking me all sorts of questions about the investigation of the murders. I only knew what was in the paper but he seemed to know more about the murders than anyone else. In the end he shrugged his shoulders and said they are not looking in the right places so they will never find the murderer. They never found the murderer. The other time was when Joseph had somehow discovered the name and address of John’s home and wife. He started writing her poetry and drawing elaborate pictures of and for her. We had no clue how he learned this information. He presented as an uneducated and close to mentally challenged person. But sometimes he seemed to be playing with us on a level we did not realize. It was these two experiences that made John and I both know that he was someone that should spend his life behind bars unless some miraculous event occurred. John and I would have several conversations where he would teach me about his experience with Death Row and the Death Penalty. As a journalist he had written articles about Attica and other major prison events. He knew everyone in the field but seemed to have chosen to work in the shadows. After he left Koinonia he started the Prison and Jail Project in the surrounding area. He would visit court cases and monitor the judges and the process. He had at least two judges dismissed for their overt racism demonstrated in their language and by their attitudes toward the black defendants. He was threatened physically but he persisted. He held annual marches from one county jail to the next. I participated in the first one my reward were chiggers and blisters but later the march became quite the event with people from all over the United States participating. He would also help start local citizens organizations to monitor the local court systems. To say the least he was not a friend of the court. But he was a friend of the Peace and Justice Movement who gave him several awards for his work. John had three sons. One of which was demon possessed. He would victimize his older and younger siblings by biting and swinging bats at them. His running joke was that this son was why he was involved in Death Row work to prepare himself for the inevitable visits to this wayward son. It should be noted none of his children who are grown now ever went to jail. So our children played together, we talked, we worked and I was happy to call him a friend. But the times do change. We both left Koinonia to continue our work and life’s journey. We occasionally would visit each other but eventually life and distance overcame what friendship we had. He was a mooring in my life at a time when I questioned what was the use of the struggle for justice and peace ? These many years later I think of my time at Koinonia and remember him and the place. It is places and people like Koinonia and John that keep us grounded to the core of our being. |
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