The Dedalus Log

Here’s to the dear departed past:
The photographs you find,
That seem to call to mind,
Familiar family faces.

That’s when every sky was bluer.
Clouds seemed to disappear back then.
That’s when every friend was truer.
Ahh, but then again,
Didn’t they know you when?

But here’s to the echoes of tomorrow,
Soon to be memories at last.
Memories that will someday reappear,
Loud and clear,
In the dear departed past.
(Dear Departed Past: Dave Frishberg – 1985)

I think the last time I thought longingly about Toñito as a child was when he graduated from high school and left home in 1996 to attend George Washington University in Washington D.C. His departure was like losing sight of your infant child, as he swiftly turned a corner into a narrow alleyway that he alone could see and walk. The path he had traveled at home, as a child and youth, could never be retraced, and would never be followed again. His life since college has been an independent one, filled with jobs, games, friendships, relationships, and adjustments – but he has always managed to remain geographically and emotionally connected to his family and loved ones. I suppose I’m suddenly flooded with memories of his youth and childhood because they are now truly coming to an end. You see, Tony fulfills the old Irish adage of “a son is a son until he takes a wife…” when he marries Nikki Willis in March of 2015. How much of that youthful boy of my memories still lingers and dwells in the man Toñito has become today? I wondered...




The final impetus for this essay came when I heard Rosemary Clooney’s rendition of a great old song called “Dear Departed Past” in my iTunes library. The lyrics captured my mood and sentiments as I approached this crossroad in Toñito’s life. It brought to mind many long buried scenes and images of Toñito as an infant, youth, and adolescent. (Note: Since I couldn’t find a YouTube clip of the song by Rosemary Clooney, nor the complete lyrics online, I took the trouble to transcribe the song myself, and added the lyrics to the end of this essay.)



I must finally confess that Toñito was a sweet and “special” child. There is no getting around the fact that a first-born child is a “once in a lifetime” experience, and Toñito’s personality made parenting a joy. I can clearly remember holding Kathy’s hand through her extended hours of labor pains; adjusting to the shocking news that she would require a “C-section” delivery; and seeing Kathy for the first time after the operation, radiant with happiness and relief as she showed me the perfect, fuzzy-headed infant in her arms. From the first time I held Toñito in the hospital room, to the long goodbye I whispered to him through the looking glass of the nursery, after the longest days of my life, I have loved him in a way that has never been repeated. No matter how intently Prisa interrogated me on this point later on, and despite all my evasions and insistence that she was “special” too, there is something unique in experiencing, caring for, and loving your first-born child. All the raw fears, worries, and uncertainties of parenthood are not often repeated with the second child. There is a relaxation and newfound confidence with the second, and the path of childhood has been clearly opened and mapped for them by the first. I saw these dynamics repeated in the births of our first granddaughters, Sarah and Gracie. Watching those two girls now, as they smile, laugh, and play with each other, only reminded me again of those first years with Toñito, of the years he and Prisa spent together as children, and our early lives in our first home in Reseda.



I’m sure that many people would assume that my first impressions of Toñito would be of his intelligence – how alertly he observed things, and how quickly he spoke, learned, and began reading. But more than anything else Toñito had the ability to astound me and bring tears of joy to my eyes with his actions, words, and imagination. I always thought of him as my own “Little Prince”, a boy from another world bringing the gifts of unconditional love, laughter, and childish wonder into our adult home. In many ways Toñito re-taught me the truths I knew once as a child, but had forgotten as a man.



Toñito’s laughter was his sweetest gift to us as a child. Until his voice changed at 10 or 11 years of age, Toñito had a secret, tinkling laugh that escaped him during private moments. It sounded like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. This was not his public laughter, the one he used in school, at family gatherings, or with friends. It was his private chuckling. I would hear it on quiet days from another room, while he sat alone in the living room or bedroom, reading a book, listening to an audiotape, or watching television. I would inch toward the open door silently and carefully, as if stalking a skittish hummingbird, hoping to find the source of the enchanting sound. Without betraying my presence, I would peek in for a quick glimpse of the tall, skinny boy, with a shock of black hair falling over his forehead, sitting on the rug or couch, engrossed in a book or magazine. Ducking back into the hallway, I imagined a luminous, Tinkerbell-like faerie perched on his narrow shoulder, leaning into his ear, and whispering the private jokes or riddles that delight children. If Kathy appeared, I would raise my finger to my lips and motion for silence. Her questioning look would disappear when the chiming giggles floated through the door again. She would beam a smile of clarity, and we shared our private secret silently. Too soon, however, a sound from the street, yard, or another room would intrude – a car starting, a boy shouting, or a telephone ringing – and the moment would pass. At puberty, Toñito kept reading, watching TV, and laughing, but the faeries came no more, and the sounds of tinkling laughter ceased.




Oddly enough for a fervent John Lennon fan, I never heard him sing his lullaby, “Beautiful Boy,” until listening to the radio on Father’s Day in 1988. I was driving home from Chatsworth, on Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Toñito was 10 years old, at the time, and very much still a child. As I listened to the lyrics for the first time, I could feel my throat tighten, my face flush, and tears starting to moisten the sides of my eyes. Mists of bittersweet memories crept into my mind and thoughts. The song awakened tender images of moments spent with Toñito as a small child. I recalled teaching him his night prayers, as we knelt together side by side at the foot of our king size bed; showing him how to cross the street by himself, but taking his hand into mine when he actually stepped onto the road; and reading the Bene Gesserit “Litany Against Fear” from the science fiction novel, Dune, as a means of calming his worries and anxieties. It seemed that Lennon was describing my life and actions as Toñito’s dad during those wonderful formative years. It suddenly struck me that my son was growing up too fast, and I feared, for the first time, that there might come a time when he would not need me anymore.



Ultimately, as Toñito grew older, his intelligence, talents, and abilities quickly equaled and far surpassed mine in grade school, high school, and college. While this was a source of great pride and satisfaction for me, I will confess that there was one trait I especially envied – Tony’s passion for acting and his desire to perform. You see, Kathy espoused a dartboard approach to exposing our children to a variety of athletic and artistic opportunities beyond school. Beginning at age 4, Kathy kept targeting new sports and activities for Tony and Prisa to tryout, searching for the bull’s-eye that would stick and become a lifelong interest or habit: AYSO soccer, baseball, softball, basketball, swimming, and finally, children’s musical theatre. Prisa loved sports, but Tony fell under the spell of stage and theatre at age 11. He took classes and auditioned for plays and musicals in high school, majored in it in college, and never stopped being a part of it until well into his late twenties. Strangely enough, although he performed in countless musical and theatre productions in grade school, high school, and college, the clearest memory I have of Tony performing is of a particular dramatic interpretation of an original story.



When Toñito was in the 7^th grade, he was a first-time member of his school’s academic team, and participated in an annual Academic Decathlon of sorts at Louisville High School. One of his events was dramatic interpretation. Even though he had performed in children’s theatre for many years, Toñito had never participated in this type of competition. He was one of the first participants to perform, and although he was poised and effective, it was obvious that he lacked the polish and dramatic experience that the older performers brought to their efforts. I watched Toñito as he studied these veteran performers, his eyes fixed on their movements and motions, noting their pauses, inflections, tones, and mannerisms. When the competition was over, and I asked him how he felt about his performance, he explained that while he was satisfied with his effort, he was eager for next year’s competition when he could apply some of the techniques and methods he had observed.



The following year, the Louisville HS Academic Competition introduced a variation in this category. In homage to Dr. Seuss, the pen name of Theodor Seuss Geisel, who had died earlier that year, the event called for the interpretation of original stories, written in the Dr. Seuss style of message and rhyme. Kathy and I felt that the new twist played to Tony’s strengths of creative imagination, writing, and dramatic interpretation. Toñito was a devoted fan of Dr. Seuss since the age of three, when he memorized and recited, in their entirety, Dr. Seuss’s ABC, Hop On Pop, and Fox In Sox. However, while we knew that Toñito was working tirelessly on his story, he kept it secret, never giving Kathy or me a hint as to what the story was about, or how he meant to perform it. Sadly for me, the day of the Louisville Competition conflicted with an event I had to attend as Principal of El Sereno Middle School, so by the time I arrived it was over. Although Kathy raved about Toñito’s performance, telling me he was by far  the most dramatic and original, I was depressed that I had not actually experienced it first hand. I didn’t get a clear notion of the quality of his work until the awards ceremony at the end of the competition. When the category of Dramatic Interpretation came up, the principal announced that because of its creative and artistic merit, the judges had decided to recognize and award Tony Delgado for exceptional excellence in the category. Later that evening, Toñito gave a private performance of “The Galumpagger” to a small audience of his family and friends. It proved to be one more occasion when his imagination, creativity, and artistic abilities brought tears of joy and pride to my eyes.




Our first baseless concern about Toñito (of which there were many over the years) was worrying how he would react to the birth of a sibling and a rival for our affection – his sister, Teresa. We needn’t have bothered, because it was love at first sight. Toñito was devoted to his baby sister, and he made her his first real playmate. He watched her, cared for her, worried about her, and shared everything he owned with her. He joined us on the carpet, watching and encouraging Teresa’s steady physical development as an infant, and he dubbed her with the nickname “Prisa” through his early attempts at pronouncing her full name. He patiently spent hours playing with her, reading to her, and involving her in his imaginative games and activities. One such game was his version of  “Make Me Laugh”, a TV show he recorded on his cassette machine in June of 1984, when he was 6 and Prisa had just turned 4. This was an 8-minute audio recording in which Tony played a game show host and Prisa was his first contestant. The interaction is hilarious, with Tony very much in character as the MC, introducing the game and contestant, and then reading a series of jokes from a children’s joke book he had read. Prisa, whose role was merely refraining from laughing (which was pretty easy considering the childish nature of the jokes), was constantly moving and interrupting:



Tony: “Prisa, how do you stop a lion from charging? You take away his credit card! Why did the elephant sit on the marshmallow? To keep from falling in the cocoa!”
Prisa (trying into interrupt): “Wait a minute! You know what….
Tony (ignoring the interruption): “Why did the elephant paint himself all different colors? So he could hide in a bag of Skittles! Aaacckkkk” (he said, simulating a buzzer). Sorry, time is up Prisa. You have just won $60.00. Would you like to keep it or keep on going?”
Prisa (after a long pause): “Keep going”.
Tony (dramatically): “Okay! Teresa Delgado says ‘Make Me Laugh!’ Yayyyyyy (he yells, simulating the crowd).
Tony (after reading 3 more jokes from his joke book): “Aaacckkkk… Time’s up! Now Teresa Delgado, would you like to keep your $120.00 or would you like to keep on going?”
Prisa (impatiently): “I’ll keep it!”
Tony (dramatically): “Okay, goodbye Teresa Delgado, it was nice knowing you! Now our next contestant is… get back Prisa, you’re not on the show anymore.”
Prisa (as if talking off-camera): “It would be better if you were watching this show on TV!”



Although I doubt she remembers those years when they shared bunk beds in one room, very clearly, before the making of personal friends in school and sports, but Toñito was Prisa’s first hero. She idolized and looked up to him, imitated him, and loved to watch him play Nintendo with his friends Tomar and Oded. She could ask him any question or favor, and know that it would be answered seriously and granted, even if it meant letting her have a turn at the games they played. I’m reminded of those interactions now when I see Sarah’s love for Gracie. I’m convinced it is a testament to our unlimited capacity for love; a love that begins as children, grows as adults, and finally matures and resurfaces as spouses and parents. I saw it in Teresa, as a wife and mother, and I’m looking forward to seeing it in Toñito, as a husband and father.



The Dear Departed Past
by Dave Frishberg.

Am I hopelessly old fashioned,
Cause I’m harboring a passion
For the olden days?
Is my sense of time so out of joint,
It’s starting to distort my point of view?

Does my antiquarian brain contain
Imaginary memories of golden days?
Can one feel a real nostalgia,
For a time and place one
Never even knew?

I anticipate times to come,
With something less than jubilation.
And I’m turning to times gone by,
With something more and more
Like admiration.

Here’s to the dear departed past:
The musty magazines,
The sepia tinted scenes,
Of long forgotten places.

Here’s to the dear departed past:
The photographs you find,
That seem to call to mind,
Familiar family faces.

That’s when every sky was bluer.
Clouds seemed to disappear back then.
That’s when every friend was truer.
Ahh, but then again,
Didn’t they know you when?

Here’s to the folks who lived next door:
Let’s cut across the yard,
Drop in and leave a card,
With neighborly affection.

Here’s to the ways we see no more:
The manner and the style,
That makes you want to smile,
In happy retrospection.

As for me, I’ll forget about the future,
Cause the future fades away too fast.
Now’s the time to lift a cup of cheer,
And say ‘Hear, hear!’
For the dear departed past.

Here’s to ‘sides’ we used to spin:
The Decca’s and Savoy’s,
With all the surface noise,
The Lindy Hops and Foxtrots.

Here’s to the Orphan Annie pin,
The Secret Squadron ring,
The mailman used to bring,
For a quarter and some boxtops.

Music on the yuke was easy,
E-7 always went to A.
Chinese Checkers and Parchessi,
And every Saturday,
The movie matinee.

I loved the ’55 Bel Air, the ’37 Fords,
Complete with running boards,
And rumble seats
And fenders.

Where are the clothes we used to wear?
Now don’t forget your tie,
And button up your fly,
And fasten your suspenders!

As for me, I don’t think about tomorrow,
Cause tomorrow wasn’t built to last.
Now’s the time to weep a little tear,
Into your beer,
For the dear departed past.

Three cheers for the champs of yesterday:
Jack Dempsey, John McGraw,
Joe Louis, Sammy Baugh,
The movers and the shakers.

And here’s to the teams that moved away:
From disenfranchised towns,
The old Saint Louis Browns,
The Minneapolis Lakers.

That’s when basketballs had laces,
And halfbacks played safety on defense.
That’s when there were parking places,
Hot dogs for a dime, White Castle 7 cents.

And here’s to White Castles by the sack:
I heard somebody say
They’re still around today,
But they wouldn’t taste the same now.

Here’s to the years that won’t be back:
The days that dodged away,
And left us here to play
A completely different game now.

But here’s to the echoes of tomorrow,
Soon to be memories at last.
Memories that will someday reappear,
Loud and clear,
In the dear departed past.

Memories that will someday reappear,
Loud and clear,
In the dear departed past.

O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! Heart! Heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
(O Captain! My Captain – Walt Whitman: 1819-1892)

Last month I stayed up watching the Dead Poets Society, starring Robin Williams. My daughter Prisa had posted a clip from the movie shortly after his death, showing the classic “Oh Captain! My Captain!” scene. It sparked my curiosity to see the 1989 movie again, and for another time watch William’s Oscar nominated performance as Mr. John Keating.


I should also point out that previous to my viewing of Dead Poets Society, I was in the middle of researching and writing a course outline for a pilot program on Restorative Justice to be used in one of the county jails. The program, which we are basing on Fr. Richard Rohr’s book, Breathing Under Water: Spirituality and the Twelve Steps, starts from the premise that we are all addicts, with addictive natures that incline us toward attachments, passions, and sins.  We are also addicted, Rohr adds, to habitual ways of thinking, processing ideas, and dealing with people and situations, while never being able to see or acknowledge that we’re addicted to them. He concludes that only by adopting an alternative consciousness can we ever be free from this false self, and from the cultural lies that control us. According to Rohr, the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous accomplishes that task through brutal honesty, humility, prayer, and selflessness. He believes that both Jesus and the 12 Steps espouse the belief that “We suffer to get well. We surrender to win. We die to live. And we give it away to keep it.” This is the counter-intuitive thinking that is practiced by Jesus and by recovering addicts and alcoholics through the Twelve Steps.





After finishing Rohr’s book, I explored other books and movies that illustrated his points, and which could also be incorporated in the program’s curriculum. I read AA’s Big Book, and watched My Name is Bill W, with James Woods and James Garner, Flight, with Denzel Washington, and Dead Man Walking, with Susan Sarandon and Sean Penn. So the Twelve Steps and all Rohr’s spiritual ideas were swirling through my head when I sat down to watch Dead Poets Society.


One can’t help being struck by the irony of Robin Williams’ suicide with the character he portrayed in the movie – a young teacher struggling to free a student, Neil Perry, and his friends from the stranglehold of conformist cultural thinking. Mr. John Keating offered them an alternative consciousness to see God’s abundant gifts, beauty, and grandeur in the world and people around them, and urged them to “seize the day”. By reintroducing poetry, he also gave them a language and a lens to see beyond themselves, and to use it as a vehicle for escaping the egocentric and selfishly motivated culture of a society that promotes only power, control, and wealth.


As I watched the movie, I also noticed that it interjected countless aspects of God, or a higher power, throughout the story– in the music, cinematography, and the compassionate interaction of the boys with each other. The glory of nature was shown in countless scenes of woods, meadows, rivers, and the changing seasons. The joy of music was heard in the voices, laughter, and play of the boys, and their inspiring teacher. What I found most interesting in the story was the fact that everyone, each character, was free to choose – Headmaster Nolan, Mr. Keating, the boys, Neil, and his father, Mr. Perry. They all had the gift of free will, the ability to choose what they would do, and who they would be. A Twelve Step question would be, what was the motive for their choices? Were they choosing out of self-interest and ego, or were they acting out of friendship, humility, and love? On discovering that Neil had won the role of Puck in the student production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, his father angrily cried, “How could you do this to me? I won’t have it!” Mr. Perry sought to control what Neil studied, the way he used his time, where he would go to college, and what he would become as an adult.





However, Neil, who ignored Mr. Keating’s sage advice to be honest and forthright with his father, could not allow himself to believe that those choices were his to make. “I can’t do this!” Neil cried out in anguish about his father’s plans, but he couldn’t stop himself from believing that he had no choice. He finally escaped his father’s intolerable future for him by ending his life on earth. He surrendered to his father’s will, and when confronted with the nightmarish vision of countless years of misery and pain ahead, he finally acted out – against himself.


Dead Poets was a tragic movie, made doubly so with the knowledge of Robin Williams’ own suicide. The movie ended with the classic “O Captain, my Captain” scene, where the students who were coerced into denouncing their teacher, stood atop their desks to salute him and thank him for his selfless efforts on their behalf. But as much as I wanted to believe otherwise, Robin Williams was never Mr. Keating – he was Robin Williams, an acclaimed comic and actor who struggled for many years with bi-polar disorders, alcohol and drug addiction, and depression. From what I’ve learned about alcoholism and drug addiction after reading AA’s Big Book and Rohr’s Breathing Under Water, I suspect that there is no real “cure” for either. Willpower and the best science that money can buy are not enough. Alcoholism and drug addictions are illnesses that can be treated medically and clinically, but never “cured”. Not unless the underlying fears, wounds, and resentments are identified and addressed in a ruthlessly honest, humble, and spiritual manner. I’ve also learned that AA’s Twelve Steps provides such a process – a process that is demanding and difficult, and, to my surprise, not aimed at recovery. The aim of the Twelve Steps is a spiritual encounter. Recovery and sobriety are byproducts of a successful program – spiritual enlightenment and freedom are the goal. The alcoholic and drug addict cannot medicate or will himself free. The old self must die before the new self can be free.


Tragically, I think Robin Williams found himself so mired in pain, illness, and despair that he took the path Neil Perry walked in Dead Poets Society. He couldn’t find an escape from what he believed was an intolerable situation, and he acted out against himself. All we can do is withhold judgment and remember him through his work, trusting that the God of All Mercies and Compassion, who tried getting Robin’s attention all his life through successes and failures, joys and sorrows, hasn’t given up on him either.

Valjean: On this page
I write my last confession.
Read it well, when I at last am sleeping.
It’s the story
Of one who learned to love
When you were in my keeping.

Fantine: Come with me,
Where chains will never bind you.
All your grief,
At last, at last behind you.
Lord in heaven,
Look down on him in mercy.

Valjean: Forgive me all my trespasses
And take me to your glory.

Fantine: Take my hand,
I’ll lead you to salvation.
Take my love,
For love is everlasting.
And remember,
The truth that once was spoken –
To love another person
Is to see the face of God.
(Epilogue: Les Misérable, by Schonberg, Boublil, Nate, & Kretzmer – 1980)

The idea of writing my own eulogy came from a movie I saw two months ago with Kathy called, Fault In Our Stars. It was a Young Adult (YA) melodrama about two cancer-surviving teenagers dealing with Love and Death. I won’t tire you with the details or plot of the movie, or my thoughts about the themes and metaphors it presented. Suffice it to say that it stimulated a lot of post-cinema analysis and discussion. I was especially intrigued by a part of the movie where the youthful narrator said that cancer survivors were encouraged to write their own death eulogies as part of their therapy. I was not aware of this practice being applied to young people. I’d heard stories of elderly hospice patients, facing terminal illness, doing so, and I knew that overly-controlling seniors, with possible obsessive-compulsive disorders, wrote detailed plans for their funeral and burial, even writing their own obituaries – but I never heard of teenagers doing it. Somehow it sounded a bit juvenile and pretentious, like Willie Loman glorifying his own wake and funeral in Death of a Salesman. I could see adult or elderly, terminal patients writing such testimonials, but not children. Surely only mature people who were close to death had the maturity to say something valuable about the dying process, not teenagers. Nevertheless, I was intrigued by the idea. After all, we’re all “terminal patients” waiting for our eventual deaths, aren’t we? What would you say to the living, which have gathered together to participate in this funerary rite for you? Why do they come, anyway? I doubt they come seeking answers to about your life. If I did write such a eulogy what would I say? The questions haunted me for the remainder of that day, and into the next. Finally, curiosity won out and I decided to try my hand at writing one, to see what came out. Here is what I wrote:




First of all, I want to say that I really enjoyed this life. In fact, it was a great life and I loved it. I hope it lasted well into my 80’s, so that Kathy and I were able to spend a long, long, time together, seeing movies and plays, talking, traveling, and spending time spoiling our grandchildren. I hope I lived long enough to see Sarah and Grace’s graduation from high school and college, and watch Toñito and Nikki’s children grow up. I want to thank you all for coming today and supporting my wife, children, grandchildren, family members, and surviving friends who were able to attend. I hope they’re dealing with my death better than I did with my own father’s. I do apologize for the time and inconveniences my death may have caused, but I appreciate your coming for those I love and leave behind. Having said that, there’s nothing more I want to say about the events of my life. I’m also not qualified to advise you on how to feel happy, safe, or more secure, and less uncertain about death. You are on your own. I’m dead, and the physical tie that bound me to each of you has been severed, and will not be restored. The only temporal part of me that will survive will be your memories, aided sometimes by stories, photographs, and writings. I do, however, have some thoughts about what I learned along the way that I don’t mind sharing.



When I was alive, I was always struck by the importance some people, especially prominent leaders, politicians, businessmen, and wealthy individuals, placed on their legacy. They seemed to confuse the idea of “a good life” as meaning a life, or an inheritance, that is remembered and memorialized by many, many, many people, for a long time. After my few years of living, I finally came to the conclusion that a good life is simply one in which we love, and are loved in return. As the Beatles’ so aptly but it, “love is all you need.” But at the same time, love and a good life doesn’t negate the existence of sorrow, pain, and suffering, either in our own lives, or the world in general. I have experienced a few personal difficulties, sorrows, heartbreaks, and humiliations, but I have witnessed many more terrible tragedies. Those are the harsh trials that make living so hard, and so prompt many people to question the existence of God, and the power of Love. How can a “loving, merciful God allow so much evil, tragedy, and death to exist?” Learning how to answer that question always seemed more important for a happy life, than leaving a historical legacy, or an inheritance, that nations and families would remember.

The whole world’s broke and it ain’t worth fixing
It’s time to start all over, make a new beginning
There’s too much pain, too much suffering
Let’s resolve to start all over, make a new beginning.
Now don’t get me wrong – I love life and living
But when you wake up and look around
At everything that’s going down – all wrong
You see we need to change it now,
This world with too few happy endings
We can resolve to start all over make a new beginning.
(New Beginning – Tracy Chapman: 1995)

Late in May I happened to look at the kitchen calendar for June and noticed that the name Debbie was inscribed in my handwriting on the 17^th. I recalled doing so a while back, hoping that it would act as a triggering reminder. June 17 is the day Debbie Greaney Parker died in 2003. I never had the courage to write about her, and I wasn’t sure why. You see, I have some very clear memories and images of Debbie as a woman and a mother, but they are inconsistent with the person who died alone in Sherman Oaks.


The details of that day are murky and sporadic. The discovery was made in the waning days of one of the most difficult school years in my career as a principal. 2002-2003 was the year of the Red Team Scare. It was the year the school staff, from principal to cafeteria worker, had to implement an immediate academic reform plan to offset our inadequate achievement scores over the previous years. The school had undergone a blisteringly critical review the prior spring, which forced us to question our competence as a school. We struggled that entire year under a cloud of suspected inferiority. We were driven to prove to the District that the negative evaluation of the Red Team was wrong. We were convinced that we were a great school with excellent students and fine teachers, and so the goal of 2002-2003 was to show it on the May achievement tests, even though the results would not be known until November. Honestly, I just wanted the school year to end. The tests had been given, and I was addressing the aftermath of the urgency and pressure that had driven us all year. The stress to excel had been too much for many teachers and administrators, and I was looking at many staff vacancies and transfers. The school and its students, teachers, and staff were worn out, tired, and depressed.

It was on the Tuesday morning of graduation week, on a grey and gloomy day, that I received a phone call from Kathy telling me of Debbie’s death. From that point, my memory of events is fractured and uneven. The events sometimes merge with past and future scenes of rooms, faces, mortuaries, and the funerals of Kathy’s Aunt Mary and her mother. As best I can recall, Kathy told me that she was driving directly to Debbie’s home, and I was to call my daughter Prisa. The plan was to have Prisa meet me at school and then drive together to Debbie’s house. Prisa tells me now that I was very cool and detached when I called her, not volunteering any emotional information about her godmother, other than there was an emergency at her residence and we needed to investigate it. Prisa had just completed her first year of teaching, and I think meeting me in a school environment helped her maintain a calm and professional demeanor after I told her what we might find at the Sherman Oaks house. When we arrived at the house on Longridge Ave, and saw the Coroner’s van parked in front of the house, with two police officers lounging next to it, we stayed in the car for a long time – neither of us wanting to enter.

Three words always leaped to my mind when describing Debbie: elegant, fashionable, and glamorous. Among all the lovely Greaney girls, she stood out as uniquely beautiful. She was tall and statuesque, with clean lines, and sharp distinctive features. Kathy told me that Debbie imagined herself as Audrey Hepburn, in Breakfast At Tiffany’s, but I thought of her more as a brunette version of Grace Kelly, in High Society. I suppose that’s how I thought of her, until I got to know her better. I ultimately fell in love with Debbie on the day my son Toñito was born in 1978.


At first, I thought I was handling Kathy’s labor pains pretty well – until they kept going on and on through the early morning hours at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Burbank. During that time, I think Kathy’s mother, Mary, and her dad stopped by to check on their daughter, but I was alone when her doctors came out to speak with me. After more than 15 hours of painful labor, Kathy had not dilated sufficiently and they were recommending a C-section. A C-section! What was that? I’d somehow managed to miss that chapter in the Lamaze childbirth classes we attended. I was prepared to support her back, coach her breathing, speak supportively while holding her hand, and ignore the pain-induced taunts and accusations she would fling at me for getting her pregnant. But I never expected this! A C-section was surgery – cutting Kathy open and removing out child. Was my son doomed to suffer Macduff’s fate and be “untimely ripped” from his mother’s womb? Panicked visions filled my head. For a moment, I mistranslated the doctor’s words to mean that they were trying to save both mother and child, but there was no guarantee that Kathy would survive the procedure. Were they asking me to choose who should live? After these first waves of irrational terror swept past, I managed to gulp down some air and listened more carefully. A Caesarean procedure was being recommended because the labor had gone on too long without sufficient dilation for a natural birth. They made the procedure sound reasonable and safe, and so I finally agreed – but I was shaken and afraid. I’m sure now that they also conferred with Kathy’s father, who was a general surgeon, about this situation. I was told later that he even had blood donors lined up and a surgical team on standby in case any problems arose during the procedure. But at the time I was shaken, afraid, and alone. It was at that precise moment, in the rainy, solitary dawn of morning, that Debbie appeared. She was bathed in a spotlight of golden radiance as she moved effortlessly down the corridor in her voguish outfit and stepped into the waiting room. Her beguiling smile was so gentle and reassuring, that when she asked me how I was doing, I fell into her arms and wept. Heaving sobs shook me, and she held me in her embrace until I was calm and able to speak. After I described what the doctors had said, she gently explained the benefits of a C-section, and the risks of an extended labor on mother and child. This was my first glimpse of Deborah, the certified, nursing graduate of Mount St. Mary’s College, and the mature and experienced mother of three children. I eventually let her go to see Kathy and check on her progress. I was fine after her intervention and reassurances.



After Toñito’s birth, my relationship with Debbie changed. Despite revealing my fears and uncertainties about childbirth and parenting, Debbie wholeheartedly accepted me and loved me as a member of her family. I stopped characterizing her simply as a beautiful woman with excellent taste, and saw her as a reliable friend and confidant, someone you could count on for help and support, because she always showed up. This was the family trait I would eventually recognize in all the Greaney siblings – especially the women. But Debbie was the first. She would show up if you were in trouble and needed help. She showed up to family events, games, performances, and birthdays. She opened her home to all who needed a place to stay, or hosted family events that needed a large venue. She was generous to a fault and loved throwing parties, but she demanded honesty, loyalty, good value, and quality effort in return. In many ways her parenting activities and devotion to her three children, Jeff, Christy, and Alicia, also provided a model for Kathy and me. We followed her lead and introduced Toñito and Prisa to AYSO soccer, swim clubs and parish swim meets, children’s theatre groups, and female athletics. We could not think of a better example for our only daughter, Prisa, and we asked her and Mike to serve as godparents when she was baptized in 1980.



There was one characterization of Debbie that I could never understand. As she became more involved in various charity aspects of the TV and movie business in Hollywood, and in the community theatre group that formed at her parish church, she assumed more responsibility in the production of its musicals. A nickname slowly evolved over time and it somehow took hold. Mentioned at first in whispers behind her back, and then quite brazenly by friends and co-workers, Debbie was called “The Dragon Lady”, the terrifying chairperson, producer, or director you didn’t mess with. Although I recognized her desire for quality and excellence in this moniker, it was never an acceptable name for me. I detested hearing it, and I distrusted people who used it to describe her. The name confused her strengths for toughness, and Debbie was never hard. In some ways Debbie reminded me of my beloved Tia Totis, my mother’s closest sister (see Forever Young). Totis was elegant and smart, strong and demanding, and charming and funny. Debbie was all of these things too, but while Totis was tough enough to weather family difficulties and tragedies, Debbie was vulnerable. In the questions she asked me, or the advice she sought from me, when I joined her in kitchen conversations, helping to prepare drinks, appetizers, and hors d’oeuvres for parties or family events, Debbie betrayed a depth of doubts and insecurities I could never fathom. I can only imagine that these long hidden vulnerabilities only grew and expanded with time, as her children became more independent, left home for colleges and jobs, and married and moved away. What became noticeable was that Debbie stopped showing up. She missed Prisa’s games, Toñito’s performances, and family events. After a while, Debbie’s presence was the exception rather than the rule.


The last time I saw Debbie was at her parent’s 60^th Wedding Anniversary party. She was elegantly dressed and coiffed, but despite the heavy makeup, she looked tired, drained, and weary. Kathy and her sisters were worried, and attempted making contact with her later, but Debbie continued drifting farther and farther away. On Tuesday, June 17, 2003, in the only notations in my office notebook for that day, I wrote:

• Call LAUSD @ 866-633-8110


• Take car for service


• Talked to Kathy – Debbie found dead @ home.

All written records of the events that followed were absent from my journals and notebooks.


My memories of June 17, and the days that followed, up to the funeral and burial, are a blur. The happiest moments occurred on Friday night, when Debbie’s 7 younger siblings met at our home for their private version of a Sibling’s Wake. Laughs were shared, family photographs were examined and commented on, and stories were told of Debbie and the Greaney family. Through the prism of eight pair of eyes, and the reflections of eight minds, a spectrum of scenes and images of Debbie emerged which were able to bring her back to life for one more evening – one more party, one more feast. The tears came in private, at the funeral, and at the burial. The only photographs I took were at the Sibling Wake and during the reception after the burial. Greg’s three boys escaped the somber and morose atmosphere of the reception and started a spontaneous volleyball game on the country club lawn. It was an idyllic scene of children at play during a time of grief and sadness. It would have brought a tender smile to Debbie’s lovely face.



After those gloomy final days of June, and the end of that awful school year, life resumed in the family and at school. Things began happening, and changes occurred over the summer that promised of new beginnings. A colorful wall mural was completed in the school quad, depicting the fulfillment of youthful dreams emerging from the spiritual and cultural diversity of Los Angeles. A labyrinth, modeled on the one in the Cathedral of Chartres in France was also constructed in the quad. Although interpretations of its function and symbolism varied among faculty and staff members, I liked to think of it as an instrument depicting the human journey through life; a path in which each step should be a timeless moment to be experienced, enjoyed and cherished. Eight young and enthusiastic new teachers were hired, and their melding into the renewed school energy of the veteran staff promised for an exciting year. It was also the summer that Kathy, Prisa, and I traveled to Chicago to watch Debbie’s son Jeff perform in Stephen Sondheim’s pre-Broadway production of the musical Bounce at the Goodman Theatre. It was a joyous chance to experience Chicago, watch Jeff participate in the career Debbie promoted and supported for her son, and visit with Jeff and Lynn’s two girls at Northwestern University. Finally, at the beginning of the new school year, the scores of the California Academic Performance Index were released for all public schools. The students and staff of Shangri-la Middle School had raised its combined score by 45 points, marking the greatest academic gain of all other middle schools in District.



It’s taken me eleven years to overcome my denial of Debbie’s deteriorating illnesses, the shock of her sudden death, and my fears of writing about it. I wanted to remember her the way she was when she soothed my fears in the maternity ward of St. Joe’s. The way she greeted me, radiant and luminous, at the CIMA (Catholics In Media Awards) banquets she organized and hosted. The way she chatted with me wistfully in her kitchen, chopping carrots and celery, and spreading plates of shrimp cocktails before a party at her home. The way she always showed up at family events and important occasions. Those scenes and images were glimpses into the soul and essence of my sister-in-law Debbie, and that essence has never waned or evaporated. I see Debbie in her roses that continue to bloom, year after year, in Kathy’s garden. I see her in her children, Jeff, Christy, and Alicia, and their children. Debbie is with me still, and will always be a part of my life, and the lives of my children. She will be a part of our lives until we join her in the next.

At this point in my life,
Done so many things wrong,
I don’t know if I can do right.
If you put your trust in me,
I hope I won’t let you down.
If you give me a chance, I’ll try.

At this point in my life
I’ve mostly walked in the shadows,
Still searching for the light.
Won’t you put your faith in me?
We both know that’s what matters.
If you give me a chance, I’ll try.

You see, I’ve been climbing stairs,
But mostly stumbling down.
I’ve been reaching high, always losing ground.
You see I’ve conquered hills,
But I still have mountains to climb.
And right now, right now,
I’m doing the best I can.
At this point in my life.
(At This Point In My Life: Tracy Chapman - 1995)

While driving to Palmdale last month, it occurred to me that I hadn’t written an essay about jail in quite a long time. My first thought was that the weekly task of meeting with inmates to discuss our common struggles to be better human beings, and establishing a consistent relationship with God had become too routine and satisfying.
“I suppose there’s nothing worth writing about,” I said to myself, thinking of the individuals who came out of their dorm cells each week to join us. Those smiling men looked happy and glad to be free of the confining walls and bars, away from the aggressive talk and harsh words, and the angry and sullen faces of their despairing cellmates. Our weekly ministry provided these men with a unique and momentary opportunity to be at liberty and at peace for 90 minutes on Mondays and Wednesdays. But then, like a dark cloud suddenly covering the sun and blackening the sky, my thoughts changed. I remembered Adrian, and how his actions had forced me to doubt my instincts as a chaplain, and question my opinion of the men I meet with every week in jail. I realized that I had willingly suppressed all thoughts of Adrian and purposely omitted any mention of him in my journal. I was obviously in denial that his actions were destructive and maliciously driven. All of my experiences in jail have been positive, illuminating, and reaffirming – but something happened a while back that shook me and forced me to reexamine my feelings about forgiveness, and the men I work with every week.


The first time I encountered Adrian, I was teaming with Isaac and working with our usual group of 20 men, with 5 newcomers. We’d gotten a late start to the session because an earlier lockdown had delayed the serving of “chow” for about an hour. A lockdown freezes all sounds, actions and movements in a dorm cell, and forces all the inmates to stay on their bunks until the All Clear is announced. So the men who came out to join our program that night were restless and eager to move and speak to one another. One newcomer in that group seemed particularly animated and anxious to talk, engaging me in conversation right away. He asked my name, where I was from, and what kind of program we were offering?
“How often do you come?” he queried, not seeming to listen to my previous answers. “Who comes on Wednesday? Do you show movies, or just talk?” he continued, not missing a beat.
Surprised by so many questions, I good-naturedly answered him at first, but soon became annoyed by his persistence and unwillingness to listen. He was monopolizing all my time and forcing me to ignore the influx of men who were arriving. I finally suggested that he sit down and I would address his questions when we started the sessions.

My unease continued growing when I discovered that he had chosen to sit next to me, peppering me anew with questions the minute I sat down. He was a young Hispanic man, about 20 to 25 years of age, with a round, moon face. He was stocky and short, but clearly muscular and strong. His hair was beginning to grow back on what was once a shaved head that still showed the tattoos that covered it. Those designs complemented the gang tattoos on his neck, arms, and hands. Reluctantly at first, I began feeling that his voice, movements, and speech seemed slippery, cloying, and suspicious in this place.
“Do you have any pencils?” he began, looking at the box of supplies I placed under my seat. “Can I have one now?”
“Yes and no,” I replied, sharply, hoping to finally shut him up. “Wait till the end of the program”.
Once Isaac and I finally calmed down the restless group of men, I noticed that my persistent young friend continued to be active and was now reaching down and fingering the contents of my program box. This was the plastic container that carried the pamphlets we used with our groups, and held the phonebooks, bibles, pencils, and reading materials we distributed to the men at the conclusion of each program.
“Excuse me,” I chided him gently, moving the box away from the reach of his intrusive fingers, “that is for later”. I tried hiding the irritation in my voice that was slowly developing into a feeling of open mistrust toward this young man.


Isaac and I quickly concluded that all of the men, especially the regulars, were in a jovial, light-hearted mood after being freed from the confines of their cellblocks and the paralysis of the seemingly endless lockdown. As each man introduced himself by name, the group loudly repeated the name in unison, followed with hearty words of welcome and greeting, as if they were old friends:
“Terry!” they shouted, after Terry introduced himself, “Hello, Terry! Alvin! Welcome Alvin! Greg!” they cheered, “Hello, Greg!”
This went on and on until each man in the circle had been hailed and greeted. Then another pair of regulars, Louis and Hector, stood up and instigated a minor version of a Baseball Park’s crowd “wave”. Around and around, the up-stretched arms of the men waved, as they stood up and then sat down. We finally calmed the men down and centered them to the task at hand when Alvin volunteered to start the program with an opening prayer.

I’ve always envied the practical use of prayer for bringing order and calm at the beginning of a class or discussion. For years I’d watched Kathy, my wife, and other Catholic schoolteachers and administrators bring quiet and peace over a rowdy or noisy group of people or students by calling them to prayer. The opportunity allows for a moment of reflection and the centering of thoughts and emotions to the task at hand. The inmates who volunteer to lead the prayer are always very effective at reminding the men of their past choices, the loved ones they left behind, God’s forgiveness of their transgressions, and faith in trusting God’s will in determining their future sentences or court decisions. Alvin’s prayer was the perfect preface to the pamphlet we were using that night. It pictured a man looking at his reflection in a mirror with the words, “TAKE A LOOK”, along the side of the booklet.


It was during the discussion about the meaning of this picture that Adrian, leaning over and interrupting my attention to the speaker, asked me yet another question.
“Can I borrow your pen for a minute?” he said. “I want to write some of this down”.
Dubious that Adrian’ seeming interest in the discussion was motivating his request, and annoyed that I had no real reason to distrust him, I handed him my Bic ballpoint pen with a caution:
“I need this back”, I whispered to him, sternly.
Later, when Isaac assumed the facilitating role, I looked over at Adrian and extended my outstretched hand, waiting for the return of my pen.
“See,” he said, showing me the sentences he had written on the pamphlet around the picture, and adding, “thank you”, as he handed the pen back.
It was at that point that some whisperings among the men caused me to look up and notice the blinking red light over the guard station that had prompted their comments to each other.
“It’s another lockdown,” sighed Manuel, another regular, sitting to my left.
“Okay, guys,” I said aloud to the men, trying to sound reassuring. “Let’s ignore the light and keep going.  The guards sometimes just lock the doors of the dayroom from the outside and let us finish the program”.
I barely finished those words when a young, blonde haired deputy stuck his head through the door and announced, “Sorry, Chaplain. The inmates need to get back to their dorms”.
In a controlled flurry of actions, Isaac and I were able to say a concluding prayer and begin distributing some of our materials as the men stacked their plastic chairs, said their farewells, and lined up by the door to return to their dorms. During this bustle of activity some of the men, Adrian included, asked for bibles.
“Just write that request next to your names on the sign-in list”, I said quickly, handing them my clipboard and pen, as my attentions were directed elsewhere. It was only later, when Isaac and I were walking back to the Chaplain’s Office that I realized that my pen was not in my shirt pocket or on the clipboard. I couldn’t put down a growing suspicion that my wily friend Adrian had taken my pen during the confusion of returning the men to their dorms.

The following week, I was paired with Justin and we were able to complete a full program with the men in the Maximum Security dorms. This time all 24 of our most regular participants were there, along with Adrian. Again he sat right next to me and put my emotions on edge by pestering me with a blizzard of questions:
“Can I have a pencil, or an eraser? Can I see your holy cards? Do you have any bibles? Can I have an extra one for my bunkee?”
The only thing I could think of saying to stop the flow of questions was a plea:
“Adrian, I really need you to stop asking for things and wait for the end of the program.”
He shrugged and gave me an oily smile. “Sure,” he said, “I can wait.”
I didn’t relax until Justin approached me silently and removed the box of materials that was under my chair, taking it back to his seat at the other side of the circle. At that point I was able to give my full attention to the men and a discussion that got off to a rousing start.

Sometimes the men seem to take over a discussion session, directing the questions and conversation in a totally unexpected way. The pamphlet we used that night was called, “Got A Problem? Let’s Tackle It!” It featured a drawing of a uniformed football player smashing his padded shoulder into a tackling dummy. The men immediately started talking about the need to admit their problems, and begin confronting the poor choices they made and the addictions they were enslaved to, head on. They also spoke of practicing acts of Christian Love and acceptance while in jail, instead of waiting to be free. But the image and topic that generated the most conversation was a drawing of another man looking at himself in the mirror. The words, “We Can’t Lie To The Man In The Mirror” were written in bold letters, along with the question: “What would the man in the mirror tell you about yourself?” That question unleashed a torrent of testimonies and confessions of past actions and addictions. To a man, they recognized the mistakes they had made and the awful consequences that followed. Terry, a short, muscular African-American of middle age stunned the circle of men with a statement of such raw power that a reverent hush followed his every sentence.
“I was arrested for murder one week before my son was in an accident that put him in a hospital” he began. “I’m not going to burden you with the details of my case,” he added, looking downward. “It’s enough to say that it was a fabricated charge and I was not guilty. But because it was a capital offense they wouldn’t release me on bail. My son died in that hospital, and they wouldn’t release me to go to his funeral. I never saw my son alive after my arrest. Even though I wasn’t guilty of the capital charge, it was my choice that put me in the situation that got me busted. The man in the mirror would tell me that my choices put me in jail. Jail is God’s opportunity for me to finally figure it out and get it right. Jail is my school. Jail is my chance to learn – learn about myself, learn about God, and learn how to put Christ’s teachings of love and forgiveness into practice. I can’t put it off until I’m out of jail. I’ve tried that before and it doesn’t work that way. That’s why I come to these meetings – to learn. I listen and learn from you, and you, and you”, he said, pointing to each man in the circle. “I learn from you and the chaplains who call us out to sit together and talk about how we can put God’s words into practice. Learning to walk the talk – that’s why I come to these meetings.”
The thoughtful silence that followed Terry’s declaration was finally broken when Andrew, a skinny, elderly African-American, with a short, grizzled, grey beard raised his hand to speak.
“Why do we come out for ‘church’, anyway?” he asked, using the jailhouse slang for religious services. “No one has ever asked me that question. I’d like to know what each man has to say.”
So around the circle we went, each man stating his reason or reasons for leaving the dorm cell to attend a session of what the men call “church”. The answers fell into four categories: learning to be better men and Christians, searching for a connection with God, fellowship with other men who share the same values and concerns, and escaping the angry, noisy, and aggressive dorms, for a place of peace and caring. However, when it came to Adrian, smugly sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, his grunting response was simply: “I come for the pencils”.





At the end of the session, after our prayer and farewells, Justin and I shared our mutual wonder at such a grace-filled group of men. As we were walking down the long concrete hallway, back to the office, and I was still feeling the glow of the evening, Justin added a new twist.
“You know that guy, Adrian?” he began. “You know, the one who said he comes to the program for the pencils?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “I know him. This is the second time he’s come out with me, and he always sits right next to me. He makes me uncomfortable,” I confessed.
“Well you should,” Justin added. “Raul, one of the other men in the group, spoke to me in Spanish and told me that Adrian stole your pen. He was bragging about it in the dorm last week.”
“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed, coming to a stop in the hallway. “He admitted it to everyone.”
“Yeah,” Justin replied, nodding his head. “That’s why I went over to retrieve your box of materials. I saw him going through your stuff while you were talking.”
“Unbelievable”, I said, shaking my head. “I always suspected it was him, but I had no proof. He just made me nervous. Wow, no one has ever stolen something from me in this place.”
Our session had run long that night, and by the time we arrived at the Chaplain’s Office all the other volunteers had gone. So we quickly put away our materials, logged in our data, and left quickly. Many days would pass before I returned to jail and followed up on the information Justin had given me.

A Valentine’s Day weekend, followed by President’s Day on Monday, meant that I would not be going to jail for 9 days. In the meantime, Isaac had agreed to cover my regular Monday night group and I would join his on the following Wednesday. We also agreed that he would show the video, Groundhog Day with Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell over those two meetings. Isaac told me that his family watched Groundhog Day every year on February 2, and discussed its metaphors and messages at dinner after every viewing. He had convinced Gavin, the Head Chaplain, that it would be an excellent movie to stimulate discussion among the men about eliminating past behaviors, making better choices, and changing the way we act. These themes were constantly repeated in our Finding The Way pamphlets, and they aligned very well with the goals of the Jail Ministry program. So showing the movie on Monday, with a follow-up discussion Wednesday, was our general outline for that week. I purposefully tried not to make any further plans about what I would do or say at the next session, about the movie or about Adrian. Over time, Isaac, Justin, and I have learned to always expect the unexpected in jail, and to go with God’s will (and the vagaries of the penal system). I wasn’t sure what I’d do about Adrian, but I felt confident that after discussing it with Isaac, we’d figure something out.


As it turned out, Isaac was very familiar with Adrian, and had experienced many of the same feelings and sensations about him. He also told me that Raul, the same inmate who had spoken to Justin about the stolen pen, had told him as well.
“So,” Isaac concluded, “what do we do now?”
“We exclude him,” I said promptly. “We don’t trust him,” I added, fearing that my initial response lacked supporting evidence. “He tries to manipulate us and takes advantage of our program, and the other men know it.”
“Maybe we should talk with him first, “Isaac suggested, gently. “You know, give him one more chance.”
“Fine,” I snapped, impatiently. “If you want to give him another chance, then YOU get to sit next to him and keep an eye on him. I don’t trust him, and I’d prefer him out.”
“Okay,” Isaac conceded, “maybe your right.
“Look,” I reiterated, “he stole my pen, so I’ll be the one to tell him”.

Since we were watching the second part of Groundhog Day, Isaac had made a list of the 22 men who had seen the first half. We planned to call the men out from their respective dorms cells, name by name. I explained this to the deputy at the guard station when I showed him our list, and alerted him to our exclusion of Adrian.
“We don’t want this man coming out with us,” I told the deputy, circling Adrian name on the list. “I’m not sure if he’s going to make an issue over this or not, but he has a tendency to be argumentative and persistent if he doesn’t get his way.”
“Oh, Adrian,” the guard acknowledged, reading his name, “yeah, I know him, a real jailhouse lawyer. Okay,” he added, “I won’t let him out.”
Even as I approached Adrian’ dorm, he spotted me and moved to stand immediately opposite me on the other side of the bars.
“Are you showing the movie tonight?” he began asking.
“Yes,” I replied, ignoring him further, holding up the list between us and calling for the attention of the dorm so I could explain our call out procedure.
“Am I on your list?” interrupted Adrian, slyly, as I paused to begin my roll call.
“No,” I said, curtly, realizing that I would have to deal with Adrian before continuing.
“I saw the first part of the movie with Isaac,” Adrian pleaded. “Why can’t I come out to see the rest?”
I put down the list of names that I had used as a shield and looked Adrian squarely in the face.
“Adrian,” I said calmly and firmly, “your name is not on the list because I took it off. I don’t trust you.” That was the moment I had dreaded and feared for the last 9 days. How would he react? What would he say? Would he make a scene, becoming angry and belligerent, or simply argue with me?
“Okay,” Adrian said, simply, “I get it.” And he moved away from the bars, fading into the dorm background.
Relieved, I continued with my general announcement, explaining the procedures and reading the names of the men we were calling out for our program. I did this at the three dorms and then returned to the guard station to await the release of the men.
“Tony”, Adrian called out, having reappeared at the bars and gesturing for me to approach him.
I walked up to the bars of his dorm again, acting calmer and more confident than I felt. “Yes, Adrian,” I sighed, standing across from him.
“Hey, look man,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry, you know. Can you give me another chance and let me come out?”
“I accept your apology, Adrian,” I said slowly, “and I’ll pray for you. But I can’t trust you after the things you’ve done. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” he said with a final shrug, and slid sideways along the bars and disappeared.


I had one more encounter with Adrian in jail. It was the week after our final Groundhog Day showing and discussion. I happened to walk by the dayroom we used for our sessions and found it already occupied and set up for another meeting of some kind. When I entered to investigate, I spotted Adrian talking to another inmate who I also recognized.
“Are you setting up for ‘church’?” I asked, looking down at one of the inmates seated near the door.
“Nah,” he replied, leaning back in his plastic chair. “We’re having a ‘town hall meeting’. The lieutenant called it to bring the dorm reps together to discuss some problems.”
At that moment Adrian materialized by my side. “Can I talk with you, Chaplain?” he asked.
“Sure, Adrian,” I replied, hiding my surprise and trying to sound professional and in control.
“Look,” he said, when we were standing alone and out of earshot. “I know I can’t get you to trust me again. I get that. I blew it. I just want to be sure that you forgive me and that you’ll pray for me.”
“Yes, Adrian,” I said. “I forgive you. I truly want the best for you, and I will pray for you and all the men.
“Good, “ Adrian replied. “That’s what I wanted to know.” And with those words Adrian left me to sit with the other men in the dayroom.

In the Orientation To Jail I attended in 2009, when I first joined this ministry, the training sergeant stressed the need for vigilance against being manipulated, used, or exploited by the inmates. He recommended that all volunteers be suspicious of the men they worked with, and to refrain from any physical contact, such as handshakes or hugs. We were especially warned against doing favors or passing messages for the men, and told to keep wallets, cell phones, or personal items out of the jail, because they could be stolen or used by the inmates. While the prohibitions against cell phones, personal property, and carrying messages made sense, the suggestions to be wary of the men, and avoid physical contact, did not. Our Finding The Way program, and jail ministries of all religions and faiths, does not screen the men who come out to meetings and study groups. We trust that the men who join these sessions are men of goodwill who are seeking knowledge, fellowship, or a peaceful environment. We never expect men to attend our groups to spy, exploit, or manipulate the program or the facilitators. We do this without being patsies. We have rules and expectations in conducting our sessions, and we have excused and excluded men from attending in the past. However, we remain secure in the belief that while we are in their midst, we are safe, protected, and cared for, by the same men that we serve. So it took me awhile to process what Adrian had done, and determine how it might affect my feelings toward the other men.


You see, I often tell the men in our groups that despite the poor choices they made in the past, they are GOOD MEN. They are simply men who made bad choices, and who struggle, like all men, in and out of jail, to be free of addictions, bad habits, and vices that undermine our efforts at being happy and fulfilled human beings. But we are also men who must face the consequences of our choices and actions. We are men who screw up and who can make selfish and destructive choices. That is the human condition. This, in so many words, is what I tell the men in our groups – and I mean it. But I never actually SAW the poor choices they made, the exploitive and abusive actions they performed on others, or the addictive and destructive behaviors that precipitated their arrest and incarceration. And I was certainly never a recipient or a “victim” of these actions. While we are together in a circle, the men are in the process of reforming themselves. I only see them in a circle of support and discussion, and they’re usually on their best behavior. Adrian was the first man I experienced who brought his poor choices and bad decisions into our group and put them into practice. At first, I saw Adrian’ actions as a betrayal of my trust and good faith, and I was angry and offended. I was angry with myself for ignoring my distrust and suspicions, and offended that Adrian had manipulated me and stolen my property. Confronting him and excluding him from attending any more sessions was the right response, and I hardened myself to say the right words and follow through on my decision.

Now, after having resumed the usual Finding The Way program in jail, and interacting with our “regulars” over the last few weeks, I’ve come to the realization that Adrian’ actions actually forced me to “walk the talk” when he begged for my forgiveness and prayers. Even though his apology never sounded that sincere, he definitely admitted, “blowing it” – whatever that meant. But the last time we met at the “town hall meeting”, Adrian clearly wanted to be sure that I forgave him and that I said those words aloud. You see forgiveness was never part of my original script. I was simply going to confront him and exclude him from further attendance. That was to be the fair consequence for his actions. My righteous indignation had no room for Forgiveness. But having said the word in the town hall meeting, I couldn’t take it back – I owned it. I had been firm in my resolve to exclude him and forget him, but somehow, the words of forgiveness prevented the hardening of my heart. I did pray for him the following week, after listening to the men introducing themselves once again in our circle. I could never look upon these men with suspicion and doubts, and I refused to build a barrier of separateness between them and me. I’ve come to know these men as people who measure themselves by their actions, not their talk. In their dorms, violent and aggressive men who brought the same behaviors into the jail that got them arrested in the first place surround them. As they replied when asked why they came to “church”, many come out to be safe and among brothers, and many come to learn – but none come out just to “talk”. As Terry explained when he shared, if one doesn’t walk the talk, the talking is pointless. It is not enough for these men to talk about God’s love and compassion, and Christ’s sacrifice of himself on the cross for us – we are called to take up that cross and adopt Christian (Christ-like) behaviors. And for them, that means right here in jail.


Were I to employ the practice of Ignatian Spirituality in examining my conscience and searching for the presence of God in my day, I would have to admit that He was manifested when Adrian asked for my forgiveness and prayer. Sure, it’s easier to see God in the stories and testimonies the men share of their conversion experiences, or to hear God when I tell them that despite their actions and sins, they are Good Men and that God forgives them. But honestly, that final encounter with Adrian at the town hall meeting was my “God encounter”. It was my chance to release my anger and indignation, and walk the talk in jail.