Christmas 1968
by Rose-Roberta Pauling
It was the holiday season 1968. Over thirty years ago, but it seems like a hop, skip and a jump away or maybe a huge leap into a space, so long gone that no one really remembers what we were all about then, unless one lived it.
I was going to the
But, it was a good time. People were learning to communicate, to express oneself, to step out of their boxes that they were hiding in, ask the right questions (most of the time anyway), seek new truths and meditation was the new vogue.
Amongst my teachers was Gerald Sykes a leader in the New York Avant Guarde, but like I said I was young and naïve. I didn’t really even know what Avant Guarde meant or who this guy was accept for the name of someone important who was going to give me my grade. What does Avant Guarde really mean, after all? And what did it mean in juxtaposition to Alex, the quadriplegic that I passed on my way to my writing class evey day.
I had written this story about my aloneness. About walking and doing things by myself and the feelings that I had, about my alienation, about nothing feeling like it fit right and always feeling like something was wrong with me , because I had a hard time being with others. Only I wrote simply. My head was not filled with a lot of words then, and I was kind of a shy person—really kind of Zen, but I didn’t know what that was in those days either and neither did most people.
But back then, when Gerald Sykes said to me in his own words that, I was talented and told me, “Sit in on any of my writing classes; I’ll edit any of your work,” I had no idea about the enormity of the world that I could have slipped into, and I closed the door, as if it had never opened.
Alex used to sit in the lobby of school every day, and I’d be watching him out of the corner of my eye, as I’d go walking by on the way to class. He was a paraplegic or was it quadriplegic. At some point, isn’t it better to stop counting. Black and partially Native American to boot, he was Quadra minority. And, I am probably quadra politically incorrect for saying it, but this was back in 1968 and people were still burning their bras and draft cards and complaining about war and chemical weapons—and the weapons were ours. You know it was back in those days, when it was politically correct to care about the environment and whether or not our great grandchildren were going to have clean water. You know before AIDS and Computers and even touch tone phones. Back when people still worried about scratches on record albums and tapes breaking. Back when most of my generation thought that we would have a black president by now. You know back when you had Ma Bell (and no that was not a gangster) controlling the phones and you could hear when someone called and you didn't have to worry about dropped calls, or Qwest selling your number to telemarketers and then charging you for an unpublished number all in the name of good business.
But, I was talking about Alex--Alex who always smiled, Alex who unknowingly caused me to slip into a world far away from writers and writing classes, Alex who lived in a welfare hospital, because his rich family couldn’t handle the problem of an overmedicated womb. Anyone remember thalidomide? Does anyone even remember what that was now? You know back then when things like this drug may kill you was a shock, and the drug companies had not taken over the medical establishment, yet. You know back when therapists and friends were better then Prozac!
Alex who always smiled and, who I never saw say or imply a bad word about anyone. Smartest one in his class, he used to sit there with a metal rod in his mouth that had a rubber tip and turn the pages of his book. Everyone liked him. It was a strange thing that, I never saw anyone make fun of him, although it was obvious that some people avoided and feared him.
Every day a special wheelchair mobility unit used to pick him up from school, so where were my problems compared to his. And yet, he was a good friend and easy to talk to, but not someone that anyone ever invited to a party or out to the movies, though he did get to go to the lunchroom with people or the corner coffee shop--sometimes.
When Xmas of 1968 came upon me, there was a bleakness about it. I had few close friends. I still lived at home with my Dad and Step-mother, but they were always talking another language, in more ways then one—the words of the old country. I wrote poetry in those days too--poems that questioned my very existence and what it was, while I was expected to be there for everyone with a smile. While I was expected to, what? While I was expected to be someone who always made others feel better and look good—beautiful teeth and graceful feet (neither of which I possessed).
And yet, life seemed to have a strange synchronicity. I seemed to be able to walk into the things that I was thinking of. There were these strange connections between things—something untapped and uncanny—meditation was just becoming a word to be reckoned with.
And it was Xmas 1968. I decided to visit Alex in his hospital ward. We had been talking to each other on and off for months. The ward was like a ghost town. Under normal circumstances there was barely another soul there, but this was something verging on science fiction. The lighting was so low and sparse that large shadows loomed all over. The smells that rose in the air were not those of one’s most cherished memories and not a creature was stirring besides myself and Alex.
There was in his small, lit cubby hole a bottle of whiskey infused with gold flakes that fell like falling autumn leaves through the amber liquid. A fellow student had given it to him, along with a few chocolates. We drank the warm liquid rolling over our tongues. Chocolate caught itself in the corners of our mouth and we laughed. His belly shook. His eyes sparkled, but there were tears also. He had to be hand fed. He told me that the hospital was like no exit for him. At school, he was a star student, but find a job after graduate school. Well, the chances were slim-- slimmer than the eye of the needle. You see the government would have him pay back his keep, once he was capable of working. You heard me right. If he went out of the ward and worked, he had to pay back every penny the government spent on him. For one of the first times in my life, I was personally outraged hearing about our government, but he had resigned himself, and then, who was going to—to do all the things, things that needed to be done to take care of him, if he was on his own. So he could get an education, but then what. No exit.
He told me he had had a girlfriend once. For six months she came and nurtured him and lied down in the bed beside him. Life had not damaged all his appendages. For six months, and then the tears rolled from her eyes. He could hear her say goodbye though not a word tumbled from her. Goodbye has a scent all its own, and it was there from the moment she entered his life, until the moment she left six
He missed her, though he wished her well. She had been young and pretty—her life all ahead of her. He knew it had been her time to go on. How was he able to go on though? After that night, I could no longer talk with him. I no longer knew what to say. I felt lacking in some way bigger than arms or legs. I could imagine what she must have felt not coming to see him again. It was as if a void had shaped itself inside of me that moved mysteriously with no words on it—like an unformed God.
I left the school soon after that and never saw Alex again. I left the school seeking words for the unformed God within my soul. I left knowing clearly that my love is not enough. What had laid in my subconscious became panoramic, wrapping itself around me like an invisible cloak.
I had lost my innocence. I had faced the depth of my own cowardliness and wondered, if I could ever be really true again. I sought the end to the darkness I felt inside myself, and where I could, I became responsible though I had trouble sticking to anything. I was like the wind. Words like ‘I’m not getting in the middle’, or ‘it is not in your best interest’ seemed to be in someone else’s dictionary, not mine. I wanted truth. My truth said that we are always in the middle. I wanted not to have to take sides--a veil had been lifted from my eyes. I wanted to bring things together instead of filtering them into categorized, alphabetized microchips stored away in cubicles. I wanted to make a difference, but my life felt so small and meagerly to the task. At a time when I should have been thinking about getting myself a car, a house, I, supposedly, wanted all the wrong things like peace, understanding, equal rights, and equal pay for women, day care centers at companies and men and women who created families where people really talked to each other.
Now in Xmas 2006, I still search for the doors to truth that open one’s heart, because I know my love is not enough and words like 'you are always enough' will never cut it. There has not been a Xmas that has gone by that I have not thought of Alex. What were the lessons that he was learning in his life? He taught me so much—a smile so rich in a body so deformed. God Bless you Alex wherever you are this Xmas. My teacher, my friend and a shining light in a world full of ambiguity. You taught me humility.
©Roseroberta Pauling (
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