Morty

I was eighteen when I met Morty (short for Morton). I had just gotten my first job and was working for the Professional Placement Center at the New York State Employment Service. Like every office, we had professional and support staff. I was part of the support staff. The professional staff were all employment counselors, whose job it was to fill openings in myriad professional fields. Morty was the supervisor of the “psych” unit, which sought to fill job openings for psychologists and psychiatrists.

Morty, a stutterer, was of short-to-average height and somewhat overweight, with a slight double chin and graying hair. When I first met him, he tried to ask me my name but couldn’t get past the first word. He said, “Wha . . . wha . . . wha . . . wha . . . .” I came to his rescue and said, “Spit it out. Come on, spit it out.” He burst out laughing and said, “Most people get uncomfortable when I stutter. I like you.” I smiled. It never occurred to me to be uncomfortable. He knew he stuttered, so what was the big deal? We became fast friends. Morty’s stuttering was unpredictable. He could speak uninterrupted for a couple of paragraphs and then suddenly “wou, wou, wou, wou wou, wou, wou. . . ld you like to go to lunch?” 

I didn’t know it at the time, but Morty, who was almost twenty years my senior, saw me as someone he could “educate and mold.” In his mind, he was the Henry Higgins to my Eliza Doolittle, but, unlike Eliza, I spoke well, which meant my education would involve all things cultural as far as he was concerned. One day, as I approached Morty’s desk with a file, he said, “You know, you would be real pretty if you wore makeup and lost a little weight.” Neither issue was on my radar, but both ideas seemed manageable (I was young).  I bought makeup and had the salesperson teach me how to apply it (foundation, mascara, eyeliner and lipstick). As for my weight, I had no idea how to diet. The idea of dieting had never entered my consciousness. I did what seemed logical. I ate half of what I usually ate and I quickly lost thirty pounds. One day, I walked into the psych unit and another counselor said, “Wow, Dierdra, you’re a mere shadow of your old self.”

From that point on, Morty took me to all my firsts–first ballet, first play, first musical, and first plane ride. The first play/musical he took me to was Golden Boy with Sammy Davis, Jr. I was thrilled. I had never been to a live show before and I thought Sammy Davis was the greatest entertainer who ever lived. He could sing, dance, act, play several instruments, and impersonate other famous people.  He was also black and I’d never seen a black entertainer up close. I was in minority heaven. Morty also took me to see Hair at the Public Theatre off-Broadway, the Royal Ballet and the Bolshoi Ballet at the New York State Theatre at Lincoln Center, and the operas, Tosca, Don Giovanni, Madama Butterfly, and Antony and Cleopatra at the Met. Each time we went somewhere, he asked me, with great anticipation, what I thought of the performance and the theatre where it was held. It was as if he chose the particular show in anticipation of my response, which was always positive if not overly exuberant. “I love it (referring to the performance). It’s all right (referring to the theatre).”

One time we went to see the Whirling Dervishes at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. For those unfamiliar with the Dervishes, a dervish is a mystical dancer who stands between the material and cosmic worlds. His dance is part of a sacred ceremony in remembrance of God. The dervish rotates in a precise rhythm, representing the Earth revolving on its axis while orbiting the sun. The purpose of the ritual whirling is for the dervish to empty himself of all distracting thoughts, placing him in trance; released from his body, he conquers dizziness. (www.gregangelo.com). I knew nothing about the Dervishes then, and Morty had not educated me. Had I known that the whirling was a sacred dance in remembrance of God, I might have tried harder to control what happened as the Dervishes started to Whirl. Their skirts slowly lifted, fanning out like a dish spinning on a pole. A profound silence fell over the theatre, when I suddenly heard my watch ticking. “TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK, TICK.” It was the loudest sound I ever heard. Even Morty heard it. I suddenly felt this wellspring of emotion rising in my body. I couldn’t keep it down. It bubbled out of me and suddenly I was laughing hysterically, tears streaming down my face, and I couldn’t stop. I looked over at Morty. His shoulders were rising and falling and his face was red. Suddenly this awful high-pitched sound shot out of him. He too was laughing hysterically. I put my hand over my watch, but I could still hear it ticking. To top it off, it was a Mickey Mouse watch, which made it even funnier. In a flash, a bright light was shining in our faces and an usher was asking us to leave the theatre, which, of course, we did. We ran up the aisle unable to control ourselves, heads turning to watch us as we left. I could barely walk because I was wetting my pants from laughing so much. I had to find a bathroom in a hurry. That was a memorable evening. One of the things I enjoyed about Morty was his sense of humor. It was like mine. He had an appreciation for the ridiculous. We spent many an evening laughing hysterically over silliness. 

Morty had peculiar eating habits. Whenever he ate ice cream, he dumped a mountain of sugar on top of it. He added sugar to most of his desserts. He found out many years later that he was diabetic. Whenever we ate out, he left the table littered with food. He ate quickly and food flew out of his mouth as he was talking or chewing. It was like a food war zone. I found myself bobbing and weaving to avoid morsels of food. By the time he finished eating, our table looked as if we’d had a food fight. In the beginning, I used to try to clean up the table before the waiter came with the check. After a while, I got used to having food all over the table, the floor, and occasionally the wall, so I left the cleanup to the busboy. 

For the most part, when we went about town, people didn’t notice us. However, one time, in Greenwich Village of all places, a deranged black man approached Morty, throwing punches and repeatedly screaming, “You stealing black women, you son of a bitch!” Morty was the nervous type and didn’t respond well to any sort of confrontation. He fumbled and stuttered and tripped. I suggested that we run in the opposite direction, which we did. We never talked about what happened that evening and it never happened again. 

In the summer, I spent my weekends with Morty on Fire Island in the Pines. The first summer he rented a house. Every subsequent summer, he rented a condo. We traveled to Fire Island by train and ferry. The Pines is an upscale, essentially gay community, with beautiful homes and condos along the boardwalk and on the beach. Morty seemed asexual to me. I think he chose the Pines because it was less hectic than the other Fire Island communities and he liked to be part of the upscale scene, even if only temporarily. He liked interesting people, places and events, and was willing to spend money on all of them. (Yet, he was frugal, and lived in a small Brooklyn Heights apartment, where he cared for both his invalid parents until their deaths). He was curious about everything and loved to be surrounded by beautiful people. When we first went to the Pines together, people thought we were a couple, albeit an odd one.

The first house Morty rented was a big red structure that looked like a barn. It was on the bay side of the island. The interior was dark and musty and a swing hung from the ceiling in the living room. The back walls of the living room opened up so that you could swing out over the bay. That swing was the best thing about that house. We never ate there. It was too creepy and at night it was spooky. After that first season, Morty rented a condo on the ocean side. It was a bright and sunny studio apartment and we each slept on a separate couch-bed. I cooked our meals in that apartment and cleaned the place spotless before we left each weekend. I did such a thorough job of cleaning at the end of the summer that the people who owned the condo held it for us each season. Cooking and cleaning seemed a small price to pay for weekends outside the hustle, bustle, and humidity of the city. I loved those summers. Morty liked people, and in spite of his stuttering, he did not hesitate to introduce himself and me to anyone who struck his fancy. I learned to open up to people during those summers.

Morty also introduced me to a world of words and entertainment that had alluded me prior to that time—the works of Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, and other great authors. He and I watched David Susskind, William F. Buckley (both of whom I thought were snobs) and other conservative and not so conservative pundits, entranced by their intellect, but not their politics, which were diametrically opposed to ours. I had a natural gift for words, but, thanks to Morty, my capacity for self-expression and vocabulary grew. On the other hand, Morty had a bad habit of making me feel as if he always expected less of me by acting surprised when I performed better than he expected. For example, while at the performance of Hair, another patron, who was a friend of Morty’s, said, “Are you Dierdra?” I answered, “Yes, I’m she.” Morty loudly complimented me on my grammatical savvy. It was not unusual for him to register surprise whenever I said something grammatically sophisticated. I wasn’t ungrammatical generally. I had a natural gift for grammar, so his surprise suggested snobbishness on his part and I grew to resent it. 

As the years passed, Morty and I took trips together, which he always paid for. One time, we went to Puerto Rico, where he stayed at one hotel and I stayed at another. I have no idea why we stayed at separate hotels, but we did. We’d meet in the mornings, have breakfast together and then spend the rest of the day either roaming around the island or sunbathing. Our relationship was strictly platonic. To Morty, I was a work in progress. However, one time as we were parting ways on the subway after an evening out, he said, “I’m going on vacation for two weeks. Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?” I was taken aback and then kissed him on the cheek. He seemed satisfied and never asked me to do that again. 

Working at the Professional Placement Center was a gift. As a rule, the professional staff did not fraternize with the support staff. However, where I was concerned, fraternization was the rule. In those days, I had a quality that I was unaware of. It drew the professional staff to me. I surmise that they saw my potential. They were invested in my growth. A couple of the professional women taught me how to coordinate my clothing and my accessories. Another became a good friend and invited me to dinner with her and her husband at their apartment. I stopped accepting those invitations when her husband made a pass at me.

When I reported for work on my 21st birthday, my desk was filled with miniature stuffed animals. I used to collect them and each counselor bought me one for my birthday, something one of the other clerical staff told me had never happened to any support staff member before. The next year no one remembered that I had already had my 21st birthday, so I claimed to be twenty-one again. I didn’t want to grow up. I was enjoying being taken care of. 

Eventually, my boss, Mr. “B,” convinced me to go back to school. He felt I was wasted doing clerical work. “Dierdra, you should be doing more than greeting people at the front desk and filing application forms. You make filing mistakes because you’re bored. Go back to school. You’re too smart for this job.” After six years of telling me the same thing, I took his advice to heart and applied to college through an anti-poverty program. I scored high on aptitude tests and was immediately accepted into the regular college program, meaning I needed no remediation or special help. I received a stipend and free tuition, books and supplies. 

I left the Professional Placement Center when I entered college, and over time, my friendships faded. I got busy with my studies, moved out of my mom’s place, took jobs cleaning apartments, and had little time to socialize or keep in touch. I eventually lost all contact with my friends at the Professional Placement Center, including Morty. I graduated from college summa cum laude and applied to law school, not because I wanted to be a lawyer, but because I did not know what else to do to make money.  My goal was never to have to live in the projects, which is where I grew up.  I was a lawyer the next time I ran into Morty. He was working as a hospital administrator, and, as was his practice, had formed friendships with the black support staff there. Much of our conversation was about the support staff—who they were, what they were like, etc. I think anyone who was not like Morty fascinated him. I wondered whether he had changed in any respect. He seemed stuck in time. We went out to dinner on a subsequent night and on the way to our table, I saw someone who had been hired by my boss to restructure the law office at the Board of Education, making office assignments that were more efficient and collegial.  I went over to the table to hug and speak to the person, and then I introduced Morty to him. When we finally went to our table, Morty said, “I can’t get over how sophisticated you are. You’re so glib and articulate.” Nothing had changed. We eventually drifted apart for good.  

It is said that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When you figure out which it is, you know exactly what to do. I believe Morty entered my life for a reason and a season. When I met Morty, I was shy and had never been anywhere. He helped fulfill my unexpressed desire to be worldly, to see things I thought I’d never see, and to show me that I was smarter than I believed. As I evolved, our season together slowly came to an end. In some sense, he is with me for a lifetime too, because the things he brought into my life shaped me and will never leave me.  I love him, but I never told him so.  I wish I had.

Michael, Daddy Ken's boy, as a baby

Daddy Ken

In the late 1940’s, mom had been divorced from my father for at least four years. Their marriage was born out of necessity, not love, and it was doomed from the beginning. So, she was raising five children on her own without assistance from my father, who never sent her the court-ordered child support. Mom had neither the desire nor the resources to seek enforcement of the support. She was just glad to have my father out of her life. We lived in the projects in Long Island City and were on the dole for a few years after the divorce. Mom eventually found work in a factory.

On a bright sunny day in June 1949, mom was on the subway, returning home from work when she met someone who would change her life. She was 37 years old and looked 25, vibrant and petite. She had mocha colored skin, dark curly hair, and a face  punctuated by high cheekbones and arched eyebrows.  In other words, she was eye candy.  Mom was preoccupied with what she would make for dinner that evening and thought she had missed her stop.  She craned her neck to see exactly how far along in her trip she was, when her eyes met a young man’s. He was holding a cake box and leaning against the subway car door. He smiled and mom immediately lowered her head, a slight smile on her face. The young man, who was tall, lean and handsome, with dark wavy hair, sharp features, piercing dark eyes, and a crooked smile, was twelve years mom’s junior and was either Italian or Spanish. He slowly moved toward mom, grabbing the strap hanger just above her head. He was about to speak when the train pulled into the station and stopped with a lurch, sending the cake box flying.

The box opened and the cake spilled out onto mom’s dress. She jumped up, catching the cake, which broke into two pieces. The young man apologized profusely, gathering up what he could of the cake and putting it back in the box. Mom brushed off her dress and said it was okay. The train pulled into her stop and she rose to exit the car, with the young man in pursuit. As she headed for the stairs, the young man ran behind her, asking her if she would let him pay to dry clean her dress. Mom smiled again and said it was all right, that he didn’t have to bother. The young man persisted and followed her down the stairs, introducing himself: “My name is Kenneth Pietra.” It was a long walk from the subway to the projects. Mom and the young man walked from Queensboro Plaza to 21st Street, and all the way through the projects to Vernon Blvd. All the time, the young man pleaded his case to pay for the cleaning of the dress, while asking mom what her name was. Mom said, “Linnette,” her heart beating rapidly. He touched her arm and said, “May I see you again or at least call you?” Mom’s body reacted to his touch and she hoped that it didn’t show. By the time they reached our apartment building mom relented and gave the young man her phone number, but refused money to dry clean her dress. She knew from the moment she set eyes on him that she loved him and she knew that he loved her.

This young man, Ken, called the next day and appeared at our door the following weekend. Mom was excited and nervous about her first date with Ken. When he arrived at the apartment, he had a bouquet of flowers and mom invited him in. She introduced him to us kids and we all ate dinner together. After we went to bed, mom and Ken sat in the living room and talked for hours. He kissed her passionately good night at the end of the evening. He returned almost every weekend and sometimes during the week. We were always thrilled to see him. Mom was a changed woman. Suddenly, life was full in a way it had not been up until that point. She had found someone who loved her as a woman. She was feeling mature love for the first time in her life. She and Ken had a tender yet passionate relationship. It was a love affair that would fill mom like nothing had before. It would also bring a new life into the world along with tremendous heartache.

We kids called him “Daddy Ken.” We loved him. He was kind, generous and loving. My sister thought he would have made a wonderful father for us. He paid attention to mom and gave us kids just as much attention. He was fun to be around and seemed to genuinely love us. Mom smiled a lot in that relationship. She walked differently, with a skip in her step. I saw utter joy in her expression and I loved it. I loved Ken for putting that expression there. Ken often helped mom cook and introduced her to Italian cooking. He played games with us, took us to the park, ate mom’s cooking, and brought us kids toys and other gifts. He read us stories and treated us as if we were his own. “Daddy Ken” was an appropriate title for him. Ken knew mom was having a hard time making ends meet, so he always gave her money instead of gifts. Mom was mortified that he would give her money. I think it made her feel less than, even though that was not Ken’s intention. My sister and I had never seen mom as happy as she was then. It was the best time of our lives.

Mom and Ken had been dating for about a year, when, one night, in a moment of passion, mom did not use her diaphragm. She told me that it was the only time she ever had sex with Ken in our apartment. That night would result in the longest lasting memory of Ken mom would ever have.

In the meantime, things were in turmoil in Ken’s life. His mother was lobbying against the relationship, not because mom was black, nor because of her age, but because she already had five kids. Ken wanted to marry mom, but his mother was against it. She sabotaged the relationship. Under tremendous pressure from his mother, who feigned illness and threatened to kill herself if he didn’t stop seeing mom, Ken reluctantly broke off the relationship, not realizing that mom was pregnant. Mom was stunned and confused. I could hear her sobbing in her bedroom at night. I felt lost. I missed Ken and I longed for my mother to feel better. I was convinced that I had done something to drive Ken away. After all, my father abandoned the family too, leaving my mother destitute with five mouths to feed. Now it was happening again. I bore that burden all of my childhood, and, to make up for mom’s loss, I became my brother, Michael’s, caretaker, so much so that mom used to say that I raised him.

Michael was born on October 9, 1951. Mom had him at a time when having a baby out of wedlock was still taboo. Nevertheless, she doted on Michael, who was the spitting image of his father. She dressed him in the best clothes and kept his shoes polished. Mom went back to work when Michael was about three years old; so he attended the nursery school in the projects. I was a latchkey kid and used to pick him up after school and bring him home. My mother never stopped loving Ken and sent him letters, along with Michael’s baby pictures, his first pair of shoes, a lock of his hair, and all of his school pictures, but Ken never responded. Mom’s heart was irreparably broken, but the flame still burned. Michael was a constant reminder of that lost love, and mom’s love for him, like that for his father, was undying.

Ken found out that mom had a baby about three or four years after Michael was born. By then, mom was in another marriage. She had married my stepfather on the rebound and paid a heavy price, but that’s another story. One day, Ken showed up at the apartment, looking for my mother and his son. My sister, who was 12 1/2 years old at the time, answered the door, but wouldn’t tell him where my mother worked, and informed him that mom was married. My sister was afraid that Ken would take my brother with him, so she would not say where Michael was. She stressed that he was not in the project nursery school either. That was enough to convince Ken that that was precisely where he was. So, on his way out of the projects, Ken stopped off at the nursery school and asked to see Michael, explaining that he was Michael’s father. The director of the nursery school, who was an old friend of my mother’s, denied his request. Ken left a broken man, never to return. Mom found out about the visit, but thought better of trying to contact him. After all, she was married and was trying to make that work.

Mom had given Michael my father’s last name, even though she and my father had divorced almost five years earlier. Michael had no relationship with my father. On the rare occasion that my father did show up, he completely ignored Michael. The man my mother married after Ken left was a drunk and a brute, who showed no affection toward any of us, including my mother. Michael still carries the scars from not knowing his father. He was a lost child in many ways, acutely aware that his “real” father was missing from his life without explanation and that he was unloved by the man whose name he carried and the man who was supposed to be his stepfather. Thirty years after Ken left, mom received a call from a woman who said she was Ken’s sister. His family was looking for him and thought he had been with my mom all those years. They wanted to let him know that his mother had died. Apparently, Ken found out what his mother had done (hiding all the letters and other mementos mom sent him), had a falling out with his mother over the fact that she had interfered in his relationship with mom, and caused him to lose the love of his life and his child, so he cut off all ties with her and the rest of his family. He had been estranged from them all those years.

Ken’s sister told my mother that their mother had not destroyed mom’s letters, but had hidden them from Ken. They found mom’s phone number, which hadn’t changed in thirty years, in one of the letters. Mom informed them that she hadn’t seen Ken in thirty years. That was the last contact she had with any of his family. A few months before mom died, she said that she knew that she’d see Ken “on the other side.” She reflected on her life and said that she “had a pretty good life.” I was floored by that comment, because I knew that heartache was a theme that ran through her life. She simply didn’t see it that way. She saw each painful event as an opportunity to evolve and she did evolve. She died a loving, joyful and much loved woman.

Darayl

On a cold January afternoon, my nephew, Darayl, called me: “DD? It’s me, Darayl.”

“What’s up?”

 “I have cancer. I have a tumor on my heart.”

 Apparently, Darayl had been sparring with a boxing partner when he got punched in the chest and his heart stopped. That fateful punch sent him to the hospital, where an MRI revealed a mass on his heart and cancer everywhere. I must have been having a psychic moment because I said, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere. You’re going to have a spiritual awakening.” I told him the tumor was just a metaphor for how closed his heart was and that he’d have to learn to open his heart and let in some light.  Darayl started his spiritual journey on the operating table on February 2, 2005, when he left his body during surgery, floated above the operating table, and had a conversation with a violet light that spoke with a Scottish brogue. He was shown his life as it had been and then was told he was being reborn and that February 2 would be his new birth date. His old energy was being removed, as he was being given new energy to work with, but he’d have to do the journey to heal himself. Darayl came out of the surgery and began a long and arduous course of chemotherapy and radiation. The doctors removed most of the tumor but could not get all of it, as some of it was wrapped around his heart valve, a grim prognosis. The doctors drove home that at best they could try to prolong his life, but he would die from this cancer.

I told Darayl about a medium I knew in Hawaii, Kahu Fred Sterling, and that I would call him and ask about Darayl’s condition. I called, and Kahu channeled an energy called Master Kirael. I asked Master Kirael whether or not Darayl was leaving this plane of consciousness. This is what I was told: It doesn’t look as if he’s leaving. He has a sort of golden heart. Your nephew is a royal wizard, just like me. When royal wizards are born onto the Earth plane, they come in with blueprints packed with crazy experiences and lessons, because they try to pack everything into this one journey. They are the sorts of people who make other people shake their heads and ask, “What’s wrong with that person? Has he lost his mind?” (I would put this entire conversation in quotes, but it’s only a pretty close paraphrasing of what was said).

I called Darayl about a week later and told him I wanted him to listen to the archive of that call. While he was listening, I heard him gasping. I asked what was wrong and he said that the voice of the person on the archive, Master Kirael, was the same voice of the violet light he spoke to in the operating room and that the content of the conversation they had was the same as what Kirael was saying on the archive. Interestingly, Master Kirael is often referred to as the violet flame. From this point on, while enduring chemotherapy and radiation, Darayl listened to my friend’s radio program and received long-distance Signature Cell Healing sessions with Kahu, learned to meditate, and began studying The Ten Principles of Consciously Creating. Darayl endured chemo and radiation for about a year.  After coming to understand the ninth Principle, Masterminding, Darayl, told me that the doctors kept telling him that no one beats this kind of cancer.  He felt that they were setting up a “death mastermind” for him, sucking away all of his hope. So he decided to go the alternative route, and, at some point, when he stopped the radiation, he immersed himself in spirituality, learning to go into deep meditation, and continued his Signature Cell Healings.  Today, Darayl is alive and cancer free.

A look at Darayl’s life might give us some insight into royal wizards, which is what Kirael said Darayl is. Darayl was born on April 3, 1961. His mother (my brother Barry’s girlfriend) wanted a girl, so she gave Darayl to my mother to raise. Darayl was the most magnificent looking baby I’d ever seen. He was petite, had hazel eyes, copper colored skin, and curly hair. He was angelic in every way. He walked and talked at nine months old and was completely toilet trained at a year-old. He almost never cried and was always smiling. He spoke in sentences before he was a year old, although his pronunciation was appropriately babyish. When he was nine months old, he used to say, “Auna kinka wadoo,” which meant I want a drink of water. His babysitter’s name was Mrs. Kennedy. Each morning, as my mother was leaving for work and preparing to take him to Mrs. Kennedy’s apartment, he would say, “Gown see Kinney,” which meant going to see Kennedy. He was so petite and so short that when he started walking, he looked unreal, like a doll. The teenage boys in the projects where we lived used to knock on my mother’s door on Saturday mornings and ask if they could take Darayl for a walk in his carriage. My mom used to permit it as long as I went along. What a sight—four boys and a girl pushing a big baby buggy with this tiny angelic human in it. Darayl had the sort of energy about him that softened everyone, even fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys. These days I can’t imagine any teenage boy asking to take anyone’s baby for a walk.

When Darayl was about four years old, he went on a church picnic with my mother. She told me that he was sitting in the back of the bus with most of the children, when he suddenly came running up to the front in tears. My mom asked what was wrong and he said that the children were making fun of an old lady sitting in the back and that made him sad. His first grade teacher, Mrs. Sherman, said she thought Darayl would grow up to be president, because he was so smart, so kind, gentle, and compassionate. He was always concerned about someone else’s feelings. Even as a little boy, Darayl was a gifted artist. I used to keep his artwork on my bedroom wall when I was in college.

Darayl lived a charmed life until he was about 12 years old. That was when his mom “kidnapped” him and held him hostage for a month. My mother was frantic, but when she sought help, she was told that since she did not have legal custody, she had no rights. One day her phone rang and it was Darayl. He told my mom he had not been to school since his mother got him and he wanted to come home. My mother told him to just leave the apartment and come home, and he did. His mother did not attempt to take him back, but he was not the same after that. From then on, he had trouble both in elementary school and later in high school. At that time, I was a lawyer, working in the legal department at the NYC Board of Education. I got him into Harlem Preparatory School, thinking it would live up to its reputation as a beacon of hope in the community. Darayl found the experience unsettling, to say the least. He came home from school in the middle of one particular day. My mother asked him what he was doing home and he said that a kid in his class had been shot. I urged Darayl to quit school and get his GED. I got him into the best GED program run by the NYC Board of Education. He was only sixteen when he received his GED.

When he was eighteen, he tried to enter the Coast Guard but failed the drug test, having tested positive for marijuana. He had to wait six months before he could apply again. That was the end of Darayl’s relationship with drugs. He entered the Coast Guard six months later, making it through basic training the first time around. He said the basic training was the most rigorous thing he had ever experienced in his life. None of us thought he would make it. He was a 90-pound weakling at the time and he couldn’t swim. He learned to swim, to jump into a ring of fire in the water and pull someone to safety, and everything else that went on in basic training.

Darayl graduated and went off into a new world. For a few years, he was stationed in Panama City, Florida, on the Coast Guard Cutter Dependable. Thereafter, he was stationed in Long Beach, California, where he worked in marine hazards and safety. He loved the Coast Guard for the discipline it provided him. He learned responsibility, and to be stalwart, hardy, and courageous. The next time I saw him he was buff and had an edge. His angelic voice and demeanor were gone. He was street savvy and hardened and was involved in things that I’m sure would make my hair stand on end.

Darayl’s edge was especially evident to me when I saw him at his 17-year-old cousin’s funeral. He was very close to my sister’s youngest son, who had died after being accidentally shot with a rusty gun he and another cousin had found. I asked Darayl why he wasn’t crying or showing emotion and he said he’d learned to put his feelings aside.  He said that it was hard having emotions after pulling so many dead bodies out of the water when on drug busts and other Coast Guard missions.  He told me that he no longer feared anything, and that he could handle any situation life threw at him. Darayl was now a very macho man. Over the years, he fathered two children, but was paying child support for three, under the erroneous assumption that all three were his. He married his first child’s mother and divorced her less than a year later. He was, and still is, a non-monogamous lover of women, with no intention of ever getting married again.

He has softened some since his spiritual awakening, but he is enigmatic. He retired from the Coast Guard after putting in 25 years. That was his first concrete step toward softening. Now he never fails to tell me he loves me each time he talks to me, and he is fiercely protective of his family (but without letting anyone manipulate him). He has spoken to cancer survivors about his journey to recovery and he is not shy about touting the Ten Principles of Consciously Creating.

I mentioned earlier that Darayl said he had no fear in his life, but he does. He just doesn’t know it. He is fearful of that angelic child-like being who lives in his cellular consciousness, the one who is compassionate, kind, and gentle. Darayl still embraces those qualities, but keeps them hidden from view. He is a gifted artist, a painter of some note, but will not put a brush to canvas. I surmise that he doesn’t think it’s macho. I, like his father, have told him he will never be happy, never be fulfilled, until he engages his right brain, and resurrects the little child who lives inside him. The journey to open his heart is ongoing. Stay tuned . . .

VIGNETTES IN A LIFE

In the late sixties and early seventies, when I was working my way through college and then law school, I took a position as a housekeeper. I was in my mid-twenties, so I had an air of responsibility about me. The people for whom I worked had beautiful apartments in nice areas of the city. I was living in the South Bronx at the time, so I was always happy to go to work. It was a refreshing change of neighborhood.

It wasn’t glamorous work, but it was interesting and opened a whole new world to me. The first cleaning was the longest, about eight hours for a thorough job. After that, it never took as long to clean. I could clean during long breaks between classes and sometimes I'd start in the morning, go to class, and finish up in the afternoon after class.

I started out working for straight people. I stress “straight,” because I ultimately found true joy working for gay people. I found my straight clients removed, serious, and demanding. I didn’t mind cleaning anything, but one person wanted me to scrub the floor on my hands and knees with a toothbrush. We’re not talking about a small surface either. I never understood why anyone would need and demand this demeaning way of cleaning. I came to the conclusion that some people just needed to wield power. I quit that job.

Another of my clients was a psychotherapist who later became a talk-radio host. He was morbidly obese and used to throw up after eating in an effort to lose weight. When he told me what he was doing, he acted as if it were the greatest discovery since sliced bread. After he lost weight, he became an egotistical jerk. I could deal with his being a jerk. After all, he was just my employer, not my lover. I didn’t care how he looked. My problem was that he used to leave the dried vomit on the toilet bowl rim for me to clean up. I had to use steel wool and cleanser to get the stuff off. It was disgusting. I eventually left that job too.

I found another job working for a couple. The husband was a producer at ABC. They lived in a luxury building that was convenient for my commute to school. At the time, my body was slim, strong, and well defined.  In the summer, I wore low-waist jeans and halter tops. One day, the husband unexpectedly arrived home in the middle of the afternoon, startling me. He seemed to have no reason for being there. I realized that his only reason for coming home was to flirt. I spent most of the afternoon dodging all five feet three inches of him, as he chased me around the apartment. Soon he was regularly coming home in the middle of the day, so I quit that job too.

I seriously considered finding some other sort of work, but I was hard pressed to find anything that paid as well and that fit so beautifully into my school schedule. So, I decided to give it one more try. At a party, I met a young gay Frenchman, named Didier, who told me that he was returning to France and needed someone to take over his housecleaning job. I jumped at the opportunity. The following Monday, I met my next employer, a young, handsome, gay psychiatrist.

This psychiatrist just happened to live in the same building as the executive at ABC. As sophisticated as he liked people to think he was, this doctor came from a working class family. It showed in his choice of décor. I entered his apartment through a small foyer. The walls were covered in red velvet. The living room walls were mirrored and a thick white rug with pastel colors in a floral design covered the living room floor. The dining area, which was adjacent to the kitchen, had a glass topped chrome table, over which hung a crystal chandelier. The kitchen floor was covered in red indoor/outdoor carpet tiles. The bedroom, which was just off the kitchen, housed a waterbed that was covered with a spread made of what looked like faux tiger fur. Behind the bed was a mirrored wall.

This doctor was outrageous and funny and his clients liked him. Outwardly, he seemed to be interested in them and their issues, a paragon of concern and professionalism. He was attentive to their every need, took their phone calls at all hours, and offered them lunch (which I usually made)when they arrived in the middle of the day. Of course, you can never judge a person’s character by outward appearances. One day after receiving a phone call, he told me that one of his clients had committed suicide. He was silent for a second and then said, “Thank goodness he paid me before he killed himself.” For some reason, I wasn’t shocked. I’m not easily shocked. I had a feeling from the moment I met him that he was probably emotionally removed from his clients. It seemed to me that he had a wall around him. Intimacy was not his forte.

Whenever I reported to work on a Monday morning, the apartment smelled of “poppers,” the street name for amyl nitrate, a liquid drug usually prescribed for angina. In the gay community, it was used to enhance the sexual experience by increasing one’s heart rate. Poppers smell awful once you’ve popped the vial open, sort of like smelly feet.

I was never sure who I would meet when I came to work. My boss was promiscuous. Often when I arrived at the apartment, a stranger would be in the bedroom. I would greet this person and we would chat while he gathered his stuff to leave. At that time, AIDS wasn’t in our vocabulary. My boss’s promiscuity didn’t bother me. After all, who am I to judge someone else’s life? He seemed to meet nice people and he was not in a committed relationship at the time, and even if he were, that had nothing to do with me. I liked him and I thought his unfeeling attitude toward his clients was a defense mechanism. In any event, I liked him because he treated me well. He was generous and kind. He gave me no reason to dislike him. His deficits were his business. As far as I know, he survived the AIDS crisis, because years later I saw him on Fire Island in the Pines. He looked great. I was happy to find out that he was one of the lucky ones.

As a side venture, this doctor produced porno films. One time, he asked me if I’d be a script girl for one of his films. I asked what it entailed and he said that I just had to cue the “actors” on their lines. It was an easy way to make $125, which, in the 1960's, was a lot of money for one night's work. I was in college then and money was scarce. So I said yes. I arrived at his apartment that night and it was filled with naked men and women. I was shocked when I recognized that some of the women were students at Hunter College where I was attending classes. The guy actors were all gay and the cameramen were moonlighting after their jobs at ABC. Fortunately, I never had to cue anyone on his or her lines. The one good thing that came from that evening is that I learned to look people in the eye when speaking to them. After all, they were all naked and I didn’t want to look down. Anyway, the only thing I actually had to do was make a buffet lunch for the “actors.” I was pleased, because I did not have to watch the “action,” which I found horribly embarrassing. I stayed in the kitchen and read my psychology textbook in preparation for a test the next day. I occasionally glanced at the reflection in the wall oven to get a glimpse of what was happening in the living room. I would hear the director, say, “Pan in on her c _ _ t. Pan in on her c _ _ t.” The male actors were unable to get aroused by the female actors, so they substituted egg white for semen. It was an eye-opening experience, to say the least.

I found it interesting that the cameramen had nothing good to say about the women in the film. They commented that no self-respecting woman would do that kind of work. Nothing was said about the men, and they obviously didn’t reflect on their own behavior, moonlighting on porno films. That was the first and last time that I ever volunteered to be a “script girl” on one of those films. At the time, I was planning on going to law school, and, being ignorant of the law, I wondered if what my boss was doing was legal. I thought if it weren’t and he got busted, I would have been hauled in with him just for being on the premises.

This doctor had one other “vice.” He used to love to go to the “trucks” on 12th Avenue, where he would have sex with anonymous men. In those days, gay men had sex in the back of the semis parked under the Westside Highway. I don’t know if that still goes on, but it’s a very dangerous thing to do. I once asked my boss why he would risk his professional reputation in such a way. After all, he was affiliated with a reputable hospital in Manhattan. He said that it was the danger of getting caught by the police that made the sex exciting. I couldn’t imagine any kind of sex being worth such a risk. He led a charmed life, because I don’t think he ever got caught. At least, I’ve never read about a doctor being busted at the “trucks.”

I worked for another gay psychiatrist who was a colleague and friend of his. They both worked at the same well-known hospital. He lived on Riverside Drive in a fairly large two bedroom apartment, but it was not lavishly decorated. This guy went for old furniture, some of it antique, and humdrum décor. He was one of the sweetest human beings I had ever known. I adored him. He was fairly “straight” in his lifestyle, except for his penchant for young Latin lovers. For him, they were as dangerous as the “trucks” were for the other doctor. He just didn’t know how to pick them. He always ended up with young gay Latin hoods, the operative word being “hoods.” I used to house sit for this doctor. One time I came home to find my camera and some other belongings missing. I called him at his vacation place and told him that someone had come into the apartment and stolen my stuff. He knew right away who it was. His lover had stolen my stuff and pawned it. He eventually found my camera at a local pawn shop and returned it to me.

On still another occasion, I reported for work and found his young lover out cold on the couch. It turned out that he had overdosed on some pills that were on the coffee table. I called my boss at work and told him that I couldn’t wake the fellow up. He told me to leave, which I did, and he would take care of it. That situation turned out well and the young man lived. However, it took the young man’s stealing the doctor’s car before the doctor finally said, “Enough.”

Another memorable person I worked for was a young gay woman who was a musician and claimed to be a distant cousin of Janis Joplin. She lived around the corner from the ABC studios in a four-story walkup. She had a tiny apartment with a deck off the living room. She was just plain fun and one of the sweetest women ever. Her girlfriend was an administrative assistant for a state assemblyman. She commuted between Manhattan and Albany. She and my employer made an interesting couple. My employer was quite short, about 5'2," and her girlfriend was over six feet tall. They were like Mutt and Jeff. Things were going swimmingly for this young musician until she developed Meniere’s syndrome (for her, it involved a ringing in the ears). Suddenly, she was unable to compose or play her music and she ended up being a copyist, which was a huge step down for her. I have no idea what happened to her after that. I graduated and stopped working for her. I wish I had kept in touch.

I loved all these people. They added a new and interesting dimension to my life. They were kind and generous and fun, paid me well, gave me holiday bonuses and trusted me in their apartments while they were gone. I honored them for that by not judging them and doing my housework to the highest standards. At one time, I even thought I would forego law school and go into the cleaning business on a larger scale just to remain in their employ. However, my better judgment told me that I was destined for other things and that I would be nuts to give up a full scholarship to law school to clean apartments, even though to me, it was more than just cleaning apartments. These jobs were part of my evolution. I grew in wondrous ways.

One would think that life could only get boring after my adventures as a housekeeper, but that isn’t true. My life as a lawyer and a judge took me on different yet just as interesting adventures, but that’s another story.