Diamond Mike Watson's Blog, page 10

My Dear Child, Forgive Our Ignorance

My dear child

I wish I could hold your hand

I wish I could read you a book

I wish I could free you of your prison

I hope you had a nutritious meal tonight

I hope you slept warmly

I hope you dreamt peacefully

I heard your cries

I know what you want more than food or shelter

You want the solid rock of your existence

You long for the embrace of the one who gave you life-

Your mother

They say there is strength in suffering

When the sun rises

I hope you will one day forget about this

Uninvited terror of your young life

I hope you will one day forgive our ignorance

-To the more than 2300 kids of all ages that have been separated from their mothers and held in captivity since the Department of Justice instituted the Zero Tolerance policy for illegal immigration on April 8, 2018.

The separation of children from their families must be stopped!

The separation of children from their parents at our borders is inhumane and is sure to cause irreparable lifelong harm to thousands of children. It is difficult for me to type these words, knowing that this is not fiction but a cruelty and crime against humanity that is currently happening at our southern border.

It is also difficult for me to understand the insensitivity of the people in the Trump administration who justify this punishment of children who have done nothing wrong. My heart weeps for the children who may remember the nightmare of being pried from their mothers arms. Although these children will try to forget this experience as adults, I’m certain this trauma will never be completely erased from their memories.

For those who have heard from the President that this is a law, it is not, is a false statement, and can be stopped immediately by the President.

Whether the aim is to instill a deterrent or greater punishment against illegal immigration, it is shameful to permanently harm the lives of children that will grow into plastic, lifeless adults with memories of being persecuted for a crime they never committed.

The separation of children from their families must be stopped now!

To a degree, are we all sociopaths?

This is not a trick question, but a sincere concern. In a college Humanities class of 1977, I remember a discussion on how humans could digress into apathetic invalids. We sometimes simply don’t care about anything or anybody. I have previously written about one of my teenager experiences where I refused to help an elderly lady off of the ground at the fair after some rambunctious kids pushed her. Not wanting to appear uncool in front of my friends, we simply watched the confused lady laboriously heave back into an upright position, brush herself off and amble away. I will never forgive myself of that lost opportunity to help someone in need.

Do we really live in a world that is more cruel today than in 1977? Or are we just more aware that humans never seem to learn basic lessons of life? Even in the Holy Bible with stories written up to 3,500 years ago we read about our brutality. Are we more compassionate today? The same? Worse off?

Sociopathy (or Antisocial Personality Disorder) affects about 1-4% of us. Not all sociopaths are violent, but they do share the common traits of lacking empathy and remorse, are profoundly selfish, and lack a moral compass.

These days I try to refrain from speaking in absolutes. After all, it is the sunrise and sunset that makes every night and day possible.   None of us can say we are 100% American. Neither are we 100% sane. Even though many of us contain genes of affection, compassion and empathy, there are some of us who lack these genes. It doesn’t make us bad people, it is just how our brains have grown and developed.

In trying to understand the current news of our nation and world, it has been striking for me to see the commentary of our citizens. Our hearts are revealed in our words and text. When we listen carefully, the tone of our words do not lie.

To a degree, are we all sociopaths?

Should we be able to own a weapon of war?

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January, 1963. The author shown with cowboy uniform complete with toy guns strapped to his waist.

“Do you want to be the good guy or the bad guy?” I would sometimes ask my friend as a child. We always had such a wild imagination. We would dodge behind trees with a plastic weapon that would shoot imaginary projectiles toward our opponent. Sometimes I would use a kitchen towel as a cape that would flutter in the wind as I ran.

During combat we would take turns “dying” by holding our stomachs and collapsing to the ground in agony. Of course, neither of us knew the real pain of a gunshot wound, or the concept of being killed by another.

During a protest for gun control in Washington, DC, an eighteen-year old girl stood bravely behind a microphone facing thousands. She stood for six minutes and twenty seconds but spoke for only slightly over two minutes. The most poignant part of her speech was not what she said, but her four minutes of silently staring into the crowd, symbolizing the brief time it took for a gunman to murder seventeen people at her school in Parkland, Florida.

Her name was Emma Gonzalez, and she taught us a new way to look at silence- it can be reverent. It can also be terrifying.

I have met hundreds of teachers through my business. It appears most of them chose their profession from their sheer love of teaching. I don’t think any of them planned on being enforcement officers where they would be required return fire on a student who could have been in that teacher’s class.

Shouldn’t schools be places for children to to learn the wonders of the world while developing their social skills? Shouldn’t they be places of excitement? Or should they be places of fearing they may be one day pierced with a bullet, by an intruder or even accidentally by their own teacher?

Should we ask ourselves, in our modern world, at any age, should we be able to own or purchase a weapon of war? Have we come to the point where we are now giving more emphasis on the right to own guns than the right to live our lives without the fear of being mortally wounded?

Teachers are not Killers

As mass shootings become rampant in our schools, teachers, students, and citizens alike are desperate for a solution. I loved my high school teachers. Most were kind. Some were funny. All were smart. The president has been pushing his idea of these same teachers to conceal weapons. Since a military-style AR-15 is the weapon of choice for many shooters, is that the type of weapon a Language Arts teacher should possess? A small handgun may not stand a chance against a better killing machine.

Also, did you know that it is common for the shooter to be a current or former student? Are you going to ask a music teacher to shoot and kill someone that may have been a student in her class? I think in any situation, it would be difficult to pull the trigger.

What if there was a scuffle in the lunchroom or other common area? Would you ask a teacher to fire in the middle of a crowd and accidentally kill an innocent student? And what if an aggravated student overpowered a frailer teacher in an attempt to seize his or her weapon? I can already see dozens of horrible scenarios, all of which even more people will die.

I survived my school days without the fear of my friends, teachers, or myself being shot. There is enough fear in our world and there is no room for this in our schools. A school is our safe haven to learn the wonders of our world and to fully live our potential. At least in part, it is the lack of common sense gun laws that have put us where we are today. One can never extinguish a fire with gasoline. One can never overcome fear with fear.

Let’s talk about a solution.

Raise the legal age of acquiring guns.

Reduce the amount of bullets a gun may contain.

Eliminate bump stocks.

Remove guns from those who have a history of mental illness.

Report those who seem overly angry or disturbed.

.

And finally, let’s not be fooled by the preposterous notion that our students and teachers will be safer by arming our teachers with weapons.

Guns and Teachers do not Mix

Arming teachers with guns must have been an off the cuff remark by the President. And although I believe he knows it was the dumbest thing to come from his lips, it is not Trumps style to admit that his preposterous idea would actually add potential harm to our teachers and students. Every year nearly 500 teachers submit their students essays to me. I know most of them by name. They are educators. They love their students. They want them to succeed and fully live their potential.

They are not prison guards.

I’m also sure most of them desire a place for students to learn that is comfortable without the fear that someone may be shot. I am not going to waste their time or insult their intelligence asking any teacher if they would even consider concealing a gun.

If there is a fire, does gasoline make the fire go away? If we want to lower our debt, should we borrow more money? If too many guns are the problem, does adding more guns solve the root problem of shootings in our schools? I don’t think so.

#NeverAgain.

What Happened to my Chubby-Cheeked Sister?

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I am adopted.

Even today I am not legally allowed to know of the person who gave birth to me. The records are now unsealed only because I mailed my birthmother’s death certificate to the state of Indiana. I am thankful someone recorded my birth on an old typewriter. Thank goodness there was a paper trail. From the tiny crumbs of bread that were sprinkled in my path I was fortunate enough to find the person whose womb I was created. Unfortunately, she had already died thirteen years before.

Without DNA evidence and the internet, it was a long search that began when I was 17 and ended when I was 36. I am not complaining because I discovered amazing people, places, and adventures along the way. I found what I was seeking.

Now this new chapter leaves me with a missing sister. The Great Search begins again. But there is something odd about this search. You see, I was told that I was stillborn. No one in my family searched for me because they assumed I did not exist. Deborah Kay, however, was a child who everyone in the family played with. They commented she was a beautiful baby with chubby cheeks and was perfect in every way.

Every two weeks my birthmother made trips to her hometown of Coatesville from Indianapolis. Babies give joy. I’m sure it was an exciting moment when Betty arrived with Deborah Kay.

But on a few of those trips Betty did not have Deborah, saying she was at the babysitter. When was the last trip Betty made to Coatesville with Deborah Kay?- nobody knows. The only picture the family gave me was the one on this group page. It is dated June 1956. She was six months old.

There is something else that is odd. There are no crumbs. There is no paper trail. And the strangest thing, no one seemed to care. I know if my daughter disappeared I would search the four corners of the earth. I would search forever.

Unless, however, I knew I would never find her.

I’m sure my birthmother had a challenging life. She was only sixteen when she first married. Most of her relationships were filled with abuse and alcoholism. But I believe the only person that can live our lives is ourselves. For the most part, we are all responsible for everything we say or do. Our lives are determined by our choices.

Did the following happen?

Betty got married to Carl Price and had Mike. Betty then had a relationship with Robert Charon and divorced Carl. Betty gets pregnant with Charon and has Deborah Kay. Betty begins a relationship with Blaine Reed. They keep Deborah while Mike stays at his grandmother’s house. Betty begins a relationship with Kenny Snyder. Since Deborah is not Kenny’s child he may have encouraged her to put Deborah for adoption. Betty knows Robert Charon was from Massachusetts and she goes there to look him up. Did she take Deborah with her? We do not know if she found him, but it is that part of the country she may have met my Syrian-Jewish father.

Betty returns to Coatesville. Is Deborah with her? Now Betty finds out she is pregnant with a third child, me.

We all know people who always seem to make the wrong choices, who mingle with the wrong crowd, who avoid the advice of those who love us. That appears to be the legend of my birthmother, Betty.

I can understand a concerned grandmother who felt she had given all the love and support she could give. Having a daughter that was immoral does not mean the mother is immoral also. It also doesn’t mean the teacher did not teach the virtues of life. It may mean that the student simply did not learn the virtues of life.

It is perfectly plausible that grandmother used “tough love” and demanded a question for Betty – If she could not even take care of herself, how could she take care of three kids? I can almost hear it, “Get rid of these kids and get your life together!”

So here I am, alive and well. I was stillborn, but now I have been resurrected. But there are no clues for my sister, and I am beginning to feel that she was a foundling. Perhaps Betty took her far away. To New York? To Massachusetts? If she dropped her off at a local church surely that would have made news in the newspapers of 1955. Or, God forbid, was Deborah the victim of a drunken rage that happened so frequently in Betty’s life?

When I asked my grandmother what happened to Deborah Kay in 1994 she put her head down and answered, “I do not know.” Those were her only four words. There was no other commentary.

Time passes. We live. We die. For those who know me, I never give up. I now sit at a crossroad of uncovering a tragic and embarrassing truth and at the same time losing the acceptance of my relatives from that tiny town in Central Indiana. Or, I can find the truth that every caring sibling deserves to know. I’ve been through this before, and my adoptive parents never stopped loving me for searching for my origins.

My decision is firm. Together, with the support of this group, we are going to find out what happened to my chubby-cheeked sister.

 

 

My Chubby-Cheeked Missing Sister

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I am adopted.

Even today I am not legally allowed to know of the person who gave birth to me. The records are now unsealed only because I mailed my birthmother’s death certificate to the state of Indiana. I am thankful someone recorded my birth on an old typewriter. Thank goodness there was a paper trail. From the tiny crumbs of bread that were sprinkled in my path I was fortunate enough to find the person whose womb I was created. Unfortunately, she had already died thirteen years before.

Without DNA evidence and the internet, it was a long search that began when I was 17 and ended when I was 36. I am not complaining because I discovered amazing people, places, and adventures along the way. I found what I was seeking.

Now this new chapter leaves me with a missing sister. The Great Search begins again. But there is something odd about this search. You see, I was told that I was stillborn. No one in my family searched for me because they assumed I did not exist. Deborah Kay was a child who everyone in the family played with. They commented she was a beautiful baby with chubby cheeks and was perfect in every way.

Every two weeks my birthmother made trips to her hometown of Coatesville from Indianapolis. Babies give joy. I’m sure it was an exciting moment when Betty arrived with Deborah Kay.

But on a few of those trips Betty did not have Deborah, saying she was at the babysitter. When was the last trip Betty made to Coatesville with Deborah Kay?- nobody knows. The only picture the family gave me was the one on this group page. It is dated June 1956. She was six months old.

There is something else that is odd. There are no crumbs. There is no paper trail. And the strangest thing, no one seemed to care. I know if my daughter disappeared I would search the four corners of the earth. I would search forever.

Unless, however, I knew I would never find her.

I’m sure my birthmother had a challenging life. She was only sixteen when she first married. Most of her relationships were filled with abuse and alcoholism. But I believe the only person that can live our lives is ourselves. For the most part, we are all responsible for everything we say or do. Our lives are determined by our choices.

Did the following happen?

Betty got married to Carl Price and had Mike. Betty then had relationship with Robert Charon and divorced Carl. Betty gets pregnant with Charon and has Deborah Kay. Betty begins a relationship with Blaine Reed. They keep Deborah while Mike stays at his grandmother’s house. Betty begins a relationship with Kenny Snyder. Since Deborah is not Kenny’s child he may have encouraged her to put Deborah for adoption. Betty knows Robert Charon was from Massachusetts and she goes there to look him up. Did she take Deborah with her? We do not know if she found him, but it is that part of the country she may have met my Syrian-Jewish father.

Betty returns to Coatesville. Is Deborah with her? Now Betty finds out she is pregnant with a third child, me.

We all know people who always seem to make the wrong choices, who mingle with the wrong crowd, who avoid the advice of those who love us. That appears to be the legend of my birthmother, Betty.

I can understand a concerned grandmother who felt she had given all the love and support she could give. Having a daughter that was immoral does not mean the mother is immoral also. It also doesn’t mean the teacher did not teach the virtues of life. It may mean that the student simply did not learn the virtues of life.

It is perfectly plausible that grandmother used “tough love” and demanded a question for Betty – If she could not even take care of herself, how could she take care of three kids? I can almost hear it, “Get rid of these kids and get your life together!”

So here I am, alive and well. I was stillborn, but now I have been resurrected. But there are no clues for my sister, and I am beginning to feel that she was a foundling. Perhaps Betty took her far away. To New York? To Massachusetts? If she dropped her off at a local church surely that would have made news in the newspapers of 1955. Or, God forbid, was Deborah the victim of a drunken rage that happened so frequently in Betty’s life?

When I asked my grandmother what happened to Deborah Kay in 1994 she put her head down and answered, “I do not know.” Those were her only four words. There was no other commentary.

Time passes. We live. We die. For those who know me, I never give up. I now sit at a crossroad of uncovering a tragic and embarrassing truth and at the same time losing the acceptance of my relatives from that tiny town in Central Indiana. Or, I can find the truth that every caring sibling deserves to know. I’ve been through this before, and my adoptive parents never stopped loving me for searching for my origins.

My decision is firm. Together, with the support of this group, we are going to find out what happened to my chubby-cheeked sister.

 

 

The World Needs You

 

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You are the master of your destiny. Make your bed.  Have confidence in your abilities. Shake off your anxiety. Take the first step. Get freshened up. The world needs you today.

Learn From Every Experience

I always try to look at the bright side of life, realizing that everything most of us consider a tragedy is really a valuable experience that can teach us to do better.

I lived with loving adoptive parents but my father had a difficult time expressing his love for me. He became an alcoholic and drank as soon as he returned from work and heavily on the weekends. His gentle demeanor would become cruel and his mean words would create emotional wounds that would still show scars many years later.

His blue-collar hands showed a lifetime of hard work. He always said he loved me. He bought me the coolest bike. Cigarette smoke would pour from his mouth even after the third exhale. He preached Jesus when drunk. He yelled at the television about corrupt politicians. He insulted my mom when dinner wasn’t prepared to his taste.

But whatever he said or did, I knew he loved us. He just had a strange way of showing it.

I wouldn’t have changed a moment of my childhood, for under a different blueprint I would not be the same person as I am today.

Therefore, be happy you are who you are. And don’t blame any troublesome past to your current shortcomings. Hopefully you have learned a great lesson from it. Think about that. You not only learned the correct things to do to have a happy, purposeful life, but you learned the things what not to do that would prevent you from having a happy and purposeful life.

When I was a teenager still living at home, I remember analyzing my dad’s behavior, thinking, “when I grow up and move away from here, I will never do that.” Or if I admired a quality I would say, “when I grow up and move away, I want to possess that quality.”

No one knows how our minds develops and grows. Even twins growing together in a family can take contrasting paths later in life. But it is important to appreciate and learn from every experience that one encounters. Every experience is different and usually never repeats itself. Therefore, even as what may appear as an obstacle in ones life could very well be the exact tool needed to achieve great happiness and success.

Erase the word “unfortunate” from your vocabulary and realize that every experience, good or bad, provides another key that unlocks the next door of opportunity that awaits you.