Once, I went on a missions trip to inner city Nashville. The neighborhood we worked in was a housing project named after a Confederate general, Joe Johnston. It was formerly a tent city for freed Southern slaves.
Our team went to a basketball court where some gang members were playing. The host organization’s leader said one of us had to participate in the pickup game. Our team was young and I was one of the older ones, so I got volumtold to play.
And as I’ve usually done, I guard like a bat out of hell. All the dribbling tricks in the world don’t matter a bit if you can keep your balance, eye on the ball, and your feet loose.
I could guard anyone. Asian, black, white, Latino, alien.
And so it was anywhere else – courtroom, boardroom, classroom.
Don’t get me wrong, I was scared as hell most of the time.
Love and fear. Those are some of the biggest motivators, if not the most, in life. In my field, it is a huge weapon in the arsenal (at times warranted, at others not so much). I’m not immune to it – I sometimes half-jokingly tell former colleagues and students “We are the ones who knock in the night.”
But fear is so real. I saw and still see people do all sorts of crazy, insane things because of it – Vince Lombardi once said that fatigue makes cowards of people. So does fear. My God, does it ever. And those who wield it, know it.
It’s also no coincidence or error that the most repeated idea in the Bible is some variation of do not fear (I didn’t count. read it somewhere). What we fear reveals who we are, who we are not, what we treasure, what we worship.
Thankfully love. That supposedly casts fear out. Haven’t figured this one out completely. It feels right.
Love and fear. Those are some of the biggest motivators, if not the most, in life. In my field, it is a huge weapon in the arsenal (at times warranted, at others not so much). I’m not immune to it – I sometimes half-jokingly tell former colleagues and students “We are the ones who knock in the night.”
But fear is so real. I saw and still see people do all sorts of crazy, insane things because of it – Vince Lombardi once said that fatigue makes cowards of people. So does fear. My God, does it ever. And those who wield it, know it.
It’s also no coincidence or error that the most repeated idea in the Bible is some variation of do not fear (I didn’t count. read it somewhere). What we fear reveals who we are, who we are not, what we treasure, what we worship.
Thankfully love. That supposedly casts fear out. Haven’t figured this one out completely. It feels right.
I often teach my kids about the Battle of Dien Bien Phu that occurred during the Vietnam War. I won’t recap all of it but it involved unconventional methods against a fortress that was thought to be unconquerable. When you look more closely, however, everything the Vietnamese used makes a lot of sense and even seems obvious. The Vietnamese attack was designed by a strategist I admired and tried to emulate – General Vo Nguyen Giap. A lawyer by training and a teacher by vocation, he had no formal military training but was a genius. He understood hearts and minds over technology and force. He is credited for beating superior nations and their militaries – the French and US directly and the Chinese indirectly. I do not comment on the rightness of his cause – I know people who fought for both sides.
This one is about looking at the board correctly.
I used to teach my students about the US Revolutionary War. Once during class, I realized the parallels between that war and the one in Vietnam. An invading force consisting of many who didn’t want to be there, an increasingly costly and unpopular conflict, fighting in unfamiliar terrain against irregular forces, using the wrong measure for success, etc. This scenario often repeats itself – Afghanistan and Russia over the ages, now maybe Ukraine. Malaysia as well – Indonesia tried it once, we blew them out of the sky. They never tried again.
The girl out of left field/with the short fuse is really good at board games. But these are actually not the best ways to learn and practice strategy as they only capture a portion of what’s necessary to win. I’ll write more on that later maybe but maybe I won’t either. The big factors, though, are the role of emotions and time. Although there is a role of emotion in games (play the man, not the board), it’s not as prominent as real life. Time too. This is often underestimated. Prolonged conflicts tend to favor the defender. I saw this on a professional and personal level. But also on offense, sometimes you grind them down.
A death by a thousand cuts is still a death.
Someone asked me where my interest in strategy came from. I’m just mediocre to ok in games like chess. Others like Risk, it depends on how I woke up that morning. I didn’t really formally study it until Boston in my 30s but the roots originate from everything else.
And there is God.
I started to read and think about the Bible more critically from a strategic lens. You can see many examples on a grand and individual level. God is smart. His ways are not our ways. So many counterintuitive moves that make perfect sense when implemented.
I also emphasize to my kids the importance of hearts and minds. But make sure to bring along the gun with the cannoli.
I understand it has been a while since we last communicated but I wanted to share some thoughts with you.
Life can take so much but not hope; nothing kills hope. I have just experienced the darkest years of my life. Standing up for what was right, mostly alone, took its toll on my job, my family (both which I loved so much) and ended my marriage – heavy losses. Yet I still want to believe the light is still winning.
Eighteen years ago, I wrote you a letter that I did not send. In it, I wrote how I felt about you and that I would pray for you over the thousands of miles I drove all over the country, on many occasions almost dying. I prayed that God would take care of you and provide a good man for you (and no, not me). I forget the rest. I would have walked the thousands of miles for you.
During my time in Minnesota, I would light a prayer candle every morning before work for you at the Cathedral of St. Paul. And while working in Philadelphia as a prosecutor where I stared into the darkness of humanity, yet at home I still slept on a mattress on the floor in a not-so-great apartment and neighborhood, thinking of you brought me much needed light. These days, I still wonder how and where you are, and I slip in a prayer. A prayer of hope.
From the first day I met you, I knew you would play a special role in my life, even if I did not know what it would be.
In the many dark nights I’ve experienced, I often thought back to the one time we got to dance together. You smiled when I asked whether you wanted to dance and my heart changed that night. Though I was faithful in marriage, I always kept a soft spot for you as someone dear to my heart. Living in Boston, every time the Red Sox played “Sweet Caroline” at Fenway Park, when the lines, “And when I hurt, hurting runs off my shoulder, How can I hurt while holding you?” came on, I would allow myself a brief moment to think of you.
I have always loved your beautiful soft heart most of all, along with all the other amazing things about you, your intellect, resilience, empathy, and outward beauty. Your love for family and others, as well as your dedication to service, were always evident to me. I actually still have the very first note you wrote me 27 years ago. I loved getting those thoughtful and compassionate notes (and emails) from you. Most of all, I have always loved your smile and making you laugh. You often heard me in my tune when I just heard confusion. Through your kindness for me, you’ve always helped make more bearable the crushing loneliness I experienced for so much of my life.
I am imperfect but I really tried to be a good honorable one who served, taught, guided, and protected others in my own small way.
I have had a difficult life, but it has been, so far, an amazing, beautiful, and great journey. I rose above an unstable (and worse) family, the challenges of immigration, bullying, racism, the many difficult challenges in my jobs, and also my own shortcomings. But still alive. Still alive.
I would love to tell you more of my story and listen to all of yours as well. I am currently living in the DMV area. I will always care about you.
PS – Sense of humor still intact. I also was a super shy quiet sensitive kid who cried a lot. Had to build and wear so much armor. Spent a lot of my life fighting, mainly because I had to. Living up to the often ridiculous unrealistic expectations of family and others. Ready to be done with all that. Learning to sing a new song, to see with a hundred eyes. I am more (and less) of what I appear to be.
——————————
Grace
Three perfect memories – the
dance, teaching you guitar, walking at night at Princeton
The hospital bear (the beginning of my own journey)
The chess piece (the reason we couldn’t play at home for years)
The poem (wrote driving to Boston in the magical fall)
The song (not the greatest songwriter, couldn’t get past the first verse)
The mouse story (a joy to illustrate and write)
And the fair (where God and life were abundantly present)
That letter (a year to complete)
And this one (a gift, a story, a song of hope)
Strove to be strong brave kind
Forced to be quicker tougher smarter
Learned to observe orient decide act
At many times, unyielding, unbending, unbreakable (almost)
I refused to dance on the strings of others
Better to die on your feet than to live on your knees
But often afraid, tired, unsure of myself, alone
And so much pain – did what I did because of, despite, and with
And so much joy – so much laughter, so much joy
Är jag stark eller svag?
Det spelar ingen roll
This time I won’t hold back anything and I’ll walk away a fool or a king
Unconquerable will, soft heart, can’t lose
Like water, like running water
Harimau Malaya
Kancil Melaka
Dinged up bear
Child of God
I wait patiently for Him
Though much is taken, much abides
I have wished for so long, how I wish for you today
Too many words have I wasted On love poems and empty emotions While You sit there silently With blood pierced hands Waiting for me to see You To wait for You to return But I keep turning away And the hatred shifts From You to my soul.
They tell me you ran around his grave at the funeral Laughing and playing with your little sisters without a care I’d like to think you were to young to understand But I know better, for you already could see then Beyond your five years into a fatherless future You hid it so well then and still do now Behind a crumbling fortress of adolescent innocence Though the evidence of uncelebrated Father’s Days And added responsibility sometimes breaks through
Your sweet freshman smile and gentle spirit I think it is then that I am proud to know you A young woman of strength.
A significant portion of my life was dedicated to protecting others. Because I wasn’t protected. Especially by the ones who should have done so. A friend with similar personal and professional experiences said we weee destined to do so. To run to the fire rather than away.
A life filled with weak cowards, so we vowed and strove to do the opposite.
My primary role at the NYPD was to protect it. What an honor – to protect the protectors.
The role of a lifetime.
Only a few truly understand.
They are enough.
It was costly.
It was worth it.
This wasn’t on purpose but it occurred to me just vert recently that I named my kids after two legendary protectors.
The girl for her father and people.
The boy for his Khan. In fact he said he would protect Genghis as closely like a felt coat.
I used to pray the following for them:
That my daughter would fight others and fight for others.
That my son would never be outmaneuvered and envelop others like water.
May God shine His face upon them and look kindly on those petitions.
I’ve mostly given up on writing about the crime situation in Philadelphia, but these two stories caught my eye out of the daily carnage in the city. The first involves someone from the church where I used to attend and who was killed near a high school. The second involves young children who are terrorizing students at the University of Pennsylvania.
“A 69-year-old Chinese immigrant who was attacked and beaten a week ago by a gang of male teens while he was taking an evening walk died yesterday when life support was removed. Police said the teens had grabbed Kwok Ho, put him in a chokehold, and threw him to the sidewalk, smashing his head in the July 10 assault. He had been walking alone around 7:30 p.m. in the 1300 block of Greeby Street in Oxford Circle.
He was admitted to Thomas Jefferson University Hospital with serious head injuries from which he did not recover, and his ventilator was removed around 5:50 p.m. yesterday. ‘It was not a robbery attempt and was not provoked,’ Sgt. Bob Ruhlmeier said of the attack. “We’re investigating whether it was just done for fun.” Police have not made any arrests and the investigation is continuing.”
“Pedestrians in [the region of UPenn] are being extra vigilant of late due to a string of assaults and robberies by roving groups of juvenile boys. Some students said they feel vulnerable walking in the area where people on foot have been attacked… No specific group is believed responsible for the crimes, which have been committed by random groups of two to eight boys roughly between the ages of 9 to 13, said Karima Zedan, a spokeswoman for Penn’s division of public safety.
Pat Kozak, an administrative coordinator in the political science office, said a graduate student she knows was attacked by one of the groups earlier in the summer. ‘It was Mother’s Day, and she was talking on her cell phone to her mother. These kids came up and punched her in the face, fracturing her jaw. I think they took her phone,’ Kozak said.
Since July 3, two robberies, one theft, two assaults, and one indecent assault have been reported in the area between 30th and 43d Streets and Market Street and Baltimore Avenue. No weapons were used. On July 7, two boys, ages 13 and 16, were arrested in connection with a robbery at 42d and Locust Streets.
The bands of adolescents have struck mostly between 4:30 p.m. and 12:30 a.m. in the 3700 block of Locust Walk and the 4000 and 4200 blocks of Locust Street, according to a campus security alert. University officials said the victims were students, residents, faculty and staff members…”
Last year, I attended my prosecutor mentor’s wife’s memorial service in St. Paul, Minnesota. On a weather changing spring day following the long, northern winter, we honored her. A Vietnam veteran and 30 year prosecutor, he quotes the following from Psalm 118 to me during her final hours:
“This is the day the Lord has made; We will rejoice and be glad in it.”
I sat next to his brother-in-law, a theologian. during the memorial. We talked about faith, how he used to teach a class on Christianity and Buddhism. I told him how I appreciated the connections between my faith and Taoism. He told me of a difficult family event and how he was still coping with the aftermath. I asked whether he still believed in God and he replied, yes with doubts – “Are You there?” and the problem of evil. He tattled on my mentor not saying grace before meals. Hell, I haven’t done this for ages myself.
I just gave him a hug after all that and it was good for all.
Minnesota is the reason why I don’t bat an eye at school shootings. My first 5 cases I worked on as a 25 year old – attempted murder (shot in head), followed by 4 first-degree homicides (stabbing, bludgeon/strangulation, shooting of a teenager, gang killing).
At the airport waiting for the outbound flight, I wrote the following:
Off to the Twin Cities to light candles for the same girl I lit them for 20 years ago. Because words, prayers, and candles matter. You never know which one sets off the firestorm
Shortly after the trip, I sent her a letter more than 20 years overdue. It was possibly the most beautiful and truthful thing I have written. A letter I started earlier in the journey.
No regrets this time.
One life.
You’ve got to do what you should.
But I also lit more than one candle at the cathedral.
My college roommate surprised me with a pure gift. I was speechless. It was a document I had not seen for almost 27 years – a collection of my poetry that I collected for a college class.
I will post the introduction here with the first poem with the rest to follow. Please keep in mind I was very young when I wrote these – some even as a teenager. But the people I wrote about were real and I thought had something to impart. Also a bit of a preview of the future. As I reflect on what much of the journey was about, a good portion was about telling stories – mine and others.
I thought that made a lot of it worth it. The highs, the lows, and all the in-betweens. The stories matter because the story matters.
May yours be an interesting and enduring one.
Life.
A journey in which we are nothing more than nomads wandering from place to place in search of temporary rest. No final destination, no ultimate sanctuary that we must reach. The meaning is in the paths we walk down and the fellow travelers we encounter along the way.
Some walk beside us, some pass us by from the direction we are traveling, and some we pass by the roadside. And so the shifting winds of chance and time dictate our stories, unwritten sentences in an almost inaccessible book whose future pages remain hidden and whose past chapters are echoes from a non-existing source.
From the soup kitchens, nursing homes, colleges, and churches of human communities, an almost infinite number of stories remain untold. Stories that have drawn lines on faces, tales that have stolen the passion of living from eyes, and memories that have dulled the frequency and amplitude of the heartbeat. But life goes on and the journey continues. Some say we study history to prevent the past from repeating itself. Some say there is nothing new under the sun, that what is and what is to come has already been. I agree with both.
Knowledge from others gives us tools to face our own problems that we will surely encounter in our lives. These problems many times have universal and common themes that express themselves in many variations.
I want to tell these stories so that others may see and understand life from a different perspective. They are humbling because they remind us of our frailty and our mortality.
However, they may also contain hope and a sense of relation for those of us who have experienced moments of sorrow and grief. Christ once said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” This statement seems vague and contrary to truth, but to me it says that he understood that life is filled with bitterness and pain. That life is far from perfect, many times unfair and cruel. But through the angst-filled yearnings for resolution and seemingly unanswered prayers, the light is there, comfort exists. Not all these stories contain obvious light, but some do. It is up to the reader to decide whether to search for that light in the story.
I have chosen to narrate the lives of the people that I have encountered so far in my own brief journey. I have learned that men, women, and babies cry. I have also learned that we all bleed red. Grief transcends natural and artificial barriers with its disinterested nature. Strangely enough, it is at our moments of sorrow that we truly know who we are. It is at the lowest points of life that true growth in an emotional and spiritual sense can begin. I desire to portray people in their most naked state, for who we really are. The masks we wear so well burn away in the fires of emotional hells.
Another aspect that I see in grief is personal sadness at the sight of others in a state of sorrow. True humanity seeks to bear others burdens and to alleviate pain. While it is not possible to grasp the actual magnitude of another’s pain, trying to understand it to the fullest teaches compassion and patience. These poems in this project are meant to be markers along the proverbial road of life. It is my hope that the passers-by will recognize and learn from them.
Richerd
I talk to the old man sitting in front of me His bed undone, room unkempt, he complains… A photograph now faded by time hangs silently He will not look at it, it is too painful, too real For the memory of youth only brings regret From a wasted life, now slowly passing away He speaks loudly, can’t hear himself, the nurse says But I know better, his deafness is nothing Compared to the silence of words unspoken, love untold A single flower sits on the table by his bed I don’t think he knows it is there, wilting away He talks about the weather, winter is coming again Not as cold, though, as constant loneliness I tell him it’s time for me to go, he’s tired He falls asleep and I know he’s dreaming Of grandchildren on his knee, watching the setting sun.
Songs of Pain and Hope 