I used to tell people that my Maine Coon cat taught me more about God’s love than most pastors. They would laugh, but hear me out. Nidas (short for Leonidas) was selfish, greedy, vicious, mean, destructive. He peed everywhere. He is the worst financial decision I’ve ever made. To this day, I still have his scratch marks on my arms. He attacked my mom after he realized she didn’t have her protection stick. He also scratched my newborn baby daughter.
But I loved him.
He was like a son to me before my human one arrived. Living out Road to Perdition, we took road trips together up and down the East Coast. He slept at my feet for a good portion of his life.
When he was dying, I bawled at the vet’s office. It was the first time I had cried in eight years.
I loved him so much.
And the part about God? I’ve thought many times that I’m like Nidas to Him. With so many sins and flaws. Yet loved.
When Muhammad Ali died, a reporter asked his daughter, Laila, about him. She said that he was far from a perfect man, but was always the first to acknowledge his shortcomings and that was the reason she respected him.
I had an enlarged photo of Ali in my office next to my baby bamboo plant, the one where as an underdog, he has just knocked Sonny Liston out and yells at him to get up. I never really bought into his cockiness or bravado, but instead I remember him saying as an older man, “Only God is great.” From the man considered the greatest.
I taught my daughter that statement and she replied “Dad, you don’t even believe that.” I said “Not all the time. But I do implicitly.” And that faith leaves room for doubt, quite a bit of it. I told her that anyone who says they believe in God completely and all the time is lying.
A significant portion of my job responsibilities was to serve as an advisor. I joke that I served kings and fools. The former in a figurative sense and the latter in a definitely literal sense.
Most definitely.
On several occasions, the definitions overlapped. The last Deputy Commissioner I served under was a small man in every sense of the word. Insecure, he would surround himself with mainly women in his inner circle, and the occasional yes-man. He excluded pretty much all of the uniformed commanders in the command. When I explained some pretty egregious errors involving public safety, threats to officers, and even national security, he would laugh and pooh-pooh what I said. Which makes no sense because what I defended weren’t originally my positions or thoughts, but rather the views of the prior Deputy Commissioners of Legal and Counterterrorism / Intelligence, and the Chief of Detectives. Kings.
Basically, this “king” was just a top-level secretary. He would make sexual jokes during staff meetings, say the N-word (quoting a source but utterly unnecessary and just a show of power), focus on making pins and T-shirts, boast about his Tesla, and give out “commands” like mail out the documents.
I was so ashamed to be in the presence of this man. My Chief asked me once about a staff meeting where he was conspicuously absent and what was discussed. I replied everything and nothing. Chief chuckled and says quite apt.
I’ve always been a mediocre to terrible singer. I can’t believe I dared to sing a song I wrote to my prom date. The one and only time I led worship singing, I immediately received an email that I was no longer allowed to sing ever again. My college roommates would sometimes laugh at my lack of ability to hold a tune.
I loved the Eagles, one of the first bands I was introduced to in the US. Their first song I learned to play wasn’t the quintessential Hotel California, but Take it Easy, One day, I was watching an acapella version of that song by the Princeton Nassoons on YouTube. And in the corner of the screen, I see you in a suggested video for the Tigressions.
I watch a few of these videos and I’m struck by how passionate you are singing. You are totally lost in it. And I remember this one time we were at someone’s house and you were singing when you thought no one was looking. Your voice so beautiful, just like you.
Find a queen without a king, they say she plays guitar and cries and sings.
A good friend said this – Women (and men) know what’s good for them but tell themselves false narratives to make themselves feel better or whatever. We were discussing this principle in the context of romantic relationships but I think this is applicable to a host of other areas – work, pursuits, distractions, pain killers. In short, we lie. Why is that? I don’t exactly know but my guess it has something to do with fear. Of the unknown. What we truly want. Who we are.
I told my daughter that the boy who likes her the most will be the meanest to her. Intuitively it just felt and sounded right. It’s probably more of a rule of thumb than true all the time (and definitely not in the case of bullying or abuse). But I looked it up and a psychologist said that one explanation is that people often fear rejection or think they aren’t worthy so at least on a subconscious level they strike preemptively. That was the given explanation for why little boys throw stones at the little girls they like. Well my little girl won’t throw stones back. She’ll put him in a chokehold – no kidding here, she actually knows how to do this – Brazilian jujitsu and all that. She also has her dad’s streak (which I used for good – mostly). This also explains possibly why in many rom-coms, characters who initially don’t get along end up together. Basically every season of Bridgerton.
Sun Tzu writes that the path to victory is to know your enemy and yourself. The former is definitely important but the latter maybe more so. That takes vulnerability, humility, and courage. All rare qualities. A constant battle and struggle.
Maybe that’s also the true meaning of love your neighbor as yourself. It’s not about pampering yourself or even accepting who you are but rather knowing who you are, what you want or need, and maybe the sum of it all – who you were created and destined to be.
My DA Chief and I discussed why Satan and his buddies decided to rebel against an all loving God. And maybe that’s the answer – we tend to reject what is actually good for us. Probably something to do with wide and narrow paths and roads less traveled.
My first Deputy Commissioner, a badass in every form of the word and the man who hired me (DOJ Organized Crime, AUSA SDNY, took down the mob) lost a brother to crime. In his early 20s, while on witness protection duty, he was assassinated in his vehicle by two gunmen accompanied by two lookouts. President Reagan made this event a key component of his policies.
I had the privilege of attending his memorial mass in NYC, Held at the magnificent St. Patrick’s Cathedral in downtown Manhattan, it was a sight to behold. Sniper units on rooftops, our Vapor Wake dogs (selectively breeded, highly trained, have their own baseball cards), the bagpipes, helicopters.
And when the Deputy Commissioner got up to speak, everyone was silent and in awe of how he described his brother’s life and passing. And all the good that followed. People are surprised when I tell them that NYC was once one of the safest cities in the US. It went from over 2000 homicides to roughly 500 in two years. Now it’s run by those who can be described generously as self-serving, incompetent, political types. Nevertheless, heroes do exist.
I’m not really sure how to characterize this period of my life. Tough? Formative? Sad? Hopeful? Other? It doesn’t matter, this will always be a big part of me.
Leaving the birth country for a new one was difficult. I remember crying a lot. I missed my friends and family. America was big. America was scary.
Adjusting was not easy. While I learned and spoke English in Malaysia (a Commonwealth country), I had the tell-tale Malaysian accent. The one I can immediately identify today. I had trouble pronouncing certain words. A not-so-awesome friend would constantly remind me of the time in 7th grade where I bungled fhe words “Calculator” and “Connecticut” in English class. To this day, anytime I see those words, I silently say them to myself as a reminder that I can pronounce them properly. Like now.
My parents bought a house in a decent neighborhood and school district. But I wear clothes bought off the DC streets. We go to the grocery store for entertainment, they don’t have these in Malaysia. I have no idea what I’m doing at school. Bullies, lots of them. They play cruel tricks on me. I almost get detention because I don’t know how to read the complicated lunch schedule. I get suspended for fighting (yes I started it, found a bigger guy to make a point, fought him in front of half the school, lost but was less picked on after). I am so unathletic, I get sent with a few guys to the mainly girls section of PE.
I drop most of the accent after a year. American TV and radio will do that. Getting made fun of will also do that. I learn to play the major US sports in a year. I learn that my arm is above average. I can outthrow many of my peers. I learn that my reflexes from playing badminton are useful for baseball and hockey – I discover I can field balls and save shots like a champ. I even realize I have enough football skills to play at the level of a sandlot backup quarterback. And yes, that jumpshot.
To remind me of who I am, I put posters of Malaysia up on my bedroom walls. These eventually come down for Clyde Drexler, Tom Gugliotta, Kevin Hatcher, and Jimi Hendrix.
We almost get deported. Our file was evidently dropped behind some file cabinet at the INS. Economic pressure affects the family. They find the file. We stay. My dad keeps his job.
I somehow make it into a magnet high school program. Average in math, a decent writer, a hell of a problem solver, I beat out Ivy League bound kids on the critical thinking portion of the test.
But I never forget where I’m from. Not entirely by choice. I get reminded of that from time to time.
I don’t really know how to close this one. Because it has never really closed. I cling to this saying. It applies to everything a person has done in life.
I’ve always been a good defender in any sport I played. My daughter plays a lot like me. Her nickname is Iron Leg. Tough, unrelenting, high pressure, unafraid of contact.
Defense is about will. Harnessing it. Imposing it.
Defense is about pain. Harnessing it. Inflicting it.
One time, the senior pastor’s son tries to intimidate me in a pickup game. He is a varsity player, bigger, stronger, older.
He never scores. He had a stable home, a prince at church, a jock at school.
But I had pain, lots of it. And I throw it at him. At the end of the game, he remarks to his friend that I’m not afraid to guard them. Damn straight.
Right before law school, I went on a missions trip to Philadelphia (you were there – we were in the second most dangerous part of the city, the Badlands; you were the first person I looked for when I arrived. You were sitting quietly alone as I would often find you). On that trip, I tore something in my shoulder playing football. It has never fully healed. But now I can predict the weather from how much it aches in the morning. A metaphor for life.
My injury was bad. But because I was about to head off to school and my insurance coverage was spotty, I never got it checked out. I still played basketball with it for a year and anytime I would raise my arm above my head, it would be excruciatingly painful, sometimes bringing tears to my eyes.
Today, it’s a reminder of youth. In some ways, strangely comforting. I rub my shoulder and arm in the mornings to alleviate the pain, but I don’t mind it. It reminds me that I can still feel.
In high school, I learned about the blues in English class and one description was picking at an old scab, it hurts, but feels good at the same time. Mostly, that’s how I feel about that wound.
But there are also mornings where the pain cannot be rubbed away. And that’s how I know rain is coming.
Songs of Pain and Hope 