Life is not measured by seconds or minutes, but by memories. An old, white lady in a white uniform trying to teach me how to tie my shoes, a red wagon, lying in that space above the back seat of the Hudson coming back from Grandma's watching the tree limbs go by above as we drove home, snow--lots of it--sliding down the big hill on our sleds, saying hello to Darrell, the bully, in 3rd grade as other classmates literally ran away from him because they were afraid of him, my friend, Bruce, who would not trade me Mickey Mantle for my Allie Reynolds, Ms. Perrin, my 4th-grade teacher, one of the best I ever had, who died of cancer two years later, Virginia Bright, my first girlfriend, who took me to her church Sunday nights to learn how to square dance, my dog, Cinder, my best friend growing up, my red bike that took me everywhere, embarrassed at the Y because my right ******* was not fully descended, Maggie, my Black mother, who fed me breakfast--two poached eggs, buttered wholewheat toast, and grits--every morning, washed my ***** clothes, spanked me when I needed a spanking, hugged me when I needed a hug, loved me when my mother couldn't because she was so depressed, always making straight-A's, my dad taking me to Kansas City to take a test (he never told me it was an IQ test), asking Patty to dance the first two dances--we danced alone at the center of the basketball court as the music began to play at the SnowBall Dance when none of her other classmates would ever get near her--being elected co-captain of the football team and the city-championship basketball team, elected president of the Student Council at Roosevelt Junior High, elected president of the Sophomore Class at Topeka High by my over-800 classmates, pushed by my dad to Andover (arguably the best prep school in the world) my junior year, chose Columbia over Yale (the Core Curriculum and New York City), was a member of Blue Key, Nacoms, and, most meaningfully, elected by my over-700 classmates one of only 15 to lead the Commencement procession, couldn't sleep in law school, dropped out, couldn't sleep for four more months, spent a year-and-a-half at Menningers (saved my life), started writing poetry when, through therapy, I realized I had my own feelings that coalesced with my intellect in my unconscious, slowly emerging through my subconscious into my conscious mind, when I had to write what was coming out of me, otherwise I would lose it forever, seven months at Topeka State Hospital after dad disowned me, founded and edited TALL WINDOWS, The National Public Magazine, moved to Phoenix in 1977, had an involuntary Kundalini arising (took me six years to revover from it, and did, but only because of the exceptional use of unguided imagery practiced by the most loving person I ever got to know, Dr. Patricia Norris) when my girlfriend, who had wanted to marry me badly, lied to me and ****** her new next-door neighbor to make me jealous (I found this out because I saw her bruised ***** that I knew I had not bruised), still unconsciously traumatized during my childhood by mom and dad's miserably unhappy marriage, selected one of 25 alumni out of over 40,000 to serve three two-year terms on the Board of Directors of the Columbia College Alumni Association (1990-1996), traveled the country as a human-rights activist meeting, talking to, eating with, getting to know the hungry, the homeless, the hopeless that populate our yet unrealized democracy, Jorge Luis Borges writing that the most important task we all have in our lifetimes is to learn how to transmute our pain into compassion. That's what I hope my life has been about.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS