2d
AD ASTRA
by
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Chapter 1
I am Tod Howard Hawks. I was born on May 14, 1944 in Dallas, Texas. My father, Doral, was stationed there. My mother, Antoinette, was with him. When WWII ended, the family, which included my sister, Rae, returned home to Topeka, Kansas.
My father grew up in Oakland, known as the part of Topeka where poor white people lived. His father was a trolley-car conductor and a barber. Uneducated, he would allow only school books into his house. My father, the oldest of six children, had two paper routes--the morning one and the evening one. My father was extremely bright and determined. On his evening route, a wise, kind man had his own library and befriended my father. He loaned my father books that my father stuffed into his bag along with the newspapers. My father and his three brothers shared a single bed together, not vertically, but horizontally; and when everyone was asleep, my father would grab the book the wise and kind man had loaned him, grab a candle and matches, crawled under the bed, lit the candle, and began reading.
Now the bad and sad news: one evening my father's father discovered his son had been smuggling these non-school books into his home. The two got into a fist-fight on the porch. Can you imagine fist-fighting your father?
A few years later, my father's father abandoned his family and moved to Atchinson. My father was the oldest of the children; thus, he became the de facto father of the family. My father's mother wept for a day, then the next day she stopped crying and got to the Santa Fe Hospital and applied for a job. The job she got was to fill a bucket with warm, soapy water, grab a big, thick brush, get on her knees and began to brush all the floors clean. She did this for 35 years, never complained, and never cried again. To note, she had married at 15 and owned only one book, the Bible. My father's mother remains one of my few heroes to this day.
Chapter 2
My parents had separate bedrooms. At the age of 5, I did not realize a married couple usually used one bedroom. It would be 18 years later when I would find out why my mother and my father slept in separate bedrooms.
When I was 5 and wanted to see my father, I would go to his room where he would lie on his bed and read books. My father called me "Captain." As he lay on his bed, he barked out "Hut, two, three, four! Hut, two three, four!" and I would march to his cadence through his room into the upstairs bathroom, through all the other rooms, down the long hallway, until I reentered his bedroom. No conversation, just marching.
As I grew a bit older, I asked my father one Sunday afternoon to go to Gage Park where there were several baseball diamonds. I was hoping he would pitch the ball to me and I would try to hit it. Only once during my childhood did we do this.
I attended Gage Elementary School. Darrell Chandler and I were in the same third-year class. Nobody liked Darrell because he was a bully and had a Mohawk haircut. During all recesses, our class emptied onto the playground. Members of our class regularly formed a group, except Darrell, and when Darrell ran toward the group, all members yelled and ran in different directions to avoid Darrell--everyone except me. I just turned to face Darrell and began walking slowly toward him. I don't know why I did what I did, but, in retrospect, I think I had been born that way. Finally, we were two feet away from each other. After a long pause, I said "Hi, Darrell. How ya doing?" After another long pause, Darrell said "I'm doing OK." "Good," I said. That confrontation began a friendship that lasted until I headed East my junior year in high school to attend Andover.
In fourth grade, I had three important things happen to me. The first important thing was I had one of the best teachers, Ms.Perrin, in my formal education through college. And in her class, I found my second important thing: my first girlfriend, Virginia Bright (what a wonderful last name!). Every school day, we had a reading section. During this section, it became common for the student who had just finished reading to select her/his successor. Virginia and I befriended each other by beginning to choose each other. Moreover, I had a dream in which Virginia and I were sitting together on the steps of the State Capitol. When I woke up, I said to myself: "Virginia is my girlfriend." What is more, Virginia invited me to go together every Sunday evening to her church to learn how to square dance. My father provided the transportation. This was a lot of fun. The third most important thing was on May Day, my mother cut branches from our lilac bushes and made a bouquet for me to give Virginia. My mother drove me to Virginia's home and I jumped out of our car and ran up to her door, lay down the bouquet, rang the buzzer, then ran back to the car and took off. I was looking forward to seeing Virginia in the fall, but I found out in September that Virginia and her family had left in the summer to move to another town.
Bruce Patrick, my best friend in 4th grade, was smart. During the math section, the class was learning the multiplication tables. Ms. Perrin stood tn front of the students holding 3 x 5 inch cards with, for example, 6 x 7 shown to the class with the answer on the other side of the card. If any student knew the correct answer (42), she/he raised her/his arm straight into the air. Bruce and I raised our arms at the same time. But during the reading section, when Ms. Perrin handed out the same new book to every student and said "Begin reading," Bruce, who sat immediately to my right, and everyone else began reading the same time on page #1. As I was reading page #1, peripherally I could see he was already turning to page #2, while I was just halfway down page #1. Bruce was reading twice as fast as I was! It was 17 years later that I finally found out how and why this incongruity happened.
Another Bruce, Bruce McCollum, and I started a new game in 5th grade. When Spring's sky became dark, it was time for the game to begin. The campus of the world-renown Menninger Foundation was only a block from Bruce's and my home. Bruce and I met at our special meeting point and the game was on! Simply, our goal was for the two of us to begin our journey at the west end of the Foundation and make our way to the east end without being seen. There were, indeed, some people out for a stroll, so we had to be careful not to be seen. Often, Bruce and I would hide in the bushes to avoid detection. Occasionally, a guard would pass by, but most often we would not be seen. This game was exciting for Bruce and me, but more importantly, it would also be a harbinger for me.
Chapter 3
Mostly, I made straight-A's through grade school and junior high. I slowly began to realize it took me twice the time to finish my reading. First, though, I want to tell you about the first time I ever got scared.
Sometime in the Fifth Grade, I was upstairs at home and decided to come downstairs to watch TV in the living room. I heard voices coming from the adjacent bar, the voices of my father and my mother's father. They could not see me, nor I them; but they were talking about me, about sending me away to Andover in ninth grade. I had never heard of a prep school, let alone the most prominent one in America. The longer I listened, the more afraid I got. I had listened too long. I turned around and ran upstairs.
My father never mentioned Andover again until I was in eighth grade. He told me next week he had to take me to Kansas City to take a test. He never told me what the test was for. Next week I spent about two hours with this man who posed a lot of questions to me and I answered them as well as I could. Several weeks after having taken those tests, my father pulled me aside and showed me only the last sentence of the letter he had received. The last sentence read: "Who's pushing this boy?" My father should have known the answer. I certainly thought I knew, but said nothing.
During mid-winter, my father drove with me to see one of his Dallas naval buddies. After a lovely dinner at my father's friend's home, we gathered in a large, comfortable room to chat, and out of nowhere, my father said, "Tod will be attending Andover next Fall." What?, I thought. I had not heard the word "Andover" since that clandestine conversation between my father and my grandfather when I was in Fifth Grade. I remember filling out no application to Andover. What the hell was going on?, I thought.
(It is at this juncture that I feel it is necessary to share with you pivotal information that changed my life forever. I did not find it out until I was 27.
(Every grade school year, my two sisters and I had an annual eye exam. During my exam, the doctor always said, "Tod, tell me when the ball [seen with my left eye] and the vertical line [seen with my right eye] meet." I'd told the doctor every year they did not meet and every year the doctor did not react. He said nothing. He just moved onto the next part of the exam. His non-response was tantamount to malpractice.
(When I was 27, I had coffee with my friend, Michelle, who had recently become a psychologist at Menninger's. She had just attended a workshop in Tulsa, OK with a nationally renown eye doctor who specialized in the eye dysfunction called "monocular vision." For 20 minutes or so, she spoke enthusiastically about what the doctor had shared with the antendees about monocular vision until I could not wait any longer: "Michelle, you are talking about me!" I then explained all the symptoms of monocular vision I had had to deal without never knowing what was causing them: 4th grade and Bruce Patrick; taking an IQ test in Kansas City and my father never telling me what the test was or for; taking the PSAT twice and doing well on both except the reading sections on each; my father sending me to Andover summer school twice (1959 and 1960) and doing well both summers thus being accepted for admission for Upper-Middler and Senior years without having to take the PSAT.
(Hearing what I told Michelle, she did not hesitate in telling me immediately to call the doctor in Tulsa and making an appointment to go see him, which I did. The doctor gave me three hours of tests. After the last one, the doctor hesitated and then said to me: "Tod, I am surprised you can even read a book, let alone get through college." I sat there stunned.
(In retrospect, I feel my father was unconsciously trying to realize vicariously his dreams through me. In turn, I unconsciously and desperately wanted to garner his affection; therefore, I was unconsciously my father's "good little boy" for the first 22 years of my life. Had I never entered therapy at Menningers, I never would have realized my real self, my greatest achievement.)
Chapter 4
My father had me apply to Andover in 8th grade to attend in 9th grade, but nobody knew then I suffered from monocular vision; hence, my reading score eye was abysmal and I was not accepted. Without even asking me whether I would like to attend Andover summer school, my father had me apply regardless. My father had me take a three-day Greyhound bus ride from Topeka to Boston where I took a cab to Andover.
Andover (formally Phillips Academy, which is located in the town of Andover, Massachusetts) is the oldest prep school in America founded in 1778, two years after our nation was. George Washington's nephew sent his sons there. Paul Revere made the school's seal. George H. W. Bush and his son, George, a schoolmate of mine, (I voted for neither) went to Andover. The current admit rate is 13 out of every 100 applicants. Andover's campus is beautiful. It's endowment is 1.4 billion dollars. Andover now has a need-blind admission policy.
The first summer session I attended was academically rigorous and eight weeks long. I took four courses, two in English and two in math. One teacher was Alan Gillingham, who had his PhD from Oxford. He was not only brilliant, but also kind. My fondness for etymology I got from Dr. Gillingham. Also, he told me one day as we walked toward the Commons to eat lunch that I could do the work there. I will never forget what he told me.
I'm 80, but I still remember how elated I was after my last exam that summer. I flew down the steps of Samuel Phillips Hall and ran to the Andover Inn where my parents were staying. Finally, I thought, it's over. I'm going back to Topeka where my friends lived. Roosevelt Junior High School, here I come! We drove to Topeka, going through New York City, Gettysburg, Springfield, IL, Hannibal, MO, among other places. I was so happy to be home!
9th ninth grade at Roosevelt Jr. High was great! Our football team had a winning season. Ralph Sandmeyer, a good friend of mine, and I were elected co-captains. Our basketball team won the city junior high championship. John Grantham, the star of the team, and I were elected co-captains. And I had been elected by the whole school to be President of the Student Council.
But most importantly, I remember the Snow Ball, once held every year in winter for all ninth-graders. The dance was held in the gym on the basketball court. The evening of the dance, the group of girls stood in one corner, the boys in another, and in the third corner stood Patty all alone, ostracized, as she had always been every school day of each year.
I was standing in the boys group when I heard the music began to play on the intercom, then looked at Patty. Without thinking, I bolted from the boys group and began walking slowly toward her. No one else had begun to dance. When I was a few feet in front of her, I said, "Patty, would you like to dance?" She paused a moment, then said, "Yes." I then took her hand and escorted her to the center of the court. No one else had begun to dance. Patty and I began dancing. When the music ended, I said to Patty, "Would you like to dance again?" Again, she said, "Yes." Still no one but the two of us were dancing. We danced and danced. When the music was over, I took Patty's hand and escorted her back to where she had been standing alone. I said to her, "Thank you, Patty, for dancing with me." As I walked back across the court, I was saying silently to the rest of the class, "No one deserves to be treated this way, no one."
Without a discussion being had, my father had me again apply to Andover. I guess I was too scared to say anything. Once again, I took the PSAT Exam. Once again, I scored abysmally on the English section. Once again, I was rejected by Andover. And once again, my father had me return to Andover summer school.
Another 8 weeks of academics. Once again, I did well, but once again, I had to spend twice the time reading. Was it just I who realized again that if I could take twice the time reading, I would score well on the written test? Summer was over. My father came to take me home, but first he wanted to speak to the Dean of Admissions. My father introduced himself. Then I said, "I'm Tod Hawks," at which point the Dean of Admissions said enthusiastically: "You're already in!" The Dean meant I had already been accepted for the Upper-Year, probably because he had noticed how well I had done the past two summers. I just stood there in silence, though I did shake his hand. Not another application, not another PSAT. I was in.
Chapter 5
Terry Modlin, a friend of mine at Roosevelt, had called me one Sunday afternoon the previous Spring. "Tod," he said, "would you like to run for President of the Sophomore Class at Topeka High if I ran as your running mate?" I thought it over, then said to Terry, "Sure."
There were eight junior high schools in Topeka, and in the fall all graduates of all the junior highs attended Topeka High, making more than 800 new sophomores. All elections occurred in early fall. I had two formidable opponents. Both were highly regarded. I won, becoming president. Terry won and became vice-president. Looking back on my life, I consider this victory to be one of my most victories. Why do I say this? I do, because when you have 800 classmates deciding which one to vote for, word travels fast. If it gets out one of the candidates has a "blemish" on him, that insinuation is difficult to diminish, let alone erase, especially non-verbally. Whether dark or bright, it can make the deciding difference.
Joel Lawson and his girlfriend spoke to me one day early in the semester. They mentioned a friend of theirs, a 9th grader at Capper Junior High whose name was Sherry. The two thought I might be interested in meeting her, on a blind date, perhaps. I said, "Why not?"
The first date Sherry and I had was a "hay-rack" ride. She was absolutely beautiful. I was 15 at that time, she 14. When the "hay-rack" ride stopped, everybody got off the wagon and stood around a big camp fire. I sensed Sherry was getting cold, so I asked if she might like me to take off my leather jacket and put it over her shoulders. That was when I fell in love with her.
I dated Sherry almost my entire sophomore year. We went to see movies and go to some parties and dances, but generally my mother drove me most every Friday evening to Sherry's home and chatted with her mother for a while, then Sherry and I alone watched "The Twilight Zone." As it got later, we made out (hugs and kisses, nothing more). My mother picked me up no later than 11. Before going over to Sherry's Friday night, I sang in the shower Paul Anka's PUT YOUR HEAD ON MY SHOULDER.
I got A's in most of my classes, and lettered on Topeka High's varsity swim team.
Then in late spring word got out that Tod would be attending some prep school back East next year. I walked into Pizza Hut and saw my friend, John.
"Hey, Tod. I saw Sherry at the drive-in movie, but she wasn't with you." My heart was broken. I drove over to her home the next day and confronted her. She just turned her back to me and wouldn't say a thing. I spent the following month driving from home to town down and back listening to Brenda Lee on the car radio singing I'M SORRY, pretending it was Sherry singing it to me.
I learned something new about beauty. For a woman to be authentically beautiful, both her exterior and interior must be beautiful. Sherry had one, but not the other. It was a most painful lesson for me to learn.
Topeka High started their fall semester early in September. I remember standing alone on the golf course as a dark cloud filled my mind when I looked in the direction of where Topeka High was. I was deeply sad. I had lost my girlfriend. I was losing many of my friends. Most everyone to whom I spoke didn't know a **** thing about Andover. My mind knew about Andover. That's why it was growing dark.
Chapter 6
I worked my *** off for two more years. Frankly, I did not like Andover. There were no girls. I used to lie on my bed and slowly look through the New York Times Magazine gazing at the pretty models in the ads. I hadn't even begun to *******. When I wasn't sleeping, when I wasn't in a class, when I wasn't eating at the Commons, I was in the Oliver Wendell Holmes Library reading twice as long as my classmates. And I lived like this for two years. In a word, I was deeply depressed. When I did graduate, I made a silent and solemn promise that I would never set foot again on Andover's campus during my life.
During my six years of receiving the best formal education in the world, I got three (3) letters from my father with the word "love" typed three times. He signed "Dad" three times.
Attending Columbia was one of the best things I have ever experienced in my life. The Core Curriculum and New York City (a world within a city). I majored in American history. The competition was rigorous. I met the best friends of my life. I'm 80 now, but Herb Hochman and Bill Roach remain my best friends.
Wonderful things happened to me. At the end of my freshman year, I was one of 15 out of 700 chosen to be a member of the Blue Key Society. That same Spring, I appeared in Esquire Magazine to model clothes. I read, slowly, a ton of books. At the end of my Junior year, I was chosen to be Head of Freshman Orientation in the coming Fall. I was "tapped" by both Nacoms and Sachems, both Senior societies, and chose the first, again one of 15 out of 700. My greatest honor was being elected by my classmates to be one of 15 Class Marshals to lead the graduation procession. I got what I believe was the best liberal arts education in the world.
My father had more dreams for me. He wanted me to attend law school, then get a MBA degree, then work on Wall Street, and then become exceedingly rich. I attended law school, but about mid-way into the first semester, I began having trouble sleeping, which only got worse until I couldn't sleep at all. At 5:30 Saturday morning (Topeka time), two days before finals were to begin, I called my mother and father and, for the first time, told them about my sleeping problems. We talked for several minutes during which I told them I was going to go to the Holiday Inn to try to get some sleep, then hung up. I did go to the motel, but couldn't sleep. At 11a.m., there was someone knocking on my door. I got out of bed and opened the door. There stood my father. He had flown to Chicago via Kansas City. He came into my room and the first thing he said was "Take your finals!" I knew if I took my finals, I would flunk all of them. When you can't sleep for several days, you probably can't function very well. When you increasingly have trouble getting to sleep, then simply you can't sleep at all, you are sick. My father kept saying, "Take your finals! "Take your finals!" He took me to a chicropractor. I didn't have any idea why I couldn't sleep at all, but a chicropractor?, I thought. My father left early that evening. By then, I knew what I was going to do. Monday morning, I was going to walk with my classmates across campus, but not to the building where exams were given, but to the building where the Dean had his office. I entered that building, walked up one flight of stairs, and walked into the Dean's office. The Dean was surprised to see me, but was cordial nonetheless. I introduced myself. The Dean said, "Please, have a seat." I did. Then I explained why I came to see him. "Dean, I have decided to attend Officers Candidate School, either the Navy or Air Force. (The Vietnam War was heating up.) The Dean, not surprisingly, was surprised. He said it would be a good idea for me to take my finals, so when my military duties were over, it would be easy for me to be accepted again. I said he was probably right, but I was resolute about getting my military service over first.
He wished me well and thanked him for his time, then left his office. As I returned to my dorm, I was elated. I did think the pressure would be off me now and I would begin to sleep again.
Wednesday, I took the train to Topeka. That evening, my father was at the station to pick me up. He didn't say "Hello." He didn't say "How are you?"
He didn't say a word to me. He didn't say a single word to me all the way home.
Within two weeks, having gotten some sleep every night, I took first the Air Force test, which was six hours long, then a few days later, I took the Navy test, which was only an hour longer, but the more difficult of the two. I passed both. The Air Force recruiter told me my score was the highest ever at his recruiting station. The recruiter told me the Air Force wanted me to get a master's degree to become an aeronautical engineer. He told me I would start school in September. The Navy said I didn't have to report to Candidate School until September as well. It was now January, 1967. That meant I had eight months before I had to report to either service, but I soon decided on the Navy. Wow!, I thought. I have eight whole months for my sleeping problem to dissipate completely. Wow! That's what I thought, but I was wrong.
Chapter 7
After another week or so, my sleeping problems reappeared. As they reappeared, they grew worse. My father grew increasingly distant from me. One evening in mid-March, I decided to try to talk to my father. After dinner, my father always went into the living room to read the evening paper. I went into the living room, saw my father reading the evening paper in a stuffed chair, positioned myself directly in front of him, then dropped to my knees.
He held the paper wide-open so he could not see me, nor I he. Then I said to my father, "Dad, I'm sick." His wide-open paper didn't even quiver. He said, "If you're sick, go to the State Hospital." This man, my father, the same person who willingly spent a small fortune so I would receive the best education in the world, wouldn't even look at me. The world-famous Menninger Clinic, ironically, was a single block from our home, but he didn't even speak to me about getting help at Menninger's, the best psychiatric hospital in the world. This man, my father, I no longer knew.
About two weeks later in the early afternoon, I sat in another stuffed chair in the living room sobbing. My mother always took an afternoon nap in the afternoon, but on this afternoon as I continued to cry profusely, my mother stepped into the living room and saw me in the stuffed chair bawling non-stop, then immediately disappeared. About 15 minutes later, Dr. Cotter Hirschberg, the Associate Director of Southard School, Menninger's hospital for children, was standing in front of me. I knew Dr. Hirschberg. He was the father of one of my best friends, his daughter, Lea. I had been in his home many times. I couldn't believe it. There was Dr. Cotter Hirschberg, one of the wisest and kindest human beings I had ever met, standing directly in front of me. My mother, I later found out, had left the living room to go into the kitchen to use another phone to call the doctor in the middle of a workday afternoon to tell him about me. Bless his heart. Within minutes of speaking to my mother, he was standing in front of me in mid-afternoon during a work day. He spoke to me gently. I told him my dilemma. Dr. Hirschberg said he would speak to Dr. Otto Kernberg, another renown psychiatrist, and make an appointment for me to see him the next day. My mother saved my life that afternoon.
The next morning, I was in Dr. Kernberg's office. He was taking notes of what I was sharing with him. I was talking so rapidly that at a certain point. Dr. Kernberg's pen stopped in mid-air, then slowly descended like a helicopter onto the legal pad he was writing on. He said that tomorrow he would have to talk not only with me, but also with my mother and father.
The next morning, my mother and father joined me in Dr. Kernberg's office.
The doctor was terse. "If Tod doesn't get help soon, he will have a complete nervous breakdown. I think he needs to be in the hospital to be evaluated."
"How long will he need to be in the hospital," asked my father. "About two weeks," said Dr. Kernberg. The doctor was a wee bit off. I was in the hospital for a year.
Chapter 8
That same day, my mother and father and I met Dr. Horne, my house doctor. I liked him instantly. I know my father hated me being in a mental hospital instead of law school. It may sound odd, but I felt good for the first time in a year. Dr. Horne said I would be on any medication. He wanted to see me "in the raw." The doctor had an aid escort me to my room. This was the first day of a long, long journey to my finding my real self, which, I believe, very few ever do.
Perhaps strangely, but I felt at home being an in-patient at Menninger's. My first realization was that my fellow patients, for the most part, seemed "real" unlike most of the people you meet day-to-day. No misunderstanding here: I was extremely sick, but I could feel that Menninger's was my friend while my father wasn't. He didn't give a **** about me unless I was unconsciously living out his dreams.
So what was it like being a mental patient at Menninger's? Well, first, he (or she) was **** lucky to be a patient at the world's best (and one of the most expensive) mental hospital. Unlike the outside world, there was no ******* in Menninger's. You didn't always like how another person was acting, but whatever he or she was doing was real, not *******.
All days except Sunday, you met with your house doctor for around twenty minutes. I learned an awful lot from Dr. Horne. A couple of months after you enter, you were assigned a therapist. Mine was Dr. Rosenstein, who was very good. My social worker was Mabel Remmers, a wonderful woman. My mother, my father, and I all had meetings with Mabel, sometimes singly, sometimes with both my mother and father, sometimes only with me. It was Mabel who told me about my parents, that when I was 4 1/2 years old, my father came home in the middle of the workday, which rarely ever did, walked up the stairs to their bedroom and opened the door. What he saw changed not only his life, but also that of everyone else. On their bed lay my naked mother in the arms of a naked man who my father had never seen until that moment that ruined the lives of everybody in the family. My mother wanted a divorce, but my father threatened her with his determined intent of making it legally impossible ever for her to see her children again. So that's why they had separate bedrooms, I thought. So that is why my mother was always depressed, and that's why my father treated me in an unloving way no loving father would ever do. It was Mabel who had found out these awful secrets of my mother and father and then told me. Jesus!
The theme that keeps running through my head is "NO *******."
Most people on Earth, I believe, unconsciously are afraid to become their real selves; thus, they have to appear OK to others through false appearances.
For example, many feel a need to have "power," not to empower others, but to oppresss them. Accruing great wealth is another way, I believe, is to present a false image, hoping that it will impress others to think they are OK when they are not. The third way to compensate is fame. "If I'm famous, people will think I'm hot ****. They'll think I'm OK. They'll be impressed and never know the real me."
I believe one's greatest achievement in life is to become your real self. An exceptionally great therapist will help you discover your real self. It's just too scary for the vast majority of people even to contemplate the effort, even if they're lucky enough to find a great therapist. And I believe that is why our world is so ******-up.
It took me almost eight months before I could get into bed and sleep almost all night. At year's end, I left the hospital and entered one of the family's home selected by Menninger's. I lived with this family for more than a year. It was enlightening, even healing, to live with a family in which love flowed. I drove a cab for about a month, then worked on a ranch also for about a month, then landed a job for a year at the State Library in the State Capitol building. The State Librarian offered to pay me to attend Emporia State University to get my masters in Library Science, but I declined his offer because I did not want to become a professional librarian. What I did do was I got a job at the Topeka Public Library in its Fine Arts division.
After working several months in the Fine Arts division, I had a relapse in the summer. Coincidentally, in August I got a phone call at the tiny home I was renting. It was my father calling from the White Mountains in northern Arizona. The call lasted about a minute. My father told me that he would no longer pay for any psychiatric help for me, then hung up. I had just enough money to pay for a month as an in-patient at Menninger's. Toward the end of that month, a nurse came into my room and told me to call the State Hospital to tell them I would be coming there the 1st of December. Well, ****! My father, though much belatedly, got his way. A ******* one minute phone call.
Can you believe it?
Early in the morning of December 1st, My father and mother silently drove me from Menninger's about six blocks down 6th Street to the State Hospital. They pulled up beside the hill, at the bottom of which was the ward I would be staying in. Without a word being spoken, I opened the rear door of the car, got out, then slid down on the heavy snow to the bottom of the hill.
A nurse unlocked the door of the ward (yes, at the State Hospital, doors of each unit were locked). I followed the nurse into a room where several elderly women were sticking cloves into oranges to make decorations for the Christmas Tree. Then I followed her into the Day Room where a number of patients were watching a program on the TV. Then she led me down the corridor to my room that I was going to share with three other male patients. When the nurse left the room, I quickly lay face down spread-eagle of the mattress for the entire day. I was to do this every day for two weeks. When my doctor, whom I had not yet met, became aware of my depressed behavior, had the nurse lock the door of that room. Within several days the doctor said he would like to speak to me in his office that was just outside the ward. His name was Dr. Urduneta from Argentina. (Menninger's trained around sixty MDs from around the world each year to become certified psychiatrists. These MDs went either to the State Hospital or to the VA hospital.) The nurse unlocked the door for me to meet Dr. Urduneta in his office.
I liked Dr. Urduneta from the first time I met him. He already knew a lot about me. He knew I had been working at the Topeka Public Library, as well as a number of other things. After several minutes, he said, "Follow me." He unlocked the door of the ward, opened the door, and followed me into the ward.
"Tod," he said, "some patients spend the rest of their lives here. I don't want that for you. So this coming Monday morning (he knew I had a car), I want you to drive to the library to begin work from 9 until noon."
"Oh Doctor, I can't do that. Maybe in six or seven months I could try, but not now. Maybe I can volunteer at the library here at the State Hospital," I said.
"Tod, I think you can work now half-days at the public library," said Dr. Urduneta calmly.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing, what he was saying. I couldn't even talk. After a long pause, Dr. Urduneta said, "It was good to meet you, Tod. I look forward to our next talk."
Monday morning came too soon. A nice nurse was helping me get dressed while I was crying. Then I walked up the hill to the parking lot and got into my car. I drove to the public library and parked my car. As I walked to the west entrance, I was thinking I had not let Cas Weinbaum--my boss and one of the nicest women I had ever met--know that I had had a relapse. I had no contact with her or anyone else at the library for several months. Why had I not been fired?, I thought.
As I opened the west door, I saw Cas and she saw me. She came waddling toward me with her arms wide open. I couldn't believe it. And then Cas gave me a long, long hug without saying a word. Finally, she told me I needed to glue the torn pieces of 16 millimeter film together. I was anxious as hell. I lasted 10 minutes. I told Cas I was at the State Hospital, that I had tried to work at the public library, but just couldn't do it. She hugged me again and said nothing. I left the library and drove back to the State Hospital.
When I got to the Day Room, I sat next to a Black woman a
nd started talking to her. The more we talked, the more I liked her. Dr. Urduneta, I was to find out, usually came into the ward later
in the day. Every time he came onto the ward, he was swarmed by the patients. I learned quickly that every patient on our ward lov
ed Dr. Urduneta. I sat there for a couple of hours before Dr. Urduneta finally got to me. He was standing, I was sitting. I said, "Dr. Urdun
eta, I tried very hard to do my job, but I was so anxious I couldn't do it. I lasted ten minutes. I tried, but I just couldn't do it. I'm sorry.
"Dr. Urduneta said, "Tod, that's OK, because tomorrow you're going to try again."
Chapter 9
On Tuesday, I tried again.
I managed to work until 12 noon, but every second felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. I didn't think I could do it, but I did. I have to give Dr. Urduneta a lot of credit. His manner, at once calm and forceful, empowered me. I continued to work at the library at those hours until early April. At the
beginning of May, I began working regular hours, but remained an in-patient until June.
I had to stay at the hospital during the Christmas holidays. One of those evenings, I left my room and turned left to go to the Day Room. After taking only a few steps, I could see on the counter in front of the nurses's station a platter heaped with Christmas cookies and two gallons of red punch with paper cups to pour the punch in to. That evening remains the kindest, most moving one I've ever experienced. Some anonymous person, or persons, thought of us. What they shared with all of us was love. That evening made such an indelible impression on me that I, often with a friend or my sisters, bought Christmas cookies and red punch. And after I got legal permission for all of us to hand them out, we visited the ward I had lived on. I personally handed Christmas cookies and red punch to every patient who wanted one or both. But I never bothered any patient who did not want to be approached.
On July 1, I shook Dr. Urduneta's hand, thanked him for his great help, and went to the public library and worked a full day. A good friend of mine had suggested that I meet Dr. Chotlos, a professor of psychology at KU. My friend had been in therapy with him for several years and thought I might want to work with him. My friend was right. Dr. Chotlos met his clients at his home in Topeka. I began to see him immediately. I had also rented an apartment. Dr. Urduneta had been right. It had taken me only seven months to recover.
After a little over six months, I had become friends with my co-workers in the Fine Arts department. Moreover, I had come warm friends with Cas whom I had come to respect greatly. My four co-workers were a pleasure to work with as well.
There were around eighty others who worked at the library, one of whom prepared the staff news report each month. I had had one of my poems published in one of the monthly reports. Mr. Marvin, the Head Librarian, had taken positive note of my poem. So when that fellow left for another job, Mr. Marvin suggested to the Staff Association President that I might be a good replacement, which was exactly what happened. I had been only a couple of months out of the State Hospital, so when I was asked to accept this position, I was somewhat nervous, I asked my girlfriend, Kathy, if I should accept the offer, she said I should. I thought it over for a bit more time because I had some new ideas for the monthly report. Frankly, I thought what my predecessor's product was boring. It had been only a number of sheets of paper 8 1/2 by 14 inches laid one on the others stapled once in the upper left corner. I thought if I took those same pieces of paper and folded them in their middle and stapled them twice there, I'd have a burgeoning magazine. Also, I'd give my magazine the title TALL WINDOWS, as I had been inspired by the tall windows in the reading room, windows as high as the ceiling and almost reached the carpet. Readers could see the outdoors through these windows, see the beautiful, tall trees, their leaves and limbs swaying in the breeze, and often the blue sky. Beautiful they were.
Initially, I printed only 80 TALL WINDOWS, one for each of the individuals working in the library but over time, our patrons also took an interest in the magazine. Consequentially, I printed 320 magazines, 240 for those patrons who enjoyed perusing TALL WINDOWS. The magazines were distributed freely. Cas suggested I write LIBRARY JOURNAL, AMERICAN LIBRARIES, and WILSON LIBRARY BULLETIN, the three national magazines read by virtually by all librarians who worked in public libraries across the nation and to to all libraries of universities and colleges. AMERICAN LIBRARIES came to Topeka to photograph and interview me, then put both into one of their issues. Eventually, we had to ask readers outside of TOPEKA PUBLIC LIBRARY to subscribe, which is to pay a modest sum of money to receive TALL WINDOWS. I finally entitled this magazine, TALL WINDOWS, The National Public Magazine. In the end, we had more than 4.000 subscribers nationwide. Finally, TALL WINDOWS launched THE NATIONAL LIBRARY LITERARY REVIEW. In the
inaugural issue, I published several essays/stories. This evolution took me six years, but I was proud of each step I had taken. I did all of this out of love, not to get rich. Wealth is not worth.
My mother had finally broken away from my father and moved to Scottsdale, Arizona. I decided to move to Arizona, too. So, in the spring of 1977, I gathered my belongings and my two dogs, Pooch and Susie, and managed to put everything into my car. Then I headed out. I was in no rush. I loved to travel through the mountains of Colorado, then across the northern part of Arizona, turning left at Flagstaff to drive to Phoenix where I rented an apartment.
I needed another job, so after a few days I drove to Phoenix Publishing Company. I had decided to see Emmitt Dover, the owner, without making an appointment. The secretary said he was busy just now, but would be able to see me a bit later, so I took a seat. I waited about an hour before Mr. Dover opened his office door, saw me, then invited me in. I introduced myself, shook hands, then gave him my resume. He read it and then asked me a number of pertinent questions. I found our meeting cordial. Mr. Dover had been pleased to meet me and would get back to me as soon as he was able.
I thanked him for his time, then left. Around 3:30 that afternoon, the phone rang. It was Mr. Dover calling me to tell me I had a new job, if I wanted it.
I would be a salesman for Phoenix Magazine and I accepted his offer on his terms. I thank him so much for this opportunity. Mr. Dover asked me if I could start tomorrow. I said I would start that night, if he needed me to. He said tomorrow morning would suffice and chuckled a bit. I also chuckled a bit and told him I so appreciated his hiring me. I said, "Mr. Dover, I'll see you tomorrow at 8:00 am."
I knew I could write well, but I had no knowledge of big-time publishing.
This is important to know, because I had a gigantic, nationwide art project in mind to undertake. In all my life, I've always felt comfortable with other people, probably because I enjoy meeting and talking with them so much. I worked for Phoenix Publishing for a year. Then it was time for me to quit, which I did. I had, indeed, learned a lot about big-time publishing, but it was now time to begin working full-time on my big-time project. The name of the national arts project was to be: TALL WINDOWS: The National Arts Annual. But before I began, I met Cara.
Cara was an intelligent, lovely young woman who attracted me. She didn't waste any time getting us into bed. In short order, I began spending every night with her. She worked as the personnel director of a large department store. I rented a small apartment to work on my project during the day, but we spent every evening together. After a year, she brought up marriage. I should have broken up with her at that time, but didn't. I said I just wasn't ready to get married. We spent another year together, but during that time, I felt she was getting upset with me, then over more time, I felt she often was getting angry with me. I believe she was getting increasingly angry at me because she so much wanted to marry me, and I wasn't ready. The last time I suggested we should break up, Cara put her hand on my wrist and said "I need you." She said she would date other men, but would still honor our intimate agreement. We would still honor our ****** relationship, she said. Again I went against my intuition, which was dark and threatening. I capitulated again. I trusted her word. It was my mistake, my fault that I didn't follow my intuition.
Sunday afternoon came. I said she should come over to my apartment for a swim. She did. But in drying off, when she lifted her left leg, I saw her ***** that had been bruised by some other man, not by me. I instantly repressed seeing her bruised *****. We went to the picnic, but Cara wanted to leave after just a half-hour. I drove her back to my apartment where she had parked her car. I kissed her good-bye, but it was the only time her kiss had ever been awkward. She got into her car and drove away. I got out of my car and began to walk to my apartment, but in trying to do so, I began to weave as I walked. That had never happened to me before. I finally got to the door of my apartment and opened it to get in. I entered my apartment and sat on my couch. When I looked up at the left corner of the ceiling, I instantly saw a dark, rectangular cloud in which rows of spirals were swirling in counter-clockwise rotation. Then this menacing cloud began to descend upon me. My hands became clammy. I didn't know what the hell was happening. I got off the couch and reached the phone. I called Cara. She answered and immediately said, "I wish you wanted to get married." I said "I saw your bruised *****. Did you sleep with another man?" I said, "I need to know!" She said she didn't want to talk about that and hung up. I called her back and said in an enraged voice I needed to know. She said she had already told me.
At that point, I saw, for the only time in my life, cores about five inches long of the brightest pure white light exit my brain through my eye sockets. At that instant, I went into shock. All I could say was "Cara, Cara, Cara." For a week after, all I could do was to spend the day walking and walking and walking around Scottsdale. All I could eat were cashews my mother had put into a glass bowl. I flew at the end of that week back to Topeka to see Dr. Chotlos. I will tell you after years of therapy the reason I was always reluctant to get married.
Chapter 10
I remained in shock for six weeks. It was, indeed, helpful to see Dr. Chotlos. When my shock ended, I began reliving what had happen with Cara. That was terrible. I began having what I would call mini-shocks every five minutes or so. Around the first of the new year, I also began having excruciating pain throughout my body. Things were getting worse, not better.
My older sister, Rae, was told by a friend of hers I might want to contact Dr. Pat Norris, who worked at Menninger's. Dr. Norris's specialty was bio-feedback. Her mother and step-father had invented bio-feedback. I found out that all three worked at Menninger's. When I first met Dr. Norris, I liked her a lot. We had tried using bio-feedback for a while, but it didn't work for me, so we began therapy. Therapy started to work. Dr. Norris soon became "Pat" to me. The therapy we used was the following: we began each session by both of us closing our eyes. While keeping our eyes closed the whole session, Pat became, in imagery, my mother and I became her son. We started our therapy, always in imagery, with me being conceived and I was in her womb. Pat, in all our sessions, always asked me to share my feelings with her. I worked with Pat for 20 years. Working with Pat saved my life. If I shared with you all our sessions, it would take three more books to share all we did using imagery as mother and son. I needed to take a powerful pain medication for six years. At that time, I was living with a wonderful woman, Kristin. She had told me that for as long as she could remember, she had pain in her stomach every time she awoke. That registered on me, so I got medical approval to take the same medicine she had started taking. The new medication worked! Almost immediately, I could do many things now that I couldn't do since Cara.
At Menninger's, there was a psychiatrist who knew about kundalini and involuntary kundalini. I wanted to see him one time to discuss involuntary kundalini. I got permission from both doctors to do so.
I told the psychiatrist about my experience seeing cores of extremely bright light about five inches long exiting my brain through my eye sockets. He knew a lot about involuntary kundalini, and he thought that's what I experienced. Involuntary kundalini was dangerous and at times could cause death of the person experiencing it. There was a book in the Menninger library about many different ways involuntary kundalini could affect you adversely. I read the book and could relate to more than 70% of the cases written about. This information was extremely helpful to me and Pat.
As I felt better, I was able to do things I enjoyed the most. For example, I began to fly to New York City to visit Columbia and to meet administrators I most admired. I took the Dean of Admissions of Columbia College out for lunch. We had a cordial and informative conversation over lunch. About two weeks later, I was back in Topeka and the phone rang. It was the president of the Columbia College Board of Directors calling to ask if I would like to
become a member of this organization. The president was asking me to become one of 25 members to the Board of Directors out of 40,000 alumni of Columbia College. I said "Yes" to him.
Back home, I decided to establish THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS CITY. This club invited any Columbia alumnus living anywhere in Kansas and any Columbia alumnus living in the western half of Missouri to become a member of THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY CLUB OF KANSAS CITY. We had over 300 alumni join this club. I served two terms as the club's president. I was beginning to regain my life.
Pat died of cancer many years ago. I moved to Boulder, Colorado. I found a new therapist whose name is Jeanne. She and I have been working together for 19 years. Let me remark how helpful working with an excellent can be. A framed diploma hanging on the wall is no guarantee of being an "exceptional" therapist. An exceptional therapist in one who's ability transcends all the training. You certainly need to be trained, but the person you choose to be your therapist must have intuitive powers that are not academic. Before you make a final decision, you and the person who wants to become your therapist, need to meet a number of times for free to find out how well both of you relate to each other. A lot of people who think they are therapists are not. See enough therapists as you need to find the "exceptional" therapist. It is the quality of your life that matters.
If I had not had a serious condition, which I did, I think I would have never seen a therapist. Most people sadly think people who are in therapy are a "sicko." The reality is that the vast majority of people all around the world need help, need an "exceptional" therapist. More than likely, the people who fear finding an "exceptional" therapist are unconsciously fearful of finding out who their real selves are. For me, the most valuable achievement one can realize is to find your real selves. If you know who you really are, you never can defraud your real self or anyone else who enters your life. Most human beings, when they get around age 30, feel an understandable urge to "shape up," so those people may join a health club, or start jogging, or start swimming laps, to renew themselves. What I found out when I was required to enter therapy for quite some time, I began to realize that being in therapy with an "exceptional" therapist was not only the best way to keep in shape, but also the best way emotionally to keep your whole self functioning to keep you well for your whole life. Now, working with an "exceptional" therapist every week is the wisest thing I can do for myself.
I said I would tell you why I was "unmarried inclined." I've enjoined ****** ******* with more than 30 beautiful, smart women in my life. But, as I learned, when the issue of getting married arose, I unconsciously got scared. Why did this happen? This is the answer: If I got married, my wife and I most likely would have children, and if we had children, we might have a son. My worry would always be, what if I unconsciously treated my son the same way my father treated me. This notion was so despicable to me, I unconsciously repressed it. That's how powerful emotions can be.
Thank you for letting me bring my real self to you. I'm honored and most appreciative. My blessings to you all. Tod
by
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Chapter 1
I am Tod Howard Hawks. I was born on May 14, 1944 in Dallas, Texas. My father, Doral, was stationed there. My mother, Antoinette, was with him. When WWII ended, the family, which included my sister, Rae, returned home to Topeka, Kansas.
My father grew up in Oakland, known as the part of Topeka where poor white people lived. His father was a trolley-car conductor and a barber. Uneducated, he would allow only school books into his house. My father, the oldest of six children, had two paper routes--the morning one and the evening one. My father was extremely bright and determined. On his evening route, a wise, kind man had his own library and befriended my father. He loaned my father books that my father stuffed into his bag along with the newspapers. My father and his three brothers shared a single bed together, not vertically, but horizontally; and when everyone was asleep, my father would grab the book the wise and kind man had loaned him, grab a candle and matches, crawled under the bed, lit the candle, and began reading.
Now the bad and sad news: one evening my father's father discovered his son had been smuggling these non-school books into his home. The two got into a fist-fight on the porch. Can you imagine fist-fighting your father?
A few years later, my father's father abandoned his family and moved to Atchinson. My father was the oldest of the children; thus, he became the de facto father of the family. My father's mother wept for a day, then the next day she stopped crying and got to the Santa Fe Hospital and applied for a job. The job she got was to fill a bucket with warm, soapy water, grab a big, thick brush, get on her knees and began to brush all the floors clean. She did this for 35 years, never complained, and never cried again. To note, she had married at 15 and owned only one book, the Bible. My father's mother remains one of my few heroes to this day.
Chapter 2
My parents had separate bedrooms. At the age of 5, I did not realize a married couple usually used one bedroom. It would be 18 years later when I would find out why my mother and my father slept in separate bedrooms.
When I was 5 and wanted to see my father, I would go to his room where he would lie on his bed and read books. My father called me "Captain." As he lay on his bed, he barked out "Hut, two, three, four! Hut, two three, four!" and I would march to his cadence through his room into the upstairs bathroom, through all the other rooms, down the long hallway, until I reentered his bedroom. No conversation, just marching.
As I grew a bit older, I asked my father one Sunday afternoon to go to Gage Park where there were several baseball diamonds. I was hoping he would pitch the ball to me and I would try to hit it. Only once during my childhood did we do this.
I attended Gage Elementary School. Darrell Chandler and I were in the same third-year class. Nobody liked Darrell because he was a bully and had a Mohawk haircut. During all recesses, our class emptied onto the playground. Members of our class regularly formed a group, except Darrell, and when Darrell ran toward the group, all members yelled and ran in different directions to avoid Darrell--everyone except me. I just turned to face Darrell and began walking slowly toward him. I don't know why I did what I did, but, in retrospect, I think I had been born that way. Finally, we were two feet away from each other. After a long pause, I said "Hi, Darrell. How ya doing?" After another long pause, Darrell said "I'm doing OK." "Good," I said. That confrontation began a friendship that lasted until I headed East my junior year in high school to attend Andover.
In fourth grade, I had three important things happen to me. The first important thing was I had one of the best teachers, Ms.Perrin, in my formal education through college. And in her class, I found my second important thing: my first girlfriend, Virginia Bright (what a wonderful last name!). Every school day, we had a reading section. During this section, it became common for the student who had just finished reading to select her/his successor. Virginia and I befriended each other by beginning to choose each other. Moreover, I had a dream in which Virginia and I were sitting together on the steps of the State Capitol. When I woke up, I said to myself: "Virginia is my girlfriend." What is more, Virginia invited me to go together every Sunday evening to her church to learn how to square dance. My father provided the transportation. This was a lot of fun. The third most important thing was on May Day, my mother cut branches from our lilac bushes and made a bouquet for me to give Virginia. My mother drove me to Virginia's home and I jumped out of our car and ran up to her door, lay down the bouquet, rang the buzzer, then ran back to the car and took off. I was looking forward to seeing Virginia in the fall, but I found out in September that Virginia and her family had left in the summer to move to another town.
Bruce Patrick, my best friend in 4th grade, was smart. During the math section, the class was learning the multiplication tables. Ms. Perrin stood tn front of the students holding 3 x 5 inch cards with, for example, 6 x 7 shown to the class with the answer on the other side of the card. If any student knew the correct answer (42), she/he raised her/his arm straight into the air. Bruce and I raised our arms at the same time. But during the reading section, when Ms. Perrin handed out the same new book to every student and said "Begin reading," Bruce, who sat immediately to my right, and everyone else began reading the same time on page #1. As I was reading page #1, peripherally I could see he was already turning to page #2, while I was just halfway down page #1. Bruce was reading twice as fast as I was! It was 17 years later that I finally found out how and why this incongruity happened.
Another Bruce, Bruce McCollum, and I started a new game in 5th grade. When Spring's sky became dark, it was time for the game to begin. The campus of the world-renown Menninger Foundation was only a block from Bruce's and my home. Bruce and I met at our special meeting point and the game was on! Simply, our goal was for the two of us to begin our journey at the west end of the Foundation and make our way to the east end without being seen. There were, indeed, some people out for a stroll, so we had to be careful not to be seen. Often, Bruce and I would hide in the bushes to avoid detection. Occasionally, a guard would pass by, but most often we would not be seen. This game was exciting for Bruce and me, but more importantly, it would also be a harbinger for me.
Chapter 3
Mostly, I made straight-A's through grade school and junior high. I slowly began to realize it took me twice the time to finish my reading. First, though, I want to tell you about the first time I ever got scared.
Sometime in the Fifth Grade, I was upstairs at home and decided to come downstairs to watch TV in the living room. I heard voices coming from the adjacent bar, the voices of my father and my mother's father. They could not see me, nor I them; but they were talking about me, about sending me away to Andover in ninth grade. I had never heard of a prep school, let alone the most prominent one in America. The longer I listened, the more afraid I got. I had listened too long. I turned around and ran upstairs.
My father never mentioned Andover again until I was in eighth grade. He told me next week he had to take me to Kansas City to take a test. He never told me what the test was for. Next week I spent about two hours with this man who posed a lot of questions to me and I answered them as well as I could. Several weeks after having taken those tests, my father pulled me aside and showed me only the last sentence of the letter he had received. The last sentence read: "Who's pushing this boy?" My father should have known the answer. I certainly thought I knew, but said nothing.
During mid-winter, my father drove with me to see one of his Dallas naval buddies. After a lovely dinner at my father's friend's home, we gathered in a large, comfortable room to chat, and out of nowhere, my father said, "Tod will be attending Andover next Fall." What?, I thought. I had not heard the word "Andover" since that clandestine conversation between my father and my grandfather when I was in Fifth Grade. I remember filling out no application to Andover. What the hell was going on?, I thought.
(It is at this juncture that I feel it is necessary to share with you pivotal information that changed my life forever. I did not find it out until I was 27.
(Every grade school year, my two sisters and I had an annual eye exam. During my exam, the doctor always said, "Tod, tell me when the ball [seen with my left eye] and the vertical line [seen with my right eye] meet." I'd told the doctor every year they did not meet and every year the doctor did not react. He said nothing. He just moved onto the next part of the exam. His non-response was tantamount to malpractice.
(When I was 27, I had coffee with my friend, Michelle, who had recently become a psychologist at Menninger's. She had just attended a workshop in Tulsa, OK with a nationally renown eye doctor who specialized in the eye dysfunction called "monocular vision." For 20 minutes or so, she spoke enthusiastically about what the doctor had shared with the antendees about monocular vision until I could not wait any longer: "Michelle, you are talking about me!" I then explained all the symptoms of monocular vision I had had to deal without never knowing what was causing them: 4th grade and Bruce Patrick; taking an IQ test in Kansas City and my father never telling me what the test was or for; taking the PSAT twice and doing well on both except the reading sections on each; my father sending me to Andover summer school twice (1959 and 1960) and doing well both summers thus being accepted for admission for Upper-Middler and Senior years without having to take the PSAT.
(Hearing what I told Michelle, she did not hesitate in telling me immediately to call the doctor in Tulsa and making an appointment to go see him, which I did. The doctor gave me three hours of tests. After the last one, the doctor hesitated and then said to me: "Tod, I am surprised you can even read a book, let alone get through college." I sat there stunned.
(In retrospect, I feel my father was unconsciously trying to realize vicariously his dreams through me. In turn, I unconsciously and desperately wanted to garner his affection; therefore, I was unconsciously my father's "good little boy" for the first 22 years of my life. Had I never entered therapy at Menningers, I never would have realized my real self, my greatest achievement.)
Chapter 4
My father had me apply to Andover in 8th grade to attend in 9th grade, but nobody knew then I suffered from monocular vision; hence, my reading score eye was abysmal and I was not accepted. Without even asking me whether I would like to attend Andover summer school, my father had me apply regardless. My father had me take a three-day Greyhound bus ride from Topeka to Boston where I took a cab to Andover.
Andover (formally Phillips Academy, which is located in the town of Andover, Massachusetts) is the oldest prep school in America founded in 1778, two years after our nation was. George Washington's nephew sent his sons there. Paul Revere made the school's seal. George H. W. Bush and his son, George, a schoolmate of mine, (I voted for neither) went to Andover. The current admit rate is 13 out of every 100 applicants. Andover's campus is beautiful. It's endowment is 1.4 billion dollars. Andover now has a need-blind admission policy.
The first summer session I attended was academically rigorous and eight weeks long. I took four courses, two in English and two in math. One teacher was Alan Gillingham, who had his PhD from Oxford. He was not only brilliant, but also kind. My fondness for etymology I got from Dr. Gillingham. Also, he told me one day as we walked toward the Commons to eat lunch that I could do the work there. I will never forget what he told me.
I'm 80, but I still remember how elated I was after my last exam that summer. I flew down the steps of Samuel Phillips Hall and ran to the Andover Inn where my parents were staying. Finally, I thought, it's over. I'm going back to Topeka where my friends lived. Roosevelt Junior High School, here I come! We drove to Topeka, going through New York City, Gettysburg, Springfield, IL, Hannibal, MO, among other places. I was so happy to be home!
9th ninth grade at Roosevelt Jr. High was great! Our football team had a winning season. Ralph Sandmeyer, a good friend of mine, and I were elected co-captains. Our basketball team won the city junior high championship. John Grantham, the star of the team, and I were elected co-captains. And I had been elected by the whole school to be President of the Student Council.
But most importantly, I remember the Snow Ball, once held every year in winter for all ninth-graders. The dance was held in the gym on the basketball court. The evening of the dance, the group of girls stood in one corner, the boys in another, and in the third corner stood Patty all alone, ostracized, as she had always been every school day of each year.
I was standing in the boys group when I heard the music began to play on the intercom, then looked at Patty. Without thinking, I bolted from the boys group and began walking slowly toward her. No one else had begun to dance. When I was a few feet in front of her, I said, "Patty, would you like to dance?" She paused a moment, then said, "Yes." I then took her hand and escorted her to the center of the court. No one else had begun to dance. Patty and I began dancing. When the music ended, I said to Patty, "Would you like to dance again?" Again, she said, "Yes." Still no one but the two of us were dancing. We danced and danced. When the music was over, I took Patty's hand and escorted her back to where she had been standing alone. I said to her, "Thank you, Patty, for dancing with me." As I walked back across the court, I was saying silently to the rest of the class, "No one deserves to be treated this way, no one."
Without a discussion being had, my father had me again apply to Andover. I guess I was too scared to say anything. Once again, I took the PSAT Exam. Once again, I scored abysmally on the English section. Once again, I was rejected by Andover. And once again, my father had me return to Andover summer school.
Another 8 weeks of academics. Once again, I did well, but once again, I had to spend twice the time reading. Was it just I who realized again that if I could take twice the time reading, I would score well on the written test? Summer was over. My father came to take me home, but first he wanted to speak to the Dean of Admissions. My father introduced himself. Then I said, "I'm Tod Hawks," at which point the Dean of Admissions said enthusiastically: "You're already in!" The Dean meant I had already been accepted for the Upper-Year, probably because he had noticed how well I had done the past two summers. I just stood there in silence, though I did shake his hand. Not another application, not another PSAT. I was in.
Chapter 5
Terry Modlin, a friend of mine at Roosevelt, had called me one Sunday afternoon the previous Spring. "Tod," he said, "would you like to run for President of the Sophomore Class at Topeka High if I ran as your running mate?" I thought it over, then said to Terry, "Sure."
There were eight junior high schools in Topeka, and in the fall all graduates of all the junior highs attended Topeka High, making more than 800 new sophomores. All elections occurred in early fall. I had two formidable opponents. Both were highly regarded. I won, becoming president. Terry won and became vice-president. Looking back on my life, I consider this victory to be one of my most victories. Why do I say this? I do, because when you have 800 classmates deciding which one to vote for, word travels fast. If it gets out one of the candidates has a "blemish" on him, that insinuation is difficult to diminish, let alone erase, especially non-verbally. Whether dark or bright, it can make the deciding difference.
Joel Lawson and his girlfriend spoke to me one day early in the semester. They mentioned a friend of theirs, a 9th grader at Capper Junior High whose name was Sherry. The two thought I might be interested in meeting her, on a blind date, perhaps. I said, "Why not?"
The first date Sherry and I had was a "hay-rack" ride. She was absolutely beautiful. I was 15 at that time, she 14. When the "hay-rack" ride stopped, everybody got off the wagon and stood around a big camp fire. I sensed Sherry was getting cold, so I asked if she might like me to take off my leather jacket and put it over her shoulders. That was when I fell in love with her.
I dated Sherry almost my entire sophomore year. We went to see movies and go to some parties and dances, but generally my mother drove me most every Friday evening to Sherry's home and chatted with her mother for a while, then Sherry and I alone watched "The Twilight Zone." As it got later, we made out (hugs and kisses, nothing more). My mother picked me up no later than 11. Before going over to Sherry's Friday night, I sang in the shower Paul Anka's PUT YOUR HEAD ON MY SHOULDER.
I got A's in most of my classes, and lettered on Topeka High's varsity swim team.
Then in late spring word got out that Tod would be attending some prep school back East next year. I walked into Pizza Hut and saw my friend, John.
"Hey, Tod. I saw Sherry at the drive-in movie, but she wasn't with you." My heart was broken. I drove over to her home the next day and confronted her. She just turned her back to me and wouldn't say a thing. I spent the following month driving from home to town down and back listening to Brenda Lee on the car radio singing I'M SORRY, pretending it was Sherry singing it to me.
I learned something new about beauty. For a woman to be authentically beautiful, both her exterior and interior must be beautiful. Sherry had one, but not the other. It was a most painful lesson for me to learn.
Topeka High started their fall semester early in September. I remember standing alone on the golf course as a dark cloud filled my mind when I looked in the direction of where Topeka High was. I was deeply sad. I had lost my girlfriend. I was losing many of my friends. Most everyone to whom I spoke didn't know a **** thing about Andover. My mind knew about Andover. That's why it was growing dark.
Chapter 6
I worked my *** off for two more years. Frankly, I did not like Andover. There were no girls. I used to lie on my bed and slowly look through the New York Times Magazine gazing at the pretty models in the ads. I hadn't even begun to *******. When I wasn't sleeping, when I wasn't in a class, when I wasn't eating at the Commons, I was in the Oliver Wendell Holmes Library reading twice as long as my classmates. And I lived like this for two years. In a word, I was deeply depressed. When I did graduate, I made a silent and solemn promise that I would never set foot again on Andover's campus during my life.
During my six years of receiving the best formal education in the world, I got three (3) letters from my father with the word "love" typed three times. He signed "Dad" three times.
Attending Columbia was one of the best things I have ever experienced in my life. The Core Curriculum and New York City (a world within a city). I majored in American history. The competition was rigorous. I met the best friends of my life. I'm 80 now, but Herb Hochman and Bill Roach remain my best friends.
Wonderful things happened to me. At the end of my freshman year, I was one of 15 out of 700 chosen to be a member of the Blue Key Society. That same Spring, I appeared in Esquire Magazine to model clothes. I read, slowly, a ton of books. At the end of my Junior year, I was chosen to be Head of Freshman Orientation in the coming Fall. I was "tapped" by both Nacoms and Sachems, both Senior societies, and chose the first, again one of 15 out of 700. My greatest honor was being elected by my classmates to be one of 15 Class Marshals to lead the graduation procession. I got what I believe was the best liberal arts education in the world.
My father had more dreams for me. He wanted me to attend law school, then get a MBA degree, then work on Wall Street, and then become exceedingly rich. I attended law school, but about mid-way into the first semester, I began having trouble sleeping, which only got worse until I couldn't sleep at all. At 5:30 Saturday morning (Topeka time), two days before finals were to begin, I called my mother and father and, for the first time, told them about my sleeping problems. We talked for several minutes during which I told them I was going to go to the Holiday Inn to try to get some sleep, then hung up. I did go to the motel, but couldn't sleep. At 11a.m., there was someone knocking on my door. I got out of bed and opened the door. There stood my father. He had flown to Chicago via Kansas City. He came into my room and the first thing he said was "Take your finals!" I knew if I took my finals, I would flunk all of them. When you can't sleep for several days, you probably can't function very well. When you increasingly have trouble getting to sleep, then simply you can't sleep at all, you are sick. My father kept saying, "Take your finals! "Take your finals!" He took me to a chicropractor. I didn't have any idea why I couldn't sleep at all, but a chicropractor?, I thought. My father left early that evening. By then, I knew what I was going to do. Monday morning, I was going to walk with my classmates across campus, but not to the building where exams were given, but to the building where the Dean had his office. I entered that building, walked up one flight of stairs, and walked into the Dean's office. The Dean was surprised to see me, but was cordial nonetheless. I introduced myself. The Dean said, "Please, have a seat." I did. Then I explained why I came to see him. "Dean, I have decided to attend Officers Candidate School, either the Navy or Air Force. (The Vietnam War was heating up.) The Dean, not surprisingly, was surprised. He said it would be a good idea for me to take my finals, so when my military duties were over, it would be easy for me to be accepted again. I said he was probably right, but I was resolute about getting my military service over first.
He wished me well and thanked him for his time, then left his office. As I returned to my dorm, I was elated. I did think the pressure would be off me now and I would begin to sleep again.
Wednesday, I took the train to Topeka. That evening, my father was at the station to pick me up. He didn't say "Hello." He didn't say "How are you?"
He didn't say a word to me. He didn't say a single word to me all the way home.
Within two weeks, having gotten some sleep every night, I took first the Air Force test, which was six hours long, then a few days later, I took the Navy test, which was only an hour longer, but the more difficult of the two. I passed both. The Air Force recruiter told me my score was the highest ever at his recruiting station. The recruiter told me the Air Force wanted me to get a master's degree to become an aeronautical engineer. He told me I would start school in September. The Navy said I didn't have to report to Candidate School until September as well. It was now January, 1967. That meant I had eight months before I had to report to either service, but I soon decided on the Navy. Wow!, I thought. I have eight whole months for my sleeping problem to dissipate completely. Wow! That's what I thought, but I was wrong.
Chapter 7
After another week or so, my sleeping problems reappeared. As they reappeared, they grew worse. My father grew increasingly distant from me. One evening in mid-March, I decided to try to talk to my father. After dinner, my father always went into the living room to read the evening paper. I went into the living room, saw my father reading the evening paper in a stuffed chair, positioned myself directly in front of him, then dropped to my knees.
He held the paper wide-open so he could not see me, nor I he. Then I said to my father, "Dad, I'm sick." His wide-open paper didn't even quiver. He said, "If you're sick, go to the State Hospital." This man, my father, the same person who willingly spent a small fortune so I would receive the best education in the world, wouldn't even look at me. The world-famous Menninger Clinic, ironically, was a single block from our home, but he didn't even speak to me about getting help at Menninger's, the best psychiatric hospital in the world. This man, my father, I no longer knew.
About two weeks later in the early afternoon, I sat in another stuffed chair in the living room sobbing. My mother always took an afternoon nap in the afternoon, but on this afternoon as I continued to cry profusely, my mother stepped into the living room and saw me in the stuffed chair bawling non-stop, then immediately disappeared. About 15 minutes later, Dr. Cotter Hirschberg, the Associate Director of Southard School, Menninger's hospital for children, was standing in front of me. I knew Dr. Hirschberg. He was the father of one of my best friends, his daughter, Lea. I had been in his home many times. I couldn't believe it. There was Dr. Cotter Hirschberg, one of the wisest and kindest human beings I had ever met, standing directly in front of me. My mother, I later found out, had left the living room to go into the kitchen to use another phone to call the doctor in the middle of a workday afternoon to tell him about me. Bless his heart. Within minutes of speaking to my mother, he was standing in front of me in mid-afternoon during a work day. He spoke to me gently. I told him my dilemma. Dr. Hirschberg said he would speak to Dr. Otto Kernberg, another renown psychiatrist, and make an appointment for me to see him the next day. My mother saved my life that afternoon.
The next morning, I was in Dr. Kernberg's office. He was taking notes of what I was sharing with him. I was talking so rapidly that at a certain point. Dr. Kernberg's pen stopped in mid-air, then slowly descended like a helicopter onto the legal pad he was writing on. He said that tomorrow he would have to talk not only with me, but also with my mother and father.
The next morning, my mother and father joined me in Dr. Kernberg's office.
The doctor was terse. "If Tod doesn't get help soon, he will have a complete nervous breakdown. I think he needs to be in the hospital to be evaluated."
"How long will he need to be in the hospital," asked my father. "About two weeks," said Dr. Kernberg. The doctor was a wee bit off. I was in the hospital for a year.
Chapter 8
That same day, my mother and father and I met Dr. Horne, my house doctor. I liked him instantly. I know my father hated me being in a mental hospital instead of law school. It may sound odd, but I felt good for the first time in a year. Dr. Horne said I would be on any medication. He wanted to see me "in the raw." The doctor had an aid escort me to my room. This was the first day of a long, long journey to my finding my real self, which, I believe, very few ever do.
Perhaps strangely, but I felt at home being an in-patient at Menninger's. My first realization was that my fellow patients, for the most part, seemed "real" unlike most of the people you meet day-to-day. No misunderstanding here: I was extremely sick, but I could feel that Menninger's was my friend while my father wasn't. He didn't give a **** about me unless I was unconsciously living out his dreams.
So what was it like being a mental patient at Menninger's? Well, first, he (or she) was **** lucky to be a patient at the world's best (and one of the most expensive) mental hospital. Unlike the outside world, there was no ******* in Menninger's. You didn't always like how another person was acting, but whatever he or she was doing was real, not *******.
All days except Sunday, you met with your house doctor for around twenty minutes. I learned an awful lot from Dr. Horne. A couple of months after you enter, you were assigned a therapist. Mine was Dr. Rosenstein, who was very good. My social worker was Mabel Remmers, a wonderful woman. My mother, my father, and I all had meetings with Mabel, sometimes singly, sometimes with both my mother and father, sometimes only with me. It was Mabel who told me about my parents, that when I was 4 1/2 years old, my father came home in the middle of the workday, which rarely ever did, walked up the stairs to their bedroom and opened the door. What he saw changed not only his life, but also that of everyone else. On their bed lay my naked mother in the arms of a naked man who my father had never seen until that moment that ruined the lives of everybody in the family. My mother wanted a divorce, but my father threatened her with his determined intent of making it legally impossible ever for her to see her children again. So that's why they had separate bedrooms, I thought. So that is why my mother was always depressed, and that's why my father treated me in an unloving way no loving father would ever do. It was Mabel who had found out these awful secrets of my mother and father and then told me. Jesus!
The theme that keeps running through my head is "NO *******."
Most people on Earth, I believe, unconsciously are afraid to become their real selves; thus, they have to appear OK to others through false appearances.
For example, many feel a need to have "power," not to empower others, but to oppresss them. Accruing great wealth is another way, I believe, is to present a false image, hoping that it will impress others to think they are OK when they are not. The third way to compensate is fame. "If I'm famous, people will think I'm hot ****. They'll think I'm OK. They'll be impressed and never know the real me."
I believe one's greatest achievement in life is to become your real self. An exceptionally great therapist will help you discover your real self. It's just too scary for the vast majority of people even to contemplate the effort, even if they're lucky enough to find a great therapist. And I believe that is why our world is so ******-up.
It took me almost eight months before I could get into bed and sleep almost all night. At year's end, I left the hospital and entered one of the family's home selected by Menninger's. I lived with this family for more than a year. It was enlightening, even healing, to live with a family in which love flowed. I drove a cab for about a month, then worked on a ranch also for about a month, then landed a job for a year at the State Library in the State Capitol building. The State Librarian offered to pay me to attend Emporia State University to get my masters in Library Science, but I declined his offer because I did not want to become a professional librarian. What I did do was I got a job at the Topeka Public Library in its Fine Arts division.
After working several months in the Fine Arts division, I had a relapse in the summer. Coincidentally, in August I got a phone call at the tiny home I was renting. It was my father calling from the White Mountains in northern Arizona. The call lasted about a minute. My father told me that he would no longer pay for any psychiatric help for me, then hung up. I had just enough money to pay for a month as an in-patient at Menninger's. Toward the end of that month, a nurse came into my room and told me to call the State Hospital to tell them I would be coming there the 1st of December. Well, ****! My father, though much belatedly, got his way. A ******* one minute phone call.
Can you believe it?
Early in the morning of December 1st, My father and mother silently drove me from Menninger's about six blocks down 6th Street to the State Hospital. They pulled up beside the hill, at the bottom of which was the ward I would be staying in. Without a word being spoken, I opened the rear door of the car, got out, then slid down on the heavy snow to the bottom of the hill.
A nurse unlocked the door of the ward (yes, at the State Hospital, doors of each unit were locked). I followed the nurse into a room where several elderly women were sticking cloves into oranges to make decorations for the Christmas Tree. Then I followed her into the Day Room where a number of patients were watching a program on the TV. Then she led me down the corridor to my room that I was going to share with three other male patients. When the nurse left the room, I quickly lay face down spread-eagle of the mattress for the entire day. I was to do this every day for two weeks. When my doctor, whom I had not yet met, became aware of my depressed behavior, had the nurse lock the door of that room. Within several days the doctor said he would like to speak to me in his office that was just outside the ward. His name was Dr. Urduneta from Argentina. (Menninger's trained around sixty MDs from around the world each year to become certified psychiatrists. These MDs went either to the State Hospital or to the VA hospital.) The nurse unlocked the door for me to meet Dr. Urduneta in his office.
I liked Dr. Urduneta from the first time I met him. He already knew a lot about me. He knew I had been working at the Topeka Public Library, as well as a number of other things. After several minutes, he said, "Follow me." He unlocked the door of the ward, opened the door, and followed me into the ward.
"Tod," he said, "some patients spend the rest of their lives here. I don't want that for you. So this coming Monday morning (he knew I had a car), I want you to drive to the library to begin work from 9 until noon."
"Oh Doctor, I can't do that. Maybe in six or seven months I could try, but not now. Maybe I can volunteer at the library here at the State Hospital," I said.
"Tod, I think you can work now half-days at the public library," said Dr. Urduneta calmly.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing, what he was saying. I couldn't even talk. After a long pause, Dr. Urduneta said, "It was good to meet you, Tod. I look forward to our next talk."
Monday morning came too soon. A nice nurse was helping me get dressed while I was crying. Then I walked up the hill to the parking lot and got into my car. I drove to the public library and parked my car. As I walked to the west entrance, I was thinking I had not let Cas Weinbaum--my boss and one of the nicest women I had ever met--know that I had had a relapse. I had no contact with her or anyone else at the library for several months. Why had I not been fired?, I thought.
As I opened the west door, I saw Cas and she saw me. She came waddling toward me with her arms wide open. I couldn't believe it. And then Cas gave me a long, long hug without saying a word. Finally, she told me I needed to glue the torn pieces of 16 millimeter film together. I was anxious as hell. I lasted 10 minutes. I told Cas I was at the State Hospital, that I had tried to work at the public library, but just couldn't do it. She hugged me again and said nothing. I left the library and drove back to the State Hospital.
When I got to the Day Room, I sat next to a Black woman a
nd started talking to her. The more we talked, the more I liked her. Dr. Urduneta, I was to find out, usually came into the ward later
in the day. Every time he came onto the ward, he was swarmed by the patients. I learned quickly that every patient on our ward lov
ed Dr. Urduneta. I sat there for a couple of hours before Dr. Urduneta finally got to me. He was standing, I was sitting. I said, "Dr. Urdun
eta, I tried very hard to do my job, but I was so anxious I couldn't do it. I lasted ten minutes. I tried, but I just couldn't do it. I'm sorry.
"Dr. Urduneta said, "Tod, that's OK, because tomorrow you're going to try again."
Chapter 9
On Tuesday, I tried again.
I managed to work until 12 noon, but every second felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. I didn't think I could do it, but I did. I have to give Dr. Urduneta a lot of credit. His manner, at once calm and forceful, empowered me. I continued to work at the library at those hours until early April. At the
beginning of May, I began working regular hours, but remained an in-patient until June.
I had to stay at the hospital during the Christmas holidays. One of those evenings, I left my room and turned left to go to the Day Room. After taking only a few steps, I could see on the counter in front of the nurses's station a platter heaped with Christmas cookies and two gallons of red punch with paper cups to pour the punch in to. That evening remains the kindest, most moving one I've ever experienced. Some anonymous person, or persons, thought of us. What they shared with all of us was love. That evening made such an indelible impression on me that I, often with a friend or my sisters, bought Christmas cookies and red punch. And after I got legal permission for all of us to hand them out, we visited the ward I had lived on. I personally handed Christmas cookies and red punch to every patient who wanted one or both. But I never bothered any patient who did not want to be approached.
On July 1, I shook Dr. Urduneta's hand, thanked him for his great help, and went to the public library and worked a full day. A good friend of mine had suggested that I meet Dr. Chotlos, a professor of psychology at KU. My friend had been in therapy with him for several years and thought I might want to work with him. My friend was right. Dr. Chotlos met his clients at his home in Topeka. I began to see him immediately. I had also rented an apartment. Dr. Urduneta had been right. It had taken me only seven months to recover.
After a little over six months, I had become friends with my co-workers in the Fine Arts department. Moreover, I had come warm friends with Cas whom I had come to respect greatly. My four co-workers were a pleasure to work with as well.
There were around eighty others who worked at the library, one of whom prepared the staff news report each month. I had had one of my poems published in one of the monthly reports. Mr. Marvin, the Head Librarian, had taken positive note of my poem. So when that fellow left for another job, Mr. Marvin suggested to the Staff Association President that I might be a good replacement, which was exactly what happened. I had been only a couple of months out of the State Hospital, so when I was asked to accept this position, I was somewhat nervous, I asked my girlfriend, Kathy, if I should accept the offer, she said I should. I thought it over for a bit more time because I had some new ideas for the monthly report. Frankly, I thought what my predecessor's product was boring. It had been only a number of sheets of paper 8 1/2 by 14 inches laid one on the others stapled once in the upper left corner. I thought if I took those same pieces of paper and folded them in their middle and stapled them twice there, I'd have a burgeoning magazine. Also, I'd give my magazine the title TALL WINDOWS, as I had been inspired by the tall windows in the reading room, windows as high as the ceiling and almost reached the carpet. Readers could see the outdoors through these windows, see the beautiful, tall trees, their leaves and limbs swaying in the breeze, and often the blue sky. Beautiful they were.
Initially, I printed only 80 TALL WINDOWS, one for each of the individuals working in the library but over time, our patrons also took an interest in the magazine. Consequentially, I printed 320 magazines, 240 for those patrons who enjoyed perusing TALL WINDOWS. The magazines were distributed freely. Cas suggested I write LIBRARY JOURNAL, AMERICAN LIBRARIES, and WILSON LIBRARY BULLETIN, the three national magazines read by virtually by all librarians who worked in public libraries across the nation and to to all libraries of universities and colleges. AMERICAN LIBRARIES came to Topeka to photograph and interview me, then put both into one of their issues. Eventually, we had to ask readers outside of TOPEKA PUBLIC LIBRARY to subscribe, which is to pay a modest sum of money to receive TALL WINDOWS. I finally entitled this magazine, TALL WINDOWS, The National Public Magazine. In the end, we had more than 4.000 subscribers nationwide. Finally, TALL WINDOWS launched THE NATIONAL LIBRARY LITERARY REVIEW. In the
inaugural issue, I published several essays/stories. This evolution took me six years, but I was proud of each step I had taken. I did all of this out of love, not to get rich. Wealth is not worth.
My mother had finally broken away from my father and moved to Scottsdale, Arizona. I decided to move to Arizona, too. So, in the spring of 1977, I gathered my belongings and my two dogs, Pooch and Susie, and managed to put everything into my car. Then I headed out. I was in no rush. I loved to travel through the mountains of Colorado, then across the northern part of Arizona, turning left at Flagstaff to drive to Phoenix where I rented an apartment.
I needed another job, so after a few days I drove to Phoenix Publishing Company. I had decided to see Emmitt Dover, the owner, without making an appointment. The secretary said he was busy just now, but would be able to see me a bit later, so I took a seat. I waited about an hour before Mr. Dover opened his office door, saw me, then invited me in. I introduced myself, shook hands, then gave him my resume. He read it and then asked me a number of pertinent questions. I found our meeting cordial. Mr. Dover had been pleased to meet me and would get back to me as soon as he was able.
I thanked him for his time, then left. Around 3:30 that afternoon, the phone rang. It was Mr. Dover calling me to tell me I had a new job, if I wanted it.
I would be a salesman for Phoenix Magazine and I accepted his offer on his terms. I thank him so much for this opportunity. Mr. Dover asked me if I could start tomorrow. I said I would start that night, if he needed me to. He said tomorrow morning would suffice and chuckled a bit. I also chuckled a bit and told him I so appreciated his hiring me. I said, "Mr. Dover, I'll see you tomorrow at 8:00 am."
I knew I could write well, but I had no knowledge of big-time publishing.
This is important to know, because I had a gigantic, nationwide art project in mind to undertake. In all my life, I've always felt comfortable with other people, probably because I enjoy meeting and talking with them so much. I worked for Phoenix Publishing for a year. Then it was time for me to quit, which I did. I had, indeed, learned a lot about big-time publishing, but it was now time to begin working full-time on my big-time project. The name of the national arts project was to be: TALL WINDOWS: The National Arts Annual. But before I began, I met Cara.
Cara was an intelligent, lovely young woman who attracted me. She didn't waste any time getting us into bed. In short order, I began spending every night with her. She worked as the personnel director of a large department store. I rented a small apartment to work on my project during the day, but we spent every evening together. After a year, she brought up marriage. I should have broken up with her at that time, but didn't. I said I just wasn't ready to get married. We spent another year together, but during that time, I felt she was getting upset with me, then over more time, I felt she often was getting angry with me. I believe she was getting increasingly angry at me because she so much wanted to marry me, and I wasn't ready. The last time I suggested we should break up, Cara put her hand on my wrist and said "I need you." She said she would date other men, but would still honor our intimate agreement. We would still honor our ****** relationship, she said. Again I went against my intuition, which was dark and threatening. I capitulated again. I trusted her word. It was my mistake, my fault that I didn't follow my intuition.
Sunday afternoon came. I said she should come over to my apartment for a swim. She did. But in drying off, when she lifted her left leg, I saw her ***** that had been bruised by some other man, not by me. I instantly repressed seeing her bruised *****. We went to the picnic, but Cara wanted to leave after just a half-hour. I drove her back to my apartment where she had parked her car. I kissed her good-bye, but it was the only time her kiss had ever been awkward. She got into her car and drove away. I got out of my car and began to walk to my apartment, but in trying to do so, I began to weave as I walked. That had never happened to me before. I finally got to the door of my apartment and opened it to get in. I entered my apartment and sat on my couch. When I looked up at the left corner of the ceiling, I instantly saw a dark, rectangular cloud in which rows of spirals were swirling in counter-clockwise rotation. Then this menacing cloud began to descend upon me. My hands became clammy. I didn't know what the hell was happening. I got off the couch and reached the phone. I called Cara. She answered and immediately said, "I wish you wanted to get married." I said "I saw your bruised *****. Did you sleep with another man?" I said, "I need to know!" She said she didn't want to talk about that and hung up. I called her back and said in an enraged voice I needed to know. She said she had already told me.
At that point, I saw, for the only time in my life, cores about five inches long of the brightest pure white light exit my brain through my eye sockets. At that instant, I went into shock. All I could say was "Cara, Cara, Cara." For a week after, all I could do was to spend the day walking and walking and walking around Scottsdale. All I could eat were cashews my mother had put into a glass bowl. I flew at the end of that week back to Topeka to see Dr. Chotlos. I will tell you after years of therapy the reason I was always reluctant to get married.
Chapter 10
I remained in shock for six weeks. It was, indeed, helpful to see Dr. Chotlos. When my shock ended, I began reliving what had happen with Cara. That was terrible. I began having what I would call mini-shocks every five minutes or so. Around the first of the new year, I also began having excruciating pain throughout my body. Things were getting worse, not better.
My older sister, Rae, was told by a friend of hers I might want to contact Dr. Pat Norris, who worked at Menninger's. Dr. Norris's specialty was bio-feedback. Her mother and step-father had invented bio-feedback. I found out that all three worked at Menninger's. When I first met Dr. Norris, I liked her a lot. We had tried using bio-feedback for a while, but it didn't work for me, so we began therapy. Therapy started to work. Dr. Norris soon became "Pat" to me. The therapy we used was the following: we began each session by both of us closing our eyes. While keeping our eyes closed the whole session, Pat became, in imagery, my mother and I became her son. We started our therapy, always in imagery, with me being conceived and I was in her womb. Pat, in all our sessions, always asked me to share my feelings with her. I worked with Pat for 20 years. Working with Pat saved my life. If I shared with you all our sessions, it would take three more books to share all we did using imagery as mother and son. I needed to take a powerful pain medication for six years. At that time, I was living with a wonderful woman, Kristin. She had told me that for as long as she could remember, she had pain in her stomach every time she awoke. That registered on me, so I got medical approval to take the same medicine she had started taking. The new medication worked! Almost immediately, I could do many things now that I couldn't do since Cara.
At Menninger's, there was a psychiatrist who knew about kundalini and involuntary kundalini. I wanted to see him one time to discuss involuntary kundalini. I got permission from both doctors to do so.
I told the psychiatrist about my experience seeing cores of extremely bright light about five inches long exiting my brain through my eye sockets. He knew a lot about involuntary kundalini, and he thought that's what I experienced. Involuntary kundalini was dangerous and at times could cause death of the person experiencing it. There was a book in the Menninger library about many different ways involuntary kundalini could affect you adversely. I read the book and could relate to more than 70% of the cases written about. This information was extremely helpful to me and Pat.
As I felt better, I was able to do things I enjoyed the most. For example, I began to fly to New York City to visit Columbia and to meet administrators I most admired. I took the Dean of Admissions of Columbia College out for lunch. We had a cordial and informative conversation over lunch. About two weeks later, I was back in Topeka and the phone rang. It was the president of the Columbia College Board of Directors calling to ask if I would like to
become a member of this organization. The president was asking me to become one of 25 members to the Board of Directors out of 40,000 alumni of Columbia College. I said "Yes" to him.
Back home, I decided to establish THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS CITY. This club invited any Columbia alumnus living anywhere in Kansas and any Columbia alumnus living in the western half of Missouri to become a member of THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY CLUB OF KANSAS CITY. We had over 300 alumni join this club. I served two terms as the club's president. I was beginning to regain my life.
Pat died of cancer many years ago. I moved to Boulder, Colorado. I found a new therapist whose name is Jeanne. She and I have been working together for 19 years. Let me remark how helpful working with an excellent can be. A framed diploma hanging on the wall is no guarantee of being an "exceptional" therapist. An exceptional therapist in one who's ability transcends all the training. You certainly need to be trained, but the person you choose to be your therapist must have intuitive powers that are not academic. Before you make a final decision, you and the person who wants to become your therapist, need to meet a number of times for free to find out how well both of you relate to each other. A lot of people who think they are therapists are not. See enough therapists as you need to find the "exceptional" therapist. It is the quality of your life that matters.
If I had not had a serious condition, which I did, I think I would have never seen a therapist. Most people sadly think people who are in therapy are a "sicko." The reality is that the vast majority of people all around the world need help, need an "exceptional" therapist. More than likely, the people who fear finding an "exceptional" therapist are unconsciously fearful of finding out who their real selves are. For me, the most valuable achievement one can realize is to find your real selves. If you know who you really are, you never can defraud your real self or anyone else who enters your life. Most human beings, when they get around age 30, feel an understandable urge to "shape up," so those people may join a health club, or start jogging, or start swimming laps, to renew themselves. What I found out when I was required to enter therapy for quite some time, I began to realize that being in therapy with an "exceptional" therapist was not only the best way to keep in shape, but also the best way emotionally to keep your whole self functioning to keep you well for your whole life. Now, working with an "exceptional" therapist every week is the wisest thing I can do for myself.
I said I would tell you why I was "unmarried inclined." I've enjoined ****** ******* with more than 30 beautiful, smart women in my life. But, as I learned, when the issue of getting married arose, I unconsciously got scared. Why did this happen? This is the answer: If I got married, my wife and I most likely would have children, and if we had children, we might have a son. My worry would always be, what if I unconsciously treated my son the same way my father treated me. This notion was so despicable to me, I unconsciously repressed it. That's how powerful emotions can be.
Thank you for letting me bring my real self to you. I'm honored and most appreciative. My blessings to you all. Tod
