This is a fictional account of the abuse suffered by a young boy. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1

Lady Macbeth remarked “Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil”. All children have their terrors. The bogeyman who lurks in dark corners patiently waiting to harm the unwary child. The ghost who haunts the attic where, even on a bright sunny day the child fears to go alone or some unspeakable terror, a horror with no name which lies just below the surface of every day life. In my case the ghoul who cast an all pervasive shadow over my childhood was Colin, a man small in stature but, to a child a monster of epic proportions.
I have, on occasions tried to comprehend why my abuser acted as he did. As a boy I had no desire to understand Colin. I hated him with an all consuming loathing. He was the devil incarnate who, if it had been in my power to do so I would have destroyed with as little compunction as a man would show when exterminating a rat. As an adult the hatred remains although now tempered with a desire to understand why Colin abused a small, defenceless child, physically and mentally over a prolonged period.
Was Colin abused by one (or both) of his parents? And, if so does this help to explain (but in no way excuse) why he took such great delight in inflicting pain on me? I met both of Colin’s parents and stayed with them on several occasions. At no time during those visits was I subjected to any kind of abuse. This does not of course prove that Colin’s mother and father where not abusers. It demonstrates that they did not abuse me, no more, no less. However, looking back at my visits to their home and, in particular the fact that neither of Colin’s parents abused me, I am inclined to believe that he was not ill treated by either of them. So what turned Colin into the monster who took delight in twisting my arm so hard behind my back that I thought it would break? The answer is, I have no idea. What turned apparently normal Germans into mass murderers in ******’s *****? The answer is the same, I don’t know. As with the concentration camp guards who committed mass ****** I can speculate that some where subjected to abuse as children and that this led to them becoming psychopathic killers. However not all of those abused in childhood go on to commit abuse, while many in the SS experienced apparently happy childhoods untroubled by abuse. Colin may have been abused by someone other than his parents but even if this is the case this does not explain or justify why he became an abuser.

Chapter 2

I was born on 7 February 1971 in the north of England. Soon after my birth it became apparent that all was not right with Donald Myers. I cried far more than any normal child ought to. In addition I banged my head against hard surfaces on a frequent basis which, obviously gave rise to concern. My mum, as any good mother would took me to the hospital only to be told that there was nothing amiss. However a mother’s instinct told her that something was terribly wrong with her son. She refused to leave the hospital and demanded a second opinion. This was provided by a Polish doctor who, having examined me diagnosed a blood clot on the brain. My distraught family was informed that I required an urgent operation and even if the blood clot was successfully removed I was likely to be severely mentaly disabled. Fortunately the blood clot was removed and I am not mentally deficient. The clot did, however leave me with very poor vision (I am registered blind and use a guide dog as a mobility aid although I possess useful vision which assists with orientation).

Chapter 3

As a young boy I spent a great deal of time with my grandfather. This was due to my sister, Janet being ill and my mum not being able to look after 2 young children simultaneously.
I have fond memories of playing in what I called “the patch”, a piece of the garden which my grandfather allowed me to do with as I chose. I recall making mud pies and coming into the house caked in mud literally from head to toe.
Being blind I relied on my grandfather to read to me. Most weekends found us in a book shop. Whenever I walk into W H Smiths the scent of books brings back happy memories of time spent with my grandfather, me sitting on his knee as he read to me.
My grandfather was a dear, kind gentle man. Had he known how Colin was abusing me he would, I am sure have gone straight to the nearest police station to report him. However he never knew and, being a small child I never confided in him.
I am amazed when I hear people ask “why didn’t so and so report the abuse?” As a small child I was terrified of Colin. Had I told anyone I was sure that he would deny everything and the abuse would intensify. I was not aware of the existence of the National Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Children (NSPCC) and even had I known of their existence I would, as a frightened little boy have lacked the courage to pick up the phone and call. Colin would, no doubt have accused me of lying and in the 1970’s and 1980’s children where rarely believed when making alegations of abuse.

Chapter 4

I used to dread leaving the safety of my grandfather’s home to spend time with Colin and my mother. My heart would sink when Colin or my mum came to collect me from my grandfather’s. On one occasion I deliberately dropped the car keys behind the kitchen worktop in the forlorn hope this would prevent my mum taking me to stay with her and Colin. Oh vain hope, the keys where discovered and I found myself in the lair of the abuser.
Colin took care never to abuse me in the presence of others. He was, however adept at tormenting me when my mum or other people where nearby but couldn’t see what he was doing. One incident is indelibly etched on my memory. I was sitting on the sofa, in the living room. The room opened straight out into the street and I was seated close to the front door. My mum called to me from outside asking whether I wanted to accompany her to the supermarket. I replied “yes” but before I could leave to join her Colin, who was sitting on the same sofa twisted my arm behind my back and whispered that I should tell my mum that I had changed my mind. I continued to attempt to leave but Colin increased the pressure saying that if I didn’t inform my mum that I had changed my mind he would break my arm. Naturally I called to my mum that I no longer wished to go with her and she left without me.
Being outside my mum did not see the abuse taking place a mere few feet from where she was standing.
On another occasion, while Colin and I where sitting in the living room, he forced a chipped mug into my lip which drew blood. Again my mum was present in the kitchen, which was located next to the living room but did not observe the abuse. On entering the living room and noticing the scar a few minutes later she enquired what had caused it. At this point in time I don’t recollect whether Colin put the lie into my mouth or whether I concocted the story in order to avoid further abuse. In any case I informed my mum that I had cut myself with a chipped mug, a version of events she accepted.  
At times I thought that I was going to die. No small boy likes washing but I used to dread bathing due to Colin’s own unique method of assisting me to wash. This consisted of holding my head under the water so that my nose and mouth filled and I felt as though I was going to die. I would emerge, terrified coughing and spluttering.
Colin obviously derived tremendous pleasure from half suffocating me. On numerous occasions he would place a cushion or pillow over my face and hold it there until I felt that I was about to die. Years later when I attended counselling with the mental health charity Mind, the counsellor asked me why I thought that Colin had not killed me? I replied that he probably derived more pleasure from having a living child to torment than he would have gained had he murdered me. Also, had he murdered me the prospect of detection and Colin spending a long period in prison would, I said have acted as a disincentive to  him taking my life. .  
Colin was a sadist. In adition to systematically abusing me he also abused my mum. I remember him hitting her on a regular basis and on at least one occasion pushing her down the stairs. He was (and is) a ******* of the first order.
Colin didn’t confine his cruelty to people. I recall him flinging the family cat at me. The poor animal stuck out it’s claws to gain purchase with the result that it scratched my face badly. Like all bullies Colin was, at bottom a coward. I never once saw him abuse the family dog. I am sure that this was not out of any affection for the animal, rather it stemmed from the fear that had he done so the dog would, quite naturally have bitten it’s tormentor in self defence. Oh how I wished that the dog had sunk his teeth into Colin.          

Chapter 5

We all have nightmares. As a young boy one of my recurring bad dreams concerned being chased by a hoover. To anyone unfamiliar with the abuse inflicted on me the relating of my dream will, no doubt result in mirth. However my nightmare was no laughing matter as to me the vacuum cleaner was a thing of terror. We owned an upright hoover which Colin would, periodically place on my head while the motor was running. I well recall the terror as the wheels of the machine ran across my head. Colin was nothing if not inventive as in addition to putting a working vacuum cleaner on my head he also made me hold the machine above my head. My arms would ache terribly but I dare not put the hoover down until ordered to do so by Colin. For many years following the ending of the abuse “the chasing hoover dream”, as I refered to it stubbornly refused to go away. While the nightmare no longer plagues my sleeping brain, whenever I use a vacuum cleaner the recollection of a terrified little child being tortured by a hoover comes back to me.
In another of my childhood nightmares I would enter the spare bedroom only to be grabbed by a clicking monster which wrapped it’s hands around my neck attempting to strangle me.
Colin choked me on numerous occasions. One incident remains vividly imprinted on my memory. It was evening and my mum, sister, Colin and I sat in the living room. All of the family accept for me where watching television. I was listening to a talking book about a footballer which contained many amusing stories. I laughed uproariously throughout much of the book. Later on that evening, following the departure of my mum and sister to bed Colin choked me telling me never to laugh like that again as I had “disturbed” people. As I recall Colin’s strangling of me the old terrors reassert themselves. At the time I felt that I had, perhaps done something wrong. However the logical part of my brain told me that I had done nothing whatever to justify Colin’s barbaric treatment of me. He ought to have gone to prison for that incident alone. He was (and remains) the personification of evil to me. To this day I can, on occasions feel self conscious about giving in to the natural desire to laugh at a great joke when in the company of friends. I can (and do) let myself go and laugh uproariously but Colin remains in the background, like Banquo’s ghost putting a dampener on the feast.

Chapter 6

Colin possessed considerable charm which is, perhaps how he came to entrap my mum into marrying him. I remember sitting around the dinner table with guests present and Colin holding forth on Charles Darwin amongst other topics. Although not university educated Colin was by no means unintelligent and could, if one was unfamiliar with his propensity to abuse, appear to be charm itself, a man whom it would be a pleasure to have over for dinner.      

Colin possessed the capacity to make people laugh which he used to devastating effect when making barbed comments at the expense of my mum. I hated him for his comments but laughed none the less which is proof of the idea that hostages frequently try to please their captors by forming some kind of relationship with them. I can not at this juncture in my life recall in detail how, precisely Colin undermined the confidence of my mum, I suspect that this inability on my part stems from the fact that I was, quite naturally concerned with my own suffering and the abuse perpetrated on my mum was of secondary concern. My own pain preoccupied me. I had little time for that of others.

Chapter 7

My counsellor and my dear friend, Barry have raised the issue as to whether my mum was aware of the abuse to which Colin was subjecting me. I have thought about this question long and hard and I still can not provide a categoric answer. I am sure that my mum never actually observed Colin in the act of abusing me. She was, as explained in the forgoing chapters, never in the same room when the abuse took place. The fact that her son showed a profound disinclination to be alone with Colin should though have caused alarm bells to start ringing. Colin was clever. The only time I can recollect when he caused me to bare a physical manifestation of abuse was the incident of the chipped cup related earlier. On all other occasions the marks where deep psychological wounds not visible to the casual observer.
I have tried discussing the abuse with my mum. Her reaction has osilated between stating that the abuse occurred a long time ago and that I ought to forgive and forget, to questioning whether it did, in fact take place. My gut feeling is that my mum does not doubt my veracity. The anger she manifested on discovering that I had informed my wife of the abuse perpetrated by Colin demonstrates that she does not doubt me.
Shortly prior to my wife and I separating we went to stay with my mum and sister. One morning my mum, my daughter and I went for a walk during the course of which my mum received a call from my sister. Janet said that my wife, Louise had told her that I had informed Louise of the abuse to which I had been subjected to by Colin. My mum rounded on me asking “why the hell I had told Louise about the abuse”. There ensued a blazing argument during which my mum hit me. On returning home the argument continued with Janet stating that I should talk to Colin about the situation. The fact that Janet did not defend Colin and state that he couldn’t, possibly have abused me indicates that she was, to some extent aware of the abuse.
I love my mum deeply and have no doubt that she loves me. Yet whenever we are together the elephant in the room (Colin) stands between us, seen by both but mentioned by neither. In my case I fear the eruption of a blazing argument. I have always shyed away from arguments which is, I suspect down to me having grown up in a family in which vilence and arguments where commonplace. As a small boy I developed strategies for minimising the likelyhood of being abused. My main strategy was to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I became a master at sitting quietly, not speaking unless I was spoken to and doing everything in my power not to antagonise Colin. While I don’t fear being physically abused by my mum I shrink in terror at the prospect of a verbal tyraid eminating from her.
In my mum’s case she does, I believe feel guilty due to her not having protected her son from Colin. The fact that she refuses to discuss the abuse to which I was subjected shows her inability to acknowledge to me her own sense of culpability at her failure to prevent Colin’s behaviour. On at least one occasion my mum has told me that the abuse could not have taken place as, if it had she would have been aware of it. This is contradicted by her statement (refered to earlier) that it was a long time ago and I ought to “forgive and forget”. Both statements can not be correct and in her heart of hearts my mum knows that I am telling the truth, she lacks the courage to admit her own failings and apologise to me.      

Chapter 8

At this distance in time I can not pinpoint the precise point at which the physical abuse stopped. At some indeterminate point (I think during my early teens) I began to challenge Colin’s behaviour. I remember wishing to join a social club and Colin informing me that I could not do so. Full of fear and trepidation I said that I would join to

the love came acutely depending
on the angle one viewed it from
if veered left if it was helping
the poor
if viewed right tilted obliquely
with a chin up proud
that was considered
gravy on the grits
a determination to not work
and in the stance one took proud with
deference to those hungry waifs and kids
starving the right may be right
in the long run
welfare might
provide a disincentive to work,
to provide,
but in the meantime,
I am going to do my best
to feed those starving young.

Hello, little god,
cornered in this world of insignificance;
between sips of too-cold raspberry tea
create your own brand of madness
and label it "art."

From the blueberry stool
that is your throne, conduct
symphonies of beluga whales and
daisy chains molded together
to craft another colorful beginning.

Papercuts and calluses
are your battle wounds;
a diligent ballpoint pen
is the dog that marks its territory.

But then--

White knuckles
crumple mistakes,
transforming them into carpet-coating origami.
Your fingers keep the beat
that defines disincentive:
bmm, bmm, bmm.

Possessed
by antagonistic demons, tug
at the noose that is
a favorite paisley tie
and admit defeat.

Take another bite of your
overpriced Reuben sandwich.

Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.

The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely

in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in *****-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.

Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.

In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.

Still, the Roman Catholic Imperial Church hasn't done all it can to atone for
persecuting humanity with their last inquisition, the global mass-**** of mostly
boys, that while more and more supposed christian al-queda do terrorist acts,
still, serial murderers masquerading as cops genocide mostly men of color,
still, newborns are ****** to death in the crib by the remocrat conspiracy's
psychic terrorism, 'the ****', and are also neutered by them, who have said
"they'll turn out to be dems or non-rems", still infancy, toddlerhood, childhood,
teenage and young adulthood years are filled with mass serial: rapings, ******
assaults, anatomical destructions, assaults, attempted maimings, muggings, beatings,
persecution, discrimination, institutional abuses, etc..  Still, 9 months after
hurricane maria tore through Puerto Rico, etc., they don't have restored electric,
adequate food and water distribution, their death toll, according to a Harvard
study, is over 4600, almost 3 times that of Katrina, and the next hurricane
season's upon us.  Still, women's reproductive rights are under constant attack,
assaults on women's health centers have escalated, as has religiously biggoted
attacks on Muslims, etc., while funding for the people's gov't'l safety net has
been drastically cut across the board, still these draconian legislations, outright
eugenics programs, aren't prosecuted by the U.N. as State Agression against people,
as indicated by the Nuremburg Accords, necessitated by ****** having done the same.  
Still, the intelligence, military, police, prison industrial complexes haven't dealt
with mass-****, inequity in prison sentencing, urgently needed prison reform, severe
lack of education of, and availability of lawyers, funds for prisoner's defenses,
the necessary prosecution of the going on two trillion dollar per year intelligence
community for purposefully not preventing the hacking of the elections of 2016, and
thereby being a part of the invisible coup that installed Trumpler, with dinos,
sinos, ginos, ainos, linos, Bernie or bust bots, Assange, wikileaks, global hackers,
Putin's puppets all.  Still Trumpler regularly attacks, denigrates American people,
institutions, the world, continually tears kids from their parents as a supposed
"disincentive", while that's human atrocity, as he continues to mock, be unfettered
by the continuing revelations, indictments, investigations of him, his campaign and
the executive branch he has installed, E.P.A.'s Pruitt, while he illegally weeds out
dempublicans, all who aren't criminal, even firing remocrats who aren't SS enough.  
His latest, his 'fixer' Cohen, getting over a million from navaritus pharma (of
course Trumpler got his cut), because The Facilitator-In-Chief is following pages
from king george (bush **** heavily invested in pharma) and his ****, cheney's
aborted by the people plan's playbook to diagnose, prescribe to most, especially
those mentally less advantaged teens who've been chosen, trained, triggered by the
remocrat conspiracy's psychic terrorism (with a disparaging wink, nod from dinos,
dempublicans), 'the ****', to do terrorist acts in schools, being on the hot seat
instead of Trumpler, and another example of State extreme hypocrisy as well as the
imploding domestic war against everything, especially nature, next generations
(the corp. structure's convoluion's devoluionarey direction vs. the evolution),
as they, merx for more through to mercs for unending unnecessary worldwide war,
cannibalize the future to replicate their past supposed profits, evermore and in
ever more cyclical, centralizing patterns. Is this also how they're assassinating
the future non-rem leaders before they even become adults?  "...We(e),..." need
everyone to speak out, stand, everyday, if not now, then when, if not here, where?

amid the home city
in a tent
of boxes
a tune about the homeless
rant

I gave a guy with a sign
at the convenience store twenty dollars
the other day
wondering what he did with it

often wonder the political ramifications
is that disincentive
I may have ruined him

did he go buy a rock crack up
and fall out of his
abstinence

maybe I should have given him
ten dollars
**** I feel guilty

Chapter 11:  The Butcher At The Corner

The butcher at the corner was always trying to teach my grandfather new words in Italian.  My grandfather was of Irish and German descent, but he always took the time to try and learn a few words so the next time he came into the shop, he could greet ‘Nick’ in a few words from his native tongue.  Nick in turned learned a few Irish limericks from my grandfather, interesting to be sure, but probably not stories he could tell around the dinner table at home.  

Every time my grandfather entered the shop, he would be greeted with: “Buongiorno Senior Danny,” and my grandfather would respond: “Top A The Mornin To Ya Senior Nicola.”  These two men formed a bond over many years that transcended any language barrier or separation of geography based on birth.  You could hear it in the laughter they shared, and see it in the mutual respect they held for each other in their eyes.  

My grandfather wanted to be able to share some culture with Nick, not because he was so interested in learning Italian, but because he was very interested in getting to know Nick. They became the best of friends over forty years and attended all family functions together.  As a duet, they often sang both Irish and Italian folksongs after a few ‘pints,’ or several glasses of the home made wine Nick made in his basement.

What they shared was special, and the superficial differences between them made it even more so.  The important thing is that they shared.  They shared a belief in their religion, their country, and in each other, that transcended any difference that you might notice from the outside. Together, they became bigger than either could be alone.  They knew this instinctively and made every effort to embrace these surface differences and make them their own.  My grandfather would often lecture me on Italian food and history, telling me, that this or that was so, because he had heard it from Nick.

                             In Their Laughter They Became One

The butcher at the corner, and my grandfather, figured out one of the great secrets of life, and that is that we’re only different in what we admit to.  If the same admission is that we’re fundamentally the same, we can travel down the road of sharing and community — basic tenets that America was founded upon almost 250 years ago.

To reach out, we first have to let go. We need to abandon the notion that only our way is best, and move away from the bias and prejudices that build fences among us. Only then will we realize that the other person is waiting for our acceptance to become something together that we could never be alone. Imagine this magnified over 300 million people.  That’s the way it used to be in our country, and to be truly great, that’s the way it will have to be again.

                        To Reach Out, We First Have To Let Go



Chapter 12: ‘All Roads lead To Rome’

Those who left home to serve their country, or to attend school, learned a magical lesson.  In the service, you learned that even though the guy in the bunk next to you may have been from Oklahoma, and you from New York, the ‘apparent and surface’ differences between you only magnified your attempt to get closer to each other.  In almost no time at all, you discovered that the big and fundamental things between you were the same.

His parents had raised him to respect his elders, our flag, God, and country, just as our parents had us.  Even though his small town in Oklahoma made have had a population of 207, and our town over 200,000, the lessons we had learned growing up transcended any census figure or geographical location.  We both had grown up in America, and whether big town or small village, cold northern climate or western panhandle, the things we valued were the core beliefs we shared.

                           Our Roads Really Did Lead To Rome

The Rome I am speaking of metaphorically is the common path we were all on. It was taking us to a better place where people of like mind worked together and sometimes died defending the things they believed in and the freedom that allowed those things to be so.  We didn’t agree in some sort of ‘stepford’ way. We agreed because we learned these lessons of correct behavior when we were very young. They were lessons that stood the test of time and felt right, not only when written down, but inside our hearts and minds as we were encouraged to do the right thing and to let ‘our conscience be our guide.’

Our ‘Rome’ was a shared ‘pursuit of happiness’ built into the American Dream, that every kid grew up seeking, and every adult treasured more than anything else.  It was the shared understanding that America was more than our buildings and our Declaration Of Independence.  America was our history, a history of freedom, paid for and insured by those willing to die for it.  Those who sacrificed led the way and have preserved our freedom for over 250 years.  It’s been said that there are no atheists in foxholes and I believe that’s true.  There are very few unpatriotic non-believers when we go through hardship and ultimately prevail together.  The reason we do it together is because, as a group, we have always believed and agreed upon its core value.

                                  Is That Still The Case Today?


During my junior year at college, one of my roommates, in the apartment we rented, was a black fellow named Tom from Newark New Jersey.  Tom had grown up in the poorest of inner-city neighborhoods, but through perseverance, diligence, and the support of a strong mother, he made it through high school with good grades and found his way to a good university.  He was also a good athlete.  

Tom couldn’t live the American Dream, like many of us, while he was young.  He had to wait until later, when he had his degree, and could go back and help his mother and brothers better their conditions at home.  Tom was able to do this because his mother never abandoned hope or her belief in him.  Mrs. Scott believed in the fundamental goodness of America. Even though her day in and day out life as a domestic worker was a challenge, she never gave up the hope that her children would do better.  America, up until the 1970’s, was a nation where children always did better than their parents, but that was an America that had a shared value system.
                                
The first two weeks Tom and I lived together there were many questions, as we prodded each other trying to find out how different we really were.  I was surprised and pleased to find out that Tom shared most of the values I had, and in many cases felt even stronger about them than me. We had had the same strong parenting and watched the same T.V. shows. Tom’s heroes were the same as mine, and we were both excited to find out that Willie May’s was our favorite baseball player.  In those first two weeks, Tom stopped being that kid from the urban ghetto and became a trusted friend. And one who almost forty years later has become a treasure in my life.  

I asked Tom one day what it must have been like walking home from school in Newark and playing outside on his block.  Tom explained to me what he heard from his mother, Esther, every night at the dinner table.  Mrs. Scott would tell her three boys that “The right thing is not dependant on who does it, being right is everyone’s duty and obligation. Just because someone chooses not to do the right thing doesn’t change what they should have done.”  Tom’s mother constantly reinforced to her sons that doing the right thing is the right thing to do for its own sake.  These are brave and insightful words from a woman whose physical and emotional playing field was not level … and certainly not fair.

She Believed In The Principles Of Right And Wrong In Spite Of Her Living Conditions  

Much of America over the past 200 years has been like that. Too many have struggled with adversity while still believing in the future and the power of positive change.  This has been made possible by the strong tenets of their faith and their belief in each other.

Tom’s mother also taught him to never dwell on the negative.  He was, and is, one of the most positive people I have ever known and has been a shining example to my children that anything in life is possible.  Tom didn’t know his father. He had abandoned the family when Tom was four but hadn’t been around much even during those first four years. Instead of using this as a crutch, or excuse, Tom became the man of the house and developed a sense of responsibility far in advance of his age.  He became the only ‘father figure’ his two younger brothers would even know.  

Tom told me these things, and more, on the way to a football game in Rhode Island one weekend in 1969. Because of the way we felt about each other, his story became part of my story.  I taught Tom to surf in Ocean City New Jersey the next summer, and I like to believe that part of myself became part of him.  I know I wanted it to be that way, and he has told me in so many words that he felt that way too. I remember vividly how my parents reacted to first meeting Tom when I brought him home for a Christmas visit in 1969.  

Both of my parents had grown up in poor neighborhoods during the ‘Great Depression’ and had tears in their eyes as Tom shared what it had been like growing up in Newark, in a two-room apartment, with a single parent.  My Mom and Dad loved him right away. Not because he had been poor and unfortunate, but just the opposite, because he was so rich in spirit.  My Dad and Tom became so close, as the years went on, that my Dad ended up becoming the father that Tom never had.  My father had grown up in a tough white ghetto, in the Kensington section of Philadelphia, and in many ways was more like Tom than me.  There’s something about true poverty that crosses all color lines.

Tom’s Road To Rome had more bumps and potholes in it than mine did, but we were pointed squarely in the same direction.  We both knew that in the ways we looked different, society would often focus on that. We also knew that because of our shared belief in what was possible, and in each other, we could change that perception.  By coming together as friends, we created something stronger than any bigotry or bias that would try to take that friendship away.  

By looking past our superficial and surface differences, we found what was real in each other and reveled in the things we both held dear. It was upon these things we shared that we built a lifelong friendship, one that shared the even bigger dream of our generation for a better world. One of the first things Tom and I shared was our music.  Our favorite artists were the great ‘Soul’ groups coming out of Detroit like the Temptations and the Miracles.  The power of music never ceases to amaze in the way it transcends division and separation, drawing the listener in to something higher and more cerebral.  Unfortunately, the powerful messages of love and togetherness, that these groups sang about, has been replaced by violent and negative ‘rap’ artists who glorify and give credence to the negativity of the streets in our inner city’s.

As a result of drug infestation, and the violence that accompanies it, the ability for a young man like Tom to travel the positive road to Rome has been made much more difficult.  Because we have not been able to agree on basic fairness issues, our inner cities have become denizens of the profane and brutal elements of our society, often feeding off themselves in a downward spiral of poverty and despair.  Every day, millions of kids are faced with the agonizing decision between doing the right thing or taking the easier and misleading road of drug pushing and violent street gang involvement.

Once we lose these young people to the world of drugs and gangs, it is almost impossible to ever get them back. Shining examples like Tom only make a small impact when he revisits his neighborhood and tries to work with the youth center where he grew up.  We need to put programs, and people, in place to spread and reinforce the messages of optimism, education, and a better life to these kids who, through no fault of their own, may never hear it any other way.  The road out of their neighborhood can lead to Rome also — if we can remove the barriers and roadblocks that obscure their view.  

The athletes who ‘escape’ the ghetto are few and far between and put a lace curtain on the overpowering problems that they are fortunate enough to leave behind. Their success often leaves a false impression on the kids still living there, thinking that they too will grow up to be Michael Jordan or Deion Sanders.  Is it possible … yes, but only for the very, very few. What about all the others that get left behind?  The lace curtain of false opportunity slowly closes, as these children become dropouts, and then wards of society, either on public welfare roles, or as inmates of an overburdened prison system.  

Tom went on to become a Doctor of Sports Medicine. In addition to his medical practice, Tom has a counseling service where he advises young college athletes. He reminds them that the ‘riches’ of pro sports happen only to the very few, and that the real riches of their athletic ability lie in the education that that ability has provided them.  

Through our time together, Tom and I discovered that our dreams were really the same.  The dream of maximizing our full potential, and having the opportunity to raise a family and provide and teach those same dreams to our children, happened for both of us.  Tom paid a much higher price for his dreams, and as a result, they mean even more to him.  

The possibility of two young men, coming together as Tom and I did and sharing the dream of America, gets tougher every year.  There are more obstacles in the way.  The sins of our fathers and grandfathers should not continue to be passed on, but the dreams that they collectively fought and died for should be.  

Someone once said: “Show me a man without a dream, and I will show you no man at all.”  One of the great tragedies of the new millennium is that we have stolen these dreams from our young people.  In destroying the roads that could transport them from where they are, to where they need to be, we commit cultural genocide.  A sin for which no punishment may ever be enough.  I heard a ‘Rap’ artist once say: “I sing about the streets, but I’m no longer from the streets.”  It’s an admission that he is making a lucrative living off the poverty and depression of those who unlike him can’t get out.  It seems, in many cases, that the dream of today is to shatter what’s left of the dream of others.                                

To change the way things are, we need to ‘share’ in not only the goodness that we all seek in our hearts, but in the nightmare of those who cannot dream the dream.  We now know that welfare doesn’t work … opportunity does!  The old saying that ‘it’s better to teach a man to fish than to feed a man a fish’ is as true in our nation’s poorest neighborhoods as in any segment of society.  

Most of my generation, despite the popular impressions of Woodstock etc., knew drugs were wrong, and most of us avoided them.  Even the few that used ‘recreational’ drugs during the 1960’s moved past them as they evolved into adulthood with families and careers. Most users were experimental … quickly in and then quickly out.  

Drugs today are the main economic disincentive of the black ghetto, although they appear the opposite to the young generation living there.  They exact a much bigger cost from their participants than any temporary financial gain they pretend to offer.  They create a culture that drives their users away from real opportunity, trading a fantasy future based on lies and corruption for one that has the true freedom and change that they so desperately need.  In most cases, it is the future itself that is stolen from these neighborhoods, to be replaced with a violent, and often life ending consequence, for those who are conditioned to feel that they have nothing left to lose.

The only thing necessary to reopen the economic, and cultural Road To Rome, is to change the minds of the younger people living there.  This will only be possible when real opportunity is presented early, with clear cut instructions showing how this will lead to a better and happier life.

If all roads lead to Rome … How Many Esthers Are There To Lead the Way?