“So at a knock
I emptied my cage
To hide in the world
And alter with age.”
– Robert Frost, excerpt from “The Lockless Door.”
Some knocks are expected, invited and prepared for. Answering such a knock leads to the reality revealed, one of pleasure … or the need to face a crisis. Then there are abrupt interruptions. A mystery to embrace or flee from?
I was around nine years old when a “knock” came at my door, by way of a teacher interrupting my recess. As a young boy I always wanted to be outside, in motion. An inspired game of “Red Rover” was a personal favorite because I loved to run. Having a teacher call me away was a knock I never expected. And it was cringe worthy, because my first thought was: “Now what did I do?”
To suggest I never got in trouble would be laughable. But most of my time in detention – which caused me to miss recess – came from harmless pranks, antics, or when I simply would NOT shut up.
Young boys believe there are more important things to discuss than listening to teachers drone on about eye-glazing, sleep and drool inducing topics, like …
Adjectives?! Are you serious? Ugh!
Pho-to-syn-thesis (nothing brought on the face-plant-to-desk faster). I mean, come on, it was as if the Science teacher had been a forest nymph (or something) in a past life – the way she gushed over … plant food. Plants need sun. Duh? And water, right? Admittedly, the first lesson on the subject I handled well, but by the fifth exposé, Daniel-the-smartass couldn’t help himself.
“Like my grandma’s garden,” I blurted out, “I know! Dig a hole, insert the-cabbage-to-grow, cover, water, maybe add fertilizer, or use the area to go number two, right?”
Of course, I missed recess that day, scowling as I wrote, “I will not use the bathroom in a garden” over and over on a chalkboard. But that only slowed me down a bit. It was embarrassing because I missed a day when the game of choice (outside) was “Red Rover.” Stupid plants!
Other more important subjects could range from my grandpa’s secret cigarette and liquor stash, to how I got stung by a hive of bees under the porch (and I flashed war-wounds with pride to augment the telling). I did “conveniently” fail to mention crying like a baby when my grandmother poured bleach all over my chest and stomach.
Anyhow, the half-off shirt, show-and-tell adventure cost me! “I will remain fully dressed while in class” was the detention-mantra on the chalkboard that day.
History was one of my favorite subjects. All the travel, war, and adventure appealed to Daniel-the-grandson-of-a-World War II-veteran. And Indians fascinated me. So, the day my History teacher overheard me telling another about a bicycle journey to a convenience store where I snuck free Icee refills, I took the punishment that followed very personal. Frankly, I felt betrayed!
The History teacher was one of only two male teachers we had, so why would he tell on me? And how he told on me has forever remained a mystery. For sure, he didn’t send a note with me, because I would’ve found it and destroyed it. No, I swear teachers back then had some sort of secret teacher-to-parent, bat-phone-like communication device.
Instead of addressing the issue at school, then maybe assigning me some detention while also conveying some “man-to-boy” advice, the fake went behind my back! He acted normal in my presence – I often shared stories about my grandpa with him – all the while scheming to stab me in the back.
Imagine my surprise when fierce little Grandma Evelyn accused me of being a thief after I arrived home. What?! And she grounded me for a week. No bike rides … for a week? Surely it was Armageddon, and I didn’t even know why!
“You know what I’m talking about,” Grandma insisted. “Don’t play stupid.”
I somehow managed to rearrange my face, “Um …”
“Your teacher told me all about you stealing from that store!”
Oh, did he? Now I was mad. “I did not …” I sputtered. And I tried explaining how Anne, the lady at the store, always let me sneak one Icee refill, but Grandma wasn’t buying it.
This made me furious. I hated being accused and punished for things I did not do. Of course, I wasn’t about to tell Grandma how I usually swiped a Whatchamacallit candy bar when the rude guy worked. That was irrelevant.
As Grandma stormed off, leaving me red-faced and frustrated, I heard her say, “You better behave or I’ll call and tell your father.”
Dad could be mean. His belt … that buckle. Gulp. So I endured a week of house-arrest, doing chores and sulking. At school … well, I kept my distance from Mr. Fake.
Cute girls, however, were virtually impossible to leave alone. They were important, like breathing, but beyond my ability to understand. Being a good student pigeonholed me as “nerd,” I guess. Now, I didn’t mind doing their homework, at times, or on rare occasions, I was content with smiles for test answers, but I thought about … more.
Of the “Be my Valentine” variety of more. Maybe hold hands? Surely Grandpa would take us to a movie …. But I never got to develop confidence. For sure, the class-clownish antics I employed and failed at did not help at all. The real problem: Why did it always seem like the teachers had internal “Daniel-is-flirting-with-a-girl” radars?
Oh, well. Daniel-on-display-before-a-chalkboard-again! Enduring bouts of giggling, as I wrote out variations of “Leave the girls alone,” were experiences I truly disliked.
But the bullies I despised above all else. The vast majority of wannabe Mr. Big Guys were the first in line to snitch me out! It was all fun and games for them, when teasing me about my last name: the “Old McDonald had a farm” song drove me nuts. But I certainly didn’t enjoy being pushed around, shoved, or tripped either. So, you’d think, when I’d lash out, fair game, right? Pfft.
One day, little “Farmer McDonald” snuck one of his grandma’s eggs into school. Then Daniel-played-Indian, stalking random McBigMouth with the full head of hair. He was like a mini rock star right up until the egg exploded on the back of his head. The results were amazing! A saturated mass of brown waves oozing yolk.
I was extremely proud of myself!
How was I to know the big sissy would run to the first teacher he saw and tell on me?
No good deed goes unpunished. But that week of detention didn’t bother me very much.
Those were the good old days. Adventures in 3rd grade! The trouble I got in was offset by the fact that I was primarily a straight-A student. I like to think the teachers actually knew what was going on, so the “punishments” were far more moderate than they could have been.
Which is why, when the “knock” came, I was so disturbed. As I followed the teacher back to the school, I was balancing my disappointment over missing out on “Red Rover” – the game had already continued! – as I tried to detect (with furtive glances over my shoulder): “Who did it to me this time?” But it had been a calm week! It made no sense.
All the teacher would say was, “The Principal wants to see you.”
“What?” My eyes popped wide open. Visits to the Principal were horrible! Or so I’d heard. I kept asking the teacher, “Why?” But she walked on in silence …
Until she reached the back door of the school, opening it for me. “You’ll learn ‘why’ when we get there ….”
Oh, wow, my mind started flitting all over the place. Had I finally done something they were going to kick me out of the school for? Earlier that day I’d mostly ignored a lecture on verbs, choosing instead to draw. Surely that wasn’t it! Or, or ….
Lost within myself, the walk passed quickly. And before I knew it, I had entered his office.
Barely past the door, I stopped, shocked. It was the middle of the day, but there sat my mother and Grandmother Ruie, at my school.
“What are you doing here?” I asked abruptly, confused. No doubt the Principal was there, but tunnel vision can hardly describe what my state of mind was.
“We came to take you home,” my mother replied. She was sitting closest to me. After quickly glancing at her mom and the Principal, she continued, “If that’s alright with you?”
“But Grandpa picks me up after school every day,” I offered lamely, lost amidst waves of mixed emotions.
“No, Son, we are taking you home with us.”
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Family.
Family who?
Members from the other side of my family who were basically at war with those I resided with.
In a flash, I aged as the cage of my world emptied.
*****
Much like Victor Frankl wrote, I am tolerant of other beliefs. Not that I share them, per se, but I certainly acknowledge the right of each individual “to believe, and obey, his [or her] conscience.” Even in the face of mental impairment. In many ways, I also feel as Confucius did when he stressed: “To see what is right and not do it is the worst cowardice.”
How do we assess bravery when a neuroatypical person acts on what they feel is right, even as the world says they are wrong or defective?
At the best of times the very notion of knowing “what is right” can be complicated. Thus, obeying the conscience … well, “entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem” hardly applies. And once beyond Occam’s razor method of consideration, how are we able to unravel what has formed in the mind?
Socrates often spoke and taught through the lens of what he called “thymos” – the universal craving for recognition. As his discourses usually entwined with political rhetoric, thymos embodied identity politics, which came in two forms: isothymia – the desire to be seen as equal to everyone else; and megalothymia – the desire to be seen as superior. Socrates’ conscience evolved beyond a blindly obedient soldier, into a critic of Greek culture and government policy. Because he came to understand how the passion for equal recognition does not necessarily diminish with the achievement of greater de facto equality and material abundance, but may actually be stimulated by it.
In essence, Socrates realized he was but a pawn, and as Thoreau expressed when he wrote about a man’s view of self-indicating fate, Socrates was branded a traitor for his views and sentenced to death.
So, there is a case to be made that conscience is entwined with ego, as an extension of the collective. Because interacting in society works to satisfy and balance desire, reason, and thymos. Thymos as Socrates presented it never gets solved, though.
Thymos is a volatile aspect of human nature that can be channeled into benign pursuits. At times, institutions (of which prisons are included) can constrain it, abundance might pacify it, or it can be directed towards great and useful works, but thymos can never be permanently quelled.
Francis Fukuyama – a protégé of philosophy professor Allan Bloom – wrote: “Human life … involves a curious paradox: It seems to require injustice, for the struggle against injustice is what calls forth what is highest in man.”
As I strive to know the man I am, I look back to the boy I was. In doing so, I’ve developed the awareness of how each knock and opened door (that contributed to my transformation) also affected my brother. Differently, for sure, because to assume otherwise would deny his independent existence, his presence as an individual.
Even so, there is a mirror aspect, a reflection of inter-dependent origination – like two sides of the same coin – I’ve identified. A large part of which is rooted in how we were forced to deal with a divided family.
In 1985, my brother was born. I was five years old. Prior to that, my whole identity was tied to the home where my mother and father also lived. My childish cravings for recognition were in balance, because when I reached “they were there.” The expectation that they should be was the reality I came to believe should always exist.
I was at the hospital when my brother was born, and I contributed to the name he was given.
Welcoming Shanon into the world was an interactive experience that I enjoyed. I remember being excited about the idea of having a brother to share with what I felt was mine. Of course, I can’t say I truly understood what being a brother meant, but “someone to play with” resonated. As it was explained to me, when Shanon was a bit older I’d have a friend to go on adventures with. I would be able to show him things, and teach him what I knew.
But the defining element in all of that was my belief our parents would always be there.
Until they weren’t.
The fifth year of my life held so much promise, but after my brother was born, it turned out to be a source of great trauma.
Terror came to me
through a sliver of light,
outlining a gateway
of shadows;
Iron bands of fear
halted my steps,
as echoes of heavy impacts
and whimpering
chased away comfort and hope;
The brutal reality:
pain and suffering were near.
Most of what exists in my mind of that night is an impression of feeling utterly hopeless. I had endured my father’s anger, his heavy hand. I knew what the impacts meant, what the whimpering symbolized. The sounds of pain could have easily been my own and I wanted them to stop. My parent’s bedroom was supposed to be where I could go for comfort, to be embraced, have stories read to me … not a sanctum of brutality.
There were many fractures in my parent’s relationship, other nuances which contributed to the outcome, but the beating my mother received was the catalyst that accelerated her decision to leave. My brother was barely six-months-old when our parents separated. From then until I was nine years old, Shanon and I were infrequently near each other.
Dad kept me with him in Arlington, Texas. Shanon went with our mother, south. There were visits, of course, going in both directions, but I hardly have any memories of interacting with my brother during that time. My focus was struggling with a life out of balance. I wanted my parents back together, in the same place, not spread across the breadth of Texas making me feel like I had to choose between them. It saddens me to recognize and admit: I never really considered what my brother was dealing with.
Obviously that has changed.
Shanon was practically born into the family division I struggled with, so the foundation of his life was not disrupted. Nor was he burdened with carrying feelings that he was somehow responsible for our parents no longer being together. In the few memories I recall of his visits, Shanon seemed to enjoy the adventure of them. I remember he had a bubbly personality.
By contrast, I resented the hell out of the whole process, being stuck in the middle. When my father began living with Judy, and there was no room for me, the situation was made worse. I absolutely loved my grandparents and enjoyed many moments with them, but more often than not, I was utterly miserable, missing what I had before. As much as my grandparents fought to provide me a stable home – and they did! – there were broken fragments they were incapable of piecing back together.
While I thrashed about in mental chaos, Shanon actually had the stable “home” I craved. Not long after separating from our father, Mom began a new relationship with Greg. The interactive presence of Mom and Greg was there for Shanon all through his formative years, so Greg was the “dad” he knew. My brother’s identity was built around “them.”
A connection that was purely against what I wanted! What I felt I needed. I resented what Shanon had, but that was at war in my mind with wanting my mother to be happy. It was impossible to reconcile because I felt like an outsider: Shanon had his “dad,” Greg; Judy’s sons had MY dad – he had very little time for me anymore.
All in all, I recognize what I wanted was selfish. I craved a return to a reality that would never exist again. So when Mom showed up at my school to “take me home with them” … that signified the death of my irrational dream.
The hardest part for me: trying to overcome my resentment and express happiness for my mother as I assimilated into a new home.
As I think back, the saddest part: Judy’s sons had ruined the notion of what a brother was, could or might be. Having Shanon as a playmate no longer appealed to me. I viewed him as an annoyance, so I pushed him away, often. Or simply ignored him.
Early on, that was certainly true, but with time I grew somewhat more comfortable with him. Our relationship got better, but I do not feel it ever fully developed into what it could have been.
And then, before I knew it, I was fifteen, a sophomore in high school. Shanon was nine, going on ten, and in the 3rd grade. Wow, déjà vu. Mom and Greg separated, and all at once my brother’s identity fractured, then shattered. Shanon lost the dad he grew up with, the man who had been more of a father to him than our own. It was when my brother lost that family structure that our struggles became mirror images of each other.
Looking back, it is easy to imagine how crushed Shanon felt when he was forced to accept the new reality. I don’t have to guess or theorize; I lived with him, so I know exactly what happened. Our half-sister, Rachelle (who was five years old at the time), stayed with Greg in Austin, Texas. Shanon and I went with Mom, south – as if the shadow of history had a sick desire to repeat itself.
From that point on, Shanon and I began spiraling out of control in our individual, but oh-so-very-similar ways. All of our anger and behavioral issues were associated with our desires to somehow reclaim what was lost.
Our thymos was out of balance, unreconciled.
*****
“Not a little misery and confusion arise from the fact that through our own guilt we do not understand ourselves and do not know who we are. Would it not seem a terrible ignorance if one had no answer to give to the question, who one was, who his parents were, and from what country he came?”
– Teresa of Avila, excerpt from “The Interior Castle.”
During the latency period of personality development, from about four to five years of age until puberty, how each child is recognized becomes an integral part of their identity. And each child’s thymos reveals itself through patterns of behavior. Symptomatic expressions that are a part of their personality language – how they interface with the world. Undoubtedly, other elements of nature and nurture contribute to this constructed self. At what point mental health disorders begin to develop is a matter of debate, but once a state of neurodivergence is reached, treatment and management are possible.
Neurodivergence is, of course, never an excuse for aberrant behavior. That which is agreed upon as wrong in our society has a purpose. Punishment is needed and can be just. But considering mental health issues challenges notions of reasonableness – the legal standard used to determine how a crime might have been committed.
How my brother transformed from the happy, playful and obedient boy at ten years of age, into the mad-at-the-world teenager, due to abandonment issues, is hard to reconcile. Shanon’s behavior, though, was a clear indicator that he struggled. And by the age of fifteen, what he was chasing in his mind resulted in a real life high-speed car chase. Running a red light. Slamming into another car, killing the driver. An event that still haunts my brother.
Was it “reasonable” to convict an established neurodivergent fifteen-year-old as “an adult”? However further consideration might have been applied can never change this fact: Shanon was sentenced to twenty years in prison.
As I came to understand it, my brother struggled to conform while in the Texas Youth Commission, at Giddings State School. He was not following the “plan.” Regardless, by the time he was eighteen, the State of Texas had a clear understanding of his mental health, and how he suffered from a learning disorder. At Shanon’s certification hearing, the lady judge was in tears because she did not want to send my brother to an adult prison. But she had no power to employ a reasonable alternative. All the judge could do was follow the procedures and protocols before her. The system did not allow for reason.
Confucius once said: “Shall I teach you how to know something? Realize you know it when you know it, and realize you don’t know it when you don’t.”
I certainly do not need to use the Socratic Method to develop an idea of what my brother faced. I don’t have to guess. I lived it myself. At sixteen years of age, I was clinically diagnosed as bipolar. At seventeen, I nearly killed another student in class, an event where fear triggered a fugue state and violence. I have no memory of what happened. Luckily others were there to stop me. Being bipolar absolutely contributed to all of my aberrant, wrong behavior. But I do not present that as an excuse.
My reality was that what was broken within was not understood; it went untreated, unmanaged. Because I was prone to putting myself in bad situations, it was only a matter of time until there was no one to intercede when I lost control. Sadly, by the time I was twenty-five years old, I had contributed to the death of two people. Events that I have no true memories of. Instead, I’m left with haunting voids in my mind.
Was it “reasonable” to convict me, an established neurodivergent young man, for murder, without any mental health consideration? I was willing to admit my guilt, the wrongdoing. I did so in 2005. I also pled for help.
My help was a life sentence in prison, with another twenty-five years added in 2019 to run concurrent.
So, I absolutely know how the stigma against mental health improperly influences legal precedent. Mostly, neurodivergence is ignored.
Not in prison, though. Oh no. Act out and guards are quick to use gas or physical violence. My brother suffered a skull fracture and a broken wrist. The best mental health treatment model they have? Solitary confinement, generally, with limited one-on-one therapy, but plenty of psych drugs with side-effects. A perfect example: Shanon suffered renal failure.
Luckily, I have been able to write him over the years. That was the only way I could be directly present for him. But when he would attempt suicide, I understood. I’d walked that path myself. When he sliced himself open, my blood spilled as well. When he described how they could or would not relate to him, at least I could be there to do exactly that.
My journey in prison has been fraught with numerous difficulties. If I were to consider my thymos from back then: I was terrified of myself, how my mind could just turn off while my body would continue to function. That inner fear pervaded the sense of how I might adapt to, or live in, prison. Being bipolar might be a false-self, but it was a living thing within me. And so, by 2010, I had participated in an escape attempt. Was shot. Nearly died.
Since then, I’ve been in solitary confinement, Ad-Seg … or now, “Restrictive Housing.”
Maybe I needed to be broken down to nothing, have everything stripped away. For sure, that was when the Four Noble Truths concerning suffering, in Buddhism, became my focus. And so my journey on the Bird’s Path began.
“This Path means first getting rid of clinging to self even while living in the present heap of energy and matter, attaining our original state of egolessness. Then you must also know that things have no inherent identities either. Once you realize the selflessness of persons and things, even in the midst of your daily activities, you walk in emptiness.”
– Zen Master Shingetsu
I was fortunate to be able to share what I learned with my brother. And as I learned more about myself, I developed a greater awareness of who Shanon was. How his struggles, his suffering, mirrored my own. So I could counsel him on ways to stay focused on positive things … to find a way forward. All of that effort helped me to develop the confidence to have much needed conversations with family – to discuss the past, failures, pain … maybe how to heal.
That whole experience evolved when our father re-entered our lives. Being given the opportunity to reform the relationship with him has been a blessing that goes on giving because, in 2021, after over nineteen years in prison, Texas finally released my brother … out into the world as a “grown man,” with no true sense of how to be one.
Except Dad runs a ranch. And years of conversations have woven together a strong support group. All of which Shanon walked into. And now he is thriving.
But I’ll never forget one of the first things Shanon told me when he was released. He was crying, “I’m scared. Why do I feel like I want to go back?”
*****
“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.”
– Emily Dickinson
A year has passed. Shanon is stable, works a full-time job, attends church and interacts in his community (in healthy, non-criminal ways), and he is planning to get married. From the day he arrived “home,” he has been forced to reshape his view of the world and how he identifies with it – his thymos. And step-by-step he has grown more confident in his ability to be more than what he suffered in the past. Or the suffering he contributed to.
The road of life is a long one, yet also fleeting. I believe Shanon was in part lucky, but also very brave, to have survived the devastating experience of nineteen years in prison. Against all expectation – perhaps even logic – my brother’s time in that crucible has led to significant, if unorthodox, growth, intensified his ambition to be successful, and provided him a greater appreciation for life.
As my brother continues to overcome what crippled him in the past, I remain incarcerated. But that’s okay. Shanon’s freedom is hope perching in my soul sharing the melody of what’s possible. Eventually that tune will present a door I can only hope I will be allowed to pass through.
“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly ….”
– Theodore Roosevelt
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