Father Lopez was a priest on death row. When asked what it was like receiving the confessions of such terrible men, he would say it wasn't as bad as people made it out to be. Either they would repent their sins and go on to forgiveness with god or they would prove to be very sick men who would in any case be dead in the near future. It was a win-win.
So when he arrived to give Noel Jordan his final confession, he was optimistic and even cheerful. He knew some of the horrible things he had done but also knew the state would soon do God's work and take him off the Earth.
Noel Jordan didn't look like the other prisoners Lopez had seen. Often, they would be hysterical, yelling or sobbing or maybe both. Others would be deathly calm and inscrutable behind terrible calculating eyes. Noel was different. He was just sitting there, a look of mild irritation in his eyes like someone who's been waiting for a bus a little too long and wants to get on with it.
Lopez entered the cell.
"Hello, my son. Do you have anything to confess?"
Noel looked up, as if noticing the father for the first time.
"Confess? What do you mean?"
Lopez frowned slightly.
"Anything you wish to say or ask for forgiveness from god before your earthy end."
"Oh. Yes."
Lopez waited a moment.
"Well? What is it? Are you seeking forgiveness or not?"
"Ah, sorry father, but no. I just don't know how to say it. I do have a confession. Can I have a moment more to think?"
"Yes, my son, but do hurry. You only have about half an hour."
"That's right, good. I guess I want to say I'm sorry. Not about the death of my wife and 2 children, but the fact I'm completely not sorry about any of it. If somehow they were brought back to life today and I were free, I would do it again."
"Why not make your peace in these final moments?"
"I am. I'm a monster. I killed all three, strangled them and tore them apart with my bare hands and I don't know why. I had to do it, see? You know how when you're a child, sometimes you pull a mean trick on a friend or sibling or somebody for no reason and you have no idea why?"
"Yes."
"It was exactly like that. I've never been in a fight my whole life. Never so much as yanked my dog's chain when I walked him. But it was a compulsion, like scratching your nose or going to sleep. I'm glad this is happening. I need to die before I get that feeling again."
"Do you wish me to pray with you for forgiveness?"
"No. I don't want or deserve forgiveness. I just need to die for what I've done. Tell my story, warn people that it could happen to them. Please."
"A..alirght.."
Noel smiled at him as he left the cell. In less than 20 minutes he would be dead via lethal injection. For the first time since taking this job Lopez was more than a little perturbed.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Eulogy for Pook
I had a difficult relationship with my grandmother. When I was small she was known as Pook, as she had several mid-sized moles on her face that I called Pooks, after the sound I imagined they would make if they popped. She cared a lot about me and would always tell me stories and give me gifts and show me how to make things.
But she had demons she never conquered. She was mentally ill her whole life and in a lot of ways it left her unable to deal with the world. My mother knew but pretended she didn't. She couldn't accept that her mother was sick. My grandmother had angry fits in which she would lash out at me and tell me what a bastard I was and belittle me. There are incidents that to this day I don't speak of and remain locked up inside. Very sad periods.
I choose instead to think about the good things she gave me. The Hallowe'en she handmade a Superman costume for me. Learning Cribbage. Being four years old and desperately longing for a dollhouse and having her buy it for me and building miniature furniture for it. Walking to the park and pressing the leaves we found there into books. Baking cookies. These are the things I really want to remember.
She was raised in a Mormon home near Calgary and never forgot the lessons she had learned there. She came to Toronto to study at the Royal Conservatory but never managed to finish. Her illness overwhelmed her and she spent some time in a sanitarium. Shortly after my mother was born. She concealed this fact so well that neither of us knew anything about it for years.
She was deeply religious and always tried to instill in me she felt to god, all the while encouraging me to follow my dreams and telling me she would love me no matter what. I went to church for awhile, mostly to please her. But it didn't take root in me the way it did in her. I never saw church or religion the way she did and eventually became an atheist. I told her and she was unhappy about it, but she accepted me the way she always promised she would.
I grew into my teenage years the way anybody does, in a whirl of new thoughts, feelings and experiences. I still saw my grandmother fairly frequently, but as time went on it grew to be less and less. I felt I had my own life to lead and my limitations to overcome. When I heard she was in the hospital and in rough shape, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself and drowning in my own troubles. When I finally did get to see her, it was horrifying. She was unconscious. Her hair was yellowing and like straw. Her eyes were open but milky and unresponsive. Her skin was thin and almost see through on most of her body. She wore a respirator and had an IV tube. Her arms were restrained because she would wake up and remove the face mask and wasn't able to breathe.
Every now and again, in a state of delirium, she would call out in half-formed words that, without her false teeth sound just like baby talk. Baba, for Barbara, my mother. I was there for almost an hour, just watching and trying to see if she would snap out of it or something.
And for a few moments when the doctor arrived, she did. She didn't know where she was or why, but at least she was aware. She saw us and we held her hand. She gathered her strength and whispered "pray for me" to us before falling back asleep. It was for all of two minutes.
That night she died. My father called and told me the next evening. I was speechless. I hadn't prayed for her that night; I had never prayed in my entire life. I don't think Pook would have wanted a fake prayer. She valued honesty and decency and to pretend something you don't believe would have been neither. But at that moment I almost wished I could pray and really believe in it.
But she had demons she never conquered. She was mentally ill her whole life and in a lot of ways it left her unable to deal with the world. My mother knew but pretended she didn't. She couldn't accept that her mother was sick. My grandmother had angry fits in which she would lash out at me and tell me what a bastard I was and belittle me. There are incidents that to this day I don't speak of and remain locked up inside. Very sad periods.
I choose instead to think about the good things she gave me. The Hallowe'en she handmade a Superman costume for me. Learning Cribbage. Being four years old and desperately longing for a dollhouse and having her buy it for me and building miniature furniture for it. Walking to the park and pressing the leaves we found there into books. Baking cookies. These are the things I really want to remember.
She was raised in a Mormon home near Calgary and never forgot the lessons she had learned there. She came to Toronto to study at the Royal Conservatory but never managed to finish. Her illness overwhelmed her and she spent some time in a sanitarium. Shortly after my mother was born. She concealed this fact so well that neither of us knew anything about it for years.
She was deeply religious and always tried to instill in me she felt to god, all the while encouraging me to follow my dreams and telling me she would love me no matter what. I went to church for awhile, mostly to please her. But it didn't take root in me the way it did in her. I never saw church or religion the way she did and eventually became an atheist. I told her and she was unhappy about it, but she accepted me the way she always promised she would.
I grew into my teenage years the way anybody does, in a whirl of new thoughts, feelings and experiences. I still saw my grandmother fairly frequently, but as time went on it grew to be less and less. I felt I had my own life to lead and my limitations to overcome. When I heard she was in the hospital and in rough shape, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself and drowning in my own troubles. When I finally did get to see her, it was horrifying. She was unconscious. Her hair was yellowing and like straw. Her eyes were open but milky and unresponsive. Her skin was thin and almost see through on most of her body. She wore a respirator and had an IV tube. Her arms were restrained because she would wake up and remove the face mask and wasn't able to breathe.
Every now and again, in a state of delirium, she would call out in half-formed words that, without her false teeth sound just like baby talk. Baba, for Barbara, my mother. I was there for almost an hour, just watching and trying to see if she would snap out of it or something.
And for a few moments when the doctor arrived, she did. She didn't know where she was or why, but at least she was aware. She saw us and we held her hand. She gathered her strength and whispered "pray for me" to us before falling back asleep. It was for all of two minutes.
That night she died. My father called and told me the next evening. I was speechless. I hadn't prayed for her that night; I had never prayed in my entire life. I don't think Pook would have wanted a fake prayer. She valued honesty and decency and to pretend something you don't believe would have been neither. But at that moment I almost wished I could pray and really believe in it.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Fable
Long ago there was a young man traveling through a small fishing village in the east. Although he was a stranger, he was welcomed with open arms. They gave him a place to sleep and food to eat and only asked him to do a little work in exchange, which he was happy to do.
The next morning they took him out as part of the fishing expedition. Although he did not know how to fish, he learned quickly and was soon catching more fish than any other man in the party.They begged him to stay a night longer and help them fish again. He agreed.
A night became a week and soon a month. The village was able to trade and eat better than they ever had before. The chief took the young man under his wing and into his family. The chief's daughter and the young man grew very close.
Soon it was announced they would marry. The ceremony was simple but festive and the whole village cheered. That night, the newlyweds shared a bed for the first time. It soon became apparent that the chief's daughter was carrying his child. He was very pleased and dreamed of teaching his future son all about the ways of the world and fishing.
Alas, it was not to be. When it was clear to the chief the pregnancy was going well and his daughter appeared to be in good health, he called the young man to his home and told him he had to leave immediately.
The village believed the river they fished belonged to a mighty water god. They had no right to anything they took from the water, which is why they so freely gave away anything they took. It was a means of making amends. The young man had to leave to atone for catching so many fish and for fathering a child who would surely inherit his fishing prowess. He would be killed on sight if he ever returned.
Having no choice, the young man packed his few possessions and made his way out of the village for the final time, weeping for the child he never knew. The chief's daughter knew nothing of any of this. Her father was the chief and therefore not a fisherman and so had lived in the village for many many years and had never told his daughter the ways of the village.
When she was finally told what had happened, she was so distraught she threw herself into the river and drowned. Her spirit was trapped forever underneath. The tragedy tainted the whole village and no fisherman would go near that water again. The town soon fell into chaos and disbanded.
When news of the tragedy reached the young man, he raced back to the village and found it a ghost town. He went to the river and started to fish, trying to catch the spirits of his dead love and child, without luck. He stayed by the river and fished everyday for the rest of his life until he was old and infirm. When the day finally came he could no longer fish, he simply vanished and was never seen again.
Some say, when the moon is full and the stars are at their brightest, you can still see the vague outline of a man with a fishing pole, trying to bring his wife and child into the sky.
The next morning they took him out as part of the fishing expedition. Although he did not know how to fish, he learned quickly and was soon catching more fish than any other man in the party.They begged him to stay a night longer and help them fish again. He agreed.
A night became a week and soon a month. The village was able to trade and eat better than they ever had before. The chief took the young man under his wing and into his family. The chief's daughter and the young man grew very close.
Soon it was announced they would marry. The ceremony was simple but festive and the whole village cheered. That night, the newlyweds shared a bed for the first time. It soon became apparent that the chief's daughter was carrying his child. He was very pleased and dreamed of teaching his future son all about the ways of the world and fishing.
Alas, it was not to be. When it was clear to the chief the pregnancy was going well and his daughter appeared to be in good health, he called the young man to his home and told him he had to leave immediately.
The village believed the river they fished belonged to a mighty water god. They had no right to anything they took from the water, which is why they so freely gave away anything they took. It was a means of making amends. The young man had to leave to atone for catching so many fish and for fathering a child who would surely inherit his fishing prowess. He would be killed on sight if he ever returned.
Having no choice, the young man packed his few possessions and made his way out of the village for the final time, weeping for the child he never knew. The chief's daughter knew nothing of any of this. Her father was the chief and therefore not a fisherman and so had lived in the village for many many years and had never told his daughter the ways of the village.
When she was finally told what had happened, she was so distraught she threw herself into the river and drowned. Her spirit was trapped forever underneath. The tragedy tainted the whole village and no fisherman would go near that water again. The town soon fell into chaos and disbanded.
When news of the tragedy reached the young man, he raced back to the village and found it a ghost town. He went to the river and started to fish, trying to catch the spirits of his dead love and child, without luck. He stayed by the river and fished everyday for the rest of his life until he was old and infirm. When the day finally came he could no longer fish, he simply vanished and was never seen again.
Some say, when the moon is full and the stars are at their brightest, you can still see the vague outline of a man with a fishing pole, trying to bring his wife and child into the sky.
Discharge
When Sam was discharged and sent home, they had a celebration waiting for him. He got off the train and was surrounded by well-wishers and happy smiling people. He managed a small smile and mumbled a few words of thanks before the mayor gave a speech thanking him for his service to his country. The crowd cheered and he just wished the whole thing was over so he could go home.
Finally he was in his dad's old pickup on the way home. His parents asked him how he was and he told them he was fine but very mechanically. They told him about working in the mill and the factory while he had been gone. They tried to draw him out a little, telling a few jokes and stories and he tried to respond a little but mostly he was a blank.
He got home and took a shower and for the first time in a long while he wore something other than his uniform. He stopped in front of the mirror and just stared at the stranger in front of him. He had left a young healthy boy always ready to laugh and with a gleam in his eye. What stood in front of him now was a worn down, stricken and lean man. His eyes shine anymore and his face seemed longer and more haggard.
His was not a stereotypical war experience. He hadn't been on the front or even seen combat. He was a clerk to an officer, pure administration. But that was the problem. It was the orders he had seen issued from above and on the ground. Hearing about regiments wiped out trying to keep unholdable lines. Or men sacrificed by the hundreds to achieve impossible goals. He never saw a single act of violence but he heard the screams and moans all around him of the dead, the wounded and dying.
None of this was his fault, of course. But he couldn't shake the feeling he was somehow responsible, that if he simply failed to transmit the orders from headquarters men wouldn't needlessly be slaughtered. The guilt ate away at him and took its toll physically. He hunched over more often, slept less. Had difficulty concentrating. He'd been offered a promotion or two but turned them down. It was bad enough to reconcile himself to his job without being rewarded for it too.
But it was all over now. He had to come to terms with it and move on. Of course he didn't have it as bad as some others. But that didn't make it better. He just needed to let go of the guilt. The war was over. He needed to let go. He raised his head and left the mirror behind him. He went downstairs.It would be nice to have a hot meal and a soft bed.
Finally he was in his dad's old pickup on the way home. His parents asked him how he was and he told them he was fine but very mechanically. They told him about working in the mill and the factory while he had been gone. They tried to draw him out a little, telling a few jokes and stories and he tried to respond a little but mostly he was a blank.
He got home and took a shower and for the first time in a long while he wore something other than his uniform. He stopped in front of the mirror and just stared at the stranger in front of him. He had left a young healthy boy always ready to laugh and with a gleam in his eye. What stood in front of him now was a worn down, stricken and lean man. His eyes shine anymore and his face seemed longer and more haggard.
His was not a stereotypical war experience. He hadn't been on the front or even seen combat. He was a clerk to an officer, pure administration. But that was the problem. It was the orders he had seen issued from above and on the ground. Hearing about regiments wiped out trying to keep unholdable lines. Or men sacrificed by the hundreds to achieve impossible goals. He never saw a single act of violence but he heard the screams and moans all around him of the dead, the wounded and dying.
None of this was his fault, of course. But he couldn't shake the feeling he was somehow responsible, that if he simply failed to transmit the orders from headquarters men wouldn't needlessly be slaughtered. The guilt ate away at him and took its toll physically. He hunched over more often, slept less. Had difficulty concentrating. He'd been offered a promotion or two but turned them down. It was bad enough to reconcile himself to his job without being rewarded for it too.
But it was all over now. He had to come to terms with it and move on. Of course he didn't have it as bad as some others. But that didn't make it better. He just needed to let go of the guilt. The war was over. He needed to let go. He raised his head and left the mirror behind him. He went downstairs.It would be nice to have a hot meal and a soft bed.
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