Impending fatherhood is grand! Given that I am a motorcycle-riding trapeze playa and my love is a motorcycle-riding burlesque performer, I am certain our little girl will have some fun hobby options. We have a great community of friends who are dying to help teach her and I feel very fortunate for that.
So yes, I think having this little girl will be FUN but I also am all too aware of all the hard work that will be involved. Hell, she won't even here for another 4 months and I'm already in ass-busting mode. We're transforming our yard (fresh grass for crawling, big flagstone patio for entertaining, fire pit, etc), the garage, our closets, the baby room (used to be guest room), and so many other "nesting" necessitites. Right now I'm feverishly working on Mandarin so I can help teach her.
Momma is considering quitting her job so she can just freelance and take care of our little rabbit and while I'm all for that it also adds a bit of stress, given the economy, blah, blah, blah. That means I have to make sure I'm always marketable as a consultant and in addition to the new language I'm also focusing on some certifications (international program management, cloud computing, etc).
In a word, I am busy.
Oddly enough, I am also quite happy.
So yes, I think having this little girl will be FUN but I also am all too aware of all the hard work that will be involved. Hell, she won't even here for another 4 months and I'm already in ass-busting mode. We're transforming our yard (fresh grass for crawling, big flagstone patio for entertaining, fire pit, etc), the garage, our closets, the baby room (used to be guest room), and so many other "nesting" necessitites. Right now I'm feverishly working on Mandarin so I can help teach her.
Momma is considering quitting her job so she can just freelance and take care of our little rabbit and while I'm all for that it also adds a bit of stress, given the economy, blah, blah, blah. That means I have to make sure I'm always marketable as a consultant and in addition to the new language I'm also focusing on some certifications (international program management, cloud computing, etc).
In a word, I am busy.
Oddly enough, I am also quite happy.
Yesterday was my Birthday. I'm celebrating it here in Hawaii, which is amazing. Everything was brilliant until my sister called to inform me that our mother died. Since then, not so happy.
What a brilliant summer this has been so far. My broken foot has mended and I've been able to run a bit; after 20 months of commuting to LA, I have taken some time off work to enjoy riding my motorcycle and just enjoying Seattle again; my sister gave birth to my first nephew; my lover and I have decided to live together, and that is absolutely brilliant. In fact, I took her home this weekend to meet my mother. When mom saw her she said "you got yourself a looker". Things did get a bit awkward (for me) when mom told her about a troubling sex dream later on, but Alix took it all in stride. I almost died. :-)
This week I'm back to trapeze and rope work!
Life is good.
This week I'm back to trapeze and rope work!
Life is good.
I have a meeting in Redmond (about 15-20 miles from Seattle) in a while, and since the sun is out today I decided to pull Emma out of the garage, clean her up, and ride her out and back. After finishing the cleaning and warming up part, it occured to me that my FOOT IS BROKEN AND I CAN'T RIDE A FUCKING MOTORCYCLE. I calmly put her away and took a nap... trying to stop my tears. Little...salty...tears.
2010! I am very excited about this new year. I understand that the mere changing of a few digits on the calendar doesn't mean much, but it is still symbol of a fresh start. 2009 had its share of sadness and frustrations, but for me those were balanced by a great deal of joy and gratitude. I am grateful for all of it.
Now I look forward to this new year. I don't necessarily do resolutions, but I have a few goals:
1) Run at least one marathon BAREFOOT
2) Fiind a quality space for aerial practice
3) More international travel (back to Italy, perhaps move on to Paris?)
4) Nurture my relationships with my lover and all my wonderful friends
5) Nurture my (sometimes strained) relationships with my family
6) Finish Project "Hell 1" (a vintage racing motorcycle I'm working on)
I hope anyone who happens to read this has a brilliant year as well. May you not only get more than what you want, may you get all of what you need. Much Love!
-M
Now I look forward to this new year. I don't necessarily do resolutions, but I have a few goals:
1) Run at least one marathon BAREFOOT
2) Fiind a quality space for aerial practice
3) More international travel (back to Italy, perhaps move on to Paris?)
4) Nurture my relationships with my lover and all my wonderful friends
5) Nurture my (sometimes strained) relationships with my family
6) Finish Project "Hell 1" (a vintage racing motorcycle I'm working on)
I hope anyone who happens to read this has a brilliant year as well. May you not only get more than what you want, may you get all of what you need. Much Love!
-M
I read Nixon's blog and decided I would share this. I wrote it early this last Spring.
Note: this one's a little heavy, but it feels good to share it.
His name was Paul Emmet Smith.
My name is Matthew Paul Smith.
On the night of March 24, 1994 I walked out of the Good Samaritan nursing home and into the rain. I was having trouble breathing, but was so detached I barely noticed that I was sobbing again. I had just said goodbye to my father on his hospital bed. He had died just a few hours earlier. I found my car, fumbled my way inside, and smoked a cigarette. At some point later on, I realized that I was driving all around Spokane, my home town, revisiting the ghosts of us; some young, others a bit older. The night was going to be a long one, but it passed so quickly.
I started with all the old ghosts, except for one that I couldn't face. I went to the house on Houston Ave where I grew up. Parking up the street, I crept down the hill until I stood in front of that god-awful old California Split level. I remembered the anorexic Christmas Trees that used to adorn the large picture window. Mom loved “Charlie Brown trees”, and Dad, loving everything she did, would guide us through the mountains and forests until we found the most pathetic specimen of pine tree imaginable. We’d cut it down, drink hot carob (the most heinous chocolate substitute imaginable), strap the tree on top of the ol’ Datsun station wagon, and head home to dress it up.
I turned 360 degrees, taking in the old ‘hood, thinking of all the hand-me-down bikes dad fixed up for me that I rode up and down that street. I thought of the families that used to live there and all the fights, tears, and triumphs I had with the those other kids. I thought of how dad used to take us trick-or-treating up and down the block until we were old enough to be left to our own devices. I remember the first time he pulled around the corner on his brand-spanking-new Honda 360 motorcycle. I thought of seeing dad trudging up the street, frustrated and desperate, unsuccessful at finding a job to keep his family in this house. We were very careful to stay away from him during this time. This memory took me to my next destination.
Heading all the way past the far side of town, I visited my uncle’s farm for the first time in years. I walked up to the old barn, past the machinery shed, and sat on the fence that surrounded the yard where I watched my dad on “steering day” when I was four years old. Dad was in law school, out of a job, and worked on my uncle’s farm to put food on the table…literally. That day I watched my dad slowly become a bloody mess in order to feed me. The imagery was all too vivid years later, when in high school Psychology I learned all about Freud’s “castration complex”. I also remember being surprised that Woody, the ol’ farm dog, didn’t come out to challenge my presence at that time of night.
My next stop was Horseshoe Lake, where dad and I spent many a day fishing. It was really more of an oversized farm pond, but the trout were a little more accommodating to us than those in other places, so we kept coming back. When dad was dying, we made it out there a bit more frequently, at least until his health finally kept him from it for good. This place was something of a goldmine for us, because we had a looooong history of unsuccessful fishing trips during my childhood. If we were cavemen, Mom would have been very busy gathering roots and berries. Dad was an aspiring fly-fisherman you see, but every time he mentioned that he was going to go out, he was besieged by at least three small children who insisted on tagging along. What this meant was an endless cycle of helping one kid get a worm on a hook, unhooking a lure from another kid's nose, and then trying to find where the third wandered off to. Rinse and repeat. He rarely got a chance to even start wetting a fly before the cycle began anew, but he never complained. One time things got worse than detaching a hooked piece of metal from one of his kid's extremities. Next stop.
I don’t recall actually driving there, but somehow I ended up at Deep Creek…or was it Pine River Park? This is the place where I wandered off, and where sometime later my dad pulled me from the bottom of the river by my hair. By...my...hair. I remember that his glasses were on the whole time, and that I didn’t get the spanking I thought for sure was imminent. Maybe it was because puking a gallon or two of river water was punishment enough. I think I was five or six.
Balboa Elementary field was next. I was playing little league baseball and couldn’t believe that Dad made it to one of my games. By this point he was a deputy prosecuting attorney, and was frequently gone for at least 12 hours a day working on cases. Then again, that could have been the time he was having an affair. I hit the game-winning double. He said he was proud of me. I was eight.
Adolescence became the theme, and I ran out of places to go. Somehow, at some point, Dad sort of drifted away. The causes for that will be made clear in a minute, but I’ll just now say that he had his share of disappointments in life, and I think that somewhere along the way he found it easier to withdraw rather than risk another one. For instance, when he was a young man he had been about to become a pilot in the Navy when he was hit by a drunk driver. He spent a few months in the hospital until he left with eyesight poor enough to be of no use to the Navy but just fine for the Marines. It was 1967. To avoid Viet Nam he enlisted in the Air Force instead…weapons testing.
He had a troubled wife. He had five children and a government employee’s salary. He had the ghosts of his own father to contend with. His teenaged children were…angry; rebellious; oblivious. His body was starting to betray him in strange ways.
My last stop was the Powerlines...where we had keggers back in the day. That's right. I said "keggers". At this stage I was pretty much "dependant" on those who seemed more like family to me that the ones connected to my birth certificate: Two Becky's, one Dale, one Ray, a slew of fool's in Aleman's class, and so on and so on. Time went on, and by the time I was a senior in high school the doctors thought Dad had Parkinson’s Disease. A few years, and lots of the wrong treatment, later the docs realized they had it all wrong. Dad had something very similar to Lou Gehrig ’s disease. The cause was likely his exposure to radioactive boron during his Air Force days, but the government hasn’t been cooperative. His motor control went to hell, his speech became slurred, and he was incontinent. He fell down a lot. He had to retire early. One day as he was out for a short stroll with the help of a “walker”, a bunch of high-school aged kids made fun of him for being a “retard”. They had no idea that this man recently put murderers and rapists behind bars.
I gave up on looking for ghosts and went home. It was probably 5 a.m.
Eventually, my mother decided she couldn’t take care of him and Dad was put in the Good Samaritan nursing home. I visited him every week and during the next year I sort of became a confessor to him. He shared with me all the things he was proud of. He told me his regrets. He cried, and I tried to absolve him. I told him it was okay, and then we’d go for a drive or maybe to get something to eat. He loved getting away from that place.
And then he died.
I remember kissing his forehead that night.
This next part is hard. It’s been 15 years, during which the grief has progressed to reverence, and finally to acceptance; an acceptance that Paul Emmet Smith, for all the gifts he gave me, fucked up royally a few times. My father loved his family, he loved me, but he wasn’t always perfect. He left a few apologies and regrets unaccounted for, namely the few episodes where, in outrage and despondence, he became violent…with me. It was “only a few times”, and never past age ten or so, but I think my talent for being present at pivotal moments put me directly in the path of a man who was out of his mind with rage, not with me, but with how his life had turned out.
The episodes were only a few, but needless to say the scars are still there and I haven’t been able to admit their existence until very recently, and even then only with the very few who are most precious to me: M. C. K. It's hard to share with you how full my heart is for these three women.
I accept the experiences now, the bad times, just as I accept that my father cannot be defined solely by his good deeds or his bad ones. I know he was burdened by the guilt. I know his father was brutal. I know that the reason he withdrew was largely because he did not want to repeat his crime against me or any of my siblings, nor our mother. I know that for all the times we sat together as he was dying, he wished he could have said “I’m sorry”. I know this, and while I don’t excuse him for what he did, I understand him now. It’s this understanding that allows me to forgive him.
It’s been fifteen years, but that night with the ghosts is one I won’t forget. I am reliving it now, and am sure time and imagination have colored a few of the hazy bits, but the fundamental truths are all there. At the end of the day, I know that if I ever become a father I won’t be Paul, but I hope I take a lot of the good things from him. He loved me. He sacrificed so much for me. He saved my fucking life. He tried to be accountable. He read stories to all his children nearly every night. He taught me many things, and for all of them I am grateful.
Rest well, Dad. I miss you.
Note: this one's a little heavy, but it feels good to share it.
His name was Paul Emmet Smith.
My name is Matthew Paul Smith.
On the night of March 24, 1994 I walked out of the Good Samaritan nursing home and into the rain. I was having trouble breathing, but was so detached I barely noticed that I was sobbing again. I had just said goodbye to my father on his hospital bed. He had died just a few hours earlier. I found my car, fumbled my way inside, and smoked a cigarette. At some point later on, I realized that I was driving all around Spokane, my home town, revisiting the ghosts of us; some young, others a bit older. The night was going to be a long one, but it passed so quickly.
I started with all the old ghosts, except for one that I couldn't face. I went to the house on Houston Ave where I grew up. Parking up the street, I crept down the hill until I stood in front of that god-awful old California Split level. I remembered the anorexic Christmas Trees that used to adorn the large picture window. Mom loved “Charlie Brown trees”, and Dad, loving everything she did, would guide us through the mountains and forests until we found the most pathetic specimen of pine tree imaginable. We’d cut it down, drink hot carob (the most heinous chocolate substitute imaginable), strap the tree on top of the ol’ Datsun station wagon, and head home to dress it up.
I turned 360 degrees, taking in the old ‘hood, thinking of all the hand-me-down bikes dad fixed up for me that I rode up and down that street. I thought of the families that used to live there and all the fights, tears, and triumphs I had with the those other kids. I thought of how dad used to take us trick-or-treating up and down the block until we were old enough to be left to our own devices. I remember the first time he pulled around the corner on his brand-spanking-new Honda 360 motorcycle. I thought of seeing dad trudging up the street, frustrated and desperate, unsuccessful at finding a job to keep his family in this house. We were very careful to stay away from him during this time. This memory took me to my next destination.
Heading all the way past the far side of town, I visited my uncle’s farm for the first time in years. I walked up to the old barn, past the machinery shed, and sat on the fence that surrounded the yard where I watched my dad on “steering day” when I was four years old. Dad was in law school, out of a job, and worked on my uncle’s farm to put food on the table…literally. That day I watched my dad slowly become a bloody mess in order to feed me. The imagery was all too vivid years later, when in high school Psychology I learned all about Freud’s “castration complex”. I also remember being surprised that Woody, the ol’ farm dog, didn’t come out to challenge my presence at that time of night.
My next stop was Horseshoe Lake, where dad and I spent many a day fishing. It was really more of an oversized farm pond, but the trout were a little more accommodating to us than those in other places, so we kept coming back. When dad was dying, we made it out there a bit more frequently, at least until his health finally kept him from it for good. This place was something of a goldmine for us, because we had a looooong history of unsuccessful fishing trips during my childhood. If we were cavemen, Mom would have been very busy gathering roots and berries. Dad was an aspiring fly-fisherman you see, but every time he mentioned that he was going to go out, he was besieged by at least three small children who insisted on tagging along. What this meant was an endless cycle of helping one kid get a worm on a hook, unhooking a lure from another kid's nose, and then trying to find where the third wandered off to. Rinse and repeat. He rarely got a chance to even start wetting a fly before the cycle began anew, but he never complained. One time things got worse than detaching a hooked piece of metal from one of his kid's extremities. Next stop.
I don’t recall actually driving there, but somehow I ended up at Deep Creek…or was it Pine River Park? This is the place where I wandered off, and where sometime later my dad pulled me from the bottom of the river by my hair. By...my...hair. I remember that his glasses were on the whole time, and that I didn’t get the spanking I thought for sure was imminent. Maybe it was because puking a gallon or two of river water was punishment enough. I think I was five or six.
Balboa Elementary field was next. I was playing little league baseball and couldn’t believe that Dad made it to one of my games. By this point he was a deputy prosecuting attorney, and was frequently gone for at least 12 hours a day working on cases. Then again, that could have been the time he was having an affair. I hit the game-winning double. He said he was proud of me. I was eight.
Adolescence became the theme, and I ran out of places to go. Somehow, at some point, Dad sort of drifted away. The causes for that will be made clear in a minute, but I’ll just now say that he had his share of disappointments in life, and I think that somewhere along the way he found it easier to withdraw rather than risk another one. For instance, when he was a young man he had been about to become a pilot in the Navy when he was hit by a drunk driver. He spent a few months in the hospital until he left with eyesight poor enough to be of no use to the Navy but just fine for the Marines. It was 1967. To avoid Viet Nam he enlisted in the Air Force instead…weapons testing.
He had a troubled wife. He had five children and a government employee’s salary. He had the ghosts of his own father to contend with. His teenaged children were…angry; rebellious; oblivious. His body was starting to betray him in strange ways.
My last stop was the Powerlines...where we had keggers back in the day. That's right. I said "keggers". At this stage I was pretty much "dependant" on those who seemed more like family to me that the ones connected to my birth certificate: Two Becky's, one Dale, one Ray, a slew of fool's in Aleman's class, and so on and so on. Time went on, and by the time I was a senior in high school the doctors thought Dad had Parkinson’s Disease. A few years, and lots of the wrong treatment, later the docs realized they had it all wrong. Dad had something very similar to Lou Gehrig ’s disease. The cause was likely his exposure to radioactive boron during his Air Force days, but the government hasn’t been cooperative. His motor control went to hell, his speech became slurred, and he was incontinent. He fell down a lot. He had to retire early. One day as he was out for a short stroll with the help of a “walker”, a bunch of high-school aged kids made fun of him for being a “retard”. They had no idea that this man recently put murderers and rapists behind bars.
I gave up on looking for ghosts and went home. It was probably 5 a.m.
Eventually, my mother decided she couldn’t take care of him and Dad was put in the Good Samaritan nursing home. I visited him every week and during the next year I sort of became a confessor to him. He shared with me all the things he was proud of. He told me his regrets. He cried, and I tried to absolve him. I told him it was okay, and then we’d go for a drive or maybe to get something to eat. He loved getting away from that place.
And then he died.
I remember kissing his forehead that night.
This next part is hard. It’s been 15 years, during which the grief has progressed to reverence, and finally to acceptance; an acceptance that Paul Emmet Smith, for all the gifts he gave me, fucked up royally a few times. My father loved his family, he loved me, but he wasn’t always perfect. He left a few apologies and regrets unaccounted for, namely the few episodes where, in outrage and despondence, he became violent…with me. It was “only a few times”, and never past age ten or so, but I think my talent for being present at pivotal moments put me directly in the path of a man who was out of his mind with rage, not with me, but with how his life had turned out.
The episodes were only a few, but needless to say the scars are still there and I haven’t been able to admit their existence until very recently, and even then only with the very few who are most precious to me: M. C. K. It's hard to share with you how full my heart is for these three women.
I accept the experiences now, the bad times, just as I accept that my father cannot be defined solely by his good deeds or his bad ones. I know he was burdened by the guilt. I know his father was brutal. I know that the reason he withdrew was largely because he did not want to repeat his crime against me or any of my siblings, nor our mother. I know that for all the times we sat together as he was dying, he wished he could have said “I’m sorry”. I know this, and while I don’t excuse him for what he did, I understand him now. It’s this understanding that allows me to forgive him.
It’s been fifteen years, but that night with the ghosts is one I won’t forget. I am reliving it now, and am sure time and imagination have colored a few of the hazy bits, but the fundamental truths are all there. At the end of the day, I know that if I ever become a father I won’t be Paul, but I hope I take a lot of the good things from him. He loved me. He sacrificed so much for me. He saved my fucking life. He tried to be accountable. He read stories to all his children nearly every night. He taught me many things, and for all of them I am grateful.
Rest well, Dad. I miss you.
About a year ago I got into running marathons as a way to support my little brother, who has blood cancer. Since then, I've run three and raised several thousands of dollars toward research and support for blood cancer patients. On Sunday, one of the many friends I have made passed away.
I was asked to speak at a memorial celebrating his life, and I spoke for about 3-4 minutes. This is the gist of what I said:
"We are not only fighting a disease. We are fighting the lonliness, the fear, and the helplessness that too often accompanies cancer. We are rallying together with passion and extending our middle finger to the idea that there is no hope. We are celebrating each other's presence and life, and by doing so...we win."
I hope these words may be of some use to you. Rest in peace, Skip.
I was asked to speak at a memorial celebrating his life, and I spoke for about 3-4 minutes. This is the gist of what I said:
"We are not only fighting a disease. We are fighting the lonliness, the fear, and the helplessness that too often accompanies cancer. We are rallying together with passion and extending our middle finger to the idea that there is no hope. We are celebrating each other's presence and life, and by doing so...we win."
I hope these words may be of some use to you. Rest in peace, Skip.
Okay, so I'm a little drinky while I write this. Apologies.
I've been gone for a week, but today I sifted through my mail and found this letter from SOS Children's Villages with information on the child I am going to support. Little Ban, the child I knew and loved who was recently killed in a street accident, is passed away and my heart will always miss her. But I honor her by taking care of children just like her. Sadly, there are so many children who face a grim life if nobody steps in to give them a better path.
So now I am honored to sponsor May (not her real Thai name). She loves to help her house mother cook, draw, sing, perform, and is a rock star on the swing set. As an aerialist, I am thrilled by this. As long as I am alive I will do my best to help children who are most in need of help. I encourage you to do the same.
Once upon a time I had a little girl of my own, but we lost her. I will always be haunted by her memory and the hole in my heart will never really be healed. That sadness will never go away, but helping others helps.
Please try it.
I've been gone for a week, but today I sifted through my mail and found this letter from SOS Children's Villages with information on the child I am going to support. Little Ban, the child I knew and loved who was recently killed in a street accident, is passed away and my heart will always miss her. But I honor her by taking care of children just like her. Sadly, there are so many children who face a grim life if nobody steps in to give them a better path.
So now I am honored to sponsor May (not her real Thai name). She loves to help her house mother cook, draw, sing, perform, and is a rock star on the swing set. As an aerialist, I am thrilled by this. As long as I am alive I will do my best to help children who are most in need of help. I encourage you to do the same.
Once upon a time I had a little girl of my own, but we lost her. I will always be haunted by her memory and the hole in my heart will never really be healed. That sadness will never go away, but helping others helps.
Please try it.
I doubt that I'll ever really stop grieving for Ban, a little girl in Thailand I sponsored, but life goes on, right? We find joy when we can.
I'm flying home to Seattle tonight and am pretty excited about the weekend's prospects. Tonight I'm meeting friends for some late sushi at Shiro! Tomorrow I'm working on one of my vintage motorcycles and then heading to the beach to get a little more late-summer sun. Tomorrow night I have an actual date! I've been on a bit of a dry spell this last month, so this is very good news. Sunday will be spent speeding along back-country rodes on my Triumph.
As if that isn't enough, I'll be in San Francisco next weekend! I love that town.
I'm flying home to Seattle tonight and am pretty excited about the weekend's prospects. Tonight I'm meeting friends for some late sushi at Shiro! Tomorrow I'm working on one of my vintage motorcycles and then heading to the beach to get a little more late-summer sun. Tomorrow night I have an actual date! I've been on a bit of a dry spell this last month, so this is very good news. Sunday will be spent speeding along back-country rodes on my Triumph.
As if that isn't enough, I'll be in San Francisco next weekend! I love that town.
I am broken.
Tonight I got this email:
"Dear Mister Smith. we regret you to inform that one of you young children died accident. Ban was a young girl. Friends loved her and the monks. She was loved. We miss her."
A few years ago I spent a month travelling by motorcycle in Thailand. Little Ban was selling flower necklaces at midnight in the Chaing Mai night market when we met. Unlike many street children, she actually had a little adult supervision: teachers from her "school/orphanage". I spoke with one of them and discovered that she was an orphan and was selling flower necklaces to hep support her school/home.
That doesn't really matter...the short story is that as soon as I met her and understood that many children were stuck on the streets in Thailand, I started donating money to support Ban. We exchanged a lot of jokes while I was in her city, and a few letters after I returned home. She wanted to be a teacher, like my brother...like the people who took care of her.
Now it would seem she's passed on. Oh hell.. i've been crying for the last hour since I read the news. Little Ban stole my heart, in a paternal sort of way. She was bold and more than a little clever, yet vulnerable. She knew how to work the "farang" (tourists) on the street, but that didn't really diminish her innocence. Anyone who saw her would be charmed, naturally. I have no children, but if I had a daughter I think I'd like it if she were like Ban.
Now she's dead. My darling little Ban was killed in a street accident. I wish I had tried to get her adopted over here. I wish I had tried to do it myself. I failed her.
I understand that there is only so much I could have done, yet I wish I had done more. What else can I say? Rest well, little one. You changed my life and I promise to help other children like you.
Tonight I got this email:
"Dear Mister Smith. we regret you to inform that one of you young children died accident. Ban was a young girl. Friends loved her and the monks. She was loved. We miss her."
A few years ago I spent a month travelling by motorcycle in Thailand. Little Ban was selling flower necklaces at midnight in the Chaing Mai night market when we met. Unlike many street children, she actually had a little adult supervision: teachers from her "school/orphanage". I spoke with one of them and discovered that she was an orphan and was selling flower necklaces to hep support her school/home.
That doesn't really matter...the short story is that as soon as I met her and understood that many children were stuck on the streets in Thailand, I started donating money to support Ban. We exchanged a lot of jokes while I was in her city, and a few letters after I returned home. She wanted to be a teacher, like my brother...like the people who took care of her.
Now it would seem she's passed on. Oh hell.. i've been crying for the last hour since I read the news. Little Ban stole my heart, in a paternal sort of way. She was bold and more than a little clever, yet vulnerable. She knew how to work the "farang" (tourists) on the street, but that didn't really diminish her innocence. Anyone who saw her would be charmed, naturally. I have no children, but if I had a daughter I think I'd like it if she were like Ban.
Now she's dead. My darling little Ban was killed in a street accident. I wish I had tried to get her adopted over here. I wish I had tried to do it myself. I failed her.
I understand that there is only so much I could have done, yet I wish I had done more. What else can I say? Rest well, little one. You changed my life and I promise to help other children like you.
JUNE 2011
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APRIL 2011
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