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Meet the Author Video
https://youtu.be/mfb8WOeMSG4
Excerpt:
At seven years of age, I am not comfortable at all being
alone. It is a very unsettling feeling. Nerve-wracking. The sense of
uncertainty over whether anyone will come back to get me. That I will be abandoned
and left behind. Well, I already am left behind, so the fears are well founded.
My coping mechanism, when terrified at this age, is to cry
and then shrink into a corner.
But I don’t want anyone to witness my fragility. I have to
keep that hidden.
As I search for a place to disappear into, I stumble across
an unlocked gate to an enclosure. There are no people on the other side in the
enclosure and my youthful brain interprets this as a secure place then in which
to hide and cry.
I do not even hesitate to go in. Keeping my emotional
fragility hidden far outweighs the explicit warning from the park owner that
“everything in Australia can kill you.”
In recent years, I have often wondered how the course of any
life might change if these small insignificant moments in our lives were
different. How strong is their influence on the outcome of our existence? What
if we had not gone to this animal park this day? Could my life be completely
different? And this moment occurred 48 years ago. How grand do defining moments
in a person’s life have to be to completely change the trajectory of their
lives?
What if mum and dad had taken us kids for a hike this day
instead of driving around the back streets? What if we went to the toad races?
What if I had not needed to go to the bathroom?
What if? Can a life change that much from the effect of a
moment that takes just five minutes to play out?
I wander a few steps into the pen and sit down with my back
against the fence. Here, I will not have to be worried about seeing the faces
of my parents, who could be embarrassed at the sight of their shrinking violet
of a son, while at least they will see where I am and come get me. Hidden but
obvious. A useful tactic in every child’s handbook.
It is at this point that I am aware that I am inside a large
pen that has a group of kangaroos in it.
If there is one native Australian species that any person
alive would prefer to be enclosed with, it is the kangaroo. Not with one of the
world’s nine deadliest snakes out of the top ten. Not with a couple of
saltwater crocodiles. Not with a collective of deadly drop bears. Give any man
a docile, grass eating kangaroo every day of the week.
A group of kangaroos is most commonly referred to as a
‘mob.’ They also use the terms ‘troop’ or ‘court’. In this case I will stick
with the use of ‘mob’ and then I can later casually toss in using the adjective
‘unruly.’
Most of the kangaroos are listlessly lying around scratching
their groins, as these animals do most of the day, even in the wild. The life
of a nature park animal exhibit is most likely 99% boredom until some
inattentive staff member also leaves the gate to the crocodile pond ajar.
I sit against the fence, remaining perfectly still. One
oversize Big Red kangaroo rises from its sprawl on the ground. He stretches
himself upright, then laboriously rolls forward on its front paws to nibble on
the tufts of brown grass. Observing me, he slowly paddles his way over to
inspect the newest occupant of its pen.
The nickname given to any male kangaroo is either ‘boomer,’
‘buck,’ or ‘jack.’ Sitting alone in an animal enclosure as a seven-year-old,
while penned in by a beast on a comparative size scale as large as wrestling
great Andre the Giant, I would also accept the use of the term ‘scary mother
fucker.’
Scrambling to my feet, I then stand frozen. I swallow large
measures of palpable fear as the animal sniffs at my cheek with its sizable,
quivering nostrils. It is a disconcerting feeling, while it takes all my
youthful willpower to not have my knees buckle and collapse. At seven, this is
like staring death in the face.
Holding my breath, I desperately attempt not to flinch as the
roo perches in front of me.
The other kangaroos in the ‘mob’ stand up and move into
position to back up their ringleader. If my legs were not two sticks of
gelatinous whale blubber sheathed in sausage casing, I might have run. There is
no telling if this is the right thing to do, but it was one of the two options
available to me on the table. The other one is cowering where I am and die.
The Big Red slowly leans forward and gently taps me on the
chest with his paw. Barely a glancing touch, but still a well-intentioned
threat. The native animals of Australia are still bullying the colonialists a
good 200 years after we thought we took over the land. Humans may well be the
most intelligent species, but no one sits down on a toilet seat and simply
ignores an inland Taipan nestling in the water of the bowl, no matter how well
developed our brains are.
What am I supposed to do against this animal? Defend myself?
I could not fight my way out of a wet paper bag if I had on steel capped boots,
a swastika tattooed on my forehead, and holding an M-16.
The kangaroo staring me in the face terrifies
me.
Guest Post
What
was my motivation for writing an inspiring memoir?
An
unspeakable tragedy that, for 13 years, crushed my life with the
weight of grief, suffering, and guilt heavier than the stone Zeus
forced Atlas to carry on his shoulders for eternity.
And
a tragedy that still crushes my life to this day, carried on by the
evil in the hearts of many people in places of authority who are more
than willing to stand by and do nothing will the abuse of an innocent
child continues unabated.
So
I was inspired to write the type of subject material that will have a
reader falling out of the chair laughing. Because apart from writing
about struggle, I include enough humor to also make a reader laugh
until they cry.
Most
days I wake up before the sun and lie in bed and dream of how better
everything would be in this world if everything was destroyed. Wiped
out. Annihilated. How years of frustration have brought me to a point
where I no longer care if I was to die tomorrow, or preferably if
everyone
on earth was to die.
There
is nothing that I see in people that makes me think any of them are
worth saving. There are mornings where I hate the entirety of
humanity that much.
And
then I get out of bed, shower, and go to work where I willingly
sweat, strain, and break my back to help complete strangers recover
from devastating spinal cord injuries, even as the rest of the health
system works to invalidate and disenfranchise them.
Because,
even as much as I cannot stand the life that the evilness on this
earth has given me and my son. I will never stop showing him how much
I love him by doing the only thing that gives me hope that one day we
too will find that one person who will sacrifice to help us.
Have
you ever had a moment of suffering or loss and looked around for help
or guidance on how to deal with it? Don’t bother. This world has
become a planet of self interest. Selfishness. People now expect
something in return for doing a good deed for someone else. Society
has lost respect for humanity.
And
yet people will want me to feel guilty for pointing this out. I used
to feel guilty. In my first
life.
But for every one admirable thing someone could point to, to show the
kindness of humans, I could point to a dozen others to expose their
wickedness and cruelty.
So
why would I write a memoir to illustrate how little hope I consider
there is for mankind? Because if I can even help one person, from
making an innocent choice that could lead them down a path that will
only end in the same unspeakable agony that I have in my life. Then I
have done enough.
Whether
or not there is a heaven or hell, I will have done enough to hold my
head up and look any other human squarely in the eyes while I still
walk this earth and state, “prove to me you are my equal.”
If
you think that is arrogance,
then let me explain a very simple fact about life. Cancer does not
pay heed to arrogance. Spinal cord injuries do not care about
arrogance. Death and disease have no concern for a person’s
arrogance, selfishness, or avarice.
What
it demonstrates is my commitment.
Anyone
who does not know this is not someone who thinks of anyone other than
themselves. While there will be difficult occasions in any human’s
life, that everybody needs the help of another. And this is a sad
time to realize that the only people worthy to be in your life are
the ones who will stand by you during hard times.
A
person will only come to fully understand this when they enter their
second
life.
Review
🌟🌟🌟🌟
As someone who always feels like the odd one out in any group, I found myself relating to the author's wondering about his place in his own family and in life.
I love the author's unassuming manner and dry wit. He doesn't think himself the only person capable of telling a story, nor does he think he is the best storyteller. But only he can tell a story in his unique style, and surely he is the best one for the job of telling his story. He finds the humor in even a life-threatening situation such as his battle with the kangaroo.
I also relate to the author's thoughts regarding society's treatment of people who are struggling psychologically. People learn early on that it is best to keep feelings such as depression or anxiety hidden. Reaching out for help is seen as a sign of weakness and may well be met with ridicule rather than an offer of assistance.
I relate to the bullying the author endured at the hands of his so-called "friends."
"It is hard to trust when all you have from the past is the evidence as to why you should not," he notes.
Truer words were never spoken.
Those who were well-liked and not bullied won't understand why those of us who endured both physical and psychological abuse as well as "jokes" whose sole purpose was to make someone feel unwanted and subhuman have trouble trusting, even decades after the incident.
I was dismayed when the author made an unfunny and unfortunately all too common joke about "the diabetes from her weight problem" regarding a contentious border agent between the US and Canada. Not bullying people should include not bullying heavy people, who are frequent targets of hatred simply because of their size.
Being heavy does not cause a person to develop diabetes. Diabetes is caused by one thing: having the genetic trigger for the disease. A person without the genetic trigger will never develop diabetes, regardless of their size. People of all sizes can develop diabetes. One cannot eat oneself into diabetes.
A person's size is dependent on multiple factors, including genetic predisposition, endocrine disruption, medications, and a history of weight cycling. In other words, when you see a fat person, you are probably looking at someone who has a long history of dieting. You cannot know what or how much they eat. You don't know how active they are. You do not know their medical history. Please don't stigmatize a person's body or medical conditions.
If not for this passage, I would have gladly given the book five stars.
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