Chapter Twenty Eight An Opera in Three Acts But with Five Parts
|
|  Yüklə 1.61 Mb.
|
| The Right Thing to Do in such matters is, then we sure as hell need not one more goddamn minute of “more education” or “more programs” or “follow – up focus groups!” No “more gaaaaawddamn talking.” We just friggin’ need to do the change about which we already soooo know … needs doing! So. Where the fuck is the “willingness”?!
I also took truly, truly big issue with the Task Force Chair’s assessment, “… that most persons involved in the court system see it as fair and that most attorneys and judges rarely if ever engage in biased conduct.” Because in just a very few short lines a wee bit later on, it was, in an obviously gargantuan discrepancy with the Chair’s assessment, pointed out that “a majority of women and minorities report … they experience bias in the system! ! !” Aaaah … JYeah, Judge Havercamp, … buuuut … you daMan, of course, aren’t jya’?! Well, what the fuck is this … actually … saying? ! ! ! It is in direct dispute of and opposition to the sentence just before it: the one about how “most” see everything and everybody as “fair”. Nooooo, they do not! MOST do not view the judicial system as anything close to “fair”! Because women are … “the most” ! We are 53 percent of the entire, goddamn World. So. We are “the most”! And we do not see –– justice! Male Task Force Chair Havercamp was just assuming that by the term “most”, it was meant that the most of “them like himself” who are the white guys, the Good Ol’ Boys, “feel” that way –– that is, they “feel” that in the courts … things are fair! And, lest we forget, Jury, Task Force Havercamp is a judge –– who is sooo not about to disparage his own workplace colleagues (–– just as physicians also ‘protect’ and keep soooo, so silent about other errant doctors), thereby having to bring his own judge – self … to account! ! ! No! No! Not that! Crikey! Transparency! Yikes! And he is always, too, first a lawyer even after becoming appointed a judge –– so then, likewise, not at all about to criticize himself nor hold to changing his own views or changing his own behaviors. He is … already … one of those other men who also sees himself not only as the interviewee in the CBS Evening News piece said as “used to people respecting their power” and, when we do not blindly abide the biased and bad judgments and the judges’ powers, then getting “very angry and vindictive against mothers who defy their power” … but also as … a ceaseless (so – called) … “pillar of the community!” * * * * While I listened very carefully to Grace who counseled defiance of The High Courtier Judge Harley Butcher’s dictum which screamed, “She must obtain psychiatric / psychological therapy and counseling,” and heeded her and my own self’s solid advice to not comply in the least on this, daJudge’s madness and anger at me, I am ashamed to state that even as late as now, 08 March 1993, even after the few reports I had been hearing in the media –– and, believe me, Jury, these newspaper editorial and television accounts were only inklings and, in no way, massive blitzes of the Truth at all … as there should have been –– even after these couple of times of “warnings” of what was happening out here in the hinterlands of America’s family law courts, I am ashamed to have to declare that I still believed in … America’s Rule of Law. And that, at least inside the courtrooms built up upon the grounds and the very foundations of my ancestors’ ashes, I, the human being I had always thought of myself as, and a caucasian and a highly educated one at that, would still receive justice after the right I thought I deserved to petition for a fair hearing. I still chose to ignore on this date of all dates –– that is, after nearly a century’s worth Worldwide of marking International Women’s Day on the 08th of March –– the years’ and years’ worth of noting injustices to us females. I still chose to ignore the amassing collection of “evidence” beginning to push out of its subtle and shrewd shadows everywhere –– which is: that sperm and fatherhood exaltation overruns the true Rule of Law. That, in deed and in fact, sperm and fatherhood exaltation is its own Rule of Law instead and that any woman, no matter how allegedly “a have” rather than “a have not” she be, is quite a fucked fool to believe, in an American court of civil law, that she is anything more than a DEhuman. And I still went ahead and filed – stamped the second appeal –– Part Five –– this 1993 International Women’s Day. Hope is, as I have now twice before said, such the woman – killer. Consequently, I borrowed and borrowed and paid out and borrowed more and continued “to exist” –– if one could call it that, in 37 – to 35 – degree interior temperatures throughout Iowa’s brutish winter. And Part Five, Appeal Two went forward! Whilst I never … not even one time … missed being early at giving over in full to this man the “decreed” child support payments for the very three children I myself, alone, chose to grow but to whom I still had NO RIGHTS at all. Much later I was to learn that meanwhile back in Grubtrop, West Virginia, one of the (who – the – fuck – knows – how – many?!) “overheard” names used by Role – Modeling Herry and by Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive to refer to Dr. Legion True in their ‘private’ talks and massive efforts and stratagems to keep me invisible there –– all of which occurred daily –– was that of “the non – Edinsmaier.” While that appellation certainly did fit, I have since considered it an honored moniker and far, far more complimentary than what Zane is reported to have called Herry, that is, “the Warden” and “the Step – Dad!” And certainly a far kinder handle than the one which Herry – Daddee once gave to Zane after a skirmish with Mary Jane –– that of “female batterer”. And then … then when Herry was called on it by Zane to account for Zane’s behavior with Mary Jane, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, the Father and my three Boys’ Role Model, actually stated to all present at the time that: Herry – Daddee’s own beating up on Legion, on Zane’s and his brothers’ mother, was warranted and justified as necessary because “she was crazy” and needed … her mental condition did … to be treated with … the Good and Wonderful Healing, Husbanding Doctor’s specific brand of domestic violence and narcissistic passive aggression! To this type of a person Herod Edinsmaier then, one who had had a modification of child custody decision on 21 September 1990, favorable to him and really only supplementarily redone again on 07 December 1992, by Act Three or Trial Three and The High Courtier Butcher in cahoots with The High Aggrandizier Seizor and their own Pillared Boys’ Rule of Law, Mirzah, Jesse, Zane and I were still sentenced. To this very man who had himself ordered all three Boys, when they became old enough to talk and to understand the concept of “father” or “dad” or “daddy” … to this daddee who had strictly ordered each Truemaier Boy never.never.never to call him by any of those designations. Dr. Herod Edinsmaier only wanted the Boys to call him Herry or Herod and never, ever Daddy or Pops or Pa, Dad or Father. Yet, in order to fuck with specifically me, Dr. Legion True, Perfectly Pissed – Off Porno – Purveying Pappy Edinsmaier absconded with them –– completely stealing away from me all of the Children who had lovingly called me … Mother. I had to appeal. I also had to see my Boys. It was now over a year; not since the 05th day in February of 1992, had I picked up a telephone receiver to even try to speak to one of them so the only way that that was ever going to happen was to go there to Grubtrop, West Virginia. And find them. Actually Grace, Frieda, László, Linda and I –– and no one else did we tell –– truly started planning my clandestine journey back during the Winter Solstice on which AmTaham and I always turn another year older and, I am thinking, … wiser. That is, just as soon as The High Courtier Butcher had ordered me nowhere near Zane, Mirzah and Jesse –– until Mother Mehitable – fashion, I softly deferred to and complied with all of his and Aggrandizier Seizor’s and (O – So) Small Man Syndrome – Afflicted Herry’s machinations for my whoring and demented “DEhuman mind,” we all began my defiantly wicked – badass underground railroading exactly there! The bit more than a week of it was set to begin the next April 1993 then … right around the weekend some holier folk term eastertide. That Winter Solstice 1992, was not only the turning into the 73rd birthday of Righteous Ancestor AmTaham which he never realized –– breathing –– and yet another unrecognized, unheralded and unobserved one for me, but I also knew in my core that I myself was finally turning as well! I no longer at all sought externally for happiness and protection, two “things” for which Mehitable certainly castigated and chastised me long into my 40s and continued to harp at me to look for from men –– even after the main fathering man to me was now dead. Well, to seek my happiness and protection from well – positioned ones, that is. Then again, this so – called ‘good’, bible – quoting and keeping – up – appearances woman was the one and the same who in ‘conversations’ often employed the word “j e w” as a verb, routinely labeled brazil nuts of the scientific name Bertholletia excelsa as “n i g g e r t o e s” and, when describing folks from a certain Asian island, only ever did so using the noun “J a p s”. Even around Jesse, Mirzah and Zane. Even when I specifically told her not to spew her swill. Even when I threatened to –– then did –– leave her home and her town if she continued to do so. Taking my Boys with me and away from her and her fuckingly foul mouthings. use Sitting in Friends Meeting one First Day I heard, … I mean I truly, truly listened to Yanira –– out of our collective Silence –– telling us all assembled there that her brother, as the adult he now is, was so angry with their parents. Their mother and father, both Quakers, it now seemed to both of their children had never truly prepared them in their broadminded and so unprejudiced, generously patient, progressive and merciful household. Had never from their childhoods prepared their two children to protect themselves from the real and angry and hard – hearted and mean – spirited persons who exist everywhere, especially in posts of power which, daily, impacted their very selves, –– in those now same adulthoods of theirs! That her brother was so, so pissed as a 20s – something because he had not had the self – awareness fostered in him by parents who should have about how evil many, many people truly choose to vengefully and everlastingly be. His parents, too, should have worked to cultivate in him when he was still a minor kiddo his own tools for the very “protection” of the self which I was now having to forge out of my core for my own person –– and I, the nucleus of the self who was Legion True, had just become that 22 Twelfth Month 1992, already, 45 years old! The Agroforestry Conference was developing nicely, the call for papers yielding massive numbers of interesting ones; and it certainly began to look like attendance with Iowa State University’s hosting of the third such international conference in early August 1993, would hit a registrants’ record of from between some 350 and 450 persons headed into Ames from all over the Globe. Evenings I visited with Frieda at the delicatessen and weekends she came there, too. Between the support from her and from Gert while I was there scrubbing its so slippery, greasy floor and equally dangerously filthy men’s bathroom, flinging chicken parts down into the two deep fat fryers, slinging macaroni salad into pint Styrofoam containers and grilling up Ames’ finest breakfast for a buck and from the support and counsel of my other friends, especially from Grace and Linda and a new one, Cyan Song Goodwater, all three Boys’ art teacher just before they had been forced to go missing from Kate Mitchell Elementary, I managed to write appeal documents and to plan the secret sojourn east. Cyan Song was, literally, also raising up five boys of her own … herself –– out of which “five” … one of them was, in actuality, … the spermatozoal donor for the other four … that is, her husband. Except for that Stupendously Slacker – Spouse of hers about whose uselessness she more than hopelessly acknowledged, Cyan Song’s situation was a breath of fresh air to me, as a matter of fact. Her four boys started in ages just about where mine ended; that is, her eldest James who had testified in Trial Two was my Youngest’s exact age and had, in fact, been to visit with Mirzah by way of my driving James there one time when Mirzah had had to go live in Urbandale. She and her entire family of testosteronal molecules had just come to Ames and the Teacup ’hood during the earlier and ongoing acts of The Opera –– most recently from Wisconsin by way of, really, the Carolinas first. Cyan Song loved acting in community theater, art with the teaching of it as well as the actual wearing of it all over upon her very person –– from her near – baldness to, later, those fiery locks to always her decorated toenail tips –– and she loved her (three, then whoopsydaisy an entire decade later) four baby boys. This mother rocked. And she knew it. I do not remember how we first connected, but I am so glad that we did hook up. On the early morning of Thursday, 08 April 1993, I left Ames. I mean it was 4:00 a.m., and I was securely belted inside the driver’s seat of the Ol’ Black Eurosport wagon –– loaded down and hauling out. The plan was for me to become –– a man. In as many ways and for as many days and events and functions as would be necessary to get done this being with my Boys in Grubtrop, West Virginia. Good weather, good roads, and specifically the ending of the Grubtrop Community School system’s week of its annual Spring Break. Why, Jury, the end of that particular week on the academic calendar? I figured it would have been just my fucked luck to have planned, spent bookoo dollars for, entirely used up all of my vacation – leave days and done this whole covert operation to the center of that state only to discover, when I finally arrived there, that Sooo Moneyed – and Joy Toy Boy Older Bro – Daddee had, over their time off from school, up and spirited the three of them all off to some true spachezresort hotel – destination hundreds to thousands of miles away, thus leaving me –– and them –– so screwed … yet one more time again. So, instead, I put in for all of my earned, saved leave to be taken … beginning with that Thursday through my being back at my Iowa State University Forestry Department’s workstation desk on the morning of Monday, 19 April. And, thus, determined with the Boys at their high or middle schools in the mornings, that I would be able to more than likely find one, two or all three of them around 3:00 p.m. or after –– out at the baseball fields or the cinder track or even just leaving the schoolyard –– once Zane, Jesse and Mirzah Truemaier were done each weekday with formal classes. Interstate 74 caught on the west side of Illinois snakes rather quickly down to and through Peoria and Champaign – Urbana. Ol’ Black had on him a tank which held enough gasoline at the speeds which I drove, always … and I mean always, within the limits of the various states’ laws or just below them, for five hours’ worth of travel time so the next stop up for fuel – filling and planned – peeing came out at Cincinnati. Final third leg of the tour via the southerly and good State Route #32 through Ohio on into West Virginia was to get me and Ol’ Black, bearing as it was its Iowa license plates, into Fairvale, a town about 13 miles north up Interstate #79 from Grubtrop, right around the sun’s setting time of approximately 8:00 p.m. Eastern –– with daylight savings having just commenced nationwide the Sunday morning four days previously. All of this part of the preparation did occur happily enough –– except nearly exactly 24 hours later than originally set. Trying to exit the east end of Cincinnati yet still on the south edge of the old Reds Stadium, Ol’ Black … quit. Just as quiet as he could be. No cell phones had any of us then –– so I waited within locked doors wondering where a safe payphone could possibly appear to me when, upon cranking over the ignition one more time, Ol’ Black started up just as keenly as always –– and, outta there, flew the two of us! Until that Thursday, 08 April 1993, I had never used before any sort of credit card. I had never owned one. And the only reason that I did so this trek was to be able to rent a cheapest, wee vehicle once I woke up in Fairvale, West Virginia. A farm kid who dealt only and always in cash, paid my debts at nearly all costs and strictly of the ya’ – didn’t – buy – it – if – ya’ – didn’t – already – have – in hand – the – bucks – for – it mindset, I simply abhorred plastic –– and refused, until age 45, to even possess one. Of course, my utter loathing the so – real deal at this time … where we females, we DEhumans had to have our male significant others’ “permission and signatures” before being “allowed” … as “the second” individual on the ownership of a family’s credit card … played the major role in why I had always defied and eschewed possession of any. Until that day. Ol’ Black made it out of Cincinnati proper and slogged on into its eastern suburb of Milford –– without a(nother) hitch. But he did not make it out of there –– except by way of a tow into the business confines of the kindest mechanics residing within the State of Ohio! These folks, a wife – and husband – owned outfit randomly selected out of those proverbial Yellow Pages, determined in short order and now around 4 o’clock Eastern in the afternoon of my first travel day, that the wagon’s fuel line was faulty, appropriate parts existed in another part of the state, those parts could arrive the very next weekday morning, that is Friday, “Such is your luck that it’s not the weekend, Ms. True!” And they all could have Ol’ Black and me up and running and done with southwest Ohio within 24 hours were I to approve of that arrangement. Well, I had no choice, of course, and began right then and there on the greasy, oil – stained cement floor of their auto repair shop my hate – love – mostly hate relationship with MasterCard. One thing further this woman and man did for this poorer mama. She ordered Ol’ Black towed over to the rear of their concrete block building at where he was backed up alongside its west exterior wall away from any view of the street out front and then allowed me to do there inside him, with one window cracked ever so narrowly for that ‘fresh’ city – suburb night air, what was going to become my design with Ol’ Black once I got inside West Virginia: lock, recline in his turned – down backside, cover up and drift off to sleep. It was now supposedly a particularly extra ‘good Friday’ according to folks calling themselves christians, and the excitement I felt within my chest was literally palpable –– as in palpating. My cardiac muscle was thumping so thunderously when I throttled Ol’ Black via US Federal Route #50 into the west side of Montclank, West Virginia, aimed toward the mixmaster of intersecting interstate exchanges connecting it to Grubtrop with a separate stretch of highway exiting off right there north up to Fairvale … that I could barely breathe. Not much different about that, though –– the not – breathing part –– than from all of those times so far to date when I had walked out of county courthouses with absolutely crazy – making family law custody judgments in my hands, however. Yes, the scenery since leaving all of Ohio and entering this state had certainly been exactly as wise Other – Mother Frieda Chicken Guthrie had earlier told me that it would be, “Poverty with a view … ”, but I hauled in my heart such a hateful heaviness about this place which I had never before seen –– and only because Herry inhabited this space holding hostage here from me my Kiddos. Montclank is a town of approximately 23,000 – plus spirits immediately conjoined to Grubtrop’s 6,000 to 7,000 more. The only spanse of it which I at the first saw, motoring directly through it, was of nearly all very, very old brick, dilapidated and boarded up structures with splashed graffiti, ripped – up posters with edges flapping in the breezes and Italian – appearing last names on the aged buildings’ masts, almost all of these with letters missing or broken off. I left this entangling mess of concrete on its east side and schlepped up north just as fast as I possibly could, the sun still with me although now around 8:00 p.m. Eastern Daylight –– just as about when I had originally planned to arrive there except with that one, full missing day … later. Once inside Fairvale, WV, I drove directly over to the rental car agency just to scope it out as to its distance from my planned parking spot for Ol’ Black. No internet yet so I truly did not have much of this part of my Operation BWB, that is, Be With Babes, exactly researched too well –– as would have been the case had there then been a world wide web with Google – search capacity! This municipality proved itself in physicality as I would later find Grubtrop to also be –– that is, with almost all of its streets as very, very narrow pathways and headed up and winding around and around extremely steep inclines to buildings atop them –– almost upon precipices. One such building had two parking lots, layered – like, in tiers cascading down from the rather massive main configuration upon its peak. This specific structure was that of the Fairvale City Hospital, and the two lots most physically separated the physicians who had medical practice privileges there –– away from –– the hospital’s other ‘regular’ employees, its day laborers, its temporary staff and from us visitors. I say ‘us’ because it suddenly struck me that Ol’ Black, with his out – of – state, even Iowa plates on him, could very easily “have reason enough” to be parked in such a building’s lot –– and for days and days on end even … since, of course, would not it make sense to patrolling security, in either town cop form or the hospital guard system, that this beater wagon’s owner or driver or passengers had motored in from elsewhere and were themselves inside visiting with and comforting their injured or sick loved one who was, therein, … hospitalized!? Furthermore, the littler lot of the two all the way to the back of this hospital’s northeast side and right beside the emergency room entrance there with its “no blocking” sign had regularly spaced and conveniently read small white crosses of wooden laths upon which were painted in black letters the doctors’ names. One such cross bore not a name upon it but the one word “Pathologist,” the first letter a capitalized P, for sure –– and I knew, in that second, just exactly where I could squat Ol’ Black for about a week’s worth and not have him, well, ever Elitist Edinsmaier – discovered by the Good and Wonderful (and quite a ways away – parked and self – segregated … ) … Doctor! Out in the much larger front one to the southwest, us peons’ parking lot, and down onto its lowest tier of graveled spaces completely out of view of the entire hospital’s height of windows even, I descended the old black station wagon which was to become my temporarily stationary hotel room’s bed and from the front’s bucket seats climbed into its backend. From off of Havencourt Drive’s battered and tattered sofa, I arranged back there, then, the three foam rubber cushions into a linear pattern, having, in order to create enough room, to move up to the front passenger seat several bags of stuff which I had brought along. I crawled under the sheet plus the couple of blankets topped with our ancient navy down comforter. My heart slowed. I slept. * * * * No, there hadn’t been any curtains on the wagon’s windows –– and such a vista it always did afford to me, something about the station wagon which I very much liked actually … especially when I was backing up or checking for oncoming traffic to my rear or right side. No, I had just spent about the last eight hours there in the midst of West Virginia’s night air covered and shielded only by Ol’ Black’s metal and glass –– as wholly transparent as it could all be. With success. I awakened, the dashboard clock indicated, around 6:00 a.m. and, of course, had right off that Saturday morning … ‘business’ … to take care of. The first of many such, exact, early – morning affairs, er nature calls, to continuously … ‘manage’. But I had been mawwied to Herry Edinsmaier. I knew that Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, at that hour, would himself be physically located nowhere near this –– nor any other hospital. After all: this was the same guy who, in his soooo unprimed although quite privileged mornings, had peacefully snoozed clear through two –– |