The Sunday School Teacher That Saved My Life

I was 12 years old when I walked back home from school a month or two shy from the summer of 1969. Mom was not answering the door. Once my stepfather got there he opened the door, entered and then rushed out for the ambulance. In my desperation I knocked on the door of my neighbor...the last of the Caucasian Baptist pastors in the Bronx. He came into our apartment to my parent's unhappy bedroom. My grandmother was nearby doing door to door evangelism and felt led to come by and visit that afternoon. I remember her rushing in. I overheard from the adults that my mom had consumed toxic liquids to end her life. Mami had been trying that for a long time. I would often remove steak knives and razor blades from under her pillows. Once I caught her trying to drink Clorox. Pouring an extra glass she asked if I wanted to join her...I smelled the glass. I asked her if we would go to heaven if we did this. She put away the glasses and Clorox bottle and told me God had better things in store for us.

Now here she is lying on her bleak bed with her eyes rolling back and foam bubbling out of her mouth. She was dying and my little brother and I were crying and screaming. The pastor looked up toward our cracked ceiling to pray out loud and my grieving grandmother pulled out of her missionary giant carry bag and poured her anointing oil (Aciete de Oliva…Olive Oil) out of her Goya bottle and into mom's throat. Finally I got to see Baptists and Pentecostals working together. The ‘worldly cigarette smoking’ clergy was asking God for Divine intervention. I threw myself onto the floor into a prayer tantrum. Mami was taken away by ambulance to the old Lincoln hospital.

A couple of hours later my younger brother and I were outside in the street being comforted by our older cousins when we saw our grandmother return from the hospital slurring that her daughter had died. Grandmother was sedated and talking erroneously. Mom was not dead...but I didn't know that. We went to the hospital emergency room where we were met by church members. With the Devil’s rage many of them pointed their fingers, blaming me for mom's suicidal ideations and attempt. I was the disgusting murderer. Out of nowhere my angel appeared. His name is Hermano Jose Garcia. He was the Sunday School teacher that graciously taught me about the Lord. I was one of his rowdy smart mouthed Sunday school brats. In the chaotic emergency room he stood between me and my accusers. Jose boldly told them that it was not my fault and that my mom was just mentally sick. He gently and assertively took charge and asked my stepfather for the house keys and escorted me away from my adversaries. He assured me that it was not my fault and that my mother was just sick. When we arrived to my apartment door...poor Brother Garcia had to figure out which combination of the several locks to try open up. Throughout this door vault-like puzzle he assured me that it was not my fault and that my mother was just sick. I took some clothing and he made sure that I had taken what I would appropriately need for the remainder of the week. He walked me over from Cypress Avenue several long street blocks to Brook Avenue where my abuelita lived...all the way there he was assuring me that it was not my fault and that my mother was just sick.

The doctors didn't understand how the pipe drain cleaner didn't burn out my mother's insides...they would rather attribute it to the phenomenon of divine intervention than to just some local bodega store purchased olive oil. These physicians were less science fiction theorist and more theists I guess. After medical observations and treatments my mother was discharged to Bronx State Psychiatric where she spent much of the summer in therapy. I spent much of that summer zoning out and staring at walls...trying to micro detail out how I could have prevented my mother's hate of life. In my fog I often would see and hear my accusers. But my sanity's guardian angel would appear in my mind...I could hear his voice...assuring me that it was not my fault and that my mother was just sick. In a church bogged down with stone throwing cultural dogmas and guarded socio-emotional dysfunctions God sent me someone not arrogantly bound to Bibliolatry but to Christ-like life changing compassion. He was there years later to guide me through my post born-again liberal outbursts into safe places of maturity. Recently I found Brother Jose through one of his in-laws in FaceBook. I'm frustrated in my inability to locate one of my sermons which I mention what he did for me...just wanted to send him a copy....so I write this article to tell Jose Garcia something I've been wanting to tell him for decades. Thank you for saving my life. May this article find you well my brother.

Link to Sermon with reading of this blog article: http://vimeo.com/23083319

My Therapeutic Sweater Deal

Working in the Bowery back in the early 80's was a baptism by fire into ministry for me. I worked as an activities director/chaplain with approximately 500 male souls in a ten story building. They each had their own room. One of them was Bill (we will name him Bill for this article) who came to live in NYC after losing his farm business in Ohio. His wife was the organizational backbone of the family and farm....everything was lost once she passed away. Bill wasn't able to run the farm or raise their disabled daughter without his loving spouse or supportive community. He ended up in the Bowery where he decompensated even under a skeleton social service support system. One day Bill purchased a nice pair of boots. The only problem was that they were one size too short. I directed him to go back to the store and exchange them. I made arrangements to have him accompanied by one of our social service workers but Bill rescheduled the time and informed me later that the exchange went well. After wearing the new exchanged boots day and night for two weeks he was limping. By the time we had him checked out by one of out hygiene specialist, Bill had gangrene in of his both feet which had to be amputated. Bill lied to us. He never went to the store to exchange the boots. I was too tired, disgusted, and sad and burnt out with compassion to tell him 'I told you so'.

Months later a feet-less Bill was getting around our lower east side tall flop house / transformed adult residence in a wheel chair. He customized it into a transportation machine with all his invented gadgets of convenience. This included a milk gallon plastic bottle, which was tied to one of his wheel’s arm rest with a long string, which he used as a "Trucker's Friend'. Now for those of you that are not acquainted with this devise, let me have the honor of explaining what it is. It's simply a container male truckers have strapped to their ankles with a lone tube that connects it to their privates. This way they are at peace when there is no rest room in sight. Now Bill had an abundance of rest rooms per floor at our residence. He simply wanted to lessen his trips to the men's room. The charm of his version of the 'Trucker's Friend' was that it had no tube. Bill often filled that urine tank up to the brim. Yep, the man was addicted to convenience. Bill was one of hundreds of souls I had the pleasure to love, confront, pray about and pray over and smile on the way home about every day. I was a rare Spanish Pentecostal minister that would go home with the smell of cigarettes daily. Many of my men passed away without ever being connected with their extended families. Relatives often showed up afterwards.

Down in spirits one day I decided to treat myself to a therapeutic purchase. I stepped out and walked around SOHO. I located a couple of nice knit sweaters. They were the kind that you would wear like a karate gi’s top with the belt. They were on sale, BOGO (Buy One Get One Free). So I got an off white one and a black one. Feeling very happy and comfortable I got back to work and put on the light colored one and walked around the building and got compliments from the clinicians, workers in recovery and our residents. 'Looking good Reverend Cortez'...'Women gonna love it Father'...'You Stopped Looking Like Hell Rev'..and the such...words of endearment. We had two buildings that connected. The adult residence building connected to the office building. A door and three steps connected the building directly to my office. A wheelchair-bound Bill was blocking my door that day. He was in the middle of overflowing his jug...and I yelled at him to get his attention. Splish and splashing he moved on with his traditional apologies. As I opened the door and spewed out some parting inspirational thoughts to him I stepped onto the stairs with a jujitsu body glide and slide down the steps. Yep, Bill turned my steps into a pee water slide. I got up to wipe my bruises and dirt off my new...wet sweater..WET SWEATER...WET... BARAUCH HASHEM ADONAI!!!!...BENDICIO SEA EL NOMBRE DEL SENOR...BLESSED BE HIS NAME. Under the anointing of holy angry gracious shock I went to my rest room washed up well, took a meditative moment and proceeded to discard my new moist light sweater and put on my new dry dark sweater. Sometimes the deal is in the gratitude.

How Have We Impacted Our Children?

Forsaking the empty ways of our forefathers. I have many friends whom I hold in fond memory and regard. Many are men who made commitments to their spouses only to break them. Specifically they have brought in ‘skills’ from older male mentors who taught them directly and indirectly by example how to effectively disrespect and demean a female. This I have also witnessed with the opposite gender.

I have also seen children with behavioral problems act out disrespectfully toward peers, adults in authority and strangers inside schools or out in the public. Many times in seeing their parents and family adults I can easily observed where the troubled child learned their ‘skills’. Many ‘gangsta’ kids look forward to the rite of being incarcerated. They brag about it in the streets, buses and trains basking in the shock of strangers. Many public service workers have learned to give minimal services to their clients because ‘they don’t know better’ or ‘won’t speak up’ or ‘don’t deserve it anyway’.

Our kids are taught lifestyles that go against our faith. And many of our church kids have learned from religious folk how to verbally bash kids of ‘different sexual orientations’. And the politicians cry out that hate is being taught in the churches. And holy prophets cry out that love is not distributed in tangible form to needy communities. Where are the mentors that have destroyed your homes and communities? What were the words you have burned into your heart, soul and behavior that has injured a friend, family or stranger? Are we really getting ‘too politically correct’ or are we too busy to dialogue with our diverse neighbors? What have I taught my children? How can I undo what I may have intentionally or unintentionally taught to their spiritual detriment? How can I confess to them and our Lord the destructive wrongs in a road to break the cycle of generational curses inflicting our homes and communities?

Panchito and the sacred ruler

There was a man named Panchito. He was told as a child that Big is Sacred. So for many years he walked with a ruler to measure things, the cost, and all that his neighbors possessed. Panchito measured all his anatomy and compared his jewels with the kingdoms of other men. He married the woman of his standard after humiliating many former girlfriends as he, with their low self-esteemed consents, was allowed to measure their physical attributes. He sacrificed his way to 'success' on the ladder of 'how much do you make?'. His rest and contentment was always disrupted when he heard of anyone who had acquired something bigger and better. One mega- miraculous day Panchito gave his heart at the altar call of a famous televangelist who was visiting the brand new expensive stadium of his world reknown town. He went on to attend the very best seminary as he was sure he could reach more souls for God than anyone in church history. One morning he woke up to find that his ruler was missing. Panchito was useless without his ruler. Obsessed he went on an exhaustive quest to find his ruler. How could he function without his God-given envy? What or who would now be his ruler?