A Deep South Cold Case Goes Frigid

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A groundbreaking new law instructed the FBI to investigate more than 100 unsolved murders from the civil rights era. But one reporter’s story, seven years in the making, reveals the government has done shockingly little in the search for justice.

In Mississippi, tracking down the truth about a 1964 murder. (Video by Clarence Smith Jr.)

Near midnight on February 28, 1964, Clifton Earl Walker Sr., a thirty-seven-year-old black man, was ambushed by a white mob near the town of Woodville, Mississippi. He was driving home from the late shift at the International Paper plant, about thirty miles north in Natchez.

An impoverished lumber town somewhat eclipsed by Natchez’s industrial plants, strip malls and tourist economy, Woodville is best known as the birthplace of jazz legend Lester Young and home of the Woodville Republican, the oldest continuously running newspaper in the state. On the drive home, Walker took a shortcut he’d been warned to avoid off Highway 61 and onto the twisty, unpaved Poor House Road. Three hundred yards later, the attackers stopped his car, most likely by roadblock or ruse, and gathered around with shotguns.

They fired into his car at a close range. The shots blew Walker’s face apart. The next day, his body was found bled out in the car. All of the windows were shot out, multiple bullet holes were observed in at least one door, and part of the steering wheel was blasted off.

The Walker case is just one among thousands of violent, racially motivated acts from the civil rights era that remain unsolved. This one in particular illustrates the frustrations and lack of progress made since Congress directed the FBI to retroactively solve dozens of the most violent murders from this tumultuous chapter in American history.

The Woodville Republican reported news of Walker's murder a week after he was shot.
The Woodville Republican reported news of Walker’s murder a week after he was shot.

The Emmett Till Unsolved Civil Rights Crime Act of 2007, a groundbreaking bill sponsored by civil rights hero and Congressman John Lewis, directed the FBI to conduct a “timely and thorough” investigation of Walker’s murder and 109 other unsolved civil rights cold cases. But over the last six years, the FBI has quietly informed the vast majority of the families of these murder victims that they have come up cold. Four years after re-opening the Walker murder in 2009, the Department of Justice ended its search with little to show for its efforts — and shelving dozens of other cases once again.

“All individuals even remotely implicated in your father’s death are deceased,” the Department of Justice wrote to the victim’s daughter, Catherine Walker Jones. “There are no known surviving eyewitnesses and there is no available physical evidence to review. As such, there is no reasonable possibility that further investigation will lead to a prosecutable case.”

The letter was hand-delivered by an FBI agent to Catherine Walker Jones — who was fourteen years old at the time of her father’s murder — at her home in New Orleans this past November, one week before Thanksgiving.

Instead of finding answers to what happened that night, Catherine and her siblings have been privy to false starts by a succession of agents on the case, slow follow-through on known investigative leads, and a murky, unsatisfying summation of the bureau’s efforts.

“All these years we’ve been requesting to meet with the Justice Department or the FBI agents, and we got no response, just promises,” Catherine Walker Jones said. “And they’ve closed the case and they dispatch [an agent] to give me a Dear John letter.”

Clifton Walker, whose 1964 murder remains unsolved. (Photo courtesy Catherine Walker Jones)
Clifton Walker, whose 1964 murder remains unsolved. (Photo courtesy Catherine Walker Jones)

The last person to investigate the Walker case was special agent Bradley Hentschel, at least the third agent on the case since it was reopened. Hentschel was assigned to the case in the spring of 2011, when he was twenty-five years old and had been employed as a special agent for less than a year.

For its part, the FBI contends that decades-old cold cases are among the most difficult an agent can be assigned. As the Department of Justice has noted to Congress: “Subjects die; witnesses die or can no longer be located; memories become clouded; evidence is destroyed or cannot be located; and original investigations lacked the technical and scientific advances relied upon today.”

All true, surely — but it was hard for Hentschel to even get the authorization and resources needed in order to conduct the most basic investigative activities in the field.

“I do not want to close this case,” Hentschel said during a telephone interview in 2011, “but if I can’t develop any further leads…it’s going to be a hard sell to the DOJ, to even my supervisor, that I need to be running around two, two and a half hours away from the office with the gas budget the way that it is and everything else, beating down leads on this case or on any other case where we don’t have any active information coming in.”

*   *   *

One lead Special Agent Hentschel never explored was connections between this case and the attempted killing by hooded whites of Richard Joe Butler, a black man from Kingston, Mississippi, who was twenty-five years old in 1964.

Two weeks after the Walker murder, on March 11, 1964, two cars filled with white men attempted to run Butler and his wife, Money, off the Pretty Creek Bridge as they drove home from a local store in Kingston, about fifteen miles north of where Walker had been murdered.

The Mississippi Highway and Safety Patrol, which was investigating the Walker murder, interviewed Butler about the incident near the bridge. Whether Butler exposed himself to further violence by talking to investigators is unclear, but he soon faced a white mob himself.

On April 5, 1964, Butler was in Kingston again. As on other Sunday mornings, he was working as a farmhand for a white couple, Louisa and Hayward Benton Drane. As he got to work in their barn, he found he was looking down the barrels of shotguns wielded by hooded men. When Butler tried to flee, he was shot four times and badly wounded.

Louisa Drane heard Butler’s cries for help from inside her house and came out to find him bleeding on the ground, his assailants nowhere to be seen. She helped Butler onto the backseat of her car so he could stay out of sight as she drove him to the hospital in Natchez. He made his initial recovery under police guard.

Decades later, Butler — now seventy-five, slim, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and gold-rimmed glasses — still wonders why he was targeted. “They said they just wanted to kill a smart nigger,” Butler recalled about that day, speaking at his home in California.

The stories of Clifton Walker and Richard Joe Butler are intertwined in a number of ways, perhaps most notably that local Klansman Ed Fuller, a suspect in the Walker killing, was also indicted for the shooting of Butler. After Butler was released from the hospital, he finished his recovery in hiding and then fled Mississippi — initially to Tennessee, then to Indiana and finally California. The case against Fuller and two other alleged perpetrators fell apart.

Fuller was the central link between the Walker and Butler cases, and the FBI records that Special Agent Hentschel accessed for his investigation show that Fuller became an informant for the highway patrol by November 1964. The cases are so similar and involve so many of the same people that Fuller’s informant report on the Butler shooting is included in the 1964 FBI file on the unsolved Walker killing.

A page from the 1964 FBI file on the Clifton Walker murder, obtained by a Freedom of Information Act request. A Mississippi Highway and Safety Patrol investigator had identified two possible suspects for the District Attorney to arrest. FBI documents also show that the DA said he had "insufficient evidence" to charge the suspects.
A page from the 1964 FBI file on the Clifton Walker murder, obtained by a Freedom of Information Act request. A Mississippi Highway and Safety Patrol investigator had identified two possible suspects for the District Attorney to arrest. FBI documents also show that the DA said he had “insufficient evidence” to charge the suspects.

In the report, Fuller asserts a different set of suspects in the Butler shooting. But highway patrol investigator Rex Armistead, for whom Fuller had turned informant, “expressed doubt,” according to the 1964 FBI report, “that Fuller was telling the complete truth,” especially because another informant claimed Fuller was personally involved in the Butler shooting.

Six suspects were originally identified and questioned by the highway patrol in the Butler shooting. At least two are still living. A third was alive when the Walker case was re-opened by the FBI in 2009, but later died in 2012. According to the Department of Justice Notice to Close File, the official internal investigative summary and legal rationale for closing a case, the FBI did not interview any of the people who had been questioned in the Butler shooting.

At least two of the Butler shooting suspects were also co-workers of Walker’s at International Paper, where racial tensions over integration of accommodations and putting an end to segregated pay lines sowed fertile ground for recruiting Klansmen. More than forty of Walker’s co-workers were believed to have joined the Klan, according to a 1965 House of Representatives investigation. Yet the Notice to Close File reveals that the FBI never sought the House committee’s list of Klansmen as part of its investigation, throwing away the opportunity to methodically interview those remaining, who could easily include valuable sources, witnesses, or even suspects.

The FBI also did not interview a single member of Walker’s family about the murder — not Catherine, who viewed the blood-soaked car shortly after her father’s body was removed from it; not her older sister Rubystein, who was their mother Ruby’s closest support and confidante through the period of the murder and its aftermath; and not Clifton Walker’s living sisters- and brothers-in-law who experienced the events following the murder firsthand.

Spokespeople for the Department of Justice, FBI Headquarters and the Jackson, Mississippi, field office, which conducted the investigation, refused to answer questions about why agents did not pursue these documents and interviews.

“We are going to decline to comment on this,” said Department of Justice’s deputy director of public affairs, Emily Pierce. “If you so wish, you can file a FOIA request.” FBI spokespersons made the same refusal and also told me to file a FOIA request.

So if the FBI ignored all these leads after reopening the case, what exactly did they pursue?

In the letter to Catherine Walker Jones, the Justice Department included thin, secondhand testimony of a possible suspect, while failing to mention much harder evidence from another source.

The hearsay testimony included in the letter came from the nephew of a man named G.B. Sproles. The nephew said that when he was eleven or twelve years old, he remembered witnessing his uncle “saw off the barrel of the shotgun before asking him why he was doing that. Sproles responded that he had something to do, and then shooed the witness away. A couple of days later the witness heard about the murder of your father and thought that Sproles was probably involved.”

The Justice Department letter to Catherine Walker Jones continued: “The witness later heard talk between the adults that your father had been killed because he was going with a white woman. He also heard that the gun used was thrown off the Mississippi river bridge in Natchez. The witness further advised that Sproles was as sorry as the day was long, but did not elaborate further on this remark. The witness indicated that he would not be surprised if Sproles was involved in the murder. As noted above, G.B. Sproles died in 1996.”

It’s unclear why this anecdote is given relevance as a finding in the Walker case. Nothing specifically ties G.B. Sproles to the Walker murder besides his nephew’s assertion that G.B. “was probably involved.” Nothing substantiates the nephew’s childhood memory as having truly occurred so close in time to the Walker murder.

By the FBI’s own account of its efforts, Sproles was the last lead the bureau pursued with any energy, but in 2010 they determined he was dead and came up with little beyond his nephew’s speculation. It’s hard to say what else the FBI did over the next three years before it closed the case in 2013, besides determine other suspects were dead and wait for important witnesses to die.

Meanwhile, another potentially more fruitful lead appears to have been ignored. An October 1964 investigative report by the Mississippi Highway Safety Patrol, obtained by the Cold Case Project at Louisiana State University, includes testimony from Barbara Jean Pike — Ed Fuller’s former girlfriend, and a possible witness and accessory to the murder who was not sought by the FBI in the present-day investigation.

During the original 1964 investigation, highway patrol investigators Rex Armistead and H.T. Richardson located and met with Pike in Anniston, Alabama, where she had recently moved. According to their report, Pike and Fuller had lived together “as man and wife” between the fall of 1963 and spring of 1964 in Ferriday, Louisiana, just across the Mississippi River from Natchez.

Pike said that during this time she knew “Ed Fuller to be a member of the KKK and that he has on numerous occasions been called on by the Klan to do various jobs.” She recalled “on one particular occasion…she drove the car for Fuller to Mississippi and watched while he got out of the car and after walking a short distance turned a headlight on a Negro and then shot the Negro in the back with a shotgun.”

Poor House Road in Woodville, where Clifton Walker was shot to death.
Poor House Road in Woodville, where Clifton Walker was shot to death.

Pike’s recollection that “they traveled on the highway to Woodville and then turned off to the left, traveled a short distance down a log road before stopping” sounds like a description of driving south on Highway 61 and turning left onto Poor House Road, where Walker was ambushed and shot to death.

Pike lived with Fuller during the height of his Klan activities and was privy to much that he did. She also knew members of Fuller’s family, as well as other Klansmen who were close with Fuller and were implicated in some of the same crimes as he was. While the details of her report were spotty, Pike clearly showed knowledge of significant details in a number of cases and knew Fuller well enough that the FBI should have devoted considerable energy to finding and interviewing her.

In a 2009 telephone interview with Rex Armistead, who says he was the lead investigator on the Walker case for highway patrol back in 1964, he told me Pike was important to the investigation. “She’s got all the information,” he said. “She’s got all I think anybody would need.”

Twenty-one years old in 1964, Pike could easily be alive today, but the FBI has not established if she is living or dead. “I had reason to believe three or four years ago that she was alive somewhere over on the Louisiana coast,” Armistead added. He also said that the FBI had recently tried to locate Pike themselves, but “they couldn’t find her.” If Armistead is correct about FBI attempts to find Pike, why was the effort left out of the official record of investigation? Either the FBI’s efforts didn’t amount to much, or the bureau is hiding something. To date, my own searches for Pike have also come up empty. Fuller died at forty-eight in 1975.

I interviewed Armistead at least three times, starting in 2009, but the Department of Justice investigative summary in the Notice to Close File makes no record of outreach to Armistead by the FBI at all. He died on December 24, 2013 — two months after the Justice Department closed the Clifton Walker case.

When Special Agent Hentschel first contacted me on June 16, 2011, he tried, unsuccessfully, to pressure me into giving him unpublished research that would jumpstart his investigation. During that conversation, I asked Hentschel if he was speaking to Armistead. “He’s been contacted over the course of the investigation,” Hentschel said. Either FBI contact with Armistead was not meaningful enough to report, or the bureau did not follow through on his leads and suppressed the failure in the official record of investigation.

FBI investigators also ignored another important living witness, Milton Granger, a black truck driver from Louisiana. FBI documents from the time of the initial investigation showed an interest in Granger, who had been at the Nettles Truck Stop near Woodville on February 28, 1964. Multiple Woodville residents said Granger told them he had witnessed the planning of the Walker murder at the truck stop, which is why he fled to New Orleans soon after.

Around New Years of 2009, I found a phone listing for Milton Granger’s son, Milton Jr., in Baton Rouge. Milton Jr. was eager to help Clifton Walker’s family find answers to their questions about the murder — but he would not put me in touch with Milton Sr.

Later that month, when I was in Baton Rouge on a reporting trip, Milton Jr. met me at a CC’s Coffee House. He admitted that the reason he wouldn’t put me in touch with his father was because the two are not on speaking terms. But a year later, in February 2010, when I was back in New Orleans on another reporting trip, Milton Jr. confirmed his father’s location, near the Metairie Country Club in New Orleans.

Milton Granger, Sr. was at church when I arrived at his home with Catherine Walker Jones on Sunday morning, February 7, 2010. We waited in Walker Jones’s car in front of Granger’s off-white shotgun shack, lined with cream blue shutters, bright white window frames and unlit Christmas lights strung haphazardly around the door frame.

Milton Granger, Sr.
Milton Granger, Sr.

“I knew your daddy well,” Granger told Walker Jones out on his porch, but he denied firsthand knowledge of the murder or its planning.

Granger stood dapper and animated in his black church suit and small white soul patch that matched white tufts in his close-cropped grey hair. To our surprise, Granger recalled being visited by FBI agents in New Orleans in 1964. Attempting to break his reticence, the agents showed him autopsy photos of Walker.

Granger’s memory is still sharp. He recalled specific information from the autopsy photos — photos that are not part of the surviving FBI documents from fifty years ago. His story raises questions about whether the FBI is avoiding avenues of investigation that would involve disclosing that they’ve lost documents, or would shed light on the bureau’s past mishandling of the case.

“They had him naked, laying out on the table,” Granger recalled. His memory that “the right side of his face was shot off on a slant” comports with highway patrol investigators’ descriptions of Walker’s body in 1964. Granger also remembered seeing that Walker was shot six times on his right side — twice in the shoulder, twice in the thigh and twice in the lower leg — details not captured in any of the available highway patrol or FBI documents.

By the Department of Justice’s own account, the FBI had “minimal involvement” in the Walker murder investigation in 1964. “The FBI monitored the MHP [highway patrol] … investigation and ultimately closed its case in the winter of 1964” reads the Justice Department letter to Catherine Walker Jones.

If the FBI interviewed Granger in New Orleans in 1964, however, this would be evidence that the bureau played more than a monitoring role and conducted its own investigation. This indicates there was investigative activity and evidence that is not captured in the 1964 FBI documents released to me through a Freedom of Information Act request, and not reported to Walker Jones in the Department of Justice letter.

This discrepancy suggests two possibilities: Either the investigative activity and evidence was documented in 1964, but the documents have since been lost, or the FBI has documentation of the investigative activity and evidence but is withholding it from Freedom of Information Act responses — and from Clifton Walker’s family.

FBI spokesperson Christopher M. Allen would make no comment on why Milton Granger was not contacted by agents during the present-day investigation, nor on whether the bureau lost documents from its 1964 investigation.

*    *   *

When I first met Catherine Walker Jones in 2008, she was working for the Federal Emergency Management Agency in New Orleans, making sure that public applicants were in compliance with regulations for receiving post-Hurricane Katrina assistance. Before the hurricane, she taught biology in New Orleans public schools for thirty-four years. In her free time she rides with the Bayou City Road Runners, a black motorcycle club founded in 1975 by her college sweetheart and second husband, Danny Jones. Walker Jones has one daughter, age forty-four, and three sons, ages thirty-two, twenty-five, and twenty-three. She and Danny got back together in 2007.

Catherine Walker Jones was fourteen at the time of her father's murder.
Catherine Walker Jones was fourteen at the time of her father’s murder.

Gardening is Catherine’s other passion, outside of work, family and motorcycling. This season she is growing bell peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, string beans, corn and okra, as well as herbs — oregano, Greek oregano, basil, rosemary — and peppers: habanero, jalapeno, sweet peppers, cayenne.

“That’s a tradition I will always keep up, because that’s what my mom did,” she said. Catherine’s mother, Ruby Phipps Walker, kept a garden behind the house they moved to in Zachary, Louisiana, near Baton Rouge, in 1965.

Before that, “She and Daddy used to raise vegetables and potatoes in the country” on the family land outside of Woodville, where they had lived, explained Catherine. They moved to Zachary because it was impossible to stay in Mississippi after the murder.

“After Daddy was killed and we were going to town, people were scared to even look in our direction,” Catherine recalled. “Do you know how that hurt me? No one stood up and cared and said what a good man my daddy was. They just turned their heads and walked, as if we didn’t exist. We became invisible. That psychologically did a lot of damage to us.

“At night after Daddy was killed, I remember the dogs barking on the hill and some old white man would come up there and turn around, and I just knew they were going to kill us. Because who was going to stop them? Can you imagine thinking like that as a kid? I knew it could happen because they had taken Daddy away.”

In 2009, Catherine, Clifton Jr. and their sister Shirley traveled back to Woodville and accompanied me to the crime scene on Poor House Road. Because Catherine saw the crime scene in 1964, she was able to help me identify the spot on the road, between high banks, where Walker’s car was stopped and the murder occurred.

“I’m not healed from that,” said Catherine. “How can you heal from growing up from fourteen to twenty-four to thirty-four to forty-four not having a daddy, not because he died from a natural cause. I wondered, how can there be a God to allow this man — that his five children and his wife depended upon for their whole existence — to be snatched prematurely?

Clifton Walker with baby Catherine. (Photo courtesy Catherine Walker Jones).
Clifton Walker with baby Catherine. (Photo courtesy Catherine Walker Jones).

“My baby sister—who was four years old—when she would say, ‘where’s Daddy?’ I would tell her, ‘oh Daddy is at work.’ Come on, you can’t work forever.”

Catherine started to resent her classmates. “Why should they have a daddy when mine was not there?” She also started wishing her uncles and other relatives would take revenge. “I couldn’t understand why they didn’t go pick their guns up and go retaliate.

“I made a promise to myself at that time. I would make the memory of my daddy a priority. I would make my daddy proud of everything I did in life. Even if it was not for myself, he would be my motivator. And that’s how I lived my life.”

“When that [FBI] cold case initiative came out, everyone was just so hopeful,” she remembered. “They were going to invest the time, and they were going to come up with something before all of the possible or all of the prospective witnesses actually died. But that just didn’t happen. No it didn’t.”

*   *   *

Part of Special Agent Hentschel’s investigation included gathering information from me about the case. I am a blogger and investigative reporter who has been covering civil rights cold cases since 2004. I’ve been investigating the Clifton Walker case since 2007.

Hentschel prodded me aggressively to give him anything I had developed that could advance the Walker case. He wanted my work pre-publication, but I couldn’t ethically provide that. “If there are other people we need to talk to who haven’t been talked to, I’m not sure how I’m going to know that other than you telling me that,” he said. The thing he wanted to know most was how to find a woman named Emma Beasley.

Walker’s nephew, Hayward Dixon, had heard allegations in 1964 that Beasley and someone known as “Cripple Armed” George, both African-American, were used by the lynch mob to get Clifton to stop his car on Poor House Road the night of the killing.

Cripple Armed George is reportedly dead, but it turned out Beasley was still alive.

I started trying to find Beasley in 2007 when I first obtained 1964 highway patrol reports on the Walker case. According to investigators, Beasley had “knowledge of certain facts that would aid greatly in breaking this case.”

A cook at the Nettles Truck Stop, where the murder was allegedly planned, Beasley “left Woodville immediately after Walker’s body was discovered,” said highway patrol investigators. She reportedly “returned to attend the funeral, and immediately after the funeral, left.”

“I know too much about this mess and I ain’t gonna get involved,” Beasley reportedly told her common-law husband, and “left in such a hurry that she took no clothes except those she was wearing.” Beasley took up residence in Amite, Louisiana, with a boyfriend she’d been seeing there off and on. Between her fear and her Mississippi partner’s existing, legal marriage to another woman, Beasley had little interest in returning to Wilkinson County.

For two years, neither Lexis Nexis, phone books or my network of local sources yielded any leads at all regarding the welfare or whereabouts of Emma Beasley.

I tried contacting Wilkinson County Sheriff Reginald Jackson. I figured that, as sheriff he would know who’s who in the county, and as the first African-American to hold the office — and as a relative of the Walkers — he was likely to help.

I called Sheriff Jackson many times — at the Wilkinson County Sheriff’s Office and on his cell phone — but never reached him and never received a call back.

“Reginald Jackson will not talk to anyone in the press,” said Andy Lewis, publisher of the local Woodville Republican newspaper. “He hides out there in his office. His secretarial staff protects him.”

There are two towns in Wilkinson County: Woodville, the county seat, bordered by Louisiana to the south and the west, and Centerville, fifteen miles east. After a failed attempt to catch Jackson at the Sheriff’s office in 2009, I decided to try Centerville Police Chief Jimmy Ray Reese. An available white police chief was better than the black sheriff who was avoiding me.

I called the Centerville Police Station. Reese’s secretary confirmed he was in, and I drove there from Woodville.

“Chief, the reporter’s here,” yelled out the black woman in her thirties from the glassed-in control room by the entrance.

“Come on back,” came a shout from down the wood-paneled hallway.

Centerville Police Chief Jimmy Ray Reese.
Centerville Police Chief Jimmy Ray Reese.

The police chief was at his desk when I came in. Heavyset, red-faced and informal in his navy blue polo shirt, Reese fit the stereotype of a white southern lawman.

“Jimmy Ray Reese,” he said, introducing himself with a resonant drawl. “What can I do for ya?”

A blue Ethernet cable hung from the ceiling down to the floor by the far wall and ran to the computer under Reese’s desk. The wood paneling behind him was covered with plaques and certificates.

“Would you like some coffee?” Reese asked with a hearty smile, tipping his Styrofoam cup in my direction, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray on his desk.

Reese remembered the Walker murder. He was ten at the time, the same age as Clifton Walker Jr.

As an adult, Reese heard more about the murder from his former boss, Wilkinson County Sheriff Burnell McGraw, who served from 1960 to ’64 and again from ’68 to ’92. Reese first worked for McGraw in the early ’70s.

“It was over him either using the white restrooms or drinking out of the white water fountain” at International Paper, Reese had heard.

“Back in those days they had the signs,” Reese said. “He’d been told don’t do one or the other. And apparently he did and he was found shot with buckshot. Something like 250 holes were found in his car.”

Federal authorities suspected that McGraw, who was not sheriff at the time of the murder, was a Klansman, and according to Reese, the FBI picked up McGraw to see what he might know about the killing. “He told them he didn’t know more than what the people on the street know,” said Reese.

I explained I was looking for Emma Beasley. The rumor was that she had moved back to Mississippi twenty or twenty-five years ago and opened up a club called Emma’s Place.

“Her name was Beasley?” Reese asked. “I know her. Me and Emma always got along real good. Emma Sims. Mary Emma is her name. Mary Emma Sims.”

“She still around?” I asked.

The International Paper Plant where Clifton Walker worked was a hotbed of racial tensions.
The International Paper Plant where Clifton Walker worked was a hotbed of racial tensions.

“Yup,” he replied, “I talked to Emma last week. She was involved?”

“She’s mentioned in the documents as having knowledge,” I explained.

“I’ve been in law enforcement in this town thirty-three years, thirty-four years in January. She’s been here ever since then. She ran a big night club. I know her quite well, and we always got along good.”

“When she ran that juke, I was the deputy and we had a lot of dealings,” Reese continued. “A lot of them at these jukes don’t like to tell you who was fighting, but she’d always point ’em out to me and have ’em arrested and try to stop things. She tried to run a pretty good place. She had a lot of pull back in them days.”

“Never heard of that name, Beasley,” Reese said, picking up a phone book. “That’s gotta be her, I mean she ran a juke. It’s turned into a church,” he added, laughing.

Reading from the phonebook, “Mary Sims,” Reese said again. “I ain’t gonna tell her you’re comin’, she might get worried. Just gonna ask her.”

As he dialed the phone, Reese yelled, “Derrick! Bring the coffee pot!”

A black teenager, seventeen or eighteen years old, came in with a full pot of coffee.

“Emma. This is Jimmy,” Reese said into the phone while holding out his cup for Derrick to pour.

“Emma, what was your maiden name?…Thompson? You ever heard of a Beasley?…That was your first husband’s name?…And then you married Robert Sims…Alright, somebody just said Mary used to be a Beasley, and I was wonderin’ about that.

“Alright then. I ain’t tryin’ to scare you. You ain’t never done nothin’. Alright, alright Emma.”

“Me and her are good friends. We really are,” Reese said, hanging up the phone. “I knew she had come from up there in Buffalo, which is about five miles north of where that road is you talked about, the Poor House Road.”

Emma’s place was just a couple of miles south of the police station, on Highway 33. “You’ll pass a John Deere tractor place,” Reese said, offering directions. “Then maybe a half-mile there be a nice brick home on the left, a little pond beside it.”

Reese’s cell phone rang. “Alright, feed your horse, and I’ll be there,” he said to the caller and hung up.

“After you pass that nice brick home,” he continued, “it be a cattle company on the right, where they haul a lot of cattle in. Straight across the road there, on the left, just past that brick house, will be a big white building and there’s a house straight up beside that big white building, a house trailer. Emma lives in that trailer.”

“You can call me anytime the day or night, and no time ever disturbs me,” Reese added. “If you need anything, just holler, and I’ll help you any way I can.”

Mary Emma Sims, also known as Emma Beasley.
Mary Emma Sims, also known as Emma Beasley.

I met Emma the next morning. She was eighty-one and tall, even as she bent to use her cane. She had small, braided pigtails pinned tightly behind her ears. She was getting over the flu and was wearing a white terrycloth robe. Her recollections closely tracked details in the 1964 highway patrol documents.

“They come down there and they questioned me,” she said. “They knocked on the door, I answered the door and they just pushed the door on over.”

Emma appeared still traumatized from her interview with the highway patrol’s Rex Armistead, who had discovered her in Louisiana, where she’d fled after the murder. During the interview in 1964, Armistead showed her crime scene photographs of Walker’s mutilated head.

“It was just his face and it was horrible. Horrible to look at,” she said. “That stayed on my mind a long, long time.”

The first time I interviewed Beasley, Emma firmly denied knowing Clifton Walker at all. This was despite the recollection of Hayward Dixon, Walker’s nephew, that Emma regularly visited the juke joint that his mother ran on the Walker family land. Hayward is adamant that Emma frequently hung out there with Clifton Walker and others.

Emma said she didn’t remember any of the people who stopped in at Nettles Truck Stop, where she worked — not Walker, not any of the members of his carpool, not the alleged conspirators who were seen there the night of the murder. She didn’t work at night, she explained. “I would cook dinner and then I would get off.”

But then Emma contradicted herself, saying, “All I remember is that he worked at the mill, in that line,” and then quickly added, nervously: “I didn’t know he worked at the mill until after this happened.”

In February 2010, I returned to interview Emma again, this time with Catherine Walker Jones accompanying me. On that occasion, Emma volunteered further, “I been to their house one time. One time.”

Emma said nothing about the murder itself, but she appeared deeply fearful.

A year after he first called me, Hentschel still had not contacted Emma Beasley, in July 2012. Reached on the phone, she told me she had gone blind from diabetes and her health was failing. She’d been hospitalized multiple times in recent months and was receiving regular home visits from nurses.

According to the Department of Justice letter to Catherine Walker Jones, the FBI finally located Emma Beasley on February 14, 2013. The letter carefully uses the word “located” rather than “contacted.”

Deborah Madden, spokesperson for the FBI’s Jackson, Mississippi field office, would not confirm or deny that Hentschel or any other FBI agent spoke to Emma Beasley.

The information reported in the Department of Justice letter to Catherine Walker Jones precisely reiterates Beasley’s claims to the highway patrol in 1964. Nothing reported reflects a present-day interaction — no new information about the case and no other information about Beasley.

Nor does the letter mention that Beasley died on June 25, 2013 — information that would surely be relevant to Catherine Walker Jones, who sat across from Beasley as she offered evasive denials in 2010.

*    *   *

In December 2013, we returned to Poor House Road. Al Jazeera English wanted to cover the closing of the Clifton Walker case and brought Catherine, Shirley and myself to Mississippi for on-location interviews. It was the sisters’ first time back at the crime scene since 2009. They were eager to speak on their father’s behalf and give voice to their disappointment with the Justice Department’s decision to close his case.

Clifton Walker Jr. stands in front of a portrait of his father.
Clifton Walker Jr. stands in front of a portrait of his father.

When we met up in Woodville, the Walker sisters seemed worn down and more subdued than in the other meetings we’d had over the six years I’ve known them. The family had been through a lot in the previous year. On November 1, 2012, Clifton Jr.’s son, Clifton Walker III, was murdered at age twenty-seven in an apparent robbery in Baker, Louisiana. His body was found in the trunk of his own vehicle. An arrest was made, and the case is still unfolding in court.

“It took him [Clifton Jr.] back in the moment when Daddy died,” Catherine said. “That was something we had to endure with Cliff.”

Then in June 2013, a small eight-passenger plane went out of control and crashed into Cliff Jr.’s home in Baker, Louisiana. “The wing clipped his house and spilled jet fuel onto his house,” explained Catherine. “He had to move out.”

And then the FBI agent arrived at Catherine’s home in New Orleans to deliver the dispiriting news. “To get that letter in November, on my mother’s birthday, November 21, 2013, to get that letter saying they closed the case, that was really a blow,” Catherine said. “They only reported what was already done. There was nothing new.”

Catherine stood on the unpaved gravel and earth between the high, tree-lined banks where, fifty years earlier, their father was found brutally murdered inside his car. She wore a black fringe leather jacket, red stencil cut flower on the lapel and a homburg hat similar to those her father wore. Shirley stood close by.

“We lost our father here. Our mother lost her husband here,” Catherine said, looking into the camera. “This place where Daddy was murdered has held all the secrets. Daddy, we are still seeking the truth. We want the world to know we will never stop.”

Shirley Walker Wright and Catherine Walker Jones at the site of their father's murder.
Shirley Walker Wright and Catherine Walker Jones at the site of their father’s murder.

While the sisters held a photo of their father for the camera, Catherine felt her legs going numb. They gave out from under her. Shirley and I caught her.

“I suffer from sciatic back pain. And a lot of stress aggravates the back,” Catherine later explained. “That’s frightening too, to realize you don’t feel your legs. I haven’t had an episode since then, matter of fact.”

In the letter to Catherine Walker Jones, the Department of Justice asserted that the FBI played a minimal role in the 1964 investigation and that highway patrol led “a disjointed investigation that failed to produce enough evidence to charge anyone in the murder.”

Yet the letter also shows that the 2009 to 2013 investigation was based almost entirely on retracing the steps of the 1964 investigation — the very investigation that the Justice Department themselves criticized. If the individuals implicated and the eyewitnesses identified in 1964 did not yield sufficient evidence for prosecution, it stands to reason that a rehash of the 1964 investigation would not lead to a prosecutable case.

Even when the FBI pursued remaining living subjects, the agents made only minimal contact. Eliciting information from a resistant source requires rapport building over time.

In other cold cases, the FBI seems to have essentially ignored sources who came forward with new information. Stanley Nelson, editor of the Concordia Sentinel in Ferriday, Louisiana, has reported extensively on two civil rights-era cold cases that were reopened under the Till Bill and closed in 2013 and 2014, respectively.

“I had individuals tell me that they contacted the FBI to tell what they knew about these cold cases, but that the bureau showed little or no interest in what they had to offer,” Nelson said. “In some cases, the caller was asked if he or she could provide ‘probative’ information — did they have evidence as to who killed who? That’s a ridiculous approach. You have to look for ‘pieces’ of the story rather than the one caller or witness who has all the answers.”

Nelson came to realize that the FBI agents could only do as much as their superiors in the Justice Department directed them to do. “Had a handful of agents working in the field been given the time and tools to do nothing but work on these cases, then they would have accomplished much more,” he said.

Rep. John Lewis, who authored the Till Bill, wishes more would be done to bring justice and peace to the victims. “The history of law enforcement in this country suggests that issues of transparency and the open admission of fault when errors have been made are a long-standing challenge,” said Lewis’s spokesperson, Brenda Jones. “The Congressman cannot presume to know what has stopped more thorough investigation, but demanding an answer to that question from the agency itself may help lead to more satisfactory progress.”

Clifton Walker's grave outside Morningstar Baptist Church, near Natchez, Mississippi.
Clifton Walker’s grave outside Morningstar Baptist Church, near Natchez, Mississippi.

“One bill will not bring a resolution to the deep-seated issues that have made these injustices possible and outstanding for decades,” Jones emphasized. “It is important for people inside and outside the government who are passionate about this issue to continue to push and pull, raise their voices, ask questions and demand answers.”

The handful of civil rights cold cases successfully prosecuted before the Till Bill were largely a matter of piecing together cases that were already there, based on investigations and court cases from the 1960s. Existing investigative documents and trial transcripts were roadmaps for establishing the cases against suspects in the more recent years.

But in the Walker case, the existing investigative work from 1964 is inconclusive. The investigative documents are rich with information that could be the basis of a fuller, more complete investigation. But that investigation was simply not undertaken.

*   *   *

Ben Greenberg is an investigative reporter and photographer based in Boston. He is a founding member of the Civil Rights Cold Case Project. His work has appeared in NPR Code Switch, USA Today, Colorlines, The American Prospect, The Clarion Ledger and elsewhere. Greenberg can be reached at minorjive@gmail.com. Follow Ben on Twitter.

Clarence Smith Jr. is a writer and visual storyteller living in New England. He is also the founder and editor-in-chief of BOLD Editiona “portfolio as publication” that explores The Bold motif through original journalistic storytelling. 

Some portions of the article are based on earlier blog posts published on Ben Greenberg’s blog, hungryblues.net.

 

 

I Grew Up In a Fundamentalist Cult  Like the One in  “The Handmaid’s Tale”

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Don’t think Margaret Atwood’s dystopian vision is realistic? I was raised in a conservative Christian cult where women were viewed as submissive birthing vessels.

This story is republished from The Establishment, a publication that believes conversation is much more interesting when everyone has a voice. Media funded and run by women, The Establishment features new content daily.

It was a cold morning on the campus of the little Christian college I attended in Western Pennsylvania. Along with about twenty other students, I’d trundled in and unwrapped my coat and scarf. Now we all sat there sipping our coffees, waiting for the hardest class of the year to get rolling.

Our literary criticism professor paused as he announced the optional reading titles on our list for the next week, a funny look on his face.

“This one,” he said, “you may not like. It was written in 1984, published in ’85 or ’86, and was a reaction against the rise of the religious right — against the values that places like our school stand for. It’s pro-feminist, and anti-complementarian — against traditional gender roles. It sort of parodies what we believe in, in an interesting way. I’m curious what you’ll make of it.”

The shade thrown by my usually soft-spoken professor caught my attention. I had to read this book.

And so I did, unwittingly cracking open the beginning of the end for meek, conservative Christian me.

* * *

The story of The Handmaid’s Tale is a fairly simple dystopian one: A young woman is re-educated by the new totalitarian (and Christian) government regime to be a childbearing surrogate for the wife of a high-ranking military official. She tells her story after the fact, a narrative recorded on audio tapes found years later in someone’s attic. Her name is Offred, literally of Fred, having no name of her own anymore in this new society. It takes place in the U.S., post-Constitution, post-democracy, post-liberal humanism. Women are chattel. Religion is god. Order comes above all else.

To the average American in 1985, it seemed pretty far out there, an unlikely vision of future written as a warning. It’s been controversial since it came out, making ALA’s one hundred most banned books list between 1990 and 1999, but that was because of the sex scenes in it and the way it depicted Christianity. It wasn’t really taken seriously as political foreshadowing.

But for me, when I read it for the first time, it felt like a prophecy that echoed rhythm of the world I had been raised in, reflecting the vision my church and community had for the future of American culture and politics.

I was raised in a fundamentalist Christian community — the church we attended could fairly be called a cult, and my parents took things a step further than even our church did, homeschooling and raising nine kids. I was the oldest. We were part of a larger movement now called “Quiverfull,” the term taken from a Psalm where the writer talks about God blessing the man whose “quiver is full of arrows.” The metaphor refers to children, and our community understood this to be a command: Have children and raise them in this aggressively conservative faith, and then there will be more “true” believer Christians in the world to bring about cultural revolution in the name of Jesus Christ. Children like me were raised to see life as apocalyptic, and ourselves as serving on the front lines of a culture war to make America Christian.

Women in this world were treated much like those in The Handmaid’s Tale — most, like my mom, didn’t have their own bank accounts, didn’t have their own email addresses, and couldn’t leave the home without permission from their husbands. They were called helpmeets, a word taken from the King James Version of the Bible, which refers to wives as created to meet the needs of their husbands and be helpers to them.

I even participated in a super-conservative worship church dance troupe for young women, called His Handmaids — again a term taken from the Bible, from the Virgin Mary’s response to the angel Gabriel telling her she’s going to be pregnant with the Messiah, which some translations open with “I am the Lord’s handmaiden, let it be unto me as you say.”

Just like Offred, women existed within the community to serve higher purposes than our own desires. Young girls who led the congregation wore white dresses and were stripped of identifying features — no jewelry, no nail polish, hair tied back and not in the face — while wives were submissive helpers to their husbands, with my mother used as the fertile ground for my father to breed a quiver full of Christian culture warriors.

And me, the oldest child in a family of nine? As was common in the movement, I was my mom’s right hand. She sometimes called me her strength, because I helped her co-parent my younger siblings and keep the household running. When she had twins shortly before my thirteenth birthday, it was me who got up with her during the nighttime feedings, not my dad. When things were too busy on Sunday nights, I took over doing all the family laundry and ironing. And I did the dinner dishes almost exclusively for about 10 years, foregoing activities with my peers at church and in the community because I had too many obligations to fulfill at home. Like Offred, my life’s purpose was subsumed into serving the “greater good” of my far-right Christian community.

* * *

We were not alone, either. My situation grew out of a larger movement in the conservative Christian community to be more invested in politics and cultural affairs on the national level. This push was led by the “Moral Majority,” a group of Christian leaders founded by Jerry Falwell in 1971, which sought to take on Washington to bring Christian ethics to bear on policy at a national level.

The Moral Majority focused on issues related to their priorities for promoting and protecting traditional family values. They celebrated Ronald Reagan’s presidency and encouraged his refusal to act on the HIV/AIDS epidemic, which was killing thousands, largely because they saw it as fundamentally a judgment from God on the “immoral” behavior of homosexuals. According to historian Rachel Coleman — a Ph.D. candidate at Indiana University, who is also a Quiverfull Daughter and whose research focuses on twentieth century history of childhood, children, and religion — it wasn’t until kids started getting affected and dying from infected blood in transfusions that the issue was seen as valid. As a result, President Reagan eventually did act, releasing a series of PSAs about the epidemic…but these were all focused on kids, the future of the religious crusade for a Christian United States.

Also part of this movement was the rise of Operation Rescue, a Christian group that encouraged protest (and, loosely, some terrorist-style) tactics against abortion practitioners and those receiving abortion services. In the wake of Roe v. Wade passing in 1973, the Moral Majority hit on abortion as the issue that would most viscerally and immediately grab the attention of their audience and rally support and action at the grassroots level. We still see this struggle impacting negotiations on the Hill today, as abortion remains an impossibly hot-button issue, regularly derailing policymaking. Shock-and-awe tactics with grisly photos of dead fetuses and terror of increased government oversight on family-related issues drummed up droves of supporters buying into the agenda of the Moral Majority.

This terror-based approach to protecting the “traditional family” and “family values” had a watershed affect, driving the Right to work against civil protections for sexual orientation and gender presentation, creating a fear frenzy that drove the War on Drugs to incarcerate an entire generation of young black men, while causing Christian universities (led by my alma mater) to seek legal exemption from being under Title IX if they would surrender access to federal funding.

This collective terror also allowed Phyllis Schlafly and the Moral Majority to lobby successfully against the ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment in 1982. The United States is one of the last remaining countries in the world without a constitutional clause that protects the rights of women as full and equal citizens with men, and this prevents us from participating in key international coalitions against gender discrimination (like CEDAW, which we haven’t ratified either). The Moral Majority effectively took the United States backwards a century policy-wise — and we still haven’t fully recovered.

It was during this rise of the Moral Majority that Atwood wrote The Handmaid’s Tale. I was born, the first of what would be nine kids, just about five years after the book was first published.

Atwood has given many interviews about the writing of The Handmaid’s Tale and her creative process for it, but the thing that stands out to me the most is her comment that she made a rule for herself not to include anything in the novel that hadn’t already been done by some society, somewhere. Nothing was new.

And so, as I read the book for the first time that cold morning in 2010, the fictional world sounded a whole lot like my real life.

* * *

My ex-husband, who I met at that same little Christian college and who had also grown up in the same group of churches, wanted nothing more than to be a father, to have 10 kids and to homeschool them. When our marriage was careening to an end, we were sitting in a car outside his family’s house when he asked me if I might consider having a baby with him to rekindle something.

We’d chosen to wait initially for a host of reasons, the strongest one for me being that I had been raising kids for the last ten to twelve years of my life and couldn’t see myself having the energy to plunge back into the world of poopy diapers and snotty noses. Two years into our marriage, I’d had a few pregnancy scares and each time as I waited for my period, I had had nightmares and panic attacks, unable to shake a deep-set terror of being trapped at home with a baby and no life outside the home. I would wake up crying and shaking from a dream about being pregnant, and the next morning he’d make me coffee and listen to my stories and try to assuage my fears.

So when he asked me to have a kid to save our marriage, I was stunned. “Are you serious?” I asked.

“Don’t be that way!” he responded. “I just think that I could love you again if you were a mother.”

Speechless, I told him to get out of the car. “I’m not discussing this,” I said. “There’s no way in hell I’d bring a kid into this mess if we can’t fix this on our own.”

It was our last big fight. We stopped communicating shortly thereafter, and the next time I had a real conversation was at the courthouse after our divorce hearing. He asked me to go to lunch, and I said no.

Because I running was late for my gynecologist appointment to get myself an IUD.

* * *

Offred learns early on that she is not the first Handmaid to be given to the Commander’s household to bear a child for him and his wife. The last one, she gathers from bits of gossip here and there, committed suicide.

In her room there is a little cupboard, and on the back wall of the cupboard is scratched nolite te bastardes carborundorum, which is bad Latin for “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.” Offred assumes this message is left for her by the last Handmaid, a hand of camaraderie offered to her from beyond the grave.

Promotional material from the “Handmaid’s Tale” Hulu series, via Facebook.

When I ended my relationship to my father shortly after I got divorced, it was because he and I reached a crossroads where he had to choose to treat me according to his religious ideology or to treat me like a human, his daughter, his firstborn. He chose his ideology, and continued to use it to manipulate and mistreat myself and my mother and my siblings. We stopped talking, and I got my first tattoo — a black armband with script, “N.T. B. C.” Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Don’t forget you are human. Don’t forget what you have overcome.

Offred never tells the reader her real name — she only says she had another one, once. Under the new regime, her name is that of the man for whom she exists as a birthing vessel. It’s not important, she doesn’t exist as an individual anymore, her life is not her own.

When I got divorced, I repudiated the worldview that had been imposed upon me, rejecting a life where I existed only according to my relationship to my father or my husband. I took a new last name, a family name from further back on my grandmother’s side, naming myself to own myself. That was also the year I got my own bedroom for the first time, coming full circle out of a universe where my identity could not exist on its own terms, and carving out for myself a place in the world, a home, a name, a future that was my own to direct.

* * *

Today, Donald Trump is President of the United States, and there is increasing “constitutional anxiety” on Capitol Hill — what will he do next? The 24-hour news cycle is high-strung and exhausted, shrilly reporting on his tweets and Melania’s whereabouts and Ivanka’s so-called feminism.

Promotional material from the “Handmaid’s Tale” Hulu series, via Facebook.

Mike Pence is second in line for the presidency, and if Trump is impeached, we will have instead of an incompetent egoist for a president, a calculating and careful man who leaves a legacy behind him of anti-women, anti-LGBTQ, anti-immigrant policy-making. VP Pence is exactly the kind of man the Moral Majority of 1985 would have hoped to elect, as is demonstrated by their rallying around anti-minority and anti-choice legislators and policies and foundations.

The Quiverfull movement was created for this kind of world. I was raised to be a helpmeet in a world like Offred’s, and watching (white, middle class) liberals around me be shocked and unnerved by the election results has been curious for me. Didn’t they know this has been in the works for decades? I didn’t come out of nowhere, and neither did Trump, and nor did The Handmaid’s Tale.

Atwood recently wrote about the book in the New York Times, in anticipation of the new mini-series coming out on Hulu today, starring Elisabeth Moss and Alexis Bledel. In it she says:

Is ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ a prediction? That is the third question I’m asked — increasingly, as forces within American society seize power and enact decrees that embody what they were saying they wanted to do, even back in 1984, when I was writing the novel. No, it isn’t a prediction, because predicting the future isn’t really possible: There are too many variables and unforeseen possibilities. Let’s say it’s an antiprediction: If this future can be described in detail, maybe it won’t happen. But such wishful thinking cannot be depended on either.

The publication of The Handmaid’s Tale during the time of the Reagan presidency and the Moral Majority was an apt collision of vision and fears expressed through fiction — the release of the new mini-series timed at the end of the first one hundred days of Donald Trump, U.S. President #45, is a powerful piece of foresight on the behalf of the studio which created it. Americans are more politically engaged than they have been in years, and we would all do well to pay attention to this “antiprediction” of a TV show in hopes that we can learn from it and resist the fruit of 1980s Christian conservative thinking running our government today, and save the future of our democracy.

 

 

Emma Sulkowicz is More Than “That Mattress-Toting Sexual Assault Activist”

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She earned worldwide fame for her campus protest. Now this empowered 24-year-old is getting into S&M – and taking on the art-world establishment.

On the third floor of a Midtown Manhattan office building, a line of guests stretches down a cigarette ash-colored hallway. In an adjacent kitchen area, a captivating, gray-bearded man wearing a black suit and a white tie with WHITNEY printed in block letters splashes cold water on his face. Two younger guys congratulate him on his work this evening. They think they’ve witnessed the end of a performance piece starring the sharp-dressed man and Emma Sulkowicz, the 24-year-old artist most famous for protesting an alleged rape by lugging a mattress through the Columbia University campus for the duration of her senior year. But tonight’s work, conceived by Sulkowicz and titled The Ship is Sinking, is still going.

“Mr. Whitney,” as Sulkowicz refers to him in the piece that debuted last Saturday, is portrayed by the bearded man, an S&M film star known as “Master Avery,” whose Kink.com profile describes his body type as that of a “swimmer” and his cock girth as “thick.”

“So, what was that all about?” one of the guys asks Mr. Whitney, who a few minutes ago tied a bikini-clad, pink-haired Sulkowicz to a seven-foot slab of wood and raised her to the ceiling of the gallery one floor below, while verbally and physically assaulting her.

“Well,” Mr. Whitney begins casually. “I had to kick her ass a little. She’s lazy. I can’t have her thinking she can be an artist.”

The two guys don’t know what to say next. Mr. Whitney keeps the conversation going, asking, “Do you think I was hard enough on her?”

“Mr. Whitney” (left) chastising Emma Sulkowicz (right) during her performance art piece Saturday night in Manhattan. Sulkowicz, in character, is eager to show Mr. Whitney she “has what it takes to be an artist.”

A few days earlier, I sat with a friendly, nervous Sulkowicz at lunch and talked about her latest offering, part of the Whitney Museum of American Art’s esteemed Independent Study Program. “At this point I’ve read enough theory and I’m confident enough in myself as an artist to know that I can only maintain an art practice if I’m doing stuff that’s kooky, wacky and fun,” she said, “and that’s why I’m really excited about this piece.” Revealing that she would be dressed in a bikini while hanging from the ceiling in the position of a female figurehead on a ship’s mast, she giggled, adding. “I’m definitely going to be the most naked person in the room.”

Sulkowicz’s carefree demeanor betrays the depth of thought and preparedness put into The Ship is Sinking. It’s inspired by a 1935 Bertolt Brecht essay, “Writing the Truth: Five Difficulties” – in which Brecht compares the Great Depression-era United States to a sinking ship. In taking the abuse from “Mr. Whitney” in her piece, she is questioning her value as an artist while posing the question: “What good is art hung on the wall of a sinking ship?”

During the performance, Mr. Whitney uses heavy-duty ropes to bind the submissive Sulkowicz, clad in spiky, sparkling heels. Drops of sweat trickle off the tip of his nose as he muscles the ropes around her over and over again. He burns her skin while she moans as the tightest of knots is executed. As he raises her off the ground, she maintains a show of stoicism; then Mr. Whitney goes back to perusing the financial section of The New York Times in a nearby chair.

“Mr. Whitney” – portrayed by S&M performer “Master Avery” – ties Sulkowicz up during her performance piece.

Sulkowicz says the piece is part observation on Donald Trump’s America and the place of art within it, part critique of the art establishment, and part personal exploration of her own boundaries as an artist.

“If our country is falling to pieces and you’re like, I’m going to make political art!, you’re just kind of weighing the ship down,” Sulkowicz says. “The only art that’s really going to fix things are going to happen outside the walls of the institution,” meaning, in this case, the Whitney.

Nevertheless, “Every one of the artists in the room that night asked to be a part of this structure, we all want to be bound to the institution,” she continues, referring to her peers in the program. “In spite of all this pain, we still want it.”

“Mr. Whitney” ties Sulkowicz to a seven-foot post that will be raised to the ceiling.

As Sulkowicz hangs several feet above the performance space’s floor – with pink tufts of pubic hair sprouting from the top of the bikini bottom and from her armpits – a woman pushes through the gallery goers. “Do you want me to get you down?” she asks Sulkowicz, looking up at her.

“No, it’s O.K.,” Sulkowicz says. “I have to show Mr. Whitney I have what it takes to be an artist.” She’s repeated that phrase over and over tonight, even as friends greeted her upon arriving, not realizing that the performance had already begun.

“Excuse me!” Mr. Whitney shouts at the concerned woman, jumping out of his chair. “Is she bothering you?”

Quickly turning his attention to Sulkowicz, he says, “Did you say something bad about me?”

Sulkowicz playfully denies any wrongdoing, but Mr. Whitney’s not having it. He unbuckles his belt and removes it. The audience can guess what’s coming next.

Another woman in the crowd says, “Oh my god,” and Mr. Whitney smacks Sulkowicz’s rear end repeatedly with the belt. As pink welts rise on her right butt cheek, Mr. Whitney asks the crowd if they “think she can take it.” Some nod, one gives a thumbs up, and others remain stone-faced. The woman who offered to rescue Sulkowicz looks on, horrified.

Audience members look on as Sulkowicz continues her performance.

This isn’t the first time Sulkowicz has infused assault into her work. Weeks after graduating from Columbia – and famously walking her mattress across the stage to accept her diploma – she released Ceci N’est Pas Un Viol, a video performance art piece in which she filmed herself engaged in a sexual encounter that turned violent from four different angles. She says that work, meant to display in raw detail just how seamlessly sex can turn into rape, was the first time she had to confront the particular ways in which she was harmed while being sexually assaulted in 2012. (The man she accused has denied any wrongdoing, and has repeatedly filed court actions charging Columbia with gender-based discrimination.) In the video, her co-actor strangles and sodomizes her, like she says her attacker did. “I was gearing up for the shoot date so much in my head and [thought] ‘these things trigger me, but on this day I’m just going to have to deal with it,’” she recalls. “This is the most corny thing ever, but art enabled me to face my fears.”

Sulkowicz says that for a long time if anyone touched her neck, she’d be triggered, and become upset. But in part because of Ceci N’est Pas Un Viol, and the psychotherapy she’s engaged in for the past year, her neck is no longer off-limits.

Since graduating, Sulkowicz has offered commentary on the rape case through a collection of silkscreened images and newspaper clippings, and dressed up as a doctor and played the role of therapist to see how “art heals in ways that medicine can’t,” as she told The Daily Beast in January. She hopes to restage this collaboration with Master Avery in other venues, and is “always working on something” art related.

During the performance last weekend, after taking a few lashings from Mr. Whitney’s belt, Sulkowicz finally gives in and asks to be taken down.

“Oh, you’re giving up?” Mr. Whitney taunts. “O.K.,” he continues, lowering the wooden post. “I guess you don’t have what it takes to be an artist.”

A silent Sulkowicz lays on the carpet a good ten minutes while Mr. Whitney unties the knots wedding her to the wood. Once she can stand, Mr. Whitney returns to his newspaper.

The attendees offer Sulkowicz a mix of praise and condolences. One girl asks, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Sulkowicz says, undoing a knot. “But I’ve just got to get back up there and prove to Mr. Whitney I have what it takes to be an artist.”

“What’s the bar for that?” the girl asks, oblivious that Sulkowicz has broken free of the wood post, but not yet of the confines of the piece. “How long do you have to stay up there?”

With a straight face, Sulkowicz stops toying with the rope, flips a wrist and says, “I mean, like, forever.”

The girl stares at her blankly.

An eager Sulkowicz attaches the wooden post to the makeshift pulley system hanging from the ceiling, approaches Mr. Whitney and pleads with him, again, to “make me an artist.”

“You know it’s going to hurt,” Mr. Whitney retorts.

“I know what it takes now,” she says, steadfast. “I know what to expect.”

Mr. Whitney goes to work again, but much more fiercely this time, grabbing Sulkowicz harder, tying the knots tighter, making her moan louder.

He moves quicker this time, once again positioning her like a figurehead atop the gallery. He pulls Sulkowicz’s hair, slaps her face, and invites an audience member to join – a heavyset dude, dressed in a black tee and torn black jeans, wearing some lipstick and face powder. He’s been here since the doors opened, and now he and Mr. Whitney are both slapping her ass.

As the clock strikes eight, the gallery’s lights go out, signaling the end of the performance. But Mr. Whitney continues the onslaught, pinching Sulkowicz’s nipples.

Onlookers fire up the flashlight function on their iPhones, once again illuminating the gallery corner.

“Mr. Whitney” continues his verbal assault on Sulkowicz as she hangs from the ceiling.

Shortly thereafter, Sulkowicz “gives up” again. Mr. Whitney takes her down and continuously chastises her as he unravels the knots.

“Ah, this is a waste of my time,” he suddenly ejects. Then, addressing the crowd says, “Why don’t you all untie her instead?”

Audience members untie Sulkowicz at the close of her performance.

Eight or so people surround Sulkowicz as she lies on the ground and pull at the ropes. In a couple minutes she’s free, and everyone applauds.

As the crowd thins, Sulkowicz and Master Avery embrace. With her eyes shut, she smiles widely.

 

 

This “Old Guy With a Sign” Protests Trump Every Single Day

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Gale McCray has never been politically active, but since the election he’s become a fixture at a Fort Worth, Texas, intersection.

Most days, 74-year-old Gale McCray putters around Fort Worth, Texas, doing odd jobs and errands – like delivering cookie bouquets – for extra cash. He also spends his time standing at a busy intersection with a homemade anti-Trump sign that simply says, “Trump, that boy don’t act right.”

For 21 years, McCray worked as a mailman for the United States Post Office. He admits he was just as the stereotype suggests: disgruntled. Unhappy and unfulfilled for the better part of his career, he finally quit and took out his entire retirement fund. After blowing through the money over a period of two years on marijuana and “craziness,” McCray was left with $500 to his name. It was then he realized he had a “problem” and he wanted to address it.

“The best thing about America is that you get multiple chances at life,” McCray chuckles. “So, I took another chance.”

McCray went back to school and got a degree at the age of 43, then worked for ten years as a recreation therapist, working with alcoholics and addicts – something he felt called to do. He would teach leisure education classes for patients in treatment centers, and talk to them about participating in activities and how to be out in the world, such as going to a movie or engaging in swimming exercises. Then he drove a school bus for six years before officially retiring in 2008. Over the past nine years, McCray has become more vocal about his political views though he says they aren’t based on politics, per se, but on common sense, human decency, and kindness.

Gale McCray poses with his sign.

Now, the sign he holds for at least two hours per day in front of passing cars and curious eyes is the result of a tipping point. One that McCray didn’t even know was coming. The downhome, country phrase written in big, black letters on the sign just popped into his head, McCray says. He heard it often while growing up in a working-class household in Oklahoma during the forties and fifties.

“It’s country talk, that’s all it is. The full phrase is, ‘That boy just don’t act right. God bless him,’” McCray explains. “Like, I’m a big baseball fan so I’d say this about a player: ‘That right there is a really good ball player, but the fact is that boy just don’t act right. God bless him.’”

Once he found a piece of cardboard large enough to fit his message, McCray focused on the destination. He says he didn’t put a whole lot of thought into it, but ideally had two specific requirements: within walking distance of his home, and a lot of traffic. So, he chose an intersection that fit the bill, with a four-way stop and an island off to the side for him to stand on.

“A few years ago, I made a different sign,” McCray says. “It said, ‘Help, I watch too much Fox News. Can’t tell truth from lies. Need therapy.’ But I was just being silly. This right here is different.”

When asked why it was different, McCray pauses. He speaks in a heavier and much more somber tone than the lighthearted, jovial one he’s been using.

“After the election I was just amazed, I couldn’t believe [Donald Trump] got elected,” he says. “I remembered seeing a guy with a sign once shortly after Bush took us into Iraq. And he was a Middle Eastern guy. He had such resolve on his face, like he knew he wasn’t going to change anything but that he had to get out there and do something. And that’s kind of how I felt.”

McCray stands with his sign at his preferred intersection in Fort Worth.

McCray maintains that he isn’t political. He isn’t angry and he isn’t trying to make a grandiose statement. He’s just “an old guy with a sign.” But the motivation seems deeper than that. After the recent election, McCray became politically active for the first time. He called Congresswoman Kay Grange, visited her office and spoke with one of her representatives about the travel ban. But it just didn’t feel like enough. Then protests broke out all over the country, including the Dallas Fort Worth Airport. And it affected him deeply.

“I saw mothers and grandparents on the news getting separated from their families and I got kind of emotional thinking about it and thinking about my own family,” he says. “There just wasn’t any compassion as to how it was implemented. So, I don’t know. It was all of that, really. I mean, this isn’t the America that I know.”

While standing alone on the cement-lined, grassy island, McCray has heard it all – boos, car horns, cheers and, of course, his fair share of ‘fuck you.’” According to the New York Times, 51.7 percent of Forth Worth residents voted for Donald Trump, which isn’t an overwhelming number, but enough to garner some unpleasant reactions to his sign.

Some people have called the cops on him, others hold up the peace sign. One person shouted at him to “get a job” while another asked, “Who’s paying you to do that?” An older woman even slowed down traffic just enough to roll down her window and tell McCray with all sincerity, “You’re stupid.”

“What I notice the most is how a lot of the people are just so angry,” he says. “It makes me sad to see them get so angry at me. I don’t feel anger towards them. And they look like they’re going to have a heart attack over this. You can’t take it so seriously. If I took what people said seriously, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

McCray waves at passersby.

McCray says he often thinks back to that Middle Eastern man that he saw with a sign all those years ago. No one beeped at him. No one slowed down. They just saw him standing there and wondered what he was doing out there with that sign.

“That man had a big effect on me,” McCray says. “I made up my own story about him, about who he was and why he was doing what he was doing, and how he had to get out there and just do something – anything. It has stuck with me. I imagine people are doing the same with me. And maybe it will stick with them.”

McCray has since started taking the sign with him on his travels. He’s recently been to Oklahoma, Florida and South Carolina. A musician he met in Oklahoma even wrote a song based on the sign’s catchphrase. It’s called, you guessed it: “That Boy Don’t Act Right.” And on more than a few occasions, McCray has struck up conversations with people just to hear their thoughts and views no matter who they voted for. He’s not trying to change anyone’s mind, he says, or convert political beliefs. But he hopes that some people will feel motivated to go out and do something – anything – to make them feel as if they are doing their part. Maybe they’ll see the sign and think about voting or taking their own course of action. In the end, that’s really what McCray says he’s trying to do – inspire action.

“I still don’t feel like I’m doing enough,” he says. “Like I said, I’m just an old man with a sign. But at least, for me, it’s something. At least I’m doing something.”

 

 

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

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My analyst and I grew more intimately connected each week of treatment...but I never saw this indecent proposal coming.

It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist. I’m holding back — and she knows it. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. Of course it has. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together.

“Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.”

I so supremely wanted this not to come up. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify.

“When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

Back in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. I’ve been told it was historically all part of an effort to toughen me up, but instead I was filled with towering doubts about my own worth. And since 2012, when I gave up a stable, tenured teaching career for the wildly inconsistent life of a freelance writer, I’ve had great difficulty trusting my own instincts and capabilities. I told Lori that I wish I was better at dealing with life’s daily struggles instead of constantly wondering if I’ll be able to wade through the thick.

She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on. In short, I am, in fact, strong, responsible and “pretty good at life.”

Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. “I also feel that it is your sensitivity that makes you a great catch out there in the dating world,” she said, to which I involuntarily smiled, blushed and quickly buried my chin in my chest. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman.

“Why are you reacting that way?” Lori asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

“Is it because you’re attracted to me?”

I laughed a little, uncomfortably. “How did you know?”

She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from.

Now, a week after dropping that bomb, Lori asks, “So, why haven’t we talked about it?”

“I was hoping to avoid it, I suppose.” I tell her the whole notion of having the hots for a therapist is such a sizable cliché that I was embarrassed to admit it. “For Christ’s sake,” I say, throwing my hands up, “Tony Soprano even fell in love with his therapist.”

Lori snorts, rolls her eyes. “I knew you were going to say that.”

I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality.

“It’s OK,” Lori says, grinning. “We can talk about this in here.”

I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. She jogs often, I’d come to find out, which explains her petite figure and ability to probably pull off just about any outfit of her choosing.

I still can’t speak, so she takes over.

“Do you think you’re the first client that’s been attracted to their therapist?” she asks rhetorically. “I’ve had other clients openly discuss their feelings, even their sexual fantasies involving me.”

“What?” I cackle, beginning to feel as though I’ve moseyed onto the set of a porno.

“It’s true,” she says, acknowledging her desk. “What’s yours? Do you bend me over and take me from behind?”

Nailed it.

“If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s OK,” she goes on, earnestly, explaining that she’s discussed sexual scenarios with her clients before so as to “normalize” the behavior and not have them feel their own thoughts are unnatural. By showing the patient a level of acceptance, she hopes to facilitate a more comfortable atmosphere for “the work” — her painfully accurate pseudonym for psychotherapy.

I take a second to let the red flow out of my face, and ponder what she said. I’m a little unsure about this whole technique, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. So I go home, incredibly turned on and completely unashamed.

* * *

One of the great breakthroughs I’ve had in the thirteen months since I began seeing Lori (who agreed to participate in this article, but requested that her full name not be published) is a new ability to accept the existence of dualities in life. For instance, I’ve always had a tremendous sense of pride that, if it doesn’t straddle the line of arrogance, certainly dives into that hemisphere from time to time. I’m great at seeing flaws in others and propping myself up above them by smugly observing my character strengths. I’ve never liked that about myself, but the harder concept to grasp is the fact that I can be so egotistical while also stricken with such vast quantities of insecurity.

In treatment I came to realize that all people have contradictions to their personalities. There’s the insanely smart guy who can’t remotely begin to navigate a common social situation, the charitable girl who devotes all her time to helping strangers, but won’t confront issues in her own personal relationships. In my case, my extreme sensitivity can make me feel fabulous about the aspects of myself that I somehow know are good (my artistic tastes) and cause deep hatred of those traits I happen to loathe (the thirty pounds I could stand to lose).

My next session with Lori is productive. We speak about relationships I’ve formed with friends and lovers, and how my family may have informed those interactions. One constant is that I put crudely high expectations on others, mirroring those thrown upon me as a kid. I’m angered when people don’t meet those expectations, and absolutely devastated when I don’t reach them. Lori points out that it must be “exhausting trying to be so perfect all the time.” I am much more comfortable than I was the week prior, and can feel myself being more candid. I’m relieved that the whole being-attracted-to-my-therapist thing doesn’t come up.

Then, a week later, Lori mentions it, and I become tense again.

“I thought I’d be able to move past it,” I say, adding, “We aired it out, and it’s fine.”

As definitive as I’m trying to sound, Lori is just as defiant.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she begins, “but I think you owe yourself some kudos. This kind of therapy,” she shares, “isn’t something just anyone can take on.” Such honest discussion doesn’t simply happen, it takes tremendous guts, and Lori can see that I am dealing with it relatively well, so I should praise my own efforts.

“Shit, we both should be proud of ourselves,” she says. “It’s not easy on the therapist either, you know.”

“Why not?”

“Because talking openly about sex is risky at any time, much less with a client.” She explains that therapists are warned any semblance of intimacy can be easily misconstrued. “We learn in our training to not personally disclose, for example,” she says, but adds that, occasionally, transparency can be helpful.

“Still, with you,” she continues, “until I raised the question, I didn’t know for sure that you would go with it; for all I knew you’d run out of here and never come back to risk being so uncomfortable again.”

She’s building my confidence more, and I’m learning that I play a much bigger role in how my life is conducted than I often realize. My treatment wouldn’t be happening if I weren’t enabling it.

Then she says, “And don’t think it’s not nice for me to hear that a guy like you thinks I’m beautiful.”

Crippled by the eroticism of the moment, and combined with the prevailing notion that no woman this stunning could ever be romantically interested in me, I flounder through words that resemble, “Wait…what?”

“If we were somehow at a bar together, and you came over and talked to me,” she says, then flips her palms up innocently, “who knows?”

I laugh again and tell her there’d be almost no chance of me approaching her because I’d never feel like I had a shot in hell.

“Well, that’s not the circumstances we’re in,” she says. “But you might. Who knows?”

I’m confused — Is she really attracted to me or is this some psychotherapeutic ruse? I’m frustrated — I told her I didn’t really want to talk about it. Shouldn’t she be more sensitive to my wants here? I’m angry — Is she getting an ego boost out of this? Most of all, I don’t know what the next step is — Am I about to experience the hottest thing that’s ever happened to a straight male since the vagina was invented?

There were two ways to find out:

1) Discontinue the therapy, wait for her outside her office every day, follow her to a hypothetical happy hour and ask her out, or

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

A week later, I’m physically in the meeting room with Lori, but mentally I haven’t left the recesses of my mind.

“Where are you today?” she asks, probably noticing my eyes roving around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still grappling with the sexual tension between us?”

Here we go again.

“Yes,” I say, with a bit of an edge in my voice, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Lori, ever intently, peers into my eyes, wrinkles her mouth and slightly shakes her head.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” she asks.

We both know the answer to that question. All I can do is stare back.

“Let’s have sex,” she announces. “Right here, right now.”

“What?” I respond, flustered.

“Let’s go!” she says a little louder, opening up her arms and looking around as if to say the office is now our playground, and, oh, the rollicking fun we’d have mixing bodily fluids.

“No,” I tell her, “You don’t mean that.”

“What if I do?” she shoots back. “Would you have sex with me, now, in this office?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’? How do I know for sure that you won’t take me if I offer myself to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, and tension in the room decomposes. “Mike, I don’t feel that you would do something that you think is truly not in our best interest, which is exactly why I just gave you the choice.”

Her offer was a lesson in empowerment, helping me prove that I have an innate ability to make the right choices, even if I’d so desperately prefer to make the wrong one.

I see what she means. I’m awfully proud of myself, and it’s OK to be in this instance. I’m gaining trust in myself, and confidence to boot. But, as the dualities of life dictate, I’m successfully doing “the work” with a daring therapist, while at the same time not entirely convinced she isn’t in need of an ethical scrubbing.

* * *

I don’t have another session with Lori for nearly three months, because she took a personal leave from her place of employment. When our sessions finally resumed, I could not wait to tell her about my budding relationship with Shauna.

Ten minutes into my first date with Shauna — right about the time she got up from her bar stool and said she was “going to the can” — I knew she would, at the very least, be someone I was going to invest significant time in. She was as easy to talk to as any girl I’d ever been with, and I found myself at ease. Plans happened magically without anxiety-inducing, twenty-four-hour waits between texts. Her quick wit kept me entertained, and I could tell by the way she so seriously spoke about dancing, her chosen profession, that she is passionate about the art form and mighty talented too. Shauna is beautiful, with flawless hazel eyes and straight dark hair, spunky bangs and a bob that matches her always-upbeat character. She is a snazzy dresser and enjoys a glass of whiskey with a side of fried pickles and good conversation as much as I do.

Things escalated quickly, but very comfortably, and since we’d both been in our fair share of relationships, we knew the true power of honesty and openness. So upon the precipice of my return to therapy I told Shauna about Lori, and admitted to having mixed feelings about what I was getting back into. I told her I was at least moderately uncertain if my mental health was Lori’s number-one concern since she always seemed to find the time to mention my attraction to her.

The first two sessions of my therapeutic reboot had gone great. Lori appeared genuinely thrilled that I was dating Shauna and could see how happy I was. I wasn’t overwhelmed with sexual tension in the new meeting room, though it wasn’t actually spoken about, and in the back of my mind I knew it was just a matter of time before it would start to affect my ability to disclose my thoughts to Lori again.

Then, while attempting to ingratiate myself with my new girlfriend’s cat by spooning food onto his tiny dish on the kitchen floor, I hear my phone ding from inside the living room.

“You got a text, babe,” Shauna says. “It’s from Lori.”

“‘I’m so impressed with you and the work you’re doing…’” Shauna reads off my phone from inside the living room, inquisitively, and not happily. I stuff the cat food back into the Tupperware and toss it into the refrigerator. I make my way into the living room, angry at myself for not changing the settings on my new iPhone to disallow text previews on the locked screen. Shauna’s walking too, and we meet near the kitchen door. “What’s this?” she says, holding up the phone. “Your therapist texts you?”

I take the phone from Shauna and say the most obvious, cliché-sounding thing: “It’s not what it seems.”

As I text back a curt “thanks,” Shauna tells me she’s going to ask her sister, a therapist herself, if it’s OK to text patients.

“Don’t do that.” I say, a little more emphatically. “I promise, this is nothing to be worried about. We’re not doing anything wrong.” I explain that Lori’s just trying to build my self-esteem.

“The only reason I’m even bringing this up is because you said you weren’t sure about her in the first place,” Shauna reminds me. I can tell she regrets looking at my phone without my permission, but I completely understand her feelings.

At my next session I tell Lori that Shauna saw her text and wasn’t thrilled about it.

“She probably feels cheated on to some degree,” Lori says. “A relationship between a therapist and a patient can oftentimes seem much more intimate than the one between a romantic couple.”

Lori goes on to point out that the reason she feels we can exchange texts, blurring the lines between patient/doctor boundaries — a hot topic in the psychotherapy world these days — is because she trusts that I’ll respect her space and privacy. “You’ve proven that much to me,” she says.

On my walk home, instead of being angry at Lori, I understand her thinking behind the text. But I’m also nervous about how Lori and Shauna can ever coexist in my life.

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

A week later, Lori begins our session by handing me a printout explaining the psychotherapeutic term “erotic transference” written by Raymond Lloyd Richmond, PhD. It says that erotic transference is the patient’s sense that love is being exchanged between him or herself and the therapist — the exact sensation I was experiencing with Lori, of which she was astutely aware.

According to Richmond, one of the primary reasons people seek therapy is because “something was lacking in their childhood family life,” perhaps “unconditional nurturing guidance and protection.” Upon feeling “noticed” and “understood” by a qualified therapist, sometimes a patient can be “intoxicated” by their therapist’s approval of them. A patient may in turn contemplate that a love is blossoming between them, and, in fact, it sort of is.

From an ethical standpoint, Richmond argues all therapists are “bound” to love their patients, for therapists are committed to willing “the good of all clients by ensuring that all actions within psychotherapy serve the client’s need to overcome the symptoms” which brought them into treatment. This takes genuine care and acceptance on their part. However, a patient can easily confuse the love they feel with simple “desire.” They’re not quite in love with their therapist, so much as they yearn for acceptance from someone, and in those sessions they just happen to be receiving it from their doctor.

Lori tells me that, all along, she has been “working with what I gave her” and that because I flirted with her a bit, she used that to her advantage in the treatment. In employing countertransference — indicating that she had feelings for me — she was keeping me from feeling rejected and despising my own thoughts and urges.

“There’s two people alone in a room together, and if they’re two attractive people, why wouldn’t they be attracted to each other?” says Dr. Galit Atlas. A psychoanalyst who’s had her own private practice for fifteen years, Dr. Atlas has an upcoming book titled The Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing and Belonging in Psychoanalysis, and I sought her as an independent source for this essay to help me understand Lori’s therapeutic strategies.

Dr. Atlas explains that there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed between therapist and patient under any circumstances — like having sex with them, obviously. But many other relationship borders can be mapped out depending on the comfort level of the therapist, as long as they stay within the scope of the profession’s ethics, which complicates the discussion surrounding erotic transference.

“As a therapist, I have a role,” Dr. Atlas says. “My role is to protect you.” She says it is incumbent on the therapist to not exploit the patient for the therapist’s own good, but admits that the presence of erotic transference in therapy brings about many challenges. “[Attraction] is part of the human condition,” she observes. In therapy, “the question then is: What do you do with that? Do you deny it? Do you talk about it? How do you talk about it without seducing the patient and with keeping your professional ability to think and to reflect?”

I ask her about the benefits of exploring intimacy in therapy, and Dr. Atlas quickly points out that emotional intimacy — though not necessarily that of the sexual brand — is almost inevitable and required. “An intimate relationship with a therapist can [be] a reparative experience — repairing childhood wounds — but mostly it’s about helping the patient to experience and tolerate emotional intimacy, analyzing the client’s anxieties about being vulnerable and every mechanism one uses in order to avoid being exposed.”

Dr. Atlas says this topic speaks to every facet of the therapeutic relationship, regardless of gender or even sexual orientation, because intimacy reveals emotional baggage that both the patient and therapist carry with them into the session. But this isn’t a symmetrical relationship, and the therapist is the one who holds the responsibility.

“Freud said that a healthy person should be able to work and to love,” she says. “In some ways therapy practices both, and in order to change the patient will have to be known by the therapist. That is intimacy. In order to be able to be vulnerable, both parties have to feel safe.”

After I briefly explain all that has gone on between me and Lori, Dr. Atlas steadfastly says she does not want to judge too harshly why and how everything came to pass in my therapy. “I don’t know your therapist, and I don’t know your history,” she says. But she offers that I should “explore the possibility” that I might have created and admitted my sexual adoration of Lori because one of my fears is to be ignored, not noticed.

Then I offer: “Maybe this essay is being written for the same reason.”

“Exactly.”

Maybe I wanted to interview Lori about erotic transference in my therapy sessions for that same reason as well…to stand out as the most amazingly understanding patient ever.

* * *

“I want to be very clear that this was never about feeding my own ego,” Lori says about her approach to my treatment. “We were always doing this in your best interest.”

I’m in Lori’s office, a tape recorder rolling and a pad and pen in my hands.

“I felt I was doing a disservice to you if I didn’t ‘out’ what I felt was weighing on us, which, honestly, felt like a heavy secret,” she says, pointing out that she discussed my therapeutic process for many hours in her required supervision meetings.

In order for Lori to advance in her field as a social worker, she has to attend 3,000 conference hours with another professional to go over casework — kind of like therapy quality control.

We talk about all of this during one of my scheduled sessions, for the entire hour — and go over by a few minutes, too.

Lori says that when she began her career as a social worker, she decided she wasn’t going to shy away from any subjects. “It’s typical for a client to [have] a habitual desire to sweep things under the rug,” she observes, especially about taboo topics. It can become a cycle of behavior that Lori seeks to break.

I refer back to the time when, unprovoked, she brought up my attraction to her.

She says she mentioned it to avoid what therapists call “door-knobbing,” which is when a patient will purposely mention some huge reveal right at the end of a session so as to sidestep a lengthy conversation about it.

“My only question for you is, was I wrong for bringing it up?” she asks. “Only you can answer that.”

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

“I guess when I said I was over it and could move on, that was an example of my strict black-and-white thinking,” I say, throwing back some language she’s used often to describe my challenge in accepting dualities. In my mind, I was either attracted to her and shouldn’t see her anymore, or I wasn’t attracted to her and could still have her be my therapist. There was no in between.

I realize now that she wasn’t wrong for mentioning my feelings for her, even when I didn’t want her to. Lori noticed that I was frustrated with myself and wanted me to know that an attraction to a therapist is so normal and happens so frequently that there are technical terms for it.

I turn my attention towards the presence of countertransference in our session. I’m trying to come up with an actual question here, but, really, I just want her to confirm her feelings for me are real. So I say, referring to her feelings, with a great degree of difficulty, “It’s funny that they seem genuine to this day.”

“They are genuine,” Lori says, adding a moment later: “I think it might be a good idea if we explore why our discussing it suggests a lack of authenticity.”

“It doesn’t, necessarily,” I begin, then stammer through a few sentences, worried I might offend her by implying she’s been dishonest. I finally settle on, “I guess it comes back to my self-esteem issues. Why would a beautiful woman think I’m attractive?”

Lying in bed with Shauna a few months into our relationship, I ask her what she thought about me the moment she first saw me. I’m fishing for a compliment. But we met on Tinder and I just hope that seeing me in person wasn’t some kind of letdown for her after swiping right on my hand-picked glamour shots. Obviously she isn’t going to say something so awful after having committed to me for so long. It’s a slam-dunk ego boost.

She says she liked the fact that I was wearing a blazer and a tie on a first date. She adds that I was a little shorter than she anticipated, but was content with the two of us at least being the same exact height.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” she asks, turning it around, naturally.

Staying committed to my honesty-at-all-costs policy, I say, “I thought you were really beautiful, but not to the point where I was intimidated by you, which was very important because if I was, you would have gotten a very unconfident version of me, and we probably wouldn’t have hit it off as well as we did.”

Shauna thinks about that for a second, and eventually nods “OK.”

I explain that my insecurity could often get the better of me in dating situations. It was easy to convince myself that I’d be rejected by the girl I was with, especially if I thought she was out of my league. I would then slip into a nervous and reserved state that isn’t at all reflective of my true self.

I’m essentially saying that I was so thrilled to not find Shauna so extraordinarily pretty that I couldn’t accept her being on a date with me. That thought made so much sense at the time I said it, but I’ve since come to realize it is as ridiculous as it is insulting. After ten months of being with Shauna, I’m still completely floored by her, on every level, including a physical one. It gives me great pride to walk into a room with her, and I don’t imagine that changing. Therefore, she actually did meet a confident “version of me.” The way people look doesn’t drastically change in ten months but a person’s perception of self can. It seems my emotional workouts in erotic transference were just beginning to produce results.

* * *

“People fuck up,” Lori informs me during one winter session. “Therapists have slept with clients before, just like politicians have had sex with their interns. But, so you have a full understanding of how this works, we can date.” She explains the parameters as outlined in the social worker’s code of ethics. One of the many stipulations is that we wouldn’t be able to see each other, under any circumstances, for at least two years before dating. She tells me she loves her job, and there’s no way she would ever sacrifice my safety or her career for anything, so she would strictly follow all the dictated rules. “If you truly want to date me, there is the option. But it’s ultimately up to you.”

I know what she’s doing here — putting the onus on me, just like last year when she said we could have sex. The difference this time is the answer I want to give is on par with all of my involuntary urges.

“I don’t want to stop the work we’re doing,” I say. “At this point, it’s far too valuable to me, and, really, I know very little about you.” She’s beautiful, exercises, is smart, funny, professional, enjoys good TV…and that’s about it. Aside from whether or not we’d even both be single in two years, and if we’d be in the correct mind frame to explore a relationship, there are several other things I’m considering here: Would Lori and I really be compatible in every way? Would she ever see me as a lover, a partner, an equal, and not a patient? Could I ever reveal a detail about myself, or even just a shitty day of work, without wondering if she was picking it apart and analyzing it?

Frankly, all those questions could be answered in the positive. But, even if I wasn’t in a happy relationship — Shauna makes this choice much easier, for sure — I wouldn’t go that route. I’d be out a therapist.

* * *

It’s a beautiful spring night in New York and only sidewalk seating will do. Shauna and I are out to dinner at a restaurant near her Queens apartment, and we’re both in good spirits. The weather and the alcohol consumption are partly to blame for that, but, on cue with the season’s change, I feel I’ve turned an emotional corner. Work payments that were past due are finally finding their way into my bank account. As it turns out, my short-term money troubles were not an indication that I had no business being a writer, or that my life changeup was as irresponsible as unprotected sex at fourteen years old.

I’d told Lori as much that afternoon. I took a mental step back from my current situation and realized that in spite of my recent hardships, I was succeeding. I summarize my session for Shauna, who nods in agreement, lovingly pointing out that she’s had the same challenging freelancer experiences as a dancer.

“You’re doing great, babe,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Thank you. That means a lot,” I respond. “I guess if I’m going to be a writer I just have to accept all this and have faith in myself. The way Lori put it was, ‘You just have to go all-in.’”

“Good,” Shauna says. “You should listen to the women in your life.”

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

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Michael Stahl is a freelance writer, journalist and editor living in Astoria, New York. He serves as a Narratively features editor as well. Follow him on Twitter @MichaelRStahl.

Casey Roonan is a cartoonist and cat person from Connecticut. Follow Casey on Instagram: @caseyroonan

 

 

A Super Strange True Love Story: My Disappearing Fiancé

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After years of avoiding love, I found a match that seemed almost too perfect. We were practically walking down the aisle before I realized it really was too good to be true.

“So let me get this right. You’re Italian but you’re a resident of India.”

“Yes.”

“And your fiancé is Canadian. Resident of Canada.”

“Yes, but he lives in India.”

“And you’re having a Catholic wedding.”

“Yes.”

“In Italy.”

“Yes. But he’s Jewish.”

“That doesn’t matter to us. It’s a parish matter, they take care of the paperwork. Did you discuss it with your Italian priest?”

“My parish is in Delhi because I am a resident here. Anyway yes, we have permission to have the ceremony in Italy. We still need the bishop’s permission for the mixed religion marriage, but that should arrive soon.”

“So all we need is a certificate that says your fiancé has never been married before. A nulla osta. And then we can process the documents.”

“See, that’s why I called. Canada doesn’t really have that certificate.”

“Did you check with the Canadian embassy in Rome?”

“Yeah. They say they have nothing to do with this.”

“Mmmh…I actually have no idea then.”

The lady at the Italian embassy in Delhi wasn’t able to help. She’d never seen this before. Our wedding was just like us: Unique, unconventional, and a little all over the place. It looked impossible. Four months from the day and nothing was confirmed.

“It’s not going to work. Nothing’s ready.” I called him in a panic as soon as he woke up, in Canada. In India, it was evening already.

Amore mio, that’s not true,” he replied. “Everything’s set. We’ll get the paperwork done.”

He was right. We had a venue, a fairytale-like villa on the Amalfi Coast. I had a dress — an expensive affair that looked just understated enough: When I tried it on I teared up immediately, surprising my cynical self at the belief that it was “the one.” The invites, designed by a talented friend, were about to be printed. Save the dates were sent — all our favorite people couldn’t wait to be there.

We had even received our certificate from the church after a two-day intensive course instructing us on how to start a good Catholic family. Not that we were going to be a Catholic family, but the course was compulsory to get married in a church —which I wanted, not for religious reasons but because I liked the tradition — and he had accepted to do, to please me. The course was on the outskirts of Delhi, and for two days we stayed in a nunnery with other couples, sleeping on different floors (the men upstairs, the women below) and attending classes on family values and conjugal duties. A foreign couple wasn’t the norm, and we were the center of attention — particularly when questions about sex came up and everyone assumed, despite our amused protesting, that we knew more about it than the teachers.

“So, where does sperm come from? Maybe you know?” I was asked.

“Nope. No idea.” I’d reply as the class burst in laughter. “Maybe he does?”

He looked at me smiling, shaking his head. “Why would I know? I don’t know!”

We were warned that the Holy Spirit was not going to attend the ceremony since we weren’t both Catholic, but then his being Jewish — as opposed to Muslim or Hindu, which was the case for other mixed-religion couples there — gained the staff’s sympathies. He was labeled “almost Christian.” We joked that we didn’t have money to feed the Holy Spirit anyway.

I needed to calm down. It was all working out.

But we did need the papers. And we didn’t know how to get them.

“Maybe it’s a sign? Maybe this wedding thing is a bad idea?” I whined. I was tired, and insufferable.

He laughed. “Aaaamore,” he started, in a sing-songy way. His funny accent on the few Italian words he knew would lighten up the darkest rooms of my soul. “Listen. Getting married is the best idea we’ve ever had and we’re going to do it. It’s all going to work out. I promise.”

* * *

He was so certain about us. He had been unfailingly so since our engagement, which caught me by total surprise. We had been living together for a couple of years in India — where I had followed him looking to start a career, and finally be with the man I loved — when he proposed.

Before moving in together, ours was the erratic, long-distance relationship of two people who never seemed to be in the same place. We met in Italy, fell in love and spent the summer of our lives on intense weeks together and long stretches apart: He worked on a photography project that took him to Alaska, Japan, Congo; I went to Kosovo, volunteering and looking for stories, then moved to Paris to complete a master’s. His work took him there, too, and we spent a couple blissful months together. For the first time since I could remember, I felt beautiful; I was loved and desired. We’d dress up and walk out in the middle of the night to have French onion soup in 24-hour restaurants. We shared a studio that was too small for one, let alone two plus too many cameras.

Before I’d met him I kept joking that “love is overrated.” But it wasn’t; It was perfect. When he had to go back to India, where he’d been living for years before moving to Italy, I worried it’d be the end.

It wasn’t. We spoke whenever we had a free minute. It was never enough. We were so different that our attachment was a mystery to both of us: I loved studying, he had hardly finished high school; I was all about manners and rules, he recognized none; I worried about everything, he never did. At times, our love for each other seemed to be the only thing we had in common.

And it was all we needed.

On spring break I went to see him in India. I landed, terrified and drenched in mosquito repellent, in the fog of Delhi’s February nights. In the arrival hall, he was waiting for me in the neon light, holding a sign, just like the hotel chauffeurs. It read: Amore Mio. My love.

Everything in India frightened me. The smell. The noises. The light, so different from anything I had seen before. Even the peacocks, flying on the rooftop terrace from the park nearby, were wonderful but so foreign. I followed him to Calcutta on assignment. In the teeming backstreets, electrifying and overwhelming, I looked upon poverty and dirt, equally horrified. Once I cried a whole night about not being able to afford anything better than a filthy guesthouse. I returned to Paris relieved.

We managed to meet wherever and whenever possible. In Paris, London, Italy. In New York — where we both thought we’d eventually end up. We spent Christmas together, my family now his. He had been estranged from his parents for many years, and while on my insistence he had resumed contact with them, it didn’t look like there was real hope of saving their relationship. They had been demanding and cruel to him in his teens, kicking him out of home before the end of high school, and still refused to acknowledge it, let alone apologize for it. As someone who counted on her family for anything, it was impossible to even imagine how hard that must have been, so it filled my heart with joy hearing him call my mother “mamma.”

A year after my first visit, I moved to Delhi. I planned to stay a few months, but I began the adventure of a lifetime.

We got an apartment and decorated it with colorful fabrics. I struggled to keep the dust out of the house, struggled with everything that didn’t work, struggled with the scorching summer heat, struggled to get work. I struggled, struggled, struggled. I packed my bags at least twice, shouting at him that I was going back home. He’d been in India so long he could no longer remember the hardship of the beginning, and he was traveling so much for work that I was often on my own. I got mad at him — now that we could be together he was off to Africa or China or wherever, prey to a wanderlust I failed to understand.

All I wanted was for him to be around for me, because when he was, things were pretty wonderful. We had so much hunger for time together that nothing seemed trivial: We’d explore the city on his motorcycle, go on holidays to remote places, turn any and every bit of daily life into an adventure.

But a couple of weeks here and there were not enough. I felt like all I did was wait for him. Finally, shortly after he came back from a long trip to visit a dear, sick uncle, I broke down. I felt horrible — this trip was not for fun, how could I get mad about it? — but I just couldn’t help it. I told him we’d better split up, that he had no space for me in his life. I screamed, he screamed more, the neighbors came to check if I was O.K. In a country where women are common victims of domestic abuse, it was hard to believe that it was me who always raised her voice first. We resolved that we should part.

* * *

I was on my way to work, late and unspeakably sad, when I realized I did not want to leave him. I wanted to stay. I loved him, and our life.

I went back to our apartment. He was sitting on the couch, exhausted as I was from so much fighting. I hugged him, sat on his lap.

“I’m sorry. This was terrible,” I apologized. “I don’t want to go away. Never.”

“I don’t want you to go away either. I want to be with you forever.”

“Yes. Forever,” I said, and I meant it. Yet I was shocked when I saw in his eyes the resolution of a question I didn’t know he had in him, and I wasn’t ever expecting him to ask.

“Then… Will you… will you marry me?”

“What… You don’t… You don’t have to — I’m not going anywhere. You need to think this through.”

“But I have! I have. Look—” he reached for his backpack, me still sitting on his lap, and took out a small box. “I even have a ring! I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

“Well this is pretty right,” I joked. “So how did he propose? Well, we had a massive fight and nearly broke up, but got engaged instead.”

“So. Will you marry me, amore mio?” He was serious.

He was ready.

It was a gorgeous ring, an Art Deco family heirloom — Canadian, as guilt-free as diamonds can come — and hard not to notice. People did notice: the excitement about our engagement was so genuine and overwhelming, everyone pointing to what a romantic story we had.

It was, indeed, the most romantic story I had ever heard.

* * *

It was all unbelievably sweet, yet I couldn’t shake the looming sensation that something was going to go wrong. It came out in my dreams. The fear of losing everything would turn into nightmares, and cropped up at every big step we took.

I loved him, and the unexpected certainty that he, too, truly loved me gave me a happiness so enormous it frightened me. My father had died too early for me to believe happy endings were possible, let alone feeling that I was destined for one.

I looked everywhere for signs of an impending disappointment. We had to leave our apartment, and our landlady insisted we owed her several months of rent. He was in charge of making the deposit but couldn’t find the receipts to show we had paid — that was enough to infuriate me. He was irresponsible, I said – how could he be ready to be a husband? We should call the whole thing off.

We looked for a new place, and I cried like a spoiled child when faced with the reality that his priorities were different from mine — he wanted to save money on rent, and on everything really, to be able to invest in his work. I saw myself as shallow and materialistic for wanting a place that was nice and comfortable. Again told him, “See? This is why we should not do it.”

I would cast doubts over us and our future, which I so wanted and so feared.

But for all my questions, he had answers. “It’s us, amore,” he’d tell me, his voice always so calm and kind. “I’m not letting you get out of this.” His certainty seemed to grow as mine withered, and the way he dealt with my actions, minimizing my fears, showed me time and again the depth of his love.

We finally found a place that worked and bought new furniture. We didn’t have much money — I worked as the editor of a small online publication and had been supporting both of us on my Indian salary while his work was slow. He had a few personal projects to pursue, and I was determined to help him see them through. His assignments had always been sporadic, but a day of his work often paid ten of mine, and something always came through when our funds were nearly gone.

But this time seemed different — I was worried we wouldn’t be able to afford the fairytale wedding that I, who had never actually thought I’d get married, discovered I wanted. My mother was covering most of the costs, but I insisted we at least pay for a few things: The flowers, the invites, the favors. As the weeks, then the months, went by, I grew worried we wouldn’t have enough.

One thought, in particular, made me panic. If he didn’t get any work soon, I’d even have to pay for his suit and his ticket to Italy for the wedding. I’d have to pay for my own bouquet. Something about the image of me buying myself my own wedding flowers was unbearable to me: Was this the life I was signing up for? What if he never actually had a breakthrough? I looked up what would happen if we divorced, if I had to pay him alimony.

I was disgusted by my own thoughts.

I hesitantly suggested he look for assignments from publications less prestigious than the ones he usually worked for. He was hurt, and saw that as a lack of belief in him, pointing out that he could have gotten work in Africa had he been free to move there, but I didn’t want to leave my job to follow him around — that had its costs.

But my faith in his talent was blind — it was destiny I didn’t trust.

* * *

We were over the rough patches, though, when the issue with the papers came up. It appeared we were in a bureaucratic loophole and none of the puzzled officials I contacted were able to figure our situation out.

“That’s why we’re so special,” he said. It was a fact.

He had gone to Canada to renew his visa — his trip home drained my account, but some work had finally come through for him and he was going to be paid soon. We were back on our early-days routine of long-distance phone calls. For the first time in our many goodbyes, I hadn’t cried when he left. As he told me that he’d be right back, his happiness was so visible it gave me goose bumps, and a newfound feeling of safety.

But then, when I tried to reach him the day he was meant to go see about our documents, I couldn’t get through to him. He would not pick up his phone. He was not online — which he almost obsessively always was. I emailed him. No reply.

Something was wrong.

Whether it was some sort of sixth sense or just my constant fear of the worst, I started to worry. I called the friend he usually stayed with, trying not to sound paranoid; after all, it had only been a few hours since I had heard from him. He was not home. As the night became morning in India, a day was passing in Canada. I called, and called, and laid awake waiting. Sleeping was out of the question.

Finally, I got a two-line email. He said he loved me. And that he needed space.

I was paralyzed.

The following days were a game of waiting. I checked my phone and my email compulsively. I stared at the screen to see if he was logging onto Skype. No sign of him. I told myself I should not try to contact him, that he needed to be left alone, though I did write to him that we could postpone the wedding if he wanted to, and that whatever problem there was we were going to work it through. I knew we could.

I blamed myself for having so many doubts. Had I ruined everything? I kept going to work to be around people, but I was numb.

As the date of his return trip approached, I tried to be calm and focus on the fact that I was about to see him again. We had never been out of contact this long, and I missed him terribly. I tried to be patient, but when I saw his name go online on Skype in the middle of another sleepless night, I couldn’t resist.

Amore mio,” I typed. “I am so happy you are coming back next week. We’ll make things right, I promise.”

“Yes,” he replied. “We have a lot of work to do but we can make things right. Things will be right.”

But he was not coming back. Not yet anyway. His birthday was coming up, and he didn’t want to spend it with me.

“I don’t want to resent you,” he typed.

He wasn’t going to discuss it further, but I convinced him that he owed me an explanation. He promised to get back online soon, and he did.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, sweetly, when I answered the video call. “I missed you.”

He looked beautiful, too, in his light blue collared shirt, rolled-up sleeves and messy hair.

He started explaining what was going through his head: He needed to be free to travel and work, and I wanted security — we were just too different, there’s no way it was going to work.

As he was speaking, gently, his words started losing meaning to me — it all became white noise, and I interrupted him.

“Oh my god,” I said. “You cheated on me.”

Something in his gaze hardened. “Yes,” he replied.

“No, not again,” I begged. I knew it was true, again.

I hadn’t thought about it for years — the memory of betrayal buried deep under the illusion of the most wonderful story that had ever happened to me. I had found out about his infidelities before I moved to India, when we lived apart. Infidelities and lies: a girlfriend hidden from me when we first got together, who he moved back in with after he left Paris; an older woman he had even thought he was in love with; adventures around the world as he traveled for work.

But we had worked through it all. He had begged me to stay with him when I found out, told me I was the love of his life and the last chance he had of having a happy life, of changing. He had blamed distance and so had I, and it had worked for years — so well, too well. I had worked so hard to get past his infidelities that I had actually forgotten about them — the truth, of the past and the present, felt heavy on my burning sternum.

“Yes, again,” he said, suddenly cold. There was something in him, something in his voice I could not recognize. He was a stranger.

“But this time it’s different,” he continued. “I found her.”

I swear I heard my heart break.

He told me he’d just met her. A few days had been enough to know. He had given up thinking he could find the one. But there she was. They were going to travel together, see the world and be nomads, as he wanted. And she wanted. And I never did.

“I bet she dresses terribly,” I said, heart yolk leaking from my smashed chest, making an ugly mess already.

I became a monster; I could barely speak, filled with anger as I told him, shocking myself with the violence of my own words, hissing at him, shaking, that it was not true that he felt sorry — that he felt good and not sorry, that while fucking this woman he didn’t know, in and out and in and out of her, he did not think of me.

“You want to make me feel guilty because I am in love.”

He was moving in with her.

“Are you going to marry her?” I was crazy. It was crazy.

“We’re not planning to get married at the moment.” He was crazy, too.

The conversation lasted through the night, through bouts of anger, tears, words of love. At the end, I asked him if this was the first time that he’d be unfaithful since we’d been living together.

“No.”

“Is it because I was not enough?” Isn’t that what every rejected lover dreads?

“Yeah. I was always looking for something better.”

“Something or someone?” I couldn’t stop digging.

“Something, someone, I didn’t know. I thought it was as good as it got, with you. Now I know it wasn’t true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not in love with you. I don’t think I ever was.”

Outside, it was dawn. The sounds of India waking up were a loud sign the conversation had to end. We — “us” — had to end.

“I will miss you so much,” I muttered before I hung up. I wanted him desperately. But he was unrecognizable, someone else. Happiness and love were a dark force in his gaze. They were pulling him away from me, taking him some place frightening and far, a place my arms couldn’t stretch to.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t feel anything other than terror. Who was he?

* * *

When I landed in Milan I was a ghost. I hadn’t eaten in days; I had no feelings other than sorrow. My sister picked me up from the airport, and as she hugged me, without saying a word, I cried. I cried when I saw my mother. My grandma was visiting — usually the simple sight of her would be enough to put me in a good mood, but I just kept crying, incapable of anything else.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was all I could say, whisper really. I was sorry I had trusted him, that I had followed him, that I had brought him home. I was sorry I was so embarrassingly heartbroken. I was sorry I messed up, sorry I failed, sorry about the embarrassment of a wedding to cancel. That he had not only lied to me, but to my family, caused me unbearable pain. I blamed it on myself — all of it.

I was infinitely sorry. And so sore.

I walked straight into my mother’s bed and laid there crying for days, getting up only to check my emails for signs of him, and sit at the table for lunch and dinner, unable to touch my food.

As I stared into my plate, the Italian mothers of my life — my own, and my mother’s — discussed me, and him, as if I weren’t there.

“She isn’t eating.”
“I can see that.”
“What are we going to do about this one?”
“I don’t know, I can’t force her.”
“Look at that. Not one bite.”
“I know, Ma. She doesn’t feel like it.”

My belligerent grandma had been through a lot — her father dying as a kid, the war as a teenager, her husband leaving her a widow in her early thirties, an earthquake destroying her home and her town in her late forties — far too much to concede to a romantic heartbreak.

“That guy had always been a bit strange,” she offered. “Remember how he stopped eating meat?” She had always treated his vegetarianism as an exotic disease.

When I finally had the strength to leave my bed, I started trying to put together the pieces. I was obsessed with understanding, and the more I obsessed, the more it all seemed terrifying.

I went back to Delhi, leaving behind a family worried sick about me, determined to save the salvageable: A job I loved in a country that was going to save my life.

My pain was enormous, kept alive and stinging by a succession of small new wounds.

I had to cancel the wedding, let all the guests know on my own, as he was far too busy with his new life to even tell his own family — who called me seeking explanations, unable to track him down.

* * *

In all of this, and despite my rational self, I still madly loved him. I hoped he would come back. Once I woke up convinced I heard him ring the bell in the middle of the night. It was a dream.

A recovering patient, I put one day in front of the other, waiting for my love to go away. Like a famous Italian poem says, it was like quitting a vice. Come smettere un vizio. It was a daily exercise in abstinence — from calling him, wanting him, loving him.

Before I knew it, it had been a month since I had last seen his face, on a computer screen. Then two, then a whole summer.

On August 26, when our wedding was meant to be, the sun was shining over the Amalfi Coast, but I spent the day in rainy Kathmandu, Nepal, on my own, hanging out with the monkeys at Pashupatinath Temple — the Temple of Shiva.

I was glad there was a god I could thank for destruction.

For a long time afterward, I was obsessed with this story. Obsessed with his lies. I uncovered countless more: about his family, his past, our relationship. The more I found out, the more the hurt gave way to relief.

I wrote to the woman he had left for me way back when — to let her know it didn’t work out with us. Somehow, I felt it was right for her to know, that I would have wanted to know, if I were her. She was understanding, forgiving, and helpful — knowing far too well what I was going through, she repeated to me countless times I had not lost someone worth keeping.

Years later, that’s what I told his wife, when it was she who wrote to me.

Read the Sequel: A Second Super Strange Love Story: I Was the Other Woman

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

Annalisa Merelli is an Italian writer living in New York. She is a reporter with Quartz and tweets at @missanabeem.

Ayun Halliday is the Chief Primatologist of the award-winning East Village Inky and author of seven books, including “Peanut” and “No Touch Monkey! And Other Lessons Learned Too Late.” Follow her @AyunHalliday.