A Deep South Cold Case Goes Frigid

A new law instructed the FBI to investigate more than 100 unsolved murders from the civil rights era. But the government has done shockingly little in the search for justice.

In Mississippi, tracking down the truth about a 1964 murder.

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.

*   *   *

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

Secret Life of a Search and Rescue Volunteer

When someone goes missing on a frozen mountaintop or in a wildfire, my team heads out to help when no one else can — even if all we can do is bring back their bodies.

Three kids are missing on the mountain. They missed their check in, and search and rescue (SAR) has been tasked with finding them. It’s what we do. We track down the lost and injured and bring them home. I’ve been a member of this unit, primarily based around Mount Hood, Oregon, but working wherever we are needed in the Pacific Northwest, for about three years. Given my profound lack of experience at the onset, I’ve only actually been useful for about a year, maybe two.

We have a general idea of where the three kids are, or at least where they are supposed to be. At the base of the mountain, where most climbs start, is a climbers’ register where parties write down their intended route, expected return date, and what equipment they have – vital information in just this type of situation.

It’s cold and windy. Visibility is low. No one wants to be in the field on days like this. But, as Rocky, a veteran member once told me, only half joking, “We’re mountaineers. We suffer. It’s what we do.” That suffering is accepted because this is what we volunteered for (and almost all of us are truly volunteers – only the sheriff and a few others are paid). It’s made tolerable knowing that there is someone worse off, someone who needs us.

We will trace the most likely path and hopefully find them hunkered down in a snow cave or some other shelter, but alive. Bringing a victim home alive is why I go up. The satisfaction is like no other. After more than a decade in medicine, as an EMT initially and now as a physician assistant in a busy urban ER, I have revived cardiac arrests, treated trauma and dealt with just about every other medical calamity, but mountain rescue is different. People get injured in the mountains and back country, we get them when no one else can or will. Even if all we can do is bring back their bodies.

And I know how important that can be.

On the night of my first high school dance, the police showed up bearing somber news to my mother. She took me into the back room of the house. “There’s been an accident. Dad’s dead,” my mother told me, barely a quiver in her voice. She was trying to hold it together, but saying that out loud, she couldn’t. My brother, mother and me stood in that back room, with the lights off, and hugged and cried and lost track of time.

He fell while out hiking two states over. Local SAR was bringing the body out of the canyon. They couldn’t save him, but they could return his body to his family. We grieved while we waited for his return, which would take a day or two. It didn’t become concrete or tangible until we had the body. A tremendous service was done for my family by strangers.

Now it is my turn.

I will do for others what had been done for us. I will bring them home, do what I can to prevent further backroom suffering. Paying a debt to the universe makes the insufferable tolerable.

* * *

We are a team of 15 – physicians, general contractors, business executives and even an animal chiropractor, with personalities as varied as the professions. But there is a core tenet among us all: to help those in need.

A resort at the base of the mountain provides a Sno-Cat that transports us up through the groomed ski fields. National forest regulations prohibit mechanized travel beyond certain boundaries, but occasionally, we get permission to ignore them, to save a life. The driver takes us up as far as we can go before the Cat starts to backslide.

This is where the hard work starts. From here on out, we will be on foot. Once over the ridge and onto the next glacier, we break into smaller teams of three or four and separate to search different areas. Bob, a tall, slender guy who made some wise business decisions and retired early, is my team lead. He is tasked with interacting with the other team leads and Incident Command, as well as making sure all of us come home alive. Then there’s Keith, an engineer who makes dad jokes without being a dad; Christopher, an occasional school teacher who’s fond of instigating shenanigans and watching his work unfold; and me, the newest member of the team – the low-man on the totem pole.

The winds are up. The temperatures are down. Visibility is minimal. Freezing fog deposits a thin layer of ice on clothing. Beards freeze and develop icicles. Any exposed skin quickly turns red and raw. The moisture from my breath freezes my goggles. Periodically, I use the rubber handle of my ski pole to scrape the ice out of the goggles. This only provides a brief window of clear vision.

We follow the kids’ intended route up the mountain, up the gentle snow slope, bearing west. It’s a short distance, but it takes us an hour in these conditions. We come up into a bowl, relatively protected from the wind. The route travels up from the bowl and over a ridge. Once on the other side we must be hyper-vigilant. We will be travelling across a large crevasse field, hidden in dense fog. The route leads up a snow and ice gully from the far end of this crevasse field. This is one of the two more common routes for teams to take after they have previously completed the standard route. It represents a step up in technical difficulty, presents complicated route finding, and is an overall longer route. Most of us on the rescue team have climbed this route before, individually or as a team, but not in these conditions.

A fall from their route could have spit the kids out onto this crevasse field. We must search it exhaustively. First, we rope up – tying ourselves together so that if one of us falls into an unseen crevasse, theoretically, the rest of the small team can arrest the fall and retrieve the teammate. A rescuer becomes a liability if he is dead. As the newest, least-experienced member, I’m in the middle of the rope. Bob, on point, has to choose a path around the crevasses. The man in the back is the last hope if the first team members can’t arrest their own fall. Bob scans the snow for signs of weakness indicating a crevasse. I follow the footsteps exactly.

Slowly, methodically, we spread out to search the area. Ice axes are at the ready in the event a rope mate goes into a crevasse. My eyes strain to look for clues through fogged-up goggles. Even a light snow can cover vital clues. We move westward toward the terminus of the route the three kids were attempting.

“I need to search that area down by the big crevasse. Keep eyes on me,” Bob says. Rather than continue with our roped travel, Bob will move more cautiously down towards the crevasse on his own. I head up a ridge and plant myself in a vantage point where I can maintain constant visual contact. The area looks lousy with crevasses, with more likely hidden. Bob is belayed down into the field by Keith, who is anchored to the snow. Any fall should be terminated quickly. Should be. Our gloves have a layer of icy grime, so holding the rope during a fall would require more effort than in more pristine conditions.

He goes out, searches, and returns. No incident, but no evidence found of our three kids either. We’re preparing to keep moving when our radios start crackling and we hear someone from one of the other teams say, “I think I’ve found something.” We all stop and put lift our radios to our ears.

“Should we head up to you?”

Silence. Crackle. “…Yeah.”

My team was searching the lower end of the glacier, so we are some of the last to get to the scene. As we approach, I see the other teams standing around a body. If it weren’t for the people standing around him, I might have walked right by; he was nearly invisible in the waning day, under a fresh layer of snow. I see that no one is frantic. No one is pulling a medical kit out. Our kid must be dead. His mouth is open, in the shape of an “O” and full of snow. I get to him and place my hands on his body. He is stiff and frozen. His base-layer shirt and soft shell jacket are unzipped. There is blood on his thigh, though no obvious deformity or injury. I see no grossly apparent signs of blunt trauma. Some distance away, there is climbing gear strewn at the bottom of the route. One of the other teams had continued searching and found it. It looks like he walked some distance away from the debris field.

Maria, a newly minted ER doctor, digs a little bit of the snow out of his mouth. Not much, just a little. I’m not sure why. It is an image that will stick with me.

“Hey, why don’t I package the body? Not everybody needs to see this,” I offer to the overall rescue leader. Some of the team members have never seen a dead body before.

He pauses for a moment. “Yeah, do it.”

I’m new to mountain rescue, but seasoned to life’s grim realities. The body must be packaged for extrication. He will be covered with a protective plastic tarp and placed into a litter. The litter is like a backboard with small walls and rails. It proves difficult to package him. He is frozen and did not have the foresight to die in a position conducive to packaging. But, I make it work. I have to.

Looking at what’s in front of me, I know what is ahead for the family. I know the sound. I know the dark, backroom scene, huddled in a private anguish that comes after the authorities deliver the news. There’s a wail that comes with unexpected death. It comes from the gut. It’s a sound I heard time and again in those first few days after my father died. I lost a parent, but they have lost a child. I package him as gently as I can. We will get him back to his family. The importance of our task is visceral. I cannot fathom what mourning without the body is. This family will not have to try.

* * *

The radio crackles again. The sheriff is thinking that we should package the body, anchor it someplace safe, and mark the location on GPS. This would allow us to keep searching for the other two. The freezing fog has turned to heavy snow. It was early afternoon, a time in the Pacific Northwest when the sun begins to set, and we are worn. We wouldn’t have more than a few hours of daylight left and still had to get off the mountain.

This is a dilemma. He’s dead, but the other two kids may not be. Until we find them, there’s no way to know. The weather forecast calls for continued lousy conditions for the rest of today and the next few days. Extrication is a lengthy process. Under the best conditions, in more easily accessed terrain, extrication by foot takes half a day. Do we begin the extrication of the body and leave our other two kids to try to survive another night? Do we try to place our first kid somewhere we can find him later and keep searching? In these conditions, among the crevasses, with the accumulating snowfall, it’s unlikely we would be able to find him again. Even anchored in a corner somewhere, location marked on GPS, any manner of event could prevent us from retrieving him. Avalanches could change the landscape of the entire field. There is the risk of continued snowfall and burial. An anchor could fail, leaving the body free to slip into one of the crevasses below.

It’s unbearable, in my mind, to leave him to keep searching. The thought of having to tell the family that we found the body, but left him on the mountain, is crushing. It seems inhumane. But then what would we tell the families of the other two kids if we left the mountain without knowing whether they were alive or dead?

I’m supremely thankful not to have to make that call. There are benefits to being a rookie.

The medical team, my other team, has setup nearby, in an area safe from crevasses or avalanches. There is a tent to escape the wind and warm drinks are being brewed. The medical team is solely concerned with the living. In the absence of proof of life of the other two, the medical team bears watch over the rescuers. The tent is for the rescuers. The warm drinks are for us. Periodically, people have to take a breather, to warm up and mentally recharge. It’s amazing how beneficial something as simple as a warm cup of tea can be in these situations. As one of the new guys, I still feel like I have to prove myself. I stay in the crevasse field and suffer.

Conversations between the rescue leaders in the field and the sheriff’s SAR deputies have been ongoing since we packaged the body. I haven’t been listening. I have no input to offer. Just feet to carry me to wherever I can be useful.

“The sheriff wants us to keep searching.” Word is spreading. My heart sinks into my stomach. I am exhausted. There is no good decision to be reached. I look at my teammates and can tell many are feeling the same. We don’t want to keep searching, but we will.

“SAR base from Team One.”

“Go ahead Team One.”

“Yeah, hey it’s Rocky. We’re not going to do that. It’s cold, it’s late. We’ll never find the body again. We’re bringing the teams in.”

A respected member and veteran of decades of mountain rescue has shut down the sheriff’s plan. Ultimately, it’s the sheriff’s call, but a good leader knows when to listen to experienced heads.

“O.K. Team’s coming in.”

We re-cross the crevassed glacier, this time with a sled with a body in it. Once at the eastern end of the glacier, we raise the whole package up and over the ridge, which is accomplished with ropes, pulleys and brute force. Eventually, we reach the waiting Sno-Cat. The packaged body lies between two rows of bench seats. The seats are full of rescuers. The layers of ice that had been our constant companions begin to melt. Steam rises off each living person’s head. Some people are looking through the camera we found among the scattered belongings. Perhaps a clue will be found to lead us to the other two kids. Perhaps there will be some indication as to what went wrong.

We reach the familiar transition point at the base of the glacier. We get out of the Sno-Cat and unload the package. A short distance below, snow meets parking lot. Rescuers meet sheriff. I head inside. There is to be a debrief. We are reminded of the resources available to us, should we need them, if anyone is experiencing grief or stress from recovering a body.

The body is brought inside the lodge. I can hear the family. By the end of the debrief, the family of our first kid should be well on their way to the city with the deceased. They are not. Word is traveling. The family of our first kid is staying on the mountain to support the families of our other two kids. I can’t imagine how they came to that decision. Their boy is dead. Yet, they remain with the other two families, while the body of their boy travels back to the city.

When I hear this, I remember that the ache I’m feeling all over is just physical pain. It is temporary.

* * *

I return to my warm apartment. The two kids are still up on the mountain. I’m mentally preparing for a return to the cold and misery tomorrow when the page comes through. We are grounded. No searchers will be deployed tomorrow on account of the horrendous conditions. Officially, this is still a “rescue.” The longer our other two kids are out there, the less likely they are to survive, if they are still alive at all. But they are up there, somewhere. I have little faith that this is going to be a rescue.

I feel utterly helpless, sitting in my kitchen, in a worn-out old chair, head back, staring at the ceiling. The debt I set out to pay remains. I am unable to provide the service that was done for my family. Logically, I understand it is out of my hands. The dangers and risks are real. This is a rational decision. In my gut, though, I have failed. This was my task. Bring the bodies home. Yet they remain on the mountain. There is only failure now.

So, I get drunk, the only solution I can think of.

Over the next few days conditions continue to deteriorate and eventually I have to go back to work. Finally, the search gets called off completely.

The following summer, I’m returning from a wildfire when the text comes through from my good friend Bob G., a member of the medical rescue team.

“multiagency effort. found the other 2.” He gives me no context. He doesn’t need to.

There is a great deal of discussion and speculation as to what happened. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t particularly care how they got there, just where they end up – back with their families.

How It Feels to Be the Biggest Woman at a Clothing Swap

Great, actually.

My bedroom is completely ransacked – clothes are thrown everywhere, purses piled high on my bed. I’m frantically throwing nearly all of my clothes into large plastic bags. Some are still wrapped in the plastic they came in, hanging from metal hangers, as if embalmed and exempt from the passing of time. First to go are the tight designer t-shirts, then the dresses – so many dresses. The black satin cocktail number that once made me feel sexy, but that I could never zip up now. The turquoise one with animal print from Century 21 and the red flowered dress that knocked everyone’s socks off at the company party ten years ago. I used to be so audacious with my wardrobe. Now, I want fewer eyes on me.

I planned on walking, but the load becomes more than I can carry. Instead, I throw the clothes in my car and take off, headed for my first ever clothing swap – where women get together to trade things they no longer want. I’ve been invited by my new friend Sarah to participate in this feminine ritual. This is more than the usual spring cleaning for me; I need to get rid of these painful reminders of the woman I outgrew, literally and figuratively. I no longer want to feel body-shamed by my closet, which is stuffed with clothes that are literally six sizes too small, some that have hung there, unworn, for over a decade while I tried to convince myself I could be someone else.

As I schlep my bags of clothes up to Sarah’s pre-war walk-up, I start to worry that, as a size 12, I’ll be the biggest woman there and nobody will want my offerings. But there’s no turning back now.

* * *

My obsession with fashion started when I was a teenager, when adolescence brought with it a horizontal growth spurt. I didn’t object to my new breasts and butt, but the rapid increase in my thighs and belly made me want to buy every piece of fabric ever made just to cover them up. I was convinced that buying the tightest jeans possible could stymie my out-of-control thighs and shrink them back to their original size. If my clothes were cool enough, stylish enough, expensive enough, everyone would just focus on them and not the fact that I had blown up underneath them.

At 16, the author playing dress up at a friends’ house in Park Slope, Brooklyn. (Photos courtesy the author)

By the time I was 14, I was a size 12, and no fashionable clothing could hide the discomfort I felt. It wasn’t enough to have nice clothes, I still wanted to be thin like the other girls. To be what I thought was normal. Through my teens and 20s, I tried every trend: cleanses, the lemonade diet, the cabbage soup diet, no carbs, low carbs. I tried taking diet pills, Dexatrim every morning with endless glasses of water, but it only gave me headaches and constant trips to the bathroom. Nothing worked.

Finally, I spent one full year when I was in my thirties eating pre-portioned frozen food out of a box and getting up every day at 5:30 in the morning to work out. It worked. I dropped to a size six; in certain styles I was even a four.

I had always hated dressing rooms – the bright lights zooming in on my imperfections, the dread of nothing fitting right. But then, the first time I went shopping after the weight loss was a revelation. Almost everything fit. I remember the moment I pulled a red cotton Brooklyn Industries dress over my head and caught sight of my new self in the mirror; it was as if it was made for me, and I looked incredible. Even though I was thinner, I still had feminine curves, and this dress brought out every one. The cleavage, the thin waist. I wore it out of the store, crumpling up my old clothes and having the cashier cut the price tag off of me at the register. I felt taller, sexier. I bought a whole new wardrobe for my new start. At 38, for the first time, I began to love the warmer months, when dress season was in full bloom.

But the sacrifices I made to get into those dresses meant, ironically, that I rarely went out to dinner or parties because I was afraid of gaining weight. It’s amazing how often people commented about me not drinking or eating, often making me more self-conscious. When I did give in and go out I’d gain weight instantly. Every single time. It was a total Catch-22. The whole purpose of those clothes was to show myself off, to push me to socialize more, but in reality, they kept me in my studio apartment, away from the world, afraid to live.

The author, far right, during the last week of senior year in college.

Eventually I tired of the restrictions and disappointments and took a break from a life of deprivation. The weight crept back on and then some. Most of my favorite clothing no longer fit, regardless of how many pairs of Spanx I wore. Still, I held onto them for over ten years, hoping to someday return to that size, that woman. I had tried to stick to discipline, but eventually being a certain size just wasn’t worth how hard I had to work. It was one thing to say no to dessert or put the bread basket away, but to constantly be hungry and depleted felt at odds with my energetic personality. I wanted to go out, socialize, travel and taste different foods, have different experiences. Being thin without enjoyment defeated the purpose of trying so hard to look the part. I wanted to be part of my own life.

Now, at 47 I’m packing up all of these dresses that belonged to a woman I’m no longer trying to force myself to be. A woman who needed to give up everything for how others might see her. A woman whose biology was never destined for the petite rack. I still miss how I looked in those years of denial, but I don’t miss how I felt.

* * *

I carry three large bags filled to capacity; the plastic handles digging into my skin, turning my fingers red. I walk up four flights of stairs to Sarah’s apartment, where there are tall green plants in every corner and books falling off the shelves. Sarah comes to greet me, her brown hair flowing down to her shoulders, bouncing as she cheerily introduces me to her friends. My heart sinks as I realize most of the women here are in the size six range, a zone I hit just once, and briefly, in my life. I doubt there’s going to be anything here for me.

Sarah pours wine into small glass jars and spreads out homemade pesto sandwiches with brie and bacon marmalade. As we sip our wine and scoop up the melted cheese, the swap begins. Each woman takes a turn presenting her items to the group. Even though everything is being donated, you still want to make sure someone takes home your once-treasured goods with a little pitch. Great color but I have outgrown it. Perfect for summer but too revealing for me. It says, “Love me I’m a Vegetarian,” but I eat meat now so…

A thin brunette with a lot of energy bolts up to the front of the room. As she begins to describe her clothes, all the attention is on her. People start raising their hands and laughing, this is actually kind of fun. “This is the one I got when going to the holiday party last year,” she explains. “And this one my mother-in-law got me but is clearly not my style.” Some of the women talk of ex-boyfriends as they explain the stories behind their clothes. Some of their new jobs. Everyone here wants to get rid of their pasts too. Hearing each story – vignettes about their items, their lives, brings me closer to the women. I feel connected. While they physically appear different than I, they too have stories of wanting to move on in their lives and away from a time that has passed. The clothing swap allows us all the opportunity to release our nostalgia.

I’m surprised at how comfortable these women are in their own bodies. One short woman with a black long bob actually takes off her blouse and begins to try on the clothes right in front of us, her white cotton bra bright like neon lights. She throws on blouses, sweaters and even dresses as if no one is watching. Some of the women know her and her fashion show just blends into the background for them. But I can’t stop staring. I am no prude, but how can she take off her clothes in front of all of these people like she’s in a Loehman’s dressing room? What is that like, to be confident enough in your body to strip down in front of strangers like it’s no big deal?

Eventually it’s my turn to present. My palms begin to sweat. I want the ladies to love my clothes as much as I once did, to realize how important these items were to me in my life – my nostalgia, my years of trying to change myself, and this final moment of release as I let all of that pressure go. Each garment on display represents my sense of self when I bought them. I almost feel like if they reject my clothes, they will be rejecting a part of me. I’m afraid they might ignore me because of my current size, like some men do when we meet for the first time.

The author today.

I take a deep breath and go to the front of the living room. I open up my shopping bags and begin with an apology. “I used to be a variety of sizes from six to 12, so hopefully you will find something you like,” I say, as I start to pull out one meaning-laden item after another. I take out long flowy dresses that I wore when I first lost considerable weight in my 30s, when friends had asked if I had an eating disorder, but it was a combination of Jenny Craig and 5:30 a.m. workouts. I pull out my favorite red dress and it’s snatched up immediately. I feel much better about being here. Then I pull out a black strapless dress I never even wore. It was my “just in case I get invited” dress for parties I never went to, wanting to be someone’s plus one but often being passed over for a younger, more petite date. Someone takes this one, too, and I can feel the load lighten, all of those years of watching and wishing, falling away as I give away one too-small dress after another.

It’s a bittersweet feeling to let them go, knowing that I bought these clothes hoping for a different type of life. Now I am saying goodbye to the woman who wore them, or hoped to. Maybe wisdom really does come with age, but whatever finally let me let go of the insecurities of my youth, I’m no longer willing to base my self-worth on an arbitrary standard that I’m biologically incapable of attaining. All of my old insecurity isn’t going to disappear overnight, but passing along my clothes, my past, and my younger self feels noble, graceful, and it leaves room in my life for me, the real me.

I’m a Fifty-Year-Old Mom. I Just Had Sex in the Back Seat of a Car.

Sometimes acting like a teenage rebel is the only way to feel in control.

On a hot and humid night last June, I steered my car over twisting country roads toward a small lakeside town for a romantic rendezvous. I had spent the day at a funeral, reflecting on the fact that at fifty, I had more miles behind me than ahead. Oddly, my paramour had also spent the day at a funeral, and as the summer sun disappeared we made plans to meet halfway between our towns for a drink.

It was nearly eleven when I turned my car onto Main Street, and James was growing impatient. We were speaking on the phone when I caught a glimpse of him. Strikingly handsome, he looked at least a decade younger than his 61 years. Running and doing chores on his rural property kept his body lean and muscular, and his face betrayed few traces of the anguish I knew lay in his heart.

James met me at my car, and as we walked toward the restaurant he put his arm around me. I felt a shudder of excitement run down my spine and I pushed in closer to feel his body. When we sat at the bar he swiveled his chair, pushed his knees against mine, and leaned in close to talk. Our faces were pressed within whispering distance and I inhaled his scent. The drinks we ordered were superfluous; this was all a graceful dance of foreplay.

The bar was teeming with a coarse-looking crowd of men and women who had deeply lined faces and leather jackets. The fact that we were completely out of place only heightened our excitement. We huddled and made witty comments about the antics of other patrons, parting only to fling our heads back in hysterics. We sat at the bar laughing and kissing, and before long James ran his hand up my leg and under my skirt. On previous dates he had teased me about being a Puritan in public, but X-rated in private, but that night I made no attempt to be discreet.

It felt mischievous to be strangers in a raucous tavern far from home in the middle of the night. We reveled in escaping the constricting bonds of our everyday lives – him a lawyer, me a divorced single mother. Our behavior was an unspoken act of defiance against the taunt of age, and the gloom of funerals that had become a common part of our lives.

Outside the restaurant James kissed me deeply and with a new fervency. We were passionately entangled while patrons passed by, and I whispered that we needed to go somewhere private. James began walking me to my car, and I assumed I would follow him to the adjacent hotel, or to his house an hour away.

When we got to my car he told me to get in the back seat. I refused, saying that my kids had left a mess in my car. James took my hand and led me across the lot to his immaculately clean Mercedes.

“Get in,” he said again.

“I’m not having sex with you in a car,” I replied laughing, while thinking of how improper it would be for a middle-aged mother to do so.

“Just get in,” he repeated, smiling mischievously as he opened the rear door.

There was no point in arguing; I knew I’d get in, so I slid onto the back seat. James was right behind, and before I heard the click of the door closing he was kissing me. It was futile to fight the longing we had been feeling for the past hours. Soon, all thoughts of motherhood and what was proper disappeared. We had been together many times before, but that night we devoured each other.

“I can’t believe I just had sex in a car in a public parking lot,” I said afterward, as I searched for my bra in the front seat.

“It was exciting, like in high school,” James replied, looking flushed and exhilarated.

As I drove home in the wee hours of the morning I felt furtive pride that James and I had taken a rebellious stand against the inevitability of age, and society’s expectation that we go gently into the night. In the days and weeks that followed we frequently reminisced about our romp in the car, and how it brought us back to our adolescence; a time of freedom and endless promise, a time before responsibilities and painful regrets.

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

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.”

* * *

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I’m Married. I’m a Woman. I’m Addicted to Porn.

Countless couples have tackled the taboo subject of racy videos and illicit orgasms. What happens when it’s the woman who can’t stop watching?

This story features explicit situations that may not be suitable for all audiences.

It’s past two a.m. and my husband’s breathing has become long and even. An opportunity presents itself. I slip my right hand down my pajama pants and move slowly, careful not to bump my elbow into his side rib, or bring my hips into it. Too much movement or sound will wake him, and to be found out for something like this is not just embarrassing but potentially destructive. He’ll think he doesn’t satisfy me, and men do not like feeling inadequate, especially when it comes to matters of the bedroom. Or maybe he’ll feel sorry for me. And who wants to fuck someone they pity?

Even worse, maybe he’ll finally say the words I’ve been waiting for him to say since I first told him that I am a sex addict. That he’s bored with it. He’s disgusted. He’s had enough.

I lift my wrist away from my body. I’m careful to keep my breath from becoming a pant, even as my pulse quickens, but this takes much concentration. The body desires the convulsion the mind denies. There is no letting go here though. This orgasm is a controlled, measured, calculated experience.

I have masturbated in this way next to the sleeping bodies of all my serious, committed partners who came before my husband. In some cases, as expected, it was because I wanted more sex than they could give me. I’ve been called “insatiable” and “demanding” one too many times. But this has not always been the story. Yes, I have an incredibly high sex drive, but even in relationships where I have great sex multiple times a week my nighttime stealth for self-pleasure has persisted.

My college boyfriend, burgundy haired and tattooed, had the high sex drive typical of most nineteen-year-old males. We fucked all the time, but even still, I wanted more, something only I could give me. One afternoon, after he’d fallen into a deep post-sex slumber, I serviced myself with my second, third, and fourth orgasm beside him. That was the first time I’d experienced such a level of both secrecy and shame.

I made a promise to my husband and to myself, long before we were even wed, to be austerely honest. He knows I’ve been a compulsive masturbator since I was twelve years old. He knows about my extensive fluency in the hardcore categories of various porn sites. He knows about the bad habit I used to have of hooking up with not-so-nice men because they were available and I was bored — and that I rarely used protection with any of them. And that I believed, for a really long time, that my addiction made me a broken person, a disgusting person, a person unworthy of love. I told him these things from the start because I met him at a time in my life where I was ready and open for change. Because I liked him so much that I wanted to love him. Because I knew that the only way to love him, and be loved by him, was to be myself.

* * *

“What’s your favorite porn scene?”

The man who will become my husband in less than a year asks me this question as he lies naked and vulnerable beside me. We’ve just had sex and although I am naked too, it isn’t until this moment that I feel just as vulnerable as him. While it might seem absurd to some, I know immediately this is a moment of great significance for us. It is an opportunity to finally do things differently.

The possibilities run through my head.

I can describe something vanilla: This one where a busty blonde gets banged by her personal trainer. Or perhaps something a little more racy: These two hot teens swap their math teacher’s cum after he made them stay late in the classroom. Chances are he’ll get hard again and we’ll end up abandoning the conversation for a second round. These are harmless answers. Expected answers.

They’re also lies.

The possibility of revealing the actual truth not only makes me nervous, but also physically sick. I feel a constriction in the back of my throat, a flutter in my belly, a tremble in my extremities. After all, we’ve only been dating a couple of months and he doesn’t love me yet. If I tell him, will he ever?

“Why do you ask?” I reach for the sheet, damp with sweat, a tangle of 300-thread-count cotton across our limbs, and yank it up to cover my breasts.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Curiosity?” He turns over on his side and props his head up on his left hand. His green eyes are wide with wonder.

“Seems like a weird question.” I tuck the sheet into my armpits and scoot my body a little to the left so we’re no longer touching. The tone of my voice has become defensive and he can tell.

“It’s just that I usually pick the porn,” he explains. “Do you like what I choose?”

I see what he’s doing. He’s trying to be considerate since we just had sex while staring at the laptop screen after searching terms of his choosing: Latina, real tits, blow job, threesome.

Maybe he feels guilty for getting off to them instead of me, even though I’m the one who suggested we watch porn in the first place. Even though I’m always the one who suggests we watch porn while we have sex.

“Yeah, sure.” I look up at the ceiling. “They’re fine.”

“Are you sure?”

I wish he’d stop prying, but I realize something else is happening here. Not only is he trying to be considerate; he’s also trying to get to know me. The past couple of months has allowed us to cover most of the basics — what ended each of our most recent relationships, what our parents are like, what we hope to do with our lives in the next few years — but there’s still a longing for something deeper, and I can’t think of anything deeper than knowing a person’s favorite porn scene.

It can speak volumes. For one scene to stand out amongst the rest, when so many others are available, there has to be something below the surface. What maintains its appeal? What keeps a person returning in the deep, dark recesses of a lonely night? Perhaps the answers to these questions are a great source of shame. I never thought of revealing such answers to anybody, and especially not somebody like him, somebody I could really like. It seems far too risky, preposterous even.

It also seems necessary. Too many of my past relationships were doomed by my inability to tell the whole truth, to fully be myself. Now I have the opportunity to go there, and to say to a person, “This is who I am. Do you accept me?”

“Well, there’s this one gang bang,” I start, looking over at his face to see a reaction of surprise and interest register at once.

“Go on.”

I take a deep breath and proceed to tell him, first slowly, then progressively faster about the scene. Like a busted dam, I can hardly hold back the rush of descriptors fumbling from my mouth: “Two women in a warehouse. One dangling from a harness. The other just below her. Both are waiting to take on fifty horny men…” and on and on.

I watch his face the whole time, not pausing when his smile becomes a frown and his eyes squint as if it hurts to look at me.

“Afterward, the women exit the warehouse through a back door while the men applaud.”

For a long moment after I’ve finished talking, there is silence between us, but there is also a sense of relief on my part. I have revealed something so dark, so upsetting, so impacted in shame, and he hasn’t immediately disappeared. He is still here beside me, propped up on his left hand, naked and vulnerable, and so am I. He sees me and I see him seeing me and we are in new territory.

But then he says, “I kind of wish I hadn’t asked.” It’s all I need to hear to send me into tears. Not just tiny, embarrassed sobs, but humiliated wails. I have myself a tantrum. He is confused now as he pulls me close to him, laughing nervously at my abrupt shift in disposition. I try to pull the sheet completely over my head, but he pulls it back down and covers my face with apologetic kisses. He can’t possibly understand why I’m crying. He can’t possibly know what I’ve just revealed to him. “What’s going on? Baby, what’s wrong?”

And so I tell him.

* * *

Addiction to porn and masturbation is often grouped under general sex addiction because they all have to do with escape via titillation, pursuit and orgasm, but I’ve always felt more pathetic about my predilections. Going out and fucking — even someone you don’t really like — is wild, dangerous, but essentially social and shared. Though I had periods of promiscuity throughout my twenties, my biggest issue has always been with what I do alone.

There’s something so sad and humiliating in imagining a person locked away in a dark room, hot laptop balanced on chest, turning the volume down low, scrolling, scrolling, choosing, watching, escaping, coming.

And then realizing that person is me.

But my proclivity for solo pleasure has strong, stubborn roots. I lost my virginity to a water faucet when I was twelve years old. I have Adam Corolla and Dr. Drew to thank for this life-shaking experience; it was their late-night radio show “Loveline” on L.A.’s KROQ that served as my primary means of sex ed during my pre-teen years. This technique is one of the many things I learned, but I had a whole other kind of education going on, which had long filled my head with other ideas — sex is something that happens between a man and woman who love each other; masturbation is a sin. You know, your typical run-of-the-mill Catholic guilt stuff.

Just as oppressive as the Catholic guilt was my femininity. Girls weren’t talking about masturbation and sex. I had no company with whom to share my new activities and interests. And so this silence morphed into shame. I became a pervert, a loser, a sinner.

I tried to stop myself from taking long baths, from late-night undercover activities, from being alone too long, but the more I obsessed about stopping, the more I could not. I joined shame, secrecy and pleasure in a daily orgy, whether I was tired, bored, angry or sad. Whether I was single or coupled, it didn’t matter. Getting off required all of these components and I needed new, more extreme methods to stay engaged — more hours sucked away watching progressively harder porn like the warehouse video, complemented with dabbles in strip clubs, peep shows and shady massage parlors. It became impossible to get off during sex without fantasy, my body over-stimulated to numbness. I was irritable unless I was fucking or masturbating or planning to do either of these things. Life revolved around orgasm to the detriment of any kind of real progress in my professional or social existence.

I was out of control.

* * *

Little did I know that describing my favorite porn scene would be the first of many future admissions that would help peel back, layer by layer, a long and exhausting history of self loathing. My future husband and I quickly learned that watching porn during sex wasn’t a harmless kink for us; it was a method I’d long used to remain disconnected from my partners. It took much discipline and patience for us to expel it from our relationship altogether, though every now and then we slip up.

Talking about my habits led me to examine them, which ultimately led to my desire for change. Holding a secret for too long is like being unable to take a full breath. I didn’t want to feel this way anymore. I needed to share — often and fully — what had for too long been silenced in order to reclaim who I was underneath my addiction. I needed to breathe again.

I found relief in Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings, seeing a therapist I trusted, attending personal development courses like the Hoffman Process and writing about my journey. I’ve managed to move away from porn for the most part, but when it comes to this addiction — to something I don’t have to seek out or purchase — control is like a wayward horse and my ass is always slipping off the saddle.

I constantly struggle with whether or not I should give up porn completely, but until I find a way to have some moderation with it, I avoid it as best I can. I wish I could just watch it occasionally, as some sort of supplement to my active sex life, but the whole ritual of watching porn is tangled up in too many other negative emotions. Watching porn takes me back to being that little girl alone in her bedroom, feeling ashamed and helpless to stop it. I can’t just watch one clip without needing to watch another after that, and another, until hours have passed and I’m back to binging every night.

If my husband leaves me alone all day and idleness leads me to watching porn, it’s the first thing I confess upon his return. Sometimes I don’t even have to say it. He can tell by my downturned eyes and my noticeable exhaustion. He shakes his head and takes me in his arms as I make another promise to try to leave it alone. When I visited a peep show on a recent work trip out of town, he seemed more amused than upset about the whole thing.

Unfortunately, I have yet to be as generous. If I find he’s been watching porn without me, when I’ve struggled to abstain for a stretch of time, I react with what might seem like unjustified rage. This frustration is only rooted in envy.

* * *

Masturbating beside my husband while he sleeps is the last secret I’ve kept from him. Although I’m beginning to fear that it’s actually just the latest secret. My resistance in telling him only proves how fragile recovery is. This week it’s masturbation. But maybe next week it’s back to porn binging. Or obsessive scrolling through Craigslist personals. Or lying about my whereabouts. And so forth. Abstaining from these habits, when so readily available, without abstaining from sexual pleasure completely, or the shame I’ve long bound to it, is a challenge I face daily.

That’s why I need to tell my husband.

Not because I need his permission, his forgiveness or to offer him some act of contrition. But because I need him to see me. To witness. The act of telling the truth, especially about something that makes us ache, is often the only absolution we need.

Want to know more? Check out our behind-the-scenes interview with Erica Garza on Continuing the Narrative.