Adam Purple and His Guerilla Garden of Eden

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Long before the Lower East Side became the land of cafes and condos, it was a blank canvass for the city’s most determined squatter and his ever-expanding community garden.

Adam Purple is a cantankerous old man who refuses to become a martyr. He was born eighty-two years ago in the farmlands of Independence, Missouri, but if you ask him where he is from, he has been known to say: “the seventh planet, Uranus, and if you don’t know where your anus is, you are definitely part of The Problem.” He is thin, slightly hunched, with a long white beard reaching nearly to his navel and pale, wrinkled skin. He is fond of wearing purple clothing, but there was a period in his life where he refused to wear the color as a personal protest against the city of New York. He holds a master’s degree in journalism from the University of Missouri and has taught at high schools, junior colleges, and Purdue University. At the Gazette and Daily in York, Pennsylvania, he once worked the police beat before seeing things that soured him on both the police and mainstream life. In the mid ’60s, he took drugs and joined the migrant hippie culture, traveling to places like Santa Cruz, Big Sur and Dixon, New Mexico. Since moving to New York City in 1968, he has gone by many names, including Rev. Les Ego, General Zen of Headquarters Intergalactic Psychic Police, and John Peter Zenger II. Most people, however, know him as Adam — the man who built The Garden of Eden and lived there with Eve on the Lower East Side.

* * *

Part One: Genesis

“You start by assuming that they must be wrong, judging them by the very code you reject. ”
-Robert Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

Between Forsyth and Eldridge Street, just south of Stanton Street, in an area of New York City that was sick, grey and crumbling, there was once a brightly blooming oasis known as The Garden of Eden. It seemed impossible for a garden to exist in a place like that, the soil poisoned by chemicals, the neighborhood littered with rubble and trash, yet there it was, by something of a miracle. Spring, summer and fall, Adam and Eve tended to The Garden, planting and trimming various flowers, fruits and vegetables, occasionally taking a break to enjoy the shade of a black walnut tree or to pluck a plump red strawberry. Neighbors passing on the street would often stop to puzzle over the odd couple, dressed head-to-toe in tie-dyed purple clothing and wearing mirrored, violet-tinted sunglasses — aviators for Adam, circular John Lennon-style frames for Eve. The couple encouraged the onlookers to come into the garden and help themselves to a fresh cucumber or a handful of black raspberries or just take a moment to sit and find enlightenment amongst the sweetly scented flowers. For many of these neighbors, time in the garden was a reprieve from the chaos and filth of their surroundings. But for others, suspicions were high about what it was, exactly, that Adam and Eve were up to.

If you ask people who knew Adam during the roughly decade-long existence of The Garden — from the mid-’70s to mid-’80s — most remember a kind man intent on providing a better quality of life, not just for those living on the Lower East Side, but for all mankind. When engaged in conversation, he would often begin espousing a hybrid religion-philosophy he called General [Z]enlightenment — a mix of Zen Buddhism, the science-fiction writing of Robert Heinlein, and the philosophies of Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson, among others. Adam claimed to hold the role of Chief Biocybernetic Reprogramer from the Headquarters, Intergalatic Psychic Police (HIPP) of Uranus, sent for the purpose of L.E.A.R.N (Let’s Erase Everything and Reprogram Now) for SpecieSurvival by the year 1984. It was his contention that society was fouling itself with pollution, radiation, plastic toxins and sewage from the flush toilet, and that if we didn’t undergo something he called R(apid)Evolution to change the way we interact with ourselves and our environment, extinction was a very real possibility.

While his teachings were certainly cryptic, they were, perhaps, not entirely crazy. His call for a reorganization of society for the purpose of environmental preservation was pretty much the party line for the radical environmentalist movement still riding the psychic tsunami of LSD and late ’60s spirituality. A study of Adam’s notes, collected by him along with nearly every article written about The Garden in a self-published book called Life with Les(s) Ego, suggests the mind of a highly read scholar, a horticultural savant, and an obsessive personality dedicated to his cause. However, there are also signs that Adam’s distrust of society existed at a level far beneath that of cultural zeitgeist, almost like he had intimate knowledge that despite his best efforts, those he shared the earth with would one day turn against him.

The difficulty in really getting to know Adam as a person was that when he wasn’t talking about The Garden or SpecieSurvival, he would rarely give a straight answer to a question. One of the many names he acquired over the years, though one of the only ones he didn’t give to himself, was “The Riddle Man.” When someone would approach him while he was at work in The Garden to ask what his name was or to inquire about his age, Adam would respond by saying that he didn’t have a name and that his age was currently three, but next year he would be two. When reporter John Lewis from the New York Sunday News attempted to find out where Adam was born, the Riddle Man replied, simply: “In a bed. I was really too young to remember.”

Due to Adam’s insistence on living in the present and his general refusal to discuss the past, there are only bits and pieces of information that connect the man born David Wilkie in Independence, Missouri, to Adam from The Garden of Eden. He was the middle child of seven born to Richard and Juanita Wilkie. Richard was a master machinist, a carpenter and a blacksmith, among other things. Juanita was a seamstress, gardener and bookkeeper. Adam revered his parents’ do-it-yourself attitude and has noted the import of being raised in a town called Independence.

There were no indications that Adam would live anything other than a traditional American childhood until his brother’s appendix ruptured and he was rushed to the hospital. Adam, only nine at the time, had to stand by as his eleven-year-old brother died, because, as he told a New York Times reporter, “the doctors wouldn’t operate on him until my father got there with the money.”

Three years later, Adam’s world was again irreparably altered when he witnessed his father die of electrocution while trying to put out a fire at his machine shop.

The seeds for rebellion against a society that would let a young boy die for lack of money and in which a modern reliance like electricity could take away your father in the blink of an eye were likely planted during these traumatic childhood experiences. But for years, Adam appeared to maintain a normal life. His transcripts from Kansas State Teachers College show that he received mostly A’s and excelled in subjects like English literature and advanced calculus. He went on to receive a master’s degree in journalism, and taught at schools and colleges throughout the country. However, his job at the Gazette and Daily — where he witnessed cops siccing dogs on black people when he worked the police beat — would be the last time he entertained thoughts of leading a mainstream life.

In the mid ’60s, when Adam was in his thirties, he followed the transient counterculture, traveling up and down the West Coast dropping acid and writing. He privately published three editions of a manifesto dubbed the International Peace/Disarmament Directory. In 1967, he moved to Matraville, Australia, calling himself a “nuclear mignorant” and active opponent of U.S.-France nuclear testing in the South Pacific and U.S. war crimes in Vietnam. While there, he began working on what he called “an accidental inquiry, perhaps mystical, into the non-Aristotelian (non-linear) structure of semantic ‘truth.’” The result was a tiny book — approximately one inch by one inch — titled Zentences. The pages of the book were split in half horizontally, Dutch-door style, so that words or phrases at the top of one page could be matched to those at the bottom of another to create — similar to Gutenberg’s movable type — an exponential number of movable thought units. For example, “Reality” might be paired with “is uttered nonsense!” while “Nudity” could be matched to “is divine expression.” The book, credited to his pseudonym Les Ego, would become the first step toward General [Z]enlightenment for R(apid) Evolution and SpecieSurvival, and would bring Adam to New York City in search of a publisher.

It was a random book, so Adam zeroed in on the publisher who seemed to specialize in such things: Random House. They wavered and Adam was forced to pursue other methods of distribution. He rented a month-to-month apartment at 184 Forsyth Street and would ride his bike to Central Park each morning to hand out his book to anyone enlightened enough to not wear leather clothing. He had taken to dressing himself entirely in purple—the color of royalty, invisibility and magic mushrooms—and was gaining a reputation as an eccentric for walking through the park offering to put people on his back so he could “straighten their spines and blow their minds.”

It was in Central Park, while he was handing out books, straightening spines and blowing minds, that Adam met Eve. While little is known of Adam’s past, almost nothing is known about Eve’s — not even her real name. All we know is that she was born in Brooklyn and was sixteen years old when she and Adam first met. Adam must have succeeded in blowing her mind, however, for it wasn’t long after that first meeting that she moved in with him on Forsyth Street.

184 Forsyth was a six-story tenement building in what was known in the early twentieth century as the “immigrant ghetto,” and which was still, in the 1970s, one of the most run-down neighborhoods in the city. Adam and Eve shared a first-floor apartment and would often encounter junkies moving back and forth between the abandoned tenements on Eldridge Street searching for a quiet place to shoot up. The lot between the tenements on Eldridge and Adam and Eve’s rear window on Forsyth — officially recognized as Block 421 of Manhattan by the City of New York — was testament to the neglect plaguing the neighborhood. Garbage was piled up in the backyard from tenants tossing their trash from the upper windows, rusty fire escapes hung limp from the backs of the buildings and lurid graffiti covered the soot-coated brick. The children of the tenements were forced to play in the trash-strewn basement pits while their mothers’ poppy-glazed eyes stared aimlessly through dirty windows. Almost no sunlight entered Block 421. It was a dark and hopeless place.

In the second half of 1973, the city tore down the two abandoned tenements fronting Eldridge Street, and morning sunlight came cascading into Adam and Eve’s backyard. The buildings collapsed in a cloud of brick dust and Adam stood at his rear window watching it settle. When the demolition team had finished and vacated the area, he went out to survey the rubble.

A key element in Adam’s call for conservation and radical environmental transformation was the idea that “a society’s wealth is measured in what it throws away.” Nearly all of Adam and Eve’s meager belongings were things they had lifted from dumpsters or found abandoned. Their apartment was cluttered with bike parts, sheet metal, lumber, glass jars filled with hinges and screws. The thousands of books they had collected were stacked against an exposed brick wall. Even the purple clothes they wore were made from discarded articles Eve had stitched together.

Standing amongst the remains of the demolition — whole bricks, brickbats, brick sand, foundation stones, wood, gravel, sheets of galvanized iron, window lintels and pieces of porcelain tub tops — it wasn’t immediately clear what purpose these waste items could serve. With the back of their apartment now exposed to the street on the east side, one of Adam’s first thoughts was their safety. He had read about an ancient Chinese security system by which crickets were used to alert residents of intruders, but in order to attract crickets, there would need to be plants. His thoughts then turned to the children with nowhere to play but the garbage heaps. He studied the rubble once more and a vision began to crystallize in his head. With the brick sand and wood, he had nearly everything he needed to make soil. If he had soil, he could plant a garden.

An experienced journeyman, Adam understood better than most the ancient folk saying that “the longest journey starts with a single step,” and work on The Garden began with the simple process of sorting through the rubble. Brick is composed primarily of clay, and clay is elemental in creating soil. So he gathered brick sand to filter and turn into topsoil. Unpainted wood could be burned to produce potash, another key ingredient in making soil. This was also collected and put into piles. Little of the inorganic debris served a purpose in soil production but, nevertheless, everything was sifted through and organized for a variety of future uses.

Adam and Eve considered power tools or petrol-fueled vehicles of any kind counterrevolutionary and refused to use them. This greatly increased the time and manpower necessary to remove the debris. Using only basic tools like rakes, hoes, shovels, a wheelbarrow, a sledgehammer, a hacksaw, a crowbar and a common railroad pick — along with, Adam liked to joke, “cast-iron backs with hinges in ‘em’” — in one day, one person could clear approximately twenty-five square feet of rubble. The rubble left from the tenements on Eldridge Street covered roughly five thousand square feet. With winter approaching, it would be many months before they were ready to plant.

Despite being a time-consuming and labor-intensive process, removing the rubble was only the initial step in growing a garden. Clay and potash alone do not make soil — Adam would need to find fertilizer. Having spent many pleasant afternoons in Central Park, he was familiar with the large quantities of manure left by the horse-drawn carriages. Not able to let even fecal matter go to waste, he decided to transport the horse manure from the park to use as fertilizer in The Garden.

In the spring of 1974, Adam and Eve began their daily ritual of biking the three and half miles from the garden to the park and back again to scoop up horse shit. Adam had modified a bike trailer by adding a shopping cart handle and a plastic milk crate to make it easier to transport the free fertilizer. The trailer could support a typical day’s load of about sixty pounds.

Back at Forsyth Street, Adam mixed the horse manure with the potash and the brick sand to produce highly fertile, homemade topsoil. With the rubble cleared, the next step was to shovel a foot and a half beneath street level to sift out nails, scrap metal and loose change. Once this was done, the “instant super topsoil” was layered on top of a gravel subsoil to produce arable land about a foot deep. Adam called this process the “maxi-method,” not to be confused with the “mini-method” where he would dig a square-foot hole in the ground, fill it with sand, weeds, food scraps and his own vegetarian feces, to produce what the Chinese called “night soil.” But due to the limitations of human bowel function, “night soil” was only producible in small quantities.

Just about the time Adam and Eve had finished converting the first two tenement lots into farmable land — approximately a year after the buildings had been demolished — another tenement was razed to the north of The Garden. Again, the pair began the process of clearing away and organizing the debris, but with the buildings collapsing around them and the neighborhood deteriorating rapidly, it wasn’t long before questions arose about the future stability of their home at 184 Forsyth.

There were no plans to demolish the building. Structurally speaking, 184 Forsyth was sound enough to stand for many more years. Few tenants, however, shared Adam and Eve’s commitment to upkeep, and the inside of the building suffered from serious neglect. The landlord, a survivor of the death camps in Germany, knew when to get out of a bad situation. He abandoned the property before the end of the year and appointed Adam the new superintendent. Many of the residents followed the landlord out, but a few stayed now that they were no longer required to pay the $50 a month for rent. Ownership of the building shifted over to the City of New York, which was suffering from a severe recession and, for the time being, appeared uninterested in the property.

During the winter, Adam read books on gardening and radical city planning while also helping Eve renovate sections of the building. In the spring of 1975, the first seeds were planted in the Garden. By 1976, flowers bloomed, vegetables sprouted and crickets rubbed their wings together outside the couple’s rear window.

Using the salvaged scraps of sheet metal to shape the flowerbeds and whole bricks and gravel to make paths between them, Adam had designed The Garden to expand out from a double yin-yang pattern at the center into a series of broken concentric circles. He planted purple basil for the two yins and sweet alyssum for the two yangs. In the surrounding flowerbeds, he planted an array of colorful flowers — tulips, roses, crocuses, and hyacinths — along with plants producing cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, beans, strawberries and asparagus. Corn grew around the edge of The Garden to a height of more than six feet. Black raspberry bushes looped through carefully placed mattress springs and hung over a waist-high stone wall. Fruit and nut trees broke up through the ground, as did one rare Chinese Empress tree that had just appeared one day, quite mysteriously.

Each year, more buildings collapsed or were torn down, and The Garden expanded to take their place. Adam had chosen to build The Garden in the shape of a circle in continuity with his obsession of exponential expansion — a circle’s area increases with the square of its radius. It was almost eerie how when The Garden would push up against the edge of a building, the next year the building would be gone and The Garden would have added another couple of rings. In total, the city demolished four buildings adjacent to 184 Forsyth. From an initial size of 5,000 square feet in 1975, The Garden grew by approximately 2,500 square feet per year, reaching a final size of just over 15,000 square feet. It appeared poised to take over the city, knocking down whatever buildings stood in its path.

Citywide expansion of The Garden was, indeed, Adam and Eve’s goal. It was their intention to continue working on the project until it could be seen from outer space. If you were to stand on the roof of 184 Forsyth and look down on The Garden, you could see that sections of it spelled out the words “SpecieSurvival” and “R(apid)evolution.” The Garden of Eden was another step toward General [Z]enlightenment.

To further explain the role it would play, Adam crafted—in his trademark mix of clever wordplay and unusual symbols—an informational scroll that he and Eve handed out in Central Park. The scroll stated:

     Without waiting another 2,000 years for institutionalized Christianity or Judaism to build or rebuild the Garden of Eden (Paradise of Pleasures), we have taken psychic inspiration from General Zenlightenme(a)nt to ‘plug into’organic communication from Uranus, to wit:
     SpecieSurvival is more and more a race ‘twixt Zenlightenme(a)t and Extinction….”
      The Garden of Eden is one aspect of Biocybernetic Fun & Games to L.E.A.R.N (Let’s Erase Everything and Reprogram Now) for SpecieSurvival by 1984—from the Seventh Planet, Uranus. And if you do not know where your anus is, you are definitely part of the Problem.

Uranus was Adam’s winking metaphor to the fact the most people had no idea of the whereabouts of either the seventh planet or the Earth’s anus — i.e. where our society’s pollution, radiation, sewage, etc. originate. Politicians and bureaucrats were “ignoranuses” suffering from total ignorance of the anus. But perhaps there was still hope for the rest of us.

With the expansion of The Garden, Adam and Eve’s workload increased to the point where they needed to solicit help. The couple wrote an article for the Yipster Times requesting, “at least 30 full-time vegetarian gardeners.” Those with skills useful in renovating the building at 184 Forsyth were also asked to join, and rooms were available to those who wanted them. Initially, several people responded to the article and a few moved in to the rooms above Adam and Eve. None of them stayed for very long. Eve admitted to New York magazine’s Norman Green that for the most part, “people aren’t interested in vegetarian urban farming.” It was also rumored that Adam could be a difficult person to live with and that few could follow his stringent rules and strict daily regiment.

Just because the community didn’t want to help in The Garden didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy it. During the spring and summer months — when Adam could be found pushing a wheelbarrow around with his shirt off, revealing the sun-browned, sinewy upper body of a healthy fifty-year-old man — he had plenty of visitors. Neighbors would come by to pick fresh fruits and vegetables. Teachers would bring classes of young immigrant students who had grown up on the Lower East Side and had never seen things like butterflies, earthworms and fruiting plants. Passersby would just wander in to have a look around.

That something so beautiful could exist in a neighborhood so inundated with crime, drugs, poverty and neglect continued to amaze those who lived there. A convicted felon who goes by the name Rambo Sloane explained in a letter to Adam written from the Auburn Correctional Facility that when he first stumbled into The Garden, he had been in a shootout with a Puerto Rican gang and “thought [he] got hit and went to heaven.” A resident of a rundown tenement adjacent to The Garden told a reporter from the Daily News: “We look out these windows, man, and we see a rainbow.”

There were also those who distrusted The Garden’s apparent ability to convert building rubble into leafy plants. They watched the strange man with his long grey beard and electric purple clothing work The Garden with his equally strange wife and determined, as journalist Norman Green put it, “supernatural forces [were] at work.”

In particular, it was the peculiar double ying-yang symbol at the center of The Garden that spooked them. The way the sweet alyssum reflected moon rays on a dark summer’s night, it was like The Garden was sending a signal into space.

In fact, the double ying-yang did represent an aspect of Adam and Eve’s life that few were familiar with. Where a single ying-yang represents the balance and union of man and woman, the double ying-yang represented the interconnection of two men and two women. It was the symbol for a group Adam had begun in the back of a school bus in Santa Cruz, California during the late ’60s known as the Catholic Union Mission, or C.U.M.

The Catholic Union Mission’s goal was to stage World Orgies I, II, and III to counteract the damage done by the first two World Wars and to avoid a third. In preparation for the World Orgies, the group held smaller sessions where two-person sex was swapped out for group sex and meaningful fucking could result in a mystical or transcendental experience. Group members were encouraged to confront and release all sexual hang-ups. LSD was often involved. Sexual combinations included man-woman, woman-woman, but not man-man. Strangers, capitalists, drug dealers and those with the clap were not invited to join. The orgies were another aspect of General [Z]enlightenment.

In November of 1978, Eve gave birth to a girl named Nova Dawn. That winter, the three of them huddled together on a large bed in a room with a wood stove, Adam reading and writing and Eve nursing the newborn. The last few years had brought significant media attention to the couple and their work in The Garden. While pleased that people were noticing, it irritated Adam that many journalists couldn’t seem to get the facts right. Inventing the pseudonym John Peter Zenger II — a tribute to the famous American journalist whose landmark case allowed that truth was defense against charges of libel — Adam perused the articles written about him before sending back a copy to the author annotated with the appropriate corrections. These corrections would often be small or seemingly insignificant, but it was important to Adam that there be no mistakes. For General [Z]enlightenment, people needed to receive the right message.

In a contracting universe, the light spectrum shifts toward violet. Adam knew this. For years, he had felt the universe shrinking. R(apid)Evolution for SpecieSurvival by 1984: the date was likely a reference to what he felt was a movement toward an Orwellian society, but if he was speaking of the deadline by which the city and his community needed to come around to his way of thinking for the sake of the Garden, he was surprisingly prescient. The “ignoranuses” in government had started to take an interest in the Garden. That interest was about to increase exponentially.

* * *

Part Two: Exodus

“Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death.”
-George Orwell, 1984

In 1979, when there were trees in The Garden tall enough for songbirds to flit between their branches, four million dollars were appropriated to build low-and-moderate income housing on Block 421. Initiated by city councilmember Miriam Friedlander and executed under the auspices of the department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) and the New York City Housing Authority (NYCHA), the so-called “Esperenza Project” called for the construction of 189 housing units and the destruction of The Garden of Eden.

An old-fashioned anarchist, Adam was fond of paraphrasing Thoreau’s call to “let your life be a counter-friction to stop the machine.” It appeared that Adam had created enough counter-friction that the machine found it necessary to grind him out.

Faced with what would become a seven-year battle to save The Garden, Adam would no longer have the help of Eve. During that same year, the remaining tenants at 184 Forsyth Street had banded together to protest Adam’s request that each of them supply $40 to heat the building — a service the city no longer provided. Other factors may have been involved, but regardless, the protest resulted in the tenants vacating the building. Eve joined them, taking Nova Dawn with her.

In October 1981, HUD formally approved the project and a deadline of May 1984 was set for its implementation. In March of 1982, the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs certified Adam as an artist, and he sued the city for two million dollars for violating a law that made it illegal to destroy works of art—subsequently delaying construction. In August of 1984, Justice Bruce Wright of New York’s Supreme Court in Manhattan dismissed the suit, rejecting Adam’s claim that he was denied “due process.” On February 14, 1985, Adam received a memo from the Department of Housing, Preservation and Development notifying him that he had intruded into property that he did not own and advised him that he would be required to quit the area known as The Garden of Eden on or before February 25th. It was signed by an official from the Division of Relocation Operations.

Adam refused to abandon The Garden and the controversy consumed the community. “People not Petunias” was the rally cry for those in favor of housing. Adam and his supporters countered by saying that the city council was employing a technique of “divide and conquer.” When the case went to a deciding trial near the end of August, 1985, the chairwoman of the Joint Planning Council, Margarita Lopez, testified in reference to The Garden that, “our people don’t go there,” because, “they was scared of the drug dealers there and they don’t want to be killed.” Adam accused Ms. Lopez of lying under oath—a claim that appears to be supported by the numerous letters written to Councilmember Friedlander and Mayor Koch by neighborhood residents on behalf of Adam and The Garden.

Over a thousand people signed a petition to stave off The Garden’s destruction. Politicians, professors, students, artists, government workers, television reporters, and the beat poet Allen Ginsberg all wrote letters asking that The Garden be saved. It wouldn’t matter. The city had made up its mind.

On January 8, 1986, Adam watched from the sixth floor fire escape of his building as bulldozers and trucks razed The Garden of Eden. When they were finished, all that remained was the singular Chinese Empress tree.

In the weeks following the destruction of The Garden, purple footprints began popping up all over Manhattan. The footprints wove a trail as far south as Wall Street and as far north as Columbus Circle. They lead back to the site where The Garden once bloomed and many people assumed the Purple Man was up to his old tricks. However, when a reporter for People Weekly tracked down the mysterious footprint maker, he discovered a supporter of The Garden named George who had attached foam footprints to the side of a purple paint drum and was rolling it around the city. Adam was nowhere to be seen.

Between 1979 and 1999, Adam was the only resident at 184 Forsyth. Con Edison had disconnected the building in 1981, and the city no longer provided any services. For eighteen years, Adam had to live without easy access to heat, water or electricity. He spent most of this time collecting articles written about The Garden and annotating them with his own account to create a book. His role in the public eye greatly diminished and, for a while, he even stopped wearing the color purple.

In 1999, the City of New York dealt Adam a final blow by evicting him and demolishing 184 Forsyth to construct a housing project sponsored by the New York Society for the Deaf. The city had been billing Adam since 1980 for all twenty-four rooms in the building, and it was estimated that at the time of his eviction, he owed over $300,000 in back rent.

Without a home, Adam bounced around a few tenements before going to stay with a friend in New Jersey. While there, he finished off the last strain of black raspberries from The Garden in a cup of tea. Then, it seemed, he disappeared entirely.

* * *

Part Three: Revelations

“Don’t judge half-done work.”
-Folk saying quoted by Adam’s father, the late Richard Wilkie, Sr.

The chain that locks together the double refrigerator doors guarding Adam’s room in a two-story building next to the Williamsburg Bridge was undone. Through the thin space between the doors, I could see that the light was off. I hesitated for a moment before giving few gentle knocks. There was rustling from inside. I announced my name through the door and said that I had been reading his book, Life With Les(s) Ego, and was hoping to talk with him about it. After a long pause, he informed me that he was listening to the news, but if I waited, I could speak with him when it had finished.

I was standing in the back room of a workshop, surrounded by milk crates full of tools and spare bike parts. The workshop is run by a bicycle co-op with ties to the squat houses that populated the Lower East Side during the ’80s and ’90s. When I’d first moved to New York City in the fall of 2012, I had rented a room on the second floor of the co-op. The room had a sloping floor and was built behind a brick chimney that had been eaten away by mice. There was enough space for a double bed, a bookshelf and a desk. While living there, I would occasionally run into the enigmatic old man who lived on the first floor but, for reasons I couldn’t quite place, there was something about him that made me nervous and I had never ventured a conversation.

The first time I had heard Adam talk about The Garden of Eden was at the opening of the Museum of Reclaimed Urban Spaces (MoRUS) on Avenue C between 9th and 10th street in December of 2012. Wearing purple plaid and a purple ski hat, he sat on the stage in the basement of the notorious C Squat — a dimly lit room famous for punk shows in the ’80s and decorated with graffiti murals—while a movie about The Garden made by photographer Harvey Wang played on a giant projector behind him. Adam would stop the movie occasionally to clarify a detail or identify someone who had double-crossed him. When the movie had finished, he fielded a few questions from the audience and was then hurried offstage, a somewhat unceremonious departure considering the event was put on, at least in part, to celebrate his life’s work. He marched slowly through the crowd carrying a tall flagpole with a neon-orange bicycle flag at the top, up the stairs, and out onto the street where a group of squatters were gathered around a fire burning in a charcoal grill. He took a moment to attach the flag to the bike, then rode off into the darkness.

* * *

After about twenty minutes, when the news had finished, Adam opened the door. His room was small, about the size of a jail cell, containing a single window at the back covered by a black curtain. On the floor were plastic bottles full of water and along the right wall was a shelf stacked with canned food. On the left side, just inside the door, a steep set of stairs led up to a lofted single bed. A beat-up silver Macintosh laptop was plugged in and resting on a low table.

The space was too small for two people to sit comfortably so we moved to an office space in the back of the building. Adam was dressed in a pair of worn black slacks, a faded plaid shirt and a pair of two-toned blue sneakers. On his head he wore a black baseball cap covered with a dirty purple ski hat. A long white beard fell from his hollow cheeks in a series of delicate waves. His blue eyes studied me with an intensity that hinted at a former brightness, but they were now pale and cloudy like two tiny pieces of sea glass. He lowered himself carefully into a swivel chair and asked me what was on my mind.

“I’ve been reading your book,” I said, pulling from my bag a thick stack of 8-and-½-by-11-inch photocopied pages bound with a plastic binding comb. Before I could finish the sentence, Adam took the book from me and began examining the cover.

“Where did you get this?” he asked. “It’s a rare book you know. Only made about a hundred of them.”

I told him I had gotten it from a library in Manhattan.

“Now that’s a good library,” he said, leafing through the pages. Most of the print was too small for him to read so he went back to his room to retrieve a pair of reading glasses and a piece of magnifying glass. When he returned, he again immersed himself in the pages of the book, occasionally chuckling at his own wordplay and clever acronyms.

“Prove to me that there is no such thing as the Psychic Police,” he said. “You can’t. You can’t prove the nonexistence of anything.”

When he got to pictures of The Garden, he paused, then said: “This took a lot of work, you know.”

As he started to tell me stories of The Garden’s creation, I could sense his mind getting lost in a happier time. I asked him if, when he started The Garden, he had any idea the city would eventually take it away from him.

“I always had a feeling. In the back of my mind, I knew,” he said softly, with just a hint of Midwestern twang in his voice.

“Why do you think they did it?” I asked.

“For not bowing to their omnipotence. Not bowing to their authority. They didn’t own those lots.” His voice grew louder and more definitive. I asked him if he had committed any crime. He waited a moment before answering.

“No. I didn’t do anything wrong. Let me show you something.”

He flipped to a page in the book containing an article written by the famous environmentalist Bill McKibben for 7 Days magazine. In the article, McKibben questions the precedent Adam was setting in creating a garden without asking the city. McKibben wondered if there was really a conscious conspiracy against Adam. Along the side of the article, Adam had handwritten a scathing response to Bill. He asked me to read it aloud to him.

In the response, Adam calls McKibben “a puppy-dog press lackey” and questions his character. It finishes by stating: “If Bill would just once bury his shit in the ground instead of selling it to 7 Days, he would achieve some spiritual integrity AND wisdom!”

Adam laughed as I read. “Bill probably wasn’t too happy with me,” he hypothesized.

I found Adam more agreeable than I had expected, and was starting to enjoy spending time with him, but he had a masterful way of turning the conversation away from introspection. I asked how it felt to watch something you loved get destroyed.

“What they did was a human rights violation,” he said indignantly. “By what rights does anyone have to do that? I tried to contact the United Nations. And bullshit. You know who gave the land for the United Nations building? Take a wild guess. Rockefeller. You know who built the Knesset in Israel? The Rothschilds.”

He asked if I was aware that the Japanese have an Orwellian-style Thought Police. I wasn’t. He told me that sometime I should look up the book Shadows of Hiroshima and turn to chapter three, paragraph one.

His ability to reference particular books was remarkable for an eighty-two-year-old man. He admitted with sadness that he doesn’t have his library anymore, but that he had started a group on Yahoo called SpecieSurvivaLibrary where there is a record of all the books he had ever owned and read.

When 184 Forsyth was destroyed, Adam was forced into a somewhat nomadic lifestyle and couldn’t very well carry thousands of books with him. “One thing leads to another,” he said, and then told me that after leaving his friend’s home in New Jersey, he had traveled down to Maryland. He paid a thousand dollars up front for five months’ rent, but was kicked out before the payment period ended. He claims he was conned by the landlord, since all he received in return for the money was five hand-written receipts.

He returned to New York and worked on a crop farm upstate that he considered “a disorganized mess,” and “probably some sort of scam.” Eventually making his way back to the city, he moved from place to place until the painter Allen Hirsch helped him find a room at the bike co-op.

I questioned whether he ever saw Eve or Nova Dawn anymore. He stared at the floor for a while. When he looked up, his eyes betrayed contemplative remorse.

“It’s painful to live with someone for five years and just have her leave,” he said. “Her family, they’re Catholic. I’m not. They aren’t religiously intolerant, but they won’t tolerate me. They come to New York saying that they are here to see family. Well, I’m family.”

I asked him what Eve’s real name was and he couldn’t remember.

Despite no mention of it in any of the articles or writing collected in Life With Les(s) Ego, it came out that Adam had been married before meeting Eve. His mood lifting, he informed me that there was a Facebook page for The Garden, and that his daughter from his first marriage had posted on the page that she was proud to have him as a father.

“I wrote back that I am proud to be her dad. I don’t know, maybe one day that pride will manifest itself,” he said, in a way that suggested that it was his daughter’s pride he was talking about.

Reverting back to his more antagonist nature, he put an end to the topic by saying, “If someone thinks you’re the scum of the Earth and doesn’t want to talk to you, at some point you just have to say fuck it and move on.”

In Harvey Wang’s movie, Adam admits to wishing the city had killed him and left The Garden. When I asked him what the Garden would look like without him, he replied, simply, “It wouldn’t.”

“Do you still think it would be better if you were dead?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t commit suicide,” he offered. I have too much fun doing what I’m doing.”

He flipped to the back page of Life with Les(s) Ego and showed me a flyer calling for a World General Strike on January 2nd. “I’ve moved the date to May 1st,” he said, “but if people can take one day to stop doing all the things they’re used to doing that hurt the environment, how many days would it take to put an end to the system?”

“There’s a big-time crash coming,” he said somberly. “I don’t know if it’s going to be next year, or the year after that, or the year after that, but I won’t live long enough to see it all, but I’ll live to see some of it.”

I had noticed a bathroom next to his room when I was waiting for him to finish listening to the news. I asked if he had adapted to using the flush toilet.

“I have to,” he said. “There’s nowhere for me to bury my shit anymore.”

It was approaching eight p.m., and the spring twilight outside the open office door was darkening rapidly. He informed me that soon it would be time to take his vitamins. Turning over the page calling for a General Strike, he said with a puzzled expression that the last page was missing. Somebody had apparently removed it.

Before handing me back the book, he invited me to join the SpecieSurvivaLibrary.

“If you think this book is interesting,” he said with a sly smile. “Wait until you see what’s in the library. That will really blow your mind.”

* * *

Derick Dirmaier is a writer and interactive media producer living in Brooklyn, NY. Follow his new project into Inner Mongolia this summer at yankeeadler.tumblr.com or on Twitter @derickdirmaier.

Sam von Mayrhauser began drawing when he was 2, studied studio art at Skidmore College and now does portraits, tattoo designs, logo designs, cartoons and live caricaturing at a local amusement park in Bristol, Connecticut.

 

 

The Guy Who Played the Red Power Ranger Killed His Roommate With a 30-Inch Sword

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Children’s TV star Ricardo Medina claims the horrific stabbing was in self-defense; the victim’s family says it was murder. Here’s the inside story.

This story is republished from MEL Magazine, a new men’s digital magazine that understands there’s no playbook for how to be a guy. Sign up for their newsletter here.

It’s impossible to get a cell signal from inside the ranch in San Francisquito Canyon. The house on the property sits about 25 minutes off the main road, which isn’t much of a “main road” to begin with. It’s remote and secluded, set against the Angeles National Forest, with miles and miles of woods behind it.

The 911 call came from the landline. It was the afternoon of January 31, 2015. The caller was Ricardo Medina, an actor best known for his roles in the long-running Power Rangers TV series. He told the operator he had feared for his life. He claimed his roommate—Joshua Sutter—had attacked him, and in defense, he stabbed Sutter with a nearly three-foot sword that he kept by his bedroom door for protection, he later told police. But, in the background of the 911 call, Sutter was screaming to be heard. Bloodied on the floor, in his final moments of life, he cried out, “You came at me first!!”

Only three people know what happened in the canyon that day. Medina, Sutter and Medina’s girlfriend, who saw the whole thing. One is in prison. One is dead. One may be lying.

Ricardo Medina, best known for his role on the Power Rangers. (Images courtesy MEL Magazine, via YouTube.)

Medina is square-jawed, with dark hair and searing green eyes. He’s athletic, with the physique of someone who spends a lot of time in the gym. Beyond his two stints on the Power Rangers—starring as the Red Lion Wild Force Ranger in the 2002 series and then returning to play a villain in another iteration of the show ten years later—he made guest appearances on CSI: Miami and ER. But things had slowed down career-wise, and he was looking to take some time off.

It’s part of the reason he told Rachel Kennedy he wanted to move to the ranch—to get away from Hollywood. Kennedy ran a dog rescue in L.A., about an hour away, and leased the ranch property with the idea that she could expand her nonprofit operation there. Back in the 1970s, the land was a breeding ranch for Arabian horses. Dozens of her dogs were already living there. Her brother, Joshua Sutter, would later move up there to care for the animals, too. The two men were the same age—36—and according to Kennedy, both appreciated nature and loved solitude.

Kennedy had met Medina months earlier on an online dating site. Both were in the entertainment industry—Kennedy, a former model, Medina, an actor—and they both loved dogs. “The first meeting was great,” Kennedy remembers. “We just talked about dogs—dogs, dogs, dogs, dogs. He couldn’t have been more perfect for me.”

But halfway through their second date, she changed her mind. She says he made a comment about dating younger women—something she found inappropriate since she’s older than Medina—and she decided they weren’t a romantic match.

Not too long after, though, she thought of him when she was looking for help with the ranch. She needed someone on-site to take care of the dogs and fix up the place. It made sense. On their date, he’d told her he was a dog trainer. “I thought to myself, ‘This guy loves dogs as much as I do’—or so I thought,” she says. The agreement was that he would live there rent-free in exchange for taking care of the animals and providing handyman services. She put his name on the lease.

Kennedy is tall, with long, dark hair that cascades past her shoulders. She favors bright, cheery ensembles, high heels and flawless makeup. Her body is adorned with tattoos (on her forearm, shoulder and back), all of which are tributes to her late brother. “Always on my mind, forever in my heart,” reads one. “Wish you were here,” reads another. She has a warm, full smile, which brightens when she’s talking about her dogs or her brother—at least when she’s talking about the past, or “happier times” as she calls them.

Rachel Kennedy and Joshua Sutter. (Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

The ranch was her lifelong dream. After working as a model since the age of 16, Kennedy, now in her early 40s, was at a place financially where she could finally make it a reality. For years, she owned the Lucky Puppy Rescue and retail shop, where she rescued and found homes for hundreds of dogs. The ranch would be a haven for what she calls the “unadoptables,” dogs with terminal illnesses or behavior problems that diminished their chances of finding a home. She was excited to surround herself with people like Medina, who shared her passion.

But from the moment Medina got to the ranch, she says, he was a problem. “There was a lot of work to be done and Rick did nothing; he wouldn’t lift a finger,” she says. Days when she drove up from L.A. to check on things, she says he’d be burrowed in his bedroom, either alone or with his girlfriend of a few months, Judith Chung, who came to the house frequently.

“He’s the kind of person you know not to cross the line with,” Kennedy says. “Even though he [seemed] super-sweet and kind, I knew better than to even knock on his door because I got this sense from him that he would just lose his mind.”

She says he butted heads with the landlord and different workers she hired to fix things around the ranch that Medina wasn’t fixing (despite their agreement). A couple months in, she says, she asked him to move out, but he refused. According to Kennedy, he became angry and threatened to release the dogs into the woods and let them be eaten by coyotes.

Concerned over the dogs’ welfare, Kennedy asked Sutter if he’d be willing to move to the ranch to keep an eye on things while she ran the day-to-day operations of her L.A. store. The two were close. Kennedy had actually encouraged him to move to L.A. a few years prior. Before that, Sutter had lived in Arizona and Minnesota and done odd jobs for a living—he’d just returned from working on a friend’s farm in Puerto Rico. Kennedy describes her brother as a “nature boy” and says that moving to the ranch to take care of the dogs was a dream job for him.

Medina, however, wasn’t going anywhere. “Rick told me on the phone the day before Josh moved in that I’ll never get rid of him,” she remembers. She started planning with the landlord to evict Medina. She shared emails with me from December 2014 in which the landlord offered to issue a 30-day notice to terminate the lease that lists Medina as a tenant. If he didn’t leave, they could take legal action. They planned to kick him out February 1, 2015.

It would turn out to be one day too late.

* * *

The afternoon of January 31, 2015, Sutter was on the phone with his dad in Minnesota. Donald Sutter tells me they were talking about organic gardening and Josh’s plans to plant vegetables to feed the dogs. They were just wrapping up when Chung arrived. Josh said hi to her at the door, according to her testimony in court. Medina went outside to help her get stuff out of her car and came back into the house with her.

Next, Donald Sutter heard raised voices through his end of the call—Medina and Chung. “They were arguing,” he tells me. “I asked Josh about it and he said, ‘They’re always fighting.’”

Donald Sutter says the call lasted 47 minutes and ended at 2:54 p.m Pacific time, according to his phone records.

Shortly after Joshua Sutter hung up the phone with his dad, court documents say, he and Medina got into an argument in the kitchen. Medina’s story, according to police, was that Sutter was upset that Chung had come over and that when Medina went to get some utensils for takeout Chung had brought over, there was an altercation that turned physical. At some point, Medina went back into his bedroom—where he kept the 30-inch steel blade he described to police as his “Conan the Barbarian” sword—and locked the door.

(Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

Medina told police that Sutter stormed his way in. “He says the door is forced open, and then he stabbed the victim [with the sword],” explains Sergeant Troy Ewing, who led the investigation for the L.A. County Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau. “He admitted to doing it and basically was saying it was self-defense.”

That’s when Medina called 911.

“Why did you do this, man? Why did you make me do this?” Medina says on the call.

Paramedics were dispatched to the ranch at 3:50 p.m., according to the coroner’s report. Sutter was still alive when they arrived, lying on the floor of the hallway. He was drifting in and out of “an altered level of consciousness … [with] stab wounds to his abdomen, right flank and back,” according to the coroner investigator’s initial report. There was blood everywhere. He’d lost more than a half gallon after being stabbed a total of ten times, according to the autopsy. The ambulance took him to the emergency room, where he went into cardiac arrest and soon after, died.

(Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

Police arrested Medina when they arrived to the scene.

Detectives interviewed Medina and his girlfriend separately. “Her story was somewhat consistent with Medina’s, but there were some differences,” says Ewing. “That raised some red flags in our minds.”

According to Ewing, Medina told police that his back was to the door when it came open. Chung said Medina was facing the door. In other words: Was Medina taken by surprise with his back to the door? Or was he standing, sword in hand, facing the door, at the ready?

“There wasn’t much damage to the door either,” says Ewing. “There was some damage, but not a lot. If the door had been kicked open, we would think there’d be more damage.”

Still, Medina was steadfast: It was self-defense.

“He kept on pushing that,” says Ewing. “He didn’t want to tell us at the beginning that he was a Power Ranger either, because I think he felt that if we knew he was a Power Ranger, he should know defensive tactics.”

When Ewing presented the case to the L.A. District Attorney’s office, he says, they informed him there wasn’t enough evidence to file murder charges. In particular, the DA thought Medina’s self-defense argument might hold up. They asked Ewing and his partner to investigate further. Medina was released. (The DA declined multiple requests to be interviewed for this story.)

Medina spoke briefly to reporters outside the courthouse after he was released, saying he was “very, very sorry for what occurred,” and that he was happy to be out of jail. “My heart goes out to the Sutter family,” he said.

“That’s when I lost my shit,” Kennedy tells me. “I’ve never been the same since that day. I couldn’t believe it.”

She and her family had a lot of questions: Why was Medina released in the first place? Why wasn’t Chung arrested as an accessory? Why didn’t police take more evidence from the scene?

“I stayed away from the media for the first three days,” Kennedy says. “And then when I heard they were releasing Rick, I was like, ‘You know what? I’m going to talk to anybody and everybody that will listen to me.’”

Kennedy had photos of Medina’s bedroom door, which was intact, which she released to the media. She appeared on Good Morning America and the local news in L.A. Her goal was to put pressure on the police and to call into doubt Medina’s self-defense claim.

While investigators were waiting for results from the crime lab and the full coroner’s report, which can take months, Kennedy started pulling pieces together on her own. The crime scene cleanup company she hired took before-and-after photos. She shows me photos of the hallway where her brother was stabbed. But the blood isn’t contained to one area of the home—it’s everywhere, smeared on the floor of nearly every room. (Ewing points out that some of this is probably due to the fact that when the paramedics arrived, they moved him, bleeding, from the hallway to to a more open space in the home where they could work on him.) Kennedy also provides me with a photo of a bottle of some kind—a cleaning fluid—as if someone attempted to clean the floor. There was way too much blood, however, to even come close to making it disappear.

(Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

There’s another photo of the hall outside of her brother’s bedroom door, showing a hammer and cordless drill charger. Kennedy believes that in addition to the stabbing, Sutter was hit with the hammer—that’s why there was blood on it. When she talked to the police about it, however, she says they brushed her off.

Kennedy was developing a theory. She tells me that Medina’s stepfather is a retired law enforcement officer, and she believes he coached Medina after the killing. In fact, she says the stepfather is the one who called her the afternoon of the crime, telling her there had been an incident, that someone was hurt (not saying who) and asking for the address to the ranch.

She says the stepfather then told her to meet him at the hospital, so she headed there, still not knowing what happened. “It was just a big clusterfuck,” she says. “There’s no cell phone service [at the ranch]; communication that night was impossible for everybody.”

Medina did call his stepfather that day, but Ewing says police records show Medina called 911 first. “We were trying to prove that he did, but it didn’t look like he did. The call [to the stepfather] never went through.” Police tried to interview the stepfather the night of the killing when he came to the station for Medina, but he didn’t want to talk. Since he hadn’t witnessed the crime, Ewing tells me, “I didn’t think he was that important.”

Kennedy still believes Medina’s stepfather was involved, but Ewing says that to his knowledge, he wasn’t even at the ranch the day of the killing. If he had been, he explains, the deputies who first arrived to the scene wouldn’t have let him leave.

Instead, two key reports would give investigators a clearer picture of what happened that afternoon, and ultimately, enough evidence to re-arrest Medina. First, results from crime lab’s blood experts suggested the pattern of a struggle. “You try to re-create what happened,” Ewing says. “Anytime there’s a stabbing, they bleed a lot. So there was blood throughout the house.” Medina told police that he stabbed Sutter once in the abdomen. But the blood pattern suggested otherwise. “It appeared to be more of a struggle,” says Ewing. “Medina said it was one ‘poke’ with a sword. The expert said it was more than one.”

(Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

The coroner’s report supported the blood expert’s conclusion: ten sharp force injuries. There were slices to Sutter’s hands and fingers, too—some so deep that a few of his fingers were almost cut off. The path of the sword’s fatal cut went left to right, front to back and upward, puncturing the liver, diaphragm, right lung lobe, fracturing a rib and exiting Sutter’s back.

The position of Medina’s attorney, Stanley L. Friedman, who spoke to me on Medina’s behalf, is that the cuts to Sutter’s hands were the result of his trying to pull the sword out of his body after he was stabbed. In other words, the wounds were from grabbing the sword. As for the irregular cut into Sutter’s abdomen: “We believe the evidence would’ve shown that, at the time, there were basically three things that were moving: Mr. Sutter, Mr. Medina and then the sword. Just the fact that these three things were moving would account for an irregular wound in Mr. Sutter’s body,” Friedman says.

Given the evidence, Ewing didn’t dismiss Medina’s self-defense argument entirely. “I thought there was some type of struggle,” he says, “but I don’t think to the extent where he had to stab the guy to death.”

Ewing also notes there were three exits from Medina’s bedroom: the door to the hallway, another door to a bathroom and a sliding glass door to the backyard. “He had several escape routes where he could have exited if he felt threatened by the victim,” says Ewing.

Plus: “Medina’s a fit guy,” he says. “You can go on the internet and see pictures of him without his shirt—he’s a physical guy. He trains hard, and he mentions in a YouTube video that he had practiced martial arts since he was a young kid. So we knew he could defend himself.”

In January 2016, just under a year after Medina was arrested the first time, police arrested him again and the district attorney charged him with murder. If convicted, he faced 26 years to life in state prison.

At the preliminary hearing, Chung, now Medina’s ex-girlfriend, took the stand. Her testimony, which should have been valuable since she was the only other witness that afternoon, was instead a combination of “I don’t remember”’s and answers inconsistent with her initial statements to police.

According to court papers, Chung said that on the afternoon Sutter was killed, she arrived at the house and honked her car horn for Medina to come out. When he didn’t, she went to the door.

“I knocked on the door and Josh answered,” Chung explained. “I said ‘Is Ricky here?,’ and he said, ‘Maybe.’” She said she went back to her car to get food she’d brought and some of her belongings. Medina met her at her car, and the two walked back to the house. After which, according to her testimony, they went straight to Medina’s room and closed the door.

“Then Ricky went to go get plates and utensils for our food,” she said. She heard arguing. The prosecutor interrupted—Chung had told police that the first time Medina left the room, she didn’t hear anything. “That’s more correct, yeah,” she responded.

Medina returned to the bedroom and then left again, Chung said. This time, she heard noises. “Thundering,” she claimed, and court papers describe her taking both hands and slamming them on the desk in front of her. “It sounded like something was hitting something,” she relayed.

She testified that she went out into the kitchen. Medina had Sutter in a bear hug; Sutter’s hands were at his sides, and he was facing away from Medina. “They were both yelling,” she said in court. “I was telling them to stop.”

Chung said at one point Medina just let go, “and Josh started hitting him.” When the prosecutor pressed, Chung conceded it was one punch, which Medina blocked before it landed. According to court documents, when Chung initially talked to police, she told them that when Medina had Sutter in the bear hug, he repeatedly said, “Don’t you dare disrespect my girl.” In court, Chung couldn’t recall that bit of dialogue. “Like I said, I don’t remember,” she said. “It was over a year ago.”

Once back in the bedroom, Chung told that court that Medina locked the door, “and then he just stayed at the knob.”

“I remember walking towards the other side of the bed. I was pacing around, and I told Ricky maybe we should get out of there,” she testified. She said Medina agreed, and she grabbed her purse.

Then, she said, she heard footsteps.

“Ricky went towards the door, and he grabbed the sword,” she claimed. “Josh kicked the locked door open with both his fists to his side. Ricky had the knife in one hand.” She demonstrated for the court, extending her hand forward.

“It felt like a dream,” Chung continued. “It didn’t seem real. … It looked like he poked [the sword]. Like, from where I was standing, it looked like a poke.”

That “poke,” of course, was the fatal wound that punctured organs, fractured a rib, and ultimately killed Sutter.

According to court papers, Chung told police that when Medina stabbed him, Sutter said, “What the fuck? Why the fuck did you do that to me?” Medina allegedly responded, “I don’t know. I’m sorry,” though Chung added that he said it “really angry.” (Testifying in court, Chung, at first, didn’t remember saying this to officers.)

(Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

“He started crawling down to his all fours after,” Chung said of Sutter. Medina, according to her testimony, pulled the sword out, and then dropped it. “He grabbed a towel from the bathroom. He put it on his (Sutter’s) wound,” she continued. Next, he called 911.

After the paramedics arrived, Medina stood outside the house in shock. “He kept saying, ‘Oh my God. My life is just changing before my eyes,’” Chung said in court.

* * *

Kennedy, who was in court that day, believes there’s a lot Chung left out, notably the bloody hammer at the scene. She points out the page in the coroner’s report documenting an abrasion on Sutter’s head. During the 911 call, “Josh was speaking very clearly,” she reminds me. “You can hear him in the background fighting for his life. I believe [someone] hit Josh with the hammer to either knock him out or shut him up.”

When I mention this hypothesis to Ewing, he stops me before I can finish the question—he’s heard this premise from Kennedy many times before. “[Kennedy] made this case more difficult for us than she realizes,” he tells me.

“I’m sure we don’t know exactly how everything transpired, but we have a pretty close idea,” Ewing says of that night in the canyon. “I’m thinking Medina minimizes what happens and probably the girlfriend too. I don’t think we’re one hundred percent accurate. Ninety percent of our cases are like that.”

Rachel Kennedy and Joshua Sutter. (Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

Ewing says Medina told police he’d borrowed the tools and left them outside Sutter’s door to return them. He adds there’s no evidence the hammer was involved in the altercation. As to the head abrasion in the coroner’s report, “That injury on his head could’ve happened [when] they were fighting outside by the kitchen,” Ewing explains. “They fell to the ground, so that could’ve been from hitting the ground. There was no evidence that the hammer was used as a weapon. The weapon used was the sword.” (According to the coroner’s report, the head injury did not contribute to Sutter’s death, and there was no skull fracture.)

In the ensuing months, Kennedy went back to the ranch to collect the dogs. “I didn’t know what to do so I took them home to Studio City [where she lived], which isn’t kosher, I guess. Maybe I had a special, weird attachment to them because I know they saw Josh be killed.” She begins to tear up. “I just wanted to take care of them.” She stops and wipes her eyes with a tissue. “I did the wrong thing.”

Last May, someone reported Kennedy to animal control. She was cited for hoarding and 60 dogs were taken from her home and the small shelter she ran. She now faces animal abuse charges, which she plans to fight. “Could things get any worse?” she asks. “And I’ll never say that again because they did get worse. Right away, the social media thing started.”

It was mainly Medina’s fans and supporters. In their opinion, the roles were reversed—Sutter was an attempted murderer and Medina was the hero. They started fund-raising campaigns to send him money in jail. Further, they lashed out at Kennedy, creating fake social media pages for her, calling her an animal abuser and a porn star. (She tells me she posed for Playboy back in the day, but has never done porn.) Consequently, she pulled down her personal social media accounts and retreated from the world.

In March, Medina pleaded guilty to voluntary manslaughter and agreed to a six-year sentence. He’ll likely serve about four years in state prison with time already served and good behavior.

Friedman, Medina’s attorney, tells me that Medina was prepared to go to trial, and that he likely would’ve testified. “In his view, it was a matter of self-defense,” Friedman explains. “He’s a very positive individual and [was] actually looking forward to going to trial and proving his side of what happened.”

The guaranteed six-year sentence, however, was too good to pass up. “It was the numbers that drove his thinking,” says Friedman. “In California, if it’s 26 to life, it’s almost always life. If you’re lucky, perhaps you get out a little bit before you die. So the decision was, ‘Do I take this and be in custody for probably only another four years? Or [do I] risk spending the rest of my life in prison?’”

“I thought it was fair,” Ewing says. “He had no criminal record,” and the killing “wasn’t planned. It just happened.”

Also complicating matters: Sutter had a record which, Kennedy notes, could incline a jury against him. He had a DUI arrest from years before, and a battery charge that Kennedy herself brought against him. “It’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life,” she says. She tells me the story: She and her brother had an argument. He left the house and had her credit card in his wallet; she ran after him asking for it, and he threw the wallet at her. “Hits me in the face,” she says. “I’m bloody; my lip’s bleeding. He flung it. I’m like, ‘You know what? I’m going to teach him a lesson.’”

She called the police, and they arrested him, so he had a record for domestic violence against his own sister. “That was a big mistake. The DA said, ‘This doesn’t look good for Josh.’”

She shakes her head and looks down: “There’s no justice. There never would be.”

* * *

At the sentencing, I meet Kennedy outside the courthouse. It’s early morning, about 8 a.m., and she remarks how she thought it would be warmer since we’re in the desert. The courthouse is in Lancaster, about an hour northeast of L.A. She’s with her best friend and her father, who flew in from Minnesota to be here. They wrote victim impact statements to present in court. As we walk in, Kennedy laments that she’s forgotten to bring the crystal heart she had made from her brother’s ashes. “Maybe he didn’t want to be here,” she resolves. “Maybe he wanted to stay home.”

After a quick stop in the bathroom, Kennedy rushes out with a little shiver. “I just saw his mom in the bathroom,” she tells me, referring to Medina’s mother.

In the hallway, Kennedy greets her niece, Sutter’s 16-year-old daughter from a previous relationship, a delicate girl with a ballerina’s frame. She has come up from Arizona with her mother. “You’re so big!” Kennedy greets her with a hug. They haven’t seen each other in a while. “Dad, she’s almost as tall as you!”

Joshua Sutter with his daughter. (Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

Donald Sutter is quiet. (His wife, Josh’s mother, died of cancer in 2012.) He’s tall and lean, like his son, with thick, white hair. He looks tired. Kennedy tells me that no one really slept last night.

Sitting in the front row of the small courtroom, Donald wipes his eyes under his wire-rimmed glasses. Kennedy, her own eyes wet with tears, puts her arm around him. On the other side of the room are Medina’s friends and family. His mother is in the front row, weeping.

Medina enters from a side door, escorted by an officer. He’s bulked up in the year or so he’s been in custody. His hair is short, he has a dark goatee and wears a yellow prison uniform. He doesn’t look out into the gallery or make eye contact with anyone. He sits next to his lawyers, staring straight ahead.

Ricardo Medina at sentencing. (Images courtesy MEL Magazine, via YouTube)

Kennedy has brought childhood photos of her brother to court, and she and her father each give emotional victim impact statements through tears.

“He chose to kill, to take a life,” Kennedy says of Medina. She expressed empathy for Medina’s family, adding, “We have all lost so much.”

“We hope that everyone that looks at Ricardo from now on will never see him as a celebrity but as nothing more than a cold-blooded killer,” Sutter’s father told the court. Medina, seated, continues to stare straight ahead facing the judge, his back to Sutter.

Medina declines to make any statement.

Afterward, the family talks to the small group of reporters and local news cameras gathered outside the courthouse. “He deserves the rest of his life in general population, that’s where he deserves to be,” Sutter tells them. But his statement is brief. They’re eager to get home. To begin to put this behind them.

Kennedy now lives on a quiet street in suburban L.A. She welcomes me inside when I come to see her about a week after the sentencing. Her home is bright and airy and smells like candy. “Mandarin orange,” she says, indicating the diffuser that scents the air. Impeccably neat with matching furniture sets, the rooms are meticulously appointed, as though they’ve been staged by a realtor for an open house.

The one room that does look lived-in is Kennedy’s office. There are photos of her brother all over the walls, stacks of papers and a thick black briefcase where she keeps everything connected to her brother’s killing. Crime scene photos, phone records, the coroner’s report, printouts of emails. She has literature from police forums and the Department of Justice, research on how detectives conduct murder investigations. She and her family are convinced there were flaws in the investigation. “I don’t think Rick would be in jail if we hadn’t done what we had done,” she says.

Joshua Sutter fishing as a teenager. (Photo courtesy MEL Magazine)

Though she takes some comfort in that, it’s difficult to move forward, or even grieve. Kennedy has many regrets. She regrets moving Medina to the ranch. She regrets moving her brother to the ranch. She regrets ever having met Medina in the first place.

She walks me into the living room and shows me the crystal heart made from Josh’s ashes that she’d forgotten to bring to the sentencing. It’s three-dimensional, yellowish-gray, and about the size of a plum. “I bring him to every court thing,” she tells me.

“Last time I saw him, in the mortuary, I looked at him and I didn’t realize his eyelashes were so long.” She begins to weep. “Why didn’t I see that before?”

Sutter’s daughter may file a civil suit against Medina. If she does, Kennedy will help. For now, she wants people to know the man her brother was—that he’s more than a victim. He was quiet, loyal and protective. He loved nature and animals and was happiest at the ranch with the dogs.

“When he was born, he was a bubble baby,” she tells me. “He had to have open-heart surgery two or three times. He lived in an incubator for the first year of his life. That’s why he had a scar here.” With her finger, she draws a line over her own heart. “He was such a sick, sick baby,” she begins to weep again, having trouble speaking. “I think that people don’t think that he’s real.”

“People ask me, ‘Is this closure for you?’ and I feel like maybe something’s wrong with me because this is absolutely no closure whatsoever,” Kennedy continues. “What am I going to do when [Medina] is out [in four years]? I have to prevent him from having a life. He stole a life. Joshua suffered greatly. I have to make sure that he’s not going to be able to walk down the street without everyone knowing that he’s a killer. That’s my job. And that’s what I’ll keep doing.”

 

 

He Was Harassed for Wearing a Turban. Then He Built a Global Fashion Brand to Show the World What Sikh Pride Means.

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Harinder Singh’s cheeky clothing is making waves in India — and far beyond — by putting a hip new spin on his ancient and often misunderstood culture.

Harinder Singh will never forget his trip to Italy in 2002. Singh, then 33, and his wife, Kirandeep Kaur, 29, were eating ice cream as they explored the sights and sounds of Florence. The streets were crowded, a blur of people and textures and smells. At first glance, the couple blended in with the other tourists of the city: two people in love, eager to travel the world and appreciate a new culture. Then they heard the students’ jeers: “Bin Laden! Bin Laden!”

The group of around sixty school children were pointing at Singh, a white turban wrapped delicately around his head.

“Oh my God,” Singh said to his wife in shock. But instead of walking away, the couple approached the children. Singh told them that they were from India and practiced a religion called Sikhism.

“Me and my wife started talking about our first guru, the revolution, our faith, we touched on Punjabi music and they knew Punjabi music so we got a lead there,” Singh says with a laugh. “That very moment was an exam for us. We decided we should do something about our identity since there’s no awareness.”

Immediately after their visit, on the seven-and-a-half hour flight from Italy to India, Singh began the initial sketches for what he describes as the first Indian clothing brand dedicated solely to Sikhism and Punjabi culture. Fifteen years later, that concept – called 1469, in honor of the birth year of the first Sikh guru, Nanak Dev – has expanded into a million-dollar company with international reach. They have five stores in New Delhi and in Punjab, an Indian state bordering on Pakistan that is the heart of the Sikh community.

Almost 58 percent of the population of Punjab is made up of Sikhs, but in Delhi, Sikhs constitute less than four percent of the total population.

Standing in their 1469 shop in Delhi, the couple talk about the idea behind their business. “People in Delhi feel that if I speak Punjabi, I am backwards and not modern enough,” says Kaur, dressed in a light green sari, gold bracelets dangling off her arms. “To keep in touch with your roots, you need to know your mother tongue. I feel we are losing the pride.”

Artwork on the walls inside the shop. (Photo by Ana Singh)

Scarves and saris in turquoise, pink and yellow hues line the walls of the shop, located in Delhi’s Janpath Market, one of the city’s best-known shopping areas. Tables are scattered with metallic jewelry and small sculptures, patterned bags and calligraphy accessories. Upstairs, the walls are filled with various t-shirts, many of which display Punjabi phrases, musical instruments and Sikh symbols.

Mayur Sharma, a frequent 1469 customer and host of the Indian travel show “Highway on My Plate,” says his favorite products are the t-shirts, especially the ones with the phrases “Pure Panjabi” and “Trust me I’m Pendu,” – the word pendu meaning “villager” in Punjabi. Sharma came across the company a decade ago and, since then, has pretty much only worn their t-shirts, even on his television show.

“I admire Harinder and Kirandeep’s passion for the arts, culture and history of our beautiful state,” he says. “You can feel the love in everything they put out.”

T-shirts with the phrase, “Jab we met,” referring to the Indian film directed by Imtiaz Ali about a Punjabi girl who meets a Mumbai businessman on an overnight train to Delhi. (Photo courtesy of 1469workshop.com)

Punjabi culture is one of the oldest in India; the region has a rich legacy of poetry, music, food and art – in addition to being the birthplace of Sikhism. The Punjab was unified under the Sikh Empire in the nineteenth century, until the British annexed the region in 1849 after the Anglo-Sikh wars, administering the region as a province of its Indian empire until Partition in 1947, when the independent states of India and Pakistan were established. Punjab was divided, with Hindus and Sikhs fleeing to India while Muslims moved to Pakistan.

Kaur described the partition of 1947 as a shattering experience for the Punjab, creating social, religious and regional divides. She feels Punjabi art and culture took the biggest blow. Today, their brand aims to reinvigorate that rich culture.

Singh, dressed in a bright, turquoise turban and black v-neck with the word fateh – or “victory” in Hindi – emphasized 1469 is not a religious brand because he doesn’t believe in selling religion.

“Sikhism is a big part of it and we ourselves are Sikhs,” he says, “but, it’s a regional place because our artists are Muslim also, the music comes from Punjab, which is partly in Pakistan, and so are the handicrafts.”

Harinder Singh (Photo by Ana Singh)

Sharma says he is Punjabi, but not Sikh. He describes Singh’s passion for the culture as inspiring.

Singh’s clothing didn’t always center on Punjabi culture. He got his start in the world of fashion after graduating from the University of Delhi in 1988. He says he noticed that most t-shirts sold in India came from abroad – Thailand, Hong Kong, South Korea – and were of dubious quality.

“I took an oath to myself to make a nice t-shirt for my country,” Singh says.

Models pose wearing 1469 t-shirts. (Photo courtesy 1469, via Facebook)

A year later, Singh started his own clothing company, Uni Style Image. He claims it is one of the first t-shirt companies in India’s history, and over the years partnered with major clothing labels across the world. In 2002, after over a decade with the company, grueling hours and time spent away from his wife and three children, Singh decided to leave to pursue other endeavors.

At the time, he had no idea he would eventually return to the fashion world as a pioneer of a wholly new concept centered on Sikhism and Punjab. But Singh also asserts he wouldn’t have it any other way. He describes being born into a Sikh family as a blessing.

“Our religion is so beautiful, so transparent, so clear,” he says. “It’s musical, it’s simple, it’s modern and it’s very lightweight.”

Singh observes that while 60 percent of their merchandise is sold to Sikhs and those within the diaspora Punjabi community, around 40 percent of customers practice other faiths. The brand is especially popular in Japan, where many customers buy the t-shirts online and in bulk, according to Kaur.

Clothing for sale in the shop. (Photo by Nicole Einbinder)

Going forward, Singh and Kaur hope to continue educating people, especially youth, about their heritage and faith. Kaur says they are working to bolster their online presence and plan to open new stores domestically, in the cities of Mumbai and Bangalore, as well as abroad in Canada.

“The best part about Sikhism is,” Kaur says, “it doesn’t tell you that you write this or read it and then become Sikh. It’s about the way you live.”

 

 

White Settlers Wiped Thousands of Miles of Cherokee Trails Off the Map. This Man is Reclaiming Them — By Walking Each and Every One.

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These routes once snaked through the towering woods of Appalachia, before they were lost to history. Lamar Marshall has spent a decade painstakingly mapping them, and their rich history.

Lamar Marshall cannot make it over the log. It lays across a small creek somewhere in the Nantahala National Forest outside Cowee, western North Carolina, as a bridge. His problem is a bruised knee, caused by a bang against his home firewood cord. Standing in front of the thick trunk, seeking another way across, he explains that while this particular log was not laid by ancient Cherokees, it does resemble the way they would fell logs to get across creeks like this. “They called ‘em racoon bridges,” he explains. If anyone would know this, it’s Marshall.

The former land surveyor, electrical engineer, and Alabamian anti-logging activist (in that order), is the world’s foremost expert on ancient Cherokee trails. At 68 he’s stocky, with a soft, even face, like a meatier Billy Bob Thornton, and long eyelashes. He speaks softly, with a southern drawl. In this forest, on a warm late-winter day, he wears spectacles and a hearing aid, but also a camo jacket and pants, a waist-pack stuffed with surveying gear and a pistol. It is often in this appearance, a hunter’s getup, that Marshall has personally mapped well over one thousand miles of Cherokee trails across Appalachia, compiling the mappings into a vast database, complete with historical annotations and Cherokee place names. And his boots are waterproof, he notes, as he carefully fords the creek.

Lamar Marshall.

There are certain attributes which are common to Cherokee trails. They tend to follow rivers or ridge-lines. They are often steep. Brett Riggs, an archaeologist at Western Carolina University with a specialty in Cherokee landscapes, equates them with a modern highway system in the way that they linked population centers (some are even replicated in modern roads). Horses, introduced to the tribe in the 18th century, were sometimes used, but mostly Cherokees travelled by foot, in soft-soled moccasins. Inside Marshall’s home there are photographs of him as a young man wearing nothing but a loincloth and these moccasins; he used to sometimes explore the woods of his native Alabama dressed this way. “It was just kind of a fun thing to project myself back into time,” he explains. “I always admired the native lifestyle. Maybe I played cowboys and Indians too much when I was little. I was always the Indians, I know that.”

Marshall’s project, a largely independent venture, has taken up nearly a decade of his life. It is no small feat. He has braved wasps, mosquitoes, ticks, chest-high nettles, rainstorms, hypothermia. Much of the routes are so steep that early Europeans avoided them. Though he has no academic credentials, he scours archives across the country for primary source materials that contain mention of the trails. It is an immense labor but he is nonchalant about his motivations. “I love the trails. I love walking on the trails, camping next to the trails. And feeling like right now: what did the first white people see when they came up here?”

Prior to his trails project, Marshall headed a conservation group in Alabama. He is an ardent environmentalist and near militant in his activism. But while his greenie cred would do well by any Greenpeace tree-hugger, Marshall is also a Republican, gun-owning, bear-hunting Creationist. But if the contrast seems odd, in Marshall’s mind protecting God’s work from the nefarious designs of the state might constitute the very essence of American patriotism. “Wilderness to me is the ultimate expression of freedom,” he says.

Those who benefit most from Marshall’s efforts are modern Cherokees. His work is funded by the Eastern Band tribe in western North Carolina, to whom all the mapping data will go. It will be used in schools. Riggs, the WCU archeologist, is helping Marshall make the maps interactive, with historical storylines and photos. “This is much more than just trails: it’s the ecology of the trails, the geography of the trails,” he says. “They don’t have this history. They just don’t have it.” Indeed, this is the first time that the trails have ever been compiled into a single source. Marshall also hopes to get some of them protected by the United States Forest Service, who he has collaborated with in the past – the North Carolina state is figuring his trail data into their upcoming forest management plan. Marshall plans to be finished with the whole enterprise in September, when he will hand everything over to the Eastern Band tribe. “This will help them maintain their cultural heritage,” he says. “They’re losing that.”

Tom Belt, a Cherokee language expert at WCU who is also Cherokee, describes the project’s impacts on the tribe as unprecedented. Like other native peoples, the Cherokees have long struggled to define their own historical identity and nothing is more crucial to that than landscapes. “It may be a town or a gas station to the United States or the state of North Carolina,” Belt says, “but at one time underneath it might have existed a very extensive culturally-based community that doesn’t exist now. That’s the kind of stuff we wanna know. What was the name of that place?”

Marshall consulting a topographic map near the Cowee mound.

Riggs, too, believes that compiling all of this data into a single source will prove empowering for the tribe, especially its young people. It is one thing to have a vague notion that some land was once yours; it’s wholly another to see it clearly laid out, and how ownership has changed over time. “When you take some place and you rename it you’ve asserted that, ‘This now belongs to us’,” he says. “If you can, even on paper, reverse that process so that you make it clear that there was a Cherokee landscape here, it gives Cherokee people a conceptual ownership that in many cases they are currently lacking.”

“We didn’t come into a blank howling wilderness,” he adds. “We took over this place.”

* * *

On May 28, 1830 the United States congress passed the Indian Removal Act. It granted permission to relocate Native Americans living in the east to the unsettled land west of the Mississippi. Some left willingly, but the Cherokee Nation – a collection of affiliated communities extending from Kentucky to Alabama – resisted. Conflict had existed for over a century between the Americans and the Cherokees and by now the federal government had grown strong enough to simply take them away. The eventual expulsion, which lasted from 1838-39, resulted in the death of over 4,000 Cherokees. The route over which they headed west is today called the Trail of Tears. Many perished in transit.

Today, Cherokees are found in three quasi-sovereign districts in Oklahoma and western North Carolina. But while most of their civilization was wiped out, burned down, built over or abandoned, it was not erased. Vestiges remain for those who know what to look for: graveyards, earthen mounds, houses, tree carvings; the imprints of a smudged-out, penciled-over peoples. Connecting all of these archeological sites is this vast network of trails, thousands of miles of footpaths trodden over centuries of travel.

Marshall entering his “man cave” at his house in Cowee, North Carolina.

And to flip through old maps of Appalachia is to witness the shrinking of a nation played out in faded ink. Treaties often followed conflict and, with each one, Cherokee land shrunk; the younger the map, the less territory is marked as theirs. Events are painfully clear in hindsight.

Marshall keeps these old maps in his home office in Cowee, where he moved eight years ago from Alabama. There is a small desk with four desktop computer screens squeezed between boxes of historical documents: traveler journals, survey plats, three-hundred-year-old land deeds. On the wall is a buck head and a sticker that reads, “I Am Not Ashamed Of The Gospel Of Christ.” Over time the maps get better, too. They are more clearly laid out, with properties divided into perfect squares. Text is less flowery and more legible. Topography is defined numerically. There are fewer and fewer Cherokee towns until there are virtually none at all.

Most of these maps were produced by the United States army. For Marshall’s purposes, they are critical. It is with these frail maps that he locates trails before setting out into the hard world to survey them. He brings one on every hike. He takes notes as he goes, looking to match his observations with any landmarks mentioned on the maps, and marks landmarks with GPS coordinates. When he gets home he plugs this data into his computer and, using GIS software, constructs digital versions. When a trail’s done, he moves to the next.

* * *

Marshall traces his fascination with the Cherokees to his childhood in Birmingham (“I hated the concrete, the development”). Survivalist books first exposed him to them. In his eyes, they seemed idyllic. “They didn’t have to go to school. They didn’t have to get a job in corporate America. They lived off the land. They were totally free.”

A photo of Marshall in his twenties in Alabama, dressed in traditional Indian attire.

He joined the Boy Scouts. He excelled. At eighteen, “emulating Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn”, Marshall constructed a raft from oil drums. With two friends, he drifted down the Alabama River from Selma to the Gulf of Mexico. Later he would win a state championship for fur-trapping. His childhood Cherokee interest was reignited by an “old mountain man” named Garvin Sanford who, on occasional forays into the forest for edible herbs, would show him abandoned Indian villages. They would follow the trails to get there.

For much of early adulthood, Marshall worked as an electrical engineer and land surveyor. With his wife and three children, he built a 3,000-square-foot homestead in Blountsville, Alabama. Construction took nine months. Drinking water came from an outdoor aluminum tank; one day Marshall found a squirrel decomposing inside. They raised livestock, fished the river, grew produce. When his only son died at 18 from a heart complication, the family moved to a house in Alabama’s Bankhead National Forest. They had 100 acres. Marshall hung a sign that read, “Trespassers will be shot and survivors will be shot again.” And another: “You believe in life after death? Trespass here and find out.” It was a frontiersman’s existence. For the first five years, they had no electricity.

But living in the woods provided Marshall with an intimate view of Alabama’s dimly regulated logging industry, which “nauseated” the lifelong nature lover. He did some digging and discovered how the management plan drawn up by the Alabama Forest Service had been “developed in collusion with the timber industry.” The tipping point for him came when loggers clear-cut a Cherokee sacred site known as Indian Tomb Hollow, decimating a burial ground. In conjunction with a local clan of Cherokees, Marshall and others rallied against the Forest Service, staging protests, making noise.

Thus, the conservation group Wild Alabama was born (it has since expanded and become Wild South). For over a decade, Marshall’s conservation group wrote petitions, staged protests, filed lawsuits, delivered public speeches, and published excoriating cartoons in the local newspaper satirizing Forest Service officials. This was his “guerrilla warfare” against corporate “tree racists.”

Marshall attempting, unsuccessfully, to cross a log in the Nantahala National Forest.

Marshall describes this part of his life like a veteran remembering war. “I envisioned a band of eco-warriors fighting for the last wild places of Alabama. Native American descendants rose up and we kicked ass for over a decade,” he says (the “descendants” refer to the various tribal organizations which often collaborated with Wild Alabama; Marshall does, however, claim to have three percent Native American ancestry).

Wild Alabama’s member pool represented an odd union of hippies, Indians, and rednecks; with a thick beard, dirty clothes and Cherokee ornaments, Marshall appeared as a hybrid of all three. Outdoor Life magazine called the group “the conservation conscience of a state that has traditionally lacked one.” The group boasted that its members could drink harder and shoot straighter than any naturalists around. Marshall once told a journalist, “Rattlesnakes have got fangs, porcupines got quills, skunks got the sprayer, and God Almighty gave Man the ability to invent the Colt 45 as his defense.”

* * *

Marshall approaches a huge earthen mound. It is an ancient Cherokee construction which sits in the middle of a wide empty field. Birdsong rings out across it and in the distance are rounded sloping mountains that are powdered white with snow. At the top of the mound, Marshall points down at the grass and says, “This is where the council-house sat. Here’s a depression that they believe was a fire-pit.”

From up here it is easy to imagine an earlier Appalachia: wide savannas thick with buffalo, the skies crowded with passenger pigeons, dense groves of chestnut trees, the brilliant red-black flash of an ivory-billed woodpecker – all of these species are extinct or sequestered elsewhere in the country. Savannas are gone. Towns are built over. Words are forgotten. There is a new country here. Marshall, in his camo gear, clutching an old map, sounding wistful, says, “The mountains haven’t changed.”

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

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

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

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

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

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nailed it.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were two ways to find out:

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

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

Here we go again.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” I respond, flustered.

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

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

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

“Of course not.”

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

“I wouldn’t do that.”

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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