I Was a Hells Angel for 40 Years. This is the One Time I Doubted the Outlaw Lifestyle.

Share:

During an especially violent clash with a rival club, I began to wonder how long I’d last.

In the spring of 1977 I walked into a swap meet in Anaheim, California, with eight other Hells Angels. We were on guard right away as we realized we were in a sea of Mongols, a smaller, newer club in Southern California that had taken in Chester Green, a former Hells Angel from the Bay Area. Chester had left us in disgrace and, for months leading up to the swap meet, had been quietly filling the Mongols with ideas that the Hells Angels were vulnerable.

I was walking next to Kid Glenn, a six-foot-two, 230-pound Hells Angel from San Bernardino. Like the rest of us, he was wondering what we had walked into. Kid had a linebacker’s frame, muscular with no belly. He was quick with a bright smile and was smart for a biker, but had a reputation for toughness. It was the first time we had met. Like everyone else, he knew a bad scene when he was in one.

“What the fuck is going on with all these Mongols? Do we have a problem with them? Why are all these assholes here?” At a glance it looked like we were outnumbered at least five-to-one; law enforcement would later put their numbers at anywhere from forty to a hundred, to our nine.

“I don’t know, Kid,” I answered.

He turned to the other Angels. “We got to stay together, man. If the shit happens, we just hold our ground back-to-back.”

Everyone nodded and closed ranks. “Yeah, man.” Except for the one person who wasn’t hearing him, a Los Angeles Hells Angel.

A clot of Mongols walked toward us, the crowd parting as they came through. But we were Hells Angels. We gave way to nobody. Green was right in the middle of the Mongols. He and the L.A. Hells Angel locked eyes. No words, just a look. Then without so much as a “How do you do,” the Angel swung on him and connected. It was on.

Brawls are faster and messier than anything staged in a movie or on TV. Everyone was immediately pumped with adrenaline and just reacting, not thinking. It was absolute chaos. Fortunately, being outmanned in a close-quarters fight isn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world. Only so many guys can get to you at one time. If you can keep your cool, you can maneuver opponents so that they’re in one another’s way and don’t have a clear shot at you. In a place like a swap meet, there is also a lot of stuff lying around that you can use to your advantage. Tables and carts can slow enemies down and create a defensive barrier. Mostly, though, there are weapons everywhere. The first thing most of the Angels did was grab something lethal. Prospect Cliff Mowery – a confidential informant, as we would later find out – grabbed a beefy kickstand and started swinging it. Another Angel grabbed a piston-and-rod, which made for a deadly club.

The young Ventura chapter of Hells Angels poses in front of their clubhouse.
The young Ventura chapter of Hells Angels poses in front of their clubhouse.

Jesse, a stocky, sandy-haired young Angel, was beside me when he was bull-rushed by a Mongol tank. This guy was a barrel-chested monster of a man but not a smart fighter. Rather than grab ahold of Jesse or land a haymaker, he rammed Jesse in the chest and knocked him backward. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Jesse flew and landed across a vendor table. The table collapsed, and Jesse wound up on the floor surrounded by heavy, forged-iron sprockets. It was a lucky break. He grabbed the largest gear within reach, jumped up, and started swinging for all he was worth. I’ve never seen anything like it, before or since.

The teeth of a machined motorcycle gear have sharp edges. A gear is heavy as hell. The big Mongol was the first to learn how much Jesse loved to fight, as the gear cut open a savage gash in the big man’s face, eyebrow to chin. Jesse gave other Mongols more of the same. Chunks of flesh and trails of blood were flying everywhere as he took full swings at attacker after attacker. The Mongols around him were screaming, holding gruesome wounds, divots taken out of their faces.

The fight, like most, ended as fast as it started. The nine Hells Angels held their ground as the Mongols broke and ran, but in the end we were really the losers. We did look vulnerable; although we held our ground when hugely outnumbered, the Mongols had fought us in a public forum and had not only lived to tell their tale but were holding their ground in the aftermath.

* * *

Over the next few months the Mongols continued to test us. Our new leader, Ray, a heavy meth-user with a greasy ponytail and aspirations in the porn industry, not only didn’t know how to lead, he was a terrible negotiator. A few months after the fight, the Mongols decided they were ready to challenge us. Their leader informed us they too would soon be wearing the California state rocker – the patch we wore to show our preeminence in the state. The outlaw world is all about respect and territory; this was clearly a challenge that would have to be addressed.

After a long hot, quiet summer, on Labor Day weekend 1977 the Hells Angels broke their silence. A pack of Mongols displaying their bold new California rockers rode along one of Southern California’s winding freeways. In a hail of machine gun fire, they got their response.

Two people were killed, and the murders got everybody’s attention. If the Mongols mistook Ray’s poor leadership as a sign that the club wasn’t serious, they now knew otherwise. Local and federal law enforcement took notice as well. Those weren’t the kind of headlines police chiefs and federal agents liked to read. The killings got big play in the news. The public and every biker in the country were aware of them.

Those in the know expected Mongol retaliation, but the Hells Angels were just getting started.

Two days later, the bodies of Redbeard and Jingles, the two Mongols we killed during the Labor Day shooting, were on view at the Lemon Grove Mortuary. A member of our San Diego chapter, whose identity remains a point of debate to this day, drove up in a white Rambler and parked next to the building. He walked in and dropped a bouquet of red and white carnations on Jingles’ casket. The Hells Angels’ colors would have been obvious to anyone in the room. I’m guessing that the Mongols either thought it was a peace gesture or were too stunned at the ballsy move to react. The guy simply walked away untouched and unidentified. A couple minutes later, he remotely detonated a bomb concealed in the Rambler. He had parked the car in the wrong place; otherwise, the damage would have been much worse. Still, the explosion injured three people.

Christie as a new full-patch Hells Angel.
Christie as a new full-patch Hells Angel.

Bombs were a favorite weapon among outlaw bikers. It was easy to get your hands on explosives, it didn’t take a genius to wire a crude bomb, and they created real damage, and fear. Outlaw clubs also had plenty of military veterans among their members, guys with lots of experience wiring explosives. But I hated bombs. They were messy and cruel. People got maimed as often as they got killed. More than that, I hated the idea of civilian casualties. It seemed stupid to bring that much attention to the club and potentially hurt people who had nothing to do with the beef. Not to mention, you could blow yourself up with a single mistake. Explosives were just way too unpredictable for my tastes.

My opinion wasn’t popular. The bomb at the Mongols memorial had sent a message that everybody wanted sent: “We’re not done with you yet.” To most of the club, another bomb seemed like a really good idea. I walked into the clubhouse a couple days after the memorial bombing to find Ray meeting with a few other members and some of the guys from San Diego. It took me about thirty seconds to realize that they were talking about blowing more Mongols up.

“You guys ever hear of collateral damage?” I asked. “You keep setting up these bombs, this shit’s going to go wrong in a big way.”

I saw the looks I got. The easiest thing in the club was to make accusations: “Oh, this guy doesn’t want a bomb to go off in downtown Los Angeles? He must be an informant. Or a cop. Or he’s just fucking weak.”

I know that they were thinking all that and calling me a coward behind my back. But it was getting out of hand. I left before I heard any more. Days later, word went around the clubhouse that they had put a bomb down a roof vent in a Highland Park motorcycle shop called the Frame-Up. The shop was owned by two Mongols. Something went wrong with the detonator or the bomb. The bomb didn’t go off. Old Man John, a former Hells Angels leader and the man who brought me into the club, took me aside and told me I had to retrieve it.

“Are you kidding? Why not just leave it there?”

“George, you have to do this,” he said, the wrinkles on his seventy-year-old face like roadmaps. “People need to know that you’re going to take care of business no matter what you think about it. The club has to come first. There’s guys saying things right now, and you’ve got to prove them wrong. I already know what you’re about. Now you got to convince them.”

Belonging to the Hells Angels means doing dangerous things. Your participation becomes your credentials. Waver in any way and you become suspect. A lot of times in the outlaw culture, saying no just isn’t an option. This was one of them.

“Okay, John, I’ll get it done.”

“Take Jesse, get that thing out of the roof vent, and take it over to the garage. That’s all you got to do. One of the other guys will take it apart,” he said.

That’s all I had to do.

Jesse and I were coming up through the ranks together, both in our twenties with a lot left to prove to the established members. I knew that, in his own way, John was looking out for me. He wanted to show everyone that I was the stand-up guy he saw, that I would get the job done no matter what. It was important to make sure everyone understood who could hold their mud and who couldn’t.

A young Christie, right, with his mother, father and Cheryl at boot camp on visiting day.
A young Christie, right, with his mother, father and Cheryl at boot camp on visiting day.

So at ten that night, Jesse and I headed over to the Frame-Up. The shop was in a neighborhood of auto body repair places, metalworking shops, and junkyards. We backed Jesse’s oversized sedan down the alley alongside the building and checked that there were no guard dogs or people around. A pull-down roof ladder was attached to the back wall, and Jesse boosted me up so I could grab it and climb up. I found the vent hood easily enough, and the rope holding the bomb had been tied off to a rooftop vent pipe. I untied it and slowly begin pulling the bomb up. It was impossible to do without the bomb swinging side to side. It was like a game of Operation, and every time the bomb clanged into the sheet-metal vent wall I thought it would go off.

I got it out and carried it carefully to the roof edge, right above where Jesse was standing. I started to lower it by playing out the rope. When it was inches within his reach, the bomb started swinging, bumping into the wall.

“Jesus, George!”

“I know, I know.”

We were both freaked out. But I finally got the bomb down into Jesse’s hands. I climbed down and we carried it to the car.

“Where do you want to put it?”

It was a good question. I looked at Jesse and shook my head. I hadn’t thought beyond just getting the bomb down off the roof. We still had to take it for a thirty-minute drive.

“Shit, I don’t know. The trunk?”

“The trunk’s right over the gas tank, man,” he said. “It goes and we’re going to blow like the Fourth of July.”

“So where? The backseat?”

“I think it’s the best place.”

We found a blanket and nestled the bomb on it, as if that would somehow stop the thing from blowing up. We both straightened up and looked at this bundle of dynamite sticks held together with duct tape. It looked cartoonish, like a bad movie prop. We burst out laughing. The absurdity of the situation, along with sheer tension, had built up to the point that laughing was the only way to deal with it. It was hysterical, crazy laughter. We were bent over, tears running down our faces. We calmed down long enough to get settled in the car. I fired it up and moved out and down the street. A block later we went over a set of railroad tracks that was a much bigger double-bump than we expected. It really rattled the car. We looked over at each other and burst out laughing again. It took us the rest of the trip to stop.

We drove the bomb back to the garage and then dropped the car off at the clubhouse, where I picked up my black 1942 Harley Davidson flathead. When I finally pulled into my driveway, I took a moment to just breathe.

* * *

Give the club credit for persistence. Just three weeks after the Mongols’ memorial, Thomas Heath, a twenty-something, short, stubby career criminal and Hells Angel prospect, walked a flat motorcycle tire into the Frame-Up. Brett Eaton had rigged a bomb inside the tire, so that it would detonate when the tire valve was unscrewed. After an hour, Heath called the shop and asked if the tire was done. He talked to Mongol Henry Jimenez. They had a heated exchange, Heath pressing for the tire to be fixed so he could get it on his bike before nightfall. Jimenez finally told him he would get it done. Jimenez wasn’t alone. Raymond Hernandez, the fifteen-year-old brother of another Mongol, was hanging out in the shop.

Christie poses with friend and fellow rider Mickey Rourke.
Christie poses with friend and fellow rider Mickey Rourke.

A fifteen-year-old kid hasn’t even starting shaving yet. He was hanging out with this guy he must have looked up to. He was changing oil or helping out as best he could. Learning. Thinking about how, soon, he would have his own bike. This kid knew exactly what type of Harley he was going to have. Maybe a beat-up bobber he could trick out right there. Like every other teenage boy with a biker brother or father, he knew exactly how his own bike was going to look, and how cool he was going to look riding it.

But he never got a chance to build or ride a motorcycle. He would never even own a driver’s license. Henry Jimenez held the tire steady and began unscrewing the valve. The bomb contacts came together, and Mongol and teenager were instantly killed in a blast that blew the windows out of the buildings on either side of the shop. Heath called again, an hour later. Someone else answered. The sounds of sirens and chaos filled the background.

“Yeah, your tire’s ready, motherfucker. Come down and get it.”

Heath hung up and laughed. It was a joke to him. For days, he went on about the explosion: “You should have heard that fucking guy. I bet his ears were ringing.” He was almost doubled over with laughter as he said it. John finally had to tell him to shut up about it.

Justice would be served decades later when Heath was sentenced to 35-to-life for a domestic dispute beef that bought him a “third strike” conviction.

But to most of the club, it didn’t matter. War was war and collateral damage was to be expected. Days later, the president of the San Fernando Valley Mongol charter, Luis Gutierrez, went out to his driveway to get in his van. It blew up as he opened the door. He was luckier than the fifteen- year-old; he escaped with his life and his body intact.

The violence drew even more attention. Law enforcement doesn’t care when bikers kill bikers, but they don’t like innocent kids getting blown up. From that point on, you couldn’t wear your colors on a paved road in Southern California without getting pulled over and jacked up. Those of us who rode regularly were not having a lot of fun, and I couldn’t get that fifteen-year-old out of my head.

A few nights later, I got home before the kids were in bed. I had been gone for two days and they were overjoyed to see me. We had a little ritual. My place in the living room was a big old black easy chair with gigantic, rounded, thickly padded arms. I would sit one kid on each side and wrap my arms around them. Six-year-old Moriya had just taken a bath and she pressed in on me, reading a picture book, humming to herself. Her hair smelled sweetly of kids’ shampoo. I held the baby, Georgie, close on the other side as he played with a toy car. The TV was on but I wasn’t paying attention. I was just so glad to be home.

The moment was sanctuary. My wife, Cheryl, wasn’t giving me a hard time. Nobody was asking me to juggle dynamite or shoot someone or cover up a felony. There were no psychotic drug dealers here. I had always held a romantic view of the outlaw as hero, but that view was being put to the test. Sooner or later any reasonable person will ask himself what he’s gotten into, how it works with everything else in his life. It all started with the idea of having a simple good time. Partying with brothers, hanging out, building and riding bikes, and living our own version of the American dream. The club seemed to have gone a long way from that in the blink of an eye.

I sat in my little four-foot-by-four-foot square of contentment and wondered how I missed getting shipped out to Vietnam only to wind up at home in the middle of a war. I thought about a fifteen-year-old boy who had probably never enjoyed a stiff drink, a drag race, or sex – and never would. Eventually, I had to ask myself, “How long will I last?” I told myself to cherish the moment. A month and I could be in prison. I could be dead. Cheryl could come to the end of her rope and kick me out. I squeezed the kids closer. Georgie squirmed in my grasp. 

We Were Raped and Tortured. We Refuse to Hide Our Faces.

Share:

Members of the Muslim minority in Myanmar suffered unspeakable violence, then devastating rejection after fleeing to neighboring Bangladesh. Both countries’ governments would rather ignore these survivors, but they vow to have a voice.

This story originally appeared in Latterly, a new quarterly magazine for international reporting.We’ve partnered with Latterly to give Narratively readers a free download of the 2016 Latterly Anthology. Just sign up for their newsletter.

In January, while visiting a refugee settlement in Ukhiya Upazila, Bangladesh, I interviewed a woman whose daughter had been killed in front of her in Myanmar. Behind her, inside a hut, a group of ethnic Rohingyas – Muslims driven across the border by violence – were holding a meeting. They heard my questions and invited me in.

Several people were inside, some of them girls as young as fourteen. The meeting organizer asked them to show their hands if they had been assaulted. Three went up.

“He is a journalist,” she said, repeating the request. “Tell him.”

All the hands went up.

Then they took off their niqabs, declaring that their dignity had been taken by the Burmese army. They had been raped and tortured in front of their families and communities. Many had seen family members, including babies and young children, butchered in front of them. They saw no reason to hide their faces if it meant telling the world what happened to their homes and loved ones in Myanmar.

Anwara: “They kept me as long as they wanted to. Those who came at eight p.m. raped me till twelve a.m., and those who came at twelve a.m. stayed till one a.m. In this way, they did whatever they wanted.”

In early January, the government of Aung San Suu Kyi took unusual action against soldiers depicted on a viral video rounding up and beating people in a Rohingya village. She detained several officers and launched an investigation into that case. But there has never been a broad investigation into the scores of more serious allegations of murder, burnings and rape of Rohingya in Rakhine state. The U.N. in February released a report detailing “devastating cruelty,” and the researcher Azeem Ibrahim dubbed the violence in his 2016 book as “Myanmar’s Hidden Genocide.”

Now there’s a new dynamic as Rohingya flee across the border to Bangladesh, where the government refuses to grant them legal status. The women I spoke to here have been left to beg, dependent on humanitarian aid and at risk of trafficking. They will receive no psychological support for the trauma they experienced.

Worse, already a virulent anti-Rohingya sentiment has taken hold in parts of society in southern Bangladesh. The Rohingya, it is believed, are thieves, drug traffickers and terrorists. Rohingya cause environmental destruction, and they run off with Bangladeshi women. The list of warrantless allegations is long. I spoke with people who believe the Rohingya must have done something to bring the Burmese wrath on themselves.

Tasmina: “After burning our house and slaughtering my father, they were trying to take me away. My mother yanked at me. Soon afterwards, they slaughtered my mother, too. Then, they took me into an empty house. About ten to fifteen of them abused me.”

Driving through Ukhiya, one can’t help but notice women, infants, children and elderly men sitting by the roadside. They stretch out their hands as vehicles drive past. But their presence has not engendered sympathy from the locals. Instead, it has resulted in an astonishing plan by the Bangladeshi government to relocate Rohingya refugees to a remote and uninhabitable island called Hatiya.

“It has to be assured by taking preventive measures,” the government declared, “that they cannot spread out and mix with the locals.”

Doulu: “They beat my husband so hard that he couldn’t move. We all carried him, but we had to leave him on the other side. I couldn’t locate my little one. I found the other three children.”
Rashida: “They hauled my husband away. I don’t know if he was killed or where they’d taken him. They took my young daughter and slaughtered her in front of me. I saw this. At night, the child’s body was covered with clothes and secretly buried by the people.”
Nur Qaida: “They taunted me and tortured me. They put the video of my rape on the internet. They put me up as a daughter of poor parents being abused by the Mog [the predominant ethnic group in Rakhine state, mainly Buddhist] and the military.”

Meet the Modern-Day Pagans Who Celebrate the Ancient Gods

Share:

Deep in the woods of the Pacific Northwest, a community of Druids is reviving Celtic rites. They might seem hokey or outlandish, but maybe, just maybe, they’re the ones who have it all figured out.

The priest raises his arms, palms upturned. “Lord Taranis, hear our prayer!” he bellows, voice bouncing off the stone pillars and into the darkening fields beyond. The fire’s crackle fills the stone circle. We stare through the flames, past the boundary of our sacred space, to the patina of white looming over the white sky – Mount Adams, close and huge.

It is high summer, and we are at White Mountain Druid Sanctuary in southern Washington State. Under the immensity of the mountain, a couple of ramshackle barns stick up from the hayfields. Our priest, a straight-backed, snow-haired man, is delivering a homily on the attributes of the thunder god. Taranis, a powerful thunderbolt-tossing deity, is being honored at today’s solstice celebration because of his association with light, weather and sky.

Arms raised, the priest pauses. We lean forward, breathless. The fire cracks again. The teenage girls on the edge of the circle, who might be high on mushrooms, giggle quietly to themselves. Finally the priest grins and lowers his arms.

“Well, I forgot that part, darn it.” With a shrug, he reaches into his white robes and pulls out a small piece of paper. His voice is wry, sing-songy, full of mirth. “I should have practiced more!”

Everyone laughs as the priest consults his paper. “Sorry, I’ve got it now,” he says, resuming the formal diction – few contractions, quick and clear consonant sounds – that he uses for his rituals. Throwing his arms into the air, he intones, “Lord Taranis…” and completes the rest of the homily uninterrupted.

To get to the Sanctuary in the foothills of Mount Adams, I rattled down a gravel road and parked beneath some prayer flags tacked to a barn. A sign on the building read “DRUIDS HERE.” There is a large wooden lodge with bed-and-breakfast facilities, meditation huts, and a stone circle straight out of Stonehenge, where, upon my arrival, about fifty people were pouring whiskey into deep wells and speaking Gaelic. They were blowing horns and beating drums and generally having a hell of a good time.

Ember Miller, Chief Druid and Oracle, holds a wooden devotional plaque depicting Hermes. “He is patron god of travelers, commerce, writing, athletes, messages, and he’s a bit of a trickster,” says Miller. “Some folks like to see him akin to modern-day Han Solo or Captain Malcolm Reynolds.”

As this is my first Druid ritual, I have no idea how much of this to take seriously. It’s hard to tell how much the participants themselves take seriously; there’s a lot of laughter and self-deprecation. But when Kirk Thomas, the Arch-Druid of Ár nDraíocht Féin, asks the gates of the spirit world to open, creating a thin, traversable bridge across the red-gold evening breeze, we all grow tense.

I don’t know who Taranis is, let alone believe that he’s going to visit our circle, but I strain, listening for signs. Birds wheel in the sky. Somewhere on the other side of the property, a bell trickles into the wind.

“The gates are open,” Thomas says finally, and we begin.

* * *

Loosely overseen by a central office – set in a back room in Thomas’ old house in Santa Fe, New Mexico – Ár nDraíocht Féin (ADF) is a polytheistic neo-pagan religion that draws its inspiration from ancient Indo-European traditions. It’s organized into local groups, called groves, and was founded in 1983 by a charismatic man named Isaac Bonewits, who, after completing a self-study program at UC Berkeley, earned a bachelor’s degree in – yes, really – Magic and Thaumaturgy. Bonewits had dabbled in Satanism and witchcraft before founding Ár nDraíocht Féin, which in Gaelic means “our own fellowship” or “our own magic.”

Although nearly seventy groves worldwide are affiliated with ADF, each organizes its own tailored rituals. At annual pan-pagan festivals, camping trips, and ADF training workshops, as well as over the internet, ADF’s 1,500 members exchange ideas on what rituals should look like. Rather than including official liturgical script, the rituals they perform feature a netting of ideas and ideals, created and debated by poets, Roman legionnaires, mystics, nature lovers, proto-European language nerds, and all kinds of wanderers in search of a connection.

* * *

Long before he became a neo-pagan reverend, when Kirk Thomas was seven years old and visiting his aunt in Utah, he was left mostly to his own devices. During the day he wandered the acres behind her house, picking through the scrub brush, the rocky terrain, the bristling white fir. One day while he was out, the hair on the back of his neck began to stand up. Something was watching; he was sure of it.

He dashed back to the house and rummaged through the fridge, emerging with a bunch of grapes. The boy cautiously returned to the place where he had felt the presence and laid the grapes on the rock. He knew what was being asked of him. The next day, the grapes were gone, and so was the feeling of being watched. The boy thought, an animal took them. But some part of him wondered.

Jonathan Levy, right, and Arin H. recite a passage to ward off any spirits that might seek to challenge or question their practices before participants cleanse themselves at the start of the Fortuna ritual. Fortuna is the Roman goddess of fortune and could bring good or bad luck.

As a kid, Thomas read all about the Old Kingdom dynasties of ancient Egypt; the names of pharaohs like Akhenaten and Nefertiti rolled off his tongue. In middle school he got into supernatural stuff, reading Diary of a Witch – Sybil Leek’s popular 1969 memoir of growing up pagan, which inspired a generation of witches – and drawing pentacles on the garage floor. He studied theater in London and became a hot air balloonist, taking to the skies over the English countryside.

Later, around the year 2000, he read The Mists of Avalon, an Arthurian fantasy epic that he calls a “gateway drug” to Druidry. “What it did was remind me of how I had felt as a teenager, with all that wonder and magic and joy,” he says. He began to look for other neo-pagans online, in chat rooms and early internet sites. When he discovered ADF, he thought it wasn’t “quite as wacky” as other neo-pagan belief structures, and was more scholarly and organized than Wiccan covens.

Ember Miller, Chief Druid and Oracle, portrayed Fortuna during the Fortuna Ritual.

He attended his first ADF ritual at a public park in Tucson, Arizona, during an electrical storm. A few people gathered at a concrete pavilion, stood in a circle and read a ritual one of them had pulled off the web. Lighting was flashing in the desert sky. “The thunder god was pretty obviously saying ‘hello’ to me,” he says.

But he felt the ritual was amateurish. He wanted to rewrite it and, lucky for him, he’d found a religion that embraced rewriting, remaking, revising. He had become a Druid.

* * *

More and more in America, religion is something people choose (or don’t), rather than inherit. According to a 2015 study by the Pew Research Center, “As the Millennial generation enters adulthood, its members display much lower levels of religious affiliation, including less connection with Christian churches, than older generations.” However, the report also finds that many millennials remain spiritual in a broad sense, expressing “wonder at the universe” and an overall feeling of “gratitude” and “well-being.” About 1.5% of the American population identifies as “other faiths,” including “Unitarians, those who identify with Native American religions, Pagans, Wiccans, New Agers, deists, Scientologists, pantheists, polytheists, Satanists and Druids, to name just a few.” Druids will appreciate being listed separately from Wiccans (self-described “benevolent witches”), but both fall under the umbrella of neo-paganism. Almost half of New Agers – a larger category that includes shamans, goddess-worshippers, and possibly your mom’s psychic – are of the millennial generation.

Many druid practitioners are reacting to a childhood religion they found inadequate or oppressive. They speak of their practice as inclusive and pluralistic, but also self-define as rejects, misfits and seekers, drawing a protective boundary around their own otherness. In one sense, Druidry is very old school – traditional and nostalgic for a way of relating to nature that most modern humans have lost. However, it is also willfully new. Druid rituals enact something not handed down or inherited, but deliberately created. “There just isn’t enough preserved out there to actually recreate Irish paganism,” Thomas explains. “One can do a nice superficial gloss, but we have no idea what any rituals actually looked like.”

Reverend Kirk Thomas. (Photo by Caitlin Dwyer)

Perhaps that sense of freshness and invention is why, after accidentally stumbling into the solstice celebration, I began to see them as a perfect example of America’s tangled, 21st-century relationship with faith.

* * *

I am holding a Dixie cup of wine. The woman who passed it to me called it “The Water of Life,” and she has lots of them on a tray, walking around our circle and handing them out to the motley group – girls with braided hair and brightly-colored leggings, women in long skirts and hand-knit sweaters, men with handmade leather fanny packs and KEEN sandals. The sun has set, and the sky is a blur of hazy bluish-black behind Mount Adams. Just outside the stone circle, there’s a cob shelter, on which is painted on one side with a triptych of ancient myths – deities Taranis and the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of death, first engaged in a devastating war, and then having sort of graphic make-up sex. The woman smiles and moves on, and I hold the cup but do not raise it to my lips.

A Druid ritual can take place anywhere, although outdoors is preferable, because a hearth must burn at the center of the assembly. Stoking the fire is Reverend Thomas, who earlier shook our hands and asked us all to write an intention on a small piece of paper. We stuffed them into a straw man made of twigs and later burned him in the fire.

“We are fire priests if nothing else,” Thomas says. “The fire transmutes and transforms. It turns something into something else. It does it quickly.” Also present are a well or water – “the epitome of the powers of the earth and the underworld,” as Thomas explains – and a tree or pillar – “the pipeline of communication that allows you to communicate between this world and other worlds.”

After an opening potluck, with plenty of mac salad and mead and smiling folks who wore runes around their necks, we walked the gravel path to the stone circle. We asked for blessings; we burned our straw man. Now we are supposed to toast and drink the Water of Life.

Spiral, left, waits in line to cleanse before entering the sacred space created for the Fortuna ritual. Participants put their hands in a bowl of water, and gently hold their hands over their heads, heart and legs to purify them from the outside world.

It hits me that I am standing with a bunch of people I don’t know in the middle of a dark and remote farm being asked to drink unmarked liquid by a dude in a long white robe. The Water of Life shakes between my fingers.

I have little context for this rite. My own religious upbringing was hybrid and scattered. I wasn’t baptized, but I come from a long line of Irish Catholics, who attended schools taught by nuns and have names like John Michael Patrick and Mary Colleen and who drink their guilt from bottles of California chardonnay. From my mother’s side, I got a consciously a-religious Judaism. My grandfather’s first language was Yiddish, but his family eschewed things like temple and bat mitzvah, so when Jewish friends explain holidays to me, I usually just nod along, playing the more familiar role of the Irish girl. I am equally uncomfortable at Shabbat services and Sunday Mass, unsure of what to do with my hands, what to say, when to sing.

My family never offered me real entry into either of my birth religions, so instead, growing up I found faith in literature, storytelling, myth and nature – a budding neo-pagan if there ever was one.

At some level, I wanted to belong to organized religion. During sophomore year of high school, I tried to join a Christian youth group. Several of my friends attended, and they always got older boys from the group to go to school dances with them (I, on the other hand, took a blow-up doll to junior prom). I joined them in the basement of a neighborhood church where they sat on straight-backed chairs and did trust exercises and ate snacks and prayed.

The group leader was a pleasant guy with a fleece vest and a patient smile. He asked me if I believed in God, if I believed Jesus was the Son of God. Although he wasn’t unkind, he was looking for a specific answer to each question, and my answers were like fumbling through a giant keychain, jangling it awkwardly, trying to find the key that unlocked a kind of belonging I desperately wanted. I considered lying – I mean, the boys – and realized that I could perform being a good Christian. I searched for words that I thought would please him, like grace and grateful and community, placatory words that could take the place of certainty. I filled our conversation with placeholders, language itself becoming a kind of tenuous substitute for faith, because the truth was I had never really been drawn to a specific religion, but merely to the idea of religion. I could enter into this group and learn about Jesus and smile and hold hands with boys during prayers, and maybe no one would ever know that I didn’t believe what I was supposed to. But it was pretty clear that I didn’t have the right key, and I felt so ashamed that I never went back.

I look around at the Druid rite, and everyone else has already drained their cups. With a sigh, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and chug my wine. It’s cheap stuff, and the smell of cedar smoke from the fire mingles with the sweetness on my tongue. I get a brief, heady rush, and then Reverend Thomas begins passing out musical instruments – tambourines and rattles, drums and shakers. People are grinning. We are alive on the base of a mountain, and we are going to dance.

* * *

“To me, Druidry is an experiential religion,” says Jonathan Levy, one of the founders of the Columbia Grove in Oregon. “Simply talking about it doesn’t do it justice.” Levy has a trimmed beard and a skittish, enthusiastic manner. He was a “hardcore atheist” when he came across some neo-pagan websites at the age of eighteen. He couldn’t have cared less about King Arthur legends, but he did love Roman history: Virgil and triremes and Mars. When he discovered an ADF ritual based on the Roman rite of Hilaria, it delighted him.

Levy realized that Druidry wasn’t asking him to believe; it was asking him to show up and be in community, to make offerings and to light fires. He moved to Oregon and started a meetup called “Druid Drinks,” a monthly gathering at a local pub, where he could chat socially with other curious-and-questioning Druids. Finally convinced, he traded in his atheism for an enthusiastic polytheism. In ADF, he says, “It comes down to doing something together. That part is appealing.”

Levy says many of the Columbia Grove’s members are ex-Catholics and are used to elaborate rituals. However, ADF avoids “churchy” language as much as possible because it “can be a very big turnoff for people … who were angry at their past religious affiliation.”

“It’s that rejection” that defines Druidry, explains Dr. Sarah Pike, a religious scholar at Cal-State Chico. Many Druids have “found a place where they belonged.” Pike adds that, for Druids, creating an identity out of what they’re rejecting is essential: it leads them to “embrace otherness,” and find meaning in being their own tribe.

* * *

Tall fir trees shade the lot; autumn sunlight drifts down. After almost a year away from the Druids, I have come back to visit them again, this time with Jonathan Levy’s Columbia Grove in Portland, Oregon. This is a celebration of Dionysos, the Greek deity of wine, held in a courtyard outside a Unitarian church. Around me, people drift in a loose, undulating circle on the stone. All of them are masked in foam cutouts and sequins and glitter glue: a chance to slip into a new face, and therefore avoid the madness that close contact with Dionysos can inspire.

Garbed in a toga and rust-and-orange fall garlands, Levy welcomes the crowd to autumn equinox. His pale legs are bound in high Roman sandals; his liturgy is broad-stroked and mythological, with syntax that deliberately invokes Christian liturgy: Let us pray with a good fire. Let us offer with a full heart. He and his fellow group leaders read from note cards. At one point they start to sing and realize they are doing different songs. They take a moment to shuffle through their papers, like actors who need to review the scripts.

Kirt W. kneels before Fortuna, as portrayed by Ember Miller. Many participants approach Fortuna, made offerings of flowers, incense or cookies, whisper in her ear, and are given a gold coin and a blessing.

The idea of reciprocity – of giving something in trade – holds particular importance in Druidic rite, according to Reverend Thomas: “Human relations are set up this way, and we in ADF do the same thing with the spirit world. We make offerings and hope for and ask for blessings in return.” So when Levy invites the audience to make offerings, one woman breaks apart a chocolate bar for Isis, an Egyptian goddess, and asks for good health in trade. The chocolate bubbles as it melts in the fire. Another pours out wine for Dionysos, making the flames hiss. A gender-nonconforming member burns a poem written to Thor. A young white man in a purple cape and Phantom-like half-mask invokes Hermes, the Greek messenger god, stalking the inside of our circle. The diverse pantheon doesn’t phase anyone.

After the offerings are burnt, a young woman with dyed red hair tells us to close our eyes and leads us through a visual meditation, into deep woods, into worlds of nymphs, toward Dionysos. Then, tipsy on the presence of the divine, we stand and begin to circulate, holding hands, and dance to a chant: Come on thy Bull’s Foot. I scratch my nose where the mask is slipping down. Hypnotic and repetitive, the chant pounds forward; people wriggle and writhe, close enough to each other that skin brushes skin. Come on thy Panther’s Paw. I feel a rush beneath me, like standing on ice and watching a current flowing and shifting beneath the frozen layer. Although I don’t have much invested in this rite emotionally, I am still doing it, moving my body among other bodies. Come on thy Snake’s Belly. It feels like when you’re upset and people tell you to smile. How just the action of faking it, of smiling through your pain, starts the flow of good hormones in your brain and makes you really feel better. Playing along is one way to access something real and physical. Dionysos come. Theater is not just a show; the act of the thing unlocks the reality of thing itself. I don’t really believe in what I am doing, but it is sort of working just the same.

* * *

When people come to Druid rites for the first time, they expect to see “us wearing all white, talking in thou and thy,” Jonathan Levy says. “We’re modern people. Our Druidry is modern. Our rituals are modern. Sometimes we dress in stuff just for the fun of it, but it’s not supposed to be the centerpiece. We use modern language; we use very little foreign language. People are not expecting that.”

Dr. Sabina Magliocco, a folklorist at Cal-State Northridge, says that ADF founder Isaac Bonewits “was looking for a tradition that was rooted in history,” but soon realized that resurrecting an ancient religion was impossible. Reverend Michael Dangler, a senior ADF priest in Ohio, agrees. “We have rejected the fantasy of ancient lineages,” he says. “They are just not important from our personal practice perspective. We come out of a skeptical time.”

For the average American, whose understanding of religion is synonymous with faith, Druidry can seem a bit artificial. But Dr. Sarah Pike says that Druids have “a different type of commitment” to their religion. Focusing on ritual action rather than creed can be “a relief” for people who have fled the constraints of orthodoxy, she says. “When belief becomes so important, you have sharper boundaries between insiders and outsiders.”

Still, there is tribalism in Druidry. Many of the practitioners I spoke with had the awkward, sharp, smart humor of the nerdy kids in middle school, which they wielded at me like little pikes, prodding and jabbing to see if I would laugh. Dr. Magliocco says this is partially constructed as a part of pagan identity. “Humor is a way that we mark insiders and outsiders,” she says. “A joke is a spell. Jokes clearly mark the boundaries. We can all laugh because we’re unusual, but we also draw a firm circle of who we are.”

* * *

Not everyone at the summer solstice ritual is a practicing Druid. The girls who are maybe on mushrooms are clearly not familiar with the rite. When Reverend Thomas hands out drums and rattles and shakers, so that we can all make a joyful noise together, parading around the fire and making music for the gods, one of them accidentally drops her tambourine. It shatters the silence with a flustered, lengthy banging. The girls sputter with silent laughter, their bodies shaking, as Thomas tries unsuccessfully to maintain a straight face.

Reverend Kirk Thomas performs a summer solstice rite at White Mountain Druid Sanctuary in Trout Lake, Washington. (Photo by Caitlin Dwyer)

On the other hand, we are all practicing Druids. We’ve shown up at the ritual, after all, and if being a Druid means making offerings of whiskey and beer, reciting a prayer to honor your ancestors, and drinking mead from a horn, then I, too, am a Druid.

“Get out there and do the stuff; that’s what counts,” Reverend Thomas says. “What you believe is kind of your business.” You step onto the stage, say the lines, block the actions. You do the work. Through recitation, the piece of yourself played that night has a chance, perhaps, to reconnect to something deep and missing within the modern psyche – nature, the changing of seasons, the deepening shadow behind a white mountain. There is a real American optimism buried in this: that if we show up ready to try, something in the universe will respond positively to us. That we can deal with it, negotiate our futures: a bit of chocolate for your blessings, a dram of rye for your luck.

When it doesn’t work, it looks like cheap theater. But when it does, something inside turns like a combination lock until it clicks, and then slides open. After all, there is nothing like watching the world respond to you. If it is a performance of the modern self to dress up in robes and ask your ancestors for blessings as bats snip and chatter in the summer dusk, then it is also deeply satisfying. Pouring good rye down the dark throat of a well, watching it drop fathoms deep: that act has its own, deeply human magic.

My Grandma’s Hidden Holocaust Heroics

Share:

We grew up idolizing grandpa for surviving death marches and beating up Germans, but grandma was always just, well...a sweet old lady. We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Noiach, a crumb!” my brother shouted. He was wearing Grandma’s blue muumuu.

“A crumb,” I concurred, draped in her yellow housedress.

We attacked the matzoh flake in the rug with our hands and the carpet sweeper. The family applauded our skit. But Grandma stood there with her arms crossed; her Auschwitz tattoo — all five numbers — pressed against her belly.

“This is what you think of Grandma?” she asked.

It was.

We harassed her constantly, lovingly. We’d always compress her brand-new perms, or jiggle her hanging tricep skin, exposed when she stirred the soup. All my life, she had lived like a stereotype — a neurotic cartoon character who had embedded herself into my reality.

Grandma censured us a bit more for the mockery, then kissed our faces, and ran off to the kitchen, panicking about a pot unattended on the stove.

To us, she was an old Jewish woman who had somehow survived the Holocaust. Poppy, on the other hand, had fought in the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, and survived death marches and concentration camps. Grandma had too, but for whatever reason she didn’t seem like the same survivor. Perhaps I was just a blinkered boy, who could only turn men into my heroes. Or maybe it was because the stories that I had overheard — “He beat up some Germans,” my father told company — always featured Poppy.

Poppy could make muscles that I could not crush; Grandma only ever cooked and cleaned and kvetched.

I had always wanted my grandparents’ Holocaust stories. More accurately, I had wanted Poppy’s. But because my grandparents had greatly troubled their kids by recounting Holocaust memories, they were silent about the 1940s around the grandchildren.

“Poppy, what was it like in Auschwitz?” I’d ask.

“Poppy loves you,” he’d say, defending secrets with non-sequiturs. He’d raise the television’s volume; the violent charade of wrestling played louder than the violence of memory.

When I was eighteen, Poppy died. Grandma stopped cooking and cleaning, shrinking her life’s work down to a more detrimental form of kvetching. (Really, it was severe depression). For half a decade, she mourned relentlessly.

Even though he had barred me from his Holocaust stories, I had held on to the hope that he’d share them someday with me. Now that he was gone, those memories were buried forever.

But a few years later, I traveled to Poland and stood on Poppy’s street. More than ever, I wanted to dig up those stories. I did everything I could, from viewing the VHS tapes with his testimony, which he had given to the Shoah Foundation a decade earlier, to interviewing those who knew him.

I learned that Poppy had been a sewer rat – one of the boys who traveled through Warsaw’s sewers to help secure guns and potatoes for the uprising; he had been a gravedigger in his hometown, forced by the Nazis to bury four thousand of his Jewish neighbors who had been murdered in the woods; he had been a fugitive, cutting the bars on the cattle car and jumping from a train heading for the death camp Treblinka; he had been a slave in six different camps; and he had been a righteous killer, running a pitchfork through some Nazi’s throat, leaving the German dead in a barn.

I knew he had been tough, but never this tough. Even from the grave, he found a way to surprise me.

“I was thinking about writing a book about Poppy,” I said to Grandma, as we sat at her kitchen table, where she used to serve Poppy and me soup, interrupting our card games.

“Write a book. Who’s stopping you?” she said.

“I need your help though.”

“I don’t want to talk about Poppy.”

Her statement was incredible. In Grandma’s lonely apartment, Poppy, in absentia, had become a god. Around her neck, she wore an image of him — his saintliness laser-printed into gold — and she chanted his name to his photograph, which stood at center table, but also traveled with her around the apartment. This woman who still kept a kosher home and fasted on Yom Kippur — a time she reserved for remembering her mother, who had been murdered in front of her in 1942 — no longer had qualms about breaking the commandment against false idols.

“Remember Poppy?” she always asked, as if he had been a ’90s cult television show.

Now, it seemed, Grandma was choosing to not remember.

I trudged forward with the questions; we were going to talk about Poppy.

“Tell me about Poppy as a sewer rat.”

“He wasn’t a rat,” she chastised. She took offense to the term “sewer,” too.

I clarified what I had thought was survivor jargon.

“What should I know about this?” she said.

Grandma did tell me what she remembered about Warsaw’s sewers, but it tunneled us somewhere else. When the Nazis were sending thousands of Jews from the ghetto to the camps, where they would work or more likely be marched into the gas chambers, a group from Grandma’s bunker had attempted to escape. Grandma waded with them through the piss and excrement beneath Warsaw. When her group reached an exit, the leader lifted the manhole cover.

“They shoot him and his body falls into the shit,” she told me. “We run and I get this sewage splash in my face. But I’m not thinking about this because I know they gonna throw a grenade.”

I watched the fear of this near-death return to her eyes. I felt a chill.

The Nazis or Poles who killed the group leader didn’t throw a grenade after all, and Grandma made it back to the safety of the murderous ghetto.

Grandma offered me more store-bought gefilte fish.

When I asked about Poppy in the camps, Grandma swatted the air: What should I know about this?

“The Nazis made us move boulders.”

“Who: you or Poppy?”

“Who? Who? I should know of Poppy? Me. I did this. And the next day we return them to the same spot.”

This was in Majdanek, a concentration camp that was the setting for many more of the horrors she still lived with so many years later. Majdanek: where she had tossed her youngest brother bread, only to have a Nazi witness him reach for it and beat him to within inches of death. Majdanek: where she had pushed a wheelbarrow filled with potatoes, allowed a few spuds to fall, and took a beating that left her unconscious. Majdanek: where she picked poison ivy for the nightly soup.

“What do you mean poison ivy for the soup?” I asked. “You can’t eat poison ivy.”

“What should I tell you, Noiach? We were sent to the fields to pick poison ivy. We had to, so we ate.”

She told me about Auschwitz, when the barbed wire had ruined her foot (just before the fifty-mile, winter death march); the run-ins with Josef Mengele (twice); the girls she had saved (by risking her life); her luck (the little bit that went a long way); and the countless murders (of the boy who only wanted to enter the ghetto, of the girl in the blue dress at Auschwitz, of the dead woman she sat on in Bergen Belsen because the ground was completely covered with corpses, of the child who hid with her in the barracks, of all the others). These were the horrors that she had survived and the stories that remained with her in the empty apartment after my visits ended.

“There was another Nazi from Warsaw that I remember,” Grandma said after taking a pill to calm her. “He finds me in the street and tells me to follow him.”

She did so, and when they turned the corner, Grandma felt the heat: the Nazis had started a bonfire, where they were burning books.

“The Nazi told me to go up into the apartments. To throw down the books. He tells to me ‘If I see one book left up there, I’ll throw you into the fire.’ This is what he said.”

Grandma climbed the staircase, opened the door to the apartment, and entered the empty room. On a small wooden mantelpiece stood a modest collection of religious texts. She lifted the Siddur, Humash, and Gemara and flipped through them, noting God’s name on each page.

“I could not throw the books from the window, Noiach.”

Instead, she found a string, stacked the books, and made a tight bundle.

“The German who tells to me to go up into the building sees me. He says throw down your…” Grandma paused and looked at the imaginary pile. “He said ‘shit books,’ Noiach. He says this about sacred books.”

She turned from the window, defying the Nazi, and walked down the stairs.

When she reached the Nazi, he screamed at her for not obeying. He put his hands on his rifle; Grandma closed her eyes. She was prepared to die for the God who had allowed all of her relatives to perish.

Who was this woman?

The German ripped the books from her hand and she ran off.

Grandma shivered and limped toward the kitchen, shuffling off from the conflagration she had reignited at the table.

I couldn’t believe I had ever laughed at Grandma.

With each new story, I felt more foolish for how I had begun this project: I want to write a story about Poppy. What had I expected now and in my youth? That she had survived Hitler under a rock?

Grandma popped open her pillbox again and took another horse-sized tranquilizer. “You have more questions about Poppy?”

I shook my head.

Every EMT Has One Day That Changed Their Life. This Was Mine.

Share:

The city bus was soaked with blood, the patient was fading fast, and the first cop who showed up turned around and puked.

“Mark my words, there is going to be that one call. That one call is going to change your life. It’s going to change how you see the world, if you can even walk away from it to begin with. Consider it your rite of passage.”

—My EMT/Paramedic Instructor, September 2013

October 2014 — “I’m scared,” she said. Scared was an understatement. The woman looked downright terrified.

“I’m scared too.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

I cursed myself. We weren’t supposed to let them see our emotions. That was rule number one of working on the ambulance rig. It didn’t matter if you were angry or terrified; you had to keep it together for your patients. My hands were trembling as I tightened the tourniquet around her left leg. Her dialysis port was squirting thick, dark arterial blood from her thigh.

“I don’t want to die,” the woman said faintly, dropping her gaze to her leg. “Please don’t let me die.”

“Hey,” I said. “Hey look at me.”

I waited for her to look into my eyes again, partly because I didn’t want her to see that I, my partner, and the entire floor of the bus were now covered in her blood.

A few minutes earlier, she had left a dialysis center and stepped onto a city bus. Her dialysis port caught on one of the seats and ripped out of her leg, cutting into her femoral artery and spraying blood everywhere. The driver spotted my partner and me – we work as EMTs at the hospital where the dialysis center is located and happened to be nearby – and we followed him back onto the bus, armed with nothing but a few gauze pads. We didn’t have the code to open the door to the dialysis center. As EMTs, we only had the code for the ER on the other side of the building, which might as well have been ten miles away. If we couldn’t get her there, she was going to die.

“I’m scared,” I said. “You must be terrified, but I will not let you die. Not here, not now.”

She slowly nodded her head, tears streaming down her face.

The blood dripped down the steps of the bus and onto the street, melting the snow where it fell. You could almost taste the iron in the air. My boots and uniform were covered in blood.

The woman slowly faded into unconsciousness. My hands were now covered in blood. They felt slippery, and my upper arms were beginning to get sticky as the blood started to freeze. My partner intubated her and began bagging her; the bleeding hadn’t stopped. I tightened the tourniquet.

* * *

March 2014, seven months earlier — “Now twist… There you go, Rodocker. You’ve got it.”onfire_final

I was the last person in line to use the commercial tourniquet. We were halfway through an EMT class that ran from nine a.m. to nine p.m., a twelve-hour shift designed to simulate actually being on the job. That’s one thing that I valued about my college’s EMT program. They kept things realistic. The first day of class our instructor had showed us gruesome videos of car accidents. He showed us videos of people assaulting EMTs and paramedics. He told us exactly how much we would be making: minimum wage for the average EMT, $12 an hour for paramedics, if they were lucky. We lost eight students that day.

“Now… I’m going to tell you this,” he said about the tourniquet. “The first time you have to use one of these will haunt you for the rest of your life. If someone is bleeding that much, their odds are not that good.”

* * *

“We have to get her to the ER,” said my partner. “Now.”

“We need backup.” I said.

“I think it’s time to call X.”

“Call X… Are you sure?”

Calling X over the radio meant shit just hit the fan. The last time X had been called over the radio was because an ambulance crew had gotten into a car accident. Both EMTs had been in critical condition. The time before that, a crew was being held at gunpoint. It would broadcast our location to every available police, firefighter and EMS agency in the area, and help would arrive within seconds. At least, that’s what we hoped. There weren’t that many cops, or firefighters around.

I reached for my mic.

“Bravo 011,” I said. “X.”

“Bravo 011, please repeat, did you just say X?” said the dispatcher, audibly distraught.

“Bravo 011 to center, repeat X.”

“Bravo 011, I have your location via your rig, is that accurate?”

“Copy, center. Hurry.”

My skin was crawling. Chills were running down my spine.

The call went out immediately.

“All emergency personnel able to respond, please respond. Bravo 011 is in need of assistance.”

“She’s not breathing,” I shouted, moving my hands from the tourniquet to her chest to start compressions.

I shouted simply because I had no control over my body anymore. My body was pumping so much adrenaline into my veins that I felt like I was on fire.

* * *

January 2014 — Chest compressions are hard to do. Sure, the mannequins that we all practice CPR on are a nice rubber texture. Nothing cracks, nothing breaks. Real CPR is terrifying. You’re pumping on someone’s chest and suddenly you break all of their ribs and their chest doesn’t rise back up after you’ve been pushing on it for so long. There is a blank, empty look in the person’s eyes and you can see that there is no soul in that body anymore.

On my very first clinical, a call went out over the PA for all students to report to the resuscitation room. This was a hospital in downtown Detroit, where people don’t go into the res. room unless they are dead or very close to it. They brought in an older man, a man who was very much dead. They stopped CPR long enough to register that there was no shockable heart rhythm on the cardiac monitor, and then the students stepped in, each of us getting our chance to practice on the corpse. I was excited and afraid at the same time. When it was my turn, I stepped onto the stool, placed my hands and pushed. It was nothing like pushing on the mannequin. I had to work so hard to press down that I couldn’t get into a rhythm.

“OK kid,” said a nurse. “Push hard, push fast, get a good rhythm going. Think of a song that you like, like an upbeat song. Sing it in your head, and your compressions should line up with that.”

From that moment on, I have been complimented many times on how good my chest compressions are.

* * *

“Oh my god,” said the first police officer to step onto the bus. She promptly turned around and vomited all over the sidewalk. Another officer got onto the bus, his movements causing the blood to ripple like a wave. He stood frozen for a moment, then sprang into action.

“What needs to be done?” he asked.

“We need our stretcher out of the rig, now!” I was still shouting, there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

“Where do you want it?”

“Put it by the wheelchair ramp,” said my partner, beginning to look green. “We will wheel her onto it and lower it to the ground, then we can move her to the ambulance.”

I kept pumping as they lifted the woman and moved her down the aisle of the bus, out the door and onto the stretcher.

“Let’s move through the building instead,” said the cop. “It will be faster.”

“Do you have the codes?” I said.

“Shit, no,” she said. She turned to her partner. “Run into the dialysis facility and find a nurse. They should have the codes.”

The other cop ran off. We strapped the woman onto the stretcher, and the smallest medic that I have ever seen jumped onto the cot with the patient, straddled her, and began some excellent chest compressions. She stayed like that throughout the bumpy ride through the building and into the ER doors. Doctors and nurses rushed to our aide. We went into the trauma room, transferred her to a bed, and stepped back.

bloodyboot_final“She’s in hemodialytic shock,” yelled a doctor. “Start blood transfusions! Get the trauma surgeon in here now!”

There was nothing more that we could do. My partner and I left the room. We walked back to our ambulance, following the trail of our bloody boot prints. I was in shock, hoping that I had imagined all the blood. Our supervisor arrived shortly afterward, and told us to go back to HQ, take showers, change into scrubs, go back to the hospital for a quick round of antibiotics, just in case, and to go home.

For the next month, I woke up screaming. I was terrified of closing my eyes. I didn’t want to see that haunted look that she had on her face. I didn’t want to hear those rattling, labored breaths that she took. At work, we had group counseling sessions. We talked about every aspect of the call. We explained our fears. The counselor said we had done everything that we could. We reacted to the situation immediately, he said, and we had done very well.

During one of these sessions, he did something I will never forget.

He got up from his chair, opened the door, and wheeled the woman into the room.

She left the hospital with six broken ribs, a broken sternum and a new dialysis port. It had been a long time since I had cried, but as she wrapped us in her arms, tears of relief streamed down my face.

It was at that moment that I knew that I could walk away from my one call. My instructor was right  it had changed my life. I have paid my dues to the EMS gods and they are appeased. I have earned my passage.

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

Share:

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

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

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

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

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

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nailed it.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were two ways to find out:

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

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

Here we go again.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” I respond, flustered.

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

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

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

“Of course not.”

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

“I wouldn’t do that.”

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

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