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About Peter Sanford Kahrmann

Writer, disability rights advocate, civil rights advocate.

Tears for a Lion

I was nine years old when Teddy Kennedy was first elected to the senate in 1962. I was one year into an all-too-brief time as a dancer, and my family was alive, including my beloved father.  The large majority of my family has passed away and now Teddy Kennedy has joined them, and when the news of his death came, the pain in my heart and the instant wetting of my eyes let me know I’d just lost another family member. All Americans did.

There is so much that can be said and has been said about this truly singular human being. Again and again over these past few days  stories I’ve heard about Teddy Kennedy have moved me to tears, sometimes, to be sure, tears of laughter. One of the themes present in all shared memories of him was his very real kindness and compassion for people. Not just a kindness and compassion that showed, and it showed mightily, in his remarkable spate of achievements as a senator, but his kindness and compassion for people on the personal front, and he didn’t give a damn what your party affiliation was. If life wounded you and he knew you, he was there.

At times he was there if he didn’t know you. A father from Bedford Massachusetts who’d lost his son in Iraq, in part because the Humvee the young man was in lacked the proper armor, was moved to the core of his being when, at his son’s burial service in Arlington, he turned and saw Teddy Kennedy standing there. In case you’re wondering, the father was not a Democrat. 

I truly believe that if all the stories of Teddy Kennedy’s kindness and compassion were collected in one book, the book would be so great in size it would make War and Peace seem like a short story.

For those, and there are some, who inflict the knife-blade of hatred born of the poison of judgment when they speak of Teddy Kennedy, I would say this. How many people who had all three of their brothers killed, one in war, two murdered, whose nephew died in a plane crash, who himself suffered a broken back in a plane crash, would emerge demon free? Moreover, how many people would survive those tragedies, free themselves of their demons, and for nearly 50 years, engage in a lifetime of helping others?  Answer? Not many.

One story that touched me to the point I broke down and wept was this. Before Teddy Kennedy left for the funeral of the slain Israeli leader Yitzhak Rabin, he went to Arlington Cemetery. There he gently scooped up some soil from the graves of his brothers. After the service for Rabin was over, and after the media was gone, Teddy Kennedy gently and lovingly spread the soil from his brothers’ grave on Yitzhak Rabin’s grave.

I don’t have much more to say here. Like many I have cried over the loss and rejoiced over the life of Teddy Kennedy these past few days, and there is, I know, more of both to come. I know too that I am deeply blessed to have lived in the time of Teddy Kennedy. We have all lost a member of our family, of the American family. I suspect he fully understood all Americans are part of the extraordinary tapestry that is the American family. It would be nice if more understood that.

I will miss him.

Flame Throwers in the Night

*

Well rock me shiftin’ down streets long gone,

We wore Frye boots and beards and tossed cigarettes

Like flame throwers lighting paths in the night

Not caring nothing for the powers that be

 

Well she came striding proud sleek like Secretariat

Her hips shape shifting dreams by the dozens while

Harry shined his Nova and the 66th Street rhythms

Swirled with tongues dancing in the corner darkness

 

Well rock me tender as the night gets deep

And the kids go home where family lives

With dinners on and me now striding solo

Casting flame throwers in the night

 

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25 Years Later

Tomorrow marks the 25th anniversary of the day two teenager held me up on a Brooklyn street. One put a gun to my head and fired. He and his accomplice, who was rifling through my pockets when the trigger was pulled, got $63 for their efforts. The bullet is still lodged in the brain and I take great pleasure in feigning disappointment that I do not set off  airport alarms (if you were hoping for a humor free essay you might as well stop reading now).

To this day there are occasions when, upon hearing about the shooting, a person will lean forward, their brow furrowed a bit, and say things like,  "Did it change you?", or, "Is life different?" or, "Do you understand life in a way you didn’t before?" Honest questions all, but I always get the impression that the asker believes being part of an extraordinary act of violence automatically results in a deeper understanding of life. It doesn’t. At least I don’t think it does.

The experience did give me a new appreciation for the importance of ducking. It certainly increased my awareness of the human capacity for cruelty. And, it has helped me to remember to live, not miss the moment I’m in,  and not miss the chance to tell people I love that I love them.

Much has changed in the last 25 years and there is nothing unique in that. Some wonderful things in life have happened as a result of the shooting. I have been given the gift of being able to work with survivors of brain injury, their families and people in the health care field.

The health care field itself exposes you to wonderful people and to people who have a capacity for cruelty that outdoes the cruelty of shooting an innocent person in the head. Health care providers who see and treat people with disabilities as sub-human beings that are on this earth so they can make a profit ought to be jailed. I know one owner of a community-based program who has run clinical meetings for people in the program and doesn’t have one iota of training as a clinician, yet his ego is so distorted and the lack of regulations so prominent, he gets away with it, to the detriment of those receiving services in the program. I know another director of a brain injury program who told the wife of a brain injury survivor, with her husband present, that there needed to be a funeral for her husband because he no longer exists and she and her husband needed to allow this director and his team of sycophants to re-create him. By comparison, the kid who shot me was simply having a bad day.

There is another thing the shooting gave me. An appreciation for having a bucket list, though it wasn’t until the movie came out that I became aware of the term bucket list. I was, however, aware of experiences I wanted  and want to have before my time is up. I want to meet Bruce Springsteen and thank him for the role his songs had in helping me stay alive during some dark times. I’d like to visit the Grand Canyon and spend a week or more exploring the canyon itself. I want to stand in a room that Beethoven was in, and in a room Tolstoy was in, and in a room Dickens was in. I’d even like to get married again some day, really share life with a soul mate. I’d like my daughter and I to have a relationship again before time’s up.  And, of course, I want to write and write and write. The list goes on.

One other thing, I’d like to thank God with all my heart and soul that I am alive 25 years later to even have a bucket list,  and write this essay for you.

 

It’s Nothing Personal

It seems some think my exposing a contract employee with the New York State Department of Health (DOH) for not having the college degrees he says  he has is something personal on my part. Wrong. Defining my action as something personal is a well-worn way of derailing advocates in the first place. Since the facts work against you, let’s say the advocate is on some personal vendetta and, if not a personal vendetta, off their rocker.

I am not off my rocker, at least not today (smile folks, there is nearly always room for humor), but my actions regarding Timothy J. Feeney are nothing personal.  In fact, it would be interesting to learn what, specifically, makes some think it is personal.  In other words, say it out loud folks, so we can all hear. Don’t be shy.

The facts of the matter are rather straightforward. Timothy J. Feeney presents himself as Dr. Feeney or Timothy J. Feeney PhD. He is neither. By his own admission, both his masters and his doctorate were issued by the now defunct Greenwich University, not to be confused with the prestigious University of Greenwich in England. Greenwich University was a non-accredited school, a diploma mill, that operated out of California and Hawaii in the 1990s before moving to Norfolk Island off the coast of Australia in 1998. Greenwich degrees are not recognized as valid anywhere in the United States, much less planet earth. Greenwich closed its doors in 2003.

Now to the question of why should this be a concern to all New Yorkers. First and foremost, when you are receiving health care in any form, you have a right to assume those providing the care are who they say they are. Moreover, if someone is going to make his or her living off of hard-earned taxpayer dollars, taxpayers have a right to assume they are who they say they are. This is not the case when it comes to Mr. Feeney. To make matters even worse, Mr. Feeney, in an unsolicited e-mail to readers of one of my blogs, said the DOH knew all along about the source of his bogus degrees.

Mr. Feeney is nearing the end of his third five-year contract with the state’s DOH as head of the Neurobehavioral Project which is arguably the most powerful influence over the implementation of the state’s Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI) Medicaid Waiver Program, in itself, a laudable presence.  The waiver provides services to brain injury survivors living in the community. However, it is anyone’s guess how many health care providers have had their doors closed by Mr. Feeney or had their ability to admit people into their program put on hold by Mr. Feeney and his staff. Moreover, one must ask how many survivors of brain injury have been denied waiver services or discharged from waiver services under the direction of Mr. Feeney, all under the pretense that he is, in fact, Dr. Feeney or, Timothy J. Feeney, PhD. Can you imagine being the mother or father of a child with brain injury and you acquiesce to Mr. Feeney’s directives only to find out later he misrepresented himself to you?

Then, of course, we come to the question of state taxpayer dollars. Several million dollars in state tax dollars have been earmarked for Mr. Feeney and his small staff over the years. His last contract alone provided for nearly $2 million in state tax dollars for salary and expenses.

Recently I sent a letter to DOH employee Patricia Greene-Gumson who, along with DOH employee Bruce Rosen, have been the two DOH employees closest to Mr. Feeney over the years, asking her to investigate the situation and to investigate why none of Mr. Feeney’s contracts require the head of the Neurobehavioral Project to have so much as a masters degree,  a fact that would lead some to suspect the contract of being jerry-rigged.  The letter was copied to Deputy DOH Commissioner Mark Kissinger, Ms. Gumson’s supervisor, and the Inspector General.

Feeney’s contract expires this September 30th. My hope is the DOH will not make the same mistake four contracts in a row.

Here’s the thing. When you live with a brain injury, as I do, or you are the mother or father of someone with a brain injury, or the husband or wife or sister or brother of someone with a brain injury, you have a right to expect those who are there to help you to be who they say they are. Anything short of that is unacceptable.

 

The Life I’m In

Outside my window thunder and hard rain have their say. Phone calls, emails and friendship warm the morning hours and I’m living the life I’m in.

Folks I know and some I don’t helping my dream of thanking Bruce Springsteen in person come true. And me I’m moved by the kindness and grateful to be breathing the life I’m in.

Some ask, "You okay boy if the dream don’t come true?" and I just smile sayin’ the man helped me stay alive so I can dream in the life I’m in.

Suns rise and suns set and there’s always another summit I’ve never known. I’m living the gift of being on the climb, and the gift of takin’ the next step in the life I’m in.

Some dreams come true and some dreams don’t, but nothin’ needs to take away the love, light and laughter to be found by loving the life you’re in.