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About Peter Sanford Kahrmann

Writer, disability rights advocate, civil rights advocate.

Don’t Forget to Say I Love You

Many hearts long to hear the words I love you and many hearts struggle to say themWhen these three life-giving words remain unheard and unspoken, the suffering and destruction cannot be measured.

Those raised not hearing these words often struggle to say them. Some say actions speak louder than words. More often than not this is true, but not in this case. Now when it comes to saying I love you.  The notion that people should know we love them misguided and it is not the point. There is something deep in our child hearts that hungers and deserves to hear these words.

My last conversation with my mother Virginia took place on the phone three days before she committed suicide. She had said she was going to commit suicide. The last words I said to my mother were, I love you, Mommy. The last words she said to her son were, Thank you, Peter. When I hung up the phone I crumpled to my hands and knees and sobbed. I sobbed because I didn’t know if I was going to be able to save her life (I couldn’t!) and she couldn’t say, I love you.

I inflict zero judgment on those who struggle to say these words. More than likely the people who were and are deeply precious and important in their lives never said I love you to them. Somehow, some way, this pattern needs to be destroyed. And for those of you who have not heard the words I love you from people in your lives, please don’t give up – and don’t forget to say, I love you.

Summiting the Sacred Days of August

The three sacred days of August for me are the 12th, 16th and 24th.

The 12th marks 17 years since my mother, Virginia, ended her life. The 24th marks 25 years since I was held-up and shot in the head. The 16th marks the 40th anniversary of the biggest hit I’ve ever taken in life, the death of my father at age 55. I was 15.

Now, if you think this essay is steeped in sadness and heartbreak, then you don’t know me. It’s not. The sacred days of August are days I plan honor. They are days etched in pristine unblemished memories. They are days I intend to celebrate in an uplifting way.

On the 12th I will celebrate and honor my mother’s  life; on the 24th I will celebrate  the blessing of keeping my life; on the 16th, I will celebrate the greatest gift life has ever given me: my father.  While my father left the world far too soon, his presence in my life has kept me going during some of the darkest times and allowed me to share some of the best of times with him.

And how, you may be wondering, will I celebrate these days? I plan to climb a Catskill Mountain on each of these days and, as my custom has it, leave a twig on the summit. A twig you ask? Yes, a twig.

Some years back I was visiting my father’s grave in New Jersey. It was more than 20 years after his death. It dawned on me that by this time his body had begun to decompose and so had become part of the soil.Realizing this it dawned on me that his body was now part of the soil that was feeding the oak tree the grew right next to his grave which meant that my father was present in this beautiful tree!  Trees shed small branches from time to time. And so I gathered some up to take with me. By having these twigs with me, my heart knows I have part of my father with me.

And so, when I reach the summit of the mountain on these three days, I will leave one of the twigs there.  My father deserves to reach the summit. After all, he is now, always and forever the summit of my life.

Charles Dickens & Disability Rights

I have come to believe disability is in the eyes of the beholder. In fact, the inability or unwillingness to grant someone their humanity because of a challenge they face on the physical or cognitive front is the biggest disability of all; it is the very disability that denies people their freedom.

For some time now I have wondered how best to reveal the dehumanizing treatment people with so-called disabilities often endure. I say so-called because those who do not see the humanity of others are the most disabled of us all.

I have both seen and heard so many examples of dehumanizing and humiliating treatment it’s hard to know where to begin. I know of one instance where a director of a brain injury program in my state told the wife of a brain injury survivor, who was sitting right there listening to this, that a formal funeral needed to be conducted for him because he no longer existed and that his wife needed to allow this program director and his team to recreate him. The director added that it would be a good idea for her husband to attend.

I know of another program where a workshop facilitator with the compassion level of Mussolini locks the doors to the room when a workshop begins and berates those who may need to use the bathroom for not having gone before the workshop. Moreover, he denies people admittance to the workshop if they are late. I have personally heard this “Mussolini” in action, bellowing down a public hallway to survivors, “Okay now, let’s get moving, workshop time. Lets get moving, kids!” Keep in mind he was talking to about four or five adults, one of whom was a squad leader during the Vietnam War. When “Mussolini’s” behavior was brought to the attention of the little dandy of a company owner, he said something to the effect of, Oh my, that just can’t be possible. I’ll look into it, which means, of course, that he won’t do anything of the sort.

So, my point is, it is easy to give you examples that will, if there is a heart beating in your breast, break your heart and turn your stomach.

But it was a sentence from an extraordinary two volume biography of Charles Dickens by Edgar Johnson that opened my eyes to what may be the best way of telling this story. Dickens himself lived a brutally rough childhood. His family was sent to debtors prison and Dickens, his hopes of becoming an educated gentlemen being, in his youthful mind, forever lost, found himself working in a blacking factory. All his life Dickens wrote with a keen awareness of the brutal circumstances faced by the poor and the punitive way they were treated by society. It is still true in too many instances in my country and it is certainly true in the way people with so-called disabilities are treated.

But Dickens understood that revealing harsh realities by merely telling of the horror was not the most effective approach. Instead, Johnson writes, “it was Dickens’s aim not to turn the stomach but move the heart.” And so we have Oliver Twist and David Copperfield and many others who move our hearts.

And so I have determined, that here in this blog, and in a book that is beginning to make its way onto the page, I will try to move the heart. Yes, like Dickens, I will reveal the horror of things as I have done a bit in this essay. But, when the horror of a behavior is linked to a human being you care about, the “Mussolini’s” of the world are more likely to be overthrown, which is as it should be.

Rhythm on the Half Shell

I’m thinking lips sweet brushing lips, sweet tasting lady on the soft curve.

I’m thinking movement rocks and movement rolls, thinking soft skin-to-skin embrace, woven limbs on wet terrain.

Ain’t nothing so fine as rhythm on the half shell.

I’m thinking mornings magic curves uncovered by the pulsing pulsing breeze.

I’m thinking melting into soft churning blend on beautiful hair swept face.

Ain’t nothing so sweet as rhythm on the half shell.

Walk Proud

Lifetimes come and lifetimes go and too many stride through their time not  saying  what they feel and what they know. Sometimes histories win and sometimes histories lose, sometimes they stalk the night and steal dreams we’re meant to use. 

Jokers fake hymns and feign allegiance leaving  backstreet memories scattered with bones and dust and sad-eyed people living  with eyes closed and ears tucked in.

Take your life by the hand and walk proud into your lifetime.