Author Archives: Peter Sanford Kahrmann

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About Peter Sanford Kahrmann

Writer, disability rights advocate, civil rights advocate.

The Kahrmann Advocacy Center

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Some say its been a long time coming, but I’ve decided to form a not-for-profit company called The Kahrmann Advocacy Center.

There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is my ever-increasing awareness that grievance and complaint policies available to citizens are, in far too many cases, not worth the paper they are written on. There are some  instances where filing a grievance is tantamount to writing your concern on a piece of paper and then throwing it off a cliff. You’ll never hear from it or about it again.

Not acceptable.

All of us have a right to be who we are safely, with equality, in the world we live in. What I am talking about here is, in a word, freedom. The freedom to be who you are.

While the Kahrmann Advocacy Center may find its initial traction in the world of brain injury and the world of disability, its scope must, in the end, be universal. My dream is to see the center advocate for all those who find their rights infringed on. This includes, but is not limited to, Blacks, Latinos, Asians, Gays, Lesbians, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, people with disabilities, Veterans, and so forth.

In a recent speech I spoke about the importance of equal rights: “These rights – your rights – will die on the vine of hope if they are not given the water of respect and the sunlight of dignity.”

I’m hoping the Kahrmann Advocacy Center will bring a little water and sunlight to the world.

The Days You Never Met

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When the clock struck 1:44 p.m. on March 28 this year, I entered the first minute you never met. Now I am living the days you never met, forging the unbroken trail. Not knowing what’s around the bend on the road you never traveled.



I love you Dad heart and soul, my whole wide world and then some. I know, really know, I would not be alive today were it not for you. I would never have gotten back to my feet after being shot in the head at point blank range were you not present in that moment with me. Right there with me you were.



You left this world at 1:43 p.m. on August 16, 1969. You were only 55. If you count the number of days from your birthday on February 20 to August 16, and then count the same number of days from my birthday on October 2, you arrive on March 28.

And so here I am Dad, meeting the days you never met, living them for both of us. Life is what it is but for the most part it’s pretty good. I have a friend Michael Sulsona who has become my brother Michael Sulsona. You would’ve liked him and I know he would’ve liked you. While he lost his legs in Vietnam, he’s the tallest person I know.



I miss you. I remember your smell, the scent of you in your flannel shirts, the twinkle of kind love in your eyes, and in time we will meet again. If we don’t then there is no justice and I just can’t believe it’s all that unfair.



Happy father’s day, Daddy. I love you my whole wide world.

Maceo and the Angel – Part III

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Maceo in the woods moving, powered legs striding, inhaling earth sounds, birds singing, the dancing clickity clack of branches, the leaves whisper their mingling.

The angel, now just Angel, nearby watching, invisible to Maceo, but watching. Thinking, You go my son – I am Daddy here watching your churning movement. Have at it, my boy. You’re breaking free, breaking free. One powered stride at a time. In time, in time.

Maceo breaking a hill thinking, Rockabye Baby, bye-bye. Where were you flying on the wings of your myth? Your dying breath lives in your words only, killing quick those who love you. Rockabye Baby, bye-bye.

Angel nodding, invisible still, the son’s heart-powered legs driving him up hill now, relentless, tenacious, sweat pouring, comfort coming. Angel thinking, Keep going, my son. You’re on your way. Smiling now, his son’s chin lifting, his fierce chocolate dark eyes burning their own trails.

Maceo remembering the dishonest dance, out loud saying, Your wet inner thighs, powerful shit in your world, when you don’t have much else. One trick pony, riding the back of your fantasy.

Angel, now seen, waiting at the crest of the hill. The son seeing his father. Maceo blurting, Dad!, then to stillness, embrace, tears. Angel saying, All is well, my son. All is well. You can let go now – and forgive all their all – and keep on loving.

Words From My Mother

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The handwritten date on top of the faded page read, “Wednesday 1-8-87”, the day my birth-mother and I were reunited after 33 years apart. The handwriting is hers. I have stumbled on six pages of a journal she kept starting that extraordinary January day.

Her very first line collapses me into tears. “Received a phone call that made my life complete tonight.” The phone call she is referring to is the one I made to her from the lobby of the Stamford Motor Inn in Connecticut, no more than five miles from her house. It was our first contact in the world after we were parted by life when I was seven days old.

The phone call was a culmination of a search that had begun only months earlier on October 2, 1986, my 33rd birthday. One of my closest friends in the world, then and now, Dane, was with me. Dane was the perfect companion on this day because he too was adopted.

My mother first thought I was calling to give her bad news about a family member, but then, as she writes, “He said I was born October 2 in the French Hospital in New York. I said, Oh my God, my son Paul – then, please don’t hate me. He said, I don’t hate you Mom. After that it’s a blur. Found out he was just down the street at the (Stamford) Motor Inn….I said I’d be there in 20 minutes. I believe I was there in 10 minutes. Changed my clothes, told my daughter Erin what was going on (I did during the phone conversation), couldn’t find my keys, my glasses… During the phone conversation when I said I’d be there in 20 minutes, Peter (his name is Peter, not Paul) started to tell me what he would be wearing. I said, I’ll know who you are. Also when we were on the phone he said, I’m 33 years old now. I said, I know THAT. I was shaking and don’t really know how I drove the car to meet him.”

“When I got the the Motor Inn he got out of his van and walked towards me, he reminded me of my brother. We hugged and hugged and he said, “Hello Mom, we made it.” I really only heard Mom. “

To read these words for the first time, more than eight years after her death in December 2001, I am reminded to my core how close to two of us became and how close, in a very real way, we always were.

Of all the challenges I’ve ever taken on in my life, searching for and finding my mother, Leona Patricia Clark, is the one I am most proud of and most grateful for. A few pages in she calls me her “personal eighth wonder of the world.” She is certainly mine.

Maceo and the Angel – Part II

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Maceo, not realizing he was echoing Angel Paul’s thoughts, thinking, You gotta wake up, brother. There’s dreams and then there’s reality and sometimes sittin’ waitin’ for the first to be the second will wear your ass right out, or get you killed.

In a smoke filled room an hour later, tossing back coffee, rain striking at the window, a thousand tapping fingers, Angel Paul watching from the corner, proving angels cry too, the loss of Maceo’s dream not on him yet, at least not the all of it. In time, in time.

Maceo’s forehead against the cool glass now, tapping, love found, love lost, there had to be a point in it, somewhere anyway. A flicker of yellow lifts his eyes, a goldfinch finds the feeder, brilliant yellow, a beam of hope. A smile hints on Maceo’s face. Angel Paul thinking, In time, in time.

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to be cont’d