Author Archives: Peter Sanford Kahrmann

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About Peter Sanford Kahrmann

Writer, disability rights advocate, civil rights advocate.

SARAH PALIN: A MOOSE SHOOTIN’ BULLSHITTIN’ (FILL IN THE BLANK)

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Sarah Palin. There, I said it. I had hoped to get through this election without writing her name. While this is not a poison pen letter, I do think writing her name runs the risk of poisoning the finest of pens.

But, Sarah Palin? Are you kidding me? Her response to a bi-partisan report that concluded she had broken her state’s ethics laws was to say the report cleared her of, brace yourself, any “ethical wrong doing.” Reminds me of the Richard Pryor line: “You gonna believe me or your lying eyes?”

Listen, Sarah, if you’re gonna bullshit us, put some effort into it. Live on the edge; why not throw caution to the wind and use both digits of your IQ. Common, you can do it. No? We may not all be going to Mensa meetings anytime soon but the kind of dishonest and disingenuous garbage you’re spewing has no place in American political life, now – or ever.

However, we are in the now and now is a dangerous time for my country. The economy, our reputation around the world and our infrastructure is in shambles. Our ability to trust our elected leaders, always tenuous at best, is now nearly non-existent. We have a president and vice-president that aspired to be and came close to being our American Dictators. They should be charged as war criminals and jailed as far as I’m concerned. As a rule, dictators rule by fear. And there’s Moose Shootin’ Palin out there firing up crowds to the point they are yelling “Kill him!” about Obama.

We don’t need this or deserve this in my country. Thousands upon thousands of American men and women have lost their lives, their limbs, and their sense of safety in the world so the United States could be the United States.

As for Senator John McCain, let me be maybe the first to say it. While he was, without question, courageous beyond description in Vietnam and during years as a POW, he is a political wimp – a coward. He has abandoned all that in his heart he probably still believes in to win the election and placate his dysfunctional party leaders. That’s cowardice, bro.

As for Ms. Palin, go back to Alaska and chill out. Hey, it’s Alaska. It should be easy.
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WE OUGHT TO JAIL FEAR

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I live in fear every day. Some days more than others. Like the London fog, it rarely leaves. And when it does leave, it hasn’t gone far. Fear can be crippling. It is a master thief. It robs us of more than we realize.

An extraordinary song by Marc Cohn, an e-mail exchange with a loved one, and a recent discussion with a group of trauma survivors has me pondering the presence of fear in far too many lives. Like the song, “One Safe Place,” by Mr. Cohn reminds us, we all deserve a sanctuary.

Life happens to us whether we like it or not. Life, unlike people, knows no bigotry. It visits all of us. It brings us its greatest rewards if we stay open to them: the love of a fellow human being, the joy of loving another human being, the sweetness of a soft morning mist, a baby’s laughter, a piece of music that sends chills of joy riding up and down our spine and wets our eyes. Life brings fear too. There is a Life Growth phrase that says, It’s okay to be afraid, don’t let is scare you. The phrase seeks to help someone discover they have a relationship with the fear and thus have some say in the relationship. The idea is to wrest as much decision making power from the fear as possible by going towards and through the fear. Believe me, I am not always able to do it. But when I do, the results are not as horrifying as I thought they would be.

Not long after I was shot in the head in 1984 I was held up again at gunpoint and did what any sane person would do, I retreated into my home and did not leave it for nearly one year. Fear had me by the throat. It robbed me of participation in the world around me. How did I get free of it, at least to the point I could leave my home? Acceptance. Acceptance does not, I repeat, does not mean giving in to it. The equation goes like this; you have to accept it in order to manage it and you have to manage it in order to get free of it. You have to go through it.

We can be a spoiled lot at times. We want short cuts. Smokers want to defeat the cigarrette habit with a patch, hypnosis, nicotine gum, or accupuncture (I’ve always thought there should inaccupuncture too. Fairness, you know). In other words, they want to kick the habit without going through the experience of, well, kicking the habit (bet you didn’t see that coming).

There are some common sources of fear: violence, disease, death, loss of employment, end of relationship, of marriage, and so forth. But there are other fear-laden landscapes where the master thief robs more from our lives: fear of loving someone fully and allowing someone to love you. Fear of following your dreams: going back to school, picking up some paints because you’ve always wanted to paint, learning how to play an instrument because you think you’re too old or lack talent, and so forth.

We ought to jail fear every chance we get. The only way to jail it is to move through it. Will it be easy? No.

Hear me. You go through the fear and you will come out the other side. You will notice that you made it. You’re still breathing. It didn’t kill you (that’s what we think it wants to do, isn’t it?). You are alive and face to face a new kind of glory – you. Each time you go through the fear you erase more and more of its ability to control you and rob you of your dreams in life. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll paint that painting, play that instrument, love that person and let that person love you. Impossibilities become possibilities. And one of the last things in the world that deserves to rob you of your dreams and your possibilities is fear.

Remember, it’s okay to be afraid, don’t let it scare you. Remember to live.
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A SAFE PLACE FROM MARC COHN

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Music leads us many places. Some expected, some not. I was recently watching “House,” a well done television drama about a doctor with the people skills of a bruise and genius level diagnostic skills. The show has some superb music from time to time and I heard a song I’d never heard before called, “One Safe Place.” The show vanished and the song took me over. And soon I was in tears knowing how each of us wants – and deserves – a safe place in life.

I went to the computer to learn what album the song is on and in my research learned that Mr. Cohn was shot in the head in 2005. I also learned he is married to 20/20s Elizabeth Vargas. I wrote them a letter.

As I look at the world around me these days I see too many who know firsthand the non-bigoted blast of trauma. I see too many who think themselves immune to the trauma of life and others who are so steeped in the poison tea of arrogance they believe themselves capable of handling anything with relative ease. I see too many who make money by pretending to care about the badly wounded and less fortunate among us, when the truth is they don’t care at all. None of this surprises me anymore. It is easy to hate in response to all this, but finding a safe place in life means finding a place that is not just safe physically, but a place that is safe emotionally and spiritually safe as well. Hatred never really hurt anyone as much as it hurst the person carrying the burden of hatred. Carrying the burden of hatred guarantees no safe place in your heart and soul. This I know.

And so, while this has been a rambling piece of writing…it is sincere and honest. Don’t forget to live, remember each of you deserves a safe place in life…on all fronts. And, if you want to hear Marc Cohn sing “One Safe Place”, you can visit the link below. You deserve it. And it’s safe.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORHqIBit1JQ

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STOKES FOREST JOURNAL: EXCERPT #3

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Note to reader: Some of us who live with a brain injury are sound sensitive. I am. And when I am tired, my sound sensitivity increases. This should explain the first sentence in this journal excerpt.

Sept. 29 – 10:24 p.m.

There is a cricket right by the window making so much noise I’d like to blow his fucking head off.

Midnight

I started to go to sleep and then I heard branches breaking outside and grew suspicious and frightened. Everything is okay.

It dawned on me earlier this evening that other than hotels, where I am surrounded by people, this is the first time I have spent the night completely alone (since I was shot). Always, if not people, my dogs (have been with me). It makes sense that this night would be in a place powerfully linked to my father. Once again he is helping me reach a summit. In a very real way he is giving me a present for my 55th birthday.

Sept. 30, 2008 1:05 a.m.

Having a hard time sleeping. Now there’s a surprise. It’s cool enough to start a fire now but I don’t think I will. I think there is a cricket in the cabin and if I had a shotgun I’d point it in the direction of the sound and fire away. Leave it to me to get pissed off at a cricket.

7:33 a.m.

The lake is covered by a mist and again my Dad’s “voice” helped me. I wanted to listen to Imus a bit to see what was on the news and hear some humor but of course I got on my back (thinking), Silent retreat, Peter. Silent retreat, you must go through with this. Then, my Dad saying, Pete, listen to the news. Do what you want. Listen to Imus. It’s okay.

There are beautiful sounds outside as the world continues to wake up. I am living in a fairy tale.

Oct. 1, 2008 6:55 p.m.

And so here we are, Dad. The home stretch (to my 55th birthday on October 2). In a way it is like waiting for a child to be born. He is due just past midnight. He’ll be a burly little fellow, delightfully animated, and filled with an ample supply of piss and vinegar. He’s gonna need it. We will be his guardian angels you and I. His guardian angels. I will watch out for him from here, you’ll watch out for him from there.

I love you Dad with so much of my heart you are my heart. Maybe it is this very heart that will be freedom born just past midnight. This time he will enter world a mighty heart. He will be seasoned, finely tuned, prescient, and keep of his own blood flow. We will watch him carefully as we loose him on the world. He will not have as much time as you and I had at 55 – but perhaps between us we can guard his freedom to be. If he can be the mighty heart he is, it will be redemption for the two of us. Then, finally, we can rest in peace knowing we have squared the deal.

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STOKES FOREST JOURNAL: EXCERPT #2

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Sept.29. – evening

I believe this will be a good place for me to rest. Someone I love very much introduced me to Buddhism. The idea of learning to be present in the now, be in the quiet, is both scary and delicious to me. I remember when I would go camping I would just sleep peacefully for much of the day in the woods. Sometimes on day hikes, I would (and do) lay down somewhere warm off the trail and go to sleep. Something embraces me when I am in nature.

Later

I can hear (my father’s) voice at times in my heart. My stomach got a little queasy a short while ago after taking my meds. Usually I will have a piece of bread or an English muffing, something to absorb whatever troubles my stomach. All I have here is a Danish ring I’m saving for birthday morning. But I can hear Dad saying, “Pete, have a piece. It’s okay.” And I did and I feel a little better, which is what he would want – though he would want me to feel all better.

This is a beautiful night. And I am sleeping in the lower bunk! I don’t have a fire going. It’s not cold enough. Okay by me. I’m happy just to be here.

8:07 p.m.

Damned if I don’t get WBGO (a jazz station) here. Nice jazz for the background. Not bad. Just read some of Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”. The man wrote a universe.

8:52 p.m.

My pen grows still when I think about how to write my love for my father. No words on earth can ever come close. I could say to a passerby, Look at me! Do you see? I am feeling all my love for my father. Don’t you see me glowing? You must!

Were there a just God he would let him come back to me, even if just for my time here (at Stokes). Why would that be so bad? I would promise not to tell. What is the point of death? What purpose does it serve? I suppose the answer is to make way for the new. Yes, we would run out of room eventually if no one died. But if there is an afterlife, if there is an existence beyond this one, why can’t there be communication, contact between those on both sides of the border?

Am I expected to be satisfied that my father helped me get up off the ground (after being shot) and without him in that moment, I would have died? I am not satisfied. I am deeply grateful, but I am not at all satisfied. I want to sit and talk with him. I want to hug him while he is wearing one of his flannel shirts. While I can’t describe it, I can remember his smell. His was the smell of love and safety – the scent itself cannot be expressed in words. What the hell would be the harm in giving us a little more time together? Time for us to go for a walk. I could talk to him about how things are going – and thank him for all he has done for me before and after his death. I don’t know what God’s game plan is, but I don’t like it one bit.
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