Author Archives: Peter Sanford Kahrmann

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About Peter Sanford Kahrmann

Writer, disability rights advocate, civil rights advocate.

Coming Out

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Reading today that CNN’s Anderson Cooper confirmed he is gay reminded me of a very special moment I shared with someone who has now been my friend for at least 30 years.

Back in 1982 or so my friend and I were New York City cabbies. We drove for the same fleet. The fleet had two garages. One in Brooklyn and one on the west side of Manhattan. West 28th Street if memory serves.

We both drove the night shift which pretty much meant you were in your cab from on or about five in the evening to five in the morning. Twelve hour shifts. Hard work. To this day the most exhausting job I’ve ever had.

I picked up my cab from the Brooklyn garage and my friend, we’ll call him Nathan for the purposes of this missive, picked up his cab from the garage on West 28th. One morning I met him at his garage after he’d dropped off his cab after a shift. I was driving my cab. A few minutes later we were driving down Seventh Avenue when Nathan said, “What would you do if I told you I was gay?” Very rarely does life offer someone the gift of being asked a question like this, the gift of letting someone you love and care about know (in this case right away) that they are safe being who they are with you, that all is well. I answered: “I’d be really glad you felt safe enough with me to tell me.” “Well,” he said. “I am.”

Now, I am a hugger. Always have been. Frankly I think the world is running short on hugs. I hug my friends, male and female. It’s who I am. Anyway, as soon as Nathan and I had this truly wonderful moment, I realized that I needed to hug him as soon as possible because I did not want him, even for a moment, to think that revealing he was gay would somehow make hugging him uncomfortable for me. So, when I parked and we got out of my cab to go into a restaurant for breakfast I told him I loved him, was damned grateful he was my friend, and gave him a hug right then and there.

So kudos to the Anderson Coopers and Nathans of the world. They make the world a better place. How do I know this? Nathan is my friend.

for N.S.

Biking for Food

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I’ve gone hungry in life and I can tell you that hunger is a harsh master.

Years ago I went through a two-year stint of homelessness. I went hungry more than once. On two occasions I received medical treatment for hunger pains. Hunger pains are brutal. I was a boy then, in my teens. I’d eat food out of garbage pails and for several days lived on Ken-L Ration Dog Food. I’ve heard people say they’d never eat dog food. Not true. You get hungry enough you’ll eat about anything that has a chance of staying down. 

Now, I am not at the moment going hungry and this is in part thanks to  local food pantries linked to the Western Massachusetts Food Bank. It recently came to my attention that there will be an event they call Will  Bike 4 Food on September 30.  They have three distances, 25 miles, 50 miles and 100 miles. At the moment I’m aiming at the 50 miles. It is the least I can do given their kindness to me and given the chilling fact that there is far too much hunger in our midst.

The need for food is intense (a fact that should not be the case in this country or any country for that matter). In this area of Western Massachusetts one out of every five children live in what they call a food insecure household, meaning 20 percent of the children here are at risk for going hungry. There are more heartbreak facts to be found at the Western Massachusetts Food Bank website.

And so it is that for the first time in the history of this blog which began in late 2006, I am asking my blog readers for money, but not for me. I am asking you to donate money to this ride at my bike ride donation page. It does not! have to be a lot at all. Especially when you consider that for every $1 raised they are able to distribute $13 worth of food. So a $5 donation means $65  in food and a $10 donation means $130 in food.

So, please, if at all possible, take a moment to go to my donation page and donate. Even if it is only one dollar! One dollar is $13 worth of food distributed. Every penny counts. And yes, I know that’s a cliché, but I also know there are real reasons it became a cliché.

From my heart to yours, thank you for your help.

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Taken 700 miles into my 1,000-mile bike ride in 2003 to raise brain injury awareness.

Marriage Equality

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I was 10 years old when, in June 1967, the United States Supreme Court stepped up to the plate and declared anti-miscegenation laws (laws the prevented interracial marriage) unconstitutional. Not surprisingly, it was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. who, on more than one occasion, said, “Races don’t fall in love and get married, individuals fall in love and get married.” The same applies to same-sex marriage. Genders don’t fall in love and get married, individuals fall in love and get married.

The often self-righteous and equally often hateful opposition to marriage equality is frequently a study in hypocrisy, given that significant components of the opposition come from religious groups who claim to live by loving tenets when, in truth, they do anything but.

As I witness the struggle for marriage equality, seven states (Vermont, New Hampshire, New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, Washington) and Washington D.C. have thus far legalized same-sex marriage, I’ve often wanted to ask those in opposition if they really believe society is overdosing on real love?

Some years ago I was close friends with two women who happen to be Lesbian and who were, and still are, deeply in love. They were together for years when I met them and they are together still and I’ve never known a couple any closer than they were and are. When I would spend time with them, I was witnessing two people who really loved one another. It is, for me, one of life’s gifts to witness a couple that is really and truly in love. The notion that somehow the love they shared and share to this day is wrong or sinful would be laughable were the carnage inflicted on the lives of same-sex couples not so horrifyingly brutal.

When I was a young boy I fell in love with the ballet and by the time I was eight I was in serious training and by the time I was 13 I was dancing a lead role with the Joffrey Ballet. I knew male ballet dancers that were gay and I knew male ballet dancers that were straight. It became quite clear to me that you either are or you aren’t. You have no more control over your sexual preferences than you do over your natural hair color. It simply is what it is.

When I moved out of New York City to Sullivan County, New York in 1987, my first new friend was a man who was gay. We’d hang out together and go out to eat together. One time we were having dinner at a local restaurant. Half way through our meal he leaned over and in a quiet voice filled with genuine concern for me, he said, “You do know that people know me here and when people see us having dinner together they’ll think you’re gay.” I immediately responded with the kind of eloquence he and all my friends over the years have come to admire in me: “I could give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks, bro.”  He nodded and looked down at his plate. His eyes had filled with tears. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to embarrass him. After all, he was my friend.

If two people love each other they should be allowed to marry. The good news is, it’s only a matter of time before marriage equality is a national truth, not a state-by-state truth.

—-

for I & N

An Update for My Readers

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Since the birth of this blog in late 2006 this has been the longest stretch of “silence” on my part. I thought it might be a good idea to bring regular blog readers (there are more than 1,500 of you) up to speed.

As some of you know already, I recently moved to Berkshire County in Western Massachusetts. I am steadfastly going through box after box of my belongings, deciding what to keep and what to toss. It is astonishing how much stuff one accumulates over the years. I work on this culling process on a daily basis and, after careful calculation, have determined that I will complete it on April 15, 2032, at 2:07 p.m.

I have several times been tempted to write about New York State Governor Andrew Cuomo’s proposed state agency that would, or so the governor says, pursue allegations of abuse of people with disabilities in the care of the state. In my view the proposal is little more than a headline grabber intended to make the governor look good – or so he hopes. It is especially troubling when the 100 or so companies that came out in support of the proposal are, for the most part, the very companies that would be overseen by the agency. Disability rights advocate Michael Carey is spot on accurate when he said the governor’s proposal was an example of the fox guarding the henhouse. Carey’s 13-year-old son, Jonathan, who lived with autism, was killed while in the care of the state.

I advocated for people with brain injuries for years in New York State and, until recently, the state never informed people with brain injuries what the results of their complaints were. This withholding of information was by design, not by happenstance, and it serves to underscore Mr. Carey’s point.

If New York or any state is sincere about tracking allegations of abuse for those under state care, they’ll make sure it is done by an independent group. The fact the proposed agency would be a state agency serves to document the insincerity of the proposal.

Here’s a suggestion. If New York State wants to get serious about protecting people with disability in its care, an independent entity like the Center for Disability Rights out of Rochester might well be the way to go.

Enough on this – for now.

I’ve been back on my bike for the first time in a long time and it feels good. I live near Mount Greylock. At nearly 3,500 feet it is the tallest peak in Massachusetts and there is a road filled with switchbacks that winds its way to the top. The climb is about six and a half miles and I have every intention of biking that before winter arrives. I also have my eyes on a bike ride of about 50 miles to help raise funds for the Western Massachusetts Food Bank.

And, of course, I am reading, voraciously as always. I do not think I would have lived as long as I have without books. I mean this sincerely. They have provided refuge for me during difficult times and vacations for me during good times.

I’ve received a emails from people lamenting the fact I was not at this years conference hosted by the Brain Injury Association of NY State. I was not invited. BIANYS leadership does not like being held accountable, at least not publicly, and certainly not by me. There are good people on the BIANYS board and I think those at the head of BIANYS are essentially good people. But they need to humble up and realize that the world, meaning, in this case, the association, does not revolve around them.

I can remember some time ago when BIANYS leadership, to its credit, had a number of us who facilitated support groups meet to discuss ways of improving and growing the support groups. Nothing came of it. In fact, when I suggested that BIANYS take a page from the Brain Injury Association of Massachusetts and run background checks on group facilitators, the idea was immediately shot down by Judy Avner, the executive director, because, she said, it would be too costly. I pointed out, to no avail, that were a group facilitator to do something truly out of line somewhere down the road, not only would group members suffer, but, when it came to light that BIANYS willfully chose not to run background checks on group facilitators, things would be far more costly.

Enough on this – for now.

Those of you who know me and know my own struggles with my brain injury and PTSD will be happy to know I am getting out of the house more than I was a few months ago. I am, like you are, a work in progress.

It has been good writing this rather rambling missive to you all. I wish I could truly tell my regular readers how very grateful I am to you, and how humbling it is for me to know you read my writing on a regular basis. To those passing by, thank you for the visit. And to all of you, I hope life is treating you well, and always, always, remember to live.

And yes, I’ll be back.

It’s never too late

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I recently ran across a wonderfully uplifting quote by Victorian writer George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans): “It’s never too late to be who you might have been.” And that, my dear reader, is very much the template (I wonder what Ms. Evans would think about this last word) for the next phase of my life.

One of the things few understand about living with a brain injury is that one’s relationship with the injury, the brain damage, is not a fixed thing. Living with a brain injury is, in a very real way, living with an influence that is in perpetual motion. This, of course, requires perpetual management of the injury. And so, for me, fatigue is more of a factor than it was, say, when I suffered my injury early one overcast summer morning in 1984. I’d been held-up and shot in the head at point blank range. I was 30. For some years following this, once I returned to work, I was able to work, 40, 50, 60 and more hours a week. But, as I said, a brain injury’s role changes. On our about 2005 or so, my ability to work regular hours came to an end.

Do not, for a moment, think I am saddened by this; I am damned glad to be alive to do anything.

The thing is, when fatigue is a factor, like it is for me, one needs to be selective about where one invests one’s energy. For me, for now, it will be invested in writing. If I am offered a speaking engagement or asked to conduct a standalone seminar or presentation of some kind, I’d be inclined to accept (depending, of course, on the issuer of the invitation). I will also keep my “foot” in the advocacy arena. But, writing will be the focus, quite possible for the rest of my life.

Why writing?

At first glance, not an easy question to answer. Perhaps the closest I can come to answering the question accurately is this: writing and books have been my constant companions for as long as I have memory. I have several boxes (this is not an exaggeration) filled with journals I’ve kept over the years. As for books, well, let me just say that I recently donated something in the neighborhood of 15 boxes of books to the Salvation Army leaving me with something along the lines of 45 boxes that are waiting for me to unpack them.

Now that I think of it, the answer to Why writing? is actually simple and obvious: I can always go there. So it is with books. They always give me a place to go.

My life has taught me something about loss. The unbiased hand of death plucks people from our midst, often without warning and, equally often, without any damned good reason I can think of.

And then, of course, life too happens to each of us whether we like it or not. I was not planning on getting shot and living with a brain injury. I was not planning on experiencing homelessness when I was in my teens and I know damned well I wasn’t planning on enduring the suicide of my mother and, perhaps the most savage blow of all, I was not planning on my father dying when I was 15. Hell, when I was 15 I was dancing a principal role with the Joffrey Ballet and was expected by the ballet world to have a stellar career as a dancer. But, my father died and 16 weeks later my mother placed me in reform school and all that had been came to a crashing end, including my life with a family. But! I could always write what I was thinking and feeling and I could always find a book to read. Because of them I always had a place to go.

And I would not be denied.

When I was homeless, or lived on the streets as we called it then, I became dazzlingly skilled at stealing paperback books off the rotating wire racks in pharmacies; not an easy task when one considers that one feature factored into the design of each and every one of those wire racks was that they emit a loud squeak when turned. I could tell you I’m sorry  I stole all those books but this has been an honest essay and I see no reason to change that.

Anyway, this is enough for now. I have to go somewhere (this is where you smile).