As the New Year approaches, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. I have not been dwelling on the customary resolutions, however—the ones that I have little likelihood of accomplishing and which wouldn’t matter even if I did. Rather, I’ve been thinking about my future and the world’s future; about the inevitability at some point of my death, and the mounting possibility of the planet’s needless death. I’m fifty-seven and soon to be fifty-eight. I’m taking into account the statistical realities. As far as I go, my death has been inevitable since the moment I was born. The same cannot be said of the planet. As far as the world goes, it’s hard for anyone to argue that its current plight does not require urgent consideration.

To some such contemplation might seem morbid, especially on a holiday dedicated to making a ruckus and engaging in public intoxication. The unofficial anthem for all of this is, after all, a song that urges us to forget whatever has felt disagreeable—“May old acquaintance be forgot….” Etc. Actually, what everybody sings when that big ball drops in Times Square is a bastardization of Auld Lang Syne, whose original lyrics were composed by the Scottish poet, Robert Burns. In Burns’s version, the words are written as rhetorical questions that imply we should not to forget:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days of auld lang syne?

“Auld Lang Syne,” incidentally, translates roughly as "old times” or “times past,” especially those remembered with affection or nostalgia. Leave it to progress to modernize the syntax just enough to completely alter the meaning. All that was required was changing one word and dropping a punctuation mark:

“May old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind…”

I am more personally inclined to recognize the symbolic importance of this day by heeding a different admonition, one that everyone has also heard—He who ignores the past is doomed to repeat it.

It has been three-and-a-half years now since I lost my son to Parental Alienation Syndrome during a bitter late-life divorce. It’s been two years since I became actively involved in the Men’s Movement. Many people have been in this struggle much longer than I have and possess a wisdom that I definitely lack. Still, I believe that I do have a certain perspective at this point. In particular, I have come to believe that the goals of this movement may require longer to realize than many of us had originally thought. I think it is important to acknowledge this lest some people become prematurely disheartened. We must all try to stick with this long enough to permit the miracle to happen. There are no guarantees of this, of course, but I believe that our goals will be accomplished if we summon the needed stamina and do not fade away in discouragement. 

I have written columns in Men’s News Daily for two years now, often using my own story as an example of what can happen to men during a divorce these days. What happened to me can happen to anyone. It does happen, in fact, to thousands of men around the world every day.

As a writer, I made the decision two years ago to speak with a voice that is personal and that comes from my heart. Many voices and styles are needed, obviously, but it does seem to me that people have grown weary of benumbing statistics, angry invective, and trumped up assertions. I felt that by telling just one story, my own, I might be able to reach some people.

The decision has sometimes led to periods of apprehension and doubt. I have felt defenseless and vulnerable. You never know who will read you on the Net or what his reaction might be. The ENTER key has started to glow red on my touch pad. I know what happens in a nanosecond after I depress it. Sometimes I wonder if I have just plain been a fool. Also, it can be painful to write these essays since they force me to recall a period of immense suffering. Often I would just as soon not…May old divorces be forgot…

Above all, I have had grave concerns about the risk that my disclosures could pose for my son. On the one hand, I feel strongly that the terrible injustice done to me threatens millions of people, and thus I feel obliged to do whatever I can to heighten awareness. On the other hand, I have also wanted to protect my son’s privacy as much as possible. The last thing he needs after all he has been forced to endure is unwanted public notoriety and the widespread exposure of facts he would prefer to keep to himself. It’s been three-and-a-half years since I’ve seen him and I’m in no position to know how he might feel. I do my best to act from love and make educated guesses. It’s a difficult line to walk, all the same, and sometimes I fear that I could have made a mistake. Still, on balance, I’m glad that I went ahead with my idea. I think that I have made a modest contribution. I do not overestimate it, but I feel that I have done my share and I’m grateful that I could.

Another conclusion that I’ve come to is that I have not introspected as much as I should have during these last three-and-a-half years. I’ve failed to take a sufficiently long and hard look at my own contribution to the losses I have endured. Please understand me clearly: The horrific injustices that are being inflicted upon men at this time in history constitute a calamity of incalculable gravity and importance. I feel so strongly about this that I have dedicated a significant portion of my life to doing what I can..

At the same time, as my life has gone on I’ve grown aware of serious personal failings that are mine alone and that I alone must face. I began to contemplate this seriously when I saw myself repeating certain destructive patterns with my present wife that were identical to those that I had displayed in the past.

As I was forced to look at certain defects in myself, I was ultimately compelled to admit to myself that I could not solely blame my ex-wife for every misfortune that had befallen me. I had had a role in what went wrong, too. I also concluded that I could not blame women in any generic sense and I have fought hard to avoid falling into this trap. As much as I detest the divorce industry, along with some feminist extremists and the legal system itself, I concluded personally that I could not solely blame these elements for my misfortunes.

Instead, while I continue to fight back against these factions and the horrifying destruction that they are causing around the globe, I have also set out to look long and hard at the hatred and fear I have bottled up inside myself for decades.  I have been compelled to recognize that, to this day, I have continued to hurt friends who do care about me, friends of both genders, and that it would be a cop-out just to blame the current system and let it go at that. Ultimately, as humiliating as the experience was, I came to see how I myself had acted at points in a manner that had also hurt my ex-wife. At the risk of being literal, I hasten to add that I never hurt her physically or psychologically in any manner that is remotely punishable by law. I just dismissed her from serious consideration for a couple of decades. The allegations that she brought against me were completely specious. But we all know that there are infinite ways to hurt someone and I was guilty of some of these.

Finally, there is the matter of my son. I was a very good father and my son and I were exceedingly close. The way he was exploited by my ex-wife from motives of greed and vengefulness against me is unconscionable. The manner in which certain feminists, disguised as Victim’s Assistance Advocates, crawled out from under their rocks to egg her on is morally indefensible. And the eagerness of the entire legal system to destroy both my son and me simply for profit was so extreme that I have concluded the system is completely beyond repair. It must be abolished and we must start over.

What I am adding to this, however, is the realization that I also let people down. I let my son down at points in a manner that was very serious. I have concluded that while I have every reason to fight a system this vile, and so replete with corruption, I also need to continue looking in the mirror.

I can only speak with certainty about myself. But I suspect that many of us bear within ourselves a cleverly camouflaged heart of darkness. It is one that belongs solely to us. Don’t get me wrong. The mistreatment that virtually all of us have experienced in the courts is unacceptable in any country that would claim to be a democracy. It must be fought back against and ultimately it must be completely abolished. Some individuals who have profited from this cruel industry must be directly exposed, sanctioned, and lawfully punished.

Likewise, the openly murderous agendas of some feminist hate groups must be exposed and the individuals involved should be publicly revealed and lawfully punished. If we do not do this, then we are inviting another Nazi Germany; another Stalinist Russia; another Uganda under Idi Amin; another Iraq controlled by the Baath Party and Saddam Hussein. Of this I feel there can be no doubt.

But who will ultimately bring the miscreants to justice? With what wisdom, maturity, and compassion will they temper punishment with mercy when the time comes? The problems that feminism has wrought, and probably socialism before it, are now so deeply entrenched in our culture that it may require a full scale revolution to eradicate them. But if the time comes hopefully when we can put a stop to this madness, our whole society will be in a state of shock, grief, and uncertainty about the future.

Who will stabilize the situation and dispense justice? Who will implement reform but also provide reassurance and wisdom when it is desperately needed? I would presume that such people will come from our own ranks, or if not us then those who come after us, and I think it will be critical that we ourselves are up to the task. Our own houses will have to be in order.

One problem with politics is that it offers an almost irresistible temptation to blame others and wiggle out of feeling culpable ourselves. It can be mighty tempting sometimes to overlook our own deficiencies. In politics, blaming the other side is what it’s all about. Pointing a finger at the other guy is the name of the game. [1] [1] Many politically involved people spend the remainder of their lives wagging a finger at everyone else and never once noticing that three others have been pointing back at them the entire time.

I would strongly advise against succumbing to this temptation.

Out of my musings has come a new curiosity about, and respect for, the men who came before me. Long before feminism existed, and before the men’s movement existed, men were viewed according to certain deeply ingrained and only partially conscious ancient archetypes.

There are a number of them. One is the archetype that I refer to as The Shiftless Man. He is a person who, everyone agrees, glides through life getting by “on a shoeshine and a smile.” He’s a loner, a drifter. He has a shrouded past. He never stays in one place very long. He prefers to keep his own company. He’s too restless to settle down.

Maybe you’ll find him to as a hobo riding the rails. Or perhaps you’ll see him somewhere in the seedy section of your own downtown, somewhere close to a street that will be called “Broadway,” “State Street,” or “Main Street” He’ll be the one you spot smoking a cigarette in the shadows of the archway of some cheap hotel.

Or maybe he’ll appear as the handyman who showed up in your neighborhood a few months ago. He had dancing blue eyes, a pleasant smile, and an easy manner. He fixed all the washers on your faucets and did a good job at a fair price. Then one day, he asked you for a hundred dollars to go to the hardware store so he could get the pipes he needed to fix a leak in the ceiling. That was the last you ever saw of him.

Other possibilities come to mind. Maybe he’s the no good drunkard that left your classmate, Tommy, so devastated when you both were in the first grade. The bastard just upped and walked out on the poor child’s mother. Left them stranded without a dime…Not even a note on the kitchen table…I’ve heard the woman is an absolute saint…

The Shiftless Man drinks, but his alcohol abuse has a characteristic pattern. He tends to drink in spurts. He’s rarely a maintenance alcoholic. When he does drink, though, you’d better keep your distance. Ordinarily he’s laid back and affable, almost transparent interpersonally. But once he gets drunk, all bets are off. He gambles, curses, and fights.

Drunk or sober, he appears to have few interests. He avoids responsibility and intimacy. He does only what is necessary to get by…

You get the idea. The stereotypes may vary in their details, but the image is familiar to all of us.  The Shiftless Man was marginalized centuries before sociologists invented the term. He is a mythical figure found in every society and he’s existed since at least the middle Ages.

What the men’s movement contends with today is a well-delineated political struggle. Long before our present strife, however, there existed someone called The Shiftless Man. He is a ghost now, all but forgotten and condemned to the shadows. I have given him a name so that he won’t be forgotten. I have written a poem about him so that he will not be condemned. I have written it in his honor.

The Shiftless Man, you see, is my ancestor. Perhaps he is your ancestor as well. I believe that in many cases he was not the glib psychopath he has long been depicted as. I think he was you and me—a lot of us—back at a time in history when there was no legal system, corrupt or otherwise, that dealt with disintegrating families. There were no lawyers, arbitrators, feminists, Victim’s Assistance Advocates, men’s movement, or Fathers for Equal Rights. There were no psychologists, social workers, guardians ad litem, or probation officers.

And yet, for all of that, there was discrimination and deeply entrenched prejudice. Let’s face it: families have been falling apart for as long as families have existed, and with terrible consequences. The one who has traditionally shouldered the blame has always been The Shiftless Man.

Men have lost connections to their children for centuries. And they have suffered for centuries. It’s just that back then there were no advocacy groups. There was not a shred of societal recognition or even personal recognition.

Imagine what that must have been like. Each such individual lived and died in isolation. I suspect that he was all but invisible, not simply to others but to himself. He was not just marginalized; he was erased.

Today, this essay is a logical place to end Part I. Below, I conclude with Part II. It isn’t an essay, actually, as I just alluded. It’s a poem set in 1963, shortly before Kennedy’s death and long before our current era of suffering and bitter strife began. To be truthful, I cannot say with complete certainty why the material began as an essay and ended as a poem. But I’ll give you my best guess: The poem is an elegy and a tribute to the countless generations of men who came before us. I think I wound up writing it as I did because I thought a poem conveyed respect. The men I speak of are not simply dead. They are, as the saying goes, also long-forgotten. I think this is wrong.

I believe that it is time to honor our ancestors and Part II of this piece will attempt to pay tribute to a particular kind of man who came before us—The Shiftless Man.  I think his day is overdue. And yet, old bones are fragile. It seemed more respectful to put aside the trowel and turn instead to tweezers and a fine brush. Hence, the shift in literary form.

The poem tomorrow, as well as this essay today, are dedicated to each and every one of you. To you and your father; and your father’s father; and all the other fathers down through the centuries. I believe that we all descend from a noble lineage—one that too often is remembered, if it is remembered at all, with a haughty sniff, or overt ridicule.

I’m proud of my roots. I don’t like it when people dismiss and denigrate my ancestors anymore than I like it when they dismiss and denigrate me. In New Year’s Day, 1963 (below), I present my personal tribute to a sad and lonely man who was doomed to regard himself with the same cruel opinion that the high and mighty reserved for him. It was wrong. I feel compelled to set it right.

God speed to all of you. And Happy New Year! Let’s make a roar in 2004!

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Part II

NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1963

I’m crossing Howe Street and Hastings

When this bum decides to amble over.

It’s seven in the morning

And a frozen drizzle trickles down,

Fogging up my glasses but good.

It feels like tiny needles

Tingling upon my face.

We’re the only two people

Out this morning,

He and I,

And we come together

In the middle of the street.

The bum sidles up and says to me

In a raspy smoker’s voice,

“Hey, pal! Any place open around here

Where a fellow can get a decent cup of coffee?”

Pal, my ass, I think.

He’s out here panhandling.

When is he going to start his routine?

“Excuse me and I hate to bother you!

But maybe you could

Spare me a buck or two?”

Well, he picked the wrong guy this time—

That’s for sure.

I wait for him to start,

But he never does.

He doesn’t ask me for anything.

Instead,

He wipes the rain from his brow

And does his best

To raise a smile.

“Gosh,” I stammer.

 “Come to think of it,

I’ve been out walking for an hour already

And I don’t think I saw a single place open.

Not one. Everything seems to be closed.

But then, I’m not from around here.

I don’t really know much about this town.”

When I say this, his smile fades

And he comes closer,

Peering into my eyes.

“So you aren’t from around here, then?

Well,” he says. “It’s not so bad here.

I mean—you get used to it.

And let’s face it, pal,

For some of us it’s all there is.

So it’ll have to do.”

He appears to falter now,

Considering something.

Ah ha, I think, here it comes—

Wind-up, pitch, and delivery—

“Say, pal, I hate to trouble you

But my car just broke down a few blocks back,

And I’ve got to get to the hospital

To visit my son who’s dying of leukemia.

Do you think you could help me out

With a dollar or two?”

I wait for the words,

But he is silent.

“Kind of gloomy this morning,” he says.

He shifts his weight and tries to find

Something in his pocket,

Comes up with a crumpled pack

Of Doublemint Gum.

And offers me a stick.

I shake my head.

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you,” he says.

“Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

He turns then and continues on.

His clothes, I notice, are clean.

He is wearing new shoes,

He’s about my age probably—

Both of us are prematurely gray,

Both of us wear identical

Black rimmed spectacles.

We both walk with our hands in our pockets,

Two men

With gray hair 

On a winter day

And no particular place to go.

That is when I remember—

Of course!

Today is New Year’s!

How could I have forgotten?

Well, no wonder then.

We’re drab ghosts out here,

Dissolving in and out of the mist,

Two old men with

No place to go.

Suddenly he’s somehow

Crept up right behind me again.

Boo!

He whispers hoarsely into my ear,

Something I won’t soon forget.

How did it all end up this way? he says.

How did it ever even happen?

I spin around with a pounding heart.

And frankly I’m feeling just a little miffed.

He nearly scared me half to death

Sneaking up on me like that.

But when I turn I see only

This grayness…

I don’t know—

It’s sort of like

That time I flew on a DC 3.

The sky was azure

And I watched the plane’s

Very shadow racing below me

Skimming across the waves

Of a great foamy sea

Of clouds.

Remember?

When it descended,

Suddenly I was lost

In rain.

In one split second,

Everything went

From a light so brilliant

It gave me a headache

To a darkness so profound

I was certain

I’d never emerge

Again.

That is the grayness I see now,

The fog that swirls at my feet

Spilling over the deserted sidewalks.

Fog—hovering in the alleyways

Seeping under the doorways

Of all the closed-up shops.

It’s the shroud I see

Dulling the horizon.

One thing’s for sure—

This is the last time

I’ll ever visit this town.

I won’t be back this way again,

Not if I can help it.

There’s no traffic so I can see

For miles in every direction. 

The streetlights are blinking rhythmically

Casting orange and red explosions

Onto the rain-swept streets.

Up ahead I notice

A deserted bus.

I’m tempted to look inside.

And see if he’s in there.

He’d have to be a sick bastard

To do something like that.

I hesitate and then move on.

This whole thing is

Somehow wrong.

The ad on the side of the bus

Was for Chesterfield Kings.

It featured a model who looked to be

About twenty-two or twenty-three.

He bears a resemblance to my son.

I try to remember John at that age.

At first I can’t, all I see is darkness,

But soon the memories come tumbling back.

Now I’m remembering all the way back

To the winter of forty-four

Right before I was shipped overseas,

The Christmas when John had just turned three.

Bev and I stayed up all night

Drinking black coffee and making love

On that ratty old sofa her brother gave us

For our wedding present

(Some present!).

In the morning

John came padding down the stairs

In those yellow PJ’s they make for kids,

The ones with the feet sewn into them?

I don’t want to start sounding sentimental

But it all seemed magical then—

The lights on the tree

They way they sparkled in his eyes.

Boy! What wonder I saw there!

Then over he ran over

And started tearing open

All his presents.

If memory serves Bev turned to me,

Smiled, and gave me a little squeeze

That was a very nice Christmas all in all,

The one I most like to remember.

John grew up fast, the other four, too.

The time just seemed to slip away

Back when the kids were young.

Those were the best years in many ways.

It was after that that everything started to happen,

No one thing in particular,

Just an accumulation of little problems.

Bev and I went our separate ways

In August 1947.

It was sad, but what can you do?

Life just seems to be like that,

Still, I’d…

But that John—he was really a pistol.

Tall and smart and handsome enough

To be a model if he’d wanted to.

The kid in the ad on the side of the bus

Doesn’t have anything on him.

He works now for a utilities company

In upstate New York

Poughkeepsie, to be exact.

Poughkeepsie, New York.

A few years ago,

I spoke to him on the phone.

He sounded good.

“Poughkeepsie, huh?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s actually

Not so bad.”

“Not so bad, then?” I said.

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that.”

The operator kept cutting in.

I had a few extra quarters in my pocket,

And I kept on plunking them in,

So at least we had a little time

To do some catching up.

I said hello to the gal

Who was still his wife back then,

And wished the both of them, and the kids,

A very merry holiday season.

“Thanks, Dad,” John had said.

“I’m glad you called.”

I was working for Texaco that year

In Fairbanks, Alaska and I’ll tell you what—

You may think you know what cold is,

But you don’t really know until

You’ve spent a winter in Fairbanks, Alaska.

John is still up there, in Poughkeepsie,

At least as far as I know.

I’ve never been to Poughkeepsie,

But someone said to me once

That it’s beautiful in the fall,

Kind of like New England.

One of these days, maybe I’ll make it up

There to see him.

I mean—who knows?

Nothing seems to stop this drizzle,

It clings to you and seeps into your skin

Until after a while the cold

Gnaws at you.

Nothing’s open.

All you can do

Is keep moving.

The office buildings tower high above me.

I can’t even make out a patch of sky.

It’s a claustrophobic feeling,

It’s hard to describe it to you,

But you get a little paranoid,

And can’t quite shake this feeling

That you’re being watched.

I mean I know it’s crazy, of course,

The buildings are dark and deserted,

No one’s here.

But I keep getting the distinct feeling

That someone’s watching me.

I look up and all around me.

It makes me dizzy.

I see so many windows,

But they’re not watching me;

They’re all staring out at the Pacific.

I can only imagine what they see--

Waves surging up in vast mountains

Of endless water.

Do you know?

There are places out there so deep

No one can even measure the bottom

Or know how deep it really is.

Five thousand miles of unbroken sea

Before you come to land again.

And the waves keep rolling in

Out there, endlessly—

All day, all night, forever,

It’s like a dream you once had

From before you were born.

Two more blocks and the street dead ends

At the sea.

I see a crane.

Etching the horizon,

Motionless,

Festooned with blinking lights

That read out, “Noel.”

How did it all end up this way?

How did it ever even happen?

It’s twilight now

And that’s when I make

An important decision.

Up ahead I see a stranger

Out in the intersection of Hastings and Howe.

“Hey, pal!” I say to him.

“Any place open where a man can get a decent cup of coffee?”

He looks befuddled

And starts to reach into his pockets

To dig out some change.

I turn and continue on.

David E. Reiser, MD.