The last coherent thing my father said to me was ‘Save the boy. Save the boy.’ In the last days before she died, as Dada’s ‘Save the boy,’ Moma gave me your last ‘Who loves?’

I can remember back to when I was in the cradle, the only lapse while I had pneumonia and had to go to the hospital. The rest I remember to the crib. One time, when I was being baby-sat, Moma Hall and Aunt Hilda were bad-mouthing Moma while I was in the kitchen in the high chair they put babies in while they spoon them. After that I was pissed at Moma Hall. I tried to refuse to go to her funeral. They had to trick me into going by promising to drop me off home on their way to Aunt Helen’s house from the cemetery for the reception.

I went to the First Baptist church ceremony and Crown Hill cemetery but vomited at Aunt Helen’s I was so pissed they’d lied to me. I thought I didn’t like avocados for years behind that, and more to the point here, I didn’t realize how true what they were saying about Moma was until Moma was as old as Moma Hall. ‘Your mom’ is a reincarnation of Moma Hall, looks like her. I’m telling you this story because I’m about to say unflattering things about our ‘family’ so that my ‘family’ ‘obligations’ are satisfied.

My upbringing: When I was two, ‘your mom’ had me playing out in the mud on a cold day, one of the few times she was being ‘friendly.’ I was so thrilled. She failed, I recovered from pneumonia. Before I started school, I hid on the cross-bracing under the oak dining room table on Peoria, trying to be out of sight to miss a random beating from Dada. Initially, I was looking at the pictures in the Book of Knowledge, and then I started trying to teach myself to read. ‘Your mom’s’ story about being dragged from under the bed to be beat was the other way around. I deserved that one though for trying to scratch my name into the headboard of a bed, so proud I was for teaching myself how to write my name by looking at Dada’s.

Child psych wouldn’t follow-up with ‘your mom’ because Dada wouldn’t talk to them. ‘Your mom’ has all these psychotic stories about how she was abused when she was the turd stinking up the pool. All the family had to work, theoretically. Dada and I were responsible for the yard, ‘your mom’ and Moma the house. Both Moma and Dada were schoolteachers so they took turns cooking, with me and ‘your mom’ to take turns washing dishes. But Dada took her turn when they couldn’t make me do it. Then it got to me and Dada working outside until the heat of the day and then coming in to ‘help’ with the house. They gave up on getting ‘your mom’ to help with any work in the rest of the house, and asked her to only keep her room clean, and finally gave up on that after she hollered so loud, getting the belt for refusing to clean it, that it was a neighborhood incident. They never laid a finger on her after that, I had to take all the beatings.

I got beat for what ‘your mom’ did, it was my fault she was what she is. When they were still trying to give her whippings, if she got one, even if I had nothing to do with it, they would give me one too. Not the other way around though. If ‘your mom’ insisted on leaving her skates on the patio, after Dada told her time and again to stop doing it, he beat me for not picking them up, not her. ‘Your mom’ always got her way. Dada could never tell her ‘no,’ she had no punishment. They would say she was supposed to have so and so restriction when she got caught shop-lifting, but it would be modified to she couldn’t drive, but I had to drive her instead. Nobody ever abused her other than straightening her quick-and-the-dead nappy hair.

Moma and Dada had a knack for saying something to make me feel bad, no matter what I did. Typical: One time the three of them went to Oklahoma City without me. I did a spring cleaning on the house from stem to stern by myself. Instead of any word of approval, all Dada had for me is that I didn’t sweep the front porch. Being beaten physically was one thing, but psychological torture was their specialty. I could never go anywhere, but it was OK for assholes that would do me harm to come around that had to make leave me alone.

Whenever there was going to be a game in Anderson park, even with two weeks notice, and doing everything they could think of, and more, trying to guess what they might come up with, Dada would come up with some impossible list for me to do at the last minute, knowing I couldn’t get it done in time to go. Then beat me if I complained. I could watch only one TV show a week. Dada would wait until that last commercial before the conclusion, then walk in and turn the TV off and tell me to go do some new chore.

It took me a while to learn that Moma was instigating Dada. I always wondered why Dada would beat me for no reason until I snuck up on them as a joke and overheard Moma winding Dada up against me like a toy soldier until he snapped; my pretend best friend, my innocent, loving, mother. Like the principal at Bunch sending kids around to Dada for their paddling, Dada was the concentration camp guard carrying out orders for reasons he didn’t need to know. I don’t mind the beatings I got for cause, but I still resent being beat for nothing, and being beat for ‘your mom.’ Dada couldn’t beat Moma, so when she pissed him off enough, I had to take those too. I was well past your current age before I figured out my habit of getting out of bed going off the end instead of to the side was because I was so used to Dada beating me to wake me up.

No allowances or gift of money were possible with them. I picked up pop bottles for the glass deposit out of ditches pulling my wagon around, then saved my lunch money to buy something by not eating lunch. There was no other way to get money. Moma would make me feel bad for wasting my money on whatever I decided to buy. ‘Your mom’ would steal my money whenever she could find it, that was her idea of getting money other than complaining to Moma and Dada until they caved with the ‘explanation’ ‘She’s a girl.’

‘Your mom’ runs around with her looney tune about how I was favored. This is how my parents ‘favored’ me: When Moma was trying to teach us both during the summers; she was too busy with her delusion that Moma was ‘favoring me’ by talking to me too, she couldn’t think straight; functionally retarded. I read all night under the covers with a flashlight. I did my homework and learned. Having read everything I could find about philosophy in the encyclopedia, I was a Platonist at seven. Moma tried to teach us manners, like not eating with our mouths open like pigs, but I studied etiquette out of Gloria Vanderbilt and Emily Post, not because I cared about ‘society,’ but because I believed in being considerate, then

I tested as a genius in the sixth grade, sophomore college level of education in the eighth. I came in intelligent friendship to Moma, and I was Dada’s labor. Dada had no mechanical ability so I learned how to fix anything involved with his ‘farm’ and anything around the house. One thing I got out of being the handy-man, there is hardly anything ‘around the house’ I don’t know how to do. I caught the bus to the downtown library to find better books to read.

I drove myself to church before I was old enough to get a license while they slept in. I read the bible, from the beginning, until I hit the ‘New Testament.’ I rejected Christianity at 13. I traded three Christmases and birthdays to get them to buy me a saxophone. I was up before any of them, standing at the bus stop three blocks away in the dark to make band practice. I was first chair first saxophone in the high school and all-city bands and first chair oboe for orchestra. I did more than the work I was supposed to do. If being beaten randomly for nothing made me  want to do the right thing, I got it from them.

‘Your mom’ couldn’t stop talking in class; trying to be accepted by kids who were laughing at her, me, and Dada (a Bunche Elementary joke for his fantastic war stories) behind our backs. I didn’t care what they thought; I was going to escape. My first escape attempt was applying for prep-schools, my idea. I could never skip ahead, wasted time going to Jr. High. I was offered prep-school scholarships based on my PSATs but couldn’t get my transcript from Anderson. I needed to stay to make Booker T. look better; and Moma and Dada ‘had to get along.’  

I decided to go to Central, not them. I was recruited for academic scholarships by the best schools in the country because I made high scores on the SATs; affirmative action yes, but I set-the-curve to get B’s from racist Central. I could have finished high school in my junior year but Moma and Dada wouldn’t let me take senior English the summer after my junior year. I picked Amherst College out of the book because it was the top liberal arts college in the country, and more important than that to me, hardest to get into. I didn’t want to waste any more of my life around stupid people.

I got a full academic scholarship that I earned and took with no help or encouragement from any of them, for tuition, room and board, but I had to work three part-time jobs in college, totalling 33 hours a week. Moma would call the Dean’s office if I didn’t call every week, but could send no money. Most people would send whatever they could, but not them. Dada never said a kind word to me, the very first time in my life I got the idea that he cared about me was a note telling me to be careful on the road when I was driving back to college.

I worked full-time all summer, every summer, so I had to change my major from math because I couldn’t go to summer school. The first summer with Zariff with the job description ‘anything too dirty or dangerous for us to do, and if you get hurt and don’t get well we’ll pay you for it,’ the next working on an asphalt road crew (tar is good for your hair), and the last for the college ‘bridge’ program that tutors incoming freshmen. Holding three jobs detracts from study, but I finished pre-med that most considered impossible coming from a public high school. I went back to the science library when the party was over on the weekend, and slept most nights under my carrel there. I passed the tests. I took the MCATs, not my parents or ‘your mom.’

In medical school, those who tried to work any job flunked out. On top of that, I couldn’t get financial aid because Moma wouldn’t fill out the financial aid forms, scared somebody might ask them for some money from their piddly lower middle class income. One of the hardest things I ever had to do is study for seven finals a semester while sitting there with an eviction notice on the table. That’s why I had to take usurious loans where you get $2500 and owe $13,000 and finished my residency with ‘contingent liabilities’ and couldn’t get bank loans to go into practice. finished medical school, I passed the National Boards. I passed the FLEX. I finished a five year surgical residency, not an ‘if you come enough’ masters.

The hate radiator:  A lot of families work together. The success of the one being an opening for the success of others. Intelligent would have been, if he is successful, he can bring us all up. Instead, our ‘family’ has been defined by ‘your mom’s’ insane rancid cancer of jealousy Moma and Dada had to appease, as though everything I accomplished was pored from, and denied to her, by them/us. After I finished my residency, Moma and Dada wouldn’t help me buy materials to study for the boards, to be ‘fair.’

Maybe ‘your mom’ is entitled because when I was born her position as the center of attention was disrupted. In any event, she hates me because I was born, and Moma and Dada for having me, all at fault for this ‘injustice.’ She hated Dada’s guts, though he coddled her, could never tell her ‘no,’ then when he died she’s ‘boo-hoo-hoo-hoo’ as if she ever said anything kind to or about him in his life.

My parents pushed ‘your mom’ to D.C. while I was in medical school, as though I could be a ‘positive’ influence. I told them, and as you know, how somebody is at 25 is what they are. I was in medical school, Gwen in dental, and we were living in the same size efficiency as her, clean and neat, her apartment a sty so nasty I couldn’t introduce her to anybody I knew.

Your ‘mom’ wanted me to drive her everyday, National Airport a minor problem, but to Dulles or Baltimore is over an hour each way. ‘Your mom’ didn’t care that would make me late for rounds and get me in trouble. I’m the villain because I didn’t want to lose my life for her ten extra minutes of sleep instead of catching the shuttle that picked up ten blocks away. ‘Your mom’ did nothing but bitch at her first husband about how she’s unhappy that he was slow coming home when there was no food, no kindness, no home to come home to. Nothing but a sty with a lazy pig bitching.

Your upbringing: I tried to warn Shahid that ‘your mom’s’ ‘word’ meant nothing. ‘Your mom’ tricked Shahid with an ‘on birth control’ lie within the pretense that she was going to become a Muslim to become ‘a mom’ to have a victim under her thumb for life, when the rest of the world, by necessity, will leave. When we were kids, ‘your mom’ had a parakeet, Keeta, that she refused to feed or water, or change the crap paper on the floor of its cage, but made a big production about how he ‘belonged’ to her.

Same with you. Shahid was a single parent, taking care of the baby when she was gone, and when she was there he had another emotionally-disturbed do-nothing toddler to take care of as well. Shahid did the cooking or had to buy restaurant, all the housework, and held down a full-time job. ‘Your mom’ did no work when she was there but empty Keeta cooing, to be brought to another grand crescendo to traumatize you as much as possible with threat of loss with hollering fests when she had to leave to fly with ‘O me, O my, my baby!’

Like Keeta, Shahid and Moma and Dada did all the work, wiped your ass, not her. After Shahid left, all of the work fell to Dada over eighty, Moma already crippled. You were getting skin break-down because ‘your mom’ would leave the crap in your pants until she got around to bringing you to Dada to change your diaper. You were used as a tool to drive your primary caregiver, Shahid, away, later to not calling by your being the parrot of her messages.

Your ‘mom’ was determined to make you into a dependent baby for life so that you never grow up and leave, as when you had to wean yourself from her disgusting insistence on sticking her tit in your face while you were already walking around with teeth in your head and eating table food. My father stuck in the door senile after a heart attack chasing a child trained to have no values remotely akin to those my parents at one time represented.

I was asked to take you when ‘your mom’ wanted to ‘give you up.’ I said yes, but required legal guardianship. Her threat was to manipulate my parents to pay and and appease her at every opportunity, or ‘I’ll take him away.’ As she did in your not calling Moma before she died. I told them how, though they were paying all her bills, to give her the money and let her write checks back to show some expenses for the divorce court. Too much work.

I came home for a Thanksgiving and cooked the whole thing by myself, a two day project. You and ‘your mom’ were supposed to be there by 2 P. M., but finally showed up from ‘’your mom’s’ ‘mom’,’ scummy Claudia, after 6. I couldn’t eat from the food I had cooked, until ‘the mom with the boy’ came. Despite this drivel about me being favored, Moma and Dada were as trained to kiss her ass as you. The squeaky wheel, as always, got the grease.

During the very early years when you were living with my parents and Shahid, you were learning elements of honor. Simple age-appropriate values like picking up your toys, and cleaning up after yourself. There was a war of wills, and ‘your mom’ won a decisive and lasting victory. ‘Your mom’ trained you to let whatever fall wherever for others to come behind and clean up while in the rest of the world you don’t drop the eggshells on the floor, and if you do, it’s your responsibility to clean them up, with other responsibilities as well. Somehow, you were being persecuted that teachers wanted you to do your homework; the school expected you to get to school and class on time, like everybody else. Somehow, the coach has it out to get ‘your mom’ because he didn’t call every play for you to shoot, or play you the whole game the way you wanted.

Houston: When I was in practice, before I moved my parents to Houston, with no help from ‘your mom’ living in their house around the corner for free, mama was calling me every night because ‘your daddy is standing in the door, and won’t come to bed,’ senile after your heart attack. Every month, I was taking off from my practice to come up here trying to help them see that they could stay in their house if they moved into the den, opened that bathroom reconfigured for handicap by losing the closet it abuts, and got a live-in. Those trips were killing my business because being ‘available’ is extremely important. If a referring physician needs you, and repeatedly you aren’t able to take the case, they move on to someone else, also having arrived at a comfort level dealing with my competitor. Always on call, I couldn’t turn my phone off; Caller ID yet to come. These and being drubbed in the middle of the night every night while I needed to be ready to start surgery at 7:30, rounds done, led to my moving them to Houston.

I told moma I couldn’t afford to pay for a ‘private nursing home’ out of my pocket, and laid it all out to her before I moved them to Houston. Because Moma couldn’t be trusted, I had them stay in a nursing home for a couple weeks so she could see the alternative. My business grossed over $200,000 but overhead approaching $175,000 a year. I was under an IRS moratorium. Suppliers were on a cash only basis and I was struggling to make payroll while at the same time trying to reduce overhead. My office lease was $3600 a month for example; payroll more than that, malpractice and other insurance, bank notes, taxes etc. Business.

At first, they were in an assisted living facility while I was looking for a house. Moma found some reason I had to trek twenty miles each way, to get filled some prescription Moma ‘forgot’ the day before, that night, every night, or they would surely die. Moma didn’t care that I was still trying to be in business, though every time I went I would, ‘OK Moma, we need to get this together because I can’t come out here every day.’ Dada was wandering around at night there too, so they were asked to leave and I had to move them into my two bedroom apartment. They slept in the bedroom, and I on the floor in the other room that was my home office. I was paying 24hour nurses, over the counter, at $6.25 an hour, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and on top of that, I had to pay employment taxes on them. That $1200 per week for three months not counting any other expenses was killing me.

That’s why we moved prematurely into the perfect house I found, 5500 sq. ft. big wide halls and hardwood floors good for Moma’s wheelchair, duplex with upstairs, downstairs and a loft, 1000 sq. ft. apartment over a three-car garage blocks from my office. The premature is that I hadn’t closed on the house and had dumped $12,000 out of my pocket making it move-in ready. Crack-heads had stripped all fixtures, AC and heating. Then the New York guy reneged on owner financing and wanted all the money at once. It was a good price, true enough, a $275,000 house, and he wanted out of it at $110,000. He was also right that ‘If I couldn’t get my mother to stand behind me, what does that say about me?’ I raised $36,000, but Moma wouldn’t put up any money or mortgage or sell the Tulsa houses. With IRS liens, I couldn’t get a bank mortgage.

When you and ‘your mom’ came to Houston there was a big dust-up over asking you to clean up the eggshells you dropped on the floor that Maria rightly refused to clean up. As usual, I had to scrape the eggshells stuck to the floor off. My office manager was making more than ‘your mom’ as a teacher. I had offered to send ‘your mom’ to school during her summers off to learn how to manage a medical practice. I offered to move her and you down to Houston, and you and she could have the second floor, and Moma and Dada on the bottom floor and I would keep my loft on the third floor. With my office blocks away, she could have driven off the freeways if she was too scared to drive (a go-cart) in a city. I had ‘your mom’ come to the Saturday front-office tutorial I was doing with my medical assistant, and she was so busy being the jealous three-year-old, as when Moma was teaching us during summers, she couldn’t pay attention to what I was saying because I was talking to the other person too.

My always two-faced instigating mother was stabbing me in the back with my office employees because they were talking to her. When Moma was in Houston, I wanted to go to a party. She made me feel so bad about the way I looked, a far cry less ‘chubby’ than I am now, I couldn’t go. That was my Moma, not the one you knew. On one of his lucid days, after he was happy about the cookies I made him, I asked Dada why they were so cruel to me, to try to understand. All he could say is that some things you should forget.

It was a week’s long project to beg for a few hundred dollars while I was taking the difference of over $3000 on the chin every month. She had the money just with their social security checks, the amount of money they’d have to pay to stay in a nursing home that she’d agreed to before they came, less than the nursing home (best in Houston) that Moma complained about because they didn’t do what she said immediately. Rent $1100, electricity over $600, gas over $350. I finally got the help down to $750 per week by paying people who will work ‘off the books,’ $500 for the week person and $250 for the weekend, a lot cheaper than $1200 a week. Food over $1000 a month, four adults and some expected for ‘the help’ to take home for their families and not the stealing at least $20 a day like Doris.

Maria stopped taking care of them when I got in from rounds so I had to do anything needed at night, trying to be in practice, on 24 hour call. I didn’t think of tying Dada into the bed with a ‘Posey’ until after he was dead. Moma claimed she was ‘overwhelmed’ by going from living in her paid-for house, and let me drown. Then Moma lied to Maria about telling me that Maria was going on vacation; I had to scramble to get back to paying over the counter at $6.25 an hour.

Then it turns out she has still paying ‘your mom’s’ bills in Tulsa while I was going down in flames. I shouldn’t have trusted Moma. I failed to look out for myself with a legal agreement, the kind I was requiring to take you. I went bankrupt. Lost my practice. Lost my life I, not them, not ‘your mom’ had worked so hard to get. I loved my Porsche that I had finished paying for, not them, not ‘your mom.’ All gone.

I didn’t know my mother’s mother very well, but I know she cared about Moma enough to send her to Kansas City to get a better education, have a better life. Moma’s main complaint was Dada trying to help his sisters and Moma Hall, but she dropped me into the hell of losing my practice, and then after I passed the preliminary and written boards riding around Texas for four years studying in dark hotel rooms, Moma wouldn’t extend me the money to get to a fellowship I got in Florida. With the IRS completely garnishing me for the taxes I didn’t pay while ‘doing the right thing’ for Moma and Dada ballooned from penalties and interest, all I needed was money to relocate. Moma ruined me, worse than I realized, with her ‘Your daddy is standing in the door and won’t come to bed. What are you going to do about it?’

Adult Protective Services: was getting complaints from everybody that knew Moma about your and ‘your mom’s’ famous in Tulsa treatment of Moma. As when Shahid called when all he heard was ‘your mom’s’ messages from her mindless parrot, ‘your mom’ wound you up like a toy nut-cracker to cuss at my mother as I heard you doing while I was visiting. ‘Your mom’ did not ‘share’ food until it was ready to be thrown out in the garbage, and that because you and she were too lazy to take out the garbage, disingenuously foisting it off on Mary to throw out; Moma drinking spoiled milk from meals on wheels out of a dorm refrigerator.

All dressed up and nowhere to go, famous in the stores, shopping until they lock the doors, every night, with a baby in a stroller. Banned from many for wearing and wanting to take it back, creating a scene when they had a problem taking something back they couldn’t resell. ‘The boy’ has to have all the best clothes and toys, special food, but no kindness for Moma who was paying for it all indirectly. Mary was supposed to be Moma’s 24 hr caregiver and your and ‘your mom’s’ maid for $175 a month and sleep on the floor, but when Moma needed some help she had to call Anna Faye as when Mary was late coming back from vacation.

That’s why I came to Tulsa in 1995 to make that trust. The reason Moma’s trust was rejected by the Bank of Oklahoma is that Moma insisted that I put in a clause agreeing to take care of ‘your ‘special-needs ‘mom’ for the rest of her life. The bank wasn’t going to agree to that ridiculous request that they would be responsible for if something happened to me. I was willing, to try to get Moma out of an abusive situation. I’m supposed to be the favored one by being responsible for the ‘hate machine’ all my life. Adult Protective Services was excited that I was doing something to get some authority, but Moma stymied that by threatening to revoke the trust if I pressed it. Adult Protective Services tried time and again to get her out, but Moma wouldn’t complain to the ‘Family Court’ because she didn’t want you to be taken away, her grandson.

Save the Boy: Despite most child psychologists agreeing that by age seven you have whatever it is, after I was out of private practice, I rented a three bedroom townhouse and arranged to take off a summer for you to spend a summer with me. ‘Your mom’ could not agree, best she could do was to come with you and not let you stay, even for a summer. I might have tried to teach you some basic values. That failed, I tracked Shahid down and begged him to ‘save the boy’ before it was too late. There was plenty of talk about Child Protective Services stepping in on ‘your mom;’ but the older you got, the murkier the situation became because approaching the age of majority, the person can become an ‘independent minor’ at 17 if the parent is incompetent.

Years later, Shahid tried when you were in high school, old enough to choose to move with him, as a man by Semitic standards. Beside ‘loyalty’ to ‘your mom,’ you stayed because you could be as you are, ‘your mom’ less a parent than ‘companion’ treating you like her Oedipal ‘boy-friend.’ You could have checked yourself, seeing the difference in how your friends’ homes and families were kept. Regardless of indoctrination, you passed a point where you’re choosing, not ‘your mom.’ While you were living here with ‘your mom,’ as you were standing up to ‘your mom’ for anything else you wanted to do, you could have extended human kindness to Moma, even if ‘your mom’ wouldn’t. We feed and water our animals before we eat.

Knowing how ‘your mom’ hates my guts, I still tried to save your face. Keeping you in Tulsa was all that mattered to ‘your mom.’ I pressed you to go to a real Plastic Surgeon with the same money. ‘Your mom’ didn’t care about your face or your character or future when she talked you out of going to a real doctor, to live with Shahid during high school or from taking Jr. college scholarships to ‘keep company.’ ‘Your mom’ didn’t care that you didn’t do well in school from a family where most have college degrees, get to school on time so you’re not having to bum rides, already late, never a thought to catch a bus of course, or encourage success when that means accepting inevitable coaching of a team, socially promoted out of high school unable to pass a literacy test to be academically eligible to play a sport in a four year college.

Entitled: ‘Your mom’ never paid rent or utilities over forty years. Conservatively that’s hundreds of thousands of dollars. Doesn’t count with ‘your mom,’ entitled first because I was born, and then because you were born. ‘Your mom’ got into the Hendrix house to keep it from being unoccupied vandalized for it to be occupied vandalized by pigs who messed it up so bad it couldn’t be shown for sale. ‘Your mom’ objected to Hendrix relatives taking things out of the house the Hendrix’s left when he died, things that didn’t belong to her. Through sheer lunacy ‘your mom’ was Ricci Hendrix’s victim by his refusing to pay her utilities, expenses Moma and Dada paid all her life, so she’s justified to steal everything that wasn’t nailed down when she leaves.

No matter what loony thing ‘your mom’s’ addled mind twists out, if she doesn’t get it, she’s been persecuted, the subject of an ‘injustice.’ ‘Your mom’s’ crack-head-addicted to you (whoever gets in range, Ricci, Rita, Moma, Dada, Shahid, me, or you) owe me.’ During that time, I offered ‘your mom’ to set her up in business as a personal shopper. Nope. Work. I offered to pay to move her, her utilities and expenses for six months. Nope. Never wanted to have to pay. Never will.

Yes, Moma and Dada bought me a car when I was in college, on credit, but they hadn’t had to pay a penny toward four years of the most expensive education money could buy from the top liberal-arts college of that time, or toward my medical education. They spent $10,000 for ‘your mom’s’ wedding to Furman Petit, not on credit, but in a lump sum out of their accounts. ‘Your mom,’ the permanently entitled Tulsa bumpkin, may think the piddly money Moma sent me was something, with no recognition of far over a hundred thousand of dollars I spent on Moma and Dada while I was in practice – out of my pocket; money that should have been going to the IRS and into my business.

You and ‘your mom’ have no need to consider my tens on tens of thousands of dollars of my life you wouldn’t help me move while I was pressed between buying diapers for Moma, paying Doris to be Moma’s coo-ing pet, and paying storage fees. The time and labor I put in for six years, night and day for no pay, even at minimum wage capped at ten hours a day was worth far more than three times this pig-rooted house. Money aside, consider the time and energy I should have spent on getting my own life together instead of ‘do the right thing,’ for them in Houston. Yes, Moma sent me some money, when it was too late, and not a negligible fraction of the money time and energy I’ve spent ‘doing right.’

Health all gone too: After Moma died, I spent a year hobbling around with gout, too poor to buy a pair of crutches or decent fat clothes. My blood pressure was 240/120 when I went to Morton clinic, my kidneys almost gone. Those are the medical expenses I’ve been garnished about. My renal function has recently deteriorated from the pressure of not being able to make expenses on less than $1000 a month. Teeth bad upper and lower on both sides of my mouth with dental ‘insurance’ because I cannot afford a co-pay. Apparently these chest pains I’ve been having that I had attributed to gas or anxiety are cardiac, and I’ve had at least one heart attack. I still don’t want to believe it. Couldn’t go to that appointment my doctor made for me because I couldn’t pay the ten dollar co-pay. My left eye is going out for some reason; have to think positive about that too. No money. My doctor doesn’t want to be bothered because I’ve haven’t paid the doctors he referred me to. I’ve paid almost a thousand dollars in overdraft charges, rolling from down a hundred since I begged you for some help in November of last year when I paid to keep my Texas license from going away.

One-way Family: You condescendingly, the pious holy man in your traditional garb and untouched hinterland Taliban beard while parroting quotations and holding one finger in the air, as fine a metaphors as these are, dismiss any considerations other than yours and ‘your mom’s’ as you bear, as her, ‘injustices,’ martyred saints: For my not wanting you to live here as you chose to mercilessly refuse to stop watching TV all night in an old sick woman’s bedroom after you come in from playing with people that can’t play with you all night because they have responsibilities, after I had asked you over and over and over and over again to stop, after I offered to give you my TV and do without, your TV in the garage you said. 

Pretending on your dawn prayer-rug that you are justified in lying and disregarding Moma’s health, your grand holy ceremonies make it, ‘all good.’ Do whatever and blame it on His will. Moma is complaining to me, I’m working on overdrive to compensate, but I ‘ought to put up with him, he’s my grandson’ as Shahid’s wife and child ought to put up with another baby. No ‘oughts’ for you beyond ceremony. You righteously judge Shahid’s wife for not extending, or me for not being willing to embrace your idea of ‘Islamic hospitality,’ or that were ‘your mom’ to have her way, as with my storage and your not calling Moma before she died, that I become homeless, ‘to be fair.’

I called ‘your mom’ the year I was sick before I came here asking her to help me, and not talking money. No. Too much work to go to Aunt Betty’s funeral, but we’re ‘family’ when ‘your mom’ wants something. I have no doubt that Zariff told you offer to help me with the yard. If I’d said yes, you’d have patted at it a little, needed to be somewhere, and said you’d work on it later. The reason I asked you to help by cleaning the garage and those rooms with your and ‘your mom’s’ trash in them is that I had been trying to respect what was left, and not just throw or give things away without consideration for ‘family.’

You probably don’t remember because you were just going through your pitty-pat prayer-rug motions. That you never followed up proved you weren’t offering genuinely, anymore than when you decided to camp on my computer, or move a couple boxes and have a fit on the third, but just pitty-pat pretense. That ‘your mom’s’ house was your genuine interest in pretending to have money to buy the house and help me get on my feet was proved by when I ask, you tell me you have no money when you hear that there is a lien and you might not get the house if you help me. Just being a shrewd businessman, not personal.

The list is endless: Justice? My home theater system with $2200 TV, over $10,000 worth of Paradigm speakers, the sub-woofer alone $2000, another $10,000 in electronics, $1500 amp, $2500 preamp, $300 equalizer, $550 low noise jitter single CD player, Turntable $300. Just the cabling was a few thousand dollars, with each set of component cables $200 apiece. The speaker wires were as thick as your finger. Heavy low-noise with stand-off anti-vibration on filled with deadening component stands, studio wall acoustics, and studio quality tripods for the rear speakers, everything for a studio except the mixing sound board. My CD collection well over three thousand and records going back to when I was in college, a lot of it rare collectibles. I had a 78s collection I got from my parents’ friends. On top of the home theater, I had a top of the line stereo I used in my bedroom: Dynaco amp and preamp Dual turntable and Infinity speakers, all top of the line in their day, and still kick-ass when they went. And two rotary CD Changers. Abelman art glass collection worth over $2500. Art glass lamp that cost $2200 it took me almost a year on layaway to finish payments.

When I went to lunch with ‘your mom’ after I came back to Tulsa, I told her I had enough kitchen stuff, the best of the best, to open a restaurant, and both of us being good cooks, could start a family business by catering. Complete Kitchen-Aide professional stand mixer with all attachments, stainless steel. Four sets of Calphalon tri-ply stainless steel cookware and all individuals worth over $3000, not the anodized aluminum they sell now, though I had two sets of that too. Henckels complete knife sets, two blocks, worth over $2000. A lot of kitchen stuff I had planned to give to ‘your mom.’ Guns worth almost ten thousand dollars, a $2200 Schwartz-Bender scope on a customized Remington 700 with a threaded break for a silencer option, Glock 40, Sig 226 customized, National Match 911 customized, National Match M14 sniper with top of the line Leopold, stainless Ruger Mini-14 customized with 1x over and laser. A lot of gun accessories and ammunition you can’t legally buy now, custom holsters and accoutrements for competitive shooting. Well over $3000 worth of racing bicycles. Furniture: Not K-Mart and Pier 1 trash, but travertine marble, tortoise shell, not veneered or spray-painted but hand-stained solid oak. Roche Bobois leather. Designer.

AC and humidifier from my walk-in cigar humidor, high-end inlaid cigar humidors. Art studio $1200 professional easel and $2000 of brushes and another $1000 in paints. And my library. My library with bookcases would line your room all the way around. A life-time of book-worming, and I’m not talking medical books: full sections each of philosophy, religion, computer science, African-American history, literature, and not dime-store romance trash but legitimate prize-winning and classics, going back to when I was in college. Most of my bibliography of my thesis on religion and philosophy, and my copy of it. Degrees and licenses, paper people put on their office wall. Medical bags, multiple, and thousands of dollars of medical instruments, and a variety of leather bags. Suits to dress appropriately daily as a professional. Halliburton $400 briefcase. Leather jackets and outerwear from Neiman Marcus, not Target. Tools on tools. Every day I remember something I’d forgotten that I lost there. The list is endless. All gone.

Pig Stys: When you and ‘your mom’ were living on Peoria, the work people who went through told my parents they needed to evict her for damaging the property, not knowing she was their daughter and on top of that, not paying any bills. I came on vacation and spent two days cleaning it up and a day later it was as bad as ever. This house isn’t worth much because of no maintenance in twenty years, with two pigs rooting in it for years on end, as on Peoria, as the Hendrix house. The bathroom floor was rotting down to the wood before I got here, too late for a little caulk and a few minutes work to save it. The reason I don’t mop it is because I don’t want to introduce more water into the floor that is rotting out fast enough from the damages you and ‘your mom’ did before I came to town. That after a company already had to be paid to come in and redo the floor for the same reason. I use an angle-iron to keep the toilet from falling through the floor I know how to fix, but haven’t had the money to buy what’s needed to do it.

Nothing works: Not the air or heat, shivering in the winter with two dinky space heaters, and two dinky window air-conditioners in the summer. None of the appliances work except a stove I bought after Moma died that it took me months of working eleven and a half hours a day to raise the money while paying bills back to when Moma was alive. The stove Moma had only worked for the burners while she was alive, we were living out of a toaster oven, had to fry everything. Not the garbage disposer, nor the dishwasher. I’ve seen flying termites. Not the washer or dryer that were damaged by mice that I couldn’t afford to kill because I was so poor the oxygen is being sucked out and not enough money to just do the basics, like buy toothpaste and soap.

Nothing works: Not the air or heat, shivering in the winter with two dinky space heaters, and two dinky window air-conditioners in the summer. None of the appliances work except a stove I bought after Moma died that it took me months of working eleven and a half hours a day to raise the money while paying bills back to when Moma was alive. The stove Moma had only worked for the burners while she was alive, we were living out of a toaster oven, had to fry everything. Not the garbage disposer, nor the dishwasher. I’ve seen flying termites. Not the washer or dryer that were damaged by mice that I couldn’t afford to kill because I was so poor the oxygen is being sucked out and not enough money to just do the basics, like buy toothpaste and soap.

Sick, I had to pull the fifty year old carpet up by myself, so full of dirt, trying to clean it was just making mud, dirt that had to be swept and mopped up. ‘Your room’ still stinks like a gym locker than was left with sweaty clothes to mold. It will cost hundreds to rehabilitate the yard and clean out all your and ‘your mom’s’ trash, and the city is demanding that I tear the little house down and clear the ‘debris,’ Moma too immobile to know that’s where all her furniture went and died from rain, because ‘your mom’ wouldn’t let her move it into her own house when she came back. The city wants all the trees along the north and east fences cleared. There is no telling how much that will cost. Just cutting the small ones wears me out so I have to rest after an hour or so. Three big trees growing against the house need to be professionally removed. Flash, the IRS doesn’t want this house either, that levy is off, it’s a Tulsa lien, maybe by your beard-dyed-in-vanity hustler imam.

I told ‘your mom’ she could have had ‘half’ if she were willing to arrange the sale and help me get back on my feet at the time Zarif’s Melissa, the ‘independent’ idiot-with-an-attitude who doesn’t respect her husband, was in my face to lecture me on ‘fairness.’ ‘Your mom’ could have had the whole thing if she had been willing to help me get back on my feet to escape no-kosher Oklahoma. Anything that smacks of work is cussing at you and ‘your mom.’ Melissa had the help of Zariff and her children in taking care of Aunt Betty when I didn’t get a sliver of help in the six years I was wiping Moma’s nasty ass around the clock so she doesn’t get decubitus ulcers, feces so toxic I had to wear a gas mask to deal with her rotting colon cancer, for no pay. You never lifted a sincere finger to help. I didn’t get the pay Mary got, to do a great deal more difficult care (other than ‘putting up with’ ‘your mom.’) Of course, I’m supposed to make this delivery of money to ‘your mom’ happen, with no help, the prodigal buzzard circling the carcass after the prey has finally been brought down. Entitled.

‘Let’s pretend and don’t press it:’ When confronted with any idea of being considerate, or work, you become the developmentally-challenged child having a fit; if you cannot pretend your way out, your ‘treatment of choice.’ For months while you were living in that apartment with ‘your mom,’ you came through every day; as if it wasn’t obvious that you just wanted to use the phone to make your hookups on your way to play. Every day it’s ‘tomorrow Uncle Teddy, I’ll help you sort the stuff in your storage tomorrow, I promise.’ You cannot help me save over a hundred thousand dollars of everything I had accumulated over fifty years because ‘your mom’ told you not to organize piles of cheap trash in a pigs’ mud hole to make room to move it into Moma’s house, most of the trash you could not disturb was stolen from the Hendrix house. But, you’re entitled to live in the house I’m working in twenty-four hours a day because you’re ‘family.’ You cannot help with any of the house work and take Doris’ thieving useless place, but I need to take a chair beating for saying the obvious. I begged Moma that maybe coming from her, you could hear, and make a contribution. No one would have had to ask a good and honorable person of whatever religion. Twice. “Do not decide that someone is good until you see how he or she acts at home.”

I was being ground night and day without relief for six years. Moma didn’t believe in letting her pony have a rest. I was up attending to her off and on, all night. Every night. The two times I left the house in a month were to go to Sam’s and Wal-Mart, and Moma would punish me by keeping me up all night that night for sure. I was never allowed to sleep. If I was passed out from fatigue, she would call the police or fire department. When the ‘respite’ people were there, Moma found some reason they needed to wake me up and ask me something. The dog and I ballooned into the sky behind cooking three full meals a day trying to appease Moma’s ‘What else is available?,’ but you’re Joan of Arc pure by eating peanut butter, using paper plates, and kneeling on a prayer rug, pretending. Too much work to tell me you don’t need the ride after all when I have not taken a break after attending Moma in the morning, to wait to give you your ride.

You cannot mop a floor. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’ You knew what to do alright; you stopped and sat down and pretended to be enhancing Moma’s life by sitting in her room. You complained that I don’t keep the bathroom clean to your satisfaction, but it doesn’t occur to you to help by cleaning it. You came under the pretense that you were there to help while I and Moma were under a complete IRS levy, and break my only chair that I had to wobble in for three years because I was rude and inconsiderate enough to tell you I needed to use it to meet the IRS deadline at 12 that night to get the levy lifted; that you already knew when you came. Didn’t care. I am yet to have an extra $30 to buy the part to fix my one ‘good’ chair it took me months to save the money to buy. You magnanimously pretend to want to help me by taking some boxes out because Moma wrenched my back out locking her arm to the rail because she didn’t like what I was saying about her ‘Who Loves?,’ then go into a fit when I asked you to take out one too many of three under twenty pound boxes. Or when you went into your kiddy fit and dragged the box ‘your mom’ asked you to carry from the garage across the hood of my car, putting a gash in it.

In February Moma had been discharged to palliative-only hospice, and was expected to die within a few weeks. Moma waited four long months for you to call. The line issue was fixed as soon as I heard of it. I paid your ATT long-distance charges rather than changing to Vonage to save money though still under partial IRS levy because the number would have had to change. I made sure Moma had a phone so you could get her directly if you didn’t want to talk to me. I disabled the keypad so she couldn’t call 911 as was her habit; we were about to be fined by the fire department if she did it again. I emailed you with an international calling card that I keep as our souvenir. You could have called somebody else, like Zariff, and made some arrangements. You could have sent a date time and number and Doris could have called you so you could talk to Moma. You chose: not to call Moma before she died, for reasons you know. You look longingly at Moma’s room pretending that you cared, like ‘your mom’ hollering at Dada’s funeral. As Moma was dying, she had a stroke but her mind was sharp to the end. I asked her did she want me to give her something, and she was able to nod her head. I could have held the phone to her ear.
Loving kindness is greater than laws; and the charities of life are more than all ceremonies. Acts of loving kindness purely to fulfill an obligation are hollow, but the obligation is an opening for the spirit. At least Shahid, your single parent, was able to get you a college degree from your ‘qualifications,’ and ‘work ethic.’ Such was your ‘degree in English,’ I had to do your test to qualify. Shahid, a law school graduate and honorable man, knew what he was doing when he declined to trust you with his daughter’s future, his wife more than honorable in her gift. I was wise to keep a place to stay. Trust ‘your mom’? You will do anything to ‘keep faith’ with ‘your mom,’ lose your face literally, and figuratively as you showed complete dishonor in your choosing not to help me save my stuff, or be responsible to do any work here or at Shahid’s, work that Shahid wasn’t ‘too good’ to do. Or to not do things most people wouldn’t have to be told. If you don’t do what you say, Allah did not will it. As no one told you to, and Allah did not will that you, call Moma as you disrespected the death of your ‘Who Loves?’
Misled by the honor of Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb, I thought our religions had more in common than is the case. Perhaps it’s an issue of traditions. We respect people of good heart, respect we never have for inveterate hypocrites beyond that of the state – force/money. We believe that all good hearts will receive their due, whether Jew, Noahide, believing Muhammad Allahu alayhi wa sallam was His last prophet, or Jesus is Adonai.
We take care with His name. We don’t believe in making oaths, that I said it under Him is the oath. I mean every thing I say. Always. We don’t believe prayers with no kavanah are heard. If I have truly repented, I do not continue doing that wrong. We don’t believe that ‘faith’ means anything unless it translates to what is done with forgiveness, not hopping and clucking with a bone through the nose at the right time and place on a prayer rug or under tefillin.
There is no quid pro quo; we don’t believe you can do whatever and eat a wafer and say some ‘Hail Marys’ bowing at the wall or fast and pray during Yom Kippur or Ramadan and it is ‘all good.’ “Although G-d is merciful and pardons the sins of man against Himself, he who has wronged his neighbour must gain that neighbour’s forgiveness before he can claim the mercy of the Lord.” ” This must ye do,” said Rabbi Eleazer, ” that ye may be clean from all your sins before the Lord (Lev. 16 : 30). The Day of Atonement may gain pardon for the sins of man against his Maker, but not for those against his fellow-man, till every wrong done is satisfied.” The mitzvah, the obligation, payot, is to remember, not to forget, “And remember your Lord when you forget…” Someone said ‘If one does not abandon falsehood in words and deeds, Allah has no need for his abandoning of his food and drink.’’Every day, I question ‘doing the right thing’ for Dada and Moma, ‘keeping my word,’ I should’ve gotten a heter based on Moma’s known since I was 12 nonexistent trustworthiness. In the last days before she died, Moma asked me to start sleeping in the room with her because she didn’t want to be alone. Moma had been dying every night for the last five and a half years. Sadly, because you can’t trust anything someone who lies says, the “’I appreciate everything you did for me.” Moma said as she was dying means nothing. Talmud – “This is the punishment of a liar: he is not believed, even when he speaks the truth.” It doesn’t matter in that I didn’t try to help them because of their deserving, they didn’t, but awe of Him required it, I thought.
Every day, I regret not being able to pretend that I wouldn’t be involved in Medicare fraud in Chicago and take that job. I’m too much in awe, to pretend while standing on Dada’s ‘forget’ to make ‘your mom’ proud ‘keeping faith.’ Dada also said: ‘There comes a time when you put childish things aside. Perhaps I am wrong, but I still believe in ‘doing the right thing,’ and He is the final judge.
You embark on becoming a ulama, then dabble, unable to apply yourself to the necessary work. Your statements to persons or Him mean nothing, actions saying it all. Your question is what ‘your mom’ would have you do, as you ‘procrastinate’ to reconcile that to a distant and fading reality. Learning from your illustrious example, I’ve been unjust to Christians, as allergic as I am to pork.
Contrary to Dada’s ‘Save the Boy’ request, not everyone can be saved from their upbringing.

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