Radford Noone Research Service

climbing your family tree

Mighty Drofdar

Being Present: The Art of Non-Attachment

 

 

             “I was raped Tuesday night,” Phil told me as if he wasn’t sure whether to look me in the face or at the floor. Somehow he compromised by doing both intermittently while speaking in those hush, hush tones that I’ve become accustomed to at the prison. As usual, Phil found me that Thursday in my bat cave office. He settled his stocky body into a chair opposite me with the desk in between us. I couldn’t help but feel as though safety was going to be an issue in this conversation.

By now, I’d gotten used to the men being blunt with me with little or no introduction to a hardcore topic, although I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for this announcement. It was definitely a turning point in my relationship with Phil. I wasn’t sure he trusted me enough to share his inner demons as some of the guys did.

I thought back to when I first noticed his attitude changing toward me. In the beginning of our relationship there was a silent barrier. He was polite enough, but almost in a business way  as he kept his distance both physically and emotionally. It was a safe emotional distance for him and my job was to respect that boundary. We worked on his family history for many weeks and I could tell that my small gestures of putting my hand on his shoulder or complementing his research skills were eroding that demarcation boundary a little every week. I knew the week he decided that he could trust me. In the privacy of the bat cave he came to me and said, “I’m confused.” I had a feeling his confusion didn’t have anything to do with his family history. “What are you confused about?”

“I go to the Mormon bishop, and he tells me one thing, and then I go to the Episcopal priest, and he tells me something entirely different.” Phil paused for a moment. “About sexuality.”

After taking a deep breath and collecting myself in record time, I realized how much trust and courage it took for him to pursue this topic with me. “Are you telling me that you’re gay?” I asked. That wasn’t the first time I’d asked one of the guys that question, and it probably won’t be the last. I’ve noticed that sometimes it’s difficult for the guys to talk about their sexuality. Part of this may be the fact that they are in a Mormon family history center and it’s no secret the church’s position on homosexuality. From my perspective I had reached the point where I was tired of dancing around the topic, so I just beat them to the draw, and then we can get on with whatever they need to talk about. Phil told me he was bisexual. “What are you confused about?” I already had a good idea where our conversation was going.

“I went to the Mormon bishop, and he said that it was a sin, and that I just needed to pray for God to take away my bisexuality. Then I go to the Episcopal priest, and he tells me that it’s OK. I just don’t know what to believe.”

He continued recounting his disappointment in the Mormon bishop, because what he felt like he needed was support not condemnation. Phil said there were things about the LDS Church that he liked and things about the Episcopal Church that he liked, and there were things about both churches that he didn’t like. This was his confusion.

Frankly, it didn’t matter what I may or may not think about bisexuality. Regardless of what my opinions are, they weren’t part of the equation at that moment. Sitting right in front of me was a young man who needed my compassion not my judgment. Maybe I was the perfect person for him to come to since I don’t represent an authority figure. I’m a genealogist, which is a far cry from a Mormon bishop or an Episcopal priest. In fact it’s a far cry from just about anything. I’m just some dweeb who identifies dead folks by looking at books and microfilm all day. Maybe what I represented to him was normality, the normality of the outside world. I don’t even pretend to know.

             After stepping back in my mind and just wanting him to be OK without any judgment attached, I tried to put his disappointment in the Mormon bishop in perspective. I told him that going to the bishop and asking him if bisexuality is OK is like going to a black church and then being offended that there were black people there. As a Mormon bishop, the man had a particular moral to uphold. That’s why he was called into that position by the LDS Church. He contributes in a way that he firmly believes is correct. What was Phil expecting? Duh! Then I reminded him that the bishop’s job comes with pre-set standards on sexuality. It’s like a job description. I also reminded him that while he felt judged, there are many good LDS volunteers, and I named them, who would not be judgmental of him. Their job description allows them to provide service that has nothing to do with anybody’s sexual orientation. As far as the Episcopal priest, that obviously wasn’t an issue for him (or perhaps her), so there weren’t any theological ramifications or pre-set judgments about the issue. It was a totally different job description with that religion.

             I discussed with Phil the difference between religion and spirituality. The bishop by his job description has to preach the rules and regulations of his religion. Since Phil did feel that the other LDS volunteers he knew would not condemn him, it provided a good starting place from which to introduce him, or perhaps reintroduce him, to the principles of compassion and spirituality. These other volunteers are allowed the freedom to just be with him as their service concentrates on compassion and spirituality beyond the rules and regulations of religion. I shared with Phil my understanding that religion and spirituality are not the same thing. I also shared with him my understanding that religion is like computer software. If it works for you, and you resonate with it, then you need to stick with it. If it doesn’t, then you need to seek elsewhere, and that goes for both the LDS Church and the Episcopal Church.

             Phil seemed to understand and appreciate that explanation. But now Phil presented me with a new challenge. When he came to me with his confession that he’d been raped, he hit me with the mother of all subjects, broad siding me with the ultimate in trust issues when I least expected it, floored me. I hoped the surprise hadn’t shown on my face. Nothing could have prepared me for this announcement. This was actually my first encounter with the subject of prison rape although I suspected that it would eventually slither its way onto my desk at some point. I’m sure it took me a few seconds to overcome my shock, as my mind shifted into high gear with questions. Before I could muster any kind of a response, Phil then said that no one believed him.

             I stepped on my mental brake. Was he telling me a story? Or had he actually been raped? Even with the politeness he showed me by always being a perfect gentleman in my presence, I was also keenly aware that Phil tended to attract trouble. He’s about thirty and the rumor I heard from other inmates was that he was at times not the most mature person. In our initial conversation about him being bisexual, I came right out and asked if he was sexually active and he told me that he hadn’t been. Somehow that just didn’t feel right, but since it really didn’t matter I just archived his response in the back of my mind and moved on. Maybe his maturity level stems from all the hurt he’s suffered in his life.

Storytelling, of course, is a given in a prison environment. Many of the guys here are expert storytellers, so the trick for me was to ask myself, is what Phil just told me true? Am I being drawn into a storyline, when in reality I would be more helpful to him by not being drawn in? Even with my friends on the outside, I have to make this call. It’s almost second nature for us to get drawn into a friend’s drama, encouraging him or her all the way and hanging onto every word. “I’ll be there for you,” we say, and, “How could she do that to you? How dare her!” It took me years of practice, but I’ve discovered that I can help someone more by being unattached yet compassionate.

The rumors had gone around the prison. There was the question as to whether Phil’s assault was really rape or consensual sex. When an accusation is made to the correctional officers, it is taken seriously, and rape is not tolerated. Once an accusation is made, heads start to roll. In Phil’s case, there was no evidence because, as Phil told me, “After something like that happens, you just don’t feel right.” He recounted how he used the bathroom and showered afterwards. That was his downfall with the prison, as evidence was destroyed. Phil said that it looks like the prison would have just examined him. Then he asked, “Wouldn’t there be tearing or something?” The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

             At the prison I’ve had to think of my relationship with them in terms of non-attachment. With the prison work, I found myself face to face with men whom I would see every week. They weren’t going anywhere! I found myself having to consciously think in terms of not attaching to their story lines. By this I simply mean not getting sucked into the story they are telling. Many of the inmates have their stories about life and why they were put in prison down to a science. So the trick is to not attach to what is coming out of their mouths. Actually, this isn’t much different in my regular life as some people on the outside are masters at their stories also.

In my mind, as he was telling the story, I was thinking of a building. Each floor has an elevator, and everybody entered the story at a different level from the same elevator. For me to enter at the wrong level would not be helpful to him, or even to me. I couldn’t enter the story on the level of him verses the man who he says raped him. That’s literally his word against the other guy’s word without evidence. This was the same problem the correctional officers had as they were investigating it. None of us were there, just the two men involved in the incident. Non-attachment was easy at this level.

I also could not enter the story at the elevator door of the investigation of the correctional officers. That was none of my concern, and my opinion as to whether their ultimate conclusions and the ramifications of those conclusions were right or wrong didn’t matter, nor would my opinion have been helpful. Again, I wasn’t there, so non-attachment was easy at this level of the story.

             In this environment, there was also another interesting level that I had to contend with in my mind, much to my surprise, as he was telling his story. The inmates on his cell block apparently took sides, and it wasn’t in Phil’s favor. Like he said, “When you’re in trouble in prison, your friends scatter.” At this level of the story I could enter part way simply by stating that at least now he knows who are his true friends and who are not. Then I gracefully exited out of that level. Where the inmates judged him and sentenced him by whether or not they thought he was telling the truth, I on the other hand didn’t have to be a judge, a jury, or an executioner. It was liberating to be non-attached to how he was being treated. As if I had a choice anyway. There was nothing I could do one way or another about how he was treated. What I could do was discuss with him his thinking about how he was being treated. In my mind, he was liberated by now knowing who was true and who was not in his life. The amazing thing for me to realize is that it’s not that much different on the outside in my world either.

Where I found that I could enter the story and be justified and helpful was at the elevator door marked “Are you OK?” That’s where I was needed, and it was all he needed to hear. By this point in the conversation he was crying. My first thought was, “Maybe he’s telling the truth in spite of it all.” Then I realized that I was becoming attached, so I backed out of that thought so that I could remain clear and present with him. At this level of the storyline, I tried to put being OK in perspective for him so that he could further grasp compassion for himself and for the man who he says raped him. “Phil, would you rather be the one being raped or the one doing the raping?” He immediately replied without hesitation, “The one being raped.” I asked him why and he replied, “Because I want to do something with my life. I want to change, get out of here and be somebody different than before I came in. He will always be like he is now and will never change. I don’t want to be like that.” Yes, Phil got it. He absolutely got it! I think the miracle of non-attachment was that what he really needed in that moment was a friend who would just listen and provide some perspective.

For most of us on the outside for someone to ask, “Are you OK?” is looked upon as trite in a similar way as when we all say, “How are you doing?” As if we really cared. It’s just a connecting point for what comes after the trite comment. However, here in the presence of Phil, a simple “Are you OK?” from someone who has no power one way or the other to do anything for him or even to him was revolutionary. During the course of the next few weeks I saw him change and start the moving on process. I’ve come to appreciate him for who he is regardless of what anybody else may think. Even regardless of what the truth is about his rape, I just want him to be OK. That’s all.

What a lesson in non-attachment I learned with Phil. It was life altering for me to realize that since I couldn’t do anything about his situation, and I couldn’t fix the heartache and pain he was feeling, the best gift I could give him was a simple “Are you OK?” Even with that, I had to be non-attached because there was nothing I could do to make him OK if he wasn’t. All I could do was to care in that moment. Apparently, that was all that was needed and all that was required.

             In looking at my relationship with the men, I’ve come to see that if I want to practice what I believe (and preach) about love and compassion that it has to come from a place of non-attachment. I have absolutely no control over anything that goes on in these men’s lives, or anyone else’s for that matter. So why go there? What I do have control over is whether or not I’m there for them in the moment that they need me. Without judgment, which means I can’t attach or even care why they are there in the first place. It’s all out of my control. I’ve learned that service doesn’t control, it’s just present and the rest unfolds as it needs.