By Paul Honda
hrcFantasyLeague@aol.com
Monday, Sept. 11, 2006

On the anniversary of 9/11, I still ask myself the question, how do we manage to forgive in the face of our tormentors? Be it a human being, a situation, even God himself, how do we move on in a way that allows us to be healthy in mind, spirt and body? Before it destroys us mentally and becomes a plague to those around us, those we love and cherish.

I don't have the universal answer, but I've always looked at it two ways, more so as I've gotten older.

1. We all need a lightning rod at times. Someone or some people who we can occasionally just confide certain things (or everything) to in total trust and honesty. Not to be judged, just to be heard, to be allowed to vent. And then move on. Some people go in the direction of gossip and negativity with the information. Not good. Others just know they're a lightning rod, and everybody moves on whether resolution comes about or not. Of course, most people aren't cut out to be lightning rods, sounding boards, whatever you wanna call it.

I was probably the most bitter person at Kaimuki High School during my junior year. Could not explain it. Looking back, though, it had a lot to do with my non-existent relationship with my father. Then, in March of 1981, a close friend invited me to something called "Fishmarket." I couldn't go to the first meeting because of basketball season. But I made it the week after, when our season ended. It was a transforming experience, and soon I was beginning to heal something within me, something I didn't realize was eating me up alive.

I was learning to forgive. In May of that year, I was at St. Francis Hospital, visiting my father, who had fallen and broken a collarbone. He was aging, frail but joyous when he saw me. The room had a stench and nurses were cleaning up, it seemed, everywhere. But he smiled and hugged me. I felt stiff and cold, but puzzled. He explained how he'd gotten hurt, but did not share anything about his diabetes and his serious foot problem. He only wanted to tell me that a minister friend had visited in the morning. He kept signing to me, robustly, that he had been 'saved' that day.

I'd been at my friend's church only 30 minutes earlier. The pastor had talked about forgiveness, and it was only at that moment that I realized something had connected the two places, the church and the hospital room, my heart and my father's joy. I left after awhile, certain I'd see him again. I never did, of course. A few nights later, he died of a heart attack, complications brought on by diabetes. Without a car, I was forced to wait for a taxi at 2 a.m. My uncle would not drive me there, flat-out refused me. The most gentle man I knew, that uncle, but he held some kind of grudge against my dad. "I'll pay for your taxi," he said.

The taxi never came. I waited 30 minutes until the phone rang again. I raced back up to our apartment. "You don't have to come," my father's brother said. I wanted to explain to him that I was trying to come. He hung up. My mom, leader of the "I hate your father" club for so many years, had been the one to push me, really hard, to see him in the hospital. I had to tell her that he'd died. We were frozen, numb. I don't know how long it was before I went back to sleep or had a clear thought. Everything is still a blur to me.

The next day, I had to get away, so I went to the park and shot baskets alone. A kid my age, Jai, was there, too. He started talking story and for some reason, though I didn't know him well, I told him about my father. He was shocked. So was I, talking about this with someone. We were both surprised I was there at the park. The park, though, was always my escape, always someplace I felt at home, truly. I'm glad Jai was there. I don't remember anything else about that night other than feeling something totally new. The anger was gone, but I never expected to feel regret. The more friends found out about my father, the more I realized that all my anger had been poisonous. I thought I was alone all that time, but my friends helped steer me. And God healed me little by little. I'm still a crotchety bitter guy from time to time, but the healing doesn't end. It continues even when I'm at my worst.

2. For most of us who cannot or will not vent to anyone for whatever reason, it's a big boat. All that's left is nothingness, and after awhile, that turns into something beyond reason and logic. That's when some people get angry at God. That in itself is a good thing, because pent-up anger can lead to serious problems. I had to deal with that when I was in high school (re: father died, etc.). Even people who have no regard or recognition of God eventually have to deal with their emotions, the byproduct of a turbulent situation, in some way, somehow. Whether we acknowledge a higher power or not, the emotions and pain are still there. Buried. Hidden. Scorching silently. Not healthy. Stress is a factor in causing major health problems; it's been proven in medical studies over and over. I just hope people continue to trust me enough to sound off or share their personal feelings.

I know for a fact that when it comes to being pent-up, I am capable of letting out a torrential storm of verbal vomit that ranks with the best of them.

A friend once asked me, "How can you be a writer when you never read books. That's impossible." She's right. It's impossible, except that most books bore me. People are the source and material of books, and I have always had to read people since I was born, doing all the 'interpreting' for my mom, being her voice and ears. I'd rather read people than a book every single time. All I have to do is listen more than I speak. The writing happens on its own. The story always writes itself.

Negative vibes. It's true, they exist. It's one thing to confide, but another to burden a friend with a problem that has nothing to do with him or her. Fine line time. Even the bible points this out, this burderning a third party with a sin done to you by someone else. How do we avoid this kind of bug? How do we prevent ourselves from being channels of a virus caused by our inability to forgive, by our toxic bitterness?

We can pray, but that's not something normally available to someone who doesn't pray. It's a circle we live in. I just hope I do something good rather than spite someone for revenge.

There is no way permanent change can happen for anything but love. Greed won't do it. Anger definitely won't. Revenge is a common motive, but even upon reprisal, the effects rarely do any good. So where does that leave us, a nation divided by war, seeking to "save" our friends in the Middle East? Real change happens one soul at a time. Nobody really cares about billion-dollar campaigns and military operations, not in the long run. Being there, one on one, man to man, woman to woman, face to face, is the only way to make a difference in someone's heart. Nothing else we do will make a permanent difference. Am I willing to make a difference?

I don't know. At this point, I'm only willing to ask the question of myself. But I know it's an entirely real question, probably the only one worth asking of the world today. There is no substitute for being real, for being there, for answering the call. We won't convert our enemies with any of our modern technology, whether they are bombs, e-mails or night-vision cameras.

If only we could be there just to listen when listening is needed. To advise when advising is needed. To aid where aid is needed. To hug when a hug is needed. I just wonder, have we done these enough? Even in my own life, the answer is no.

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