Picture the Lakers game at Crypto.com Arena—20,000 people. Now imagine that venue multiplied until you reach a million faces.

That’s roughly how many children are born with congenital heart defects each year around the world. Some are born where early detection and corrective surgery are normal. Others are born where air-raid sirens are background music and survival is the local religion.

Dr. Bill Novick is a pediatric cardiac surgeon who flies into those places for one reason: to operate on children who otherwise won’t live.

Tiny Hearts Trailer

My cousin, Christopher Dela Cruz—writer and director of the documentary Tiny Hearts—put his camera over an infant’s open sternum and watched a tiny heart beat in real time. Dr. Novick warned him: “If you fall, fall backwards.”

Chris told me he heard sirens outside. In those places, the siren doesn’t mean fear is optional. It means the bombs are already in the air.

And through the mask, Novick said something like a prayer: People will die. But the most important soul is this one on the table.

When the surgery works and the child is placed back into the parents’ arms, you see a kind of joy that has nothing to do with payday or comfort. It’s the joy of time being returned. Life continues.

Watching Chris’s work gave me a reset. My problems didn’t vanish—but they got put back into proportion.

Chris’s book Like Hearted is already out, and supporting it supports the years he spent bringing this story into the light.

And if you’re reading this while carrying your own worry—pause for a second. Somewhere, a child in a war-torn country needs heart surgery.

You can’t save them from where you’re sitting. But you can do one thing: remember they exist—and let your heart practice being bigger than your world.

We share that care.
We’re like-hearted.

Like Hearted book by Christopher Dela Cruz

I think that’s how that goes.

I have a 90 year old friend whose hearing is shot but mind is intact. The eyes are the closest organ to the brain and by that measure he’s as vigilant as a cat in front of a mouse hole.

Mid-conversation he locks eyes with me, “Oh, by the way, I read your book.”

I bowed my head and mumbled, “Oh no.”

My first book, Flip, is about a kid who witnesses a kidnapping, freezes with fear and doesn’t say anything. The kidnapped kid’s picture ends up being on a milk carton for missing kids (circa 1980’s) confirming the worst. The protagonist shouldered this burden for his entire life. It’s also a coming of age journey with, let’s say, adult themes.

That’s why I broke eye contact with my older buddy. He knows about that sex club scene where I got groped.

Instead, “Y’know, Norm. I lost two friends about the same age you saw that kid get kidnapped.”

His eyes started turning red.

“The first friend I lost was running ahead of me one day and he got hit by a car. I ran over and he had blood coming out his eyes, mouth. And ears. Yeah. Ears.”

I did math. That was about 80 years ago. 1945-ish.

He was seeing it. Past and present converging in the back of his eyes.

“Then on another day, I lost a kite and it got stuck in a tree…”

He lost two friends.

I tried to make my body as still as possible. “So, Norm, I kinda get what you shouldered.” This 90 year old man is telling me something he’s been carrying longer than any of you have lived. The book I wrote in isolation to heal myself created this moment for him to connect with me.

I heard writing in antiquity was akin to being a sorcerer in some cultures. Not everyone could read, let alone write. So an author “casted spells” by spelling and putting words together. A form of magic. And when read, these sounds generated by the person interpreting these symbols have an influence on people’s minds.

The magic I created was this moment.

I told this story, as I’m telling it to you, to the friend I dedicated Flip to. My friend, Gerardo, responded, “Wow. Who knows how long he’s been wanting to tell someone who can understand? He may have told people, but you may have been the first to get it.”

I’m humbled. That’s why I wrote this book. A moment I didn’t anticipate that helped someone feel understood. Did I tell you he’s 90?

Gerardo has also been caught off guard with, “How do you feel about a book being dedicated to you?” He never thought about it. This is what he and I do for each other.

Almost every time I speak with him he points out the profound, “Isn’t this what life’s about?” A simple question that often doesn’t get its due attention.

When I forget to pray, meditate or journal, my conversations with him qualify as stopping the clock and savoring another soul.

My 90 year old friend ended with, “I, later, moved to a rural wooded area. I spent hours, even afternoons in the forest. Walking. Just being…it took a long time, but I was able to return. I could see why it was hard for you.”

Gerardo shared my book with his friend to share the joy and accomplishment and spark further conversation.

After reading the dedication his friend said, “Are you guys gay?”

I’m glad Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s are over.

My shoulders tighten upon the approach of Thanksgiving. Where is it going to be held? One person is guaranteed to be off put because it’s too far of a drive...and they’re going to voice that. Not necessarily because they want to change the venue. Again, they’re just letting you know. And the menu doesn’t accommodate all dietary restrictions. Someone’s a vegan, pescatarian..fill in the blank. How inconsiderate.

Then Christmas is offensive to atheists and people of different faiths who don’t believe in Jesus and don’t believe in the game of expressing appreciation through gifts. People give gifts to check a box off the list. And those people will let you know they’re doing you a courtesy by playing along.

Before my grumpy diagnosis, I was “King Kuya.” Kuya, meaning older brother figure, to all my little cousins and nieces. I added the “King.” I bought gifts and played video games sitting on the floor and looking up at the TV surrounded by my cousins and a mine field of shredded gift wrapping paper and empty boxes.

Then I became a cop.

The death of a parent, a car accident, a loved one getting robbed, someone we know who struggles with mental health among other things are unfortunate, but unavoidable.

It’s like driving a car. The longer you drive, the probability of you getting into a car accident increases.

I just made that up but it makes sense, right?

Oh..I brought up those series of awful events because my exposure to crisis is disproportionate to anyone who is not a first responder or who works in the emergency room. I don’t say this as a point of bragging.

Just the opposite. I’ve been exposed to that high dosage of radiation for 25 years and I wasn’t equipped to process or compartmentalize the infant deaths, mangled car crash scenes, shootings and stabbings…

The Holidays are opportunities for people to voice their displeasure with those who don't contribute to the family and to bring up past unresolved hurts. It’s also a missed opportunity to just sit and enjoy each other’s company without the side remarks.

I’m ultra sensitive to that because I’ve seen the dead who were just alive moments ago. When I do a mental side by side with first world problems I halt “STFU” in my throat.

I’ve officially run out of patience.

Then…

My cousin sent me a gift because I didn’t make his Christmas party. For the record, my 91 year old mom had shingles so that revised the priorities.

Okay…well wrapped gift. And, I hadn’t seen cousin Mike in years. Take a picture and verify that I received it.

Then…

Before tablets, smart phones and even console video games, we were on our hands and knees launching discs at each other’s castle. Once up close, I’d destroy his base with a crossbow.

I’m 52. We played, I think, over 40 years ago.

I also think the statute of limitations is over so I can reveal I double rubber banded my crossbow to force multiply the destruction.

He text me:

I don’t remember that. I remember always wanting them to be happy.

I hugged the box in my driveway.

Would you believe me that after I cried the heaviness of all that I’ve been haunted by while being a cop evaporated through my tears?

Thank you, Mike. Merry Christmas.

The cashier and baristas slouch with their phones cradled in their palms. Their backs are to the cash register and customer counter. I know they see me.

I open with, “..Couple questions. First one…”

I make eye contact with the human behind the cash register. They don’t exist to just take my order. Even though I’m offended I have to wait 15 more seconds to order my coffee, I don't need to be rude.

“How are you?”

I mean it. I don’t reach in my wallet to pay. I’m pausing for an answer and not do the sociable back and forth so I can get to ordering.

She rolls her eyes, purses her lips and lets out a, “Meh. What can I get you?”

I order. I tell myself, “I get it.” I worked a job for a quarter century and I felt “Meh” most of the time.

The barista making my drink says, “Did you hear?”

A week ago, it was the day before Thanksgiving, one of the employees was struck by a car and killed. A friend who frequents the same cafe told me.

I told her, “I did. I have so many questions, but now’s not the time to satisfy my curiosity. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I knew the kid who died. Not really. I knew his name. I knew he wanted to get into math. He closed on some weekends and sang to himself while he swept. He was good looking. Flawless skin.

“If I knew then what I know now” was what ran through my mind whenever I said, “What’s up, kid?” This kid had so much life ahead of him. Limitless possibilities.

My buddy who told me the news is devout. He studies his faith..religiously. Religion and philosophy contain reflections on kindness and how to carry one’s self without harming others. At least that’s what I look for.

I saw that he was set up in his corner spot and we noticed that the business put a framed photo of the kid who died over the pastry shelf.

My buddy, under his breath, said, “You know, I don’t know what his faith was or if he was saved, but we all have to answer to…”

I fucking checked out. This didn’t feel right. Wait. “What was his faith?”

Like sexuality, that shit is none of your fucking business.

I draw an imaginary line around you. In that circle is your faith, sexuality and shit you don’t want me to know about. Shit that you don’t want me to look at or comment about. I repeat. That’s none of my business. Whatever you give is what you want to reveal to the world.

How’re we doing so far in this conversation? You still with me?

My buddy followed up with, “Y’know we don’t know where his soul went..”

Full fucking stop. Just fucking say it.

(in my head..)

If he wasn’t the same faith as you he’s burning in eternal damnation. If he reads the same book, says the same phrases, goes to the same gatherings, keeps the same circle, he’s in your club. So, he’s good. And you wanna find out, passively, so you can nod your head and verify that he’s saved…because you have that power. And you need to be included in that assessment.

Imagine this.

We’re at the wake. The family of that kid is around mourning. And there’s one person in the crowd having a conversation with himself, “I’m wondering if he prayed the way I prayed. I know I’m safe but, man…everyone else who doesn’t is screwed.”

I have a problem with this.

Stay your judgemental ass outside of my circle. I don’t step into yours and try to set up shop and tell you what you’re doing wrong.

“Yeah, but..y’know.” If you hear any variation of that in a conversation it’s coming from fundamental, rigid, fixed, “I’m waiting for you to stop talking so I can tell you how shit really works.”

I’m really trying to give you something here. “Yeah, but..y’know.” That person is having a monologue in their brain and you’re the person who bought a ticket to the one man show.

In the meantime, a young man died the day before Thanksgiving. The torment you feel in your heart is called empathy. You feel for his family. You feel for what could have been. The best thing I could do is just bow my head, feel that and hold space for the barista who was almost breaking down at losing her friend. This shit ain’t about me.

It’s okay to shut up.

Oh no. I feel it coming. Someone out there can’t help themself and they’re opening with, “Yeah, but..y’ know…”

I am an author.

…because I learned how to accept help.

Accepting help is not weakness.

It’s not giving up. Core people never gave up on me…when I gave up on myself.

If you read this far, you haven’t given up on me either.

https://a.co/d/8CyEBFn

Read more

The prefrontal cortex is the “what if” future scenario workshop compartment of our brain.  I spend most of my time there.  

Take for example, this morning.  

I’m driving to a hearing about me falling off a ladder at work and tweaking vital vertebrae.  I’m “mothertrucking” this five year process of describing me climbing this attic ladder, it buckling then twisting and landing on my brick sized radio (I was on duty as a cop).  

“How has this injury negatively affected you?”  

I’m driving and mining my life for specific examples of peeing on myself, shooting pain down my leg and quoting what the urologist said to add validity.

I’m usually texting and driving down this hill, but since I’m talking to myself I see…

A freakin’ baby in diapers stepping off the curb!

His shirt collar is moist with his slobber.  I’m approaching this blind bend so his parents must be calling him from across the street.  Their dumbasses don’t see me but I press my brakes and stop my car.  

I lean my head out the window to see the baby walking to his parents before I continue on.

But there are no parents.  

This baby just walked across the street by himself.  Now he’s walking in the street along the parked cars towards me.  

I was a cop for 25 years and my condescending cop voice mansplained, “Norm.  This is where you put the car in park.  Get out.  And scoop up that kid.”  

I did that. 

Because I think I’m smart, I walked over to the open garage I deduced the baby walked out from.  Moments pass and a young mother opens the garage door.  

It’s on her face: Baby not in home.  Panic.  Check garage.  Baby in arms of Stranger.  Stranger has pissed and judgmental  look on his face.  

I hand the baby over.  Through her rapid breath she blurts, “We were in the backyard and I turned my head.  He probably opened the garage door-”

I cut her off.

“Not probably.  He did.”   She’s not receptive to a lecture as she’s in “I’m glad my baby didn’t get crushed like a squirrel” mode.  

I yell at her with my eyes, softly annunciate and nod on each syllable. “Lock your door.  Close the garage..” was my goodbye as the baby waved at me.  I smiled at him.  Not the mom.  

I know I’m an asshole. I’m not editing this shit to make me look compassionate and soft and huggy. I was fucking pissed because I’m protective of the innocent.

Do you need to imagine striking a child with a car at any speed?  

I’m back in the car and you know what?  I actually don’t give a fuck about driving to this hearing and sitting and just answering questions. 

I’ve been living from the neck up and only in times of crisis, loss or extreme passion do I experience other aspects of my being.  

Months before I fell off that ladder my cousin had a premonition, a dream I was on an autopsy table cut in half.  In his vision, I was still alive and said, “I’m gonna be alright.”  

My Chiropractor said the vertebrae that I injured is “exactly the point where your upper and lower body meet.  If I were to cut you in half, that would…”  be the point where my cousin saw me dissected.  

That’s magic, friends. He saw that. You can’t make this up. It doesn’t compute in the probability machine. Instead of tucking it away to randomness why not feel the otherness of that premonition. Why not sit and savor and marvel at the other perceptions within or beyond our comprehension?

I’m gonna be alright.  

Handing a toddler to his worried mother is a cause for pause.  Living from the neck up hasn’t helped.  At all.  I’ve been on that conveyer belt of school, job, career, marriage, kid, premature retirement.  I checked those boxes and instead of measuring my life in chunks of sectioned timelines I’ve converted to heartbeats and moments.  

Just today.  

The hour glass of my time here flipped at my birth.  Each granule is a cherished heartbeat and moment I must savor.  Because they’re finite.

That imbalanced way of thinking in lack and worry is weak, man. It’s not me. I have hippie tendencies, but masked them and became a worker bee to fit in. That shit is not fun and not colorful. I feel gross about it. You know what I feel? Typical.

That worker’s comp hearing?  It got canceled and rescheduled for Zoom.  All that dread and rehearsal in the face of having the opportunity to protect a child…

I’m sure rehearsing and preparing for future scenarios has its place, but I’ve turned my head to back to magic, synchronicity, premonition, aura.  

Aren’t those valid states of awareness that deserve space?  

What happens if we stop rehearsing winning arguments or picking up our phones and use that energy and attention to feel the warmth of the sun on our bodies, laugh with family and friends and feel immense gratitude for this next exhale you’re about to take…

The tools are the laptop, desktop, old school journal. 

Most of us press post here; however slow and hesitant.

Some of you are still researching the right reference content and time to put yourself out there and, from a recovering grandmaster procrastinator, there is no right time. 

So, post.

Flip, my memoir, has taken shape. The help and support I asked the universe for has come back to me ten fold. 

But! For now a nature hike is the antidote from the strain of hyper focus and being hunched over and squinting.

Feeling the full range of my breath from the top of my lungs to the lower rib cage made me realize how shallow and panicked my breathing had become.  I’m breathing in fresh air miles away from freeway exhaust.  Surprisingly, I’m alone for the entire hike. 

I’m shirtless to use my torso as a solar panel to collect more Vitamin D. 

With each step I give thanks. 

I have strong legs to walk up and down a steep hill. 

I am blessed with eyesight to devour the vibrant colors.  You look with your eyes and see with your brain.  I’m gifted both. 

I have the means to drive to a trail. 

Spiritually, behind and alongside me I have the A team of friends and supporters wanting to see me win. 

I get back to my car. 

Fuck.

My laptop is gone. 

There are no security cameras.  Someone followed me.  I should’ve known better.  Wait, this shit happens along this strip of road according to the cop who took my report.  I didn’t hide my laptop as good as I thought.  I don’t have the money to replace my shit.  Things were going too smoothly.  This is a test from God to see if I really want to publish my book.  I took my eye off the prize and this is my punishment. 

I never backed up my journals, book and screenplays.  This screws up my timeline for publishing. 

Wait, Norm.  Just stop. 

All these thoughts launch in different directions.  It’s like herding cats.  I’m grasping at the most soothing one to make sense of this. 

Focus, Norm. 

If you had to start over from blank page could you? 

I’m collaborating with my son, a preternaturally creative gifted soul, to workshop and start a mood board for cover art for Flip. 

He knows some of my story and I’m shielding him from other stuff until he’s of age to learn I’m not just Dad, but was a kid like him who made wrong choices and has life scars. 

A thief will steal his possessions.  His heart will break.  And he’s also recording how I respond to my laptop being stolen. 

I remind myself that I lost a parent.  Lost relationships.  Experienced betrayal.  Had shit stolen from me. These are givens.  They come with life. 

What a better way to teach him to handle loss than to model a productive response while acknowledging this shit sucks.

How can I possibly spiral back into darkness when I have so many quality souls in my tribe?  Substack is my sole audience and exclusive club until I cross the threshold of self-publication. I’ve been on here for a few weeks and support and quality newsletters are the standard.

Every theory on why my laptop got stolen are off ramps from the direction I want for me. 

Thieves stole my writing tools.

I’m not separated from my tribe.

I am my book. 

I thrive.

Check the Well-Being, it’s called. 

You’re thinking is what I’m thinking. 

You make contact with the concerned neighbor.  Same details.  You try calling the unresponsive neighbor’s cell phone.  No response.  They could be out of town. 

Do you really believe that at this point? Or are you hoping that’s the case.

You’re at the front door of the apartment. 

Oh shit. Great. Mail’s piled up. You see a fly.  Then another one on the inside of the front window to the apartment.  You catch a whiff of the feint smell of what I can only describe as “death.”  That pungent decomposition of a human body that fed off the standard American diet their whole life. 

This death talk is almost over.  Stick with me. 

I don’t know how many “Unexplained Deaths” I’ve responded to and at various stages of decomposition from the just died to the writhing body pulsating from the worms growing and feeding within. 

Sorry about that. 

These aren’t crime scenes if they didn’t die from obvious foul play. 

You know why the mail was piling up.  You know why there were flies inside. 

Even if you’ve never smelled that smell you’d know that smell. 

You also know why they weren’t discovered until you knocked on the front door.  You know why one day went by without anyone knowing.  You know why two days went by.  You know why one week went by. 

No ONE checked until it was…too late.

I’m not talking about a passive text or a leaving a voicemail message. 

This is a Call to Action to Check the Well-Being of another. Not only to check if they’re alive. But to check on someone if they’re living while they’re alive.

We’re all alive, but…. I’ll speak for myself; there was a long period of time where I was checking boxes, working, paying bills, eating, sleeping having scripted conversations.

When was the last time someone dug beneath the surface of what you present to the world and genuinely asked and held space for you?

I had a great message back and forth with about mental health.  I dropped off the ongoing conversation for a day (different time zones). 

I logged in the following day to “You okay?” 

I’m 51.  A retired cop.  Suspected PTSD, neurodivergence. Confirmed O-L-D. An introvert with my head buried in my laptop at a café.  Texts and phone calls startle me.  I love it when people cancel plans. 

You okay? 

No.  I’m not okay.  For a quarter century I’ve only met people in moments of their crisis.  I pretended to be strong when I wasn’t. I’m sleep deprived.  I’m suffering writing my memoir and colliding head on with regrets, humiliation, betrayal.  In hindsight, I hated my career and some of the assholes in it.  I sold out to have a job so I could afford the Target pick up order for eggs, socks and laundry detergent.

You okay? 

Abso-fucking-loutely!   I’m not just okay.  I’m thriving and you’ll know my name when “Flip” debuts this Halloween.  I have survived the worst things life has thrown at me. 

Read that last sentence again.  Read it for yourself.  It’s a true statement. 

And my present (both the moment and gift)?  Glorious.  I’ve found my tribe.  And it’s growing. I’m like the leader of the coolest gang of nerds.

You can do it, too.

Step one: Say/text: “You okay?”

Step two: STFU

Step three: You’re exercising the care and concern you’d want someone to give to you. That makes you a good person. Giving goodness begets goodness. It’s a law.

Check the Well Being on a loved one today. Report back. You have 24 hours.

You’re an explorer with a research team descending into a cavern.  Your torch dims indicating oxygen is getting thinner as you go deeper.  You pause and your team turns to you for direction.  Turning back isn’t an option. Curiosity pushes you forward.

To find out the consequences of choosing to put one foot in front of the other- turn to page 78. 

And on 78…When you and your team are captured by cannibals and sacrificed after making wrong but sexy decisions you learn what NOT to do the next go around. 

It was a hit! 

Fast forward to 2024.  Google, Apple, Elon and Lucifer have harnessed and mastered the “if/then” algorithm and you are now, involuntarily, a possessed “doom scroller.” 

Don’t believe me?  Look at your screen time.  Listen to what you and your friends bring up in conversation and believe it’s what you’re really interested about. 

I’ve been held hostage by Bitcoin lectures, news that Ben and Jlo are splitting up, again, and that World War III is imminent. 

In “Choose Your Own Adventure” spirit, if you find yourself numb to media, wish to restore microns of dopamine and step off the conveyer belt of mindless scrolling – READ THE NEXT SENTENCE. 

Within our recorded history existed a Greek Philosopher named Diogenes.  An infamous interaction occurred when he and Alexander the Great, not only the most historic Alpha of all Alphas, but also a devout admirer of philosophy, crossed paths.  This time, he travelled not to conquer another land but to sidequest and meet one of the best of his time. 

Alexander located and approached Diogenes with uncharacteristic fanboy giddiness.  Diogenes was sprawled out when Alexander’s shadow startled him.

Diogenes slurred, “Move to the right.  You’re blocking my sun.”

Even more impressed, Alexander saluted, “If I were not Alexander, I would wish to be Diogenes.” 

(I don’t refer to myself in third person enough.  I’ve heard boxers in post-fight interviews do that.  But they just got hit in the head for 12 rounds.  Let’s plant a flag here but move on.)

And, it is with those two, we have the two approaches to our existence.  Alexander represents accumulation of wealth, knowledge, status, sexual partners, views, likes and paid subscribers. 

Diogenes didn’t give a fuck. 

He lived in a barrel. 

His philosophy, Cynicism, emphasized living in accordance with nature, rejecting societal conventions and material possessions, and seeking virtue and self-sufficiency. Diogenes believed that true happiness and freedom came from living a simple life, free from titles and status and shit like that. He aimed to live authentically.

I visualized a stinky homeless person yelling at passing cars. 

Stay with me. We’re still talking about the same thing.

GRWM. 

Get ready with me. 

It’s a Tiktok trend where an already pretty girl gets ready and dolled up.

Thousands of views.  Sometimes hundreds of thousands.  The Hollywood Bowl can hold over 17,000 people.  That’s how many click to ogle at people putting on make-up and an outfit. 

I’ve bled on my pages, ugly cried and paced before I posted my articles.

I haven’t broken 20 likes. (I laughed, too)

I’ve lived long enough and made choices to try to be like Alexander.  Chasing. Accumulating.

Restarting my adventure and taking the Substack route feels right.

Enter The Council of Substackers (and growing)

My Appointed Council (they don’t know they have that title) reinforce my instinct that focusing on my voice will attract “like hearted” writers. And, that’s PRECISELY what’s been happening. They told me so. I see it. I feel I’ve moved people as I’ve been moved by the talent here.

(Shot out to the Director of “Tiny Hearts” and multi-hyphenate Chris Dela Cruz at

www.floatentertainment.com

for coining “like hearted.”)

Norm chooses to flip open his laptop, log onto Substack and be authentic in front of you while ignoring metrics. Norm is incredibly grateful for any one who carves out time of their busy day to read his musings.

Together, let’s not let anyone block out our sun.

If you’re picking up on the Spanish influence, your ears are attuned. 

An aside.  The Spanish occupied the Philippines from 1565 to 1898 and did the same in Mexico from 1521 to 1820.  As your intellect suspects, pollination occurs. 

Back to sweltering Manila where the heat waves distort the horizon wherever you turn your head. 

Mom is doing her clinicals in Labor and Delivery - what would be her focus for the following four decades.  

A pregnant patient immediately recognized Mom and was put at ease.  The woman accompanied by the soon to be father never stepped in an air-conditioned building before with tiled floors.  Mom’s presence was a prayer answered and a divine guide in this sterile and cold world. 

When the woman went into labor Mom reflected while looking out the window, “I felt something was wrong.  Like the baby was slipping away.”  Mom, instinctually, gave the woman ice water.  Once that cold hits the womb it’ll awaken a fading fetus.  But it didn’t help. 

The baby was stillborn. 

The first of many in her career.

But the first. 

Procedurally, stillborns go to the frigid morgue in the basement.  There’s no way this couple had the means to pay for both, an autopsy and authorized dead baby transport several hours south of Manila. 

The body of the baby remained as property of the province.

The childless woman and man, were sent back on a bumpy and dusty trek back to their hometown on one of those obnoxiously ornamented “Jeepneys.”   I wonder what that moment was like when they arrived back home and how long it took for the village to realize the loss.  Or, in reverse, how the couple pulling up saw beaming faces knowing in moments that wouldn’t be the case. 

Mom is now 92 and this is the first time I’ve heard this story.  She can’t hear nowadays, but she knows how much my eczema ointment cost in 1976 and who’s birthday is this month and the next.  Point to a date on the calendar and if it has significance to our family she’ll recall it.  She has Rainman memory and Bruha instincts.  Look that up.  I’m not cursing myself.

I’ve made at least a hundred Philippine care package (Balikbayan) boxes over my life filled with pens, notebooks, socks, activity books, medicine, handwritten letters and anything her hometown could use.  Mailing cash in envelopes sealed in bigger envelopes evolved to wiring money to her living brothers and sisters, nieces, nephews, God children or anyone with their hand out. 

When I went to the Philippines with her after my Dad died, I witnessed random people stopping, grabbing her hand and requesting, “Máno, po.”  As nameless people placed my mom’s hand to their forehead, they not only closed their eyes, but shut them in prayer.    

You picked up on it, again.  People requested Mom’s máno (hand) and for her to bless them. 

In this dimension of the planet, Elders are designated reps of God’s love and care.  Mom is revered.

Back at the hospital over 70 years ago and moved by her heart, Mom ignored the chain of command, stood tall in front of the superintendent and Jedi mind tricked him, “What if the document indicated the baby was born and released to the family?” 

Technically, the baby exited the mother and was born.  Sign the release paper and turn your head for the “released to the family” part.  He sifted through piles of paper, signed and approved with a nod without making eye contact. 

Self-assigned, Mom carried an ice bag with a stillborn wrapped inside and boarded a Jeepney.  The unbuckled passengers sitting on splintered wooden planks shoulder bumped each other for hours jostling over unpaved country roads. 

“I stared out the window the whole time.  No one asked me what I had.”

Mom is completing a sticker puzzle while telling us this story.  She’s using tweezers to peel and place them in their designated spots.  Kinda like paint by numbers.

“It was like a celebration when I got off the Jeepney.  Some cried, but they were just happy they can give the baby a proper burial.  You know, Norman, I come from an uneducated fishing town.  These people would have accepted not ever seeing their baby.  Child mortality is expected.  I could not let that happen.”

She put the tweezers down, massaged her hands and looked out the window.

Mom rubbed her thighs with her 92-year-old wrinkled hands. 

A single tear ran down her cheek. 

“I can still feel the cold.” 

In a “L” from my bedroom to the kitchen. 

Do people still pace or is that replaced with scrolling?  I guess I’m old school. 

I’m not clear on where I’m gonna live in the weeks ahead.  That’s not it.  There’s too much month at the end of the check.  Not that, either. 

Me bent at the waist and a cigarette dangling for its dear life from my lip would complete this pacing picture. 

I’ve been in fist fights, vehicle pursuits (as a police officer) and was attacked by a rabid homeless person who head butt me and screamed, “I didn’t spit on your bitch!” 

Wasn’t scared then. 

But, now, something’s on my ass.  My feet can’t outpace what I know I’ll have to face. My brain toggled to flight mode without my permission.

That thing isn’t like an unpaid parking ticket notification with fees stacking on fees. It’s a human. 

First, strap into my time machine.  Leonardo DiCaprio’s Titanic is playing in theatres.  Princess Diana was killed in a car crash.  And I’m a baby-faced patrol officer in Oakland, California. 

Irma Grieve dispatched me to calls like respond to the hospital where an under age sexual assault victim awaits an officer’s help.  Then there’s the dead dog in the road, that burglary in progress and a body dump in the middle of the street.  Yes, that was a real call in Oakland in the 1990’s. 

People pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1- 25 hours a day- 8 days a week. 

Cops “shag” calls one at a time. 

But dispatchers are nose to leaking and cracking dam. They’re plugging holes with their fingers, forehead and feet.  In cities like Oakland that dam bursts everyday especially when some idiot who doesn’t know the laws of physics says, “It’s quiet.” 

They call when they leave the house for work and their car is gone, when they see someone stabbed in the entranceway to their apartment building (one of my first calls) and when someone buys a wig, wants to return it and the owner won’t refund their money (my very last call at OPD). Those are emergencies.   Imagine it.  It’s a call that Irma has answered. 

What does that do to you?  That constant barrage of people losing it, literally talking people off ledges and this incessant narration of our reptilian behavior.  Non-freakin’ stop. 

In my first year of being a cop, my dad died.  So, I did what any respectable young man does to cope.  I hit the fucking gas pedal and bottled grief.  I worked as much as I could, put on the face and toed the line with one mission:

I will NEVER let my widowed mother see me sad.  I will shoulder her burden and work, and direct deposit her money and take her to Costco on my day off.

But, early on, I felt something I haven’t told anyone for 25 years.  I don’t think I was ever cut out to be a cop. 

And I think Irma and others saw that despite me immersing myself in that world. 

To few, like Irma, I’d talk about philosophy books going to museums and wandering drives along the coast.  Before being a cop, I’d practice yoga in the attic of a Victorian house converted into an Ashram, do Tai Chi at Ocean Beach below the Cliff House, jog in the fog on the San Andreas fault on a trail called Crystal Springs, curl up in the corner at Caffe Trieste in North Beach with a book.  Thaaaat’s my energy signature.  But, I’ve ignored and suppressed that aspect of me for the better part of a quarter century. 

She knew I was the round peg in this square hole. 

I was another young cop overcompensating for lack.  Working non-stop to distract myself from facing the loss of my Dad.  Repeatedly and unconsciously showing up to a job I was drowning in and deathly afraid of.

I mimicked extroverts to fit in.  Talk loud with a beer in your hand (but I don’t drink alcohol).  I’ve pretended to be an alpha male at work and in my circle to match the warrior frequency. 

And when someone lies to themself the body attacks itself.  For me it was heart aches,  insomnia, eczema and dad bod. 

Through Substack, I reconnected with Irma.  She remembered my call sign and I remember her voice. 

For the last couple years, I had a book about supernatural experiences in perpetual “work in progress” phase.  Next, I had a book on police reform seeing that the public doesn’t know how the sausage is really made.  And, in development still, I have a memoir about seeing a crime I failed to intervene in and the self-imposed penance that followed. 

An author suggested, “Have your ideas procreate with each other.”

He didn’t say procreate. 

So, my ideas fornicated with each other, and the result is “Flip.”  I’m self-publishing this Halloween.  Still, I hesitate to press “post” here on Substack and say, “Oh shit.  You told people your book is coming out.” 

I’ve been able to hide for decades behind a badge, behind redirecting conversation, using the Jedi mind trick, or being an enigma wrapped in a mystery. 

But that shit isn’t working anymore.  I’m pacing because the curtain is pulled and I’m center stage. 

You see, I received a Substack notification email and it read, “One of your readers believe your writing is worth paying for.” 

It was Irma.  Like God she waited 25 years for me to cycle through what I thought I should be doing and waited for the right time to hold up this mirror.

Irma.  Theresa.  Yomi.  Julianna.  Julie. Chris.  Lisa.  Piper. Marie Vandoorne and the rest of my supporters…I vow that the ideas I had co-mingle produced offspring no one has ever seen.  Without your support and encouragement, I’d remain in rumination.  I cannot wait to share “Flip.”

Two givens for that to be true.

One, you believe in the Messiah.  Two, he’s coming. 

Back. 

The Theosophical Society predicted and made note of prophecies and astrological signs that the next world teacher would be born (again) and usher in a new era of peace and enlightenment. 

This world teacher’s name was Krishnamurti. 

True story.

This is the guy!  He was groomed and educated in both western and eastern thought to deliver this message of peace across all faiths. 

With Krishnamurti on my mind, I took the bus to Green Apple Book store- a converted Victorian style house and then remodeled in art deco after the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.  The wooden planks creak as you step heel to toe like a ninja on the second floor and you wonder if you’re gonna free fall when the boards eventually give out. 

I knew what corner of the labyrinth Esoteric Philosophy was and never saw another human being for hours.  The only thing that would give me away was sneezing from the dust. 

Krishnamurti, I’m paraphrasing, said Jesus and Buddha have walked here and we still have wars, jealousy, hate, nationalism.

Let that sink in. 

The religious all stars have been here.  Name your go to. 

And then let’s turn on the news. So…

In 1929, Krishnamurti disbanded the world teacher business built around him.  Yeah, he gave up a guaranteed lifelong career of early 20^th Century Ted Talks.  But, no more paid subscription.  No SaviorCon photo ops or merch.  Instead, he toured emphasizing individual spiritual independence and not relying on an authoritative intermediary. 

Wait.  I don’t have to wait seven days to go to a fixed location, at the same time everyone else does, and listen to one designated person giving us marching orders for the week? 

I have the capacity to observe and think and read for myself? 

Who today comes close to that transparency, honesty and free useful information?  And not behind some sort of paywall or some public indoctrination ceremony. 

We’re doing life wrong. 

Here’s a little taste.  Krishnamurti wasn’t anti anything.  He highlighted if you’re anti-smoking you must attack smoking and keep smoking alive for your campaign.  The thing you fight against you keep alive.  Advance five spots up the IQ ladder for reading that sentence. 

He quoted Jesus, Buddha, prophets, wisdom leaders and had in depth discussions with physicists and emphasized the truth couldn’t be copywritten by one religion.  The truth is the truth wherever it comes from.

When debating or discussing religion with friends, people I knew from church and those who lived alternative lifestyles I’d hold court with repeating ideas I hardly knew anything about.  But I sounded smart because I read and repeated. And this information was different. 

I interrupted people’s logic patterns.  My words did not compute but they overrode people’s arguments causing them to stutter.  I was a fart smeller.  I mean, a smart fella.

I was so proud of myself. 

I couldn’t wait to bust out philoso-jive on anyone in front of me.    I planned to drop my rehearsed knowledge on a crush.  We met up for pizza and I was waiting for the right time after, “Hello, what’s up…” to launch into my Krishnamurti monologue and enchant her with intellectual mimicry. 

Instead, she mentioned how annoying this college guy she was dating would drive recklessly when they went out.  He drove.  I didn’t.  I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.  I hate him.  She offered without me asking, “He talks so loud when he’s with his friends and it’s like I’m not even there.”  And, yet, she gets into the car with him and hangs out.  Got it. 

“Does he even read?”  I said those words out loud.  That was exactly a mile away.

Cut me some slack.  I was a late bloomer with no, what do the kids call it nowadays, Rizz?

We decided to get ice cream after.  Pizza then ice cream.  Like a kid’s party. 

I don’t know what place we went to.  Narnia? But this chocolate, dense as a black crayon, was freakin’ delicious, man.   I held a tablespoon of goodness in my mouth allowing it to melt around my molars.  Then I’d drink chocolate soup. Soothing Earth taste at the back of my throat. 

She stopped talking about loud talking, handsome, independent, homeboy with his own car.  I think. I didn’t care, anymore.  This Cocoa altered state muffled, blurred and closed me off to anything but chalky chocolate sticking to my gums. 

Did I even say, “Bye?” 

Chocolate after glow going through the tunnel underneath the Bay Bridge made me care less about my wasted afternoon. 

Drunk from sugar and milk, I stumbled into my bathroom ready to call it a night.  Not everyone likes what you like, Norm.

What’s a statement of the obvious to you is a lesson a kid has to go through in order to learn and understand.

As I raised my toothbrush, I noticed a discoloration near my lip.

Nope.  It wasn’t just a discoloration. 

It was dark chocolate all over my mouth. 

It was like I was on all fours, lowering my mouth to a puddle of fresh, wet mud, puckering up and dipping my lips in.  Including the bottom of my nose. 

But the chocolate stamped on my mouth wasn’t fresh ice cream.  It had cycled through the mummification process and dried and cracked. 

There was even a chocolate smudge near my eyebrow.  How the f-?

How long was this- why are you even asking?  You.  Yeah, you the reader. You know. 

She tuned out when she saw me tenderly making out with that single scoop. 

Krishnamurti couldn’t help my sorry ass, but I sure did speak Jesus’ name with all my heart and clenched fist over my chest that night.

Like the person that likes you.  Not the person you like.  If you don’t, you’ll be a damn fool.  That’s the truth. Enjoy the freebie at my expense.

Predictable is preventable. 

Be on the deck before you have to hit the deck. 

Some cops took a knee.  One vet straight up plopped himself horizontal on the dust mite infested couch running the clock on his shift.  Correction.  Running the clock on his career.  

Minutes before, Oakland Police Dispatch put out a call of a suicidal person who fired a single shot in his apartment.  The caller was “refused” meaning exactly what you’re thinking. 

I’m not getting details of what suicidal guy said.  Did he threaten the refused caller?  Was that one shot the kill shot or a warning shot? 

So, whoever was available or could break away were the one’s who’d respond. 

Enter us.  I don’t remember how we got in the apartment. A handful of cops, a combination of rookie and veterans, lounging in a living room with liquor store porno magazines on the coffee table and a rated X VHS tape locked and loaded in the VCR. 

Being junior, I was volun-told to begin dialogue with the suicidal guy with a gun who was on the opposite side of this moldy sheet rock.

At one point during my 20 plus years of uniformed service, I trained with the FBI and became a Crisis Negotiator.  Part of that training was an internship at a Suicide Hotline center. 

Part one of calling a hotline is intake.  Who are you and why are you calling?  Part two is when the supervisor walks over to you and summarizes, “Okay, Norm we have a recently divorced man who’s depressed and afraid to say he wants to kill himself but he wants to kill himself.” 

Part three.  You’re on.  Save a life.  What could go wrong?

On every patrol shift someone is in crisis.  That elderly woman wandering the streets and doesn’t remember where she lives is in crisis.  The woman, victim of domestic violence, is in crisis.  The suicidal man not compliant with his meds and wants to kill himself is in crisis.  The person whose laptop was stolen from their car is in crisis. 

When I was in that apartment 25 years ago, I didn’t have those skills.  So, I talked.  When in doubt, fill dead space with words. 

“C’mon, man.  You got a lot to live for.”

As I heard the bullshit coming out my mouth, I looked over my shoulder and the porno video somehow got pushed in and “automatically” played.  The sticky magazines were traded clockwise once they were…read. 

Talk, Norm.  I remember feeling sorry for this lonely man. 

“Listen, man.  I think we all have something in common.  You don’t want us in your place and we don’t want to be here bothering you….” 

Oh shit.  He’s gonna pick up on-

“So why don’t you guys just leave?” 

OPD is committed at this point, and I have to un-fudge me poking the suicidal bear. 

If we leave and he ends himself that’s on us.  I mean that’s on me. 

If we have an open-door hallway standoff, pointing guns at the guy with the gun to his head and resolve it that way, that’s on me. 

This isn’t a criminal situation.  It’s a mental health crisis and I’m the rookie with someone’s life in their hands. 

More about me, the rookie: My mom said I didn’t start talking until I became a police officer. 

Additional fun fact:  One of my mentors put it bluntly, “Norm, your only problem is that you don’t talk.” 

Yeah.  I’m that quiet.  Voice is my last desired choice when interacting with the world and I’m the designated life saver.

Every time I spoke the cops rolled their eyes.

I launched a Hail Mary, “What do I gotta say to get you out of there safely?” 

To himself he whispered, “Please.”  I heard that.  New level unlocked. 

With my four-and-a-half-year high school diploma and “some” City College credits, I used my best academic English to craft, “Sir, please come out of your room with nothing in your hand.  I can guarantee you won’t go to jail.”

He came out.  In moments he was CCP.  Caged, cuffed and peaceful and en route to a psych facility.

I’m gonna give you the answers to the test on how to be a negotiator and wrap this up. Do as I say and not as I did.

When someone is in crisis use LEAPS.

Listen.  Empathize.  Ask.  Paraphrase.  Summarize. 

No one will remember what you said.  They’ll remember how you made them feel.  Make people feel heard and seen. 

We all think we give the greatest advice.  We’re uncertified life coaches.  We know how to fix everyone else’s problems. 

I don’t think that’s worked out for anyone. 

If LEAPS is too robotic for you try this:  Listen and erase that urge to talk and give your best life advice.  If they want your advice, they’ll ask. 

Being a cop or a negotiator isn’t rocket surgery.  The main prerequisite is that you have to care.  It’s overwhelming to recount how many people I’ve come across who have been in crisis.  I don’t know what happened after that suicidal man was taken away 25 years ago.  I most likely botched that one but helped others.  Maybe. I know I cared.  The mantra I received from training at the suicidal hotline was making sure the person experiencing crisis was “safe for the day.” 

Imagine if we just listened to each other and tried to make another feel safe for the day.

Try it out. Let me know how that works out.

It’s about a kid who suffers from supernatural visions.  He witnesses a child abduction, freezes and tells no one. For the remainder of his life, he corporally and psychologically punishes himself for his cowardice until an unlikely intervention stops him from his final act of his self-imposed penance. 

Writing has been one modality to blood let incessant ruminations of lifelong guilt.  It helps a little.  For decades I’ve habituated and grand mastered emotional cutting. 

In the Philippines, a devout sect performs acts of self-flagellation while reciting the rosary.  These, mostly women, whip their own exposed backs causing bloody lacerations.  It’s performance art penance.  Asking for sympathy and attention while praying for forgiveness feels fake and insincere.  It’s like, “Look at me.  I hurt myself and have a clean slate because I saw you feel sorry for me.”  It cancels out the efficacy because it depends on audience reaction. 

My sins will transfer to my son if I don’t lobotomize this shame.  I am not doing that shit to him.  It’s screwed up.  Instead of creating a finger snapping happy go lucky life coach persona to blanket the piece of shit I felt I’ve become - I write.  I now confront myself here, in journal and screenplay. 

“A memoir isn’t about the author” said someone smarter than me.  Since a memoir is exactly about the author, I knew a dope switcharoo was about to drop. 

As it was explained to me, events are so horrific and humiliating it strips the author naked.  There will be a moment when the reader horizontal in bed, on the toilet or in a café nibbling a chocolate croissant will say, “I did that shit, too.”  Not the act, but the shared fear or shame behind it. 

That’s the moment when the memoir becomes a mirror. 

I admit hypocrisy.  I’m talking crap about people who act out “woe is me” when I’m cutting and whipping myself for you to see.  I just picked up on that.  No lie.  I’m keeping this paragraph as is.  Here it comes… Yeah, but I do have a revelation that stopped me from mindful self-harm.  

My best friend, an old school and respected Oakland Police street cop and someone I always wanted to be like, held space for me as I shared all the above.  After a long silence he confronted me with, “Why have you punished yourself when you didn’t have the life experience and skills you have today?” 

I folded.  It’s inner child abuse and, not only am I holding the stick, I also locked that kid in a darkened room. 

Not being able to justify my actions triggered convulsive uncontrollable crying.  It was my body’s highlight and delete to sever the habitual self-loathing program.   I just fucking stopped.  There was a me before my buddy shook me by my shoulders. 

And there’s the me now. 

It’s not gangster to punish yourself just to show how hard you are.  If you believe in God, she is the arbiter of justice not you or me.  So why do we take on her role?    

I don’t want anyone in my tribe to unnecessarily harm themselves to absolve for past guilt.  It’s not your place, you do not have the authority nor is it necessary.  Flip is my conversation with you about just that.  I’ll reach out to you closer to Halloween.  In the meantime, be kind to yourself. 

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