Kimberly Brown on Jonathan Humphries’ Windham’s Rembrandt, a memoir of his ex-Marine father’s work as Texas’ first prison art teacher
A noble and peaceful man embarks on an adventure when he decides to take a job in a Texas prison.
James feels privileged to be able to teach art. However, by teaching art in prison, James encounters some of the greatest challenges of his entire life.
James was initially going through problems of his own when he first started working at the prison. But he soon decided that if he was going to provide aid in any way to these prisoners, he had to let go of his own inner demons. He had to deal with everything that caused him to stumble and get into a sober mind to deal with the prisoners regularly.
James, newly divorced and a stone cold alcoholic, put all that behind him, to find God, to serve prisoners, and to find love.
Although reluctant at times about whether or not he would continue to work at the prison, James stuck it out as long as he could. Before he would leave the prison, he would see men so depressed that they would kill themselves. He would be pranked by his art students on many occasions. And he would also stay in touch with a couple of his students from the past. James gave his students, through an art class, an outlet to release and express themselves.
Although what James saw behind those walls at the prison pained him daily, he would return. And he would often be surprised and amazed by his students, some of whom possessed a professional level of talent for drawing and art work. James would grow to love to help his art students in the prison. He even found a tough, threatening inmate student willing to be his own personal ally in times of prison trouble and someone who came to defend him against attacks from other convicts.
James would become more involved and meet more prisoners from different walks of life. Many surprised him because they had what seemed to be normal lives before prison. While others, whom he could hardly bear to see and teach, had committed brutal crimes.
James and his students made history. James was a pioneer in creating that art class in that Texas prison and making it work for he and his students. In life, we all go through our troubles, and James refused to let his personal life get in the way of the compassion that he had for teaching art to his troubled prison students. James carved a path for many of his prisoners, inside and outside of the class. He was a great man who spent over a decade serving them.
Kim Brown lives in East Palo Alto, CA, is a mother and businesswoman who may be reached at kimbrown_kimronice@yahoo.com
With the exception of a white beard, he wore the red uniform of his calling. We shared a small, round table in Starbucks, a short distance from the department store where I was sure he worked. A portly man, with a large square head, and large facial features, he looked as if he were deep in thought or sad, possibly both. If smoking was allowed, I imagined he’d be smoking a curved pipe.
Ordinarily, I keep to myself. I’m an observer, a people watcher, and Starbucks is a wonderful place to do that – – watch people. Perhaps it was the excitement of the season that caused me to say, “How’s it going, Santa?”
He gave me a baleful look, and in a deep voice said, “It’s a good gig.”
From the sound of his voice, I thought that any conversation we might have had was aborted before it could begin. But I was wrong, because after a pause, he said, “I’m not sure I can take it anymore.”
I immediately thought he was responding to an overbearing supervisor. I knew nothing about the world of Santa Clauses, other than that they were supposed to be jolly. But the man sitting opposite me was far from being jolly; he was in fact morose.
I sipped my coffee. The man didn’t seem to be in a conversational mood; and I wasn’t about to intrude on his private time. My attention shifted to a lovely looking young woman, seated diagonally opposite from me. She too, was sipping from a cardboard cup with a plastic top. There were two very large shopping bags close by, on her left side. Despite my age, I enjoyed looking at her. She wore very little makeup, and her cheeks were still rosy from the cold outside.
Young women, especially good-looking young women, possessed a gaiety about themselves that young men of a similar age seemed to lack . . . Had I been years and years younger, I might have been brash enough to introduce myself to her, and let the proverbial chips fall where they will. But now the pleasure was completely voyeuristic, and maybe a little imaginative. Aging changed many things, but not my gender.
“I have to make a decision,” my table companion said abruptly.
My attention switched to him. I waited for him to elaborate. But he was in no hurry to continue; and his reticence gave me the eerie feeling that we were engaged in a conversation, but I knew that wasn’t the case. I sipped more of my coffee, while I waited for him to speak. I was tempted to look at my watch, and count the seconds or minutes before he spoke again. But I didn’t. Instead, I looked at him, and silently began to count. When I reached a hundred and he still hadn’t spoken, I returned my attention to the young woman. She was prettier than he was, with his pockmarked face and doleful expression.
For courtesy’s sake, I made another count after a few minutes, and reached eighty, before he again said, “It was a good gig.” Obviously, he was weighing the financial benefits of his job, against whatever else was on the other side of the scale.
“And my boss doesn’t bother me,” he added a few moments later.
That eliminated one of the possibilities I had previously thought about.
“It’s the kids, the poor ones, whose mom or dad paid five dollars for me to lie to them.” His eyes became watery, and he brushed each one of them with the back of his hand, before taking another sip of his coffee.
Suddenly, I was in deep water, doing a mental doggie paddle. I did know how deep the water really was, or where the shore was.
“Those poor kids want what other kids want. You know what I mean. And there’s no way in hell they’ll get anything but a poor substitute. . . .”
I was a child during the depression years, and my family was poor. Yet somehow, my mother managed to scrape together enough money for me to visit Santa Claus, and asked him for a set of electric trains. But when Christmas morning came, I wound up with a set of wind-up trains, a sad substitute for what I’d envisioned, which was either a set of American Flyer or Lionel. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince myself that my wind-up trains were better than either of the possibilities I believed I would get. I lost my faith in Saint Nick, and I am sure that betrayal started me on the road to the cynic I became – –
Barging into my thoughts, the man said, “Sometimes I feel like jumping up and yelling, ‘I’m a fraud, the whole thing is a fraud, especially when I get one of the really poor ones.”
I shook my head, “That’s not the way you want to go.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at his watch and announced it was time for him to leave.
I watched him disappear into the crowds of late afternoon shoppers; then I looked at the table, where the young woman was sitting. She was no longer there. But two young men wearing woolen stocking hats, sat opposite one another. Both had ragged looking backpacks nearby.
Finishing my coffee, I sat at the table awhile longer, thinking about the man dilemma: if he quits, he loses income; if stays, he’d have lost something of himself. Which would be the greater loss to him? I felt my lips tighten. I didn’t like a problem that put me or other people between a hammer and an anvil, the rock and a hard place, which was where he stood. There was nothing I could have said, or done, that would have helped him chose. That he would have to do on his own.
My interest in the man’s problem waned, and I drifted into my people-watching mode. Starbucks was crowded, and the noise level was up. It must have gotten colder outside, because people who now came in, were more bundled up than those who were here earlier. Twilight had already settled on the street. Headlights were on, and the street lamps glowed, their bases resting in pools of yellow light.
I looked at my watch; it was time for me to go home and tell my wife about my day, which was not much different from my other days, except for having met a disenchanted Santa. I disposed of my empty coffee container, and walked to Seventh Avenue, where I was lucky enough not to have to wait for a number twenty downtown bus. The streets we passed were festooned with holiday decorations, and practically all of the passengers were holding the results of their Christmas shopping.
Suddenly I felt tired, a bit weary. Traffic was slow, and became slower when we approached the streets leading to the Holland Tunnel. But as soon as we passed them, we moved quickly, and I was shortly at my apartment door. It opened before I opened it, and there was my wife, Irena. She threw her arms around my neck and fiercely pressed her face to my chest. Ordinarily, not an overly emotional woman, she was sobbing and simultaneously telling me the police were looking for me. I seemed to have become “public enemy number one.”
When I was finally in the apartment, and managed to calm Irina, I learned that I was allegedly responsible for hypnotizing a man, who caused mayhem in Macy’s toy department.
Suddenly, I started to laugh. I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes, and I began to hurt.
“I listened too long,” I managed to sputter and continued to laugh. But then I realized it wasn’t funny; it was sad, and I stopped laughing. He needed a reason, an excuse to do what he wanted to do and I was it.
There can be few people anywhere in the world who have not heard of Pompeii and its near neighbor Herculaneum – the two towns on the Bay of Naples which were destroyed so spectacularly in AD 79 by the eruption of nearby Mount Vesuvius. These two towns, now painstakingly excavated and preserved, are today, amongst the most visited sites in the whole of Italy.
But Pompeii and Herculaneum also have a distant cousin. Less well-known, but no less impressive, is the ancient Roman town of Ostia Antica, situated about 16 miles (25 km) south-west of Rome.
Ostia is generally believed to date from the second half of the 4th century BC, and was originally built as a military post to control and defend the mouth of the River Tiber. It takes its name from the Latin ostium, meaning, “river-mouth”. In its heyday, Ostia was the principal port for the city of Rome and a thriving commercial centre, with a population of around 100,000 people. Its decline began in the second century AD, when much of the commercial traffic was redirected to the newly-built harbor at nearby Portus. By the 4th century AD the harbor at Ostia was beginning to silt up, and an epidemic of malaria eventually caused the town to be abandoned.
Ostia might be less spectacular than Pompeii or Herculaneum because it died a gradual, rather than a sudden death, but it gives visitors a much more complete picture of life in a Roman town. Streets, forum, capitol, theatre, bathhouses (many still with their original spectacular mosaics), temples, market, shops, offices, workshops, warehouses, grain stores and private residences – they are all here, and all remarkably well-preserved.
Ostia was home to all social classes. The wealthy enjoyed the sumptuous comforts of spacious, detached houses (domūs), whilst the working-class people lived in the three- or four-story apartment blocks (insulae) which varied considerably in their levels of comfort and decoration. One of the smarter ones is the House of Diana, which boasts a private bathhouse and a central courtyard. The bar on the ground floor, still houses the marble counter where the customers bought drinks and hot food.
The cosmopolitan nature of the town is reflected in the diversity of its places of worship. In addition to Roman temples, there are also a number of temples dedicated to the Persian god Mithras, as well as a first-century Jewish synagogue and a Christian basilica.
The site museum is home to the many exhibits which have emerged during the excavations of the town. Sculptures, statues, pottery, jars, amphorae, glass or alabaster bottles – all offer great insight into the everyday lives of Ostia’s inhabitants. A more recent addition to the site is a modern visitor-center, which also houses an excellent café.
Ostia is easy to reach from the center of Rome – the journey takes about half an hour by suburban train. The modest admission charge to the excavated site (scavi) is an absolute bargain. Allow at least half a day for your visit, but you may well find the place so fascinating that you’ll want to stay a lot longer!
W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and artist. He is the author of six books (wjacksavage.com) To date, thirty-two of Jack’s stories have been published by various online and print magazines, and eighteen of his pictures have been published as well. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California.
The beauty of Israel, the warmth coming from the sun as it is about to set, and the stillness in the air are the setting for the first scene in this novel. As Roger Charlin and Maya Cohen sit together, discussing their lives, his stories and their feelings about Israel, Palestine and more, something will shake the foundation they are sitting on. The horizon and landscape will explode within seconds, as bombs fill the sky, hotels and buildings collapse, a boat explodes and the world changes.
Thinking about his publication and his recent expose´ of Newton Oil’s corrupt practices, Charlin reflects back on his sources, his initial encounter with Maya Cohen, and, even more, his feelings about Israel/Palestine. He reflects on their conflicts, his take on the situation, and why he feels it has never been resolved. The Eyes of Abel answers these questions, and much more, as the author flashes back three months before this attack on Israel, describes another terrorist attack over San Francisco, and shows what Charlin did to prove that terrorists similar to the one who got through in San Francisco can often fool security officers. But, what he learns will hopefully change things for readers and for him.
At the beginning of the novel, Roger, with the help of some of his colleagues, creates a new image for himself as an Arab, traveling from America to Israel. This is part of an expose´ he conducts, intending to bring to light how sometimes airport security is too tight, and that profiling certain people and singling them out for extra interviews or scrutiny is often based on race or nationality. What happens during his brief encounter, how and why the agent realizes he is using a fake passport and fake identity, just lets the reader know that the agents at El Al Israel are truly always on target. Investigating a secret energy project at Princeton, we hear him speaking with his source, getting the information, and we understand just how creative he will get, and how in-depth he will go to get a story, and in this case, the Pulitzer Prize. But March 26, 2015, will change it all.
Trans Flight 144 goes down and the events spiral out of control, as Roger Charlin immerses himself in more than just the story about racial profiling at the airport. Trying to find out more about Maya Cohen leads him to many discussions and negative viewpoints about the state of Israel. Maya relates her position, and her discussions with Charlin are heated and well-informed, and each side is vividly presented.
But, Roger is trying to create an article that will break open the fact that EL Al security seems to target those who are Arab or appear to be Arab. Is it politically correct to single out these people? Shouldn’t everyone receive the same security clearance? And why is he so concerned with Middle-Eastern people at the airport? But, meeting Maya will change it all.
Who is she, and why is she really here? Within this complex plot, there is much more to uncover. The Princeton Plasma Lab that has been lying dormant for so long now seems to have come to life, igniting more than just the possibility of a new energy program. Things get out of control for Charlin, as his relationship with Maya heats up when his reporter friend and mentor Ben Lampsky breaks the Princeton research wide open, in an article that sets events in motion, which causes lives to be lost. Israel comes into the limelight, and the light shines, but the truth is clouded.
Reporters, Charlin states, are supposed to report the truth and not worry about who gets the story out first. Reporters, Ben states, report events as they see them, write the story through their own eyes, and give the public what they want everyone to see and hear. Next, a video that has been doctored, or at least, whose credibility is in question, sparks more negativity about Israel, before the scientists at this lab are whisked away, and hopefully back home, before more lives are lost.
Project Sherwood, in Jacobs’ novel, “was a secret effort in the 1950’s, during the Eisenhower administration, to produce unlimited energy through fusion.” But, finding this information, taking a trip to Princeton, and signing on to assist Lampsky to learn just who in the government is funding an energy program that was declassified decades ago, sets in motion catastrophic events of huge proportions. Observing several men walking dogs in the middle of the night might not trigger anything suspicious, except in this case, the location is near the lab.
As the author elaborates about the program, and discusses energy production, we learn more about what might be driving this program to be restarted and we wonder why anyone would unleash it to the press and not protect its security. World energy would change, and telling the world about it, would do more harm than good. So, why did Charlin agree to find out more about the government and take the bait?
Since the TransCom 144 incident, he has done nothing significant. Within Chapter Four, taking place Feb. 5, 2015, we learn about an Israeli Medical Team being killed, and the details are graphically described. As his relationship with Maya intensifies, he finds out information about her that would change their fates.
Learning her real reason for being in America and knowing why she disappeared, does not stop him from wanting answers, and trying to find her. But before long, he is interrogated by the Senate Congressional Committee when Lampsky breaks open the story about the fusion program, and the possibility of an energy breakthrough.
When asked why he never filed his article about racial profiling, readers will be surprised at his response, knowing his negative views towards Israel. But, things change, perceptions differ, and although he still has some misgivings about how Israel handles and responds to attacks, we see him becoming more open-minded.
As readers see Lampsky’s expose´ about the breakthrough at Princeton Labs, and hear his words, they can decide for themselves if he intentionally endangered the scientists at the lab. Especially when they see what happens when Charlin explains Maya’s role, and how this article affected the situation.
Throughout the next two chapters, Jacobs vividly presents many incidents, focusing on attacks on Israeli soldiers and letting readers decide whether the reporter really told what happened, or just what he or she thinks happened. We see slanted journalism in many cases, and incidents ignited by the press, with the aid of Youtube videos.
When interrogated by the State Senate Committee, Charlin realizes just who set him up, and why. His remarkable comeback, and his response, will impress readers. Just who in the government is pulling the strings? And why, when Charlin relates information regarding the killing of federal funding for fusion research, does the tone of the hearing change?
A news bulletin relates events in Israel, global reactions, and a world turned against a people just trying to live and survive! Near the middle of the book, there’s a section where we hear the voices of so many. A reporter’s vision or viewpoint of certain events and how different sectors of different countries react to the same incident. This underscores the role of media bias in shaping the Mideast conflict.
Hidden behind the walls of a nondescript building, is a projector, whose screen will emit slides that change the course of the world, change Charlin’s perspective about Israel, and bring the fusion program to life. But, when secrecy is breached, and Israel is in danger, what chance do they have? While he and Maya look bravely to the future, she formulates his next move. Will Charlin agree to the terms? Will he risk it all to help Israel, the United States, the fusion program, and hopefully dismantle a war, before it’s too late?
What happens next is explosive, and the one person that is the key, turns in different directions.
Background on Abel in the title: Abel was the second son born to Adam and Eve. Abel was the first shepherd, the first martyr in the Bible and murdered by Cain, his brother. This murder, of course, did not please God. Cain, a farmer, grew grains and vegetables, and Abel was a shepherd, tending the family’s herds. They were brothers, who never got along, yet loved each other.
The family had to sacrifice something to God to atone for their sins. Abel was worried about making his sacrifice special to God and he offered his best lamb. Cain sacrificed crops from his garden, yet, God was not pleased with his offering. So, Cain asked his brother to walk with him and struck him down to the ground and killed him.
As with Abel, other countries see her as being favored by the United States and other countries, and thus not punished for her violence and retaliation. So other nations feel justified in attacking Israeli civilians.
Cain was only concerned about getting caught and not the consequences of his actions, but they caught up to him over time. The ending of The Eyes of Abel, you might say, parallels life in the fact that we often have to deal with and live with our choices, and face the consequences within ourselves. What happens at the end, is quite explosive, thought-provoking, and proves that while we teach children to think before they act, adults don’t always do the same. The description of the lattice is quite extraordinary; the events of March 26th will burn within Charlin’s and Maya’s minds, and readers’ minds forever.
Decide for yourself who is right, and who needs to understand: too many Cains in the world, and not enough Abels, to provide the stability needed to protect everyone.
Israel is here to stay. She will not give up, and In the Eyes of Abel, in the Eyes of the People of Israel, we see hope for freedom for everyone and someday peace within the Middle East and the world. This is one powerful novel that will create much discussion and controversy over the material offered. It’s definitely a must-read.
He screamed and banged on the closet door, but his mother held it shut. She fought him and won. Being in the closet was his punishment for her having had to answer to his teacher for his bad behavior, his lack of interest and worse, his rudeness.
“I’ll be good,” he cried. “I promise.” He was afraid of the dark. The dark was where the Igdigs lived, and he was terrified they would get him…
That voice, grown tiny and faint over the years, never left Paul; and now it seemed to grow louder, occupying more space in his head with each argument he had with Cynthia, his wife. Both of them were in the closet, but only he knew he was. This time, he couldn’t kick and scream until his mother would open the door. This time, there wasn’t any door to kick or bang on; and everyone in his family was dead: mother, father, and three older sisters.
An octogenarian, he was the sole survivor. In his present circumstances, the benefits for surviving were few, while the detriments were many. Being in the closet was one of them; his infirmities were the other. Crushingly, it narrowed his world, preventing him from having the experiences he wanted to have. But all of that was endurable.
It was the closet that was unendurable, and yet he endured. There wasn’t any way for him to escape, except by dying; and though he thought about suicide, he wasn’t ready for it yet.
Cynthia stood in the way. Who would take care of her? Not their sons, who had their own burdens; or her younger brother, who would probably not be able to admit that his sister had Alzheimer’s or dementia, or possibly both. He had difficulty admitting it; and it was there, palpable every day. It was the closet in which both of them now lived. The Igdigs morphed into real fears, anger and guilt; resentment and depression coupled to a deep feeling of impotence.
Had he somehow failed her? Was he failing her now?
She made impossible demands, things he could no longer do, or that he was powerless to do. And when he told her he couldn’t do what she asked, she reacted negatively, either with the sulks; or more recently, with anger, an irrational fury goading him into an angry response and the emotional abyss that followed it.
After their last blow up, he died or something died inside of him. He was broken, and he knew it. He left the apartment, but she came after him.
“I came from nothing, and I’ll go back to nothing,” he told her. “You can have it all.”
She pleaded with him not to go.
There wasn’t any place for him to go to other than a hotel room. But after a few nights, where? He didn’t know, and didn’t care. Silently, he shook his head. This was the payoff for all the years of being married to her. Maybe she felt the same way. But he never asked her to do something she couldn’t possibly do.
“Come back inside,” she said.
“Why?” He didn’t let her answer. “For more of the same,” he challenged.
“We can talk.”
“I don’t want to talk. We said more than enough to each other.”
“Come,” she said, extending her hand to him.
“You pushed me over the line,” he told her, taking hold of her hand. He saw the fear in her face, in her eyes, and let her lead him back into the apartment.
#
Later, he couldn’t sleep and went into the living room. He stood at the window that framed the harbor with its patchwork of lights that broke up darkness. Their past trickled through his mind. Tears blurred his vision. He took a step backward and sat in the high back chair adjacent to the window. What happened between them was beyond being sad. It augured for a lessening of her hold on reality and more forbearance from him. No longer could there be any sort of a dividing line between what he would or would not tolerate.
As if he were denying his thoughts, he shook his head. But he wasn’t denying them; he accepted the personal enormity of them with feelings of amazement and disbelief at what he saw as their future.
The trickle of the past suddenly became white-water, swift and dangerous, full of boulders. Lightning bolts of misdeeds stretching farther back than his memory of them could go.
“Yes. Yes, I’m guilty. Mea maxima culpa. And you, what did you do or didn’t do?”
But now, in the deep quietness of the night, there wasn’t answer, only the recognition that there never should have been a question. Her vision of the past was as mist-ridden as her vision of the present. What he clearly saw was their anguish, their decrepitude and their different realities that like Venn diagrams overlapped in a narrow arc of their circularity.
He dozed, his head tilting toward his chest. In that restless sleep, he saw himself looking down at the dead body of his older sister, Selma, who claimed there were people living inside of her air conditioner, that devils were pinching her and a myriad of other nightmarish fantasies. He awoke with a start. The memory of the dream felt like ashes in his brain, but it vanished, leaving him with a residue of dissatisfaction of something left undone.
#
He left the chair and stood at the window again. Close by the scream of a siren hunted through the darkness, entering his consciousness to make him aware of the darkling plane ahead of him, and his fear of what he and Cynthia would find when they reached it. The weight of that thought was almost insupportable, and again he wept…
