I first learned about Nicole De La Cruz in the Fall of 2005. I tried to forget, but I could not.
My wife and I were driving around the San Francisco Bay Area; we were listening to a radio station that plays traffic and weather every ten minutes. We might have been traveling for Thanksgiving or driving to work. Perhaps we were driving to the doctor's office; we were expecting our second child.
On the morning of Nicole's tragedy, Nicole left her two children with a baby sitter. Nicole expected that the baby sitter would watch Nicole's kids. Nicole expected that she would pick up her kids after work. Many parents trust others to watch their children. As parents, we find that we must trust others to watch our children. Nicole will not be able to trust the same way again.
Parents probably never trust others completely. Parenting is tiring, which is one reason that we must rest. Sometimes, we must even escape and watch television. We watch situation comedies. We listen to the radio. Sometimes, we might escape too much, but I wonder if we spend so much time escaping, because our television programs are interrupted by news updates teasing us to watch the evening news and learn about the latest family tragedy.
I want to learn more about how families like Nicole's can recover. I want to hear about how communities can support her oldest son who probably witnessed his brother's death. How does he heal? How do we help him become a leader? A teacher? A big brother?
Second in a series of the Mothers of an Angel visit: Year 2. Dee Anna Anes.
Blessed Be The Ties That Bind.
Since visiting the grave site of Dee Anna Anes' daughter, I have been thinking about ties. Sometimes my mind wanders to the 1782 hymn The Ties That Bind.
Other times I think about the Bruce Springsteen song, Ties That Bind from the 1980 album The River. The album was released six years before Hilari Nicole Sloane was born.
You sit and wonder just who's gonna stop the rain Who'll ease the sadness, who's gonna quiet the pain It's a long dark highway and a thin white line Connecting baby, your heart to mine We're runnin' now but darlin' we will stand in time To face the ties that bind The ties that bind Now you can't break the ties that bind You can't forsake the ties that bind
Maybe you know scripture. I led them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love. Hosea 11:4
If Scripture or Springsteen is not your speed, perhaps you visited the Olive Garden where Hilari worked. Perhaps you are one of her coworkers who continues to bind ties to the tree above her grave.
During the week following my visit with The Mothers of an Angel Support Network, I attended a meeting where I would have normally worn a tie. For some reason, I left my collar open. My decision confused me, but I have learned to trust these feelings. Wearing a tie just did not feel right.
Being with Dee Anna and the other mothers felt right, even if the circumstances felt wrong. Dee Anna buried Hilari Nicole next to Dee Anna's father. Dee Anna's family has lived near the Fowler, California cemetery most of her life. Family ties.
My bond with the mothers continues to grow too as new connections form. If you read yesterday's post, you saw how puppies and guitars signify lasting connections. Now, ties symbolize a community of support... an extended "healing network." In Dee Anna's situation, I also notice her loving husband Jose supporting his wife. Giving space. Providing Love.
I hope my readers do not misinterpret my comments. Ties have not lost their meaning. All these symbols remind me that we are connected. We are bound. Together. Whether we realize the connection when we choose to wear a tie before a business meeting or we choose to ignore the knot growing inside.
First in a series chronicling my two day meeting with the Mothers of an Angels Network. For more information, read yesterday's post or my story about last year's visit.
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We have a dog.
The dog's name is Ari. We found the puppy running around the Mt. Ararat Cemetery in Fresno. He was lost. Perhaps abandoned. He had not eaten in days; he needed someone to care for him.
When we drove into the cemetery, I was in the first limo; my wife was in the second. As soon as I saw the lost puppy, I knew we would probably take him home if my wife saw him. Did it make sense? Was it practical? Was it logical? At the time, I thought my wife was impulsive and acting out of grief. After photographing Rachel Cobarrubias' family (and their family dogs), I realize that my wife's decision was as logical as any of her legal arguments.
Someone or something needed saving. So my wife acted. She acted swiftly, because if she waited, it would be too late.
Four years ago, my wife and two little children drove to Fresno from Oakland nearly every weekend watching my wife's grandmother die from cancer. My wife's grandmother was more than a grandmother. She was a role model for strong women; she was a community leader. She was also a care giver. At the cemetery that day, I also missed my wife's grandmother. I knew I would miss the Fresno Armenian history. I would miss her leadership and guidance. My children missed their great-grandmother. During those three months she was dying, I photographed my daughter. Months later, I saw my daughter's confusion. Death confused many of us, even when we were watching an old woman die slowly.
Finding the dog helped us move on. Ari helped us remember the circle of life. Ari helped us reconnect to life and to my wife's grandmother.
During my first photo session with Rachel Cobarrubias, I thought about Florence Jamgochian and our dog. I remembered that my wife's love for animals was one of the reasons I wanted to marry her. I figured that if my wife loved animals, she could love children. I wanted children.
Rachel brought two dogs and two people. One dog had lived with her son Eric and his fiance Airlia. A new tiny puppy is named after her son's MySpace log in name. Rachel loves the new dog, perhaps to help her remember her son and connect to the circle of life.
Rachel also brought her son's ashes and his guitar. Her son believed in preserving the environment, so his ashes are stored in a circular urn that is already beginning to biodegrade. Rachel's grandson Anthony is pictured with the guitar; he is learning to play. Eric and Anthony are only three years apart. They are very close; they were very close. Our language is also starting to fall apart when trying to describe how their relationship will endure after death.
Airlia attended the photo shoot too. Airlia and Eric met when they were students at Sunnyside High School. During college they lived together, and in Airlia's Cambodian community, the two were considered husband and wife. Eric learned how to speak Airlia's language so that he could communicate with her family. My wife's family spoke English. I never needed to learn Armenian. I wonder if I would have tried.
I photographed the family just outside the Woodward Park Amphitheater. A few days before photographing Rachel, I photographed musicians inside, but this time the gates were closed. At first, I thought it was unfortunate that I did not photograph Rachel's family inside the amphitheater. I wanted to find a way to get Rachel's son through the gate. I did not want him kept outside. But now I like the metaphor. During the first photo shoot, the earthly creatures played outside the locked gates. If anyone is to be let past the final gate, we do not make the decision. And as much as I want to help the grieving families, I cannot help by unlocking doors. I help by documenting memories. I help by doing something our family dog has done for us. He loves us and supports us and protects us. And he allows us to do the same.
Some of this information I am adding after I posted this message and sent to Rachel for additions and corrections. I had forgotten Airlia's name. I did not know Eric and Airlia's story about different culture's and different languages, and yet I felt compelled to write about our dog Ari and my wife's Armenian grandmother. I had also wanted to place this in the category of "First Love," but wanted to err on the side of caution, so I did not. When I asked Rachel for additions and corrections, she responded, "Airlia will forever be my son's first love...."
So I added this post to my first love category. There is more to this story. Those that know more can view the photos and add to the blog's comments.
A week ago, I left Fresno emotionally and physically exhausted... and forever grateful to have spent two days in the company of pilgrims.
For those of us who are parents, we know the special bond we experience with other parents. Without talking to each other, we might share a simple nod in a coffee shop or grocery store. While our children play at a park, we might begin talking about our lack of sleep, missing shoes and our children's diaper rash. When our children are older, we might share stories about how teenagers are so much more trouble now... or so much easier. As parents, we know what it means to listen to all the whining (often our own), because we have not slept for blah, blah, blah years.
As parents, we also share the fear of the unspeakable.
Last week, I spent two days with families who share more than the common bond of parenthood. The mothers (and other relatives) I visited share the bond of parenthood and the bond of the unspeakable.
Yet, they speak to each other; they listen to each other. They share with each other, and they do so, because they know some things are not easy to share. Many of these mothers have learned that some people do not want to share their pain, no matter how much our own parents taught us about the importance of sharing.
Before my father committed suicide, I would not have wanted people to share these stories with me. I know their isolation. Almost. I understand what it means to put pieces back together and find a new voice in a society that wants some things to remain silent or unspeakable. I know the difficulty of finding one's voice when others want you to remain silent.
For the Mothers of Angels, their stories of healing and recovery must be a paradox. Many of these mothers had their personal lives torn apart by the media. The details of their children's deaths were told and retold. These parents and families were public figures during everyone's worst nightmare. Now during their recovery, when they could teach us how to deal with loss as a community, we often do not want to hear their story.
I understand. There is a reason denial is popular. But take a peak, in case you need these people some day. They do not want you to join their group, unless you need them. They also do not want you to understand their pain, because they know your fear. They were afraid too, but they got the call. They answered the door. They were the people on the news... those people that when you heard about them you said, "Thank God, that was not my family."
They are the people you might still be asking yourself, "How do you ever recover from that?"
Somehow, my photographs help. Telling their stories help them. So I keep doing it, and I will continue to do it. I will post individual stories for the next week. My FB friends will only receive this one and the concluding post. To respect those who are not quite ready for this post, I have kept the photos less emotional. I am sorry for their jarring impact. I know that many of us go to FB for fun. And this is not a lot of fun.
Share with anyone who can use the information please.
Tomorrow I am returning to Fresno and Woodward Park again. The last trip reminded me of my youth and future. It felt like an old Lowenbrau commercial.
This sentimental journey honors that which is missing. The trip hopes to heal and recover profound loss, and show how people form community around an issue that is usually hidden... an issue that is often made invisible, because of its power to disrupt our happiness just by a whisper. I am returning to Fresno to meet a group of women and their families who are coping with the loss of a child.
I think of this group as my group now, but it is not really. I am an associate member. I know profound loss, but not their loss. On Monday, while I am with them for the second day of this trip, I will be remembering my father who committed suicide six years ago on August 16th. Even in those first days, I remember thinking, "This is by far the worst thing that has ever happened to me, but now that I have a six month old child, I know it is not the worst thing that could happen." Having a child helped push me forward. So, how do parents recover? Do they?
The photos from last year's visit might illuminate how parents can create communities in the darkest of moments... how we must create communities in those moments. And how those of us who have not lost children should know these crusaders exist in case we ever need their support.
A special note... I am also aware that a dear friend has a birthday today. I used to call her my "mom away from mom." She lost one of her children several years ago, and I know that she is thinking of her daughter today... because she thinks of her two children every day. She is not one of the Mothers of Angels, but I think about her and another mother down the street from her whenver I am with the mothers in the Central Valley.
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