Author: HernandezTony

I’ve done a bit of traveling and know I should share more. I have had some amazing experiences and some not so good experiences. Of each country I’ve visited, I could write for about as long as I visited, but for the purpose of this article, I’ll choose one place and one subject.

The Hustle in Paris

Paris is just like any major city when it comes to poverty and people looking for a handout. What stood out to me was how creative these people got. Maybe it was because I spent an entire week there that I saw more of how they do it than in other cities. Not sure. Regardless, the hustle in Paris was impressive and I’m going to share them with you from lease impressive to “wow, I can’t believe you tricked me!”

Begging

Well, nothing new here. There are people asking for money in every town and village in the world. One thing I did find was how friendly the French beggars were. Sometimes, I was happy to see a guy holding out a Styrofoam cup looking for change. They gave great directions!

One thing that did surprise me was the amount of Muslim woman begging. It never really dawned on me how most beggars are men until I was in Paris and saw these poor Muslim women.

Now I’m not here to make any judgements. I’ll just share my two trains of thought. One, these woman are out there on behalf of their husbands, or two, they were probably once married and lost their spouse. Either way, it’s tragic and I still feel very bad for these women.

As with all homeless people, I am always reminded how lucky I am to have such a loving family. Many are disabled or were just handed a bad hand. Had I not been born into a supporting family, it would be me out there with a cup asking for change.

Signing Petitions

This one you’ll also find here in the States, but more so in major cities. And for the most part, they’re honest.

There I was, walking along the street and some kid came up to me with a petition to sign. It was for deaf children or something, I can’t really remember. Anyway, it was worded in a way that said they’d contact me later and how much I could possible give. I put my info down and wrote $20. Then the kid demanded the money right there and then. I told him I didn’t have cash on me, that the form said I would be receiving information on how to give later. I was upset at being deceived at first but wanted to get him away from me as soon as possible, so I gave him all I had on me, about two Euro.

He literally grabbed me and tried to drag me to an ATM. I told him no and he kept pointing to the clipboard as if to say, “you promised!”

I should have known that the charity he was trying to get money for was a fake. The paper I was signing looked as if someone just quickly printed it, bad wording and all. It was even old and dirty.

A few days later a girl with a clipboard comes running up to me. “Are you American?” I guess my clothes and Latino look gave me away. I told her no thank you in as good a French as I could and kept walking.

Wasn’t going to fall for that again.

Bracelets

This one, I didn’t fall for but saw a few that did.

When I went to visit Sacré-Cœur (the most beautiful church I’ve ever witnessed) I saw this bracelet hustle. First, Sacré-Cœur is on this beautiful hill. They didn’t have escalators in the 1800’s so you have to climb. It’s a beautiful climb, don’t get me wrong, but a climb nonetheless. Needless to say, me and my crippled self had to take a breather or ten when climbing up or down the steps.

On my way down I took a seat to see the marketplace below. There were these guys running up to tourists and making bracelets on their wrists.

Here’s kind of how it went.

They would stop a group of tourists and compliment them. They would ask them to put out there hand. After fighting the original hesitation, everyone would stick out their arms. That’s when they started wrapping string around the wrist. They would talk to the tourist while they were doing this intricate weaving on their hands. After about two to five minutes of tedious weaving, the bracelet would be on tight and finished. Then of course they’d ask for money for all their work and what they gave you. Kind of smart, really. They make you feel they invested time and they gave you something.

Luckily for me, my face isn’t pale and hair fair so I just walked right by them. But everyone who has collagen deficiency (white folk), they are all over them.

Oh, and one more thing I noticed at Sacré-Cœur. There are musicians there. Again, nothing different in Paris than any other city. Musicians asking for money. That’s cool. But what wasn’t cool? They all played Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”. All of them. Seriously. After about two days I wanted to grab their instruments and throw them into the ocean so they can join Jack and the Titanic.

The Golden Ring

This one was the best. As I was walking along the streets of Paris along the river Seine this old lady came up to me from behind. She told me that I had dropped something. It was a golden ring. I told her it wasn’t mine. She felt embarrassed and told me to keep it. I refused. She refused my refusal. And then she just left.

I remember walking away feeling so good. That a stranger would just give me something like that. Like a painting, I walked with my head held high in the wind, smiling, feeling that the world was better than I thought. That a poor woman would rather give me something to show me how nice she was than to keep it herself.

Then she came back.

Asking for money of course. I was’t carrying any cash. She just grabbed the ring from my hand and shook her head in disgust that I didn’t fall for her little dance.

I just kept walking. I also had a smile on my face. This time it was out of respect of the pure audacity this woman had. I’ve been around the world, and have seen and done a lot of things. But you can’t out hustle the hustle in Paris.

No one cares about you. I’m going to start off by getting that out-of-the-way. I don’t think that set in, so let’s try it again.

No one cares about you. Got it? Good, let’s move on to my next point.

No one cares about you. Okay, okay. I’ve hammered the point home. “I get it Tony, ‘No one cares about me’”, so now we can can move on to the meat of this article.

No one cares about you.

All right, seriously this time, I’ll stop. But I really need for that to sink in. No one cares about you. And this is a good thing. Nay, an awesome thing. Let me explain.

First of all, when I say no one cares about you, I don’t mean that in the nihilist “why does nobody want to play with me and when I die no one’s gonna care!” kind of way. Far from it. We are all part of God’s creation and each of us mean the world to Him and those that we love. Heck, even if I don’t know you and I saw you hurt on the street I’d care about you and your wellbeing. What I mean by, no one cares about you, is, no one cares about your opinion or what you think.

Why do I know that no one cares about what you believe in and what you feel? Because you don’t care what others believe in. Because you don’t care about what others feel. You don’t care about other’s opinions and thoughts. Everyone is just a collection of yous to themselves. Let that last sentence sink in, it’s a doozy. Read it again. You didn’t read it again, did you? Fine, let me write it again and just read it slower this time.

Everyone is just a collection of yous to themselves.

You are you. “They” are their own “yous”, to themselves at least. So everyone is just like you since we are all the same. And you don’t really care what others think so therefore others don’t care what you think. It’s a beautiful, self-centered, cycle.

Take social media for instance. What a false sense of self on display that is. And in that theater of false self we get a front row ticket into our broader selves.

Again, you care about what you think and what you feel. You don’t really care about what other people think and feel. Except for the fact that you do care about one thing other people think and feel about… and that one thing is you. And they in turn feel the same way. So what does this produce? A near endless stream of self involved consciousness. I’ll give some examples.

Complaining. People love complaining.

“Why are people such bad drivers!”

“I can’t believe this guy was saying [insert something benign] to his [noun]!”

“Ugh! I hate it when…” or,

“I can’t stand people who…”

You get the drift. This is just passive aggressiveness towards strangers in the hope that others can relate to them. And if people relate, well then, aren’t we justified in our little temper tantrum?

Then there are the belief reinforces. Most of the time they sound a bit like this and genuinely encompass things political in nature.

“I hate people who think we should legalize…”

“I hate people who think we should criminalize…”

“Democrats are so stupid! Look at this!”

“Republicans are so stupid! Look at this!”

“Being a liberal is awesome! Look at this!”

“Being a conservative is awesome! Look at this!”

And so on and so on. Their mind’s are made up. They just want to feed their ego twice over. One, they want to reinforce their beliefs by getting kudos from the like-minded and, two, they want to look disapprovingly to those that they don’t agree with. It’s a win-win for that petty little ego of ours.

Next time, sit back and listen to a conversation. I mean really listen. The old saying is so true, no one is listening, they’re just waiting for their turn to speak. As you sit (or stand, not sure what you’re chilling preference is) notice what you’re thinking. More times than not its something you want to say. But no one cares about you. Because of the same reason you don’t care about them.

Most conversations go like this,

“Me, me, me, me, me.”

“Really? That’s crazy because this one time me, me, me, me, me.”

“Oh yeah! Wow, I know what you mean because me, me, me, me, me.”

“Yeah, I think that me, me, me, me, me. I, I, I, I, I.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you?”

“Yeah, I mean I, I, I, I, I. But that’s just me.”

Meanwhile, there’s a third person listening between the two of them waiting to interject about themselves with an amazing story that starts and ends with, “me, me, me, me.”

It’s all very eye rolling, really.

So knowing all this, how can we better communicate with people? Isn’t human communication a lost cause because we are all on the same agenda of self? No, no. See therein lies the key to making folks happy when communicating with them. Themselves.

People enjoy my company. Everyone loves me. Okay, not everyone. Miserable people don’t like because I’m happy. But besides people who hate themselves and the world, I’m a big ol’ jar of awesomesauce.

Is it because the things I think are so awesome? No.

Maybe it’s because everything I believe in is so great! Nope.

Again, no one cares what I believe in. No one cares about me. So why do folks like being around me? Besides the fact that I’m good-looking (yeah that’s right ladies, I’m winking in your direction) the reason people enjoy my company is because of the value they perceive I bring to them… which is themselves.

Here are two ways I get folks to like me. The first, is listen and talk about them. Boom. That’s the big one. That’s the key. Everyone likes talking about themselves, what they hate, what they like, cetera, cetera. Go with it. Agree with them (when you genuinely do). Ask them why they like this. Ask them why they don’t like that. When they answer you, make a statement about what they said. Then ask another question about them. Or notice something about them. Talk about their known interests. What they’re wearing. Where they’ve been. Where they want to be. They will walk away loving you. Why? Because you talked about what they loved the most, themselves.

This also helps to protect you. All the beans are being spilt on one side while your can is still perfectly sealed. Beautiful.

The second way is harder. Humor. People like feeling good. You feel good when you smile. You smile when you laugh. So if you can bring people a chuckle, they’ll love you. Again, not because they like that you are a funny person, they like that you make them laugh and feel good.

So don’t feel bad that people don’t care what you’re eating, drinking, or doing. I mean, you don’t care what other people are eating, drinking, or doing. No one is being a jerk because they don’t care about pictures of your dog sleeping or your kids eating because you don’t care about people’s pictures of dogs sleeping or their kids eating. Oh! You care about your dog sleeping and your kid eating! After all, they’re your dog and kid. But no one else does. Not really. Unless they’re liars. And if they say they do, they’re just waiting to talk about their dogs and kids sleeping and eating habits.

So go on talking about what you ate, where you drank, what you did. What you like, what you don’t. No one cares.

No one cares about you. No one cares about me. Everyone just cares about themselves. And once you know that, everyone will start to care about you.

The second Tuesday in September. I still remember looking forward to that day. I had Diamondbacks tickets and our division rivals, the Colorado Rockies, were in town to start a series.

I was awoken by a phone call from my roommate. He worked at an office and I worked from home, so his day began earlier than mine.

“They flew a plane into the World Trade Center. We’re under attack” he had said.

My first response was “which one?” as if I knew the difference between the north and south tower. I had never been to New York at that time and didn’t even know how they differentiated between the two.

He just said “both of them.”

After disconnecting, I turned on my television. It was a scene from a helicopter’s point-of-view. It was hard to make out what I was looking at. Grey smoke filled the screen. How are people breathing, I thought. And then Katie Couric, in a calm, straight voice said, “and there goes the second, and final tower.” I saw it fall. But I still didn’t understand it.

The news then switched back and forth between live shots of lower Manhattan covered in dust and video of the images that were recorded. Most of the videos were of people falling.

Later that day, and for the weeks to come, those that fell to their deaths were referred to as “jumpers”. Pundits would talk about what a decision these people had to make, stay in the building, or jump to their deaths. They were and are wrong. These people didn’t jump. They were forced out of those buildings. Either by the inability to breath or the heat from burning jet fule. No one jumped that day. They were thrown.

The replays showed what no one will show today; people trying to hang on for their lives outside the World Trade Center. And people falling. There was lots of video of people falling.

Then the video of the collapse started coming in. People running from the grey smoke.

Commentators starting guessing at how many dead there were. Thousands if not tens of thousands.

Cut to a scene to Washington. The Pentagon is on fire. Was it also struck by a plane?

Flights are being grounded. Fox News starts having a news scroll at the bottom of their screen. Other stations follow. Some are scrolls, some are just news flashes at the bottom of the screen. All were trying to get the ever changing news and updates as fast as possible.

Mayor Giuliani was assuring people that first responders were doing their best. Commissioner Selig cancelled all ballgames until further notice. One of the scariest moments of my life was underreported. The president’s location was classified as he was flown to a secret location. My president, our leader, was publicly unaccounted for. This was crazy. I had no idea how much of a security blanket it was knowing that your president is always accountable for, was. Then, per procedure, he disappeared. All we knew is that he was in a secure location.

More video of people running from smoke. People falling. Pentagon still on fire. There was talk of more planes and that the attack wasn’t over yet.

Video of a plane hitting the the second tower starting emerging. How big was it? I thought it was a smaller plane. Only later did I understand that I did not appreciate the size of those towers. Those planes looked tiny compared to those massive monoliths.

Live video of lower Manhattan. Building 7 was still on fire. There was talk that it too may collapse. Then it did. I had witnessed two building fall in one day.

It was way past lunch time and I was starving, not having eaten all day. This is weird to say, but I felt guilty that I had to get something to eat. I left the house and went to a place I knew would be open, McDonald’s. There was a weird sense on the road that day. Everyone seeming to think, what I’m supposed to be doing? People are dying, donating blood, and I’m grabbing a cheeseburger. It just didn’t feel right.

Then I saw something that was very eery. I should say, what I didn’t see. Planes. There were no planes in the air. I never gave it much thought before. Planes in the air are and were a constant all my life. But then, there it was, nothing. Clear and quiet skies.

There still wasn’t a September 11th. It was what was happening now. Then it became yesterday. Last week. Ten days ago.

A plane was shot down. Maybe it wasn’t. There might be other planes that have been shot down. The president landed on the South Lawn. One bit of good news.

Our representatives gathered in front of the capital. After some remarks they burst into an unplanned rendition of God Bless America. I remember thinking how beautiful it was. I remember thinking that I didn’t know the words to that song. Or in fact, most Americans didn’t. Not so anymore.

After the president’s remarks, more video. Lots of the same videos. Leaders around the world sending their condolences. Celebrations on the streets of Iraq. Explosions in Afghanistan. Had America already struck? I was sure of it. I knew if I were president, I’d a let every missel rip.

It was late. Should I go to sleep? Again, another feeling of guilt. I’ll rest in bed while people die.

Today is the first Tuesday since that tragic day that the 11th of September again falls on a Tuesday.

When people ask, what was the worse day of your life, mine will always be that second Tuesday in September.

During the Cold War, the CIA came up with an acronym for what persuaded agents to defect from the Soviet Union to the West, and vice versa. That acronym is MICE.

There are several varieties to this, but the most common one is money, ideology, coercion, and ego. While these are used to describe as to what motivates an agent to turn, we can ourselves turn these on us.

Money

The oldest motivator known to man. Although we’d like to believe that our motivation is entirely altruistic, there is nothing wrong with a financial motivator. It can be something as simple as knowing that as soon as you get better at a certain skill set you may get promotion therein qualifying you for more money, or you can dangle your own carrot. “I’ll buy myself X once I do Y” is a great kick starter.

Ideology

This is meant as a change of heart. Some Western agents believed that the mighty communist machine was inevitable and joined the Reds. While most of the time, Soviet and Eastern agents would see the freedom and joys of the West and turn over here. Regardless, we can use this as a motivator for ourselves. I am not saying we need to destroy our beliefs! To the contrary. Ideology is belief and we need to embrace them. Just knowing what you’re doing is important is enough. One just needs a constant reminder.

Coercion

No, do not go out and blackmail yourself! While this was used to force agents to spill the beans (i.e. we have photos of you and your mistress we can share with your wife unless you tell us your nation’s secrets) we can instead look at coercion as accountability. Telling everyone on facebook that you’re going to start exercising is a perfect example. It forces you, or coerces you, to keep going forward with your goal.

Ego

This one is probably the biggest motivator yet easily dismissed because of our – ironically enough – ego. “I’m learning to play guitar/learn a language/get in shape/etc., etc., because I care about bettering myself.” That may be true, but you also care what other people think of you. And that’s okay! The line between ego and ideology can get blurred but at the end they both pander to our self beliefs and what others think of them.

So if you’re having a hard time getting yourself going on a certain goal or project, look no further than yourself. Yes, that man in the mirror may be the main force stopping you, but with the right change of perspective, that same reflection can serve as the main motivator you need.

So today marks the one year anniversary of the last time I took a drink. Many people have asked me why and I think there are a lot of assumptions out there. My hope is that this little drop of virtual ink can clarify things.

First, a little history. I started drinking when I was 13 or 14-years-old. Not sure. Might’ve been earlier, might of been later. Again, not sure. Needless to say, I was young. I still remember it vividly. I was surrounded by all my good friends. I scraped up a little money and some (not all) agreed to get me a forty. All 100 lbs of me drank that bad boy up. Needless to say, I spent the night passed out, throwing up my guts. But it felt good so I persevered.

All though drinking may have been peer pressure for some, it was not for me. I drank because I wanted to. I drank, got wasted. Had good times, some bad, but mostly good.

My teens turned into my twenties and I kept on. And then I got something that everyone in Arizona seems to get. I got a DUI. The process literally took years. Took forever to get sentenced, then go to jail, then all the stuff afterword.

Luckily I never hurt anyone or myself. But it was one of the more stressful times in my life. Which, funny enough, led to more drinking.

I cannot tell you when but the drinking went from just something to do and morphed into a form of escape. I looked forward to getting hammered on the weekend. Not because I was some alcoholic who needed to get his fix but because I was so upset with the realities of life. The weekends were a time to check out from the real world.

What I didn’t realize at the time was, I was slowly reinforcing to myself that life was horrible. My self dialogue was nothing but negativity. I was overwhelmed, over-worked, and stressed. The booze gave me a time out. It also, however, led to compounding those negative feelings. I was overwhelmed, over-worked, and stressed because I was tired, unfocused, and emotionally drained from the drinking. How’s that for irony?

Did I realize this? Heck no. I was in such self denial, it wasn’t even funny. In fact, I told myself I just needed to drink more and take a little steam off. I justified it to myself like a master, when in fact I was making myself a slave to a brown bottle. My libationary liberator had become my captor.

Now let’s move on to the meat and potatoes of this here thing; why? Why did I stop drinking? Was it religious? My health? Something that happened? The short answer is yes to all.

We’re going to move to my health for a few moments. As you know, I have the 3 H’s; hemophilia, Hepatitis C, and HIV. Now, if I were to tell you to list the things you’d want the least of, most people would probably say 1. HIV 2. hemophilia, and then coming up at the end would be 3. Hep C. Au contraire, mon frère. The thing you should want most is HIV. My t-cells are high and my viral load is undetectable. Yes, undetectable. HIV has a horrible stigma but the realities are with today’s medications (for me a single pill!), HIV is no longer as lethal as it once was. Tops on your I-don’t-want list should be Hep C. It attacks your liver and causes a painful death. No fun. The good news is, God has also granted me good health on that front too. I am a healthy boy. Sorry to those wishing me my death.

In fact, in about three years there should be new medication to eradicate Hep C. No viral load with the prospect of being Hep free. Wow. I’m a few years away from being able to have children “the ol’ fashion way” without harming my spouse or children. Amazing huh?

But I wouldn’t get there if I kept drinking.

I remember talking to a doctor once about my drinking. I’ll paraphrase.

Me: “So how much can I drink?”
Doctor: “Nothing. You can’t have anything to drink.”
Me: “So you mean like only on weekends?”
Dr: “No. Nothing.”
Me: “By nothing you mean just on holidays, right?”
Dr: “No. By nothing I mean just that. Not a drop. Ever.”
Me: “So what you’re trying to say is, how many beers exactly can I have in a month?”
Dr: … [slams head into clipboard]

You get the idea. For my health, I’ve known that I should not be drinking. But I just kept going and going.

Have I done embarrassing stuff while drunk? Yeah. Should I have stopped for my health? Yeah. But these two things wouldn’t change my course. Heck, I’d still be drinking, regardless of the risks to my reputation, health, and general safety.

So that’s when God intervened.

I remember when I first started drinking. It went from Thursday through Sunday. And not drinking drinking. But getting to’ up from the flo’ up drinking. But then, like everyone else, age kicked in. Four days turned to three, three turned into two. I finally cut my drinking in half to just getting totally hammered on Fridays and Saturdays. What progress!

Eventually, it became once a week but even then it was too much. The hangovers became multi day events. One night of drinking made me feel crummy for days, not hours.

And then it happened, I had my first panic attack.

I didn’t know what it was or what was happening. The world became a very scary place. Trivial things like driving became nearly impossible. I could barely make it to a friend’s house to get to the evenings drinking. As soon as I got there I took the anxiety away… by drinking. Like Fat Bastard said, “it’s a vicious cycle!” I was anxious because I drank, I drank to escape from the anxiety.

I’ll spare you the long winded details, but needless to say that for over five years my emotional health was down the drains. Busting my butt at work then drinking on the weekends, just running on fumes. The anxiety was, and is, one of the worse things to ever happen to me. Thoughts of suicide were not uncommon but mostly I led a sad and dreary life. One that I was totally responsible for!

Everyone knows that I’ve always been a big reader. I started reading stuff to get my life in order from the unmanageable mess that it was. I kept coming across a subject time and again. Energy. And I had none. Zero. I looked into how to better my energy and found that I was taking one of thee worse drugs ever: caffeine.

I can cure 95% of all insomnia, right here, right now. Ready? Stop drinking caffeine. There. Now go to sleep. Seriously, I was taking every sleep aid I could. But I was so jacked up on uppers (caffeine and sugar) and downers (beer and beer) there was no way I could get sleep. So if you “suffer” from insomnia yet drink soda or coffee; congrats! You actually suffer from stupidity and self-denial. Dr. Hernandez in da house! (That’ll be 200 dollars please.)

Candy, soda, tea, iced coffee. These were all the bad guys I was putting into my body. As soon as I stopped, voilà!, I could sleep (that’s twice I’ve written in French in this post. Pardonne moi. Dang it!) Plus, my anxiety got better. Hmmm… maybe other things I’m putting into my body are hurting me too.

I read more. I took Lucinda Bassett’s from Panic to Power program. Read me some more, kept drinking, but I was reading. Finally, enough was enough and I just had to cut back.

I went two weeks without drinking and I remember how great I felt. I hadn’t felt that good since I was a child. I still had my panic attacks, sure, but knew that the booze was causing this too. A party or some event would come up and I’d drink again. Feel like garbage for days again. Then I would drink after a few weeks. Sound stupid? Yeah, it was.

After a while, I gave in to God’s will and took the hint: stop drinking.

It had been about two months without drinking and that’s when I found out my friend Jessie Grossman had passed away. On the 15th of October, we buried her. The next day we were to have a small family gathering. I told my buddy Barry, her husband, that if I drank that night, I wouldn’t be able to make it the next day because of the anxiety. He understood and told me, “do whatever you have to do to get through today.” So I did. I drank. We laughed and we cried as we remembered. And I of course stayed home the next day.

And now, here we are. One year later. Feeling better than I have in a long time.

I don’t even crave it. When I see it in the supermarket I just think of what a waste of money it was. When I see other people boozed up, laughing at things that aren’t funny, I can’t believe I was once that guy.

Now, I’m no snob on his high horse. I think people who drink are perfectly fine. If you can do it responsibly, by all means, knock yourself out. Been there. Done that. Moving on. Like Cedric The Entertainer says, “I’m a grown ass man dog!” I need to act like it. And for me, that means no booze at this time.

Will I ever drink again? Probably not. Funny, life is so good now, drinking will interrupt the buzz I’m on now. Cliche, I know.

So I’m grateful God has given me this lesson for a myriad of reasons.

It has made me braver.
Having to feel fear like someone is trying to kill you when all your doing is flying in a plane is fortifying me, making me stronger. God wants only strong men in heaven so He is putting me through the coals now.

I can fight temptation better than most.
While you look at that cookie or that bag of chips and dread, I smile. I know that that’s just the devil and his little tricks. And I’m not falling for it like I used to anymore.

It has made me more independent.
No longer do I need alcohol or any other mind altering agent to find happiness and cower in refuge. Not only can I not use it to hide from my fear, it forces me to face the day and enjoy it. If I see a cute girl I want to talk to, no more liquid courage. Just me and my wits. My true self. As it should be.

So God did all this while saving my life. Had it not been for the anxiety, I’d be drinking right now instead of writing this. And I’d be dead in less than ten years.

But instead God saved my life and made me a better person, all while remembering a friend.

Hard not to believe in God.

“Oh, my Lord! How true it is that whoever works for you is paid in troubles! And what a precious price to those who love you if we understand its value.”

St. Teresa of Avila
(1515-1582)

Her feast day on the calendar of saints is today, October 15th.

Twice a week, every Monday and Thursday afternoon, I go to physical therapy at Phoenix Children’s Hospital. Due to the complications of hemophilia, I have severe arthritis in three joints. My right ankle from being a child and always spraining it, my left knee when I hyperextended it playing football as a kid, and my right elbow that was shattered as a teenager when I was assaulted by a police officer.

My physical therapist is Heidi and has healed so many people and made them walk again, I’m sure she received her training from one of the apostles. As I arrived for my PT, there was a girl walking on the treadmill. I always use the bike, but last week I graduated to the treadmill since my joints are now stronger. I was looking forward to the treadmill but this young lady was using it, so I went back to the bike instead.

Having hemophilia has exposed me to a lot of people with cancer. Don’t believe me? Just look up a cancer doc. They are almost exclusively called hematologist/oncologist. Cancer docs are blood docs and blood docs are cancer docs. I won’t go into why this is but trust you me, it was and is a blessing to people diagnosed with hemophilia. Every med student wants to cure cancer, no one one to work on hereditary bleeding disorders that effect zero-point-no-one of the population. So by default, we with hemophilia get some bright guys and gals who work on us.

When people witness or hear about my dealings with hemophilia, a lot of sympathy gets thrown my way. Please, no need. All my life I shared waiting rooms with kids suffering from cancer. I was going to make next year’s annual appointment, most of them would not.

The girl on the treadmill was obviously recovering from cancer. Her hair was nearly buzz cut short, but growing back. I could not see her face because she had on a medical mask on and the physical therapist was gowned up as well.

While she walked, I peddled. I decided to multitask and check my e-mail on my phone. I read a great post in my in-box by Chris Guillebeau, author of one of my favorite books, The Art of Non-Conformity. The name of the post is Most People Are Good. You can read the post here. http://chrisguillebeau.com/3×5/most-people-are-good/

In it, he basically challenges the notion that children shouldn’t talk to strangers, and I couldn’t agree more. It’s a strange concept to grasp at first but it makes total sense. Most people are good and not to be feared. All we do as adults is place our jaded outlook on kids. We tell ourselves, “I’m telling little Cindy not to talk to strangers to protect her,” but what we are really saying is, “I trust no one and only see and expect the worst in people and little Cindy needs to learn to have that rotten perspective like me too.”

One day, my mom, my niece, and myself were traveling somewhere in my car. My niece had done something wrong and my mom and me were piling on her. From the back seat, full of stress and frustration, she yelled, “OK!”, as to say enough. And she was right. We were filling her with self doubt, needlessly hammering a point she already knew.

Too many times, we adults think we have things figured out. In our attempts to help we at times harm more than often.

The little girl finished with the treadmill and sat down to start on some upper body exercise. That was right about the same time I finished reading Chris’ post. And like on queue, she did not listen to what all those scary adults told her and she talked to a stranger; me.

“Don’t your feet hurt?” she asked me.

“Yeah,” I answered, “but I know that the more I do this, my feet will be stronger so they’ll hurt less later.”

“How long are you going to be on there?”

“15-minutes. And you? How long were you on the treadmill?”

“25-minutes.”

“Wow! Hopefully I get as good as you one day.”

Even though she had her mask on, I could see her facial muscles make a smile.

I smiled too.

Most people are good. The stranger that talked to me today reinforced that.

Last night I went to my first, full symphony. It was part of The Phoenix Symphony’s Rediscovered Masters series, celebrating the works of brilliant men who survived or lost their lives during the horrors of war.

That evening’s official headliner was violin virtuoso Concertmaster Steven Moeckel. He conducted the third and final piece by Mozart. You can read about his perfect performance here. Before that was the evening’s titled piece Suite for Threepenny Opera, composed by Kurt Weill, a German Jew who fled to America to avoid Nazi persecution. However, the best piece of the evening was the first, Study for Strings by Pavel Haas.

As of late, I’ve been listening to a lot classical music. Going to a symphony has been something I’ve always wanted to do and that morning I received an e-mail that that evening’s performance had tickets available for only $18. Without giving it a second thought, I paid the 18-bucks and went about my day. After seeing the United States draw against Argentina I quickly made it home from the bar for a quick change and proceeded to the symphony.

I went by myself. Whenever I go on one of my solo adventures, there’s a mix excitement and nervousness.

As I picked-up my ticket from will call, I knew full well that I was going to be in the nose bleeds since I bought the least expensive ticket possible, in the D price range. To my pleasant surprise, I was placed in the fourth row. Later I realized, that being that close to the musicians is considered a bad thing, but not to me! The acoustics were great and being able to see the ensemble at that close a range was wonderful. I even had the opportunity to make eye-contact with some cute violinists. Excellent.

Sitting there, taking in the new sights and the sounds of the musicians tuning their instruments was overwhelming, in a great way! That’s when I read my program and first learned of Haas’ story.

A Czech Jew, he suffered under Nazi occupied Czechoslovakia. As the situation worsened for the Jewish community in his country, he saved his wife’s life… by divorcing her. You see, she was not Jewish and to save her from the growing oppression of Jews he had no choice. The closest thing he ever did for her was let her go.

Eventually he was arrested and taken to Theresienstadt, the Nazi’s propaganda ghetto that they regularly showed film of to display to the world how “well” they treated their prisoners. While there in the the prison, now named Terezin, he wrote the piece Study for Strings. Nazis even had film of one of the performances to show their “humanity”.

Shortly after that film, he was transferred to Auschwitz and promptly killed in a gas chamber.

Reading about this before the performance only heightened my nerves. I was a ball of energy, filled with conflicting emotions of excitement and sadness; joy, at my external surroundings and internal reflection, on learning his story.

Then the concert began.

I was expecting a sad, somber piece, considering the conditions he lived in. It wasn’t. Neither was it an over-joyous Nazi contrived propaganda piece. When you listen to it, you get the sense of anxiety and confusion. It was, and is, a work of perseverance. Although tomorrow is uncertain, one can also take away it’s fighting spirit. The work is a fight, no question, and does not claim victory. But it neither concedes defeat.

In October of 1944 he was murdered inside a gas chamber. A death too cruel for an animal, and yet that’s how he met his end. Naked, choking to death with others, surprised at the cruel deception, clawing at doors that would not open. But he really didn’t die that night.

For one night, nearly 70-years after his death, he shared his joy and love for life with me and thousands others. His hands were at work once again through the fingers of musicians. He smiled again through the faces in the crowd. And at the end, we thanked and celebrated him with applause. Celebrating not only his masterpiece of music, but also the masterpiece that was his life.

His life was taken away by an act of evil and cruelty. But his spirit and legacy will live on forever. And that, no one can kill.