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Life isn’t always fair. Sometimes things happen that are beyond your control. And they can destroy you — rob you of the resolve, the strength, and the heart to persevere — to go on, to overcome. I’ve witnessed those situations, and experienced them firsthand.
By age 10, I’d lost my father; by age 13, my mother…and with her passing, all the joy and happiness I’d ever known, or thought I would ever know, was gone.
But, sometimes, life gives you second chances. This story is about those.
My father was a cop, a police sergeant in the Denver police force. He had prepared my mother for the possibility that he could be killed in the performance of his duties; and as a young child, I remember many nights with my mother staying up late, fretting, worrying when he didn’t come home on time or call in. But he couldn’t prepare her for the undiagnosed brain aneurism that burst and took his life while watching football on a Sunday afternoon.
And no one could have prepared me for the accident three years later that would take my mother’s life and leave me in a coma for two weeks. When I regained consciousness, my world had changed instantaneously, irreversibly, without my knowledge, without my consent.
I had no memory of the accident or of my mother’s death at the scene. I went from listening to my mom telling me about our upcoming trip to her friend’s house in Aspen, and how I would be able to go sledding with her friend’s children…to seeing bright lights, then nothing. I had no memory of the brakes screeching, the sounds of the head-on collision, or the SUV that had lost control on black ice, jumped the median, careened out of control and slammed sideways into the front of our Civic. I didn’t remember it flipping over and crushing in the roof of our car, killing my mother instantly.
All I remembered were bright lights, total darkness! Then a second later, bright lights again, and a hospital room full of strangers. Emerging from my coma, my first awareness was of a slim man with glasses, in a white coat, a big man with a kind face, a pretty, well-dressed woman, and an angel.
The man was my dad’s one-time partner, Eli, the woman was his wife, Emma, and the angel was their daughter, Jessica. I had never met them, but they were to be my new family. I did not know it at the time, but Eli and Emma were my godparents — an arrangement that was made when I was born. By the time I was three, Eli had moved to Colorado Springs to take advantage of a promotion opportunity, and I never got to know them.
My dad was a big man, 6′-2″ and 230 pounds of muscle — broad-shouldered, pigeon-chested, with arms like battering rams. But Eli was even bigger — 6′-4″ tall, and now at least 250, with some middle-age bulk to go with his massive physique.
Eli and Emma gained legal custody of me, but did not change my last name. Later in life, I came to appreciate that. And while they saved me from what could have been a nightmare trip through the foster system, my real salvation came from their daughter, Jessica.
Jessica, the daughter of tall parents, was already 5′-10″ at 16 years old. She was an angel, my guardian angel as it turned out. Besides inheriting her mother’s beauty, she inherited her father’s courage and tenacity. She was devoted to me and made me feel like I was her real brother, right from the start. And I adored her.
When I moved in with my new family, I was lost; my family and my life as I had known it, no longer existed. Since my new family lived in a different town, I ended up in a different school and surrounded by strangers. The accident was just a week before my graduation from junior high, so I was starting my freshmen year in completely unfamiliar surroundings with no friends…except Jessie. Jessie was my instant best friend and protector, and always made sure I was comfortable and secure in my new family. I can’t imagine a sister that could have been more supportive of a little brother.
My second week in school, a group of older, bigger boys cornered me by my locker. Of course, it wasn’t hard to be bigger than me. As a freshman, I was one of the smaller boys in school, barely 5′-3″ and 100 pounds, dripping wet.
“So, you that new ‘white’ nigger boy we been hearin’ about?” the leader sniped at me.
He looked huge to me, but was probably about 5′-8′. I tried to back away, but he grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled me back in front of him and continued his diatribe to the joy of his cronies…for about 30 seconds.
From behind him, I heard a familiar voice, “Hey dickhead, are you queer for little white boys or what?” It sounded like Jessie to me, but nothing like she had sounded before.
The bully immediately let go of my hair and spun around to face the intruder. I remember the smirk on his face as he turned.
Jessie hit him with a straight right jab in the face that snapped his head back, then hit him with two more in swift succession before he crumpled to the ground. With him on the floor, I was faced with Jessie looming over me, blood splattered on her blouse and dripping from her right hand, both from the bully and from a gash on her middle finger.
I’ll never forgot her eyes, those beautiful doe eyes — they had transformed into big demonic orbs that looked like they could shoot daggers through you. Her beautiful, full lips were pulled back into tight, bloodless lines, exposing her perfect, white teeth, now clenched in a fearsome sneer. She scared the hell out of me, and apparently everybody else. The bully’s cronies scattered, dragging him off with them.
Jessie reached for me, her face immediately softening with concern, “You okay, Jakey? Did they hurt you?”
I shook my head no.
The short of it: Nobody ever picked on me again. By the time I was a junior, I had hit my growth spurt and passed most of my classmates to become a 5′-11,” gangly 160 lb. young man. By the end of my senior year, I was 6′-1″ and a more solid 200 lbs.
But, after that day in the second week of my freshman year, when my new sister rescued me from the bully, she went from being my best friend to my hero. And I still remember asking her why they called me a ‘white nigger’?
“Oh, Jakey, that’s because they’re stupid, and stupid people say stupid things. But you might get more of that. And I want you to promise me you won’t let it get to you. You have to understand, there are going to be white people and black people that have a problem with you being in our family. I hope you don’t have a problem with it.”
“No. Why should I?” I questioned naively.
“Well,” she continued, “people aren’t used to seeing a black family with a white child, or a white family with a black child, for that matter. And people, young people especially, will overreact to things that are different, and frequently, in a cruel manner. But, never think it’s about you, or even about us. We are who we are. My mom, dad and I, we’re mostly African-American, although my mom actually has more European heritage than African, and my dad’s father had some Irish ancestors. Regardless, people see us as a black family and you as a white boy. None of it matters. What matters is, you are family. Okay?”
“Yeah, I get it.” Honestly, until that moment, it hadn’t really sunk in. And although it never bothered me, I became very aware that I was not in a traditional family, and through high school, there were some kids who wouldn’t let it be. But, like I said, no more bullies. By the time Jessie graduated, I could handle myself, and before that — no one messed with Jessie. Not just because of who she was, but also because of who and what her father was — a big, badass, don’t-fuck-with-me cop.
But, as I matured, so did Jessie — into a beautiful, desirable woman. And by the time I graduated high school, a serious infatuation was turning into love for my older sister. At 18, I had already dated and had a couple of girlfriends, but none of them compared to my Jessie.
Which is where this story really begins.
After high school, I attended the same university as Jessie, who was a junior by that time. And though we stayed close, our different schedules, different studies and different circles of friends meant we saw less and less of each other. But I was still hopelessly in love with her; not only because she had always been devoted to my welfare, or that she was incredibly kind and sweet, or because she was incredibly intelligent, but for all those things — and she was the most beautiful, desirable woman in my young life.
Alas, after graduation, she eventually married a classmate, Derrick; and my fantasies about riding off into the sunset with her in my arms, were dashed.
However, Derrick seemed a decent guy, and Jessie obviously loved him, so I was happy for her. But as happy as I was for her, I felt I had lost my best friend; and hadn’t felt more alone since those first weeks after my mother’s death, before I became a part of my new family.
But I eventually met and married a beautiful woman, the daughter of my favorite professor. Elise was almost as stunning and brilliant as Jessica, almost; and she did capture my heart. Upon graduation, we each pursued Masters degrees in our respective fields, and each found ourselves in very successful endeavors.
Life gives you second chances.
The first three or four years of our marriage were idyllic — in every way: We liked the same foods, the same movies; had similar senses of humor, similar political leanings; and were well-matched in the bedroom — she was a passionate and tireless lover.
But things began to change when I started traveling in my new position at an international trading company. It was a temporary situation, but necessary for promotion — you have to do your time in the barrel before you get to climb the ladder. By the end of the first year of traveling, I could tell something had changed, but I didn’t know what. Elise very gradually became less affectionate, more easily upset by our disagreements, more involved in her own pursuits, and more distant.