A childhood friend just sent me this article. What an absolute shame. If a parent does that, there should be laws and incarceration as a consequence. Child abuse, indeed.
A childhood friend just sent me this article. What an absolute shame. If a parent does that, there should be laws and incarceration as a consequence. Child abuse, indeed.
The following is the latest ridiculousness of the Custody Appeal Case; such allegations are nonsensical fabrications. Without any hesitation, the aspects of the allegations which are ridiculous and absurd are marked with a BS.
Custody case related opinions are listed below:
A.The supplement filed by the defendant has contained selfish, twisted, arrogant and inexplicable accusations BS. The explanations below are based on respondent’s written opinions:
5.The daughter has to meet the defendant on Jan 14, 15 (Sat, Sun), but she has final exam in Jan 16 and she is very nervous. She was crying and begging for not going to papa BS and stay home to prepare her test. After placated by us BS, she finally asked her grandpa to make some of the chinese words into word card for her to review there (at her papa). She also expressed that if she wouldn’t be able to go to third grade if she failed the test BS. The defendant could make up those inexplicable accusations BS toward the respondent and her parents, and criticized Taiwanese educational system BS based on such a easy and normal thinking and expression for a kid. It is truly unreasonable. BS
How do you educate the next generation properly with such an evil and false educational behavior BS? The once-a-week meeting between the kids and the defendant has caused the respondent trouble BS. The respondent therefore holds that the meeting time should be cut down BS, and the additional 10 days/20days during winter/summer break should also be canceled BS. In order not to cause the respondent and the kids trouble BS.
Here is a letter I wrote tonight, ostensibly to my children, sending it to their mother’s email, about the pressure of my 7-year-old daughter having been told to study to prepare for a “big test”, one she was told may hinder her from advancing from grade two to grade three, a test that does NOT exist.
I have ample reasons to explain all that the issue entails because or the reasons I explained in the following text. My ex is aiming to discredit me as a candidate for custody because, she claims in Court documents that I “cannot help with the kid’s homework”. A Court investigator sent to my home to do an observation back in October asked, for her very first question, “How do you plan to support the children to do homework?” (in Chinese).
My letter is unaltered, here below, except for taking their names out. My ex’s response is below it. I am incredulous.
My ex’s response is below, unedited. I am fully aware that the Court custody verdict clearly stated that “If the two parties cannot get along, sole custody will be awarded to one.” That one line in the Court paperwork clearly reveals why such full-throttle false accusations keep coming, three years later. Sure, I called the grandfather picky (he was incredibly picky about pronunciation while teaching me years and years ago, so that is not a fabrication), but the reaction is over-the-top drama. Naturally, if I try to reply to stop the nonsense, she just throws it back full-throttle again, trying to get the last word in.
Kiddos, how are you?
I hope you are well, but, once again, since the last time I saw you (the evening drop off at your grandparent’s home on the eve of Christmas Day), no calls have successfully reached you. As the last three years has shown, getting ahold of you, even though the Courts have established that we have a right to communicate, is incredibly difficult. Why is it so? How could that be? Well, unfortunately, the answer is all too clear.
Simply put, there are forces at work which are beyond my control.
I plead. I implore. Yet the 150 cell phone calls I’ve made to your grandparent’s home (as my cell phone’s records show), and perhaps a 100 more Skype calls in the last year or so have ended in about a 10% success ratio, with the last few months undoubtedly resulting with about a 5% success, perhaps less.
To be honest, it kills me. Killing me slowly, however, is the aim.
Moreover, the response from the forces explain, “He can call whenever he wants,” but although such an attitude is taken by the Courts as supposed willingness to let me call, there is not mandate by the legal system that my calls have to be successful.
I have sent COUNTLESS texts over the last few years to ask when I can call you, to know when you’ll be home, and/or to ask what’s the best time to reach you. In fact, after every failed call (i.e., after every call resulting in either nobody picking up the phone, or when met with busy signals, or a rare, “They’re not home” reply), I ask via text how to get ahold of you. Yet, literally, there have been TWO replies in 2.5-years-plus that stated “Call now”. The last was OVER two years ago! NOT once since have I received a return text.
The aim is to kill me, slowly. And that’s what it does. That’s what they do.
When I cannot get you on the phone, my heart breaks a little bit more each time.
Friends have advised me to make a paradigm shift. One recommended, poignantly, to call only with the aim of calling, to do it for you, but even to expect no contact. If my goal is to not actually reach you, she suggested, and instead to call just to show my love, then the gesture of calling might be satisfying enough to know that I tried. However, that hasn’t worked yet, at least fully, for I do let it get to me that the forces beyond my control have practically DESTROYED our communication.
How could someone do that? How cruel and coldhearted does someone have to be to NOT arrange a call back, from two children to their daddy? To not return a text to let me know when I can reach you is simply calloused behavior.
Any parent, whomever it is in this world, should rise above animosity, bitterness, greed and retaliation, transcending their own self to realize that the children would enjoy talking to their father. The benefit of the calls is NOT just the father’s happiness, but rather, and I mean this with all of my heart, the beneficiaries are you children!
A child’s development would SURELY benefit from hearing his or her daddy’s voice, from daddy telling him/her regularly, “I love you,” or “I miss you.” Hearing that would give them more love in this at-times-evil world. YOU CHILDREN WOULD BENEFIT FROM A LOVING FATHER BEING ALLOWED TO SHOW YOU THAT LOVE MORE OFTEN!
For someone to not see that is unimaginable. It is incredible. How dare the people involved to make that choice. How fucking dare they.
As you children know, I tell you every time I pick you up that daddy called. I let you know, so you know that I love you and haven’t forgotten you between weekends with you. I ask if you know I called, often at the immediate pick up times, so that it is on video, so that there is no chance of anyone claiming I manipulated any video (i.e., that I forced things before the video like, “Tell the camera you didn’t know I called,” which has been claimed).
Yet after I query, you often seem quizzical, like you have no idea I called. And you’ve stated it clearly.
You’ve both told me clearly that you cannot call. That you cannot talk on the phone, that “people” don’t want you to–even though you tell me regularly you’d like to talk. You’ve both told me other things that make me sick to my stomach. The fact you’ve explained to me that you’ve been told it is too late to call me when you get home after spending your evenings at that place of employment is shockingly wrong, for I am always going to be up after you go to bed. It is never too late, I implore you to know. Other examples could fill paragraphs here, but suffice it to say, it is all a vindictively cruel game, and YOU ARE THE VICTIMS.
Kiddos, I write this because I love you. You mean the world to me. You are my world, which is what I was even told in the following photo of an email after separation.
I am so sorry.
I want to talk, regularly, even just two to three times a week is enough (but I’d surely take every day), so I can hear your voices, so that you hear mine. You need to know that I call. You need to receive my calls, but you rarely can because of those forces at play beyond my control.
How I wish it were different, I&D. It should be. By every definition of what the world considers good, wholesome, pure–and how that should be allowed to exist between a father and his children, it is all a violation of our rights.
On Christmas Day evening, right before leaving my home, before unplugging the lights surrounding our little trees and ornaments, I sat you down to hold you, to talk to you, to remind you of my love. I had set up my phone on the coffee table to run on video mode, which captured our last moment together for the following three weeks (with one week already having passed now) before seeing each other again. With tears in my eyes and the crackily voice to accompany it, I explained to you, “When you go to bed each and every night, stop to think that at that moment that you fall to sleep, Daddy is thinking about you, too.” Tears flowed, as they are right now as I write this entry.
There is nothing I regret about the last three years, you two, yet I regret that actions have been taken that are beyond my control. I am practically powerless to get that to change, but I know that one day, you will have the cognitive power to make the choice to call. I await that day with an open, hopeful heart.
I miss you, beyond compare. I just want to talk to you, my kiddos. Please.
Yet it is beyond my control.
PS These truths are self-evident in the following messages.
I am an expatriate in Taiwan, and I am being f_______d–and all is based on nonsense lies, utter fabrication, unsubstantiated claims. I truly need help financially, so I have started a GoFundMe second campaign, after getting some help from friends and family 1.5-2 years ago. I am in desperate need of retaining a lawyer. My story is partially on GoFundMe already, and this attached PDF document shows email evidence of my ex-wife clearly stating (that it HARD EVIDENCE) that SHE OWES ME, at the time of separation, yet she is now trying to take me to the cleaners ($93,000US) based on nonsense!
Based on principle, I cannot accept this. I am fighting on, but I now need help and need to hire a lawyer, having represented myself these past, roughly, two years.
The attached document shows the emails that prove the point I have repeated in Court: It is impossible to owe someone $93,000US three years after separation (a separation that included numerous emails that stated how she owes me money!). Nothing can change the facts of the HARD EVIDENCE within her emails about her debts to me!
Six months after separation, my ex-wife sent a PDF letter to my friends, family and her friends (and who knows to whom else) that made these claims, wrongful, unfounded, accusations (in this next document attachment). This attached link below explains how those false allegations were ridiculous claims. 2.5 years later, I finally need to share this.
This following (ONE) email is enough to counter any false claims that my ex-wife now fabricates about me owing her money. IT IS IMPOSSIBLE to write she owes me money and then claim years later that I owe her $93,000US! IMPOSSIBLE! If the Court ignores that simple fact, JUSTICE WILL HAVE FAILED.
This next email clearly shows that my ex-wife knows and believes I am a good father. On October 24th, 2013, three weeks after separation and 1.5 months after an argument that effectively ended the marriage, when my ex kicked me out, she wrote I was a great father–and that she would never deny it. However, in custody case hearings and documents, she has falsely claimed horrible things about me–and her PDF lies (see the above document) sent to family and friends, wrongly accused me of frightening her and the children. She NEVER would have written me that I was a great father if I had scared her just 1.5 months before. Again, such lies are proven wrong.
Three days before separation, my ex-wife wrote that she must “have to move on”, in a FB message exchange with my aunt in America, yet she has falsely claimed in Court that I suddenly abandoned the family without warning. That is NONSENSE. She kicked me out and then secretly wrote family about the relationship being over–even BEFORE separation! Moreover, telling my aunt that I am a great father, a month after our last argument, completely counters her false claims that she had to hide the children, shivering in a corner from me. All her lies are proven to be lies.
Finally, adding more proof that her lies are nonsensical, wrongful allegations against me, this email clearly shows how she KNEW that “the kids are your life.” Yet she continued to fabricate to others that I just abandoned them. Never in a million years did I do that, nor would I. She is incredibly hurtful and wrong. She has destroyed my relationship with my children.
In 1996, I wrote the following entry about Warwick, New York in a journal I had kept at the time. Having come across it recently, twenty years later, I thought I’d type it up to both save it electronically and to throw it onto my blog.
A Beautiful Girls Epiphany
Recently, I noticed a poster for a movie soon to be released here in Minneapolis, which induced me to recollect my upbringing, at least for roughly seven of my formative years, in my semi-adopted childhood town of Warwick, NY. Creatively appealing to lost-soul twenty-somethings like myself, the promo for the film, Beautiful Girls, implores, “Sometimes you have to go home, to find what you’ve lost, to remember the friends you have, and to discover where you are going.”
Instantly mesmerized, for I fell smack dab into the midst of the target market for this film, I readily concurred with the poignantly truthful notion expressed in the ad, for I could relate wholeheartedly to the movie’s story line. This year, the summer of ’96, I experienced exactly what the Hollywoodesque message is trying to convey because, in a way, I had returned home. Not “home” by all typically understood definitions of the word, but home, somewhat symbolically.
The last time I had actually lived in Warwick was the day of high school graduation in June of 1987. The morning after walking the stage, which was set up on the front lawn of W.V.H.S., I moved away, driving halfway across the nation to the Midwest, with my sister and her husband, for they’d offered to put me up for a bit until I found my way a little more in the too-big world at the time, not yet sure about what route I was taking after high school.
This summer, I had flown into The City (and only those from the area realize that ‘The City’ is, indeed, New York City) and soon ventured into a nearby suburb to attend a wedding of a former girlfriend who was residing there. However, during my whirlwind stay, I at least had the opportunity to detour to Warwick for a mere half a day.
Shockingly, I was amazed at how it had changed.
Now, in reality, maybe the changes between 1987 and 1996 had not been that profound nor dramatic, for perhaps it was I who had grown the most. Maybe it was simply a matter of my perspective having been tweaked.
Once one’s perspective changes, it is difficult to re-tweak it to understand your former understandings of a place, even of yourself. Equal challenges exist in understanding your own erstwhile surroundings and your former experiences—or shall we say “the experiences of your former self”?
Surely, there had been physical transformations of Warwick during that span, for all towns, both progressive and parochial, go through evolutions over time—and, simply put, life is always about progress and growth even if there are cyclical downfalls from time to time.
It became obvious that, on my fast-paced, few-hour return, the most noteworthy changes had occurred within me, and, by extension, within all of us who’d grown up in Warwick and had chosen to move away, some distant, some close—in order to find something more (or to at least attempt to find it).
My folks and sister had also moved away in three separate directions by the end of 1987 (with extended family across the USA, otherwise), so there was no longer a reason-in-residence to be there this summer. Regardless, something drew me back there.
Now, when I was a teenager, I could, at times, barely stand living in such an ostensibly provincial place, and in the late 70s and early-to-mid 80s, it was a relatively provincial place.
Our creativity always tested, Warwickian friends and I constantly aimed to find the least-mundane activities to occupy our time.
After having lived in Minneapolis for nearly six years total, a city with a wonderful, lively performing arts scene, fantastic live music venues, and a variety of professional sports teams, etc., it is hard to imagine now how I’d/we’d ever survived the seemingly imprisoning environs of a one-Burger-King town back in the day.
However, like those before us for generations, and those who’ve followed, we did survive—and we were somehow better off for it because of Warwick.
I can vividly recall the second or third year of high school—for it happened on countless occasions, a group of us sitting in someone’s car, parked in the dark, at the end of a neighborhood out near Bellvale or down off of whatever shadowy lane at the edge of town, debating what we would do for the night. The video arcade on Main Street had grown wearisome after a few months of its initial novelty, Frank’s Pizza couldn’t sustain a consistent satisfaction for overly hormonal teens who simply wanted more action somehow, and there were no community rec centers at the time to keep us busy.
Typically, especially during the pre-girlfriend years of the mid-80s, for some of us, we usually couldn’t generate any form of worthwhile entertainment to pass the time, except for the occasional getting-into-some-sort-of-trouble kind. Thus, more often than not, we would call it an early evening, all the while dolefully lamenting about how we couldn’t wait until we’d grown up and moved away from the “God-forsaken place”.
Though I thoroughly have relished the variety that life in Minneapolis has since provided, I oft find myself desirous of living in such a place, like Warwick, again. There’s something quite tantalizing about the prospect of one day returning to my hometown, or even a town like it, regardless of the boredom and humdrum existence we teenagers of Warwick once, collectively, felt (no, it wasn’t a horrible monotony on a daily basis, but for many of us, we needed to get out, in time—and I am well aware that many kids didn’t feel the same, and they’ve been there ever since).
Isn’t it peculiar how it happens that the banality of one’s teen years, within the confines of such a rural place, evolves into a settled, satisfying peacefulness in one’s older years, if given the chance to return to that place after years away?
On my visit this summer, I rushed from each significant site from my past to the next, ready to absorb and recollect on the go.
Naturally, I ventured past my elementary, middle, and high schools, even making it out to Pine Island to see where I’d first resided after moving from Washington State in ‘78 or ‘79. And I even drove around the parking lot at King’s Elementary since I had spent a few weeks there as a temporary student, until we had found a home to rent out in Pine Island for the duration of my elementary school years.
It is a quirky human tendency to be so riveted by the recollections of our school days when we head home after so many years, and no return “home” would be complete without revisiting the places from our pasts where we develop the most, at least for many a child: school.
Additionally, I toured through another requisite site, my old neighborhood up on Mt. Peter, Hillside Avenue. An overwhelmingly peculiar sensation rushed through me, as did the names of many childhood neighbors, as I recalled the route I had followed as a paperboy. To my surprise, many of the names on the mailboxes were the same. The Mayers were still there, as were the Fomins, Quackenbushes, and Mallons.
In some ways, things had not changed. The houses and their residents within were simply ten years older. New coats of paint and a few renovations were noticeable, but those changes barely hid the fact that all was essentially the same, at least on the outside.
Most chilling about the excursion around Hillside Avenue was that we children from my generation had simply been replaced, just as we had replaced the previous gang of neighborhood kids, and so on and so on, a pattern repeated over time in every suburban cul-de-sac, rural town dead-end lane, or big city back alleyway around the world. Incessantly, that cycle is repeated, without us. Without anyone from each previous cycle ever participating in the next.
If one could trace back the history of Hillside Avenue, all the way until it was just a field off to the side of Route 17A, to the time when one house had started off the domino-like development of the area, and then somehow magically visit each generation that had come and gone since, he or she could prove the point that the existence of each group of childhood playmates is so eerily ephemeral.
Yet when you’re heaving a baseball to your best pal, tossing a newspaper against someone’s window, or holding hands with your first crush after escaping from your bedroom window for a few hours of innocent—and not-so-innocent, fun, you aren’t cognizant of the it’s-a-fact-of-life fleetingness of it all.
Looking at the big picture, my neighborhood pals and I (and the group of Bellvale friends I’d spent more time with) were just a blip on the imaginary radar screen that monitors such activities.
In one blip, we were gone. We were off the radar, if you will, replaced by the next blip.
In essence, that brief visit allowed me an understanding that I didn’t gain in college nor in any self-help book I’d read beforehand: What’s really, truly essential is “the moment”. It isn’t about the past, for you can’t live there, it isn’t possible. The future matters not, either, because it is merely to be replaced by the next moment, or the moment may not even be there the next moment. It is the moment, at the moment. That’s it.
Driving slowly on my quick tour through the horseshoe-shaped neighborhood, I passed by a group of kids playing kickball in the middle of the road, forcing them to call out, “Car coming!”, sending them scurrying to the left and to the right. Of course they stared through the windows at me, wondering who the hell I was. I fooled myself by envisaging if anyone knew that I used to be pretty darn good at the sport they were enjoying for the moment.
Rational understanding about the world clearly allows me to know it would be impossible for such historical relevance to be maintained—for I’ve never heard of public recordkeeping of such neighborhood nostalgia, but somewhere deep in our inner psyche, we foolishly hope we’d be “known” somehow to those who’ve replaced us.
By the looks on their faces, I knew they knew me not.
Of course they didn’t.
Caught up in the moment of memories, I additionally pondered if they knew where all the others had gone, what we had all done with our lives in the ten years since my generation reigned supreme on that street or down the hill in Bellvale.
Nearly ten years physically removed, I was completely expunged from the reality of those Hillside Avenue kids. I’d been replaced, forgotten, and really, had become just an unknown. Of course, some of the parents would have recollected my being their paperboy, or if one of my generation had been visiting that day, I would have been a “known” for that moment again, but the point is, if a mere ten years later I had become an unknown in that plane of existence that was once ours, in that locale that mattered so much as a child, it surely proves that it is only in “the moment” that we live the most—and in some ways, that’s all that matters.
On any given day, at any given moment, at any given location, anywhere in the fucking world, it is just that moment that matters. Five, ten, twenty years later, that moment is gone, forgotten. Replaced. And even though I used to pride myself in being able to send a kickball over the heads of infielders and outfielders, alike, that, too, matters not. It was just at the moment that the greatest value of that moment existed. The past is meaningless to what matters now, for it truly matters not at this exact moment, any moment, anymore.
After scrambling the kids in different directions, interrupting their game, I soon parked across the street from my old house and then wandered over to gaze into a memory that had long escaped me.
In the front yard of that house back in the mid-80s, I had once practiced some silly break dance move, where one flips oneself over, landing on the ground, but in a manner that shouldn’t hurt yet looks like it must.
Because there was a slope heading down from my house to the street, it was easier to get bodily momentum going to do the flip, and the sloping hill added a few extra degrees to land the trick properly. I’d had no need whatsoever of that memory, theretofore, but it had come back because I’d entered that physical space again, momentarily. Odd how that works in the human head sometimes, how remembrances are triggered only by entering a specific physical space, hearing a song, picking up a certain scent.
I returned to the car and cried. Not for a particular person whom I missed, not for any unachieved goals nor failures in life since, but it seemed that I cried because of those moments. They’d mattered so much, or at least my more matured sense of self told me they should have mattered back in the day, yet they were gone, for good, at least gone from the “real world”—and memories are not the real world, are they?
Perhaps dozens of other similar reminisces bombarded my senses for the next handful of minutes which completed my visit to Hillside, just as countless more rushed back to me while touring other parts of Warwick that half day.
As the Beautiful Girls advertisement entices you to believe, such journeys home are needed to find out what you’ve lost. Those its-the-moment-that-matters-most moments are gone. Permanently. Although such a revelation saddens me, I’ll cherish the discoveries made that day, on my return to Warwick, for I’ve learned that the moment is everything. Even if they’re now gone.