CRY FATHER: Chapter Two: Reflections

It was another gray Seattle day. John leaned on the sink and looked hard at the man in the mirror. He peeled away years of perception to see himself as he really was. For the first time in months perhaps years he saw the man he had become. He saw the man standing before him without the filter of who he had been: a confident, fit and fine looking man with a drive in his eyes and motive in his step.

Who was this imposter? He glared into the mirror until he saw the naked truth. He saw himself as Maggie must have. He saw himself through Maggie’s eyes.

Maggie was his life partner, mate of his soul, and the only being on a lonely planet with whom he could share his inner self. What did Maggie see in him now? Pools of darkness shrouded his swollen eyes. His dark shoulder-length hair stood up and scattered like a poor impression of Bob Dylan Blonde on Blonde.

When was the last time he shaved and showered? He knew exactly how long: Election Day. How long was it? Two weeks? Three? He had planted himself in the living room of their high-rise apartment overlooking the Sound, yelling and cursing at the endless parade of political hacks and self-serving analysts none of whom could claim objectivity. No one in the nation’s media was capable of cutting through the smokescreen of partisan politics when the entire world could see what had happened: Deception, fraud, betrayal!

He was enraged to the point that it haunted him. When he retired each night the rage followed him. He was unable to sleep. The rage would give way to depression and return again undiminished. He stayed in bed later and later each morning until mornings became afternoons and still the rage stayed with him.

“Forgive me,” he said. But he was not speaking to the man in the mirror. He was speaking to Maggie though she was not there. She left for the office hours ago. She was getting on with her life. That’s what we do. We go on. It was not the first time the world had disappointed and it would not be the last. Maggie was a fighter and a survivor. She did what she needed to do. She moved on and it was time he did the same.

He splashed cold water over his eyes, turned on the shower and soaped the stubble on his chin. It wasn’t much but it was a beginning. There had to be a beginning.


John Christianson was a man in need of a cause. Some would say it was an obsession, a failing, a character flaw, a curse of perpetual discontent, but he could find no meaning or fulfillment in strictly personal expression. It was only by serving some greater purpose that he could justify his place on earth. His adult life was a series of causes in which he had always been a warrior. He had fought many battles, great and small, lost and won, but he had always seen the cause to its conclusion.

For years his cause had been that of the American Indians. He was convinced that America could never fulfill her destiny until its citizens had come to terms with the nation’s original sin. For nations have souls and wounded souls are capable of great evil. This nation was born with the greatest ideals in the history of humankind yet its reality was one of horrifying hypocrisy.

The founders spoke of freedom and equality but they failed to consider women, the landless or racial minorities. They neglected the institution of slavery and failed to even acknowledge the right of indigenous peoples to exist. The ultimate truth that remained hidden behind the flag of destiny and patriotism was that America was born on soil made fertile with the sweat of slaves and the blood of its natives. More than liberty, justice and equality, the legacy of our forefathers is genocide.

True healing cannot begin until true history is accepted. Once accepted, reciprocity will follow as summer follows spring. We as a nation must make amends.

For years he had devoted his efforts and considerable resources to this cause and this cause alone. He helped to bring about changes in school curricula so that children would learn the terrifying truth underlying Manifest Destiny. He helped to raise awareness of the quality of life on the reservations. He pushed to return artifacts and sacred lands to their rightful owners. He raised funds for legal battles to release Leonard Peltier and to protect native sovereignty.

It was not enough. It could never be enough but at last he was compelled to realize that the cause, however dear and heartfelt, was not his own. The last thing the Indian nations wanted or needed was a white man’s crusade. He could go so far and no further. The rest was up to the tribes. He would always be aware and he would always contribute but his active role came to an end. It had reached a logical conclusion.

He became a man in search of a new cause. He began by consuming knowledge as if it were manna, as if it was the only thing that could sustain him in his time of need. He read newspapers from cover to cover. He studied history, philosophy, science and religion. He formed connections and followed his intellectual curiosity wherever it led. He read fiction, biography, memoirs and poetry for whatever truths they could reveal.

He was fortunate in the sense that his business interests no longer required his direct engagement. He was free to feed his hunger for knowledge, to search for inspiration, to seek out some sign that would lead to a new path, a new journey, a new cause.

He read and he meditated, read and listened to jazz, read and watched the waves of the northern Pacific. He read and let his mind drift with the wind as it coursed through the Strait of San Juan de Fuca. He read and sought inspiration in the stars. He read and he found the answer. It was there all along. It was hiding in plain view. It was there when he picked up the morning paper or turned on the television news. It was the election. It stirred his outrage and aroused his indignation. It cried out for change.

The words of Joseph Campbell rang like the bells of a thousand cathedrals: Follow your bliss. For whatever reason this was his passion, his bliss and his destiny.

He began to write.


To the world at large John Christianson was just another man of independent wealth. He remained unknown though his actions had touched the lives of many in large and small ways. The world knew nothing of his personal battles. It was as he wanted it to be. There was the public face and the mythical hero behind it. He was a man with a mask and the mask was all they were allowed to see.

To the world within the web he was known as the Jazzman. The Jazzman was a commentator on the human condition. After a period of silence, a period of sporadic communications from the edge, the Jazzman was back and he was back with a vengeance. To his followers in an alternative universe of bits and algorithms, where imagination reigned and dreams took on all the qualities of life, the Jazzman announced his cause for a new era: an end to the two-party system of American politics.


What lies beyond survival? What lies beyond personal fulfillment? A system of government that ensures the former and enhances the latter. It is the government we were promised over two centuries ago, a government where the people are sovereign, a government that embraces diversity and extends the arms of justice and opportunity to all.

It was long past time to answer the cry of our founding fathers. It was time for true democracy to take root on American soil. The age of promise was over. The age of deliverance was at hand.

Jazz.