Uppa Booty

I've been reflecting lately on a wonderful short story I read a few years ago, by Sherman Alexie. It's called "What You Pawn I Will Redeem." I believe it was published in The New Yorker, and later won some awards. It's the story of a middle-aged, articulate, native American alcoholic man living on the streets of Seattle. In the story, the man (who calls himself Jackson Jackson) walks into a pawn shop with some friends one day and sees his deceased grandmother's regalia headdress in the window, for sale. He tells the owner it's his grandmother's, to no avail. The man wants a thousand dollars for it, period. He says he will hold it for twenty-four hours, and if Jackson can bring him the money, he'll sell it to him. He even gets him started with a twenty (or maybe ten) dollar bill. So Jackson Jackson sets out on his quest. He believes for a moment that if he can get that headdress back, he might bring his grandmother to life again. He is a man on a quest.

The problem is, he's an alcoholic. He manages to make a few dollars selling the local homeless newpaper, feels pleased about it, closer to his goal, and then promptly goes out and spends it on booze for him and his friends. He does this over and over again, never giving up on his quest, but each time, ending up drinking the money away, then picking himself up and starting again. At the end of the story, he shows up at the pawn shop with five dollars in his hand, all the money he possesses in the world, showing up regardless of what he has, to claim the regalia. The pawn shop owner looks at him and asks one question: "Did you work hard for this money?" Jackson says yes. The owner walks over to the window and gets the regalia and hands it to him. Jackson walks out of the pawn shop with an ecstatic shout:

"Do you know how many good men there are in the world? Too many to count!"

Then he puts on his grandmother's regalia and goes out into the street and dances, blocking traffic but not caring because for a mystical moment, he achieves some kind of union with his grandmother and feels her presence again.

This story resonates with me not only because it's a beautiful statement of perfect grace, but because Jackson's seeming helplessness reminds me of the pattern experienced by those with FASD, in particular. They wake up with the best intentions, most likely. Then they spend the rest of the day doing the wrong thing, over and over and over again. They feel guilty. They might resolve to try to never do the thing again. But before the day is over, maybe before the hour is over, they'll do it all over again. And they'll feel like dirt, feel like they're bad beyond redemption. And every day, this is repeated over and over, the cycle. It's hell.

I see this so much in my son, and it is absolutely heartbreaking. You feel so helpless and frustrated, try to keep hope and not give up, try not to show how disappointed you are. But sometimes it comes through because we're only human. My son does the wrong thing all day long, most days. He asks me, "How can I be a good person if I do bad things?" "Why do you love me when I'm so bad?" I know beyond any doubt that he would love nothing better than to have more "self-control." If you ask him one thing he