Ed Griffin

The Idealist

May 19, 1962

Laying face down on the floor of St. John's Cathedral in Cleveland, Ohio, I waited to be ordained a Roman Catholic priest. Somewhere behind me in the big cathedral, my mother knelt in prayer. She was happy and proud – her son was becoming a priest.

I thought about my dad in heaven, dead six years. He was proud of me, too. He himself was in the seminary for a few years. I didn't think it then, but maybe I was fulfilling his life.

I was going to be a good priest to help people. My mom and dad had donated many hours to young people in the parish and I learned from them. I'd been a model seminarian, trusted by church authorities, conservative in my views. My mother made no secret of her desire that one day I would be a bishop.

We rose from the floor and one-by-one we approached the bishop. I knelt in front of him and he ordained me. "You are a priest forever," he said. I turned and faced the mass of people in the cathedral. This was my future, to serve these people and others like them.

1963 Holy Family Parish, Parma, Ohio, a Cleveland suburb. Priests' breakfast table in the rectory. An older priest, Bob Knuff, walked in.

"Hey, kid, watcha reading?"

I picked up the booklet and showed him. "Pacem in Terris, John the 23^rd's latest encyclical."

"Heavy stuff for the breakfast table. Gimme the sports page."

I passed him that section. "No, Bob, it's great stuff. All about world peace and poverty and racism. The Pope thinks democracy is a pretty good governmental structure and he thinks the UN's doing a good job."

"Yeah, well the people aren't interested in that stuff. They come to church to rest from a hectic week. A few minutes of peace with God. Where's the report of last night's game?"

At this point the other assistant priest, Vic, walked in. "Hi Bob, Hi kid. What are you reading?"

"Pacem in Terris."

"Oh come on. That stuff's not religion. It's politics. Give it up, kid. Preach about the Blessed Mother. That's what the people want to hear."

The pastor, Father Benisek, shuffled in to breakfast, nursing his arthritic hip. He flicked on the TV to the morning show before he sat down.

Vic pointed to my book. "Hey, Bill, look what the kid's reading – an encyclical. Can you believe it?"

"Which one?"

"John the 23^rd. The socialist."

Father Benisek snorted his disapproval and turned his attention to the TV where black people were picketing a Cleveland business. "Communists," he muttered. "Outside agitators," and he snorted more disapproval. Then, "Pass the toast, Vic."

1964 Parish Rectory

The pastor, Father Benisek, knocked on the door of my room.

"Father Griffin, I'd like you to take the housekeeper to the store. You know, her weekly shopping trip."

"Ah, Father, excuse me, but I was getting my sermon ready for Sunday. How about the janitor? Could he take her?"

"No, no, Father. I don't want to take the janitor away from anything important."

March, 1965 A plane bound for Atlanta, Georgia

I turned to my seat mate, Father Tom Gallagher. "Come on, Tom, let's go talk to him." I was referring to Martin Luther King who sat in the front of the plane. We were on our way to Selma to join his historic march to the state capitol in Montgomery, Alabama for voting rights. Doctor King was returning to his home in Atlanta after a speech in Cleveland.

"I don't know. He probably wants to rest."

"Ah, come on. Let's go."

Tom and I stood and walked to the front of the plane. "Doctor King," I said, "I just want to tell you that we really admire what you're doing in the South. We're on our way to join the march."

"Wonderful, wonderful, ah... Fathers, I presume. Catholic?"

Tom shook his hand and introduced himself and then me.

"How are you Fathers getting to the march?"

This surprised me. I expected a statement about the importance of his efforts, but instead, he asked about our travel plans. I explained how we were going from Atlanta to Selma by air, but we hadn't figured out how we'd get to the march.

"Here," he said, and wrote something on a piece of paper. "The white cab companies in Selma won't help you, but this company will. It's owned by blacks. Use my name."

We thanked him and wished him well.

"Well, God bless you, Fathers. I'm going to spend a little time with my family and I'll rejoin the march tomorrow."

We went back to our seats, impressed by a great man who bothered himself about our travel plans

April, 1965 The bishop's office next to the cathedral

"I called you down here, Father, because you've raised a big storm out there in Parma. Your pastor is very upset. Some people said they're not going to contribute to the church as long as you're there."

I stood there, embarrassed. I shifted my feet. My face got red and I felt hot.

"Who went with you to Selma?"

"Father Tom Gallagher."

"Well, there's no trouble in his parish."

Could I argue with this man? I had always been taught that the bishop spoke for God. Could I tell him that Father Tom's pastor was one hundred percent behind him and had the people of the parish praying for his safety? My pastor listened to every racist who knocked on the door and soothed them with, "I know, I know. I'm going to get rid of him."

"Well?" the bishop demanded.

I took a deep breath. "I think we have to affirm the church's strong position against racism, Bishop."

The bishop picked up his pen and waved away my request for support. "I tell you, Father, normally I leave a new priest in a parish for five years, but I'm going to move you now into the inner city. You like working with the black people, don't you, Father?"

"Of course, but¾"

"That's fine. At your own request, I'm moving you into St. Al's in the heart of the ghetto."

November, 1967 My brother-in-law, Tom Willmott, and I were hiking in a park outside Cleveland.

"It's all breaking apart, Tom."

"What is?"

I had to talk to somebody. I was going nuts inside. But I just couldn't come out with the problem. It was too shocking for a Catholic priest.

"Everything's messed up. You know the Pope threw open the windows of the church to get some fresh air in. But the trouble is, I can't get the windows closed. And those courses I took at the university – they have me questioning everything. I used to think the Catholic Church was the true church, now I think all churches are true. I used to support the Catholic idea on birth control. Now I think it's ridiculous."

Tom laughed. "Yeah, it is crazy."

"And I've been called downtown to the bishop so many times in the last few years I'm like a paddle ball that bounces back. Just this week I got called down for a sermon I gave."

"What did you do, promote heresy?"

"No. I was trying to explain the Incarnation, how God came down and became part of us. I started the sermon in that monster raised pulpit, far over the heads of the people and then at just the right moment, as I explained the Incarnation, I left the pulpit and went down into the middle aisle of the church and finished the sermon. It was really effective."

"So what was wrong with that?"

"The bishop said, ‘Don't leave the pulpit again, Father.'"

"Cheez."

Tom was my friend and a mentor to me, but I wasn't getting to the heart of the problem.

"So here's my problem."

"Yeah?"

We walked through the leafless trees. I couldn't say anything. Tears came to my eyes. He looked at me and then threw his arm around my shoulder. "Come on, Ed."

"I'm in love," I said. There. It was out in the open. "It's a woman I work with in the parish. A youth worker. A beautiful black woman. I mean, I've never kissed her or hugged her or anything, but…"

"How does she feel about you?"

"It's mutual."

"So, you've talked about it with her?"

"Yeah." Happiness filled me as I remembered the long, long cup of coffee we had one night at a neighborhood restaurant.

"Talking about love is the first step to making love."

I stopped walking. "Hang on, Tom. I know some guys go with women and stay priests, but I can't do that. I'm either in or out. For one thing, it's not fair to the woman."

"Okay, okay, so you leave." Tom patted me on the back and we started walking again. He turned to me, "If you leave, what are you going to do?"

"Well, I…" I had no answer. I hadn't thought about it.

"Let's say you marry this woman and have a family. How are you going to support them?"

I just kept walking. I had no answer.

"See, that's the trouble. There aren't any businesses who need a post-grad scholar in theology. Get some training, then leave."

"I want to work with people."

"I repeat, get some training and then leave."

"But I'm in love now."

We talked for an hour. He felt I was just infatuated with this woman and it would pass. Of course he was right, but he missed the other love story.

My love affair with the Catholic Church was over.

January, 1968 The bishop's mansion on Lake Erie

"Good morning, Bishop."

He let me into an imposing entryway, marble floors, tapestries on the wall, stained glass windows and massive chairs with carved arms. This was the foyer – what did the rest of the place look like? I had left my parish where people lived in run-down apartment buildings owned by absentee landlords, apartments where rats frequently crawled into cribs, where lead paint coated the walls and where the repair man was a year away.

The bishop pointed to one of the big wooden chairs. I sat down but I didn't feel comfortable. The bishop sat opposite me and began by reminding me of the rules. "Father, I hope you know I only permit visits here for true emergencies. You left a message last night that this was an emergency."

"I'm leaving the priesthood today, Bishop. I wanted to be sure you had enough time to find a replacement."

"What's the trouble, Father. Is it a woman?"

"No, Bishop." I moved to the edge of the chair. "I've been trying to help people in the ghetto, but it seems the church just doesn't care. I mean, all the money is going to build new churches in the suburbs."

"That's where the Catholics are, Father. And we have a very strong inner city program, the Catholic Interracial Council."

A ray of early morning sun shot through the stained glass window and tinted the bishop's head with red. But I no longer believed that God spoke to me through this man.

"The Catholic Interracial Council does a few good things, Bishop, but it has no resources and it does nothing to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and house the homeless."

"I don't need a lecture from you, young man."

I stood up. "I'm leaving. I'm joining the many other young priests who are quitting the priesthood."

He got to his feet. "You're wrong again, Father. There is no mass movement of priests."

I put my hand on the doorknob. It was freezing cold. "Thank you for your time, Bishop."

"I'm going to pray for you, Father. Your immortal soul is in grave danger."

I muttered another thank you and opened the door to a blast of Lake Erie air. It was cold and wet and free.

Spring, 1968 Rockford, Illinois

She said her name was Amanda and I met her at the Quaker church. I was religion shopping and – looking at the women in the congregation.

"Hi, ah, ah, my name is Ed," I said as I pointed to my nametag at the social after church. I was super nervous, a thirty-two year old virgin attempting to make a date.

She pointed to her tag. "Amanda."

I had never done this before and I had never sat in on guys' bull sessions to learn the secrets. "I-I'm new here."

"I know. I've never seen you before."

"I got a job as the director of a youth center."

"That's nice."

"There's a beautiful park along the Rock River. I-I wonder if you'd like to take a walk with me later today."

God. That was terrible. How stupid. She will think I'm some sort of rapist or something, getting her alone in a park.

"That would be nice. About 3 PM?"

I could hardly believe it. I had just made a date. I was on the road.

Amanda gave me her address and promptly at 3 I knocked on her door. We walked to the park and strolled along the river, but a host of new questions came to me. Was I supposed to hold her hand? What should I do after the park? I was a total novice at this. I had never dated in high school and I frankly knew very little about women.

I asked Amanda about herself, her job as a social worker, her church and her family. She talked a lot about herself and seemed to enjoy talking. I told her that I used to be a Catholic priest, but she didn't seem too interested and the conversation reverted to her.

We didn't hold hands.

After an hour or two we started walking back As we neared her apartment, I got really nervous. What were the rules at the end of the date? In all the movies I'd seen the guy kisses the girl or tries to at her apartment door.

Into the building. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Her apartment. What was I supposed to do? Kiss her? Say I had a nice time? Make another date?

Hell with it, I thought. I wasn't going to follow any rules. I was going to follow my heart and do what I felt. Amanda was nice, but I didn't want to kiss her and I didn't want to date again.

"I had a nice time, Amanda. Thank you. Good evening."

"Thanks, Ed. Goodbye."

She went in, shut the door and I left, happy that I had discovered the rules of dating – there were no rules. I just had to follow my heart.

August, 1969 My mother's home in Boca Raton, Florida

I was sporting a beard – my very first – as I got off the plane for my annual visit to my mother. She complained about the beard immediately and kept it up the whole first day of our visit. When she attempted to hide me from the neighbors, I knew what was going on – she hadn't told them I'd left the priesthood. In those days, priests didn't have beards.

She had placed herself above her Catholic friends because she was the mother of a priest and I had severely disappointed her by leaving.

After supper on our first day, she said, "Please, Edward, I'm begging you. Shave that beard off."

I stroked my black beard. "I like it, Mom. Don't you think it makes me look mature?"

"It makes you look like a bum. Shave it off."

She began to cry. "You've broken my heart. First you leave the priesthood and break your vows to God and now you grow a beard and look like a hippie."

I didn't say anything.

"You've brought shame on our family. I hope God takes me soon. I can't stand this."

Fifteen more minutes of this and I stormed out of the house and walked through the streets of Boca Raton. A half hour later as I walked along, a car pulled up behind me. It was my mother. Suddenly the whole drama flashed into my mind. Here was the good mother rescuing her errant son from the devil streets of the city. Here was the good Catholic mother bringing her wandering child back to Mother Church.

In that instant, I grew up. I broke away from the concept of son-hood that my mother and the church had instilled. This woman was special for me, she had raised me, but she no longer had any say in my life. Polite conversation would replace honesty from then on..

I got in the car and she drove home. I shaved the beard – it wasn't important and I could grow another in a few days when I returned to my life.

June 1970 A four-student flat near the University of Wisconsin in Milwaukee.

"Hi, Mom," I said into the phone, my future wife, Kathy, standing right next to me. I met her one night in April when I went to her sister's house to apply for a job. As they say, it was love at first sight, or more correctly, it was love and friendship at first sight.

"I passed my exams, Mom. I've got a master's degree."

I could hear the distance in her voice. "I'm happy for you."

There was only one thing that would have made her happy – my return to the priesthood.

"Yeah, the exams were tough. Mom, I've got some news for you."

"Yes?"

I squeezed Kathy's hand hard. When Mom heard what I had to say, she would know that I would never return to the priesthood.

"I'm getting married, Mom. In August."

There was a long moment of silence and then a click. I turned to Kathy. "She hung up."

A few months later in a park outside Milwaukee Kathy and I were married in front of a hippie Catholic priest who left the priesthood himself a few months later. Kathy's niece gave out roses to everyone, including a park policeman.

March 2, 1973 St. Joseph's Hospital

I watched my son being born. I knew I could die then, because I would somehow go on, my genes, my legacy, something.

July 20, 1975 St. Joseph's Hospital

I took a break from the delivery room. In the waiting area was a city hall lobbyist and I was a city councilor. He tried to tell me about his building project and the zoning change he needed, but I hurried back into the delivery room. God and my wife gave me a warm and wonderful little girl that night.

April 1983 Milwaukee, Wisconsin

In 1983, at the age of forty-seven, I discovered creative writing. It changed my life. I would sit down at the typewriter after supper and follow my creative muse. Whole worlds opened to me. I wrote about the space behind my childhood garage where I practiced pitching and dreamed of reaching the major leagues. I wrote a short story about a group of prisoners on an island. I wrote a poem about getting along with the Russians. Hours passed. Suddenly, as I wrote, an alarm would ring in the house. My wife and I owned a commercial greenhouse outside Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a ma-and-pa operation. The alarm meant I hadn't turned the heat on. I had to shut the door on the vibrant world that grew on the paper in front of me and hurry to the greenhouses to start the furnaces.

An hour later I'd be back at the typewriter. Type a sentence, stop, look at it, realize it wasn't quite true and then search deeper, ever deeper. Layers of middle-aged half-truths disappeared, the comfortable maxims I had surrounded myself with – "Business is good. Don't make any changes" and "Relax. You're getting older." The fires of my youth burned again – civil rights, world peace, a place in the sun for every person. I was a Catholic priest as a young man, filled with idealism. I marched in Selma with Doctor King, picketed local companies to give jobs to blacks, and confronted my own bishop over the church's institutional racism.

As I wrote, I dug, I searched, always deeper, ever more honest. It might be easy to speak a lie, but it wasn't easy to write one. I started to unravel the tangled skein that was me. These revelations came, not from writing philosophy or self-help dictums, but from writing fiction. Put a man and a woman in a fictional situation. What does the woman really think? What does the man think? Is this real? Is this how people are? Where do I get my ideas? What is human nature all about?

What a wonderful gift this was. How great it would be to give it to others. My creative writing instructor at Marquette University asked me to substitute for him one evening. My peers gave me positive feedback and I looked around for a place to teach. I had enough credentials to fill a wall, (a master's degree, five years as a Catholic priest, and four years as a city councilman) but no writing testimonials, such as a book or an article in a status magazine.

Who would have me as a writing instructor? I was just a beginner myself. Around this time the State of Wisconsin called for more volunteers to help reintegrate prisoners into society. Yes, that was it, I'd volunteer to teach in prison. I'd show the men that writing could melt the bars around their souls. Besides, prisons cried for reform. As a priest I'd visited a few penitentiaries and found them terribly inhumane – men locked in cages. In my opinion they were just warehouses. Men's lives were not changed. Instead they learned how to do crime better.

I had read Papillon, the story of Henri Charriére's terrible experience in prison and his struggle to be true to himself. The book moved me deeply.

Perhaps I could teach the men to write like Papillon or the Russian, Solzhenitsyn. Then, like these mentors, they would tell the world about the dystopia they lived in. In a larger sense, the bars would melt away.

I told my wife, Kathy, about my plan. "Why prison?" she asked. "Why not help Jimmy Carter build houses for poor people?"

Good question. I didn't know the answer. I was silent.

She touched my arm. "I will worry about you."

"I know," I said and hugged her.

"We have it good now. Money, health, two great children."

"I know. I know, but … I have to go."

My friends weren't impressed either. "Psychological need to help others." "Just going to get good stories." "They don't need creative writing – they need basic English and spelling." "Why waste your time on scumbags?"

I ignored everyone's advice and wrote to the warden of the toughest prison in Wisconsin, the maximum-security facility at Waupun. The prison's director of education approved my plan and I was slated to start that September.

This is the story of my prison journeys in the USA and in Canada. It's a record of success and failure, of finding myself as I helped others find themselves. I began like Joshua outside Jericho. All I had to do was sound the horn, the men would pick up their pens and the walls would come tumbling down.

That isn't what happened.

When I stopped blowing the horn, I heard words uttered in the stillness. They were words of power that demanded change of me. The words smolder in every corner of every prison, waiting to catch fire in the soul of every passing guard, official or convict.

I learned the words from the people you will meet in this book.