Well, the day is finally here. Me, facing pen and paper, tasked with writing the story of my life. Strangely enough, it is something I have been working on ever since 2008; ever since I blew up my life and moved to the east village. Framing it, reframing it; matching it up to the data; the memories of the actions of myself and others; events, facts, scraps, feelings; pain, euphoria, guilt, shame, and pride; my life.
I have worked so hard on the story of my life because I believe it to be the wormhole to my next life; the lily pad on which I can travel from one side of the pond to the other. All I can say is that I think of almost nothing else. How was my story influenced by myself, the people around me, the institutions of my times – my nuclear family, the government, schools, corporations, society and civilization; the constructs, the mores, the social architecture in which I roamed? I believe these questions to be of the utmost importance, and to the extent that I can answer them I can be useful to myself in the years remaining; perhaps be useful to others around me; and perhaps, ever so slightly, I can be useful to the world at large.
I also hope that my story might be a useful aid for loved ones in my life so that they might have a better understanding of the motivations for my actions and my mindset at the time. This improved understanding might be put to use in their own lives, and may encourage a dialogue that improves and deepens our collective understanding; and ultimately our connection to one another and to the world at large.
Principal among these loved ones is my daughter Kaisha, who has suffered greatly from circumstances beyond her control and no fault of her own. The extent to which she can see her suffering in the context of a greater suffering might be a useful key with which she can unlock the secret of life – that life is suffering, but within that suffering is contained meaning, purpose, and ultimately, great joy.
I was dropped off by a stork, or so I was told, on October 18, 1962 in a suburb of Boston, Massachusetts. It was the dawn of a new age in American society – Camelot, it was called, a reference to the honor and nobility of King Arthur’s court. Led by the youngest person ever elected to the office of the Presidency, it was a time of great hope for the country and the world. “Ask not what your country can do for you,” he said – “ask what you can do for your country.” It was a decade of exploring new frontiers, space -- “We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard,” he said.
At the exact moment of my birth, the world was the closest it has ever been – so far as we know – to nuclear holocaust. The Cuban missile crisis was in full swing, and was avoided in large part by Robert Kennedy’s argument that there was no moral justification for a preemptive strike on Cuba. The crisis ended up being solved through peaceful means, through diplomacy.
Eerily enough, I share the birth date – October 18th -- with the man who brought Camelot crashing down. Lee Harvey Oswald, who I believe was an earnest man dissatisfied with the state of the world and his position in it, was seeking a path towards a better tomorrow. It is unclear whether he acted alone or allowed himself to be used by others, but he ultimately expressed himself through violent means, to the detriment of himself, to others, and to the world.
It was into this soil that a young David Leslie Webster was planted, and I absorbed both elements -- great potential for creation and positive change but also the potential for life-altering destruction. Those elements are still within me.
One of the two gardeners to which I was entrusted was also a product of the turbulence of her times. My mother, Marion Havas, was 13 years old when Nazi Germany invaded Hungary in March, 1944. Although christened and raised Catholic, she wore the Jewish star and by some miracle – most probably several -- escaped deportation. Almost half of those murdered in Auschwitz were the approximately 400,000 Hungarian Jews gassed during a ten week period in 1944. I am here today because my mother somehow missed the most inhumane one-way train in human history.
To add insult to injury, my mother could not attend University after the Russians took control of Hungary, due to the fact that her family had been wealthy. In another harrowing experience, she had to risk life and limb to cross the border and leave the country she loved with all her heart. I don’t think she ever got over the loss.
The second gardener, my father, Henry de Forest Webster, grew up with turbulence of a different sort. His father was a world famous scientist who died suddenly when my father was 16. My father worshiped his father, and spent his entire life trying to measure up to his father’s unreachable professional accomplishments. It would be like Michael Jackson’s children trying to duplicate their father’s achievements – an exercise in futility.
My father also was competing against ghosts of a different sort – his ancestors on his mother’s side of the family. One of them is John Taylor Johnston, the founder of New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Another is Jesse de Forest, the settler who sought and received permission from the Dutch to establish the colony of New Amsterdam, which is present day New York City. Because of the intermarriage of wealthy and influential members of New York society, the list goes on and on. My father felt a tremendous obligation to his legacy – to act in a manner befitting these “noble” ancestors.
These two gardeners had simple expectations for their five seedlings. We were to be obedient and respectful. We were to be seen and not heard. There would be no back talk, no sass. We had one job, and that was to excel at everything we did. This job was not to be questioned. Most importantly, we would excel at school. We would get excellent grades; get into excellent schools; get excellent jobs. We would work hard, and then we would work harder. We would set unachievable goals, and then we would achieve them. We would accomplish, accomplish, accomplish. We would become valued and esteemed members of the status quo. In a status quo garden with a bunch of other status quo plants just like us. And the garden would be beautiful, and all the gardener’s friends and family would marvel at their skill as gardeners. And the plants would be safe and secure and strong, ready to bear fruit and seeds of the highest quality. And all would be good in the world.
The story of my life is the struggle of being raised in this garden and my search for more suitable ones.
My first clue that the garden of my youth might be suspect was the brutality of the environment in which I was raised. My parents enforced their formula for success primarily through fear and violence. I lived at the end of a long hallway, with my sister’s room at the head of the stairs. I remember hearing the door close as my mother arrived home – she would first go to my sister’s room…I listened intently…if there was one thing out of order – something my sister had forgotten to do, some unsatisfactory result at school, something in her room out of place – anything, I would hear my sister cry out. I knew she had either been slapped or was having her hair pulled. My brother’s room was next. I racked my brain in absolute terror, thinking of every possible thing my mother might use as an excuse to hit me. It was not a good feeling.
School provided little relief as well. In fourth grade I broke my arm falling in the school hallway. I later learned someone had pushed me from behind. Groups of boys often waited for me after school or after class to beat me up, give me a wedgie, or, on one unfortunate occasion, lock me under the stage in the school auditorium. Hearing the bell ring for the end of class was often for me the worst sound in the world.
I caught other early glimpses of the inhumanity of the status quo. I grew up in a wealthy suburb of Washington, D.C. People in the neighborhood used to hire housekeepers who were predominantly black or Hispanic. The housekeepers used to stand at bus stops, waiting for the bus to take them back to Washington, D.C. after a hard day’s work. Boys on my school bus used to open the windows and spit on them as the bus went by. It was horrible.
At 16 I was off to Amherst College and got my first exposure to drugs. They played an important role in my life – releasing me from the grip of a stultifying, shy, earnest personality that had been the hallmark of my youth. Under enormous pressure to perform, I did not have the balance in my early life to develop the social skills and the social confidence of my peers. I liked psychedelics; I dropped acid and realized I was utilizing only 1/100th of the power of my brain. I heard the bewitching tones of Jerry Garcia’s guitar for the first time. My life was never the same.
At 18 I dropped out of college, telling my parents that a career, any career, was not for me. In my words, “I would be missing out on too much in life.” I became a bicycle messenger, met my future wife Pam, and at the age of 21 ended up in a mental institution, misdiagnosed with drug-induced psychosis. My father went to court and became guardian of my person and property. I chose not to fight him.
Age 22 - I go back to college, then to the University of Chicago’s Ph.D. program in economics. Age 26 - Pam gets pregnant, my daughter Kaisha is born. I call my parents to report the good news; silence on the other end of the line. Pam and I get married. We are excommunicated from my family. Kaisha is never acknowledged by my parents as their grandchild.
Age 35, receive Ph.D. Age 37, start consulting company. Age 43, do the global pricing strategy for Merck’s HPV vaccine. Age 44, process of profound disillusionment with my professional and personal life accelerates. Feel like I’m making no difference in the world. Setting a poor example for Kaisha by not doing what I love to do, not being who I am. Age 45, move out of the family home, move to the east village, close my business. Receive the nickname hippie lou in a bar on 1st avenue. I like the name. I identify with hippies, who I feel are peaceful. Loving. Not materialistic. Experimental. They question things. They are people of conscience. I start using the name.
Age 46. File for divorce. Run out of money. Lose my east village apartment. Begin a six year run living off the kindness of strangers. Pam awarded $7,500 a month in spousal support. I appeal, showing judge I have no money and no income. Appeal denied. Age 47. In arrears for spousal support, called into court on monthly basis. Have a manic episode, hospitalized involuntarily at Bellevue Hospital for 13 days. Given proper diagnosis of manic depression. Appear day after Bellevue discharge in Pennsylvania court. No relief from the judge. Fail to appear the following month. Bench warrant issued for my arrest. Driver’s license revoked.
My former girlfriend Meral educates herself on mental illness and helps me realize that I have manic depression; she cares for me over the next five years as I go through the long process of coming to terms with my condition. At Meral’s invitation, I join the Mood Disorders Support Group. Start attending weekly meetings after hearing the facilitator of the first group meeting say “recovery is possible.”
Age 48. Lose family home to foreclosure. Bank account closed by IRS. Arrested for first time in my life, spend five weeks on Riker’s Island. Age 49. My girlfriend Iraida inspires me by telling me “your heart is generous and your mind is gorgeous. Make something beautiful of your life.”
Age 50. Enter Chemical Dependency Outpatient Program at Bellevue Hospital. Start working with a talented counselor who really gets me, who really puts the care in “health care.” With several friends, start a “Magic Monday” weekly support group, focusing on acknowledging and utilizing the magic in our lives.
Invited to accompany Magic Monday member/Broadway performer Robin Baxter in her one-woman show on the experience of living with manic depression. We are subsequently invited to perform at AIDs benefits, church benefits, and an awards ceremony honoring the commissioner of New York City’s Department of Health and Mental Hygiene.
Age 51. Enter the 50th class of the Educational Outreach Program at Catholic Charities, but not without first expressing concerns to the Program Director about what I perceive to be the unpleasant parts of the program. Without batting an eyelash, said Program Director sets up a quandary for me. If offered a plate with two things on it - steak (which I like) and broccoli (which I dislike), would I push the plate away? As you can see by my presence here today, I was no match for Miss K.
I actually wasn’t sure if I was going to be here tonight. Last Friday, a dear friend asked me to come with her to Chicago to help out with her 22 year-old daughter, who is experiencing a good measure of what I’ll generously refer to as “life turbulence.” In so many ways, I could see elements of my life in my friend’s daughter’s life. Also, through my efforts to understand my parent’s experience with me, I believe I also understood what my friend was going through as well. I think my presence in Chicago helped everyone in some small way. Here it was -- my life story in action – I was using it to help others! It was a magical experience and one I hope to have the opportunity to repeat many times.
As I returned home from Chicago last night, I had another experience that I consider to be providential. Sometime around midnight, well after I had fallen asleep, my daughter sent me a text message. She doesn’t send them to me that often. It said, simply, good night with a <3.
It was if somewhere, somehow, she knew that my decision to leave her Mom was the hardest decision I’ve ever made in my life. That if I knew then what I know now I could have been a much more kind and compassionate person. That I’m sorry for all the pain and suffering everyone has experienced over the last eight years. And perhaps somewhere, somehow, Kaisha understands that we’re all still inextricably connected and hopefully one day will all be collectively better off for our respective journeys.
I’m in a new garden now. The old me is dead and planted in new soil, and I feel so humbled and privileged and grateful to be amongst you all. I’m in a garden with my values, not someone else’s values for me. A garden with my goals, not someone else’s goals for me. A garden with my lifestyle, not someone else’s lifestyle for me. The form of my life follows the function of my life. This is not just a nice idea. When form does not follow function in my life, I get sick; both literally and figuratively. I know this now.
A few years ago, I came across a line of poetry from Petofi Sandor, the great Hungarian revolutionary and poet. It reads, “You cannot bid the flower not bloom, it thrives; when, on mild zephyr’s wing, the spring arrives.” After reading this line I had an epiphany. I realized that no matter what the circumstances of my life or the judgments of the people around me, this flower will bloom.
So my life is spring again, and in this garden, I know the harvest will be bountiful, and the seeds enduring.
Thank you very much.
