My Last Visit With Don Doane

Written September 12, 2015 Revised on September 19, 2017.

The Author with Don Doane at the Rockport Lobster-Festival in 2009

Editor's Note: Don Doane passed away December 16th, 2015. But the musical legacy he left will shine on indefinitely. Today's post focuses on my last visit with this dear man in September of 2015. There are some personal notes about both Don and myself in this story. Because of this, I chose to get permission from family members before posting. I am grateful to Joe Doane for allowing me to post the story as written two years ago. However, I did edit for content and grammar before posting here. I find that a writer is never done crafting a piece. And I look forward to comments from other musical alumni on Don's past and continuing influence. 

I went to a local veteran’s home to visit my music teacher from elementary school yesterday.

Don was a fixture in my life both musically and personally for a very long time. He was a little rough around the edges, but I just knew he was in my corner. Even after elementary school, Don was involved with the musical interests and aspirations of his students. He showed up for all things musical, and always found just the right thing to say to us. He would encourage, but he didn't suffer fools well. Yet his warmth, sense of humor and love for music and all that played was omnipresent.

High School Music Students would just about bow in his presence. Don showed up to Marching Band practice on his nights and evenings off. He made appearances at Junior High and High School Band Practice. He brought his fellow musicians to Stage Band so the students could experience Jazz played by professionals. 

He did all this without interfering with those in charge, and was still able to command respect from all the kids. We, in turn, would mirror his love and respect to younger students. It's just what was done, and Don was one of those rare figures central to the music program without grabbing any spotlight.

As many of you already know, my childhood was not a happy one. There were countless instances of abuse. Yet when I was with Don, I felt safe. I couldn't wait for our "All City" band practices where all the elementary schools would play together. I loved our local elementary school practices too. In retrospect, these practices were wonderful times where I could forget about any struggles in my young life. Between this and summers at the local pool, I somehow survived my childhood.

I was not a great musical student, but I felt respected, even when Don was critical. It was just his way that he could do so (with or without and over the top reaction of disappointment) that let you know he really cared about you personally. On occasion, childhood antics were met with open frustration. Yet Don expressed himself in a way that was firm to us; while being caring and kind.

About fifteen years ago, they were going to convert the old Westbrook Junior High School on Main Street into elderly housing. They were looking for a name for the building. I wrote an essay about why the building should be named after Don Doane.

In doing the research for this paper, I discovered his private philanthropy and commitment to the arts programs in Westbrook; especially music. Don stood toe to toe with a lot of resistance in that blue-collared town I had grown up in. He made sure that every kid that wanted to play had the means to do so. Parents would purchase musical instruments on reasonable monthly payment plans. When folks were hurting, the payments got made. When talent or enthusiasm was spotted among the poorest of the poor kids, Don made arrangements for these kids to get free instruments.

Many times, Don would play gigs that paid for kids to have that drum, or wind instrument, or time at the piano, etc. He'd scour the local music scene for additional free or reduced priced equipment. The building got another name, but it's where Don's soul enhancing work had its roots.

I've seen Don over the years. He's had a stroke, but still plays a three-valve trombone. He even has a practice time in the nursing home. You may have seen the latest installment of his musical story on the news in the past year (Originally written 9/12/15). 

  

I had seen Don play a few years back at the Rockport Lobster Festival. I was sitting under the tent enjoying some seafood. There was a torrential downpour, and a band was playing behind me. I heard his trombone and was touched by the sound. In between songs, the singer mentioned Doan Doane, and I spun around to see him playing a three valve trombone. I didn't know there was such a thing.

I visited with Mr. Doane that day between sets. He remembered me (as always) and we spoke about our lives. Though Don was dealing with the issues of his massive stroke, he made it a point to find out what was going on in my life, and offer encouragement.

Later, I heard that he had to go into a nursing home. Then I learned that his wife had died. I know Don's son, Joe, and I asked about visiting with him. Joe told me to stop in any time. That was about six months ago.

I don't know why, but I struggled to go and see him. I knew I wanted to . . . Had to, really.

I wanted to tell him all the things he had done for me. I wanted to let him know that I felt safe and secure under his care. I wanted to tell him just how much he has meant to me over the years.

I decided to visit yesterday (September 11, 20015).

We talked about old times. Then he asked what I was doing now, so I told him. He asked how I got into this kind of work.

"As a patient!" I said with a bit of nervous laughter.

That led to a frank discussion about our own battles with alcohol/addiction. Turns out that Don had been sober for over fifty years. He did his work via taking a pledge and confession through a local church. It was serendipitous, because he worked with Father Barrett, the one priest from my childhood that I felt absolutely safe with. I talked openly with him about my recovery. We had so many common denominators. That fateful look in the mirror and not liking what one sees staring back at them. The fear and disgust of being locked in addiction, and so many other familiar places we'd both been to; emotionally and spiritually.

We talked some more, and I was able to add, "Speaking of confession . . .”

I told Don just how much he meant to me when I was a child. I told him that there were many unhappy aspects of my childhood, but I let him know just how safe I felt under his care. I was able to let Mr. Doane know how much his teaching and mentorship had meant to me. Don brushed away tears from his eyes and took my hand.

"Wow!" I said. "You're the first sober influence in my life."

He just smiled and said, "Yeah."

He did deem it important to let me know that he hoped he wasn't too hard on me. I let him know that I never felt anything but respect from him.

We talked a bit more, and then I wheeled him back to his room. He reminded me to come back again. We said our goodbyes, and he said "It's nice to meet the real you."

This is one of those moments promised to me by other trauma survivors. A promise that, if I sifted through the wreckage, surely, I would find nuggets of spiritual and emotional gold. A moment of thanks and gratitude for being treated well as a child by a trusted servant. Someone who honored who I was, and everything I had going on. 

I am truly blessed

Max The Most Loved Pug

Not Max 

I like to post a good memory on here from time to time, for balance. 

From my parents house on Brackett Street, I used to walk to Canal School. I'd usually walk with a couple of neighborhood kids. We'd head down Pennell Street, cut through a couple of backyards near the Moreau's house, and on to East Valentine Street. That's where we would always stop to greet Max. 

Max was an adorable little pug that lived with his person family on the corner of Little Avenue and East Valentine Street. He was a lovable dog with one mission in life. To greet every kid walking to school. He would be outside as we walked by. Max would hop and jump on his leash and would come up to any and all comers with little butt wiggles and snorts to accept pets from us. 

As I remember it, one of his owners (a woman) would usually watch through the window as kids greeted Max. Funny how I can't place her face, but I do remember her smiles. 

After school, we would walk down Glennwood Avenue to Monroe Ave, turn onto Woods Road and take the path to cross Spring Street, and onto East Valentine to see Max waiting for us. He would repeat his enthusiasm and look forward to seeing each of us kids. 

We came and went in groups, and Max was on a tight timetable. He'd give you attention and wags (butt wiggles) and hop from kid to kid for pets and praise. But he would not linger. If Max spied another group of kids approaching, he would politely step past you and begin to announce his presence to the next group through a series of snorts and little barks. I believe he would also run his feet along the ground, throwing dirt, grass, or snow (depending on the season) as a way to garner attention from the next group. 

Max made going to school fun. I always looked forward to seeing this little fellow. I remember talking with his owners and having them tell us that they liked putting Max out to see the kids. As I've said previously, I cannot remember who the owners were, but I remember they were kind. 

Time passed, and we moved on to Junior High and different routs to school. Down Brackett Street to cut through the cemetery and on to Main Street, then the bus when the new (to us) Junior High School opened up on Bridge Street in the fall of 1975. We'd catch the bus at the corner of East Valentine and Brackett. 

Max faded from our lives, but I assume he greeted other Canal School kids long after we had moved on. He wasn't there anymore when we began walking to High School a couple of years later. I can't say for sure if he crossed the rainbow bridge, or his people moved, but Max was gone. 

Still, Max has been on my mind a lot lately. I think there are lessons in what Max taught so many of us. He made room in his day to show up and express and receive love from a multitude of people. 

We should all be so diligent with love and affection toward others. 

Maybe, we'd all be as blessed as Max. 

M :-) 

The Church Of My Childhood

Trigger Warning: Trauma, Power Over Victims of Adverse Childhood Experiences

Not My Photo 

So about god. 

As I've said previously, I use the term god, higher power, spirit of the universe, etc, interchangeably. 

I've certainly had my time at defying god. I have trouble with the all-seeing, all-knowing, santa-clause version who keeps a naughty and nice list. I was initially raised with this deity in the sky who judged ferociously. The people in my life that administered Catholicism were few and far between with the matching spiritual principles purported and promised if one remained close to god.  

Sidebar: 

I need to add that there was a great man from my childhood who served in the most wonderful of ways. Father Barrett was a safe and, dare I say, Godly priest. And I've heard more spiritual things about his works since his death. It seems especially tragic to me that the horrors I suffered occurred during his tenure. 

I have nothing but safety and goodness where Father Barrett is concerned. 
When I discovered through recovery what had happened to me at St. Mary's, I wanted to go to him and ask for counsel on how best to move forward from the terrible memories imbedded in my flesh and soul. But I decided that the tragedy of such news was better served being shared elsewhere. I did not want to burden Father Barrett with this knowledge in the twilight of his life. 

More on that work later in this piece. 

Given that the church I was raised in was rife with sexual predators, it's no wonder that I had an extreme and adverse reaction to men and women of the cloth whenever I saw them later in life. I only spent kindergarten and first grade at St. Mary's in Westbrook, but it was more than enough to squelch this young, vulnerable child's search for anything godly. 
Nearing the core of my sexual abuse history: For me, 625 Main Street in Westbrook is a site that represents all that is unholy with the Catholic Church. I have memories of being savaged by nuns and a young priest at this site. Their appetite for violence and exploitation against this wonderful, beautiful child was without equal. I have a distinct memory of them attacking me as a group, usually in the basement bathroom of the church. I will spare the reader with the details of these unwanted and damaging encounters from when I was five and six years old. 

My experiences at this most unholy of sites became what appeared to be the cornerstone of my trauma history. It is no wonder I have struggled with faith as a result. At my very core exists a god that is punishing and demands submission in order to provide protection from the great, unknown (or worse yet, known) dangers that await followers who stray from the path. 

Fifty years later, I am still working to peel away layer upon layer of shame disguised as spiritual judgement. 

This feeling can be intensified when the prospect of relief in recovery is presented as a spiritual solution. While most methods of recovery leave the spiritual aspect up to the individual, the collective conscience can sound an awful lot like the need to submit in order to recover. 

I believe that what is described as an addicts ego can often have roots in this refusal to submit yet again. So many addicts and alcoholics I've worked with (professionally and personally) can clearly point out their own adverse childhood experiences. Yet those ensconced in their professional positions or well-rooted recovery will often poo poo the painful reality of those that actively suffer at the hands of addiction. 

During my recovery from trauma, I have spoken with hundreds of survivors of adverse childhood experiences. One of the saddest parts of being sexually abused is the apparent ability of perpetrators to spot young folks who are vulnerable to abuse. It is as if the first traumatic sexual experience I suffered placed an invisible neon sign above my head that said I was open to being abused. After my experience at St Mary's, the misconduct was delivered again, and again. 

As I aged, and puberty began to have it's way with my body, I began to explore the only sexual dynamic I knew . . . Being exploited. Imagine a vulnerable, 13 year-old boy showing up at a renowned cruising spot and being picked up by men two and three times their own age. Add to that an incredibly homophobic society where other closeted members of the community were forced into silence of what they witnessed, because to report would mean coming out to a hostile world, and being attached to the abuse by association and stereotyping. After all, all us gay folks are after your children. That's the message I received in spades, based on my activity as a young boy. And this belief was reinforced by the homophobic society I was raised in. 

This was the second layer of a foundation that kept me from faith . . . Judgement. In my adolescent mind, I was the one committing the sin by searching in the shadows for connection. My bike trips, and bus rides into Portland to look for sex were accompanied by the only mentors and messages I had at my disposal. Those mentors were trauma, and the perverse spiritual messages that went along with being raped, All these adverse childhood experiences perpetuated the dynamic of exploitation. And that's who I searched for, and what I found there during adolescence. 

There was no one in my world to talk to about my budding sexuality, and my only companions were these negative messages and experiences. I was, therefore, the perpetrator of these instances. I had no reason or yardstick of recovery to believe otherwise. 

As an adult, I became complicit in the silence. I would avoid certain things, telling myself that I was with folks who could consent. But I continued to witness behaviors that reinforced my beliefs that I was sexually damaged beyond repair, and that god would surely punish me for my most horrible of sins . . . Being gay, and seeking sex with men. 
By this time, drugs and alcohol were my only solution for relief from some power greater than me. But even as a young, stoned and drunken adolescent, I couldn't escape the feelings of shame and guilt about who I was. So I tried to get higher. 

Not much room for a loving, accepting, and compassionate god in all of that mess. 
While some folks are blessed (or cursed) with the ability to stop using substances on their own, I needed professional, medical, and community help to get sober. But even here, on the tail end of the 1980's homophobia was alive and well in treatment modalities. Some suggested that the work I was doing to get sober would "cure" my sexuality as well. 

Thank God (Capital G emphasis) for people who began suggesting that my higher power could be of my own definition. This scared the shit out of me, given my decision making process. But they promised that I could re-define the god concept in a way that was personally empowering and life sustaining. 

It was a small, but important beginning. 

When I lived in Serenity House on 30 Mellen Street during early sobriety, I had a hard time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, trauma memories would flood my mind. I had to have something greater than me to offer me comfort. I pictured god as a big, fluffy cloud that could hold me. My perception of god needed to be without arms, legs and other body parts that could hurt me. Sometimes, I could even imagine myself enveloped in this cloud of complete love and comfort. Not bad for a raving lunatic with 90 days of sobriety. 

I remember my first summer sober. I worked in a local organization's home learn to swim program. I would drive from residence to residence and teach neighborhood kids to swim in a homeowner's pool. I was driving through Cumberland, in-between appointments. I smoked cigarettes then, so I was chain-smoking and cranking heavy metal rock and roll. I was also absolutely bananas that particular day. I drove by a church and tromped on the breaks. 

There was a sign in front of the church, who's location has long since left me. The sign gave me my first glimpse into the unconditional love from something beyond me that I was searching for. It simply read: 

All Loving

All Knowing

All Caring

I wrote it down in my journal that was my constant companion during this time. I had found a working definition for my god concept. 

Now . . . Over the years, I have vacillated back and forth (sometimes, to dangerous extremes) with just who and what god is in my life. I mean, How can an all loving, all knowing, and all caring god let the things that had happened to me be out for my best interest? 

There have been times of rage toward god too. Since a mentor of mine told me that his higher power had big shoulders, I figured an occasional "Go f*ck yourself!" wouldn't hurt god's feelings. I journaled to god, I raged at god, I abandoned god, and I vilified any person or institution who purported to do "God's work" while doing tangible damage to individuals or society at large. 

And I practiced prayer and meditation as well. I did prayers that other Queer people felt comfortable with. I modeled their spirituality, because mine was a complete mess (Can you say judgement?). And I practiced, practiced, practiced. 

I wish I could point to a particular white light moment or epiphany where I all of a sudden just "got it" where god is concerned. The truth is, it's an ongoing lesson for me, and one in which I am willing to journey forth. 

I remember sitting in the balcony of a church on Congress Street one day. I was in the balcony, and I just started praying for a god personal to me. One without judgement (whose judgement?) that I could truly embrace. I looked up at the alter, and just above it were symbolic icons of several religions. I didn't know at the time that I was sitting in a UU church that believes all are welcome. Imagine that! There I sat in a church that welcomed all of us. A place that would engage in civil rights struggles on my behalf, and I was asking for acceptance from God. Kind of makes me giggle now. 

And yet, I struggled (Struggle!) with the idea that a spiritual life is necessary insurance to prevent an otherwise horrible end. And when some fresh trauma memory, or a real-life struggle of someone close to me appears, or we lose another person to this awful disease of addiction, or someone says "Enough!" and checks out permanently from their trauma history, I rail against this absolute power of a supreme being that has elected to be so harsh as to abandon a soul in pain. And I wonder . . . Will the day come where my higher power will abandon me? Will I be one of those poor lost souls that will suffer immeasurably when god washes its hands of my predicaments? 

And I discover my deepest fear. That maybe god won't be there after all. Maybe, I truly am alone, and my footwork along this path won't be enough. Maybe I'm not going to make it. 

Or worse yet, maybe I must submit to a power greater than myself in order to prevent further suffering. Why do religions insist on pledging allegiance? Why does God's fragile ego require my kneeling and subservience in order to be effective in my life? 

I know these are age-old questions, but I also know that having been forced to submit makes even the asking of these questions all the more difficult. 

And I really don't have any answers. Not for me, and certainly not for anyone else. 

Lately, my mind keeps returning to my time at St. Mary's. Not for the traumatic memories, but for the lessons taught to that young, beautiful, and vulnerable child. I'm searching for the connections between childhood rape and my resistance to the spiritual. I use the term god, because it's easy. Not because I believe there is the monotheistic, white bearded fellow in the heavens waiting to pounce on my imperfections. 

But he's there. He's in the fiber of my being. And though I know he exists as a myth, perpetuated by humans who desperately sought control of a small and defenseless child, I shudder at the thought of his presence. 

I've easily transitioned to other spiritual beliefs, and look at my devotional practices as a buffet table of easily accessible skills sets that are there for the taking, and free to all to use, or not use, without judgement. I have worked for that belief of ultimate forgiveness and unquestionable love. 

So what do I do with this other guy?  

Regarding "More on that work"

I returned to the church of my childhood as a sober man. I knocked on the door of the rectory and asked the priest in attendance for a moment of his time. We went to the church that has since been torn down and I disclosed to him what had happened to me in the building next door. 

The priest wept as I revealed my story. By the time I was finished, tears were streaming down his face. He told me how sorry he was that any of that had happened to me and asked me what I needed. 

I told him I needed a moment of time to tour the old building where the church had once been. I wanted to offer up a prayer where the alter once stood. He obliged me and we toured the old building. Our last stop was the site of the old church before the remodeling. 

I walked to the place where the alter had been and hit my knees. I offered up a prayer, but I don't recall what it was then. I think it was a check-in with god about how I survived and had forgiven. 

I thanked the priest and left. 

There was and is so much work left to do. But I realize now that in my moment at the alter, I did not submit to the abuse. I reached for a better version of myself in order to attain wellness. 

Maybe that's the answer?