John Vicaire , john the indian Akron 1977.

In a library of tapes. And, you know, you just can't hear them all, but we heard portions of an awful lot of tapes. And some way or other, when they came to this here fellow's tape that's going to lead this here meeting, he made me stop, and we heard the complete tape. There's about three or four of them that night that we heard the complete tape. We brought them back down to this here area, and our coordinators went through these here tapes, and we all came to the very same conclusion. Now, any one of these speakers would have been a good speaker for tonight's meeting, but we all came to the same conclusion. We wanted to meet this fellow from Massachusetts, John Laterre. John? Are you still on? No. Thank you. Where I come from in Berlin, Mass, they, they call me John the Indian. I really don't believe that's the reason why I am an alcoholic, although I still have a reservation. I think for any of us who have been fortunate enough to have spent some time in the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous, one cannot help but to have received many rewards in life. And I would have never would have believed that someday I would be given a reward, reward in reality for being what I am. When being what I am, I have spent so many years so lied about. Someone once said that one must have a purpose in life. One must have also a direction for his life. But before you can have these things, you must first of all become responsible for your own footsteps. Another rewarding experience for me is to have been given in AA a, a type of a state of mind that I have this evening that allows me to look back into my own life. And when I do so, I can see so much today that I know I have passed by for many years. Uh, not too long ago, this afternoon, about two or three hours ago, I was out with my friend, Pete, from, well, in Ontario. A-and, uh, he took us out for a, a little ride. And on our way back, he says to me, "It's quite a privilege, isn't it, to be asked to speak in the Founders Day?" Then he says, "Not everybody receives that honor." And I cannot help but to look back in my own life tonight. I came to Alcoholics Anonymous in Syracuse, New York, some twenty years ago. At this time, I have spent seven years in skid row. I have spent four years in lumber camp washing dishes and three years and a half in the Canadian Army where I washed more damn dishes. Uh, and, a, a man that I have met in Central Asian, New York, another Indian guy from, uh, from my reservation in Canada, where I have never met him before, but he dranks with my father, and he says that I looked like my father. So he brought me to his home that night and met his wife. The next day, I left, and I became an alcoholic, and he wound up in the Salvation Army in Syracuse, New York, and started to attend AA meetings in about a month later. He found out that I was sober in Rescue Mission in Syracuse, New York. So he came to see me one night, and he asked me if I wished to attend an AA meeting. I said, "No," because like many of us, I have never connected my problem with alcoholism. Although I was sitting there, uh, um, I had long hair, and my face was covered with wine sores. I was dirty, and I was supposed to pay, uh, thirty-five cents a night in Rescue Mission, and I was behind three weeks' rent. But I didn't know that I was an alcoholic. So he says to me, "Well, you can get coffee and donuts, and they're free." So I said, "Let's go." And, uh, that's how I attended an AA meeting. Now, I would have never believed if someone had told me that night, you know, that, uh, if I should stay sober, that Jim from Akron, Ohio, in June of 1977, would ask me to speak on a Saturday night. Here I was, uh, you know, I'd been away from my reservation since at the age of fourteen. My father is a guy drunk. I'm in lumber camp washing dishes for four years and three years and a half in Canadian Army. I take a drink, and I live in the skid row for seven years. Never been married, never owned a car. I cannot read and write. I'm sitting there with wine sores and long hair. Can you imagine if someone came to me and said, "John, if you, you stay sober, one day you'll speak in a Founders Day." And so I am a grateful alcoholic. The song kind of touched me this evening as I was sitting in the back. Uh, a, a, uh, my mind brought me back to, uh, my own reservations when I was young. Like I said, my father- died, uh, an alcoholic. And five years later, eight members of my family passed away. They all died with TB. And when I was thirteen years old, my mother was dying, and I was afraid. Sometimes, middle of the night, because I was sleeping with her, I said to her one night or one morning, "You think that, uh, I'm gonna die, too?" She said, "No." She said, "You're different. You're strong." And she said, "I'm always very proud of you because you never cry." A-and for some unknown reason, that thought came to my mind tonight, probably because here I was sitting there, and I am intelligent enough to know that there are a few thousand people here. Among you are perhaps psychiatrists, doctors, businessmen, priests. And I cannot help but to think that now I am fifty years old, and I still have not gone to school, and I don't know any big words. Although I was talking to somebody this afternoon, and he said one big word, and I memorized it because I believe when you speak, audience expects at least you should use one big word. Uh, we were talking about alcoholism, and he said it means foolish. So I said, "Yes," and I walked away from him because when I don't understand anybody, I don't hang around too much. When my mother died, there was no home for me in reservation because my people felt that, uh, I too had TB. Not knowing it then, but since I have recovered in the program, I know that locally, people were afraid when you had TB. So I lived in an old empty house for one year with a dog. Indians in reservation talked about lumber camps in Cotton, Maine. So I, I decided to leave. I dressed a freight, and some time later, I arrived in CT camps in Cotton, Maine, where I walked twenty-three miles in the woods, and a fella by the name of Bill Lanster gave me a job washing dishes, where I stayed for four years. And when I was at the age of eighteen, he called me one morning, and he said, "John, I wish you leave. The war is getting started, and you're living here with older people. It's not healthy. You should join with the younger people." And I felt that he was right. So I left the lumber camp, and I went across to Canada, to Quebec City, where I joined the Canadian Infantry. And like, I think, most people, I think I had a vision of becoming a very, uh, important person in the army. Uh, I always was a dreamer anyway. I remember when I lived in a reservation in that old empty house, I always daydreamed, and I always felt that one day I would have a nice home, and I would have a nice job, have nice clothes, maybe a car, and a nice girl, and I wouldn't have to feel the way I do, this, uh, feeling of being rejected and being lonely and not being able to belong in life. And I felt that if I could have these things, uh, I would feel different inside. And I guess joining the Canadian Army, I– my idea of what I should be didn't really change. But because I have no education and couldn't read and write, uh, I couldn't go on training, so the Army gave me a job washing dishes. And in my recovery in the program, among many things I have been able to identify about myself is that I have problem accepting the truth. I have a way of twisting around, put a handle on it, and hit myself on the head. Uh, washing dishes for me was something that I didn't look forward to and something that I didn't welcome because I felt that made me little less than other younger people. So I didn't do or couldn't do what my boss suggested, to join the younger people. I was ashamed of it. I have never taken the pass to go home because I didn't want my people to know that I was washing dishes in the Canadian Army. I never even went out with a girl, and I was old enough to know that I should go out with a girl. Not everything you learn in school. They say God moves in mysterious ways. When I was twenty-one years old, I got my discharge and went in a bar room or a nightclub with a friend, and I took a drink. And I was fast tonight on my first drink because a lot of things happened. And I think I don't have to tell you that when you drink Inside we change. And when I drank, I felt good because alcohol numbs or kills all these feelings that robbed me of any time I am sober. When I drank, I could, I could sit down to a person that I have never met before, to the next table, and start communicating, start talking, and I had this feeling inside that I was making a good sense. Where before, I would never be able to talk to anybody because I have always had a very unhealthy attitude about myself. I have always felt that other people were better than I was. I was always ashamed that I didn't talk with English, and I didn't have no education. And when I drank, this feeling left me. I remember I went out with a girl the first night I got drunk, and I didn't wake– I didn't get up in the morning and say, "Christ, this will kill me." I said, "Thank God, I am twenty-one years old, and first time in my life I have been able to appreciate my God-given desires." They have been one of my greatest enemies. Now, I'm not saying that I am an alcoholic because I was born in reservation, because my father was drunk, or because I couldn't read and write, or because I was thoughtful. I am saying that, uh, in the early days when I drank, alcohol was a friend because it allowed me to do what my God said I should: join the other people. But because I am an alcoholic, and because I am a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, and because I have been taught something about the nature of my sickness, I take a second look tonight, and I examine what else happened the night I took my first drink. If you had came to me that night and told me, "John, if you continue on drinking, you will live in the skid row for seven years," I would have never believed you because alcohol was a friend. It makes me feel good. But my education in AA has taught me that while on one hand that booze gave me a freedom that I had never had before, on the other, it started to rob me. I was much… I was just as much as alcoholic the night I took my first drink as I was when I arrived in AA at the age of twenty-nine after living in skid row. I am as much as alcoholic now, sixty-two years of age, twenty years of sobriety, as I was when I took my first drink. The difference is the progression, the question of progression. I have never been a social drinker. The fact that I didn't get drunk and fall down didn't mean anything because I was young, and I was strong, and booze couldn't put me down. But two years later, I woke up in sidewalk, and for the next seven years, I lived in the skid row. And in those seven years, I tried to stop drinking because, like I say, I've always wanted to be somebody else. I've always wanted a nice job and nice clothes and nice girl and nice car. And I would stop drinking. Uh, the guys in the skid, the boys in the skid row, they used to tell me, "John, why don't you take a pledge? You look sick." And when boys in the skid tell you you look sick, you're sick. So one of the boys says to me, "Why don't you see a priest and take a pledge like I did?" And I said to him, "It really works, doesn't it?" He said, "Yeah." So I, I, I went to see a priest, and I was so sick that I told him that I wished to take a pledge for one year, and I guess the way I smelled didn't help any. He says to me, "Why don't you take it for thirty days, and if you are lucky to be successful, to come back?" But I listened to a speaker one night who said he took a pledge and lasted three hundred yards. And I, and I can identify with that. And Carl in Rescue Mission, he is another fellow who always tried to save me. He claimed at once I had saved his life, and I have never told him otherwise. He calls me to his office very early one morning, and he says to me, "John, there's a fellow by the name of Billy Graham coming to this city in War Memorial, that this man has helped an awful lot of people. I want you to go and listen to him every night," he says, "and he will help you." And I went to the War Memorial in Syracuse, and I listened to Billy Graham for twenty-eight nights, and I was sober. Oftentimes, I've said, "If Billy Graham stayed for the whole year, I would have been sober for the whole year." But he left, and I got drunk. And Judge Dorothy, a week later, gives me six months in Jimmyville, and I said, "That's the last time I'm going to listen to Billy Graham." One night, one night, I was sober in Rescue Mission again, attending the services because I wanted a bed, and that's one way of getting it. There were about forty or fifty bums attending the services. A long, tall guy got up, and he says that for many years he was a bum just like us. Until one night, he accepted Christ as his personal savior. He says since then, his entire life has changed. He said he got married, got himself a nice job. He bought a new station wagon. And of course, I'm sitting there with the wine sores and long hair, and I'm dirty. But it touched me because I've always felt if you can get these things- You'll be all right." And then he says, "Any of you boys can do the same thing. All you have to do is move forward and accept Christ as your personal savior." I thought, "Well, that wasn't so hard to do." And I get up, and I move forward, and I kneel down. And I, I didn't know anything about Christ, you know, what he was talking about. I never– nobody ever taught me to know anything about Christ. The four years I spent in lumber camps, I used to listen to lumberjacks talking about him. And, uh, by the time they finished with him, you wouldn't believe him either. Somewhere in a big book, he talks about a man who drowns, and he grabs a straw. I guess Apollo says, "Hope against hope." I kneel down, and this guy was sincere. He kneeled down next to me. He said to me, "Son, uh, you're saved." But you should see me the next morning. I'm facing a judge, and he has my records because I have faced this man about forty-three times, and he didn't look to me like if I was saved. He says to me, "Don't you know I, I play at park here in the city? It's for the decent people to go there on Sundays a-and not for bums like you." He says, "You Indians are all alike." He says, "You come to this city. You get a job for one week. You get drunk." He said, "Look at your record. You always get into fights. All you want to do is fight." So he took his glasses off, and when Judge George, he takes his glasses off, you're powder. He gave me six months in Junigan. And I said to myself, "This guy, he don't like Indians." Because he was bow-legged. I figured maybe my great-grandfather got to him first because I didn't. And so by the time I came to Alcoholics Anonymous, and I really didn't have too much, too much faith or confidence on any, any respect. I often said, "If anybody asked me anything about AA, I would have told lies." I remember once in my life, I would suffer a little bit for the truth because although I had never went to school, in my reservation, I was taught it's truth. It's the only honorable thing in life, and there was no substitute, and I was intelligent enough to know that. And I think deep down inside, when I started telling lies about myself, in my sick mind, I knew that I was robbing myself from pride and respect and honor. But nobody asked me anything about me. I walked into the door- AA. And we sent for a group in Syracuse, New York. There was a lawyer who was sober thirteen years, and his job every Friday night was to shake hands to every man who walked in that room. And as I was walking through, through the doors of AA with my long hair and my wine sores and my dirty clothes, he spotted me, and he had this big smile. He rushed over and grabbed my hand with his two hands, and he said to me, "I am so glad to see you. Have a coffee and sit down in front." I had coffee, and I sat down in front, and I listened to three speakers and could not identify. The language of sobriety completely escaped me. One of the speakers was a lady judge. Can you imagine me identifying with a lady judge? And it isn't that I have never met a judge before. But I, I have never met a judge who suggested I should try to identify. So after the meeting, I was leaving, and this same lawyer, I'll always remember, he put his arms around me, and he says to me, "I want you to meet some of my friends." And the only thing that I can tell you about that meeting was that people in AA worked very hard, tried to convince me that I belonged here, and I knew it. You might say that what touched me in my first meeting was something much greater than the words could have given me about the nature of my sickness. Without question, one who lives in five years, he walks with plenty of evidence to convince anyone that I am the last person to take a drink. I think most of us who are sober in AA, regardless of who it might be, it seems that it is a type of a sickness that while maybe it is true that you might be a lawyer and in your daily life you deal with evidence, you probably have piled up mountains of evidence, and nobody can convince you that you are an alcoholic. We get sober in AA, and we look back, and most of us can say, "My God, I was an alcoholic ten years ago." Every once in a while, someone would say, "My God, he lives in this Peter Road. You should know he's an alcoholic." I should have, but I have the same sickness as you are. And he tells me the same thing. I came back because I think what touched me was the understanding. I was hungry for that. I guess I have always been hungry for an understanding. And I was hungry for love and acceptance. I came back. Somebody asked me the other night, "John, what do you think that helped you the most in AA?" I, I look, I look back, and I honestly say, "What helped me the most, I came back." I came back to the people who understood me, who accepted me, who respected me, who loved me when I myself would have to lie about myself for no reason at all. I came back to people who could teach me to understand that I am an alcoholic. I am powerless over one drink. I cannot take one drink in safety. I came back. In the early days, it didn't make sense. I learned the words, but I didn't understand. It made me feel good to, uh, to, to, uh, to learn words like, "It's a mental obsession that precedes the first drink." Never heard it before. The bums that I walk with in streets, I have never heard one of them walk around saying, "It's a mental obsession that precedes the first…" Then I had learned another word, compulsion. Meant nothing to me. Took three years to pronounce it. I got a friend where I live. He said, "I never knew what compulsion was, but every time I seen a drink, I wanted it." I memorized the preambles months and months before I knew what it meant. And it was a, a good feeling to sit there, and I have adm– I have totally enjoyed the lady speaker this morning. Now, that is an example of being sober for a long time, of one who practices the program. And I like the word, I like the feeling that she had in her mind when she said she felt so good because nobody knew she was anonymous. I can understand that. In fact, I felt good sitting there when I listened to the, the chairman, uh, reading a preamble. I nev– I didn't know what in the hell it meant, but I could memorize it. AA is not allied with any sex, denomination, politics, organization, or institution. I know the words, but I didn't know what in the hell it meant. When it came to a point where he said, "AA doesn't mean, uh, alcoholic synonymous…" I forget what that was supposed to say. But I memorized it like I memorized the Lord's Prayer. AA does not wish to engage in any controversies. Now, I figured that one out myself. I felt it meant that you can't go to bed with women anymore. And since that I have not been doing so well, it didn't bother me anyway. But I met a sponsor. I met a sponsor. My sponsor was a man that I have known for a long time. Him and I used to meet in common jail in Syracuse, New York. He was a barber in jail, and I used to wash his floors. Pat was a man that you never trust drunk or sober. You know, he would steal your shoes and sell them and buy a drink and say, "No hard feelings." And I had not seen Pat for some time, and I met him in Central Group in Syracuse, New York. He was all dressed up and with a very beautiful girl, and he had a new car. And he says to me, "I'm your sponsor." He would pick me up in Rescue Mission and bring me a sandwich, half a sandwich. A-and, you know, it never ceased to amaze me, uh, the quality of love and understanding and compassion that our Maintenance Step and Eleventh Step talks about. You know, Pat would bring me half a sandwich because although that I had nothing, I am a type of person that if I thought for one minute that you're feeling sorry for me or trying to feed me, I would tell you, "I don't need you," you know? And, and it was much years later before I realized, you know, Pat don't eat sandwiches. He would pick me up and give me half a sandwich and bring me to a meeting. About six months later, I was still in Rescue Mission. He stopped the car one night and he said, "John, you're serious in this program. I want you to leave the Rescue Mission. You, you, you can't practice this program and live with those bums." But the only people I could identify or comfortable with was those people who sleep on the floor in Rescue Mission. I couldn't understand these people walking around talking about the mental obsession that precedes the first drink and all that jazz. And I didn't want to leave, but I guess God was on his side because the Rescue Mission burned down one night. And, uh, I went to see Pat, and I said to him, "Rescue Mission burned down," and he said, "That's the grace of God." And, and he brought me to the Twelve Step House in Syracuse, and he gave me a job where I was getting paid seven dollars and fifty cents a week and, and I… and a lodging. And my job was to wax, wash, and wax floors, to make coffee, answering the telephone, and washing dishes. And one of my, uh, I suppose you might call it a reward in my sobriety today, not only that I have learned to live like a white man, dollar down and dollar a week. I bought me a dishwasher. You know, I, I still like the feeling today. I press the button, and it hums, and I said, "Hum, you cheap bastard." But I, I got thrown out in Rescue Mission by the old-timers in AA. One night, a girl by the name of Anne called, and she wanted help. There were people who played cards every night in this club. I told them there was a girl who needed help. And I told them who she was. They told me that she's been around for a long time. All she does is use people in AA. I never understood the language then, even though I was six, and I don't understand the language today. When I was young in AA, I liked what Father Martin says, that a man is a rational man, must function with intellect first. And discipline is to be able to suffer because you know it's right. But I have always reacted first and feel sorry after. And when these old-timers didn't want to do what I felt they should do, I upset the table while they were playing cards, and I punched one of them right in his nose. And they threw me out. They threw me out then, but they were good enough to call Pat, and he came to see me as I was walking down the street, very mad and no place to go. He brought me to his home, and the next day he brought me to Salvation Army, to Major Harvey. And Major Harvey gave me a job working on a truck in Salvation Army for a dollar a week, where I worked for a year and a half. And then I started to travel. When I was sober five years, I was almost thirty-five years old. I was still living in skid row. I still couldn't read and write. I was still buying my clothes in Salvation Army. But you know, I can't remember ever missing one meeting. I've always came back. Even in my sick mind, for some unknown reason, I must accept there is something here. Very seldom today I have ever missed a meeting. This is, you might say, a home away from home. One o'clock in the morning, I arrived in Marlborough, Mass. I was drunk. I was sober five years. Intelligently, I had no plans of tomorrow. My reasoning didn't allow me to see that there was any life tomorrow. The past, it was still something that I rather forgot about. And today, it really matters less for me whether I should turn to the left or to the right, because there was no meaning in either direction. I slept in a men's room in a hotel. The next morning, a couple of mornings later, I was having the, a lunch in the restaurant owned by the member of Alcoholics Anonymous when the waiter asked me if I knew of any contractor in town that could remodel and paint her house. I said, "Yes, I do." The man is me. She said, "I didn't know you were a contractor." I said, "I didn't either." She said, "Would you come over and give me an estimate?" I went over, and I gave her an estimate to paint her house for $300, two coats, and I got a job. I went back to see Paul. I got a job because other contractors wanted 12 to $1400. I went to see Paul, and I said to him, "I've got a job, but I don't have the money to start." He says to me, "Why don't you go back and see Rita? She might give you enough money to buy the material that you want." So I went back, and I asked Rita if she could give me some money. She gave me $100. And I went to store, and first thing, I bought a white coverall. I figured if you're going to be a president in your own company, you, you might as well buy a white coverall. And, you know, I bought white coveralls, and I bought some paint and a hammer and a scraper and drop cloths, and I carried everything to the job. The knee, I met a man who worked in the telephone company, and he let me borrow a 60-foot ladder, although it was against the rules. And with the friend, we delivered it to the job, and I got the 60-foot ladder up. And you know, this place was so big that I couldn't reach the peak. So I find some old lumber under the porch, and I carried it up there, and I build a scaffold right on top the 60-foot ladder. And I started my business right close to heaven. And thank God, Paul owned the restaurant. I, I didn't starve. I met a plumber in the A, and he says to me, "John, I have a rent house in Sudbury, Mass," which is only seven miles. He said, "All you need is a 10-foot stepladder." So I borrowed a 10-foot stepladder. I get all my drop cloths together. I paint, in my white coverall, I stood in the corner, and, and I stopped the bus. He stopped, and he looked at my ladder. And, and he looked at me, and he says, "Are you serious?" You know. I said, "I am serious. I am broke and unemployed, and I have no other means of getting to work." You know, I, I think this guy must have been an alcoholic. You know. He says to me, "If you, if I give you a ride, would you promise you'll never do it again?" And I, and I finished the job. My next house was the lady schoolteacher. She is a very important part of my life. I said to her one night, she taught school for 40 years, and she told me, and retired. I said to her, uh, "You think you could teach me how to read and write?" You know, I'm 35 years old. She says to me, "I have taught thousands of people how to read and write." And three months later, she helped me to memorize the 69 questions, and I passed. And here I was in my fifth year sobriety. I was a president in my company, and I had a driving license. What, what was so special in this lady, and I think this is what education in the AA way of life teaches us, to be able to look back and to see so much that one passed by in life. Because whatever the ingredient that I needed to be able to see the truth wasn't there. I was leaving that lady, and I remember 12 o'clock at night. I went to see her because she was a friend. She had only one boyfriend in her life, and his name was John. Thank God for that. I remember about 12 o'clock as I was leaving, she's holding my hand, and you know, she, she was very sincere. She said to me, "John, I wish you'd, you'll continue on your education. Your mind is so good," she said. Can you imagine, here I am, 35 years old. I've been away from my reservation since at the age of 14. Watched this at seven years and a half, four years in lumber camp, and two years and a half in prison on. Live in Skid Row for seven years. Never been married, never owned a car, and about a few weeks ago or months or so ago, I was sleeping in a men's room in a hotel, and this lady trying to convince me that I have a great mind. What was it that young lady this morning said? "The key that opens the door into eternal life is faith. Faith is believing. Faith is trust." But not as long as I'm thinking. Whatever I am as an ingredient to deprive myself from the spirit of faith. I said, "I don't want her to feel sorry for myself. I don't want her to feel sorry for me. That job I'll do myself." Drew out for seven years. Never been married, never owned a car, and about a few weeks ago or months or so ago, I was sleeping in a men's room in a hotel, and this lady trying to convince me that I have a great mind. What was it that young lady this morning said? "The key that opens the door into eternal life is faith. Faith is believing. Faith is trust." But not as long as I'm thinking. Me, I use whatever I am as an ingredient to deprive myself from the spirit of faith. I said, "I don't want her to feel sorry for myself. I don't want her to feel sorry for me. That job I'll do myself." I didn't believe her. How could I? A couple of years ago, I was hired by the University of Maine to teach, to speak and to teach on the adult education program. I was paid sixty dollars an hour. I was so impressed of what I said, I gave them half an hour free. But we go back to teachings of AA. A man's life comes by being responsible of his own footsteps. On my way home, I remember my dear friend one night when Ern I stood at the door, holding my hand with his two hands and trying to convince me, "John, your past is lousy, but your mind is okay. Please believe me. I talked to her for forty years." But I couldn't believe. I couldn't believe because not too long ago, I slept in a men's room. I couldn't believe because I don't talk good English. I couldn't believe because I cannot read and write. I couldn't believe because I don't have a nice car. I don't have a nice home. I don't have a nice clothes. I don't have a nice girl. I couldn't believe. Strange as may seem, she said, "None of these things Has to do with faith. It never ceased to amaze me, and I wish to say this because I think it's, uh, quite the thing, if one of our wisest people, and there are many in this country, have chosen to select about ten people and take ten people to choose one person to help an alcoholic who are suffering in this country, let's say a professor maybe, psychiatrist, bishop, and priest, and all that. You think three, three months later, they would say, "I know one guy is in the hospital in Akron, Ohio. Right now he's having DTs. Nobody trusts this man. He tell lies. He cheats. He does everything. But he's the man that we can help an alcoholic." I doubt very much if a damn great mind would come up to a man who is in a hospital. The question is, what is faith? And what are the ingredients in which are essential for man to learn to have faith? Faith is trust. Faith is a spirit of independence. No man can serve his God until such time first he accepts himself for what he is, for that which he must give to another but himself. And so I have learned a great deal from my dear friend, a school teacher. And here I was. I was president in my comp– my own company, and I had a driving license. And Paul, who had owned the restaurant, came to see me where I worked, and he said, "You had eleven thousand in a station wagon." And he said, "John, you can buy this car for seven hundred dollars or seven hundred and fifty." I said, "I don't have any money." He said, "Ask the lady upstairs. She might give you enough money for a down payment." So I did, and she gave me enough money for a down payment, and here I was. I had a car. Then I said to myself, "Maybe I could find me a girlfriend." But I had these four teeth in front missing, and I felt that you couldn't find a nice girl with four teeth in front missing. That's the only thing I lost in drinking. And I'ma tell you why I lost it. In Syracuse, New York, there is a place called a slave market. I don't know about the next piece. There is some- somebody upstairs in there. This is a place where all the bums hang around, and somebody come over and give you a job for half a day and pays you. It's a slave. That's where I lived. And one day I got a job unloading a boxcar, bricks. And I, I, I unload the boxcar, and Saturday afternoon I get paid, and I started drinking. Also in Syracuse, New York, there is a barroom called Smith's, where all the New York Indians drink in Smith's. I am a Micmac Indian. I don't drink in Smith's because Micmacs and New York Indians don't communicate too well. But every once in a while, twenty of us Micmacs will get drunk, and we'll go to Smith's, and we'll communicate. And, uh, but I was feeling good, and I, I, I had leather gloves that I used unloading the boxcar, and I felt strong. But I had no intention of walking into Smith's because I'm not that crazy. But as I was walking by, somebody opened the door and throw this guy out, and that's where I met Smiley. Smiley is a little Irishman with a big ego, a very skinny guy. So I picked him right up, and I said to him, "What in the hell is wrong with you?" He said, "There's those Indians inside." And I said to him, "Well, they can't do that to you." And he said, "No, they can't." So I said to him, you know, uh, "What do you say you and I go in there and clean them up?" And Smiley said to me, "It's such a good idea." And by the business, it wasn't such a good idea. Um, I woke up in, uh, in the general hospital, and I lost four teeth, and Smiley said, "And there without a scratch." And, uh, and so I, I, I should've, I should've told him, "Get lost" then. But the years went by, and of course, you know, I woke up in jail, and Smiley would always be there. And I would be all beat up. They gone on me one day, one morning, and I said to Smiley, "How come that I can get so messed up and you never had a scratch?" And Smiley has the most sincere look in the world, you know. That's why he's such a good bum. He looked at me with sincerity. He said, "John, don't you know?" He said, "I'm a college man." Well, and not knowing anything about college men, I felt if you go to school, you never fight. So I had these four teeth in front missing. And, well, I met a dentist in AA, and, uh, I'd been watching him for about a month. I finally cornered him one night in a meeting, and I said to him, uh, "I have a little problem, and I wish if you could help me." He said, "What's the problem?" Well, I said, I, uh, you know, I said, "I'm looking for a girlfriend." But I had these four teeth in front missing, and I was wondering if you could put them back. And he gave me a card, and, and he says, "Make an appointment to my secretary." He was real nice. He was real nice. So I went over to see him, and I sat down, and he opened my mouth, and he started whistling. This guy, he wanted to, uh, pull fourteen teeth before he gave me four. And, uh- I said to him, "You don't call, you don't call it a bargain, do you?" And you wouldn't give me a suit un-un-until you fixed the rest of me, took them three months. So, you know, I can identify when people tell you, you get what you need, not what you want. And I was very happy when I got my suit. I rushed, I rushed back to my room. I, I ran upstairs. I looked in the mirror, and I laughed for two hours. And I still was proud of it. But I was over at this meeting one night when I, I met a, I met, I met a, I met a lady who, who ran a safe house, home of an alcoholic women. She said to me, "John, I'm told you have a car." I said, "Yeah, eleven passengers." She said, "I have, uh," said, "I, I run a safe house, home of an alcoholic women, and, uh, I have nine girls. I'm looking for someone to bring them to a meeting every Thursday night. Would you like the job?" I said, "I'd be very happy to." And that's where I met my wife, Kathy. I picked these girls up on Thursday night, and we'd bring them to a meeting. And on my way back, I said to her, uh, "How about a date Sunday?" She said, "No." And like I told you, my biggest problem is I cannot accept the truth. I, I get hurt easily, and I don't recover well. But by this time, AA was working for me because on my way home, I said to myself, "Who in the hell does she think she is?" And there she is. She lives in a safe house. She's got nothing. And here I am, a president in my own company. I own my own car, a new set of teeth. Who the hell do you think you is? So next Thursday night come along, and I pick up the girls again. And on our way back, I said to her, "How about the show in Boston Sunday?" And she said, "Okay." So we went to sh- we went to the show in Boston, and on our way back, I asked her to marry me. And she said, "But I don't know you." And I said, "It's all right. We have five miles to go. We got plenty of time." So, so we got married. And, uh, we got married, and we stopped the car on the street in Marlborough, and we counted our change. We, we had eighty-five dollars. Didn't really know where to go. We decided that we'd go back to my reservation. I had been away for twenty-one years, and maybe I thought I missed something. It wasn't a very, uh, responsible decision, probably because I knew nothing about myself. Too much happened in my life that without the, uh, the spiritual ingredient, without the spiritual support, a man's self-will and his emotions go astray from any comfort or any happiness in life. My childhood, it was something that took time and certainly a lot of friends in AA for me to even to look back and to understand. When my father died, we became very poor. And because, like my mother says, I'm different and I'm strong, she would write a note to an Indian agent and wrap it around in my hands with a dirty, old sweater, and I would walk fourteen miles one way and come back. And in those years, I made many trips, but there was nothing to bring home. My brothers, I had two brothers, used to cry all night, skin and bone. Their bodies were covered with crabs. My mother used to say, "It's all right. We'll send John to an Indian agent. We'll get food." But even as I was young and sick, I knew that my mother was telling lies. But I think I also understand why. That there was no food. In those five years, I made many trips, and I watched my brothers and my sisters die, all eight of them, in five years. When I was thirteen, my mother said to me, "One more trip. All I want is a, a jar of blackberry to live through the winter." And she, uh, covered my hands with a dirty, old sweater. With a note inside, walked fourteen miles, and the man opened the door, and I gave him the note, and he gave me a smile, controlled on the snow, and shut the door in my face. So when we talk about growing, when we talk about believing that this program will teach you how to have control, teach you how to understand, and teach you how to love, I think we're talking about friends who will help you in the program. Kathy and I didn't stay too long. We had no reason to stay. We rushed back home. So we arrived in Marlborough, and we had thirty-five dollars left, and we ta– and we moved to a three-room apartment that we paid thirteen dollars a week. And when Kathy and I moved to a three-room apartment, the only thing that we had between the two of us was a coffee table that was given to us in a big house, and that's all. And even newlyweds cannot sleep in coffee tables. So Kathy and I, we slept on the floor. But you can have a lot of fun on the floor, too, I'll- One time I spoke in Westchester County in New York, and even an alcoholic are rich over there. I've never seen so many women wear so much jewelry. And while I was talking, I mentioned the fact that you can have a lot of fun on the floor. And after this, after the meeting, this rich old lady said, "Young man," she said, "I don't know how much fun you can have on the floor," she said to me, "but I know you can have a lot of fun on the Oriental rug." She identified, you know. Very sensitive woman. That woman was as good as the lady who received a visit from her daughter who said she got laid. But while we're laying on the floor, I said to my wife, Kathy, "I would like to have a boy because I'm the only one left who can keep getting me going." So Christmas came along, and my wife was in the hospital, and I went out and bought some presents for the boy. My wife called me, and she's crying. She said, "Honey, it's a girl." And I said, "You must be kidding." But she wasn't. Next Christmas came along. My wife was in there again. I received a call, and she's still crying. She said, "Honey, it, it's a girl." By this time, I, you know, they say experience is a great teacher. Because I knew that my wife loved me, and she really wanted to give me a boy. So I went over to see her, and I said to her, "Don't worry about it. Just have an open mind, and we'll try again." I learned that in the program. Next Christmas came along, and my wife was in the hospital again. And I received a call, and she's still crying. This time it's twin boys. So I got scared. I went over, and I said to her, "Honey, what do you say that next Christmas we hang our stockings and wait for Santa Claus?" A couple of years later, the girl came along, and a couple of years later, another boy came along. So we now have six children. I guess that's what happens when you are divorced and poverty. This is my story in AA. I would have never believed that one day anybody would ask me to tell this story. And I know that there are so many people, 12 or three years, who are much better qualified and have a greater talent in choosing the right words and putting them in its proper place. But it is the experience that I will never forget in my life. Since that this is a special weekend for all of us here, and it is a very special experience for me and for my wife, Kathy, and for our six children. AA has been good to me. I was hired by the government to be a director for three reservations in the state of Maine at one time. I took off my coveralls and put on a tie. I walked into an office with walls throughout carpet, and I said, "My secretary, she looked like a, a brick house." And I said to myself, "This is the way the life man lives for years." But now I am back remodeling and painting. In closing, I'd like to say that it is difficult sometimes for any man to do what is right even though that he knows. And this has always been with me in the program. But I have also known that there is such thing as pride, there is such thing as honor, there is such thing as respect, and these reserve only to human beings. A man is only what he earns for himself. It is he says, but it is in living that one receives. It is true also that only that much that one gives to another, only that much that one will receive for himself. One of the, one, one of the most wonderful things about me that I can identify, a long time ago, I was listening to a judge in Cherryfield, New York, on his talk. He recites the prayer of St. Francis in love and stuff. I never understood what it meant. Ten years or eight years later, I heard the same man again. I connected two things. This time, I understood a little bit more what he said. Now that I look back in my own life, and I can see that my friend lawyer who stood at the door when I walked in with long hair, with wine shards, dirty, when I couldn't pay thirty-five cents a night in rent to mission, he understood what, uh, what Saint Francis probably said when he said, "Lord, let me be the instrument of Thy will, for where there is hate, I will bring love. Where there is sadness, I will bring joy. Where there is darkness, I will bring light. Where there is doubt, I will bring faith." I like the second part even more because it fits me when I walked into AD. Lord, he said, "I pray that I may understand." God eventually understood. He didn't say, "John, I'm a very rich man in this city. I've been sober thirteen years. I'm a lawyer. You listen to me, and you will be all right." No. He put his arms around me in my dirty old clothes, and he said to me, "I am so glad to see you." And as I was leaving, when I was still lost, when I could not identify, he understood again. He put his arms around me this time. He said, "I have friends that can help you." It wasn't like a man who once said, "The third part in Syracuse is for the beaten people." It was a man who understood a bum like me. Because of this understanding and because of this love, I have been invited to come here. A lot of things in my life have changed. Christ, I even pay taxes. And it matters especially when you know that this country was ours before it was yours. I spoke to you, uh, one time in, in Ottawa, Ontario, and when I finished speaking, I introduced my wife to the audience. My wife, who's sober fifteen years, she said to me, "John, I wish you'll never do that again." But I have a feeling that, uh, a man like me don't come back a second time to talk in Ohio to speak to so many people. "Well, I won't go with you," she said. I want you to meet my wife, and you stand up wherever you are. I come. Thank you very much.