The Long & Winding Road Home

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I
It was just supposed to be an exploratory mission. At least, that’s what they were told. But when they arrived in July of 1519, Hernán Cortés made the order to sink the ships.

 
“Cortés had two mutinies to quell,” explains underwater archaeologist Frederick Hanselmann. “Scuttling those ships was his way of sealing their fate and forcing their allegiance.”[1]

 
The conquistadors had no choice but to move forward and conquer the Aztec Empire. There would be no going back.

 
•••

 
Before it was torn down (and before it was set ablaze) the property had fallen into such disrepair that it became a shadow of what it once was. A house, but no longer a home. Though my father would never again live there, he kept his room padlocked shut; and over the years, what had been my childhood home became a physical manifestation of his sorrows. Entropy quickly took over—and eventually, an arsonist and a bulldozer. There would be no going back.

 
•••

 
By 1440 BC (give or take a couple hundred years), Moses led his people out of Egypt and into the arid freedom of the desert. After 400 years of oppression, they were finally free to wander as they pleased—and 40 years later, they were pleased to knock down the walls of Jericho with trumpets blaring, killing every man, woman, and child who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even the oxen, sheep, and donkeys were not spared.[2] There would be no going back.
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II
​The next day, I too was a shadow, and my parents knew they made a mistake.

 
The night before, I took refuge in the rocking chair as my nearly 4-year-old eyes watched soda cans fly across the room (and my nearly 43-year-old memory felt the lingering burning heart of fear) as this protector became a predator.

 
Four decades later, I understood the rage wasn’t directed towards me per se, but at the time, there was no way to discern the difference. In the shelter of my mother’s arms, rocking back and forth with tears of sorrow; my father, lording over us with screams of rage. He had become Mr. Hyde, and all I wanted to do was hide.

 
By morning, I could barely speak. I had developed such a severe stutter that my parents had no choice but to seek professional help, but it was in vain. I could not and would not speak. With a mask of silence, I became an observer rather than a participant; a soul askew, reluctantly traveling through life in a human shell, just wanting to go home.

 
•••

 
With the fall of Jericho, a new kingdom was created—and if not for blind ambition, perhaps they could have kept it.

 
Hoshea was a trusted advisor to King Pekah, but during the Assyrian invasion, he saw an opportunity for power and promptly assassinated his boss. Gaining an alliance with King Tiglath-Pileser III, Hoshea was installed as the puppet king of Israel.[3]

 
But upon Tiglath-Pileser’s death, Hoshea saw another opportunity to gain even more power and stopped paying tribute—much to the chagrin of Shalmaneser V, the new king on the Assyrian block.

 
Israel was swiftly besieged, and by 722 BC, completely destroyed. Assyria enacted a resettlement policy,[4] deporting entire populations of the conquered people to various parts of the empire—but all they wanted was to go home.

III
​The last time I was there, loose dirt lay where the foundation had been. A few years earlier, an arsonist turned my childhood home into a charred shell, and my father’s estate eventually had it torn down. But today, the lot is unrecognizable. Earth has reclaimed the land, and is now a seamless patch of woods. Yet, somehow, the room is still padlocked shut.
 

•••

 
Meanwhile, Babylonia conquered Assyria and Judah stopped paying tribute—much to the dismay of King Nebuchadnezzar II, who responded by capturing Jerusalem and installing Zedekiah as a puppet king.[5]

 
But Zedekiah had other plans, forming an alliance with Egypt. This further dismayed Nebuchadnezzar, and by 587 BC, he conquered Jerusalem, destroyed Solomon's Temple, and exiled the people to Babylonia.[6]

 
Zedekiah did manage to briefly escape, but was eventually captured and brought to Babylonia in chains, where his children were executed before his very eyes (and before those very eyes were gauged out).[7]

 
Access to the kingdom was now padlocked shut.
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IV
The last thing I said to him before he died was “I forgive you.” By that point, machines breathed for my father, so there’s no telling whether he could even hear me. I didn’t understand where those words had come from. What was I forgiving him for?
 

A decade later, Jade offered a hint.

 
“He remembered what he did, and the impact it had on you,” she explained. “It was a turning point in your life; a piece of you has been locked away ever since.”

 
When someone you love becomes someone you are afraid of, it is easier to deal with them if you hide your true self behind a mask—a layer of protection to ensure no one can harm you or ever truly love you.

 
I had spent so much time hiding behind a mask that I forgot I was even wearing one. Without remembering why, I forgave my father for askewing my soul. For are we not all human?

 
Anger is a natural response to violation, just as withdrawal is a natural response to fear, but are we not all simply doing our best with what we have been given—as we stumble along through life’s funny journey, barely knowing left right nor right from wrong?[8]

 
I may still be a reluctant traveler on this long and winding road home, but at least now I understand why.

 
•••

 
He was more into archeology than monarchy, which is why King Nabonidus left his son in charge of Babylonia when he left the kingdom to excavate ancient temples in Assyria. Belshazzar was happy to oblige. After all, he was the one who led the coup in 556 BC that assassinated his father’s predecessor, King Labashi-Marduk.[9]

 
Meanwhile, their Persian neighbors began amassing imperial might, and Cyrus the Great was soon at Babylonia’s door. But by the time Belshazzar saw the writing on the wall, it was too late.[10] That very night, the Persians blasted through the city gates and killed the substitute king.

 
With Persia in charge, they initiated the Edict of Cyrus, providing repatriations for the people of Judah to safely return home.[11] Turns out, sometimes, you can go back.

 
As for King Nabonidus, he surrendered peacefully, and was graciously left to continue his archeology work—understanding who he is by shedding light into the shadows of the past. He looked at a history of destruction, and sought to understand why.
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V
​It took four years to build up enough trust for Mr. Scoots to let me pet him. A stray barn cat, he is quite independent and quick to scoot if he feels trapped—but it turns out, with enough trust, he does appreciate warm affection.
 

By contrast, Pumpkin is a house cat who loves you from the moment you step into her home. A gracious host, when you sit down, she’s quick to jump to the top of your chair and groom your head.

 
Two cats; two vastly different personalities. One detached and distrusting; the other open and affectionate.

 
I don’t know what happened to Mr. Scoots when he was a kitten that made him such a scaredy cat. Maybe his father scared him too? But what I do know is that the tale of these two kitties reveals what might be if our actions express love and understanding rather than anger and resentment.

 
The choice is yours to make, and time is yours to take.[12] Some hills are worth dying for; some are for the birds.

 
•••

 
The Second Temple was completed by around 516 BC, and if not for a few Greek merchants sacrificing birds in front of a synagogue in Caesarea, it may have remained standing today.[13]

 
The ensuing feud caused a massive revolt, and by 70 AD, 48,000 Roman troops surrounded Jerusalem to end it once and for all. At the time, the city was overflowing with tourists from Passover—pilgrims who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 
Without need for trumpets, Roman forces breached the city walls, destroying Jerusalem stone by stone and slaying everyone in their way.[14] By morning, the city on a hill had become a shadow of what it once was.

 
Though the siege ended nearly 2,000 years ago, the battle lingers—all for a few sacrificial birds.
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VI
Once she knew I was okay, my mother was furious.
 

“That’s the rocking chair I rocked you in as a baby,” she cried in sorrow, “and you broke it!”

 
I was in the habit of kneeling backwards in the chair, mindlessly rocking back and forth—but on that particular day, I rocked a little too far back and fell forward, smashing the wooden rails across the floor like loose flying soda cans.

 
Somehow, with the help of my older brother, we were able to get the rails back in place, and all could have been easily forgiven if not for the fact that, mere minutes later, I broke the chair again in precisely the same way. That time, my mother didn’t wait to see if I was okay; she went right to anger.
 

To my credit, I never broke the chair again—because apparently you only have to tell me twice. And it wasn’t until today that I wondered whether the reason I broke the rocking chair at all is because it was in that very chair that I myself became broke—when I put on a mask of silence and became an observer rather than a participant (a soul askew, reluctantly traveling through life in a human shell, just wanting to go home).

 
Surely, if such a rocking chair existed, wouldn’t I want to be rid of it? Wouldn’t I want to finally release the padlock from my heart and be freed from oppression?

 
•••

 
Joseph was living in Bordentown, New Jersey when revolutionaries offered him the Mexican crown, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He had already tried all that when his younger brother made him King of Naples, Spain, and the Indies.[15]

 
Left to his own devices, Joseph would have been quite happy living the leisure life of a gentleman in his native Corsica, but his ambitious brother, Napoleon, had other ideas, which is how he found himself in New Jersey. After the incident at Waterloo, Joseph fled to the United States under the assumed name M. Bouchard, Comte de Survilliers, hoping to keep a low profile for a while.[16]

 
The trouble all began years earlier when Napoleon overthrew the Spanish monarchy and installed his brother as king—but the people of New Spain in the Americas refused to acknowledge Joseph, and whispers of rebellion began to foment.

 
Father Miguel Hidalgo, a well-respected Catholic priest in Dolores, was particularly outspoken against the new king on the Spanish block. One September morning, under the pretense of calling parishioners to Mass, the priest rang the church bells and 300 people arrived en masse. But instead of Mass, Father Hidalgo gave a call-to-arms to join the rebellion—a call known today as Grito de Dolores (Cry of Sorrows):

 
“My children, a new dispensation comes to us today. Will you receive it? Will you free yourselves? Will you recover the lands stolen 300 years ago from your forefathers?”[17]

 
The ensuing revolt was massive, but not well-organized, and Father Hidalgo was soon captured, defrocked, and executed. But his Cry of Sorrows was heard far and wide, and after a decade of war, on September 28, 1821, Mexico declared independence from Spain—and today Father Hidalgo is heralded as the father of the freed nation.[18]

 
After 302 years, Hernán Cortés’ exploratory mission had finally come to an end. By expressing their sorrows, the padlock was finally removed, and the people of Mexico set free from oppression.
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VII
Two fathers; two vastly different personalities. One locks us in; the other sets us free.

 
I don’t know what happened to my father that made him so angry. Maybe it was something his father had done?


I never met my grandfather, but I do recall a story my father once told me, of how his father never spoke of his experience in World War II. He had put on a mask of silence and could not and would not speak of it—except for one night, in the shelter of a rocking chair (with the help of a little alcohol) when a story spilled out of him:


He was serving as a belly gunner when a call came over the radio to begin firing as the plane made a left turn. He opened fire before he even knew what he was firing at: a surfaced submarine with a group of sailors relaxing topside. With a cry of sorrow, he recounted watching the scene in dissociated horror as the sailors dropped one by one. The experience askewed his soul, and he never spoke of it again.

 
To be fair, this was only one side of my father. He did the best he could with what he had been given; and when he knew better, he did better. My mother gave him an ultimatum: “You can have alcohol, or you can have your family. But you can’t have both.” To his credit, he never drank again—because apparently you only have to tell him once.

 
This tale of two fathers reveals what might be if our actions express love and understanding rather than anger and resentment. When my father didn’t know better, his heart was filled with rage; when he knew better, it was filled with compassion.

 
Oppressive forces have shaped human history—forces that bring suffering and misery to the world. Yet, forces have equally responded in kind to bring alignment for the good of others. The choice is yours to make, and time is yours to take:

 
We can harden our hearts like Cortés, or soften them like Father Hidalgo.
We can seek power like Belshazzar, or understanding like his father Nabonidus
We can become blind like Zedekiah, or compassionate like Cyrus the Great.

 
As for me, I sit in quiet reflection—rocking back and forth towards the long and winding road home.
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IIX
Jonas Cain, M.Ed. is a storyteller, magician, musician, and facilitator of fascination—uncovering joy through curiosity and wonder. Connect with Jonas to discover more: [email protected]
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​IX
​[1] Maya Bell, M. (2019, January 1). “Searching for the lost ships of Cortés.” University of Miami. www.news.miami.edu/stories/2019/01/searching-for-the-lost-ships-of-cortes.html

[2] Joshua 6:21

[3] Pritchard, J.B. (1969). Ancient near eastern texts relating to the Old Testament 3rd edition. Princeton University Press. (p. 284)

[4] Gottheil, R., Ryssel, V., Jastrow, M. & Levias, C (1906). "Captivity, or exile, Babylonian.” Jewish Encyclopedia, Volume 3. Funk & Wagnalls Co.

[5] Beaulieu, P. (2018). A history of Babylon, 2200 BC - AD 75. Wiley.

[6] Darvill, T. (2009). "Nebuchadnezzar.” The concise Oxford dictionary of archaeology. Oxford University Press.

[7] Elayi, J. (2018). The history of Phoenicia. Lockwood Press.

[8] The Drowsy Chaperone Original Broadway Cast. (2006). A we stumble along [Song]. On The drowsy chaperone. Ghostlight Records.

[9] Beaulieu, P. (1989). Reign of Nabonidus, King of Babylon (556-539 BC). Yale University Press.

[10] Daniel 5

[11] Becking, B. (2006). “We all returned as one: critical notes on the myth of the mass return.” Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period. Eisenbrauns. (p. 80)

[12] Some sail upon the sea; some toil upon the stone. Townes Van Zandt. (1972). To live is to fly [Song]. On high, low, and in between. Capital Records. (Though I prefer the live cover by his friend Guy Clark)

[13] Josephus. War of the Jews, Book II (Chapter 14, Section 5)

[14] Schäfer, P (2003). The history of the Jews in the Greco-Roman world: The Jews of Palestine from Alexander the Great to the Arab conquest. Routledge.

[15] ​​Holmberg, T. "Point Breeze: Joseph Bonaparte's Home in America." The Napoleon Series.

[16] Stroud, P.T. (2005). The man who had been king: the American exile of Napoleon’s brother Joseph. University of Pennsylvania Press

[17] Meyer, M, et al. (1979). The course of Mexican history. Oxford University Press. (p. 276)

[18] Noll, A.H. & McMahon, A.P. (1910). The life and times of Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla. McClurg & Co.