Significant Purpose

We are all looking for purpose. Often, it seems that life's most profound lessons are found in the experiences we have with the most unlikely of people. It seems easy to cast aside the significance of a moment with someone, the subtleties of simple relationships; like how you felt about the man who held the door open for you at the store today, or perhaps you felt deep compassion for a beggar you felt compelled to give money to, or the more complex relationships; like time spent with your family and friends who surprise and disappoint you, guide and enlighten you, change you, and even solidify your existence here.



My uncle Cordell could easily have been forgotten by any one of us. His importance in our lives could have so easily gone unnoticed, and his role in our lives could have been regarded as burdensome and hopeless to all of us, even though we loved him. Instead, because of the loyal and perceptive wisdom of my mother, my very existence relied upon the important influence that my uncle Cordell became for her. It has been my great fortune, because of the relationship that I built with my uncle, that I have an astute understanding as to the reason people like my uncle exist in the social order. This insight became apparent to me from my early childhood experiences with this captivating man.



I always looked forward to having a visit from my uncle Cordell, and I imagined the adventure that would ensue having him home with us for a day. I was mesmerized by him and his hard-wearing reactions to the world as he saw it. I sat quietly by him for hours like an omniscient voyeur, studying him at our kitchen table, while he sat completely unconscious of who I was and why I was there.

Sometimes I would make a vain attempt to interact with him, "Uncle Cordell, I am your niece, Rhonda." looking closely for any glimpse of recognition.

On a good day he would answer me with a robotic parroting response, "My niece Rhonda...Yah..Do you like Elvis Presley?" and he would begin to snap his fingers with delight loud and strong to the perfect rhythm of the Elvis song that must have been streaming through his head. I would smile and marvel at his ability to go to a very present moment when Elvis topped the charts, and imagine what it would be like to live these moments in his mind, as only he experienced them.



My uncle Cordell always acknowledged my mother with comfort and recognition, even on days that she called "bad days". I remember the way he subtly searched for her by peering up through a subconscious, rhythmic rocking, slumped over state. The endearing way he called her name like she was the only person who understood him. "Say Delores? Got any coffee?" a question which he asked and re-asked again and again, day after day, year after year.



My mother has been his sole life line to the outside world since he was born when she was just nine years old. Their mother was loving and kind, child like and vulnerable. My grandmother possessed a sweet naivety which made her ill-equipped for the complexities and emotions of raising a child whom she painfully watched slip deeper and deeper into his own world with each passing day, during a time in our history when having such a child was unspeakable; a parental providence to be profoundly ashamed of.

My mother however, found no place for shame, and was always my uncle Cordell's primary care giver. She accepted this duty with no complaints, she always held a deep love and devotion for him, and has since continued to take to task his quality of life; insuring him the dignity that he always deserved by advocating for his well being at every turn. The Example that my mother set forth for us was that of compassion and caring for all beings, as each one is unique and significant, each one of us is born with a purpose. Though for some, purpose at first glance can be blurred by the day to day struggles of humanity and public disapproval or great personal sacrifice for the well being of another, whose very existence stands in judgment as a castaway of society.



As merciless as all of this may sound, as a child I encountered some marvelous glimpses of what it was like to care for my uncle, and although it was arduous there was often great joy. There was a comedic complexity in his simple, socially unacceptable behaviors that just cracked us up, and trying to make sense of them all became like a laundry list of diagnoses that just kept piling up. When he would visit us, we would have to watch him closely and follow him around like he was a big overgrown toddler. He loved to take things from anywhere and from anybody. He would mostly take small objects that he could fit into his pockets. Like paper weights, soaps, change, and anything else eye catching or shiny.

My mom would look at us and say, "Well he is a kleptomaniac." then turn to my uncle, "Empty your pockets Cordell." Most of the time he would comply reluctantly but sometimes he would put up quite a struggle which made my mom look like a triumphant alligator wrestler, a ninja like super hero. My brother and I always thought twice about messing with her after witnessing the five foot, 100 pound woman go a round with a frenzied, 200 pound grown man.



He would also pop used cigarette butts into his mouth, scooping them up with his cupped hand from every available dirty ash tray that we came into contact with. Sometimes he would even take a burning one right out of someones mouth and swallow it like it was candy. The shocked expression of the person who was accosted by the cigarette eating man was priceless, and though we were apologetic, my mom, my brother and I would laugh uproariously when we got back into the car, while my uncle the ever innocent, finger snapping Elvis fan carried on contently with his day.



He also loved to eat used coffee grounds from the coffee maker like he was eating a hand full of granola. My mom would say, with readied paper towel neatly folded in her palm, "Okay Cordell spit it out", then turn to us explaining, "He has pica."

When he would use an entire bar of Dove soap, lathering his face, hair, and up to his elbows with bubbles in our guest powder room, she would say with patient exasperation, "Oh geez...we need to rinse you off don't we." We always watched, my brother and me, shocked by the colossal mess. She would calmly look at us and say, "There goes his obsessive compulsive disorder. Get some towels."



When we would count playing cards with the speed of a Vegas shuffling machine, and recite from memory every math problem robotically for hours well into the billions, she would say, "Autistic savant. Well...there it is."

Sometimes, when he would show us a new socially offensive behavior she would simply say, "He's mentally ill honey."

Amusingly, in my ten year old mind, when people would say 'There is always one in every family' I assumed this was what they meant. I just kept calculating his abnormalities and adding to the inventory of disorders each time he would come for a visit. When my friends would ask what was wrong with him I would answer with great pride and exuberance, "My uncle is a mentally ill, manic depressive, paranoid schizophrenic, obsessive compulsive, kleptomaniacal, autistic savant, with pica. But other than that," I boasted,"he is actually just like you or I."



Growing up with a family member like my uncle Cordell came with other advantages too. Because of his oddities, my mother was able to determine with great accuracy the worth of a person's character immediately upon meeting them by noting and analyzing the reactions of people interacting with her brother. Were they the kind of people who understood true human compassion? Or, were they ordinary people who were fearful and ashamed to be seen with him?


This gift became a fateful one when she met my father while she was a student nurse. The reckless teen was in a serious car accident when he was 18 years old. He lay toothless and hairless in a hospital bed, and with the ego of the typical boy his age, he attempted to catch her attention. My mother was smart enough to ignore him, and she was completely uninterested in his courting methods. Insistent on luring her with his charm, as looks alone were surely not enough to do the trick, he would grab her arm when she was taking his blood pressure and complain about the pain, searching for some compassion from his adorable nurse.

None of this was terribly impressive to her, but even so, without an intimation of encouragement, when he was released from the hospital he was determined to get her to go on a date with him. My mother assumed she could effortlessly chase him away by accepting his offer with the stipulation her brother would need to come along. A tactic she often used to dispirit unworthy suitors. "No problem, bring him along." My dad unknowingly replied. A common reaction most people had when they were forced to be in the presence of my enigmatic uncle for any period of time was of shock, fear and most assuredly, loss of interest in any further encounter with her, much less a second date.



In the 1950's people like my uncle Cordell were outcasts, and most people had no coping skills or tolerance for such social pariah, and felt that people like my uncle should be locked away and hidden interminably. My dad was different. Not only was he non-reactive to the extreme social malfunctions of this boy, he also made a gallant attempt to engage with Cordell on his level. My mother watched in absolute awe as her future husband helped her baby brother learn to catch and bat a whiffle ball. My mother witnessed this man, whom she was ready to chuck aside, pitch balls to her blissfully contented brother all afternoon. She had never seen any one interact with him in this way; he showed the young troubled boy acceptance, kindness, care, and no glimpse of pity; she now looked at this man who was to be her life long companion with new eyes. After all too, his hair had grown back a bit and the new teeth really helped. All totaled, my mom knew she had found a keeper, and she most assuredly did; for even today, on "good days", my father still pitches the ball to my uncle Cordell, while he methodically counts out his goal of a hundred home runs with each glorious hit.



Cordell, at 61 years old, lives a life that is much different than the days of institutionalization which he unfortunately had to endure for much of his early adult life. My mother was unable to care for him full time at our home, and she accepted that life in an institution was the only place society had set aside for people like her brother. Visiting him at the Kith Haven Institute in the 1970's is a memory that I will never forget. A troubling memory that I am grateful to have had, as from an early age I learned compassion for people misunderstood by society and what they endured during this time in American history.

Fortunately, time has educated our society, and today my uncle lives in a group home with others who need constant care. With my mothers' close and watchful guidance, my uncle Cordell is fortunate to have individuals caring for him who are devoted to his well being. In fact, his social worker has been with him for many years, and my mother often speaks of the positive, loving influence that she has had on his life, and so admires her dedication and commitment to caring for her brother with the same sense of humor and adoration of him that we always had.

My uncle Cordell is obsessed with coffee. I remember on several occasions watching him empty the contents of a scalding hot, 12 cup, Mr. Coffee carafe into his mouth like it was a bottle of Evian. Some years ago when my grandparents were no longer able to make decisions regarding his care, my mother applied for legal guardianship. When their day in court arrived, my mother, his social worker, and my uncle were to stand in front of a judge and ask for permission to make my mom his legal guardian.

As they entered the court house, two fully armed deputy sheriffs were seated near the metal detector at the entrance of the building. My Uncle Cordell noticing that they had large cups of coffee, walked up to them, plopped his dollar on the counter (my mother and father always give him a dollar), and asked them if he could buy a cup of coffee. They both laughed, and smiled with my mom and told him that they 'don't' sell coffee', they just want him to 'walk through the metal detector'. My mom and the social worker were able to deter him from further confrontation by corralling him into the court room.

A few minutes went by, and he asked if he could go to the bathroom. Forgetting about the officers and the coffee they both followed him out. In a flash of an instant he was behind the unbeknown sheriffs, reaching in-between them, ready to pounce the Styrofoam coffee cups. Fighting him back and forth, four hands on the doomed cup, the metal detector smashed to the ground. With that, one of the officers screamed out, "Let him have it!"

My mother mortified, glaring at their fire arms and the overturned metal detector, closed her eyes and thought, "Please don't let him have it."

The officers let go of the cup at once after an insurmountable few moments, which in turn sent coffee flying all over the front of both uniforms, Cordell, and all over their table. My mom, mortified, apologized profusely. Frazzled, and back in the court room, tardy for their hearing and clearly shaken, the judge asked my mother. "Delores Hoskins would you like to be the legal guardian of your brother Cordell Cull?"

Still rattled from the chaos just moments before, she blankly shot out a simple audible "Yes".

Conversely, the judge asked Cordell, "Cordell Cull would you like your sister Delores Hoskins to be your legal guardian?"

With his once white shirt, now soiled in wet coffee, looking up from a slumped over, stupefied state, he answered the question with shocking clarity, lucidity, and a strong resolve. He looked squarely into the judge's eyes and replied, "Yes. I would like my sister Delores Anne Hoskins to be my legal guardian."

Afterwards, with the calm familiarity of day to day experiences with my uncle Cordell, his social worker explaining today's lesson told him, "Cordell, it's not cool to steal from the cops." He replied with perfect timing, "No, it's not cool to steal from the cops."

For me, my uncle Cordell represents with great clarity the significance of compassion, patience, kindness, and tolerance. At first glance, I imagine that all of these things were unclear to me as a child growing up with a mentally challenged uncle, and I did not see that the significance of his purpose in my life would materialize in such a profound and real way as I grew into an adult who learned to appreciate each individual for their unique gifts.

Even now, when I see a mentally challenged person working at the grocery store, or a group out with their care givers, I always feel compelled to smile at them, say hello, or put my hand on their arm. There is a familiarity and warmth that runs through me when I see someone who reminds me of my uncle. There is a feeling of a profound understanding of their place in our world, and the gifts that they give to those in their lives who love them; the kind of blessings only a few of us have been lucky enough to experience, reminding me that each relationship, momentous or inconsequential, joyous or painful, in a moment or in a lifetime, may significantly shape my life, shape my own purpose, or as in the case of my uncle Cordell, secure my very existence. How very fortunate I have been to have had him to teach me so many things about life.