Today was supposed to be the day that I was going to declare war on my fellow Ethiopians. Deeply wounded by a family dispute and quietly seething after fourteen years of abuse from my own community, I was intent on summoning the spirit of Samuel inside my pen and releasing a tsunami of fire upon my countrymen. I gave an advance warning about my intentions two days ago in a disclaimer I inserted at the bottom of Gelila’s latest entry in this very publication.
However, my plans were met with the temperance that only God provides His children when they are deeply hurting. In the span of 48 hours, my sister Mariam Fikre and my new mentor Elizabeth soothed my aching heart in ways that only women can. Their love and compassion is the reason I wrote Memo to shE while I was still homeless and living at a shelter called Harvest Farm in Wellington, Colorado. Their empathy and nonjudgmental approach calmed the raging seas in me; it’s because of these two regal ladies that I am here writing from a place of love instead loosening torpedoes upon “habesha” people”.
While many destroy my name from a distance while feigning “concern”, Mariam and Elizabeth met me where I am at and talked to me with compassion and humanity overflowing from their hearts. I woke up two day ago intent on inundating people who are hurting just as much or more than I am, Mariam and Elizabeth cleansed me with their love. Up to now, I thought that the greatest love I’ve experienced in my life was when my son Yohannes baptized me the first time he held my finger and purifies me each time he calls me daddy when he sees me.
Writing these words at Dama Cafe is coaxing broken water from my eyes; this is how I know I am healing from the inside out. I have not seen my son for forty days—I have been walking in the desert of a solitude that exceeds the loneliness that I felt at Harvest Farm—this is an agony that I would not wish upon someone as malicious as Bill Gates let alone anyone who has hurt personally me in the past. It’s one thing to be homeless out of poverty, it’s a whole other ordeal to be homeless while making $145,000 a year and living in a high-priced condominium. Yet despite the nails that have been driven into my heart, I am remarkably calm and still able to make family, friends and strangers alike laugh.
I now realize why my wife left and why I haven’t seen my child in close to six weeks. This was not her doing and nor is it even mine—this test is one that God blessed me with. For too long, I lowered myself before others thinking that they will accept me if I devalue myself. Over and over again, I insisted on bringing myself down four notches in order to lift others up. I thought this was a virtue on my part, I now see this as the sickness that it is.
This predilection of mine is rooted in a wrong lesson I learned a long time ago; during my formative years at Lycée Guebre-Mariam Gari in Addis Abeba, Ethiopia, I used to get picked on by kids all the time. Adults loved me and could not get enough of my insights but my peers despised me. I got bullied all the time but my light was too bright in Ethiopia for it to be dimmed lesser lights. The more they tormented me, the more I smiled and kept my spirits up. I was Tinishu Teodros going against tiny princes during a neo-Zemene Mesafint and I defeated them each time with my smile and my unending self-confidence.
Alas my confidence got swallowed up by a whale called America when I arrived here as a refugee at the age of seven in 1982. Somewhere over the “Atlantic”, my happiness disappeared as if I was channeling the spirit of millions of “Africans” who were buried in the largest mass-grave that can be found at the bottom of the Ethiopian Ocean. Missing my grandmother Emaye and my two sisters Mariam and Rahel, I sank into a depression long before I knew what sadness was. Gone was Rebash (trouble maker) Teodrose, in came Hazen (sad) Teddy.
My long walks all around Bole with my dog Lucky by side was replaced with hours upon hours of watching TV on my own while draped in a Gabi. I let memories blanket me in ennui and rob me of my vivre de joi. A new country did not beget a new experience when it came to my peers; the same way I was bullied at Lycée I was tormented by kids at elementary school and beyond. This time around, they used AK-47s instead of bee bee guns; everything from my weight, to the way I smelled like onions to my hand-me-down Salvation Army jeans became sources of endless teasing. Friends were few to be found while foes abounded; I felt like King David being hounded by Saul and his mercenaries.
It was like this all the way until the 10th grade at Woodbridge Senior Highschool, the more I excelled in school, the more I failed in social settings. The worst part was lunch! I hated the idea of sitting alone so I frequently went to the bathroom and sat on my own in toilet stalls until breaktime was over. The anxiety of feeling rejected was crippling! Making things worse was the fact that my mom was struggling with depression herself. I was bracketed by tribulation at school only to return home and see the person whom I loved more than anyone buried in the abyss of sorrow.
There is a reason I love sad songs like Tizita more than I love happy tunes that make people dance; we are drawn to the music that express the emotions we cannot put into words. I thought I was fated to a life of a hermit making a stead on my own until one day fifteen kids jumped me and beat me to a pulp. Each punch and every kick activated the lion that was made comatose by the depressant called sedet (exodus). I fought back as best as I could and went home to lick my wounds, instead of crying tears of the defeated, I was determined to sing the song of my ancestors who defeated colonialism at the Battle of Adwa.
The very next day, I started working out. “Hold On” my the Wilson Philips became my theme song, I am listening to the words now as I am writing this article and yet again my droplets bless my laptop. I had no idea they were singing that song for me but my heart realized it as I was working out. Block by block, I started to slay the giant of depression that had festooned my soul as the weigh melted from my waistline. Within six months, I lost 80 pounds! When 10th grade started, I was no longer fat Teddy, I was in shape Theo. All the sudden indifference morphed into double takes, the same girls who ignored me were all the sudden drawn to me.
Success begetting success, the attention from girls opened the path for me to get accepted with the “in crowd”. At first, I did not know how to handle this new-found fame; I was too used to a life of seclusion in bathroom stalls during lunch for me to handle being in among the cool kids. I found the answer, or so I thought, when I was handed a cigarettes and invited to take a pull. I accepted the snake’s philanthropy only to choke unable to handle the smoke. Afraid to go back to a life of stalls and solitude, I was determined to conquer the very same cancer stick that would take my father’s life 11 years after I took my first puff.
The more I smoked and the more I drank, the more my peers started to like me. Eureka! I found the key to acceptance; all I had to do was destroy myself and others would like me. Never one to do things half-way, I went about the business of self-destruction as long as it led to validation. Without knowing it, I made an agreement with myself, dumb myself down, take on habits that dishonor my temple and live life for others and I would gain the admiration of my peers and keep the friends I was afraid to lose. This self-induced Sophie’s choice was made worse by my mom’s deteriorating mental-health; the more she hurt herself, the more I self-medicated in order to escape the tizita of seeing my mom fall apart before me.
These lessons I learned at a young age became a part of my outlook. To tell you the truth, I did not realize how much these pathologies effected my life until I did a segdet (kneeling and getting up in prayer) seven times last night at the advice of Elizabeth. I did the same this morning at Kidane Mehret Ethiopian Orthodox Church and then went home to take a shower. That is when I realized that the hot water was not working! I had a choice to make, take a shower at the gym or do like my grandmother Emaye used to do and take a cold shower. Initially I chose the former until I asked myself if I had the courage to be hit with a tsunami of ice water for the sake of my Father Igzihabier (God) in Heaven.
I don’t care how brave one is or how many giants a soldier has killed, there is nothing like getting hit with freezing water. My body shook as a monsoon of cold water made me come to life. That is when my perspective shifted; the advise that Mariam and Elizbeth gave me sprouted the minute a chilling brook blessed the very body I destroyed over the years. The aches and pains I’ve been feeling lately were gone, all the sudden all I could feel was a sense of relief and happiness. I got down to the ground and thanked God because I finally realized the enemy who was tormenting me all along was me.
For forty years, ever since I arrived in America at the age of seven, I’ve been battling myself. All this time I thought kids who bullied me during my formative years and adults who denigrated me during my 20s, 30s, and 40s were the problem. Nope! Teodrose was the foe I should have been focused on. Joseph de Maistre wisely observed that people get the government they deserve. We also get the spouses, family members, friends and co-workers we deserve. If I keep treating myself like a carpet, why should I be surprised when people decide to walk all over me. The way we talk about ourselves and the way we treat our bodies is precisely the way others will treat us.
Iyesus said “love your neighbor as yourself”, he never said “love your neighbor above yourself”. It took me until my 47th year and to learn this most valuable lesson—Igzihabier loves me exactly as I am. If others don’t accept me, who cares, that is their chiger (problem) not my chiger. Now I understand why the kids in Lycée did not like me, I was different than what they knew so they tried to make me conform by trying to deform me with their jabs. A tree that is crooked at the start only bends when it gets taller, the spiteful things some children do without knowing only magnifies when they become adults.
And it’s for this reason that I cannot revert to anger in order to pay back insults by injuring my transgressors. I don’t say this to boast; the fact that I have done this in the past is actually a source of great regret. When people hurt me with either their words or deeds, I can give back a thousand times worse. Where others turn to fists or deadlier weapons, I turn to something that hurts infinitely more. God has given me an amazing gift to reach people, to sense their pains and the ability to use words in ways that I don’t fully realize.
Though I have helped countless numbers of people throughout my life, I have mauled almost as many out of wrath. The same present that God has anointed me with I have disappointed Him by refusing to forgive my transgressors and instead running over them with a truck named Teodrose. I almost revel in destroying bullies as I size up their weakness, decipher their hidden pains and then ambush them with a tornado of invectives that makes them mince in the moment and then wrecks them emotionally once the poison I spit into their souls finally sinks in.
THREAD
Tadias @RepDonBeyer, Your #TimesUp?
My name is Teodrose Fikremariam. You keep saying that #BlackLivesMatter yet I've reached out to you on several occasions, including once taking my son to DC to visit your office. At each turn, you were not courteous enough to call me pic.twitter.com/QZckrSXtfE
— Atse Teodrose III (@AtseTeodroseIII) December 9, 2021
Some who were hurt by others are probably smiling at the thought of hateful people getting their just desserts. But there is no justice in retribution, bullying bullies only turns me into a Taurus and does nothing to restore justice. I wish I knew what I know now; the children who used to torment me as a child and the adults who continue to injure me to this day are only doing so because they cannot stand my light. I’ve been there too, the first time I broke up with my ex-girlfriend shortly after graduating from college, I lashed out at my co-worker named Joseph. He was always walking around smiling and his happy disposition pissed me off!
The devil always gets livid when he sees Jehovah Jireh’s children find happiness through the blood of His son Iyesus::
With this knowledge gained, I now have a choice to make; either seek a path of true healing or continue to fight the world. There is a part of me that wants to go dark on this good Friday as I crucify my ego in order to ascend to the real Teodrose, sans tizita and turbulence, that my Father God created. There is another part of me that wants to fight for justice; my birthland Ethiopia is going up in smoke, my new home America is being festooned Masonic serpents who pretend to be doing the work of God when all along they are carrying out the agendas of their satanic master.
I was talking to my friend Fitsum at Dama restaurant just now and I asked him if Ethiopians need fiker (love) or kitat (punishment). We deliberated for about 20 minutes and could not decide; on one hand we (including myself) have strayed far from God as we maroon our souls in tribalism, greed and narcissisms which are all spirits of the devil. On the other hand, turning to the stick to heal the sick is a sin. We settled on this notion, we need tough love.
The same way parents must pursue corrective action against their children to save them from themselves, Ethiopians (which for me is all of humanity) need leaders who can lead with a strong hand that is guided by the grace of God. Punishment cannot be for the sake of wrath or profit margins (hello prison-industrial complex) but for the sake of salvaging lost souls. Parents should NEVER punish their children out of anger lest they pass on the same traumas from their childhood that wounded them so. Justice should tempered with mercy at all times.
Here is what I know to be true, if we are going to turn the ship of humanity around, we desperately need leaders who will speak brutal truths, who place the interests of the people ahead of their narrow self-interests, who are determined to lift up all boats by first empowering the least among us and who are governed by love above all. However, these leaders must not harbor any unresolved traumas in their hearts, they must be forgiving at all times and must listen more than they speak.
Though I have a great vision for my country Ethiopia, I am severely lacking in the qualities I just listed above. So my first job, before I arrogantly think that I can become the dream that my mom had when she was pregnant about me of becoming the leader of Ethiopia who would restore my birthland’s greatness, is to first restore order in my life. A few days ago, I was foolish enough to call myself Atse (king) Tewodros, that type of hubris is the reason why the world has fallen. Whether or not I am the prophecy that is spelled out in Kebre Negest of a King named Teodrose who will save his homeland is not up to me but up to God. Which leaves me at this conundrum, should I continue to speak up for justice or be quiet and wait for God to do His work?
When at a crossroads, it is imperative for one to be still and know Igzihabier. There are a couple of articles that I had intended to release this weekend, one aimed at Walmart and MGM and another aimed at CNN. However I just realized that the devil wants me to spin my wheels in fury instead of turning my hands back to Igzihabier. I don’t know what will happen when I return from my hiatus but I know that I cannot do my part to change the world if I don’t first change myself by mending within.
I wrote this entire article at an Ethiopian eatery called Dama Restaurant a mile away from the Pentagon. I will leave for another day the significance of the proximity between an Ethiopian restaurant and a building shaped like the devil’s pentagram. I talked to the owner Gash Haile and asked him what Dama is named after and he told me he named it after his father. I asked a follow up question to see if that was the name of a location or if it had another meaning.
Gash Haile told me that Dama was just his dad’s nickname that was given to him by Greek merchants who were living in Ethiopia. I researched the word Dama and found that short for the Ancient Greek name “Dámasos (Δάμασος)”, which means ““tame, subdue, control, subdue, conquer, rule over”. You see, Gash Haile’s father was able to succeed in life because he was able to tame his ego in over to subdue the dragon which enabled him to conquer satan and rule over his household with love.
I shall follow the example of Ato Dama (may he rest in peace) and his son Gash Haile so that I too can tame my ego, subdue the dragon, conquer satan and rule as God sees it fit for me to serve. Life is truly poetic, you see we become our names, my first name Teodrose means “the weapon of God”, the gravity of that name is the same reason my forefather Kassa Hailu ruled with an iron fist. I am going to learn from my ancestor; instead of thinking that I am the weapon of God, I am going to turn to my last name which means “Mary my love”, it’s only through the love of Mariam that we can be victorious over lucifer and his New World Order public serpents.
Let me return to the two ladies who inspired my change of heart and convinced me to turn to Fikremariam instead of manifesting the spirit of Tewodros. Mariam and Elizabeth in the Bible were cousins, through them were born Iyesus (Jesus) and Yohannes (John). Well my sister Mariam and my mentor Elizabeth, through their grace and kindness, helped to rebirth a wounded soul and healed the hurting child within me that has been crying silently for 40 years.
Because of Mariam and Elizabeth, I refuse to give my hand to satan by reverting to his spirit. I passed my test because I became love and for that my Father God in Heaven will reunite me with my son. I pray that my testimony will become the story of my birthland Ethiopia, my new home America and humanity writ large. As for my son Yohannes, though we are separated by 400 miles and the stubbornness of some whose concern is actually a weapon, I have every faith I will hug him the same way my dad Firkemariam Million used to hug me when he came back from overseas because my Father God is just.
When I was in Kentucky getting baptized at an Ethiopian monastery called Debre Haile St. Gabriel Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church, I talked to my intake counselor from my days at Harvest Farm named Rob. I told him all the details of what was happening to me, from my job trying to fire me for refusing to participate in medical experiments that are reviving the legacies of Josef Mengele to my family being torn apart, and he told me that I was facing an Abrahamic adversity. He explained to me that God is testing me to see if I will listen to Him even if that meant losing my son, I understood and I followed God because without Him both father and son would be lost.
It is for this reason that I am using #WarNoMore , as Ethiopians say, beka, enough! We cannot meet force with force nor can we overcome injustice by committing yet more injustice, instead of assuaging our egos by seeking vengeance, we must find the courage to turn to God. Politics and social movements rooted in exclusion will NEVER attain equality, we can’t arrive at oneness by being divisive. Only through inclusive justice can we finally find peace on earth::
“ፍቅር ያሸንፋል, love will win” ~ Ethiopian proverb
- Through the Grace of Mariam, the Kindness of Elizabeth and the Baptism of Yohannes, Ethiopia (Humanity) Will Win #WarNoMore - December 10, 2021
- #Guzo2Healing: A Mary Can rLOVEution - December 9, 2021
- Oracle of Oh Ha Ha: Before I Become Bizarro Warren Buffett, I Predict the Markets No More Forever - December 8, 2021
