Shame is a powerful drug, with some peculiar side effects—may develop multiple layers of self, a loss of feeling in your heart, and a burning sensation of hypocrisy. For years, even decades, I've carried family secrets. Our stories are just too painful and surreal. This whole "neighbor was a dictator" thing? Just the tip of the iceberg. It's ok to think your own family is a bit off, but no one wants others to think their family is crazy, so you do your best to keep up appearances.
"How's the family doing?" they ask (they still haven't figured out after 30 years that I hate small talk).
"Oh, mom?" I pause, "Fine, she's doing fine, you know. Doesn't get out much, but she's got a routine that works for her. Dad's still teaching, working as a marshal on the golf course, and always has a family visit planned." Inside, I know these answers are all veneer, and I hate veneer, but I've gotten pretty good at faking it for work.
Our family saga could rival any Greek tragedy. This realization hit me a decade ago, prompting me to take a hard look the narrative arc of my own life to avoid becoming a misplaced character in someone else's drama. My mother was Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand stories. Her revelations toppled her facade of the ideal Christian housewife and challenged the perceived goodness of well-known institutions. Yet, amid her quest to expose long-buried truths of her past, we found ourselves sworn to secrecy. Ironically, while she sought to unearth hidden aspects of her life, she insisted we keep these revelations under wraps, believing it shielded us from potential danger.
Consequently, I developed multiple selves: one for work, one for family, and a larger-than-life personality for friends. Finally, there was my Scorpio-on-Adderall-level researcher who prowled message boards, Discord channels and now Substack) searching for hidden truths. I’ve spent years trying to reintegrate those personalities, and this writing exercise is a final attempt.
Secrets are explosive and must be handled with care. Revealing someone’s secret can blow their cover. Sometimes they are ready to move on and your intrusion comes as a welcome relief. Other times, they double down and defend their house of cards. The trick is figuring out whether the person you are talking to is tired of carrying around their secret and crumbling under the weight of the layers and lies, or if they are so deep into method acting as the character they've created that they are convinced this new persona is truly their authentic self. Nothing is more dangerous than one whose ego and personal brand are under attack and they are willing to fight to protect it. Read Will Smith’s book and then rewatch the Oscars to watch this play out.
Or, take Suriname’s Desi Bouterse, for example. When Cuban and Grenadian advisors told him that nobody respected him anymore, that the Americans thought he was soft pushover, and the only way people would respect him was through a bloody revolution, what did he do? He swore a blood oath of revenge, killing 15 of his rivals. But being freed from those layers of ego can be liberating, offering a springboard to a new life. It's why you have to learn to identify the warning signs of an egomaniac versus someone who's looking for a spiritual liberation.
Tracking down mercenaries and asking them to share their side of the story teaches you one thing—the only people without secrets are those you don't know very well yet. It's why podcasts like Dani Shapiro's Family Secrets are so popular.
Yesterday, I tracked down Fred Rich—you may remember him from the earlier chapter about the Missouri survivalist camps. He'll become important as George Baker and the Ansus Foundation's planned invasion unfolds over the next few chapters. Without revealing too many spoilers, let's just say that Fred did a nice job of rebranding himself after the coup. He'd made it hard to track him down—but after sorting through census records, phone books, church websites, VFW halls, and a few social media channels, I found him. He’d become a pastor down in Florida.
Here's where managing shame gets delicate. When someone decides to bury the body of their old proverbial self, most want it to remain that way. Embracing the shadow self is tough sledding. They are hoping that their past never catches up to them—that they will be the one that gets away with it. After all, lying to family and friends about their past is no harm, no foul, right? It’s the same lie cheaters tell themselves. As long as no one finds out, what’s the problem? But the moment they do, your loved ones feel they’ve been played for a fool. Good luck healing that wound or regaining that trust.
Secrets have a way of metastasizing, and soon, like a splinter, they work themselves out. They poison your soul. It is why people want to tell you their stories—at least they do with me. I’ve found the key is to approach them with pure curiosity, doing your best to refrain from judgment. When you reciprocate their openness, people generally respond well. The relief people feel when they've unburdened themselves of a secret is palpable. I know I already feel better telling you this story.
Sometimes, you stumble upon someone who has no clue that their loved one has been carrying a secret. That's what happened when I called Fred's wife today. The conversation went something like this, "Hey, it's Matthew, from up in Iowa. You don't know me, and I can guarantee this will be the strangest call you've had all day. If you want to hang up on me at any time, go for it—I'll totally understand. I'd probably hang up on me too. Anyway, I'm calling about Pastor Fred. Our family were missionaries down in South America. I was writing a book on our family's time down there and I kept stumbling upon Fred's name. Is he around? I had a few questions I'd like to ask and I'd love to hear his story. Sounds like an interesting guy!"
I could tell from her voice that I was right. This was not the call she was expecting after work. I get that. There's no good time of day to find out your husband was a former mercenary who planned to overthrow a country. At this point, I began wondering if she even knew his secret.
"Did Fred ever talk to you about his plans to visit Suriname?" It feels like asking John Wilkes Booth's wife if she knew which show he planned to attend at Ford's Theater. I wasn't ready to completely rock her world if she wasn't the least bit curious or unaware. "No," she responds. Her voice belies a mixture of apprehension and bewilderment.
"Really?" I wondered. "Did he really remarry, become a pastor, and not tell his new wife what he'd done?" I've known pastors with some wild secrets—we all have—so it's not out of the question. "Is it really my place to reveal his hidden life?" I'm torn. I'm the type hungry for the truth. So, sympathy screams, "Tell her! You'd want to know!" Then, another voice chimes in to remind me, "Not everyone is built like you." This empathetic voice suggests that maybe she doesn't want to know. Maybe she'd rather remember him as the man he became. Perhaps she's right? I mean, some people change, right? Look at Mike Tyson! The dude said jail was the best wakeup call ever. Now, he's doling out wisdom like he's Eckhart Tolle. Perhaps judging a life by a singular snapshot is unfair.
I begin to sense that there's something else I'm missing. Then, it hits me, the last I checked, Fred was 79 years old. I venture a guess, "Is the Pastor still with us?"
"No, no he's not." Her voice is weak. I can't tell if she's telling the truth or just pulling the ripcord on our conversation. It's a rare individual who can sit with this level of social discomfort. Either way, she's not ready to talk, so I wish her well and let her know that she's got my number.
Either way, I've still got one more lead to chase down. I've located the site of Fred's “Love, Sweat, and Tears” survival camp from 1986 on the Boone County assessor's website in Missouri. Coincidentally, I've got a business trip and a crawfish boil planned this week just a few miles from there. So, I sent a few emails to his first wife and son, asking if they'd be willing to chat with me. If there's anyone who can provide an unvarnished view of a man, it's his ex-wife.
My dad passed through town last weekend, reviving his passions for road trips and helping others. I've noticed some subtle changes in him. He used to insist on everyone calling him Dr. Smith. Recently, he's removed that title from his email signature line. He told me he'd rather be remembered as someone who loved people. It was beautiful to hear—the opposite of defending your ego.
During dinner, he mentioned this writing project, revealing that he and my mom have been following along (Hi, Mom!). Until now, I didn't know if they'd been keeping up. Conservative Christians often view questions as attacks and the person asking as a threat. As such, I've faced a lifetime of rejection for my intense curiosity and questions from my community. So, tackling such a big project like this felt like a "Thank you, sir, may I have another?" moment. But I love my family and friends, and I believe Christianity can be saved, but not without confronting our shadows.
Embracing my fears invariably leads to unexpected outcomes, and this was no exception. Dad expressed his pride in my writing and noted the striking parallels between our experiences in Suriname and the Iran-Contra affair—things up until now of which he was completely unaware. He found the involvement of people from Indiana and Missouri intriguingly coincidental. He recalled minor details that needed tweaking but confirmed the accuracy of my story overall.
My work stirred some of his memories of Suriname, like seeing a Soldier of Fortune magazine cover I'd written about and his interactions at the embassy as the principal of the American school. He recounted being invited to embassy functions, where he mingled with diplomats and the American community, and taking students to watch weekly commercial-free segments of ABC News at the embassy.
An encounter with a staff sergeant whose children attended our school stood out. He had long wooden crates in his station wagon, covered by a tarp and was supposedly headed for the jungle. Dad struck up a conversation about the embassy's armaments. The man downplayed it, claiming they only had small sidearms. However, my research has led dad to reconsider what he saw that day in the car and also what longtime missionaries in the country might have known.
Dad’s mention of the embassy led me down another rabbit hole where I uncovered more Indiana links, including a diplomat—whose father was a senator and President Reagan’s mining expert—who happened to attend the same high school as one of the mercenaries. More on that to come!
I was beginning to wonder what your folks thought about this. I’m glad to hear they’re doing well.
Some secrets are probably necessary and good. Some secrets are secrets because the light of day has a way of exposing the truth.