In Memory

Alfred Collins

Alfred Collins

RIP Vinnie -- From Pasadena Star-News -- 02/07/2017.....

Collins, Vinnie (Alfred M., David) born in Wash. DC November 1, 1948 and passed in Sacramento January 25, 2017.


He graduated from Pasadena High School in 1967. He loved the Lord with all his heart.


Vinnie was a kind, talented and highly gifted soul whose life was sadly blind sided at every turn by severe bipolar disorder. 


His tragic end epitomizes the plight of the homeless mentally ill in this country, as he appallingly died from exposure at the steps of the Sacramento City Hall.


Vinnie is survived by his sister DeHaven of New York, his beloved daughter Courtney of North Carolina, good friends who stuck by him through all his trials, as well as those who fondly remember him from High School days.


In his memory, a GoFundMe account has been set up for Courtney. https://www.gofundme.com/courtneysfather


A Memorial gathering will be held Sunday, February 12th at the Martial Arts studio of his life long friend, Larry Tatum at 2:00. 47 W. Sierra Madre Blvd. Sierra Madre

 

 



 
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01/27/17 09:49 PM #1    

Larry Tatum

We all miss you Vinnie and I know that you are over your trials here and you must be so happy back home with God your friend Larry Tatum

 

 


02/04/23 01:48 PM #2    

Gregory Prout

VINNIE COLLINS

‘Manic Depression is a Frustratin’ Mess’ - Jimi

 

Recently I attended a memorial for Vinnie Collins in Sierra Madre. The service was intimate and sweet and I left with mixed feelings of tattered memories and intense sadness. I found writing about Vinnie difficult. Decades of no real knowledge, no close personal contact, leave what I remember factual and conjecture. I did not know him well, not since high school. I did not know his relationship with his sister or his daughter. My account is only a thin slice of the whole pie. It’s a challenge arriving at conclusions because Vinnie was an enigma to me, and fuzz tends to gather after 50 plus years.

 

I wondered what his last January night was like. Homeless, cold (Sacramento in the 30’s that night), alone, hopeless, broke, perhaps confused, lying on an isolated concrete bench next to Sacramento City Hall, without appropriate clothing, a scanty blanket, staring up at a black sky that refused its stars as freezing rain fell, shivering and not realizing when he closed his eyes they would not open again. Did he dream one last time? I can’t imagine his misfortune. I wished someone could’ve provided a cheap hotel room for warmth and shelter, but no one knew his plight or his whereabouts. His condition completely deteriorated and no person should be that destitute. Hopefully his death is a message to all who knew him to be more compassionate and generous to others less fortunate. If so, he did not die in vain.

 

My voice started cracking the year the Beatles landed. Johnson had just become president, Twiggy was about to be discovered, civil rights entered my lexicon, The Jerk was the dance craze, and I thought I was a big shot in the ninth grade. It was 1964 when I met Vinnie. He was standing in front of his house-apartment complex, across the street from the Sierra Madre library waiting for his ride to Flintridge Prep. I lived two doors down. One morning as I waited for my ride to John Marshall Junior High, I decided to approach him and introduce myself. There was instant connection. Initially friendship came effortlessly. Our new relationship spent its early hours and weeks listening ad nausea to Meet the Beatles; having little clue of life’s adventure awaiting us. 

 

His beautiful older sister, DeHaven, affectionately known as Dee-Dee, had strawberry blond hair that danced on her shoulders, freckles that sprinkled her pretty face, and a smile that woke the morning; her fun-loving spirit ensnared you like gravity. Dee-Dee’s charm readily weaved itself into your heart. I introduced her to my brother and he was at once smitten. 

 

Shortly, at the end of my ninth grade year, Vinnie announced he would attend Pasadena High School. I cheered. His movie star good looks  - a blend of Rob Lowe and Brad Pitt - would consume all the girl attention, and I figured I might scarf up the crumbs that fell from his table. His first week of our tenth grade year was like Saint Anthony’s Fire, something out of the mind of Albert Camus, girls drooling and fainting, wearing their dresses backwards, shoes on the wrong feet, screaming obscenities, dithering, delirious, refusing to eat, and ogling uncontrollably. Of course such absurdity never happened, but a gift from the gods in the form of Vinnie Collins gave many girls their first glimpse at Adonis. 

 

In the same year he moved a short distance to Hastings Ranch. We constructed a cool fort in his garage attic, where on Saturday nights we would take our girlfriends, listen to music, and explore the world of romance. We dashed to the beach in his mom’s blue Dodge Dart convertible laughing at life’s freedom and enjoying its sweetness. We relished our adolescence. He had a good heart and a generous spirit. After awhile however, it was obvious something was not as it should be. 

 

Looking back, Vinnie’s early bi-polar symptoms were evident though we had no awareness of such a disease our adolescent brains still sludge. Vinnie was just hard to figure out. He had an intense need to be the center stage and if denied, would become depressed, moody, withdrawn, and sometimes combative. He could easily over-excite by ordinary events. Once on a whim, he shaved his head in the era of long hair, it made no sense. His behavior would not match the moment leaving us scratching our heads. This was annoying and led me to spend less time with him. His unusual blend of hot-cold behavior cost him standing and friends. 

 

After high school I lost touch though from time-to-time I would hear wild stories, outrageous accounts of Vinnie’s bizarre and alarming behavior. Something was terribly wrong. His unpredictability naturally caused wariness; his manic aggression led many to keep their distance. I moved out of state in ‘71 and heard almost nothing. Consumed with my young adult life I forged a new agenda until I moved back to California in 1979, and shortly thereafter I got a phone call. It was Vinnie. He threatened to kick my ass. I asked what that would accomplish, he rambled on, and I listened then asked how he was doing. Instantly Mr. Hyde became Dr. Jekyll. We talked as old friends who had not seen each other for years, all in the same phone conversation.

 

He would call every five or ten years. Sometimes he would leave a call-back number, but it would soon be out of service, then long periods of silence; swallowed by his darkness until he resurfaced again in a phone call. His last few calls were more subdued; he had found God and seemed genuinely happy, though bi-polar disease still evident. 

Every call, up and to the last one in 2015, was attended with contrived laughter, out -of -place cackling, affected as if he was unsure about himself. Other times he seemed too confident, exuberant, I was uncertain how to relate to his calls, and the laughter never subsided. 

 

Conversation difficult, something never right, even when he was on his meds I understood it, it was bi-polar Vinnie. He posted photos on his Facebook accounts, he had two: one for Vinnie another for Vini. He had gained some weight, his hair thinner, but in spite of aging’s unrelenting assault, he still maintained his innate good looks. He sent me a batch of his poems; he was going to be published and his sister, a photographer, would provide the photos for his book of poems. That was his plan.

 

He desperately wanted to attend one of the mini-reunions in 2015 and got close, but money short, and travel plans failed. I remember feeling relieved. 

 

He appeared on Facebook in 2015, specifically ‘Blast from the Past,’ and started ranting about God preferring men in positions of leadership. ‘Women should never be bosses or leaders’ he bellowed, ‘women should be subservient to men, it’s God’s order.’ Of course his proclamations were greeted with justifiable objection and outrage. A heated argument ensued but it was fruitless arguing with him, I should have known better. Things got nasty and he was blocked from the site. I never heard from Vinnie again. 

 

Recently while reviewing the room at Brookside Golf Club where our 50th Reunion will take place, and before the news of his death, I looked around and had a strange thought of what would happen if Vinnie showed up? I have had such thoughts before, ‘what if Vinnie shows up unexpectedly, what chaos and mayhem might occur?’ His Bi-polar condition could turn him aggressive quickly. As one friend commented, ‘he could be dangerous.’ After the Facebook episode, the thought of him attending the 50th was unsettling.

 

Vinnie went by several names over the years – Alfred (seldom used or referred to), Vinnie, Vinni, then Vini, and recently David, a reference to David in the Bible. In a recent newscast about his death, a fellow homeless friend referred to him as ‘Binny.’ I often thought how badly he wanted identity, adulation. Like the rest of us, he needed to be loved, liked, wanted, have a place in community, but his bi-polar disease never allowed him to enjoy basic human needs. How frustrating realizing you can’t be like others because you’re sick, but truth is, about 40% of bi-polar patients don’t think they are sick at all. They call this Agnosogsia, (‘to not know a disease’), meaning patient is unaware he is ill, not denial, unawareness. That explains why many go off their medications. Imagine your life like that, outside looking in, reaching for, self-destructing, frequently rejected, while believing you are super-special, loved by all and completely clueless you are ill. This possibly explains the rage that lingered near the surface. Vinnie enters my heart here. I’m guessing he had no future other than one of bedlam; he would be in and out of jail, possibly ostracized by family and definitely by friends, a rolling stone who gained no moss because reality kept its distance. This was his life, as I know it.

 

As the years progressed, bi-polar disease gave Vinnie prominence. He left his indelible mark on all who knew him. He was intelligent, handsome, and athletic but with a mental illness we found abhorrent and intolerable. In that sense, Vinnie found the notoriety for which he hungered. Many of us had never seen such erratic behavior, his ability to carry on normal relationships for any length of time impossible, and yet he was one of us. 

 

At the memorial I wondered what was it like having his brain and perceiving the world through bad wiring and faulty filters, experiencing a reality that wasn’t real? People claim life is unfair for a myriad of reasons, but being bi-polar, or having mental illness of any sort, is truly unfair. Vinnie never had a chance at normalcy or pursuing any lifelong dream. He had dreams like anyone, but no ability to actualize them.  Shackled by cruel existence, and if clueless he was sick, it was indeed unrealistic for him to find lasting peace, happiness, love, and family, all the things I cherish. He deserved my compassion as difficult as it was knowing how to give it. At best, relating to Vinnie was complicated. I found keeping my distance the most logical response to his disorder. Perchance institutionalizing the mentally ill allows us to feel compassionate without confrontation? An easy way out perhaps, but untrained while engaging mental illness can be embracing the gravitational pull of a black hole. 

 

I contemplated what his private thoughts might have been. Did he wonder about life? Did he question his own behavior and muse about the reactions of others? Did he dismiss negativity from others as their ‘sickness,’ their problem? He possessed a belief in God but his belief didn’t set him free, it made him judgmental and bigoted. Did he ever consider his understanding might be wrong? These and other questions about how he felt and thought about his life’s trajectory will remain a mystery. I will never know how he viewed existence. He left all of us speculating about the truth of his life. Only glimpses of the real Vinnie glimmered through his early years and later infrequently through the fog of his manic-depressive world, never enough to know conclusively, just enough to incite curiosity.

 

Epilogue

 

Vinnie believed in Scripture. There’s a powerful story of redemption in Luke, about a man from the province of Gadara, so terrifyingly insane, the locals said he was possessed by demons and called him ‘demoniac.’ He ran the countryside naked like a wild animal, his body bleeding from self- mutilation. Teams of men chained him to stonewalls only to witness him rip the steel chains out of their hard rock sockets and maniacally run wailing at the elements. In the story he has no family, no friends, no caretaker, just his disheveled self all alone in an agonizing unaccepting world. Then he encounters Jesus, who with authority commands the sickness to depart the poor wretch. The raging insanity bolts from the demoniac infecting a whole herd of pigs that run snorting and squealing off the edge of a cliff drowning in a lake below. There at the feet of Jesus calmly sits the ‘demoniac,’ no longer naked but clothed, no longer howling like an abandoned wolf, but quiet and in his right mind. I can’t prove this story, but I like to think the transformed man resting peacefully at the feet of his Savior is Vinnie. He deserves that hope.


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