MYAKKA CITY, Fla. (AP) - Neighbors called the police after they couldn’t take the avian shrieking anymore. When police entered the abandoned St. Petersburg apartment, the ravenous creature identified itself, as well as its distress, by repeating two words again and again: “Feed Chico! Feed Chico!”
The missing owner hadn’t even bothered to conduct a gender test, which would have revealed the blue and gold macaw to be a female. But never mind that - something inside Chico snapped during those 10 or so days without food, water, or companionship. On this sweltering spring morning, you can easily pick her out of the nine-bird aviary at Greg Para’s 5.2-acre spread here in the rural flats east of Interstate 75. Chico is the one whose self-mutilated chest feathers - the equivalent of a cutter’s scars - will never grow back.
But Chico isn’t the only one lugging around baggage. Diagnosed with “anxiety disorder” after his 2011-2012 tour of Afghanistan, Para still occasionally fumbles with the off switch when it comes to hypervigilance. One of the first things Para did to settle his nerves upon returning from the war zone was revisit the tranquil Save Our Seabirds sanctuary on City Island. “It was really the only place I felt comfortable.”
Para found its feathered residents, especially the kaleidoscopic tropical birds, mesmerizing, if not downright challenging. Particularly Chico. Nobody could lay a hand on Chico. Nobody could even get close.
For exactly 110 days, shadowed by memories of roadside bombs and mortar shelling in the Hindu Kush, Para directed his focus to Chico, studying her, talking to her, edging closer, sitting in her cage. “She bit me,” he concedes, “she drew a little blood.” But at the end of 110 days, when he offered his arm, Chico made a show of faith and climbed aboard.
Para adopted Chico in 2013, the same year he founded the nonprofit Sarasota Parrot Conservatory. And he discovered something almost spooky. As Para added to his menagerie of derelicts and castoffs, Chico emerged as the most verbal. Packing a 200-word vocabulary, the most wounded bird of the lot was also the most highly cognitive, with what might also be construed as a mild sarcastic streak.
“Some birds just repeat everything,” Para says. “I have one bird that says, ’I wanna go out, I wanna go out.’ Even when you let it out, it’ll say ’I wanna go out.’ Chico would look over at him and say, ’You’re already out.’”
2013 was also the year a newspaper ad grabbed the 53-year-old Navy veteran’s attention. The 12th Judicial Circuit Court was looking for someone to run an experimental program designed to keep troubled veterans out of jail. It was a high-energy position that had devoured two directors in three years.
Para got the job. Some 2,200 veterans later, the program has experienced a recidivism rate of less than two percent. Lee Haworth, the judge responsible for the initiative, says “Greg’s an unsung hero. I wish we could clone him.”
And Para has barely begun to unholster his secret weapon - the birds.
Exactly who triggered the road rage incident on the afternoon of Aug. 21, 2013, along southbound U.S. 41 is left unanswered in the probable cause affidavit. Iraq war veteran Jason Aitchison says another man in a Mercury started it by “driving crazy,” cutting him off in traffic, and forcing him onto a soft shoulder. Undisputed is what happened next:
Aitchison, now 33, hopped out of his Geo Tracker to confront the man, only to watch him pop the hood of his trunk, extract a pump-action shotgun, and chamber a round. Aitchison dashed back to his mini-SUV and drew his own weapon, a pistol-grip .20-gauge single-shot shotgun. Both vehicles tore away from the scene, with Aitchison apparently in pursuit.
Medically discharged from the U.S. Army just months earlier, diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and traumatic brain injury, a survivor of multiple roadside bomb attacks, pulsing with chronic headaches, scarred with bullet wounds from action in Fallujah and Sadr City, having been dispatched seven times to “flight deck” - the vernacular for psychiatric evaluation - and placed under a suicide watch, Aitchison reverted to pure war-zone mode as he closed in on the driver and his 17-year-old passenger.
Leveling his gun at the man’s Mercury as he pulled even, the Fort Myers resident fired, blew out his own rear passenger window, and sprayed them with a single blast of birdshot. Splintered with a face full of lead and glass, the man and his stricken wingman pulled over in North Port and called 911. Aitchison took off and made way for Interstate 75; hours later, he called police to come pick him up.
Aitchison had no prior criminal activity. The other man’s rap sheet was clogged with run-ins with the law, tracing back to his days as a juvenile. No matter.
“Jason’s looking at a 25-year mandatory minimum, with no judge’s discretion,” recalls Aitchison’s attorney, Derek Byrd, certain he was dealt a losing hand with this clearly problematic client. Almost immediately, Byrd got a phone call from a stranger. “He said, my name’s Greg Para, I work with veterans and I’m employed by the 12th Circuit Court …”
That was the first Byrd had ever heard of an upstart program called Courts Assisting Veterans. He knew little about the psychology of combat survivors. What he did know was that Aitchison had nothing to lose.
A 23-year Army reservist and Desert Storm veteran, former 12th Judicial Circuit Court Chief Judge Lee Haworth was struck by the burgeoning number of fragile young first-time offenders on his docket coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan. Unemployment, substance abuse, homelessness- the litany of symptoms was extensive and familiar. Like so many judges, Haworth was also bothered by how few of them knew what sorts of benefits and resources were available to them.
In 2008, the Erie County court system in Buffalo created the nation’s first “veterans court,” designed to keep veterans out of jail with numerous pre-trial options. Since then, more than 250 veterans courts based on the New York model have sprung up across the U.S. In 2010, Haworth and Court Administrator Tom Smith studied the Buffalo program and crafted a scaled-down local version. Unable to secure funding from the Florida Legislature, they obtained a Gulf Coast Community Foundation grant to start what was known as the Courts Assisting Veterans program (CAV).
Like similar programs across the country, CAV relied on cooperation among prosecutors, defense lawyers, law enforcement, the Department of Veterans Affairs and other public and private agencies to make it work. Vets who completed court-imposed conditions could re-enter society with their offenses expunged.
“There was some resistance, at least in the beginning, especially with veterans accused of violent crimes,” Public Defender Aaron Getty says. “But it’s a great program and I’ve worked with Greg for three years. I’ve had probably at least 30 cases, and I don’t think I’ve seen any recidivism.”
It’s difficult to underestimate Para’s impact on CAV. After pulling a five-year Navy hitch beginning in 1984, he joined the reserves in 2010. Two years later, he wound up in Afghanistan with Navy Cargo Handling Battalion 13 in support of Army logistics. Although not directly involved in combat operations, Para came home knowing more than he wanted about incoming fire and roadside bombs.
“I think what Greg brings to the program is credibility,” says attorney Jim Dirmann, who is a member of Florida Veterans for Common Sense. “If you’ve never packed gear or slept in the mud or faced hostile fire, then it’s hard to understand. But he’s been there. And he has all the contacts in all the right places. He knows how to get things done quickly.”
Para’s resume also included civilian-world managerial and sales experience. By the time he presented it to CAV, the Foundation grant had been replaced with county funding. Para was given a shoestring budget of $50,000, which included salary and all expenses. On call 24/7, Para handled veterans making initial court appearances in Manatee, Sarasota and DeSoto counties, and screened each one for eligibility.
“I get about two calls from veterans every day, and half either don’t qualify or have no need or interest in the services,” he says. “But at least they’re made aware of what’s out there. And I’ve got about 60 community partners I can call in to assist, so I can put together pretty much any kind of plan once we get them out of jail.”
Public defender Larry Eger says CAV’s ensuing track record for keeping veterans out of prison means “tremendous savings to the taxpayer.” But Para’s overheated schedule - midnight phone calls, impromptu court appearances, personally transporting veterans from lockup to designated facilities - created an illusion of how far you can stretch a buck.
“Even for veterans who don’t qualify for the program, Greg advocates for them just as much,” says Jim Rouches, director of special programs at the Harvest House shelter in Sarasota. “The hours don’t matter to Greg. The days don’t matter to Greg, Sundays don’t matter. He has compassion, and he will not let them slip through the cracks.”
“In some ways,” adds Eger, “it’s almost unfortunate that Greg is such an integral part of what we’re doing. I don’t like when programs like these are personality driven. Because this isn’t a 40-hour a week job for Greg, it’s almost a calling.”
In August, the 12th Circuit Court got a shot in the arm when the Legislature earmarked $150,000 apiece for Sarasota and Manatee counties to proceed with formal veterans court programs. Judge Andy Owens says the money will reach even more veterans, expand those services, and bring more resources, such as housing and veteran mentors, into play.
“Greg is uniquely qualified. He’s tried to do everything but he’s only one person,” Owens says. “Now we’re getting him some help.”
Para will continue his hands-on advocacy work on a county salary. But a lighter load will free him up to deliver what could be his masterpiece.
In January, The New York Times published a major profile on maybe the most unusual PTSD treatment scenario in the nation. Located in West Los Angeles, on the grounds of a VA facility, a nonprofit called Serenity Park has spent 11 years nurturing symbiotic relationships between rescue parrots and struggling veterans.
Serenity Park maintains outdoor aviaries housing more than five dozen birds, many of which bear physical and psychological scars no less debilitating than those of their human counterparts. Highly social creatures whose abuse and abandonment has left them distrusting the world at large, some parrots can exhibit an uncanny empathy for veterans who have the time and patience to spend with them.
“Parrots are exceptional in the healing process because we allow them to fly freely,” says Lorin Lindner, a clinical psychologist who established a parrot sanctuary prior to founding Serenity Park in 2005. “They’re not in a rush to establish relationships, so when they do come down, it’s because they choose to.
“It’s important for veterans to feel like they have value again, and parrots give them that opportunity, to have dignity by helping other creatures.”
Lindner estimates 2,500 vets have either participated in work-therapy programs at Serenity Park or volunteered to help feed the birds and clean the aviaries. She estimates some 85 percent of those who’ve had sustained interactions with the parrots have graduated into stable lives, at least in terms of baseline metrics like sobriety, permanent employment and housing, and reunification with estranged family members.
“I would love for the VA or the Defense Department to step up and say, why don’t we help you create a study to measure the success of this program,” Lindner says. In fact, Serenity Park receives no federal funding, and relies on private contributions - $500,000 a year - to cover expenses. To date, media buzz has done little to alleviate the financial burden.
“Most people who buy these birds lack the education to know what they’re getting into - they’re impulse buys and there’s about a two-year rate of turnover before the birds go to new homes. So when we get any publicity, most of the feedback we get is, ’Oh great, there’s a place I can give my bird to, please take my bird.’ Do you have any idea what it costs to keep one of these birds? They can live anywhere from 50-70 years.”
Lindner estimates Americans own anywhere from 30 million to 60 million pet parrots. Which means there are - on the low end - more non-native tropical bird pets in the U.S. than the combined human populations of Wyoming, Vermont, the District of Columbia, Alaska, North Dakota, South Dakota, Delaware, Montana, Rhode Island, Maine, New Hampshire, Hawaii, Idaho, West Virginia, Nebraska, New Mexico, Nevada and Kansas.
Imagine, without warning, the sound of a jackhammer or a power mower piercing your eardrums, if only for a split second. Comparison charts indicate that would be the equivalent of 100 decibels, and 100 decibels is what Greg Para estimates Chico just now squawked in order to grab his attention.
Those abrupt outbursts can drive many people nuts, but Para is unfazed. For the past six years, the Navy lieutenant has introduced selected members of his flock to residents of nine senior or assisted-living facilities, six substance/alcohol recovery-home clients and students at 11 schools.
The star of Para’s road show is a 7-year-old blue-gold macaw named Bella. Born crippled, legs bent inwards, Bella skirts her disability by hooking her beak into the ground or the carpet and moves about with relative ease. Para hopes Bella’s example can inspire her audiences to overcome their own challenges. And as an added bonus: Most parrots go for 15-20 minutes without pooping, but Para has potty-trained Bella to hold it in for an hour.
Para wants to duplicate the success of Serenity Park by making Bella and hundreds of her new companions a destination draw. Over the summer, he began a professional and personal relationship with Debbie Huckaby, founder of a nonprofit shelter called Birds of Paradise. Located on a former tree farm less than 10 miles east of Lakewood Ranch, Huckaby’s rescue operation is massive. Eight aviaries accommodate some 250 parrots, all of whom are segregated according to species - and there are more than 25 of those - as well as temperament.
A menagerie this huge requires manpower - cleaning cages, feeding, facility repair, groundskeeping - and Birds of Paradise relies heavily on volunteers, many of whom are veterans. Para recently arranged for Harvest House to give veterans a chance to log community service hours at the shelter, which is looking to add more aviary space. “It could be a win-win situation for everybody, for the volunteers, for the birds, and for the sanctuary,” says Huckaby, who has a waiting list of 40 parrots from Ohio and North Carolina alone.
For a man whose affinity for tropical birds - “it’s like looking at a living stained-glass window” - began in childhood in Syracuse, New York, the prospects for establishing the largest avian PTSD therapy platform east of Los Angeles are a dream come true. But it also comes with a price. He discusses his ex-wife in subdued tones.
“She found it very depressing, and I can understand it,” Para says. “It hasn’t been easy, and this wasn’t her dream - certainly the birds weren’t.”
Three months after his New Year’s Day wedding to Pearl Dahmen in 2011, Greg Para adopted Bella, the macaw with the congenital foot abnormalities. The acquisition of the needy parrot, says Dahmen, would prove a milestone. Shortly thereafter, the Navy dispatched her husband to Afghanistan. He and Bella were so tight, Para would reassure the bird, via Skype conversations, that he hadn’t abandoned her.
“When Greg came home, he had this vision for parrots, like he wanted to do something big. And he wanted to help veterans,” Dahmen recalls at a Sarasota coffee shop. She watched that vision blossom into a job with the 12th Circuit Court. She never imagined how consuming it would get.
Para began acquiring more abandoned parrots, some with special needs, like a bonded pair of 35-year-old scarlet macaws, one of which is blind and relies on the other for guidance. Before long, he was also bringing struggling veterans home and allowing them to crash at their place. The gravity of his commitment crystallized on Christmas Day, when he left their blended family before dinner to support a veteran in the CAV program. Neighbors’ concerns over the growing avian clamor in the back yard of their Sarasota home prompted Para to ultimately hunt for new lodging in a more rural environment in Myakka City. It was a move Dahmen couldn’t make.
“Greg threw 150 percent of himself into the birds and the veterans, and eventually there was not enough time left for us,” Dahmen says. Letting go and moving on have been difficult. She tries to focus on the silver lining. “I am sure he will make a difference for every veteran’s life he touches.”
When their divorce was final in April, Para’s adopted family also included a Boston terrier, a cat, two parakeets and two ducks. Dahmen doubts Para will ever be alone.
“Greg’s always been a Dr. Doolittle character, and it’s not just birds. I’ve seen him feed grass out of his hand to wild deer, he feeds squirrels who come up to him, butterflies land on him, it’s something you have to see. He loves life to be magical.”
Jason Aitchison, the Iraq war veteran whose 2013 road-rage episode could’ve put him away for 25 years, flings himself into the Wisconsin skies at 12,000 feet. He free falls at more than 120 miles an hour toward certain doom before popping his chute at 3,000 feet. The chronic headaches evaporate in a rush of adrenaline, which lasts roughly five minutes. Aitchison tries to get his fix at least once a week. He recently made five jumps in one weekend.
In May, after upholding his end of the old Courts Assisting Veterans bargain, Aitchison completed probation without a blemish on his record. It was a long road, from halfway houses to substance abuse counseling, but he emerged with a clean slate and a new set of skills, including certification as an aircraft mechanic. The Texas native pursues that vocation today, in Madison, where he lives in a sky-dive house near the drop zone.
Recovering from the protracted ordeal - his hot-headed gunshot victim in Sarasota County escaped with minor injuries, and also received probation - wasn’t enough to save Aitchison’s marriage. Still, he looks back on those dark days with gratitude, especially for Para, who allowed Aitchison into his home, even as he suffered frequent fainting spells generated by injuries. What really blew him away was his extensive communion with Para’s parrots.
“You feel like you don’t have a friend in the world, but these birds don’t care what you did and they don’t judge you,” recalls Aitchison. “They read your body language, they know when something’s wrong. They come up to you, like, hey buddy, are you OK? They hang out with you, they talk to you. And to think they could love you so unconditionally …”
Aitchison is the first veteran graduate of Para’s avian therapy; two others have enjoyed mixed results. He tried adopting a parrot himself, but was unprepared for the commitment, and the arrangement was short-lived. But the impulse was a breakthrough. “If there’s an angel on Earth, it’s Greg. I shouldn’t even be alive right now,” says the man who leaps from planes to outrace the ghosts of Iraq. “Or at least I should be celebrating my 33rd birthday in prison.”
Aitchison says he’s more fully aware of his limitations now, and that he’ll know when his feet are truly on the ground again. There’s an idea he hopes to serve, something greater than himself: “I’m going to get a bird.”
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Information from: Sarasota (Fla.) Herald-Tribune, https://www.heraldtribune.com
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