tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15818205478966165742024-03-13T00:28:34.667-06:00bioStories BlogSharing the extraordinary within ordinary lives.Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.comBlogger305125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-82992571093127119982020-07-06T08:43:00.000-06:002020-07-06T08:43:10.446-06:00A Life in Five Buicks<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">by Linda Boroff<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk14612592"><o:p></o:p></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Roadmaster</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">Summertime,
Hopkins, Minnesota: I toddle from the back door of the Elmo Park Apartments,
skinny in suspendered blue corduroy pants. My dark, water-slicked hair is caught
just above the right ear by a bobbypin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Suddenly, I
stop short. Looming before me in the driveway is my father’s new, two-tone Buick
Roadmaster, massively at rest on its tumescent whitewalls. The car, jade and
loden green, fills my vision like a whale; as if its mighty grille of chrome baleen
could suck up the road. Four incredible tunnels in its side, leading to
God-knows-where, attest to its pedigree. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> The
neighbors have flooded out to gawk, as amazed as if dad had taxied up in the
B-24 Liberator he had flown in the South Pacific. The women, pregnant in cotton
housedresses with bright scarves wound around their pincurls, stroke the
monster’s bulging flanks. The men, beer bottles in hand, wear pleated pants
into which white undershirts are tucked. They stride up and spank the Buick
commandingly, nod at the engine statistics, call it “she.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> At my
appearance, all turn with tolerant amusement to savor my response. I am gaping
at the giant intruder, eyes smoky with suspicion. Attempts to pull me near for
an introduction fail. To everyone’s delight, my confusion soon resolves itself
into a drawn-out wail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Now it is
evening, the air fragrant with the warm raspberries that grow wild behind the
project where we live, and also with the faint, fetid odor of the swamp beyond,
which will not to be drained until a toddler drowns in it later this summer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> I stand outside
the back door, gazing into the kitchen, where my father sits at a gray Formica
dinette with an old Army Air Corps buddy. They are holding beer bottles and laughing
as they celebrate new cars, peace, youth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> The screen
before me sags in its frame; insects aggregate on it, awaiting a chance to
invade. Their brethren have struck up a summertime concert out beyond the
Buick, poised on its concrete slab like some brooding god of highway thunder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Riviera <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">It reigns from
the driveway of our new ranch-style home: a Buick Riviera, its blue as rich and
deep as the stained glass of Chartres. Ensconced in its pale plush upholstery,
I feel like Cinderella in her pumpkin chariot. Shiny windows reflect my outsize
new teeth grinning from the passenger side.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> My father’s remodeling
business is booming, and he often invites me to “tag along” as he pitches
attics and basements door-to-door. The housewives usually ask us in when they spot
me on my hobbyhorse, Pal, a high-spirited thoroughbred of rich brown leatherette,
with flaring crimson nostrils and a lush mane of white yarn. “Hi there, cowgirl,
that’s a mighty fine horse you got there, you betcha.” And before they know it,
they are talking knotty pine and dormers and linoleum. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">He is tall and handsome, my dad, with curly brown hair and
a wicked sense of humor. I spend hours trying to emulate his jaunty pilot’s
swagger. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">He has built us a beautiful corner house in a tony
neighborhood near Lake Calhoun and given my mother a generous allowance to
decorate: blond oak, raw silk, rose brocade, and a thick, cocoa brown carpet to
roll around on. The house sits on three lots with one of them dedicated to a
sandbox, a swing set, and a huge bountiful garden. People slow their cars to
appreciate the landscaping. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> C’mon,”
my father says mischievously one afternoon. “Let’s go blow out the carbon.” I
know that under the hood of the Riviera chugs a magical nest of dark coils and shiny
pans. Superheated and unimaginably powerful, they create and tame the explosions
that propel us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> I
imagine the car’s chrome innards clogged with soot, which we must now expel at ninety
miles per hour in a tamponade of black smoke and red flames bursting from the
tailpipe. The highway uncoils before us like a whip; farms are a green blur. I
watch the speedometer quiver at ninety and then inch toward 100 as the Buick
enters the realm of pure motion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Just
outside Red Wing, he guides us back down to fifty, which will forever after feel
like a standstill. Then, as if anything were needed to make the afternoon more
perfect, he buys my eternal discretion with a salted nut roll on our way
home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Roadmaster Again<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">It isn’t much
of a recession, but, as Mercutio declares of his fatal wound, “marry, ‘tis
enough.” My father’s business has dried up into a pile of debts; our brief,
feverish glow of prosperity only a memory; our future dreams a mocking,
retreating mirage that we will never reach. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">The bill collectors call around dinnertime,</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> and my </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">mother rise</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">s</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> to answer, swallowing her food
quickly: He just stepped out. A payment </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">is </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">on </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">the </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">way.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Fights over money have become the
white noise of my childhood. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> My father’s latest
Roadmaster is greeted by my mother not with delight, but with fury. Burnished
bronze, this unwelcome intruder sits alone in falling snow, like a grounded
eagle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “We can’t
afford this. What’s the matter with you?” My father tries to look wise, as if he
knows something she doesn’t, but her disillusionment is impenetrable, and she glares
back coldly. Her eyes have narrowed, and a crease divides them now, even when
she isn’t angry, which is seldom. How can she blame him for his business
failure, I wonder, when it is the customers’ fault that they are now remodeling
their own attics. “Do It Yourself” is the chant that accompanies our march to poverty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Our home goes on the market just after
my 12<sup>th</sup> birthday, bringing long, melancholy weekends filled with
officious realtors and skeptical strangers who poke around in our kitchen and
assay the carpeting, eyes narrow with arithmetic. Their children stare
wordlessly at me and my younger sister. Nobody wants our house, and there is a lot
more eking and borrowing before the foreclosure finally arrives, almost a relief.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Homeless now, we drift to Los Angeles,
where my father has family. Relatives grudgingly pony up small sums after
collect calls from a phone booth. We rent a motel room with kitchenette in East
Hollywood, the walls green and weary, veterans of a thousand familial
disintegrations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Daily, my parents look for work; by
night, fights erupt, roaring and gusting like wildfires. We are warned by the
motel management about the noise. Sometimes we go for swims in the stagnant
pool. A thick orange moon hangs above us. We float like corpses in the tepid
water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> My mother finally finds work in a
nearby children’s store, sweltering in outdated designer suits. My sister and I
start school. My father lies on a black Naugahyde sofa all day, reading the
want ads, sipping gin and devising dubious schemes to recoup his finances.
Deals “fall through” he says—evoking for me an image of something hurtling
earthward through a dense forest, hitting branches, landing broken and dying.
His creditors soon find him again where he huddles; first one—and then many in
a rush, persistent and abusive. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> One night, his suitcase clatters
suddenly into the living room, and my mother stands above it, eyes dark with
fury. He had borrowed five hundred dollars from a loan shark. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “When I got off work, some little man
threatened me,” she shouts. “I gave him my paycheck. How will we live? She grabs
my sister and sinks her nails into the squirming girl’s shoulder. “What in the
hell did you do with five hundred dollars while we were starving?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> My father follows the suitcase, arms
dripping with neckties. “I didn’t know he’d come to you.” He shakes his fist
and the ties sway. “For eighteen years I worked for you. I broke my heart.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “He threatened me!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “I’ve got to get out of here. I’m
dying.” My sister and I begin to cry, although we have been expecting this for
a long time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “Let him go,” screams my mother. “Him
and his goddamn pills and his goddamn booze. There’s always money for that,
isn’t there?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Outside, my father sits,
jowly and misunderstood at the wheel of a rented Ford, curtained with suits and
shirts. The car hums to life, coughs loose its emergency brake, and backs
hesitantly out of the driveway. A quick shift and it is away. The night rings
with sudden silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: NE; mso-fareast-language: JA;">Camaro<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">The mighty
arches of the San Francisco Bay Bridge pass over my head like the ribs of a
dinosaur. I think about those people unable to cross the bridge without
counting them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “Tell me
about your father,” says Cliff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “All I know
is he called this afternoon wanting to get together. Apparently he traveled out
here with some woman, and things fell apart and she took off in his car.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “When did
you last see him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “I have not
seen my father,” I reply, “in eight years. I don’t know what he’ll be like.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “Well, you
met <i>my</i> father,” Cliff says. His parents had visited from Bakersfield two
weeks earlier, and his father had, as promised, displayed the physique and
mentality of an Alabama State Trooper guarding a speed trap circa 1954. Packed
tightly into a booth at the pancake house, he had polished off a platter of
pork chops, cornbread and easyover eggs while declaiming loudly on hippie
treason. Cliff’s mother, smelling strongly of mint, sat wordless, eating
nothing, observing her husband with reddened blue eyes of pure Southron hatred.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> Cliff told me later that she had found and drunk about half a bottle of tequila
while he and his father were out buying a lug wrench.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Cliff’s blue
eyes are flecked with amber; his thick brown hair brushes his collar. At twenty-one
he is already a master of the amused deadpan, and he is a good bet to hurt me deeply
one of these days. His parents have gifted him a new Camaro for graduation, and
riding beside him makes me feel shiny, new, and well-maintained too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> My father is
staying in one of those hotels that appear at first hopeful glance to be only a
little seedy, but is really extremely seedy. I spot him at once in the lobby,
swaying slightly beneath the fluorescent lighting, arms stretched toward me. He
is pudgier than I remember, his skin grayish and loose around the mouth. He
shakes hands solemnly with Cliff, and shoots me a wondering glance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> We have
dinner and embark on a spree through San Francisco. At one bar, a drunk sits alone
looking morose, and we invent a history for him, a reason he drinks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “He tried
hard all his life,” says my father about the drunk. “The bastards just wouldn’t
let him live.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “He can’t do
anything right,” comments Cliff. “He found himself alone....” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “He done her
wrong,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> The pavement
in front of my father’s hotel is slick now from the foggy drizzle that had
begun around midnight. He climbs stiffly from the car. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “I’ll walk
him in,” I tell Cliff. The lobby is not as deserted as it should be at 3 a.m.
People are wandering about sleepless, smoking, unwilling to be alone in their
rooms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “Goodbye Linny,”
says my father. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> I hug him and say “Goodnight, Daddy.”
As I return to the car, I realize that Cliff and I have grown so close tonight
that we will probably get married. He looks at me pensively, having figured that
out himself. When I turn back, my father is still gazing after me from the
lobby, hands hanging limp at his sides, head slightly cocked.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Century <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">I am an advertising copywriter working in Palo Alto,
divorced, with a nine-year-old daughter who looks like Cliff. I drive a 1986
Buick Century Custom, an impulsive purchase after my father died years before of
a heart attack. Somehow, driving a Buick keeps him a little closer in spirit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> So I leave my office on a warm, sunny
October afternoon for the commute south to Santa Cruz over Highway 17, a sinuous
black python notorious for head-ons. I grip the steering wheel of my Buick,
intent on survival, eyes darting about with primal alertness evolved over
millions of years, called on now to dodge not leopard or lion, but Audi; not
charging aurochs but careening Range Rover.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> When the traffic stalls—as it often does—I
look beyond the asphalt to the young redwoods, fernlike and primeval, and to the
yellow poppies and blue lupine bobbing gamely in the hydrocarbon exhaust. Sometimes
</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">I murmur little prayers for
the road kills, tarry, feathered clumps and featureless gray fur patties scattered
on the shoulder. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> As I approach the summit, hemmed in by
other commuters, the Buick begins to jerk and shudder. Dammit a flat drifts
into my mind seconds before the asphalt ahead rears up and rips asunder like a bar
of licorice. I slam on my brakes at the lip of a widening gash as the side of
the mountain to my right trembles like Jell-O and falls away with a roar,
sliding and tumbling onto my car. Trees, their moorings scaled away, drop, still
upright, straight down the mountain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> The air turns white with dust, and the
car shudders at the boulder that finally breaches its back door. Dirt pours in
across the seat. I glimpse myself in the rearview mirror, perhaps for the last
time, looking rather puzzled and nondescript. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Then, as abruptly as it had started,
the earth quiets and settles, though something keeps cracking like pistol shots.
The dust clears, and I see to my left, the very top of the concrete center
divider barely visible above the dirt. Covering the road now is everything that,
seconds ago, had been a hundred feet above us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> It is October 17, 1989, 5:17 p.m. They
call it the Loma Prieta Earthquake, and I have nearly been buried alive. My
only thought now is to get to Santa Cruz, but the road ahead has ceased to
exist. Boulders are still bouncing down the mountainside like ping pong balls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> A couple of truckers make their way
through the trembling debris to my driver’s side window: “You alive?” They
wrench open my door and I clamber out with no dignity, my pencil-skirted business
suit caked with dust. “Whole mountain’s gonna go inna minute,” one of them says,
and I say, “Didn’t it go already?” But no, there is still plenty of geologic
time poised above us. I consider running, but to where? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “See if she’ll start.” A trucker climbs
into the driver’s seat and turns the key, eliciting only a feeble cough. He
tries again, and suddenly the Buick rises from the dead with the sound of a
hundred lions competing for mating rights. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Six men rock it loose from its crumbled
matrix, which opens a car-sized hole in the debris. I get in, push on the gas
with a shaking foot, and the Buick miraculously begins to limp forward, yawing like
a drunk on its broken suspension. One by one, we creep down the mountainside, over
the buckled, rock-strewn pavement. The roots of upended trees oddly resemble
the configuration of a lightning flash, I note, and also the heart’s circulatory
system illuminated by echocardiogram: fractals? I keep my foot on the
accelerator, and the car keeps rolling, around the tree trunks, through the sand
and the dirt. Somehow, it finds a way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Nearing Scotts Valley, we come down
off the hill at last, and the highway re-emerges. I nurse the Buick past people
who stop their stunned wandering to point at me and shake their heads. There
must be sirens, but I am in a state of deaf, numb panic that recedes only when
my daughter dashes toward me from the yard of her now lopsided school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Days later, an insurance adjuster lifts
the Buick’s hood and gasps. The engine is buried under rocks and dirt. “I can’t
believe this thing actually ran, he says, shaking his head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “Ran pretty well,” I say, channeling
my father. I open the trunk and get out the jumper cables and a notebook of
ideas for a novel that I have been carrying around for several years. I take
them to where my friend is waiting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Century
Again<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;">There are as many roads to penury
as there are paupers to follow them. Today, I’m on my way to sign over the pink
slip on “Moby Dick,” my white 2000 Buick Century, as security on a loan, so
that I can pay my rent, three weeks late and counting in the wake of a layoff. My
destination is a storefront in a bleak San Jose strip mall between a liquor
mart and a shoe repair shop. A fuchsia neon sign beckons: “Fast Cash! Paycheck
Advance! Auto Title Loans!” There, my signed pink slip will net me $1900, which
I pledge to repay at an interest rate of about ninety-six percent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> I
back out of my carport, find a jazz station playing rueful sax, and hit the
road. The rain that threatened all morning arrives now in earnest, and the mist
on my windshield quickly turns to tears, as if to make up for the ones I’m
holding back. Somehow, my whole life seems prologue to this ordeal. It could be
worse, I console myself, which only reminds me that it may indeed grow worse.
The wipers begin beating time to the scold in my head: why didn’t you, why did
you, why didn’t you, why did you? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “It’ll be okay, mom,” says my daughter,
guessing the reason for my silence. She sits beside me now, as she always has,
and in a way nothing has changed—although her once downy head has grown into an
avalanche of blonde-streaked waves, and the rattles and sippy cups have given
way to a plastic box of eye shadow that she dabs on in the passenger mirror. I
understand, without taking it personally, that to not follow in my footsteps is
for her almost a career goal in itself. Financial turmoil has shaped her life
since her father left us when she was three years old. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> I merge onto Highway 280 south; the
road nearly empty on this Saturday morning. As the miles unreel, I cannot
resist backtracking mentally over my own highway of choices that delivered me
to this pass. How many wrong turns? How many dead ends, detours, directions
unheeded? Or is the problem deeper still? The map is wrong. The destination
does not exist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Perhaps,
as my father’s daughter, I am just genetically wired to be broke. My inborn
character quirks always seemed to have veto power over good intentions and
resolutions. By age seven, I was already displaying the traits that have cleft
my life like a fault line: impatience with saving, impulsive overgenerosity,
dislike of routine. Reading Aesop’s fable of the grasshopper and the ants, I
quickly identified with my gangly orthopteral soul mate, shivering out in the
cold with his inedible fiddle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> South
we hurtle from Palo Alto, where I had presumed to live so that my daughter could
attend its top-ranked high school. And was that another wrong turn, I wonder,
hearing her reel off anecdotes of snobbery, anorexia, and grade grubbing? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> After
years of battling a commute so brutal it inspired articles in foreign magazines
and enduring a manager who gnawed at me like a polar bear at a whale carcass, I
have decided to work freelance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Fiction
was calling me: story plots scratched on the message pad on my bedstand or
scribbled on the back of parking stubs or the flap of an envelope as I drove. These
potential novels existed now only as wads of lint at the bottom of my purse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> And
what makes you so special, my roadside Greek chorus now chants. Do you think
yours is the only quiet desperation, the only stifled ambition? You are a
bundle of plastic twine floating on your daughter’s ocean, lying in wait as
years pass to wrap yourself around her wings with your poverty, neediness, and irrational
ambition. You… <i>writer</i>! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> Last
week, I had dusted off my interview suit and explained to a succession of loan
officers that I was a “freelance technology writer” and needed only a little
“bridge loan” to see me through to the next big project. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> What
else could I have said? That I’m a perennially aspiring novelist whose short
stories are probably read solely by other hopefuls? That I have spent the last
eight years trying to shoehorn myself into Hollywood’s clenched consideration,
resulting in one low-budget feature and four options simmering in a perpetual
broth of revision? As a borrower, I am about as appealing as a glass of silicon
wastewater. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> I
walked out of the last bank and stand in the parking lot feeling sorry for
myself. Then I looked at my Buick as if seeing it for the first time. Finally
paid off after eight years, it has been through a lot. In 2005, it was repossessed
in the rain at 3 a.m. by a couple of husky young men, who had it up on the tow truck
by the time I emerged in a ratty bathrobe, holding my Lhasa Apso. “Put some
shoes on,” one of them said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> The
Buick looked forlorn and reproachful and a little silly, its capacious rump
elevated by a chain, its grille tipped into a puddle. When a copywriting
windfall enabled me to redeem it a few days later from a dusty San Jose
repo-yard, a friend said admiringly, “You always land on your feet.” But her
metaphor was wrong. I had not yet landed. Today looks and feels more like a
landing. And not on my feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> It
takes two or three passes around the block in what is now a freezing deluge to
find the auto loan storefront. We park, and my daughter, impatient with my
umbrella, leaps out and makes a dash for the door which looks close, but is
actually far enough away for her to get thoroughly soaked. I come up behind
her, and she grins sheepishly, the rain bedewing her face and lashes, the damp
tendrils of hair pasted to her fresh, unconquered skin. “Young Girl Caught in a
Downpour,” I mentally title the artwork. We wrestle open the door, and a line
of people turns at the cold, wet draft, one or two actually smiling in
commiseration. They are mostly poor and minorities: young mothers with children
hanging from every limb; gray-headed veterans in bill hats with numbers on the
front. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> The
young woman at the window smiles too, although the line is long, the paperwork
complex, and her computer capricious. She hands us a battered camera to
photograph the Buick’s VIN number and its odometer. My daughter waves me to a
chair and ducks outside—again without the umbrella—although the rain is now
coming down in sheets from a truly biblical sky, occasionally riven by trees of
lightning so close you could almost grab their molten trunks. Seconds later,
massive thunderclaps trigger little screams from the women. The veterans flinch,
their jaw muscles working. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> When
my daughter re-enters, I pull off her soaked outer sweater as though she is a
kindergartner and help her on with my own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> “Thanks,
Mom.” The people in line titter. I catch the eye of an elderly lady, and she
beams at me, a universal smile of motherhood. And all at once, everything is
all right. It’s more than all right. Why, the Buick is merely fulfilling
another of the roles it was intended for. Like reindeer to the Inuit, it is
both transportation and sustenance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"> So we
all watch the rain subside and a cold blue sky emerge amid turbulent clouds, a
fresh wind whipping the treetops. The line slowly shortens, and at last, I am
presented with a bale of papers on which I provide my signature in about forty
places. The clerk counts out my money in small, used bills, and feeling far
from dissatisfied—even a little rich—we get back into the Buick. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Linda Boroff</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> graduated from UC
Berkeley with a degree in English and currently lives and works in Silicon
Valley. Her suspense novel <i>The Remnant</i> has recently been accepted
for publication. Her fiction and nonfiction appear in <i>McSweeney’s, The Write
Launch, All the Sins, Epoch, Cimarron Review, Parhelion, Crack the Spine,
Writing Disorder, The Piltdown Review, Eclectica, 5:21 Magazine, Thoughtful Dog,
The Satirist,</i> and other publications.</span>Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-5890688372995636322020-06-08T17:22:00.000-06:002020-06-08T17:22:09.789-06:00Gardening with Mary: Rebirth of a Northside Garden<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by Carolyn Bastick<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dedicated to my beloved sons,
Adam and Harry<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mary was
the previous owner of my new Minneapolis home. I learned she had died that autumn,
only sixty-nine, taken quickly by cancer. She was a gardener. An Army
photographer. Her photograph filing cases (disappointingly empty) were to be
left in the basement, too heavy to move. I was happy to allow them to remain in
my keeping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
move to this new home in 2017 was not planned. I was not supposed to be in
Minnesota. The daughter of a British Army officer accustomed to the upheaval of
military life, back in 1981 I had barely given a thought to the consequences of
marrying an American and moving to the Twin Cities. Yet for over thirty-five
years, I held England close to my heart, waiting for the day I could return.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And
finally, it was time. As I prepared for this long-awaited repatriation, the
father of my children assured me he approved of my departure. His doctor had
declared him to be a veritable poster child for chemotherapy, surely, the
ultimate positive prognosis. “Go to England, I’m fine!” he told me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So, I
went. With his perceived blessing. I did not understand then that his words
were the hubris of a dying man. I had trusted him in this weighty matter
because I had no choice. For to doubt him would be to accept the unacceptable—that
my children would be left fatherless. That I would no longer simply be a
divorced mother, but a single parent, with sole proprietorship of our boys as
they stood poised on the brink of adulthood. Even after the divorce, we had
raised our children collaboratively, equally involved in their lives. I could
not imagine taking on this great responsibility alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now,
less than twenty-four months later, his death had brought me back to Minnesota
in a rush. Even with my training, two transatlantic moves in as many years was
brutal. A decision that had been in the making for over three decades was undone
in a heartbeat. I deserted my partner and my English family to be close to my
grieving sons. Insecure and isolated in this unfamiliar single parent role, I
would need to create yet another American home. I would have one more northern
garden to nurture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
first foray into gardening came decades before after we bought a very special
bungalow in Minneapolis in which to raise our family; a neglected 1917 Sear's
kit house charmingly called <i>The Ashmore</i>. Learning about its history and
attempting to restore some of its grandeur rapidly became an obsession.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
Ashmore</span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> was built in the
Craftsman style. It possessed an organic nature. Brown hues, low to the ground,
a chimney and garage constructed of field stone. It sat nestled in its urban
lot begging to be surrounded by beauty. I believe it was the blandness of <i>The
Ashmore’s</i> landscaping that spurred me on to take the plunge. Move that hosta.
Dig out the soulless rows of shrubs, eradicate the plastic edging and weed
control mesh. Make inroads into the lawn. I never looked back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Americans,
in my experience, hold this charming belief that if you are English and you
create a garden that is pleasing to the eye, it is due solely to your heritage
that it grows as it does. As if gardening is in the English DNA. I wish it were
so!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Everything
I know about gardening I have learned in Minnesota. Through trial and error and
an unhesitating approach to moving plants. During my brief tenure in England,
finally in a climate where I could grow year-round, I struggled in every
respect. The garden centers, replete with their expansive gift shops and tea
rooms, displayed rows and rows of sumptuously eye-watering plants and shrubs. I
recognized virtually none of them. The English universally use botanical
plant names. Common names, when applied, are frequently entirely different than
those used in the States.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
took me months to understand that there was a reason why local retailers only
offered a few varieties of daylily (my favorite plant.) I discovered to my
horror that without being able to depend upon extended periods of hot weather,
they were unreliable bloomers. One of my greatest joys starting in early
summer is to rise at first light and see which of my lovelies have opened
overnight. I greet them like old friends, exclaim at their beauty, then
deadhead their spent compadres. Extraordinarily therapeutic, I could hardly
bear the idea that this ritual was not going to be available to me in my
long-awaited English garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And
while hosta love the English climate, so do slugs and snails. They would
decimate complete plants overnight. Eventually, I just gave up on another of my
once-dependable garden companions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
old adage "the grass is always greener on the other side" could not
have been more apt! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So,
on a bitterly cold January day when I found myself viewing what was to become
my next home, the garden not at all apparent under the snow and ice, my heavy
heart was lifted by a single thought: I can once again garden like a
Minnesotan!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mine
was the sole offer despite a strong seller’s market, the discounted asking
price, and that the property sat directly across from Folwell Park. Observed
from the right angle, you could believe the park was an extension of the
garden. I found this irresistible. It was as if this place had been waiting
just for me. Because I desperately needed somewhere to call my own. Because I
could see beyond the achingly sad shabbiness of this 1925 bungalow. Because I
am a gardener.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
new home was located in north Minneapolis. When I first moved to the Twin
Cities, I learned to navigate this foreign land thusly: North was bad. <i>Always</i>.
South was good. <i>Always</i>. West was affluent suburbia where I could ride
horses. East was the direction of travel required to get to our twin, St. Paul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
bucked the system early and moved into neighborhoods that alarmed everyone within
my newly-acquired social circle. I made money every time I sold a house.
Gentrification was my friend. You will hear gunshots every night said a young cop
I consulted prior to making my latest home-buying decision. I went ahead with
the purchase anyway; gunfire was no match for my track record.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
was right. Calling 911 has become integral to my lifestyle. In the beginning, I
called often out of sheer disbelief at the crimes and various wrongs unfolding
in front of my white privileged eyes. Now, I am more likely to call out of
anger and outrage. I have developed a set of 911-worthy standards. If drug
dealers are selling to adults, moving on quickly, I am inclined to give them a
pass. But the guy terrifyingly tearing down the street on the illegal 4-wheeler
turns me into a crazy woman, and on principle I pick up my phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
confess that, sometimes, I have left it to others to react when gunshots stutter
out in the middle of the night. I worry that I will fall prey to the
complacency and cynicism that infects many of my neighbors. Fear and distrust
of local law enforcement is deeply rooted here on the Northside. I am almost
relieved when another event triggers the now-familiar heady cocktail of fear,
fury, and desire to right a wrong and I reach for that phone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
was a wimpy winter by Minnesota standards. The snow was gone by March and the
thaw revealed the true extent of the neglect that I had inherited. Like the
Sear’s kit house, it was clear I was going to have to engage in a little
digging and destruction to rejuvenate Mary’s little house. Yards and yards
of odd little retaining walls, now tipping over in all directions, had to be
removed. As did the business end of an ancient washing line that was serving as
a bird feeder rack. A non-functioning Narnia light was randomly placed where I
could envision a flower bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then
I waited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Spring
stampedes into Minnesota—a wonder to behold if you have lived through one of
these winters. Even after gardening here for over two decades, I am amazed that
anything survives the depth of the deep freeze. Yet once all danger of
snow has passed, in a matter of weeks everything is covered in a haze of green.
You become adept at identifying plants (and weeds) from the barest tuft of
growth, the blessed relief and thrill when your beloved bits and pieces show
signs of life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
even as you are welcoming the return of your garden, Mother Nature is
whispering in your ear ... <i>Hurry, hurry! Waste not a minute. Come November,
the snow will fly. </i>All you hope to achieve must be accomplished in Minnesota’s
short-lived growing season. Gardening in the Upper Midwest is an intense
experience. For me, a powerful driving force.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That
first spring, I confess I was especially excited as I waited to see Mary's
garden. Mary was a gardener. Everyone told me so. In the meantime, I found some
of her treasures scattered throughout the beds, stored in the garage and
basement, many of them not to my taste. In the past, I would have rehoused these
items. Yet now I did not. A pink Dollar Store kneeler has proved to be
invaluable. A cracked garbage can is perfect for weeding as it tips neatly
inside the requisite paper lawn bags. And buried deep under layers of
decaying leaves I came across a stepping stone, orange and black koi swimming
around its edges. It lives next to a newly-dug pond, much safer than the real
thing who would almost certainly become midnight snacks for marauding raccoons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This
was the start of a fresh approach to making a garden. There were budgeting
constraints. What could I recycle, re-purpose? To re-use Mary's leftovers in
unexpected ways seemed both practical and respectful. It gave me permission to
be more relaxed as I set about building something livable and lovely. My world
had been turned upside down, the perfect time to break through those
self-imposed creative barriers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By
May, I had a better feel for the garden itself. Frankly, I was disappointed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There
was much evidence that no-one had been picking up the litter that is endemic to
the north side of Minneapolis. The primary bed was not full of whimsical
plantings as the jaunty brick edging might suggest. Just some very ordinary hosta
and phlox, a wire Easter egg basket thrown in for good measure. And a carpet of
weeds and saplings from the street maples. The allium, though plentiful
and most welcome in the spring, were jammed up against the back wall, their
early-season impact lost in the shadow of the building. The "nice
hedge" (so described by the uninspired Realtor selling the house) was
pruned to within an inch of its life. In contrast, the one mature tree, a messy
ash, was gasping for a trim, more dead than alive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
front, a lonely hydrangea was parked in full sun on the edge of the
inexplicably lumpy lawn, where it would attract the attention of local dogs and
be bumped and bruised by pedestrians rounding the corner. I didn't understand
how it could still be alive given its harsh positioning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
tend to focus my attention on my more private back yard. But it was here, at
the intersection of two less-than-desirable streets in North Minneapolis, that
I unearthed where Mary had created her <i>pièce de résistance</i>. A
single bed. A bed that would accumulate snow, salt and sand delivered by the
City plows. That would suffer the most from accidental foot traffic. That
would collect the worst of Folwell's trash. That would from time to time be
driven over by cars under the influence of their reckless or impaired owners.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Nothing
made sense. I could see the love that Mary had put into this one bed, but I
struggled at first to comprehend why she might have selected this particular
space for what appeared to be her primary gardening effort. Where was the work
of the great gardener?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
then I reminded myself that Mary was sick. Perhaps she was too tired to tend to
more than this small plot. Could this also have been a mark of defiance on
her part? To demonstrate that you can create and sustain beauty anywhere? Even
at a crossroad that far too often bears witness to human drama and chaos.
Frequently loud. Occasionally violent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Did
she choose to cultivate here because, near the end, it took her out into the
world and provided an opportunity to greet her neighbors? Have a natter.
Observe the action on the street, good and bad. And hear how passersby
appreciated her endeavors. "<i>I love your flowers!"</i> A beep of
the horn, a smile and thumbs up from a total stranger. Because, I've learned,
this is what happens when you are tending Mary's garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
have come to view this garden as a miracle of sorts. It has yielded many
beautiful surprises and helped me become deeply connected with this sometime
challenging neighborhood. Has sustained me through another difficult adjustment
as an expat. It is our curse to forever be leaving precious people. This part
never gets any easier. My gardens have always eased the pain. Have enabled me
to create a sense of place when I was starting again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
has been while tending Mary's flower bed that I have experienced the most
uplifting of encounters. The most humbling, like the freely-given hugs from the
little girls that catch the bus on my corner or the young boy who has blessed
me with his inquisitive friendship, somehow rising above the mayhem of his
cramped and noisy household where a man was shot and killed shortly before I
arrived. For months, I naively assumed the deflated balloons hanging sadly from
the tree on the curb were left over from a kid’s birthday celebration. Another neighbor
unexpectedly pulled up his shirt to show me the tattooed landscape of his back:
tigers, eagles, and flowers. Another nature lover. Our mutual love of the
natural world couldn’t stop the jolt I felt when I spied the .44 Magnum tucked
into his waist band. I marvel at the way a flower or visiting butterfly ensnares
complete strangers in conversation about the wonders of our planet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Something
that seems unique to Northside living is how on the bleakest of days, when life
on this street seems unutterably hard, someone will express gratitude for the
beauty of my garden, and instantly the world is put to rights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There
is much need in this community, and I have been graced with many random
opportunities to give to others. I have developed a reputation. I have scoured
the ground for spent shells outside my window in the wake of gun-wielding
truant teenagers fleeing from an unidentified assailant. I bullied the City
into installing a four-way stop sign at my corner and shamed the Park Board
into giving our neglected park the love it had so long deserved. This place has
provided me with a job when I thought I had none.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I had
been absolutely determined to transplant the poorly-placed hydrangea that first
year, quite prepared to take the risk that it wouldn't live through such a
move. But thankfully I ran out of time and energy. Because it is a stunner.
Starting to bloom in June, it goes on and on, the blossoms spectacular and
deliciously fragrant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
hardy hydrangea is not alone in thriving where it should not. Hosta have been
treated likewise, planted in full sun in thin soil, and in their resilience,
they have spread through chinks in the brick edging, lending a delightfully
haphazard effect to the planting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
have never had a garden that attracts so many birds. The garden grows,
seemingly, unbidden. Even the hosta self-seed. The allium planted under the
overhangs of the roof get virtually no moisture. Yet when I dig them up, they
reappear. A mystery rose has popped up in the same barren spot. Diminutive
balloon flowers appear hither and thither in a stone-dry bed where I was sure
nothing could flourish. It was here also that I found what I at first
believed to be some sickly daylilies of the <i>'Stella de Oro'</i> variety. I
am not a fan of the color or the ever-blooming concept and dumped them
unceremoniously in Mary's boulevard. This daylily is in fact a gorgeous creamy
yellow. And tiny. Like the balloon flowers. Another near miss!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mary's
planting decisions seemed to defy gardening logic. There can be no other
explanation: these plants bloom for Mary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I have
of course put my own stamp on the most recent of my northern gardens. I have planted
many trees, some donated by public schemes seeking to reforest North
Minneapolis following the devastation of the 2011 tornado. I have switched
things up and further developed Mary’s riotous color scheme, just as I have made
use of many of Mary's curiosities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
gladly accept donations from friends and neighbors with which to fill my
growing garden and am thankful for these living gifts. This is a marked
departure from my former strict gardening self that would have turned down the
likes of the previously-scorned <i>Stella de Oro</i> and the near-neon orange
lilium, beautifully brash, that now brighten Mary's bed. These were a contribution
from the .44 Magnum owner. These plants are tough, easy keepers, perfect for
that dangerous boulevard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As I
dig and change, I have uncovered 20th century trash: Broken bottles, china
shards, hardware, a tiny Cinderella slipper. I cherish this glimpse into the
generations that called this corner home before my time. Before Mary's time. I
save the best pieces and wonder about their owners. And when the day comes that
I must leave here, they will accompany me on my travels. In memoriam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
continue to hear that Mary was quite the gardener. She was very kind, generous,
trusting. Maybe too trusting it has been suggested. Sometimes Mary was a
little, well, eccentric: compulsively mowing the lumpy lawn, trimming that
hedge. I am always grateful for these insights into the woman whose passing
made my Northside life possible. And very often those who knew her ask the
question: where is Mary now? I have to explain that Mary is gone. This has been
an altogether unexpected responsibility. I observe their faces, see the shock
and sadness, the little expressions of discomfort that they should have known.
Mary was their neighbor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How
can this happen? Because this is Minnesota. The first frost drives us into a
frenzy of preparation for the long cold months ahead. Then we hunker down for
the winter. Children are conceived. People marry. Move away. Get sick. And
die. In the spring, we venture outside and catch up. Quickly. For in just
a few short months, the snow will fly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Afterword<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I have recently looked up Mary's obituary. I
had resisted taking this step for fear that I would learn something that
wouldn't mesh with how I understood her. Instead, I discovered a deeper
connection. Mary was the sister of a man that I had worked alongside for a
number of years. My former co-workers had attended Mary's funeral.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Importantly, I learned that my sense of Mary
was not misplaced. She was a volunteer teacher’s assistant, loved children, was
passionate about the arts. She was pretty. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I have come to feel an affinity and an
affection for Mary. There is much we have shared beyond the plants that
survived her. Ours is a story of two gardeners. And their Northside garden.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"There is something
magical in sophisticating the elements into something livable, something human.
It is as if you are building your own heart."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>–Harry Jensen, December 2018<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Carolyn Bastick</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, British by birth and a naturalized
American, was born in Hong Kong into a British Army generational family,
survived the eccentricities and lack-luster education provided by the English
boarding school system (a memoir she fully intends to write one day), and spent
much of her adult life as an ex pat living in the States, raising a family,
and working in the compliance world. She is a lapsed horsewoman and passionate
self-taught gardener and has recently re-repatriated to England, where she is
happily self-isolating with her fiancé in their large and unruly garden—finally
learning how to be an English gardener.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-69038091055414982422020-06-01T17:36:00.000-06:002020-06-01T17:36:00.720-06:00Eye of the Beholder<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">by
David Raney<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Call
me male-ish. According to cultural assumptions, men are supposed to like guns,
but I’m not really a gun guy. As a boy I wheedled a BB gun for Christmas with
the solemn vow not to shoot birds, which I did at the first opportunity.
“You’ll shoot your eye out” runs the refrain from the movie <i>Christmas
Story</i>, and at least I didn’t do that. But I shot out a bird’s. Stalking the
wild sparrow in our back yard, I missed innumerable times before chance brought
down a luckless thing from our birch tree, a bead of blood vividly welling
where its eye had been. I stood over it dumbfounded until a rap at the picture
window startled me and I saw my brother pointing in the dramatic full-body pose
we now refer to as <i>J’Accuse! </i>before running off to find my
mother and bring down justice. It didn’t surprise me when I later read that the
last wild passenger pigeon, out of billions darkening pre-1900 American skies,
was killed in Ohio by a boy with a BB gun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Men
are fascinated by cars, too, I’m told, and football and fixing things, and
we’re competitive sexbots, comparing conquests and notching headboards. I don’t
really qualify as “manly” on those counts either, though I can be adolescently
competitive in the sports I care about. But testosterone levels aside, here’s
my question: Is it possible to connect with people first as humans, and only
afterward as men and women? Unless we’ve taken monastic vows, we interact with
each other all day, at work and play and school, shopping, dating. But
sometimes it seems less interacting than circling: shy, cocky, avid, wary,
desperate for attention, wishing we were invisible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ve
been interested in this <i>terra incognita </i>for the better part of
my life, as we all have, but lately I’ve been thinking about a certain
backwater of the territory that used to be called wolf whistling or catcalling,
and now in our less poetic times is referred to as “street harassment.” Consigned
by cliché to certain neighborhoods, particularly to wharves and construction
sites, it’s been treated for generations as a behavioral imperative issued with
the sailor suit and hardhat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Is
it a behavioral imperative though? Whether sexual attitudes and behavior owe
more to biology or culture, a debate that’s far from over, this isn’t 1965
after all. Surely gross misogyny is on the wane, like smoking, if only from the
pressure of broad social disapproval. Even the word “catcalling” sounds like a <i>Mad
Men </i>plot point. But it hasn’t gone away, of course, as half-open eyes
and ears will tell you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
react to women, and if I were homosexual, I’d react to men. That’s a biological
imperative, not a behavioral one. No one, I think, wants us to stop noticing
each other. I just don’t react like the wolf in <i>Red Hot Riding Hood</i>.
I’ve never offered a public assessment of a woman’s body or suggested to a
stranger what a fool she’d be not to avail herself of my outsized charms. This
makes me a paragon of nothing, as I don’t imagine my friends do it either. I
know my father didn’t. In any case, who does it is less interesting to me than
why, and what it feels like. So I started asking women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
problem was how to approach someone at a bus stop or coffee shop without
sounding like the saddest pickup artist ever. (“’Scuse me, just wondering, do
guys hit on you all the time?”) But I wanted to hear from more than friends or
the internet — where, as you’d expect, treatments range from intellectual to
comic to incendiary — so at the risk of being slapped or simply ignored, I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What
works best, after establishing that I’m a writer, is to ask women if they’ve
lived somewhere else and noticed any differences in catcalling. I realize this
begs the question, but no one has ever corrected me. Precisely zero women said
they’d never been whistled at or otherwise harassed in public. My unscientific
survey suggests it happens nearly everywhere, to pretty much all women,
regardless of age, attire or weather.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Researchers
have done some work in this field, though I was surprised to find how little of
that research occurred until recently. The CDC reported in 2010 that worldwide seventy
to ninety-nine percent of women experienced “non-contact unwanted sexual
experiences.” In a 2008 study by StopStreetHarassment.com, nearly ninety
percent of women said they’d experienced harassment by age nineteen, almost a
quarter by age twelve. <i>Twelve</i>. Americans, incidentally, have no
special claim on this ugly street theater: in one study more than eighty
percent of women in both Egypt and Canada reported harassment, and in Yemen,
where women typically go about modestly dressed or veiled, the figure is over ninety
percent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
women who have been kind enough to talk to me about their own experiences confirm
these findings, as well as the appalling range of misbehavior that can
accompany the hooting, whistling, and verbal vivisection. One woman was biking
along a country road between grocery store and home when a man pulled up next
to her, masturbating, then turned around and drove past again, clearly enjoying
her fear. The women with whom I’ve spoken say this sort of thing started when
they were eleven, twelve, fourteen, describing plenty of “Hey babys” and all
manner of unwanted advances. One woman wrote, “It’s hard to explain how
invasive it feels. I’ve had my entire house robbed twice, and it doesn’t even
approach that hit-and-run feeling. It makes you wary; you shut down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Men,
none of this will be news to your friend, girlfriend, daughter, sister, wife.
But it was to me, and the more I listened, the more troubling it got.
“Strangely enough,” one woman told me, “the college towns I grew up in were the
worst, whereas during five years in Philadelphia, I can only recall one stray
comment yelled from a car.” Others spoke differently of Philly, Atlanta,
Chicago and every other city I heard about, with two women saying the opposite
about college towns.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ve
spent a good part of my life in university settings, and I think the reason I
haven’t seen much of the cat or wolf isn’t that everyone’s so proper; I just
haven’t seen it. I’m not the recipient, for one thing, but apparently, I’m also
oblivious. As I spoke with women, I was shocked at how ubiquitous such
harassment is on campuses where I’ve worked. One woman told me she was
repeatedly harassed by a university security guard; another filed a report on
campus workers for leering at undergraduates. And it isn’t only nineteen-year-olds
in shorts; a middle-aged woman told me she’d been catcalled near the school
while walking in the rain in a bulky raincoat, oversized hat, and umbrella: “I
might as well have been wearing a tent.” And then there’s frat-boy behavior, an
example being the section of Brown’s campus that a woman told me she avoided
because it was known for rows of guys holding score cards, like Olympic judges,
as women walked by.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m
not alone in my density. The discussion “How common is catcalling?” on the site
Democratic Underground begins with a woman’s six-month diary of strangers
leering, making passes, and offering offensive comments regardless of weather
or dress. A sympathetic reader commented, “Being male, this is not in the realm
of my experience—neither as a receiver or a perp. Though I have witnessed
catcalling of women on the street, it's not all that common in my
neighborhood.” Possibly, but I’m willing to bet it’s more common than his
experience would suggest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What
we dismiss in our density is the recognition that such behavior fosters fear in
women. Not only are catcalls demeaning, reducing the individual and complete
woman to a fraction of herself as a sexual object, when men leer and make
suggestive comments, they see women only through male eyes. Few men have
experienced how frequently unwanted advances escalate. Women are rightfully
afraid of being pawed, stalked, or attacked, however innocuous men might find
the leer or whistle. “Almost all women have a defensive strategy for walking
alone,” writes Jamie Golden in “Why Just Telling Men No Doesn’t Necessarily
Work,” but “almost no men do.” This seems to be true across cultures. “A
young woman likes to feel attractive,” one woman told me, “but I think women of
all ages feel that implicit threat of physical peril, always.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Many
men, I’m sure, would regard the fear induced by unwanted advances as ludicrous.
Most women, I’m equally sure, would find it commonplace. Two women in a single
week of October 2015 were murdered after refusing to talk or give their phone
number to a man. One was in Detroit, at a funeral of all things, the other on a
street in Queens. Margaret Atwood writes that she once asked a male friend why
men feel threatened by women. He told her, “They’re afraid women will laugh at
them.” She asked a group of women the same question and they said, “We’re
afraid of being killed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
wolf’s defense is typically to claim that a whistle or call is a compliment.
Deep down women like it; why the fuss? Innumerable articles and blog posts
argue against this, their titles sufficient: “No, Dudes, It’s Not Flattering”;
“Your Catcalls Are Not a Compliment. <i>Ever.</i>” Even <i>Playboy </i>weighed
in with a flowchart called “Dudes, It’s Not Flattering”, which concludes
that precisely two circumstances make catcalling acceptable: “1) You’ve
consensually agreed to shout sexually suggestive comments to each other in
public; 2) She is literally a cat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yet
in 2014 <i>New York Post </i>writer Doree Lewak caused a stir
with an article titled “Hey ladies! Catcalls are flattering! Deal with it” in
which she maintains that she loves all the attention from construction crews:
"I’ll never forget my first time… I was over the moon…. The mystique
and machismo of manly construction workers have always made my heart beat a
little faster—and made my sashay a little saucier. It’s as primal as it
gets."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Never
mind that, as Lauren Bans noted in <i>GQ</i>, Lewak’s editorial “reads
like a drunk Carrie Bradshaw after a partial lobotomy.” The point Lewak chooses
to ignore is that she’s decided to be pleased by a situation that might turn to
violence, and frequently does. It’s not everyone’s option to disregard that
fact, nor her place to instruct them how to feel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This
is why when male celebrities complain of being objectified (Robert Redford:
“People have been so busy relating to how I look, it's a miracle I didn't
become a self-conscious blob of protoplasm”), it’s possible to think they’re
sincere without accepting that they really know what they’re talking about. Any
fear they associate with the experience involves being professionally
trivialized, not made to hate half of humanity for the rest of your life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s
why I’ll never really know what I’m talking about, either. In my only example
of trading perspectives, I was biking one day and stopped for a water break. A
van of teenagers rolled by, and one girl leaned out the window and whooped
something about my butt in bike shorts, pretending to be enthused for the
benefit of the guy driving and, I’m sure, for her own amusement. It wasn’t
about me—any male fifteen to fifty would have served—and there was no physical
threat. But it didn’t feel great, because that’s what objectification is: being
rendered interchangeable, a category.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
other reflexive defense of this behavior is that it’s timeless, ineradicable,
it’s in our DNA. You hear this from men interviewed in the street, including
one who let this drop (along with my jaw) in a video: “I understand, you know—I
have five sisters. But it’s just, like, a societal thing. It’s the way things
roll.” To appeal to someone’s mother or sister might seem a foolproof way to
humanize the encounter. (Would you want someone to talk to your <i>daughter </i>that
way?) But isn’t that also objectifying, to say a woman is worthy of respect
because she’s somebody’s something?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
behavior is certainly old, so I guess the excuses have to be. References to
whistling at women date to at least 200 B.C., when the Roman playwright Plautus
mentions a young woman who, "when she passes through the streets, all
the men would look at her, leer, nod and wink and whistle." He has a
father say this to his son, creepily enough, about a slave girl they both
covet. But old isn’t the same as natural—and what does that matter anyway?
We tamp down or prohibit all kinds of things that are arguably natural.
Evolutionarily speaking, indiscriminate rape is an efficient way to spread
one’s genes. Civilized people don’t practice it. And there’s the slippery slope
problem: assaults and rape are worse than whistling, but are they categorically
different or just on a continuum? If whistling is hard-wired, as some would
have it, and thus a cousin of “real” violence, wouldn’t rape be just as hard to
eradicate, just as exempt from the attempt?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
hope not, because I enjoy connecting with people, not objects or opposites.
Maybe I’m fooling myself and a sexual agenda lurks under all our veneers. But
maybe not. I like giving directions to strangers, though I’m awful at it, and I
even like seeing other people do it—both looking the same direction, arms
outstretched like an invitation to dance. And I like eyes. While I can’t look
at the world through someone else’s, I can look into them, and what I see there
often saddens me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Girls
are taught early not to talk to strange men, not to make eye contact. That’s
what I see in women’s eyes when they’re alone. Asked what she does to protect
herself from street harassment, a woman in Jessica Williams’s <i>Late
Show </i>segment on catcalling replies, “My normal response is to put on
my bitch face.” The other women nod. I pass them on the sidewalk, morning and
evening, walking and running, in suits and dresses and gym clothes. Their eyes
say <i>I’ve heard it before</i>, <i>asshole, </i>or <i>Go
ahead and look—I’m not even here</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Those
expressions aren’t haughty, just defensive or middle-distance vacant, born of
long practice deflecting all the muttered invitations and “Damn, girls.”
Instead of thinking about the spring air or a project at work or a drink with
friends, she's spending mental energy sorting men into a box (guys, jerks) like
the one she's been in since middle school (tits, ass). Wouldn’t it be nice to
imagine a brighter world to breathe in, one where our fleeting chance of
connection didn’t come so freighted with fear?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’ll
never know exactly what another person thinks or feels. I’m not even sure how
well I understand myself. But half a life later, I know what that sparrow saw.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">David
Raney</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> is a writer and editor in Atlanta. His pieces have
appeared in several dozen journals, books and newspapers. The latest good
fortune was being listed in <i>Best American Essays 2018</i> and <i>2019.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-51531698886458455492020-05-25T16:39:00.002-06:002020-05-25T16:39:44.127-06:00The Animal Lover at Seven and Thirty-seven<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">by
Hannah Melin</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When Avery grows up, she will be an
“animal rescuer, just like her Mom!” Every adult in Avery’s life is assigned an
animal: a kangaroo for her father, a vulture for her mother. For the first week
as her babysitter, I am watched cautiously from behind a stuffed lion. After a
week of careful consideration, I am labeled a zebra.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No jokes are made about Erin’s title as
a vulture. Erin grins and swings Avery around in a hug when she correctly
recites a fact on the wingspan of an African Condor or the lifecycle of a Common
Turkey Vulture. Above their television set, framed photos of Avery in diapers
are mixed in with fuzz-headed owlets, fledgling eagles, and newly hatched
vultures. Foot-long, sleek black feathers are tucked between well-worn romance
novels and dog-training guides.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Avery’s hands are always ready to grip,
touch, and pet. She pinches her crayons tightly between her fingers, drawing
savannas with thick, heavy lines. The skin that stretches across her palms is
porcelain pale, interrupted only by light freckles. Erin’s hands grip lightly.
Arthritis, she says, from zoo work. The skin is paper-thin and as pale as her
daughter’s. Scratch marks and scars cover her thin hands, running up past her
wrist and onto her forearm. The razor-width cuts seem to track decades of self-harm,
a conclusion dismissed only by the photograph of a younger Erin holding up her
forearm for a massive Horned Owl to perch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Avery sinks into the comfy couch,
immersed in a Disney movie while Erin leans against the kitchen counter,
staring into her coffee mug while I sip from mine. She talks about the latest
tragedy at Animal Kingdom: an aggressive male Grant’s Zebra broke out of his
holding pen in the night and into the pen of a resting mother and her
three-month-old foal. It trampled the foal to death and ripped off the mother’s
right ear. She tears up, covering her mouth as she tells me how the mother
whinnied and bayed for hours. She’s furious that the locks weren’t strong
enough, but she never blames the male. It’s a survival mechanism, she says, to ensure
their genetic line survives. A female won’t mate with a male if she has a foal.
The male will kill the foal to confirm his own lineage. She’s glad no keepers
tried to intervene during his rampage; she’s certain they’d have been trampled.
The attack never makes the newspapers and I try not to wince when Avery gives
me a crayon drawing of my animal avatar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Avery knows to ask owners if she can pet
their dogs before approaching. She assures me that she knows lions, leopards,
and tigers are all deeply dangerous creatures. She scoops up Rosie, a Chilean
Rose-Haired Tarantula the size of my fist, without hesitation. She giggles as
the fanged spider walks across her hands. She asks me if I want to hold her. I
decline, but I do let Valentine, a six-inch Corn Snake, wrap around my wrist.
Once I’m preoccupied with the small warmth making its way to my fingertips, Avery
plops Mr. Bojangles, a six-pound Bearded Dragon, on my shoulder. It scrambles
on my t-shirt and falls asleep, staining my sleeve with raspberry juice.
Raspberries are its second favorite snack, after live crickets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Avery’s best friends are carried around
with her at all times. A balding stuffed zebra, a lion Beanie Baby, and a dull
yellow dog. If she moves from the room, she scoops them up in her forearms and
lines them up in their new position. She engages in a constant dialogue with
them. If I ask one of the stuffed animals a question, she responds in a
squeaking character voice, but her personal conversations with them are
one-sided. She speaks to them, pauses, and continues on with a new talking
point. She doesn’t see the point in giving them voice when she already knows
what they would say. Erin thinks she’ll grow out of it any day now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Erin attended a parent-teacher meeting
last month, where one of Avery’s teachers was concerned by Avery’s
introversion. She’s the same as Erin was at that age, Erin recalls. Erin seems
proud to tell me that Avery prefers animals to people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three months later, Snowball, their
twelve-year-old house cat, drops dead in front of her food bowl. Erin sobs into
her pillow. It’s too much, she says. Such reactions adds to her belief that her
husband will leave her. She thinks her ex-boyfriend has been stalking her (“Make
sure you lock the doors,” she tells me, “but I don’t think he’d hurt you”).
She’s convinced Avery will spend the rest of her life talking to stuffed
animals. She thinks she’s going to lose her job because of her arthritis. To
not work with animals, she says, that would be worse than death for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I tell my mother what Erin said on the
car ride home. My mother has to pick me up when I watch Avery into the
evenings. I’m not allowed to drive at night until I’m old enough to get my
Class D.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Avery chases their Pitbull mix around
the yard, whooping and giggling. The sun glints off her hair, turning it into a
writhing, glimmering halo. She stretches open her arms, inviting the dog to
jump onto her and knock her into the grass. The dog does not bite, but he plays
rough. Pink ridges rise across her upper arms where his dewclaw scrapes, not
quite deep enough to draw blood. He shoves into her side, hard, but she tackles
him back, squealing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At age seven, the animal lover knows no
fear. She does not bother to adjust for the rest of us. She spends recess
hunting for garter snakes and doesn’t bother with the comments made about her
on the swing set. She lets every creature, ant and elephant alike, crawl into
her heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At age thirty-seven, the animal lover
learns the weight of these creatures. She lets every one of them into her heart
and onto her skin. They leave more scars than she can count.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">(The
names in this essay have been changed to protect the identities of those
featured.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Hannah
Melin</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"> is a writer
working out of Dallas, Texas. She studied Creative Writing at the University of
Central Florida where she worked as the Fiction Editor for <i>The Cypress Dome</i>
literary magazine. After graduating, Hannah worked as a literacy teacher for
the Peace Corps on islands throughout the Eastern Caribbean. Hannah's
nonfiction has been featured in <i>Big Muddy</i>. Her fiction has been featured
in <i>Monkeybicycle, Heart of Flesh, Night Picnic Press, </i>and<i> The
Metaworker.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-42692916539964956092020-05-13T16:09:00.003-06:002020-05-13T16:09:51.010-06:00Blood on the Stoop--Four Tales<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">by Evelyn Martinez</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Fat maroon spatters cascaded from the
second-story entrance of the <span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;">Victorian </span>house
where I lived on <span style="letter-spacing: .1pt;">15th S</span>treet to the
sidewalk, coalescing into a splashy blob at the front curb, almost dry and
shockingly vivid against the grungy cement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">We lived one block from Notre Dame
Grammar School. My guardian, Antonia, did not trust me to travel to and from
school on my own. Class dismissed at 2:45 pm, and I’d shoot out the door, out
the gate, and into the beige 1953 Mercury double-parked out front. While the
other girls sauntered out in chatty clumps, I’d be tripping over Antonia’s
sharp knees to slither into the back seat behind a grumpy Arturo Hill, her
current husband. They were old. I was ashamed of them and of myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">On that afternoon I skidded to a stop
outside the school entrance, confused. Where were they?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I waited and waited. Something was wrong
and I had no clue how to respond. Daring to walk home was risking Antonia’s
rage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">3:30 pm. The last straggling student had
rounded the <span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;">corner. </span>What should I
do? Home was just a block away. I took off running. Running like Antonia’s
friend Satan was after me. Panicked, almost sobbing, I arrived home to the
maroon stain at the curb, more stains on the sidewalk, on the front steps, on
the doorknob … there was blood everywhere. The house silent, forbidding,
desolate, I banged on the door. I cried. I yelled, “Mama!<span style="letter-spacing: -1.6pt;"> </span>Arturo!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I rang the first-floor tenants. No
answer. I shuddered on the bloody stoop sensing a brutal assault, a death, my
abandonment. I was thirteen years old, but I had lived a regimented life Antonia
controlled and had no decision-making skills. Who could help me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Sister Catherine Dolores, our principal—she’d
know what to do. I ran back to school, tore into her office, and blurted out my
frantic story. She took my hand and listened. Alarm flickered in her gray eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">My emergency contact list contained one
name, Dr. Jorge Arguelles, a dentist in San Francisco. Antonia claimed to be
the illegitimate daughter of a prominent Nicaraguan politician, the father of
Dr. Arguelles. She called Jorge her brother. “Not true,” he had once whispered
to me. “Antonia is mistaken.” Nevertheless he “went along” with her story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Dr. Arguelles and his wife appeared
within the hour. We swung by the house—empty, its bloodstains blurred by
darkness. They took me to their fancy home in Forest Hill and fed me a snack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I had experienced their generosity
previously, their gifts of beautiful books and art materials. On this evening
they conversed quietly but nervously in the kitchen. I cringed under their
curious pitying stare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">We knew what Antonia was capable of. I
envisioned Arturo slashed to pieces in a knife attack and Antonia behind bars.
The Arguelles’ first call was to SFPD. They tracked her to SF General Emergency
where she had been treated for severe cuts to the hands. She’d lost
considerable blood but refused admission. Once they’d stitched her up, she’d
ordered her husband to take her home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">We got back to the old Victorian just as
Arturo was easing a wobbly, shrunken Antonia out of the Mercury. His face was
pinched and sad. His hands shook. The tale that emerged was grisly, but true to
Antonia form. The two had been battling. As usual she grabbed her always-handy
butcher knife and went after him. Fleeing Antonia’s crazed fury Arturo stumbled
down the narrow stairwell to the front stoop. She caught him and attacked,
jabbing at his face and chest—a scenario I was familiar with. But then he did
something astonishing—he snatched the big knife out of her hand. Outraged, reckless,
she seized it back with both hands, blade up. Antonia and Arturo grappled. She
would not surrender her knife even as it sliced deep into both upper palms,
nearly severing the fingers. Arturo let go, horrified as blood spurted over the
two of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">From that day on Antonia and Arturo
shared a quiet truce. He nursed her with a tenderness that astounded me and
made me jealous. Antonia never regained full arrogant control of the household.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Her hands lost the strength to grasp a
knife. Her desire to clutch me tight slipped away and she even allowed me to
walk to and from school by myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">II<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Two years prior it had been my blood
splattering the front stoop, my ride to the ER. Once I was past docile
childhood and capable of both talking back and running fast, the fights between
Antonia and me turned vicious, loud, and physical. That evening Antonia locked
everyone in for the night. As usual, Arturo was confined to his tiny room,
while she and I were secured within the front rooms of the flat. Our area
consisted of a living room and bedroom separated by French-style glass doors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The fight was a typical exchange of
threats and demeaning insults. She’d yelled something about my being “la hija
de la puta mas grande” and “una maldita, una ingrata.” Storming out of the
bedroom, she threw open the multi-paned door. I was at her heel cussing
furiously back when she slammed it. Caught in the threshold I reared back, my
left arm shielding my face. My arm shattered a glass pane and was slashed to
the bone from wrist to mid forearm. I swooned at the gaping cut, the geyser of
blood. Antonia grabbed a towel, wrapped my arm, and rousted Arturo out of bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The closest ER was at Mary’s Help
Hospital a few blocks away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Terrified, in shock, I barely heard
Antonia concoct a story of innocent youthful rambunctiousness on my part. I did
not contradict.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The stitching would be done under local
anesthetic. As the masked and gowned surgeon approached, I started thrashing
and yowling. Angrily he called out, “Hold her down!” They tried and I fought
them. Then, gentle hands on my shoulders, a soft soothing male voice. It was a
young doctor—an angel, I thought. He cradled my head and stroked my greasy
hair. My body stilled and the testy surgeon finished his job. I spent the night
at Mary’s Help. It was nice to be in a clean gown in a clean bed in a peaceful
place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">III<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Knife fights were routine occurrences
during my grammar school years. Antonia kept a rough assortment of men in the
house—generally either on their way to prison or just released. I confess the
distinction of having visited every state prison in California by the age of
nine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Antonia’s men hung around the rear of
the house drinking and smoking. They carried weapons, as did Antonia. She had a
stash of knives, hatchets, lead pipes and at least one gun. She shared her
arsenal with her male associates. The cops were frequent callers to our home—generally
stomping through the front door while one or two of her friends climbed over
the back fence and escaped via the neighbors’ yard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">16th Street in the Mission—especially
the blocks between Guerrero and South <span style="letter-spacing: -.5pt;">Van </span>Ness
were notorious drug- and alcohol-fueled sites of gang and personal warfare
amidst a string of sleazy bars<span style="letter-spacing: -1.7pt;"> </span>and
liquor stores. Families and decent folks stayed away after<span style="letter-spacing: -.25pt;"> </span>sunset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; letter-spacing: -.5pt;">We </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">once had a young guy staying at the
house—late teens, early twenties. He’d scandalously become involved with the
mother of the downstairs tenant. The tenant and his wife were professionals
working long hours and the tenant’s grandmother had come to help with their
kids. But she spent more time canoodling in Antonia’s kitchen with our young
guest—was she in her forties, fifties? One night this young guy succumbed to
the temptations of<span style="letter-spacing: -1.35pt;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: .15pt;">16th </span>Street, left the house and Grandmother’s
arms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Late that night piercing cries for help
from the sidewalk yanked us out of our sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Antonia and I ran to the front window.
The boy was crawling up the stoop, one hand pressed to his left side, a stream
of blood in his wake. Antonia flung our door open. I crept down the steps and
found Grandmother in her nightgown kneeling on the cement, embracing the boy.
Perhaps she had tried to drag him up the stairs. I crouched alongside not
offering much help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Meanwhile,<span style="letter-spacing: -.8pt;"> </span>Antonia<span style="letter-spacing: -.2pt;"> </span>flap-flapped<span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;"> </span>down<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> </span>to<span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;"> </span>the<span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;"> </span>street<span style="letter-spacing: -.2pt;"> </span>in<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> </span>her<span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;"> </span>ratty<span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;">
</span>“chanclas” and<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> </span>surveyed<span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;"> </span>it<span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;"> </span>right
and left. Assured that no one had followed the boy, she dashed back up to call
an ambulance. She forgot about me. I watched, fascinated as Grandmother/lover
tried to comfort the whimpering<span style="letter-spacing: -1.3pt;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: -.25pt;">boy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Something thick and ropy slid out of a
jagged hole under his ribs. Grandmother squealed, “Que es eso?” Que te
metieron?” She pulled on what looked like puffy rolled cotton trimmed in bright
red, and he screamed. Peering closer, “Hay—tus intestinos, mijo!” She quickly
started shoving it back in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Finally, the distant wail of a siren.
Then a chorus of sirens. As the ambulance screeched around the corner, she
kissed and soothed the boy now passed out in her arms. Antonia tromped
downstairs briskly pushing men out her door, grabbed me by the arm, hauled me
inside, and turned the bolt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Stealing one last glance, I saw Grandmother
clutching at the boy while her son pulled her towards their flat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Cops were everywhere. The son—his
English clear, precise: “We know nothing, officers. I have seen the young man
in the neighborhood on occasion. Never talked to him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Antonia in broken, but highly indignant
English: “Just a boy I helped out one time. He said his name was Juan. No, he
doesn’t live here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">He was taken to SF General Emergency.
Grandmother visited him in the hospital. We heard he survived and was deported.
Grandmother’s son sent her back to Nicaragua. The tenants divorced and moved
out after a series of nasty scenes. I watched their two small kids being packed
off somewhere. They looked lost and miserable, a feeling I knew too well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">IV<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The bland faced Victorian on 15th Street
thrived as a gang-related war bunker while Antonia lived and maintained health
and cash. We who survived there were all battle-scarred, without mercy in our
hearts. The most notorious incident—earning a shocking front page headline
along with mention of our address—occurred on a Friday night in winter, on my ninth
birthday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Antonia and Arturo picked me up after
school and we headed for Victoria Bakery in North Beach to buy my “special” birthday
cake (actually Antonia’s favorite), rum with thick white icing. Pink green
swirls and pastel rosettes wished me, “Happy Birthday, Abelina.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Then we rushed home to tidy up the
living room. Antonia had invited some of the neighborhood kids and their moms.
I was dreading the whole thing and the crinkly too-big dress she’d bought me
for the party.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The house, as always, was full of her
men friends drinking and carousing in the kitchen and on the back porch. She
ordered them to settle down and shut the kitchen <span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;">door. </span>Then she locked<span style="letter-spacing: -2.15pt;"> </span>Arturo
in his room. The party was a mild disaster. The few invited kids and I stared
at one <span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;">another. </span>Nobody enjoyed the
cake except Antonia. Loud rude laughter burst out of the kitchen. The parents
looked at one another and hustled their kids<span style="letter-spacing: -.05pt;">
</span>home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">There we sat with most of a melting
lopsided cake. I wrestled out of the hated dress and jumped under the covers
with a book, grateful to be alone and confined to the front rooms. Antonia
joined her men in the kitchen in the back of the house. I must have fallen
asleep. Sirens wove through my dreams—an odd but familiar <span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;">lullaby. </span>My lullaby got wildly insistent
and I jarred awake. The strident wails were converging on our street. Yet again,
cops bashing open the front <span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;">door. </span>Followed
by yelling,<span style="letter-spacing: -1.4pt;"> </span>stomping up the stairs,
the back porch door slamming open and shut. More thumping down the back<span style="letter-spacing: -1.05pt;"> </span>stairs. Heavy boots running down the
hall and out the back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Stop, you are under arrest. Stop or we’ll
shoot.” I heard a crash in the backyard. Peeping<span style="letter-spacing: -1.4pt;"> </span>out the side bedroom window overlooking the neighbors’ yard, I
saw a man straddling the fence. He was quickly dragged down by half a dozen
uniformed cops with drawn guns. The walls shook as they wrestled him down the
hall, down the stairs, and out the <span style="letter-spacing: -.15pt;">entryway.
</span>I ran to the front window and recognized one of Antonia’s men,
handcuffed and flung into the back seat of a squad <span style="letter-spacing: -.2pt;">car.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 2.6pt;"> </span>Other cops stuck
around talking to Antonia. There was no sign of the other men. Her English was
extra poor that night, her voice deferential. “I know nothing.” “No se nada.”
She shook her head. She shrugged<span style="letter-spacing: -2.05pt;"> </span>dramatically.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">It made the headlines on all three
newspapers—Chronicle, Examiner, and Call-Bulletin. “Man Shoots and Kills Wife
in Front of Six Children.” And the crime-scene photo—shocking, lurid. A small
flat on Capp Street. A bleak, narrow, untidy room, a door framing tunnel-like
darkness beyond. Two tousled beds on each side of the room. Five or six dark-haired
children caught by the camera lens—a wide-eyed toddler in draggy diapers, small
half-dressed bodies huddling on the cots, clinging to the walls. By the far
door a girl about my age pressed against the threshold, eyes downward. On the
linoleum floor, from behind the right bed frame sprawled two bare legs, one
foot in a “chancla.” The edge of a flowered skirt peeked out. The rest vanished
into the shadows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The body on the floor was the mother of
the children, shot to death by her estranged husband who gave his current
address as our flat. After a night of drinking he had decided to “have a talk”
with his wife, stopping to pick up a gun along the way. The wife became
“unreasonable.” Enraged, he shot her to death in front of their children and
fled back to our house. Back to 15th Street where he and Antonia were working
out a plan when the cops showed up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I was mortified—and still stunned—at
school on Monday. The nuns were extra kind and patient with me that week.
Antonia admitted without remorse that she had lent him her revolver: “Didn't
think he would do something crazy. But that wife of his was a whore, and
probably had it coming to her. Too bad about the kids.” That’s all she had to
say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Arturo, for once, expressed concerns
about how his pension funds were being spent. Antonia may have listened. Fewer
men came round the house. The murderer was sent to San Quentin. Antonia and I
went to see him once or twice. He was released after a few years and headed to
our house, but didn’t stick around. I don’t know what became of those orphaned<span style="letter-spacing: -1.55pt;"> </span>children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The rest of the blood stains on the
plain-faced 15th Street Victorian—a victim in its own right—fell in drabs,
dribbles, and smears. The house witnessed suffering—bludgeoned mice, impaled
canaries, tortured chameleons, neglected dogs, cats, bunnies and turtles,
aborted fetuses, abused humans. Much of it simply categorized as collateral
damage in the ongoing war that was Antonia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I have been drawn back to the house
periodically. One day I encountered a young woman coming down the front stairs
as I gaped at the dingy shingled facade. I blurted, “I grew up in that house” and
joked about it being haunted. Neither of us laughed. She lived on the second
floor—where the worst mayhem was enacted. Certain rooms felt oppressive, indeed
haunted, she said. People refused to share the flat for more than a few months.
She and her new roommate were trying to exorcise these brooding restless spirits,
but they were tenacious. The young woman invited me up. I had last been inside
that house thirty-three years previously. It could not hurt me. My body grew <span style="letter-spacing: -.2pt;">heavy and </span>my gut twisted as she led me up
those familiar grim stairs into the old bedroom, and to the closet that opens
up into the attic. Malevolence and its unleashed anguish slammed into me. I
knew that what the young women sensed was real. But I was useless to help and
wished them luck as I fled down the<span style="letter-spacing: -1.65pt;"> </span>steps
and into the sun-washed<span style="letter-spacing: -.1pt;"> </span>street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-line-break-override: restrictions; punctuation-wrap: simple; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Epilogue<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The house I grew up in was a two-story
dour Victorian with faded tan shingles in San Francisco’s Mission District. My
current home is a Hollywood-style bungalow painted a delectable orange sherbet
with raspberry trim. It is a half a block from Ocean Beach in San Francisco. I
was a helpless prisoner within the walls of my childhood house. I am a free
individual within my home. I leave and return as I please.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The Victorian on 15th Street had seven
rooms—high-ceilinged, narrow, with stained enamel walls. Its dusty, cluttered
rooms had sharp, shadowy corners and lined a bleak hallway. The door to each
room had two locks—a latch and a deadbolt. Doors remained shut and locked at
all times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Shabby nylon curtains drooped over the
few tall, dirt-streaked windows. Delightfully, the back porch boasted the one
large west-facing window in the house. I savored rare moments on that porch
soaking in late afternoon sun and sky. My childhood house was bordered by
cement cracked, chipped, and devoid of the tiniest green weed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">My home by the ocean is one wide,
flowing, light-infused space with no staircases. The only locked doors lead to
the outside world, to be opened at my discretion. My back wall is no wall but a
series of windows that gaze upon and open into my garden. My front and back
yards are lush with blooming succulents and flowering bushes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Wood, shingles, and plaster do not utter
words, but they remember. And if walls could talk? Might not the battered old
Victorian groan and splinter into shivery fragments of misdeed and sorrow? My
home by the ocean speaks softly, openly of peaceful things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Evelyn Martinez </span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">holds a bachelor’s degree in English
from the University of San Francisco and a Master of Nursing degree from the
University of California, San Francisco. She has been a corrections officer, a
theater usher, a quilt conservator for the AIDS Memorial Quilt, and a family
nurse practitioner. She has traveled extensively, and her favorite place in the
world is Antarctica. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in <i>The
Charles Carter,</i> <i>Entropy,</i> <i>Rougarou, </i>and <i>Your Impossible
Voice</i>. Her essay “If” has been nominated for a 2019 Pushcart Prize.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-8445415843414886752020-05-04T16:55:00.001-06:002020-05-04T16:55:48.766-06:00Click Here to Chat with an Online Therapist<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by Shellie Richards<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Concerned about your test score? <u>Click here</u> to
chat with an online therapist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My immediate concern was not my test score, but that an intrusive
dialogue box would appear in the lower right-hand corner. Hello! How can I help
you today? Only I wasn’t trying to return a pair of ill-fitting sandals or a
T-shirt that ran small. I had just finished the test for the Asperger’s
Quotient, and my score had me deep in Asperger’s territory. I was in the thick
of it. But I was not concerned. I was not even surprised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In true Asperger’s fashion, I did not want to chat online. I don’t
prefer to <i>chat</i>. I prefer to talk about why I am even here to begin
with. I want to know about the human condition, if suffering makes us who we
are, whether we are alone. I want to know the why of things. <i>Why</i> is
why I took the test. Curiosity. Suspicion. And so I answered fifty questions
about my imagination, about counting things, about comfort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I texted my results to my sister, a therapist, who, assuming I’d
share, told my parents. I hadn’t planned on sharing. My family members denied
my Asperger’s test result the way some deny climate change. But I kept thinking
about my imagination, about counting things, about comfort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the gospel of Mary Magdalene, she has a vision; her spirit is
floating above her lifeless body, and her mind speaks—<i>You are leaving? I
never saw you come</i>. Her soul replies, <i>I served you as a garment,
and you did not know me</i>. I think my imagination serves me as a garment. I
do not know it, but it is a protective cloak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For years—eighteen—I rocked. In my bed at night, I’d get on all
fours, plant my head in my pillow, and rock until my long, curly hair was
matted, or until I collapsed on my side, too sleepy to continue. I found this
greatly comforting, but to visitors who could see from the sofa, it was
disturbing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What is wrong with her?</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They asked out of curiosity or concern or neither<i>.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I also rocked in my dad’s recliner. I would sway back and forth,
taking deep breaths, meditating or unthinking. According to pediatricians,
rocking is a self-comfort activity. Sometimes self-comfort is the only kind. So
I would sit, firmly planted in the gold and brown tweed recliner, my naked toes
barely touching the ground but enough to wear the shag carpet as thin as
tissue. My mother moved the recliner around, but no matter. I made more spots
while I listened to the scratch of the stereo, the diamond needle dragging
across the black vinyl over the dust motes to the music. My choices included
Dylan, The Beatles, or The Rolling Stones. I liked <i>Paint It Black</i> or <i>Sympathy
for the Devil</i>. Sympathy sounded nice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> My
dad doesn’t remember the bare spots in the carpet. Only the rocking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I waited until I was eleven years old to speak at school. Until
then, it was only “Present,” “Please,” and “Amen, Alleluia.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You can be far inside, or you can be far outside,” Jon Arno
Lawson writes. I was both. I walked to the beat of a different drummer. At
least, that’s what my mother told me. I listened for the drumbeats for the
longest time after that. Dylan. McCartney. Jagger. I never heard them. Perhaps
because I was in lockstep with the drumming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Yes, I count things. Ceiling tiles at the dentist. Slats on blinds
at the home store. Windowpanes at work. Pictures on a wall at a restaurant. Or
maybe the empty tables and chairs, the number of waitstaff as they scramble
with pitchers of water, or the number of cooks tossing pizza dough in the air.
Cars at stoplights, people in lines, noodles on my plate. Always, I count.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In my early twenties I landed a job at a local university. On my
first day, my boss—the only person I was obliged to talk to—was out. I sat at
my desk, mostly silent, across from the departmental mailboxes—all seventy-five
of them. It was a hub of major activity; people checking mailboxes, opening
letters and interdepartmental envelopes, inquiring about each other, meetings,
students, and of course, introducing themselves. Beyond hello and my name, no
words came out of my mouth. Only the quiet flurry of thoughts and ideas that
constantly crowded my brain. After a few weeks, my coworker, who was both sweet
and wise, turned to me and said, <i>You’re gonna have to start talking</i>. <i>If
you don’t speak up, these people will run you over.</i> In my life, no one
had ever suggested I talk or that speaking was a means of self-defense. The
idea that not speaking somehow exposed me was enough to frighten me out of my
comfort zone. I began speaking, and speaking led to talking, to arguing when
necessary, to speaking truth to power, to calling people out when needed—to a
transparency that has been nothing short of freeing. If I’m being honest it’s a
switch that I turn off and on as needed—my default setting is still wallflower.
But thanks to my coworker, I have a choice that never existed before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I recently attended a luncheon that included students, their
families, and faculty. I volunteered to stand outside and direct guests to the
room where the celebration was being held. I was alone and without obligation
to engage in conversation with strangers. It was glorious until I realized that
I was counting the people in the hallway and taking inventory of brisket and
turkey club sandwiches at the luncheon. (Though consciously recognizing that I
was counting did nothing to assuage my frustration over counting sandwiches
that were constantly taken by guests and immediately replenished by the
caterer.) A colleague, realizing I felt trapped by my social hobgoblins, came
over with a student to talk about her job prospects. And though I was nervous,
my burden felt lighter, less evident, and I was grateful for the instincts of
my fellow human.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sometimes the weight of silence is a lovely blanket, sometimes it
is crushing, but it is always invisible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tonight, I will attend a large wedding reception and I will likely
listen to gregarious people toasting and wishing the newlyweds well, and though
I wish them all the happiness in the world, I prefer to raise my champagne in
silence. It is who I am. I prefer to observe—even though at age fifty-one, I feel
as though I’ve pushed through my inclination to disappear into the wall, to
watch while others talk, to “unspeak.” I speak when it is important, and
sometimes because I am nervous. But I speak. I have verve I didn’t have before,
and even though I don’t always give voice to it, it is there, unrelenting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">People with lots of letters behind their name assure me that the
Asperger’s Quotient test is the gold standard for a gateway screening. I’m not
sure whether I passed or failed. I suppose it depends on whether I prefer in blending
or standing out. The quiz asked a lot of questions that seemed to me spurious.
What did it mean, these questions about things so natural to me? I am an
introvert with a vivid imagination who likes to count things. Where was this
going? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There are bigger things, it seems to me. Are we alone? Does
suffering make us who we are? What is the why?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I wonder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">
<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shellie Richards</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> currently edits
scientific manuscripts and teaches technical writing at Vanderbilt University.
Her writing has appeared in <i>Cream City Review,</i> <i>Oatmeal
Magazine,</i> <i>Bending Genres, Bartleby Snopes</i> (where it was
awarded Story of the Month), <i>The Chaffey Review,</i> among others, and
she has work forthcoming in the <i>Coachella Review</i>. Richards holds an M.A.
in English from Belmont University and will complete her MFA in 2020. She lives
in Nashville with her family and three scruffy dogs.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-19073001903962337472020-04-23T08:26:00.000-06:002020-04-23T08:26:48.252-06:00When the Sun Rises Without You<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">by Barbara Joyce-Hawryluk<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Her chest rises and falls, hitching
a little as her eyes track the second hand of the clock until it reaches
twelve. In twenty-nine minutes, she’ll be dead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">A question aches inside Julie
Silke, a grim tear bleeding down a sallow cheek. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How do you close your eyes for the last time? Let the lids fall, little
by little, as the person in front of you, the one you loved from the second you
felt her kick inside your womb, slowly vanishes from sight. Forever</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">She doesn’t want to leave her only
child. She doesn’t want to die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Julie, her mind still in reasonable
working order, had cut through the squabble of hope and despair and made a
choice. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You may not control all the
events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them</i>. It
was her favourite Maya Angelou quotation, and it had supplied fuel during a
two-year stand-off with her neurologist, Dr. Sand, and with her daughter, Rae,
over Medical Assistance in Dying. She wanted MAiD. They didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Rae was an idealist, offering an
optimistic flurry of Dr. Google advice, but it was Julie, not Rae, being buried
alive inside a coffin of skin and bone from Relapsing-Remitting Multiple
Sclerosis. RRMS had been stealth in its attack ten years earlier</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¾</span></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">lazy foot nicking the edge of a scatter rug, cups and
plates slipping from her hands. The insidious assault had escalated to roaring
debilitation</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¾</span></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">total
dependency, visual perversions, and over the last two years, a tenacious fog
infiltrating her brain, leaving her forgetful and at times confused. Scrambled
thinking triggered panic, which led to the first, second, and then final MAiD
application, the first two rejected because of the neurologist’s report.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Who owns my life anyway?!” The
desperate cry stuttered between gulps of saliva and air, foam bubbling from her
lips as she sat, wheelchair-bound, in Dr. Sand’s office for the third time, Rae
dabbing sticky white paste from the corner of Julie’s mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">A question with no clear or simple
answer. Not when the law permitting death with medical assistance was new and
rules and requirements were still being sorted. Not when the diagnosis and
prognosis didn’t tuck neatly into the criteria. Not when human beings were
being human. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Dr. Sand, a study in practiced authority
and clinical efficiency, didn’t see it the way Julie did. From the inside. He
wasn’t hostage to the inevitable devolution, piece by piece, of body and mind—communication
lost, thinking disordered, ventilator wheezing into withering lungs, tubes
force-feeding wasting cells, bags and machines encrusted like barnacles on a
sinking ship. All to keep the horror show running, for how long, no one could
predict for certain, not even a seasoned neurologist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“You know the criteria for
acceptance,” he said, ticking the points off with his fingers. “A medical
condition that’s considered grievous and irremediable, incurable and in an
advanced state of decline. Intolerable physical or psychological suffering that
can’t be relieved under conditions considered by you as acceptable. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And,</i>” he added, widening his eyes over
the top of his glasses, “natural death is presumed to be reasonably foreseeable
in the next two years, or thereabouts.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">He’d paused and she knew why. He
was waiting for the words, third time delivered, to take hold, as if repetition
would shake her resolve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Her unyielding stare returned his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Ms. Silke,” he’d sighed. “You’re only
fifty-eight years old. I can’t, in good conscience, answer the MAiD doctor’s
question the way you want me to.” He read the question aloud as if she hadn’t
heard it before. “Would you be surprised if Julie Silke dies of natural causes
in the next two years?” He removed his glasses. “My answer is still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes</i>, because it’s the truth. With your
particular diagnosis, you could be alive two years from now, maybe even much longer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Once again, Julie knew that Dr.
Sand’s prognosis would be the single factor denying her the right to assisted
dying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">A contorted claw of knotted fingers
trembled helplessly in her lap as panic raged inside. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be incompetent soon! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MAiD won’t even consider me then! You know
this</i>! Her lips quivered in fury and then flattened. She had neither the
strength nor endurance for the same tired argument.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Silence filled the space between
mother and daughter as Rae drove back from Dr. Sand’s office to Julie’s
assisted living suite, until Rae pulled into a side street, collapsed against
the steering wheel, and began to sob. “Can’t you delay? Just for a while.
Please!” Rae wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m pregnant, Mom.
Your first grandchild.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Julie’s heart soared and collapsed
in the same moment.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Can I wait a little
longer?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">The summer passed, MAiD application
put on hold as her medical condition declined, forcing three emergency
admissions to hospital for pneumonia, lungs wheezing ragged bursts of breath
while drowning in mucus and despair. Answering her question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Boxes on the MAiD application were
once again ticked and answer blocks completed. How long had Julie considered MAiD?
What were the details of her physical and psychological suffering? Why MAiD
versus palliative care or natural death? Why now? If MAiD wasn’t an option,
what then? Was there anything that would change her mind? Was she aware of other
options—withholding or withdrawing life sustaining treatments, or palliative
care? Was she of sound mind? Depressed? Were there any contraindications in the
file forwarded from her family doctor? Were the important people in her life
aware of her decision and did they support it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">As expected, the final part of the
assessment, the one requiring input from the neurologist, remained unchanged.
In Dr. Sand’s professional opinion, natural death may not occur in the
foreseeable future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Begging you,” Julie wept. “Can’t
do this … Please … Another neurologist?” The words came in desperate punches
after the MAID physician, Dr. Walker, delivered the news.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Getting a second opinion will take
a lot of time and there are no guarantees. Before I make a referral, I want to
explore one other option,” the MAID doctor said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Dr. Walker scoured all
three-volumes of Julie’s medical files and reviewed the medical literature.
What she discovered was a point of possible dispute. Julie’s EDS score, a measure
of disability and progression, had jumped from level 7 to 9 since her last
application a year earlier. She was one point from level 10, death from MS. With
three pneumonias in less than two months, the recalculated trajectory of decline
deserved consideration, not just the nature of RRMS, because it meant that Julie
might well experience natural death within two years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Living is tough … dying harder,” Julie
managed to spit out after hearing that the third application was reviewed and
accepted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“It’s not quite over yet,” Dr.
Walker cautioned. The lawyers agree that you meet the criteria but a second MAID
team is required to make an independent assessment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Fire flashed in Julie’s eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“I’m sorry, I can only imagine how
exhausting and frustrating this is for you. We’re not trying to make this any
more difficult than it already is, but we have a protocol to follow, especially
since your situation isn’t as clear as others. Another set of eyes will ensure
the right decision is made.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Findings from the second team
concurred. Natural death was imminent, probably measured in months, not years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Julie finally had agency over her
dying body. No more pneumococcal waterboarding, pharmaceutical
straightjacketing, bedsores, infections, and freefalling into the hands of
caregivers, some who coupled care with giving, some who didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Her eyes shift in the direction of a
curio cabinet</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¾</span></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> a
gift from her long-deceased husband</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¾</span></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">where
the clock sits, along with a swath of medical aids and supplies. Fifteen more
minutes. The nurse inserts the first and then backup IV cannula.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“How you do this?” she whisper-stutters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Like I said before, the first
medicine is a sedative. It’ll make you sleepy and relaxed. Before I administer
it, I’ll ask you again if you’re sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">A switchblade look cuts across to
the doctor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“I know. If you hear</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¾</span></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> ‘Are you sure?’</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¾</span></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> one more time, you’ll … well … I can’t imagine what
you’d do to me if you could.” Smiles circle the group, the widest one breaking
through Julie’s shrunken features, brightening her cheeks with a flush of
colour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“The second medication will put you
into a coma, a deep sleep. You won’t feel a thing by the time the drug from the
last syringe goes in. It’s a neuromuscular blocker and it stops your lungs from
breathing and your heart from pumping blood. There’s no gasping or shaking.
It’s a peaceful transition.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Not what I mean.” Julie works hard
between bursts of hacking and gagging to make her tongue fold around the words
and push them out. “Your job.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Ah, I see what you’re asking.” Dr.
Walker crimps her lips and gathers her thoughts. “Not easily and not lightly. I
think about how I want to be treated when it’s my time. What would I want if I
had a condition like ALS, terminal cancer, or MS?” Her thoughtful eyes rest on
Julie. “The answer’s always the same. I’d want to be heard and respected.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">A gentle purr vibrates in Julie’s
throat. Appreciation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“And so,” the doctor continues, “I
do my best to listen and try to be respectful, reminding myself always that
this is about you, Julie, not me. Really, it doesn’t feel like a job, not for
any of us. I know it sounds cliché, but it feels more like a calling. Hard,
very hard. But right, very right. If that makes sense.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Another purr.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">The social worker pulls a book from
her bag. “We helped your mom make this for you, Rae. It’s a Legacy Book and it
comes as part of the MAID program.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Rae dabs her eyes with a soggy
tissue and opens the memoir, fifty pages abbreviating fifty-eight years of
living</span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: Symbol; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Arial; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¾</span></span><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">the exquisite
and the ordinary, highlights and lowlights. She reads the first page; a poem
Julie wrote during the dark days following her diagnosis:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Life moves the
years through you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Crafting a story<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Until one
morning<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">The sun rises
without you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And in the seconds
before it breaks dawn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">You look at who
you were<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And who you are<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">And wonder if
your story<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Made any
difference at all<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">At the bottom of the page, there’s
a note in unfamiliar cursive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Your mom asked me to write that
for her,” the social worker explains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">You,
my precious girl, have been my story, my purpose. I hope I’ve made even half
the difference in your life as you’ve made in mine. My story might be ending
here but yours is being crafted with the gift of new life. Please tell my
grandchild that I knew. I had the joy of knowing that he or she was coming as I
was leaving</span></i><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Julie’s nystagmus stalls and
permits her eyes to stop shifting and circling for a brief moment, to rest inside
her daughter’s tearful gaze. Mother and daughter living and dying together <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in a lullaby for suffering with a paradox to
blame</i>, as Leonard Cohen once said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Briny tears pool in the nape of
Julie’s neck as Rae whispers in her ear. “Good-bye, Mom. I love you forever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Love … you … too,” Julie gasps, weary
but peaceful regard drifting to Dr. Walker with an answer to the question she
knows the doctor is obliged to ask: “Are you sure?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Her head jerks a nod and Dr. Walker
releases the first plunger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">“Thank you,” she whispers, as eyelids,
little by little, drift to a gentle close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Barbara
Joyce-Hawryluk</span></b><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"> shifted gears from academic writing as a social
worker to crime fiction in 2013. <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Wounded</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">, </b>her first book in the Scarlet Force
series, won bronze in The Independent Publisher Book Awards for Best Western
Canadian Fiction, and finalist in the High Plains Book Awards for Best First
Novel and Best Woman Writer. The second book, <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Bad Elf</span></i>, will be released in 2020. Inspired by real events and
people, the series features Royal Canadian Mounted Police Constable Debrah
Thomas and her husband, Major Crimes Investigator Liam Thomas. Barbara is a
member of Crime Writers of Canada and Sisters in Crime. When she’s not writing,
she’s reading, running, and enjoying her grandkids. Her website is </span><a href="https://scarletforce.com/"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">https://scarletforce.com/</span></a><span lang="EN-CA" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-73990774039764951512020-04-12T17:38:00.003-06:002020-04-12T17:38:33.997-06:00Flotsam<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">by Fabrizia Faustinella<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The sky was darkening, crowded
by black, ominous clouds blown by a forceful wind. Dust and leaves swirled in
the air, waiting for the rain to ground them again. I could feel and smell the
humidity from the Gulf. I almost could smell the sea. I certainly could hear
the loud shrieks of the seagulls and saw several picking up trash in the
desolated parking lot of the grocery store. The horizon was a brilliant
crimson, spectacular and eerie. Was the sun setting in a large pool of blood? <i>Why
do I think such stupid things?</i> <i>Vivid imagination or cognitive
distortion? Forget it. I’d better hurry up.</i> The storm was coming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I loaded the groceries in the
trunk of the car and I drove away. Traffic was light. It felt strange to see
the entire road ahead of me, almost deserted. I didn’t want to be the only one out
there when the storm hit and I tried to speed up a little. Nobody was waiting
for me at home, and I wanted to get back before dark. I forgot to leave the
lights on when I left, and I didn’t look forward to the darkness of the
driveway and backyard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I had to stop at a red light. As
the lid of a garbage container blew away in the wind, plastic bags, paper cups,
empty cans, and all kind of debris were sent flying and skittering across the
ground. Farther ahead, on the sidewalk, I saw a man in a wheelchair, alone. He
struggled to move forward. He was one of the many homeless people who roam the
streets of our city. It’s hard enough to be homeless, but to be homeless and stuck
in a wheelchair, how much harder can that get? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The traffic light turned green.
I drove ahead and past him. The man was hunched over, face down, trying to
negotiate the uneven sidewalk. The wheelchair was loaded with plastic bags overflowing
with what were clearly all his worldly possessions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I kept on driving while asking
myself, <i>You are not going to leave this
man stuck on the sidewalk with a big storm approaching, are you? Of course not</i>.
So I drove ahead until I found a place where I could safely turn around. I went
back and found him in the same spot, not having progressed one inch I parked, got
out of the car, and approached him. “Hi,
sir, can I help you? Where are you trying to go?” There wasn’t much
around, a hamburger joint, a gas station, a bus stop, and …<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“To that Luby’s Cafeteria, up
there,”<i> </i>he said.<i> </i>“Could you find someone to push me?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Well,
I’m here, sir. Nobody else is around. I don’t mind doing that.”</span><i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The cafeteria was located on
the top of a small hill. My city is totally flat and floods all the time. Maybe
that’s why they built the cafeteria on an artificial hill. But now, what a challenge
it would be to push a man in a wheelchair up there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He was older, most likely mid-seventies,
with curly, unkempt hair and a large black-and-gray beard. He wore paper
scrubs, most likely given to him at the time of discharge from a local
hospital. They were totally worn out, and the original blue color had faded
away under layers of dirt and stains. He wore half-gloves, his fingers sticking
out, revealing long, broken yellow nails. He had a strong smell of urine and
old sweat. A roll of toilet paper had fallen out of one of the plastic bags,
and I picked it up. The bags were on their last leg too, full of holes, ready
to burst open at any time, their contents in serious jeopardy. Old food
containers, boxes of crackers, diapers, bottles of water and soda, leaking and
half empty, cups, plastic forks, pieces of paper with unreadable notes, and God
only knows what else all crammed together and stuck to one another. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I
cannot believe I am in this situation and that I have to be pushed by a woman. I’m
sorry, ma’am. This is not easy,”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> the man said as I was
struggling to keep a straight path on the crooked sidewalk, which was littered
with small branches fallen from the oak trees during the previous storm mixed
with paper and plastic debris, some floating in puddles of water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The wind didn’t help. It was
adding weight and resistance to the wheelchair. I was concerned about engaging
the uphill driveway of the cafeteria. <i>What if I couldn’t push his weight
uphill and lost control of the wheelchair? What if it crashed and injured this
poor man?</i> I started thinking of all sorts of disastrous scenarios. When I
got there I pushed so very hard,
summoning all my strength, my body at a forty-five-degree angle on the slope. Amidst
some puffing and grunting, I finally got to the top. I guess all the gym visits
and weight lifting had paid off. I seemed stronger than what I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I
can’t go inside, ma’am. My personal hygiene is very poor. I wouldn’t dare go
into a restaurant like this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I
can go in. What would you like to eat?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I
have a Luby’s card, ma’am. Let me look for it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Don’t
worry about it. Save the card, sir. I can go in and get you something,”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> I
said with a slight urgency in my voice, as it was getting late. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Don’t
rush me, please. You see, people are impatient. Don’t rush me. I’ll find the
card.”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">
He pulled out three different wallets from various pockets of a black jacket.
The wallets were bursting with receipts, business cards, pieces of paper meticulously
folded, stickers, remnants of a life of struggles. As he sorted through them,
uttering words of dismay at not being able to find his precious Luby’s card, he
and became increasingly frustrated. I waited, suspended, wondering how long
this would take, thinking of what to do, until I said in a calm, soothing voice,
“Well, while you look for the card,
why don’t I go inside? Please, just tell me what you would like to eat and I’ll
be glad to get it for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Rice
and gravy, lima beans, and three cornbread muffins.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“What
about some meat or fish?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“No,
that’ll be enough. Rice and gravy, lima beans, and three cornbread muffins.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I insisted on getting
something else as well, and he eventually asked for meat loaf, most likely one
of the few meat preparations his poor dentition would have allowed him to eat,
and a cup of ice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I went inside. No line at the
counter. I ordered the food. No meat loaf was available. I decided to get
chicken. I hoped it was okay with him. I got the cup of ice, paid, and stepped
outside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Here
is the food, sir, but they didn’t have meat loaf, so I got you chicken.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“That’s
okay, thank you. I’m sorry I was impatient with you. You’re the only one who
has helped me. We get so frustrated by our predicament that we end up taking
our frustration out on the people who are there for us. I also apologize to you
for smelling so bad. I apologize for being in your presence in such a state of
disrepair,” </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">he said with shame in his voice, shaking his head, barely
looking up at me. We heard laughter coming from inside the cafeteria. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“You
see, people laugh, and they move on with their lives. They laugh and they’re
busy and have no compassion. That’s why I stopped going to church a long time
ago. I realized that people go to church and say they believe in God, but then
they have no compassion. So what good does it do, going to church like that and
having no compassion?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“What’s
your name, sir?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Jimmy.
My name is Jimmy.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Jimmy,
how did you get in this situation?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I
don’t want to talk about that now,”</span><i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">he
said with pain and a hint of resentment in his voice, “but I ask the Lord: what have I done to deserve this? I have robbed no
banks, I haven’t used no drugs, I haven’t stolen from people, I haven’t killed
anybody, and here I am. Why am I being punished like this, Lord? Lord, help me!
I’ve been a good man, help me!” He lowered his head even more, saliva
drooling out of his mouth, dripping on the paper scrubs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I’m
sorry, ma’am, I’m sorry…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“No
need to be, sir. I am sorry for you. This is a terrible situation.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“It
sure is terrible, ma’am.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I patted him on his shoulder. “Should I push you there?” I pointed
at a sheltered place on the side of the cafeteria where he could eat and maybe
spend the night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“No,”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> he
answered, “I’d like to stay here a little longer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“But, sir, how did you even
get on that sidewalk?” I blurted out, bewildered that anybody could get around
in his condition and manage to survive. “I
mean, where are you coming from? Where were you before? I’ve never seen you on
this side of town. Who are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Don’t
worry about it. I am … flotsam … just flotsam.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Flotsam? What did that mean?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> I’d
never heard that word before. I didn’t know the meaning of it, but I didn’t
dare ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It was definitely late now and
dark, streetlamps casting an uncertain yellow light on the street. It was
starting to rain. I said, “I’m going
now. I’ll be thinking of you, Jimmy. I wish I could do more for you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Thank
you for your kindness,” </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">he said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I headed back to the car, my
hair scrambled by the wind, raindrops falling on my face. I drove home. As
expected, my backyard was very dark, but not as dark as my thoughts and my
heart. I opened the door, stepped inside, and felt guilt at the comfort of my
home. I decided to burn a candle for Jimmy, but what good was that going to do?
I did it anyway, still hoping the prayer would somehow help. Maybe it would
help me more than Jimmy. It would help me to accept the intrinsic and
inescapable unfairness of life, which no thought process has ever been able to
reconcile in my mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Then I sat at the computer to
search for the meaning of “flotsam.” This is what I found: 1. floating wreckage
of a ship or its cargo; floating debris washed up by the tide; 2. a floating
population as of emigrants or castaways; 3. miscellaneous or unimportant
material.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Human flotsam. That’s what he
thought of himself. The wreckage of a life, the product of a broken existence,
fallen into pieces that could not be glued together any longer and made whole
again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Fabrizia Faustinella</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> is a physician and filmmaker. She grew up in
Italy and moved to the United States where she practices as an internist in the
Texas Medical Center in Houston, Texas. Caring for the undeserved and the
homeless has inspired her to write about her experiences in several
patient-centered essays which have been published in academic and literary
journals alike. She recently wrote, directed and produced <i>The Dark Side of the Moon,</i> a film-documentary about the root causes
of homelessness and the hardship of street life.</span>Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-89750379084784210442020-03-30T13:44:00.000-06:002020-03-30T13:44:21.363-06:00Side Effects<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by Susan Nash<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In our family we don’t get cancer. We get drunk. We take drugs. We
smoke. We have a wide variety of personality disorders. We fall down and break
bones and have very high cholesterol, but we don’t get cancer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That’s what I used to think anyway. But I was wrong. I now know
that my dad has had prostate cancer, although he claimed at the time that he
was just having his appendix out. I’ve had multiple basal cell carcinomas
removed, even if those don’t really count. And then my sister got a rare and
aggressive lymphoma that irrevocably and unalterably confirmed that Cancer is
part of our family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Still, when I went in for my annual mammogram just over a year
ago, I wasn’t worried, and not just because of the decades of clear scans. Besides,
life was going well. I had moved to Palo Alto from Los Angeles to attend a
mid-career program at Stanford. I was busy. Focused. Taking care of things. I
was building a new community, looking forward to the next phase of my life. I
flew back and forth to Seattle often, helping my sister and her family. At some
level I think I believed that my busy life immunized me from getting any “real”
cancer myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then the doctor called with the news that (i) I definitely needed
a second mammogram, (ii) there was an eighty percent chance I’d need a biopsy
after that, and (iii) there was a forty to fifty percent chance that the biopsy
would show that the weird spots lighting up the first mammogram were cancerous.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A long-forgotten math competency in my brain insistently spat back
the result: a thirty-two to forty percent chance that the weird spots were some
form of cancer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My immediate response was: No, I don’t think I’ll do this right
now. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It reminded me of when I went into labor with my second son: This
hurts a lot and I won’t be having a baby today, thank you very much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So, I decided, I would not do anything about any biopsies or
additional mammograms. I would just get on with my life. Perhaps I would blow
my entire nest egg in the next five years and have a whopping good time. Fuck
the consequences. Seen chemo, would rather see Rio. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But of course reason prevailed, and I had the second mammogram,
and then the biopsy, and the odds fell on the short side. The Monday after
Thanksgiving the doctor called again, with the diagnosis that one of the spots
was a Ductal Carcinoma In Situ. DCIS, as it’s commonly known. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A DCIS spot is not invasive or life-threatening, at least not
unless and until it leaves the “site” where it starts, which it may never do. But
the standard treatment is to remove such spots surgically, to eliminate any
potential spread. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As breast cancer goes, DCIS is the best kind to have, referred to
as “Stage 0,” whatever that means. There’s a debate in the medical community
over whether DCIS should even be called cancer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rebellion over, I dutifully called the Stanford Women’s Cancer
Clinic to make an appointment—a moment that, from a patient’s standpoint, makes
any debate over whether DCIS is a form of “cancer” seem pretty academic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the days leading up to the SWCC visit, I tried not to think too
much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then I got mad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Blindingly mad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mad about having to be resilient and a good sport. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mad about being sixty-three years old and single and having to
address even the remote possibility, raised in one of the initial telephone
consults, of losing, or voluntarily giving up, my left breast. It’s hard enough
to get a date at this age even with two breasts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mad that it wasn’t fair to make me deal with this, not right now,
not by myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mad that this had happened to me, someone who clearly did not
deserve it. Yes, I actually had that thought—while looking down to see if the
ground would open up and suck me straight into hell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This phase was not a good time to cross me . When a leak developed
behind the bathroom wall in my apartment, it was not a good idea to tell me, as
the tenant and a retired lawyer, to get someone out to fix it. This is not my
problem,” I told the landlord. This is your building, not mine. You get someone
out here.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m pretty sure I was right on the substantive legal obligations
of landlords and tenants, but perhaps a little over the top in explaining my
position.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Next, I moved into bargaining mode. Whatever happened, I would not
turn into one of those people who wear long skirts and Birkenstocks and do
juice cleanses and sport pink ribbons. I would survive but I would not be a
“Designated Survivor.” I would have the surgery but it would have to be done
quickly. One and done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh
God, I thought, they’re going to tell me to give up wine. I’ll give up one, red
or white, whichever. Not both.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
told my sister and a couple of friends. To my sister, after what she’s been
through, the idea of having a lumpectomy probably sounded like going in for a
flu shot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My friends were sympathetic, if tentative. I was bristly. “I need
help,” I wanted to say. “I’m fine,” is what usually came out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sitting
in the line of cars at the cancer clinic, it took me a while to label what I
was feeling. Pain. Shortness of breath. Tears behind my eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This was actually happening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I was terrified. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
physician’s assistant was endlessly patient, unfazed by my crossness. She
ordered an MRI to see what further mysteries my breast might yield. She
prescribed Ativan to take before the procedure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She looked up at me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Maybe I should add a few extra?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Yes,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In my family, our bodies are not temples.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
didn’t settle on a plan but we made an outline, a plan to have a plan. After
the MRI, there would be a consultation about the surgery—how extensive and for
what, exactly, were not clear. I felt a breath of something for a minute, as we
finished up. I remembered a recent lecture by Roshi Joan Halifax, talking about
hope living with uncertainty. For a moment, I thought I understood what she
meant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I picked up the car and managed to thank the attendant, politely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
opted to have the surgery in Los Angeles, where my older son lives. The day
after New Year’s he drove me to the hospital, around the same time that his
younger brother was boarding a plane in New York to fly out. This was the first
time in their adult lives that I asked my sons to show up for me. Both leapt to
the occasion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The surgeon had me on the table for four hours as she removed what
were eventually determined to be two DCIS spots in the left breast, connected
by an unseen line of more Stage 0 (almost-cancer?) material. Then she took a
bit of tissue out of the right breast, just to even things up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Both sons came to see me when it was over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
upshot of the surgery was a pair of scarred but perkier breasts, a result that
women all over the westside of L.A. pay thousands of dollars for out of their
own pockets, without any kind of diagnosis at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
flew back to Palo Alto as soon as I was cleared in the post-op, ready to put
the episode behind me. But it turned out that the margins were not quite what
the DCIS protocol requires, even though the chances that anything left in the
area would turn into an invasive cancer were slim. Also, the chunk taken out of
the right breast included a teeny tiny bit of a different kind of breast
cancer, or potential breast cancer, that might never have shown up but for the
standard technique of testing all tissue removed during any breast surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I tried not to think about the fact that the new spot on the right
side was not detected in any of the mammograms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After another series of appointments and discussions, I returned
to LA for an outpatient version of the surgery, just on the left side, to get
that last bit of margin. As for the different and impossibly tiny amount of
almost-cancer tissue extracted from the right breast, the doctors left it to me
to decide whether to take the five years of pills that might, or might not,
cause hair loss, weight gain, brain fog, loss of libido, headaches, fatigue
and/or nausea. For better or worse, I opted not to go down a medication path
that treats against a possible but unlikely recurrence of a possible but
unlikely invasive breast cancer that would not have been found but for the
evening-things-out surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And then I was done, both breasts reasonably intact, the fortunate
beneficiary of state-of-the-art treatment and a deeply researched part of
Western medicine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was still the small matter of a month of radiation back in
Palo Alto to round out the protocol, but I was assured that this would not
affect my life, except for the likely need to take naps. Both breasts would be
radiated, just in case. Ironically, given the too-little-too-late protective
measures I now take against the sun, I was told to expect a sunburn in one of
the few places where my skin is lily white.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
building housing the radiation oncology clinic is quiet. It is not unpleasant
but it is a serious place. None of the clientele wants to be there. Everyone is
respectful of everyone else. A volunteer piano player often serenades the
lobby. Sometimes I sat there for a few minutes before going downstairs to check
in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Each
day the man with the big eyes and one of his helpers would set me up just so,
adjusting the positions, calling out fractions to each other. During this
process the man’s eyes were inches from my breasts. He was nice and so very
kind, but I couldn’t help thinking that he should buy me a drink first. I felt
disappointed on the days he was not there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was left alone during the actual radiation, lying motionless, holding my breath
and exhaling on command from a voice miked into the room. The machines moved
around me like the robot doctors in <i>Star Wars</i>, whirring and
clicking in a language of their own. I kept my eyes firmly shut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At the end of the first day, I made myself a Cosmo. It tasted so
much better than the bitterness of my usual white wine. By the end of the week,
I had a burning desire for a chocolate cupcake, a craving that I would
eventually indulge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cosmos and cupcakes almost certainly contribute to cancer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Occasionally I was annoyed by the new routine, carving out an hour
every weekday at 4 pm or so. Most of the time I remained deeply grateful for
having this event occur in the 21<sup>st</sup> century and not a minute before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After twenty sessions of radiation, the team gave me a graduation
certificate and a blue dot pin. Blue dot pins are the radiation equivalent of
pink ribbons. The man with the big eyes and everyone else in the room offered
their hearty congratulations and genuine wishes for good luck. I choked up. The
odds that l will never have to deal with this again are resoundingly in my
favor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">On my way out I found myself wishing that the man I had a drink
with two days earlier, a man I last saw forty-two years ago in college, was
waiting outside for me. I wanted arms, male arms, surrounding me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I shook it off and got into the car. Back at home, I pinned the
blue dots to my baseball cap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A few days later it is Sunday, and I walk over to the All-Saint’s
Church to listen to chamber music. The quartet will play Haydn, Mozart, and
Brahms, exploring the B-flat note that begins the Hunter’s call in a fox hunt. My
breasts itch. I have heard from the man from college again, and we will hike in
two days’ time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The building is stark in its lack of ornamentation, and the pews
are hard, as if the Episcopalians need a constant reminder that this is a
Church. There are no snarling gargoyles or cherubic angels looking down from
above. The floors are concrete, unadorned by any covering. And yet it is clear
that this is a holy place, or a place, at least, where something holy might
happen. A gold cloth drapes over the altar; fragments of a cross float in the
open space above. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Four chairs and four music stands sit in a semi-circle—black,
steel, simple. Here, at last, is a small rug, possibly to absorb the sound or
cushion the players’ feet. Only thirty people have turned out for the concert,
in ones, twos and fours, leaving all of us with room to ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The musicians enter and take a bow. They take a seat and tune
their instruments, then wait until the room fills with silence. They lift their
bows and play the long first note.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There are many moments during those two hours of music when I am
completely, abundantly, at peace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Susan Nash </span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">is a former lawyer who has traded years of writing briefs in favor
of chronicling the experiences of older women in our culture. Her work
appears on </span><a href="https://blogs.colum.edu/punctuate/"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Punctuate</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">, </span><a href="http://considerable.com/" target="_blank"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Considerable.com</span></i></a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">,</span></i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> and multiple
websites at Stanford University.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-61760452722558481002020-03-23T15:05:00.000-06:002020-03-23T15:05:05.985-06:00The Texture of Scars<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">by
Karen J. Weyant<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">At
seven, I already had scars. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">The
comma-shaped scrape near my left eye was from Chicken Pox. It was a small
notch, but deep enough that I could feel the tiny fold of skin with my fingers.
A fine white slash on my cheek was from a cut on a barbed wire fence. This
smooth scar was nearly invisible, but sometimes, when my fair skin burned and
freckled from the sun, the line appeared brighter, a thin white string etched
across my cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Outside
of listening to the origin stories of these blemishes, I didn’t know much
about scars, but somehow I realized that they were undesirable. I wasn’t sure
why. Perhaps it was because they never really went away, unlike the other
scratches, bumps and bruises I obtained from riding my bike or playing at the
local playground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">So
that was why the summer before I started second grade, I listened to Nate
White, who offered a helpful strategy on avoiding one kind of scar: the alleged
mark left over from a mosquito bite that was scratched too much. Nate, who was
one year younger than I was, but seemingly far wiser about the world, deemed
himself an expert when it came to killing mosquitos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">According
to Nate, you waited until a mosquito landed and slid its long needle into your
skin. While the mosquito sucked your blood, you pulled your skin tight around
the insect. Nate’s theory was that the needle would get stuck, and unable to
withdraw, the mosquito would feed until it eventually burst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">This
idea fascinated me. Mosquitos caused me great misery, so this tactic sounded
like the perfect revenge. During the mugginess of summer, I seemed the food
source for every mosquito in the neighborhood. They bit my ankles, my legs, my
arms, even my face. I would find mosquito bites in the most unlikely of places,
including the skin between my fingers or the space between my shoulders. Once,
a mosquito got stuck underneath my shirt, and when, in a fit of shirt pulling
and swatting, I was finally able to slap it away, I found a line of bites, red
angry and inflamed like a constellation of bumpy stars, sprinkled across my
stomach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">My mother
covered me with smelly bug spray, but I guess mosquitos in rural Pennsylvania
are extra sturdy because they bit through the spray. Then, my mother dabbed my
bites with Campho Phenique crème, an over-the-counter medication that smelled
worse than the spray. When I complained, she tried homemade remedies made with
baking soda. No matter what she did, the bites still itched.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">And I
was not supposed to scratch them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">“You
will break them open and cause scars,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Scars
were something I didn’t want, so I tried Nate’s advice. I waited until a
mosquito landed on my arm, and I pulled the skin around the insect taut. And
then I waited a bit longer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">I
don’t </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">remember exactly<span style="color: black;"> what </span>happe<span style="color: black;">ned, except that the mosquito didn’t explode. Maybe it was
so hungry it didn’t mind staying for extra food. Maybe I didn’t pull my skin
tight enough. All I remember is that the result of this experiment was one of
the worst, most inflamed bites I ever had. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">I
didn’t listen to my mother’s warnings. I scratched that bite raw, until it
broke open, leaving spots of blood smeared on my skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">But
it didn’t leave a scar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">As a
teenager, I learned to wear foundation to cover the thin line on my cheek. My
textured bangs covered the chicken pox scar. Still, I earned other scars
along the way. I have a thin scratch on the back of my hand from a broken
mirror and an oval scar just below my knee from running into a shopping cart in
a parking lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">“Interesting
scars tells interesting stories,” a friend once told me, but until I was
thirty-five, I didn’t think that any of my scars’ stories were that intriguing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Then
came my diagnosis of thyroid cancer, and two surgeries that left a line of
pinched skin on my neck from the removal of suspicious nodules.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">At
the time of diagnosis, I wasn’t worried about the scar. I just wanted the
cancer out of me. But when I got home from the hospital, I stared at myself in
the mirror, where black stitches were sewn across my neck. I fingered the
string, marveling at how something that looked like it could come out of</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"> a <span style="color: black;">sewing kit could
help piece me together. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">It
was there at the bathroom mirror I realized that while the stitches would be
removed, a scar would remain. I could disguise my other scars, but this
one would be visible to the world. The only way I could hide it was with a
turtleneck sweater.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">At
the time, I received a lot of advice about how to make the scar less
noticeable. “Mederma”, my doctor said, while my friends advised using cocoa
butter or Vitamin E. Nothing really worked, however, as the skin pulled and
tugged, finally settling in place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">For the first
year or so, I worried more about the cancer than the scar. I worried that my
regular scans would pick up a bulging lymph node, one that could suggest that
the cancer had resurfaced and spread. I worried that blood tests would find
something abnormal. I worried that I would have to undergo surgery again and
perhaps undergo more drastic treatments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">But test after test
came back clear, and I started to be more concerned about my scar -- a scar
that had faded from an angry, red thick line to a thin patch of white skin. I
found myself explaining my surgery to complete strangers, such as a waitress
who told me that her twin sister had a similar type of surgery to a young
neighbor who worried that her little boy had to have neck surgery and she was
concerned about the side effects and the pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">I found myself
reassuring my little neice who touched my neck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">“Boo-boo?” she asked,
her whole face twisted into a worried frown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">“Yes,” I
explained, reassuring her that “It was all better now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">N<span style="color: black;">ow, over ten years later, I barely notice it, even when I
look in the bathroom mirror every morning. This scar is now as part of me as my
brown eyes or pale skin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Still,
there are days when I remember it’s there. Often, when I meet new people, I
feel as if their eyes wander down from my face to the puckered skin. I’m a
college professor, so when I know I am going to face a new class of students or
when I give a public presentation, I search for creative ways to mask this
blemish through turtlenecks, scarves, or beaded chokers. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">But I
know the pinched scar is there trying to peek through my disguises. It has
joined my other scars, with perhaps a more interesting story to tell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Still,
in spite of my mother’s warnings etched in my memories, I don’t believe that I
have a single scar from a mosquito bite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; mso-border-shadow: yes; mso-padding-alt: 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt 31.0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">It’s
as if the body itself decides what it wants to mark, and we, even as wearers of
our own skin, have little to say in the matter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">Karen J.
Weyant's</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"> essays have been published
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barren Magazine, Carbon Culture
Review, Coal Hill Review, the cream city review, Lake Effect, Punctuate,
Solidago Review, </i>and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Stoneboat</i>.
She is an Associate Professor of English at Jamestown Community College in
Jamestown, New York. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-8874986502794816042020-03-15T12:17:00.001-06:002020-03-15T12:17:54.104-06:00Cleveland City Blues<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">by Joe Kowalski<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">In the autumn of 2016, my
car was double-booted because I had forged a single-day parking pass, and so I had
to take the RTA Blue Line transit to Tower City in order to walk from there to
Cleveland State University. Along the way, I stopped at the corner store
formerly known as For Goodness Jake’s. There was an older man inside, beard
peppered and scattershot against his pale skin. His clothes looked like they
had been found outside of Goodwill. The dude bought a candy bar and struck up
an energetic conversation with another man sitting outside on a bike.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">The shabby man was speaking
intensely, so I stopped to make sure that he wasn’t harassing the poor cyclist.
He was clearly drunk, but the cyclist didn’t seem threatened by him. The
conversation turned to politics. Eventually the man turned to me, his pupils
swirling a bit before focusing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">“Your name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">“Joe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">“You’re voting for Trump,
right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">“Not a chance,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">“I was a steelyard worker
for years. Trump is for the workers.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">“As far as I can tell,
Trump is only for himself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">Although class would begin
shortly, the man and I continued our lively conversation on my way to campus.
He was homeless, he said, mostly because he couldn’t afford to pay off any more
DUIs and had become estranged from his daughter. He was bothered that I hated
Trump, but he liked that I was in school because “It’s important to learn how
to think, and at least you’re thinking. There’s not enough of that these days.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">We passed another homeless
man. They knew each other and struck up a conversation. My walking companion gave
him a generous five-dollar bill and ended up giving away the candy bar he had
bought too, saying, “I don’t need the sugar anyway.” He also joked around for a
minute with a construction worker. I made sure we stayed on the busy sidewalks
of Euclid Avenue, so that there was little chance that anything dangerous could
happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> He
didn’t. The further we walked, the more I interpreted him as lonely rather than
hostile, although I imagine a big factor in my subsiding fear came from the
unearned privilege of my being a white guy.
I was subjected to stories about his time in jail. How he had been
“reformed.” He said that he changed because of a “little book called The Bible”
and with the help of a well-known individual ... I thought I knew where this
was headed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “You
ever heard of Jack Kerouac?” he slurred, taking me by surprise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “The
writer? Yeah.” We crossed the street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “Thought
you might. He was a mastermind of words. You got an address? I’ll mail you
something <i>amazing</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “I’d
prefer not to tell you that. Sorry, man.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “I
think maybe you deserve it. No one ever talks to me like this. Plus, you’re a
smart kid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “What
is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> He
scratched his beard. “When I was in jail, I read his poetry daily. Jack’s.
Memorized it. It said a lot to me. Made me rethink everything. Made me see how
we’re all connected. Genius. Taught me how you didn’t need a whole lot of words
to <i>say</i> a lot. ‘I’m merely exploring
souls and cities,’ etc. etc. See, Jack Kerouac used to write on this weird,
long paper stock. Almost like a scroll. His notebooks were wild. You’d never
believe it, but I found one of his original manuscripts in a crate at a flea
market.” He looked at me expectantly, arms raised upward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “...
Huh.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> The
man nodded vigorously, smile growing. “I don’t think they understood what it
was. But I read those words a million times in prison and had to have it. Since
then, I’ve had this thing at every important moment of my life. It’s back at
the shelter as we speak. Kid, I want <i>you</i>
to have it now.” He clapped me on the back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “I
appreciate that,” I said. “But I don’t feel comfortable giving you my address.”
We were rapidly approaching the school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> The
man blinked for a minute and then pointed at the trash can outside of the Law
Building, all while attempting the feat of standing steady. “Hm ... see that
right there, Jim? It was Jim, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “Joe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">“Okay. I’m going to leave
the manuscript in there tomorrow. That way you can have your life changed too.
Look for it there tomorrow after 10 a.m.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “What
if the trash gets emptied?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “Okay,
okay…” He swung around, still off-kilter. The next target was the sparse
foliage that lined the grey brick of the building. “There then. Right in those
bushes. 10 a.m. Priceless manuscript.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> “I’ll
check for sure.” We shook hands and he was off, singing a song I didn’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;"> I
know it was stupid, but I had to check the next day. Wouldn’t you? I felt a bit
silly combing among the mulch, but I had to be thorough. It was the time of
year when the temperatures were starting to dip and people scurried by,
ignoring me just to get inside. I wondered if they weren’t attempting to ignore
me in a similar manner that people ignored my drunk acquaintance the day
before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="background: white; color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond; mso-highlight: white;">Nope. Nothing. Of course.
Although, it’s quite possible that maybe I didn’t look hard enough. Maybe you
should check the shrubs outside the Cleveland State University Law Building
when you are in town in case I missed it years ago and it’s still there, water
damaged and concealed in mulch, just waiting to change your life.</span><span lang="EN" style="color: #212121; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Garamond;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Joe Kowalski's</span></b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> films and online videos have allowed him to work with
the likes of Henry Winkler (<i>Barry</i>), Jonathan Demme (<i>The Silence of
the Lambs</i>), John Green (<i>The Fault in Our Stars</i>), and Mara Wilson (<i>Matilda</i>).
His short film adaptation of <i>I Am the Doorway</i> was given the blessing of
Stephen King. He lives in Cleveland and can be found online @PogieJoe.</span>Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-12216403083723516702020-02-20T15:08:00.000-07:002020-02-20T15:08:19.585-07:00The Truth or Something Like It<br />
<div class="BodyA" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">by
Tommy Vollman</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I met Joe Nuxhall a few weeks after my
fifteenth birthday. His hands were gnarled, and he spoke as though his mouth
was half full of marbles, but he was sharp and funny as hell. I was only a few
months younger than he was when he made his Major League debut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At just fifteen, Joe Nuxhall climbed
on the hill at Crosley Field in the top of the ninth against the would-be World
Champion St. Louis Cardinals. Manager Bill McKechnie called on Nuxhall with his
Cincinnati Reds on the short end of a 13-0 deficit. Nuxhall</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">s debut was essentially mop-up duty at Niagara
Falls.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still, the Ol</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’ </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Lefthander managed to retire two of the first
three batters he faced before all hell broke loose. Nuxhall never finished that
half-inning; he never found a third out. In fact following his debut, it would
take him eight years to get back to the Major Leagues.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I met Nuxhall, he was half of the
radio broadcast team for the Cincinnati Reds. I shook his hand and asked him to
sign a baseball card my uncle gave me years before. The card was a 1963 Topps.
On the front, Nuxhall was framed in mid wind-up, his arms stretched high over
his head, his throwing hand hidden inside a chocolate-brown mitt. The back of
the card was jammed with stats. When I first received the card, I wondered if the
67.50 ERA listed for 1944 </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">—his rookie
campaign—was a misprint.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was enamored with that statistic.
The pitchers I knew of in the bigs had ERAs in the 3s; the really good ones
were in the 2s or below. For a long time, I was sure my Nuxhall card was a simply
a misprint. No pitcher, anywhere, at any time could possibly, I thought, have
had a 67.50 earned run average.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But Joe Nuxhall did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>67.50 was no misprint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nuxhall was a legend. He was a good
pitcher</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">—great, even—a Cincinnati Reds Hall-of-Famer
who won 135 games in his sixteen-season Big League career. His lifetime
ERA—3.90—was a far cry from the ultra-inflated number of 1944.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While he was signing my card, I asked
him what it was like to face the St. Louis Cardinals at fifteen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He stopped his Sharpie mid-signature
and stared at me. The room we were in</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">—a
large, partitioned conference room at the downtown Westin on Fountain
Square—seemed to go silent. A wide smile cracked across his face, and all the
air came back into the room. He adjusted the thick, wire-framed, aviator-style
glasses that perched on the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">You
know,” he said, “I was so goddamned nervous when I got the call, I tripped and
fell on the way out of the dugout.”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He leaned forward, his elbows on the
white, cotton tablecloth. His eyes grew clearer, even more focused. He seemed
to stare not at me but through me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">I
was used to throwing to good hitters, even some really good ones,” he added.
“But,” he continued, “there</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">s a difference
between a good hitter and a Major League hitter. I got two of three, then gave
up a walk.”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He shook his head and smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">I
was there, up on the hill, and I look over and see Stan Musial in the on-deck
circle. Next thing I know, he</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">s up at the plate.”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He leaned back again in his chair and
stretched his hands over his head in nearly the same way he had in the photo on
my baseball card.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Then,”
he chuckled, “they scored some runs. Lotsa runs.”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His smile was so real, so sincere, I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">d have believed anything and everything he
said.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">It
wasn</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">t that bad,” I replied. “Only five.”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even to this day, I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">m not sure why I said what I did. I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">m not sure what I was thinking. At the time,
when I heard those words tumble out of my mouth, I could hardly believe I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">d said them. I thought Joe Nuxhall might punch
me in the face.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But he didn</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">t.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Joe Nuxhall was too much of a class
act for that sort of thing. In fact, what he did left me as awestruck as
anything has since that time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Joe Nuxhall leaned toward me, his
hands flat, fingers spread, and said, </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">“Son,
they could</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">ve scored as many runs on me that day as they
wanted.”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He handed my card back to me, his
signature split in two segments, and nodded to the person behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I stepped away, Nuxhall spoke
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Hey
kid,” he said. “Thanks for that.”</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I smiled and nodded, puzzled as to why
in the world Joe Nuxhall would thank me for reminding him of his horrendous
Major League debut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I got older, I think I grew to
understand why Joe Nuxhall might have thanked me. Now, I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">m almost sure of it. He thanked me because I
gave him a chance to be honest when it would have been so easy to be dishonest.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wouldn</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">t have been honest as Nuxhall.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I couldn</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">t have been; I care too much about what other
people think of me. More accurately, I care far too much about what I think
other people think of me.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which often puts me in quite a bind
relative to the truth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It shouldn</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">t, but it does.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now that I have kids, I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">m more conscious (or at least I try to be) of
my issues with truth. But old habits die hard, and it</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">s still far too easy for a lie to slide off my
tongue. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Joe
Nuxhall didn’t give up a homer that day; his earned runs came solely from walks
and base hits. My lies aren’t mammoth—they’re not home runs. I tell myself
they’re tiny—base hits or walks—irrelevant, seemingly. They’re lies to cover up
forgotten phone calls, neglected garbage carts, and overdue library books.
They’re lies about missed emails, late arrivals, and vitamins. But they all
hide (or attempt to hide) the same thing: a sense of not quite being good
enough, of not measuring up, as if telling the truth could expose a version of
me that no one could possibly love or respect. I’m not perfect, and I can’t
ever expect to be, but I’m scared to death of being seen for what I am: someone
who forgets, who loses track, who sometimes can’t keep up or just doesn’t want
to. I’m terrified that my shortcomings might be exploited or worse, define me.
I’m desperate to try to maintain something fundamentally unsustainable. I’m
desperate to stay in control, to not be seen as less-than, as a fraud. I
understand, of course, the awful irony. I lie to others to maintain the
perpetual lie I tell myself. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">The
truth, of course, is that none of my lies are harmless; all of them are aimed
at deception. All of them evoke pain and erode trust. All of them—every single
one of them—are destructive, cancerous, corrosive.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which is exactly the opposite of what
I tell myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wonder what Joe Nuxhall told
himself. I wonder how it could have been so different from what I tell myself.
I wonder if Joe Nuxhall ever considered anything but that truthful, face-up
story about his Big League debut. I wonder if Joe Nuxhall ever offered any
excuses, ever messed around with the size or shape or structure of things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">m sure he did.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or at least I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">m sure that he considered it.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I think he figured everyone knew
the truth already. And even if they didn</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">t,
he did, so what difference did it really make? What happened, happened, and
Nuxhall</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">s honesty may just have freed some space for
other things, things not destructive, corrosive, and cancerous. Nuxhall</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">s honesty helped him get back to even. And
eventually, he got ahead.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I want to free some space. I want to
get back to even. I dream about getting ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lies are heavy, clumsy, and awkward.
Lies are unruly; they</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">re contradictions. Lies are a misguided effort
to reconfigure the space-time continuum. They</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">re an attempt to overwrite history, to highjack
experience, to gaslight and usurp. Lies are an essential impossibility, yet I
try to execute them day after day after day. Some days, I even manage to
convince myself I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">ve successfully executed them. Of course, that</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">s a lie, too.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">m not really sure when or why I started lying.
I know it had something to do with power. Control, too. My lies offered me a
mechanism for getting what I wanted, what I thought I needed: respect,
recognition, control. I only wanted to be seen, to be enough. I never wanted to
be the best; I only wanted to be good enough. My lies gave me agency, and as
inauthentic as that agency was, it sure as hell felt good, so the lies grew.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think I finally understand why it
was so easy for Joe Nuxhall to be honest. Being honest is really the only
possible</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">—the only sustainable—</span><span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: IT; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">outcome.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It took Joe Nuxhall eight years to get
back to the Big Leagues after those five earned runs in two-thirds of an
inning. Eight years. And the weight of those five runs is nothing compared to
the weight of the lies I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">ve told.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The weight of those five runs cost Joe
Nuxhall eight years; it took him that long to get back to even. I wonder how
long it</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">ll take me. I wonder if it</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: FR; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">’</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">s even possible.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BodyB" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Tommy Vollman</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> is a writer, musician, and painter. He has written a number of
things, published a bit, recorded a few records, and toured a lot. Tommy’s work
has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the “Best of the Net” anthology.
His stories and nonfiction have appeared (or will appear) in issues of <i>The
Southwest Review, Two Cities Review, The Southeast Review, Palaver, </i>and<i>
Per Contra</i>. He has some black-ink tattoos on both of his arms. Tommy really
likes A. Moonlight Graham, Kurt Vonnegut, Two Cow Garage, Tillie Olsen, Willy
Vlautin, and Albert Camus. He's working on a novel entitled <i>Tyne Darling</i>
and has a new record, “Youth or Something Beautiful”, which was released in
April 2019. He currently teaches English at Milwaukee Area Technical
College and prefers to write with pens poached from hotel room cleaning carts.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-74741737899772282622020-02-11T14:27:00.000-07:002020-02-11T14:27:10.375-07:00My Name Could Be Toby Gardnerby Ann S. Epstein<br />
<br />
I lost my name. Perhaps the name was never mine to begin with. In which case, will I ever own one? Or, if the name was once in my possession, can I get it back?<br />
<br />
People on intimate terms with their names stir envy in me. When I hear mine, no inner voice says “Me”. The roots of this dissociation sprout in a family soil that teems with multiple, secret, and lost names. Such history is common among immigrants who changed their names to assimilate. For me, not being my name also stems from my family’s particular pathology.<br />
<br />
My late mother, for example, Kate Alsofrom Savishinsky, could be called Gussie Shirley Savage. Like many Eastern Europeans who came to the United States at the turn of the last century, names on both sides of my family were Anglicized or phoneticized. Thus, my father’s Polish surname “Czauczinski” became “Savishinsky” at Ellis Island. When my mother married him, she shortened it to “Savage” at work, which was also the name we put on the waiting list at the Chinese restaurant where, like other New York Jews, we often ate supper on Sunday nights.<br />
<br />
The story behind “Gussie” is explained in this letter I submitted to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services with my mother’s Medicaid application:<br />
<br />
The enclosed 1911 birth certificate erroneously lists my mother’s first name as Gussie rather than Kate. Her aunt, who was interviewed at the lying-in hospital, had limited English, and thought the official was asking for her name (which was Gussie) instead of the baby’s name. My mother’s Austrian maiden name, spelled “Alzufrumm” on her birth certificate, was later Anglicized to “Alsofrom”. I am also faxing a copy of my 1946 birth certificate, which lists my mother’s name correctly as Kate Savishinsky and her birthplace as the United States. I trust that with both documents, her citizenship will be established for Medicaid purposes.<br />
<br />
“Shirley” was yet another twist in the Medicaid application, which also required a copy of my mother’s Social Security card. I found one issued in her work name, Kate Savage, but needed a card under her legal name, Kate Savishinsky. She’d owned one when I’d moved her into assisted living a few years earlier, but had soon lost it, along with her purse, and her mind.<br />
Since my mother was a packrat, I asked my brother Steve (whose first name is Joel, but Joel is what we called an older cousin) to check for a Social Security card in the possessions he’d stored when we cleaned out her apartment. He discovered a card, but it identified her as Kate Shirley Savage. We’d never heard the name “Shirley” and assumed it was an error. But after phoning my mother’s sister Fae (called Fannie or Feigele as a child), I emailed my brother:<br />
<br />
Dear JSS: [Note: He and I avoid the first-name problem by using our initials]<br />
<br />
Shirley (surely) you won’t believe this. Mom’s real middle name is Shirley! When I shared my tale of woe with Aunt Fae, we had the following conversation:<br />
<br />
Me: I know Mom used “Savage” in business, but who knows where “Shirley” comes from.<br />
Fae: Shirley is your mother’s middle name.<br />
Me: I thought it was Sheba, from her Jewish name, Kayla Shayva.<br />
Fae: No, it’s Shirley, although she’d call me a liar for saying so. She wanted it to be Sheba.<br />
Me: Huh? Mom hated that name on account of the Shirley Booth movie “Come Back Little Sheba.” Sheba was a runaway dog.<br />
Fae: No, your mother always liked the name Sheba.<br />
Me: Did my father know my mother’s real middle name was Shirley?<br />
Fae: I have no idea what your father knew about your mother.<br />
<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
ASE<br />
<br />
As my maternal grandmother Mindel (who was registered as Minnie at Ellis Island) used to say, “I’m glad I didn’t die yesterday or I wouldn’t have known that.” I was fifty-nine when I discovered my mother’s real middle name. She was too far gone by then for me to ask her why she claimed it was “Sheba,” but even if she’d been cogent, I doubt she would have told me the truth. In her typical long-winded fashion, she would have narrated a convoluted story in which she was the aggrieved party or the heroine. And, as my straight-talking Aunt Fae said, my mother would have called her sister a liar.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
If learning my mother’s identity meant sorting truth from fiction in her nonstop chatter, figuring out my father’s entailed filling in gaps of silence. He was not just taciturn, like many men of his generation. When I was a graduate student in psychology, I recognized in him the classic symptoms of a schizoid personality, someone incapable of relating to others. As a child, however, I knew only that his muteness made me ashamed to invite friends to our apartment.<br />
<br />
Despite his lack of connection to others, or perhaps because he lived inside himself, my father seems to have had a strong sense of who he was. Except for passively allowing my mother to use Savage at the office and Jade Garden, he refused to simplify his last name. On the other hand, in elementary school, he’d dropped his first name in favor of his middle one. He stuck with this choice, even when it was later ignored by virtually everyone, who called him by a nickname.<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My father was born Layzeh Dovid in the shtetl of Yadow, and called Louis David when he arrived in America as a boy. For untold reasons, he hated the name Louis and answered only to David. In his teens, friends nicknamed him “Cal” after President Calvin Coolidge, a man stingy with words, who the press had dubbed “Silent Cal.” The president’s reticence may have been a political choice. No one was aware, or admitted, that my father’s was a handicap.<br />
<br />
As young adults, my parents met at a summer resort on the Jersey shore, where they’d each rented cabins with their friends. Urged by her bunkmate to check out a guy named Cal, my mother approached the man she hoped would be him, but was told by that man, “I’m not Cal. He’s the bum over there.” Redirected, she paired off with the guy who was Cal for the summer. Back in the Bronx that fall, my father phoned her to resume their courtship:<br />
<br />
He: Hello, this is David.<br />
<br />
She: David who?<br />
He (annoyed): You know, David.<br />
She: I don’t know anyone named David.<br />
He: We’ve been dating for two months!<br />
She: You mean Cal?<br />
<br />
Friends and family never called my father anything but Cal after the nickname was bestowed in the 1920s. Yet he steadfastly thought of himself as David until his death in 1997. What they intended as a playful moniker was to him a painful reminder of his isolation. I never heard my father protest—he was incapable of direct confrontation—but “David” was how he always introduced himself and the name he signed on his anniversary cards to my mother.<br />
<br />
My father was equally reticent about his own parents. He never spoke of his father, who died when I was a toddler. The story as reported by my mother—or invented by her; one could never be sure, especially about tales that cast my father’s family in a bad light — is that her father-in-law was an alcoholic who disappeared for long stretches of time when my father was growing up. As the oldest child, my father was pressured by<br />
<br />
his demanding mother to become “the man of the house,” a worldly role for which he was ill-suited, and his shame and bitterness muted him for life. So total was his silence that my brother and I did not know our paternal grandfather’s name until we were in our 40s. We were gathered for the bar mitzvah of my brother’s younger son, Jacob, when my brother and I asked our father the name of his father. His reply: “Jacob. I assumed my grandson was named for him.” I don’t know which of us was more surprised at the other’s not knowing.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDu2jkKr76GeQv7Cz8OK3D004EE920wzOXB8mzyMgLChzWJGU1vzzYgwN7QCM8k2Gq0uwD-AhWsVLPRT5_ZYJtsl1iWhvIgv-BgDqR073mG9WS3XpI8Q2S6XmNLjke5QxglcVsYYbLhY/s1600/gussie-cal-steve-toby-1951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="401" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDu2jkKr76GeQv7Cz8OK3D004EE920wzOXB8mzyMgLChzWJGU1vzzYgwN7QCM8k2Gq0uwD-AhWsVLPRT5_ZYJtsl1iWhvIgv-BgDqR073mG9WS3XpI8Q2S6XmNLjke5QxglcVsYYbLhY/s400/gussie-cal-steve-toby-1951.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="MsoCaption" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: start;">
Gussie, Cal, Steve, and Toby<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoCaption" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: start;">
a.k.a. Kate, David, Joel, and Ann<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The true name of our father’s mother was revealed even later, ten years after our father’s death. My brother, cousins, and I had called her Grandma Lillie, which we assumed was short for Lillian. But on my 61st birthday, my father’s sister told me that their mother was born Ruchel (Rachel) Leah. She reinvented herself in America, dropping her first name and applying the initial of the second to one that may have sounded less Jewish or more elevated than her peasant upbringing. My aunt, and the rest of my father’s family, assumed that my daughter, Rebecca, was named for her, this time repurposing the “R.” I informed my aunt otherwise, but perhaps I should have let the misconception survive. A lineage buried in silence deserves to create its own stories.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
My full name is Ann Toby Savishinsky Epstein. When I married my first husband, few women kept their maiden names. Since I was not enamored of mine, and was years shy of understanding and loving my father, I took my spouse’s last name, which was Epstein. To preserve part of my identity, however, I began using Savishinsky as a middle name. Eight years later, when he and I divorced, I kept Epstein to maintain continuity for my young daughter and because I’d published under that name. I still sometimes think of myself as a Savishinsky, though. Whenever a group is split alphabetically into A-M and N-Z, my instinct is to head for the one that includes “S.”<br />
<br />
Twenty-five years later, when I remarried, I continued to use Epstein. My daughter was grown, and my career was well established by then, as was the practice of women not changing their names. However, my second marriage raised the possibility of yet another name for me.<br />
<br />
I was called by my middle name, Toby, until kindergarten, when I insisted on using my first name, Ann. I happily shed Toby because it was an easy mark for alliterative teasing. I was called “Toothless Toby” after a fall knocked out my baby teeth years before the permanent ones grew in. “Tubby Toby” didn’t fit the skinny kid I was, but amused my tormenters. Toby could also be a boy’s name (Toby Tyler and the Circus was a popular children’s book at the time). The final humiliation was a television show about an elephant named Toby. When I switched to Ann, teasing rhymes like A”, Ann, frying pan” sounded too impersonal to bother me. Perhaps it was also an early indication that I didn’t think of the name “Ann” as really belonging to me.<br />
<br />
Despite my becoming Ann at school, to my family I remained Toby. So, when I married my second husband forty-five years later, my Aunt Honey, whose real name is Anita, sent us a check made out to “Gerald and Toby Gardner.” Our joint account was under Gerald Gardner and Ann Epstein. He endorsed the check and I went to the bank to explain the situation to the teller:<br />
<br />
Me: My aunt thinks I took my new husband’s last name, which is “Gardner.” (As further proof that I wasn’t faking a family relationship, I pointed out that the middle name on my driver’s license, Savishinsky, was also my aunt’s last name.)<br />
Teller: No problem, I understand. (Long pause …) Who’s Toby?<br />
<br />
The teller’s perplexity mirrors mine. None of my names: Ann or Toby, Savishinsky or Epstein, feels like me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*</div>
Funny as name anecdotes can be, it is also tragic when ancestral names are lost. But in addition to this universal phenomenon, my personal disconnection is the legacy of my odd family history. I question whether I am alone in having a nameless self, or if others share my experience. Even people who dislike their names don’t necessarily question that they belong to them. And what of those who are adopted or assume a different name for fame, fortune, or fraud? Did Norma Jean think of herself as Marilyn? Did James Gatz fully inhabit the person of Jay Gatsby? Did Anna Anderson<br />
<br />
believe herself to be Princess Anastasia? Or did they coexist with a stranger who posed as them?<br />
Now in my mid-seventies (and single again), I occasionally braid my hair in the style I wore as a little girl. I wonder if I am not just attempting to recapture my youth but to become Toby again. Up until age five, I had only one name. I may have been haunted by an unhappiness I was too young to name—my father’s silence, my mother’s lies—but I knew who I was. Rejecting that name may have been a child’s way of rejecting that family. Decades later, with more wisdom and empathy, perhaps I am ready to reclaim as mine the family that made me.<br />
<br />
One solution to my self-alienation is to think of myself as the name I like best. Each has something to recommend it. Toby is uncommon and cute. I value creativity and I’m small, so the name fits. Ann, Hebrew for grace, is reassuring in the face of aging and death. My signature initials also appeal. ASE is the suffix for enzyme or catalyst, and I like to see myself as an agent of change. Yet, there’s no satisfying click when I drop any of these names into the slot labeled “me.” I’m still unwilling to give up the hope that someday I will find, and know, my name, but I fear it is too late. Either our names become us when we are young or they are forever lost.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqf31H4Uw6DULamZl_Cc73Xkh7aPkPsOomoX-O6PInkSE8SCm2Z9iQ_f9maXHIRbV7LQuPOLZX8r1klI-8H-r8Ve5jzxA4EFV0NI9mFlYIGVSfBcvRD84bL34SZMOJExuEY-l2YUw0o4/s1600/Ann+S+Epstein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqf31H4Uw6DULamZl_Cc73Xkh7aPkPsOomoX-O6PInkSE8SCm2Z9iQ_f9maXHIRbV7LQuPOLZX8r1klI-8H-r8Ve5jzxA4EFV0NI9mFlYIGVSfBcvRD84bL34SZMOJExuEY-l2YUw0o4/s200/Ann+S+Epstein.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Ann S. Epstein writes novels, short stories, memoir, craft articles, and book reviews. Her awards include a Pushcart Prize nomination for creative nonfiction, the Walter Sullivan prize in fiction, and an Editors’ Choice selection by Historical Novel Review. Her novels are On the Shore, Tazia and Gemma, and A Brain. A Heart. The Nerve. Her stories and nonfiction work appear in Sewanee Review, PRISM International, Ascent, The Long Story, Saranac Review, The Madison Review, The Minnesota Review, Passages North, Summerset Review, Red Rock Review, William and Mary Review, Tahoma Literary Review, and many other literary journals. In addition to writing, she has a Ph.D. in developmental psychology and a M.F.A. in textiles. Her stories often have historical settings that mix fact and fiction. Her nonfiction explores the people, places, and events that shape us, especially the residue left by family and friends. Her website is: https://www.asewovenwords.com.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-73688270047890811952020-01-31T15:54:00.000-07:002020-01-31T15:54:30.471-07:00Why We Didn't Tell<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">by
Barbara Desman<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When women began speaking out about
sexual abuse by powerful men, particularly with the high-profile allegations
against men like Bret Kavanaugh, Larry Nassar, and Harvey Weinstein, it led to
many a discussion around my kitchen table and among my Facebook friends. To my
friends who grew up in the fifties and worked throughout the sixties, seventies,
and eighties, reports of such abuse came as no surprise. The real surprise was
that the women accusing such men felt empowered enough to speak publicly about
it and to seek justice. We all had our stories to tell each other about the
many shades of sexual harassment we endured. But when the measurement of
whether these women were telling the truth became how long ago the abuse
happened and why they hadn’t reported it, I decided I had to get up from my
kitchen table and away from Facebook and share my own ancient history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was
nineteen-fifty-four and I was fourteen. He was the second chiropractor I was
seeing for painful back pain and the decided limp the injury had caused, the
result of an attack by a bully in gym class. Back then, bullying was
overlooked. Just suck it up, we were told. It happens to everyone. But this
attack had badly sprained my back. Three doctors and two weeks in the hospital
in traction hadn’t helped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thankfully,
this new chiropractor’s treatments seemed to be helping. I was nervous but
hopeful I might again be a normal teenager, free of nightly hot compresses for
the pain, free of the ugly lift they placed on my shoe, free of knowing they
called me “that little crippled girl” behind my back. I wanted to dance “The Twist”
in my socks on the same gym floor where the attack had occurred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
day my belief in this new chiropractor changed was the first day I went to my
appointment by myself so mom wouldn’t have to take off work. It was also the
first day the nurse left me alone with him to go to lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I lay
face down on the table as he pushed on my pelvis above my newly formed full
buttocks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Turn
over on your back.” He pressed his hand on my pubic bone through my pants. He
hadn’t touched me this way before. It felt oddly pleasurable and then it
didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’re
you doing?” I asked, lifting my head off the table to look at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
adjusting you, he said, lie back down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When
his hand moved down, pressing between my legs, I knew it wasn’t right. I struggled
to sit up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What’s
the matter? Lie back down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I, I have to go,” I stammered, trying to keep
the panic out of my voice. Jumping off the table, I grabbed my purse and ran
out through the empty waiting room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mom,
he touched me,” I cried into the pay phone, “the doctor touched me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?
What are you talking about? Of course, he touched you; he was giving you a
treatment.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
Mom, it was different. It didn’t feel right,” I sobbed, hardly able to hold the
phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
honey, calm down,” She whispered into the phone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll be home in an hour. We’ll talk about it
then. Are you okay to ride the bus home?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I told mom what happened, she folded me in her arms and tried to console me. “Don’t
worry, honey, you’re not going back to him.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Why
didn’t my mother report him? Mom was raised with an abusive father. She watched
her mother being beaten. But she was taught to believe that it was shameful if
the neighbors knew what was happening inside the family. The lesson in those
times was that the woman must have done something to deserve it. Sadly, we hear
that same message in a much more covert way today. What was she wearing? Was
she drinking? Why didn’t she tell anyone?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
didn’t talk about sex back then. Although my mother never made me feel I had
done anything wrong, I understood it was not to be spoken of again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
Mom was in her eighties, she told me she called that doctor and warned him if
he ever tried something like that again, she would call his wife and then the
police. He probably knew it was an empty threat. I wonder how many young girls
came before and after me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
don’t remember the date. I don’t remember the address of the office. I don’t
even remember the doctor’s name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
probably shouldn’t bring it up since it was almost sixty-five years ago; how
can a young girl’s memory be trusted?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In
December of 1953, Hugh Hefner gave men a big Christmas present in the form of <i>Playboy
Magazine</i>. The first issue featured Marilyn Monroe as the centerfold. What could
the publication possibly have to do with me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Two years
later I turned fifteen I was always home alone after school until mom got off
work. We lived in a two-story house that had been converted into three
apartments. The stairs up to our porch extended past the entrance under the
bathroom window to another flight of stairs leading to the backyard. One
afternoon, I was doing homework when there was a rattling and then a knock on our
screen door. When I opened the door, the porch was empty but something was
stuck in the handle of the door. When I unrolled it, I saw a pretty young woman
lying on her stomach on a white fur rug, her bare breasts dipped into the fur,
her back arched, her red high heels hovered above her round naked buttocks. Scrawled
across her hips in black marker were the words “DO THIS FOR ME.” Shaking, I slammed
the screen door, quickly locking the front door. Closing the drapes, I sat on
the sofa, jumping at any unusual sound for what seemed like hours until Mom
arrived home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So,
you didn’t see anyone? Is there anyone at school who might have done this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
Mom,” I assured her. “I don’t know anyone this creepy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since
I was home alone every day after school, Mom decided to report the incident to
the police. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I’ll
fill out a report but it probably won’t happen again,” the policeman who responded
said. “Don’t worry. It’s probably just some boy from school who likes you,” the
officer said, smiling at me. “Be sure to lock the door when you get home from
school and let us know if you think of anyone at school who might have done
this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next day, it happened again, except this time mom arrived home a few minutes
later trembling and out of breath.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
boy was here. He left this,” I said, my hand shaking as I handed her another <i>Playboy</i>
page.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know. I was watching from the backyard. I saw him come up on the porch, and
when I went around the garage, I ran into him face to face,” she exclaimed, dialing
the police.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
school, I became hyper aware of every boy around me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Was he smiling or smirking? Did he mean to jostle me in the hallway? <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
became aware of behavior that might have escaped my attention before. Our Art
teacher was young and pretty. The boys would ask her for help so she would bend
over their desk exposing her ample cleavage.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
few days later, a policeman knocked on our door, a teenaged boy in tow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is
this the boy you saw?” he asked Mom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
don’t know. I can’t say for sure. I’d hate to have you arrest the wrong boy if
I’m not absolutely sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The policeman
didn’t tell us why he had chosen this particular boy to bring to Mom. Maybe it
was because he matched her sketchy description or maybe he had been caught
doing the same thing to another teenage girl. I told the policeman I didn’t
recognize him from school or even from the neighborhood. I was grateful for
that. We never knew if they arrested him. As I think back, it was a terrible
thing for the policeman to bring that boy to our house and ask mom to identify
him. We breathed a sigh when the visits stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then
one balmy Saturday in summer, Mom was cleaning the bathtub. A large window over
the tub was open to the summer heat. When Mom straightened up, she came face to
face with the boy. He was leaning into the window up to his waist above her.
Mom screamed. He screamed. By the time Mom got to the door, he was sprinting
across the back yard to the alley.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He
probably thought you were taking a bath and he was going to get a thrill,” the
policeman said, suppressing a smile. The attitude of the police officer and the
fact that we never spoke about it again taught me that women were simply
supposed to put up with such licentious behavior. As men are fond of saying, “Boys
will be boys”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember the address of our
apartment and I only know the year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
probably shouldn’t bring it up since it was almost sixty-three years ago; how
can a young girl’s memory be trusted?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I carried that lesson of my youth into the
workplace so, at the age of twenty-one, when my boss made flirtatious remarks
or stood a little too close, I acted as though I didn’t know what he was trying
to do. It was just something women had to put up with. It was just he and I in
the small regional office. Who would believe me? I needed my job.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One
day, he walked up behind me while I was typing and kissed me on the back of my
neck. I spun around and shocked myself by saying, “If you ever do that again,
three people will know about it, you, me, and your wife.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
don’t know where I found such courage but he backed away and told me I must
have mistaken his actions. Not long after, we received a visit from the President
of the company based in Phoenix, who offered me the opportunity to transfer to
Arizona to be his secretary. I didn’t connect the two events until recently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
don’t remember the address of the office and can only estimate the date. I
don’t remember my boss’s name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
probably shouldn’t bring it up since it was fifty-seven years ago; how can a
young woman’s memory be trusted?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later in my career, whenever I earned a
promotion</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">, I was upset but not surprised to hear rumors that I must be
sleeping with my boss to have achieved success in the company. After all, my
mother heard the same rumors about her success during the forties and fifties. You
were expected to act like you didn’t hear the dirty joke. You smiled at a
flirtatious remark and walked away. Who would take your side? You needed your
job. So when women began to come forward with allegations against media moguls,
athletic coaches, bosses, and celebrities, I cheered. It was only when I began
to hear people questioning their claims because it took them so long to speak
up, that I took it personally. Would we ever learn what psychologists have
tried to teach us, that <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">victims
sometimes need decades to admit to themselves that what happened to them was
abuse, let alone to muster the courage to file a report about such traumatic
physical and psychological betrayal?</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
</i>I knew why.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Barbara
Desman</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> has always been a storyteller; just ask her family and friends. She is
now enjoying committing her stories to the page. Her thirty-nine-year career in
the airline industry afforded her the opportunity to explore and observe the
culture, people, and sights of many international destinations. Barbara is
currently working on a novella about human trafficking in Thailand. Her stated
intention for this chapter of her life is to become the Grandma Moses of prose.
Barbara writes from Scottsdale, Arizona with her Toy Fox Terrier, Bubbles, at
her feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-67813649130566294202020-01-24T17:24:00.000-07:002020-01-24T17:24:12.825-07:00Wildflowers<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">by
Theresa Malphrus Welford<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">In the fall of 2017, I did something I
never envisioned myself doing: I walked into a tattoo parlor. Sitting on a
bench out front was Ross Craven, the owner of Ivory Tower Tattoo Studio, who
sported ear gauges, a ZZ Topp/Duck Dynasty beard, and larger-than-life tattoos
of Lucille Ball and Jed Clampett and other 1950s and1960s sitcom icons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">When I asked Ross about his tattoos, he
said, “Oh, I’m full-body.” Then, when I described my own plans, he said, “Yep,
the backs of the legs are going to be painful, especially the ditches. The
ditches always hurt.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The ditches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I was on a quest to rebrand myself, and
at that moment, it became clear that I’d be learning all kinds of things along
the way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Inside the tattoo parlor, black leather
couches hug the walls. On the flat-screen TV, adults pull juvenile pranks, then
snicker like Beavis and Butthead. In one small room, Jack Torrance from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Shining</i> pushes his leering face
through a hole that he’s supposedly chopped through the door with an axe. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s Johnny!</i> Orange and black flames
adorn the bathroom walls, along with a painting of a big-breasted woman sporting
horns and fangs. She’s faded to shades of pink and blue, like bad art from the
1980s. A muscular demon who could be the twin brother of Urizen, from William
Blake’s painting <i>The Ancient of Days</i>, squats above the doorframe, pointing
down at something that I can’t see. He’s wearing a loincloth and sporting a ZZ
Topp / Duck Dynasty beard of his own, along with a WWJD tattoo. Next to the
sink, there’s a sign specifying which items—including unwanted Christmas gifts
and annoying children—should not be flushed down the toilet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Based on recommendations from several
colleagues, I chose Ryan Bran as the artist who would help me rebrand myself. In
the room where Ryan works his magic, the walls are decorated with Bettie Page pinups
from the 1950s and skulls and superheroes and a Redneck Brand Tattoo Kit
consisting of several permanent markers and a birthday card sending
monster-sized hugs to the world’s best daddy. Hardbound comic books, Lego vampires,
and neatly organized bottles of tattoo ink cover the shelves and tables. Ryan
keeps a spray bottle filled with cool water and a supply of soft paper towels
ready so that he can periodically dab the stinging tattoos-in-progress. The playlist
on the purple iPod consists of Blondie, The Carolina Chocolate Drops, The Red
Hot Chili Peppers, The Monkees, Pearl Jam, Johnny Cash, a death-metal rendition
of “Ride of the Valkyries,” a sarcastic rendition of “Afternoon Delight,” and a
serious rendition of “Avé Maria.” A black vinyl bed/couch takes up much of the
space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">On my first visit, that place was
entirely unfamiliar to me. Here I was, a gray-haired academic—albeit with
purple highlights—immersing myself in a new world, surrounded by tattooed and
pierced people decades younger than I was. I cringed when Ryan told me to go
ahead and change into shorts while he got his studio ready. For more than
thirty years, I was ashamed of my legs. Now, after ten sessions in Ryan’s studio,
those legs are covered with glorious bouquets: sunflowers, daisies, poppies,
morning glories, hollyhocks, honeysuckle, coreopsis, Indian blanket, and
lantana. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Finally, at sixty-two years old, I have
rebranded myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I chose wildflowers because of what they
are and what they represent to me. They can be cultivated, but they also grow completely
on their own in nature. They add color to the roadside. They sprout up in
abandoned fields. They push their way through concrete and asphalt and rock. In
Ecuador, lantanas are so common that people use them as fencing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">For many people, wildflowers are nothing
but weeds, but to me they represent beauty, determination, self-sufficiency. They
felt right for my new brand: I may not be beautiful, but I am determined (aka stubborn),
and I strive to be self-sufficient.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Paradoxically, my glorious wildflowers also
represent shame. Living with it. Being held back by it. Hiding because of it. And,
ultimately, figuring out a creative way to vanquish it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">In Rome a few years ago, I was wearing a
red and white polka-dotted dress with white capri-length leggings. The summer
day was so hot that I went into a café bathroom, stripped off the leggings, and
stuffed them into my purse. Then, minutes later, I walked back downstairs, locked
myself in the bathroom, and put the sweaty leggings back on. I couldn’t talk myself
into going out in public without them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Why? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Because I was the Woman with Purple
Veins Spiderwebbing Her Pasty White Legs, and I hated her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Look at that man: a varicose vein as
thick as a garter snake threatens to burst from his lower leg, but he’s wearing
shorts. Look at that young woman: she has cellulite dimples from her ankles to
her thighs, but she’s wearing a sassy striped minidress. Look at that old
fellow: he looks nine months pregnant, but he’s happily strolling the beach in
his black swim trunks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">They are wearing what they enjoy. They
are comfortable. They are brave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I’ve heard the arguments: “Get over
yourself. No one is looking at you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I know. I know. No one cares about my
legs. My husband loves me exactly as I am. Other people have worse problems. But
my self-consciousness is (was) like the tattoos adorning the owner of Ivory
Tower: larger than life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I was always so embarrassed by my legs that
I don’t have any “before” photos without tattoos to contrast with my “after”
photos. But I do have this one, taken after my first session at Ivory Tower: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">As
the photo shows, my rebranding process had a long way to go, but it was already
starting to have the desired results.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuiphuexG5KQPgr77Ja13xS3j3D9urB3fBU-h88bUdn7AhgPLwsXuZYID1wvEdeDgLbuR-KwJj1fpzbv4EkH064adAHU7uDK2kiQpc1y3F_gLB85I-6RlHMAWGnmax2zdP7mXX9cERLAU/s1600/before+photo+leg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="215" data-original-width="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuiphuexG5KQPgr77Ja13xS3j3D9urB3fBU-h88bUdn7AhgPLwsXuZYID1wvEdeDgLbuR-KwJj1fpzbv4EkH064adAHU7uDK2kiQpc1y3F_gLB85I-6RlHMAWGnmax2zdP7mXX9cERLAU/s1600/before+photo+leg.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">After I’d gone to a couple of sessions
at Ivory Tower, a colleague stopped me on my way to the water fountain at work and
complimented me on the “fancy tights” I was wearing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i>
wearing tights that day, but I pointed out that the pattern she was seeing was,
in fact, tattoos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Oh, my word!” she said, in her posh
British accent. “They’re beautiful!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">When I explained that they were there to
cover “uglies” on my legs, she said, “What a clever idea!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">At one marathon-length session (four
hours!!), Ryan said that working on my legs had been gratifying because it reminded
him of why he went into tattooing in the first place. I was happy to learn that
my quest was helping him remember his own brand: The Talented Guy Who Covers
the Canvas of Someone’s Skin with Art. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Several hours into that long session, a
second tattoo guy popped in to say good night. He checked out the work-in-progress
and said, “Whoa. Back of the leg! She’s tough.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Indeed she is,” Ryan said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">So, in addition to embellishing my legs
with beautiful art, covering my veins, helping me overcome my shame, and encouraging
me to come out of hiding, my tattoos also reveal that I am, at long last, a bit
of a badass: The Woman Who Pushes Through Pain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">My mom was a life-long, hard-core,
hellfire-and-brimstone, fundamentalist, evangelical Southern Baptist, and I figured
she’d be appalled if she ever saw my tattoos. She often wondered why I didn’t
share her views about most things, and in recent years she often said, “I just
don’t understand how you turned out to be so different from me and your daddy.”
Back in the 1980s, when she was unhappy about my choice to become a vegetarian,
she told me, in a sanctimonious tone, that Jesus ate meat, as if that tidbit
would instantly make me change my mind. I was twenty-nine years old at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">In the 1990s, she was shocked when I got
a second hole in my left earlobe. “<i>Terry</i>,” she said, italicizing my name
with her voice, as disapproving parents do when their prepubescent offspring do
something naughty. I was thirty-five. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">When I stopped going to church in 1995,
she branded me as the Daughter Who Kept Her Awake All Night Because She
Couldn’t Help Envisioning Me in Hell. To make matters worse, she told me a few
years ago that my father and my grandmother would be disappointed in me because
I didn’t go to church. Although I found that remark deeply hurtful, I also
found it absurd: they’ve been dead for more than two decades, and they’re <i>still</i>
disappointed in me? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">My tattoos would have pushed her over
the edge, I thought, making her pull out her Bible and flip furiously to the
verse in Leviticus that says tattoos are an abomination unto the Lord. It’s
right there with the verses that prohibit homosexual behavior and mixed fabrics
and bowl-shaped haircuts. (Insert eye-rolling emoticon.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Tattoos, I have learned, penetrate the
epidermis and lodge permanently in the dermis. Ironically, they last a long
time because the body thinks they’re invaders. In an effort to rid the body of
the dye, immune-system cells called macrophages eat up as much dye as they can.
Then the macrophages and the dye bond with each other and hang out together,
just below the surface of the skin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">As for my relationship with my mom, I’m
sad to say that the issues went much deeper than a tattoo needle. She loved me,
and she told me so. Still, it would have been nice if she’d <i>accepted</i> me.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The thought of having to deal with my
mom’s disapproval didn’t make me hesitate to get the tattoos, but it did make
me do my best to conceal them from her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Update
#1: When visiting my mom at her home last spring, I wore sweatpants to cover my
tattoos. However, while trying to deal with a sudden itch, I absentmindedly
pulled up one sweatpants leg, revealing a couple of poppy blossoms. Her only
comment was, “Is that a tattoo?” When I explained the purpose</span></i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to
hide spider veins</i>—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she seemed
satisfied. I was, and still am, officially gobsmacked.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Update
#2: In early October, I flew back home to visit my mom in the hospital.
Although she was unconscious by the time I got there, I made sure my tattoos
were covered. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Update
#3: I covered my tattoos for her funeral. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Ryan, the guy who helped me rebrand
myself, is an artist and an expert: he has been tattooing for nearly twenty years,
and he came highly recommended. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoVVLCRhxCcrj3PS4HhsssNlTrM_LAYrT2Wo8qOnMtCQPhT0ME3uTDSfSxTq9EsZKKLRSy6Ufjp68jLfOrwy-gH9WSm22ATEPZd7NUcjuaySld243jx8HYLgecLWvlvoLoP5zXuguIcM/s1600/Ryan+Bran.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoVVLCRhxCcrj3PS4HhsssNlTrM_LAYrT2Wo8qOnMtCQPhT0ME3uTDSfSxTq9EsZKKLRSy6Ufjp68jLfOrwy-gH9WSm22ATEPZd7NUcjuaySld243jx8HYLgecLWvlvoLoP5zXuguIcM/s320/Ryan+Bran.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">He wanted my ideas, but he knew which
ones would work, which ones would not, and why. I initially went to him with an
image of a colorful stack of books, thinking they’d be perfect for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Won’t work,” he said. “What else do you
like?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">If I wanted coverage, he said, I needed
images with lots of details, like fish or flowers or birds. I eventually
understood that I also needed images that could wrap around my legs like vines and
extend to all the places marred by spider veins. For the reasons that I described
earlier, I went with wildflowers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">At one session, I told him I’d thought
about getting spiderweb tattoos to cover my spider veins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“That would have been <i>awesome</i>,”
he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Yeah. It would have. Spiderwebs and
skulls and Shakespeare quotes, maybe. “Though she be but little, she is
fierce”: I seriously considered that one, because I am little and because I am
occasionally fierce. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">In my quest to rebrand myself, I became
a bit of an expert, too. I’m an expert on taking forever to rise above my
self-consciousness, and I’m an expert on finally mustering the moxie to push
through fear and pain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I also became an expert on tattoos. Not
on giving them, of course. But I learned that tattooing has its own lingo
(“ditch,” “linework,” “leg sleeve,” “cadaver,” “closer,” “Michelangelo,”
“blowout”). I learned that certain parts of my legs are far more sensitive than
others. I learned that pain in the crease behind my knee (“the ditch”) could
radiate all the way up to my lower back, much like a mild electrical shock. I
learned that lying on my belly and propping myself on my elbows for hours hurt
almost as much as having ink injected into my legs. I learned that it’s
possible to think of things to talk about even when both the tattoo artist and
the client are nerdy introverts (superheroes, horror movies, memes, music, the
criminal justice system, dysfunctional families). I learned that walking
backward with hands extended is an effective way, more or less, to keep an
enthusiastic dog from jumping on freshly tattooed legs (RIP, sweet Murphy). I
learned how to get through the healing process: when the itching woke me up at
2:00 a.m., icepacks and antihistamines were a big help. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Of all the things I learned, this one is
the best: once I made up my mind, it was surprisingly easy to start fresh and to
overcome decades of shame. I still have quite a few spider veins, especially
around my ankles, but they have lost their power to humiliate me. My wildflower
tattoos have yanked them off the stage and out of the spotlight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">One afternoon, as I waited at the
checkout counter in a grocery store in Statesboro, Georgia, a young man tapped
me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, ma’am. I just wanted to tell you that
your artwork is beautiful.” A man who was probably about my age called out
across the local mall parking lot, “I like your tattoos!” In 2018, I taught in
a Study Abroad program in Lucca, Italy. When I tried on dresses in a clothing
shop there, several young salesclerks gathered around to look at my legs and
said, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wow! Bella! Bella!</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Sure, some people stare, like the woman
in Lucca who nearly tripped and fell because she was glaring at me rather than
watching where she was going. But I’d rather have a disapproving look than a pitying
one, which is what I always expected when I was the Woman with Purple Veins
Spiderwebbing Her Pasty White Legs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">In a sort of tattooed facsimile of
nature, sunflowers, poppies, morning glories, honeysuckle, and coreopsis spread
wildly over my left leg, winding vinelike around it and covering a surprising
amount of terrain. Hollyhocks, lantana, daisies, and Indian blanket do much the
same on the right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Other people probably don’t pick up on
the nonconformist attitude that this deliberate asymmetry represents to me, but
it’s definitely there in my mind. Also, on a practical level, the asymmetry is
an inevitable result of my main goal in rebranding myself: to cover the veins
that I’ve hated for thirty-plus years. Ryan purposely hunted down as many “uglies”
as he could and tattooed over them, wherever they happened to be, all while
creating cohesive and beautiful patterns. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">My tattoos also represent my way of
thumbing my nose at aging. I don’t mind getting older, but I do mind the
expectations that are often placed on us as we age. We’re supposed to vote a
certain way, get sensible haircuts, dress in conservative clothing, drive
fuddy-duddy vehicles, and fade into the background. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Nah. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Very few people expect someone of my age
to get inked. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> never expected to do
such a crazy thing. But I did, and I’m rather pleased with myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Hell, one morning last spring, I got
fitted for hearing aids, and that evening I went back to Ivory Tower to get the
linework for my coreopsis and Indian blanket tattoos. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Shortly after I embarked on this quest,
the yeah-I’m-getting-older-so-what attitude underlying my tattoos made an
appearance at a doctor’s appointment. My podiatrist admired my new artwork,
then asked if I’d have to have the colors touched up at some point. (Because I
spaced out my tattoo sessions to coincide with my monthly paychecks, and
because I skipped some months, the tattooing process took quite a long time. I
was nearly sixty-two by the time the tattoos were finished.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I said, “Well, I’m sixty years old, so I
don’t foresee needing many touchups.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“That’s pretty morbid,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Yeah,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">We both laughed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Then I told him what my in-laws have
always said when they spend money on something expensive like a fridge or a car
or an array of solar panels for their house: “It’ll see us out.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I like
that way of putting it: My tattoos will see me out. This short little sentence</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"> captures the spirit I was looking for
when I started this whole rebranding process: confident, irreverent, and no
longer apologetic about myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">So. This is the new me. I am no longer the
Woman Who Hates Her Legs. I am the Woman with Wildflower Tattoos.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvJXK7sCJ30bTgQIreBJOPsMgHQa7aX0ZeZpWiqin-ctc2AVi78ahYUOq6CRMdfMqfAY1oTizwHp2IuAPM_YyPUmw2rB1x2WuXGSz1gziwhROUBPV44w6sjESuPZOUxsl5y_FgFsT11Q/s1600/T+Welford+Tattoos.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="979" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvJXK7sCJ30bTgQIreBJOPsMgHQa7aX0ZeZpWiqin-ctc2AVi78ahYUOq6CRMdfMqfAY1oTizwHp2IuAPM_YyPUmw2rB1x2WuXGSz1gziwhROUBPV44w6sjESuPZOUxsl5y_FgFsT11Q/s320/T+Welford+Tattoos.jpeg" width="195" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape
id="Picture_x0020_2" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style='width:252pt;
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o:title=""/>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Hlk29399002"><b><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Theresa
Malphrus Welford</span></b></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk29399002;"></span><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">, who
grew up in a small working-class town near Savannah, Georgia, has published
poetry, creative nonfiction, book chapters, and scholarly articles, as well as
three books: <i>The Paradelle</i>, <i>The Cento</i> (Red Hen Press), and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Transatlantic Connections: The Movement and
New Formalism</i> (Story Line Press). She and her husband, Mark Welford,
happily share their home with countless rescued animals (cats and dogs).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-49287558975054452572020-01-18T18:41:00.000-07:002020-01-18T18:41:41.305-07:00Dinner Stories: Emergency Room<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">by W. Scott Olsen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Prologue<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Here
is a truth that crosses every border. Dinner is a time for stories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There
is something magical about the meal. Or, to be more precise, there is something
magical about the occasion. We don’t often tell breakfast stories. We have to
get going. The stories we tell over lunch are brief, summaries at best. But
dinner stories can be long. They hold drama and nuance. They hold backstory and
foreshadowing. They have an arc that reveals something deeper than just what
happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Gather
a group of friends at an evening table and we share stories that nourish the
soul as well as the spleen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Chef<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My
friend Eric Watson is a chef. Talented, imaginative and creative, he owns a
restaurant in Moorhead, Minnesota, called Rustica. What if, I asked Eric, we
gathered just one person, someone with an interesting job, and asked them to
tell stories? Could you come up with a menu to provoke those stories? Could you
come up with a menu that was based on or inspired by the work they do?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Eric
paused, but only for a moment. “Yes” he said. “I think I could.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
Guest<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren Hintz. Emergency Room Physician. Sanford
Hospital. Fargo, North Dakota<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
Menu<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Wood Roasted Manilla Clams<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Preserved
Meyer Lemon, Garlic, Basil, Caper, Olive & Sweet Tomato<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Ginger Miso Glazed Cauliflower<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Edamame,
Tofu, Sweet Potato & Sticky Black Rice<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Scallop Crudo with Toasted Coriander<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Fresh
Orange, Shaved Fennel & Asparagus<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Flash Seared Beef Tenderloin Medallion<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Cumin
Scented Quinoa, Black Beans, & Carrot Tahini Puree<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Caramelized Pear<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Coconut
Milk, Ginger & Almond<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Eric
and I sit at the bar at Rustica, going over the menu he wants to serve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Is
there a connection between food and profession?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“That’s
what I’m shooting for,” Eric says. “We have an Emergency Room doctor. So I am
trying to keep it healthy. A lot of the ingredients on here—I just feel like
certain ingredients hit my stomach and make my stomach feel better. Healing
food. So like miso, or things that are umami driven, really savory. When I eat
salmon roe for example, it makes my body feel better. It’s personal to me. Everything
on here seems, to me, fresh, vibrant, healing. Something that’s good for the
body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
tried to create a menu based around things that are going to cook really
quick,” he says. “When I think of the emergency room I think fast, speed, so I
wanted things that were quick. Like the beef medallions, for example. We can
flash sear them really quick and they’re done. The caramelized pear requires
very little cooking time. Everything on here requires very little, if any
cooking time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
start light and work toward things that are heavier. The clams are super light,
super clean. Manilla clams are petite and tender. The cauliflower—I just wanted
to keep it healthy, so anything kind of along the vegan lines, health
conscious, plant-based. The pear? Just wanted to keep it as free of animal fats
as I could.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
smile, looking at the piece of paper that holds his notes, imagining the
evening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Should
we tell him?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“This
is the Emergency Room,” he says. “I think it’s kind of fun to let him be
surprised.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dinner
Stories<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dinner
is at 5:00 p.m. on a warm clear April evening. Warren and I arrive at nearly
the same time. Grey hair and a closely trimmed grey beard, the man radiates
calm. He moves quietly. His voice is soft. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Eric
has reserved the best seat in the house, a table in the front window
overlooking the intersection of Main Avenue and 4<sup>th</sup> Street South. Cars
and trucks, the occasional motorcycle, people out for a stroll go by. Walkers
peer in the restaurant windows as they pass, all of them looking at the food on
the tables more than the faces of the diners. A happy, curious young woman
named Madi appears at our table and pours water, then takes our order for
drinks. She knows this is an occasion. Be right back, she promises.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren
and I smile, then start with beginnings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
was working for an engineering consulting company in Bismarck,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Remember
those aptitude tests we all used to take? They said I would be good at
engineering, so that’s what I went into. With nothing else to do I thought ok,
they’re smart, I’ll do that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Anyway,
I was sitting in my office three years into it, after graduation, and I
happened to look across the hallway to my bosses’ offices. They were both behind
their desks. I realized at that moment, even though there was probably a little
wanderlust happening before then, that these guys were forty-two years old and
I was twenty-six. I was doing the exact same thing they were doing. And I said,
do I really want to do this when I’m forty-two? Do I want to do this when I’m forty-five?
The answer turned out to be no.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So
then it was a matter of what are you going to do if you’re not going to do
this? I toyed with going into law school for a little while but there was a
movie that came out in the late 70s called <i>And
Justice for All</i>. Al Pacino. It was a great movie. It was really a spectacular
movie. But it was horrible in the message it was offering. The message, and one
of the lines I remember, was Al Pacino saying ‘There is no truth. Truth in law
is only what you can get people to believe.’ I realized I don’t believe that. I
couldn’t do that. So I started processing other things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren
takes a sip of his water and begins a smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
had a recollection of a girl I was dating during college and she had mentioned I
should go to medical school,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Then
he waits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Because?”
I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“She
thought I’d look good in white.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Why
not interrupt my whole life and my career path and everything else in the world
I had at that moment because I would look good in white?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Madi
shows up with red wine for me, a gin and tonic for Warren. Her timing, I think,
is perfect. Warren and I take that first sip of our drinks and survey the room.
Other people are arriving and the room is filling with laughter. One couple, at
a table a bit distant from our own, is clearly on a date. Perhaps a first date.
Obvious, awkward eagerness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“To
be serious,” Warren says, “it was during this same time that I would ride my
bicycle all over North Dakota and I was out riding one evening after dark. I
was right down by the Holiday Inn in Bismarck, just about to go underneath the
Memorial Bridge, and I heard this horrible screeching and scratching and crash.
A car crash. This was obviously before cell phones. I ran up to the middle of
the bridge. There was this car with four young girls in it. High school age.
And then the other car, the notorious drunk driver. And these young girls kept
saying, ‘Help me. Help me. Help us. Help us.’ There wasn’t anything I could do.
I didn’t know anything. There wasn’t a thing I could do other than just try and
reassure them, encourage them to stay calm. At least I knew enough that they
shouldn’t move around too much. Another person came up after that, backed up, went
somewhere and made the phone call to 9-1-1. I was able to stay there with them.
And it was that evening, night, next morning that I said I would never be in a
position where I don’t know what to do. So within two weeks I signed up for an
EMS course. Joined an ambulance squad. Went to medical school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
am firm believer that everyone has a calling at some time in their life, he
says. And we always look at things we like to do and might want to do. That
night I found mine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Starters<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Madi
shows up again. Right behind her, Eric appears, deep plates in each hand. He
sets them in front of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh,
my heavens,” I say, then make introductions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“We’re
starting out with a wood-fired, roasted clam,” Eric says, “with a sweet tomato
broth, olives, capers, basil, a little garlic, chicken stock, a touch of butter
and olive oil.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
understand plating as an art form, I think to myself, but I am always amazed by
the beauty of well-presented food on a plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“This
came to be,” Eric says, “with the idea of trying to pair it with an ER doctor,
at least the best I can. Just fast. Things that are flash cooked. I was just
thinking speed. I picture an ER doctor moving quick. Or at least thinking fast.
Nutritious. Good for the soul. Not a lot of saturated fat. But a lot of color. A
lot of vibrancy. That’s where I was starting and where I was heading.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“This
smells grand,” Warren says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren
smiles at me after he takes his first bite. Behind us, the sounds have changed
to forks and spoons and knives put to work. A dozen variations on the way to
say “hmm” that means “this is really good.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
will confess,” I say, “I am afraid every time I get a meal like this. Shells
and such. Do I really know how to eat this? But I’m also old enough to know I
really don’t care.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Indeed,”
Warren says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
take my own first bite. Oh lord, I think.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You’ve
seen a lot of water under the bridge,” I say. I already know he is the second
most senior physician in the ER. More than thirty years waiting for disaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“It’s
remarkably changed,” he says. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The
technology has changed,” I say. “Has practice changed?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Skills,”
he says. “Skills relative to procedures that you do to either save lives or make
things more comfortable for people. Whether it’s lines, IV lines, or
intubating, or something else, the skills have certainly followed the
technology. Better equipment. Better techniques. Procedures have changed. Patient
population has changed too, to some degree. Initially the patient population
was truly emergency medicine people. Then it started falling into urgent care,
walk-in clinic types of things. Now it’s all of that, plus. The only thing we
don’t do is preventative care. And only because the setting isn’t right for
preventative care. But whether it’s psychiatry, whether it’s chronic medical
care, whether it’s urgent care, whether it’s emergent care, it’s kind of the
full gamut of everything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
had not thought of emergency psychiatry coming to your room,” I say. “Other
places, yes. But not the ER.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Most
of that, unfortunately,” he says, then pauses, “is despair. It’s an incredible social,
cultural type of issue. Despair issues run the gamut of suicidal, whether it’s
just thinking about it or actual attempts, to alcohol and drug related issues,
overdose issues, intentional or otherwise. And just some health issues.
Certainly we know that physiologically and medically people get sick from their
stress. They get sick when they are in despair. Even if they are not using
things. Even if they are not suicidal. Just physiologically they would get
sick.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren
and I sit quietly for a moment, take bites of our meal. I’m coming to
understand his pauses are a consideration of options. His life is based on
getting it right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“It’s
curious,” he says, “that you ask what would bring people to the emergency
department for even routine things, like a cold, or a child who has a fever,
when there are walk-in clinics available. I used to ask myself that a lot. But
then I learned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
think it’s been—I’m just going to guess on the timing of this—ten years ago? It
was in the middle of the night. About 2:30 in the morning. Even ten years ago
we weren’t overly busy overnight. Ten people, maybe twelve. Maybe even five?
From 10:00 p.m. until about 6:00 a.m. it was not a grand crowd. This one
particular morning, I was in our sleeping room, study room, whatever, and I got
a call there was a patient to see me. I came out to see him and here’s this eighty-seven-year
old little guy, nicely dressed, looking healthy, and his primary complaint was
fatigue. At 2:30 in the morning. And I wondered, I wondered what he was
thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So,
fatigue. I went through the whole gamut of what could cause a little old man to
have fatigue. He hadn’t fallen or been dizzy or anything. As I was interviewing
him, and then examining him, I was asking him—what do you mean by fatigue? Tell
me what you’re experiencing. What has changed recently? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“He
had more energy than I did! He was telling me that twice a week he would go
down to the Eagles club and dance until they closed at midnight. He was telling
me stories about little old ladies. ‘They just won’t let me alone,’ he says. ‘There’re
more old women than there are old men there, so I don’t have to worry about not
being able to dance,’ he said. ‘In fact, sometimes I just wish I could just sit
and chat for a little while.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And
I thought, so you dance all night, once or twice a week, and he says yes, I do.
And then he said he hikes miles a day! So I ask—has anything changed? He said,
not really. So I’m still processing, how does a little eighty-seven year old
man, nicely dressed, 2:30 in the morning, come into my department saying he’s
fatigued? I did some diabetes checks, some anemia checks, whatever else I could
come up with for fatigue. And I came back half an hour later and I said you
know, everything looks good. I don’t have an explanation for what you’re
experiencing. He said, it’s okay. I’m not necessarily fatigued. I’m just sad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And
I said, what are you sad about? He said, ‘Well, in the middle of the dance
night tonight, I got a phone call that my last best friend died. And I just wanted
somebody to talk to.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Since
then, I realized that everybody comes to see me, comes to see us, for a reason.
And whether that reason is something I understand, whether that reason is
something I agree with, whether it’s a reasonable reason or they just needed
somebody to talk to, at 2:30 in the morning, I’m there. I’m serving a function.
And so I kind of vowed that I will never ask again, in my mind let alone out
loud, if they should be there. Sometimes I do ask <i>What are you here for?</i> because I just don’t understand their whole
process, and that does clarify a lot of things. Sometimes it still just doesn’t
make sense, but at least most of the time it clears things up. But at least I vowed
I would never be angry or frustrated with somebody who’s there that I don’t
think needs to be there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Have
you been able to keep that vow,” I ask?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
think for the most part yeah,” he says. “I have. I was so impressed with that
little old man.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Second Course<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Madi
arrives, smiling. “Can I take this first course out of the way?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“It
was wonderful,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
think I devastated it,” Warren says. “Thank you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Eric
arrives right behind her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So
what do we have?” he says. “This is a pan seared cauliflower medallion with a
ginger miso glaze. We got a little tofu, a marinated tofu with a little splash
of tamari. Same thing with the edamame —it’s got a little splash of tamari as well.
And a sweet potato puree and a black sticky Tai rice.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh
my, Eric,” I say. “Where did this idea come from?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You
give me too much credit for ideas,” he says, laughing. “No, it’s just I like
the color scheme, I like the textures and flavors together, so yeah, that’s
really where it’s born from. Just kind of going all vegetarian, vegan on this
dish actually, so again just trying to keep it clean, healthy, small portions.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
invite him to linger but Eric says he cannot. Other customers. Other patients.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren
starts to talk about diagnostics and protocols. He tells me about ABC—airways,
breathing, circulation. But then he takes a bite, stops and points at his
plate, at the presentation of the food. All he says is “mmmm.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
wish I had Eric’s imagination,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“That
sweet potato puree is just absolutely breathtaking,” Warren says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
are suddenly in that comfortable silence of good food. A shared, atmospheric
joy. Something shared even before language. Something ancient.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
marvel at creative people,” Warren says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Don’t
let anyone know,” I say, “but I actually like the tofu.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m
there with you, too,” Warren laughs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m
always amazed when people can bring out a flavor in cauliflower,” he says. “Something
that is so”—he pauses, then just smiles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
pay attention to the food, sip our drinks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Tell
me about diagnostics,” I say. “It seems to me, from the outsider’s perspective,
that you, your department, has to have the fastest diagnostic skills in the
world. The range of things you could be presented with is everything.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
think that’s accurate,” he says. “You have to have at least a pretty clear
picture of what the possibilities are. We use the term differential diagnosis
relative to whatever complaint they have. So you came in with belly pain—what
are the possibilities? You came in with chest pain—what are the possibilities?
You came in unresponsive—what are the possibilities?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What
information do you have before you see a patient?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“It
certainly varies,” he says. “A critical patient is really the only type of
patient I hear about before I generally go in to see them. For the most part,
all of the patients we see have a chief complaint or a primary complaint. And
maybe a little bit of details from the nursing staff.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So
usually you’re just looking at the chart hanging on the door as you go in?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Right.
Whereas critical patients, the staff are exceptional in letting us know there’s
somebody critical coming in in ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and this is what
we know. Sometimes it’s we know they’re not breathing well, some of it is blood
pressure is low, some of it’s that they’re unresponsive. And some of it they’re
not doing well. I hesitate to use the term routine patients, but their vital
signs may not be there when I walk into the room. But anyone that has something
that’s pretty dramatic, we’ll know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 337.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So you’re already thinking as you walk down
the hall,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 337.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 337.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Correct. And probably the first thing I think
about is ‘is this person sick or is this person ok?’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 337.8pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 337.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How do you…” I ask, then retreat. “Wait. Is a
broken arm sick? Is that what you mean?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No. Sick meaning are they, unless I do something
quick, going to deteriorate? Or are they already deteriorating? And that’s a relatively
quick assessment. You get just this general gestalt of what you’re seeing.
Pale. Sweaty. Heartrate of 230. Minimally responsive. Those things you can just
boom. You can have a big picture. Or at least a focused picture. And that’s
where the ABC comes in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And when I say okay,” he continues, “when they
look okay, or they look ill but their vital signs are okay, and everything else
is working okay, at least I have a little bit of time to process. I don’t have
to do anything immediately to manage something that’s life threatening.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How essential is the interview?” I ask. “You
have the machines to tell you what the body’s doing. How essential is the talk
to you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“It’s vital. Mostly because it gives you a clearer
picture of what direction to go. By the time you’re done with the interview and
an examination, things should be narrowed down pretty close to two or three
potential items. And then it’s just a matter of the process of doing the
investigation work that helps support those two or three items you’re thinking
about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Things are not so much different here than
they are anywhere else in the country,” he says, “in Boston, in inner-city New
York. The quantity of trauma, quantity of violent trauma, is certainly
different. But the general flow, the general what you do, the patient
population, all of those things are pretty uniform all across the country. Right,
wrong or otherwise, medicine has evolved into a clinic practice that is maintenance
of things which have already been identified as problems. Walk-in clinics,
urgent care clinics, and emergency departments are <i>I have something new</i>. Or, something old is now broken. My blood
pressure is now, suddenly, too high. It’s difficult the way medicine is setup
now. You can’t call up your doctor and say your blood pressure is now 210, you
have a little bit of a headache, you’re having some problems with vision, and
expect that he will drop two other patients in the next half hour to see you
and try to manage that. So we see you. We have all the tools to manage that.
And especially if it ends up getting worse.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 162.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Tell
me about a particularly difficult diagnosis,” I say. “Is there a patient or
whatever that particularly confounded you? Or one that you just nailed?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Third Course<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
are interrupted when Eric arrives again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Eric,”
I say, “these are all beautiful dishes. Oh, that smells so good.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Probably
one of my favorite ones,” he says. “We have a little scallop crudo, just
keeping it raw and fresh. Quickly marinated and served immediately. That way
the citrus doesn’t start to cook it. In this case, a nice, fresh, sea scallop. Came
in fresh. We drizzled a mixture of orange juice and fresh lemon juice over the
top. We got toasted ground coriander seed sprinkled over there, we got fennel,
shaved fennel, red onion on the bottom with some shaved asparagus. That’s it. And
fresh orange on top.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
all look at each other, and I suddenly wonder if chefs and physicians don’t
often get the same looks. Gratitude for the ineffable. We stop talking. Eating is
its own pleasure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I think the most memorable patients,” Warren begins,
finally, then pauses again. “It’s interesting because when you think of the
world memorable you think of something that touched your heart, that maybe has
a bright spot in the back or in the forefront of your mind. These are memorable
in the opposite direction. They certainly have impacted my heart. They
certainly have impacted my perception of life. But I’m not fond of remembering
them. Those are abused children.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We pause.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“It always amazes me,” he says, then pauses
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“As an aside,” he says, “this is exceptional. Holy
Moly! I just had my first bite and I go Oh Man… This has touched me. This is
exceptional. Man, I like fennel, but I am not sure I’ve ever had fennel that’s
this good.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We pause again. Talking about pain in the midst
of joy. The restaurant crowd. Laughter and love at the other tables. The happy
noises. Somehow good food gives permission.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The thing about child abuse,” he says. “I’m
always amazed. I can certainly come up with sad. Anger. But every time I would
see a child that’s been abused, either physically or sexually, and thank
goodness it’s not often, I’m always amazed anybody could do that to a child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The other thing I’m always amazed at is the
demeanor of the assailant.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Do you see them?” I ask, amazed. “Is it the
parents who bring them in?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sometimes the parents,” he says. “Sometimes
the boyfriend of the mom. Sometimes a relative. Most of the time it’s somebody
they know. And all the time I’ve experienced it, it is somebody they know.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And that somebody is standing in the room with
you as you’re…,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yeah,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Have you punched anybody?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You
can almost always tell who the perpetrator is,” he says. “Because they’re
removed. They seem concerned…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Concerned
about evidence of their own guilt?” I interrupt. “Or concerned about the child?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Concerned
about the child, he says. At least you get that impression. But there’s almost
a sense of <i>laisse faire</i> intermixed
among some of the other things. This is serious, and initially you think they
don’t understand the seriousness, the seriousness of the injury, the
seriousness of whatever is going on. And even if they’re engaged enough, that disconnect
always comes through someplace.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How
often does the child point a finger at someone and say that’s where my injury
came from?” I ask. “Ever?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren
looks at his plate for what seems like a very long time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’ve
had very few abused children who are in a position to point the finger. The
ones I see are toddlers, at best.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What
about trauma,” I ask. “Not just car wreck trauma. But knives, bullets, beat-ups?
Do you see a fair amount of that? I saw something today about an increase in
the homicide rate.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
think there was a three percent increase in the homicide rate,” he says. “No,
he says, it was a thirty percent increase. Which means we’ve had six.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So
we’re not a violent town, in terms of your office,” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No,
we are,” he says. “There’s no question. But we’re still the knife club. Not the
knife and gun club. Lots of stabbings. Lots of knife violence.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Madi
shows up again, to check on our drinks. I can tell she wants to know what’s
going on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How
does this look from your perspective?” I ask her. “Is any of this on the menu?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No,”
she says. “I don’t even know what any of it is. I don’t even know what Chef is
bringing out because he’s been preparing it all. I haven’t got a clue. But I
heard that you guys are writing a book?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Yes,”
I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And
the courses are meant to go along with the story?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“He’s
an Emergency room doctor,” I say, pointing at Warren. “Eric has to come up with
a menu to match his profession.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh
boy, that’s a tough one,” Madi says, then continues. “I’m going to be studying
nursing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“That’s
good for you,” Warren says, genuinely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I’m
excited to get into it,” she says. “I’m going to start this fall.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Is
medicine still attractive to eighteen-year olds?” I ask when she walks away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“It
seems like it,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
look around the restaurant. Every seat is filled. Food arrives and conversation
stops to allow eyes and noses their own vocabulary. The first date couple is
gone, their seats replaced by two middle aged couples. I silently wish them all
well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
go back to knife and gun club talk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“We
do have firearm injuries,” he says. “But the majority of those are
self-inflicted.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What
about somebody just beating up somebody else?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“We
see a lot of that. It’s been that way for a while. Ten, fifteen years.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Stupid
bar fights?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Stupid
bar fights. Domestics. For the last ten years, twelve years, I work strictly
days. I gave up shift work.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The
benefits of age,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Or
the agonies of age,” he says. “I couldn’t do shift work anymore. So I don’t see
as much of the violence as people who work the evenings and especially the
overnights. Nothing good happens after midnight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What’s
the most common complaint during the day shift,” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Chest
pain,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How
many of them are ER necessary?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He
pauses, takes a bite and says “I go back, he says, to everybody who comes to
see me believes it’s necessary in some way or another.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
evening light outside our window has shifted into the golden hour. There is saxophone
jazz in the background. Crowd noise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
have a strong—that’s a reasonable adjective—concept of the value of life,” he
says. “The last twenty, twenty-five years, I’ve gotten even more understanding
of the value of anybody and everybody, whether they’re a chronic drunk or
whether they’re a psychotic on stimulants, whether they’re somebody who comes
to see us too often. Whether it’s somebody who has chest pain that is obviously
not life threatening. I think the simple answer is that I truly just appreciate
the value of every living being.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Did
that come from you’re your time in ER” I ask. “Before medicine? From family? I
ask. Religion?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Certainly
it is family,” he says. “My mom and dad had a strong influence on me. They had
an intense sense of the worth of people. They came from little or nothing, but
gave to people who needed it. I’m also the product of a world war two veteran and
they have a tendency of touching people’s hearts. My dad was in the infantry in
the South Pacific. I don’t have stories that he would share—about anything. Except
being sick with malaria and yellow fever. His platoon was devastated, twice,
and he survived. A man I admired all my life. He certainly had his struggles
with depression, though fortunately not substance abuse. He was in a
psychiatric ward a couple times in his life. And it certainly gave me an incredible
understanding of those people who are struggling. And most people are. Whether
they’re coming in for a heart attack, belly pain, or a bad headache. At that
moment they’re struggling with life.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Fourth Course<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Eric
presents the next dish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That
last one, we say, has to go on the menu.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“It
might go on a special,” he says, smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
stopped the conversation for that one, we say. It was terrific.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So
here we go,” he says. “Fourth course, I believe. Flash seared beef tenderloin medallion
on top of a carrot tahini puree. Some brown rice quinoa with black beans. A
little dust of toasted ground cumin seed. And then just the natural pan sauce
drizzled over that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
started with the carrot and tahini,” he says. “I’ve liked that flavor for a
while. Then things fall into line with that. The black beans. The quinoa and
then the cumin. Beef tenderloin. Small cut. Low fat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Here,
I think, is the center of the meal. At least for me. It looks so pretty on the
plate, we hesitate to cut. But then we do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Tell
me a story,” I ask Warren. “Walk me through a typical case?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“This
one wasn’t a difficult diagnosis,” he says. “It was a difficult situation. And
I hesitate just a little bit because it’s to some degree well-known.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Emotionally
it was difficult,” he says. “Mechanically it was difficult, too. I was the
physician for a woman who was in an auto accident. And one of my partners was
the physician for her child. Her child died. And so, mechanically the
difficulty was how do I do what I needed to do, to make sure that this woman is
okay? And how do I provide whatever she might need from a trauma standpoint,
and still allow the time for her to hold and grieve for her child?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He
continues talking, but seems to wait between every phrase.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And…so,
from a process standpoint, I chose to…. She was doing okay, and I was watching
certain parameters…so even though with trauma patients we like to have things
in order, ready to go for whatever investigating things we need to have done,
within the first ten or fifteen minutes of them arriving…it took me an hour to
identify the things I definitely needed to do, and in order to get them done…I
chose to take that time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
want to know more, I think. But I also do not want to open a wound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Do
you ever learn to give bad news?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I
think so,” he says. “Early in my career,” he says, “and I have no idea why I
thought this, but I thought I had to give an explanation of the process. And
then give the bad news. Fortunately, that didn’t last very long, a year or two,
maybe three years. But I began to realize they really don’t care about the
process. It’s nice for them to hear the process before you give them the bad
news because then they know. Once you give them the bad news it doesn’t make
any difference what the process was and what actually happened. Some people
ask, but very rarely.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So
any more,” he says. “Obviously I introduce myself, I find out who are family
members and who are friends, and who is the person I direct my comments to. And
I usually just say I’m sorry, there wasn’t anything we could do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How
many times a week do you do that?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Every
other week, maybe,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
would have thought it would be more often. Aging population and then add
motorcycles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The
ninety-year old,” he says, “is more difficult. You have to know, in a
relatively brief amount of time, their whole medical history. You need to know
what they’ve dragged along with them on this particular day. So even if they
are not on death’s door, but they have something that’s potentially life-threatening,
the information if vital. Fifty-year olds, sixty-year olds, seventy-year olds,
even maybe eighty-year olds, with a heart attack, there is no question about
what you do. Call a cardiologist. They go to the cath lab. They get stents.
Whatever else they do. But a ninety-five-year old with dementia, diabetes,
kidneys that aren’t working perfectly well. They come in with a heart attack. Now
what do you do? The angiogram even by itself can damage the kidneys even more.
Would the person really understand what’s going on?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dessert<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Madi
clears our plates and sets new silverware for dessert.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How
many different sets of silverware did we go through,” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You
guys are getting special treatment,” she says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“My
wife really likes these,” Warren says, “so I’ve been storing them in my pocket.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Oh,
I know,” she says. “We’ve been counting.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When
she walks away, Warren continues. “We see a fair amount of people who…There’s a
husband/wife team in Princeton who coined this term Deaths of Despair. They’re
looking at demographics. Profound increases in suicide. Certain groups in that
category. Late teens to early twenties. And the other group that’s really
increased in incidence is the middle-aged white male. So, suicide. Drug
overdose. And indirect deaths due to substances. Alcohol or drugs or whatever
the case may be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Not
Corvettes and motorcycles,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Not
Corvettes and motorcycles.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“That
was the category they looked at,” he continues. “And in my mind the term Deaths
of Despair is an incredible term. And it speaks specifically to what we see day
in and day out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Eric
arrives. Caramelized pears, sliced standing upright on the plate. A balancing
act to carry across the restaurant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So
final course here,” he says. “Ohh!” A pear tips, but he recovers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Caramelized
pear,” he says. “With a little sugar in the raw to help it caramelize. We got
natural pan drippings around the outside and a sauce in the middle. We got
coconut milk and almonds over the top.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Any
reason why you chose this as the finish?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Because
I love pears,” he laughs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Honestly,”
he says, “I just love the presentation. I like the way they slice and present.
It just seemed like a nice grand finale.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He
has a meeting at 7 p.m., he says. We all shake hands, say thank you, try to
express admiration and astonishment, and then he dashes off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
pears are very good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“If
I get annoyed at anything,” Warren says, after a moment, “it’s chaos.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“How
so?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Chaos
is out of control,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“But
when the ambulance pulls up and the door goes up, that’s what you’ve got,” I
say. “That’s who you are. You’re the emergency room.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“But
it doesn’t need to be,” he says, “if everybody who’s there does what they’re
supposed to do. That’s where training comes in. That’s where protocols come in.
Even in the most dramatic cases, it doesn’t need to be chaos.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
ask about mass casualty drills. Airplane crashes. Train derailments. Chemical
explosions in town. Suddenly hundreds of people heading for the emergency room.
The hospital does participate with the police and fire department in regular
training. But in-hospital care, he says, is much different than pre-hospital
care. “The EMTs,” he says, “they have a whole specific role they need to do and
they’re very good at it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Is
there a most chaos-filled, most dramatic story?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He
pauses for a long time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“This
particular instance was a young lady, early thirties probably, and she came in
without the ability to breathe. Because of something that was going on in her
throat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Fortunately,
this doesn’t happen very often,” he says. “Most of the time airway management
is reasonably routine. You might have a hiccup or two, but even with the hiccup
you’re usually successful.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“There
was already a tube in?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No,”
he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Ok,”
I say. “She brought herself in?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
“She came by ambulance,” he says. “But as she was doing somewhat okay, the
paramedics are usually pretty judicial. I mean if they need to, they do. But if
they don’t need to within the next ten minutes, they wait for us. It’s just
that much easier. Because you’re in, to some degree, a controlled environment. You
have everything you need and all the people around you. The respiratory
therapists, everybody else that’s there. For the paramedics, you’re in
somebody’s home. The light’s not good. Or they’re in the ambulance, bouncing down
the road. So if they can wait for a better, more controlled environment, they
usually do. And she was holding her own for a while. But it was obvious that wasn’t
going to last for very long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And
this was one of those airway managements that was more than a hiccup. Multiple
tries by myself, even with anesthesia, even by our ear/nose/throat doctors,
were unsuccessful. We were able to ventilate her a little bit, without the
airway, but obviously that wasn’t going to last for very long. So we wound up
doing a surgical airway in the operating room. And even that was more difficult
than usual. It turned out that she had the airway about the size of a child.
Maybe a ten-year old’s. Maybe eight.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Just
a condition?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Exactly.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And
it was not only the size,” he says, “but it was floppy. So instead of this hose
that stays open, when she was not breathing it would collapse. Multiple tries
but we finally got enough of a temporary air way she could be moved to the
operating room for a definitive airway.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“And
nothing in her history,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You
could have done some real damage if you continued to try to stuff an adult
sized tube down her throat,” I say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Some
of it was, you couldn’t even see,” he says. “Just the anatomy she had in her <span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">hypopharynx</span>
you couldn’t see enough even to attempt. Multiple attempts by multiple people. You
just couldn’t see. Even fiber optic scopes were unsuccessful.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren
takes a bite of his dessert. “That was probably the most harrowing and chaotic
thing I ever did.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Madi
clears the plates. So much more to ask and say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Behind
us, the restaurant has grown quieter.
Many people have left, heading out to other rooms, other places, for
deeper comfort or rest. Some people
linger over their knives and glasses, this place what they need.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But
the evening is not late. Madi and the other servers ready the tables for new
customers. Eric is gone, but another
chef readies the kitchen for whatever orders may come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Warren
surveys the room. “Remarkable,” he says,
quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</w:wrap></v:imagedata></v:shape><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">W. Scott Olsen</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> is a writer,
photographer, and professor of English at Concordia College, Moorhead,
MN. The author of eleven books, editor of several anthologies, and formerly
the long-time editor of the national literary magazine, <i>Ascent</i>, Olsen
has published individual essays, articles, and stories in a number of literary
publications including<i> Alaska Quarterly Review, Albany Review,
Huffington Post, Kansas Quarterly, Kenyon Review, Mid-American Review,
North American Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Northwest Review, Red River
Journal, River Teeth, South Dakota Review, Tampa Review, Third Coast, Weber
Studies, Willow Springs </i>and others as well as commercial
publications in magazines such as <i>The Forum, Flying Magazine, AOPA
Pilot</i>, <i>Flight Training </i>and others. His most recent
book, <i>A Moment with Strangers</i>, was published by North Dakota State
University Press. All of his books are available for purchase online.</span>Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-73532352259831175962020-01-08T17:52:00.000-07:002020-01-08T17:52:17.140-07:00Never Turn Away<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">by Christine Holmstrom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “Come
here, Marilyn, let’s look in this window.” Wedged between an untrimmed bush and
the home’s front wall, I’d motioned to my friend, inviting her to join me.
Pressing my face against the glass, I peered inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Drat. It was the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> From
what I’d read in the <i>LA Herald Examiner</i> a few days ago, a man had
murdered his wife, then his four children as they slept, right here in our
placid suburban enclave. Afterwards, he’d killed himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> “What’s
there?” Marilyn whispered, glancing backwards to see if any of the neighbors
had noticed us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Just a messy table.” It sat
in the middle of the kitchen, a butter dish near the edge, the contents
slumping onto scuffed wood, victim of the valley’s summer heat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">No blood here. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We’d have to find the bedrooms
where the kids were stabbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Marilyn and I were both
twelve. Curious. Or maybe it was mostly me. Did I believe that viewing the
crime scene would answer the unspoken question—why? The question had taunted me
from when I could first read newspaper stories about strangled starlets,
missing children, and trussed bodies found in steamer trunks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Horrible as these neighborhood
murders were, they provided the most excitement we’d known in quiet Canoga
Park. If we’d thought to examine our motives, Marilyn and I likely would’ve
recalled how drivers slow and stare, braking to look across the highway at
smashed vehicles, the corpses—covered in blankets—lying on a sloping hillside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The bedrooms must be in the
back.” Freeing myself from the clasp of the unruly shrub, I’d surveyed our
surroundings. A tall wood fence encircled the sides and back of the home—a
locked gate the only access.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Wait, what’s that?” Marilyn
pointed to the large rust-red stain that blossomed over the asphalt driveway
leading to the two-car garage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Could it be blood? I stopped,
transfixed. Was this where the father committed suicide?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I always wanted to know more.
Maybe that curiosity is part of the reason that I’d ended up as a correctional
officer— a prison guard—at San Quentin decades later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">After walking through the
heavy iron gates into the prison yard, I witnessed things that can never be
erased from memory. There is no turning away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">As a “fish cop”—a new
correctional officer—I was frightened yet mesmerized by stories of staff
murders. During new officer orientation, Sgt. “Flip” Fernandez recounted how
he’d been the first to find the body of Officer Richard Ochoa in the prison
laundry back in ’76. “You couldn’t even recognize him. He didn’t have no
face—it was hamburger.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“So why would someone kill
him?” I wanted to know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Not sure. Ochoa was well
liked.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What happened?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Well, my guess is that Ochoa
stumbled onto a drug deal.” Fernandez frowned. “The convicts must’ve panicked.
Grabbed a weightlifting bar and…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I held my breath, trying not
to imagine a man without a face, the torn and battered flesh, the splintered
nose, bits of pink tissue splattering his khaki uniform shirt, the pooling
blood… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It could be any of us; could
be me. Being a good cop wouldn’t save you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">During my first years at San
Quentin, the prison was a war zone. Alarms screeching, whistles blaring daily.
Shouts of “shots on the yard” as gun rail officers fired warning rounds or
tried to stop a knife-wielding assailant with a bullet. Then the piercing wail
of an ambulance racing down Sir Francis Drake Blvd to deliver the wounded and
dying to Marin General. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Once, stepping out of the
housing unit to respond to the blare of whistles, I’d flattened myself against
the wall as four officers ran past, a badly injured prisoner on their
gurney—his forehead split open, brain matter exposed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Try as I might, I cannot erase
certain scenes. Like this one: It was late morning—a cold day. There’d been
another stabbing. I needed to ID the victim and sign the Warden’s Check-out
Order prior to transport. The inmate lay naked, except for his boxer shorts, in
the prison’s battered old ambulance. His pale belly heaved; his breath labored.
Thin crimson stripes pierced his abdomen—the marks left by repeated stab
wounds. Unaware of me, his eyes remained fixed on the vehicle’s gray metal
ceiling. He was my age, handsome—no tattoos or gang symbols on his bare skin.
Except for his longish hair, he reminded me of a man I’d once dated. I examined
the ID photo that the gate officer had handed me, verified the match. Would the
prisoner ever need it again? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There are many ways to die in
prison besides assault—accidental deaths from bad “pruno” laced with wood
alcohol or a suicide gesture gone wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Or miscalculation. Like the
two inmates in Badger Section.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Walking through the sally
port—the prison’s double-gated entry—I’d nearly bumped into a lieutenant from
the Investigations Unit. In his hand he’d held a few eight by ten photos. The
bright colors drew my eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What are those?” Curious, I’d
pointed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Evidence.” He fanned the
glossies like playing cards. “Remember the cell fire last week?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I’d heard about it. Late one
night two prisoners had set fire to a blanket tied on the bars of their shared
cell. Nothing especially unusual, although most convicts simply pushed a pile
of burning garbage onto the tier. Inmates started tier fires when they were
angry or drunk or just for the hell of it. The gun rail officer yelled at them
to put out the fire. They’d ignored him. By the time another cop got to the
cell with a fire extinguisher, the flames had spread. Their TV, also attached
to the bars, ignited, exploding in a shower of sparks shooting across the cell.
Decades of paint began to burn, the walls a flaming oven. By then the convicts
were screaming, hurling water at the conflagration, plunging their heads into
the toilet bowl. Some cops unfurled the unit fire hose from its red painted box
and lugged it up two flights of stairs then dragged it down the tier towards
the cell. It proved too short. Other cops were already on the tier, aiming fire
extinguishers at the blaze without success. Intense heat had expanded the cell
door, jamming it shut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“No way could we unlock the
door,” one of the cops later said. “It was the frickin’ <i>Towering Inferno</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I held out my hand for the
photos. At first, I thought I was looking at an enlarged shot of two overcooked
hot dogs—the pink skin splitting sideways—tattooed with charcoal bits. Then I
noticed the blackened bunk bed and realized what I was seeing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There was no pleasure in these
sights—only a slight salve for the curiosity that had been itching since my
childhood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Friends sometimes asked why I
kept working at the prison. Many reasons—the adrenaline high, the glory and
notoriety of being a female correctional officer, the pay, promotional
opportunities… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Although I could never erase
what I witnessed during my time at San Quentin, I’d chosen not to turn away
either. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There was too much to see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Christine Holmstrom’s</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> work has been published in
Bernie Siegel’s book, <i>Faith, Hope, and Healing</i>. Her nonfiction has
been published or is forthcoming in <i>Dime Show Review,</i> <i>Gulf
Stream, The Gravel, Jet Fuel Review,</i> <i>The MacGuffin, The Penmen
Review, Rougarou,Streetlight Magazine,</i> <i>Switchback, Stonecoast
Review, Summerset Review, Two Cities Review, </i>and others. After
surviving riots, an armed escape and a death threat while working at San
Quentin prison, she finally had the good sense to retire. Christine is now
working on a memoir about her prison years.</span>Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-77875643953917233712019-12-18T13:38:00.000-07:002019-12-18T13:38:25.629-07:00Colonus<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">by <b>John Donaghy</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">After
Father died, Mother did not pine away; hers was not that kind of desolation.
She lived for twenty-four more years. During that quarter century she
elaborated a glittering vision of her marriage and fixed it in a set of
canonical anecdotes which she told us over and over. We were to understand that
she and Father enjoyed a passion that could only have developed long ago among
people who were more vital and closer to the source of life than our own anemic
generation with its provisional, little loves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">On her
kitchen table she kept a pile of old letters in tattered and yellowing
envelopes: they were all the letters she and my father had exchanged from their
courtship onwards. "I don't know what to do with all these,” she would
always say, “I don't know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">who</i> would
be interested in them," and I always said, who knows why, “I'd love to
take care of them for you.” And she: "I don't know. There's awfully
personal stuff in here. Some of these are the letters of a man who is totally <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gone</i> on a woman. Maybe I'll have them
cremated with me. And yet I hate to do that, someone might find them very <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">interesting</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Within that pile of letters there was a
smaller bundle bound with a purple ribbon. These were the letters that
chronicled The Argument. The Argument was the central story in the canon, the
one that she told us more often than any other: She had been head of pediatric
nursing at the Mass General. He was doing his residency there. They had been
going together for months. She did not drink and flirt like the other girls. He
was crazy about her, and she was crazy about him. He would call her every night
at ten. When he was away, he would write to her every day. Sometimes twice. He
had to go away for three weeks. He was resting; he had been overworking. But he
missed her. He had to give a lecture in Montreal. He had arranged to take her
with him; he had arranged for them to share a hotel room. He had acted as
though it were a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fait accompli</i>. He
had assumed and had not asked. Well, she was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">furious</i>. She wanted to know if this was his habit. She wanted to
know if he thought she was like other girls. She would most certainly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> go with him to Montreal or anywhere
else for that matter. He was hurt. He behaved as though he were angry. She
would have none of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>. She would
not listen to him. They were estranged for days, oh, it might have been two
weeks; she heard not one word. Then one night at ten o’clock, the phone call
came. She had won. It was a glorious love affair. It lasted a lifetime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">In advanced old age when the
multiplying frailties of nature send most people collapsing into themselves,
Mother’s vigor seemed divorced from her flesh. In her eighties and nineties she
became tiny, bowed, seamed with wrinkles, dry as a cricket, but she stacked her
own wood and pushed her own reel mower and took as many trips to the landfill
as she could. She amazed people with her wit and her activity, and she took so
much pride in their amazement that she developed a kind of geriatric bravado.
At ninety-three she stood on the very top of her step ladder—the “This Is Not A
Step” step—in order to prune her lilacs. The ladder was on uneven ground and it
began to tip, “It was going to take me through the kitchen window,” she said,
“So I jumped.” She hit the ground and rolled, breaking nothing but straining
her coccyx. She refused the doctor. It only hurt, she said, whenever she tried
to lift something heavier than thirty pounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I could not
help thinking that she might grow in energy as she shriveled in mass until
eventually, a century from now perhaps, she’d whirl up into the hungry vortex
of herself and disappear. But at the age of ninety-seven she began to fail. Her
eyesight grew worse; her hearing began to go; her gait became unsteady; her
driving became lethal. She tore out the undercarriage of her car by driving, at
speed, into a ditch. She emerged from that accident unscathed, angry and, she
claimed, blameless. It would never have happened had the town made that ditch
more visible. As soon as the car was fixed, she visited my brother’s law
offices for a quick consultation. Leaving his parking lot, she stomped on the
accelerator rather than the brake. She shot across the road, over the sidewalk
and down a stretch of lawn before coming to rest wedged under someone’s front
porch. Again she was unhurt though this time she conceded that the incident had
quite taken her breath away. Still, it was the sort of thing that could happen
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">My brother
appropriated her car keys. One of her neighbors, an extraordinarily kind woman,
offered to drive her whenever she needed a ride. But Mother did not want to be
driven. She did not like the neighbor who seemed to want to become a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">friend. </i>She had gone so far as to send a
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">birthday</i> card.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>God. Mother was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>going
to saddle herself with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>bit of
inanity<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> Her errands were her own
damned business, and she could do them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">herself</i>.
She discovered a spare set of car keys, and after a few weeks, when the car had
been repaired from its collision with the porch, she drove it to the grocery
store. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">She left
early in the morning so that she would arrive while the parking lot was still
empty. She did not like parking lots. When they were busy, they confused her, and
because she feared that by the time she was ready to leave, the store lot would
be swarming with other vehicles, she parked strategically—nose up to a short,
ornamental hedge beyond which she could see, reassuringly, the sidewalk and the
street. It was clever of her to do so, she told us later, for when she emerged
with her groceries, the parking lot had become a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">madhouse</i>. Cars were pulling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">into</i>
spaces and pulling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out</i> of spaces and
driving around <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">looking</i> for spaces,
bumper to bumper like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">salmon </i>in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stream.</i> There were people everywhere
walking as though they hadn’t a care in the world right where she had to drive.
She didn’t think it would be quite <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">safe </i>to
back out into all that confusion. Instead, she put the car in drive and bulled
her way through the shrubbery, across the sidewalk, and into two cars which
were parallel parked in the street. These were an unexpected impediment. They
had not been there when she had chosen her parking space, but she found that if
she applied the gas, she could push them slowly outward, and so force her way
between them and gain the open road and freedom and, eventually, home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">She
suspected that some busybody might have seen her and assumed she was breaking
the law. She was preemptive. She called the grocery store. “Hello,” she said,
“This is Frances Donaghy. I’m afraid I may have damaged some of your lovely
plantings as I was leaving your parking lot.” When the police showed up on Horn
of the Moon, she was a very fragile, very old lady. “The officer was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">woman</i> and she was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very nice</i>. She asked if she could bring my car keys to anyone who
might keep them for me. I didn’t want to argue, and I won’t go into it now, but
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">apparently </i>I did more damage than I
had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thought</i>. I told her that it was
all right and that I wouldn’t drive again.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">She never did. She stopped
going out. She had no friends to visit and none who would visit her.
Occasionally my brother drove her to the doctor, but otherwise she occupied
herself at home as she always had when we were young—reading, listening to the
CBC, cleaning the house, and brooding on her children. We were the mediators of
her image and the guardians of her legacy, and yet, she knew, we were not true
believers. She tried and tried to set us straight. She explained to each one of
us, many, many times, that we were Superior People because everything she had
ever done had been for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us</i>. Our
childhood had been an idyll, really, the rococo dream of Watteau or Fragonard.
She painted it for us. She put herself in the foreground as a set of
allegorical figures: Wisdom, Discipline, and Benignity in stately dance,
draperies billowing under a sky piled high with summer clouds. Her children
were two happy little shepherds and two happy little shepherdesses piping on a
distant hillside. We, the perfect offspring of a perfect union, had enjoyed a
perfect upbringing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">The hardest
point to revise was my sister Peigi. Mother had scrubbed and scrubbed her
conscience, but some shadow of Peigi’s childhood years—years of unbroken rancor
and derision, of slaps and blows and hair-pulling and starvation—returned and
returned like Lady M’s damned spot. Part of the problem was that Peigi, who now
lived far away in Oregon, had become very gracious. She had kept in touch. She
called regularly. She did her best to see that Mother was as comfortable as she
could be, that she was on the right amount of the right medications, that she
would be able, if she chose, to die in her own home. Whenever she visited the
east coast, Peigi stayed for a day or two on the Horn of the Moon even though
the proximity of all those childhood artifacts could give her spells of
dizziness and nausea which made Mother worry that she might be in ill <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">health. </i>Mother couldn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">understand </i>it. Peigi had always been
such a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">robust </i>child. In fact, we all
had been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ridiculously </i>healthy. We
were never sick at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well,” Mother said to me one day, “your
sister is just a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> fantastic </i>mother,
and she has worked very, very hard. Her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boys</i>
are doing well; she has a great reputation where she works. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wherever</i> she’s worked. She’s really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">done</i> something with her life.” This was
delivered earnestly, reproachfully, as though she suspected I wanted to accuse
Peigi of sloth and bad parenting. “I know,” I said. She was silent for a moment
of dramatic consideration and then: “You know, I think she must have been
bi-polar when she was in high school.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">It did no
good to point out that bi-polar disorder is not like mono or that Peigi is
essentially the same person she always was. “Oh, come <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on</i>. She is absolutely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>the
same person. She is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">completely</i>
different. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No</i> one could have
predicted how she would turn out. She needed a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> firm hand. She calls me every<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>day. I don’t know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i>. I
suspect it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good </i>for her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">This Grand Revision was
somewhat undermined by the way she sought, as her widowhood advanced, to
reclaim her ancient powers of command. Increasing frailty gave her a leverage
she had not enjoyed for decades. She called us more and more frequently asking us
to drive up to Horn of the Moon and help her with one thing or another. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">We always
went, and when we arrived, we discovered that help consisted not so much in
accomplishing anything practical as in doing exactly what we were told. She was
particular and insistent. She could take over a minute explaining <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exactly </i>how to empty a barrel of weeds
over the pasture fence. We were to do what we were asked and not one thing
more; we were absolutely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> to
freelance. One late August day, after I had stacked a couple of cords of wood
for her, I noticed that the catch on her wood stove door had rusted and seized
up over the summer. I got a hammer and was just about to tap it free when she
came into the room and asked, “What are you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doing</i>?”
in a tone that suggested she had caught me with my hand in the till. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“I’m fixing
your stove,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“That’s
Pede’s job.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“I’m right
here. It’ll take less than a second.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“You will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> touch my stove with that hammer.
You’ll shatter the whole damned thing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Fuck you,”
I thought graciously and tapped it anyway. Immediately the catch released and
the handle was freed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“See?” I
said. “All better.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Thank-you,”
she said crisply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Gradually
we became specialists, performing only those tasks she suspected we found most
irksome. For me it was driving her places, especially to her hairdresser who
lived forty minutes away and who, as he worked on her wisps, flattered her so
relentlessly that she was compelled to disavow every unctuous word of it with
breathless, elaborately artificial modesty all the way home. For Pede she
reserved requests that were irritatingly vague or burdensomely trivial or which
frustrated action. She might call him late at night to inform him that she
thought she was having a medical emergency but that she didn’t want to go to
the hospital; he was not to worry, and could be bring her more hand cream in
the morning? But it was Betsy who stirred up Mother’s old blood lust. Betsy had
always been the most responsible of us, the most easily moved to guilt; her
vulnerability made her irresistible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Mother
wanted Betsy to touch her, to bathe her, to drive up to Vermont from
Massachusetts to wash her hair. I once arrived at the Horn of the Moon
unannounced in the middle of one of these shampooing sessions. Mother was
standing at the kitchen sink and Betsy stood over her, gently massaging suds
into her scalp, a pitcher of lukewarm water at her elbow. It sounded as though
Mother were directing her own waterboarding. She groaned and spluttered,
nothing Betsy did was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">right: </i>she was
being too <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rough</i>; she was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">missing</i> places; she wasn’t getting all
the soap <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out;</i> she wasn’t using enough
water; she was using too <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">much</i> water;
couldn’t she see she was getting soap in her eyes? Did Betsy think Mother had
asked her to come all this way to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">drown </i>her
in her own <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sink</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Betsy
looked at me over the top of Mother’s head and rolled her eyes. Mother did not
immediately notice me; she was too lost in whatever was going on between the
two of them. It wasn’t until Betsy was gently patting her hair dry with a
towel, that she saw me, and then she lifted her head and stared like a lioness
disturbed on a carcass. “Now,” she said to Betsy, “Upstairs for a bath.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Mother’s
hunger for attention was terrible. She could not find nourishment in the world
as it is. She wanted us near her all the time, but as soon as we got close, she
erased us. She could eat only the promise-crammed air of her own fantasies. She
conjured an illusory empire out of darkness visible: Pandæmonium, palace and
city, seat of power to rival the towers of Heaven, the trickster kingdom of
narcissism, the old fabric of wind and shadow and wish and denial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">It is a week before
Thanksgiving 2012. Mother is ninety-eight years old. It is early in the morning
and the sun has not yet risen. The month has been unseasonably warm, but today
is raw and windy up in the hills on Horn of the Moon. Overnight the ruts have
frozen in the narrow road that runs by her place and gusts of snow sweep down
the mountain, through the stunted upland orchards and over her little
farmhouse. Today she is paying her bills. She works at the little kitchen table
under a dim lamp writing checks and addressing envelopes in her quivery hand.
She has boiled a sauce pan of coffee for herself on the woodstove, the door of
which she leaves precariously open because she “likes to keep an eye on it”. A
tinkling mound of coals throws a red warmth across the cobbled hearth and up
the back of her chair. By the time the sun has come up she is ready to go to
the mailbox down at the end of the drive. She does not bother with her overcoat
or her blackthorn stick because they are a bother and because the stick makes
her look like a crone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">She goes
out the back door because both the heavy front door and the glass storm door
stick. She has been having dizzy spells recently. Something the doctor has put
her on, something that was intended to keep her heart from racing, makes the
damned thing stutter and stop instead. When it stops, she faints. It always
gets going again, but when it does, she generally finds herself on the ground.
She is crossing through the woodshed with its uneven gravel floor when she
loses consciousness, pitches forward and lands hard. When she comes to, she
knows she has broken something and she appears to be bleeding from deep cuts on
her forearms. Her knees too feel sticky with blood. She gathers the bills from
where they have scattered, crawls to the woodpile, hauls herself upright and
keeps going. Bleeding, in pain, with the world and its snow whirling around
her, she makes her way down the driveway through the brown and blowing weeds to
her mailbox. “They were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bills</i>”, she
explained later, “I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">going</i> to mail
them.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">A neighbor
is driving up the hill in his pickup truck. When he sees her, he slows. She’s
not dressed warmly enough; she appears to be staggering, and the sleeves of her
sweat shirt are soaked with blood. He stops. He puts her in the warm cab, goes
inside and gets a jacket for her and then takes her to the hospital. She has a
broken pelvis and extensive lacerations on her arms and legs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Within a
few days she is in a rehabilitation facility. It’s actually quite a nice place.
It does not smell like a nursing home. It’s quiet, with broad corridors and
large, sunny rooms. When I drop in to see her, she is alone. It is odd to see
her name plate on the door like a secret that should not be exposed: “Frances
Donaghy.” She is lying on her bed before a big window; she looks as though she
has been dropped there by a careless hand. Her head is thrown back, canted off
to one side. Her mouth is open and dark, the upper lip drawn back from long,
ochre teeth. I have never seen this woman before. That scant nimbus of gray
hair. That small, high-shouldered bone-cage of torso. The arms loose jointed
and thin like the arms of a child or a marionette, the palms upward, a final
shrug. The old feeing again; it is not her, it is something else, it is
uncanny, it’s a doll, a fetish; it is feathers and bones and leather and
baboon-blood paste and teeth of old cowrie shells. “Mom”, I say, and then
louder, “Mom.” Incredibly she stirs, shifts. Her sleep has been deep and she is
confused, “Pete?” she asks. “No,” I say. “John”. “Oh,” she says, “John.” She
struggles into a sitting position and finds her glasses. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">She looks
at me, and fills up with herself. “I’m glad I have lived so long,” she says
even before she is all the way back, as though she were taking up a
conversation we had been having when she nodded off. “It has given me a chance
to review my life.” I wait and say nothing. “I’ve always been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">frugal. </i>I’ve never asked for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thing. </i>I never even asked for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">job</i>. I would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> have asked for a job, but they wanted to give me one. And
then my nursing classmates made me a class officer. Well, I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no</i> more interested in that kind of thing
than in . . . ” she pauses, unable to think of anything in which she could have
comparably little interest. “Even with your father. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> pursued him. I was crazy about him of course but I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> pursued. He pursued <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me.</i> I count myself very lucky. And here.
My God, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> little thing I happen to
say they think is the height of cleverness. The nurses, of course. And the
psychologist was in here the other day testing my cognitive function. He gave
me three words at the beginning of our conversation and told me to remember
them because at the end he was going to ask me what they were—I remembered all
but one, and that one I recalled immediately with a hint. He seemed to think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> was extraordinary. Well,
afterwards, he was no sooner gone than he was back again. ‘I forgot my
clipboard,’ he said. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">forgot</i>.’
Well, he laughed and he said, ‘Give me a high-five. I guess there are no
problems <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">here</i>.’” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I have reviewed my
life and discovered that from the day I was born everybody has loved me, wanted
me</i>. An offering from Pandæmonium; an exact untruth.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Thus Mother
announces herself to herself, standing at the entrance to the shack she
imagines, in her terrible weakness and her terrible strength, is a palace. She
is a plucky five-year-old in outsized livery—knee breaches with silk stockings,
a frogged and brocaded coat, a cocked hat that comes down over her eyes. “Her
most high and puissant majesty,” she declaims “Empress of Life, Queen of all
Knowledge and of all Virtue; Singular and Flawless, Tower of Ivory,” and she
ushers in something dark and bent, something with crooked little horns, with
shit in its burlap pants and lice crawling under its blackened scales.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">She died at the age of one
hundred and one. When she went into hospice, I found myself afflicted with a
kind of tenderness for what had never been. I wanted to read to her. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed </i>to read to her—a compulsive
return, perhaps, to the best part of childhood, to the only intimacy that had
not been dangerous. I found one of her favorite books—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cider with Rosie—</i>a too-charming-to be-quite-true account of a rural
English childhood by the poet Laurie Lee. I thought it might turn her mind
fondly backwards. I tried to read to her several times, but she would have none
of it. “What?” she’d say. “I can’t make heads nor tails of what you’re saying.”
Why did she resist? That she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could </i>have
listened if she chose is certain. After she died, when we were clearing out her
room, the nurse—a big, gentle man with a full beard—came to me and said, “I
want you to know how much I enjoyed taking care of your mother. Such an
extraordinary woman. You know, I read to her almost every evening. It was so
peaceful. She’d listen very carefully and say the most intelligent things.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">In her last
two months she began to pass in and out of a terrible dementia that whittled her
all the way down to her essential hunger. It was a madness that came upon her
in fits. When she was in its grip, she’d call us from her hospice room. She
wanted us to come visit. It did no good to remind her that one of us had been
there earlier in the day or to reassure her that another of us would be there
tomorrow; she lived only in the starving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>.
She saw no reason we could not sit by her in shifts, one after another for
twenty-four hours every day. She wanted us to bring her things: Kleenex because
“They told me here that they will charge me more if they supply it,” shampoo
because “the stuff here makes my hair fall out,” clocks with extra-large
numerals because “nothing you’ve given me is large enough.” She could be
wheedling and tearful in one moment and choking with fury in the next.
Sometimes she would fall into the very center of herself. Then she would
believe, as I have always believed in my heart, that someone was missing. She
did not know who it was. She was desperate to know, and she wanted us to find
out. At the peak of these fits the calls would come every three minutes for an
hour or more until the facility, at our request, replaced her room phone with
one that had no keypad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Two days before Mother
slipped into her final coma, Pede and I visited her. Her thoughts lay, like
Ozymandias, in blocky ruins that communicated a message she did not intend.
Pede had brought her a new talking clock, a small box that spoke the time when
you pushed a button on top of it. She had broken the old one in her palsied
impatience; the new one was bigger and easier to operate; the button on top was
so big and so red that it looked like it might launch missiles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"What's this?" Mother
asked when she saw it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"It's your new talking
clock," Pede said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Where's the old
one?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"It's broken." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Oh, it's <i>broken</i>?"
she looked at the new clock as if it were a large spider. “Then why give it to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"No, the <i>old </i>one is
broken." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"But this <i>isn't</i> the
old one." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"No". <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Well where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>the old one?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"I took it. It was broken.
I threw it out" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"It's in my bag." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"No, I <i>took</i> it,"
Pede said. "It didn't <i>work. </i>I tried to get you one just like it,
but the Society for the Blind doesn't have them anymore. They have <i>these</i> instead.
They’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">better.</i>" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"My bag is on the floor,”
she said “It’s in there. Get it for me." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“I took it home and threw it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">out</i>. It’s not there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We are all silent for a moment
and then with an angry bounce she said, "Just get me my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">god</i>damned bag!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There was no clock in the bag,
and her anger had exhausted her. “Wait a moment,” she said, “I have to catch my
breath. I can’t be talking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all </i>the
time although I know it’s good for you.” Pede and I looked at one another and
kept still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At last she said, “That <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other </i>grandmother was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quite </i>a foul-mouthed old lady.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What other grandmother?” I
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i> know. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Annie’s </i>mother.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tay</i>. That’s what I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">heard. </i>I hope I may never stoop to such
a low expediency.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Another long silence while we
all considered this. Pede grinned at me. Anne’s mother, Tay, was widely
acknowledged as a kind of saint. At last Mother said, “I<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>was always a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">leader</i>.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A leader of what?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“A leader of mankind<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,</i>”
she said and fell asleep as though someone had hit a switch. </span><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">When she woke up some
twenty minutes later, she said, “I am about to deliver my last sermon. I will
be dead in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> many weeks,” she held
up three fingers and looked first at Pede and then at me over the top of her
glasses. “Then I will be alone, alone, alone—flat on my back, staring into the
sky with open eyes, seeing nothing. Strangers will walk by me all day long.” </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">One night a few weeks before
her one hundredth birthday Mother was seized by twelve violent hours of
vomiting and diarrhea. She soiled her nightgown, her bedding, her bedroom
carpet. She staggered to the bathroom where she lay until dawn, cold, filthy
and wet, huddled on the floor next to the toilet. When the sun rose, she called
my brother and asked him to come. She told him it was very important, but she
did not tell him exactly what the problem was. When he was done cleaning up, he
bought her a new nightgown and some new sheets and blankets, and when he put
her to bed, she enjoined secrecy on him. He must tell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no one</i>, especially not his wife. Then she called Peigi to complain.
No one has <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> passed such a night.
She had been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dizzy</i>; she had had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no</i> control of her bowels; she had been
in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pain</i>; she had been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dying</i>. Peigi must not tell a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">soul</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Betsy,
hearing of the episode from Peigi, drove up from Massachusetts the next
afternoon to see how Mother was doing. She noticed the wood box was empty and
offered to fill it. “No. Just leave it,” Mother said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Why?”
Betsy asked, “It’s going to get cold again. You need it filled and I’m not sure
you can manage it yet. I’m here and happy to do it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Ne-ver
mind. I have my reasons. You are not to touch a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stick</i> of that wood.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">When Betsy
had gone, Mother called me. She told me that she felt fantastic. She had just
awoken from the longest sleep of her life—almost eighteen hours. She asked me
to come and fill her wood box for her. I was concerned. She had always taken
great pride in filling the wood box by herself, but now she told me that,
curiously, she seemed to have lost the strength of her hands. I imagined she
was far worse off than she was letting me know. I imagined she feared the
approaching cold snap, that she had no stove wood in the kitchen and no
strength to fetch it from the shed. I imagined she was nearing the end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">But when,
on the following day, I got to her house, I saw that she had not weakened in
the least. There was a heavy, dark, antique bureau in her kitchen full of
linens and old silver and candles and papers and photographs. It weighed
considerably more than she did, but she had dragged it across the lumpy
friction of braided rugs in order to get at the dust underneath it and in order
to remove a heavy picture that had hung on the wall behind it. I saw that she
had removed another large picture as well from an awkward spot over the sink,
and she appeared to have carried them both off to some other room to dust them
under better light. I was impressed: Stonehenge, the pyramids, the mysterious
power of the ancients.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Hello?” I
called, doubting that she could hear me, but she emerged from the dim interior
of the house, swaying stiff-legged into the kitchen doorway. She was very
upright, barely five feet tall, and weighing considerably less than one hundred
pounds. She was wearing black trousers and a short woolen coat with brass
buttons that gave her a tin-soldier, military look. I thought of Hoffmann’s
nutcracker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who’s that?” she said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s me,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who? John? You’re early.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did you move the bureau by yourself?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,” she said. “It wasn’t much. It was harder getting
those pictures down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good Lord” I said, “Like an ant carrying a cricket’s
carcass. For all your faults you’re the strongest damned centenarian that ever
lived.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“For all my what?” she asked. She was deaf, but she also
feigned deafness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Faults,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What?”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
said, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">faults</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">faults</i>”. She
assumed the arch expression that signaled she was about to make a serious joke.
“I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> no faults.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I had filled the wood box and rehung the pictures and
moved the bureau back against the wall, she said, “Okay, now. For God’s sake
sit down and talk to me.” I removed a copy of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times </i>from a chair and sat at the table. She had something
particular to say, and she wasted no time in saying it:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your father and I always took such delight in you,” she
says. “And we were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">proud</i> of you. You
never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to go to medical school,
you know.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This again. “Mother, please,” I said, “drop it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But she would not drop it. “You said such <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">funny</i> things when you were small and you
were such a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">character</i> all through
high school. You made us laugh and whether you believe it or not we were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">proud</i> of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A one-hundred-year old great-grandmother gaslighting a
sixty-year old grandfather about events from forty-five years ago. There was
something utterly unclean in the way she so relentlessly pried, though more and
more weakly, at the heavy stonework of what was and is. And there was something
utterly infantile and hopeless in the rage and exhaustion I felt when she did
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let it go,</i> I told myself. But I said, “You didn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">seem </i>all that proud. Do you remember not
going to my high school graduation because I wasn’t valedictorian? Do you
remember asking, ‘How did it feel to sit among the idiots?’ when I got home?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You didn’t need us to keep <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">telling</i> you we were proud of you did you?” she pursued. And when I
didn’t answer, she tried a new line of attack—“You gave up an awful lot for
Jesus.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, I should get home,” I said and stood
up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are you going so
soon?” she said. And immediately she was no longer confiding and superior. She
may have been acting, and she may not have been, but she seemed frightened. She
did not want to be left alone. “Wait a minute,” she said, “there’s something
else I’d like you to do for me. These things are driving me crazy.” She held up
her thumbs; the nails were long and broken and notched. “They keep snagging on
things,” she said, “I have an appointment next week with a podiatrist who will
cut <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> my nails, but I can’t wait
that long with these.” Her neediness felt like cobwebs in my hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">She had no
nail clippers and so I went into the pantry where she kept her first aid kit in
a dim corner under some cupboards and next to an old-fashioned breadbox. I carried
it to the window and rummaged through the bandages and rolls of gauze and
antibacterial creams and discovered the same small, curved pair of scissors
with which, when I was a child, she had cut <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
nails. She moved a standing lamp over next to the rocker on the hearth. “Do it
over here,” she said, “where there is light.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I would have
rather not. I did not want to touch her, but I sat next to her. Through the
window I could see the falling snow turning the afternoon to twilight. The
woods were growing invisible along the far edges of the fields, and the old
house was fading into its hillside. We were an aging man and an ancient woman
bending our heads together under the yellow light of a small lamp. We were on
opposite sides of the same void; we were infiltrated by the same dread. Her
hand was small and parched, spotted and bruised, wrinkled as a sparrow’s claw.
It was very strange, that dying flesh—twisted, stained,, halfway to
mummification. But when I held her hand against my knee to suppress its tremor,
there was a sudden bustling far off in the back of my mind—doors opening and
closing, running footfalls in the corridors, hurried whispers, heads craning over
the banister to see who it was who had returned after all those years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Her flesh was
full of many voices calling to me from many places: memories beyond memory,
ghosts of the ancient needs and terrors too faint for words. There in that dim
kitchen was the dark stream, the lustral basin, the brazen threshold and the
downward stair. Mother wanted me to take her nails down as far as I could, but
she feared I would cut her. She was on blood thinners and would not be able to
stop bleeding. With each snip she flinched and hissed as though I were hurting
her, but when I was done, she kept finding rough places and asking me to cut
more. I insisted that I’d taken her nails down to the quick and could not
safely go any further, but she did not want me to stop <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">touching</i> her. And when at last, desperate for the upper air, I stood
and put the scissors away and shrugged on my coat she asked, “When will you be
back?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“Not for a
couple of weeks,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">“No,” she said,
“You’ll come back sooner. You <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">cannot</span>
get away so easily.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">John Donaghy</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"> spent twelve years teaching and
coaching at a secondary school and twenty-six more serving as an adjunct in
both the English Department and Institute for Writing and Rhetoric at Dartmouth
College before he mustered the courage to drop it all and become a writer. At
the age of sixty-seven he received his MFA from the Rainier Writers Workshop in
Tacoma, WA. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife who is also a writer.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-23726206236775076112019-12-06T12:51:00.002-07:002019-12-06T12:51:55.735-07:00Dinner 1959<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">by</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"> Robert D. Kirvel<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Dinner
is at 6 p.m. sharp. That doesn’t mean 6:05.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Having
your dinner requires sitting at the big table in your designated chair.
Otherwise no food until tomorrow morning. Period.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Table
rules are few but firm. Eat your vegetables. Clean<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>your<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Sit<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>still<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>until<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>you<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>are<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>excused.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">No
one says anything when Mother cooks liver and onions for dinner. No one likes
liver and onions, but Mother says a doctor tells in a magazine how liver and
onions are good for you, so hush and eat what’s on your plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Anyone
still having questions about dinner rules, go read that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reader’s Digest</i>® article on benefits—for young’uns (sic)
especially—when American Families eat together at the table. Unless you have
something against family unity, sticking to a schedule, manners, improved communication,
and greater respect for others? Very well then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">No
one is worried when Mother first announces Aunt Cee-Cee, regarded as the toughest
nut in the family tree, will be arriving for dinner. At least no one says out
loud he or she is upset because, looking on the bright side, it’s a chance for
everybody to work on improved communication with an elder, isn’t it? Cee-Cee is
driving all the way from Chicago by herself and will be spending a few days and
nights, so everybody just relax.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">One
person is uncomfortable after realizing Aunt Cee-Cee and Uncle Walter—who drives
his big, new car about ninety miles an hour on back roads and often shows up
for dinner just in the nick of time—will likely be sharing a meal at the same
table tonight. The two have not spoken to one another for “eons.” So, we’ll
just have to see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">If
Cee-Cee is a tough nut, her opinion of brother Walter is hard to fault. She thinks
Walter is a loud and obnoxious jerk who is uninformed to the point of ignorance
and is also a sexist, arrogant, egotistical, bigoted womanizer. Cee-Cee is sometimes
wrong, but not always.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Yes,
Aunt Cee-Cee and Uncle Walter both make it to the table in time for dinner. They
take their chairs but do not look at one another. Bad sign.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">At
least one person at the dinner table is uncomfortable when Uncle Walter starts
in on “them boogies” again at dinnertime, describing for the umpteenth time how
those people is always sucking on cigarettes and slurping sickening-sweet bottles
of coca cola through straws for lunch at the lunch counter during lunch break at
the factory where Uncle Walter works as a security guard. Uncle Walter does not
consider cigarettes and cokes a proper lunch for people, and he wishes there
were a law, but then them boogies aren’t normal people, so ….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">One
person at the table, the youngest family member who adores his fourth-grade
teacher, wonders what his teacher, an articulate black woman in her forties,
would say if she were present at the family dinner table tonight and heard
Uncle Walter talk about “boogies” in 1959 America.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Two
people at the dinner table squirm when Uncle Walter tells his two young nephews
at the table how he intends to teach them how to “walk like an Indian” through
the woods. Walking silently on the forest floor out back behind the house, he
means, so as not to scare animals away you want to hunt. Like an Indian.
Because Uncle Walter claims he is descended from silent-walking Indians, though
no one in the family other than Uncle Walter wants to hunt or has ever heard anything
about, or makes claims to, Native American lineage resulting in a predisposition
to slip silently through the woods. Still, Uncle Walter swears loudly he is
one-seventh Indian. Not one fourth or one eighth. One seventh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Three
people at the dinner table become fretful when Aunt Cee-Cee directs a question
to her brother, Uncle Walter, a question that changes the subject. “Are you
still humping that spic squaw?” This is a triple-loaded question calculated to get
a reaction because it is pregnant with not-so-subtle references to Walter’s life-long
promiscuity, problematic claim to Indian blood, and racism directed at persons with
ancestry other than his own, but especially at people of color, other than
Native Americans, whom Walter has never thought of as people of color.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Many
adults at the table are afraid Uncle Walter will answer Aunt Cee-Cee by
bringing up one of several whispered-about facts concerning her lifestyle. This
is fertile territory. For instance, Cee-Cee sells illegal but highly profitable
French postcards (you know, porn, some whisper) from behind the counter of her
smoke-shop cubicle on a high-traffic downtown Chicago street corner located in
a high-crime neighborhood. Also, her shop is the only one on the street that
has never been robbed, a remarkable immunity to crime that is not luck but owing
to the watchful eyes of Men in Blue with whom Cee-Cee is on the most familiar personal
terms and to whom she regularly makes “cash donations.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">No
one in the family brings up Sputnik. No one brings up Cee-Cee’s “mobster”
boyfriend connections, or Walter’s crazy driving habits in his brand-new,
green, Pontiac Bonneville coup, which will not remain pristine for long plus he
can’t afford it on his piddling salary, but don’t ask, or how Dad gets peevish
after spending time around Uncle Walter or Aunt Cee-Cee, let alone both, or
Mother’s inclinations to strictly Biblical (nonmetaphorical) interpretations of
Jonah and the Whale and The Last Supper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">All
at the table, kids included, are relieved when Mother stands up before Uncle
Walter or Aunt Cee-Cee can say another word and announces, “That’s enough!” while
excusing the young ones from the dinner table even before dessert is served, though
the kids will get their dessert later. Dessert is a chocolate-frosted, triple-layer,
made-from-scratch, marble cake over which Uncle Walter, remaining at the table,
will ladle cold gravy while eyeing Cee-Cee and claiming he loves gravy on cake—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> has—just to get Cee-Cee’s goat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1_EqIv8l115PKWp91THpD3xqhcqkUUzl-QqaZGBXD-EU9A0oxJcdLDAr6Lo0od0gzsIKZ2hZYdn1AgnLtUKM2e6_6NJRjtgHUzblv0xIe3iZKY7JetVs8QwhPXVWJMfvao7G6WuGMbI/s1600/Robert+Kirvel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw1_EqIv8l115PKWp91THpD3xqhcqkUUzl-QqaZGBXD-EU9A0oxJcdLDAr6Lo0od0gzsIKZ2hZYdn1AgnLtUKM2e6_6NJRjtgHUzblv0xIe3iZKY7JetVs8QwhPXVWJMfvao7G6WuGMbI/s200/Robert+Kirvel.jpg" width="183" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%;">
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Robert D. Kirvel</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"> is a Pushcart Prize (twice)
and Best of the Net nominee for fiction. Awards include the Chautauqua 2017
Editor’s Prize, the 2016 Fulton Prize for the Short Story, and a 2015 ArtPrize
for creative nonfiction. He has published in England, Ireland, Canada, New
Zealand, and Germany; in translation and anthologies; and in dozens of U.S.
literary journals. His novel, <i>Shooting the Wire</i>, was published in
August 2019 by Eyewear Publishing Ltd., London. Most of his literary
publications are linked on </span><span style="color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"><a href="https://twitter.com/Rkirvel"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">https://twitter.com/Rkirvel</span></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-26011937245388026782019-11-25T08:34:00.003-07:002019-11-25T08:34:53.160-07:00Empty Windows<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">by
Sara Birch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"You
know, Short here saw angels in his window one night. They were floating around
outside, lookin' in at him. He said they were beautiful."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My
stepfather came closer. I shrank back and peered at the little man he'd brought
into the house. They both smelled like liquor, old sweat, and something else.
Something sinister.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Short
lived up to his name. A tiny man, his face, whiskers and clothes were gray, a
wraith who rose from the desert floor and seeped under our door like fog. He
was beaming, a pilgrim who had seen the face of God and lived to tell about it.
Short was a believer, right down to his scuffed shoes and empty wallet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
had recently moved to a rental house in Phoenix. Our living room had a
television set balanced on a wobbly metal stand and two faded chaise lounges we
found in the backyard. The house was dusty, battered. There were spiders in
corners and stains on the walls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
sliding glass doors were fly-spotted, greasy with fingerprints, cracked at the
bottom. Beyond the doors, the lawn had turned to straw long ago, bleached by
the sun. Far from my friends, my only visitors were jet streams, white
billowing lines that shattered the blue as people left the desert for somewhere
else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I
was seventeen years old that summer. A high school graduate, I had barely earned
my diploma. A career truant, I was steeped in too much trauma to tolerate the
normalcy of school. When my mother and step-father announced they were
venturing west again, I had reluctantly signed on. There were no other options.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">So,
two months before, I had helped push an old washing machine up the ramp of a U-Haul
trailer, along with beds, lamps, and clothes, the detritus of a tattered life.
Cardboard boxes, once filled with memorabilia, were a reminder of a past when
things weren't as crazy. We had fallen on hard times. My step-father was a
drunk and a cruel man. My mother was confused, depressed, and strapped with a
toddler. Her boxes held a lifetime of broken dreams. They'd decide where to go
in the morning. A flip of a coin. All I knew was we were heading west. Maybe
California or Arizona.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
sun rose, and it was off on another trip down Route 66 in the back of a pickup
truck. I hung on to my old cat in her crate. We careened through mountain
passes and across bridges that spanned canyons so vast, it was tempting to jump
from the truck and fling myself over the guardrail to see if I could fly somewhere
better, where men weren't cruel, mothers didn't cry, a place where hope might
guide us into something brighter. The frightened cat urinated. It seeped out of
the crate and into my clothes. I reeked of urine. The wind across the bow of
the truck bed was chilling, stiffening my jeans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We
drove all day and into the night. Overhead were a million stars, chips in the
ragged night as though it wore sequins. "At
least there's that," I thought. The stars didn't care who I was, or
where I was going. They danced for me the way they did years ago, when I was a little girl and wondered
what hid in the folds of darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When
I was four years old, teachers at my Sunday School gave me a picture of Jesus
in Sunday School. His likeness fit in the palm of my hand, and it glowed in the
dark. I huddled deep in the closet among the shoes and dirty clothes, staring
at his serene face, which was bathed in a greenish light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When
I was seven, I wrote letters to God and tossed them in the fireplace, hoping He
read the smoke signals as my words rose from the chimney and into the universe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My
mother re-married when I was twelve. I left Jesus behind on the closet floor. We
journeyed down empty roads with the Devil at our backs. But sometimes, the
Devil walked through the front door with a guest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Short
got the extra bedroom. He slept on the floor in a blanket. I did my best to
avoid him, but he'd corner me, sharing stories of angels. He saw himself as a missionary
for a celestial realm, there to guide us on a pathway to Heaven. Foul breath breached
yellowed teeth and struck my face in clouds. Recalling the picture of Jesus in
the closet, a thirsty space in me wanted to believe in Short’s angels. I
carried his words into my room like a disciple and unpacked them on my pillow
each night. Nothing appeared in the windows, nor did I hear heavenly music. The
only sounds were a dog barking at dawn, and the furtive noises in a slumbering
house. Nights were disappointing, and the days glared in the desert sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One
afternoon, Short and my step-dad staggered in, beer burps tangling with onions
and peanuts. They had been on a bender, days spent at the nearby Elbow Room, a
hollowed-out nest for drunks and vipers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"Short's
going back home. I'm gonna put him on a Greyhound." my step-father
announced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Nodding,
I went back to reading a book, feigning indifference. I figured I'd never know
if angels peered in the windows now that Short would take his crusade elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Short
said goodbye, rheumy eyes dancing in his head. He left under the guidance of my
step-father. They leaned inwards towards each other, shuffled out to the
pick-up truck, an ark in a sea of sand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
next day I walked four blocks to a pay phone and waited. At four o'clock, it rang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"Hi,"
I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My
boyfriend's voice was far away. About fifteen hundred miles as the crow flies.
He was a nice boy who came from a good family. He had no idea what I had gone
through for years. None of my friends did. In my family, we wore our secrets
well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He
held me tight the night before I left. We stood on the front steps at midnight.
The porch light had burned out long ago. The truck and trailer crouched in the
driveway like mongrels who hungered for the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"I'll
miss you," he whispered. A chilling wind blew through our clothes, ruffled
our hair. I saw his silhouette in the dark, placed my head on his chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"I'll
miss you, too," I said, then stepped across the threshold and closed the
door on normal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Every
week, on Sunday afternoon, I stood in the phone booth, cooking in the heat. A
few cars honked as they passed. I closed the door and turned my back. Wiped the
sweat from my forehead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"How
are you?" he asked, his voice warm and concerned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">"Good,"
I lied, knowing I'd never see him again. I held the dirty phone to my mouth as
we talked, wondered who else spoke into it, or thumbed through the ripped pages
of the directory. What other nomads had stood here tethered to a cord that reached
across the miles? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Years
later, a man would follow me home from a train station in the Midwest. He'd
write a song about me and the angels Short had promised. We'd sing in coffee
houses, then dance in empty boxcars by the railroad tracks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">By
then the angels would be just part of a story, a chapter in a life spent
counting telephone poles along empty highways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But
on that day, in the summer of my seventeenth year, I opened the phone booth and
stepped onto an uneven sidewalk. Looking down, I noticed weeds pushing through
the cement. Weeds that would survive long after the sidewalk crumbled under the
cruel sun. Weeds that flourished and never gave up, no matter how often they
were stepped on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That
night, I parted the curtains in the bedroom, pretended the tears on my cheeks
were milk from the moon etching stars on my face. I wondered if I looked like
an angel through the pane to seekers who passed in the darkness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sara Birch</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> writes about growing
up in an unconventional family. As a young girl, Sara moved multiple times
throughout the United States. Her dream was to stay in one place long enough to
find her way around in the dark. She currently lives between the mountains and
the sea, with rain as her muse.</span>Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-78167960963634899052019-11-13T16:48:00.002-07:002019-11-13T16:48:46.029-07:00Brush with Greatness<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">by J.D. Scrimgeour<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">At the end of summer in 1982, my family
drove me from our home in New Milford, Connecticut, a town of 20,000 in the
southern Berkshires and helped me unload my meager belongings—a few bags of
clothes—in Carman Hall, the freshman dorm at Columbia University. While I had
been to the city a few times, living in the frenzy of Manhattan was an adjustment.
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One time that first year my family joined me in the city to
watch a basketball game, and when they returned to their car, they discovered
that someone had broken into it. The thieves had stolen a couple ratty sleeping
bags and a few of my siblings’ high school textbooks. The following year, two
students in Carman Hall found a rolled-up rug in a dumpster and carried it back
to their room. When they unrolled it, they discovered a corpse inside, a man
who had been shot twice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
wasn’t just the grittiness of New York in the 1980s that left me disoriented; I
had to adjust to being around so many people who had lived lives so different
from what I had known. As someone who had attended public schools, I was
fascinated by all my classmates who had attended private boarding schools,
places I’d only read about in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Catcher
in the Rye</i>. And Columbia was cosmopolitan. I remember going for ice cream during
orientation week with students from Italy and France, hearing languages and
accents that were foreign to my ears. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Another
adjustment was that there were so few women. My class, the class of 1986, was
the last all-male class at Columbia, a fact that I’d hardly registered when I
decided to attend. I knew that Barnard was just across the street, and I had assumed
that the students all took the same classes. They didn’t. In order to meet the
women from Barnard, I would go with friends to the campus pub where we’d drink
pitchers of beer. At some point, I’d muster courage to saunter up to a stranger
and ask her to dance. She usually said no, and I’d slink back to my table and
pour another into my plastic cup. It seemed simply impossible to meet a woman.
Even if a conversation were to begin amid the too-loud music, what was I
supposed to say? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
was adrift, and even the routines that I developed were those of someone who
was lonely: playing hours of pick-up basketball in Levien Gymnasium and
watching David Letterman’s late-night show in the TV lounge at the end of our
floor. I got a kick out of Letterman’s sardonic humor, his stupid pet tricks,
and his “Brush with Greatness” segments, in which members of the studio
audience shared comic stories about how they crossed paths with celebrities. Having
a brush with greatness may have been one of the reasons I chose to attend
Columbia. Being in New York held the possibility of seeing famous people, and,
in fact, I walked past Letterman himself in Midtown one afternoon as he was
filming on the street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That
first semester I’d take <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Odyssey</i>
or Euripides’ plays out to the campus lawn and lie reading in the sun, hardly
registering the words, dozing off more often than not. My classes all went well
enough, except for the class in my declared major, Math. Before the semester
started, I met with an advisor to help choose my classes. “Wouldn’t you like to
take a class with a world-famous mathematician?” he asked, and so I decided to take
the test to place into a theoretical calculus course taught by a professor
named Lipman Bers. The test was like the SAT, and I did well enough to get in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lipman
Bers was old, from eastern Europe, with a thick moustache and a thick accent.
He had us buy a book with more equations than words. Unlike my math classes in
high school, we never had to turn in homework. It wasn’t always clear what our
homework was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
was a small class, a dozen students in a musty room. Although a seminar table
filled the space, we didn’t sit around it exactly. A blackboard ran along one
side of the room, and Bers would lecture in front of it, so we would sit in two
rows on either side of the table, facing the board. I sat in the back corner,
the table in front of me. In the front center sat Daniel, the thirteen-year-old
with a bowl cut of black hair and just visible fine dark hair above his lip,
the beginnings of a mustache.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Daniel was, I’d heard, the captain of the U.S. math team,
whatever that meant. I don’t think he was enrolled at Columbia; he was just
taking this one class.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
seemed like Daniel was the only person, besides Bers, who spoke in class. He’d
raise a scrawny arm and ask a question that I didn’t understand. Bers’ eyes
would light up. “That’s a very interesting question, Daniel,” he’d say, and the
two of them would engage in a long dialogue while the rest of us—or maybe it
was just me—sat in befuddlement. Eventually, I began doodling in my notebook,
rehashing my stats from my senior year baseball season or reviewing possible
starting line-ups for the Knicks. I passed that class with a gentleman’s C,
dropped down to a more standard Calculus class the next semester, and dropped
that after I bombed my first test. I wasn’t going to be a math major.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve
told the story of that math class many times. It seemed a story about
discovering one’s limits, though, to be honest, it involved pumping my ego,
too—I was good enough in math to place into that class, after all. And the
audience always got a kick out of my embellished description of how lost most
of us were while Daniel and Bers held their abstruse conversations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But
recently, while writing about this event, I began to wonder about Lipman Bers. He
really was, of course, a world-famous mathematician. He was born in a Jewish
family in Riga, Latvia, at the beginning of World War I, and his early life was
colored by the political upheavals of the first half of the twentieth century.
He spent time in St. Petersburg and Berlin. While studying math at the
University in Riga, he became a political activist who argued for human rights,
an orator and columnist for an underground newspaper, defending democracy in
the face of Latvia’s dictator. A warrant was issued for his arrest, but he
escaped to Prague. He fled from Prague to Paris with his family, and then, just
ahead of the Germans, he fled to the United States. Living as a refugee, he
continued to work on mathematics. He eventually did math work assisting the
allied war effort, and then went on to write many important papers in the field,
known for their elegance and clarity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
was admired by his students and fellow mathematicians, and a recent book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lipman Bers: A Life in Mathematics,</i>
celebrates his achievements. Mathematician William Abikoff writes this about
Bers:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lipa
possessed a joy of life and an optimism that is difficult to find at this time
and that is sorely missed. Those of us who experienced it directly have felt an
obligation to pass it on. That, in addition to the beauty of his own work, is
Lipa’s enduring gift to us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bers
had a way not just with numbers, but with words. I laughed aloud when I came
across his line that “Mathematics is a collection of cheap tricks and dirty
jokes,” though I don’t know enough about math to really understand it. Throughout
his career, he also continued to advocate for human rights. Here’s Bers
himself, speaking about human rights in 1984, when he was awarded an honorary
degree from SUNY-Stonybrook:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">By becoming a human rights activist ... you do take
upon yourself certain difficult obligations. ... I believe that only a truly
even-handed approach can lead to an honest, morally convincing, and effective
human rights policy. A human rights activist who hates and fears communism must
also care about the human rights of Latin American leftists. A human rights
activist who sympathizes with the revolutionary movement in Latin America must
also be concerned about human rights abuses in Cuba and Nicaragua. A devout
Muslim must also care about human rights of the Bahai in Iran and of the small
Jewish community in Syria, while a Jew devoted to Israel must also worry about
the human rights of Palestinian Arabs. And we American citizens must be
particularly sensitive to human rights violations for which our government is
directly or indirectly responsible, as well as to the human rights violations
that occur in our own country, as they do.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bers
retired from teaching at Columbia in 1982. The class I took with him may have
been the last he ever taught. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
wish I could claim that Bers and his vision, expressed so eloquently above, had
an impact on me, but it’s only through the lens of time that I see more than
myself in that room—those other students may have been getting a lot more from
the class than I imagined. And, having learned a bit about him, I can better
see Bers, a man brilliant and committed, see the spark between him and Daniel.
What did I know?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
was my first semester, and I was a lost boy. I needed grounding myself to see
others. I went on find circles of friends at Columbia, to find a girlfriend
when I lived in Barnard dorms my sophomore year. Eventually, I no longer needed
David Letterman’s late-night company. And my junior year, I started to put my
own words down. I took classes with the poet Kenneth Koch and legendary literature
professor Wallace Gray, early steps on the path to becoming a writer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That
same year, I took to the cold March nights to join students who blocked the
doors to Hamilton Hall, a main classroom building, demanding that the
University divest its financial holdings in South Africa and South African
companies. Some of my friends scoffed at the protests, and their cynicism made
me doubt my conviction, but, ultimately, I could do the math.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
was usually alone those nights, one of the crowd. Many of those around me were
people who, I had been taught, did not look like me. I sat among them all and
listened to the speeches, the music, the drumming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
took in the world, and the world took me in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Writing
this essay, I became curious about Daniel. Perhaps discovering Bers’ words, his
insistence on being aware of all others, made me wonder about Daniel and his
life. I googled “Daniel, mathematician, born 1970,” and I discovered Daniel, a
mathematician at an Ivy League university. I thought the thin face, something
about the nose, looked familiar, and so I sent an email. Sure enough, it was
him. He read the essay and was gracious and self-depreciating. He confirmed the
bowl haircut; he didn’t recall the table. He said he had read some of Bers’
papers and built on his work. I hope that in my own way I’m building on Bers’
work as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">J.D.
Scrimgeour</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"> is the author of three books of poetry and two of
nonfiction, including <i>Themes for English B: A Professor's Education In
& Out of Class</i>, which won the AWP Award for Nonfiction. Recent essays
have appeared in <i>blackbird</i>, <i>Solstice, Sport Literate, </i>and <i>The
Woven Tale Press</i></span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-56799869029471908192019-10-30T16:03:00.001-06:002019-10-30T16:03:40.295-06:00Contacts<br />
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">by J. Malcolm Garcia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny
wants to slam his burrito in my face. Wants to, will do—hard to read— but I’m
leaning toward will do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">You
took my job. Why don’t you take my lunch, too? Johnny says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He’s
drunk, voice slurring in an ocean of saliva, jaws loose on their hinges. I just
wanted a quick lunch. This little burrito joint on the corner of Leavenworth
and Ellis, its grimed windows steamed and marked with the finger drawings of
the owner’s small children, usually provides me a relaxed place to take a mid-day
breather from work. Until Johnny showed up, I’d sat blissfully by myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
always drank but I never knew him to get this wound up. Of course, I’d not
fired him before. We sat in my office two days ago, his eyes bloodshot and rheumy,
pigeons on the window sill, pacing back and forth in their cooing, head-bobbing
way, witnesses to the hammer coming down on a guy I’d lied for and promoted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny,
I said, you know how this works. When state budget cuts come down, I have to
lay off staff. My way of doing things is to let go those people I think can
find work. You can find work. You can get another job if you chill out on the
drinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the last three years, I’ve laid off more staff than I want to think about.
Fired. That’s how it feels to them. The look in their eyes. The sense of
betrayal. The tears. All the self-respect they had clawed back into their lives
gone in the two or three sentences it takes for me to tell them. What did
someone who had spent years on the street have other than the minimum-wage job
I gave them? A room at a residential hotel, no kitchen, bathroom down the
hall, and a tab at some restaurant that extended them credit, that’s what. I
laid them off and saw them back on the street in no time, back to what they’d
known, back to the sidewalks, the doorways, the homeless shelters, in line with
everyone else for whatever benefit they might be eligible, general assistance,
SSI, unemployment, blending in with one another in an undistinguished mass of
ill-fitting thrift-store clothes in a poor version of a nine-to-five routine,
as if they’d never left. In a way, I suppose, they hadn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
because of yesterday? Johnny asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes,
I thought, it is. But instead I lied one more time to spare him the truth and
to spare me his denials.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">No,
it’s about the budget. It’s about who I think can find a job, I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
extended my hand. He wiped his eyes and ignored it. He didn’t look at me. I
knew he didn’t believe me. Too bad for him he ran into Tim McGraw, the guy
I answer to. McGraw talked to me and now here we are. However, the state had
cut a homeless grant. That was no lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Is
that it? Johnny asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
nodded and he left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
the program director of the men’s homeless shelter for Out of the Rain, a
social services agency in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
answer to McGraw, the executive director. The shelter stands on a block of
Leavenworth Street beside boarded store fronts, convenience stores stockpiled
with cheap wine and cans of Dinty Moore beef stew, residential hotels and other
social service agencies. On the first of each month, I see guys in need of
booze to silence the voices inside their heads standing alongside your average,
no-voices homeless alcoholics shelling out 99 cents for half-gallon jugs of
Thunderbird while the speed freaks do the jitterbug, fried-nerves tweak on the
sidewalks, day-tripping out-of-control marionettes fumbling for their crack
pipes. Police cars coast their slow, bored, welfare-check-payday-crawl as
officers glance over people––who are all suddenly hands visible or hands and
arms at their sides or hurriedly walking away, message: I’m clean officer, I’m
clean––looking for a drug dealer, an informant, someone in the middle of a
score, whoever they can find. Fuck the drunks, that’s just a vagrancy rap. Drug
busts mean promotion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Guys,
young and old, their hair askew as if charged with electricity, scratch their
arms raw, and they’re not displaying their latest prison tattoos, no, they’re
showing dealers their track marks, their need. Slick as slick, unruffled in
fake leather jackets, the dealers at first pretend not to see the scratchers or
the black lines etched down their arms like bruised highways. No, the dealers
wait to see if 5 O circles back. Then they motion to the scratchers, digging
into their shirt pockets for bags of the white stuff. When the high wears off,
the drunks, the voice hearers and the scratchers lurch and stagger to my
shelter, like dead people risen from the sidewalks, broke and hallucinating,
until they piss themselves and fall asleep or start a fight and we throw them
out only to see them come back five minutes later begging for mercy, begging
for money, flying off the handle again in a stream of invective and threats, a
kind of poetic assault with the word motherfucker as the driving force.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
contract requires me to hire the homeless, the idea being that people with
problems can help other people with problems. I select my staff from the few
among them who get clean, or, short of that, like Johnny, keep it together
despite their vices. If nothing else, they know their world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One
time, on my way to a meeting, I saw a shelter client holding a knife to a
volunteer’s throat. Johnny was on duty. I paused, considered the knife.
Serrated edge. Maybe a Gerber, I didn’t know. The volunteer’s eyes were so wide
I half expected to see planets orbiting around them. He stayed in the shelter
and was guaranteed a bed if he worked a few hours signing people in for the
night. He had his hands raised above his head and sweat waxed his face and he
could not have sat stiller if he tried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What’s
going on? I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Nothing,
Johnny said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Monday
afternoon mood swing?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Something
like that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">You
got this covered?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yeah,
Johnny said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Do
I know you? I asked the guy with the knife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
looked at me, eyebrows puckered in thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
don’t think so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We’re
good here, Johnny said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">OK,
I said and left for my meeting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I returned an hour later, the guy with the knife was gone. The volunteer,
Johnny told me, had quit. I wonder why, I said, and we both laughed. I thought
of asking again what that had been about but I wasn’t in the mood to give
credence to an answer I knew would make no sense. Johnny handled it, no one
died, all good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So,
months later, when the state of California relieved me of funds that covered
much of my staff’s salaries, I had choices to make. The way I saw it, if a
drinker like Johnny who, no matter how lit he gets can still make it to work on
time, supervise the shelter and chill-out a guy with a knife, well then he has
a chance––I’m not saying a great one––of finding another job. That person,
according to the skewed logic I engage in, should be laid off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
want you to have my burrito, Johnny says again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
trying to keep calm but I’m getting a little PO’d. How many times did Johnny
show up to work smelling of booze? How many times did I talk to him about it?
He used mouthwash like that’d fool anyone. I looked the other way. I considered
his drinking a perk I let him have because no matter what I could rely on him.
He kept the train running, so to speak. But staff and clients all knew he
drank. They didn’t say anything but they knew, and they knew I knew and when I
caught people nursing a bottle of Thunderbird in the shelter and told them to
toss it or leave, they’d say, rightfully, What about Johnny? I had no good
answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny
came to Out of the Rain a year ago for a clothing referral. He wore an army
fatigue jacket too big for his slim body. His graying hair hadn’t been combed
in a while and his missing front teeth left a gap in his mouth that made him
hard to understand when he spoke. He told me he’d been in the Army, stationed
in the Philippines. One morning, he was called into the office of his CO and
told he was being discharged. The base was closing, he was no longer needed,
the CO said. Johnny caught a flight out that night with nothing but his duffel
bag. Twenty-four hours later, he landed in San Francisco, the closest U.S.
airport to the Philippines, or so he claimed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
didn’t believe a word. The Army doesn’t discharge soldiers because a base
closes. Johnny screwed up somehow. Maybe it was his drinking, I don’t know. If
I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned this: Don’t believe what anyone on the
street tells you. They have their secrets. They’re not all bad or all crazy or
all addicts. I’ve met more than a few who are homeless only because they need a
job, that’s it. But even they have their secrets, their unbelievable tales to
fill in the blanks of what they don’t want you to know. I let Johnny have his
story. I presumed he’d lost everything else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">While
he stayed at the shelter, Johnny volunteered. He put mats on the floor, mopped
the bathrooms, made coffee. When one of the shelter staff quit, I offered
Johnny job.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
really want you to have it, Johnny says again, tossing the burrito from hand-to-hand
as if it were too hot to hold. I’ll give you a fork and everything so you don’t
mess yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny
takes a step toward me, trips, regains his balance. I hope something will
distract him. People coming in for lunch. An announcement that someone’s order
is ready. Something. To think that only a few months ago, I lied my way to hell
to get Johnny the shelter supervisor job. At the time, the supervisor had been
a guy from Texas we all called Tex. He seemed as normal and middle class as a
bank teller until one day he decided to resume his crack habit and I never saw
him again. That created a job opening. I wanted Johnny to fill it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">However,
I had hoops to jump through. The contract didn’t allow me to appoint people to
administrative jobs. Johnny and anyone else interested in the supervisor
position had to appear before a three-member hiring committee made up of
homeless men and women elected by people in the shelter to, the contract read,
give the homeless served by the agency a say in staffing. That in turn, or so
the thinking went, would teach them responsibility. They’d be, in
contract-speak, “invested” in the program and their own “outcomes.” The
contract emphasized that the director could in no way influence the committee.
I could sit in on interviews and help facilitate but I could not participate in
discussions about the applicants or vote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
posted the position and asked a homeless volunteer, a guy named Ross Hitchcock,
to coordinate the election of a hiring committee. Ross grew up in Boston and had
a thick, New England accent. He had no teeth and when he wasn’t talking, his
mouth flattened into a thin line above his chin. He schemed and had a racket
unique to anyone I knew. For several hours a day, he’d stand beside a parking
meter and flag drivers searching for a parking space. He’d then offer to get
them an hour on the meter in exchange for a quarter. If they agreed, he’d
withdraw a popsicle stick from his pocket, jam it in the meter, crank it up and
down and watch the numbers flip until they reached sixty minutes. Pleased and
amused by his ingenuity, drivers would often give Ross additional change.
Within a few hours, he’d make $100.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ross
announced the election that night at the shelter. Whoever wanted to run wrote
their name on a piece of paper tacked by the front door. More than a few people
thought the candidate sheet was the sign-in list for a bed. As a result, we had
many clients unaware they were running for the committee. Three days later, I
left ballots with the names of dozens of candidates by the front desk.
Completed ballots were put in a box. The three candidates who received the most
votes won. If they showed up for the interviews, we had a hiring committee. If
they didn’t, we held another election.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
day of the vote, I called Johnny into my office and told him I wanted him to be
the new super.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">You
can’t go before the hiring committee with alcohol on your breath, I warned him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
don’t drink when I’m working.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">You
drink and everyone knows it, period. If you want the job, don’t come here
smelling of booze.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At
first, only Johnny put in for the job. Then the day before the application
deadline, one other staffer applied. Billy White. He came to the shelter about
the same time as Johnny. He had a wide, open face with a mole on his right
eyelid that seemed not to bother him but always distracted me when we spoke.
Guys would hit him up for money and he’d give what little he had and then act
surprised when no one paid him back. If someone said, Hey, Billy, I like that
sweater, he’d lend it to them but of course he never got it back, and I’d see
him at night in line waiting for the shelter to open, his arms crossed,
shivering, the hurt expression of a child who knew he had been taken advantage
but didn’t understand how or why writ large across his face. I hired Billy to
get him away from the piranhas feeding off him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
did not make my life easy. He never got to work on time because he insisted on
standing up to the indignities of his life as if now that he had a job he could
finally assert himself against those who had abused his trust. One time, he
blamed his tardiness on his landlord. That morning, he refused to pay rent
after he complained about the halls being dirty. The landlord threatened to
evict him. Billy then called lawyers to sue the owner. Then he asked other
lawyers to sue those lawyers for not taking his case. When they refused, he
walked to the <i>San Francisco Chronicle</i> to ask a reporter to write about
the dirty halls. He demanded a meeting with the editor. He waited a long time
before his request was denied. Had they not made him wait, he explained, he
wouldn’t have been late.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
kept him. Firing Billy would have been like kicking a puppy. Out of the Rain
existed for the Billys of the world, and the Johnnys and Texs too; people who,
we should concede, will never fit into the five-day workweek. Unless, of
course, our work ethic changes and allows for people who talk to other people
none of us can see, people with 24-7 drinking and drug problems, people like
Billy who obsess on the smallest slight, people with college degrees who look
good on paper, but have troubles, too, and have ended up on the street among
all the other dispossessed in an equal-opportunity smorgasbord of triaged men
and women, unable to pass the entrance exam to the American Dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">About
two weeks after Tex vanished, Johnny and Billy appeared before a hiring
committee made up of clients I knew well:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oscar,
a speed freak, a tall, lean man in his late thirties, was on one of his
periodic sober runs. He could sing like nothing else mattered in a voice that
should have had Barry Gordy knocking at our door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Gill
Harlee, a guy with a barrel-chest laugh and a round, bowling-ball stomach, and
an explosive temper. A meaningless disagreement on something as simple as the
weather could set him off. Good mood or bad, he always shouted as if he was
trying to make himself heard above insurmountable noise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marcela
Brooks, an elderly woman who came in every morning for coffee and whom we all
called Granny. Depending on the day, she’d tell us she was 78 or 90. She
wrapped herself in at least three coats and used a wheelchair like a walker,
hobbling behind it and pausing every so often to catch her breath, her lined
face canyoned with exhaustion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">On
a Wednesday afternoon, the committee interviewed Johnny first. We sat in a
circle by a closet where we stored the mats. We held a list of ten questions.
The sun shone and I could see seagulls circling above a YMCA at the corner of
Golden Gate and Leavenworth. Johnny took a chair next to mine. I smelled the
alcohol on his breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">First
question:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oscar:
What would you do if the shelter was full and someone needed a place to stay at
two in the morning? Would you turn them away?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">No,
Johnny answered. He’d find them a spot even if it meant sitting in a chair.
Granny asked a similar question about a family that showed up in the middle of
the night. Johnny said he wouldn’t bother calling other shelters. He understood
we weren’t a family shelter but at that hour a family would need rest,
especially the kids. He’d take them in, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">God
bless the children, Granny said, and then launched into a story about how she
was denied shelter by Salvation Army because she refused to take a shower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That
wasn’t right, she said. A shelter’s not supposed to turn people away. I’m an
old woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After
we finish here, Granny, you and I will talk about it, I said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
wasn’t right what happened to me, Granny insisted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
turned to Oscar and Gill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Let’s
continue, I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What
about me? Granny asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We’ll
talk, I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Second
question:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Gill:
What would you do if. . .Gill stopped and put the list of questions aside.
Instead, he asked Johnny if he’d kick someone out of the shelter if they were
caught drinking or using. Before he could answer, Gill demanded, What about
you? Would you 86 yourself?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What
do you mean?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">You
come to work drunk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
don’t drink here, Johnny said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Gill
smirked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Do
you attend AA, Johnny? Oscar asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">No,
Johnny said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Would
you go to AA if you get this job?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
don’t see why I would, Johnny said. I don’t drink at work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Let’s
stick to the questions, I said, raising the list.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Gill
made a face and his hand shook with mounting anger but he didn’t explode. I
appreciated his self-control. Still, he’d done some damage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Billy
showed up fifteen minutes late. He couldn’t find his keys, he explained. As
excuses went, that was so acceptably mainstream, he left me speechless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">First
question:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oscar:
If it’s raining outside, would you open the shelter earlier than usual?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Billy
pondered. He wanted to now the situation of each person seeking shelter. Had
they ever been 86’d? Were they intoxicated? Were other shelters available to
them? The committee made up answers to his hypotheticals until I intervened,
contract be damned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Billy,
just answer. It’s a yes or no question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
yes, he said, although I think these questions need to be more specific.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
we finished interviewing Billy, I walked him to the door, closing it behind
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What
do you all think? I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny,
the committee agreed, was the better applicant. He answered the questions with
common sense. They’d seen him on the job. They knew he was reliable. Billy,
they worried, would complicate the simplest problem. They worried he’d obsess
over one task at the expense of others. However, Johnny’s drinking disturbed
them more. Whatever else could be said about Billy, he wouldn’t be drunk when
he enforced the rules about alcohol and drugs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Why
do you allow Johnny to work with alcohol on his breath? Oscar asked me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve
always wondered that myself, Gill said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
didn’t answer. My overriding principle: make a bad situation less bad. Johnny
was my less bad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Because
we’re here for people with problems and despite his he works out better than
most.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">They
didn’t disagree. However, whatever their own problems, Oscar, Gill and Granny
understood hypocrisy. They voted for Billy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Now,
are we going to talk about me getting thrown out of Salvation Army? Granny
asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="FreeForm" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Billy,
I knew, would be a disaster. I needed a plan. Crisis fueled quick thinking. I
reminded the committee that according to the contract, the Executive Director
had to sign off on all new hires. I knew McGraw wouldn’t care who I hired. I
just had to tell him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t. Not yet. Instead, I called the
committee back for a meeting the next day and I bald-faced lied to them. I told
them that I’d met with McGraw and he had recommended hiring both Billy and
Johnny. He wanted one of them to supervise the day program, the other the night
shelter. It would provide for better coverage to split the position into two. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Granny and Gill liked the idea. Only Oscar objected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
What’s the point of having a hiring committee if McGraw’s just going to
make his own decision? he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
He didn’t decide, I said. He just gave us another idea. Think about.
This will open up two staff positions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Oscar, I knew, wanted a job. It served my purpose to dangle the
possibility now. I couldn’t tell if he picked up on my not so subtle hint, but
he didn’t push his objection. The contract could talk about homeless people
“participating in decision making” all it wanted but everyone knew who was in
charge—McGraw. The committee had its say. By channeling McGraw and offering a
bribe, I had mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
As I knew, McGraw didn’t care. He thought it was a little
cumbersome having two supervisors but if that’s what I wanted, fine. I gave him
some mumbo jumbo about how it was an example of the agency taking a job opening
and creating more than just one opportunity. He gave that laugh again and
slapped me on the shoulder. He liked how that sounded. Funders would eat it up.
McGraw got his talking point. The committee got Billy. I got Johnny. Win-win-win.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
gave Johnny days and Billy nights. There wouldn’t be much to do at night once
the lights went out at eight, which I thought would suit Billy best. Johnny
worked out as I knew he would. Boozy breath but fine. Billy, however, was
Billy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
sorry I’m late, Billy would apologize to me. The bus was running behind
schedule. And I talked to the driver about how that wasn’t right, and he talked
back to me. So, I wouldn’t get off until he apologized.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’d
listen. I always listened. I found Billy’s outrage at the everyday insults the
rest of us take for granted somehow endearing. Soon, however, the tardiness got
out of hand and I suspended him for two days, but it didn’t make an impression.
Finally, I dropped him down to shelter staff again. He didn’t object. OK, he
said. The dejected look on his face told me he didn’t understand how I couldn’t
appreciate his need to confront every disparaging moment. I didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
was so preoccupied with standing up for his wounded dignity that the demands of
being a supervisor had, I think, become just one more humiliation. Whatever he
felt didn’t matter. I got what I’d wanted all along. Johnny was now in
charge. No one asked me about filling Billy’s position.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">About
two weeks later, McGraw called me into his office. He sat at a long table
strewn with files and spreadsheets, glasses perched at the tip of noise. A
computer blinked on and off behind him and a shelf behind his head held books
about time management. I knocked on his open door. He looked at me, dragged a
hand through his mop of blonde hair and laughed a-here-we-are-in-the-shit-storm
laugh that I knew couldn’t be good. He had been an advocate for welfare
recipients when he first got into social work. Then, he earned a master’s
degree in public administration. Now, in his mid-thirties, he ran an agency
with a million-dollar budget. His time now was consumed with grant writing.
Advocacy through fundraising, he often said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
pointed to a chair. I sat down. Then he got to it. Another budget cut. This
time the state had decided not to renew a homeless adult program grant that,
among other things, covered some of my staff’s salaries. I’d have to cut some
positions and combine others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Start
at the top, McGraw said. Higher the salary the better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
knew what that meant. In the pecking order of high salaries I was first, Johnny
second. Well, I knew I wasn’t going to lay myself off. McGraw looked at me over
his glasses and gave that laugh again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
saw Johnny this morning. He smelled like a brewery. You have to draw some
lines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">If
I draw lines, I’ll fire everybody.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny
came to work drunk. There’s your line. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
the burrito joint, Johnny takes another unsteady step toward my table. I look
at the guy behind the register. He’s adding up receipts and doesn’t notice
a thing. Whatever’s going to happen I guess, will happen. I push back in my
chair but remain seated. If I stand, Johnny might think I’m gearing up for
fight. Don’t be the aggressor. De-escalate. Where’d I learn that? Some workshop
for staff development. Strange what goes through your head when you think a
burrito is about to wallpaper your face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
don’t want it, Johnny, I say again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
sways and grabs the back of a chair. He drops the burrito on a table and sits
sloppily in the chair. Stares at the floor, chin against his chest, arms loose
at his sides as if something essential has left him. Saliva hangs off his mouth
in a thin line and he closes his eyes until I assume he’s nodded out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny,
I say. Johnny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
smell it before I notice Johnny pissing himself, a slow, wet stain unfurling
across his crotch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny,
Jesus, wake up!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
get up and shake his shoulder. He opens his eyes slowly, looks lost, confused.
He closes them again and I keep shaking him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Johnny.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He
turns his head and stares bleary-eyed, sagging deeper in his chair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What?
he says, his voice burdened by the effort to speak, rising out of his throat in
a cracked whisper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before
I can say anything, he presses a hand against the table and rises seemingly
half asleep. He reels over the table like a bop bag, turns slowly and walks out
stiff-legged, arms out for balance, angling through the open door to the
street. Through the fogged windows, I see the outline of his body pass in
staggering steps. The odor of piss rises off his chair. I was sure I’d take a
burrito to the face. I hadn’t expected it to end this way. In the words of my
contract, a positive outcome. Staring out the door, I remind myself that Johnny
was just another layoff, nothing personal. He brought it on himself. I covered
for him until I no longer could but as much as I want to, I can’t rationalize
away the guilt I feel wrapped tight and tucked away deep inside me and out of
reach most days. I stand beside his chair a moment longer, then reach for the
burrito and drop it into my coat pocket. Someone in the shelter will eat it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Author’s note: The
names of people and the agency have been changed to protect privacy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">J. Malcolm Garcia lives in San Diego. He is the
author most recently of <i>The Fruit of All My Grief: Lives in the Shadows of
the American Dream </i>(Seven Stories Press 2019).</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-9412970084968132742019-10-09T08:17:00.002-06:002019-10-09T08:17:56.155-06:00Faded Memory<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Rosanne
Trost</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It was another bitterly cold,
dreary January day. Unseasonably cold. No sun for days. My mind and spirit
matched the weather. I was going through the motions as “they” say. Bogged down
in grief—my husband had recently died—I was filled with fear about raising our
daughters by myself. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A dry cleaner had opened near
my home. Clutching a new customer coupon, I brought in a small stack of
clothes. Standing at the counter, I glanced at the coupon again, and realized
it was for men’s’ dress shirts. I wadded the coupon in my purse and forced myself
not to cry. Men’s shirts. Oh, how I wanted to have use of that coupon. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The dry cleaners was new, but
everything looked old. Dirty-looking gray walls. No warmth. Was the heat even
on? The place was so gloomy it looked as if no one was behind the counter. Then
off to the side, I saw a woman get up from her chair. She was sitting next to
an old radio, listening to Dvorak’s Ninth Symphony. The music seemed so foreign
in this austere setting.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I saw her name tag. June
looked haggard and frail. She picked up my items, asked for my name. We
exchanged minimal words, but no smiles. June gave me a receipt and I left.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I visited the cleaners several
times over the next months. Each encounter was the same. Always classical music
playing. June in the background. On sunny days, the place still remained cold
and uninviting. The beautiful music provided a modicum of serenity. June’s
expression was always sad. She always wore the same drab brown, frayed sweater.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Once I dreamed about her. The
dream was fragmented and illusive, like a fading pencil sketch, but we were
both smiling. We exchanged no words.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Eventually and surprisingly, I
began experiencing some days with glimmers of hope.<i> </i>The number of
hopeful days continued to increase. <i>Maybe I could survive. </i>Still, there
were many days shadowed with sadness. I missed my husband. Over time the loss
became routine. Almost ordinary.</span><i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Thoughts of June often came to
my mind. Because I had moments of something almost like happiness, I wondered
about her. Was she lonely? Did she have family, friends, anybody? I hoped she
did.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I decided the next time I
encountered June, I would greet her by name and wish her a good day.
Unfortunately, on my next trip to the dry cleaner an obnoxious customer was
arguing with her, yelling about a missing shirt. June calmly referred to his
receipt, indicating the items were all there. I dropped off my clothes and
left. The other customer continued shouting.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The following week, on my way
to the cleaners, I thought about what I might say to June. I decided to ask her
a question. Something that would require a response. Nothing deep. Just two
people having a light conversation.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The door to the cleaners was
open; loud unrecognizable music blared from it. A young girl, chewing gum, stood
behind the counter. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Is June off today?” I asked.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Who? Oh, she doesn’t work
here. I think she moved.” </span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Another customer walked in. I
left.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I was overcome with
disappointment. Why had I waited so long to show any interest in June? I could
have been friendly, maybe even offered compassion.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Through the years, on
occasion, I have thought of June. Sometimes I find myself listening for
classical music even in the grimmest of places. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 115%;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Rosanne Trost</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> is a
retired registered nurse. After retirement, she found the perfect creative
writing class, and has realized her passion for writing. Her work has been
published in a variety of online and print journals, including <i>Chicken Soup
for The Soul</i>, <i>Commuter Lit</i>, <i>Indiana Voice Journal</i>, and <i>Learning
to Heal</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-63754820523489697022019-09-20T16:21:00.000-06:002019-09-20T16:21:30.037-06:00Mixed Emotion Family<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">by
Susan D. Bernstein<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“My
mama is mean,” Ruth used to say. I couldn’t see this myself. Miss Cora, as Ruth
insisted her mother liked to be called, seemed a benign old woman to me. She
had traveled to suburban New York from Georgia by bus to spend six weeks of the
summer with her daughter. Miss Cora hardly spoke to me. I might say, “Good
morning,” and she’d wince a smile or murmur some slight recognition. I found
her puzzling, but since she was Ruth’s mother, I accepted her presence without
asking questions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I was an infant my parents hired Ruth to cook and clean and to care for my
brother and me. She remained in this job for over forty years until each of my
parents died in the same house where Ruth had dusted, swept, and managed the
kitchen work. She witnessed everything, from first days of school to arguments and
holiday celebrations. She not only washed the dirty laundry, she saw and heard
it. But while she knew everything about us, it seemed, what did we know of her
family and her life beyond our house? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We knew Ruth had grown up in Georgia
where her mother still lived. At Christmas each year, Ruth journeyed south to
Cordele, Georgia to see Miss Cora and other family whose names I never kept
straight, and occasionally Miss Cora came north in summers. In 1979, the last
time Miss Cora visited her daughter, she was closing in on eighty, her sight
was gone, and cancer lurched through her body. She sat silently in the folding
chair by the back door for hours, sucking the juice out of an orange through a
straw Ruth had inserted. She wore heavy cotton socks rolled up at her ankles,
and my blue gingham shirt from my high school years underneath a sleeveless
dress with a faded floral print. Although her eyes did not work, Miss Cora wore
heavy black-rimmed glasses. Ruth dressed her mother every day and fixed the
elastic in the waist of the slip because Miss Cora liked wearing a slip, but
objected if it drooped below her hemline.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why does Miss Cora wear glasses if
she can’t see?” I asked. I was home for a visit a few years after I'd graduated
from college. Ruth peeled potatoes into the sink, her back hunched over as she
supported much of her weight on her forearms, which were massive, as if they
belonged on a bigger, athletic body. Due to childhood polio, Ruth’s legs looked
like skeleton bones, thin envelopes of flesh wrapped around them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I put them on to keep her from
picking at her eyes. She don’t care anymore.” Ruth's low voice hushed the room
as she watched Miss Cora from the kitchen window. “She about given up and is
just passing time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mother walked in from the front
hall. For many years I’d watched her passing time. “Ruth, did you see my book? I
was reading it at lunch, but now I can’t find it anywhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="color: black;">I hugged
Ruth from behind, circling her broad back with my arms. Then I turned on my
mother. “Why should Ruth know where your book is? She’s busy taking care of her
mother, who can’t see at all.” I was in a stage of belligerence towards my
mother and protective of Ruth. Eventually I outgrew my pugnaciousness like the
gingham shirt Miss Cora wore. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mother sighed,
“Oh, leave me be! I didn’t say Ruth should know—I only asked a question. Is
that a crime?” Not waiting for a reply, my mother walked out of the room, and I
heard her climb the stairs to her bedroom, where she often soothed herself with
rounds of solitaire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ruth patted my cheek. “Hear her and
don’t hear her. That’s what I do. She only talking to hear herself talk.” Ruth
had little tolerance for what she called “chin music” or “jaw dancing,” whether
aimless chatter or in this case my mother's mumblings of despair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
do you sleep when Miss Cora is here?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In there,” Ruth gestured toward her
cubby of a room adjacent to the kitchen. but her eyes caught mine as she turned
from the sink. Ruth was the mistress of the ironic, “you-fool” glance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As a child, I had loved Ruth’s room
because it was small, a coziness that I thought had to do with the size and
walls, but it was Ruth’s presence that made her room a safe hideaway. I had
tried to get Ruth to switch rooms with me at one point when I was five or six,
but she told me I had to sleep upstairs, she downstairs. Ruth’s room was warm
in winter, cool in summer, as if it had its own thermostat that adjusted to
seasonal weather. The shoe-box room held a cot, two feet wide, a bureau, a
desk, and a sink. The black and white checkered bedspread, from my brother’s
bedroom years ago, was tucked neatly around the mattress. In clumps everywhere
were food coupons, prescription drug bottles with the pharmacy labels peeling
away, spools of colored thread for crochet projects, plastic bags of assorted
shades piled high on top of newspapers and stacks of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ebony</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jet</i> and
outdated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">TV Guides</i>. Miniature china
animals and faded hard candies sat on the glass top of the desk along with
rolls of pennies, safety pins, and baseball cards. On the bureau, along with
the coupons and scraps of papers with Ruth’s handwriting—addresses and phone
numbers, stray shopping lists—was a Gideon Bible, like the ones in hotel
bedside table drawers. From the array of improvised bookmarks protruding beyond
the gilt and crimson edges, it looked as if Ruth read from all the Gospels
simultaneously. Once she showed me a dried flower pressed into the pages near a
crucifixion scene. “That’s my orchid for Good Friday. Your mama gets me one
every year.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mother gave Ruth corsages twice a
year, one for Easter and one on the day of Yom Kippur Eve. The first was for
Ruth to wear to services at the African Methodist Episcopal Church she attended
in Harlem. The other commemorated Ruth’s anniversary with our family. I was
three months old when Ruth arrived at our house to take care of my brother and
me during the evening while my parents went to Kol Nidre services.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ruth
proved ecumenical in her religious practices. She fasted with my father on Yom
Kippur and ate matzah during Passover, entirely without my mother’s lapses into
bread. Still, she was a dedicated Christian and went to her church Sundays and
read daily spiritual texts from a worn pamphlet she carried in her apron
pocket. More than anyone else in my family, Ruth was the religious enthusiast,
and took to any kind of ritual or prayer. “It all goes to the same God,” she
liked to say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>During those years, the little I did
know about Ruth's past came from her occasional revelations or from my mother. Ruth
was evasive about her age and her background. My mother told me that Miss Cora
was thirteen when Ruth was born in Georgia, but Ruth never confirmed this
hearsay. Ruth’s surname was Stedman before she married, then Greene. When I
knew Miss Cora, her last name was Smith. I thought that nearly everyone Ruth
knew seemed to be related to her, and I could never follow the familial lines,
as they seemed to run in a more circuitous fashion than what I understood about
my own more limited store of relatives. Although Ruth didn’t have anyone she
claimed for siblings, she had countless aunts, uncles, and cousins. I grew up
with these scattered bits of knowledge about Ruth's life, but later I tried to
learn more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In August 1996 when Ruth was eighty
years old, I interviewed her, and then didn’t play the video recording for a
dozen years, some four years after Ruth had died in a nursing home in central
Georgia in 2004. I had asked predictable questions, prompted by the outline of
a life my mother had fed me about Ruth, leading questions Ruth either evaded or
flat-out contradicted. Like the woman I knew and didn’t know from infancy,
Ruth’s answers were elusive, skewed, as if she’d heeded Emily Dickinson’s
advice: “Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—/Success in Circuit lies.” Take
her reply when I asked where she was born.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Now, that is a very big question. I
was born on the county line of two places, Dooly and Pulaski—half the house in
Dooly, half in Pulaski.” This would be central Georgia, just after the First
World War. If her birthplace was suspended across county lines, her family was
equally dispersed across many names.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, I’m the sum total of a mixed
emotion family," This meant four names: McIntire, Brown, Anderson, and
Marshall. I don’t know where Stedman or Smith fit in, and Ruth didn’t elaborate.
She was adept at redirecting my follow-up questions. Cora’s name was McIntire
until she married, but whether she married Stedman first, or Smith, or either
one, remains a mystery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some of the naming in Ruth’s family
had a more legible genealogy. Her maternal grandmother was Minnie Brown. Minnie
married twice. The first marriage produced Mary, Carrie, and Cora, and the
second marriage to Joe Brown resulted in a couple of boys, and six girls: Margaret,
Lula Bell, Willie Mae, Minnie, Thelma, and Anne. These children from her
marriage with Joe were more like siblings for Ruth because they were close to
her in age even though they were her aunts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My mother was about one generation,
and they and the rest of them another generation. They all came out the same
hole. Let’s say it that way. They all by the same woman, so the same little
place.” Ruth waxed graphic here, maybe a flashpoint of irritation over my
repeated questions to ascertain the exact relationship between Ruth and Thelma
and Minnie. I gradually comprehended that precise bloodlines were a contrivance
that didn’t have much traction in Ruth’s sense of her world. “We all related”
summed up her view. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Those patterns of generation fueled my
persistent questions to know her family constellation. Joe Brown was Miss
Cora’s stepfather; he was a farmer, probably a sharecropper, although Ruth
didn’t use this word. “He raised corn, cotton, stuff like that, and peanuts for
the house.” During my childhood, Ruth regularly roasted peanuts in papery red
skins which fell off in brittle flakes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
mental images of Joe Brown with his cash crop harvests of cotton and corn, the
peanuts a treat for the family, are nourished by a different documentation. My
quest to understand Ruth led me to photographs by Dorothea Lange, which show Southern
tenant farmer families, with children in raggedy clothes in the cotton fields,
many of these from the 1920s and 30s when Ruth would have been a child or
teenager. This sharecropper system of exploitation, with its legacy in serfdom
and slavery, fell apart under the New Deal in the 1930s when union organizing
and strikes brought to wider attention the abuses landless farmers and their
families—many African Americans in the South before the Great Migration
northward—experienced. This public history offered a narrative arc for Ruth’s
account of how she and many of her relatives moved north. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Other
details about Ruth's childhood in Georgia came through in unexpected ways. When
my daughter was eight years old, she had a school assignment to interview
someone “old.” Her class had developed a set of questions to find out what life
was like when their subjects were children. Flora immediately thought of Ruth
and phoned her with her class query in hand. Ruth was past eighty by then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What kind of board games did you like
to play?” was one of the questions the third graders had come up with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We didn’t have no games like that!”
Ruth laughed at the question. “We played in the dirt, and with sticks and
stones. That’s the only board games we all had.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where did your family go on
vacations?” Flora wanted to know, again referring to the class assignment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Vacation? What you talking about,
baby? Well, let me see. Maybe we go up to Valdosta a piece, if we in Cordele,
or to Cordele or maybe Sibley when we lived down by Sylvester. We visited our
family—aunts and uncles or cousins—or sometimes my mother. That’s about the
size of it, the sum total of the family vacation we had!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What restaurants did your family like to go
to when you were little?” And that’s how the interview went, a limping affair
with most every question totally out of key with the chords of Ruth’s
childhood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Flora’s
questions were molded from the same narrow vision of the ones I asked Ruth in
my interview only a few years before. I kept trying to find out how the ages of
people at certain milestones fit in her narrative of her early years. My aim
was to work out Ruth’s age and the chronological difference between her and her
mother. I tried to confirm without saying so the unwed teen mother story I’d
heard. But Ruth seemed downright annoyed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“So
your grandmother must’ve had those children with Joe Brown later on,” I fished for
some ages.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">”What
you call later on?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Thirty-five?
Forty?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
don’t know how old my grandmother was. She had these three kids, became a
widow, married this man, and had those kids. If your husband died, wouldn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you </i>marry again, if you was a beautiful
lady?” Ruth gave me that signature arch look of hers, her voice edgy with
impatience. “I called him Papa like his children did. I never said ‘Grandpa’ or
‘Grandma’ neither.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After
her father died, Ruth recalled moving around, even living apart from her mother
whose work took her to Sibley, Georgia. “I stayed with my Aunt Mary quite a
spell when I went to a public school.” I was very interested in learning more
about her father, but Ruth yielded little other than his name was Nathan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
reached for fiction to parse this shadowy father. In his short story “Cora
Unashamed,” Langston Hughes juxtaposes two out-of-wedlock pregnancies, one of a
white teen named Jessie, the other of Cora, the family maid. While Cora’s
response to her condition is announced in the title, Jessie’s parents force her
to have an abortion from which she dies. My own mother had told me the tale of
Miss Cora, a mother while she was still a child, but there was not a hint of
difficulties in Ruth’s recollection of her origins. Instead, Ruth talked about
a father she knew and loved. “He was a turpentine man in Sylvester.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Again,
I resorted to public images to fill in gaps. I found a 1912 postcard of the
“turpentine industry” in Florida, with the added caption, “Dipping and scraping
pine trees.” The image shows two black men in overalls stripping the bark. Turpentine
vapors are health hazards, solvents that burn the skin and eyes, and can even
damage the lungs and the central nervous system. Was occupational harm
responsible for Nathan’s too early death? Dorothea Lange’s 1937 photographs
gave more visual clues: “Turpentine Workers, Georgia, July 1937” shows a group
of black men in a field fringed with pine trees. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
she had with Flora's school assignment, Ruth pushed against the preconceptions
that prompted my line of questions about her parents. She didn’t remember why
or when Nathan died, but that it was when she was too young to go to school. “My
father I was very fond of—when I saw him coming down the road, no matter who I
was playing with, I would leave them. I’d jump up and meet him, and he would
pick me up, put me around his neck, and bring me home. I adored my father, and
then he died.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Was
your mother living with him at the time?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I
said he was my father!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“But
not all parents live together.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well,
this one did.” Ruth’s emphasis on “this one” couldn’t have been sharper, a
resolute rejection of my insinuating narrative of a poor single black mother
and child. “That’s how I know he died. And after that, my Aunt Mary and her
husband came and moved us to Cordele.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ruth
explained that her mother worked as a cook in those days “for ladies in their
homes,” first in Sibley and Sylvester, and then in Cordele. “Why did she have
that job, and not another kind of job?” I asked, again wanting Ruth to say that
African American women had scant employment opportunities, and that domestic
labor was better than other alternatives. I had remembered when I was a child
hearing Ruth’s Aunt Thelma declare she didn’t want to cook and clean for anyone
but herself in her own home. How Thelma’s insinuation about her relatives’
employment “for ladies in their homes” sat with Ruth, I didn’t know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">During
this interview, Ruth had another quick retort to my question. “She had to do
something, so she must’ve got a job being somebody’s cook.” Ruth offered a
logic about her mother’s work in white people’s homes that she thought was
self-evident. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Now,
my mother was a wonderful cook.” About Miss Cora’s culinary skills, Ruth
elaborated, “I hear people she worked for rave about what a wonderful cook she
was, and if you want something good, let her cook it. I know she made something
I loved—that was pork chops. Seemed like they melt away in your mouth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ruth cooked everything our family ate—from
brisket and matzo ball soup and chopped chicken liver to vichyssoise and layer
cakes with caramel frosting. My mother would find recipes in the newspaper or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ladies Home Journal </i>for Ruth to prepare.
I was astonished to learn from Ruth that she didn't consider herself much of a
cook. I had heard the family legend that when my mother interviewed Ruth about
the job, she had asked Ruth if she knew how to cook. When Ruth said she didn’t,
my mother replied, “I don’t either, and one of us will have to learn how, and
it won’t be me.” Ruth’s own account of this encounter didn’t contradict my
mother’s story; rather, she played up her own side of it. “She say, you know
how to cook? I say, no. You ask me today, I’ll tell you the same thing. I don’t
tell nobody I know how to cook. I just don’t.” It was clear that a job cooking
for “ladies in their homes,” as Ruth had described Miss Cora’s employment, was
nothing Ruth relished. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ruth and Cora had other jobs in the
food industry. When Ruth was a very young woman in Georgia, she had followed
her mother to a canning factory called Liberty MacNeil. “I worked in tomatoes,
my mother worked in beans and pickles.” Some sixty years later, Ruth was
telling me about grating tomatoes “near a machine where they’d pull the rotten
tomatoes off, and the rest went into a boiler to make canned tomatoes, tomato
juice, tomato ketchup, or what have you.” This position seemed to suit Ruth at
the time. “If I worked every day, I had a nice check—once they took income
taxes out of it. I think they closed that factory. I’m not sure, but maybe they
didn’t have peoples to come to work there like when I was working there. My
mother worked there year round.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For Ruth, this canning factory was a
summer job. About her youthful attitude on work back then she mused, “I was a
spoiled brat. I wanted to work with the other kids picking tomatoes or tobacco,
but they wouldn’t let me go, and I had to stay in the restaurant to help, but
then there was nothing to do there.” Ruth didn’t elaborate on this restaurant,
nor did she provide background about Liberty MacNeil. These narratives assumed
I knew the broader contexts of places and people. I was too uncomfortable to
ask outright about the teen mother and other buried bits of Ruth’s story. Maybe
it was none of my business.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">During
that humid summer morning in 1996 when I videotaped our conversation, I pursued
the kinds of life stages most familiar to me. I remember once, when in high
school I was struggling to translate Caesar’s Gallic War feats, Ruth said she
had studied Latin. But I didn’t hear about classical language classes so many
years later when she told me about moving from school to school as a young
child. Speaking of the time following her father’s death when her mother moved
for work and Ruth lived with her Aunt Mary in Cordele, she said, “I went to
public school then. Sometimes I visited my mother in Sibley and went to school
there too one term, but then went home to Cordele, and went into boarding
school at Gillespie Selden Institute and finished high school there. Gillespie
cast a certain glow in Ruth's recollections. The school was established in
Cordele in 1933 when it merged with Selden Normal and Industrial Institute in
Brunswick, originally opened in the first decade of the twentieth century to
offer vocational training to African American students. When Ruth attended Gillespie-Selden,
most likely during its initial decade, it offered the state’s first nursing
program for black women. Although Ruth didn't mention subjects related to
health or anatomy when she talked about her school days, she had told me she
was once a nurse in Cordele. Ruth linked this work to surgery on her legs while
she was at Gillespie. “They chopped up the bones and then pieced them back
together,” Ruth had explained to me once when I was a child and I asked about
her bone-thin legs. My mother had told me that Ruth had polio and lived where
she didn’t receive proper medical care.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ruth
had a different take on this chapter of her life. “I had quite a few
operations—don’t know why.” When I mentioned polio as the reason, she
countered, “Rickets too, some doctor once told me. All I know is my legs musta
been weak. There was a problem from the time I was little, so they did
operations to make me walk a bit better.” A nurse by Ruth’s measure, I
gathered, meant taking care of children. “I hung around the hospital as a
teenager and everyone thought I was a nurse. A lady, a teacher, wanted me to be
a nurse, but I said I had to go back to school to get along with my mother.” Ruth
paused here and laughed, “You had to go to school to get along with your mother
too because she sent you.” School was a filial obligation, and Ruth made clear
that she had finished high school despite interruptions from surgery and work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
Ruth left Georgia for wider horizons up north. “I went to Washington and took a
change of plans and came to New York. I had two or three relatives there, Lula
Bell and Margaret.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img align="left" height="236" hspace="12" src="file:///C:/Users/markl/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image002.jpg" v:shapes="Picture_x0020_2" width="182" /><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In a photo booth image taken in the
late 1940s when Ruth was in Washington DC in her early twenties, she’s posing
with Miss Cora. They look like sisters, although Ruth is the glamorous one,
with glossy lipstick, and a spirited smile in contrast to Cora’s mild, wistful
expression. Ruth sports the fancier hairstyle, with waves cresting over her
forehead, and she wears a double-strand pearl necklace and shiny ring earrings,
while Cora has a dark dress with a white collar, reminiscent of the uniforms Ruth
wore at our house. Although Ruth did not elaborate on the "change of
plans," she did pause in her prescient way, in her response to my question
about why she continued on to New York.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She leveled her gaze squarely at me. “I
was looking for you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I learned “phlegmatic” and
"laconic" from my mother who dwelled on these three-syllable words as
the epitome of Ruth’s sensibility. “She doesn’t show much emotion,” my mother often
said when describing Ruth, who did not go in for chin music or jaw dancing. To me
Ruth revealed a firm belief that our meeting was fate and that she had sought
me even before knowing me. I didn't feel I needed more explanation for feelings
that cut through the dross of my reportage-style interview.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then she supplied the ordinary answer:
“I came to New York to see Thelma. She was a housekeeper for Peanut Cole.” Here
I interjected that I’d remembered Thelma saying she didn’t want to clean or
cook for other people. “After that job,” Ruth continued, “Thelma came from the mail-packing
place. Then she started at some school, a Catholic school, a hospital where
chirrens are, where kids come from broken homes. You know, where your mother
got mail sometimes asking her to help.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wanted to get back to the narrative
about Ruth and my parents. “So you came to New York to see Thelma, and then
what happened?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I found <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>.” Again that prophetic-ironic voice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hung onto a journalist role. “How
did you find me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I found you through Aunt Florence.” We
were back to the often-recited tale. Florence was my father’s brother’s wife.
Ruth continued, “Well, Aunt Florence was looking for a housekeeper, and Peanut
told her—Mrs. Cole told her—that Thelma’s niece was here, and maybe she could
get me to work for her.” This alternating between formal and familiar names,
between—in reference to my father—“Papa” and “Mr. B,” was indicative of Ruth’s
not-quite status, as family member in some respects, yet an outsider in most. The
rest of the story had to do with housekeeper-swapping. Aunt Florence was
visiting my mother when someone my parents were considering hiring came over. “Aunt
Florence liketed her, or she liketed Aunt Florence better than she did your
mama.” Ruth injected an element of mistress-trading too. “So Aunt Florence
said, ‘I’ll take her, and you take Ruth, you take who Mrs. Cole have visiting.’
And that’s the way it went.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">According
to my mother, Ruth was supposed to go to Aunt Florence’s house, but in the end,
another young woman arrived earlier to take the position when Ruth’s arrival in
New York was delayed by her stopover to visit relatives in Washington. Florence
convinced my mother to “try out” Ruth on a temporary basis. “She was very
serious and had a beautiful face,” my mother told me regarding her first impressions
of Ruth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What was the job like?” I asked Ruth,
as if I were conducting a survey for an employment agency. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, from what I see, I was to take
care of her whole house—do her cooking, do her washing, do her ironing, do her
cleaning. She had a cleaning lady for a while, but then that stopped. And then
take care of you and Jonny, and have off Thursdays and every other Sunday.” When
I asked her what she thought of this “job,” her hired position in the life of
my family, after all the variety of work she’d had before, she said, “Not too
much of nothing. It was something to do and put a little change in my pocket,
or I’d have to go back to Liberty MacNeil.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ruth’s retrospective on this
employment reminded me of a story my mother had told about her uneasiness that
Ruth seemed “unhappy” in our home at first. After Ruth had worked for a few
months, my mother considered asking her to leave. “She never smiled and I
worried that her disposition wasn't good for young children.” My mother put my
father up to the task of sacking Ruth, but that backfired, as my mother relayed
to me. “Your father said to Ruth that she didn't seem happy and thought maybe
she would prefer a different family or a different job. Ruth didn’t flinch,
just looked at him, and said calmly, ‘Everyone who gets to know me, loves me. You
all will too.’” This is the tale I heard often from my mother about how Ruth
ended up part—and not part—of our family for these multiple decades. Ruth’s
words clarified that this was a menial job, “doing” for others in their
Northern homes, barely preferable to the factory assembly line in the South. And
yet the value of Ruth's labor was not the polished silver or holiday pot roast,
but in the lasting—and loving—entanglements with this cluster of people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“What
was I like as a baby?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Didn’t
want to drink your milk! Didn’t care too much about eating! Jonny kind of
clicked with me right away, and everything he had was mine. I wonder why?” Ruth
laughed ruminatively. “I guess kids are like that if they see something in you
they like.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
very earliest memories put me in a high chair in the kitchen with Ruth
listening to a noontime gospel radio hour, with Mahalia Jackson, the Queen of
Gospel, belting out "Take My Hand, Precious Lord." In memory, all the
white of the kitchen merges like the days, each into the next and back again,
Proustian style. The white of tile and appliances bleeds into the white of the
smelly white fish I could not stand. “Now you eat that up—it’s brain food. Your
mama done paid a lot of money for that fish.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the interview, Ruth offered a wry
summary of her job. “Life around your house was just a bowl of cherries. Yessssss
… you and Jonny would mash the cherries, and I drinked the juice!” There’s a
compressed metaphor swirling in that bowl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Much
to my parents' discomfort, Ruth announced, “I’m voting for George Wallace,” the
Alabama racist who tried to undermine the effects of the 1964 Civil Rights Act
when he ran for U.S. president that same year and again in 1972 and ‘76. Perhaps
there was some undercurrent of irony in Ruth’s insistence that she could vote
for whomever she pleased, whether she intended to cast this vote, or whether
she liked provoking my parents’ predictable reaction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She
demonstrated this slippery humor even when it came to her annual vacation. Since
my family was dependent on Ruth’s presence, and planned all travels
accordingly, my mother would ask Ruth when she was going to Georgia to visit
Miss Cora, or if she was going to take any other trips. “Well,” Ruth would
sometimes smile, “I’m going to see the Queen real soon!” Maybe she’d elaborate
that she had plans to travel around the world, or go to France, but this was
her way of joking and the effect was that my mother’s anxiety about travel
plans increased. My mother used to say, “It’s hard to know where you are with
Ruth.” Ruth’s evasions weren't calculated exactly, yet all told, I see her
dodges as something other than narrative allergy. Except for Ruth’s
hysterectomy when I was twelve when she was unable to work for a month, she
never left me for long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">While
I was in high school Ruth called me into her room one evening, and said she had
an important secret to tell me. “Walter and I got married last week, but I
don’t want your mama or daddy to know.” Her reason for this secrecy was that
Ruth didn’t intend to live full-time with Walter until I left home. “When you
go off to college, there will be time enough. I’m not leaving you until I see
you through to the other side."<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Walter
Greene was a chef at a restaurant in White Plains. Ruth loved to take my
brother and me to visit Walter’s kitchen where he’d ply us with our favorite
menu items. He knew all our dietary delights from Ruth. “French fries?” he’d
ask. “I know you love spaghetti, Susie,” and he heaped up a plate with pasta. Ruth
added to her ironing basket Walter’s uniforms and I’d see her prop up with
starch those white toques. Although I enjoyed his generosity as a professional
cook, so different from the domestic version his wife halfheartedly held, Walter
remained a shadowy person to me. In death, Walter became more vivid, as did
Ruth's world outside our home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
was after eleven at night when my mother phoned from New York to tell me Walter
had died two days earlier from lung cancer. At six the next morning I called
Ruth to say I’d be in New York in time for Walter’s funeral. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Really?”
Ruth sounded almost excited and almost like herself, except for a slight
hollowness in her voice. “You really goin’ be here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
parents and I arrived at the funeral home before Walter’s family. In the front
hallway was a black glass-enclosed announcement offering the day’s event: 11
o’clock. Monday February 23, 1981. Services for Walter G. Greene. The three of
us went uneasily from the entrance hall to the chapel where the coffin was on
display in the front of the room. I saw Walter’s head propped up, his black
eyeglasses on his face although his eyes were closed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Two
days earlier Ruth had asked my parents to drive her to the funeral home, “the
undertaker’s,” as she put it. “You can see Greene’s body. They did a real good
job on him. I made sure they put on his glasses. No one would even know it’s
Greene without his glasses.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
asked my mother, “Was it hard to look at him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Actually,
it wasn’t so bad. Your father took one look in the coffin and whispered,
‘That’s my suit he’s wearing!’” We had entered Ruth's world by proxy only,
through castoff clothing, even while she lived in ours. We were making our
debut at Walter's funeral.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After
I greeted Ruth's cousin Agnes who had taken a seat up front, I turned back to
the third row where my parents had rooted themselves into gray folding chairs.
“We better move back, since the front rows are all for Ruth’s family.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Don’t
worry, dear,” my mother quickly parried. “We’ll be conspicuous no matter where
we sit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
the seats were nearly filled, two young men helped Miss Cora, who had traveled
in a car from Georgia for thirty hours, in through a side door to the front of
the room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Suddenly
a hush descended on the dim hum of chatter, and behind me was a terrible sound,
a chillingly painful gasp. Everyone turned toward the main entrance, and there
was Ruth as the chief mourner, like the bride at the back of a procession. Going
down the aisle ahead of Ruth were Walter’s daughter Patricia from Jacksonville,
his brother Charles from Miami, and his sister Anne from Chattanooga. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Transfixed
with fear I watched Ruth, her hands covering her face as she sobbed loudly. I
had never witnessed this pitch of emotion from her in all my life. My mother’s
view of Ruth as stolid may have had more to do with our particular domestic
dynamics. A woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform supported Ruth as she limped
toward Walter’s coffin. She held Ruth around her shoulders as they moved down the
aisle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
Ruth reached Walter’s body, she leaned over it and cried out, her voice
piercing the still room, “Why did you leave me, Greene?” My fingernails
reflexively pressed into my palm. On one side of me, my father seemed to
shudder, and said beneath his breath, “Gee!” On my other side, my mother did
not flinch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Once
Ruth had been led to her seat in the front row, Reverend John Jackson, the
minister from Ruth’s AME Church in Harlem, stood at the pulpit to address the
mourners. He was a large man with impressive presence, his voice like a full
sunset, streaked with a symphonic range of emotion. He began his eulogy, his
eyes trained on the audience before him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Sometimes,
sometimes, my brothers and sisters, we find ourselves between a rock and a hard
place. We have the suffering with the living, and then more suffering with the
dying, and then the ache of hell when they are dead. And we cry out in our pain
and in our rage, ‘Why Lawd, why?’" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
minister’s head bent down as if under a huge weight, a pendulum suddenly struck
still in the clock of life. Slowly he lifted his head. I was mesmerized by the
drama of him, the room’s fragile quiet. Now his voice was a low, deep wave,
gathering force as it grew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“And
you ask yourselves, brothers and sisters, ‘Why did my brother Walter Greene
die? Why Lawd? Why Lawd? Why now? We’re not finished with him, Lawd! Why now? Why
did you take him from me, Lawd? Why?’”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After
the graveside services when we were walking back down the path to the row of
parked cars, Ruth introduced me to Charles, Walter’s brother. “This here’s my
baby.” She appeared tired and, as usual, walked with a lame gait. I was
relieved to hear Ruth speak without that pitch of powerful feeling, her cries
still pinned to my brain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Charles
put his hand out and I shook his. “Nice to meet you, m’am.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
was Ruth’s baby. She told me this, she told other people this. But was there
another baby? Did I replace another lost baby, like Jessie replaces Cora’s
Josephine in the Langston Hughes story? Did I displace Ruth’s own story of
other babies, narratives buried, forever lost? Twice I heard that doctors had
pronounced Ruth’s body bearing the traces of childbirth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I was in seventh grade, Ruth suddenly became ill and had to have a
hysterectomy. My father’s cousin Eugene was a gynecologist, and so my parents
arranged for Eugene’s partner to perform the surgery. I only remember visiting
her in the hospital the night after her operation. She looked small and
helpless, not at all the Ruth who protected me from my brother’s punches, my
mother’s depression, my father’s mild-mannered oblivion. Her face was drenched,
and I could tell she was in terrible pain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“There’s
my baby,” her attempt at smiling more a grimace as she saw me at the foot of
her bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
mother tried to reassure me when we left the hospital. “Of course, Ruth isn’t
dying! She just had major surgery. She’ll be fine in no time.” We spent a month
eating most dinners at restaurants, or my mother made tuna salad sandwiches. I
learned to make spaghetti sauce from a mix. During that period, I overheard
that the doctor said Ruth once had a child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Many
years later I heard a similar story when Ruth was crazy with senility, and no
longer knew me even by name. That failure of memory was so painful to bear that
I stopped phoning her at the Pinehill Nursing Center in Byronville, Georgia. Her
cousin Jean Smith, who lived in Cordele and looked after Ruth when she moved
back there a few years after my parents died, would phone me from time to time
with updates about Ruth’s condition. I hadn’t caught Jean’s place in Ruth’s
sketch of her family tree, but Jean told me she’d known Ruth forever. This time
she told me that Ruth had some bleeding, and that the doctors said she had
cancer of the uterus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“That
can’t be! I know Ruth had a hysterectomy a long time ago, when she was maybe
forty years old.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m
just telling you what the doctors say. And they say she had one baby, maybe
two.” If Ruth had given birth, what happened to the baby? Dead or surrendered
or something else? In the part of Ruth's life that overlapped with mine, so
much was unspoken, so much of the past unshared, that baby was as good as dead.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ruth
liked to talk to the dead, and that’s what she did when I took her to visit
Walter’s grave. As if paralleling our peculiar family, The Jewish cemetery,
Sharon Gardens, where my family has a plot, and a Christian cemetery, Gates of
Heaven, lie side by side in Valhalla, New York. Ruth made wreaths for Walter’s
grave with different colors of plastic newspaper and supermarket bags which she
balled up in some fashion and then attached to wire clothes hangers. Once I
suggested I could get some cut flowers from a florist for her to leave by the
gravestone, but Ruth declined. “My flowers look fresh a lot longer than those
ones you spend your money on.” She had a point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I envied Ruth’s camaraderie with the
dead. When we approached Walter’s plot, she’d call out, “Look who’s here,
Greene! I brought Susie to see you!” Then she’d give a quick update about
relatives or friends, the change of ownership of a restaurant where he’d
worked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Some
months after my mother’s Aunt Fredda died in a nursing home, her body willed
for scientific research, a special delivery package of the rest of Aunt Fredda,
now reduced to smooth sand, arrived at my parents’ front door. My mother and
Ruth took Aunt Fredda’s box to our local Valhalla. As they approached Walter’s
grave, my mother held the open box while Ruth called out, “Greene! I’ve brought
Aunt Fredda to stay with you now! You remember Aunt Fredda! She’s the lady who
basted the turkey every Thanksgiving!” Ruth scooped up the substance of Aunt
Fredda’s remains, and dispersed the grains like fairy dust onto Walter’s plot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ruth's own death, like her life in
some ways, felt painfully remote to me. I had not seen her in several years
since she'd returned to Georgia and I had not spoken to her in over a year
since she didn't seem to know who I was anymore. Still, I was some variety of next
of kin and received the news before dawn one September morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She gone,” I heard a voice say. “She
gone now. Susie, this is Jean. Ruth passed in the night, around one o’clock."<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A week later and a thousand miles away,
Ruth's funeral took place at the New Oak Grove Baptist Church in Cordele. Jean sent
me the program from the service, a six-page foldout with a large color photo of
Ruth on the front. The image of Ruth came from another photo which appeared
inside, one I’d taken at my brother's rental home on Martha’s Vineyard the
summer of 1996 when I’d interviewed Ruth. In the original picture, Ruth sits in
a tee-shirt on a lawn chair in the company of two toddlers, my brother’s
daughter Jenna and my Flora next to her. Flora is hamming it up, Jenna is
studying something on her hands, Ruth is looking at the camera. Her expression
seems distraught, but perhaps she was in the middle of saying something, and
the shutter caught her face at an odd angle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The program came to me like a
long-distance notice of the framework of Ruth's story, her early and final
years in Cordele, which became legible on my mental map when I learned the city
was forty miles east of Jimmy Carter's hometown of Plains. Unlike Walter
Greene's funeral in White Plains, NY, Ruth had the royal treatment with escorts
courtesy of the city of Cordele, including the chief of the police department,
the city manager, and the sheriff of Dooly County. The order of the service
includes two selections of songs by “The Gospel Ensemble” and a eulogy from the
Minister Charles Perry. Ruth’s body didn’t make it to Walter’s Valhalla
resting-home; she was buried in “Pleasant Valley”. Toward the back of the
funeral program is a poem titled “Come and Rest":<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God said you were getting weary<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So he did what he thought best,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He came and stood beside you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And whispered, “Come and Rest.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If there were any “Why Lawds” at
Ruth’s funeral, the answer might have been this, that she was “getting weary.” Arranged
around the poem at the center of the page are several photos including one of
Flora and Jenna, a few of Ruth as a much younger woman. In one she’s in a
kitchen, although I don’t recognize it. In another, she wears a uniform with an
apron, and another shows Ruth with her arm linked through Walter’s. Although
neither my parents nor my brother and I appear in any photo, there is one of
Ruth at the Hartsdale train station, with her hand resting on the back of my
parents’ 1960s Cadillac convertible. Ruth was likely heading to her church in
Harlem. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A short obituary begins: “Mrs. Ruth
Steadman Greene, daughter of the late Mrs. Cora Smith born on January 1, 1916
in Sylvester, Worth County, Georgia.” Finally, I learn Ruth’s age, and marvel
that she died at eighty-eight, a year older than my father had lived, and
thirteen years longer than my mother. She was less than two years younger than
my mother. Why had I assumed my mother was at least a decade older? Neither woman
was forthright about her age. In addition to her mother's name, this version of
Ruth’s biography mentions two aunts and seven cousins, again a glaring contrast
with Ruth's own account of an adored father. Then, this: “She moved to New York
where she lived and worked for many years. She was employed by a very loving
and caring family, The Barntine Family.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Something
was garbled in the translation here, from “Bernstein” to “Barntine,” but no
matter. Like a photo negative, Ruth's many decades in New York working for our
family for most of her adult life was a shadowy detail for the people at her
funeral in Cordele. What she told me about her childhood and family in Georgia,
an account colliding with my mother's version, was more a sketch than the thick
description I sought. From each perspective, her Cordele community of her
childhood and final years, and her workplace people like me, Ruth was a strong
presence, known in some respects, and not known in others, the very marvel and
mystery of herself, as she had told me, a sum total of a mixed emotion family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-pagination: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
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D. Bernstein</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"> moved a few years ago to Boston from Madison,
Wisconsin where she spent twenty-eight years as a professor of English with a
focus on Victorian literature and gender studies. She now teaches in the
English Department at Boston University including a course on life writing. In
addition to scholarly books and articles, she has published literary nonfiction
essays and short fiction, and is writing a novel.</span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1581820547896616574.post-1326259538624214692019-09-11T10:50:00.002-06:002019-09-11T10:50:26.657-06:00The Drive<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">by
<b>Peyton Vance</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Now, you just have to be easy with it.” I say.
Eli looks at the buttons and levers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“OK.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What are you forgetting?” I ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh.” There's a click and he disengages
the emergency brake. “Reverse?” He asks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay … reverse.” He lets the ER drag
out this mouth. “The ‘D’?” he asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What? Oh, yeah, put it in drive.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It takes him seven seconds to pull
back the lever. He's timid. He thinks that if he presses or pulls the wrong
thing the car will explode. Part of me doesn't blame him. My friend’s brother
slammed into a car so hard his body was scrambled like eggs. It took six months
for him to learn to walk again. Eli pulls forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where do I go?” he asks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where do you want to go?” That
question wasn't good enough for him. He looks at me then back at the road then
back at me again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just tell me where to go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Drive to the gas station by Food
City. Do you know where that is?” He lets out an “uh” that lasts a lot longer
than it should.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think so,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ok, drive and I’ll tell you where to
turn.” I’m thinking about <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Colton. His
friend drove too fast over a pile of leaves and wrapped the car around a stump.
It turned Colton and his friend into red pulp. Some of my friends who saw the
pictures said “Goddamn, that stump was hungry. Gobbled them right up.” Eli
speeds up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How fast?” He asks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What did the sign say?” He pauses, then
answers like he was asked a math question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Forty five?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, but go whatever speed you’re
comfortable with.” Austin was rough. In the car with his buddy and drove over
black ice. They went off road and whiplash caused them to headbutt each other. When
the cops showed up Austin’s buddy was stumbling around in the road while Austin
lay dead in the car. His brain was squished in his skull like a firefly in a
kid’s hand. Eli jerks the wheel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry,” he says, “Thought that was a
bird on the road.” He’s hunched over. His shoulders almost touch his ears. It
looks like if it wasn’t for the seatbelt he’d be twisted in a knot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re fine. Sometimes you’ll dodge ’em.
Sometimes you won’t.” He looks at me then back on the road. He goes a little
faster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How do you stay so calm?” he asks.
I’m thinking about the kid who drove into a lake and drowned himself. They
didn’t find him until the next morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s nothing to worry about.” I
say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Peyton Vance</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> is a senior at the University of Tennessee majoring in
English, so primarily he is focused on trying not to become homeless.
Interested in writing across all genres, he’s had three previous works
published within the last year.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Mark Hummelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09941624277827810930noreply@blogger.com0