When I grew up, I became a nurse in surgery. I never saw it coming. I had considered nursing in high school, but a nun -Sr. Judith Nameless, who taught chemistry, badly, said I couldn't be a nurse because I was bad at chemistry. Perhaps she did me a favor, since I did have a lot to learn of a non-chemical nature.
I spent school trying to figure out what I would be, my interests scattered all over the landscape. I wanted to be a pilot, because my uncle was a private pilot. A disastrous idea, since I have no sense of where I am in space outside of my own skin. I fantasized about being a dancer, but even then I knew I wasn't good enough, nor the right shape. Had fad aspirations based on tv shows, a comment in The Courtship Of Eddie's Father had me wanting to be a pediatrician- even though I didn't like children even as a child myself. Mostly I had no idea, outside of (even I would admit) the unrealistic 'actress', what I could really do. It was just answering adults. The societal demand that a career had to start in grade school. Well, it was only a generation away from apprenticeships when that was true.
I wanted to be one of the actors on a tv show, tell stories, live in a well scripted world, touch people all over the world. When I earned a full scholarship, I started in a dedicated theater curriculum, took every class to get the degree, studied hard, and never got cast in a play. Oh, I played an old lady in a grad student directed production, and I was in the croc costume for Peter Pan, not exactly portfolio material. Couldn't remember lines to save my life, I was stiff and tense, awkward and self conscious, cried at all the wrong moments. I looked all wrong for most parts. I took me 3 1/2 years to realize I would starve as an actor, and for good reason. I found that I hated being told exactly what to say and how to do my job. But also hated having to fight just to have a job to do, auditions were a nightmare. Especially when rare and critical jobs were based on my vanity. Of which I have some, but it is of a peculiar variety. I quit in my last semester, feeling a failure, unwilling to scrape through in despair.
In my intervening years of confusion, I was a radio DJ, podiatrist assistant, library aide, phone researcher (real research, and before it became such a nuisance, forgive, please) movie concessions, ballroom dance instructor, costumed "Litter Bug," waitress (2 weeks), auditor, art model, mall market researcher, as well as the Army National Guard and nurse. Each job taught me at least one lesson I use daily. Together, that mess of employment gave me empathy. I know about crappy, dead end jobs. After years of chronic underemployment, I value my living wage.
I know that no education is ever wasted, and today I can stand up and talk, in front of one person, or a group, speak clearly and calmly, and explain well. With humor. Useful for smarting off to surgeons or finessing anxious family members. I can empathize with any person, after writing many character studies. I can imagine a reason a difficult patient, or surgeon, is being an ass, and find a way to get through to them, or at least diffuse their hostility. Or else just duck--from stage fighting classes. When not to take moaning seriously- being able to spot a drama queen at a glance. I am wicked good at finding an analogy to describe a situation, having ushered so damn many plays, and BEING THE LIGHTBULB in actor games (ugh). Useful for answering patients questions about utterly alien experiences.
Surgery is my wonderfully, ridiculously structured work place, where I am an expert in my own sphere, and develop my own lines, and adapt creatively to changing situations. I have no homework. I will always have a job. I am happy not wearing make-up, I wear pyjamas every day that are magically cleaned by someone else. My appearance doesn't matter, aside from clean and concerned. Bleeds off (pun intended) my tendency to fuss and fix at people, and my paranoia at the vagaries of life. I am competent and cheerful, because the work fits.
I get the best stories first hand, the juicy not-for-the-dinner-table kind.
And I did just fine in college chem.
Now, I teach myself to be a writer. We shall see.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Limbo
I am in limbo. Never mind the particulars, I've told everyone and their dogs the whole chain of circumstances that bind me over and over and over and... well, it feels like that anyway. Nevermind. Chaos, The Hanged Man, the waiting is the hardest part thank you Tom Petty. So what do I do when I have little to do but wait? Well, I procrastinate, of course. Not creative, but stifling. I try to write, mentally pacing a small room, kicking at the wall at each rapid turn.
It's a common experience in the military, as assignments come in, but one doesn't go right away. Short Timers, playing at exaggeration. 'So short I walk under the door and don't stoop,' 'so short I'd sit on a dime and my feet'd dangle.' But I don't know how short I am. And I am not used to giving up my authority for the sake of three hots and a cot. I am used to being the one who makes sure everything gets ready, and as soon as it's time, I make it go. Surgery takes as long as it takes, but the time scale is in minutes, hours, never days, and certainly not weeks or months. Patients may come back over the course of months, but any individual procedure is a matter of less than a day, at most. And now, I am waiting weeks, perhaps months, and I am going loopy. I have been out of the military for ten years, and my life is very different now. My old methods of coping, assuming I had any (did I?) are long gone.
I can likewise wait for busses or trains, but that is also a matter of hours, or minutes if lucky. It is a manageable slice of limbo, even enjoyable if you get your head around it. As long as it is not sleeting, for instance. I am not in any pain, this is not Purgatory- a misery that might at least feel like progress. I am fine where I am, but it is stagnant. My attempts to solve the impasse have made it worse, like struggling in quicksand. I simply have to lay back and think of England. Or New England in my particular case.
I do have work to do, but in limbo, I dither and try to avoid work. I come home early to organize, then leave the cleaning for another day. I neglect to keep contact with friends. I don't exercise or read much. I get a job half done, and then leave it, sitting in the middle of the floor for later. When? Who cares. But I do, and it bugs me, and the half packed boxes sit there.
Maybe tomorrow.
(written before the move to Boston.)
It's a common experience in the military, as assignments come in, but one doesn't go right away. Short Timers, playing at exaggeration. 'So short I walk under the door and don't stoop,' 'so short I'd sit on a dime and my feet'd dangle.' But I don't know how short I am. And I am not used to giving up my authority for the sake of three hots and a cot. I am used to being the one who makes sure everything gets ready, and as soon as it's time, I make it go. Surgery takes as long as it takes, but the time scale is in minutes, hours, never days, and certainly not weeks or months. Patients may come back over the course of months, but any individual procedure is a matter of less than a day, at most. And now, I am waiting weeks, perhaps months, and I am going loopy. I have been out of the military for ten years, and my life is very different now. My old methods of coping, assuming I had any (did I?) are long gone.
I can likewise wait for busses or trains, but that is also a matter of hours, or minutes if lucky. It is a manageable slice of limbo, even enjoyable if you get your head around it. As long as it is not sleeting, for instance. I am not in any pain, this is not Purgatory- a misery that might at least feel like progress. I am fine where I am, but it is stagnant. My attempts to solve the impasse have made it worse, like struggling in quicksand. I simply have to lay back and think of England. Or New England in my particular case.
I do have work to do, but in limbo, I dither and try to avoid work. I come home early to organize, then leave the cleaning for another day. I neglect to keep contact with friends. I don't exercise or read much. I get a job half done, and then leave it, sitting in the middle of the floor for later. When? Who cares. But I do, and it bugs me, and the half packed boxes sit there.
Maybe tomorrow.
(written before the move to Boston.)
Friday, August 19, 2005
Fiction
I read Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate, in particular her advice to writers, involving compassion and seeing another's point of view, her own issues with her difficult mother, and culture clashes. I have a difficult father, estranged completely for years, we never had any kind of peace or understanding. He is referred to in other essays, as I skirt him as a subject too painful. I try to starve my lifelong anger. I want it to settle and fade. But her words urged me to do more, to tell his story, inasmuch as I can. Let it be fiction, but let it help me understand a rather stupid and emotionally disturbed man who fathered me as well as he probably could. I cannot write his cadences, in his voice, although I hint at it, because I find it is too much like chewing on aspirin. Nor can I write it as a first person narrative, his sexuality is far too personally unsettling for me to handle. Ever. I can let go of my bitterness, but he remains galling. So here it is. Forgive the mess.
There was a farm and the vegetable stand family business, a large house that implied better days. A couple of French Canadian Catholics, of uncertain devotion, nameless now, who had sons. They expected the older boys to raise the younger ones. First Oscar, the eldest, the bully, the favored one, manipulative and powerful, ready with fists. Then loud but gentle Art, who did his best to make peace and protect the younger ones, when he felt like it, but he enjoyed tormenting them with words. Norman, slow and tall, he believed everything he heard and had a deep simple faith, and deep superstitions. Milton, challenged the authority of Oscar, and hated him. Smarter and faster than the rest, he took charge of the youngest brother, René. René was slow, but wanted to make himself better, wanted to be liked, wanted to play a musical instrument. But he was often injured because he was daydreaming, or tormented by his brothers for being dumb. One year younger, the only sister, Madeline. Red haired, doted on by their father, bossy and no brighter than the rest of the boys, she was paired with René for everything. He was held back starting school so she would go with him. The relationship between the two was forced close, unhealthy, twisted. (Take that as you will, I prefer not to speculate further, but I would not be surprized at your guesses.)
So in 1929, brother and younger sister were sent to an English-speaking public school in rural Ontario, where they would learn the language they would speak the rest of their lives outside the home. At home, only French, not educated French- River Canard French, illiterate French. They were sent because that was the law, lip service only. Working the produce stand was more important. None would get through high school, René would get to sixth grade then out. The year his father died.
He was a good looking young man, black hair and a ready smile, if you didn't notice the strain. He would talk with anyone, glib, if not bright, loud laugh and spoke with his hands a lot, had one song that he could sing, off-key. Dated a lot of girls, once. He had odd jobs, as well as working at his mother's business. He joined the Army in 1949, on the American side- his father was American by birth and he readily got his citizenship. He would have been 18 in 1941 (Was he afraid, or did his parents object? None of the brothers served during the war, they were able bodied, and Canada did have a draft, didn't they? Assume that they had no interest in going, and were not required due to farm deferment.) But perhaps guilt, perhaps not having another path, René joined, safely after the war. The American Army, not in itself all that unusual, his father had been born in the States, and immigrated to Canada. Border towns like Detroit and Windsor are like that, generations weaving back and forth. René obtained his American citizenship and joined the Army, and then, a mystery. He injured his left hand and they had to amputate his left index finger. The story is something he never tells. So what happened?
He hates the Army, hates the order, hates having to do what he is told, taunted for being stupid and inept- which he is. Hates the bullying and being the butt of every joke. He finally has plans for his life, having met a little redhead two months before. They met through his brothers' friends, he was in love with the quiet shy tiny girl. He'd just proposed, and she'd agreed, he is 27 and getting old, finally he is loved and worthwhile! So one night he goes out with a guy who will buy him drinks, maybe one of his brothers, maybe Milton, and he gets plastered. It would not take much, none of the brothers have a head for alcohol. He gets belligerent, and they get into a fight, he passes out. Or they get a bright idea of how to get out of the Army, and a knife or gun is produced. When he wakes up the next morning, his hand is a mess, and he drags himself to the hospital, where they amputate the index finger, and start him into rehab. He is ashamed of himself, but he never tells how it happened, perhaps he does not quite remember. His new fiance visits him in the hospital, flashing the little diamond ring around to keep the nurses from flirting with him. Shame and pride together. She had made him candies, too bad they were wintergreen flavored- she probably didn't know better than poisoning him. But he hadn't had too many, and he threw the rest of them over the bridge into the brook as they walked. She will depend on him, and her religion means she will stay with him.
Mary's family wasn't too thrilled, but she was 25, they could hardly say much about her choice. They married in April 1949. He talked her into having a birthday cake for his sister at the reception, since Madeline's birthday was the next day. He didn't want to make his sister jealous. Mary wouldn't refuse him, she didn't make him mad like everybody else did.
It was a hard first year, but at least he got to live next to his sister. Then he would find work in Detroit, at a copper tubing factory. Hot dirty work, but there were benefits and a union, the guys all called him Frenchy. He found them a small place, with a closet that would be room enough for a crib, his first child would be born in September 1950, a son. Dave would barely survive the first year, with constant infections, bronchitis and whooping cough, rheumatic fever and ear aches. Now if he can just figure out the trick so's he can make enough money, do good in life, keep his family alive. They find a small house and the family loans them money to get started. Three years later, a second son, smiling and happy and healthy, is born. His wife wanted a girl, but there will be more children. She is not as nice to him now, but that is just being pregnant, not getting enough sleep, right? He almost hit her, and she scared him bad, told him if he ever hit her she would not be there for him to hit again. He can't ever hit her, who would he be without her? So he yells until he feels better, and they go on. She's smarter than he is, he needs her to read, and keep his house clean, and make a life with, damn her for all that. He depends on her, and it is good to depend on people, right?
It is 1960, and Mary has had a late miscarriage, and she cries over the loss of her daughter. René is scared, because she makes him mad a lot now, his boys are in a good Catholic school, and they think they are smarter than him. He's got a good job, works eight hours every day, but it's getting harder. He is scared that if Mary has her baby girl, he won't matter to her anymore. But he wants her to be happy, and the next year she is pregnant again. This time it is a girl, born the day after his sons are confirmed. Her family were looking down their noses at him, aggravating him, making him mad, at the party. His sons are growing up and won't need him much longer, Mary sat with her sister Evelyn talking way too long, what were they talking about? They got quiet when he came near. Now he is waiting at the hospital, a blizzard raging outside, February 1962, and the doctor comes out to tell him he has a daughter. He dreams of a frilly sweet daddy's girl, tiny like Dave when he weighed no more than a cat, who would love him more than Mary, fuss over him and crawl on his lap, ask his advice and giggle. The next morning he sat with Mary when they brought in an 8 lb baby to them- how could this be a girl? She nestled into her mother's arms, Mary beaming that she had her girl "at last!" But when he reached out and held her, she screamed. When he shook her like his boys, and she screamed louder. He handed her back, his face flushing red with rage and shame. His wife was already defending the daughter, already excluding him, shutting him out. He swallowed it then, but could not forget. Could not understand.
(The rest of this is my story, and I need to tell it elsewhere. Where I will take responsibility for my own sins. He may be dying right now, and I await the news as a prisoner awaits reprieve. I cannot like the man, still do not want to talk to him, even if that were possible. But when he can no longer hurt me, I can give real forgiveness, freely, with all my heart. It is given, on probation, now. No more hurts. It is not my fault I could not be what he needed or wanted, his jealously and insecurity, his emotional damage are not my responsibility. His sins against me are no less sins for his intellectual and social deficits, but he can plead diminished capacity. I do not wish him in hell, or to whatever drags on his soul. For the sins against me, I will not hold against him past his death. What he holds against himself should he ever look into himself- is up to him. Poor man.)
There was a farm and the vegetable stand family business, a large house that implied better days. A couple of French Canadian Catholics, of uncertain devotion, nameless now, who had sons. They expected the older boys to raise the younger ones. First Oscar, the eldest, the bully, the favored one, manipulative and powerful, ready with fists. Then loud but gentle Art, who did his best to make peace and protect the younger ones, when he felt like it, but he enjoyed tormenting them with words. Norman, slow and tall, he believed everything he heard and had a deep simple faith, and deep superstitions. Milton, challenged the authority of Oscar, and hated him. Smarter and faster than the rest, he took charge of the youngest brother, René. René was slow, but wanted to make himself better, wanted to be liked, wanted to play a musical instrument. But he was often injured because he was daydreaming, or tormented by his brothers for being dumb. One year younger, the only sister, Madeline. Red haired, doted on by their father, bossy and no brighter than the rest of the boys, she was paired with René for everything. He was held back starting school so she would go with him. The relationship between the two was forced close, unhealthy, twisted. (Take that as you will, I prefer not to speculate further, but I would not be surprized at your guesses.)
So in 1929, brother and younger sister were sent to an English-speaking public school in rural Ontario, where they would learn the language they would speak the rest of their lives outside the home. At home, only French, not educated French- River Canard French, illiterate French. They were sent because that was the law, lip service only. Working the produce stand was more important. None would get through high school, René would get to sixth grade then out. The year his father died.
He was a good looking young man, black hair and a ready smile, if you didn't notice the strain. He would talk with anyone, glib, if not bright, loud laugh and spoke with his hands a lot, had one song that he could sing, off-key. Dated a lot of girls, once. He had odd jobs, as well as working at his mother's business. He joined the Army in 1949, on the American side- his father was American by birth and he readily got his citizenship. He would have been 18 in 1941 (Was he afraid, or did his parents object? None of the brothers served during the war, they were able bodied, and Canada did have a draft, didn't they? Assume that they had no interest in going, and were not required due to farm deferment.) But perhaps guilt, perhaps not having another path, René joined, safely after the war. The American Army, not in itself all that unusual, his father had been born in the States, and immigrated to Canada. Border towns like Detroit and Windsor are like that, generations weaving back and forth. René obtained his American citizenship and joined the Army, and then, a mystery. He injured his left hand and they had to amputate his left index finger. The story is something he never tells. So what happened?
He hates the Army, hates the order, hates having to do what he is told, taunted for being stupid and inept- which he is. Hates the bullying and being the butt of every joke. He finally has plans for his life, having met a little redhead two months before. They met through his brothers' friends, he was in love with the quiet shy tiny girl. He'd just proposed, and she'd agreed, he is 27 and getting old, finally he is loved and worthwhile! So one night he goes out with a guy who will buy him drinks, maybe one of his brothers, maybe Milton, and he gets plastered. It would not take much, none of the brothers have a head for alcohol. He gets belligerent, and they get into a fight, he passes out. Or they get a bright idea of how to get out of the Army, and a knife or gun is produced. When he wakes up the next morning, his hand is a mess, and he drags himself to the hospital, where they amputate the index finger, and start him into rehab. He is ashamed of himself, but he never tells how it happened, perhaps he does not quite remember. His new fiance visits him in the hospital, flashing the little diamond ring around to keep the nurses from flirting with him. Shame and pride together. She had made him candies, too bad they were wintergreen flavored- she probably didn't know better than poisoning him. But he hadn't had too many, and he threw the rest of them over the bridge into the brook as they walked. She will depend on him, and her religion means she will stay with him.
Mary's family wasn't too thrilled, but she was 25, they could hardly say much about her choice. They married in April 1949. He talked her into having a birthday cake for his sister at the reception, since Madeline's birthday was the next day. He didn't want to make his sister jealous. Mary wouldn't refuse him, she didn't make him mad like everybody else did.
It was a hard first year, but at least he got to live next to his sister. Then he would find work in Detroit, at a copper tubing factory. Hot dirty work, but there were benefits and a union, the guys all called him Frenchy. He found them a small place, with a closet that would be room enough for a crib, his first child would be born in September 1950, a son. Dave would barely survive the first year, with constant infections, bronchitis and whooping cough, rheumatic fever and ear aches. Now if he can just figure out the trick so's he can make enough money, do good in life, keep his family alive. They find a small house and the family loans them money to get started. Three years later, a second son, smiling and happy and healthy, is born. His wife wanted a girl, but there will be more children. She is not as nice to him now, but that is just being pregnant, not getting enough sleep, right? He almost hit her, and she scared him bad, told him if he ever hit her she would not be there for him to hit again. He can't ever hit her, who would he be without her? So he yells until he feels better, and they go on. She's smarter than he is, he needs her to read, and keep his house clean, and make a life with, damn her for all that. He depends on her, and it is good to depend on people, right?
It is 1960, and Mary has had a late miscarriage, and she cries over the loss of her daughter. René is scared, because she makes him mad a lot now, his boys are in a good Catholic school, and they think they are smarter than him. He's got a good job, works eight hours every day, but it's getting harder. He is scared that if Mary has her baby girl, he won't matter to her anymore. But he wants her to be happy, and the next year she is pregnant again. This time it is a girl, born the day after his sons are confirmed. Her family were looking down their noses at him, aggravating him, making him mad, at the party. His sons are growing up and won't need him much longer, Mary sat with her sister Evelyn talking way too long, what were they talking about? They got quiet when he came near. Now he is waiting at the hospital, a blizzard raging outside, February 1962, and the doctor comes out to tell him he has a daughter. He dreams of a frilly sweet daddy's girl, tiny like Dave when he weighed no more than a cat, who would love him more than Mary, fuss over him and crawl on his lap, ask his advice and giggle. The next morning he sat with Mary when they brought in an 8 lb baby to them- how could this be a girl? She nestled into her mother's arms, Mary beaming that she had her girl "at last!" But when he reached out and held her, she screamed. When he shook her like his boys, and she screamed louder. He handed her back, his face flushing red with rage and shame. His wife was already defending the daughter, already excluding him, shutting him out. He swallowed it then, but could not forget. Could not understand.
(The rest of this is my story, and I need to tell it elsewhere. Where I will take responsibility for my own sins. He may be dying right now, and I await the news as a prisoner awaits reprieve. I cannot like the man, still do not want to talk to him, even if that were possible. But when he can no longer hurt me, I can give real forgiveness, freely, with all my heart. It is given, on probation, now. No more hurts. It is not my fault I could not be what he needed or wanted, his jealously and insecurity, his emotional damage are not my responsibility. His sins against me are no less sins for his intellectual and social deficits, but he can plead diminished capacity. I do not wish him in hell, or to whatever drags on his soul. For the sins against me, I will not hold against him past his death. What he holds against himself should he ever look into himself- is up to him. Poor man.)
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Love
How do I know that it is the real thing, that I am in love, that this is the one? Such an awful, unanswerable, and misleading question. Everyone who wants to love and be loved has asked it. I have heard many glib answers. Like 'well... you'll just know.' The pervasiveness of bad relationships and failed marriages exposes this as a glib lie. Or it's an old theory of Finding The Right One, applied to the modern problem of making what was long a social/economic construct and jamming it into a Hollywood Ideal of Romance. Only by reframing the question can any sense come of it. Then, it is one of those answers that can only come out of experience. How do I know a particular individual seed will grow? By planting it and finding out.
It is far easier to be taught what love is not, and learning the red flags. Manipulation, jealousy, contempt, disregard, unfairness, hostility, all apparently obviously bad things, but how many folks in abusive relationships will say "S/he is wonderful, except (for one of these mean behaviours)!" And who of us, new at the idea of love, have not tried to control the one we hope to bed? Or lost our temper when they were not living up to our fantasy of them? Or indulged in selfish stupidity, or self-destructive envy? Why should we expect perfect love, when we are ourselves not perfect? Because we have to start somewhere, and I cannot climb a seed, I have to let it grow into a tree first.
I had lots of crushes in school, and by the time I graduated high school, having not yet had anything like a boyfriend, or indeed a date, I had formulated a Plan. I was only going to allow myself to indulge in a crush if the guy was interested in me. I am still convinced this was a good principle, but being unbalanced, led me into six years of misery. I succumbed to the "But he loves me," argument for staying in an unsatisfying and dysfunctional relationship.
I knew, in the deep of night, in the dark of my heart, that I was never in love with the ex. I loved him in the way I treated him, but I never had that spark. I simply did not think anyone else would love me. And he told me he was the only one who woud love me. He had the spark, but never treated me lovingly. There were always two different rules for polite behaviour, one for him, one for me. He would correct me for standing with my weight on one leg, or fingering my toes (a comforting habit indulged when home only.) He treated these as bad habits he was helping me stop. (Huh?) He always took the waiter's side against my ineptness ordering in restaurants, and hated losing any game to me. There were far worse things done that would drive me to escape, but these small acts of dismissal, competitiveness and petty complaint stay with me more. The signs I missed, the clues I can only see clearly now. What I could spot at a glance now, I did not even know to look for then.
When I got to know D, I was raw and damaged, angry and deeply distrustful. He was young and very inexperienced, with only his friends' misadventures with girlfriends throughout high school to inform him. We approached each other with great caution. We talked. We spent time together, quite a lot due to sitting in Colorado Springs waiting to be sent to Saudi Arabia. We joked and asked questions and offered confidences. We pulled back, and misunderstood, and tried again, apologized and spent more time together. We each proved ourselves trustworthy, and began to trust. We talked about everything, anything, and made each other laugh. He coaxed me out, never judging me or complaining about me, never forcing.
Early on, we discussed marriage, as if at the ends of proverbial long poles. I was terrified of the idea. He didn't want to be trapped in a restrictive conventional life with a house in the suburbs, kids in a mini-van, and a job that sucked out his soul for 20 years. But the spark was so strong, and all of the bored Army folk around us kept asking us when we were getting married. There was always such a sense of rightness between us. We made vows.
1. Don't lie to me.
2. Don't treat me like shit.
Which turned out to be a very good place to start. We would, over the years add:
3. Never take each other for granted.
4. Always get each other toys.
Again and again, he gives small acts of kindness and praise, without considering any of it extraordinary. He quotes me, his professors know who I am and what I think. He always greets me with enthusiasm. He takes care of my computer and makes phone calls when I get an anxious attack of call reluctance. When I stutter and cannot find words, he is attentive to the utmost. He attempts skills he knows are beyond him, because I need him, like driving on a long straight road when my exhaustion overcame me while we needed to keep moving toward home, like trying to tie my hair back when my shoulder hurts, like dancing with me at a company party. And he astounds me with his skill, playing guitar, writing dense cogent history, giving a serious, funny speech, writing music.
We try to love each other as best we can. We admire each other, and grow in order to live up to each other's vision of the other. We cultivate privacy, without fostering secrecy. We laugh. We hurt each other. We keep coming back, in humble awe for how well it seems to be working. We are perfect for each other, as imperfect as we are. Did I mention we laugh a lot?
And so two people, without malice, can find each other endlessly amusing and interesting. We grew a wonderful love. It's a very nice view from here. Utterly impossible, easy as breathing.
It is far easier to be taught what love is not, and learning the red flags. Manipulation, jealousy, contempt, disregard, unfairness, hostility, all apparently obviously bad things, but how many folks in abusive relationships will say "S/he is wonderful, except (for one of these mean behaviours)!" And who of us, new at the idea of love, have not tried to control the one we hope to bed? Or lost our temper when they were not living up to our fantasy of them? Or indulged in selfish stupidity, or self-destructive envy? Why should we expect perfect love, when we are ourselves not perfect? Because we have to start somewhere, and I cannot climb a seed, I have to let it grow into a tree first.
I had lots of crushes in school, and by the time I graduated high school, having not yet had anything like a boyfriend, or indeed a date, I had formulated a Plan. I was only going to allow myself to indulge in a crush if the guy was interested in me. I am still convinced this was a good principle, but being unbalanced, led me into six years of misery. I succumbed to the "But he loves me," argument for staying in an unsatisfying and dysfunctional relationship.
I knew, in the deep of night, in the dark of my heart, that I was never in love with the ex. I loved him in the way I treated him, but I never had that spark. I simply did not think anyone else would love me. And he told me he was the only one who woud love me. He had the spark, but never treated me lovingly. There were always two different rules for polite behaviour, one for him, one for me. He would correct me for standing with my weight on one leg, or fingering my toes (a comforting habit indulged when home only.) He treated these as bad habits he was helping me stop. (Huh?) He always took the waiter's side against my ineptness ordering in restaurants, and hated losing any game to me. There were far worse things done that would drive me to escape, but these small acts of dismissal, competitiveness and petty complaint stay with me more. The signs I missed, the clues I can only see clearly now. What I could spot at a glance now, I did not even know to look for then.
When I got to know D, I was raw and damaged, angry and deeply distrustful. He was young and very inexperienced, with only his friends' misadventures with girlfriends throughout high school to inform him. We approached each other with great caution. We talked. We spent time together, quite a lot due to sitting in Colorado Springs waiting to be sent to Saudi Arabia. We joked and asked questions and offered confidences. We pulled back, and misunderstood, and tried again, apologized and spent more time together. We each proved ourselves trustworthy, and began to trust. We talked about everything, anything, and made each other laugh. He coaxed me out, never judging me or complaining about me, never forcing.
Early on, we discussed marriage, as if at the ends of proverbial long poles. I was terrified of the idea. He didn't want to be trapped in a restrictive conventional life with a house in the suburbs, kids in a mini-van, and a job that sucked out his soul for 20 years. But the spark was so strong, and all of the bored Army folk around us kept asking us when we were getting married. There was always such a sense of rightness between us. We made vows.
1. Don't lie to me.
2. Don't treat me like shit.
Which turned out to be a very good place to start. We would, over the years add:
3. Never take each other for granted.
4. Always get each other toys.
Again and again, he gives small acts of kindness and praise, without considering any of it extraordinary. He quotes me, his professors know who I am and what I think. He always greets me with enthusiasm. He takes care of my computer and makes phone calls when I get an anxious attack of call reluctance. When I stutter and cannot find words, he is attentive to the utmost. He attempts skills he knows are beyond him, because I need him, like driving on a long straight road when my exhaustion overcame me while we needed to keep moving toward home, like trying to tie my hair back when my shoulder hurts, like dancing with me at a company party. And he astounds me with his skill, playing guitar, writing dense cogent history, giving a serious, funny speech, writing music.
We try to love each other as best we can. We admire each other, and grow in order to live up to each other's vision of the other. We cultivate privacy, without fostering secrecy. We laugh. We hurt each other. We keep coming back, in humble awe for how well it seems to be working. We are perfect for each other, as imperfect as we are. Did I mention we laugh a lot?
And so two people, without malice, can find each other endlessly amusing and interesting. We grew a wonderful love. It's a very nice view from here. Utterly impossible, easy as breathing.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Chocolate
February 15th is a wonderful holiday. It is Half-Price Chocolate Day. I stumbled up on it almost accidentally, a joke gone terribly right. We have never done Valentine's Day, or any of the other commercially mandated holidays. Ours has been a practical romanticism, a fun sense of romance. Toys and silliness more than hearts and roses. But I have a terrible sweet tooth, at least when it comes to chocolate. D knew I was happy with him when I told him I loved him as much as chocolate. That I considered him a solid chocolate bunny- the same to the core and all wonderful.
One year, after about a decade of ignoring it, Valentine's Day was coming up, and in a kind and conscientious manner, D asked if I wanted something for the holiday. I said no, it was silly and commercial. But the next day, I jokingly mentioned that well... he could get me chocolate Today, since it was not any kind of holiday, and chocolate would be half price. The only thing better than chocolate, is half price chocolate, because then you get twice as much! He knew I was joking, but he called me on it anyway and brought home a box of Godiva's. Very funny, and wonderful, and we nibbled lusciousness. The next year, he did it again, so instead of just a joke, it was a sweetly romantic, and economical gesture. The next year, a tradition. So, February 15th is Half-Price Chocolate Day. Godiva's isn't as good the past few years, so now he has to find another place to get chocolate in February. I await developments.
My love of chocolate goes deep. Mom tried to keep chocolate chips for baking, but I ate them. So did my father, and although he denied eating them, he also regularly lied all the time, and I was meticulously truthful with anything checkable. He was blamed, I was not suspected. I scarfed chocolate chips in a spoonful of peanut butter when mom went to pick up dad at work. I washed the spoon and put it away. Mom also made wonderful chocolate chip/walnut/chow mein noodle candies that I could never resist. Not that I ever actually tried. I loved my chocolate Easter bunny, and yes, bit off the ears first. I will lie, steal and commit violence for Chocolate.
While in Saudi, our chow halls were distant and far worse than usual Army fare. When the PX's opened, we ripped into the alternate food. Canned chicken spread, Pringles and Nutella. Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread, paradise in a jar. I ate it by spoonful or fingerfull. I kept a jar under my bunk for those late night scud attacks. Or just in case I got hungry.
When I worked at a nursing home, transitional care, there was between Thanksgiving and Christmas a plethora of family gifts of chocolate. The boxes would appear as if by magic at the nurses' station. I tried to ration myself, as I had no self control when it came to good chocolate. This last Christmas in the recovery room was dangerously chocolatey. The last week I gorged, made myself sick on it, because it was omnipresent, all good, all different. I vowed every day to slow down, and wound up stuffing in fistfuls by the end of the day. I am rarely so utterly undisciplined. But those cherry and blueberry chocolates were calling to me with their smooth little voices....
Chocolate is my guilty not-terribly-secret secret. Not terribly guilty either. Tea, beer, chocolate. My impractical, frivolous joys. When I furtively whisper to D that I want (chocolate), I get to see his dimple. Joy.
One year, after about a decade of ignoring it, Valentine's Day was coming up, and in a kind and conscientious manner, D asked if I wanted something for the holiday. I said no, it was silly and commercial. But the next day, I jokingly mentioned that well... he could get me chocolate Today, since it was not any kind of holiday, and chocolate would be half price. The only thing better than chocolate, is half price chocolate, because then you get twice as much! He knew I was joking, but he called me on it anyway and brought home a box of Godiva's. Very funny, and wonderful, and we nibbled lusciousness. The next year, he did it again, so instead of just a joke, it was a sweetly romantic, and economical gesture. The next year, a tradition. So, February 15th is Half-Price Chocolate Day. Godiva's isn't as good the past few years, so now he has to find another place to get chocolate in February. I await developments.
My love of chocolate goes deep. Mom tried to keep chocolate chips for baking, but I ate them. So did my father, and although he denied eating them, he also regularly lied all the time, and I was meticulously truthful with anything checkable. He was blamed, I was not suspected. I scarfed chocolate chips in a spoonful of peanut butter when mom went to pick up dad at work. I washed the spoon and put it away. Mom also made wonderful chocolate chip/walnut/chow mein noodle candies that I could never resist. Not that I ever actually tried. I loved my chocolate Easter bunny, and yes, bit off the ears first. I will lie, steal and commit violence for Chocolate.
While in Saudi, our chow halls were distant and far worse than usual Army fare. When the PX's opened, we ripped into the alternate food. Canned chicken spread, Pringles and Nutella. Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread, paradise in a jar. I ate it by spoonful or fingerfull. I kept a jar under my bunk for those late night scud attacks. Or just in case I got hungry.
When I worked at a nursing home, transitional care, there was between Thanksgiving and Christmas a plethora of family gifts of chocolate. The boxes would appear as if by magic at the nurses' station. I tried to ration myself, as I had no self control when it came to good chocolate. This last Christmas in the recovery room was dangerously chocolatey. The last week I gorged, made myself sick on it, because it was omnipresent, all good, all different. I vowed every day to slow down, and wound up stuffing in fistfuls by the end of the day. I am rarely so utterly undisciplined. But those cherry and blueberry chocolates were calling to me with their smooth little voices....
Chocolate is my guilty not-terribly-secret secret. Not terribly guilty either. Tea, beer, chocolate. My impractical, frivolous joys. When I furtively whisper to D that I want (chocolate), I get to see his dimple. Joy.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Mom
I feel I have been rather unfair to my mother in these essays. She did pretty well in many areas. And with a very different set of priorities. She made sure I had a roof over my head, food on the table, clothes on my back. I was never physically hurt, and I had an intact family. She took me to the doctor when I was sick, I always had good shoes for my misshapen feet. I was sent to ballet lessons, ice skating, even flute and violin for a while, despite a lack of talent. I had a pottery class from my grade school. I went on all the class trips.
She never lost her temper at me, but that she explained and apologized for her anger after. She let me take my time, and did not berate me for my shyness, when I was small and fearful. She pampered me when I was ill, held my hand, bandaged my scrapes, fed me soothing food. With the flu, she would set me up on the couch with all the family pillows for a soft bed during the day. She bathed me through chicken pox and fevers. She fed me chicken dumpling soup when I came home from lunch in kindergarden. She read me Doctor Doolittle, and sang me lullabies at night. She took me to the library and opened a world of reading to me. She was warm and always had a hug or a kiss for me. She was generous with time and money with me, in as much as she had it to give. She sent me to Catholic school, and prayed for me to have her faith. She applauded my academic achievements, without making a fuss of it. She went ice skating with me, even though she cracked some ribs when she did it, at 54.
She taught me how to drive, despite my deep disinterest. Then got me into a driver's ed class. She taught me about sewing, and cooking- although I had talent for neither, and she had none for cooking. But I can feed myself and do minor repairs because she showed me how. I can spackle and paint, because I was included as a capable worker. We would play scrabble many days between when I came home from school and she went to pick up dad from work. A love of words and an impressive vocabulary stays with me because of her.
She sewed clothes for me, at a time when store clothes were difficult to fit and expensive. Some of it was unlikable, but there was a wonderful pale yellow jumper that felt so soft and flattered me. And an extraordinary blue wool uniform jumper - long- at my preference. I would love to have it's equal today. I wore it even when I was out of school, lovely deep pockets, pleats, very comfortable.
She was a great mom before I hit puberty. My sexuality unnerved her, and I knew it. She was not aware of how much I drew away from her in her bewilderment. She would not find out how much until ... well. She does not know. Except that something is terribly wrong, and she is alone. She did her job as well as she possibly could when I was small, and I am grateful for that. I expressed my gratitude for many years, directly to her and by pretending respect for her husband- largely at her request. Twenty years of family peace- I did my part to repay her. And would have continued to some extent, had she simply acknowledged I was doing it for her. Or if she'd changed her life from all that she complained about. Or if she appreciated her inability to protect me from my father. If, even now, she showed some interest in me as an independent adult. The silence weighs on us, but those are her rules. She forgets. She says 'the less said the better', so I will say no more. I do remember what she did well.
She never lost her temper at me, but that she explained and apologized for her anger after. She let me take my time, and did not berate me for my shyness, when I was small and fearful. She pampered me when I was ill, held my hand, bandaged my scrapes, fed me soothing food. With the flu, she would set me up on the couch with all the family pillows for a soft bed during the day. She bathed me through chicken pox and fevers. She fed me chicken dumpling soup when I came home from lunch in kindergarden. She read me Doctor Doolittle, and sang me lullabies at night. She took me to the library and opened a world of reading to me. She was warm and always had a hug or a kiss for me. She was generous with time and money with me, in as much as she had it to give. She sent me to Catholic school, and prayed for me to have her faith. She applauded my academic achievements, without making a fuss of it. She went ice skating with me, even though she cracked some ribs when she did it, at 54.
She taught me how to drive, despite my deep disinterest. Then got me into a driver's ed class. She taught me about sewing, and cooking- although I had talent for neither, and she had none for cooking. But I can feed myself and do minor repairs because she showed me how. I can spackle and paint, because I was included as a capable worker. We would play scrabble many days between when I came home from school and she went to pick up dad from work. A love of words and an impressive vocabulary stays with me because of her.
She sewed clothes for me, at a time when store clothes were difficult to fit and expensive. Some of it was unlikable, but there was a wonderful pale yellow jumper that felt so soft and flattered me. And an extraordinary blue wool uniform jumper - long- at my preference. I would love to have it's equal today. I wore it even when I was out of school, lovely deep pockets, pleats, very comfortable.
She was a great mom before I hit puberty. My sexuality unnerved her, and I knew it. She was not aware of how much I drew away from her in her bewilderment. She would not find out how much until ... well. She does not know. Except that something is terribly wrong, and she is alone. She did her job as well as she possibly could when I was small, and I am grateful for that. I expressed my gratitude for many years, directly to her and by pretending respect for her husband- largely at her request. Twenty years of family peace- I did my part to repay her. And would have continued to some extent, had she simply acknowledged I was doing it for her. Or if she'd changed her life from all that she complained about. Or if she appreciated her inability to protect me from my father. If, even now, she showed some interest in me as an independent adult. The silence weighs on us, but those are her rules. She forgets. She says 'the less said the better', so I will say no more. I do remember what she did well.
Tattoo
I do not remember the first tattoo I ever saw. An uncle, a neighbor? I always wanted my skin marked. I longed to at least wear a bubble-gum temporary tattoo, but I was not allowed. I drew on my hidden skin with pens. I do remember the first woman I saw with a tattoo. She worked in a downtown drugstore with a lunch counter. She was in her fifties, with a rose on her forearm. I shyly asked her about it, and she talked willingly. She loved it, she'd always wanted it and never for a moment regretted it. She said it made her feel beautiful in a way that would never go away. I dearly wanted to touch her eloquent skin.
The night I escaped, the ex broke all the mugs I'd collected one by one. Wine glasses from a long lost friend. He broke windows, furniture, everything breakable, save his computer. I wanted nothing around me that could be taken from me, nothing smashable. The idea of a tattoo emerged. Art that could not be removed from me.
Seven years waiting for the right image, the right time, laying it at the back of my mind to germinate. The spark came when I was in a nursing school clinical, when I met a woman with a Camel cigarette tattoo in the ICU with ARDS. I spoke to her on her first day, when she was ill, but talking. I heard her story, I saw her. As she worsened, she was filled with fluids to keep her leaky vascular system from collapsing, much of it leaking out between the cells, tripling her weight, making her unrecognizable. Intubated, she could not communicate. Except for the tattoo. That Camel logo kept her humanity, her story, in the front of my mind when she no longer looked human. She survived to leave the hospital. I expected to mourn her, instead I relish her story.
I pondered for over a year, I was 35, and I found an image of a leaping cat. Chose a spot on my belly, as I had been belly-dancing for about a year. I found a reputable place. I got a fairly young tattooist, the owner was impatient with my dithering, and questioning, said I had to trust them. I sat in the chair, and was told it would be a scratch. I took it all very badly. The pain was so intense, although it went away when the needle went away. Finally, I could not stand more. The outline was done, he convinced me to let him shade it a bit. I was sweating and shaking and trying to breathe and stay calm. As soon as I saw my outlined cat, I loved it. I did everything I needed to to heal it, watched the redness go away, occasionally filled it in with a surgical skin marker. I began to think of it as my ghost cat. And began planning another.
I have four now, all larger, longer sittings, more refulgent lines. Celtic knots, black and bold. I found a better, more experienced tattoo artist, Bones at Southern Thunder, a real artist- a good human being. I would find the pain more bearable after the first one. I took at least a year deciding on the design for each. The last the most readily visible, a cat sitting with his tail wrapped around my calf. Once in a huge standing crowd, a small finger touched the cat, the finger's owner, a toddler stared up at me alarmed. I asked him if he liked my cat, he nodded, withdrew and buried his face in his parents' legs. I wonder what kind of tattoo he will wear. Last week a woman on the street laughed and said it was the most perfect tattoo she had ever seen. Another woman also laughed and said "Mouse, mouse!" And then something in Spanish. We shared a moment of joy, if not understanding.
Nursing involves seeing bodies, and I have seen many, many tattoos. Ugly ones, amateur ones, funny and lovely. Military insignia on old Vets. A woman with a Winnie The Pooh tattoo on her lower abdomen was getting a kidney transplant. She was willing to sacrifice her tattoo for the kidney, but the surgeons took a few minutes at the end to re-attach Pooh's head. I have seen wings and roses, shy small ankle smudges and full sleeves of death's heads and naked cuties. Youthful folly or mature elaboration, simple and tiny to ornate swathes, all speaking profundities of their wearers. As for my stains, I like a kind comment, or an honest question. The only unanswerable is "What does that mean?" If I could have put it into words, I would not have gone through the pain of needling it onto my skin. I am marked, scarred, changed immutably, blessed. It means, but I cannot say how. I am not sure what mine say about me. But there they are.
I am awaiting the time for the next one.
Ask me, if you want to touch.
The night I escaped, the ex broke all the mugs I'd collected one by one. Wine glasses from a long lost friend. He broke windows, furniture, everything breakable, save his computer. I wanted nothing around me that could be taken from me, nothing smashable. The idea of a tattoo emerged. Art that could not be removed from me.
Seven years waiting for the right image, the right time, laying it at the back of my mind to germinate. The spark came when I was in a nursing school clinical, when I met a woman with a Camel cigarette tattoo in the ICU with ARDS. I spoke to her on her first day, when she was ill, but talking. I heard her story, I saw her. As she worsened, she was filled with fluids to keep her leaky vascular system from collapsing, much of it leaking out between the cells, tripling her weight, making her unrecognizable. Intubated, she could not communicate. Except for the tattoo. That Camel logo kept her humanity, her story, in the front of my mind when she no longer looked human. She survived to leave the hospital. I expected to mourn her, instead I relish her story.
I pondered for over a year, I was 35, and I found an image of a leaping cat. Chose a spot on my belly, as I had been belly-dancing for about a year. I found a reputable place. I got a fairly young tattooist, the owner was impatient with my dithering, and questioning, said I had to trust them. I sat in the chair, and was told it would be a scratch. I took it all very badly. The pain was so intense, although it went away when the needle went away. Finally, I could not stand more. The outline was done, he convinced me to let him shade it a bit. I was sweating and shaking and trying to breathe and stay calm. As soon as I saw my outlined cat, I loved it. I did everything I needed to to heal it, watched the redness go away, occasionally filled it in with a surgical skin marker. I began to think of it as my ghost cat. And began planning another.
I have four now, all larger, longer sittings, more refulgent lines. Celtic knots, black and bold. I found a better, more experienced tattoo artist, Bones at Southern Thunder, a real artist- a good human being. I would find the pain more bearable after the first one. I took at least a year deciding on the design for each. The last the most readily visible, a cat sitting with his tail wrapped around my calf. Once in a huge standing crowd, a small finger touched the cat, the finger's owner, a toddler stared up at me alarmed. I asked him if he liked my cat, he nodded, withdrew and buried his face in his parents' legs. I wonder what kind of tattoo he will wear. Last week a woman on the street laughed and said it was the most perfect tattoo she had ever seen. Another woman also laughed and said "Mouse, mouse!" And then something in Spanish. We shared a moment of joy, if not understanding.
Nursing involves seeing bodies, and I have seen many, many tattoos. Ugly ones, amateur ones, funny and lovely. Military insignia on old Vets. A woman with a Winnie The Pooh tattoo on her lower abdomen was getting a kidney transplant. She was willing to sacrifice her tattoo for the kidney, but the surgeons took a few minutes at the end to re-attach Pooh's head. I have seen wings and roses, shy small ankle smudges and full sleeves of death's heads and naked cuties. Youthful folly or mature elaboration, simple and tiny to ornate swathes, all speaking profundities of their wearers. As for my stains, I like a kind comment, or an honest question. The only unanswerable is "What does that mean?" If I could have put it into words, I would not have gone through the pain of needling it onto my skin. I am marked, scarred, changed immutably, blessed. It means, but I cannot say how. I am not sure what mine say about me. But there they are.
I am awaiting the time for the next one.
Ask me, if you want to touch.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Feet
My feet are messed up. Started out that way, turned in, squashed in. (Tiny suffering mom, big baby.) Wore special shoes to turn them out. Then wore shoes on the wrong feet, expensive leather hard encasements, told I kicked the foot of my crib through the night. Rhythmically I hope. My smallest toes didn't touch the ground, wrapped up on top of the next toes, an amusement when making childish footprints. Only had eight toes! I started very young to squeeze these toes down, reshaping them. At that age, it can work, and I did it all the time. Those smallest digits are now in a more or less normal position. I always had good fitting, solid shoes. Not pretty, but I cared very little about what shoes looked like. Obviously, my feet were not pretty. The concept was so alien to me when I first came across the idea that feet were anything other than functional. And my preference is still for the beaten, muscular feet of dancers.
I was sent to ballet class to turn my feet out when I was 7. The classes were at Patton Park, so I assume they were fairly inexpensive. The instructor provided the leotards, dyed black and rather baggy. I pointed my toes and proudly suffered cramps in my arches, stuffed my feet into ballet slippers, white to start with. Grey after use. I learned grace and discipline and got used to how I looked moving in a mirror, and the feel of my body in space. Longed to be on Pointe. Stopped long before I was old enough, too young for musculature developed enough to stand on my toes.
This led to my pronation, unfortunately. Fallen arches, I roll my feet forward, and need arch supports or my back hurts as well as my feet. In college the first time, I got soft cheap shoes, and my feet started really hurting for the first time. I was dancing and fencing and running, all in cheap shoes. Cotton Chinese shoes, canvas boots from Payless, sneakers. I started having back problems and my feet ached, but I just lived in the pain. I was young and stupid and on my own, making mistakes I pay for today. Such is life.
I worked for a while as a podiatrist assistant in a downtown Detroit clinic. Old, worn feet. Abused old lady feet, stuffed into too small, pointy toed shoes for decades. I got the whirlpool ready, did the x-rays, cleaned surfaces, shuffled patients, and tried to hurry the podiatrist (my real, and semi-official, job.) I never judged the feet as aesthetic issues. Just a source of pain for their owners. It would be years before I got better shoes for myself.
My "honeymoon" involved hiking through the Grand Tetons. I had never hiked before, and the one person who should have cared about me and hiked enough to know I needed decent hiking boots was too concerned about his own gear. My sneaker clad feet were wet throughout, I suffered altitude sickness and blisters. It was beautiful beyond belief, and today I remember it as something I did alone, so that I can remember the beauty. I cannot quite forget the cold feet.
My doctor told me to get some arch supports about four years ago, so I did. The pain over the first month was incredible, but gradually my foot pain eased, and my back pain did as well. Then I moved to Boston, and my feet became a source of daily awareness, again. I have good shoes now, good arch supports. I will walk, or die.
Well, eventually I will die anyway, but at least I will walk there.
I was sent to ballet class to turn my feet out when I was 7. The classes were at Patton Park, so I assume they were fairly inexpensive. The instructor provided the leotards, dyed black and rather baggy. I pointed my toes and proudly suffered cramps in my arches, stuffed my feet into ballet slippers, white to start with. Grey after use. I learned grace and discipline and got used to how I looked moving in a mirror, and the feel of my body in space. Longed to be on Pointe. Stopped long before I was old enough, too young for musculature developed enough to stand on my toes.
This led to my pronation, unfortunately. Fallen arches, I roll my feet forward, and need arch supports or my back hurts as well as my feet. In college the first time, I got soft cheap shoes, and my feet started really hurting for the first time. I was dancing and fencing and running, all in cheap shoes. Cotton Chinese shoes, canvas boots from Payless, sneakers. I started having back problems and my feet ached, but I just lived in the pain. I was young and stupid and on my own, making mistakes I pay for today. Such is life.
I worked for a while as a podiatrist assistant in a downtown Detroit clinic. Old, worn feet. Abused old lady feet, stuffed into too small, pointy toed shoes for decades. I got the whirlpool ready, did the x-rays, cleaned surfaces, shuffled patients, and tried to hurry the podiatrist (my real, and semi-official, job.) I never judged the feet as aesthetic issues. Just a source of pain for their owners. It would be years before I got better shoes for myself.
My "honeymoon" involved hiking through the Grand Tetons. I had never hiked before, and the one person who should have cared about me and hiked enough to know I needed decent hiking boots was too concerned about his own gear. My sneaker clad feet were wet throughout, I suffered altitude sickness and blisters. It was beautiful beyond belief, and today I remember it as something I did alone, so that I can remember the beauty. I cannot quite forget the cold feet.
My doctor told me to get some arch supports about four years ago, so I did. The pain over the first month was incredible, but gradually my foot pain eased, and my back pain did as well. Then I moved to Boston, and my feet became a source of daily awareness, again. I have good shoes now, good arch supports. I will walk, or die.
Well, eventually I will die anyway, but at least I will walk there.
Restaurant
I used to have awful restaurant karma.
Finicky eater, it was texture and odor more than flavor that put me off. Gristle killed my appetite. Coconut in cake was like finding a hair. Grease gave me the queasies. My mother's lack of cooking skill, or imagination, was not helpful. Her baking, though, was amazing, there was dessert after every meal. She had a way with sugar, I still have the sweet tooth to prove it. Nutrition was meat, milk and potatoes. Growing up so poor herself, she did not have milk, ate shortening and brown sugar on bread as a treat. Her idea of vegetables was mashed potatoes, with milk and margarine, salt and pepper. French fries, slightly browned, lots of salt. Fried potatoes, potato casserole- baked with milk and cheese. Canned green beans heated up. Lettuce with tomatoes and dressing- salad. Mandatory glass of milk with every meal. Meat was the core of every meal, but that meant fried or baked chicken- battered. Hamburger or meatloaf only edible with a thick layer of ketchup. Canned-salmon patties. Occasional perch over cooked. Much lemon juice to cover up that taste. Not that I blame her, she was not cooking for an appreciative group. I would have lived on cinnamon toast for breakfast and pb&j the rest of the time, with her desserts. With a small budget, she resisted restaurants because she 'could feed us for a week on what would be spent on one meal'. Her words. No doubt accurate.
Restaurants were for traveling only, and at that time, McDonalds was the best choice. Family vacations, 10 days of enforced togetherness, and chancy food, and emotions running high. I never knew what to order, it was the only time I was given a choice about food. So I went with cheap and safe, which is not a good strategy altogether. Not that I had any idea of needing a menu strategy. Kid menus were years in the future. My parents were not up on the idea of tipping. There was too much food, with the horrible expectation that I would "clean my plate."
I really started eating out in college. Had some wonderful Greek meals, and a whole lot of wrong orders, burnt, undercooked, or otherwise inedible food. Ditto Mexican, Chinese, Polish, and American Diner cuisine. Often to do with being poor and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. I got frustrated and angry at waiters and cooks. The ex used to apologize to them in my hearing for my "bad manners" without ever trying to teach me how to order better.
I lowered my expectations with mess halls-it was after all free. There were Drill Sergeants whose job it was to be 'chow hall push', "If you're talking, you're not eating!", "IF you can taste it you are eating. too. slow." And other forms of harassment to keep the flow of soldiers going through the feeding process. I didn't need much urging- it was true, if I ate fast enough, the taste didn't matter. I would inhale whatever it was and have a few precious minutes alone to walk back to the barracks. Fair trade. Free food.
After that, I could eat anything. But I also decided that if I were eating out, I was going to order nothing that would show up in a chow hall. I slowly came to realize that it mattered what you ordered, and where. That I needed a strategy. It would take a while. D also tended to try to apologize for me, which I quashed as condescending, with the caveat that he work with me. He agreed, apologized, and did. I learned to be pleasant-no easy skill for me. I finally had enough income to eat out- a key element. We became regulars at the Rio Grande Cafe at the former train station in Salt Lake. Gradually I worked out a list of rules for avoiding bad service and bad food, and it had more to do with how I looked at eating than what I was given.
1. Never order hamburger at a place that does mostly Fish.
2. Don't order the only fish on the menu.
3. Don't order the cheapest thing on the menu, especially if it is grilled cheese.
4. If my waiter is slow or having trouble hearing me, do not order anything that needs adjustment, i.e. 'no onions'. Just order something that doesn't have onions.
5. Don't get mad or picky, just be firm and apologetic, and flexible. Trading plates will make my friends happier than me sitting there fuming with no food. Eggs are eggs, regardless of how they are cooked, just eat them.
6. Don't go into a restaurant very hungry with low blood sugar, the order will certainly never show up, or be grossly wrong. Get a candy bar first.
7. Order the same thing every time when I am with a large group, it's the friends not the food. And they can order for me if I am in the restroom. Or too tired to chose well. (Dave will probably still have a salad with honey mustard dressing, on the side. )
8. Add an extra $5-10 when I am sharing a group check, someone always forgets the tax or is cheap about tips, don't let it be me.
9. If I can't afford it, eat home first and get an appetizer, or dessert. I am not paying for the food, I am paying for the service and ambience, no matter what I might think.
10. Become a regular.
I made a lot of mistakes and was very irritable before I worked out these rules. I annoyed my friends, ruined many an evening, embarrassed D, and shamed myself. I finally stopped blaming, and expecting perfection because I was paying for this. I took what I was given, and looked for the good in it. Places have lost my business because they would not meet me halfway, but I have stopped making scenes. Even when it comes to restaurants, you can't buy happiness, you have to take it in with you.
I still miss the Rio Grande Cafe. But let me take you out to Wok 'n Roll.
Finicky eater, it was texture and odor more than flavor that put me off. Gristle killed my appetite. Coconut in cake was like finding a hair. Grease gave me the queasies. My mother's lack of cooking skill, or imagination, was not helpful. Her baking, though, was amazing, there was dessert after every meal. She had a way with sugar, I still have the sweet tooth to prove it. Nutrition was meat, milk and potatoes. Growing up so poor herself, she did not have milk, ate shortening and brown sugar on bread as a treat. Her idea of vegetables was mashed potatoes, with milk and margarine, salt and pepper. French fries, slightly browned, lots of salt. Fried potatoes, potato casserole- baked with milk and cheese. Canned green beans heated up. Lettuce with tomatoes and dressing- salad. Mandatory glass of milk with every meal. Meat was the core of every meal, but that meant fried or baked chicken- battered. Hamburger or meatloaf only edible with a thick layer of ketchup. Canned-salmon patties. Occasional perch over cooked. Much lemon juice to cover up that taste. Not that I blame her, she was not cooking for an appreciative group. I would have lived on cinnamon toast for breakfast and pb&j the rest of the time, with her desserts. With a small budget, she resisted restaurants because she 'could feed us for a week on what would be spent on one meal'. Her words. No doubt accurate.
Restaurants were for traveling only, and at that time, McDonalds was the best choice. Family vacations, 10 days of enforced togetherness, and chancy food, and emotions running high. I never knew what to order, it was the only time I was given a choice about food. So I went with cheap and safe, which is not a good strategy altogether. Not that I had any idea of needing a menu strategy. Kid menus were years in the future. My parents were not up on the idea of tipping. There was too much food, with the horrible expectation that I would "clean my plate."
I really started eating out in college. Had some wonderful Greek meals, and a whole lot of wrong orders, burnt, undercooked, or otherwise inedible food. Ditto Mexican, Chinese, Polish, and American Diner cuisine. Often to do with being poor and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. I got frustrated and angry at waiters and cooks. The ex used to apologize to them in my hearing for my "bad manners" without ever trying to teach me how to order better.
I lowered my expectations with mess halls-it was after all free. There were Drill Sergeants whose job it was to be 'chow hall push', "If you're talking, you're not eating!", "IF you can taste it you are eating. too. slow." And other forms of harassment to keep the flow of soldiers going through the feeding process. I didn't need much urging- it was true, if I ate fast enough, the taste didn't matter. I would inhale whatever it was and have a few precious minutes alone to walk back to the barracks. Fair trade. Free food.
After that, I could eat anything. But I also decided that if I were eating out, I was going to order nothing that would show up in a chow hall. I slowly came to realize that it mattered what you ordered, and where. That I needed a strategy. It would take a while. D also tended to try to apologize for me, which I quashed as condescending, with the caveat that he work with me. He agreed, apologized, and did. I learned to be pleasant-no easy skill for me. I finally had enough income to eat out- a key element. We became regulars at the Rio Grande Cafe at the former train station in Salt Lake. Gradually I worked out a list of rules for avoiding bad service and bad food, and it had more to do with how I looked at eating than what I was given.
1. Never order hamburger at a place that does mostly Fish.
2. Don't order the only fish on the menu.
3. Don't order the cheapest thing on the menu, especially if it is grilled cheese.
4. If my waiter is slow or having trouble hearing me, do not order anything that needs adjustment, i.e. 'no onions'. Just order something that doesn't have onions.
5. Don't get mad or picky, just be firm and apologetic, and flexible. Trading plates will make my friends happier than me sitting there fuming with no food. Eggs are eggs, regardless of how they are cooked, just eat them.
6. Don't go into a restaurant very hungry with low blood sugar, the order will certainly never show up, or be grossly wrong. Get a candy bar first.
7. Order the same thing every time when I am with a large group, it's the friends not the food. And they can order for me if I am in the restroom. Or too tired to chose well. (Dave will probably still have a salad with honey mustard dressing, on the side. )
8. Add an extra $5-10 when I am sharing a group check, someone always forgets the tax or is cheap about tips, don't let it be me.
9. If I can't afford it, eat home first and get an appetizer, or dessert. I am not paying for the food, I am paying for the service and ambience, no matter what I might think.
10. Become a regular.
I made a lot of mistakes and was very irritable before I worked out these rules. I annoyed my friends, ruined many an evening, embarrassed D, and shamed myself. I finally stopped blaming, and expecting perfection because I was paying for this. I took what I was given, and looked for the good in it. Places have lost my business because they would not meet me halfway, but I have stopped making scenes. Even when it comes to restaurants, you can't buy happiness, you have to take it in with you.
I still miss the Rio Grande Cafe. But let me take you out to Wok 'n Roll.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Nothing
I love doing nothing. I have vivid memories of long hours in my backyard, sitting on the grass peeling leaves, or on my back feeling the earth revolve beneath me in the summer. Or taking very deliberate steps in the fresh snow, imagining I was the first to step in that snow. Staring into the brilliance until I became white blind. On the swing as high as I could swing for as long as I could until I entered some kind of altered state of mind. Lonely at times, I also know how to be content alone, comfortable with silence and idleness.
The next part of my life that enriched my spiritual silence was surprisingly in the Army, Fort Dix New Jersey. My body was kept busy, sleep was inadequate, but my mind had little to do, as I spent much time waiting, or marching. I learned to love the beauty of dawn, watched geese flying over, the red blue flashlights swinging through the pre dawn dark of early marches. I came to feel rather than see when my platoon was in step, we all must have because by the end of the two months, thirty women marching in boots sounded like one woman walking quietly. We responded as one to commands, a strange kind of alertness that was like meditation. Cadences shouted- sung filled the mind like a mantra, keeping out the whining that I was always prone to. When I ran, in pain and exhaustion, I chanted "I'm young, I'm strong, I'm health-y" and the pain faded. I could feel the earth pushing back at my steps, giving me a push forward. I took satisfaction in having all my uniform hangers three finger widths apart, all my buttons buttoned, hat straight. Hugging the earth at the ranges, which kept me out of the wind screeing off the ocean smelt but not seen.
Out in the wind, we would huddle around the smallest thinnest women to warm them, rub arms and backs to warm each other, put woolen socks in the webbing of our helmets to keep the wind from whistling around our heads. I was outside more than I had ever been in my life, at least in October November and December. The fall leaves were brilliant, the mud constant, the cold a presence like the pain. But there was no escape, only acceptance, and the duty of taking care of each other. My feet went numb during bivouac, and that was that. No excuses, no gratitude, doing and letting the mind follow, the only way out was through. Laying in my bunk at night listening to people breathing, knowing who was on night CQ by the sound of their footsteps. We reeked of Ben Gay, and one CQ sergeant would always say,
"Smells like my Grandmother in here!"
At first startled- waking to companies shouting outside as they marched past our barracks through the night, later I slept reassured by those sounds. Field stripping an M16 blind, yes I still could -I am sure. Just as I could always hit what I aimed at with one. My meddling busy mind was too tired to care, so I simply got on with the work at hand. Payment would come later, but I learned what I could do, and I understood how strong a quiet mind is. Nothing in busyness.
When I started back to school at the U. I was very alone, isolated by my attitude and precarious position. Too much silence, but no one to be quiet with. Until I found myself again at the whim of the government, and I found D. Waiting in Colorado to be sent to Saudi Arabia, we spent many hours sitting with our backs leaning together, sometimes talking or reading, or as often simply being together. The gift of silence, shared. Doing nothing, we built a haven together. Out on the bleachers for the parade field, I was recovering from a bad sinus infection, and fell asleep in the sun with my head on his lap. Such peace. Him finally asleep on the concrete, on my lap as we waited in the underground garage in Kobar for the C130 to take us to our housing outside Riyadh. I watched him like a vicious dog guarding her master, lest anyone think it funny to do anything to him. Because being on guard and alert is part of meditation, oblivious to the irritation, acutely aware of danger.
After such a difficult move, with too much to do, this week my mind is insisting on nothing. If I try to push myself into thinking, my thoughts collapse. My body hurts, my brain aches. But the words this week have been gushing out, pouring onto the screen. A deep desire to communicate while I can only do nothing. I idle, and orient. As long as I do nothing.
The next part of my life that enriched my spiritual silence was surprisingly in the Army, Fort Dix New Jersey. My body was kept busy, sleep was inadequate, but my mind had little to do, as I spent much time waiting, or marching. I learned to love the beauty of dawn, watched geese flying over, the red blue flashlights swinging through the pre dawn dark of early marches. I came to feel rather than see when my platoon was in step, we all must have because by the end of the two months, thirty women marching in boots sounded like one woman walking quietly. We responded as one to commands, a strange kind of alertness that was like meditation. Cadences shouted- sung filled the mind like a mantra, keeping out the whining that I was always prone to. When I ran, in pain and exhaustion, I chanted "I'm young, I'm strong, I'm health-y" and the pain faded. I could feel the earth pushing back at my steps, giving me a push forward. I took satisfaction in having all my uniform hangers three finger widths apart, all my buttons buttoned, hat straight. Hugging the earth at the ranges, which kept me out of the wind screeing off the ocean smelt but not seen.
Out in the wind, we would huddle around the smallest thinnest women to warm them, rub arms and backs to warm each other, put woolen socks in the webbing of our helmets to keep the wind from whistling around our heads. I was outside more than I had ever been in my life, at least in October November and December. The fall leaves were brilliant, the mud constant, the cold a presence like the pain. But there was no escape, only acceptance, and the duty of taking care of each other. My feet went numb during bivouac, and that was that. No excuses, no gratitude, doing and letting the mind follow, the only way out was through. Laying in my bunk at night listening to people breathing, knowing who was on night CQ by the sound of their footsteps. We reeked of Ben Gay, and one CQ sergeant would always say,
"Smells like my Grandmother in here!"
At first startled- waking to companies shouting outside as they marched past our barracks through the night, later I slept reassured by those sounds. Field stripping an M16 blind, yes I still could -I am sure. Just as I could always hit what I aimed at with one. My meddling busy mind was too tired to care, so I simply got on with the work at hand. Payment would come later, but I learned what I could do, and I understood how strong a quiet mind is. Nothing in busyness.
When I started back to school at the U. I was very alone, isolated by my attitude and precarious position. Too much silence, but no one to be quiet with. Until I found myself again at the whim of the government, and I found D. Waiting in Colorado to be sent to Saudi Arabia, we spent many hours sitting with our backs leaning together, sometimes talking or reading, or as often simply being together. The gift of silence, shared. Doing nothing, we built a haven together. Out on the bleachers for the parade field, I was recovering from a bad sinus infection, and fell asleep in the sun with my head on his lap. Such peace. Him finally asleep on the concrete, on my lap as we waited in the underground garage in Kobar for the C130 to take us to our housing outside Riyadh. I watched him like a vicious dog guarding her master, lest anyone think it funny to do anything to him. Because being on guard and alert is part of meditation, oblivious to the irritation, acutely aware of danger.
After such a difficult move, with too much to do, this week my mind is insisting on nothing. If I try to push myself into thinking, my thoughts collapse. My body hurts, my brain aches. But the words this week have been gushing out, pouring onto the screen. A deep desire to communicate while I can only do nothing. I idle, and orient. As long as I do nothing.
Movie
I grew up on television, as many of my age did. When it was still educational and no one was worried about it being an electronic babysitter. Not that it wasn't bad, but no one thought so. I lived for cartoons and Hallmark Special Presentations that meant I could stay up an hour later, or Charlie Brown Specials and the Wonderful World of Disney. It was there that I first found movies. The (Three Lives of Thomasina) sticks in my heart although I can hardly remember the plot.
I was taken to most of the G rated films showing, which is to say Disney. I loved (Winnie the Pooh) and (Mary Poppins), but more (Darby O'Gill and the Little People) -the banshee scene is seared into my mind. I would get swept up into the story and want to know the characters. I would live in that world for days after a movie, didn't matter if it was on TV or in a theater. I fantasized being a character in their world, telling other stories with them. I also starred in my own Mary Tyler Moore type sitcom, but that really is another story. As I got older and movies changed, the only G rated films were (The Voyage of Ra), and (Chariots of the Gods) those dreadful, but wonderfully Fortean, Sun Film productions. Saturday afternoon, and Sunday too, were about those awful dubbed Swedish children's movies, B&W, SF, Horror and Biblical flicks. They all smear together in my memory, one huge mass of grey strangers living out incomprehensible lives. I may have wanted to act as a way to enter that world.
I really consummated my love for movies when I went to college. There was a Wayne State University film society that showed late afternoon movies in a screening room in the Film department, $1. Many foreign or independent, not mainstream at all. Eye openers - Just a Gigolo-, or the frankly sexual -Montenegro-. Peeking into far stranger realities and alien points of view. The Unitarian church down the street showed all kinds of odd stuff, including -Five Easy Pieces-, and erotica (some arty thing involving a cucumber, I still shudder to think.) The Detroit Institute of Arts had a Film Theater, several series of French films (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs) and Hitchcock's canon - finally saw all of (The Birds.) They had a Sunday afternoon film series where I saw (Grapes of Wrath.) I often got the mainstream movies when I went to the downtown theaters for Tuesday dollar night like (48 Hours) Eddie Murphy. I was a bit daunted laughing at his particular brand of humor being the only pale face in a crowded theater, until I realized I would be drowned out, and no none cared what I thought, anyway. There was also the Punch and Judy, a lovely restored theater that showed Independent and second run shows, I saw (Apocalypse Now) there, among many others.
I took two semesters of Film classes- Prof Spaulding exposed me to directors like Scorcese and John Ford, Fellini and Kurosawa. I learned to read films, and sharpen my eye to what was good, or bad. I grew to hate Disney as I opened my eyes to the sexism and petty twisted "values" of them. Not to mention the flat photography and over-saturated colors. I learned to look for themes and motifs and messages, styles and details. I figured I saw 4-5 movies a week for almost four years. I have a knowledge base that is rather impressive.
And D? Well, he is far worse than I am, if less thoroughly trained. Cable he ... oh wait, can't give that away. Just say he saw a lot of movies on cable, shall we? He can name a movie seen for less than 30 seconds on screen, even if he has never seen the film in question. He spots actors with aplomb, and can tell me what else they have been in. In part, he does this better because of the IMDB. That site is the only reason I have the movies above listed correctly. I remember scenes and stories, but the names escape me unless I practice. D gives me lots of practice. We talk in Movie. We have a game where we name a motif, and have to list movies that have it. It's all about shared stories. And here is a completely unprovoked plug for Netfllix. We have rated over 3000 movies there, so far.
I have largely given up on mainstream Hollywood movies today. The Incredibles was the first in a long time, and the last one with real heart that I loved completely, and wanted to join their world (and figure out what Superpower I wanted to have.) I am a snob, I want well told stories, (Ikiru) complicated or warm (Triplets of Belleville). I want characters that I would like to see more of (Return To Me.) I want witty writing (Murder My Sweet) and true heart (Twilight Samurai.) I will not tolerate mediocrity or obvious manipulation (Basic Instinct.) I'm a huge MST3K fan, so I do like bad movies (Plan 9 From Outer Space) done with enough unbalanced energy. I want perfect movies, the ones that meet the goals they set (That Thing You Do.) Or even imperfect movies that have a redeeming feature, (Tank Girl) - simply because of Lori Petty, or the deeply flawed (Romeo+Juliet) because of so many good ideas, Pete Postlethwaite, and the Queen Mab speech. But neither do I think that a film is good simply because it is Arty. Pretentious crap is still pretentious crap wherever it is shown (Koyaanisqatsi.)
D. has come up with three rules of seeing movies, that we now live by
1. You are smarter than the movie. If you feel like you are not getting it, it just isn't there, even if the director would like to pretend it is. After sitting through (Mindwalk), (Eraserhead.)
2. Don't play chicken with the movie. Never stay to see the end thinking it cannot get any worse. It can, it will. Just leave. Even at the end of two otherwise good movies (Realm of the Senses) and (Pi.)
3. There is no point at which you cannot stop watching a movie. First five, last five, doesn't matter. If it is not working for you, just stop, walk away. Learned on (Meet the Parents), (Johnny Nemonic) You will be happier if you do.
Film is a refuge and a window into the minds and hearts of others.
Film is powerful, and should be used for good, not for evil.
I was taken to most of the G rated films showing, which is to say Disney. I loved (Winnie the Pooh) and (Mary Poppins), but more (Darby O'Gill and the Little People) -the banshee scene is seared into my mind. I would get swept up into the story and want to know the characters. I would live in that world for days after a movie, didn't matter if it was on TV or in a theater. I fantasized being a character in their world, telling other stories with them. I also starred in my own Mary Tyler Moore type sitcom, but that really is another story. As I got older and movies changed, the only G rated films were (The Voyage of Ra), and (Chariots of the Gods) those dreadful, but wonderfully Fortean, Sun Film productions. Saturday afternoon, and Sunday too, were about those awful dubbed Swedish children's movies, B&W, SF, Horror and Biblical flicks. They all smear together in my memory, one huge mass of grey strangers living out incomprehensible lives. I may have wanted to act as a way to enter that world.
I really consummated my love for movies when I went to college. There was a Wayne State University film society that showed late afternoon movies in a screening room in the Film department, $1. Many foreign or independent, not mainstream at all. Eye openers - Just a Gigolo-, or the frankly sexual -Montenegro-. Peeking into far stranger realities and alien points of view. The Unitarian church down the street showed all kinds of odd stuff, including -Five Easy Pieces-, and erotica (some arty thing involving a cucumber, I still shudder to think.) The Detroit Institute of Arts had a Film Theater, several series of French films (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs) and Hitchcock's canon - finally saw all of (The Birds.) They had a Sunday afternoon film series where I saw (Grapes of Wrath.) I often got the mainstream movies when I went to the downtown theaters for Tuesday dollar night like (48 Hours) Eddie Murphy. I was a bit daunted laughing at his particular brand of humor being the only pale face in a crowded theater, until I realized I would be drowned out, and no none cared what I thought, anyway. There was also the Punch and Judy, a lovely restored theater that showed Independent and second run shows, I saw (Apocalypse Now) there, among many others.
I took two semesters of Film classes- Prof Spaulding exposed me to directors like Scorcese and John Ford, Fellini and Kurosawa. I learned to read films, and sharpen my eye to what was good, or bad. I grew to hate Disney as I opened my eyes to the sexism and petty twisted "values" of them. Not to mention the flat photography and over-saturated colors. I learned to look for themes and motifs and messages, styles and details. I figured I saw 4-5 movies a week for almost four years. I have a knowledge base that is rather impressive.
And D? Well, he is far worse than I am, if less thoroughly trained. Cable he ... oh wait, can't give that away. Just say he saw a lot of movies on cable, shall we? He can name a movie seen for less than 30 seconds on screen, even if he has never seen the film in question. He spots actors with aplomb, and can tell me what else they have been in. In part, he does this better because of the IMDB. That site is the only reason I have the movies above listed correctly. I remember scenes and stories, but the names escape me unless I practice. D gives me lots of practice. We talk in Movie. We have a game where we name a motif, and have to list movies that have it. It's all about shared stories. And here is a completely unprovoked plug for Netfllix. We have rated over 3000 movies there, so far.
I have largely given up on mainstream Hollywood movies today. The Incredibles was the first in a long time, and the last one with real heart that I loved completely, and wanted to join their world (and figure out what Superpower I wanted to have.) I am a snob, I want well told stories, (Ikiru) complicated or warm (Triplets of Belleville). I want characters that I would like to see more of (Return To Me.) I want witty writing (Murder My Sweet) and true heart (Twilight Samurai.) I will not tolerate mediocrity or obvious manipulation (Basic Instinct.) I'm a huge MST3K fan, so I do like bad movies (Plan 9 From Outer Space) done with enough unbalanced energy. I want perfect movies, the ones that meet the goals they set (That Thing You Do.) Or even imperfect movies that have a redeeming feature, (Tank Girl) - simply because of Lori Petty, or the deeply flawed (Romeo+Juliet) because of so many good ideas, Pete Postlethwaite, and the Queen Mab speech. But neither do I think that a film is good simply because it is Arty. Pretentious crap is still pretentious crap wherever it is shown (Koyaanisqatsi.)
D. has come up with three rules of seeing movies, that we now live by
1. You are smarter than the movie. If you feel like you are not getting it, it just isn't there, even if the director would like to pretend it is. After sitting through (Mindwalk), (Eraserhead.)
2. Don't play chicken with the movie. Never stay to see the end thinking it cannot get any worse. It can, it will. Just leave. Even at the end of two otherwise good movies (Realm of the Senses) and (Pi.)
3. There is no point at which you cannot stop watching a movie. First five, last five, doesn't matter. If it is not working for you, just stop, walk away. Learned on (Meet the Parents), (Johnny Nemonic) You will be happier if you do.
Film is a refuge and a window into the minds and hearts of others.
Film is powerful, and should be used for good, not for evil.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Death
Death was no kind of taboo subject in my otherwise silent family, and for that I am grateful. Unavoidable, I think, I grew up going to funerals. I attended more than I can count. (In contrast, only went to three weddings before I was 21.) I met my cousins and much of my family attending viewings and rosaries for the Great Aunts and Uncles, then aunts and uncles, then both grandmothers- all by the time I was 24. Funerals I understand. I go in, be respectful, offer comfort, listen, hug, and it is sad, so I cry quite easily amist grief and loss and shock. And when the guest of honor had lived a long life, especially if they had suffered through a long dwindling, then, after the tears (often mixed in with them) the stories would start. Everyone would have some funny remark, a favorite joke, and the tears would ease. We got a bit loud, we laughed and celebrated. Healing and comfort and connection.
Not to say I was comfortable with death. I hated having to pray while staring at that waxy, frightening form in the satin lined casket. I tried to stare at the flowers, the wood, the rosary in the stiff hands, rather than the painted face, especially if I had known the Aunt well. I feared the dead. I obsessed about dying and all manner of gruesome ways of ending up a stiff. Normal for an adolescent, and I was especially morbid. A girl in high school died of leukemia. A neighbor boy and his cousin died in a car crash the night of their graduation- the naked grief of that funeral was breathtaking.
I was terrified of cemeteries, in part because there was one under the turn of the bridge that my father always took way too fast, and I always figured I would die there. Not buried, thrown from the car and killed in the cemetery. Nightmare fodder. My father worked as a custodian at a cemetery from the time I was about 12, after his factory closed and he was glad to have health insurance and an income as an unskilled worker in his mid 50's. I did everything I could not to go with my mother to pick him up. And when I was learning to drive at 17, guess where they thought it would be a great place for me to practice. I hated it.
Death became part of my job, at 33, when I had my shiny new RN license, working in a hospice/rehab floor of a nursing home. About a week in, a CNA called to me as I came on shift. Terrified, unprepared, I walked into that quiet room, alone with my stethoscope. I listened, heard nothing, and called the other nurse in. She found my bother amusing, but backed me up, and helped me make the calls and fill in the paperwork, while others did the hands-on that morning. That would be the first death of many requiring my presence. I came to know that look, the "um...." the tone to my name as the aide notified me of a death, often very much expected, occasionally not. I would wash the dead, talk to families, call the funeral homes. I would watch for the last breath, and hold the hands of the dying. I always cried, not sobbing, just a few minutes of pouring tears, then or later at home.
Weird things happened when people died. A sweetly demented woman who never got up at night, came to the desk at 2am saying two men were in her room wearing black suits. This was highly out of character for her. There was nothing when we went and checked, she calmly went back to sleep. One of our men on the other end died in the midst of this.
Another elderly woman, confused but more or less coherent, had been admitted for pneumonia. Every night she asked us if she was going to die. I always told her I thought she would live a while longer, which seemed to satisfy her. Then one night, after she was much better, and was being evaluated for going home, she told me "I'm going to die tonight." I stopped, and considered my words. "Then we will watch over you." Which also seemed to satisfy her. About midnight, she stopped breathing, her heart stopped. But neither the other nurse nor I were convinced she was dead. We moved her roommate to an empty room, washed her and called her family. They were not surprized, said she had told them earlier and they had said their goodbyes then. We called the mortuary, SOP. And went back to make sure we were right- repeatedly- not usual. She seemed still there, still alive, as though still confused about what she should do next. We went down to listen again through that night, even saying out loud "You are dead, you can go now. " Glad that the particular mortuary, normally so on time, didn't show until 6am. Because by then, the sense that she was still there, was gone.
I watched one woman heal up bedsores in a week. I had cleared her throat, when she turned her head with a startle, stared and took a last, sighing breath in my arms. I was told by a woman dying miserably of esophageal cancer that it (death) was "Not so bad."
I have seen those dying of lung disease keep breathing intermittently for a half hour after their hearts had stopped. Normal impulse to breath is a high CO2 sensor, long term pulmonary disease burns this out, and the secondary impulse- low 02 will continue to function. Nothing like dying to reduce oxygen levels. One such had died during lunch, we closed the door and would take care of her in an hour, but her friends came in, then came to tell us they had just made it, and seen her "Last Breath!" We did not clarify that she had died somewhat earlier than her last agonal breath.
In Surgery, death is far more rare, and more bitterly fought. A 14 year old boy hit by a bus, cleaning the gore from him after the attempts at resuscitation and surgical repair, so that his parents could see him in those poor remains. The old-school nurses wrapping his hands in warm blankets so he would have warm hands, and perhaps not seem so dead to his mother.
A young woman killed in a climbing accident, her organs harvested for others, for a while I'd held her heart. I stayed to wash her, as I had the most experience of any present to do this for her. I cried as I did so.
Another woman, damaged at birth, and losing to an overwhelming infection, whose heart I had shoved into a few more minutes of work. I later sat with her in a surgical education room, until her family could come, they braided her hair.
A elderly woman, seemed to me supremely disinterested in her impending amputation. I figured she had other plans that evening, regardless of what we did. She died in surgery, after an hour of intermittently working resuscitation. Her family insisted we put her leg back on. The surgeon wrapped it in place, all that seemed possible at that point.
A young man, receiving a liver transplant, the surgeon losing self control, the man losing way too much blood, the family insisting on coming into that chaos to see him alive one last time- to all our astonishment. They were eventually brought in, allowed to kiss their son-- intubated, invasive lines, his blood permeating the room, all the noise of the surgeons continuing the useless fight, but we found out later they understood better because they were allowed in.
Death is not a fearful prospect for me. It is too familiar. I do not know what happens, but it is profound, with much the same hot press of a birth. A blessing when the suffering would be far worse. Inevitable, impartial. I have seen those who stare into the face of death, and there is beauty there. I'm told it's not so bad. My own death awaits me, the path where my soul will walk alone.
Not to say I was comfortable with death. I hated having to pray while staring at that waxy, frightening form in the satin lined casket. I tried to stare at the flowers, the wood, the rosary in the stiff hands, rather than the painted face, especially if I had known the Aunt well. I feared the dead. I obsessed about dying and all manner of gruesome ways of ending up a stiff. Normal for an adolescent, and I was especially morbid. A girl in high school died of leukemia. A neighbor boy and his cousin died in a car crash the night of their graduation- the naked grief of that funeral was breathtaking.
I was terrified of cemeteries, in part because there was one under the turn of the bridge that my father always took way too fast, and I always figured I would die there. Not buried, thrown from the car and killed in the cemetery. Nightmare fodder. My father worked as a custodian at a cemetery from the time I was about 12, after his factory closed and he was glad to have health insurance and an income as an unskilled worker in his mid 50's. I did everything I could not to go with my mother to pick him up. And when I was learning to drive at 17, guess where they thought it would be a great place for me to practice. I hated it.
Death became part of my job, at 33, when I had my shiny new RN license, working in a hospice/rehab floor of a nursing home. About a week in, a CNA called to me as I came on shift. Terrified, unprepared, I walked into that quiet room, alone with my stethoscope. I listened, heard nothing, and called the other nurse in. She found my bother amusing, but backed me up, and helped me make the calls and fill in the paperwork, while others did the hands-on that morning. That would be the first death of many requiring my presence. I came to know that look, the "um...." the tone to my name as the aide notified me of a death, often very much expected, occasionally not. I would wash the dead, talk to families, call the funeral homes. I would watch for the last breath, and hold the hands of the dying. I always cried, not sobbing, just a few minutes of pouring tears, then or later at home.
Weird things happened when people died. A sweetly demented woman who never got up at night, came to the desk at 2am saying two men were in her room wearing black suits. This was highly out of character for her. There was nothing when we went and checked, she calmly went back to sleep. One of our men on the other end died in the midst of this.
Another elderly woman, confused but more or less coherent, had been admitted for pneumonia. Every night she asked us if she was going to die. I always told her I thought she would live a while longer, which seemed to satisfy her. Then one night, after she was much better, and was being evaluated for going home, she told me "I'm going to die tonight." I stopped, and considered my words. "Then we will watch over you." Which also seemed to satisfy her. About midnight, she stopped breathing, her heart stopped. But neither the other nurse nor I were convinced she was dead. We moved her roommate to an empty room, washed her and called her family. They were not surprized, said she had told them earlier and they had said their goodbyes then. We called the mortuary, SOP. And went back to make sure we were right- repeatedly- not usual. She seemed still there, still alive, as though still confused about what she should do next. We went down to listen again through that night, even saying out loud "You are dead, you can go now. " Glad that the particular mortuary, normally so on time, didn't show until 6am. Because by then, the sense that she was still there, was gone.
I watched one woman heal up bedsores in a week. I had cleared her throat, when she turned her head with a startle, stared and took a last, sighing breath in my arms. I was told by a woman dying miserably of esophageal cancer that it (death) was "Not so bad."
I have seen those dying of lung disease keep breathing intermittently for a half hour after their hearts had stopped. Normal impulse to breath is a high CO2 sensor, long term pulmonary disease burns this out, and the secondary impulse- low 02 will continue to function. Nothing like dying to reduce oxygen levels. One such had died during lunch, we closed the door and would take care of her in an hour, but her friends came in, then came to tell us they had just made it, and seen her "Last Breath!" We did not clarify that she had died somewhat earlier than her last agonal breath.
In Surgery, death is far more rare, and more bitterly fought. A 14 year old boy hit by a bus, cleaning the gore from him after the attempts at resuscitation and surgical repair, so that his parents could see him in those poor remains. The old-school nurses wrapping his hands in warm blankets so he would have warm hands, and perhaps not seem so dead to his mother.
A young woman killed in a climbing accident, her organs harvested for others, for a while I'd held her heart. I stayed to wash her, as I had the most experience of any present to do this for her. I cried as I did so.
Another woman, damaged at birth, and losing to an overwhelming infection, whose heart I had shoved into a few more minutes of work. I later sat with her in a surgical education room, until her family could come, they braided her hair.
A elderly woman, seemed to me supremely disinterested in her impending amputation. I figured she had other plans that evening, regardless of what we did. She died in surgery, after an hour of intermittently working resuscitation. Her family insisted we put her leg back on. The surgeon wrapped it in place, all that seemed possible at that point.
A young man, receiving a liver transplant, the surgeon losing self control, the man losing way too much blood, the family insisting on coming into that chaos to see him alive one last time- to all our astonishment. They were eventually brought in, allowed to kiss their son-- intubated, invasive lines, his blood permeating the room, all the noise of the surgeons continuing the useless fight, but we found out later they understood better because they were allowed in.
Death is not a fearful prospect for me. It is too familiar. I do not know what happens, but it is profound, with much the same hot press of a birth. A blessing when the suffering would be far worse. Inevitable, impartial. I have seen those who stare into the face of death, and there is beauty there. I'm told it's not so bad. My own death awaits me, the path where my soul will walk alone.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Monday, July 18, 2005
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
Path
I longed to live an interesting life, being isolated in the petty destructiveness of my parent's home. I lived in a small circle of family- aunts and uncles, grandmothers, that we visited each week. I had my own narrow back yard, and the occasional neighborhood child for play, but never really friendship. I was deeply lonely and very alone. There was little money for entertainment, the Library was my consolation, and my first employer. Family vacations, car trips on a shoestring, took us far- Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, Appalachian Trail, Nova Scotia, all were a peek out to the wider world, but inevitably devolved into my father's ill temper and rages. Catholic high school, especially with bright classmates who were friends truly, allowed me to breathe for the first time. Still small and straited into parental expectations, I grew inside, had ideas about what I might be. I had the skills to study well, and endure much, and lurk inside myself until my path became clear. I was desperate to escape my naiveté, my narrow choices, my stifling safety.
I escaped up North to a radio station job, but failed, quit. Being more alone, with my parents trying to rescue me to feel important themselves, instead of letting me fall and find my own way, I crawled back. I used my scholarship toward a Theater degree, at Wayne State, learned about Shakespeare and standing up in front of others. No talent for acting, and I learned what I didn't want- relying for my livelihood on the constant approval of unpredictable others. Almost learned, I lived with and then married an entirely wrong 15 year older man, quit school, moved to where he had family in Salt Lake. I would never have thought of Utah on my own. I only knew I needed to get far far away from my parents, and Detroit. We neither of us had anything like job skills. He liked to spend money on himself. I desperately saved it. I worked several part time jobs at a time, modeling for art classes for cash, survey research, whatever. He got a job at the library because he went to school in Idaho with the personnel director, and I was hired shortly after- part time. I shelved books. Worked hard. There was a tax reduction initiative that threatened that small job, so I looked harder. Checked the want ads daily.
One ad said "Part Time, Earn money while you train. Money for school. Utah National Guard." I figured what the hell, if it was a good deal, I'd go for it. Took the ASFAB the next day, and by Friday I had raised my hand, and joined up. Didn't get really scared until right before I left. Had no idea. But it would change how my brain worked, permanently. Push me to limits I would have drawn much smaller. Get me away from a bad marriage. I was 26.
I met many interesting people, who had joined the Army for all kinds of odd reasons. D was the best. I thought him 17, but he was 20 when we first started talking. Bright, opinionated as men that age are, an unaccountably stretchy mind, given such narrow experience of life in Mormon suburban Utah. Emotionally insightful, though lacking the language to describe his truths. We got to know each other when we were sent off to Colorado Springs, then Saudi Arabia for Gulf War I. He was not easy to get to know, but he was generous and curious, unfailingly kind, loyal, warmly affectionate, he was who I needed to let me grow out of my hurts and distrusts. He had-has- the rare gifts of always being able to make me laugh, and of being comfortably silent. Sees nothing wrong in me, ever. Never turns his anger at me. Taught me not feed my anger.
With his indispensable support, I made it through nursing school. And my first year in surgery, which was harder than getting my degree. My work, which I love,has supported us while he got through his BA. And now he is in grad school here in Boston, as I do the traveling/agency nurse shtick, which gives us housing. I have cousins here, that I did not know I could count on, but who rescued us from a night on the floor of the train station, and have befriended us.
His friends, some which he has had since grade and high school, surround us. And they keep marrying into each other. So we stretch and strengthen our bonds. I have a non-genetic, but altogether real family. A family that opens up the world, instead of contracting in. We continue to grow together. And gather in more people.
My life, my mistakes and whimsical decisions, seem to have lead us to a place of great joy, and there seems to be more on the horizon. Perhaps Fate, an ineffable pattern forming. I stretch out, aspiring to be an intelligent, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, eccentric woman who has lived all over, fallen in love, broken my heart, been out on a number of limbs, seen transplants and traumas, deaths and births, thrown pots, danced, sang, gone to war, and is still often an idiot willing to try another adventure. I did want an interesting life. What the hell.
I escaped up North to a radio station job, but failed, quit. Being more alone, with my parents trying to rescue me to feel important themselves, instead of letting me fall and find my own way, I crawled back. I used my scholarship toward a Theater degree, at Wayne State, learned about Shakespeare and standing up in front of others. No talent for acting, and I learned what I didn't want- relying for my livelihood on the constant approval of unpredictable others. Almost learned, I lived with and then married an entirely wrong 15 year older man, quit school, moved to where he had family in Salt Lake. I would never have thought of Utah on my own. I only knew I needed to get far far away from my parents, and Detroit. We neither of us had anything like job skills. He liked to spend money on himself. I desperately saved it. I worked several part time jobs at a time, modeling for art classes for cash, survey research, whatever. He got a job at the library because he went to school in Idaho with the personnel director, and I was hired shortly after- part time. I shelved books. Worked hard. There was a tax reduction initiative that threatened that small job, so I looked harder. Checked the want ads daily.
One ad said "Part Time, Earn money while you train. Money for school. Utah National Guard." I figured what the hell, if it was a good deal, I'd go for it. Took the ASFAB the next day, and by Friday I had raised my hand, and joined up. Didn't get really scared until right before I left. Had no idea. But it would change how my brain worked, permanently. Push me to limits I would have drawn much smaller. Get me away from a bad marriage. I was 26.
I met many interesting people, who had joined the Army for all kinds of odd reasons. D was the best. I thought him 17, but he was 20 when we first started talking. Bright, opinionated as men that age are, an unaccountably stretchy mind, given such narrow experience of life in Mormon suburban Utah. Emotionally insightful, though lacking the language to describe his truths. We got to know each other when we were sent off to Colorado Springs, then Saudi Arabia for Gulf War I. He was not easy to get to know, but he was generous and curious, unfailingly kind, loyal, warmly affectionate, he was who I needed to let me grow out of my hurts and distrusts. He had-has- the rare gifts of always being able to make me laugh, and of being comfortably silent. Sees nothing wrong in me, ever. Never turns his anger at me. Taught me not feed my anger.
With his indispensable support, I made it through nursing school. And my first year in surgery, which was harder than getting my degree. My work, which I love,has supported us while he got through his BA. And now he is in grad school here in Boston, as I do the traveling/agency nurse shtick, which gives us housing. I have cousins here, that I did not know I could count on, but who rescued us from a night on the floor of the train station, and have befriended us.
His friends, some which he has had since grade and high school, surround us. And they keep marrying into each other. So we stretch and strengthen our bonds. I have a non-genetic, but altogether real family. A family that opens up the world, instead of contracting in. We continue to grow together. And gather in more people.
My life, my mistakes and whimsical decisions, seem to have lead us to a place of great joy, and there seems to be more on the horizon. Perhaps Fate, an ineffable pattern forming. I stretch out, aspiring to be an intelligent, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, eccentric woman who has lived all over, fallen in love, broken my heart, been out on a number of limbs, seen transplants and traumas, deaths and births, thrown pots, danced, sang, gone to war, and is still often an idiot willing to try another adventure. I did want an interesting life. What the hell.
Pain
My tonsils came out when I was 5. I woke up from anesthesia to shocking amounts of pain. I had no idea it would hurt so much, I had never had anything hurt so much. It was awesome and terrifying and endless. The adults around me were nowhere near as concerned as I thought they should be, and I was bereft and helpless. I work today in surgery and a Post Anesthesia Care Unit (PACU ) and I fear working with children, lest I fail them in that moment of suffering and terror. I am a nurse who never needed to be convinced that children feel pain. I know. I remember. I generously give drugs.
There was no such thing as migraines in children when I was a child, so mine were never diagnosed, nonetheless treated. Anxious in a house of quietly desperate dysfunction, bullied at school, illness was the only time I was defended, given any peace. My gut knotted and my head throbbed to give me respite. Children do whatever they have to do. My body protected me the only way it knew how. It never quite learned to forget- when I had my life to myself. I have been gaining on it over the years, and I am finally really coming around.
As an adult, the migraines were incapacitating. Curled up on the floor of the bathroom, squeezing my head, I would have gladly put a bullet in my brain, not to die, but just on the off chance that it would stop the pain. Finally diagnosed and given drugs, wonderful drugs, when I was in my 30's, I now only fear going though a migraine unmedicated. A rare aura developed at work once, and I told the anesthesiologist so that someone in the room knew I might go down soon. He offered me IV drugs. I rolled up my sleeve. It was a very strange exchange, for which I am still grateful. Wonderful drugs.
Pain, I have found, I can ignore, while being drained of energy. Accumulated back injuries from numerous falls dancing, slipping on ice, moving patients, car accidents have left me vulnerable. I was thrown from a see-saw when I was very small, hit my head on the fulcrum, lost consciousness, and woke to agony. I fell down the wooden stairs in my parent's house, numerous times, bruised and my breath shocked out of me, then wracking sobs that my brothers tried to stop by making me laugh. Made it worse, but at least they were there. Four impacted wisdom teeth that ached for months and then oral surgery to top it off. An abscessed tooth, debrided without anesthetic, several moments of excruciating sensation. Breathing in CS gas in Basic, the worst two minutes of my life. I never knew lungs could hurt so. I broke a toe once, getting out of bed. As I healed, I walked around a winter campus on hills, as to be expected at the University of Utah, every step a wince. Or rather, every other step. I kept going. (Step, ow. Step, ow.)
My D smashed his elbow. I knew from first getting to know him in the middle of a war zone that he was brave, quietly deeply brave. I forgot for a time, and was forcibly reminded when I met him at the Instacare out in West Valley. Grey, tight, holding his arm delicately, still his eyes (slightly) lit when he saw me. He joked with me, laughed at my attempts at humor.
All through that long night until he would have surgery the next day, he never complained, never asked 'why me?' Throughout the next year of physical therapy, and a second surgery, he never played up the pain, never asked for pampering, was constantly grateful for anything done for him. He complained about the pain meds making him feel nauseated, angry at himself for not being able to do what he needed, whined a bit when the pain got too much, but did all the therapy, took two busses to make it to every appointment. Played his guitar the day after the second surgery, because he could finally make his arm bend enough (one four bar blues bar, it counts.) It hurt him, but that was his grail. He tends to hide the scar, and the misshapen arm to this day. But I kiss D'elbow, knowing what he endured. And because I fell in love with him again, having forgotten for a time how great his soul was. Pain is a great revealer of character.
Pain is not to be courted, but when it comes, it has wisdom to teach. A Vietnam Veteran at the Vet center talked with me after I got back from Gulf War I. I felt guilty when I was showered, along with the other new vets, with lavish public thanks, after merely an annoying time at war. I was suffering, but it seemed like it was over a bunch of nothing. He told me the worst pain he ever had was when he was hit by shrapnel, the wound that got him sent home But when he gets a paper cut that is the worst pain ever at that moment. He told me that pain does not compare, not from person to person, nor even from one part of my life to another. It may be telling us to stop, or be still, to listen, to change, to accept, to fight or flee. Inside of pain is the small voice with the real message, perhaps in a code that I can only decipher years later. Let me have ears to hear, lest I suffer in vain.
There was no such thing as migraines in children when I was a child, so mine were never diagnosed, nonetheless treated. Anxious in a house of quietly desperate dysfunction, bullied at school, illness was the only time I was defended, given any peace. My gut knotted and my head throbbed to give me respite. Children do whatever they have to do. My body protected me the only way it knew how. It never quite learned to forget- when I had my life to myself. I have been gaining on it over the years, and I am finally really coming around.
As an adult, the migraines were incapacitating. Curled up on the floor of the bathroom, squeezing my head, I would have gladly put a bullet in my brain, not to die, but just on the off chance that it would stop the pain. Finally diagnosed and given drugs, wonderful drugs, when I was in my 30's, I now only fear going though a migraine unmedicated. A rare aura developed at work once, and I told the anesthesiologist so that someone in the room knew I might go down soon. He offered me IV drugs. I rolled up my sleeve. It was a very strange exchange, for which I am still grateful. Wonderful drugs.
Pain, I have found, I can ignore, while being drained of energy. Accumulated back injuries from numerous falls dancing, slipping on ice, moving patients, car accidents have left me vulnerable. I was thrown from a see-saw when I was very small, hit my head on the fulcrum, lost consciousness, and woke to agony. I fell down the wooden stairs in my parent's house, numerous times, bruised and my breath shocked out of me, then wracking sobs that my brothers tried to stop by making me laugh. Made it worse, but at least they were there. Four impacted wisdom teeth that ached for months and then oral surgery to top it off. An abscessed tooth, debrided without anesthetic, several moments of excruciating sensation. Breathing in CS gas in Basic, the worst two minutes of my life. I never knew lungs could hurt so. I broke a toe once, getting out of bed. As I healed, I walked around a winter campus on hills, as to be expected at the University of Utah, every step a wince. Or rather, every other step. I kept going. (Step, ow. Step, ow.)
My D smashed his elbow. I knew from first getting to know him in the middle of a war zone that he was brave, quietly deeply brave. I forgot for a time, and was forcibly reminded when I met him at the Instacare out in West Valley. Grey, tight, holding his arm delicately, still his eyes (slightly) lit when he saw me. He joked with me, laughed at my attempts at humor.
All through that long night until he would have surgery the next day, he never complained, never asked 'why me?' Throughout the next year of physical therapy, and a second surgery, he never played up the pain, never asked for pampering, was constantly grateful for anything done for him. He complained about the pain meds making him feel nauseated, angry at himself for not being able to do what he needed, whined a bit when the pain got too much, but did all the therapy, took two busses to make it to every appointment. Played his guitar the day after the second surgery, because he could finally make his arm bend enough (one four bar blues bar, it counts.) It hurt him, but that was his grail. He tends to hide the scar, and the misshapen arm to this day. But I kiss D'elbow, knowing what he endured. And because I fell in love with him again, having forgotten for a time how great his soul was. Pain is a great revealer of character.
Pain is not to be courted, but when it comes, it has wisdom to teach. A Vietnam Veteran at the Vet center talked with me after I got back from Gulf War I. I felt guilty when I was showered, along with the other new vets, with lavish public thanks, after merely an annoying time at war. I was suffering, but it seemed like it was over a bunch of nothing. He told me the worst pain he ever had was when he was hit by shrapnel, the wound that got him sent home But when he gets a paper cut that is the worst pain ever at that moment. He told me that pain does not compare, not from person to person, nor even from one part of my life to another. It may be telling us to stop, or be still, to listen, to change, to accept, to fight or flee. Inside of pain is the small voice with the real message, perhaps in a code that I can only decipher years later. Let me have ears to hear, lest I suffer in vain.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Comics
My seventh grade teacher, Mark Esper assigned us a project where we had to illustrate current events with comics. Not like I didn't read comics before, but it was mostly Family Circus and Peanuts, you know, the Funnies. But this project was a eye opener, because I started reading Doonsbury, and the Editorial cartoons, all the cartoons in the paper. I read it all, and cut them out, put them in a notebook and wrote why I thought they applied to current events. I still think about comics as social commentary, cultural context.
I have read For Better or For Worse for 20 years, despite it being about families and babies, it is not laugh out loud funny most of the time. But Lyn Johnston did a story about Lawrence, who is gay. No big political point, just here is a young man who is gay, and he has friends and family and is struggling with being honest. A series of four panel drawings that encapsulated a world wide realization of what freedom for all actually means. Because her characters grow up, the stories flow through. Because a dog dies, as old dogs do. I have a deep affection for this comic, she keeps surprizing me.
I have also realized that Doonsbury is at it's best dealing with the life and death issues of war, Vietnam and Iraq. That I must be aware, but I needn't wallow to the point of paralysis, grim laughter is my relief. Over the decades, much of my news came from that strip, just as many people get much of their news from Jon Stewart. Not because I am flip or uncaring, but because I must filter the flow a bit in order to take it all in. The tragedy of the world crushing me like a broken dam is not sustainable. I must step back and squint my eyes, lest I be blinded and broken. Like looking at the sun, I need a pinhole box.
And then there are the strips I abandoned because I grew up. I read Family Circle, Garfield, Blondie, every Peanuts collection at the library, they were all aimed at me. I gradually realized how much the same they all were, same jokes, simplistic, repetitious like sitcoms. I liked Cathy when I was young, I grew up and tiredof her, as her whining became unbearable, her self pity nauseating, her anti-feminist conflicts grating. I read The Lockhorns marital discord not understanding, but it was available as cultural information. Aimed at children.
Dilbert was wonderful when it was about engineers, of no interest to me when it was about cubicle world. For me, it lost it's appeal as it became more staid, and commercial. Creativity, humor, topicality, given over to the grinding demands of the market. People want them, read them, not because they are good, but because they are comforting, the same tired jokes every morning, safe predictable subjects, stasis. Children can justify it, it is all new to them, and they need continuity and repetition. For adults, it is a trap, or a symptom of being trapped. Like easy listening music, macaroni and cheese, a kind of comfort food for the sense of humor. Bland and harmless, save for damage to the wit. The fact that I am certain that anyone ever reading this will know all these comics is part of why I probably hate them. Pernicious and omnipresent, they are over-told jokes, overplayed songs.
Gary Larson and Bill Waterson had admirable integrity by stopping when they were done talking. Far Side and Calvin and Hobbs never became trite. Thanks, guys.
My favorite comics, now as ever, either change with time, or reflect the times. I am still always willing to say "enough" when a comic strip loses it's edge. When I saw the Target symbol on a bag in one recent strip, one of those where the kid never grows up, I stopped reading it. I am still often enough amused by Mother Goose and Grim to keep reading. I used to think Luann was lame, until he started the story about the brother becoming a firefighter. I gave it another chance, and glad I did, because the story was worthwhile.
I read quite a few strips every day, and I do not know why some make me laugh, and some leave me cold. I do know that it is important to occasionally ask myself why I read a strip every day, and if it is worth the time, and if there are others worth knowing about. These are the stories of our culture, small stories that speak to us, and about us. They are the signs of the times. And, they make me laugh.
I had links here, but most of them are now broken.
I have read For Better or For Worse for 20 years, despite it being about families and babies, it is not laugh out loud funny most of the time. But Lyn Johnston did a story about Lawrence, who is gay. No big political point, just here is a young man who is gay, and he has friends and family and is struggling with being honest. A series of four panel drawings that encapsulated a world wide realization of what freedom for all actually means. Because her characters grow up, the stories flow through. Because a dog dies, as old dogs do. I have a deep affection for this comic, she keeps surprizing me.
I have also realized that Doonsbury is at it's best dealing with the life and death issues of war, Vietnam and Iraq. That I must be aware, but I needn't wallow to the point of paralysis, grim laughter is my relief. Over the decades, much of my news came from that strip, just as many people get much of their news from Jon Stewart. Not because I am flip or uncaring, but because I must filter the flow a bit in order to take it all in. The tragedy of the world crushing me like a broken dam is not sustainable. I must step back and squint my eyes, lest I be blinded and broken. Like looking at the sun, I need a pinhole box.
And then there are the strips I abandoned because I grew up. I read Family Circle, Garfield, Blondie, every Peanuts collection at the library, they were all aimed at me. I gradually realized how much the same they all were, same jokes, simplistic, repetitious like sitcoms. I liked Cathy when I was young, I grew up and tiredof her, as her whining became unbearable, her self pity nauseating, her anti-feminist conflicts grating. I read The Lockhorns marital discord not understanding, but it was available as cultural information. Aimed at children.
Dilbert was wonderful when it was about engineers, of no interest to me when it was about cubicle world. For me, it lost it's appeal as it became more staid, and commercial. Creativity, humor, topicality, given over to the grinding demands of the market. People want them, read them, not because they are good, but because they are comforting, the same tired jokes every morning, safe predictable subjects, stasis. Children can justify it, it is all new to them, and they need continuity and repetition. For adults, it is a trap, or a symptom of being trapped. Like easy listening music, macaroni and cheese, a kind of comfort food for the sense of humor. Bland and harmless, save for damage to the wit. The fact that I am certain that anyone ever reading this will know all these comics is part of why I probably hate them. Pernicious and omnipresent, they are over-told jokes, overplayed songs.
Gary Larson and Bill Waterson had admirable integrity by stopping when they were done talking. Far Side and Calvin and Hobbs never became trite. Thanks, guys.
My favorite comics, now as ever, either change with time, or reflect the times. I am still always willing to say "enough" when a comic strip loses it's edge. When I saw the Target symbol on a bag in one recent strip, one of those where the kid never grows up, I stopped reading it. I am still often enough amused by Mother Goose and Grim to keep reading. I used to think Luann was lame, until he started the story about the brother becoming a firefighter. I gave it another chance, and glad I did, because the story was worthwhile.
I read quite a few strips every day, and I do not know why some make me laugh, and some leave me cold. I do know that it is important to occasionally ask myself why I read a strip every day, and if it is worth the time, and if there are others worth knowing about. These are the stories of our culture, small stories that speak to us, and about us. They are the signs of the times. And, they make me laugh.
I had links here, but most of them are now broken.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Activation
I did my two week AT (Annual Training) for my National Guard Unit in the summer, painting and doing mostly busy work, while bullshitting with fellow sufferers. The Operation Desert Shield thing was starting, and we were taking informal bets what would happen to us. I was in the bitter end of an abusive marriage, having a pointless affair with a guy in the Unit, I was sanguine about being taken out of the state for a while. We all figured that if we got activated, it would be to hold down the post for an Army Hospital in Mississippi, as had happened in the Cuban Missile Crisis- the last time this hospital unit had been activated.
Then the rules started changing. We would no longer be just at the beck and call of the Governor, but of the U.S. President, and units were being sent to the Gulf. Being a great pessimist, I figured we were for it. I had just escaped the entanglement of my marriage less than a month before. Taking Microbiology and organic chemistry, I'd heard other Reservists getting called up, and being given credit for classes that were already half over. And then it was my turn.
I had just bought myself a futon and frame, and a bedspread. (I had been sleeping on a foam pad.) Made my nice new piney smelling bed, new black bedspread, and the phone rang. I blithely answered. Told to report to the Armory at the usual time on Saturday when we were already scheduled for drill. I was On Alert. I laid down on my new bed, stunned, thoughts, or at least obscenities racing through my head. Not least of which was "Well, I may be able to have an affair with D." I have no recollection of the rest of the day.
At first formation, we were told we would be in Saudi Arabia for Christmas. We were not just On Alert, we were being Activated. My sergeant walked through his duties that day with tears in his eyes. He was not the only one. Parents were frantic about their children, students worried about their education and loans, the older ones speculated on whether their businesses would still be there when they got back. We were not given an end date, perhaps it would be for the duration. Gossip took over, and amidst the busy preparations- made easier in my section due to our Colonel "Mom" who had done her work to make us organized and ready, was a suppressed panic. D and I sought each other out, and found solace in catching each other's eyes, commiserating.
That evening, I would get dumped by the guy I had been seeing. Which took nerve on his part, and I give him credit for doing it immediately and not dragging it out. But I spent that night crying, not just for him, but for all my loss and anxiety and fears and uncertainty and mortality.
I would get up early with a headache that became a migraine as I stood in line after line to get this bit of equipment, that form, my will and insurance, all the Army shit. And D would be sure to stand in line with me, at some point getting me a chair and putting my head down on his mask carrier as we waited in another line. A gesture I found overwhelmingly endearing and comforting then, that still brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.
I would go to all my classes the next day and with up to a dozen other students in each class, to sign up for the "get the grade you would get for your work so far, and get credit for the whole semester" deal. My recent friends from class agreed to help with various tasks I could not do. One - then living with her grandparents, would move into my apartment, I would pay rent and she would cover utilities only, so I would not have to find a new place if and when I got home. Another friend would hold my checkbook, another would handle anything else. I was dumping on them but with only a week's notice, and friends I had not known that long, I tried to spread it out, to reduce both burden and temptation. I was desperate, and with few choices. They would all come through for me.
The week would involve most days at the Armory, but Thursday off. Because Thursday was Thanksgiving. I spent it with friends, one of whom had been a radio man in Vietnam, he gave me his infantry badge - to bring back to him. He would take me the next day, with D, to get some allowable comforts, a short wave radio, scissors, swiss army knives, a few other odds and ends. It was a lovely, normal day, and friend and D bonded in a gratifying way. Sunday night, at 0dark30, we were put in all the bulky webgear, and loaded on busses alphabetically, and sent off to wait at Fort Carson for a month until we were sent to Saudi Arabia.
Such began my first date with D. We would both come through changed, blind to the road before us, reaching out to each other. This is why we count our anniversary, the one that counts, as the date on our activation orders, celebrated on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Because we would survive, and this would turn out for us to be six months of annoyance in a footnote war.
Not like the current sequel.
Then the rules started changing. We would no longer be just at the beck and call of the Governor, but of the U.S. President, and units were being sent to the Gulf. Being a great pessimist, I figured we were for it. I had just escaped the entanglement of my marriage less than a month before. Taking Microbiology and organic chemistry, I'd heard other Reservists getting called up, and being given credit for classes that were already half over. And then it was my turn.
I had just bought myself a futon and frame, and a bedspread. (I had been sleeping on a foam pad.) Made my nice new piney smelling bed, new black bedspread, and the phone rang. I blithely answered. Told to report to the Armory at the usual time on Saturday when we were already scheduled for drill. I was On Alert. I laid down on my new bed, stunned, thoughts, or at least obscenities racing through my head. Not least of which was "Well, I may be able to have an affair with D." I have no recollection of the rest of the day.
At first formation, we were told we would be in Saudi Arabia for Christmas. We were not just On Alert, we were being Activated. My sergeant walked through his duties that day with tears in his eyes. He was not the only one. Parents were frantic about their children, students worried about their education and loans, the older ones speculated on whether their businesses would still be there when they got back. We were not given an end date, perhaps it would be for the duration. Gossip took over, and amidst the busy preparations- made easier in my section due to our Colonel "Mom" who had done her work to make us organized and ready, was a suppressed panic. D and I sought each other out, and found solace in catching each other's eyes, commiserating.
That evening, I would get dumped by the guy I had been seeing. Which took nerve on his part, and I give him credit for doing it immediately and not dragging it out. But I spent that night crying, not just for him, but for all my loss and anxiety and fears and uncertainty and mortality.
I would get up early with a headache that became a migraine as I stood in line after line to get this bit of equipment, that form, my will and insurance, all the Army shit. And D would be sure to stand in line with me, at some point getting me a chair and putting my head down on his mask carrier as we waited in another line. A gesture I found overwhelmingly endearing and comforting then, that still brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.
I would go to all my classes the next day and with up to a dozen other students in each class, to sign up for the "get the grade you would get for your work so far, and get credit for the whole semester" deal. My recent friends from class agreed to help with various tasks I could not do. One - then living with her grandparents, would move into my apartment, I would pay rent and she would cover utilities only, so I would not have to find a new place if and when I got home. Another friend would hold my checkbook, another would handle anything else. I was dumping on them but with only a week's notice, and friends I had not known that long, I tried to spread it out, to reduce both burden and temptation. I was desperate, and with few choices. They would all come through for me.
The week would involve most days at the Armory, but Thursday off. Because Thursday was Thanksgiving. I spent it with friends, one of whom had been a radio man in Vietnam, he gave me his infantry badge - to bring back to him. He would take me the next day, with D, to get some allowable comforts, a short wave radio, scissors, swiss army knives, a few other odds and ends. It was a lovely, normal day, and friend and D bonded in a gratifying way. Sunday night, at 0dark30, we were put in all the bulky webgear, and loaded on busses alphabetically, and sent off to wait at Fort Carson for a month until we were sent to Saudi Arabia.
Such began my first date with D. We would both come through changed, blind to the road before us, reaching out to each other. This is why we count our anniversary, the one that counts, as the date on our activation orders, celebrated on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Because we would survive, and this would turn out for us to be six months of annoyance in a footnote war.
Not like the current sequel.
Feel
I have always been tactile. I ran my fingers along anything I could, in stores, fences, rows of book spines, best of all bolts of cloth in fabric stores. The colors attracted my eyes, but I had to touch. My earliest memories are of standing on the pew in church and petting the fur collar on a woman's coat. It would keep me quietly content for hours. I had to have been small because I had to stand to reach the shoulder of a little old lady. Don't ask me which old lady, there were several neighbor ladies who would sit with my family in church, my Aunt Evelyn had a fur collar, my granny had one, the memory is no doubt a series of memories rather than a single event. But I can still feel the fur under my small hand.
I would also react against bad feelings. Weird "catchy" fabric would cause me to pull away as though hurt, and I would have to rub my hand to remove the feeling. When my mother would turn over the soil for a garden in the spring, I could cope with the dirt until I touched my first worm of the year, then I could not go near it. Oatmeal pans left to soak overnight, the cold water with globs of slimy chunks would make me retch when I had to clean them out. I hated flannel sheets, they pilled, and sparked in the dry winter air. I liked seeing the static light when I ran my feet between, but it felt awful.
I rubbed the eyes, shiny black smooth eyes, of my raggedy ann that my brothers had given me, until they lost their surface. My Aunt Evelyn had a figurine of a bear, called Fuzzy Wuzzy, that had fuzz on it. I rubbed what was left completely off during my childhood. Her Chesterfield was brown with the paisley shaped pattern of weave and loops that I would run my fingers over incessantly.
My Aunt Alma's poodle, fat Gigi, my oldest friend, curly, clean black fur, lived to eat, and chase her ball, always rubber, always saturated with dog spit that squidged in my hand when I threw it for her. Midnight was patiently gentle cat that I could carry on my shoulders when I was four, and stroked and stroked. The current feline is Moby, whose fur is black silk, warm and alive, and I rest my hand on him. I have a weakness for shaven heads discovered while in the Army, soft velvet shorn hair is irresistible. That D likes his head kept shaved is a daily pleasure to me.
I know what humans feel like outside and in. Trained in massage, I learned how to feel for the tightness and pain in muscles, what was bone, what tendon. Subtle feeling that I have no words for. The feeling of tension under skin. There is a particular feeling of heat and sharpness with pain. Friends and fellow workers who I work on Wonder How I Know to go Right There where they are hurting. It is logical, but not amenable to words. My hands know.
Working in surgery, I have felt inside, a heathy liver, tumors, cysts. The surprizing strength of a heartbeat straining against a hand - not to be held still, as it shoves away with each thump. Fatty tissue so slippery it cannot be restrained. Intestine squirming and gurgling through my hand, soft stones or sandy grit inside a gall bladder -itself a deflated lubricated balloon. The distanced feel of putting in a catheter, knowing by the resistance if it has gone where it should. The waxen feel of the dead that have expelled the soul. The marvel of the human body, even in such extremity demands respect.
My hands reach out to comfort, and to experience, itch to feel, test, understand. No beauties, they are battered hands, scarred and scraped. Sore, aching curious extensions of my mind and eyes. Small blunt useful hands. With a tendency to sneak out and stroke soft stuff with very little invitation.
I would also react against bad feelings. Weird "catchy" fabric would cause me to pull away as though hurt, and I would have to rub my hand to remove the feeling. When my mother would turn over the soil for a garden in the spring, I could cope with the dirt until I touched my first worm of the year, then I could not go near it. Oatmeal pans left to soak overnight, the cold water with globs of slimy chunks would make me retch when I had to clean them out. I hated flannel sheets, they pilled, and sparked in the dry winter air. I liked seeing the static light when I ran my feet between, but it felt awful.
I rubbed the eyes, shiny black smooth eyes, of my raggedy ann that my brothers had given me, until they lost their surface. My Aunt Evelyn had a figurine of a bear, called Fuzzy Wuzzy, that had fuzz on it. I rubbed what was left completely off during my childhood. Her Chesterfield was brown with the paisley shaped pattern of weave and loops that I would run my fingers over incessantly.
My Aunt Alma's poodle, fat Gigi, my oldest friend, curly, clean black fur, lived to eat, and chase her ball, always rubber, always saturated with dog spit that squidged in my hand when I threw it for her. Midnight was patiently gentle cat that I could carry on my shoulders when I was four, and stroked and stroked. The current feline is Moby, whose fur is black silk, warm and alive, and I rest my hand on him. I have a weakness for shaven heads discovered while in the Army, soft velvet shorn hair is irresistible. That D likes his head kept shaved is a daily pleasure to me.
I know what humans feel like outside and in. Trained in massage, I learned how to feel for the tightness and pain in muscles, what was bone, what tendon. Subtle feeling that I have no words for. The feeling of tension under skin. There is a particular feeling of heat and sharpness with pain. Friends and fellow workers who I work on Wonder How I Know to go Right There where they are hurting. It is logical, but not amenable to words. My hands know.
Working in surgery, I have felt inside, a heathy liver, tumors, cysts. The surprizing strength of a heartbeat straining against a hand - not to be held still, as it shoves away with each thump. Fatty tissue so slippery it cannot be restrained. Intestine squirming and gurgling through my hand, soft stones or sandy grit inside a gall bladder -itself a deflated lubricated balloon. The distanced feel of putting in a catheter, knowing by the resistance if it has gone where it should. The waxen feel of the dead that have expelled the soul. The marvel of the human body, even in such extremity demands respect.
My hands reach out to comfort, and to experience, itch to feel, test, understand. No beauties, they are battered hands, scarred and scraped. Sore, aching curious extensions of my mind and eyes. Small blunt useful hands. With a tendency to sneak out and stroke soft stuff with very little invitation.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Polite
I have had a long and difficult relationship with politeness, having lived in three very different areas of the country, plus growing up in a Canadian family. Canadians, well renowned for their politeness, are nevertheless not in perfect agreement with everybody everywhere else (or each other, for that matter.) Individual Canadians are not necessarily up to the Mountie Gold Standard. (Didn't know there was one did you?) Well, and many times Canadians seem polite to strangers who do not realize they are being very sarcastic. Often with each other. So I know polite, but it is not the same flavor in Windsor as in Detroit or Salt Lake City or Boston.
I grew up in Detroit, a rough town at the best of times, but very much influenced by it's northern (in some places where the river bends, actually to the south, but let's not quibble) neighbor. But also the raucous liveliness of both black and middle European shouting and hand talk, added to big city privacy, and the street smarts to brusquely deflect beggars, muggers or hucksters. A polite person would adapt to the requirements of the context, others would wind up offending, or being victimized. Politeness greased the rubbing together of so many people from so many backgrounds and expectations. It was an aloof and cold manner, that could not be described as friendly.
Detroit public politeness (at least when I was growing up there) tended toward the assumption of dishonesty and threat - where quiet avoidance of social interaction, especially on the street, was a safety measure. In Boston generally, on the T(train) especially, silence is the rule, even when giving up one's seat. Unless the individual is clearly out of line, insane or pushy, talking is a clear indicator of a need for assistance, and is usually responded to helpfully. Read any blog from Eastern Urban centers with public transport, and you will see humorous lists of Rules - like "Do not floss on the train... just ... don't." The politeness of most commuters means that they pretend not to notice such lapses, unless it is intrusive on someone else. With near collisions, I might hear an "excuse me." If we actually hit (rare) I will hear a "sorry" as they continue past.
Then there is Utah, Salt Lake City in particular, where people will stand clearly in the only pathway and have conversation, not allowing anyone past. I have been more often jostled or had to force my way through much thinner crowds there than in the densely packed streets here in Boston. In Utah the women can still expect their menfolk to run around the car to open the door for them, and in exchange they are expected to be unbearably sweet and docile. I often found skin deep friendliness to be a mask for appalling and breathtaking rudeness and manipulation. Or for moral weakness excused. Some truly decent people who grew up there struggle to be so outwardly sugary, and still keep their personal boundaries and integrity intact without resorting to becoming angry and resentful themselves. They confuse "niceness" with polite behaviour, and get pushed into accepting what can only be described as evil. They do not call spades spades, because that would not be nice. They prevaricate and squirm, seeing niceness as more important than honesty or standing by their core values. To fight is seen as rude, even in a just cause. Even the ones who succeed in keeping some integrity bear the scars of unbearable niceness.
So I need to offer my definition of polite behaviour for one of those so scarred. Every culture has a series of rules and expectations, which individuals can either use to ease interpersonal friction, or to manipulate people. I will take, for instance, as a silly example, the Canadian, and Northern Mid-Western Rule of Three of Hospitality. It goes a bit like this...
Offer#1 "Would you like some tea?"
Refusal #1 "No, thanks, I'm fine."
Offer #2 "I just got the kettle on, are you sure?"
Refusal #2 "Oh, I really don't want to put you to any trouble."
OR
Offer Withdrawal #1 "I really do have to get going, see you later then, eh?" (Conversation ends)
Offer #3 "No trouble at all, I was going to have a cup myself."
Refusal #3 "No, I really have to get going, but thanks." (interchange ends)
OR
Acceptance "Well, that would be very nice, if you are sure you don't mind."
This is the ideal, the host and guest and both get what they want. When it gets manipulative is when the host only offers once. Twice is fine, if the host would really be put out, only had enough for one, was an a hurry, whatever. Four offers is badgering. A guest who says yes at once better be crawling out of the desert, s/he must allow that the first offer is merely for form. A guest who says no after three should not be put out if not offered again. It is an arbitrary number, but accepted in this culture. A polite host will be aware of someone from elsewhere, and either explain the rule or pick up on other clues and respond accordingly. A rude one will apply the rule to their own benefit, and make allowances for no one, while breaking it for themselves when it is convenient.
But there are more important examples. My Aunt Evelyn volunteered for Birthright, a pro adoption anti-abortion group, that posed as a neutral pregnancy help service. She was devoutly Catholic and lost several pregnancies, and an adopted child (taken back by her birth mother). I am unabashedly pro-abortion, any woman who does not want a child should under no circumstances be forced, coerced, to have one. If my mother asked me if I would have had her abort me, I would say- yes. I'm here, and have made myself a good life, but if I could erase my childhood, I would, no question. I would never have made a point of telling my aunt this, out of deep respect for her life, and her kindly and deeply held beliefs. She had every right to make her own choices, and I mine. She would not have tried to pin me down on the issue. If she had, I would have asked to be allowed my privacy. I did not need her to agree with me in order to think her polite. She would not have forced me to overtly agree with her in order to be seen as polite.
The heart of this is to be gracious, and make others feel acknowledged and wanted, even if it is inconvenient. To allow for friendly refusal and a limitation on both unwanted hospitality and imposition. It allows for both communication and an OUT. It is perfectly polite to deflect impolite requests, even to outright refuse them. At the lowest level is sarcasm- which is to say funny- responses when one person is not playing fairly. Because if we can laugh at the error, it is simply an error, not meanness. Even if it was meanness.
If necessary, brusqueness is the next step, implying a more serious error of interchange, in terms of pushing too hard or prying or being inconsiderate of context or time constraints. The implication is that the other person was being thoughtless or stupid, rather than mean or dishonest, even if they are being mean or dishonest.
Outright rudeness is perfectly acceptable when the other person is clearly dishonest or mean, a sidewalk hustler, abusive beggar, forcing their obviously different from your viewpoint, or any solicitation to illegal, unethical or grossly inappropriate services. At this point it is perfectly acceptable to indicate that what you are being asked is unethical, illegal or coercive. If you absolutely have to be nice, a "teaching" tone would be acceptable. "Have you thought of taking an ethics class, going to the police, asking me how I feel?" Because being considerate does not mean being a doormat, it means considering the other person's point of view. If they are not considering me, it is fair to ask them to. If they do not, I are under no further obligation to comply.
So let us be fair, and honest, fight for what is right, treat each other decently, and stand firm, with all due respect for the toes of our fellow travelers. But say please and thank you, and sorry, and don't push or yell. Because politeness really is not dependent on how many times I do or do not offer tea, or how many times you refuse. But I have just put the kettle on......really, no trouble at all.
I grew up in Detroit, a rough town at the best of times, but very much influenced by it's northern (in some places where the river bends, actually to the south, but let's not quibble) neighbor. But also the raucous liveliness of both black and middle European shouting and hand talk, added to big city privacy, and the street smarts to brusquely deflect beggars, muggers or hucksters. A polite person would adapt to the requirements of the context, others would wind up offending, or being victimized. Politeness greased the rubbing together of so many people from so many backgrounds and expectations. It was an aloof and cold manner, that could not be described as friendly.
Detroit public politeness (at least when I was growing up there) tended toward the assumption of dishonesty and threat - where quiet avoidance of social interaction, especially on the street, was a safety measure. In Boston generally, on the T(train) especially, silence is the rule, even when giving up one's seat. Unless the individual is clearly out of line, insane or pushy, talking is a clear indicator of a need for assistance, and is usually responded to helpfully. Read any blog from Eastern Urban centers with public transport, and you will see humorous lists of Rules - like "Do not floss on the train... just ... don't." The politeness of most commuters means that they pretend not to notice such lapses, unless it is intrusive on someone else. With near collisions, I might hear an "excuse me." If we actually hit (rare) I will hear a "sorry" as they continue past.
Then there is Utah, Salt Lake City in particular, where people will stand clearly in the only pathway and have conversation, not allowing anyone past. I have been more often jostled or had to force my way through much thinner crowds there than in the densely packed streets here in Boston. In Utah the women can still expect their menfolk to run around the car to open the door for them, and in exchange they are expected to be unbearably sweet and docile. I often found skin deep friendliness to be a mask for appalling and breathtaking rudeness and manipulation. Or for moral weakness excused. Some truly decent people who grew up there struggle to be so outwardly sugary, and still keep their personal boundaries and integrity intact without resorting to becoming angry and resentful themselves. They confuse "niceness" with polite behaviour, and get pushed into accepting what can only be described as evil. They do not call spades spades, because that would not be nice. They prevaricate and squirm, seeing niceness as more important than honesty or standing by their core values. To fight is seen as rude, even in a just cause. Even the ones who succeed in keeping some integrity bear the scars of unbearable niceness.
So I need to offer my definition of polite behaviour for one of those so scarred. Every culture has a series of rules and expectations, which individuals can either use to ease interpersonal friction, or to manipulate people. I will take, for instance, as a silly example, the Canadian, and Northern Mid-Western Rule of Three of Hospitality. It goes a bit like this...
Offer#1 "Would you like some tea?"
Refusal #1 "No, thanks, I'm fine."
Offer #2 "I just got the kettle on, are you sure?"
Refusal #2 "Oh, I really don't want to put you to any trouble."
OR
Offer Withdrawal #1 "I really do have to get going, see you later then, eh?" (Conversation ends)
Offer #3 "No trouble at all, I was going to have a cup myself."
Refusal #3 "No, I really have to get going, but thanks." (interchange ends)
OR
Acceptance "Well, that would be very nice, if you are sure you don't mind."
This is the ideal, the host and guest and both get what they want. When it gets manipulative is when the host only offers once. Twice is fine, if the host would really be put out, only had enough for one, was an a hurry, whatever. Four offers is badgering. A guest who says yes at once better be crawling out of the desert, s/he must allow that the first offer is merely for form. A guest who says no after three should not be put out if not offered again. It is an arbitrary number, but accepted in this culture. A polite host will be aware of someone from elsewhere, and either explain the rule or pick up on other clues and respond accordingly. A rude one will apply the rule to their own benefit, and make allowances for no one, while breaking it for themselves when it is convenient.
But there are more important examples. My Aunt Evelyn volunteered for Birthright, a pro adoption anti-abortion group, that posed as a neutral pregnancy help service. She was devoutly Catholic and lost several pregnancies, and an adopted child (taken back by her birth mother). I am unabashedly pro-abortion, any woman who does not want a child should under no circumstances be forced, coerced, to have one. If my mother asked me if I would have had her abort me, I would say- yes. I'm here, and have made myself a good life, but if I could erase my childhood, I would, no question. I would never have made a point of telling my aunt this, out of deep respect for her life, and her kindly and deeply held beliefs. She had every right to make her own choices, and I mine. She would not have tried to pin me down on the issue. If she had, I would have asked to be allowed my privacy. I did not need her to agree with me in order to think her polite. She would not have forced me to overtly agree with her in order to be seen as polite.
The heart of this is to be gracious, and make others feel acknowledged and wanted, even if it is inconvenient. To allow for friendly refusal and a limitation on both unwanted hospitality and imposition. It allows for both communication and an OUT. It is perfectly polite to deflect impolite requests, even to outright refuse them. At the lowest level is sarcasm- which is to say funny- responses when one person is not playing fairly. Because if we can laugh at the error, it is simply an error, not meanness. Even if it was meanness.
If necessary, brusqueness is the next step, implying a more serious error of interchange, in terms of pushing too hard or prying or being inconsiderate of context or time constraints. The implication is that the other person was being thoughtless or stupid, rather than mean or dishonest, even if they are being mean or dishonest.
Outright rudeness is perfectly acceptable when the other person is clearly dishonest or mean, a sidewalk hustler, abusive beggar, forcing their obviously different from your viewpoint, or any solicitation to illegal, unethical or grossly inappropriate services. At this point it is perfectly acceptable to indicate that what you are being asked is unethical, illegal or coercive. If you absolutely have to be nice, a "teaching" tone would be acceptable. "Have you thought of taking an ethics class, going to the police, asking me how I feel?" Because being considerate does not mean being a doormat, it means considering the other person's point of view. If they are not considering me, it is fair to ask them to. If they do not, I are under no further obligation to comply.
So let us be fair, and honest, fight for what is right, treat each other decently, and stand firm, with all due respect for the toes of our fellow travelers. But say please and thank you, and sorry, and don't push or yell. Because politeness really is not dependent on how many times I do or do not offer tea, or how many times you refuse. But I have just put the kettle on......really, no trouble at all.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Thanks
Many thanks to Moira
Mirror
I have always loved staring into mirrors. Not that I love my face for it's beauty certainly. To examine a face that doesn't mind me staring perhaps. When I was very small I was held up to the mirror to 'kiss the baby good-night' before I was put to bed. I always had mirrors in my room. Where there were two mirrors to stand between, there I stood- at the counter at the Dime Store, or in an elevator, a movie theater lobby. Dressing room triple mirrors were a wonder. And of course, when I danced, there were walls of mirrors. Seeing myself from the outside, trying to understand how I was seen. Getting the movements right, which was related to visualizing myself from the outside and matching that to how my body felt. Loving the reflected movements of the whole line of girls in saggy leotards.
Staring into my reflection alone, I would frighten myself if I gazed into my own eye too long. Less so after knowing what the different parts of the eye were called, what they were for. Zits were a meditative preoccupation. Are. When working toward a theater degree, I took two semesters of Stage Make-up, and rearranged my looks every week. Two important insights: the most glamorous grad student actress looked perfectly ordinary without her expertly applied make-up, and I looked perfectly glamorous, if not at all like myself, with it all on. And unimportantly, that I made a gorgeous man in a beard.
My Uncle Walt's house was full of mirrors, making it seem very large and full of light, although it was really small and short of windows. Kaleidoscopes and fun-house mirrors, shiny spoons and silver teapots all catch my gaze. Christmas trees were about seeing my warped reflection in the smooth purple, green, or red ornaments. Liminal experiences all, seeing further into a space that is not physically present. The light gets there anyway.
Stories of the vanity of people, or gods who gazed at themselves in their reflections, struck me as somehow wrong- more than preoccupation with looks was involved. I always felt something missing from those stories, some misunderstanding of a disenfranchised deity mythos. I loved to look at myself in mirrors, but I was not vain. I was trying to see myself as I was, facing my flaws and reality without flinching. Finding one's own truth is of course, heresy. Established authoritarian regimented religions do not want their flock to look for truth inside their own souls, but from what the priests and elders say, from what is written. Dangerous stuff, mirrors. Even minor gods need to look out, not in. Still, all I could see was the outside of myself, so there are more subtle messages in the stories. Bujold talks about mirrors in this way, reflections as useful, but not entirely reliable.
D sees me as beautiful, and no mirror has ever told me that. My patients often reflect back trust, and my ability to assure them. Friends laugh, letting me know that I am funny. Strangers have reflected back wariness, even fear, telling me that I am dangerous. My best mirror is the eyes of those I love and care for. I still catch glimpses of myself in my reflection whenever possible, just to see what I can.
Staring into my reflection alone, I would frighten myself if I gazed into my own eye too long. Less so after knowing what the different parts of the eye were called, what they were for. Zits were a meditative preoccupation. Are. When working toward a theater degree, I took two semesters of Stage Make-up, and rearranged my looks every week. Two important insights: the most glamorous grad student actress looked perfectly ordinary without her expertly applied make-up, and I looked perfectly glamorous, if not at all like myself, with it all on. And unimportantly, that I made a gorgeous man in a beard.
My Uncle Walt's house was full of mirrors, making it seem very large and full of light, although it was really small and short of windows. Kaleidoscopes and fun-house mirrors, shiny spoons and silver teapots all catch my gaze. Christmas trees were about seeing my warped reflection in the smooth purple, green, or red ornaments. Liminal experiences all, seeing further into a space that is not physically present. The light gets there anyway.
Stories of the vanity of people, or gods who gazed at themselves in their reflections, struck me as somehow wrong- more than preoccupation with looks was involved. I always felt something missing from those stories, some misunderstanding of a disenfranchised deity mythos. I loved to look at myself in mirrors, but I was not vain. I was trying to see myself as I was, facing my flaws and reality without flinching. Finding one's own truth is of course, heresy. Established authoritarian regimented religions do not want their flock to look for truth inside their own souls, but from what the priests and elders say, from what is written. Dangerous stuff, mirrors. Even minor gods need to look out, not in. Still, all I could see was the outside of myself, so there are more subtle messages in the stories. Bujold talks about mirrors in this way, reflections as useful, but not entirely reliable.
D sees me as beautiful, and no mirror has ever told me that. My patients often reflect back trust, and my ability to assure them. Friends laugh, letting me know that I am funny. Strangers have reflected back wariness, even fear, telling me that I am dangerous. My best mirror is the eyes of those I love and care for. I still catch glimpses of myself in my reflection whenever possible, just to see what I can.
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