Month: November 2014

 

November 27, 2014

“What are these people? You tell me, Jesus. What are they?” Stamp Paid, pg. 180, Beloved by Toni Morrison

Stamp Paid has just found a red ribbon stuck to the bottom of his boat (that he uses to ferry escaped slaves across the Ohio River). The ribbon’s color attracts his attention; his horror comes on closer examination: ‘ he tugged and what came loose in his hand was a red ribbon knotted around a curl of wet wooly hair, clinging still to its bit of scalp…’

Morrison’s artistry involves using precise images and moments of apparent beauty that reveal the horror of slavery just beneath the surface in deft, astonished responses. Stamp paid is trying to understand—we are all still trying to understand—what makes people enact unspeakable violence and injustice based on skin color. I have had the privilege to think—just to think—about the complex structures of racism in the last few days since the Ferguson decision on Monday night. I have watched the riots in response to the complete acquittal of the police officer who shot an unarmed black teenager and read the agonized posting from friends all over the world. I have also read the backlash against the protests and outraged responses of injustice and I think again: ‘What are these people?’

 

Of course, these are my people—well, at least we share skin color and a nationality. How vehemently I do not want to be grouped with this mentality—with these people whose understanding stops at their own white fence. But this is what racism does—it creates groups based on a superficial commonality—and my agony at being connected to white racists gives me a glimpse—a small glimpse from a position of privilege—of what it might mean to daily, constantly be aware that your skin color inspires fear and revulsion in the ignorant. But o, how powerless I feel to respond in any meaningful way to these institutionalized and historic injustices.

I crawl back to my favorite works that explore the effects of racism on human relationships—seeking answers or at least perspective.

When human behavior becomes inexplicable—what else can we do but turn to the best products of the human mind—the art—the modes we have for trying to explain ourselves, for offering up what is most beautiful and hopeful in the human spirit…

As I am writing out these thoughts, I learn that a former colleague and friend—he hosted my going away party when I moved to Paris—we all ended up in a hot tub together—that’s how the best parties end in California—was shot and killed while hiking in one of the most beautiful parks in the Oakland hills.

I have some time to sit quietly with this news—though all I want to do is run down the streets screaming.

“What are these people? You tell me, Jesus. What are they?”

Yes, I know the human race has always been astonishing in its appetite for violence—but we have such a capacity for generosity and compassion, we live in an extraordinarily beautiful world that we seem determined to trash, we know more about the mind and the wonder of the human body –and still we behave as though life has no value.

The two person ‘of interest’ (not confirmed, not known, not even identified) in David’s killing are both black men or men of mixed race—and the comments on the articles announcing this crime are filled with a racist vitriol that throws itself up against the outrage at the recent lack of conviction of the white police officer who shot the unarmed teenager Michael Brown.

Examples: from http://www.sfgate.com/crime/article/Man-shot-dead-in-Huckleberry-park-in-Oakland-hills-5918503.php

ink_zen Rank 832

A white man killed by two black men. Yet this will not be called a hate crime – no one will go on TV and talk about the injustice of a white man being murdered by two black men. This is just another Tuesday for Oakland. In our society, it has become acceptable for white people to be murdered.

DEPORTthemALL Rank 4762 @ink_zen Where are the REGRESSIVE liberal “leaders” to protest a WHITE man being MURDERED by BLACK men? Where is the 1% of the 1% Dear Leader Barry Hussein, race baiter charleton Al Sharpton? Adulterous race baiter Jesse Jackson? Guess Mr Runzel does “look” enough like them for them to care! Pathetic liberals!

fullomalarky Rank 5945

@ink_zen Yes, Ink, that is exactly right. What about the 4 policemen that were killed in Oakland several years back and the black men/man who did it….well you never saw any white people hit the streets with riots and looting. Says something don’t you think? We seem to be able to control our anger and deal with in a mature manner

 

No.

No no no—these two murders do not equate. It is tearing me up that David was killed—in a beautiful park, a person of great heart and gentleness was inexplicably gunned down—but the outrage of this tragedy is at a society that so cheapens human life that the rights to be armed trumps all reason. If there is a connection between David’s murder and that of Michael Brown, it is in a society that teaches and shows young black men that their humanity is not valued. Does it not follow that some –a very violent few- would then turn that dehumanization around and reflect it back towards other humans?

Moments like this scratch at my soul: am I doing enough? Am I using my mind and my skills to change the global narrative of despair and injustice? Not enough—it is not enough.

The ability to create and explore the best of human endeavors—the great works of art or music or film or literature—do not seem just a distraction—but a place where hope may be kindled—or injustice and outrage is voiced, explored. So that is where I turn when the narrative of life seems too weighted down with inequality, death, debt, struggle and sadness. I use my language to question and discuss injustice—and express outrage against racism and xenophobia. I look to writers that I admire for help redirecting—and I look to the incandescence of human relationships that surround me to feed this feeble flame of hope. David was one of these writers– and used his gifts to guide others into the beauty and power of language to celebrate the miracle of our living.

Ultimately, the best we are is in our love for each other. Let it shine.

 

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

A Settlement by Mary Oliver

Look, it’s spring. And last year’s loose dust has turned 
into this soft willingness. The wind-flowers have come
 up trembling, slowly the brackens are up-lifting their
 curvaceous and pale bodies. The thrushes have come
 home, none less than filled with mystery, sorrow,
 happiness, music, ambition.

And I am walking out into all of this with nowhere to 
go and no task undertaken but to turn the pages of 
this beautiful world over and over, in the world of my mind.

****

Therefore, dark past,
 I ’m about to do it.
I’m about to forgive you

for everything.

 

I know it isn’t spring, and it does not feel possible to forgive the dark past–especially the recent past killings of Michael Brown nor David Ruenzel nor any of the others who have died from fear and ignorance, but damn we need some mercy around here.

 

 

 

 

 

All day in the Whittington A & E

Overnight in the Royal National ENT

Results in an extended codeine fueled portrait

Not a rhyming jubilee

 

November 18 2014

 

Going on four days in sharp throat and mouth pain…tonsillitis diagnosed (and re-diagnosed three times before diagnosis discarded—‘your tonsils are the only thing not infected’ says the definitive Dr…) and so started on antibiotics Thursday—the incredible relief of a diagnosis and drugs—then the sinking feeling that this is not working as I slipped out of my faith in modern medicine. My mood grew bleaker as I realized that it was not enough that I had gone a week without my favorite stimulants—running, cold water swimming, coffee, a crisp Sancerre at the end of a rollicking Salon but now food was no longer an option and I had to convince my mouth to swallow, gritting my teeth against the pain—sleep was harder as I had to wake up hourly to try to sip a bit of water and uncrack my throat and I couldn’t talk. I did manage to teach Thursday and Friday morning—and those darn kids!! If it wasn’t the most focused, attentive class I have ever had with my 10-11 year olds—they would ask me questions as we went through the initial verses of the Odyssey and I would write running responses on the projected computer screen. I should teach silently more often…

 

So its Sunday now and after our third phone consultation with NHS I mentioned that besides no improvement in throat pain & swelling, my chest was feeling tight (I am also starving and growing increasingly unpleasant to be around—crying at the sight of Andy enjoying food I can’t eat—but we didn’t share that—we spent so much time convincing the advising nurse that Ebola was not an issue we had lost all sense of perspective by the time we hung up). Each time we had spoken to NHS, they suggested an urgent care apt—but I resisted with my horror of the timelessness of a weekend hospital visit and the inability to control my environment when I was in so much pain…but suddenly the choice was no longer ours: that little detail about the chest tightening? BAM. 9:30 AM and we are off to the Whittington—as in Dick Whittington’s cat don’t you love it?

Suddenly immersed in the emergency room twilight of frightened young parents with crying babies, old men waiting quietly alone and last night’s drinking casualties looking ready to vomit. Went from urgent care into A & E in the blink of a blind hour…the intake Dr mentioned throat abscess and I cried as she probed. You know how last week we were so excited to see images of Comet 67P? It has nothing on the contours, blisters and swellings in my mouth and throat—I am disappointed every time a medical professional approaches and does not want to gaze into my mouth so they can oooh and ahh in appreciation.

 

The A & E intake club is a step up in drama as we wait to get a an examining room, there is a disembodied voice calling out to every passerby—‘I need some RELIEF! This gas (phwffff) is killing me! Nurse, please, some drugs!’ I watch a family come into to get news of one of their members: ‘Yes, I was the consulting physician, well, we had to let her go; she was dangerously inebriated when she arrived but had sobered up enough to walk out…’

Three hours later after pumping me full of steroids and antibiotics, lovely Dr Yasmine determines to send me to a specialty ENT hospital; Andy asks for directions and she says ‘O no- this is a full service trip- she goes by ambulance.’ Even in my starved and weakened state, I find this news exciting—never ridden in an ambulance before….

 

But first I am shuffled off to a decrepit back room where the moans and pleas of the man in the cubicle next to mine no longer reach me. Andy goes home to deal with dog and Mads and I feel forgotten, unknown and lost as the hours tick by…Suddenly a beefy chap and lovely green suited young woman fill the doorway: ‘ Ready, love? We’re taking you for a ride…’

Of course I can’t talk but he keeps up his end of the conversation admirably.

‘How did you get yourself into this mess?’

‘Probably I talk too much…it’s sort of my occupation….’ I whisper.

I want to break that down: explain I am an innovative educator and that my self-criticism points to flaw in my pedagogy as I believe the learning moment ultimately should be more in the hands (voices) of the participants…but my words can’t come to the surface.

He chuffs and answers: ‘Talk too much? You must know my wife then…’

As we climb into the back of the ambulance I point at the lights: ‘Can we…?’

‘Sorry love, we only use those for life & death emergencies.’ Fair enough. So they buckle me into the gurney and off we go through central London to the wrong hospital.

I know, right?

They brought me to the A & E ambulance in-take port at UCH. I recline dazed and starving on a gurney surrounded by fresh hospital drama…suddenly here is the beefy chap with a look of chagrin: ‘Sorry love, wrong hospital…we need to load you up again—just down the road a tick…’

So off we go again—he leans back towards me : ‘better buckle up dear, we need to use the lights and sirens now, the doctor is waiting (so that’s a life & death emergency!)…’ Finally I get my dreamed for medical/celebrity dash through central London: scattering tourists in the dusky drizzle lining up outside Mme Tussauds (well, geographically improbable but nice image). Next stop is the ghostly reception of the Royal National ENT—no one there. The ambulance driver looks at me:’ Where do you think we go?’ Sorry, mate no idea and I can’t talk anyway. A bit investigation and wandering empty corridors finally leads us to Ward C with actual people- a few. Here I meet Dr Goh who promptly decides sticking a tube up my nose will be the best means to figure out what is going on.

One thing that really stays with me from this whole experience is the incredible diversity of the staff: Drs, nurses and all attendants represent all nations, ethnicities and genders: diversity represented across the medical hierarchy. And kindness—if, of necessity, very brief and attentive kindness—dealing with drunken idiots and histrionics and mopey, mute me…

So Dr Goh is about to insert a scope into my nose and just then my knight in scruffy red polar fleece rides in as she—ever so gently—rams the scope up my nose and down my throat. Andy notices that I am turning a rather unnatural shade of yellow whilst simultaneously answering the phone to a shrieking Madeline who has arrived home and become DISTRAUGHT because she left her computer open on the couch and now it appears that Scout has wandered over it and it now reads: ‘ Re-Set to factory settings complete’. “ All my GCSE work is on there—and my pictures!!!!” She wails as Dr Goh reaches further and I turn more interesting shades of yellow. Poor Andy.

 

Examination completed and I am directed to a bed for a night or so while I am rehydrated and pumped full of all sorts of exciting drugs—and finally, praise Jesus- some food. The most AMAZING dehydrated but eminently slidable cream of chicken soup. When the two sides of your throat are battling for control and any food must squeeze between them there is so little that can be ingested. Yoghurt is too acidic, even rice pudding is too painful—the husks of the rice scrape—and Andy’s gorgeous homemade squash soup is astringent—but this soup! Three bowls and I have my own TV where I stumble on the recent film version of King Kong that I have been wanting to see as some friends have leading roles—I never realized what a powerful imperialist critique the story portrays.

 

Strange night in this huge old room alone—reminds me of the hospital room in the Madeleine story—with blotchy flower art and Ebola warning signs. They give me a welcome pack that include ear plugs—ear plugs!! I have been dying for a pair of these as I think this is the key to my galloping insomnia issues. But I find some technical difficulty inserting them—the plugs imitate those sponge capsules that bloom into animal shapes when you add water. Suddenly I have Bonsai tress sticking out of my ears though I forget they are in and when the nurse comes in the middle of the night I am pretty sure I have traded off the agonizing pain in my throat for a more thorough hearing loss and at the moment, that seems fair enough. I can not sleep in spite of the misshapen plugs because my mind whirls all night with everything I need to get done—probably a sign I am getting better. I still need to wake every few hours to crack the coating at the back of my throat and swallow—I feel as though I am at war with my body.

 

Mads’ computer turns out in the end to be okay: Scout had thoughtfully signed in as guest before resetting to factory settings. After a few days, they let me go home—as soon as I can talk and swallow without pain. The time in hospital allows me that magic available when the range of the mind is set free in a secluded environment with all bodily needs accommodated. I notice the impact of my writing from weeks submerged in Proust—and touched by Miranda Hart. Mads sweetly prepared me a bag of goodies for the hospital –including nail polish—and her favorite funny writer—along with my more absolute needs of Proust, Joyce and Durrell. Proust reminds me how characters contain such contradictions and multiple sides that the reader must accept these as whole characters (we expect consistency). Though these contradictions are the true form of humanity—if we examine ourselves or truly known loved one: we must admit to the endless array of shadings and inversions.

So home I am now and clawing my way back to my too full life. With appreciation (espc. for the NHS) and a renewed taste for strength and clarity. And reminded that any interesting adventure deserves a good telling. Hope you enjoyed.