Monday, February 08, 2010 You Are Here: creative writing  | 
 
The Regulars
For all the Foxy Voxers
Lyrics, limericks and lines
Of prose, drama and rhyme
A delight for the eyes and the ears
For this we will shed a few tears
In defense of bad poetry and good
Tomatoes and gurus and…wood
Jazz odysseys and Banality Smith
Theology to stir the soul with
Exegesis and Mad Men inspired
Luckily none of us were fired
A playground of words and their friends
Is a treasure without a real end.
 
Love and Kisses, Christin
 
(p.s. I’m thinking Abba would be good background music for this)

 
 
Otto's Benediction
 
I am no friend of the goodbye. I love you and I will miss you but I would just assume sneak out of the house while you are sleeping. The bigger the goodbye, the less inclined I am to be around for it. When I left seminary I was leaving good friends, leaving people who had participated a major transitional stage in my life. Moreover, I was leaving housemates who loved each other like a leper colony. I was also leaving ICBC behind, but that was just so I didn’t have to create a mushroom cloud over Alta Street (God bless you, DMV!). In short, I was leaving an entire country behind and I had no intention of ever returning. It wasn’t because I hated Canada, but simply because I never thought I would have the occasion to visit her again.
 
Chief among my relationships over those six years was a fellow named Matt. He was a stout fellow with a beard like Jim “the Anvil” Neidhart. In fact, Matt looked a great deal like that great Canadian wrestler, if said wrestler was a bit rounder and tripped constantly over the kitchen throw-rug.
 
 
I don’t mind admitting that I was the spitting image of Brett “the Hitman” Hart in those days. My mane didn’t flow quite so sexily, but I did wax and oil my man-breasts and was never seen without my pink, heart-covered spandex.
 
Matt and I had something of an id and ego relationship. He was a man of integrity, almost to a fault. Matt was a computer science major with a brilliantly mathematical mind. He was a PhD candidate in sociology before he decided on theology. He picked up Hebrew quickly, and then—just as quickly—dropped it all to become a stay-at-home dad.
 
The little ego he did have was overshadowed by his fierce devotion to his family. On occasion, I would invite him for poker, or to a movie. The answer was always no. His self-designated place was in the home, not by obligation, but because he respected himself more in that context. This drove me crazy. I tried to convince him that he would be a better father and husband if he took more time for himself. He would just shrug away such justifications and proceed to eat his bagel topped with one inch of grape-jelly.
 
My wife and I lived with his family for almost two years in Vancouver. During that time, Matt’s son was three years old and ready for postgraduate work. We fell in love with Matt’s mini-me and knew we’d never love another child like that until we had our own. For a couple years one of my best friends was a three year old. In leaving, I was saying a permanent goodbye to him. If ever we met again, he would have no memory of me. I lamented this goodbye the most. Little did I know that my goodbye to his father would be lamented more.
 
Soon after we left, Matt was diagnosed with colon cancer. When we got the news it had spread rapidly to his lymph nodes. Matt and family had moved back to the United States where treatment for such things is measured in tens of thousands of dollars. Friends from all over the world tried to move Heaven and Earth to help him. When the standard medical treatments failed, Matt tried alternative medicines, diets, prayer. Matt died the week my daughter was born.
 
My last conversations with him discussed his fears. “I’m not afraid of death,” he said, “I’m afraid of not seeing my sons grow up.” When I hung up, I said goodbye to the phone receiver—it never occurred to me that I was saying goodbye to Matt. I suppose I never really said goodbye. Perhaps the closest I came was when I drove away from the Vancouver house.
 
You may remember Otto, the bus driver, of Simpson’s fame. He has hair like Brett “the Hitman” Hart but is better known for his raspy surfer voice and recklessly loud headphones. Matt and I mimicked Otto’s voice as we quoted his favorite Simpsons farewell, “Bye bye, lard ass!” Bye bye lard ass was Otto’s way of saying, “Godspeed, my good sir!” Bye bye lard ass was Otto’s benediction as he sent you lovingly on your merry way. Bye bye lard ass was proclaimed several times daily in our house with every swinging of the front door.
 
 
Not wanting to make a big deal of my final departure, I bought Matt a greeting card. I paid extra for the kind with the blank interior. I handed the sealed envelope to him in the driveway and drove south. As our natural gas BC Hydro van drove out of sight, Matt opened the card. In bold, black permanent marker, Otto’s mantra said goodbye for me.
 
Matt’s wife is now remarried and his sons are in junior high. I imagine that they continue to say goodbye to Matt as the years pass. Matt and his WWF beard. Matt frying tofu squares for his mini-me. Matt and his shuffling, socked feet. Matt and his terribly annoying devotion and integrity. Every memory is another goodbye that I never articulated.
 
Like most men who care for their man-breasts with wax and oil, I learn my relational lessons slowly, if at all. I still avoid good byes at all costs. I still sneak out the back door by cover of night. Do believe me when I say that I love you and I will miss you. But the most I have ever been able to muster is a simple benediction:
 
Bye bye lard ass.

 
Culture Voice: An introspective retrospective
 
Very soon, Culture Voice will be silent. And with that silence comes a time for me to look back at how much I enjoyed the random works of friends and strangers. But it also means that I will have a little more free time. And right now, I’m using that time to contemplate what — if anything — went wrong. You see, anytime something bad happens in life, I assume it was wrong, and that there must be a cause. Sometimes I’ll acquiesce, give up the existential search, and accept that God allows bad things happen to good people. But does God also stand by and watch bad things to happen to good online journals? I guess so. But, still, I ask you, dear readers: what went wrong with Culture Voice?
 
Well, for starters, we lack a great number of readers. But why the low readership? That’s the real question I’m tryng to ask. Was it poor marketing? Not enough foot soldiers shouting about the latest installment of Culture Voice? Were we too slow in obtaining a celebrity endorsement? Should I have asked my friend whose cousin is an Olympic ice dancer to emblazon Culture-Voice.com on her sequined mini-skirt?
 
One thought I’ve wrestled with concerns publication schedule: maybe people are too impatient to wait an entire week to see new material. I mean, with blogs monopolizing Internet readers’ attention, perhaps we failed to recognize society’s desire for NEW — as in, your article is two days old, as stale as David Spade’s… well, as stale as David Spade. And speaking of, even Mr. Spade’s Twitter feed garners way more followers than Culture Voice — another reason quantity over quality might be a factor in gaining readers.
 
But is the demise of Culture Voice because a week without new content leads to boredom, or because people think that reading causes boredom?
 
I once asked a colleague about the last book he read, and he said, “I don’t read books. The longest literature I ever read is probably a magazine article. Short ones, like ads.” I nodded, agreed that our culture is so distracted by the bustle of business and the clamor of fast-paced media and YouTube-style entertainment that reading has become an antiquated pastime reserved for grandparents and beach vacations.
 
To borrow from the old adage, people just don’t read anymore. And if they don’t read, how could there possibly be an audience for Culture Voice? Perhaps we were doomed from the beginning by a poor business plan: next time, we’ll just capture all our opinions in 45-second video clips and post them on social networking sites. Easy for the Daily Wad, not so much for questioning God’s gender. (But I’m sure even He would love to see that clip.)
 
Still, I’m not satisfied by blaming non-readers. I don’t think the success or failure of Culture Voice ever depended on the willingness of others to read, nor on our ability to gain those readers. I think the life of Culture Voice has hinged instead on a lack of certainty about what Culture Voice is, and what it was trying to accomplish.
 
Trying to define the “voice” of Culture Voice is as hard as trying to hear a voice crying in the wilderness. From one article to the next, from one week to the next, a reader could hardly predict what sort of tone the journal would take. For example, in one hand you have Michael Mulligan’s intensive “Defense of Nature Poetry” series, and in the other you have Gordon Gartrell’s scatological article, “For Shit’s Sake.” To be frank, when I saw those two works juxtaposed, I didn’t know if I should take both articles as serious scholarship, as satire, or as some combination thereof. I often wondered, if Mr. Mulligan really wanted people to read nature poetry, shouldn’t his essays have started with a defense of poetry in general? I mean, if people don’t read poetry — if, in fact, the majority of American society considers poetry irrelevant, boring, and annoying — then how can we expect them to fall in love with the most obnoxious of all poetry? So, maybe Mulligan’s Nature Poetry series (despite being a solid examination of some great nature poems) was all a hoax. Or, perhaps Gartrell’s analysis of the many uses of the word shit was a much more serious study of linguistics than I ever realized?
 
To be clear: I’m not trying to claim either Mulligan or Gartrell did a poor job writing their articles. I’m trying to bring to light a lack of common tone among our various contributors. Simply put, Mulligan’s essays targeted a different audience than Gartrell’s shitty article. And, of course, these two authors weren’t the only cooks bringing totally different ingredients to the kitchen.
 
So, is that the problem? Is that what went wrong? Did too many disparate voices speaking in unison drown out any attempts at creating a unifying voice?
 
For a while, I was feeling okay with this explanation. I thought I could live with it. But, I couldn’t stop wondering: maybe this confluence of competing voices was the beauty of Culture Voice. Perhaps I’ve never understood until now, at the end of the road, that Culture Voice was never meant to offer a single, unified voice: it was, rather, many different voices all clamoring for a bit of attention, all hoping someone will identify with and appreciate their individual point of view.
 
Maybe our little journal was not meant to be a singular voice speaking TO culture, but a collage of voices FROM culture. And if that is the case, then Culture Voice, though never destined for millions of readers, did capture the voice — or, rather, voices — of culture quite well.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
As your company grows, so does the number of executives. This translates into the need for cutting costs on general employee perks. The main reason for this is, executives need lunch. And lunch is expensive for executives, so the company needs to pay for it.

 
Saying Goodbye to Trees
 
 
In the summer, I am an arborist, climbing, pruning, and sometimes removing trees. If pushed, I would have to admit that there are times when the adrenaline rush of a removal is beyond thrilling. I can still remember my removal of my first Ponderosa Pine (Pinus ponderosa) in the foothills of the Rockies. It had been hit by the mountain pine beetle, and for mitigation reasons, was scheduled for removal. I am more than aware of the arrogance and speciesism latent in this decision. We value the pine more than the beetle, even though the beetle is an integral part of the life-cycle of forests. Of course, all this is complicated by the question of global-warming, which has perpetuated drier conditions in the Rocky Mountains. Whether the severity of the Rocky's drought is "normal" or a result of global warming caused by humans is a debate all in itself. The pertinent point is the lack of moisture. With the paucity of water, the trees lack the sap to fight the beetle, and more succumb to the death throes of the fungus transmitted by the boring beetles. 
 
Anyhow, back to the story. There were two obstacles, a house and power lines. There was no way to fell the tree from the ground. I therefore spiked up the tree (a practice only applied to removals, NEVER to pruning), de-limbing it on the way. I tied a second line into the top and tossed it to the crew, rappelled down my line, anchored in, pulled my line from the top of the tree, cut my notch--and then, as I began the back-cut, every one of my veins pulsed with palpitating adrenaline. The crew on the ground kept their line taut, and as the top began to fall, I hit the break on the chainsaw, pulled the saw clear, and watched. When observing other climbers from the ground, I had underestimated the impact of the snap. When half of the tree cracked free, the spar vibrated violently back and forth. After everything settled down, I was glad to have all my teeth. 
 
Every time I work on a big removal, the adrenaline is there. The fear is there. Dealing with what we call "big wood" is always dangerous. Most of the deaths in the arboriculture industry are caused by "big wood" falling on the ground crew. Dangerous work can be a rush, but I would hesitate to call it "fun." Removals have always been the worst part of my job. I am beyond a tree hugger. I love them. I take care of them. I can look at trees for hours and never lose intrigue. My vacations are to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest (where there are 19 trees over 4,000 years of age, Pinus longaeva) and to Sequoia National Park, which means I drive nonstop through Yosemite to get there. Sure, Half Dome speaks to something deep in me, but the trees go deeper. When I was at Sequoia National Park, I learned that there was a time when human structures where built close to the trees. (Now all structures have been moved out of most of the groves.) A Giant Sequoia (Sequoiadendron giganteum)threatened one of these human structures, so they cut down the tree to protect the building. The informational sign then read, "We did not realize we were protecting the wrong thing." 
 
In a utopia, I would never cut down a tree, but the cities along the Front Range are not a utopia. None of our trees have the clout that the Giant Sequoia have (which are known to live for 3,000 years)--except one. Outside of Hygiene, CO, the national champion Plains Cottonwood grows (Populus sargentii). That tree is protected. But must a tree be a champion in order for its life to be deemed "valuable"? I am afraid the answer to that question is yes. The reality is that in an urban environment, the buildings, streets, thoroughfares, and people in parks are all protected first and foremost. Even arborists (like myself) who advocate for the trees must acquiesce when human safety is threatened. The trees in an urban setting, at times, must come down. And when they do, we humans must learn how to say goodbye.   
 
Several times this summer, a homeowner was surprised by the news that their tree must be removed. One of these times, the reason was because of a major failure caused by severe weather. Both the husband and the wife took the day off of work, and they kept reappearing during our removal. At different times, both were visibly emotional. They had a Weeping Willow (Salix babylonica), planted when their kids were born, and the tree had grown into their lives. But my frustration is that both of them were too abashed of their emotion. They tried to hide it in furtive glances, and if a tear or two did rise to the surface, they quickly said something like, "Oh, I am being foolish...it is only a tree."
 
It is only a tree. Really? I don't think so. Identifying with the more-than-human life of the earth--even within an urban context--is a crucial dynamic in what it means to be human. Without nature, we are alienated beings. With nature, we exist within the richness of a host of interrelationships. The reason why I am writing this article is so that the next time any of us has to say goodbye to a tree, we have more confidence. We don't act so sheepish. I wanted to say to that couple, "It is ok to mourn. Say goodbye. A portion of your ecological self has been diminished today. It is not just a tree. It was a presence that helped sustain many of the birds and critters you (hopefully) enjoyed while you drank your morning coffee. Your children swung on the lower branches. It is ok to grieve a bit when a portion of your local ecosystem (how ever impoverished that system is) ceases to exist." 
 
All I said in response, though, was "Hey, it's ok. I understand. Would you like us to wait a minute before proceeding with the removal?"
 
Perhaps why so many of us are sheepish when saying goodbye to a tree is because of our sense of entitlement. Genesis' dominion is not all to blame, but the ideology that says the earth is a resource specifically for human use makes people callous. It is hard, therefore, to go against the grain of entitlement. To say, I don't think we are entitled to cut down that tree. We are not supposed to care when the Colorado River no longer reaches the Sea of Cortez. After all, God does not care. As long as humans are getting water for their golf courses in Vegas, fuck the environment.  If a tree threatens a human structure, fuck the tree. What matters on this earth are human lives. 
 
I do not know why the dominion of Genesis is not trumped by the beatitude, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." Meekness is recognizing that when a tree is removed, all the life within the urban ecosystem is diminished--including human life. It is ok to mourn such a loss. And if you are going to argue that a theocentric (Judeo-Christian) perspective is more important than an ecocentric ideology, you had better rethink the weight of the Sermon on the Mount. A sense of entitlement is the root cause for 1) the exploitation of slaves and women; 2) the destructive impulse of colonialism and imperialism which resulted in the bulldozing of native and aboriginal people & their culture; and 3) the blind harvesting of "resources": I need a mast for my warship, so let's cut every White Pine down on the East Coast. Genesis' dominion says, "Go ahead." The beatitude says, "There won't be an earth left to live in."    
 
I have an example of some people who said goodbye to a tree a little more confidently. They were not abashed of their meekness. It wasn't even a removal. All we did was prune off six dead branches at the base of a thornless Honey Locust (Gleditsia triacanthos inermis), which was battling a disease called Thyronectria canker (the canker is caused by a fungus). In order to mitigate the spread of the fungus, the recently dead branches--on which spores are produced--are removed. The pruning became difficult for the homeowners because their daughter, who was now roughly 15, had climbed on those lower branches ever since she could. Part of her psychological make up, her sense of place, her sense of identity, was shaped by swinging on those branches. Her multi-sensory identification with the tree created memories that went deep into her psyche. The smells of the tree, the coarseness of the bark on the skin, the sight of the leaves in autumn, the sound of the empty branches in a winter wind--all of these sensations affected her. Ecopsychologists call such a moment psychosomatic, meaning that the psyche, the soul and the mind, is impacted through the somatic, or bodily, engagement with the environment. 
 
During the removal, both the father and the daughter appeared at separate times, asking for a portion of one of the dead branches as a keepsake. Both were visibly shaken up. I thought they said goodbye to their branches quite well.
 
My final anecdote involves a mature Plains Cottonwood (Populus sargentii), native to Colorado. The homeowners purchased their home, fifteen years prior, because of the presence of the mature trees. Unfortunately (from a human perspective), Cottonwoods decay easily. At the base, we could see a decay pocket, but we did not know how big it was. After several conferences with the homeowner, it was decided to prune the tree. However, we kept finding large decay pockets in several of the large leads. As we worked, we tried to mitigate the danger. Soon, we exposed the decay pocket at the base of the tree. There was at least an eight foot pocket. (We thrust in one of our pruning poles and could not feel a side.) In any municipal setting, the tree would be immediately removed. Too dangerous. This family, though, had a deep identification with the tree. They also had two children who love to run in the yard. The husband, upon seeing no other alternative, turned away. When he turned back, his upper-right cheek was quivering, "Can you give me a moment?" He had to say goodbye. He also had to go to work, but I think he did what was right. He stuck around for another couple hours, and took several photographs. Sometimes, work can wait.   
 
After the removal of the cottonwood, I worked on the following poem. I know it is a bit taboo for a poet to talk about their work, but I don't consider myself a poet. I see myself as a lover of poetry, a lover of trees, a teacher of both, and a poet on the side. I can understand the poets, and I can teach the poets. Once in awhile, I like to dust off my pen and give it a go.
 
I dedicate this poem to all of the people out there who have to say goodbye to a tree. I chose the Plains Cottonwood, simply because it has the most wicked structure, it is native to Colorado, and it is the tree I was in the process of removing when I started writing it. By the way, the removal took two days, with three guys bustin' ass. It was a remarkable tree.
 
I wanted to give a sense of the ponderous nature of this tree, as well as of its maturity. In the beginning, I use the word "hirsute," which is an old word for "hairy" or "shaggy." Yes, it may be redundant to move from "hirsute" to "wooly mammoth" to "shaggy," but I would rather it be called repetition. I wanted to start with the ancient word, and if you have ever climbed a Plains Cottonwood, you would agree that it is intensely shaggy.  This "beastification" of the tree hopefully communicates the animation that I feel trees exhibit in all of their motionlessness. I also chose the setting to be in the Plains. This is poetic license. Sure, the tree that prompted the poem was in a two acre backyard, but everything that I say about the tree in the poem is true of that tree. 
 
In the second line, I wanted to make sure to get emphasis on "collapsed." Often, line breaks are not enough to get that pressure on a word. "Collapsed" is the precise word, as it suggests fatigue, age, being worn out--a much better word than "fallen"--so I pushed it far to the right. Hopefully, the reader can pick up on the effect. 
 
In the poem, I integrate big animals where I can. Most of us have an affinity for big mammals, such as the pachyderms. Woolly mammoths, of course, carry with them the sense of something ancient, something extinct, but something wonderfully imaginative. The animals to which I compare the tree hopefully create an aura of respect surrounding the tree. 
 
As the poem progresses, I create images from each season, and I try to break free from the hackneyed expression "the giving tree." It is true that no other organism gives so much through its life and its death than a tree. They support an unthinkable amount of creatures, their leaves bring nutrition to the soil, but I wanted to exhume this concept from the sepulcher of cliché. Sprinkled throughout the poem are many examples of how the tree has impacted the ecosystem within which it lived. Hopefully, the idea that the tree gave is subtle enough. Here is the poem: 
 
 
Populus sargentii
 
Hirsute          
A woolly mammoth          collapsed
Shaggy on the earth
 
Branches splintered
Some still poised
In the dry sky of the plains    
 
Ridges of bark     
Pachydermal furrows     
Mountainous in their rising and falling
 
     Around the thirty-foot circumference of your girth
     Scarred with faint traces of claws
     Raccoons and squirrels scurrying towards home
 
May you rest well
    
     Your skeleton endured
     dry lashings of winter winds
 
     Your three colossal leads awoke
     At the rise of sap each spring for a hundred springs
 
     Your thick roots drank
     Snowmelt from the gift of summer streams
 
     Your twigs showered
     Grasslands with autumn leaves
 
     Your sapwood absorbed
     Thunder from the flashes of monsoons
 
     Your twisted architecture spoke
     Through its twilight silhouette
    
     Casting moon shadows 
     Crossing the stillness of night
 
May your fallen branches still reverberate
With echoes from sonorous
Great horned owls
 
     From the pierces of red-tailed hawks
     From the wing beats of blue herons alighting
     Within the span of your massive sanctuary
 
May the earth receive you  
And the stories within your rings
As you commence the primordial turning to dust
 
 
I can't think of a better way to say goodbye to a tree than through the ritual of creating some sort of art commemorating it. I hope that the father and the daughter who love the Locust somehow incorporated the dead branches into a work of art. Art, like nature, runs deep within the human experience. So, I challenge you. The next time you must say goodbye to a tree, take fifty pictures of it. Create a collage. Write a poem about it. Keep a portion of it and craft it into art. All of these endeavors will help us say goodbye well, and will help cultivate meekness in our approach to how we tread lightly upon the earth. 
 
Of course, there is one gun on the mantel that needs to go off. To all of the faithful readers, thank you for engaging these ideas. To the other contributors, thank you for work. Some of you pulled off some crazy shit. It was always a delight to read your work or look at your photographs each week. To the editors, thank you for spearheading the vision and giving all of us the chance to listen and to voice. To Banality Smith, I bet somewhere deep in your heart that you have a place for grammar. Just need some soul-searching. 
 
These have been good times, good times. 
 
Farewell,
 
Michael Mulligan   

 
Christin the Passive Aggressive Volunteer
                She arrived expecting to serve drinks to the writers: bartending seemed a good mix of vague glamour and yet practical help. Turned out they had arranged for professional bartenders and could she help with catering? Why of course, she was just a volunteer anyway, prepared to be accommodating and useful. It was opening night of Litquake, the west coast’s largest literary festival and she was there to help. Sushi trays couldn’t pass themselves. What a delight to serve in a beautiful ballroom of her own people. Writers, readers, a wonderful, critical mass of them celebrating together and drinking freely.
                But no one looks at the girl passing sushi except to catch her attention to come hither for seconds. “Tell your boss they should have provided toothpicks,” one said. Surely that feedback came from someone not quite yet sloshed, the night still early and the word “Volunteer” printed clearly on the sushi girl’s nametag. A smooth smile took up permanent residence on her face. “Mmm,” she murmured vaguely in return.
                They were like vultures, the hungry writers, descending on the sushi trays like they’d just learned how to eat. They did not make eye contact with the help, enjoying their sense of shared literati prestige, like moments stolen back from unpopular high school days. Her smile became tighter, she began to look piercingly into their faces, willing them to notice her, notice she too was a writer, she too had committed her life to words. She was not a faceless sushi girl. The writers on the dance floor were a beautiful blur of oblivion.
                And then the sushi ran out. Could she bus the tables please? But every time she picked up a dirty cocktail napkin she noticed one more volunteer standing idly around, full glass of something in hand, smiling for real. She slipped between ever more gregarious groups clearing away empty plastic cups, beer bottles with nervously torn off labels. She was efficient, effective. She was fuming.
                “Stop it!” Yelled the other sushi girl. “Stop it right now!”
                Afraid she was somehow bussing in the wrong way, she stopped. The smile wrinkled.
                “We’re done now. We’re getting drinks now. We’re going dancing now,” the other sushi girl explained very, very insistently.
                “Yes,” she said quietly, hesitating with her hand full of empty cups poised over the trash. “Yes,” she said louder, setting the trash back on the table. “Yes!” she cried, joining the drinks line.
                The writers danced, all of them, caught up in the beautiful oblivion.

 
The People to which Old Things are New
             My daughter and I arrived back in town a little before noon, which is a busy time for tourists. I had to park as far away from the house as I ever do and was getting irritated by the slow driver in front of me. When he signaled that he was going to park in the spot I wanted I cursed and flipped him the bird. When I eventually parked the group of tourists in the car started to walk towards us. I took my daughter out and put her on the sidewalk while I grabbed the rest of our stuff. When the tourists passed by an older woman in the group smiled and took a picture of my daughter.
            It was a strange moment. I was irritated with these people and instead of being irritated at me, one of them flattered me by taking a photograph (This also creeped me out a little, I have to admit). It actually wasn’t the first time a tourist took a picture of my daughter as if she were just another feature of the historic town of St. Andrews.          
In actuality, I’m sure those two instances are not the only times my daughter has made it into someone’s vacation slideshow either. We live right near the old cathedral and castle so I find that I’m often saying “excuse me” to people on the sidewalk only to have them attempt to get out of my way by walking right into my home’s entryway. People walk by our house constantly with cameras in hand taking mementos of the sights, some rarely looking up from their viewfinders. I guess they would rather experience their vacation for the first time from the comfort of their home.
Just as I was writing the last paragraph an open-air tour bus drove by my window with four blue-haired women standing up and facing backwards with their cameras pointed towards the ancient stone facades. I can also hear a bagpiper cycle through the same three songs around the corner for the third time. I guess by the time he gets through “Amazing Grace”, “Scotland the Brave”, and that other one you’ve undoubtedly heard before but don’t know the name of, the current group of tourists will have gotten all of their pictures and will have moved on to the next site and he can go back to the beginning for the next group.
            It’s a feature of living here that I find difficult to get used to (or a feature to which I find difficult to get used). I don’t mind it for the most part. I actually find it very interesting. At least there are things to do, which might not be the case in most towns of 16,000 people. When we decided to move here, my wife expressed unease with living in a college town that also happened to be a tourist destination—students and tourists both being groups of people known for their selfishness. People taking pictures of my 18-month-old daughter without asking for permission is a case in point. Would it be more of problem to take a random child’s picture in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania or Tulsa? Perhaps it wouldn’t be any more of a problem, but I think people wouldn’t be so trigger-happy as they seem to be while standing near a latrine built by monks in the 12th century. “Hey there’s an ancient toilet! There’s a gothic window! There’s a toddler!”
I once overheard a German girl and an English girl in a used bookstore here talking about an old book one got for an American friend because Americans like old things. It’s true, I suppose. For me, I do get a sense of excitement whenever I ponder who else might have walked where that piper is standing right now. It’s something that is difficult to do in the Dallas suburb where I grew up. But that’s only part of why I enjoy living here. I do think a lot of it is knowing that others visit where I live in order get away from where they live.
A few years ago, a friend of mine returned from a yearlong trip to Asia. He photographed things for a living so looking at his holiday slide show was more of a privilege than you might expect. However, of all the great photos he took, the ones that really stuck in my mind were of people going about their everyday lives. Either old men playing chess in a Chinese park or little children walking around. I never thought I’d be one of the subjects of those photos. Do people realize that I’m not a local Scot? Does it matter? It kind of makes me wonder if my friends’ photos were of locals or Chinese-Americans on vacation themselves.
People drive through here on daytrips often spending less than an hour outside their tour bus and may not even realize that people live here. I was the same in Venice, Mykonos, and Hampi on my visits to those historic sights. I did wonder what it might be like to live in those towns but never really thought I might learn.
            I still get a sense of awe when I walk by such ancient majesty. I still get a kick out of telling people that Mary Queen of Scots used to own the property I live in (though the building itself is only as old as George IV). But I am starting to find the more interesting aspects of the town blending in with the quotidian necessities. “Sure that library’s 600 years old, but the beer’s at Tesco.” I also still get a kick out of people wandering around town and asking me for the directions to the R&A, but perhaps not for long. I wonder which will get old first—the old things, or the people to which the old things are new.

 

Roller Coaster Dogmatics

by Christin Rice

            “Love is my religion.”  There, she had said it.  At least to herself, and wasn’t that ultimately the most important?  Except that in the next moment the idea was submerged in having to state, for the five hundredth time that day, “Welcome to the Fright Zone.  Keep your hands and feet inside while enjoying the ride.  Please remove all sunglasses, purses or anything else you don’t want to donate to the park.  Make sure your harness is fastened tightly and securely.  Now sit back and enjoy flying through the air at the speed of fright.”  After checking the nuclear-waste-colored car to ensure everyone inside would in fact stay inside, she gave the thumbs up to Jason in the booth whose job it was to oversee the overall safety of the ride and away sped another group of happy customers.  They’d be back in forty five seconds.  Meanwhile she’d be responsible for loading another car full of jostling bodies of all shapes and sizes, convince them to release their fly-away goods to the holding station and again repeat the rules which were meant to be entertaining enough to capture their attention while being specific enough to protect them from lawsuits.  There was about fifteen seconds between groups when she could retreat again to her mind, that murky place.  She was twenty one, about to start her senior year of college, and it felt like all of life had to be decided.  What she was going to do, who she was going to be.

            “Make sure your harness is fastened tightly and securely.”  You would never catch her actually riding this ride.  Two years ago there’d been a death on a similar ride in Pennsylvania.  Pre-existing heart condition was cited.  But how do you know if you have a pre-existing condition?  Are you really going to have a complete physical before getting in line?  There was just too much that was unknown.

            “Please remove all sunglasses…”

            “Hey lady, would you hold my heart while I’m on the ride?  I’ve been told I wear it on my sleeve and I’d hate to lose it during the loop-de-loop.”  His friends snickered, they were high school boys, on a testosterone outing of daring, belching and flirting.  Her uniform didn’t highlight her small waist, and in fact made her look not unlike the kids at Hot Dog on a Stick, that place in the mall that everyone made fun of.  So she was always surprised, a bit horrified and a little intrigued when anyone flirted with her.  Her smile in return was mostly one side of her mouth turning up.  They were boys out to see if the world would respond at all, a test of their own reality.  It made her feel tired and somehow their performing for each other made her own performance seem a safe and easy place to be.  Her uniform hid her real self from the world so that deep inside she could just be an unedited form.  On days like this when she was able to slip back and forth between the internal and outside world so easily it wasn’t hard to imagine that each car she sent off actually went somewhere and took her with it, propelling her closer and closer to her dreams.

            “Keep your hands and feet inside at all times.”  Love was her religion.  She would make it so.  No more fighting within herself over what to do about the about the need for something greater.  What would it look like?  She smiled on the waiting crowd.

            “Sarah!”  Jason yelled.  Startled, she turned to see him in the booth snapping his fingers at her.  He mouthed “wake up” and shook his hands in a lifting way.  Deep breath as the slime colored car returned.

            “Watch your step as you exit.”  She considered that her voice had a particularly compassionate tone and wondered if this is how the Dalai Lama began.  Well, maybe not the Dalai Lama, but surely Siddhartha.  He was probably going about his daily duty when he realized that he was meant to love all those around him.  It was probably just this simple.

            “Sit back and enjoy flying through the air at the speed of fright.”

            “Shaddup ya stupid bitch!”  A scrawny boy of maybe fourteen scowled at her while the larger boys around him broke into laughs.  “Yeah, why don’t you go on a diet and call me in a year,” another one chimed in.  The boys punched each other in the shoulder, laughing so loudly it drowned out her instructions.  An uppity woman turned around to glare at them while covering her intrigued daughter’s ears.

            “Why don’t you kids pipe down,” she hissed.

            “Stop talking about my pipe,” one retorted, grabbing his crotch but slamming his hand instead onto the metal harness designed to keep him in place.  High pitched laughs screamed through the air.

            She couldn’t remember where she was in her spiel.  When she came to their section she crushed the harnesses into them, ensuring their safety.  “Have a great ride,” she repeated through clenched teeth.

            Fuck Siddhartha, she thought.  He didn’t have to deal with boys trapped in bodies with a fury of hormones in ninety-five degree heat and enough adrenaline to kill a sacred cow.

            “Welcome to the Fright Zone.  Keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.  Please remove all sunglasses…”

 
Tame that Shrew
 
by Kermit Pitsfield

 

I’ve been quite judgmental of Reality TV for sometime now, mostly because it is great fun being holier than thou. But I am ready to join y’all and get with the program. In fact, I will use this space to propose a new (and totally rad) reality show: Tame that Shrew.

 

It is like Pimp my Ride, Wife Swap, Extreme Makeover, and Dr. Phil all rolled into one. Having seen a combined total of 15 minutes of all those shows, I consider my research complete.

 

The basic premise is that boyfriends and husbands will enter their wives for a transformationalspiritual awakening. Only the most obstinate and joy-killing shrews need apply. By the end of the season, these women will have exchanged ugly, insecure, gossipy, petty demeanors for abundant lives. Here is an outline of the first six shows:

 

Episode One – Setting the Scene: A camera follows Kathy from soccer practice, to the salon, to the grocery store, to church choir, etc. She is slowly revealed to be a self-centered, bickering, backstabbing, clod of grievances.

 

Episode Two – Deconstruction Part I: Kathy is visited by (pretend) IRS auditors. Her husband confessed to several counts of tax fraud. The news is delivered that he will likely spend nine-months in prison. Her “friends” are interviewed one by one.

 

Episode Three – Deconstruction Part II: Kathy and husband decide to take a vacation to sort things out and decompress before he is legally required not to travel. He is dragged off the plane by (pretend) U.S. Marshals and called by an alias – she is told that he was never who he claimed to be. While flying (alone now), the passengers are told that the plane will attempt a water-landing.

 

Episode Four – Deconstruction Part III: Instead of landing the ocean (of course), Kathy’s plane makes an emergency landing in rural, impoverished Haiti. Two hundred miles from Port-au-Prince, the passengers walk to the nearest village and Kathy encounters real poverty for the first time. The rumor of local drug czars make it impossible for the airline to send an immediate transport.

 

Episode Five –Transformation Part I: Kathy is told that the fastest way back to civilization is to walk to the medical missionary clinic. There she learns that she must wait three days until the only vehicle returns from Port-au-Prince. In the meanwhile, she is recruited to nurse malnourished children back to health.

 

Episode Six – Transformation Part II: Kathy is kidnapped by drug czars along with the deeply committed head nurse. The two are held in a basement and told that they will be released once the ransom is paid. While in captivity, Kathy is confronted by the head nurse who “sees right through her” and “guesses” at Kathy’s shrew-ish life back in America. Meanwhile, Kathy’s “friends” interview about her many shortcomings back in America.

 

Episode Seven – Transformation Part III: Kathy and (new friend) head nurse are ransomed and dropped in Port-au-Prince. They immediately check into a five-star hotel and make several calls home, to the airline, etc. The ladies get a full spa-treatment. That night, the head nurse talks Kathy into going to hear Bart Campolo (who happens to be in town at a conference).

 

And so on and so forth.

 

In short, Tame that Shrew will ultimately restore the most bitter and shallow women to their loving husbands. Of course, the season finale climaxes when the woman finds out the truth of the ruse and divorces her asshole husband and sues the network. Like I said, totally rad.

 
Place
 
How do you experience a place? An esoteric question? Perhaps to those who sit at home. But it is a very real question to those who would venture out to travel the world.
 
When I was in college I took my first trip ‘across the pond’ to visit a friend who was working as an au pair in Switzerland. Not only was it my first time stepping foot off the North American continent (I had grown up visting my grandmother who lived in Mexico so travel was hardly a foreign concept) but it was also the first non-family, non-youth group expedition. With my brand new guide book in hand, a camera and a few rolls of film (yes, I am old enough to have used film in college) I was prepared. The only problem was, I did not know what to do. So I dilligently searched for every item pictured in the guidebook and tried to copy them as best I could with my own camera.
 
More than a decade and 25 countries later I have overcome this awkwardness in being a tourist, but I still am left to wonder—how does someone truly experience a place?
 
The question has arisen once again as I am the only under 50 member of a barge cruise up the Rhine river. Each day brings a new town and with it the question. For the retiree crowd at least, it seems that the way to experience a place is to go on a walking tour, complete with headsets that allow an all-knowing guide to regurgitate his knowledge something like a mother bird feeding her young. The point is information—to be informed about the place is to experience it. When was that cathedral built? What is the significance of the statue on its spire? Who founded this city and how many years ago did it happen?
 
Perhaps its not entirely the retirees fault. The guidebooks and tour companies must shoulder some of the blame for the misperception that information somehow equals experience. Its not altogether surprising in the midst of a consumer culture. To experience a place must be to consume it in some way, mustn’t it? What better way to conquer a locale than to know its important facts and figures? Cologne? It’s the fourth largest city in Germany. It’s cathedral is the largest in Germany and in the top five largest in the world. It sits along the Rhine river. Check. Next? 
 
But what if there were something more? Shouldn’t there be? Is that the big secret surrounding travel, that it is little more than being able to check places off a list or add them to your countries visited map on facebook?
 
Today we stopped at a town called Koblenz. It is a small, ‘cute’ German town along the Rhine, at the intersection with the Mosel River. The optional excursion was to tour a castle. I chose to opt out and instead found myself sitting at an outdoor café, sipping a cappuccino, and reading the English language International Herald Tribune. The sun was warm but not too hot, the sky blue, the apple strudel delicious. To be honest, I felt a bit guilty for opting out of the castle tour, where all of my group of retirees were to be found. But I was absolutely content to sip my coffee and enjoy the town square from my seated vantage point. After taking the last sip I got up and walked around town a bit, even doing some shopping along the way, and arrived back to the barge just as the buses were dropping off the castle-goers.
 
As I boarded the boat I was chastized by the tour guide. “You missed out!” she accused. But I’m not convinced. Granted, I did not spend 33 Euro to have a guided tour of a bunch of old stones on a hillside. I’m sure it was interesting—I’m not arguing with that. But what I wonder is, can simply enjoying being in a place count as experiencing it? Or, to put it more directly, can I travel without a guide book and without an ‘expert’ informing me and still consider it worthwhile? It’s not that I will never visit another museum or photograph another landmark. I’ll probably just make sure to do it after having coffee and reading the morning paper along the town square.

 
Wink Not, Want Not
                This is not a piece for Cosmo. The readers of Culture-Voice, while certainly attractive, good-smelling and wildly successful in their personal lives I’m sure, seem to have a penchant for stories of misanthrope, self-deprecation and angst.   That said, I shouldn’t even call what I do “dating.” More accurately stated it is “first-dating.” It’s like going on a million job interviews: that sense of possibility right before when you’re selecting your outfit, thinking maybe this one will work out, become something to be excited about, keep me in the money for a while. And then during the interview, you realize something about the job just won’t work for you (the 80 hour a week expectation, the low pay, the need to wear suits every day). Or they discover something about you that won’t work: your utter lack of any relevant experience, your unwillingness to relocate, the person they interviewed the day before you. It’s almost exactly like dating—a complex mix of timing, star alignment and pure dumb luck. 
                You’d think in a city like San Francisco that the sheer numbers would work in your favor more often. Sadly, no. It only means you have so many more to get through in order to find the next un-compatible mate. It’s daunting. Allow me to share my survival techniques:
1.       Approach the whole concept with a crash and burn mentality. Overdo it for a month or so, then take a serious break from the whole process. In this way, each individual date takes on less significance and then the loneliness has a chance to catch up with you again during the break. I find this slightly mediates the neuroses involved in dating. 
2.       Choose a place you wanted to check out anyway. First-dating has really expanded my repertoire of food and drink experiences in the city. In this way, even when it’s going badly it’s like I’ve been dating the city and, well, it “gets” me. So, go somewhere you’d have a good time anyway because your date might turn out to be devoid of personality but you’ll still be able to file the location as worth going to again or not. There is always something new opening, even in deep suburbia, so take advantage of your curiosity and drag Mr. or Ms. Probably all Wrong with you in the process. 
3.       Get them talking about themselves. People are interesting, even the uninteresting ones. They often have hidden stories, like a great-uncle’s neighbor that killed their entire family, or hobbies that you’d never try but have an eerie curiosity about. A few choice questions and a glass of wine and a half hour later you may still be contemplating how you’re probably going to be alone forever, but at least you learned something or found a great story to tell at the next party you go to.
                Obviously, these tips are for when it is not going well. Looking over my list, you might surmise I go in with an attitude that presumes it won’t go well. You would not necessarily be wrong. These are not rules for succeeding in dating, they are tips for surviving.  And as the great Gloria Gaynor can attest to: “Oh, no not I, I will survive, Oh as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive!”

 
Admit it, You Love Grammar
 
 
A recent study, published by the University of Linguistics, just announced that 15% of the population loves grammar. LOVES it! Loves it like a baseball fan--all the moves, subtle shifts, and nuances...the chess-match of it all--but only 3% of the 15% will admit it. Why are we so sheepish about this? Why do we cast furtive glances when diagramming sentences is bashed? Worse still, why do we join in on the bashing? "Yea, what a waste of time, those stupid sentences...." We deny loving grammar two times, three times--nay, ten times! The rooster crows. Well, I at least, am now willing to admit it. I love grammar. There, I said it. But I must shout it out, "I LOVE PARTICPLE PHRASES!" 
 
I never would have been able to make this proclamation if it weren't for Anne Curzan's article "Says Who? Teaching and Questioning the Rules of Grammar." Curzan is one of the members of the usage panel, along with Sherman Alexie, Maxine Hong Kingston, Annie Dillard, David Sedaris, Garrison Keillor, and many others. They debate and vote upon usage issues, and then they articulate the outcomes within dictionaries. In the article, Curzan debunks the idea that grammar is a set of hard-fast, immutable, as-sacred-as-god-black-and-white rules. Instead, there is a tremendous amount of history, power, politics, and therefore grey. 
 
She spells out several choice examples. For starters, it was acceptable to split an infinitive before the 1800's. During the 1800's, some grammarians began to see such a move as a blemish, probably because in other languages (such as Spanish and Latin), an infinitive is one word. How can you split beber (to drink)? And yet, people kept splitting infinitives despite the efforts of English teachers (To Boldly Go... ring a bell?). However, Curzan reveals that in 1998 the members of England's usage panel went ahead and gave the green light to splitting infinitives. Yea!--but won't English teachers still circle the split infinitive in red ink? 
 
This is but one of the teasers. The other teaser is the double and triple negative. It was acceptable to use double and triple negatives during Chaucer's time (check out "The Knight's Tale"), and the first edition of the King James Bible includes double negatives: you shall not eat the blood of no manner of flesh (Lev. 17:14, but subsequent editions jettisoned double negatives). Curzan's research reveals that in 1763, Robert Lowth used mathematics to persuade people that double negatives in language make positives, and therefore ought to be eradicated. What a loss! In Spanish, it is still grammatically correct to use double negatives. Double and triple negatives add one more linguistic move to the repertoire. Unfortunately, we never can use no more double negatives in English. It sounds "wrong."
 
These teasers hint at a much more complex issue: grammar and power. If "Standard English" has had shifts throughout its history, then who says what is right and what is wrong? Why is it that millions of people believe that the grammar of their dialect is "wrong"? Suddenly, who says I can't split an infinitive augments into who says my inner-city dialect is wrong? Curzan encourages all of us to rethink the social implications of how we understand, teach, and apply grammar. She openly acknowledges the tension of her job. She progressively embraces the fact that language changes, yet she is--as a Professor of English--a person who upholds the integrity of language. In order to navigate this tension, she clearly defines two aspects of grammar: descriptive grammar & prescriptive grammar. Descriptive grammar looks at language as it is. One dialect is not wrong or right. Even text-messaging has grammar, and so does math. The sentence, 2 + 4 = 6, is simply a compound subject noun, a linking verb, and a predicate noun. Descriptive grammar, then, describes the relationship of words without making a value judgment. On the other hand, prescriptive grammar is that messy business of "Standard English," and as the above anecdotes reveal, this "Standard" is a human construct full of debate, votes, and history. 
 
After defining prescriptive and descriptive grammar, Curzan then discusses power, politics, audience, etcetera, making sure that her students never think of their language, their dialect, as "wrong." Rather, the emphasis is placed upon purpose, audience, and craft. 
 
Language runs deep. The grammatical patterns generate rhythms--rhythms that get under our skin and in our blood. Language is generated by heritage, place, region, culture, & family. It is personal, and it gives us a sense of identity. This goes far beyond "self-esteem." Telling someone that their dialect is inferior is offensive. Sure, we need to know "Standard English," but not at the cost of replacing what runs deep within a person.
 
Curzan gave me the courage to admit that I love grammar. Grammar, like anything else, is a complex interrelationship between many forces and counter-forces within culture. It is so much more than diagramming sentences and finding participle phrases. It is about rhythm, place, culture, and power. 
 
I close with the final two paragraphs of Curzan's article:
 
In asking students to question everything, teachers understand that students will not immediately overthrow power structures simply by becoming more aware of how they work. We hope that they will be more informed citizens, striving for social justice. Language is no different. In public debates about language, we need more informed citizens, who do not condemn standard American dialects as broken English, who understand that students do not need to erase their home languages to learn Standard English, spoken or written. We need citizens who understand that it is not fair to judge someone as inferior because they speak differently or break a prescriptive usage rule. To achieve this, we need teachers who are willing to think differently about what it means to teach English grammar.
 
English teachers have a responsibility to foster systematic, informed, and reflective knowledge about the English language. One place to start is to encourage critical inquiry about the rules of language, descriptive and prescriptive, so that students understand what is at stake in the choices that they make. We should encourage our students and ourselves to ask at every language turn, Says who? 
 
 
 
Work Cited
 
Curzan, Anne. "Says Who? Teaching and Questioning the Rules of Grammar." PMLA 124.3 (2009): 870-879.  

 

Jonny the Ferry Bartender

by Christin Rice 

            His tumbly brown hair fell in his eyes as he wiped the already spotless counter down.  Jonny wished someday to become the guy that got to catch the pier as they approached.  They had given him rigorous training in basic safety and he imagined a day coming when there was such a crisis that all the other staff were incapacitated (sometimes this was in the form of pirates, sometimes in the form of mass hysteria that hit everyone except him: he’d always been exceptionally level-headed), and he had to save the passengers.  He’d leap over his tiny bar, shout to the crowd to “stay calm”! and spring toward the door.  Not stopping to put a safety life vest on, he’d single-handedly catch and avert the pier post, using his uncannily strong quads (he’d been doing copious warrior two stances in yoga lately) to push them away, absorbing into himself all the friction of the crash.  Wails of fear would erupt but one look at his determined and capable gaze would reassure the passengers.  He’d lift each one up and over to safety, then administer CPR to the fallen crew, reviving each one who proceeded to open their eyes and gaze on him with profound gratitude.   Leolla, the ferry driver especially would be so overcome with gratitude that she’d clasp his face in her hands and pull him in for a kiss.

            These were his thoughts while he scrubbed the counter top in between pick ups.  At the next Pier 41 stop, the bubbly gait of tourists boarding, heading to Jack London Square for dinner, distracted him from the boredom.  This was his time to shine: his ability to pour wine while the ferry rocked without spilling a drop brought him a great source of pride.  It wasn’t often that the consumers stopped to look him in the eye, but when they did, he hoped they felt a sense of reassurance that no matter what he’d be there, ready to be called to action, to save the day, to pour the wine that made them feel as if they were on some magical ride to a place of great adventure.

 
A less angry rant about other people’s rants on the healthcare debate
 
 
Regardless of your view on the “healthcare” debate, most of us can share sentiment that some arguments on both sides of late have been … ludicrous. Particular statements against reform have been brasher than others. Why are reactions to healthcare reform so extreme? What is it that some Americans are so afraid of? Take for example the above youtube video. Let’s pull out just a few of the intense “feelings” of Americans regarding healthcare:
 
•   “God is in charge of healthcare”
•    “If you are really sick, go home and die…”
•     “This is un-American”
•    “This is another step in the total takeover of our society”
•    “Do some homework and some studying, you can see that he (Obama) is a radical communist”
•     “This has nothing to do with healthcare and everything to do with taking away our constitutional rights”
 
I’ve heard other interesting quotes such as:
 
•    “Don’t take away our America”
•     “Obama is the next Hitler”
 
 
And
 
•     “We are going to become Russia”
 
It seems that a lot of this healthcare debate has to do with semantics:  the meaning of words, phrases, exclamations. We throw around big ideas like socialism, communism, Marxism, and even bigger ones like freedom –and to what end? To better understand the issues at stake? To push an idea or an agenda that we truly believe in? Some make comparisons to other places and historic atrocities such as Russiaand Hitler. People have even gone so far as to make racist comments about our current president. . Is Obama writing his own “Mein Kampf”?  How do using these words and screaming about it really help? Does it change anyone’s mind on either side of the issue? 
 
Better yet, where do these sentiments stem from? Is it a legitimate fear of the government? Is it that long standing individualism runs rampant in our veins (and has its origins in the American Revolution)? Is it simple greed (i.e., no one should take any part of anyone’s money)? Are Americans so capitalistic that changing even one aspect of society, such as healthcare, would be the downfall of the American dream?   Would it destroy the system that our society is based on?
 
Why is it that the vast majority of industrialized nations and even many developing countries seem to have little trouble organizing and operating some form of publically-funded healthcare system with the goal of universal healthcare coverage for everyone, excluding the United States? Take Canada, the UK, and France, for example. According to the Institute of Medicine, the United States is the only industrialized and wealthy nation that does NOT provide universal healthcare for all of its citizens. 40 MILLION AMERICANS do not currently have health insurance. The myriad of complaints and lawsuits by Americans against health insurance companies, the inflated cost of health insurance, and the exclusion criteria set up by health insurance agencies over the last few decades have been a sign for needed change, and yet, healthcare reform has evaded America. With the obesity epidemic on the rise and chronic diseases escalating, public health officials are pushing for increased attention on preventive medicine, but with such a tight budget and control of the healthcare system in the hands of healthcare providers and health insurance agencies, they have been sorely disappointed.
 
The source of the fear of socialized medicine aside, the debate between universal and privatized healthcare can really boil down to a simple question: Do we believe that every individual has a right to basic healthcare?
 
A comparison between the US healthcare system and the Canadian healthcare system is pertinent due to our similarities in culture and geographical proximity. Michael Moore “asks the Canadians” in his film documentary “Sicko,” which dives into the perils of the American healthcare system. However, some viewers may have been skeptical of scripted answers. To do some of my own investigation, I asked a 26 year-old Canadian about his views on universal healthcare. He answered the question below.
 
Do you believe that every individual has a right to basic healthcare?
“If your answer is "No", then it follows that you support privatized healthcare. If it is "Yes", you are for universal healthcare. Actually, universal healthcare is predicated on that exact fact; that every person deserves basic healthcare. But in order to understand the issue in deeper ways, we must look further into the fundamentals behind said question.
 
First, let us discuss the "No" side. I do not know much about this side of the debate solely because, growing up in Canada, I have known nothing but the "Yes" side. My point of view, therefore, may be slightly skewed. Universal healthcare, to me, is as certain as death and taxes (interesting because taxes are a main talking point with healthcare). Yes, I get free healthcare and free health education (through tax). The extent of healthcare varies from province to province but, at the very least, basic healthcare is provided for all permanent residents and citizens of Canada. I am clearly on the "Yes" side of the debate. Honestly though, I cannot even imagine what it would be like to be admitted into a hospital for an emergency (which has happened) or otherwise (which has happened as well), being treated, discharged and then footed with thousands of dollars in medical bills. I also cannot imagine what it would be like if I had no way of paying those bills. Or what it would be like not learning about health in schools and through education. (Side note: how can education be universal and healthcare not? It seems backwards to educate children who cannot, according to policy, be healthy?) But all this is relatively superficial to the debate. 
 
What we are really talking about is the value of human beings. Is each person, young or old, man or woman, poor or wealthy valuable in our eyes? On this fundamental level, I must answer an emphatic "YES". Is that socialist? I think it is merely human. In fact, at the very core of my being, I feel a deep connectedness to the rest of humanity. I feel compelled to help my fellow human and as a capable person, able to earn money, I am glad to help others who are not and cannot. Conversely, I would want my fellow human to feel similar and help me in times of need to provide essential services (healthcare being one of them). See, that is the main contention against universal health: Why should I spend my hard earned money to help pay (through taxes) for someone else's well-being? But if you ask me, how can I not? To weigh money and someone's life, I will choose a person's life every time. Again, this is merely human. Maybe you don't ask these questions or think this way. Maybe it is more complicated than that but that is how I see it. To me, Canada and most of the developed world, it is the better way. What is a little bit of money in light of all humanity?”
 
My Canadian friend makes several good points in his blurb about healthcare. This is not to say that the United States should adopt a healthcare system that replicates Canada’s exactly per say, but rather, shouldn’t we at least consider the questions posed above? Why do we value basic education and things like roads, libraries, and the postal service, but not healthcare? What is it that we are so afraid of and why? Similarly, why has the healthcare debate escalated so out of control, that even our language is aggressive and roundabout? Our current healthcare policies are inefficient, and most would agree that something needs to change. 
 
Could the root of the issue be that some Americans are just afraid of being like the rest of the world? After all… we’re America. Fuck yeah. We don’t speak any other languages. We don’t listen to the United Nations when they say don’t go to war in Iraq. We consume most of the worlds’ resources. We import and export as we please. We don’t need socialized medicine. Universal healthcare is for those other, inferior countries that can stand waiting in long lines and suffer through marginalized government-run medical care. We are too good for that. We don’t let our government control us (just other people); we have legitimate reasons for not trusting the government with healthcare. Screw the 40 million people without it. Heaven forbid we would want to pay for anyone other than ourselves. 
 
Perhaps saying that America just wants to be different is a stretch, but the extreme need for choice and individualism that drives the desire for privatization certainly insinuates something… And what is a legitimate fear of the government? So, the USA government has struggled a bit with representing the people and the greater good (say slavery), as well as the current presidential scandals, but what is it exactly that people are so afraid of in terms of healthcare? Would the doctors be less intelligent? Perhaps less motivated by money (gasp!?)? Could someone answer this question please? To steal from the film V for Vendetta, shouldn’t the government be more afraid of us, the people, than we are of it? Shouldn’t we make or develop a healthcare system with the government that serves us all?
 
Sadly, the youtube video above is a gross misrepresentation of America as a whole, as there are many thoughtful and caring individuals on both sides of the healthcare debate. It seems as though, with healthcare reform on the rise, the worst of traits of individuals are rising to the public forefront. People are throwing around words and ideas with heightened emotion. These people look and sound ignorant in their passionate displays of fear… The statements made and the signs displayed are keen examples of freedom of speech in the United States, but they are also keen examples of speech that appears to be thoughtless and uncompassionate. Aren’t we a more generous and caring nation than we appear to the rest of the world through clips like this? We invest millions of dollars in foreign aid each year, and many consumers are now committed to international ethical and fair-trade endeavors, as well as assisting fellow Americans who are in need. Churches serve the poor every day, and some humanitarian workers dedicate their lives to providing free healthcare to those in need.
 
As a nation we should question some of the arguments made against the idea of universal healthcare, at least from a humanitarian forefront. We have come very far in our individualistic, capital-driven society, but at what cost? Who is left in the wake of capitalism, and who is excluded from our current healthcare system?
 
A response to the rants about healthcare reform is inevitably another rant. Perhaps, however, arguments for considering the idea of universal healthcare can be posed in a more thoughtful, critical, and productive manor than arguments against it, and we can avoid the frivolous screaming matches that have ensued in recent months. We should be careful, however, because according to some, considering universal healthcare might just be “un-American.” 

 
Facebook and Self-Integration
                It’s probably not that often that Facebook drives one to therapy, but add me to the roster of those for whom this is true. Lately my previous lives have been finding me. They reach further and further back each week it seems. It began with people from my mid-twenty’s self finding me on Facebook and has eventually reached all the way to my eighth grade awkwardness. To take a particularly narcissistic stance on things, it’s like my previous selves are actually friending me.
                My life until the last handful of years has been one of fragmenting. Moving even one town over as a child is enough to disrupt your friend circle, your sense of yourself as a student, your belief in what home is. Moving to a different part of California brings a different cultural context and sense of transportation. Moving across country as an adult by choice brings a keener sense of self-awareness in the loss of place and the embracing of a new way of being. None of these things are inherently good or bad, but as a person who took her own damn time figuring out that she had a self in the first place and then had to finally go about figuring out who in fact that self actually was, it created a sense of being a rather different person in each of these locations.
                And now, having found what feels an authentic version of myself, the prior versions are showing up and producing a subtle invitation to be incorporated back in.  Please note that none of the actual wonderful people who’ve reached out on Facebook have made any kind of demand for some explanation at the rift between former perception and current reality. It is solely an internal response; my inner therapist that leans back in the arm chair and asks, “So, how does this make you feel?” It creates a time of possibility—a choice to proceed with or without the former selves. 
                I imagine even for those who haven’t moved as much there’s still a sense of your past catching up with you (or trying to anyway) on Facebook. There is the simple reality of developmental stages and the fact that in high school different things and people were important to the you that you are now. Perhaps you’ve had more continuity in the people that populated your life, but invariably there are a few that have fallen away with the lapse of time. Or, if you haven’t changed as much, maybe those around you have. Maybe your town has grown to a city, everyone else in your MFA program went out and got famous, they let women have the vote. Or maybe you have one persona at work, another with friends and yet another with family, but now they are all on Facebook with you and you still haven’t figured out how to configure the privacy settings. It all amounts to an opportunity in frustration or self-integration.
                I can’t say I’ve solved the problem of figuring out how to navigate this yet. But I’m glad the question is presenting itself. Life is funny and mysterious in the ways it will challenge you beyond your tiny views of the world. It relentlessly finds new avenues to the heart of things and is not above using Facebook. It’s not in the Terms of Agreement, but hasn’t accepting friendship, and with it all the ways it can change you, always required a certain amount of courage?

 

Let’s be Acquaintances

by Kermit Pitsfield

 

I used to be relevant. I was never hip, but at least I used to relate to my fellow man. Now I just feel out of touch. You see, in my day, folks didn’t need Facebook to figure out who their “friends” were. In my day, an old fashioned log into MySpace was all you needed to connect. Sometimes I look at that old, clunky MySpace account and reminisce about the good ole days. I remember those glorious days when I knew that all those thumbnail images represented people. Now it is a virtual ghost town in there, corpses left from the Facebook apocalypse.

 

We live in a Facebook world now. This new era is a place where people you barely know (or barely knew a long, long time ago) find you and want you to “confirm” your “friend”-ship. As a veteran introvert, I feel terribly inadequate in this new world. It had taken me a lifetime of faking social interactions to get where I am. I have mastered the mailbox wave with my neighbors. At work, nobody can do the half-nod-with-eyebrow-raise like I can. At church, I shake hands and small talk as if I were really, truly, genuinely interested. It is the least I can do for my siblings here in the global community—the very least.

 

Alas, it seems now that all my tricks to navigate Sartre’s hell are for not. In this brave new world, complete acquaintances walk right into my life and immediately demand to know whether or not I will be their friend. Then, if I am bold enough to accept them as a friend (for what a rude thing it would be to reject them), they might try to find out something about me—openly! Good Lord, why can’t I just look at you from across the office while you are looking away? I know that you do the same—it is as God intended it!

 

The choice to reject a person who has openly asked to be your friend is the pinnacle of Sophie’s Choices for the I-personality. For people like me, the risk of offending an acquaintance is tantamount to actually having to move from indifference to something besides indifference. If my neighbor remains mildly courteous, and I do the same, we are joined in a spiritual bond that is committed, above all else, to maintain anonymity. The moment that this prime directive is breached, a flood of emotional energy gushes forth and there is no telling where the chaos might end! Discussion? Family Photos?! Yoga classes together?!! MAY IT NEVER BE!!!!

 

Okay, fine! Look at my pictures! Write on my wall! Poke me, why don’t you?! I know that I can’t resist the new world order forever…

 

wait…

 

It seems that in the twenty minutes it took me to write this, something called “twitter” has evolved into a thing. What a relief! A return to simple, mundane updates was just what the psychologist ordered. Question: If I tweet that “I am enjoying quality time with my wife”, does this sufficiently fake authenticity? Please don’t answer; let us join once more in the bond that only acquaintances can enjoy!

 

 
Exit Row
 
I used to travel a lot. I mean a lot. Three out of four weeks I’d be out of town due to my work. I thought of myself as quite the savvy traveler. I looked down my nose at the ‘vacation’ travelers that would clog up the security checkpoints and ticket counters come summer. They moved so slowly. Did they have to bring everything they owned on vacation with them? Didn’t they realize that some of us were working.
 
It was around this time when I became an exit row sitter. I knew the system, and somehow at that point it hadn’t occurred to the masses that they too could request an exit row. It also hadn’t occurred to the airlines that they could charge extra for an exit row. So I partook of the knowledge from my frequent traveler status and got an exit row aisle almost every flight. It was so nice not to be crowded. So nice not to have the person in front of you practically in your lap for the duration of the flight.
 
After enjoying and taking pride in my travel savvy ways for quite some time I had a troubling encounter. As I was walking smugly toward my exit row seat I happened to notice the man sitting in the row directly in front of it—you know, the row that has no leg room and also can’t lean back, due to the exit row behind? This man had to be pushing 7 feet tall. He was in aisle seat, but still, there was hardly room for him to bend his legs to wedge them in. My smug glee melted as I sat down in my roomy seat behind him. I’m 5 foot 2.
 
The exit row was mine, fair and square. I’d asked for it, I’d been given it. I hadn’t stolen it from anyone. I spent way too many hours on planes in my life during those days, so it seemed almost like I deserved some comfort, didn’t I?
 
Yet I couldn’t shake it. The nagging sense of guilt. Not the bad kind of guilt, but the good kind. The kind that tells you when something isn’t as it should be. When you might be playing a part in what’s not quite right in the world.
 
The thing is, though it’s of course nice, at 5 foot 2 I don’t need an exit row. Sure, it’s cramped when the person in front leans back and you can’t even move your legs. No, I don’t enjoy being crowded on an airplane any more than the next person. Yes, I avoid middle seats like the plague. No, I’m not some sort of martyrous glutton for punishment.
 
But in a world where so few of us use such a disproportionate amount of the planet’s resources, is there perhaps a place for not taking up all the space that we can procure for ourselves? Is there room for knowing one could get an exit row, but choosing instead to leave it to others? Or is that just nonsense? Someone’s going to get the benefit of that extra 5.3 inches of legroom—it might as well be me, right? If I don’t ask for it, who knows who might? Maybe someone even shorter than me, who deserves it less! Or maybe some arrogant jerk business traveler who thinks he’s better than the rest of us peons crowded in?
 
 
Or maybe, just maybe, there’s something to be said for relinquishing what I ‘deserve,’ regardless of the outcome?
 

 
Geographical Happy Places
            If the greeting card slogan “it’s your friends who make your world” is true, and it kind of is, it’s also true that it’s where you live that is your world. I just finished Eric Weiner’s Geography of Bliss and have been thinking about my own personal search for geographical happiness. I think the key to geographical bliss, at least on the personal level, is finding a place where you feel like you can be yourself more than you’ve felt anywhere else. I have lived in many different types of places: cities, towns, and drawers (long story), without consideration whether the place itself created something perfectly appropriate for me. I moved to these places out of obligation/expectation/or opportunity to try something new. It had nothing to do with finding a place that made me happy. Perhaps the obligation/expectation/opportunity made me happy but not necessarily because of the specificity of locale. Enter San Francisco, where I have spent many happy and unhappy moments, and have discovered is absolutely my particular geography of bliss. I have never, ever felt so much who I am in a place. 
            There was a first hinting moment of encountering this particularity of bliss for myself: I was visiting Capitola, a gorgeous little beach just outside of Santa Cruz. It was probably 1999-ish and I was standing alone on the rocks. And I was overcome with the strange sense that I had been there before—perhaps even born there, had been living a parallel life there all along, when none of that was actually possible. Not knowing what to attribute it to (and not being a firm believer in past lives) I decided to just enjoy the feeling, and assume it pointed to something larger than myself, something about geographical right-ness. But it was merely a visit so I assumed there was something ephemeral about the feeling too.
            Maybe it is a recapturing of a childhood sense of belonging. My family moved a lot growing up. But the one house we lived in from my ages five through eight epitomizes childhood happiness for me. My brother and I were recently analyzing this happiness because for us this is a fun pastime: analyzing happiness. And I realized for me that happiness boiled down to a few simple elements: I had a couple close friends, my family was happy, I had space and freedom to play, I could create stuff out of cardboard and glue, and I loved school. I don’t know if everyone inherently feels like they belong in the world when they’re young and then eventually it just gets beat out of us, or if there was something unique to my experience, but I think on some level my whole life so far has been about either feeling divorced from that sense of belonging, or of trying to find it again. It’s a striving for proof of what David Whyte pens, that “you are not a troubled guest on this earth/ you are not an accident amongst other accidents.” 
             I just celebrated my four-year anniversary of living here. I’m struck by the fact that my relationship with this city has been the most successful relationship I’ve ever had. I feel cared for, I have the freedom to say what needs to be said, ask the questions that need to be asked, it accepts my love in return, we share a connection, and there’s a shared sensibility that means we can cohabitate in happiness. What is the appropriate four-year anniversary gift? I’m going to say plastic, as in plastic cups of wine which I used to cheers my friends on the night of my anniversary. These were friends who have shared my commitment to a city which is both a refuge of souls and demander of outrageous rent.  
            I celebrated the auspicious date at Dolores Park Movie night, a quintessentially San Franciscan event. That night captured the essence of what I love about this place: a local group organizes the night, bringing classics like Annie Hall as well as nouveau-revolutionary films like Sita Sings the Blues to the general masses. The donations never quite cover the cost but their passion makes up for it. The June weather embodied Twain’s wise quote that the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. I shared a blanket and a bottle or two of wine with friends from various parts of my life. The twilight revealed a particularly gorgeous view of an illuminated Muni train sliding down Church street in front of cozy looking homes.  It was a scene out of a cheesy greeting card. It really is my friends (and this place) that makes my world.

 
Karibu Kawangware (“Welcome to Kawangware”), Katie
 
First Day: A Ray of Hope
 
As we raced down the unpaved, littered dirt road in our Matatu – a bus that features loud music, audacious near-collisions with passing vehicles, and men hanging off the side to spot prospective new ride sales – I grasped the reality that I’d already learned second-hand: that Kawangware is Nairobi’s second most neglected slum.
 
Masses of people lined the stretch of this road, many bare-footed, and none were offered shade unless they tucked themselves underneath shanties – structures that look like boxes and offer little more shelter. They shared the choppy dirt expanse with goats and piles of garbage. There was no running water that I saw, though still water hung in the air on the sides of these roads, providing nothing but stench, mud, and likely, the occasional mosquito.
 
We went to the Ray of Hope Learning Centre and met the children whom we will serve this week. They are amazing, wonderful people. Though most of them have lost parents to abandonment, HIV/AIDS, or other social and medical afflictions, they persevere - radiating joy through their smiles, songs, and endless dances. The children of Kawangware know how to live. They know how to love.
 
Second Day: All It Takes
 
I spent all day today with the children in the Learning Centre: 59 of them, sharing two classrooms that are both tiny by U.S. standards. The youngest child is five years old; the oldest is 11. All of their heads are shaved, as many of the children come to the Learning Centre with ringworm. The Ray of Hope staff treats them when they come in, and then keeps their heads shaved and treated, so that if they contract any such condition again out in the dirt roads of Kawangware, the won't bring it in.
 
The children have blue uniform shorts and sweaters. The girls in each classroom wear yellow shirts, and the boys wear red ones. I appreciate that the staff distinguishes the boys and girls this way, or else I would have had a lot of trouble identifying them by gender, before I got to know them. In fact, I asked my fellow volunteers last night, “Why do they only teach boys?”
 
I began the day in the younger children’s classroom. They screamed, cheered, and clapped, yelling, “Hello, Katie!” when I entered. They were all smiles, boundlessly excited that a strange-looking guest was spending time with them. (The children here are fascinated – transfixed, really – with my light skin and blonde hair.) I entered and left the room several times throughout the morning, but on one occasion when I walked in, the children started screaming, cheering, and clapping again.
 
 
For a few seconds, I could not figure out why they were so ecstatic, since they’d seen me several times already. Then I realized the reason: it was the construction paper in my arms. That's all it takes to light their eyes and bring magic to their day. Their boisterous response to seeing this basic art supply made me simultaneously joyful and sad.
 
In both classrooms, I witnessed pure love in the hearts of every child. I don’t know how much of their authentic gratitude I can hold without my heart shattering into pieces.
 
Third Day: Gratitude for the Uninhabitable
 
Today, I ventured into the heart of the Kawangware slum with two of my Glide teammates and one of our Ray of Hope colleagues, Hendricka. Hendricka is the Community Health Worker for the Ray of Hope, and every morning, she does what we spent three hours doing this morning: conducting home visits to the Ray of Hope Medical Clinic patients, to assess their health and encourage them to continue with their medical regimens.
 
Following Hendricka, I dodged sewage streams while tiptoeing through what I can only hope was mud, noting the doorsteps that stretched on endlessly, each home separated by only a thin sheet of corrugated tin. As I turned a sharp corner between alleys, to find a stray cow walking toward me from five feet away, I landed squarely outside of my element. I began steeling myself for what I knew would be a heart rending series of home visits.
 
On this trek, I encountered attack goats; shared narrow alleys with wayward chickens; watched a cat crawl in and out of a woman’s home through gaps between her tin roof and tin walls; witnessed flies land repeatedly on almost every child and adult I saw; noticed ants march across the cement floors of people fortunate enough to have a cement barrier between their feet and the earthen mud; and heard the pitter patter of rat feet on the roofs above us while sitting in various Kawangware homes – dark, smelly rooms the size of a 10 X 10 storage unit, with no electricity or water.
 
No one should have to live in these uninhabitable conditions. Based on what I saw, and the many stories of crime I’ve heard, I feel that having a “home” here is far more threatening to health, safety, and happiness than being homeless in the United States.
 
And yet, I see profound joy and gratitude in the spirits of every person I’ve seen who lives here.

 

Knives, Hooks, and Pee Pee Pants

by Stephen Ausburne

 

I’ve never been one to reveal much of my checkered past.  I’ve tried very hard to shed my tough guy reputation and to delve into the details of my youthful misdeeds would seem to unearth some buried shame and potentially glorify a lifestyle of raw, unadulterated street thuggery.  You see, I wasn’t always a writer and aficionado of fine cheeses. 

 

I was in a gang. 

 

It may have actually been a club; I have a hard time distinguishing the two.  Sort of like a city versus a town, I never how to determine which is which.  For sake of consistency and perpetuation of a mythic toughness, let’s just refer to it as a gang.  The gang was called The Wolverines.  This was not based on the comic book character, no, this was based on the ferocious animal that is half wolf, half Ben Vereen. 

 

There were three of us Wolverines and being in fifth grade, we weren’t children anymore, we were the harbingers of havoc.  We were a force to be reckoned with and if we had remembered to be a gang longer than a few weeks during that Summer vacation, we’d probably still be around today continuing to wreak said havoc.

 

Our mission statement was clear and concise: WOLVERINES!  It was to be exclaimed with a prepubescent shout that would rattle the plywood doors of my treehouse.  I was the weapons expert.  Maybe.  I might have been something else.  Come to think of it, I think we were all weapons experts though one of us was probably a ninja.  We could never fully agree on what we were due to the fact that no one wanted to yield any specialness to the others. 

 

Perhaps that is what made the Wolverines so unique – we were an assemblage of hybrid tunnel ratting, explosive specializing, weapons expertizing, boxing ninjas with bazookas, grenades, Uzis, throwing stars and grappling hooks.  Uzis were always the gun of choice, mostly because that was back when squirt guns could look real and they always looked like Uzis.  Plus the Uzi was probably the only gun we could identify by name.  Throwing stars and grappling hooks were the ultimate pointed objects and they always seemed somewhat accessible because you could order them from magazines.  We didn’t know much about guns or how to get them but to our knowledge there was no complicated wait period for throwing stars and grappling hooks.  Grappling hooks were especially nifty because they could help you climb and, in a pinch, could be used to impale your enemy.  At the time I did not know that the word “grappling” meant anything though I may have suspected it was synonymous with “awesome.”

 

We decided that it would be of utmost importance to conceal our true identities so we figured we should all have nicknames.  Unfortunately, I never received one.  One of our members, Sean, dubbed himself Switchblade and since my friend Josh and I couldn’t match the sheer radness of Sean’s nickname, we gave up.  I tried to think of other cool knives, but the only ones I could think of were the Swiss Army Knife and the Butterfly Knife.  Butterfly Knives were the coolest but there was no way in hell I was going to be called Butterfly.  I was a Wolverine for crap’s sake. 

 

Next we needed a leader.  I was too short and wore glasses and my wardrobe consisted primarily of faded clothing from various garage sales so I wasn’t exactly fearless leader material.  Switchblade had the coolest name but he was too ethnic to lead anything in the mid 1980’s.  I don’t think he was black or Hispanic but his skin was an olive hued darkness that betrayed any pure Caucasoid presence. He was destined to be our token whatever he was.  I do remember his sister was hot in an exotic, older sister kind of way.  Like the throwing stars, Josh and I had delusions of her accessibility as well. This left Josh as our default leader, though we never told him as much. 

 

Our missions were your standard take no prisoners, make shooting noises first/ask questions later fare.  We’d find things to climb, hide behind, or throw dirt clods at.  One mission found us on top of Josh’s giant barn behind his house.  We scaled the monstrosity in order to get a better view of the surrounding neighborhood through our binocular hands.  When dusk came along and we were in danger of being late for supper, we scaled down the sheet metal outpost.  All of us, except our leader.  Josh was still on the roof as his corduroys snagged on a nail.  A nail no doubt put in place by our enemies to thwart our progress of attack or defense or whatever the heck we thought we were doing.  Neither Switchblade nor I wanted to get back up there to help him because, quite frankly, we were both a little scared of climbing up there in the first place.  We looked on as our leader struggled and eventually started to cry out of frustration. 

 

We stood perplexed as he became more and more frantic as tear soaked disappointment turned into sobs.  We knew he wasn’t hurt and as the veteran of climbing the barn, we didn’t think fear was factor.  Suddenly the wails subsided and he buried his blotchy face into the crook of his elbow.  We backed up and were now able to see the liquid runoff emanating from his now soaked pants.  We watched in silence as little boy urine trickled off the galvanized eaves of the barn.  In the distance we saw our Captain’s mom running out with a ladder as we fled to our homes.

 

The Wolverines was a short lived gang that was probably too far ahead of its time to affect any serious world change.  Almost two decades after the barn mission, I ran into Switchblade at a local bar.  He had been drinking quite a bit but he recognized me.  I was still short and he was still ethnic.  We talked a bit and then he asked me if I had heard about Josh.  He died a few years prior.  We stopped talking, avoided eye contact for a bit, and retreated to our separate groups of friends.  

 

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A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section I: Nature Poetry and the Ecological Self

A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section II: The Boundary Between Nature and Culture: A Look at Emily Dickenson's Rat

A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section III: The Language of the Earth

A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section IV: The Threshold between Two Worlds: A Look at Elisabeth Bishop's "The Moose"

A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section V: Vociferations

A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section VI:  Challenging Ideologies (Vociferations Part II)

A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section VII:  Shaking the Toxic Gaze (Vociferations Part III)  

A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section VIII:  How shall we then Live?

A Defense of Nature Poetry: Section IX: The Deep Ecology of E. E. Cummings 

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Little Help

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