Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Sunday, December 09, 2007 All I want for Christmas
Remember the Brady Bunch episode where Carol loses her voice and can’t sing at the Christmas Eve service at church and Cindy asks Santa to bring Mommy’s voice back for Christmas?
Awwww. Cute little blond girl with wide eyed innocence and a lisp.
Okay. So I’m not cute or blond or innocently wide-eyed and I don’t even have a lisp. Can’t even fake one.
So Santa probably won’t grant my wish.
But.
In “A Very Special Episode” fashion I have a tear jerking request:
All I want for Christmas is my dad. Even if we only get one more Christmas, I want at least that one more Christmas with my dad.
You know cancer?
Yeah. Well. It’s mean. It sucks. It’s a mighty hunter and it stalks its prey with cunning and deviousness unrivaled. It takes delight in bringing down and victimizing the biggest, strongest and most life loving targets it can find. It’s Goliath and David is yet to bring down the treacherous giant.
First my cat, a big strong, healthy, youthful animal so full of lust for life his excitement and zeal was contagious. Fine, fit and feeling great one day, down for the count with cancer a week later. Just two months prior he’d passed his yearly exam with flying colors. “Trill, your boy is strong and healthy. Like an overgrown kitten. Blood and urine tests are fine. Keep doing whatever you’re doing and we’ll see you next year.” And then blam! a three foot long, 21” tall, 20 pound robust cat faded to a four pound, weak patient who desperately wanted to play with a toy and bat and toss it around in one of his rambunctious games but was too weak to do anything more than gently pat it and nudge it a nanometer toward me. That was not an animal ready to die. That was an animal with a lot of life in him. That was an animal who wanted to live and play. But. He died an hour later.
Cancer.
Mean, sucky, devious cancer.
Now my dad.
Big. Strong. Healthy. Youthful. Robust. Lust for life. Finally learning how to really enjoy retirement.
Cancer.
Mean, sucky, devious cancer.
The doctors keep saying how “lucky” he is. It’s a rapid spreading cancer but it was caught early. An immediate surgery removed two tumors. That was supposed to be the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Cancer.
Mean, sucky, devious cancer.
"Lucky" is not catching it early. "Lucky" is not getting cancer at all.
Because it won’t stop with just a couple of tumors. Caught early. Are you kidding? This is cancer we’re talking about here. And my dad is big and strong and healthy and robust as they come and cancer just loves to make a mockery of that type of person. Cancer loves that kind of challenge.
Cancer is like a deer hunter. Sure, the herd is overpopulated and Darwinism might need a little humane help, but deer hunters don’t seek out the sick, elderly and the deer who are otherwise putting the herd in peril. Deer hunters are not mercy killers. They go for the biggest, strongest and smartest of the herd. The ones the herd really needs. The ones the herd relies on to guide and help the herd. Those are the deer the deer hunters stalk and take special pride in killing. They're not mercy hunters. They're not helping Darwinism.
Neither is cancer.
Cancer’s the same way. Cancer rubs it’s hands maniacally together and says in a Jack Nicholson scary voice, “Big? Strong? Robust? Healthy? Enjoying life? Well, we’ll just see about that. The hunt is on and I always bag my prey.”
My parent’s pastor told me God gives us cancer to teach us about strength, humility and compassion.
Oh.
I see.
So God thinks my dad is weak, arrogant and apathetic and cancer is going to teach him a thing or two.
Great.
Thanks God.
Chalk up another lost soul.
I was trying, really, really trying to find some kind of spiritual enlightenment. I was really, really trying to understand. To let go and let God. Or, well, okay, at least let go and keep and open mind.
And then cancer.
Mean, sucky, devious cancer.
Yep. Cancer, and perhaps God via cancer, is teaching me some lessons.
Lessons in cruelty, fear, irony, injustice and heartache.
What’s all this I hear about a fair and forgiving God? What’s fair and forgiving about cancer?
My dad’s never hurt anyone, ever. Even in the Marines he was the one who used brain over might, the level, calm head of his unit. Never killed anyone, never hurt anyone, used his military power to help people. Every year, every year he uses his Marine background and connections to spearhead the local Toys for Tots and veterans charity initiatives. Marine tough? Yeah. I guess. But Marine fair, too. Marine compassionate, too. Marine truth and justice., Standing up and helping anyone who needs help, no questions asked and here’s the best part: Never bragging about it, never telling anyone he does it. Just quietly organizing and doing the work necessary to make sure kids have a good holiday and vets are taken care of with anything they need. I’m actually blowing his cover by going public about what he does. He’d be mad and embarrassed if he knew I told anyone about all the good deeds he does and has always done. His motives are not selfish. He doesn't help other people for his benefit. He does it because he is a sincere truly kind and helpful person.
My dad had a good but hard childhood. He was the youngest of five kids and an infant immigrant. His parents had almost nothing except a hand drawn map to Minnesota when they arrived in America. My dad grew up without extras. There was a small farm, a little food, hand-me-down clothes and shoes and a school two miles down the road. There were times his family got by only because of the charity and friendship of their neighbors and a few relatives in their adopted hometown. If you know anything about Minnesota you know that Winters are cold and snowy. My dad had perfect attendance throughout his entire school career. Yes. He really did walk two miles in snow up to his waist to get to school.
He’ll never tell you that, either. He’s not embarrassed or proud of it. He just doesn’t think about it. He accepted it, then and now. That was life. School mattered so you went. No matter what. End of story. Nothing to discuss.
He embodies most of the Marine traits. All of the good ones. And only a few of the Jarhead traits. He’s not a big, brutish killing machine. He once told me the only thing he hated about the Marines were the guns. Not the food. Not the discipline. Not the rigorous training. Not the harsh conditions. Not the rigidity to rules. Not the unwavering bravery and devotion.
The guns. He’s never held a gun since and doesn’t like to be anywhere near them. He’s not afraid of them, he’s not afraid of their power. He’s stronger than the temptation of a gun. But he doesn’t like them. He doesn’t like what they do to other people. He doesn’t like the sense of power they give to mindless people who have no business being anywhere near a firearm.
But he let my brother have a BB gun. Interestingly enough the novelty of shooting cans and bottles wore off on my brother in a few weeks and the BB gun was then disassembled, studied as an engineering lesson in design and discarded piece by piece. One week at a time my dad put a piece in the garbage instead of all at once so no one could put it back together. He wasn’t taking any chances. Not even with a BB gun. End of story. Nothing to discuss.
Don’t get me wrong. My dad is no Leave it to Beaver dad. My dad actually gets mad and yells. When he shakes his fist heavenward and lets loose a tirade my brother and I say he's imploring the wrath of Thor. Now that we're adults and sometimes have the nerve (and stupidity) to say that out loud my dad will usually, eventually, start laughing. Especially if my brother starts pontificating about golden hammers and smiting and the Viking dynasty rising again. But I'm glad my dad occasionally loses his temper. It keeps him real. And I learned some really great curses thanks to my dad. I feel confident I could hold my own in a drunken back room poker game with a bunch of Jarheads thanks to my dad. But he never uses the f-word. He never disrespects female anatomy. He never brings God or Jesus into it. He'll damn things to places I don't think actually exist, but he always leaves God, Jesus, sex and the female anatomy out of it.
My dad worked for the same company for 45 years. And it wasn’t his first job. He worked well past retirement “age” because he loved it. He loved the company, he believed in it and he worked hard for the company because he wanted to work hard for the company. He loved it. He loves working. Retirement hasn’t been easy for him. But since my mother’s illness he has really gotten into being retired. He’s embraced it with enthusiasm. He’s devoting his former career energy to all the volunteer groups he loves. He’s always helped, always been a go-to guy, but now, now he’s THE guy.
Charity is important to my parents. My dad, especially, knows firsthand what it’s like to go without anything but the basics. He remembers the neighbors and family who helped out his family. You help people. It’s just what you do. No matter what. End of story. Nothing to discuss.
Thanksgiving and Christmas in particular are really important to my dad. He loves those holidays. He loves the whole family together and sharing with community aspects. My dad cannot bear the thought of anyone having a bad or lonely or poor or sad Christmas. He just cannot stand it. So he kicks his charity and volunteer work into turbo mode during the holiday season. When we were kids every year my parents helped organize the charity drive. When it came time to deliver the food and other donated items to the families in need, they didn’t spare us kids the cruelty of poverty. We helped deliver the goods. We put on our party manners and happy faces and went into homes in the “bad” parts of towns not like ours. Sometimes they didn’t have heat. Once there was a family who had no electricity. They were burning candles and the mother said they were using candles to get in the spirit of Christmas. My parents knew they didn’t have electricity but went along with the “spirit of Christmas” story. When we left my dad took the impoverished dad aside, got the details of the electric bill and paid the family’s bill for them.
I didn’t know about that until a few years ago. My mother told me one afternoon when she was in the hospital. “Don’t tell your dad I told you this…” She also told me for four years he took huge bags of dog food to another family who couldn’t afford to feed their family pet. He made sure the dog got to the vet every year. She said he cried for days when the dog had to be put to sleep. Not so much because of the passing of the dog, but because the poor kids in that family had no father, few toys and very little fun except for that dog.
But God thinks my dad needs to learn lessons in strength, humility and compassion.
So he’s got cancer.
That’ll teach him.
And me.
And my mother.
And everyone, the hundreds or thousands of people he’s helped in his lifetime, and the people who rely on his charity now, will learn, too. Make an example of him, hold him up to the world and say, “If you don’t behave, this is what I’ll do to you. And it won’t be quick and it won’t be painless. And in a poignant twist of irony, he shall be struck down during his favorite and most charitable time of year.”
He has another surgery the week before Christmas. A potentially very difficult surgery. With a very long and difficult recovery. There’s a good chance he’ll spend Christmas in the hospital.
This is heartbreaking for my dad. He loves Christmas. No matter what he always makes sure everyone, family, friends, strangers, everyone has a good Christmas. He’s a Marine on a mission when it comes to making Christmas. I took my dad to see Nightmare Before Christmas. He didn't believe me when I told him it was a sweet story about a guy with a big heart, a lot of holiday zeal but some basic misunderstandings of his place in the holiday world. You know when Jack gets shot down in flames and suddenly realizes in his effort to do the right thing he totally messed up Christmas for, well, the world? I looked over at my dad and his eyes were watery.
That was several years ago. Ever since he tells everyone what a great story it is and gives the DVD to people. This got him in a little hot water at church. Every now and then my dad fills in for the older kids' sunday school teacher. A few years ago during the holiday season he showed Nightmare Before Christmas to the kids. All of the kids said they'd already seen the movie. So throughout the viewing of the movie my dad made some good analogies to some bible stories and brought up lessons about pride, being true to yourself, good v. bad, David, Goliath and a false idol or too. The kids loved it. But one of the more fundamental parents was outraged that such "blasphemy" would be shown in a sunday school class. She would have preferred the 10-year-olds make creches out of popsicle sticks, tin foil and macaroni. Because of course 10-year-olds are not savvy enough to understand allegory and metaphor. And because of course 10-year-olds are innocent little angels who have never been exposed to anything as weird and maniacal as Nightmare Before Christmas. And popsicle stick, tin foil and macaroni creches offer a wealth of religious education. The ridiculous allegations and the lines drawn in the sand of the church were insane. Most people, parents included, sided with my dad. But the pastor has an entire fellowship to consider. So my dad was banned from substitute teaching Sunday school. The bruhaha finally blew over but my dad, like Jack upon realizing the error of his zeal and his lack of judgment, has never really gotten over it. He loves that movie and finds it to be a brilliant story with loads of good lessons and some snappy songs, to boot.
My dad is mad. Not at cancer, not at the doctors, not at their church, but because this is smack in the middle of his busy season. He’s mad at the timing. He's got to make Christmas. Kids are counting on Toys for Tots. Vets are counting on warm meals and care packages of warm clothes. And my dad is mad because he’s letting them down. He’s worried someone will be overlooked or forgotten. My dad doesn’t just stick to a list provided by an agency or social worker. My dad sniffs out those in need (which right now, on the East side of Michigan, is not difficult to do) and quietly helps them out when no one’s looking. He’s mad that someone won’t get the little help they need.
But I’m mad at cancer.
If this surgery is unsuccessful, or more or different cancer is discovered in the process, this could be my dad’s last Christmas.
And there’s a very real possibility he’ll spend it in a hospital.
My dad will tell you about his wife and his kids and his grandkids. He’ll bore the socks off you with our feats of skill, merit and virtue beyond compare. I’ve never once questioned if my dad loves me. If he wanted to have me. If I matter to him. It’s not just paternal love and care. It’s more than that. He seems to really like me. And my sister and my brother and the grandkids. We’re all very different but he seems to actually like all of us. He wants to be with us. He’s never happier than when we’re all together. Especially at Christmas.
And yet I’m supposed to find comfort in some lame excuse of a “master plan” that God is teaching him, or me a lesson or two? A lesson in what? Irony? I passed that class at the AP level a very long time ago. A lesson in building character? Ditto. A lesson in patience? Huh? The man is no spring rooster. Why worry about patience now and for crying out loud, why teach him so cruelly?
“Good morning Father of Trillian, We up here at God, Inc. heard you like Christmas. Well good for you, Jesus is the Son of God, you know. Always looks good in your file if you like Christmas. But here’s the thing. We think you need to learn a few lessons. So We’re not going to let you have Christmas at home with your family. Why? Because We know it’s the one thing you look forward to every year. Because We know you can’t sleep for days before the 25th because you’re so excited for everyone to have their presents and treats. We know you really understand the spirit of Christmas and have spent your life devoted to making sure those less fortunate have a good Christmas. But nonetheless, there are lessons to be learned and so you will lay in that hospital bed and you will think about your life and your disease and you will learn lessons, mister. And your family will learn lessons, oh my yes, especially that goodfernothing youngest born of yours. That girl Trillian is nothing but trouble and blasphemy. Sins of the daughter visiting the father, now there’s a twist! The gang in policy implementation will get a kick out of that one. They just love it when there’s a twist on a rule. You will lay in that hospital in that stupid green gown and you will be miserable and your family will be miserable. It will be the worst Christmas ever. You have cancer for a reason, you know. It teaches you and the people who care about you lessons.”
Spending Christmas in the hospital is a cruel insult to the injury that’s farcical. My dad is feeling better than he’s felt in ages. He quit smoking a few years ago. His blood pressure is lower and stable. He almost postponed his yearly physical because he felt fine and was going to help at a Cub Scout Native American Heritage Day event. Then he realized he could do both so he kept the appointment. Fortunately. Let that be a lesson to you. Get your yearly physical. No matter what. End of story. Nothing to discuss. My dad felt fine, better than he’s felt in years. He was even coaching some kids on the peewee football league.
Yet a few days after the physical he got a call from the nurse at his doctor’s office saying the doctor wanted a few more tests. A few more tests after that and a specialist here and there and the next thing you know we’re talking about “his cancer.” And the next thing after that we’re talking about if he’s home for Christmas.
And people, neighbors, friends, their pastor, all started giving me that look and telling me how strong and good my dad is and relaying stories about my dad, talking about him in the past tense.
I went through this when my mother was clinging to life support.
People are weird. They say weird things and behave oddly and out of character in “these situations.”
Just once I’d like their pastor to wipe that beatific benevolent condescending holier than thou look off his face, talk in a voice that doesn’t sound like Reverend Lovejoy and say, “Crap. That totally sucks. There’s no justice. He’s a good guy. God schmod, lesson schmesson, this is unfair, unjust and makes no rational biblical sense whatsoever. And at Christmas of all times! God sucks. The master plan is stupid."
But that won't happen. God people cling to that master plan theory. It justifies everything, no matter how cruel or illogical.
Me? I just don't want my dad to have to spend Christmas in a hospital.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
There are some really icky people on this planet.
And then.
There are others. The not icky people. The cool people. The nice people. The sincere people. The kind people. The humorous people. The creative people. And the people who are all those things and more. I ♥ those people.
There was a void in the disabled mobility market. I sent out a call for help. And voila! poof! results!
Old Skool Tartan SharonSpotbottom rocks my world. She's funny, insightful, and single handedly brought tartan into the 21st century. Above all, she is "all things to all things." And here's her version of the Turning Leg Caddy®. Dig the banana seat! And fenders! People ask me what I look like - add boobs to this drawing and you'll have a pretty good idea.
Street Cred From TaffyCat, and this, too, cracks me up. The ironically ubiquitous NIN and Rush "stickers" combined with the Olde English "My" give this the urban edge perfect for the mosh pit, comic book stores and the West Side streets.
If you want to get in on the ride pimping fun, see the post below for details.
3:09 PM
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Yeah, so, I had surgery on my foot.
Loads of fun was had by all.
Actually, the 2.5 hours under the anesthesia was blissful for me. The best “sleep” I’ve had in ages. Forget narcotics and booze. Anesthesia is the way to really sleep. They should sell that stuff right next to aspirin. I know, I know, it can kill you if you don’t know what you’re doing. Anesthesiologists are intelligent, seriously trained professionals and I shouldn’t make jokes about anesthesia.
Still.
They should make that stuff available to the masses. One of the nurses said, “nighty night, see you when the surgery’s over,” the anesthesiologist put a snorkel tube in front of my nose and told me to count to ten.
1.
2.
“Trillian.”
“Trililan.”
“Trillian, it’s time to wake up. The surgery’s over.”
“Trillian”
*10 more minutes. Please. Just 10 more minutes. I’m begging you in the name of all that’s fair and just, 10 more minutes.*
“Ohhh Trillian…”
*Where’s the swutting snooze button?*
“Trillian, time to wake up.”
“TRILLIAN!!!”
“What already? Geeze, I’m awake. What’s a girl gotta do to get a little peace and quiet around here?”
It’s too soon to say whether or not the surgery was a huge success. But. Things were removed, repaired, grafted, and stitched so at the very least my foot and ankle are now different. Maybe not better, but different. Scarred. Different.
So. You know. That’s good.
It’s all over except the healing.
Which apparently takes more than a week.
I’m in week three of stitches, gauze, weird “socks,” a boot, pain medication, restricted movements and a Turning Leg Caddy®.
A what?
A Turning Leg Caddy®.
Were it not for this miracle of modern mobility I would be home in bed on disability figuring out bankruptcy procedures because of my reduced salary on disability.
Crutches schmutches.
This is the wave of the handicapped mobility future.
Should I be attempting to work instead of recuperating at home? Well, that’s a moot point. And it’s not just me. Few people have the luxury of 3 – 4 weeks off work to recover from surgery/illness while drawing their full salary. (And that by the way, is not something socialized medicine will address. The government will pay for your surgery, eventually, if you don’t die waiting, but your employer will still have the discretion to “give” you disability insurance and the rate of pay you receive while you recover from that government surgery.) What was I saying? Oh yeah. Should I be attempting to get back and forth to work in my condition? No. 3 - 4 weeks of (near) complete immobility is the recommended post-surgery protocol. The surgery area is the side and bottom of my foot and a portion of my ankle. Yeah. Ouch. Ouchee wah wah. I wasn’t supposed to let it touch the ground whatsoever for 10 days. And, for the most part, I followed that rule. There were a couple of accidental ground touchings, but they were brief and there was only minimal pressure/weight. Thanks to the Turning Leg Caddy®, I could get to the bathroom and the kitchen simply by rolling my knee onto the cushy knee platform and gently pushing myself around, scooter-like, and then using the platform as a footrest of sorts to keep my foot elevated. Oh sure, it takes some contorting and caution, but, waaaaaaaaay better than crutches. It’s impossible to keep your foot completely off the ground, at all times, when you’re on crutches. And they hurt your arms. And they fall over. And they’re generally an almost good-for-nothing nuisance. Well. Okay. Not good-for-nothing, but a difficult and painful to use nuisance. No question about that.
But not so the Turning Leg Caddy®.
If I were on crutches I would be in serious financial hardship. I never could have returned to work after 10 days. But. Thanks to the Turning Leg Caddy® I’m off and rolling. Ready or not, here I come!
I know. I know. I need to take care of myself. I need to follow the prescribed recuperation plan. I know. But. I also need to pay my medical bills, keep a roof over my head and feed Mayor Daley’s fat cat cronies their free lunches.
Priorities, you know.
Still. Given the fact that I can't afford to stay home on disability, the Turning Leg Caddy® is my savior. Sure, Al Gore invented the internet and global warming and probably even the Universe itself, but, if not a Nobel Peace Prize, how about a huge round of applause for the inventor of the Turning Leg Caddy®? I think he should get a Nobel Peace Prize. I've been on crutches. I know how well they don't work. And I'm Norwegian. So. I should get a say in who gets these prizes. Maybe next year. Unless Al Gore invents The Apocalypse.
How am I? Well. Drugs are good. I’d be better with a daily hit of anesthesia (seriously, I loved that stuff, if dying’s like anesthesia, bring it on) but drugs are a good second choice.
I have a ton of stitches in my foot and ankle. My toes hurt, but hey, I can feel and move my toes now. Which is a huge improvement. Because for four months I haven’t been able to feel or move three of my toes. So. You know. That’s kind of cool. It’s a trade-off, though. At my last exam (which I flunked) I still had no feeling in a huge portion of my foot. Which is probably good because it would hurt really bad if I could feel it. Gotta love nerve damage. But yes. I did flunk the exam, I have more stitches and more recovery to endure. This is a process, not an event. The human body is organic and you can’t put organic substances on a timetable.
Hence my continued and increased infatuation with my new wheels.
Because this is going to be part of my life for a while (at least another month), and because I love it so much, I’m giving you the opportunity to:
Yep! Pimp My Ride for me. Give me your ideas on how to style up my Turning Leg Caddy®. You can use PhotoShop or PaintShop or Illustrator or whatever! to give it a stylin’ makeover, a virtual skin.
Or, for you old skoolers, get out that box of Crayolas and color, color, color!
Send me your ideas in jpg format (please) and I’ll post them in a Pimping for Trillian (Pft) gallery.
2:27 PM
Monday, November 05, 2007 Greetings from Vacation Paradise! Hey! Wanna see photos of my vacation?!
I had a blast! And it’s the kind of vacation which has a lasting impression. The memories and feelings from this vacation will stay with me and carry me through the coming months.
Here I am enjoying the spa facilities.
Nothing like a cold ice pack on pillows to help you relax and really get in the vacation spirit. And after ice treatments, a nice hot shower.
Oh and look, here I am having fun wheeling around and getting into all kinds of holiday trouble! Honk honk! Look out Lance Armstrong! There’s a new name in racing...
And what’s a vacation without cutting loose and getting buzzed?! No responsibilities, not a care in the world. Relax and imbibe in a a little something to take off the edge. Just chill out and let go of the inhibitions. Free your mind and your ass will follow. A little courage from a bottle and you're a dancing fool, but that's okay because you're on vacation and that's what you're supposed to do! Macarena anyone? Feeling hot, hot, hot!
After a night of partying there's nothing like kicking back and catching up on your reading when you’re on vacation. I always like to take in a classic or a self-help book, you know, think deep with a master author or expand your awareness, learn something, introspect, all that self-help with a guru book stuff is so much easier to digest when you're on vacation and away from the demands, reality and negativity of every day life. All those "anything is possible!" platitude messages and obvious step-by-step plans somehow seem more credible and less trite when you're on vacation. And still a little buzzed from last night's party.
Something about being away from work for a few days always charges up the fantasy sector of my brain. Maybe it’s the freedom from everyday responsibilities and monotony, maybe it’s the days filled with nothing but my own desires and needs, whatever the reason, indulging in wild fantasies with reckless abandon is a great way to spend vacation.
The thing is, though, I have difficulty truly relaxing for any length of time. Maybe if I were with someone it would be different. I don’t remember having this problem when I used to date and go on vacation with friends and boyfriends. You know, it’s fun to have fun, but when there’s no one to share it, no one to laugh and talk with about your experiences, it gets kind of lonely. Now I find I get bored on vacation after a few days.
I swore it would never happen to me. And it hasn’t ever happened to me. It’s never taken any resisting of urges on my part. I’ve had zero interest and zero temptation. But I suppose it happens to the best of us. And I’m guessing it happens to a lot of people who never admit it happens to them. Sooner or later you find yourself in front of the television in drug induced stupor watching Oprah. I dunno. It started out innocently enough. I turned on the morning news to catch up with what’s going on in the world outside my vacation paradise, one thing led to another, I came-to sprawled out on the couch and there she was.
Sorry to brag and make you envious of my vacation. Rest assured it will end too soon. I’ll have to return to work long before I’m really ready (though watching Oprah! is probably a good indication that I’m ready to go back to work). Vacations are never long enough. You always think, “Just a couple more days and I would have really felt relaxed/away from it all/in touch with my inner self/less suicidal…” But alas, like a bittersweet romance, it always ends too soon. Besides, with the holidays right around the corner I need to save my vacation days. I have to choose. I could spend a couple more days relaxing in my vacation paradise, or I could spend a couple days with my family at Christmas. What to do, what to do…
3:49 PM
Monday, October 15, 2007 She's Going the Distance Salivating with desire. Dealing with reality.
10:19 PM
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
So, here’s a milestone I didn’t think I’d mark for a while. At least a few years, anyway.
I have to hire a nurse.
The kind of nurse lonely rich old spinsters have when they are not able to care for themselves and have no one to help them go to the bathroom and take their medications.
I recently came to the realization it would happen some day. I was just starting to try to accept that I'm on my own. Really, truly on my own. No one wants to date me let alone give me a chance, love me and marry me. So whether I want it that way or not, it's the single life for me.
I’m still working on firmly planting it in my brain that I am, and always will be, alone. And I think I’m doing a pretty darned good job of it for someone who never wanted to or thought she’d spend her life single and childless.
I’m not happy about it but I’ve accepted that I have to stop trying to fight it. And that’s a huge hurdle. Admitting it is the first step.
Acceptance is a process not an event.
But I am not far enough along in the process to casually deal with the fact that, because I live alone and have no one at home or close by to help me, I have to hire a nurse.
The ramifications of trying to accept a life alone haven’t really hit home, yet. I mean, not all of them. The big picture is clear: Loneliness.
But the other stuff, like a lifetime of dealing with life’s unexpected situations on my own, hasn’t really sunk in yet. I mean, I’ve dealt with all of it alone thus far in my life, there have been plenty of difficult situations I've handled on my own, but you know, you kind of think, “hey, I’m young, this was a fluke, it builds character, helps me appreciate the people in my life that much more, it won’t always be this way, some day I’ll have someone by my side and we’ll help each other…”
“Any questions about your surgery?” the surgeon asked me.
“Nope. You’ve covered every possible angle. I think I could teach a class on torn tendons in the foot and ankle.”
“Okay, then talk to the nurse about scheduling the surgery and I’ll see you in the O.R. Keep in mind we won’t release you without someone over the age of 18 to take you home and stay with you for 24 hours after the surgery.”
“Wait. Whoa. You didn’t mention that.”
“Sorry. With surgery of this nature we’ll sedate you quite heavily and because the surgery is on your foot and ankle you need to be extremely careful. You have to take your medications on schedule for the first few days. And if you’re woozy or tired after the surgery and off balance from the pain you’re liable to fall and injure yourself or rupture the surgery. Remember how I told you you’re almost literally treading on eggs for two weeks after the surgery? Very, very limited mobility means only absolutely necessary time standing vertical, little or no walking. We discussed this.”
“Yes, but not the ‘no being alone for 24 hours’ aspect!”
Affecting a ‘now now, it’s okay, this is all normal, don’t panic’ tone, “It’s common surgical procedure. You may be under the influence of the sedation and unable to practice good judgment for a few hours after the surgery. We can’t just put you in a cab and send you home, you need assistance.”
(Thinking back to the days following the broken ankle and concussion and remembering very little and realizing all told I was in ER 16 hours before they’d let me leave.) “But, but, but…oh. Erm. Okay. I see. Thanks.”
As the nurse started going over all the pre-operation paperwork and procedures I was in a daze. First I find out I have to have surgery to repair a torn tendon, then I have to deal with the fact that the surgery is invasive and painful and will require me to be off my feet and oh crap I live alone what am I going to do? My mind was racing through all the possible candidates for transportation and tucking in and bathroom assistance duty and coming up pretty much empty.
The nurse was reiterating the rule that I would not be released without an adult over 18 to take me home as I mentally checked off the last person on the possibility list. Tears started welling. It was one of those small, insignificant moments where the poignancy hits you and you are suddenly way, way too aware. The weight of the world crashes on you.
I don’t feel or say this very often. A few times in my life at most. I try accept stuff, deal with stuff, devise plans, solve problems. I am not, and do not want to become, a damsel in distress type of girl. But all I could think, over and over in a cacophony of tones and inflection, was “What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”
Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. What am I going to do? Think, Trillian, think.
The nurse stood there looking at me, waiting for me to answer her question.
“I’m sorry, what? What was the question?”
“Do you need assistance? I have a form for social services. If you don’t have someone to take you home and help you social services can arrange that for you.”
Social services? Social services??! Me? Social services? Has it come to this? I need forms for social services??
“Oh. Right. Erm. Yeah. Maybe I should take that form. You know, just in case.”
Asking someone to take a day off work and wait in a surgery waiting room and then schlep a woozy patient on crutches home and babysit them for 24 hours, sleeping on a small couch, administering medications, making sure they don’t fall down and helping them to and from the bathroom is, well, asking a lot.
The logical candidate is my mother. But she can’t. She’s physically unable. Oh, I know she’d be fine, I know she’d take great care of me, but, she’s dealing with physical limitations of her own. My dad and I are looking after her.
My dad, well, my dad. He could do it. But my mother needs him to look after her. And there’s not room for both of them in my teeny tiny itty bitty apartment.
Frankie. Frankie would do it. And I wouldn’t feel “bad” asking her. But. She starts a new job the week prior to the surgery. She can’t just up and take a couple days off at that juncture at her new job.
Other friends: They have children they can’t leave that long, they have jobs, they live too far away…they’re busy. Excuse, I mean reason after reason, friends bowed out of my request for help. “Sorry, Trill…”
This is why I don’t ask for help. Apparently everyone except me has learned how to say no.
My brother has a huge assignment otherwise he’d come to my aid.
My sister.
My irresponsible, unreliable, clueless, selfish sister. Hey. Any port in a storm and how many times have I bailed her out of trouble? How many times have I helped her? Too many to count. She rose to the occasion and promised to make it “fun.”
“I’ll take the train over and we’ll get a bunch of movies and magazines and order take-out and make cupcakes and do mud masks, it’ll be fun!”
I knew it wouldn’t be “fun” but I had to give her credit for jumping in and agreeing to help me. She’s over 18 and that’s all that mattered. If she forgot to give me a pill or didn’t hear me fall on the way to the bathroom, well, so be it. At least she meets the required age limit and I could be released from surgery and go home. And I wouldn't require assistance from social services.
Whew. Okay. Problem solved. Weight off my mind. I’m a spinster, but I’m not entirely alone. And I don’t have to hire a nurse. I bought stuff to make cupcakes and some of those fancy frozen girlie pastries and gathered up all the home spa supplies I could find from the box of bathroom stuff I hadn't unpacked yet. I unpacked the cute tea pot. "This might be nice," I thought, "some alone time with my sister. Maybe this will be good for us."
Then the email arrived. “Trill, guess what?! I met this really great guy and I’m going to Sante Fe with him for a week! I can’t wait for you to meet him!”
No apology. Not even an acknowledgement of the fact that the dates of her week of sun and seduction in Sante Fe with new Mr. Perfect coincides with my surgery.
This is so like her. This is her M.O. I couldn’t even be angry. I deserved this for trusting her. I know better. She has never risen to any occasion. No one expects anything of her and that’s exactly how she likes it, she’s crafted it that way. Without expectations or responsibilities she’s free to do exactly as she pleases without any guilt or consequences. No one relies on you so you never let anyone down. It’s all a very neat and tidy little way of life.
Okay. Maybe I’m being a little harsh.
But. You might think your sister’s surgery would take a higher priority than going to Sante Fe with a man you just met. And let me add for the record, my sister “meets” many, many “perfect” men. This isn’t like someone like, oh, say, me meeting a man, any man, perfect or otherwise, which would be a huge deal.
So I was back at square one and a form requesting aid from a social worker.
I’ve had some bleak days. Dark hours. Long lonely nights. (way too many of those) But this ranks right near the top on the list of things which made me feel really, really pathetic and alone.
Even my own sister won’t help me for 24 hours.
(Here I stop to reason with myself, it’s not that other people won’t help me. Frankie would. My brother would. My mother and father would. MAF would. But for valid and serious reasons, they can’t. Bad timing. Physical limitations. Those things can’t be helped. Just so we’re clear. There are a few people who would help me if they could.)
Still. (Feeling pathetic again) Even my own sister won’t help me for 24 hours.
The social services people were a lot nicer and more understanding than I thought they’d be. One of them talked in that condescending “we” tone which I find irritating and ingratiating, but other than that they were actually quite helpful.
That is until they called to inform me that my health insurance won’t cover home health care. They delivered this news quite abruptly and said, “Do you still want to schedule a nurse?”
“Erm, well, how much will it cost me? I mean, I don’t really have a choice, they won’t release me without someone over 18 to care for me for 24 hours.”
“$500 - $1,500 depending on how involved the care is. That will be specified by your physician.”
“I see. Okay. Well. I guess I better talk to my doctor.”
The conversation with my doctor about what sort of nurse I’d need after surgery was interesting. I could tell he was trying not to sound surprised when he said, “You don’t have anyone who can help you?” He said it as if he’d never had a patient in this situation, as if he was questioning his hearing rather than my ability to get someone to help me. I envisioned him on the other end of the phone with eyebrows furrowed in thought, “she seemed like a nice person, she seemed like someone who would have family or friends…”
So now I’m waiting for a nurse to be assigned to me. The surgery was postponed until I could scrape up the money to pay for the nurse. And I’m in a tremendous amount of pain. With a throbbing swollen foot and ankle due to a torn tendon.
I can’t be the only one to ever be in this situation. A lot of people are single and living far away from their families. A lot of people are single and have friends who can’t take time off work or away from kids. Right? I mean, I’m not the only one in this situation. I can’t be. Or. Maybe I am.
The doctor gave me one of those long exasperated sighs when I told him I have to postpone the surgery until I can afford to pay the nurse. “I understand, but this tear is quite large and quite serious, you can’t let this go on indefinitely. There are already signs of secondary affiliated damage in your ankle and toes.”
I knew he wasn’t just saying that to scare me. My ankle is swollen, stiff and sore and two of my toes have gone completely numb. Sometimes I have uncontrollable spasms from the knee down.
But the home health care agents require payment up front. And my insurance isn’t going to cover much of my surgery. There’s only so much money coming in and only so much credit left on the credit cards. Rob Peter, pay Paul, rinse, lather, repeat.
I could blame my sister. She’s an easy target. But the fact about her is that she lives 6 hours away and realistically she can’t be expected to traipse to my aid. If she lived down the block or even an hour away that would be different. But she doesn’t.
The real fact is: I’m on my own. Period. I live a long way from family and good friends. The kind of friends who will sleep on your couch and help you go to the bathroom for 24 hours.
Somehow, somewhere along the line, my buddies, my friends, the people who I relied on and who relied on me for this sort of thing, all got married. They all have significant others, spouses, partners, to help rely on for this kind of stuff. They don’t need me, our “reciprocal pledge of help” has been voided because they have someone else to help them. Which is great for them, but what about the lone single person left without someone to rely on for this kind of stuff? I certainly don’t want to be the mercy friend, the recipient of pity help. “Oh, honey, I know it’s Friday and it’s our date night, but Trillian, poor old Trillian is all alone and has to have surgery and needs someone to take her home and help her go to the bathroom. She doesn’t have a great husband like you to help her.” Ye gads. When did I become that girl?
I’ve been trying to make friends here, but I keep running into the same stories. Women my age are married and have or are planning to have children. They’re buying homes in the burbs or very busy with their husbands/boyfriends/jobs. The women I meet who are single have not accepted life as a single person and are wrapped up (Hellbent) in trying to meet a man with whom they can marry, move to the burbs and have children.
It’s really hard to meet people once you reach a certain age and aren’t married or don’t have children. I met a woman who is my age and single, she’s nice, we get along well, but she lives in the suburbs and has a very, very busy social life. She doesn't have a lot of time for new friendships. Why? She has two children from a former marriage. She has loads of friends via her kids and their activities. She even was offered a great job and met a new guy via connections she made with parents of her kids’ friends.
I should have thought about all of this when I was younger. I should have had a Plan B. Well. In fairness to me, I did have a Plan B, it was actually my Plan A, I call it: a job, a career. It never occurred to me to depend on a husband for money. But. Unfortunately it never occurred to me I might need to depend on a husband to bring me home from surgery, either.
It never occurred to me that I wouldn't meet someone who would want to marry me.
It never occurred to me that I might end up so alone that I’d have to hire a nurse.
And I'm not even one of those rich mean bitter old dowager women in old movies who hires some sweet young girl as an aid/nurse and treats her horribly but the young aid hangs in there and takes the abuse and helps the old woman out of pure and kind heart and then ends up falling in love with the gardener or lawyer who has it in for the mean old bitty and the innocent young aid ends up unwittingly playing a role in the murder of the old shrew dowager...You have to be old, rich and (I believe) widowed to be a dowager. (note to self: Do dowagers have to be widowed? Are never-married old rich lonely women merely spinsters?)I'm neither rich or old and certainly not widowed. So even though that formula could provide some shred of interest to my life story, sadly, it's not possible.
I'm just me. A single woman, on my own, who needs surgery and has no one at home or close enough to home to help her.
And that’s a sobering reality. If this doesn’t force me to accept that I am single, really, really single, without a prospect in sight, with few (no) single friends, nothing will.
4:10 PM
Monday, October 08, 2007 My possessions are causing me suspicion...
I’m not superstitious. In fact I’m the opposite of superstitious: Pragmatic, practical, logical, cynical, sane... I don’t believe in luck, bad or good. I don’t believe there is complete order in the Universe, either, but, luck? Pffft. Fate? Destiny? Well, those are other matters.
Destiny, yes, if there is any order in the Universe then we all have a destiny, some destiny, some purpose, if only to take up space, if only to provide a couple of seconds of something in order to prevent, or make, something else happen. Yeah, I can get on board with that, at least in theory. As for that theory making us all feel special and necessary, well, not so much. If a person’s sole purpose is to take 18 items into the 12 item or less line at the grocery, thus causing an uptight soccer mom to have a meltdown because it will make her 2 minutes late to Mommies Time Out coffee group, well, I mean, not exactly a life with purpose now, is it? I mean, sure, any twist of a screw to an uptight person is, well, kind of funny, in a mean, sadistic but tough love kind of way, but hardly enough of a purpose to make life worth living.
As opposed to someone whose destiny is to, oh, I dunno, cure cancer or travel to distant planets seeking answers to the Universe, the 18 item in the 12 item or less line person drew the destiny short straw. Oh sure, in the big picture we all play a part, even the 18 item in the 12 item or less line person. Every cog in the gear is important and all that, sure.
But. You know. If you’re the person with the tiny, truly insignificant, two minute purpose, well, you know, life isn’t exactly a rich tapestry of design and color, now is it? And so much crap happens to so many people, people who don’t “deserve” it that the whole destiny theory falls well into the cruel and unusual punishment side of things. I mean, the people who died in Hiroshima, for instance. What was the big picture there? What a crappy destiny. What a pointless purpose. I’d be mad if I were them. “That’s it?! That’s swutting it?! A mass annihilation, my purpose was to comprise a staggering statistic of death by atom bomb?! All this order in the Universe, each of us playing a key role, and my stupid role was to be a statistic of horrible genocide? So much for being kind to those less fortunate and paying my taxes on time. Lot of good that did me. If I’d known this was my destiny I’d have taken 18 items into the 12 item or less lane at the grocery.”
And of course that’s just it. If we get on board with the complete order in the Universe theory we can’t be certain what our true purpose is, but we have to believe we have one. For most of us it’s something insignificant to us. Something which causes or is part of a chain reaction, a domino effect, the end result of which we will typically remain unaware. We’re just going about our business. Little do we know what our small role is in the big picture. You know, like Global Warming, for instance. A lot of people are still unaware of the huge ramifications their small, seemingly insignificant and unrelated actions have on the planet.
One thing leads to another. And another. And so on, infinity.
I don’t sit around contemplating my place in the Universe very often. Maybe I should. Maybe that would “help” me. But I’m basically okay with my place in the Universe. I’m not going to change the world and I’m okay with that. I wasn’t born “destined” for greatness and I’m completely okay with that. And I understand my actions, even little ones, can be significant to someone else whom I don’t even know or maybe isn’t even born yet. I’m content with knowing that I don’t know a lot and never will. I understand there are a lot of things I can’t understand. And I’m okay with that. Knowledge is power but power comes with a lot of responsibility. If you knew all the secrets of the Universe could you handle the pressure and responsibility of that knowledge? I couldn’t. I’m not sure of much anymore, but I’m still quite certain there are things I do not want to know.
But sometimes...sometimes things happen. And you take that moment to reflect and ponder.
Coincidence. Or is it?
In a span of three weeks my hard drive crashed, badly, irreparably; my mobile phone battery began it’s descent into death by only holding a charge for 35 minutes; one of my home telephone’s battery is also, apparently, dying (this has been acting up for a while, though, so not entirely new or unexpected, but, it’s officially not working now); my bedroom clock refuses to display accurate time, I set it to the correct time and two hours later it reads, I kid you not, an apparent arbitrary time. It’s not “slow” or “fast” in any pattern, it’s just some random time, always different, always inaccurate; my electric toothbrush has “something wrong” with it – it won’t spin and vibrate so it’s basically a small and useless hunk of plastic with some bristles; my DVD player started spitting out discs 45 minutes into any disc I insert; my television remote control batteries died (yeah, okay, that happens and is an easy “fix,” but still, the timing was odd); my CTA fare card stopped working – two bus drivers used the term “demagnetized,” the only solution was to buy a new card; and my take-everywhere-lost-without-it calculator flashed 333333333.333 went blank and refuses to calculate.
Okay. Apart from the hard drive, which is a HUGE problem and the loss of a week’s fare on the CTA card, the demise of all those devices is annoying, but life can continue. All of those things are designed with a particular product life cycle. They’re not designed for a lifetime of use. Whether or not they should be designed that way is another issue. They should be designed for the long haul, but technology changes so quickly that building a lifetime use product is not an issue most consumers consider when purchasing a product. No one buys any of those items expecting to use it for the next 50 years.
But still.
No one expects all the items they use on a daily basis to break-down or malfunction within a span of a few weeks.
None of them are the same age so it’s not as if they’re all on the same usage and death schedule. I thought it was weird and dared not contemplate, “what next?” But, I reasoned, “this stuff gets a lot of use, it’s just coincidence they all stopped working at the same time.”
But then I started to think about the past few weeks and realized: Other stuff broke while I was using it. The electric 3-hole drill at work jammed while I was using it. Nothing new there, but, this time I couldn’t un-jam it. It made a groaning noise and started smelling of burned plastic. The motor finally, after years of abuse, died. Not surprising, but, since I only use the thing about twice a year it’s more than a bit ironic it conked out while I was using it. The pulse switch on my friend’s blender ceased to function while I was pulsing smoothies. No warning or explanation there. I don’t think I was mis-using it. It simply stopped pulsing. Every other function switch produced results. But no more pulsing. Then I visited my parents. I loaded my mother into their new-ish car, drove her to a doctor appointment, got back in the car, turned the key in the ignition and the entire instrument cluster, the idiot lights, the dash light, the clock, everything started flashing and remained flashing. The chimes and bells were dinging in sync with the flashing. The engine turned over, but all the dash lights remained flashing. I called On-Star. They ran a diagnostic. They couldn’t find anything wrong. We risked the drive home with the flashing lights and dinging bells. We told my dad about it, he trotted out to see the display. He turned the key in the ignition and: No flashing. No ringing. Nothing. Everything normal.
It was at that point I began to ponder the possibility of something more than coincidence. What that something was I don’t know. I ran through the list of irrational possibilities.
A message from beyond, someone trying to send me a message from another realm. You might think they’d try something more precise like email. As it stands right now if it’s someone trying to send me a message I’ll I can assume is that the message from beyond the pale is: When you die you can have a lot of fun with people who are still alive by messing around with their electronics.
Possession, demonic or otherwise, causing me to psychicly, unconsciously, cause electrical disturbances. Not out of the realm of possibility…
We’ve had a lot of storms this Summer – lots of lightening. Maybe charged ions in the atmosphere found their way to me, attached themselves to me while I waited for the bus.
A surge in my personal energy causing electronic items to overcharge and break. I’ve heard about kids unwittingly causing “poltergeist” disturbances because of their highly charged emotions. I have been pretty down and out lately…lots of physical pain…lots of stress and worry…
A mostly harmless but highly annoying sprite or other small and imperceptible being playing jokes on me. (This one makes me laugh because I thought of it only due to Fred Flintstone when Hannah Barbara jumped the shark with Gazoo.)
The end of the Universe is nigh and I am the recipient of warnings from a distant planet. I’ll worry when my iPod starts flashing Mars. Needs. Women.
I unknowingly stepped through some curtain or force field of invisible energy and every electronic item I touch gets zapped by my new hyperwatt aura. Which would be kind of cool if I could figure out how to harness and focus the power. Except then I’d have to decide between using my powers for good or diabolical evil. And I'd have to come up with some really cool outfit and live in a secret lair.
After reviewing the possibilities I just went on assuming it was all just a big, albeit weird and annoying, coincidence.
Then I had an MRI. A simple procedure. All I had to do was lay down on a platform and keep my foot and ankle still while an enormous pulsing magnet in a huge case swirled around my foot. The technician gave me headphones tuned into a radio station and away we went. Whish whish whish whish whish whirrrr whirrr whirrr whish whish whish whish whish whish whish whirrrr whirrr whirrr whish whish whish whish whish whish whish whirrrr whirrr whirrr whish whish whish whish whish whish whish whirrrr whirrr whirrr whish whish whish clank clank clank clop clank silence.
Eerie, something’s not right silence.
A few minutes later the technician came in and started fiddling with the digital display panel. He kept pressing numbers and nothing happened. I have no idea what was supposed to happen, but, whatever was supposed to happen wasn’t happening. After a half hour of his fiddling with the panel he said, “I don’t know what’s wrong. We’ll have to reschedule you for the other machine. Can you come in tomorrow?”
I could and I did and I walked out with an MRI from a fully functioning machine.
“A ha! This is finally over, the other machine didn’t break while I was in it! This is the end of the technical difficulties,” I thought.
I was wrong. Perhaps because I tempted "fate" and made assumptions about "luck."
Over the next few days the printer I use at work broke, two buses on two different commutes to work broke down (though that’s not surprising to anyone who uses the CTA, buses, especially express buses, habitually break down and leave passengers stranded), an ATM ate my debit card and the elevator in my building got stuck between floors, with me on it. I had to wait for the maintenance guy to pry open the door and I had to crawl up and out while he held the door pried open. Of course I was coming home from work and was wearing a skirt. And our maintenance guy is young and handsome and nice and the last person I want to look like an idiot oaf in front of while wearing a skirt and climbing out of an elevator stuck between floors.
So now I’m walking around feeling all jinxed but trying not to feel jinxed because that can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. And there are no such thing as jinxes. But how do you not feel jinxed, how do you not assume something else is going to happen when the past weeks have been filled with technical difficulties and mechanical failures, broken down buses and elevators and malfunctioning medical equipment?
It’s all coincidental, right?
Do I care? Not particularly, though it's become annoying. And I wanted the streak of whatever it was to end.
So I took fate into my own hands. I started small. I got a new hard drive. I fixed my toothbrush. I messed around with my 4-Shared account and finally sorted out the problems with the code (and loaded a bunch of songs, go on, go ahead, listen and download to your heart's content, there's a neato new funky visualizer if you listen to the songs while on 4-Shared.)
So far the only thing that's happened is the Cubs lost while I was re-programming my DVD player.
Yeah. I was feeling confident and sure of myself after the new hard drive and printer repair so I branched into DVD player repair. While the Cubs were playing Saturday night.
Maybe I should have waited. But how was I to know?
Nothing's happened to me since Saturday when I started fixing and re-programming broken or malfunctioning items which broke in the past few weeks.
So unless something happens in the the next day or two, a broken appliance, nuclear catastrophe or the like, anything to continue my string of mechanical failures, I may be this year's Bartman. My DVD player is working perfectly again, but the Cubs are licking wounds of another almost ran post-season.
If my resolving a string of weird mechanical problems during a crucial game is to blame, I'm sorry.
This is why I'm not a superstitious person. It's all ridiculous and coincidental. But there is the fact that we don't know what we don't know. And there is strong evidence to back theories of order in the Universe. Based on that, small, seemingly insignificant issues mean something. They can cause something else, and then something else, and then something else to happen. A small surge in power from my re-programmed DVD player could have caused a tiny spike in the electrical current in my building, which caused a neighbor's air conditioner to surge, which caused a fuse to blow, which caused a spike in power from our building out to the wires in the alley, down to Wrigley, where a beer tap hiccoughed and splattered beer onto a concession worker who then went on a break to clean up, and while his end of the line was closed a guy decided not to wait for beer and got a pop instead and went back to his seat where his buddies thought it would be funny to snap a photo of him drinking pop instead of beer and the flash from the camera was at precisely the right angle to cause a moment of green flash blindness in the pitcher winding up to throw...
2:47 PM
Wednesday, October 03, 2007 Little. Yellow. Chinese. Ping: Secret Agent of Communism and Saboteur of Young Minds
Good swutting grief.
I've just been informed that Ping, yes, that Ping, the beloved little yellow duck on a journey of enlightenment on the Yangtze, is deemed controversial and unfit for young children in many communities.
I'm not kidding.
Ping. Ping! A little yellow duck. Known, loved and endeared the world over for generations. Ping.
The Story about Ping was one of those books my parents read to me early on in life because they thought I would identify with Ping and they hoped I would learn a lesson or two. Ping and I were (and are) a lot alike. Youngest children who have a tendency to stray from the pack when something catches their interest and who have a way of innocently getting into "situations." I did (do) love Ping. I did (still do) identify with him. And finally, after wearing out the spine of a hand-me-down copy of the book as well as putting a lot of miles on my own new copy, I did learn some valuable life lessons (and an interest in China and distaste for Peking duck) from Ping.
But apparently The Story about Ping is deemed too violent. Okay, yes, there are some duck abuse issues. And yes, my over-sensitive animal rights conscience has issues with the "violence" in the story and the whole concept of bird yoking, but that's part of the glory of Ping. He overcomes obstacles and triumphs in the face of adversity. If I managed to make it through reading after reading of Ping without sleepless nights worrying about poor little yellow ducks living on the Yangtze or nightmares about said ducks, any kid can get through it and love Ping for his Ping-ness. Seriously. If there was ever a kid who would be traumatized by Ping, it was me. I couldn't watch Lassie until I was 12, and to this day I can't sit through the movie without serious anxiety attacks, and do not even ask me about Bambi*. This is coming from an expert in the field of childhood sensitivity to animal suffering. I loved Ping and time after time, I'd worry about him, but I knew in the end his spirit and love for his family would get him back to his mother and brothers and sisters. From the first page you just know Ping has a triumphant spirit about him. You know it's not going to be easy for him, but you know he's going to make it. He's vexed with unfortunate timing and faced with perilous challenges, but he's a perseverant, smart, friendly, curious, family oriented guy with a sense of adventure but love of home. It's a child's version of the break-up anthem I Will Survive.
But putting aside possible violence issues, scarier and worse than the accusations of violence are the accusations of, I kid you not, fascism, communism and racism.
Because, you know, four-year-olds have such a strong grasp of politics and global social problems. I do not doubt the mental abilities and acuities of most four-year-olds. Don't get me wrong on that score. Some of the most interesting and profound conversations I've had in my life have been with the pre-school aged crowd and, if explained to them in terms they understand, the concepts of communism, fascism and racism are not over their heads. The more I live, the less I know. But one fact remains constant: never underestimate children and their abilities to grasp abstract concepts. But, barring racist, fascist, communist influences in the home, Ping is not going to turn innocent children into fascist extremists or make them grow up to be racist skinheads hanging out at KKK rallies for fun. Ping is not a gateway drug which will lead to harder stuff like the Communist Manifesto.
But so what if it is? Is it not better to be informed about Big Scary Things like communism, fascism and a duckling's struggle for survival than to shelter kids from it, or worse, ignore it and pretend it will go away or doesn't even exist? Knowledge is power. If some socially aware pre-school kid is able to suss out communist lessons from Ping, well, good for them. Maybe they'll lead a children's uprising for more stringent import safety laws and regulations or lead a revolt against child labor issues for their pre-school brethren in China and Taiwan.
And let's talk about all those siblings of Ping's for a moment. In a country where the government dictates human reproduction, here's Ping's mother sticking her beak up at the Chinese government and openly flaunting her brood of six children. If we're going to assign real life modern day adult political and social values to a 70-year-old children’s' story about a wayward duck, well then, let's hear it for Ping's mother in all her reproductive glory and all of Ping's five siblings (and myriad extended family) bucking the system simply by existing in a country where producing more than the government allowed one or two children is a punishable offense.
A little online research turned up one Amazon.com reviewer who alluded to social Darwinism, which, while an interesting concept I may just have to pursue,** is far, far above the heads of most readers in the intended Ping age group. (And to M. Allen Greenbaum: re: the yellow of the ducks, boy and Yangtze river: As you astutely point out in your review, Ping was written and illustrated in 1933. Printing processes were not what they are now. Four color printing and lithography were very expensive and therefore many illustrated books, especially economical mass marketed books for children, were printed with minimal colors (often only two color). Further, "simplistic" illustration styles were often preferred because they were easier and more economical on the pre-press production end of publishing (trapping, keying and stripping large areas of spot color were easier and more economical than four color screen processing and many commercial illustrators worked within the confines of that process tailoring their art to the constraints of the rudimentary production processes). But, in Ping's case, in terms of style, one of the great beauties of Chinese literature is the artistic and profound economy of words. i.e. Tang poems, Chinese "Haiku" or even Confucian pearls of wisdom. Ping's highly acclaimed illustrations reflect and tip their hat to the beauty of simplicity, telling the story in a few lines and a few colors. Not slander or racism against the Chinese, but inspiration and respect.***) And please, we're talking about Ping. Ping!
Speaking of living in Communist China...if it's come to this, if it's come to banning Ping, or even considering him controversial, we're doomed.
While I was reading reviews of Ping (most of them favorable, by the way) I couldn't help but notice Ping is available and selling for a mere $3.99. For the price of a Veggie Delight Subway you can liberate Ping from the Amazon warehouse and send a message to all the Ping naysayers: Long live Ping!
My childhood copy, very well-worn, very much loved, is packed away with some other childhood books (many also deemed controversial and "unfit" for young minds), so I ordered a fresh copy. I can't wait for it to arrive.
*But hey, that's Disney so it's gotta be okay and safe for the kiddees. Bambi, Old Yeller, and of course that oh-so-politically correct Lady and the Tramp. Talk about slander and racial stereotyping: We are Si-am-ese if you pl-eeeze... Ping is a harbinger of communism on a mission to taint young minds, but Disney, dear, sweet, benevolant Disney always produces good, clean, safe for the children movies without any violent or questionable content or racial or ethnic stereotypes. Why risk reading kids something which could corrupt them when you can plop them in front of the television with a couple of DVDs and let safe, clean, non-violent, politically correct Disney take care of them for a few hours? Has anyone found Nemo to be one of the most intense movies ever made or is it just me who finds big, ferocious sharp-toothy sharks scary? And what about that underlying psychological issues with Gill? I mention Nemo because as I watched it I kept thinking it was a rip-off of Ping. Nemo's adventures were under the water while Ping's were above, but the basic plot outline is the same: Little guys who want to go home. I guess the difference is that Nemo wasn't set on the Yangtze and he was orange and as long as you have a daffy friend along for the ride it's all okay for the kids. And now that I think about it, little guys who want to go home is the basic plot outline for every Disney movie. Except for some there is no going home. Home will never be the same. It was burned, flooded, bulldozed, ravaged by famine or turned into a subdivision and someone who made it home, mom, dad, siblings, perished in the disaster and the land is now being ruled by their evil protagonist. Yeah. Disney's sooooo good for kids. No trauma or violence or fascist regime concerns there. But Ping, hoooo boy, Ping is just b-a-d bad for young minds.
**Possible working titles:
Ping: Survival of the Fittest, A Study in 21st Century Social Darwinism;
Everything I Ever Needed to Know About Life I Learned from Ping: Coping and Surviving a Life of Bad Timing, Unfair Management, Physical Setbacks, Successful Older Siblings and Navigating Unknown Waters;
Ping Theory: Triumphing in the Face of Adversity and Embracing the Experience of being Caught in an Endless Loop of Doom;
Ping or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Chinese (comes with a plastic Ping figure complete with coats of lead based paint. Okay. See. Now that's slander. But it wasn't spawned from some deeply rooted subliminal teachings I picked up when I read Ping as a child.)
***For a quick lesson in designing books, this fun and interesting site displays what the miracle of pre-production and printing advancements have done to improve and push the envelope with illustrations for mass produced books. Better, efficient printing processes = creative freedom for artists.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007 Life of Crime and Addiction
I started a life of rebellion and civil disobedience when I was very young. Maybe I was just born that way. Or maybe there were strong influences in the home.
It’s usually that way. Bad seeds usually sprout from somewhere, there’s usually some influence, nature or nurture, which every now and then causes a leaf or twig on the family tree to bend a little differently.
Or sometimes the whole family is such a mess, so far gone that everyone just rolls their eyes in a “well, what did you expect” kind of way. There are no big mysteries in my case. I didn’t stand a fighting chance.
I was born to be bad. My parents actually were the ones who launched me into a life of rebellion. My law abiding, university educated, Scout troop leading, Rotary committee chair, churchonsunday pillars of the community parents were trouble, too. And they didn’t even have the decency to hide their wayward ways.
Funny thing is, scandalous as it seems, no one cared. No one was even concerned about the children. My parents’ friends and neighbors just let them drag us kids down into a life of debauchery. They even lauded both of my parents for their evil ways and what they were doing to their children.
So it’s not my fault, not really. This addiction, this need, this carefree attitude about rebellion, this lack of regard for social mores and a yearning to defy was bred into me at conception and then nurtured and developed by my conniving parents who thumbed their noses at the rules and society and encouraged me to do the same. I didn’t know any better, I didn’t know there was another way of life.
I didn’t know it was wrong.
My name is Trillian and I’m and addict. My addiction causes me to do all sorts of things I now know I shouldn’t do, things society doesn’t approve, things no self-respecting single woman should do on a Saturday night.
It started innocently enough. I guess.
Though looking back I’m not so sure. You have to understand it’s difficult to discern innocent from guilty because of the brainwashing I endured all those formative years. My sense of right and wrong, good and bad, innocent and guilty is skewed by the deeply ingrained way of life I learned from my parents.
I place my earliest memory at about age 2. It’s one of those fuzzy, weird, dreamlike memories which you know, deep down, is a memory, you feel it, you know it happened to you because you remember it, you were there, yet it kind of seems like something you saw in a movie. Except you know the actors and the surroundings are familiar, even recognizable. I’m in my little girl bedroom and my brother tries to take something away from me. I throw my bottle at him. My mother appears and scolds my brother for bothering and teasing me and taking away my treasure. She then scolds me for throwing my bottle and threatens to take it away from me because I’m too big for a bottle anyway.
“We don’t throw things at people, young lady. One more time and the bottle’s gone. You’re getting too big for a bottle anyway. And you’re supposed to be taking a nap. Now. See? Everything’s fine, no harm done, he didn’t ruin it. Let’s have a look, why don’t we find out what’s going on in Wonderland today.” And then I cuddle up to my mother’s bosom, lose myself in the folds of her blouse and smell of her Breck shampoo and the safety of her embrace while she tenderly lulls me to sleep with melodic poetry about “Wonderland.”
Wonderland. Wonderland! I mean, the nerve of that woman! Making it all sound so fun, enticing a child, a baby, really, to play with fire. There should be laws about this sort of thing. Some people should not be allowed to breed. Wonderland! Of all the euphemisms, of all the evil, sinister deceptions…
There are other memories, riding my tricycle, jumping into the deep end of the pool into my father’s arms, swinging higher and higher on the swingset, duck-duck-goose. Normal kid stuff. Stuff that made it all seem so normal. Now I know that was part of the sinister plan. Add it to the list of regular childhood activities and it won't seem incongruous. Just incorpate it into everyday life as if it’s perfectly normal, perfectly harmless, and no one will suspect a thing. Especially the children. They simply have no idea that this isn’t normal, that this is bad, wrong.
My first true cognitive, conscious continuing vivid memory starts around age four. By that time I was deeply entrenched in the daily rituals my parents performed. If you’d taken me away from them at that age I still would have been too far gone to save. I was already doing it three or four times a day. It was the first thing I wanted when I woke up in the morning and was lulled to sleep with it at night.
Frequently after dinner my dad would take me into the den and he’d indulge me, teach me. Sometimes my brother would join us. First my dad would show us how it was done and then my brother would do it and then my father would make my brother go do his homework and focus his attention on me, patiently “helping” me. My dad was, and still is, one of the all time undisputed masters. He, too, seems to have been born to do it.
My mother’s role is different. Perhaps more powerful than my father’s. Quieter, more sinister, more behind the scenes. Whereas my father is more of an eager participant, she was in on all of it, she even did it professionally before she met my dad, had three kids and moved to the suburbs to spin her web of corruption under the guise of happy normal life in the unsuspecting suburbs. Is there anything more sinister than the evil to be found masquerading as normal? She looked and seemed like the perfect loving mother doting on her husband and children, entrenching herself in the community, she was a Cub Scout Den Mother, a Den Mother for crying out loud! The woman’s malicious intent knew no boundaries. A Den Mother! Evil, pure evil.
I didn’t stand a chance. None of us did. I was four-years-old and addicted so badly Betty Ford herself couldn’t have broken my habit.
Looking back on it there is one redemptive characteristic shared by my parents. They never assumed we couldn’t understand. They never talked down to us. Never hid anything from us and never made us hide anything from anyone else. The minister, a teacher, police…anyone who visited our house was welcomed to join in, in fact my parents often sent parcels of evil off with visitors. They kept a bag in the pantry where “donations” were accumulated. They encouraged us kids to help. Often we didn’t want to part with our treasures, but they disguised this as a lesson in charity.
“Someone less fortunate than you would really love that and cherish it. You have others, you can spare a few. Don’t you want other people to share the joy you’ve experienced? Mustn’t be selfish. Must think of others less fortunate than ourselves.”
Bitch. Now that I know what was going on all her virtuous lessons seem so sinister. My parents: Resident evil. Who knew?
Once the bag was full they’d take it to a couple of drop off points: The library, the church or the school rummage sale. It sickens me to think about this now. Now that I know better, now that I know how vile and disgusting their behavior was. It was all an elaborate grand scheme to, I don’t know, I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but there was obviously a grand scheme and it was clearly very elaborate. A lot of people were in on it. Someone made the pick-up, someone helped carry out their evil plan. But, to their credit, my parents never assumed we were too young to understand. Oh sure, there was some monitoring for age appropriateness. There were some boundaries. But for the most part they just went ahead and gave us what they deemed “good” for us, regardless of the level prescribed. If there was something we didn’t understand they’d just explain it to us. Consequently, by the time I started school I was exploring and experimenting beyond the levels of a lot of my classmates. Though many of them, too, had parents who were in on it, so it didn’t seem too weird and I wasn’t isolated.
At least not at first.
I was suckling it in at my mother’s bosom and learning at my dad’s knee, taking it all in, asking questions and accepting their answers, learning by example.
But, like most addicts, I soon desired to seek the answers to my questions on my own. Thirst for knowledge and lust for adventure, a desire to take it further, experiment unsupervised.
I had no idea it could, you know, kill me, or at alter me, change me, make me bad.
All I knew was that I craved it, needed it, wanted it, begged for it.
By the time I was seven-years-old I’d learned enough to be dangerous on my own and I was a slave to it. I was openly practicing on my own. My parents were proud of my accomplishments and encouraged me to press on, go further, try more serious stuff. The more I learned, the less I knew, the more I wanted to learn.
It’s a vicious cycle, this evil. I developed a bit of a snobbery about how far I’d gone, what I’d already done and what I was attempting to do. That’s when some of the kids at school started teasing me. They didn’t understand. But there were others, other junkies, other kids in the cult whose parents encouraged them. Now I realize some of our teachers were in on it, too. Some of our teachers. Not all of them. I’d find that out later. But at that time most of our teachers were supportive and encouraging and even organized groups based on levels of accomplishment. So I still had friends, things still seemed normal to me. I didn’t think I was special or different. I mean, I did normal kid stuff. I looked and behaved like a normal, albeit slightly over-imaginative, kid. If anyone suspected I had a serious problem, or that my parents were as horrible as they were, no one said or did anything. No one stepped in to help me. No one seemed to think there was a problem. Many people knew what my parents were doing and just let them go about their evil business.
When I hit pre-adolescence it began to interfere with my social life. Kids were evenly split: Those who did and those who didn’t. Those of us who did were frequently mocked, ridiculed and outcast. And, sadly, our addiction tends to lead to solitary use and subsequent isolation. The deeper we fall, the more isolated we become and the more refuge we take in that world. It becomes an escape, especially when the ravages of pre-adolescence start rearing their ugly heads. It gives us users the confidence and defiant courage to bravely continue with our habit. “I don’t even want to be popular! I have better things to do with my time! There are worlds to discover, I can push this farther and farther, there’s a never ending supply, who needs those stupid popular kids?”
And all the while my parents supported me.
Encouraged me.
Enabled me.
Indulged me.
I know it’s wrong, now, but in my defense I never would have survived those troubled, turbulent pre-adolescent and adolescent years were it not for my habitual escape. It may be wrong, it may be bad, it may be illegal in some states and countries, it may be sacrilegious and blasphemous, but it kept me from becoming a teen suicide statistic.
And it helped me learn about myself and the world around me. It unlocked doors and opened my eyes. It gives you, like, this really wild perspective, you know? The experience, the trips, can be phenomenal. The buzz, the head rush…it’s amazing. Sometimes euphoric. Often mind blowing. There’s always a little tingle of fear of the unknown, but that’s all part of the experience. Sure, you know it can be dangerous, and sometimes unpleasant, but the more you do it the more you want to test the limits. You become a thrill seeking junkie, you want more and you want bigger, stronger stuff.
My habit only intensified at university. I met other addicts. We shared our stuff. We talked about our experiences. “Whoa, this is amazing, you’ve got to try this, it’ll rock your world.” None of us ever questioned the legality or ramifications of our actions. Most of my friends had parents like mine, parents and teachers who got them hooked and encouraged their dependency. We didn’t see anything wrong with it. We thought it was a good thing.
Oh sure, we knew there were people who didn’t approve. People who didn’t understand. People who like to mock and control that which they fear or don’t understand. We weren’t oblivious or naïve. We knew there were people trying to stop us. But we just boldly and blindly continued on partaking and indulging in our habit, hoping they would one day find enlightenment and change their perspective, rules and laws.
Then one day I had to face the facts of my evil way. I was cornered and confronted.
I was volunteering with a group of young girls. I was helping them with art projects when the subject came up among a few of the older girls. One of them, like me, had parents who encouraged her use of the contraband and she was raving about a recent experience. The other girl, whose parents were obviously virtuous, God fearing carriers of the cross and burden of reformation, was piously, sincerely, without fire, brimstone or elevated heart rate, calmly stating all the errors of our ways, the truth behind the popular lies, busting the myths and patiently showing us the clear path to redemption.
What we were doing was wrong.
Period.
She told us The Truth.
God doesn’t like it and He doesn’t like anyone who does it. Neither does the president. That’s why it’s not allowed in churches or schools. Because God and the president say it’s wrong.
A child shall lead the way.
I could feel my blood pressure rising. How dare this sweet child’s parents fill her with such ridiculousness? Her parents are perpetuating the narrow-minded, “it’s for their own good” party line. This little girl could grow up unwavering in her parents’ beliefs and continue the tradition, carry the cross, and also perpetuate the hatred and condemnation of that which they do not understand.
But she was not my child, her mind was not mine to persuade, cajole or confuse. How could I set her straight, explain another point of view, without sending her into a state of confusion and mistrust? I could hear the dinner table conversation, “Miss Trillian says it’s okay. She does it and she and Jenny had fun talking about it. Miss Trillian says there’s nothing wrong with it, she does it all the time.”
Her outraged parents could then not only get me fired from a volunteer gig I really enjoyed, they could cause a lot of problems for the school sponsoring the after school program. I didn’t want to jeopardize the program or my role in it. Especially not over something already deeply rooted in public controversy. My place was to share, mentor and educate these young girls. Not corrupt them.
I’d never seen it that way. Before that day I saw myself as a beacon of truth and understanding.
That young girl made me see the real, deeper Truth.
The Truth that there is a lot more to it than unenlightened and ignorant naysayers.
Religion and politics.
Oh sure, I’d known that all along. Religion. Politics. Money. Sex. The roots of all controversy. But I didn’t personally know anyone who went to those churches or voted for those law makers. I thought it was just a few people stirring up a lot of trouble and brouhaha for the rest of us.
But they are strong in numbers. And their religion and politics define them. And they will stop at nothing to uphold their values and way of life. Regardless of the hypocrisy of their intolerance. Some issues are beyond reason, beyond hypocrisy. God and the president. You have to stand up and defend your beliefs and your values.
Which is why today I am coming out, standing up and publicly admitting to years of habitual use and addiction.
My name is Trillian and I read banned books.
My parents read banned books. My friends read banned books. Even some of my teachers read banned books and encouraged their students to read banned books.
My drug of choice, my crack, my demon lover, is books. Even, especially, banned books.
A recent random spot check of a book shelf at my parents' house revealed five banned or controversial books on one small shelf alone. I didn't stand a chance.
I can’t speak for God and I don’t want to speak for the president (because he certainly doesn’t speak for me), but, if they don’t like Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Tintin, Deenie, Harry Potter or James and his giant peach I have to question their rationale.
But then, I would, wouldn’t I? I’ve spent a lifetime reading and enjoying banned books. I’m one of them. The independent heathens who run around willy nilly reading books and question everything, especially God and the president.
Worse, in the eyes of the morality police, is that in many cases I didn’t even know the books were controversial, much less banned. My parents gave me the books to read and I eagerly devoured every word. I didn’t know they were bad books, I just knew I loved reading them. Ignorance is bliss.
My mother was an editor and manusript reader. Consequently she accumulated a lot of books. The publishing company she worked for prior to the birth of my brother gave her a steady supply of books, both new titles and reprints of classics. Banned? Huh? My mother's company printed and published these books for crying out loud. My mother. We're not talking Playboy® Enterprises, we're talking an established, prestige publishing company with a solid reputation. It never even crossed my mind that any of these books were bad for me. The only thing which embarrassed me about them was that they were dated editions - old and sometimes frayed with use - as opposed to the new "cool" paper back editions the other kids at school had. "Tom Sawyer? Oh yes dear, we have that, look on the living room shelf." Sure enough, much to my dismay, I'd find an old fashioned copy of the book. The only shameful thought I had was of disappointment. "Darn. I don't get to buy a fancy new edition. I'm going to look like a dork with this old copy."
That's not to say I didn't have plenty of new books. Other kids got candy or small dolls or toy cars as little treats. I got books. My mum would regularly come home from a day of shopping with a couple of books for me. Every couple of weeks my dad would come home from work with a) records and b) books. I'd gulp down my dinner and coax my dad to hurry up and finish his dinner, too, so we could dive into the new book. He'd pull me onto his lap and read the new book to me and teach me to read along with him. If my brother or I misbehaved, eventually, usually sooner rather than later, my dad would gather us after dinner and read us a passage from an appropriate book. Usually some Dickensian hardscrabble urchin surviving on his cunning and learning lessons in life and ethics along the way. You know, to make a point about our misbehavior or to help us understand there were kids who had things a lot worse than we did and we should be grateful for all we had. (My parents, being the evil influencers they are, also subscribed to the mother of all corruption, National Geographic which often served as not only a monthly world studies lesson, but lessons in humility, compassion and gratitude were also discussed. But in spite of all which can be learned on a monthly basis, National Geographic is not allowed in some school libraries because of "questionable content." You know, erupting volcanos are just a little too salacious for young minds and heavens, we can't have any of this evolution propaganda clouding their judgment.)
Reading and books were just a way of life, but, we never took books for granted. Every new book was special and exciting. And I was thrilled with each new tome. Even if there was a disciplinary lesson to be learned.
Little did I know my parents were weaving a web of evil and corrupting my young mind.
For instance, the first book I remember, the one I was so upset about my brother trying to pry from me, was a baby-fied version of Alice in Wonderland. I was no more than a baby but that controversial-to-some book was my cherished possession.
And in spite of her best efforts, Laura Ingalls Wilder did not turn me into a racist.
Little House in the Big Woods and Little House on the Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder’s lauded biofic long adored by 8-year-old girls and a much truer historic representation than any inane American Girl dumbed down marketing pabulum, were banned and are held in contempt in some circles. I spent an entire Summer captivated and held spellbound as the story of Laura and her family played out for me on the pages of those books. Since my father and his family were Nordic immigrants to Minnesota I felt a strong connection to Laura and her family. Her people were my people. Their land was our land. Those long family road trips to Minnesota were forever after much less tedious because I imagined Laura and her family pioneering the same land we were traveling. I learned a lot of things from those books but racism, hatred and derogatory stereotypes of First Nations people aren’t among them. Hard to believe beloved Michael Landon would have anything to do with anything sordid, but his highway to heaven was tainted with the stain of offensive literature.
Yes, I do recall references to "Injuns" and even Indians, and yes, there were some fearful passages wherein the Ingalls clan were facing the then rumored to be violent tribes of "red skins" as they pioneered across the prarie. But thanks to my parents, schools and community, I already knew times had changed and it was wrong to use those words. That was then, this is now. Further, I knew why it was wrong and I fully understood those stories happened a long time ago when things were very, very different. What I learned from those books was how different life was back then - for all skin colors. I learned about racial tolerance. It was my first lessons in how the West was really "won" and the injustices against the First Nations people living on the plains. I didn't put down those books and start my own little Children United Against Injuns club. Just the opposite. It prompted me to learn about the different tribes of First Nations people living in the area. So inspired was I that I started wearing my hair in braids and took up Chippewa beading for a few weeks. (And I also learned that Choctaws were often vegetarian which was terrific fuel to the fire already smoldering against my parents for making me eat animals. Now, for that my parents might have a valid argument against Ms. Ingalls Wilder.) Basically: The only thing Laura Ingalls Wilder did regarding racism was inspire me (and a lot of other young girls) to learn more about First Nations culture. If some kids misunderstand the books and skew the stories and twist them into some awful hate manifesto, the problem lies in the behaviors and examples their parents are giving the kids and what is taught, tolerated and accepted at their schools, not in the Little House books.
Roald Dahl and Judy Blume changed my life.
Mr. Dahl took me on my earliest and most exciting, life changing adventures. His way, his style, his humor, his words spoke (and still speak) to me, touched me, inspired my imagination to go places I dreamed into being after reading his words. His stories, yes, but more to the point, his words, the actual words and the way he put them together, were catalysts to dizzying heights of imagination. To this day traces of his humor and the visages his words conjure end up in most of my creative work. I owe so much to him that words fail me when I try to express my love and regard for his words. Some people sing a favorite song or think about puppies and kittens when life gets difficult. Me? I go to my happy place: Deep in the pages of The Witches or James and the Giant Peach or Charlie and Chocolate Factory or Matilda et al.
Had it not been for Judy Blume my difficult adolescence would probably have ended more like Go Ask Alice than in an AP lit class reading Slaughterhouse Five and Lord of the Flies. And I can say that with authority because I read my sister’s hand-me-down copy of Go Ask Alice and I knew I didn’t want to end up like that. After reading that banned book I was scared straight. That slim edition did more to keep me on the straight and narrow than years of Sunday school or the local cop addressing us kids about the dangers of drugs ever did. Yet parents, educators and religious leaders habitually declare it to be an evil tome of corruption.
I'm not a parent so I'm not fully qualified to make this statement, but, I was once a pre-adolescent and teenaged girl and I have volunteered and spent time with many other peoples' young adult daughters. Here's what I suspect regarding the Judy Blume Situation. Judy Blume is not to blame. She writes books which speak to young readers without condescending to, preaching at or accusing them. She addresses issues many (most) kids face. They identify or are at least sympathetic to her characters. The blame lies in parents not accepting that their children, especially their daughters, are young adults facing problems and issues far beyond a lost My Little Pony. The blame also lies in parents who have not developed strong communication with their children. Maybe they're afraid, embarrassed or just apathetic, but whatever the reason they haven't or don't talk, really talk, to their children and their children consequently feel alienated from them. A Judy Blume book appears and forces parent to confront their denial, fear, embarrassment or apathy. They could take the opportunity to open a meaningful dialog with their child, or, they could raise a stink with their local school or library for giving their child access to the book and form parents' coalition against the outragious corruption between the covers of Judy Blume's books. Apparently it's easier to go through all that than just sit down and talk to their child. Ban the books. Why not burn them? Heck, why not burn Judy Blume at a stake? "Are you there, God, it's me Judy. I heard you and the president don't like my books."
Flowers for Algernon. Catcher in the Rye. The Outsiders. Of Mice and Men. Uncle Tom’s Cabin. A Doll's House. Lord of the Flies. Brave New World. To Kill a Mockingbird. Ulysses. And yes, even Carrie. If we weren’t “allowed” to read them as class assignments my parents and teachers made sure they were available to me for extracurricular education and enjoyment. Some of the teachers at my schools towed the safe party line and didn't assign any controversial books as reading assignments. One term I landed in one of those classes. Was it misery? No. Did my education suffer? No. But. My parents augmented my class assignments with books not on the "safe list." Instead of book reports there were conversations between my parents and I about the characters, plot and opinions of the books which came as easily and normally as discussions after seeing a movie.
I cannot imagine who I would be today had I not read these books in my formative years. Maybe my life would have been better, more successful, easier, if I hadn’t been corrupted by the words in those books.
It’s impossible to say. The damage is done.
But it will be interesting to see how that young God and president fearing girl’s life turns out free of the influence of banned books to enlighten and present new ideas and points of view to her. It will be interesting to see if obediently following the rules and staying away from what They say is bad will lead to success and happiness for her. You don’t know what you don’t know. Ignorance can be bliss.
I know this … a man got to do what he got to do.
A few years ago I was on a "date" with a man I met online. He seemed intelligent and normal enough. Educated. Professional. Conversation turned to the topic of bank profiteering. (As it naturally does...) I referenced Grapes of Wrath. He a) didn't understand the reference, b) said he'd never read the book, and c) said his school didn't allow it.
Okay. Sure. I understand that. But what I don't understand is why, in all the years since he became an adult and left that school, he never bothered to read one of the greatest books of all time. And worse—because, you know, maybe he was just really busy and hadn't got around to it—worse, though, was that he felt that the ban at his school was justification enough to never read the book. I wasn't crazy about this guy anyway, and he showed little interest in me, but the fact that he was okay with going through life avoiding books simply because they were on his high school's banned list made me scream, "Check please!" and high tail it out of there. If he were simply not interested in the book or didn't like Steinbeck's style or had valid personal reasons for not reading the book I would have been okay with that. Not everyone has to or needs to read every great literary work. But, to diligently avoid books simply because they were on your school's banned book list is something I can't tolerate in a potential suitor.
Maybe my parents and teachers were wrong. Maybe my friends and I are wrong. Maybe we’re all too brainwashed, too corrupted at too early of an age. Maybe we know too much.
Maybe we read too much.
If God and the president don’t like it, well, we should change our ways while we still can. Maybe we might have a shot at redemption and salvation. Maybe censorship isn’t bad. Maybe freedom of choice is bad. Maybe we should just stick to what They tell us to read and ignore the rest. Maybe it’s for our own good. You know, like communism. And Catholicism.
It could be nice to have a break from all that thinking. And it sure would be a lot easier and faster at book stores and on Amazon.com if our reading lists were given to us. No more browsing and perusing endless aisles and possible reading adventures. No more having to open your mind to new ideas and opinions. No more scary topics beyond the approved comfort level. No more corruption. No more having to think for yourself. No more reading about difficult situations and complicated concepts. No more gray area. No more horizons broadened. No more coming to uncomfortable realizations. No more stretching imaginations. No more wasted time, just stick to the approved list and away you go. What They say goes, the rest is bad and worthless.
Brainwashing 101.
Seems like I read something about that somewhere…was it back in 1984? Is it hot in here? Feels like it’s about 451° F.
Banned Book Week begins September 29. My advice, while I still have a few synapses firing independent of church and state, is to read or re-read a book on a banned list. Even if just to see what all the fuss is about or to feel naughty or rebellious, it’s a good time to ingest some words put together in sentences you may not have read for a while, or ever. There’s something on the lists to interest everyone. I’m certain you can find at least one "controversial" book which will appeal to you. Remember, unlike Mein Kampf which in a twist of laughable irony is not banned in the US, Canada and England (among others), even the Holy Bible regularly appears on banned book lists.
