tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44527114025843892452024-03-13T12:14:58.268-04:00blog my lifeJanice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-70156725354320000492016-11-24T08:28:00.000-05:002016-11-24T08:28:20.660-05:00<br />
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<h2>
Reap What We Sow</h2>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Happy to have an essay, part of my MFA thesis, published at <i><a href="http://www.theintima.org/">intima: a journal of narrative medicine</a>.</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0ELARJSrQLNsO24vSmlUrRMcV_F8TFtFujCbnKtkRINg6dGOZ1hDeZzA0aIw66mmQEXGO5oCy8p6ucwN2nKgB0s0-ZE_Wga5ApNVhrHzUI9ovSoilch3ScgveKgUwQeb15SNbp80LFY/s1600/64806-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0ELARJSrQLNsO24vSmlUrRMcV_F8TFtFujCbnKtkRINg6dGOZ1hDeZzA0aIw66mmQEXGO5oCy8p6ucwN2nKgB0s0-ZE_Wga5ApNVhrHzUI9ovSoilch3ScgveKgUwQeb15SNbp80LFY/s200/64806-1.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">Amid flowers and the smell of fresh dirt in Lowes’ garden department, my pager vibrates: a stat call from the labor room. Pat and I had been picking annuals for our yard; with its partial sun and dense shade Impatiens grow best. I’m partial to multicolored, but this year it’s her turn to pick and she’s opted for solid red. As she loads the crimson flats onto our cart, I step a few feet away to call Wafia, my family medicine resident. She trips over her words trying to tell me everything at once. A fifteen-year-old pregnant patient, let’s call her Casey, has broken her water and come to the hospital in active labor and… I don’t need Wafia to say much more, because I hear the nurse yell in the background, “Heart tones down in the 60’s. Get in here!”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">I signal Pat we have to go with a sideways jerk of my head. She quickly slides the young plants back onto the shelf. Wafia tells me Dr. Dillon is the obstetrician on back-up call, and the nurse is paging him now. He lives close to the hospital and I’m half-hour away. “Great,” I say. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.” </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">to continue reading, here's the link: <a href="http://www.theintima.org/reap-what-we-sow/">http://www.theintima.org/reap-what-we-sow/</a></span>Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-59964553730831277072013-09-09T15:25:00.000-04:002013-10-26T07:52:17.246-04:00A Nudge for Marriage Equality <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Meeting with Rich Fitzgerald, Chief Executive, Allegheny County</span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> September 9,
2013: <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><span style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"> While not exactly a win (he won't yet issue marriage licenses to same sex couples), it was not a loss. He is very open to helping us. We will meet again in a few weeks, and in the meantime, Sam He</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;">ns Greco will be working with his legal team. </span></span></h4>
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<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; font-weight: normal;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"> Eight people spoke at the meeting. We covered the hits we take on homeownership, retirement, healthcare, and pensions. One women, not yet married, is pregnant, due any day, and rightfully worried about her family’s financial security. </span></span></h4>
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<span style="background-color: #fce5cd;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Another man, who was recently married by Braddock’s mayor, Fetterman, said everyone asks why get married here in PA, where it is not yet “legal” (and so he risks his federal benefits). He likened it to the scene in Rudy where the team captain lays his jersey down on the coach’s desk for Rudy’s right to play in a game, and then others do the same, and Rudy gets to play and it means everything to him… At that point, Pat offered to give Rich Fitzgerald a jersey to lie on top of the Supreme Court's jersey, and Bruce Hanes’ jersey. Everyone laughed; it was a great moment. </span></span></span></h4>
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<span style="background-color: #fce5cd;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px;"> When it was my turn, I tried to talk about the heart of the matter. Even brought family photos. Here's what i said:</span></span></h4>
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<span style="color: #353535;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Thank you very much for hearing us today. As
you know, my partner Pat and I had plans to go to Montgomery County for a marriage </span><span style="font-size: 17px;">license, </span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">but cancelled our reservation when we found out you were considering issuing them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">By way of introduction, I am a family doctor. I teach at Forbes
Residency in Monroeville, I see patients at Metro, in Wilkinsburg, and I am the
director of the Midwife Center in the strip. I have lectured about health care
issues as they relate to LGBT community for many years. Evidence shows, and both
my Academy and the American Academy of Pediatrics agree a two-parent household
is best. This need not be mother and father; it is loving parents that make
it work. Improving the structural integrity of the family helps children. Legal
marriage builds structural integrity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m also a mother, and a grandmother (here are
some family photos). As you can see, my son and my granddaughter benefit from
two large, loving families—Pat’s and mine. The black and white photo was from
when Pat adopted our son Scott. It was 1994, and we were the first couple to do
second-parent same-sex adoption in Allegheny County. Thanks to Kathryn and
Sam Hens Greco.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWe4GaytGQS6dxt3Ja1GrfdzTQZRIFLMbArDMHiH7b8YU7RshwaQebn3XEo9U-4durZS5hbDN4AkXxotlBK4B2YSDuLeLKVN9tEA4KiCTI7Mwy0hQ-GsbbgBwDYmMB7CO5n30ecqajCX8/s1600/SCAN0005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWe4GaytGQS6dxt3Ja1GrfdzTQZRIFLMbArDMHiH7b8YU7RshwaQebn3XEo9U-4durZS5hbDN4AkXxotlBK4B2YSDuLeLKVN9tEA4KiCTI7Mwy0hQ-GsbbgBwDYmMB7CO5n30ecqajCX8/s200/SCAN0005.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Now he's really ours," Pat's Dad.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">I’m 58 years old, I came out in late 70s. To be
honest, I am completely amazed at how far we have come in this country on LGBT
rights. When I first came out, I was willing to live life on the periphery of
society… not that I didn't start to fight it even then. But I knew, and
accepted what I was getting into. That said, once the Supreme Court ruled, the
last of my internalized homophobia dissipated. Almost overnight, I lost
patience and tolerance for anything less than equal rights. That is why I am
requesting you to grant Pat and I a marriage license here in Allegheny County.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">On some level, it’s comical for Pat and I to think
about getting married. It’s true, people our age get married, but generally
they are actually “newly wed.” If allowed marry, Pat and I would be far from
newlyweds. We’ve been together for 30 years; it’s clear who washes the coffee
pot, and who sets it up for the next morning. We already know who loads the
dishwasher the right way, and who will do it “wrong” every time. In fact, we
probably looked like a bickering old married couple when we heard about the
Supreme Court’s ruling on DOMA. We had been out of touch for nearly a week—on a
medical service trip in Africa, when we arrived into Dulles airport in DC. As
we road the transport bus from our plane to baggage claim, I read the news of
DOMA on my iPhone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"> “Listen to
this!” I said and began to read aloud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">“Let’s see that,” she leaned in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">As we both struggled to read the fine print, the
irritation, fueled by the long flight, came out in her voice, “Don’t hold it
like that,” she said. “I can’t read it if you hold it like that…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">It would be cliché to say Pat and I have stuck
together through 30 years of thick and thin, and I would love to describe the thick
times, as well as the thin times, but time won’t allow for that. Suffice it to
say I believe a legal marriage may have helped us along the way, when we were
near breaking points. There are couples out there now, teetering on the brink
of a break-up. A legal marriage might make the difference.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #353535; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">So, why do I want to marry
Pat? It’s simple. I want to make formal that which we have understood all
along: yes, you are my life partner, in thick times and thin, in
sickness and health, until death do us part.</span><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-85625887456836078512013-07-17T22:14:00.001-04:002013-08-11T09:02:01.083-04:00My Trip to Zambia<!--StartFragment--><br />
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Last month I went to Zambia, Africa.* Each day, well, almost each day, I posted a short summary on Facebook. The response was heartening. Once I left Lusaka (for safari ! ), I no longer had even spotty wifi, so I ceased FB postings rather suddenly. Here are my posts, with some follow-up and pictures. Safari pictures follow.<o:p></o:p><br />
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*With Surgicorps International, <a href="http://www.surgicorps.com/"><span style="color: windowtext; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">www.Surgicorps.com</span></a> </div>
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Mission: provide free surgical and medical care to</div>
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disadvantaged individuals in developing countries.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMaTnuN1060WbtgduvRufi8_KSgq79VRF7Jx_nigdfW6lvh5cvVtcDAwd0UgY8TsHK_1saPxsoKsPqodw7p74keeV4jwxCB3ljwQdexDEN88biumOZtsQZuVjYbEsud5cjE2s8CRum5kc/s1600/IMG_1782.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMaTnuN1060WbtgduvRufi8_KSgq79VRF7Jx_nigdfW6lvh5cvVtcDAwd0UgY8TsHK_1saPxsoKsPqodw7p74keeV4jwxCB3ljwQdexDEN88biumOZtsQZuVjYbEsud5cjE2s8CRum5kc/s200/IMG_1782.PNG" width="133" /></a>Day 1<br />
The smell of a wood fire permeated the air the minute I walked out of the airport in Lusaka. As I inhaled the sweet smell, I thought fondly of campfires and Christmas.</div>
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“Mmmm, smell that?” I asked a more seasoned traveler as we waited to load our bags and medical supplies onto the bus.<br />
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“This is the third world,” he told me, “cooking and heating with open fire is the norm.”</div>
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Day 2<o:p></o:p></div>
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Full day if screening. Mostly kids. Snake bite scars, or more often, burn scars from fires and cooking oil. We saw congenital anomalies like cleft lips and syndactylies--an abnormal connection between adjacent digits--as well as aggressive scarring. One man had a keloid—scar tissue that heaps up into mounds—the size of a grapefruit hanging off the side of his head. The surgeons, two plastic surgeons and two hand orthopods, plan to repair these skin problems, the majority of which limit function, over the next five days. Our team will basically take over the hospital’s three operating rooms (or theaters, as they’re called here).<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Screening</td></tr>
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Saddest case during screening was that of a six-year-old with ambiguous genitalia. This is caused by congenital adrenal hyperplasia, which comes from disorderly hormones before birth, and is not something our team can fix. When the child was born, the doctors told the mother her child was “both a boy and a girl,” and suggested she “raise it as a boy.” So, that’s what she tried. Her husband left them when the child was six months old. But the mother, god bless her, let the child be who she was. A girl. The community couldn’t accept the change from boy to girl though, so Mother has since had to change villages. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Because the testes are up inside, or undescended, they are more likely to lead to cancer and should come out. There are pediatric urologists coming to Kenya next fall, but this family can't afford to go to Kenya. In addition, the mother knew nothing of hormones her daughter will need. With her testes out, she won’t make testosterone, so her voice won’t fall when she hits puberty, which is good, but to develop breasts, which she’ll want, she’ll need replacement estrogen. Today, all we could offer was information and support, which, I recognize, was huge. Surgicorps will see if/how they can help. They are a really good organization.<o:p></o:p><br />
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(One of the plastic surgeons, Deb Johnson, has since contacted the traveling urology team, and they plan to go to Zambia this fall… good news for that young girl. And a good start on a lifelong problem.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bandaged bed rails</td></tr>
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Day 3<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">lawnchair--> wheelchair</td></tr>
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Great day to be in Africa. We had all three operating rooms running, and the team functioned well. I am amazed how much can get done with so little. The ORs have what they need, and no more. Bed rails don’t always work, and the lights go out intermittently, but it is a good and functional hospital. Check out (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeitCureZambia"><span style="color: windowtext; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">https://www.facebook.com/BeitCureZambia</span></a>), where there are a few photos of Surgicorps' trip. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25Tob7Ce6ru3dSYn2EqUi7TM2znsnDPezQYb4HsdyEHnHYkD7EOJtTCbhgEkhdt4XHJSFUFPq4mFCqX8Zp2A3iB4j0MQRiQSTKmKLG7Cmt1um7Sf6P4b1T8Fxzc1fqXxFnUizlQZoMmk/s1600/IMG_1892.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25Tob7Ce6ru3dSYn2EqUi7TM2znsnDPezQYb4HsdyEHnHYkD7EOJtTCbhgEkhdt4XHJSFUFPq4mFCqX8Zp2A3iB4j0MQRiQSTKmKLG7Cmt1um7Sf6P4b1T8Fxzc1fqXxFnUizlQZoMmk/s320/IMG_1892.jpg" title="" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deb Johnson, operating in the dark<br />
...flashlights helped!</td></tr>
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This morning I was pulled to teach in the first Certified Nurses Aid course in Zambia. We discussed vital signs, and talked about the need for basic life support skills, also new to this country. I’m willing, and happy, to step in where asked, but feel underprepared. When I asked them (about 35 women and 3 men) to introduce themselves and tell me why they were taking the six-month-long course, I found it was difficult for many, if not most. After watching them stammer or giggle their words out, I realized how very, very shy they were (they call it “respectful”). They were so brave to still do it, and I realized I still have much to learn.... Tomorrow I’m to teach contraception!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Day 4: no wifi.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Day 5<o:p></o:p></div>
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I couldn’t be happier. I’m honored, lucky, and humbled by this experience. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Contraception talk went well yesterday; they asked questions despite their reserve (courage!). That gave me a chance to clarify some significant misconceptions, like, “don’t condoms cause cancer?” or “if you don’t have periods (on some forms of progesterone), where does the blood go?” I wouldn’t have thought to cover those things in a lecture. <o:p></o:p><br />
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In the theater today, we corrected scars that have prevented people, mostly kids, from elevating their arms, or extending their legs, or fingers. After the original injury, usually a burn or snake bite, the new skin, or scar, contracts over time. Sometimes they hold the limb or digit so still that it heals contracted—an upper arm to the chest, for example, or fingers flexed and stuck together. The surgeon opens the contracture, and then takes a skin graft from the thigh or abdomen to cover the gape in the wound. We have an O.T. with us who makes splints (so the patients don’t create the same problem), and then hopefully, six weeks down the line: fully functional. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqY6u-5tBcVDZ74-mL1CeEmKugRrt9RX9adZowOUxQE-Y3RYBvEsBnypBeu8tCLw6DKkTmOXHq4fYuylxlQWGqR7gBTOlFQx6sasoEXGEH4dIehTH7wIvUk7vrO2aKpTdaeIFIv2ATE0/s1600/IMG_1820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPqY6u-5tBcVDZ74-mL1CeEmKugRrt9RX9adZowOUxQE-Y3RYBvEsBnypBeu8tCLw6DKkTmOXHq4fYuylxlQWGqR7gBTOlFQx6sasoEXGEH4dIehTH7wIvUk7vrO2aKpTdaeIFIv2ATE0/s200/IMG_1820.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">burn scar contracture</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw5Q8RyPj0G_LOD03fSMTzh_fYpo9NeUtgKDHeFiBsbckeBM62yPFMFtrR-OUCB3N7ZPfhjBiD-e3_TBKYqSxXxY2Yh8vQLfVyKuqlsb85pwyNBPWmeoZEKkxUOXfvMR6NM3a07m6pETc/s1600/IMG_1861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw5Q8RyPj0G_LOD03fSMTzh_fYpo9NeUtgKDHeFiBsbckeBM62yPFMFtrR-OUCB3N7ZPfhjBiD-e3_TBKYqSxXxY2Yh8vQLfVyKuqlsb85pwyNBPWmeoZEKkxUOXfvMR6NM3a07m6pETc/s320/IMG_1861.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">snake bite contractures: knee and ankle</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiisdTVkQawX9PIMA5JJZqtna8pIS1Kqu3zYFPP9iWMkTMKCr5a_VehC4Hk9VaBFuOkk4eArmxusay4mo6sZCIw24xKAvqdSPxa22HiPiywQt9WYKFDQCblelHKC-EAY8lp0m7jvUv7cgo/s1600/syndactyly.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiisdTVkQawX9PIMA5JJZqtna8pIS1Kqu3zYFPP9iWMkTMKCr5a_VehC4Hk9VaBFuOkk4eArmxusay4mo6sZCIw24xKAvqdSPxa22HiPiywQt9WYKFDQCblelHKC-EAY8lp0m7jvUv7cgo/s200/syndactyly.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">syndactyly</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqhG-kPuYekxjthBKtCfmwcqkO5IA2yYsyXg_1rl0lRiIAjfaOP0pvkQtkcTcZOrHz28wA3FtqY5S89tgBt_N3RhF1pbEaswiKtQx4M8-nq2SXfNDA131u-KAeY3jGRlzh6uoqQhfA6g/s200/IMG_1849.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="150" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">syndactyly, repaired and splinted</td></tr>
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One girl, ten-year-old Eliza, has walked on her heel ever since a snake bit her on the top of her foot when she was five. Her contracture was so tight, her big toe nearly touched her shin bone (hard to even imagine, right?). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPGBggBDk_3LB-GpKY2UxbckerllS_Lts_xmQh-v1MEQtCvYgYaYZ6AMSNqVHlb_ZH8_WzyzLkuqghc6eDuIeaQoRxLg4aYSuPH7Upj7YnJSZPNKu8zERHuW2QMcHiXGBiP7dcLijK9s/s1600/IMG_0584.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPGBggBDk_3LB-GpKY2UxbckerllS_Lts_xmQh-v1MEQtCvYgYaYZ6AMSNqVHlb_ZH8_WzyzLkuqghc6eDuIeaQoRxLg4aYSuPH7Upj7YnJSZPNKu8zERHuW2QMcHiXGBiP7dcLijK9s/s320/IMG_0584.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYHXOVePtlmfWFUbDIHRqCgD_0WixJlodAoQJt9bzA1OrgDSIeZXVs3RjZTabb7AU9RNrYqST5L0ChlQgtKUlpJ9vRIzotrLie2GQAyl9KX3z2EhPiWsclRM1VsHHM7gdM86ve_CPduI/s1600/IMG_0124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYHXOVePtlmfWFUbDIHRqCgD_0WixJlodAoQJt9bzA1OrgDSIeZXVs3RjZTabb7AU9RNrYqST5L0ChlQgtKUlpJ9vRIzotrLie2GQAyl9KX3z2EhPiWsclRM1VsHHM7gdM86ve_CPduI/s200/IMG_0124.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eliza: snake bite contracture</td></tr>
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Thanks to Jack Demos, a plastic surgeon and founder of Surgicorps, Eliza'a foot is now at 90 degrees. But here’s the best part: I spoke with her today, post-op day number two, and found out she had thought she was going to lose her foot altogether. Boy was she happy when she woke up!</div>
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See what I mean? I’m so lucky.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySsHiaSrc3ZWo5-iUhst8b6gSNqzm3cFuYCFMbqdJjHN8fHOQszqN2FLefX96s-gcUDHBh_4VaJ0qbOsVOE61hqM09D0ChKVApF9pSLLatgfE_d8D3AD4QngRP69lPrPQsbS0vw0X-VM/s1600/IMG_1803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySsHiaSrc3ZWo5-iUhst8b6gSNqzm3cFuYCFMbqdJjHN8fHOQszqN2FLefX96s-gcUDHBh_4VaJ0qbOsVOE61hqM09D0ChKVApF9pSLLatgfE_d8D3AD4QngRP69lPrPQsbS0vw0X-VM/s200/IMG_1803.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">repaired and splinted</td></tr>
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As I tried to get permission from Eliza’s mother to use her daughter’s story with her name and photo for the Surgicorps blog, and she had no idea what the internet was… let alone a blog or FB. She honestly couldn’t conceive of it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwsZfHTh42m-2aD6Lni1A36jTNXukD2_jYG1IXeXOAhMupYAErZXqkyWiKpTXxwAeu6Xdu3u80PAF_1ZpKv8g-Gpjs9KN7CBHN7RgZWwHITk3bE57Y47st0SqVZHISKFTLmiWPq0V688/s1600/IMG_1827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzwsZfHTh42m-2aD6Lni1A36jTNXukD2_jYG1IXeXOAhMupYAErZXqkyWiKpTXxwAeu6Xdu3u80PAF_1ZpKv8g-Gpjs9KN7CBHN7RgZWwHITk3bE57Y47st0SqVZHISKFTLmiWPq0V688/s320/IMG_1827.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eliza</td></tr>
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Justin, Eliza's nurse and our interpreter for this session, helped us communicate. While English is the most common second language, there are 70 some dialects spoken in Zambia.<br />
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Using his third language, Justin kept tapping his finger on the screen of his phone. “On here,” he'd say, then, spinning his hand in the air, “and then around the world. Is it okay?”</div>
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Eliza's mother looked perplexed. “On the radio? In the newspaper?” <o:p></o:p>she kept asking.<br />
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It took a while, but once reassured it wouldn’t be in her local news [please honor], both Eliza and her mother agreed it would be fine. <o:p></o:p><br />
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I thanked them with two bottles of lotion from my hotel room.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BwuqZH11d0dWOEEIn4aYJQts-UzgSD7BL8EFteqcRpalV2y0YBCF0I29n81eoxnmDmRURlPvV5G_NmorsPZKZcvjRroq5QC_0EdCF3vn2SE07bGTxUPMo5VwFqBQrlCsIIY-JCpvvQ4/s1600/IMG_1850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BwuqZH11d0dWOEEIn4aYJQts-UzgSD7BL8EFteqcRpalV2y0YBCF0I29n81eoxnmDmRURlPvV5G_NmorsPZKZcvjRroq5QC_0EdCF3vn2SE07bGTxUPMo5VwFqBQrlCsIIY-JCpvvQ4/s320/IMG_1850.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eliza, smiling with nurse, Justin and Matt O'Conner, who took patient stories for Surgicorps' blog</td></tr>
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During the conversation, I noticed Eliza, a preadolescent on day three post-op, seemed cranky and antsy. I wondered if she was in pain, and asked Justin. <o:p></o:p><br />
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In return, Justin, who, by the way, had abundant patience—his face kind and soft, and his words gentle during the ten minute repetitive internet explanation—said, “Oh, no. She’s not in pain… the ward has been quiet all morning.” <o:p></o:p><br />
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I’m beginning to see I have something to offer here, it's going to be very hard to leave tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Day 6<o:p></o:p></div>
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I got up my nerve to discuss pain control with Justin. He is actually training to be an advanced nurse, online, in a school from the UK.<br />
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After tripping on my words, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do," or “I don’t want to sound arrogant, judgmental, but..." I began, "yesterday, you mentioned that you didn’t think Eliza was in pain, because the ward had been quiet--meaning no one had called out in pain. Do you think they might still have pain? Moderate pain that can be treated?” <o:p></o:p><br />
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“Yes,” he said with a half nod. <o:p></o:p><br />
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“Well, I brought some information on pain in children, would you be interested in reading it?” <o:p></o:p><br />
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Before coming here, I had had a brief communication with a local doc, and she had suggested I give an in-service to the nurses on pain, adding, “but we don’t have IV pumps or anything.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had read ahead about pain control, but not doing any in-patient medicine, let alone in-patient pediatric neurosurgery, the hospital’s main function when visiting doctors, like our Surgicorps docs, aren’t here, I felt incompetent to the task; I had no idea, then, the context. The reason. The need. But there it was, on Justin’s face. The only way he knew to recognize pain was a child moaning or calling out. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Justin gratefully and gracefully accepted my articles on pain in children, as well as copies of pain scales for preverbal children. He told me he planned to share the information with others. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Before we left the hospital at the end of the day, (when the women –mothers and nurses— sang us out! **see video below), I stopped by to give my stethoscope to Justin. He already had one, I knew, but I suggested he give it to the person who would follow in his shoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9eCz-WckF2D8uhyphenhyphenViCsZFCXEDj1h3eDPc76-1r7EWvXJWjsQELdGdde4zbOpAjDf4VwU-bwyYrUktmOg-ERtIVDsBPs1_3_r3BqYdAKCxAowYK3UlHffyNkBmA_4SzVRGsZ-oif5EQo/s1600/IMG_1922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9eCz-WckF2D8uhyphenhyphenViCsZFCXEDj1h3eDPc76-1r7EWvXJWjsQELdGdde4zbOpAjDf4VwU-bwyYrUktmOg-ERtIVDsBPs1_3_r3BqYdAKCxAowYK3UlHffyNkBmA_4SzVRGsZ-oif5EQo/s320/IMG_1922.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Upon returning home:<o:p></o:p></div>
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My time with Surgicorps was incredible. I would do it again in a minute. And hope to. It called on a deep part of me. Yes, I’ve lost sweet nostalgia at the smell of a wood fire. And yes, I made mistake after mistake (like the entire day I recorded mean blood pressures thinking I’d been recording heart rates, or the time I had to break scrub in surgery because I almost passed out--probably due to nerves or a too-tight mask or because I held that limb up in the air for too long given my fitness level). But I kept at it. I met the challenges to the best of my ability. I made a tiny little difference in a world full of big fat problems. <o:p></o:p><br />
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And that made a big fat difference to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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**<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dychSkoHNfw_aeP-Q9QDyN2k1z18tqiUKpaKHqQT0B9HR-viX0E6sx3Lq_VxipFPEocaKgV-j73RE0J2vKSlQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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eliza, front and center, as the women sing to our team on our way out</div>
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Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-28931587172666027512013-07-17T22:01:00.000-04:002013-08-20T09:18:30.827-04:00Zambia: Safari in pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-22307361719768344572012-11-09T15:49:00.000-05:002013-01-08T13:24:23.447-05:00My (winning!) essay<br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4452711402584389245" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>So happy to have been published on <a href="http://www.hippocampusmagazine.org/">Hippocampus</a>, an online magazine for memorable creative non-fiction. This essay has also been nominated for a <a href="http://www.pushcartprize.com/index.htm">Pushcart Prize</a>.<br />
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<b><i><a href="http://www.hippocampusmagazine.com/2012/11/how-to-move-in-one-direction-while-flying-in-another-by-janice-anderson/">Grand Prize – Remember in November Contest:</a></i></b><o:p></o:p><br />
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H<b>ow to Move in One
Direction While Flying in Another</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 9.0pt;">by Janice Anderson</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="color: #212021; font-family: georgia, times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 29px;">S</span></span><span style="color: #191819; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; text-indent: 0.5in;">tart with an incident most people see as
unfortunate but you perceive as life changing; the skewed perspective will
enhance your experience. The incident should happen while on your Outer Banks
vacation, the highlight of your year. It could be any incident—perhaps a random
massage therapist from an upscale spa presses his penis onto your hand during
your massage as if to silently say, “How ‘bout some of this?” and then, after
you’ve tried, inconspicuously, to move your hand away, “Come on honey, I need
the extra money … you sure?”</span><br />
<span style="color: #191819; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
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<span style="color: #191819; font-family: "Times New Roman";">Deny to yourself and your god that this has
happened. Forget it like you forget what you had for breakfast. You can do it.
Get dressed. Meet up with your young niece who also had a massage. Smile with
her at the checkout counter. Pay. And by all means, leave a tip.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #191819; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; text-indent: 0.5in;">Finish your vacation as if nothing happened. Make dinner. Play
charades. Sip coffee at sunrise with your partner. Stroll the beach with…</span></div>
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Want to read more? Click this link:<br />
<a href="http://www.hippocampusmagazine.com/2012/11/how-to-move-in-one-direction-while-flying-in-another-by-janice-anderson/">http://www.hippocampusmagazine.com/2012/11/how-to-move-in-one-direction-while-flying-in-another-by-janice-anderson/</a><br />
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<br />Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-8032280553411303412012-06-11T10:28:00.001-04:002013-01-08T13:13:58.016-05:00Vietnam: Bike Wheels Past<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I
am humbled by the local's ability to live full and vibrant lives here. Vietnam
faces infrastructure and educational deficits, poverty, and overpopulation.
Over fifty percent of the country is under thirty, leading the ancient cultural
to shift rapidly. Not to mention the heat, which is one of my biggest
challenges (a few days ago it was 100° – perceived as 109°). Of course, this makes me
feel guilty. My life is so easy. I am a 57-year-old family doctor working part
time so I can take classes in the MFA program at Chatham University. That’s how
I ended up here for two weeks, traveling with twenty-three of my fellow
creative writing graduate students. Even where my life’s hard, it is a cakewalk
compared to a day in the life here. The hardest thing I do physically is choose
to take the hills on my daily walk in Pittsburgh’s Frick Park, or on a really big day,
I’ll walk <i>and</i> do yoga. Still,
surrounded by Buddhists (and travelers), I’m trying to be my best self in the
moments I’m given. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55ZOu_7V5d8kAkprJMyLurNQtvjEEPZgTafiB8K3UR8feFRTlp2aELJyFQ-_A_5F5O-yiSIdlpKUwVSbq9e1Wqt3ERZzvYOtCKRXdC37g9f10gUfvmqMRowccNn6pXU0u8GTzpypwO4Y/s1600/IMG_0792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55ZOu_7V5d8kAkprJMyLurNQtvjEEPZgTafiB8K3UR8feFRTlp2aELJyFQ-_A_5F5O-yiSIdlpKUwVSbq9e1Wqt3ERZzvYOtCKRXdC37g9f10gUfvmqMRowccNn6pXU0u8GTzpypwO4Y/s200/IMG_0792.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">That's
not always easy. Today we have a bike trip to a rural farm on the outskirts of
Hoi An, where we will help with farming and tour rice fields. As I wait in the
precious shade to get started, I take a picture of the bikes. As if to sneak a
peak at danger. At challenge. At dread. Nevertheless, I get on one. It has a
classic bicycle bell that rings a little every time I go over a bump. I take
that as a sign to stay present (gongs and bells are a call to attention, to
meditation). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don't worry</i>, I tell
myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You can do this</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGhb158y3FPepcKWNLuSbwcgaKi8-xcxpcdkLSUk_SKlCg90sF5OUuKyKNA1VrJzZS59j56yx2iqrejQJmytTRaB7O2E-XjWRwD5_i_QEjV_eH7hwRqGocVQwahB-zbTNjKcckF8vrj8/s1600/IMG_1084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGhb158y3FPepcKWNLuSbwcgaKi8-xcxpcdkLSUk_SKlCg90sF5OUuKyKNA1VrJzZS59j56yx2iqrejQJmytTRaB7O2E-XjWRwD5_i_QEjV_eH7hwRqGocVQwahB-zbTNjKcckF8vrj8/s200/IMG_1084.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">When
we start out, it’s wonderful. In Hoi An, merchants live in the backs of their
shops and restaurants. They sit as families on the front sidewalk and share a
meal at a low table with tiny plastic chairs. A father spoons noodles into his
toddler’s mouth. He pays no mind to the passersby. We continue our ride though
life in Vietnam as we navigate alleys and back roads. Aromas of open fires and
breakfast food alternate with rotting fruit or magnolia blossoms. We pass large
patches of golden rice as it’s laid flat to dry on the sides of blacktop roads
and in front of huts and houses. With the city behind us, it’s refreshing to watch a water buffalo and her baby roll over
in wet fields of rice or morning glory (a popular dish here, served sautéed
with garlic). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5yIfL-mhr5FJXYG_FbY-SSFcwuwC66CH8PtAKOd08qmQl20kYuZGqwMean9_Qg0wj7h6RjCKS0yHsFq1gZXZnZi7fast6CJmzy1_DztX_JVMWK4z3gd_IEZQawms_CjL75F6w0xMbnQ/s1600/IMG_1142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU5yIfL-mhr5FJXYG_FbY-SSFcwuwC66CH8PtAKOd08qmQl20kYuZGqwMean9_Qg0wj7h6RjCKS0yHsFq1gZXZnZi7fast6CJmzy1_DztX_JVMWK4z3gd_IEZQawms_CjL75F6w0xMbnQ/s320/IMG_1142.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">But
it’s getting hotter by the minute and because I haven’t biked in years, my
aching quadriceps muscles stop recovering during the few moments where I can
coast. I stop enjoying the scenery because of my fretful and scattered thoughts: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we’re only halfway there; I’ll never make
it. Even if I do, how will I make it back in the mid-day sun? And what about
the other students? We still have planting to do. Outside. In this heat. Two
students have already come down with heat symptoms, and that was without
exercising. (As a physician), I should know better. The best way to avoid heat-related illness is
to avoid activity. </i>It starts to seem crazy to me, risky. Unnecessary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And
then it gets harder. We leave the asphalt and bike on dirt roads. The paths
thin out until there’s only a thin gully of dirt, thin enough for one foot at a
time and ankle deep. Ruts from bike wheels past. These wind on tortuously on
elevated mounds of dirt the between rectangular bodies of water – shrimp farms,
they tell me. The mounds between the waters are the width and height of a trash
truck. Plunge off one side or the other and I’m in shrimp water. It’s hard to
keep my front wheel in the rut, and even when I manage to do it, I have to
watch for divots and rocks. I almost fall multiple times, each time catching
myself, but not soon enough to prevent the surge of adrenalin and the weakness
and shaking that follow. Over and over. I am out of breath (and facing the fact
that I’m not aerobically in shape) and oh, so hot. My cheeks burn. I pour water
on my face, down my shirt. I’m grateful for the warm breeze – probably thanks
to these small bodies of water, but my hat keeps flying off. As I try to adjust
the strap, I veer off the path enough to create another near-fall. I fight back
tears. I feel feeble and inadequate. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Quit
it</i>, I tell myself.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> It’ll zap your limited energy. Just breathe and pedal and stay on
the path.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I
settle down for a bit, but the exhaustion, heat, and near falls persist. I
think about my two sore knees. I’ve already fallen twice on this trip – once on
the wet floor at the airport and another time on uneven sidewalk in Hoi An.
While I’m distracted with my bruises, my front wheel catches the tall side of a
rut and my bike drops sideways beneath me. I have to hop three times to avoid
the fall. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s it! I can't do this, I
just can't.</i> I curse out loud and nearly throw my bike in the water. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Mary
Jo, our tour guide, comes up behind me, shares her water (I am well out by
now), and listens generously. I calm down, rest a little, and forge on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As
I try to fight self-pity I suddenly remember the war. The war. On this very
land. In this climate. By boys my son’s age. Young and strong and for the most
part, stoic. They had to dress in heavy clothing, thick socks and boots. They
had to carry food and medical supplies and weaponry. They missed home. They
performed and witnessed atrocities. Our boys feared the tricky Vietcong
fighters, who themselves had to experience or create suffering and death. Then
they all had to live with it later. It’s fleeting, the way I know this, but it
gets me in the gut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I
remind myself that suffering happens when you want something to be different
than it is, but right now, I sure wish things were different. Somewhere between
facing my own discomfort and limitations (which pale pathetically in comparison
to the wartime traumas), and worrying about what I’ll find in the way of heat-exhausted
students when I get there, I find time to regret the past. The intense, and in
my view, senseless, suffering of soldiers. All while navigating thin ruts in
the road on an old bicycle. I wish I could say the ring of my bicycle bell
brings me back, but it doesn’t. Somehow the past and future all roll into my
present moment, and I indulge myself in a good cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">After
a few more breaks, and bringing up the rear, I reach my destination. I’m
wobbly as I park my bike with the others. As I turn, one of the students
approaches me hurriedly. I must glance down or look away as she advances,
because I notice she leans in and looks directly into my eyes, as if to get my
full attention, or maybe to find something in me I don’t know about. She tells
me another student is in a full-body shake. I scan the crowd on my way in. They
are flushed and glistening with sweat, but they are all settled at tables in
the shade. I somehow find a way to attend, if only briefly, to my overheated
young friend. She is shivering and pale and tachycardic. They had doused her head,
but she still has her shoes and socks on. I suggest she remove them. With that,
and a little time, the shade, and some black-seed fruit juice, she does fine.
And, having glimpsed my limitations and my strength, so do I. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
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Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com0Vietnam14.058324 108.2771996.197852000000001 98.169777 21.918796 118.384621tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-68021841325414573082011-11-15T06:40:00.001-05:002013-01-08T13:19:31.355-05:00Check out inTravel Magazine for my first (creative writing) publication!see: <a href="http://intravelmag.com/10120-inTravel-Magazine/10368-2011-November-December"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">inTravel Magazine, Authentic Travel</span></a><br />
http://intravelmag.com/10120-inTravel-Magazine/10368-2011-November-December<br />
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><b>Maho Bay Camps: An Endangered Species?</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Janice M Anderson</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">If only I believed people really meant it when they
asked, “How was your vacation?” I’d tell them about my week with no running
water and the ten-flight walk to a bathroom, where pull-cord showers only ran
cold. I’d show them bites on my ankles from sand fleas and mention the long
flight delay. But then I’d urge them to book the same trip – before it’s too
late. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Pat, the adventuresome love of my life, likes to
“travel.” I prefer “vacationing,” by which I mean beach-to-fridge on the Outer
Banks. Maho Bay Camps, in St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands, seemed like a good
compromise: restful Caribbean beaches for me, water adventure for her, and the
idea of “eco-friendly” yet comfy camping, intrigued us both. To be honest, I’m
not a good traveler no matter where I’m going. I get antsy on long drives. If
I’m flying, I hate even one layover. This trip was scheduled for four: two
flights, two taxis and a ferry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> Read more about <a href="http://intravelmag.com/in-depth/725-maho-bay-camps-an-endangered-species"><span style="color: #1e6b92; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Maho Bay Camps:
An Endangered Species?</span></a> by <a href="http://intravelmag.com/"><span style="color: #1e6b92; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">intravelmag.com</span></a></span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">very exciting.</span><br />
<span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> Read more about </span><a href="http://intravelmag.com/in-depth/725-maho-bay-camps-an-endangered-species" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #1e6b92; text-decoration: none;">Maho Bay Camps: An Endangered Species?</span></a><span style="color: #484848; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> by </span><a href="http://intravelmag.com/" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="color: #1e6b92; text-decoration: none;">intravelmag.com</span></a></div>
Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-18323787462151292152011-09-16T19:55:00.002-04:002013-02-22T06:52:57.204-05:00Depending on a Two-year-old<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Recently, I’ve begun to veer off the familiar and well-maintained trails in Frick Park. I choose instead thin and muddy bike-paths that wind around inclines so </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">steep I fear for the biker's safety.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> This challenges me to find my way and keeps my ankles strong. It’s taken me a long time to venture to the park at all, let alone, by myself. You see, Frick is a dog-lovers park and I harbor an old and deeply embedded fear of dogs – apparently a big old friendly mutt knocked me down when I was two. I’ve come to learn that park dogs generally don't have any interest in me, but when they do trot, or run toward me, I freeze in place and depend on their owners to reassure me I’m safe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Last night, I attended a “candle party” at my daughter-in-love’s. She and my son recently bought a house on a street with other 2-bedroom homes with small yards. About halfway through the party, when the candle scents became too much for me and the frequent “don’t-touch-that”s too much for my granddaughter, she and I went out together to explore her new neighborhood. She’s 2 ½. Hand in hand we walked up the streets and down an alleys. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Dat my neighbor, dat my neighbor, dat my neighbor,” Nicole said rhythmically. (She hasn’t mastered "th" or "s" yet). She pointed to all the kid’s yard toys: bicycles, little plastic picnic tables, and foot-powered mini coups. We stopped for a good while as she peered through one fence and yearned to ride a carousel-colored rocking horse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">We rounded the bend at the end of her block to return by way of the alley, and to my dismay, we came upon an unleashed dog. He just stood there, staring at us from three houses up. Fear seized my stomach; I squeezed Nicole’s hand a little harder. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">"Come on honey, let's go this way," I tried to make a quick U-turn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">"No, di way," she pulled my hand toward the dog. "Puppy!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Instantly, I had visceral plan: I’ll scoop her up Heimlich-wise, bend over her with my arms and body, so the dog could only chew on my back when he attacked. (I’m not sure if this was before or after my (now embarrassing) inclination to hide behind her).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">"Come on!" she pulled again. "Di way!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I didn’t move. Her light brown curls flung off her shoulder as she turned to look up at me, eyes wide and brow furrowed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Puppy!” she said again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I reassessed. The dog wasn't moving toward us. He wasn't barking. Maybe it would be okay. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Probably</i> it would be okay. And surely, I didn't want her to internalize my fear. I scanned the yards for a neighbor I could shout to, in case of attack. Then, with my plan in place, I let her lead me forward. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It was fine, of course. The dog was calm and friendly and cute. His owner, also friendly, was only ten feet away, hidden from my view as he worked in his garage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Nicole tried to tug me into the future as I hung on to the past. As I think of myself standing there, balanced between two, I’m grateful I could choose the future. Grateful for my strong ankles, for my ability to inch forward on narrow strips of land on steep hills without tumbling down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-59410482960728049082011-04-25T06:26:00.001-04:002011-06-18T07:32:08.365-04:00On my Father, and Mark Twain’s Racism<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Autobiography of Mark Twain, Volume 1</span></i></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Edited by Harriet Elinor Smith <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> As a memoirist, I found <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mark Twain’s Autobiography,</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Volume 1 </i>interesting from a craft perspective. In it, he meanders through his life’s memories based on the daily news, the week’s correspondence, or his own whim. This style paralleled his life. Never one for doing anything “by the book” – any book, Twain meandered from one walk of life to another, from one adventure, one financial endeavor, one outlandish story to the next. In what ways did these experiences change Twain over his writing life? How is his autobiography different from, for example, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Innocents Abroad, </i>where his comments were at best culturally insensitive, and at worst classist and racist?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: -13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> In Twainian style, allow me start with a side story of my own. I am a lesbian. Perhaps I should thank Providence that I have lived in a time where being a sexual minority didn’t cause me deep pain, or shame, or regret. Even so, I have had to stand along side of many a loved-one as they processed my situation for themselves. My father, an Irish Catholic and World War II vet from Camden, was a good example. While I was in college, and before I “came out” to my parents, I took my girlfriend home to meet them. We stayed in my room and giggled much of the night, as (Twain would tell you) girls sometimes do. A few weeks later, I told my parents that I was a lesbian. They took the news pretty well, all things considered. Mom said, “As long as you’re happy, nothing else needs to be said.” And I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> happy. My father thought through it differently. He called me a week or so later. “Well, Janice,” he said in his fatherly voice, “the rule here in our house is that if you’re not married you can’t sleep together under our roof.” Hmm, I thought, at least he gets it. A few months after that, he called me and said, “You know, I’ve been thinking, you two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can’t</i> get married; so we’ll bend those rules next time you come home.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: -13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He went on like this, processing and changing his preconceived notions little by little. Every time I came home he’d have taken another step. “Let’s go for a ride,” he’d say and we’d talk it over. He worried about the harm my openness would have on my career, my safety. Once he asked if I thought it was due to anything he had done. Another time he told me he suspected his brother might be gay and maybe that was why. (Which he was ...we think.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Years later, my sister had what she called her “real wedding ceremony” with friends and family after she had married out-of-state with a justice of the peace. Pat and I had been together for 8 years by then. Right after the ceremony, my father put one arm around Pat and the other around me and said, “Couldn’t you two do something like this?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He changed. His deeply embedded beliefs had been shaken to the core. He had to rebuild them, little by little. But his honest approach, his constant striving was more than any daughter could ask. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> This is what I see in Mark Twain’s autobiography. Evidence of change. Throughout his life, Twain reevaluated his own beliefs and moved along a continuum. Still, he remained bound by his time in history, his country of birth, and his religious upbringing. In one of his earliest pieces, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Innocents Abroad</i>, his embedded racism leaked all over the pages. He painted a picture depicting White American Protestant men as the only people worth a damn. His habit of calling people “savages” carried marked negative connotations, especially from this man who knew and valued the precision of language. To his credit, Twain demonstrated movement even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">within</i> that work when he said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness…” underscoring his own transformation. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Further change is evident in Twain’s autobiography. In an early section, he said of a family slave, Uncle Dan’l: “It</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%;"> was on the farm that I got my strong liking for his race and my appreciation of certain of its fine qualities. This feeling and this estimate have stood the test of sixty years and more and have suffered no impairment. The black face is as welcome to me now as it was then.” He refers to the slave children as his “comrades.” Importantly, he follows this by noting the ways in which they were “not comrades” because “color and condition interposed a subtle line which both parties were conscious of, and which rendered complete fusion impossible.” With this comment I detect truth and insight topped with a spoonful of respect. Absent from his autobiography are any of the painful and blatant racist and classist comments of his earlier work. He described George, his butler of 18 years, as “a colored man--the children's darling” and “a member of the family.” Twain demonstrated this respectful relation with others of his servants. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">He describes Patrick, his long time Irish coachman, as his friend. And, in fact, Patrick </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%;">was pall</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">bearer at Twain's funeral. When writing of the</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%;"> last thirteen days of his daughter Susy's life, he said, “she had faithful old friends” at her side. These included “Patrick, the coachman; Katy, who had begun to serve …(them) when Susy was eight; and John and Ellen, (the gardener and cook).” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 200%;"> As far as I could tell, these servants were all Irish. I did notice that George, the “colored butler,” was not mentioned as present during Susy’s final precious and coveted moments. Does this imply an outer limit of Twain’s progress towards extinguishing his racism? Neither my father nor I were totally spared the rod of homophobia. While he came to full acceptance, he never quite made it to pride. As for me, to this day I am wary of reaching for my love’s hand in public. Changing behaviors is difficult; changing deeply embedded beliefs is even harder. Twain remained bound by the limits of his race and class and time in history. But he moved; he changed over time and stayed well ahead of many in his generation. What else can we expect from the ‘father of American fiction’?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
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</div>Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-68491520346976475172011-03-31T14:15:00.003-04:002011-06-24T06:35:28.647-04:00Sweet Life<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love ice cream. Just like my father. I spooned a little through his dry lips on his deathbed. Right before his final smile.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I eat it everyday. Breyers, the purest form. Vanilla. And not just any vanilla, vanilla bean - the one with specks. Low fat, of course. Avoids the Chap Stick feeling of creamy types. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Working from home, it’s my midday pleasure. Read one more chapter, write one more page, and then dish it up. The cool sweet milk slips from the spoon to my tongue, just pleasing my mouth to no end. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Except there is an end.<br />
There's always an end.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The specks matter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-4406487047927801042010-11-18T08:53:00.010-05:002010-11-29T21:52:30.124-05:00Unfading Beauty<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On Facelifts and Forgiveness</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> It started with a poem: </span></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6wJl37N9C0"><i><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pretty</span></span></i></a><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, by the talented slam poet, </span></span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Katie Makkai. I posted a link to her performance on my Facebook page and wrote, “</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wow... talk about words with power,” as much an invitation to my writer friends as an exclamation. Later that day I had plenty of “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">likes</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">” and comments such as: “wow, I had to share it too;” “pretty awesome;” and “Hell Yeah!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Then Joan posted this: </span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Saw this verse this morning and reminded me of your link, 1 Peter 3:3-4 (New Living Translation).”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Scripture? Really? I didn’t even finish reading it; </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I went immediately to Facebook’s help page to find out how to drop her. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I knew Joan from my old life; we went to a New Jersey community college together; neither of us were “religious” at the time. I moved to Pittsburgh to go to medical school; jumped the bisexual fence; adopted a son with my beloved, Pat; broke legal ground for his right to two parents; and lost track of Joan. She married </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ray</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, her high school sweetheart; had two children; found religion; and then, some twenty years later, ‘friended’ me on Facebook.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I guess my reaction to block her posts came from my feeling peripheralized by the bible-quoting religious right. I’ve heard that I’m an abomination in their eyes, which makes me angry, and who has time for that? When asked to articulate my beliefs I say, “I’m spiritual, but not religious.” In practice, I find God in nature. I rarely go to formal services, and if I do it’s to a Unitarian Universalist church, with an occasional yoga class or meditation session thrown in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> But life being what life is, it didn’t end there. The next morning, I found this email from Joan in my inbox:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><b><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Subject:</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Tahoma;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> peace<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dearest Janice, <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am so sorry if the scripture I felt paralleled the video offended or hurt you in any way. I have a little calendar my brother gave with daily verse it just happened to be the verse for the 28th, and that video just came to mind when I read it. That little video really got me thinking (pondering). I have actually been thinking of a face-lift for quite some time. (Always looking in the mirror tugging on my brow pulling back my face. Ray can tell you, Ha) I found it odd I would be obsessing over this and muttered a little prayer, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">god if you don't think I should do this then take away the desire for it</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Then I saw this video, which gets to the core.... One of the things I have always loved about you is the depth and vulnerability of your soul, it's a gift of character you do not find often and it can be intriguing, refreshing, uncomfortable, cool, thought provoking. Anyway please do not feel bad at all about FB thing, it should be a joy for you and if anything disrupts it...let it go. I would. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Busted. I guess I’d been naïve to think she wouldn’t know that I’d blocked her. Now, I had to face it directly. I went for a walk, a long walk. On my return I collected my scattered thoughts like the piles of crisp fall leaves I’d just been swishing through. Here’s what I came up with:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Joan, thanks for the kind words. I guess I didn't know that you'd know I blocked you on FB. Now that you do, and since you were so kind as to write a “peace note” to me despite it, I’ll tell you about why. It’s simple, really. As a lesbian and life-long worker in women's rights, I have been hurt (and, maybe more importantly, many of the people I love have been hurt) seriously by, if I may, "the religious right". Honestly, I do not count you in that, as I have never, ever felt judged harshly by you. But I must admit quoting scripture does scare me; I think that right around the corner there will be a very hurtful statement (including, though it is not always obvious to the person who says so, "forgive the sinner not the sin"). So, once I saw scripture quoted, I felt it safest for my mental health (and the friends who see my page) to block it. Sorry if it hurt you in any way, 'cause I understand spiritual, I understand inspirational readings (my favorites happen to come from the Buddhist tradition), and I believe with all my heart you have a right, maybe even an obligation, to live your life in a way that makes you happy inside, cause if you're happy inside, "at peace" as it were, you're likely doing well by the world (and this includes, by the way, a facelift).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Later that day, I had lunch with Kathy, my bible-quoting sister-in-love. [Since I’m all about the power of words today, bear with me while I deconstruct that last sentence. I want you to notice that I have to invent new words for my life; she’s not my sister-in-</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">law</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, because marriage to my love of 27 years is not (yet) lawful. This is due, for the most part, to those whose religious beliefs bleed onto their politics. Also, “bible-quoting” is an easy summary of Kathy for this piece, but it is constricted and somewhat derogatory and required a pre-blog email where I tried to excuse it. She said “…i</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">f that is the worst thing someone could say about me than I'm not doing too badly! :)</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">”]. At lunch I spilled the beans to Kathy about my Facebook faux pas. I’m indebted to her for my embryonic ability to see the situation with Joan in a new light. She told me that Joan might feel peripheralized by me, by my leftist politics. That was a revelation for me; it seems like “they’re” always in charge. In my own mini-search for sanity (ironically all this happened while Jon Stewart held his March for Sanity), </span></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I went back to Joan’s post and read it: </span></span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3 Don’t be concerned about the outward beauty of fancy hairstyles, expensive jewelry, or beautiful clothes. 4 You should clothe yourselves instead with the beauty that comes from within, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is so precious to God.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Well, I basically agree with that. Her religion isn’t mine, and my politics aren’t hers. I’ll continue to be nervous when I hear scripture quoted and I’ll go on fighting for GLBT and women's rights. I’ll fight for her right to a facelift as I work towards a culture where it is not needed. Just as I suspect she’ll work toward a culture where human and civil rights prevail and the need for abortion goes down. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> And I hope she’ll hit </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Accept</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> when I re-friend her on Facebook. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">---</span></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></i></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pretty, </span></span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">by </span></span></b><b><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Katie Makkai</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;"><b><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6wJl37N9C0</span></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother “What will I be? Will I be pretty?” Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill of fluorescent floodlight of worry. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty? But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dry add: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long, and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting my poor mother.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist.” “You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! ” “You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were six, otherwise your nose would have been fine! ” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Don’t worry; we will get it all fixed she would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that as if it were a cabbage she might buy. But, this is not about her. Not her fault she, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable appearance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">By sixteen I was pickled by ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs, laying in a hospital bed. Face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Belly gorged on two pints of my own blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist, like my body screaming at me from the inside out “What did you let them do to you? ” All the while this never-ending chorus groaning on and on like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Will I be pretty? ” Will I be pretty like my mother, unwrapping the gift-wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And now I have not seen my own face in ten years. I have not seen my own face in ten years, but this is not about me! This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl thirty stores in six malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how to wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those two pretty syllables. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? , ” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer no.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing, but you will never be merely “pretty.” </span></span><b><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Katie Makkai</span></span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="color: #262626; font-size: 20pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-30314595491271558222010-09-19T15:29:00.015-04:002010-09-29T08:11:41.728-04:00A world apart<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> I have been visiting a world in which I do not belong. A right brain world. A world of real writers. A world where given a prompt of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“chain linked fence” one ends up with an intriguing riff of exquisite words. Sites and sounds and scents appear. Souls are revealed. And civilizations come to an end. All this in twelve minutes. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Upon initially visiting this world (back in, let’s see, the winter of 2008?) I met warm and welcoming writers: Laurie, then Marc and Libba, and, the young woman who told me what I had written enhanced her own reaction to a friend whose professor had made unwanted advances. Along the way, I met inspiring teachers: Sandy and Sheryl, even Amy, who liked what I had to say, even if she never liked how I said it. It was fun roaming around there. While it lasted. While I believed I could write something worth the work of writing, and reading. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>Worth something. It had to be worth something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Even now, if I talk out loud about what I've been trying to write, it sounds worth doing: small t trauma (as in PtSD) happens, and often; denial is a misunderstood coping mechanism, one that can exacerbate small t trauma; there is a parallel to physical trauma that might elucidate emotional trauma; but mainly, it might be worth knowing that PtSD can come from a relatively minor assault, like getting grabbed or groped on a bus or knocked down on the street for your purse.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>I’m not talking about large T trauma, like rape, or <i>old</i> trauma like child abuse, or <i>ongoing</i> trauma like domestic violence, because people seem to get that already. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m talking about a full blown grief reaction to an early miscarriage; a shattered self-concept after a birth experience that appears “normal” to an outsider; or a compound reaction to an attempted strangulation at work, where one would expect to find large T trauma, but finds instead that the difficulty lies in internalizing the trusted boss’s reaction – “what did you do (read: to deserve it)”? </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>This sounds worth writing about. Maybe I should hire someone with better skills. How bourgeois is that? Being a homeowner, I spend much of my time hiring people: contractors, roofers, painters, plumbers; why not hire a ghostwriter or a regular writer who can spin a story of exquisite words? A story that shows what I have just told. Because, after an enjoyable trek through my own right brain, I've returned to my left, from where it seems clear I do not have what it takes for the task. For today, at least, it feels as simple as that.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-42425454384056208812009-11-11T08:55:00.004-05:002010-10-27T08:32:56.372-04:00Faith<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPL0JjCAva6bJSuepQBXqTDbvy9Aa3xZ-fPuogqrYMpTLGhb5jxSnoZs0FAOgSDF60Ya6A7DSThJ1I-UE36buuiDrTjYsnRLgOj165MD9ogbuaFxTcKvwrI-5ce5UqtGOHvpwwSo9E2c/s1600-h/Ann.jpg"></a><br />A Eulogy<br /><br />Two years ago, when my mother was eighty-five, she required major surgery for the ovarian cancer that led to her death. She came through the operation amazingly well – she was awake and alert within hours. But, after being discharged home from the hospital she developed a 'post-op <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ileus</span>,’ which meant her gut stopped working and just stood paralyzed. This is why doctors always ask if you've 'passed gas' after surgery. (Which she hadn't by the way, a result of the quick discharges encouraged by our broken health care system; but don't get me started...)<br /><br />The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ileus</span> caused her hours of unrelenting nausea and vomiting, a type of suffering I wouldn't wish on anyone. My two sisters and I cared for her, and each other, as best we could. First we unpacked, quickly and quietly, then set up the bedside commode designed to minimize pain from her three-day-old, seven inch wound. While one ate (in the hallway outside of Mom’s apartment, so we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">wouldn</span>’t make her nausea worse) another dropped homeopathic remedies under her tongue, and the third delicately massaged her belly to help her gut start working again. We taped a sign on her door so her many caring neighbors would know she was home, but not well enough for visitors. We even went shopping for something, anything that might help - prune juice, antacids, laxatives.<br /><br />Between the waves of nausea Mom tried to rest, but when they came she moaned - with an occasional “Oh honey.” At these times we all stopped what we were doing to attend to her. We had an assembly line to deliver clean moist cloths and basins, and were always at the ready for the next episode. It was the least we could do after the many years of her tending to us. Eight hours and two calls to the doctor later, we were told to take her back to the hospital.<br /><br />As Mom sat in a straight back chair outside of her bathroom, pale and weak, we ran around like squirrels repacking and preparing for the 45-minute car ride. Once everything was set in the apartment, washcloths and basins ready, we slowly walked her to the elevator. She experienced a particularly bad episode of retching just before getting in. On the way down, she moaned "Oh, God, please help me" and leaned her head onto mine. I gave her a gentle hug. The elevator door opened and we walked her towards the curb, a daughter on each side and the third with the car ready.<br /> Mom stopped on the sidewalk and announced, "I am passing gas…"<br /> "Really?" we said, shocked and excited.<br /> "Yes," she smiled, amused at our astonishment, "and it’s a good one!"<br /><br />And, by God, that resolved her symptoms! We still climbed into the car but with the nausea gone we talked and laughed during the ride to the hospital. Mom was readmitted, but for only a brief stay.<br /><br />For years we kidded my mother about her ‘direct connection’ to God. She sat in conversation with Him every morning. She thanked Him for all the good in her life, her health, her wonderful new ‘independent living’ community, she even thanked Him for my hands (I am blessed to be able to attend births for a living). Then she ran her list, asking God to keep people, so many people, in His care. Of course this included her children, her grand and great-grandchildren. But it also included our in-laws, her priest, my sister’s house cleaners, my son’s teachers, people on drugs, the president, the soldiers. The list went on and on; if you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> met her, and certainly if you’re here today, she’s probably said a prayer for you, too. She did this every single day, although, she did tell me once that if she was ill, she’d cut it short saying, “…and You know the rest.”<br /><br />In all the years of knowing this, I was never so close, so present for it - the simple yet genuine “…please help me” prayer in the elevator, answered moments later. When my sister acknowledged how hard it was to bear so much discomfort, Mom replied simply, “Well, we do have to suffer some on this earth.”<br /><br />She had a way of leaning on her god, asking for help (usually for others) but, and this is the key, she was always willing to accept what she could not change. It <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">wasn</span>’t easy but it’s how she got through everything life handed her over her 87 years.<br /><br />Accepting what is… We’re going to need that to get through what life hands us without her here to cheer us on and keep us in her prayers.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPL0JjCAva6bJSuepQBXqTDbvy9Aa3xZ-fPuogqrYMpTLGhb5jxSnoZs0FAOgSDF60Ya6A7DSThJ1I-UE36buuiDrTjYsnRLgOj165MD9ogbuaFxTcKvwrI-5ce5UqtGOHvpwwSo9E2c/s200/Ann.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402844662186953938" border="0" style="margin-top: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div>Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-2866018063951214292009-11-10T07:32:00.004-05:002010-10-27T08:35:44.502-04:00Lessons of the Pie Crust<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhajuMczBbn2x5k2dHEkX805JIMzbJas3XOswzgVZgmYw84UPOdzsTYEe99bnkBwFqM9CCV43ClPtr8aG93n4BMwj_yNVk32mr4BJecd3_Ij27AeXYO5P7W-U-SvHkLkR4KTTz-cDOgBds/s1600-h/Ann+number+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhajuMczBbn2x5k2dHEkX805JIMzbJas3XOswzgVZgmYw84UPOdzsTYEe99bnkBwFqM9CCV43ClPtr8aG93n4BMwj_yNVk32mr4BJecd3_Ij27AeXYO5P7W-U-SvHkLkR4KTTz-cDOgBds/s200/Ann+number+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402452871507841538" border="0" /></a><br />LESSONS OF THE PIE CRUST<br /><br />Everyone loves a fresh baked pie, especially the buttery crunch of the crust. In our family, we would fight over an orphan piece of crust, the six of us, and our Dad, who taught us this appreciation.<br /><br />Once, when I was about ten and sweetly unaware of the life pressures that prevented Mom from finishing a pie, she let me, well, my sister, Theresa, and me, eat a whole crust! We had smelled the golden treat baking two days before in the kitchen of our Baltimore row house. Small and simple, the kitchen had a table with only three chairs, but a large window with a swag curtain that gave Mom easy access to holler us home from the alley, or yell, “Donna, tie your brother’s shoe.” Of course, once we knew she was watching, we’d holler back, “Hey Mom, look at me.”<br /><br />I had watched my mother flip and gently press the tender dough on the Formica counter. She sprinkled white flour like fairy dust and rolled her pin this way and that, ball bearings jiggling with each new run. Once it was thin and round, she flopped it into the glass pie dish and tucked in the unruly edges. Then she fluted it into a perfect zigzag, a skill she’d eventually teach to all of us, and to our kids. After a quick rinse of her hands and a swipe on her apron, she tapped fork holes, just so, all along the bottom. “So it can breathe,” she said as she popped it into the oven for the pastry gods to bless.<br /><br />The rich aroma filled the house, but Mom never finished it. No strawberries, no apples. No can of pumpkin in sight.<br />“When will it be ready?” we whined after the golden brown pie shell sat on the white corner cabinet for two days. It begged to be eaten, and we begged back.<br />Mom stopped sorting laundry, pushed a loose hairpin back into her dark French twist and pleaded, “Please, girls,”<br /><br />What was it, I wonder now, that prevented her from finishing? I asked her once - was it the endless financial pressures? Was it the time my older sister one almost eloped? Or when another wrecked the company car? Or, perhaps it was when the youngest, a dog lover, was attacked in a neighbor’s yard because he didn’t (or maybe couldn’t?) read “Beware of Dog”?<br /><br />She didn’t remember. And it was not likely to have been one of those memorable events, it is more apt to have been the everyday heaviness of life … running the household on a shoestring; raising six children, polite and nice but self-centered and full of their own angst; or attending to a neighbor’s need.<br /><br />I guess life can simply get in the way of itself. She couldn’t fit in finishing a pie, and couldn’t see when she might.<br /><br />So, two days after she baked that crust, while Theresa and I did our homework at the kitchen table Mom peered over at us from her sink full of dishes. Before I could assure her, “I <span style="font-style: italic;">am </span><span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> doing my homework,” she asked, “Would you two like to eat that crust?”<br />Our eyes lit up. “Yeah!” we said in unison.<br />“Oh, go on and eat it,” she said. I can almost see her smile as she returned to her work -- barely a break in the rhythm.<br /><br />Oh, we were thrilled! We began to gobble it up quickly. After all, things in our family were never given without methodical division. And we knew someone could walk in any minute wanting to share a piece. The first bites tasted scrumptious and melted in our mouths. But as it disappeared we became uncharacteristically generous.<br />“You finish it,” Theresa said.<br />“No, you can have the rest.” I said, and wandered away from the table.<br /><br />It’s taken me fifty-some years to realize just how many lessons I learned from that simple experience. For one, the crust tasted good because of the contrast it offered the filling -- without the filling the pie lost its balance - all yin and no yang. And “special” presumes limited opportunity. While eating the whole thing felt special, and memorable, the crust itself ceased to be. I ate most of it, of course, but deep down I began to see just how small of a jump it is from not quite enough, to far too much. But most of all, and I might say, best of all, I began to recognize that it was my mother’s attention that was the real gift.<br /><br />So now - especially now - I find myself deeply grateful that we had so many days with fewer burdens. Days, when, after a meal with meatloaf and mashed potatoes, she could present us with a fragrant, fully baked pie to fight over.Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-36282210512380646342009-10-04T11:35:00.008-04:002009-10-04T20:24:30.230-04:00FictionI’ve written a piece of fiction. <br /><br />And now I feel like a little kid who just got a new bike. Not any new bike, but one I’ve built - with my own hands. It’s a simple bike, no gears or fancy hardware, but it works. I’m totally psyched. The pedals make the wheels turn and the handlebar allows me to go around in a circle between boxes in the basement. A thing of beauty. I’ve even named it, and the name incorporates its essence: complex mechanics, potential energy, my ticket to ride. <br /><br />But … what will happen when I go outside with it? Will the brakes work when I’m going down a hill? What about bumps at high speed? Will it hold up?<br /><br />I’ll find out tomorrow when my classmates put it through the “workshop” process. And, of course, I’ll post it on my blog if it passes inspection.Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-44913239567439073842009-09-21T07:35:00.007-04:002009-09-22T06:31:37.676-04:00The Yearling, A ReviewI was never much of a reader. My parents weren’t highly educated. Mom made it to eighth grade and Dad through high school, and then they met, had six kids and no money. Reading was low on their priority list. It doesn’t explain my lack of reading completely though, because one of my sisters reads like a madwoman. I guess I never had much interest, plus, I’m a slow and deliberate reader and can’t seem to sit for long periods at a time What I did read as an adolescent was teen romance magazines. Oh, the drama, the longing, the love … it was all I needed - on a single page. But, whole books? Unlikely. And the classics? Never. <br /><br />The Yearling, by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, was my assigned <span style="font-style:italic;">precursor </span>for what is now termed Young Adult Literature and it took me three solid days - all of Labor Day weekend minus a movie here and a breakfast there - to get through it. Difficult? yes, but worth it. The Yearling was a long, luxurious meander through a year in the backwoods of Florida in the early 1900’s. Thematically a coming-of-age book, Ms. Rawlings skillfully intertwined setting and character development to give us a glimpse into the rough and laborious entanglement between the natural world and the Baxter family. Respectful encounters as well as intense struggles with the earth and its animals allowed the reader an intimate view of the rambunctious, animal-loving protagonist, Jody, and his kind-hearted (what we would now call) naturalist father, Penny. <br /><br /> There wasn’t an overarching plot per se, and so, for me at least, there was not a strong drive to read on for most of the book. It was more like a series of plots, popcorn plots, little arcs of drama as Jody and Penny would go on a hunt for large or small game, or deal with severe weather or an animal intruder, or even just go off together to haul water for the family. Conflicts came up within his family, with other families- like the family of brutes nearby who lacked the spirit and knowledge of Penny, or within Jody himself as he wrestled with his own conscience, a common theme in young adult literature. But, these issues were usually resolved within a page or two. <br /><br /> However, these experiences built on one another to form a foundation for a final, more intense, set of conflicts/plot found in the last few chapters. It was here that the drive to read on picked up. One minor plot was a feud between two of Jody’s older friends over, naturally, a girl. Jody had to repeatedly decide with whom to place his allegiance until one started the other's house afire. This brought both the best and the worst in human nature into clear focus for Jody. The major plot (which was a little long in coming, in my opinion) peaked when his adopted and beloved fawn, Flag, had to be killed to prevent him from eating any more of the food on the family farm than he already had. This was a great challenge for Jody and it was magnified, another common theme in young adult literature, by the fact that he blamed it on his parents, who, in Jody’s mind, couldn’t possibly know what was right, let alone understand his perspective. So, of course, he had to run away, during which time he faced discomfort and danger.After he cried and starved out his grief over the loss of Flag, who he actually had to shoot after his mother’s poor aim only wounded the animal, he realized how much he missed his home and loved his parents. He returned with a clearer understanding of the meaning of, and a willingness to take on, a more grown-up role in the family. If this wasn’t a precursor, I’d suggest it was all just a little too, well, cliché.<br /><br /> The language and use of dialogue was my favorite part of the book. Ms. Rawlings used specific and accurate dialect and historically interesting words, both of which helped to develop both the setting and the characters. For example, Jody had spent all day building a pen to house Flag, his new fawn, so Flag wouldn’t continue to eat the growing potatoes. Flag jumped out of it as soon as he was placed there and Jody started to cry. Penny said, <span style="font-style:italic;">“Don’t git in a swivet* boy. We’ll work this out, one way or t’other. Now the ‘taters is near about the only thing he’ll bother, do you keep him outen the house. They’d ought to be under kiver anyway. Now you just take down that tipply-tumbly pen, and build a coop to kiver the ‘taters.”</span> (*A swivet is a flustered or agitated state.)<br /><br /> Ms. Rawlings made delightful and abundant use of metaphor, most of which referred to how nature can represent the common relationships and situations in life. About half way through the book, Jody finds his fawn, Flag, and he’s surprised that Flag had stayed put after his mother had been killed. Jody said to Penny, “<span style="font-style:italic;">Pa, he wa’n’t skeert o’ me. He were layin’ up right where his mammy had made his bed.”</span> Penny responded by saying, “T<span style="font-style:italic;">he does learns ‘em that, time they’re borned. You kin step on a fawn, times, they lay so still.”</span> I think this can be interpreted as part of the human condition, one Jody discovers by the end of the book, that none of us, ultimately, stray very far (at least, emotionally) from where (how) we were raised.<br /><br /> The Yearling was first published in 1938 toward the end of a lengthy economic depression in this country. It’s not surprising then, that the author held in high regard a poor family who made way in the world solely on the land. And the role of women could be appreciated in the historical perspective as well -- primarily good or bad -- wife and mother or <span style="font-style:italic;">“one of them leetle chipperdales</span>”. While not originally from the rural woods of Florida it is clear that once Ms. Rawlings moved there she studied in detail the local people and culture in order to bring it so alive in her writing. She won the Pulitzer Prize for the Yearling in 1939. <br /><br /> As for me, I’m grateful to have one of the classics under my belt. The slow pace, use of metaphor, and detailed description of place will all be useful for my own writing. And I will not soon forget the back woods life in Florida or the wonderful characters, especially Jody with his new grasp of animal and human nature and (maybe even more so) his patient and loving father, Penny. I enjoyed this so much, not in the reading of it necessarily, but in the having read it, that I find myself looking forward to reading other “classic” books of young adult literature. Huck Fin, here I come.Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-27524595620509682009-09-08T19:14:00.009-04:002009-09-28T16:44:29.285-04:00Not Just Yet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbqiPxWuQTOGNTQUtPTnMANK_Bd7fGOoh14fHQ4E2bEW7PRIkq2Hq9KHEgIDKn6ld7245d_XEWi2qpGRutHnK7_T2GAAVvIWkSaKhRnCJMrGoRU72e8oIdhlXXwbFidvZrrVquL_lERM/s1600-h/hoya+photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbqiPxWuQTOGNTQUtPTnMANK_Bd7fGOoh14fHQ4E2bEW7PRIkq2Hq9KHEgIDKn6ld7245d_XEWi2qpGRutHnK7_T2GAAVvIWkSaKhRnCJMrGoRU72e8oIdhlXXwbFidvZrrVquL_lERM/s200/hoya+photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386621935217974322" border="0" /></a>
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margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >Nectar leaks slowly from the dark red center of each waxy Hoya bloom this morning. The large old plant sits in my sunroom, in front of the sliding glass door that leads out to the second story deck where the birds await their seed and the grill needs to be cleaned from last night’s chicken dinner. The sun breaks through the branches of the tall maple and lends the deck and the sunroom the feel of nature, unusual this close to the city. I write here in the mornings, kicked back in a yellow flowered recliner with my laptop and a cup of coffee. But, in truth, I haven’t written for quite awhile. My last blog was four months ago - that’s a long dry spell. Of course, I have all the right reasons:<span style=""> </span>real life gets in the way; I lack inspiration; my inner critic is winning … the usual. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >Today, I will start here, with the Hoya. A cutting from my mother’s plant, it is a vine with deep green leaves that wind round and round the handle of the basket that holds its pot-bound roots. The rich fragrance reaches as far as the kitchen, but only in the evenings and only when it blooms, which is rare. I’ve had this plant for over ten years but found my first bloom just two years ago. That it blooms at all is the envy of my sister, Kathy. She waters hers religiously and keeps it in a good spot, but, still, it never blooms. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >The drops of nectar can last for days and this morning they appear like tears. Perhaps they’re for my mother – she’s eighty seven and has ovarian cancer. She’s endured multiple bouts of chemo but is now ready to say ‘enough’. I’m proud of her for choosing that path now, at a time when she’s still up and around. She’s able to walk to the dining room and does chair-exercise every day at her independent living center. Still, she depends heavily on Kathy, the sister who lives nearest to her, making it all the more unfair that it’s Kathy’s Hoya plant that won’t bloom. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >I wonder what’s next for my mother – in all likelihood it will be a steady loss of function and friends. Already, I’ve watched in awe as she’s incorporated the deaths of many whom she’s loved - three in the past month alone. One of her chemotherapy agents has made her already thin skin exquisitely sensitive to heat so she rarely bakes her loving gifts of apple pie or strawberry cake anymore. Her day-to-day memory is diminishing along with any hope of watching her great-grandchildren grow to maturity, including my own son’s newborn daughter. And every day she deals with dizziness and pain, abdominal swelling that requires periodic needle taps, and of course, the foreboding loss of appetite … even for ice cream.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >I can barely stand it. But she can, and does – with grace. How she does that is my question. She is Catholic and her faith in God is strong, so that helps, but it’s more than that. Her ability to accept what comes her way would impress the most devout Zen Buddhist. Honestly, she counts herself as extremely lucky. Where I see that she grew up poor and without parents, she’s grateful that her older sister and brother kept the family together and “raised ‘em up right”. Despite the deaths of her granddaughter in a house fire and her daughter from Hepatitis C, she sees only her five remaining children and multiple grand- and great grandchildren who are healthy and happy. And there are times that I wonder how she can live another day without her life-long love and best friend, a man who was kind and smart and fun, who took care of many of the details of living. She tells me not to worry; he’s holding a spot for her in heaven. He promised.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >So, while I watch her stare down the throat of death, she simply smiles and taps it nonchalantly on the cheek and says, “OK ... but not just yet”.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >And me? I stand next to the Hoya plant and swirl in my own discontent. The litany seems long this morning but on top is the impending loss of my mother and my own lack of direction: I’m fifty-four, my life is half over; I’ve changed my career path so I can write, but I’m not writing. What am I doing? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >The clear and tenacious nectar simply waits for me. Finally, I touch a drop from one of the waxy blooms and ask the universe - the vague godlike energy of truth and love and nature - to help me find and be the best of me. Aiming for what I vaguely understand to be my chakra energy points, I rub cool fluid between my thumb and middle finger above my head, to remind me that I’m connected to everything and inspiration and comfort are available. I place another drop on my forehead to pull out trust in my own intuition, a third on my lips and throat so I may cut through fear and ego to communicate a respectful truth. I note the hint of sweetness and take a few slow breaths before I place a fourth drop on my heart to remind me to both nestle and release the gift of love. The next drop goes on my skin at the level of my adrenals, my solar plexus, for the energy and the stamina to take on whatever life offers. I linger here long enough to notice the fluid gets sticky as it dries and I know I’ll have little reminders of this blessing all day. Two drops are left. The first of these I rub onto on my lower belly, near my ovaries, to draw out creativity and openness to the new and sensual, and then, warmed by the dappled sunlight and an inner calm, I aim the final drop for the base of my spine as I sense myself connected to the earth, whole, and, in fact, exactly where I need to be. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >There, I am blessed. Not by the Catholic God my mother loves, but no less so. It’s different, I know, and in a future blog, I’ll detail my connection with spirituality through nature. But in this moment I’ll simply notice that I feel shored up, more able to emulate my mother’s resilience, at peace with my place in the world. I can wait for the blooms and will breathe in their intoxicating fragrance when I can. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >As for today, I’ll upload this writing to my blog, despite its imperfections; and then, after I feed the birds and clean the grill, I’ll email my sister, Kathy, to share what I’ve learned about the Hoya plant while writing this – turns out a long dry spell between watering will actually increase the chance of a bloom. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" >Upload revision 9-28-09 <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p></p> Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-27730728291176475842009-05-03T09:33:00.019-04:002009-09-09T09:10:16.596-04:00Essay for Application to Chatham University MFA in Creative Writing..................................................<br /><br /><br />Writing. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was doing it for the attention. I suspect I didn’t get enough as a child. Don’t get me wrong my parents were great. Best ever, I’d be willing to wager, the kind you just want more of. But, just as it’s said to a woman having her third child -- take care when the new one arrives, as you will be out of lap room--by the time I came along, fourth in a family of six, five girls and the youngest, a boy, I guess I was left hanging onto my mother’s left leg. My younger sister must have been stuck with … an elbow, maybe. And baby brother? Well, for some reason he ended up with a spot on her lap just the same.<br /><br />The first time this shortfall of attention hit me was during an evening meal when I was eight. We lived in a row house half way up the hill on Limit Avenue in Baltimore, Maryland. A wide sloping alley connected the back yards of everyone we knew and loved. From her kitchen window my mother could respond to, “Hey, Mom, watch this!” no matter whose yard we were in.<br /><br />Our dining room looked the same every night of the week. Patty, our little green parakeet stood chirping in her cage in the corner. Dad sat at the end nearest the window next to Theresa - the middle child and his favorite. Mom and baby brother Jack, or “Jackie,” as we called him until he begged us not to, were at the end closest the kitchen so Mom could jump up and down a dozen times during meals. On either side an older sister sat next to a younger one - Kathy along side Donna and Eileen next to me. Everyone who needed it had someone to cut his or her meat.<br /><br />Dinnertime, for the most part, was lively and warm. Everyone chimed in. I can’t recall everything we chattered on about, but I know it was competitive, each one trying to hold the floor a little longer than another, or even better, get a good laugh out of the rest. This included my father, who usually won.<br /><br />This particular evening I had been trying my darndest to tell everyone something special about my second grade day but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. So I huffed and I puffed and I finally screamed: “No one <span style="font-style: italic;">ever </span>pays <span style="font-style: italic;">any </span>attention to me!” and slammed my fork into my pile of peas. I stood up with gusto, my chair would have tumbled to the floor behind me had there been room. I stomped off through the kitchen and as I rounded the bend at the big white fridge with my final, “I’m running away!” I turned to see necks craned and forks frozen in space.<br /><br />I’m sure my parents glanced knowingly at one another - possibly amused, and, I’d like to think, a tiny bit guilty, before my mother calmly placed her napkin on the table and said, "Kathleen, keep an eye on your brother," then excused herself to come help me pack.<br /><br /><br />Forty-six years later, with a child of my own and a successful practice in family medicine, I’m no longer stomping off when people don’t listen to me. But, I've recently weathered a brief but serious bout of PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, which included a run-in with an unsympathetic legal system. Soon after, I decided to take writing classes at Chatham University to help me to make a coherent narrative out the months of journal entries I had been keeping during that process. There, I found that I had a reasonable ability to write in prose form, including scene and dialogue (though I feel my real strength as a writer may be my ability to be honest).<br /><br />Thus, I’ve decided to officially apply to the MFA program. I see Chatham as a place where I can not only backfill the educational deficits left from a career focused on science and medicine, but also further my writing with guidance (and deadlines) from the extraordinary faculty in the MFA Department. And by majoring in Creative Nonfiction I hope to learn how best to interest, and possibly educate, readers in the little understood concept of small-t-trauma, PtSD, if you will – as when a life that is humming along gets interrupted, rerouted to an entirely new landscape, by an experience that might otherwise be viewed as minor.<br /><br />Am I doing this for the attention? So my voice can be heard, without interruption, until a complete thought is expressed? Perhaps. My family forgave my dramatic trip to the front step, which was as far as I ventured. I returned to be folded among them like a sheet still warm from the dryer. But maybe it’s time I let go, finally, of my mother’s left leg. To venture beyond my own back yard. To harvest from my own life the time and focus I need to tell the story of an imperfect life and follow through with my passion to write, and, if the stars line up just right, publish, my memoir...<br /><br />(Hey, Mom, watch this!)<br /><br />.Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-61531852749062954282009-04-20T07:25:00.006-04:002009-04-20T08:09:04.537-04:00fears and dreams<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 9"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/User/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/msoclip1/01/clip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotoptimizeforbrowser/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; 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<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">Monday morning blues. Let them be brief...
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p> <span style="font-size:11;">--My son turned18 yesterday. He and his girlfriend and their babygirl came over for bagels and chocolate pudding pie. We gave him four new tires, how’s that for symbolic? See ya. Stay safe. <o:p></o:p></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:11;">--I have a disappointing resurgence of an irritating and mildly debilitating injury. I have nursed it along, including thrice weekly rehab, since January. <o:p></o:p></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:11;">--This past weekend I retreated with other faculty from my family medicine residency program. Our annual event. The group has been stable for over 15 years. We’ve recently lost two to retirement and by next fall will have two new members.<o:p></o:p></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:11;">--My mother’s cancer chemical number is rising, ovarian. I just loved every minute (even the hard minutes) that I spent with her on her recent two-week visit here.<o:p></o:p></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:11;">--I am heavily involved, hours a day, in writing my final for Memoir Class. I am trying to show how it was to be me during the early reaction phase from an indecent sexual assault that occurred in 2007. <i>Not to tell</i>, mind you, and not to summarize! for god’s sake, but to <i>show</i> my life in reaction, acutely and realistically – so the reader can live it on the page. Again and again, until I get it right. <o:p></o:p></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:11;">--I have a card sitting on my kitchen table. It tells me I missed certified mail and need to pick it up. It’s hot. Scary. It is from the National Certification Board for Therapeutic Massage and Body Work, NCBTMB. I sent in a formal complaint about the sexual assault in late 2007. They took my statement by conference call six months ago. I’ve been waiting for the determination. It’s here; I just need to take that card to the post office this morning to find out whom they believe in this ongoing He said-She said saga.</span>
<br /><span style="font-size:11;">
<br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Is it any wonder then, that I had a dream last night that I was under dark murky water, alone and scared? Or that once my feet hit bottom it was heaped up with dead bodies? Men mostly, middle aged and bald, or shaved with growing stubble, naked and muscular, buoyant somehow when I had to kick off of them to get back to the surface. I woke up in a start with palpitations and a long and intense hot flash.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">I took an antacid and wandered reluctantly back to dreamland as the trees outside swayed noisily in the wind and the rain dripped down my window. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <o:p></o:p><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><u1:p></u1:p><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <u1:p></u1:p><u1:p></u1:p><u1:p></u1:p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-8643541479082376182009-04-07T08:15:00.010-04:002009-04-07T18:10:56.967-04:00Snow on Daffodils<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxg6DglNvjny6ilbOvfFCHL44jXBfmqqQoA_OsVFn6MQYdpxUINMWYXHsTXJyL6Pzvk9Nn88pRqAA60bppIZ4eCscnUf0NTjYUqszeq98gdrBL1neIm3qdBN4jjRDVg0RjVMX4kg_YKY/s1600-h/daf+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLxg6DglNvjny6ilbOvfFCHL44jXBfmqqQoA_OsVFn6MQYdpxUINMWYXHsTXJyL6Pzvk9Nn88pRqAA60bppIZ4eCscnUf0NTjYUqszeq98gdrBL1neIm3qdBN4jjRDVg0RjVMX4kg_YKY/s200/daf+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322074952674875698" border="0" /></a><br />Snow falls quietly and sits heavy on the daffodils this morning. Must be the anniversary of my sister, Eileen’s, death. It’s been fifteen years now, if I’m doing my math correctly. Although she was from New Jersey, she died here in Pittsburgh. Failed liver transplant. Hepatitis C. The sad part is that I think of her only in post-death terms now. The incredible conch shell I found in a moment of utter hopelessness, on the beach where had spread her ashes years before, sits on my mantle. The unusual butterfly that visited us on that same beach months before found its way into my writing just last week.<br /><br />Maybe it’s because I’m in medicine, or maybe because my friends are of an age where death appears in their lives more often, but I think about the last day of Eileen's life a lot, the regret I have about giving my consent for her final operation. The stupid monitor and fake pacemaker that they kept running until my sisters, Theresa and Kathy, and I were phoned in the waiting room, told to dress up into space suits, and finagled into the operating room (we had to give my eighteen-month-old niece to the front desk nurse to hold on our way). They had promised we could “be with her when she died.”<br /><br />It is difficult, in the high tech world of medicine, to define the moment of death. You’ve seen it, on "ER" - the arbitrary decision to “call it” and note the time out loud. I think my sister actually died in the middle of the night, well before the morning we were called into the hospital and asked for permission to try one last, heroic, thing. I wrote a poem about that in my creative writing class last term. I'll print it on my blog. (see last blog "Time of Death" (I'm resisting the urge to add a disclaimer)).<br /><br />And then I’ll spend today trying to remember her when she was alive and passionate, funny and flawed. Her big fat round bear hugs. Her full-throated laughter. Her obsession with blue. Or the late night phone calls, like one I sleepily received at one o’clock in the morning to ask, “Hey, Jan, do germs crawl?” because my sister, Theresa, had put a cold infused Kleenex down on her bed as they sat there giggling, pajama party style. Or, or… see, I can’t remember all the good stuff.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Today I will try. Today I will remember that on my way to her hospital, quite possibly in the hours between the time her spirit left her body and the time medicine's machines were switched off, I stopped in the garden to say a prayer. Today I will remember what I knew in that moment, and why I knew that finding snow on the daffodils was just perfect for the day she died.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKPRintgKOjYiSYQRK4RLkCtT0yR5B8yPYD0sYQgjBRy8hgvw9Sl8MsTjBDb2pLAUUm5326pflyF2Nwv3LzeszBeqLVxiSmz5Rh8gAyLeOUB-p1Ay7xY7rSeE4IJBL_Fv9Kzeo27W0iU/s1600-h/daf+.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKPRintgKOjYiSYQRK4RLkCtT0yR5B8yPYD0sYQgjBRy8hgvw9Sl8MsTjBDb2pLAUUm5326pflyF2Nwv3LzeszBeqLVxiSmz5Rh8gAyLeOUB-p1Ay7xY7rSeE4IJBL_Fv9Kzeo27W0iU/s200/daf+.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322075045772738818" border="0" /></a></div>Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-9518018884348455712009-04-07T08:12:00.007-04:002009-04-07T15:52:44.608-04:00Time of DeathOperate again? I ask. But, isn’t that…<br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">No, they say, it’s not heroics.</span><br />It’s just before dawn; I throw off my covers.<br />Ok then.<br />What do you wear on the day your sister dies?<br />I wonder as I hang up the phone.<br /><br />On my way I notice a light snow lay on the daffodils.<br />I stop, dip my fingers into it like holy water.<br />Say a prayer.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">It’s not going well, they say, come into the operating room.</span><br />We crinkle as we enter the sterile space<br />in our white paper suits.<br /><br />Dialysis off<br />Ventilator next<br />Finally the<br />Pacemaker.<br /><br />Sorry.<br /><br />Silence hovers.<br /><br />We cry, say goodbye, we’re sorry.<br />Sing “Don’t weep after me.”<br />As four sisters become three<br />in the still, cold room.<br />…<br /><br />Is that when she died?<br /><br />Or, was it the night before<br />when a great gust of wind<br />blew in as we slept?<br /><br />It opened the French doors of my bedroom<br />rushed down the steps<br />and lifted the paper poster,<br />her ethereal version of afterlife,<br />right off of the wall…<br /><br />I wore blue, 'cause I knew.<br /><br />****Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-25239156510624899022009-04-05T07:41:00.005-04:002009-04-05T07:55:06.372-04:00uploader's remorse<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;">I planned to write my blog this morning on regretting with hot faced embarrassment the quality of my most recent piece, "The Hand of Justice" (future blog)... but my memoir classmates did it for me - </span> I've plagiarized the words they used when uploading their own pieces: </span> <br /><br />enjoy.<br /><br />roughest draft in the world...<br />I am "telling" a lot <br />scenes are coming <br />pick the best ones <br />for the piece. <br />question is <br />working?<br />for or against? <br />Should I<br />choose one issue, <br />stick with that? <br />or should I <br />tie them <br />together, <br />connected?<br /><br />I’ve bitten off <br />more then i can chew. <br />back there again. <br />an early draft <br />as yet unfinished<br />very rough<br />working on that!<br /><br />a little overwhelmed <br />with information <br />so I feel like <br />is there? <br />a lot of telling <br />not enough showing.<br />still struggling<br />what it wants <br />when it grows up. <br /><br />two essays here<br />I'm wondering <br />what to keep <br />what to save <br />another time. <br /><br />DRAFT. <br /><br />forgot <br />add a title, <br />open this one.<br />(so far) <br />never managed<br />I'm sorry <br />it's late—<br />trouble.<br /><br />Let me know!Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-4858389688652283262009-03-31T16:18:00.006-04:002009-04-01T07:25:29.378-04:00“Lying" by Lauren SlaterInstead of an in depth analysis, I’d like to restrict my blog on Lauren Slater’s book “Lying” to my experience of reading it. <br /><br />Ironically, I had submitted an essay to my memoir class last week that contained a fair amount of fiction, (the title was, in fact, "In His Words - an Honest Piece of Fiction"). In this essay I tried to further my own story, to branch off from another essay called The Breach, using a concocted monologue from a man, a stranger to me, who had betrayed my trust during our brief encounter. I used as much truth as I could – I knew about his personality from his co-workers, and I think I know his personality "type". I also knew about events that happened in his life, and, of course I knew all the parts of my own story that were told (in the essay) from his perspective. <br /><br />However, I completely made up a personal history for him - one that might explain the psychological make-up of a person who behaves in a way that could hurt other humans, or one where a person may be hurting others but not really 'get it'. My classmates wanted me to be sure to define it, upfront, as fiction, (which I completely agreed with). But some wondered why I'd do it at all in a Nonfiction piece. One suggested,“We should respect the genre.” <br /><br />Which brings me to Lauren Slater’s book, “Lying.” I found it very frustrating to read. I often wondered, why? Why does she tell us this only to retract it later? It began to be wearisome. Sometimes I felt manipulated and caught in her tangled web and even found myself wanting to prove her wrong. If fact, I called my librarian to request her help in finding the "Case Report" Slater placed in the middle of the book. I was also irritated towards the end when she states that, though she knows, she is not going to clarify the fact/fiction questions for us. <br /><br />I’ll reserve judgment and save my final comments about the her book for Wednesday, but suffice it to say, my opinion will be effected by the fact that, through my own writing, I’ve been sensitized to the goal of telling the truth through the use of "lies".Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-3068021639476106742009-03-29T12:23:00.005-04:002009-03-29T13:54:11.185-04:00Scott Sanders (... and my first rejection)I just opened my first rejection. How sweet it is to be among the ranks of writers who have experienced this right of passage. The rejection came by email, from Brevity, an online journal. I had submitted “Lessons of the Piecrust,” a version of which can be seen in 2 parts on this blog (January 30th and 31st). But then again, why would you want to go read that now that you know it’s been rejected? <br /><br />I’m not daunted, though, and this is not the first time I’ve had to move forward, anyway, against the odds. When I applied to Muhlenberg College’s pre-med program their advisor, Mr. Samuels, sat me down to talk me out of it. <br /> “You have five strikes against you,” he said earnestly, “You’re a woman; you’re older then usual - they’ll want to know what you did instead of school; you’re a transfer student; you came from a community college; and you had bad grades in high school - including needing summer school for failing US History in tenth grade. This is not going to be easy.” <br /><br />And he didn’t know the other strikes. I had done poorly all through grade school, too - always in a bit of trouble, not principal’s office type trouble, well, not until high school anyway. I could count on one hand the number of books I read in high school. And I came from a family with limited education; my mother had only gone to eighth grade and the sister who raised her (their mother died young) only to third grade. My father, the lucky one, finished high school. <br /><br />Naturally, Mr. Samuels was right. It wasn’t easy. Science was OK because I had built up some skills at the community college, but the language-based courses were much harder for me. I can still remember downing mug after mug of coffee at a tiny dorm room desk with my World History book and the dictionary required to read it fighting for space. <br /><br />I thought about this as I read The Country of Language by Scott Sanders. He talks fondly about learning to read: “…ink marks on paper setting whole worlds moving inside (of him),” and he describes his drive to write, “the tug of language,” as something he just couldn’t resist. As a latecomer to writing, and reading, for that matter, I don’t recognize this in my life. <br /><br />But I must say, Scott Sanders does talk about writing in ways I <span style="font-style:italic;">can </span>identify with: he describes his writing career as: “making stories, small gifts in return for the great gift of life.” He talks of “writing (his) way through shadowy tangles,” and his "desire to salvage worthy moments from the river of time.” These quotes help me express why I write – I write to put in order the chaotic string of events and feelings that is my life. I see humans, all of us, as full of frailties and faults, strengths and skills. I want to understand this through a thorough and honest look at my own life, warts and all. And I want to share it with others who might enjoy, or if I do it right, maybe even benefit from it. <br /><br />So rejection or not, here I come. I will print it and paste it up on my wall as I’ve learned from other writers I should do. For me the best part is that I understand this to mean I am a writer. A writer with more to learn ... a lot more, perhaps. But if there’s one thing I know about myself, it is this: if I am lucky enough to have plenty more mornings, a supply of strong coffee and a good dictionary, I'll do it.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"></span>Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4452711402584389245.post-61441799726869713562009-03-25T06:55:00.008-04:002009-03-28T13:42:56.241-04:00Revising the EndTo my memoir class: <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Here is a new ending for "The Breach." your feedback suggested that a final wrap-up might be helpful to this piece if i am to submit it as a stand-alone piece. i'm a little worried about shifting the metaphor, or saying too much - you know how i am.<br /><br />i included the last paragraph to get you in the mood, the the revision starts with "Two years later" -- as always, feedback welcome.</span><br /><br />I lean on the railing and take in the horizon - a crisp line separates the cloudless sky from the water. It’s August and we are already in hurricane season. It was a September when Isabel hit the island. Hurricanes begin as simple thunderstorms that drift off of the coast of Africa and then travel for weeks in the warm waters of the tropics. Most simply die out, but others join together, gather strength and move up our coast. They cause untold damage when they make landfall. I gently thump the warm banister with the palm of my hand. The islands of the Outer Banks are really only delicate strips of sand in the sea and any part of it, including this very house, may not be here in the years to come. As I pull open the sliding glass door and head inside to shower and get into my bathing suit, I find myself wondering if there’s a storm out there now - just beginning to brew. <br /><br /><br />***<br />Two years later:<br /><br />An eye of a hurricane can be quite small, sometimes called a pinhole, or it can be fifty miles wide. For slow moving expansive hurricanes, such as Hurricane Isabel, it can take days to pass. The eye is surrounded by what’s called the eyewall, a ring of towering thunderstorms and high winds. It’s risky to leave shelter while the eye is passing, even though it may be calm and even beautiful outside. Rather, one should stay inside and prepare for the opposite eyewall, the unavoidable second punch. <br /> <br />My silence was like the eye of a hurricane, many miles wide, or, in my case, many weeks long, and, naturally, there was no avoiding the second punch. The calm I invented was how I coped, how I made everything seem <span style="font-style:italic;">just fine</span> for my family and myself. But it was temporary and had a high emotional cost. The silence, it turns out, was the hardest part for me to bear.<br /><br />Ultimately, I turned Justin in to his employer and to the state licensing board for massage therapists. I went on to press charges, but lost in court. Difficult, yes, but for me, along with my writing and the support of my family and friends, doing so turned out to be the very wires and pipes, the stilts and the shingles that I needed to rebuild.Janice Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00518892582829421885noreply@blogger.com5