Petals for Eveline

 Circa 2000. Another piece I wrote for an independent study in my MA program. I was asked to write a piece in which I blurred fact and fiction.

 A Short Story

The ant climbs up a trunk

carrying a petal on its back;

and if you look closely

that petal is as big as a house

especially compared to the ant that

carries it so olympically.

You ask me: Why couldn’t I carry

a petal twice as big as my body and my head?

Ah, but you can, little girl,

but not petals from a dahlia,

rather boxes full of thoughts

and loads of magic hours, and

a wagon of clear dreams, and

a big castle with its fairies:

all the petals that form the soul of

a little girl who speaks and speaks. . . ![1]

--David Escobar Galindo

            “It could still go either way,” Eve said, struggling to lift her heavy, droopy daughter, Eveline, out of her crib. Eveline felt heavy and droopy because she was two years old, no longer an infant, and also because she was still half-asleep. “They’ve only been deliberating for a week. If the deliberations had taken longer I would be strongly convinced that we’d won, if you can call it that now. But after only a week . . .it should take nearly a week for most of the jury to simply understand what we’re talking about, let alone consider the ethical, economic, and legal implications of their verdict. Hell, I barely even understand it all, and I’ve been studying it for years.”

            “You’re certain the decision will come today?” asked Lorena, Eveline’s nanny. “Shouldn’t you be at the courthouse then?” Lorena handed Eve a pink barrette that had fallen from Eveline’s unruly brown curls.

            “Only the lawyers have to be there. I’m just one of the witnesses. One of the flies caught in the political web. Michael promised he would call and let me know when they’ve reached a verdict.” Eve fastened the barrette back in place and gently combed Eveline’s hair with her fingers. Eveline closed her eyes and started to fall back asleep as she rested a chubby pink cheek on Eve’s shoulder.

            “I know this has been hard on you, ma’am. You’ve published so many articles and books about this. People are finally listening, but now, well, since Eveline . . .” Lorena stepped back and began fussing with the hem on the skirt one of Eveline’s dolls: the antique doll that talked when you pulled the string on her back. The doll’s dress was a bit tattered, but she could still say seven different phrases.

“I understand how hard this must be, ma’am. And I hope I’m not speaking out of place. But at least it’ll all be over after today.” Lorena stopped fussing with the doll and stretched her arms out toward Eveline. “Would you like me to take Evie to the park so you can rest, ma’am?”

            “No, thank you, Lorena. I’ll look after her myself this afternoon. In fact, you take the rest of the day off. You deserve it. You’ve been putting in so many extra hours since the trial began.” Eve ushered Lorena to the door. “Before you go out, though, please ask Carlos to take the call from Michael for me when it comes in and to bring me the message right away.” Lorena opened her mouth, raised her eyebrows, and started to protest, but Eve cut her off, “Thank you, Lorena. Really, thank you.”

            After Lorena left, Eve sat with Eveline in the rocking chair. Eve wasn’t ready for the jury’s verdict. As a philosopher, she had been preparing for it for the last twenty years, but as a parent, she wasn’t sure she would ever be fully prepared. What would the consequences be in a world like this? she thought.  What would happen to Eveline? She didn’t want to think about that. “Only a few minutes longer, sleepyhead,” Eve said to her daughter, “then you have to wake up.” This had all been so much easier when it was just theory, Eve sighed as she rocked slowly, rhythmically.

Philosophers and scientists had begun defending, criticizing, and debating the implications of the Argument for Moral Consistency as far back as the 1970s, during the first population and energy crises. Eve herself had been defending it since 2036, when Macphail’s theory about the evolution of consciousness had finally been supported and widely accepted by philosophers, experimental psychologists, linguists, and neurologists, first in China, then in the United States after the 2034 Energy Crisis. As the new decade approached, fewer people were dying each year as a result of mass starvation, but the practices of infanticide and geronticide continued to spread. People didn’t openly discuss these practices, of course. They didn’t want to believe they ever happened, let alone still happened. Eve didn’t understand their reluctance herself until she had Eveline. So much had changed since she’d had Eveline.

            “Time to wake up, Eveline,” Eve said. Eveline lifted her head, but was struggling to keep her eyes open. “Come on, darling. It’s time to wake up.” Eve spoke more calmly this time, but rubbed Eveline’s back briskly, trying to rouse her. Eveline’s yellow cotton T-shirt crept up as she rubbed, and Eveline reached back to yank it back down. “What’s the matter, Evie? Are Mommy’s hands cold? I’m sorry. Come on and wake up, now. Mommy will read you a story.” Eveline responded with a yawn.

            Eve hoped reading a story would help her stop thinking obsessively about the trial. And about Michael. Ten years ago, when she was a post doc and he was starting his own law practice, they were clearly on the same side. They were both young and idealistic and had combined their efforts to develop and implement effective solutions to the world’s problems. Three years ago, however, when she became pregnant unexpectedly and refused to abort Michael’s child, the sides began to blur. 

During the trial, Eve tried to explain the essential elements of Macphail’s theory to the jurors in the simplest way she knew how: According to this theory, consciousness evolved in human animals, and in human animals only, because they have acquired language. The rest of the theory is a hypothetical syllogism: If an animal does not acquire language, then the animal is not conscious of itself. If the animal is not conscious of itself, then the animal is not conscious of its feelings. If the animal is not conscious of its feelings, then the animal is not conscious of pain. Therefore, if the animal does not acquire language, the animal is not conscious of pain. It does not suffer.

            After a few minutes of rubbing, Eveline’s eyes were finally open and appeared to be focused on the banana-yellow and plum-purple alphabet wallpaper. Eve stood up and walked over to the bookcase. There were easily two hundred books on the shelves, and Eve had read each one to Eveline at least twice. She knew how important it was to read to children, how it was supposed to help them develop language skills. So Eve had filled the room with books. And dolls. The room used to be full of fuzzy, cute, mute stuffed animals that Eveline had received from family and friends. But Eve had replaced all of the animals with dolls: little girls with pretty names, porcelain faces, pink cheeks, and glossy painted mouths.

            Eve’s eyes were on the dolls, but her mind was back at the trial. Animals’ rights are determined by whether or not they suffer, she’d had to explain. Since Macphail’s theory links suffering to language, and language to humanity, the implications of the theory go beyond non-human animals. In other words, some humans who lack language abilities, such as infants, comatose patients, the hopelessly senile, or the profoundly retarded, are also not conscious. They are considered “marginal cases of humanity” and considered by some as virtually no different than non-human animals. Therefore, the whole argument basically came down to this: to be fair and to be consistent, marginal cases of humanity and non-human animals should be treated in the same way and be extended the same rights. Even a year ago this still all made sense to Eve. It was clear. Today she felt as bewildered as some of the jurors looked when she tried to explain.

            “Ready for a story?” Eve asked Eveline as she slid a book from the shelf. “Here’s a nice book, Evie. See the sailboat? I know, how about a poem?” Eve sat with Eveline on the window seat. “Here, you hold it,” she said, handing Eveline the book, hoping yet that she might be able to distract herself.  Eveline, oblivious to her mother’s distraction, had taken the book in both hands, pulled it to her mouth, and begun chewing on the corner.

            At Michael’s insistence, Eve had given an example in court to help the jury understand: “How many of you have ever been given a drug like diazepam as a sedative before a minor surgical procedure instead of being given a pain killer?” Eve had asked. “A drug that doesn’t take away pain, but rather takes away your consciousness, your memory of the pain? That’s what life is like all the time for non-human animals and humans who lack language abilities. They feel pain, but they don’t remember it. Not like humans. They are not conscious of it. Therefore, they do not suffer.”

            Eve took the book from Eveline, who was now trying to tear the pages out, and selected a poem. “Here’s a good one, Evie. Let’s read this one.” She pulled Eveline closer to her and held the book in front of her so she could see the words. “Ready? It’s called ‘A Short Story,’ and it was written by a man named David Escobar Galindo.

‘The ant climbs up a trunk carrying a petal on its back . . .’”  

            That’s what Michael had forced Eve to testify to: that Brandon did not suffer. That the head injury Brandon incurred when he was four left him severely brain damaged and took away his ability for language. Therefore, according to the syllogism, since Brandon no longer had language, he was no longer conscious of pain. Despite how difficult it was to accept, according to philosophers and scientists, marginal humans like Brandon were no longer “persons.” They were no different than non-human animals. Therefore, if it was legal for Brandon’s parents to euthanize their dog, it should be legal for them to euthanize Brandon.

            Three years ago, even one year ago, Michael would not have had to call Eve as a hostile witness. “Why are you trying to sabotage this?” Michael demanded after Eve testified. “Your whole career has been built on this.”

“It’s not just theory any more.” Eve replied, shaking her head. “You, of all people, should know this. It’s not just other people’s children we’re arguing about any more.”

Eve underlined the words on the page with her finger as she read the next lines of the poem: “‘and if you look closely/ that petal is as big as a house/ especially compared to the ant that carries it so olympically.’”

            In theory, all of it still made sense. If marginal humans are not really “human,” and they do not suffer, then why should a healthy chimpanzee, pig, cat, or rat enjoy more or fewer rights than Brandon? Brandon’s parents were suffering, not Brandon. People don’t really put their pets or their children out of misery; they put themselves out of misery. Brandon’s parents, therefore, should be able to decide what was best for them, and what was best for Brandon.

            “’You ask me: Why couldn’t I carry a petal twice as big as my body and head?’”

Eveline had turned two a month ago, but had not yet spoken one word. The doctors were still doing tests. Eve tried not to worry, but the trial was making that difficult. It wasn’t just about euthanasia. It wasn’t just about Brandon. As much as Eve the philosopher felt that consistency was the only ethical solution, Eve the parent worried that consistency would mean she would lose her rights as Eveline’s mother. That even though she was suffering, she would not be allowed to decide what was best for herself or for Eveline. If Eveline would just speak . . .

“’Ah, but you can, little girl . . .’” Eve managed to read the words on the page, but her thoughts were drowning in twenty years of research.

            If no language equals no pain, then language equals pain. One hundred and fifty years ago, Moreau thought that pain was unnecessary in humans because they are intelligent. He understood that pain had evolved, but mistakenly believed it had evolved in both human and non-human animals. He was also convinced that pain would, and should, eventually evolve out of the human species. Obviously, he had overlooked the importance of language.

            “’but not petals from a dahlia . . .’”

            Moreau had made no connection between language and consciousness, or between language and pain. He, too, saw pain and suffering as a dividing point for humanity, but he saw it backwards. He thought pain and suffering were what made animals non-human. Eve remembered a passage from one of his notebooks: “So long as visible or audible pain turns you sick, so long as your own pain drives you, so long as pain underlies your propositions about sin, so long, I tell you, you are an animal, thinking a little less obscurely what an animal feels.”

            Eve had taken Eveline’s hand and was now helping her point to the words as Eve read them: “’rather boxes full of thoughts . . .’”   

Strauss and Nemur never made the connection either, which was a pity because Strauss and Nemur had documented performing operations on animals in 1960 similar to those Moreau had performed in 1896. Unlike Moreau, however, in addition to experimenting on non-human animals, Strauss and Nemur had experimented on a human animal named Charlie Gordon. In their experiment, which was well documented, they didn’t focus on pain, or even on language; they focused on intellect. And while the link was not explicitly made, as Charlie’s language abilities improved, he not only became more intelligent, he became another person. Or, rather, he became a person. He became conscious of himself and his feelings.

            “’and loads of magic hours, and . . .’”

            Unfortunately, as with Moreau’s experiments, the results of Charlie’s operation lasted only temporarily. Scientists had continued to experiment, but to date none had been any more successful. Of course, even in the 70s there hadn’t been a demand as there was now. After today, however . . .

“’a wagon of clear dreams, and . . .’”

Eve’s voice was growing loud, impatient. The same rules should apply. But what would winning the argument mean now? That it was not only acceptable to euthanize infants and the severely retarded or brain injured, but that it would also be acceptable to experiment on them, to use them as domestic labor, or to kill them for food? That sounded like a big leap to those unfamiliar with the argument, but it was not. Factors such as over-population, flooding, and famine were also part of the argument, not just pain and language. And . . .

            “’a big castle with its fairies . . .’”

            And what would happen to Eveline? Perhaps infants’ rights would be protected because they were “potential humans.” But what would be the cutoff age? Would children have to talk by the time they were eighteen months old? Two years old? Three? What if Eveline didn’t start speaking soon? Even if Eveline didn’t suffer, even if Michael didn’t suffer, Eve suffered. What if they took Eveline away from her? What if . . .

            “all the petals that form the soul of a little girl who speaks and speaks . . . !”

            Eve turned Eveline around so she was facing her. Eveline was plucking at a daisy appliqué on her shirt. “That’s right: petals! Say ‘petals’ for Mommy.” Eve was nearly shouting. “Look at me!” Eve said, grabbing hold of Eveline’s shoulders. Eveline shrank and looked up at her mother. “Say something!” she commanded her daughter, who, like Eve, had started to cry. “You are not an animal. Please. Speak. Little girls speak and speak . . .!”

The shouting and crying were so loud that Eve did not hear the phone ring, nor did she hear Carlos step into the room a minute later.

            “Speak!’” Eve sobbed again. She was startled when Carlos spoke instead:

            “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you, ma’am, but that was Michael on the phone.

You won.”

---

[1] David Escobar Galindo, “A Short Story,” Trans. Jorge D. Piche, This Same Sky: A Collection of Poems from around the World, Selected by Naomi Shihab Nye (New York: Four-Winds-Macmillan, 1992) 20-21.

Bake an Ape

Circa 2000. I was doing research on language and consciousness for an independent study in my MA program and was asked to write a piece that could be recorded for radio broadcast. The research is outdated now, but I did have a lot of fun creating this.

Title: Differences in Human and Animal Language Use: A Meta-Thought Experiment

Authors: Janice McKay, graduate student at the State University College at Brockport, NY, and Her Imagination

Problem: How can the differences between the way humans and animals use language be demonstrated in an informative and entertaining manner to an audience with little no previous background in linguistic theory?

Hypothesis: The main difference between the way humans and animals use language is that animals use signs and humans use both signs and symbols. To greatly simplify, this means that animals communicate, even when using human language, by thinking of and pointing at things that have a referent in reality, usually things of evolutionary significance to them such as food and sexual partners. Humans, however, can communicate this way, but can also communicate by using symbols, which allows them to think about and manipulate things that may not exist in reality, may not be present, or which we want to deny, like unicorns or talking apes. In other words, unlike other animals, humans use language to imagine and create things. Therefore, it should be possible to demonstrate the differences in how humans and animals use language by using our imaginations to do a thought experiment.[1]

Definitions: What I mean by a thought experiment here is simply the creation, manipulation, and discussion of something that does not exist outside of imagination.

Materials: An audience and Imagination

Procedure: Administer “Bake and Ape: A Thought Experiment” to an audience (See Appendix B)

Results/Data/Summary: Pending further study. This experiment has not been tested on the imaginations of an actual audience.

Conclusion: If, at the end of the experiment, audience members have used their imaginations, and have been able to understand through the examples how animals and humans use language differently, especially that imagination is one important way humans and animals use language differently, then the experiment can be considered successful.

 Appendix B: A Transcript of  “Bake an Ape: A Thought Experiment,” by Janice McKay

 I suppose it’s best to begin with a definition. What I mean by “thought experiment” here is simply that we are going to use our imaginations to create something. Something that does not exist in the world outside of our imaginations. And yes, I did say, “we.” You’re going to be my lab partner.

 Why are we going to do this, you ask? Well, mostly because we can, and animals can not. And also because what I’m interested in exploring in this experiment is how humans and animals use language differently. My hypothesis, then, is that by using language to imagine, to create and manipulate reality, we will at the same time be demonstrating how humans and animals use language differently.

            But let’s forget about hypotheses for now and just get to the fun part. Let’s get out our imaginations, get into the laboratory, and get started. First, since I sound and think more like Betty Crocker than Dr. Jeckyl, let’s imagine that we’re in a test kitchen. That’s the kind of laboratory I can relate to. Now, before we can actually create anything, we have to know what it is that we want to create. When Betty Crocker decides it’s time to invent a new cake mix, she has to picture the finished product first. She has to imagine, say, Banana-Asparagus Bundt Cake before she can develop the recipe for it and actually make it. And she also has to test market it before we’ll be able to find it in our local supermarket.

             So, what do we want? Well, it’s definitely not Banana-Asparagus Bundt Cake. You might have already guessed from the title that we want to bake an ape. Not just any ordinary ape - we want a talking ape. No, not like a Planet of the Apes talking ape; those apes were just actors in hairy costumes. And not like real apes who use sign language; those apes don’t use language the same way humans do, if at all. What we want is an ape who can talk, write, and imagine.

            So what do we need to do that, you ask? Well, now that we know what we want, we can create a recipe. First we’ll start with a base of syntax and grammar, then we’ll add a symbol system . . . But wait! You’re not very familiar with these ingredients, you say? This sounds like one of those exotic recipes that calls for cardamom or coriander?

Don’t sweat it. Remember, this is a quick mix; all of the ingredients are already in the box, which is your brain. You don’t have to know what they look like or how they work to use them. After all, how many of us can identify the maltodextrin or guar gum in our favorite cake mix? Who needs to? The cake still tastes the same when we’re done. So, forget the ingredients list, all we need to do now is add one large ape, stir, and bake for two seconds: one Mississippi, two Mississippi. Ding! He’s done! Quicker than a Jiffy Bake Oven.

            Now, let’s take a look. Well, he looks like an ape. And yes, it is a he. I flipped a coin while counting the Mississippis and it came up tails, so it’s a he. And we should probably give him a name, don’t you think? Names are important. They’re symbols. They don’t just refer to an object, like a real ape or the ape in our imagination, they also refer to all of the things we associate with that object, like bananas or Betty Crocker.

            So what should it be? How about Jake? Jake the baked talking ape. Kinda catchy, don’t you think? Jake it is then. Let’s make sure Jake’s baked. Hmmm, he appears to be a little undercooked, but looks can be deceiving. Let’s taste. No, I don’t mean we’re going to eat his flesh. That would offend a lot of animal rights people and besides, it wouldn’t tell us anything about how Jake uses language. I know I said forget the hypothesis, but this experiment is about language. So what I mean by “let’s taste,” is “let’s sample and digest Jake’s words. Let’s see if his language has changed, see if we can detect the ingredients we added that will make his language human.”

            Well, it appears that Jake has wasted no time. He acquired human language less than a minute ago and already he has an ad out in the personals section of the Banana Republic Weekly. Let’s read it:

                        strong hairy male wants

                        pretty young female

                        give bananas

Yep, Jake is definitely undercooked. In this ad, he’s still using language like a regular ape. He uses mostly lexical words, words like bananas, play, and female, which point to real objects, and very few grammatical words, like give and to, which show relationships between objects. The syntax, or word order, is undercooked also. While it appears we have a male looking for a female to give bananas to, we can’t rule out the possibility that what Jake means is that he wants the female to give the bananas to him. Or that he’s simply requesting a female and some bananas, without intending to connect the two. We can’t be sure Jake understands how word order can change the meaning of a sentence.

         
 From this ad, we also see that Jake is still using only imperative and declarative phrases: phrases that express commands or desires, to think of and ask for things that have to do with food, predators, and/or sexual partners. While regular apes will use language to make requests 96% of the time, humans use language to make statements most of the time.

            So, I think we’d better put Jake back in the oven for a little longer . . .OK, that’s enough. What do you think? A little darker, but still a little squishy in the middle? Let’s taste again and see how he’s evolving. Mmmm, this second sample is a letter Jake wrote to his mom. Too bad she can’t read it or even understand it. But we can. Let’s dig in:

                        Dear Mom,

            You’re never going to guess what’s happened to me! I can talk! And I can write! Do you know what that means? Well, of course you don’t, but what that means is I can learn! I can do math! I know you can count to nine, Mom, but I can do algebra and calculus. I can do scientific experiments. No, Mom, not experiments like this hokey thought experiment, I mean real experiments, like working with chemicals and Bunsen burners. I can use fire! You remember The Jungle Book movie, don’t you, Mom?

Did I tell you that I’m in college now, Mom, studying theology, criminology, sociology, banana-ology? I’m also studying things like history and literature, and my favorite subject is anatomy.

Don’t worry, Mom. I’m still into primate anatomy. I tried going out  with a couple of human females, but all they think about is free dinner and monkeying around. How primitive. I wish there were talking female apes so I could get a mate now and then. Don’t get me wrong. I am excited about my new language, but I’m also a little lonely sometimes.

                                    Hope to talk to you sometime, anytime.

                                    Your son, Jake

Well, Jake certainly is cooked more, but I’m not sure he’s quite done. Let’s talk about what we’ve just sampled. We could certainly taste more grammar and syntax: Jake’s using connecting words, like about, and, to, and but, which show relationships between other words. For example, “I am excited about my new language, but I’m also a little lonely sometimes.” It is clear from that sentence that Jake understands word order, that that sentence would be different if the words were rearranged to say, “My new language is excited about me.”

            And let’s see, Jake is still talking a lot about food and sexual partners, but he’s making statements about them, not just asking for them. Also, it’s interesting that Jake mentions that he’s studying things like theology and anatomy and banana-ology. He’s not just studying concrete things, like bones or bananas, he’s studying the study of bones and bananas; he’s studying abstract things like ideas that he can’t touch, see, or smell.

            While Jake is definitely closer to done, I’m concerned that the letter is addressed only to his mother. I would like to see him cooked enough to be able to attend to more than one person at a time, and I would also like to see his creativity brown a little more. I think we should put him in for just a little bit longer.

            Time’s up. Get your glass of milk ready, or whatever it is you drink with baked apes, and let’s dig in! Ooh look, this time Jake’s given us a story to sample. He’s even named it.

 Nate the Great: A Hairy Tail

Once upon a time there was an ape named Nate. Nate was no ordinary ape; he was a great ape with a unique gift. He had a magical tool that he used to create things. The tool was invisible, yet it was so powerful it could be used to create things right inside an ape’s head, even things that had never been seen before.

Apes traveled from distant tree houses to see Nate the Great work his magic. They came to him with special requests. “Nate the Great,” one ape asked,  “could you make me a gadget that would help my poor arthritic mother peel her bananas?” To which Nate the Great replied: “Close your eyes, my child. Imagine stainless steel and razor blades.” Nate continued with his magic until the ape had an     image of this gadget in his mind, a blueprint he could carry with him wherever he went.  

                      

“Thank you, Nate the Great,” the ape said when they were finished, to which Nate replied, “All you have to do is Imagine.”

Sometimes the apes would use their hands to build replicas of the images Nate had created in their minds. It went on this way until other apes acquired the magic tool that Nate had. Eventually all of the apes acquired this tool and could create their own images. They even joined together in using their tools to create other things. They created stories, laws, and religions; art, science, and technology; songs, superstitions, and even dirty banana jokes. And eventually they pretty much forgot about Nate the Great, the ape who gave them this powerful tool in the first place, the ape who gave them language: the power tool of imagination.             

The End.

 Well, pat yourselves on the back. Jake’s fully cooked and his language tastes pretty darn good. A little plain, perhaps, but definitely human. Jake’s all set with the grammar and syntax now. And he uses words as symbols, as names: concepts of things, not the actual things themselves. Jake cannot be pointing at a gadget that peels bananas or to a talking ape that exists in the real world because those things don’t exist outside of his imagination. And even if the words had a referent in the physical world, what Jake is manipulating is the concept of the thing; he’s manipulating the meaning of the thing, not the actual thing itself. 

            And Jake is doing this by using both statements and requests in this sample. One of his statements, “Once upon a time,” is very interesting. It may seem a little cliché, but it shows that Jake understands that this phrase is an accepted social practice for beginning a story, a fairy tale, or “hairy tail” as Jake calls it. Also, Jake attends to more than one person in the story, and he seems to realize that his story will have an audience.

            We should also note that while bananas appear again, the story is not predominantly about food or sexual partners. Jake is not just conveying practical information that would aid in survival; he is expressing his ideas. He is able to use his magic tool, which is language. The kind of language we humans use, that we are using right now. We are able to imagine Jake and talk about him and change him because we have human language.

            Well, I guess this means that we’ve finished our experiment. Jake’s been baked and digested. I hope he wasn’t too hard to swallow. Do you think now that we’ve test marketed him a little he’s ready for the supermarket shelves? Is he safe to put in other people’s imaginations? Or would you prefer a different recipe? There’s a great idea! Think of something you want to create. Use your imagination to invent a gadget, a creature, a song, a riddle, a picture, a trip to Mars, a banana peeler, a girlfriend for Jake, an article of clothing, a story. Anything. Everything.

Why?

Well, just because you can.

Bibliography

Berkoff, Mark and Dale Jamieson, eds. Readings in Animal Cognition. Cambridge: Bradford-MIT, 1996.

Britton, James, et al. “An Approach to the Function Categories.” The Development of Writing Abilities (11-18). School’s[?] Council Research Studies, 1975.

Cummins, Denise Dellarosa, and Colin Allen, eds. The Evolution of Mind. New York: Oxford UP, 1998.

Fromkin, Victoria, and Robert Rodman. An Introduction to Language. 6th ed. Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace, 1998.

Griffin, Donald R. Animal Minds. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992.

Langer, Susanne K. “Signs and Symbols.” The Essay Connection. 3rd ed. Ed. Lynne Z. Bloom.  Lexington: Heath, 1991.

Macphail, Euan M. The Evolution of Consciousness. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1998.

Noske, Barbara. Humans and Other Animals: Beyond the Boundaries of Anthropology. London: Pluto, 1989.

Vauclair, Jacques. Animal Cognition: An Introduction to Modern Comparative Psychology. Cambridge:  Harvard UP, 1996.

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[1] For a more comprehensive discussion, see Langer’s essay, “Signs and Symbols” 

Pot Roast

Circa 1999. Pre-divorce, pre-don't eat much red meat any more era. It's been several years since I've cooked a pot roast.  

            “Mmm. . . something smells good!” my husband will say as he comes in the door tonight, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, drawing in the warm, distinct odor of mushroom and onion soup mix. “Mmm . . . pot roast?” he’ll ask, putting his arms around me, drawing me in with another deep breath, as if the aroma were coming from me.

            “Pot roast,” I’ll smile and answer, although it won’t be necessary.

            I’m not sure why I call it “pot roast.” I don’t cook it in a pot. I cook it in a Reynolds Oven Bag. That way there’s no messy pot to clean up after. A better way to cook pot roast is in a pressure cooker. The meat comes out so tender and juicy that you have to serve it with a spatula and scoop it into your mouth with a fork to eat it. Otherwise you’d never get more than a few pink threads to your mouth at a time.

            I know this because my mom has a pressure cooker. Though I don’t remember her making pot roast very often when I lived home. Probably because she stopped making family dinners when I was thirteen. I suppose she would have made me something if I had asked, but I didn’t like to ask. And I didn’t like any of the foods she bought and prepared for my stepfather anyway. I missed the pork chops and applesauce, the asparagus omelets, and the Sunday crepes we used to have. I was hungry for food I liked, food that I was used to. But my mom had her own unfed hungers, so I didn’t ask.

            No one has to ask my mother-in-law for food. She doesn’t give you the chance. From the moment you walk in her house until the moment you leave, she tries to stuff you. In fact, she even sends food home with you so she can stuff you long-distance. She doesn’t cook pot roasts, though. She cooks eye-round roasts. And instead of a pressure cooker, she uses a heavy old iron pot that cooks the meat perfectly, no matter how hard she tries to overcook it. My mother-in-law believes every hunger can be fed, and fed, and fed . . .

            I’ve decided that for now, I’m going to stick with the Reynolds Oven Bags, even if the meat isn’t quite as tender as the pressure cooker or the iron pot. Besides, pot roast isn’t something I make for company. I make it only for my husband and my kids. They can eat it and relax and not be self-conscious. My eldest child can eat with their fingers and lick the plate clean when they're done. “I have to get the last drop of gravy,” they always tell me.

            Eldest kiddo likes gravy on their potatoes, just like their dad does. They both make volcanoes out of their potatoes and gravy. My husband sacrifices his vegetables to the volcano, but my eldest kiddo prefers to eat theirs separately, with their fingers, like the meat. Fortunately, my husband doesn’t use his fingers or lick his plate. No, he simply likes to eat and eat until he has to unbutton his jeans and he’s feeling soporific. You know, like Peter Rabbit and all those heads of lettuce from Farmer MacGregor’s garden. He’ll eat until he feels like he needs a nap.

            My youngest child, on the other hand, eats nothing like his father or his sibling. Basically, he eats nothing. He lives mostly on bread and fruit. He says pot roast is “yucky” and squishes his nose at it. He won’t eat beef unless it’s processed leftover lips, livers, and assorted other parts pressed into a neat little log and served on a bun. No catsup. No condiments. Of course, I don’t tell youngest kiddo how his cherished hot dogs are made. I just serve them up with some plums, some chocolate milk, and a Flintstone’s vitamin. I’m just glad that he eats.

 I’m glad that they all eat, no matter how or what they eat. And as for me? Well, I guess I really haven’t said much about how I eat pot roast. To tell the truth, it’s not one of my favorite foods to eat. But it is one of my favorites to prepare and serve. Even if it’s not as tender as I would like it to be. Or even if I can never seem to get it to the table steaming hot. My family still enjoys it. It warms them.

***

            “Mmm. . . something smells good!” my husband will say as he comes in the door tonight, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, drawing in the warm, distinct odor of mushroom and onion soup mix. “Mmm . . . pot roast?” he’ll ask, putting his arms around me, drawing me in with another deep breath, as if the aroma were coming from me.

            “Pot roast,” I’ll smile and answer, knowing that by the time grace is said and the plates are full, I will have already feasted.

A Mother's Talisman

Circa 1999. Written for a creative writing class I was taking at SUNY Brockport.

            He never cried. Six years old with a broken arm and he never cried, not even when he saw us. “I’m pretty sure your son’s arm is fractured, Mrs. McKay,” the school nurse informed me on the phone. Fortunately, my then husband, Doug, was home for lunch and we rushed to the school. There we found our son Brad hunched slightly forward in a chair, wearing a crisp white sling that hid his entire right arm. He was so small in that big chair, in that big sling, but he wasn’t scared. A little pale, yes, but afraid, no.

            Doug and I were afraid. We were mostly afraid that Brad was in a lot of pain. But he didn’t seem to be. In fact, he was pretty talkative and eager to explain all about his accident. As soon as he saw us, he took a deep breath and proceeded to describe what had happened:

“See, it was recess, and we were runnin’ on the tennis court, playing tag, and this boy, I don’t know his name, this boy he tagged me, but he pushed kinda, and I fell, and I did like a somersault, and my arm was over my head, and I rolled over it, and I just knew it was broke, so I walked right up to Mrs. Galofaro and told her, ‘Mrs. Galofaro, I think I broke my arm,’ and then she sent me here to the nurse, and now you’re here, and do ya think I’m gonna have to get a cast now?”

            “I think you probably will, honey,” I told him. “Let’s go to the hospital and find out.”

             When the doctor removed the sling I thought I would throw up. No, not exactly. I felt like I had just plummeted over the hill on the Log Flume ride at Seabreeze and my stomach had dropped into my socks. I wasn’t afraid Doug would throw up as much as I was afraid that he would go back to the school and slap the nurse. “She was pretty sure his arm was fractured?!” Doug said. “Pretty sure?!” He didn’t want to state the obvious: that instead of being anywhere close to ruler-straight like a normal arm, Brad’s forearm was shaped like a “V.” It looked like a branch that had been cracked over someone’s knee. It was a miracle the bones weren’t poking out: the long blue sleeve of the pocket tee shirt that he wore that day appeared to be the only thing holding his arm together.

            Brad had already seen his deformed arm, so he wasn’t really shocked, and his sibling, Tuesday, had been smart enough to turn their head. Brad asked the doctor if he could have a green cast like his friend Jackson’s and informed his sibling, Tuesday, that they could be the first to sign it. The doctor explained that Brad would have to wait and ask the bone doctor about his cast, and that only one of us would be allowed to stay with Brad. Deciding who would stay was simple. It didn’t even require any discussion. My ex-husband has a difficult time staying calm in a crisis: his worry consumes him. I, however, usually stay calm in these kinds of situations, so Doug and Tuesday waited out in the hospital lobby while I stayed with Brad.

             Naturally there were X-rays and consultations, and luckily, Brad did not end up needing surgery, so I was allowed to stay in the room with him while they unbent his arm. While we were waiting for the doctors, Brad finally started to complain that his arm hurt, that it felt like there was a lot of pressure on it. I told him it was probably because he’d had to move it around during the x-rays, and I carefully pulled him up on my lap. I didn’t want him to hurt. I wanted to take the pain from him. I combed his thick, bark-brown hair with my fingers, just like I used to when he was a baby. It still had the same effect: his bushy little caterpillar eyebrows unfurrowed, his eyelids grew heavy, and his eyes became glossy and rolled around in their sockets like shiny marbles. Within a minute he was asleep.

            He seemed so small. At first. As he slept he grew heavier and warmer. He wasn’t a part of me anymore like when he was a baby. He was his own little person, his own growing person, learning to take his own risks and follow his own desires. I couldn’t carry him around inside me to nurture and protect him anymore. Eventually he would be grown enough to carry me around, yet I still felt as though he would somehow always be a part of me. Yes, the umbilical cord had been cut long ago, but some tie would never be severed.

            By the time the nurse and the two doctors arrived, Brad and I were both pink and sticky with sweat. Brad woke up as we were introduced to Dr. Taylor, who was going to set Brad’s arm, and Patty, the nurse who would be assisting Dr. Taylor. The other doctor, Dr. West, was going to administer the anesthetic and then watch Brad during the entire procedure. That was his job: to literally watch my son and make sure nothing bad happened, like some kind of guardian angel.

            I felt reassured at first, but then I was worried about why Brad had to be watched so closely. “What could go wrong?” I thought. “It’s just a broken arm.” A smart teacher once told me that worry cannot protect, but I couldn’t help but worry. Here he was, my son, so small in that bed, all by himself. I sat in a chair next to the bed, out of the way, and put my hand on his shin so he would know I was still there. As he injected the medication, the doctor explained that it was not an analgesic: “He’ll still be able to feel pain, but he won’t be able to remember it. Not two seconds later, two days later, or two years later. He’ll forget it all. He’ll just feel drowsy and drift in and out of consciousness.”

            I watched my son. Dr. West watched my son. We both watched Brad’s eyelids grow heavy. We watched the marbles roll around. But something seemed different this time. I started to rub Brad’s shin to remind him that I was there. He gave me a quick, diluted smile and his eyes closed.  I kept rubbing his leg, calmly, rhythmically. I was trying to calm myself. Brad didn’t look like he had earlier when he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t look like the medicine was making him sleepy; he looked like it was putting him to sleep, like when animals are put to sleep.

            I watched the doctor watch my son. We were obviously looking for different things, seeing different things. I saw that my son’s consciousness was being taken away. To the doctor, this appeared normal. To me, it was terrifying. I knew they were helping him, that his unconsciousness was protecting him from pain, but I felt like I was watching him die and that I was helpless to do anything but sit and rub his leg.

            That’s when I cried. (And I am crying now.) “I love you, “I smiled and whispered to Brad as he drifted away.  “I love you,” I repeated, rubbing his leg, as if that would protect him. “I love you,” again, hoping he would take that with him, hoping he would always remember. “I love you.”

             Oddly, it didn’t bother me to watch Dr. Taylor set Brad’s arm. I was able to endure the crunch and crack and even the faint “ow” that Brad murmured, letting me know he was still in there. “I love you,” I responded, but he faded again; his consciousness faded. And I cried again, feeling ashamed because I finally had to turn my head. I didn’t want Brad to suffer, but I couldn’t endure his drifting away. What if he didn’t come back?

            In the recovery room, I continued to rub Brad’s leg and tell him I loved him. I imagined how warm the fresh plaster cast must have felt on his arm, and I wanted that warmth to radiate throughout his body. I wanted so much to protect him; I will always want to protect him.

Brad drifted in and out of consciousness for about forty minutes. Once, shortly before he was fully awake, he opened his eyes and flashed me another diluted smile.

“I love you, too, Mom,” he whispered before closing his eyes again.

And I always carry it with me.          

           

           

            

Enduring Burning

Circa 2004 or 2005. Written during the post-divorce, pre-Eric era. I've lost track of how many bookshelves and books I've added since then...

"What is to give light must endure burning." -Viktor Frankl

Aberdeen Shade. Fleur de lis. Black Coal. These are the colors I used to redecorate my bedroom after my divorce. Redecorate isn't quite the right word though: Renovate, perhaps? Resuscitate? Redeem? Resurrect? Restore?

            The divorce wasn't so much a process of soul loss as soul retrieval. My soul had been lost years before the actual physical separation from my ex- husband. After removing the last of his pocket T-shirts and the last traces of Brut cologne from what used to be our bedroom, I laid down crucifix style on the middle of my bed and half sobbed, half whisper-screamed, “Take it back . . .Take it all back . . .” Whichever parts of his soul I was still carrying with me, I wanted to purge. 

            Once the physical liberation was complete, I dug out a musty-smelling copy of Zen Flesh, Zen Bones I had stashed in my basement where my ex-husband wouldn't see, and wouldn't bother searching. (There were so many places that he never took the time to explore.) At first I hid the contraband book under the mattress (next to the one anthology I had at the time of women's erotica). Two years and 300 mostly used and discount books later (and several more erotica anthologies), it seems almost silly that I felt I had to hide that book. But at the time I was afraid. 

             My ex was a Christian of sorts. And during our marriage I had agreed to express my faith through Christianity and to teach our children to do so as well. That pact was made when I was sixteen years old.  For the next sixteen years I taught Sunday school, read the Bible, and obeyed my husband. For the next sixteen years I tried to be the perfect wife and mother. And for the next sixteen years I worried I was going to hell.       

             Before my ex-husband and I were married, I could share with him my desires and my fears. I could share my imagination and experiences. I could share my beliefs and my doubts. Before we were married, I shared my interest in tarot cards with him and he bought me a Rider Waite deck. After we were married, he was afraid that the tarot cards were evil, so I sacrificed them along with my own value system, my own sense of right and wrong, and my self-respect. “It’s ok,” my ex told me whenever I doubted my faith. “You don’t need God. I have enough faith for both of us.”

Graduating from college cinched my place in hell. At first I could share with my ex what I'd learned by reading A Doll's House and Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass.  But by the time I read The Marriage of Heaven and Hell and completed an independent study on language and consciousness, my ex blamed my education for the failure of our marriage. It was bad enough that I doubted my own faith, but college had taught me to doubt his, too. It had taught me to challenge his value system, his sense of right and wrong, his authority, and his sense of superiority. He was afraid something was wrong with me. He was afraid something was wrong with him. He was afraid that nothing would be the same. He was afraid I would break the pact. He was afraid I would “corrupt his children.” He was afraid I had become “everything he had ever hated.” He was afraid. He was afraid. He was afraid.

And after a while, I became afraid as well. I became afraid that perhaps he was right: perhaps there really was something wrong with me. After all, it was true: my education had changed me. And it had changed our marriage. Perhaps I had succumbed to evil, and he was only trying to protect me, like he had always tried to protect me. Perhaps it was all my fault the foundation of our marriage had crumbled.

Or perhaps I was more afraid that it really wasn't entirely my fault. That he was no longer my protector. If that were true, then it meant the battle lines between good and evil were no longer drawn around us, but between us. It meant I had to protect myself from him. It meant war.

             I was petrified that a war would hurt him and me and our children. So scared that for a while I stopped desiring, stopped doubting, stopped imagining, stopped believing. I stopped reading.  I stopped being afraid of going to hell and started living in it.

After digging out Zen Flesh, Zen Bones I started making solo trips to the bargain books section of Barnes and Noble and allowing myself to purchase self-help books. Traditional titles at first: Letting Go of Anger; When Someone You Love is Depressed; Successful Women, Angry Men; Healing the Shame that Binds You. Before the divorce was final, I bought doubles of some books to give my ex. It hurt that he wouldn't accept them. I kept trying to figure him out and help him. With the help of a therapist, I learned the best way to help him and my kids was to stop trying to take care of him and take good care of me. To do that I had to let go of who I had become and figure out who I was becoming.

Who I had become was a recluse. I had isolated myself, out of a fear that the evil lurking within me would infect others. Out of a fear I would be seized by evil in places I had never gone before. But as the inner terrain became less threatening, the outer terrain became less threatening as well. Within a year, I was able to expand my horizons and began exploring library book sales and used bookstores. From the library book sales I acquired treasures such as Edges of Reality; Beyond Good and Evil; What Makes Women Sick; The Will to Meaning.  From the used book stores I self-consciously snuck home more esoteric titles: Working with Your Chakras; The Ecstatic Journey; Sacred Contracts; Don Juan, Mescalito, and Modern Magic. Occasionally I would even splurge on new books, gems I could not find elsewhere: Understanding the Enneagram; The Wisdom of the Serpent; A Woman's Journey to God; All About Love: New Visions.

I even bought myself a deck of tarot cards. It felt a bit rebellious. And at the same time, I still doubted myself. I wondered if maybe I was evil for desiring them. I wondered if I was even more evil for exposing my children to them. When I finally realized that I had acted just like Eve, and my ex just like Adam, I sat in the middle of my bed and started laughing uncontrollably. I had thought at first the war was with my ex. Eventually I learned that the battle between good and evil had begun long before the divorce, long before the tarot cards. It had begun long before me.

By the second year after separating, I had so many piles of books in my room that a friend of mine with OCD took pity on me and donated a bookcase. I resisted the bookcase at first. I enjoyed the chaos in my room. Plus, the scattered masses added weight to the room. They made it feel more solid. They added color. They added depth. They added protection. And they were like a giant mirror: they reflected me.

Other than moving my ex's stuff out, I had done nothing to the room but add books. And sort the stacks every so often. Sometimes I would sort by genre. Sometimes by author. Sometimes by subject. Sometimes by color. Sometimes by cover material. Sometimes by size. But then the boundaries would get blurred, and I would have to arrange the books all over again. I would have to decide which spines would be visible by passersby, which would peek out, ambivalent about being seen, and which would stay hidden.

In addition to the erotica anthologies, one book remained hidden for a long time: Flowers from Hell: A Satanic Reader. It is an anthology of works by authors such as Milton, Marlowe, and Poe, authors who equated Satan with Imagination.

Finally I got overwhelmed by the chaos and decided it was time to put up the bookshelf. I also decided that in order to put up the bookshelf, I would have to paint it, along with the rest of the room. The chakra book came to mind when I selected the paint. Fleur de lis I chose for the wall opposite my bed. The color of dark wine. Of dark, oxygen-rich blood. The color of life. Perhaps the deep red color reflected a need to work on a particular energy center. Perhaps I was trying to get back to the root, to my roots. For the wall behind my bed I chose Black Coal. The color of death, perhaps. But coal is also a source of fuel. A source of heat. Heat is a means of transformation.

Aberdeen Shade I chose to adorn the other pair of opposing walls. A light to punctuate the darkness.  It is the color of sand and reminds me of walking barefoot at the beach, one of my favorite places. I also used Aberdeen Shade to sponge-paint the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. Paradoxically, the sand color appears dark against the stark white of the tiles. I can look up at the ceiling and see patterns and shapes in the paint like I used to look up and see patterns and shapes in the clouds before I became afraid and stopped imagining.

          Once the decision was made to redecorate the room, I immersed myself in the process, determined to finish it all in one day. No scraping, no taping, no tarps to protect the carpet. A six-pack of Coca-Cola and songs from the 60s and 70s fueled my determination. I rolled paint on the walls as I danced and sang to “Shambala.”

         Three Dog Night. The last time I’d listened to them was when I was ten and lived in the apartment on Holley Street in Phoenix. I remember that apartment the most even though we lived several other places and spent the least amount of time there. I think I remember it the most because it was the apartment my brother and mother and I lived in after my parents' divorce.  And because it was one of the few places in which I had my own room. There were only two bedrooms. My mom had her own twin bed in my brother's room, but mostly she slept on the pull-out couch. I slept like a princess in the new canopy bed with the yellow and white gingham Holly Hobby comforter set I got to pick from the JC Penney catalog. My room may have been the nicest room in that apartment.

After fourteen hours of painting, the bedroom I was restoring was starting to look like the nicest room in my house. And I was starting to feel guilty about the past. I felt guilty that after the divorce I got a new canopy bed but that my brother didn't get a fancy new bed. I felt guilty that my mom didn’t have her own room. I remember waking up very early one morning to see my mom’s boyfriend leaving. Apparently he had spent the night, and my mom didn't want us to know. I wonder if she craved more privacy in that small apartment the way I crave more privacy now. The way I craved more privacy the first night I let the first boyfriend after the divorce spend the night. I wonder where my mom hid her books, her letters, and the equivalent of her tarot cards. I wonder where she purged her guilt.

And I wonder, what would have happened if I had been able to keep that room on Holly Street, or if my mom had married that boyfriend? What would have happened if we hadn't moved to New York, or if my mom hadn't left me and my brother at my grandparents' house where I shared a room with my aunt for a year before I was allowed to move in with my mom and the man who would eventually become my stepfather?           

What would have happened if I hadn't I slept on a bed behind the couch in the living room after I finally did move back in with my mom, or if I hadn’t had to share another room with  my brother  until I was twelve? What if I hadn’t needed to put a lock on the door of that room to protect myself from my stepbrothers when my brother moved out? And what would have happened if I hadn't gotten married at sixteen and shared a room with my ex-husband for seventeen years?

The bookcase was painted last: Black Coal. I placed it against the wall opposite my bed and left it empty for a while so it could dry. I wanted to be empty, too. Instead I felt full of guilt that my ex was unable to get his needs met in the relationship. Full of guilt for not being able to quell his fears. Full of guilt for every mistake I ever made that fed his fears, his shame. Full of guilt for all of the unkind thoughts and words I had hurled at him when he abandoned us. Leaving, it turned out, was the best thing he could have done for all of us. Destruction was the only thing that would allow new growth.

Finally I began to let go of my anger, my guilt, my fear, my expectations. “The fairytale is over, Mom," my eldest child informed me one day. I was discovering that somewhere down the road I had done all of us an injustice by trying to become an idealized version of who I thought my ex wanted me to be instead of the real person I was, warts and all.

The bookcase was finally dry. I curled up in the middle of the bed and apologized by proxy to the teddy bear who had become my new bed companion, “Forgive me . . . I take it all back . . . I take it all back . . .”

***

The bookcase has long since been filled. And organized. And reorganized. The Holy Bible currently rests comfortably next to The Varieties of Religious Experience; The Essential Tao; The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. And, unashamedly, the stacks on my dresser have grown taller than ever. I've bought a few recommended books: A Symphony in the Brain; Colors: The Story of Dyes and Pigments. Several gifts have made their way in: Think on These Things; Wonder Women; Altered Art; Thresholds of the Mind. A separate stack has been reserved for books authored by friends and former teachers: Breaking Open the Alabaster Jar; Sisters of the Thirteen Moons; The Emerson Dilemma; Wild Ride to Heaven. And the most recent additions to what feels more like an alchemical laboratory than a bedroom sit on my nightstand, next to a small lamp: Traveling Between the Worlds; Transformed by the Light; Why God Won't Go Away: Brain Science and the Biology of Belief.

             It occurs to me that I have now spent nearly three years alone in this room, which is as much time as I have ever spent alone in any room.  It also occurs to me that I should probably put up another bookcase. But that would mean dismantling all of those ever-changing but ever-present stacks. I can’t say that my battle between good and evil has been won yet. That I never have moments when I fear I've somehow lost a part of my soul. But when I look around my room, I am reminded that there is always a place to go where it can be restored. Where I can be restored. Where I can wash away my sorrow and my pain. Where the light shines.

“I suspect many of us might never sign up to experience the light if we knew how much darkness we would have to face first,” I said to a friend recently. “But in the end, it is worth it.”