Letting Go

2018. In response to a call for submissions for a local two-pages, two voices play writing contest, I wrote a play based on a conversation I had with a social worker in the ICU when my youngest child died. My play was not selected, but writing it was an extremely helpful process--a kind of exposure/expressive arts therapeutic process that helped me come to terms with some traumatic memories I was having trouble processing. The play does not represent exactly what was said or what happened. Unfortunately, though, that makes it no less real. 

Setting: an ICU hospital room. The lights are dim. A PARENT in their late 40s is huddled in a chair next to an empty hospital bed. As the scene opens, a SOCIAL WORKER in their late 20s enters and sits down next to the PARENT. 

SOCIAL WORKER: Did you camp out here all night?

PARENT: No, I went home last night and came in early this morning. He was still in the coma, and the cats needed to be fed, and I needed to get some sleep.

SOCIAL WORKER: Were you able to get some rest?

PARENT: Yeah, I managed to sleep a little. It’s hard going home and going upstairs. That’s where we found him and where the paramedics worked on him. I expect that’s going to be hard for a while.

SOCIAL WORKER: Sometimes memories like that take a while to process. He’s still out for tests?

PARENT: Yeah, in order for the doctors to stop the protocol they have to do an MRI. I think it’s a liability issue more than an ethical issue at this point. The other tests confirmed what we already know.  He was dead when we found him. [PARENT starts to cry.]

SOCIAL WORKER: I heard that you decided to sign a DNR, so I came by to see if you have any questions or if there is anything I can do for you.

PARENT: Thank you. [Several seconds elapse before the character speaks again.] Everyone has done their best to help. I appreciate that. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to ask. I’ve had stepparents and in-laws and grandparents die. But not a child before.

SOCIAL WORKER: This feels different.

PARENT: Yeah. Very. Because of the drug use, we’ve known for years this was a possibility. This wasn’t the first time I’d knocked on his door, terrified I wouldn’t get an answer.

SOCIAL WORKER: You’ve all been through a lot together.

PARENT:  [Nods.]

SOCIAL WORKER: So the doctors determined this was drug-related?

PARENT: No, they don’t know. It wasn’t an overdose. The drug tests all came back negative. And all his drug tests at rehab have been coming back negative. His blood pressure has been ridiculously high and hard to treat for years. Could be rebound hypertension from one of the drugs helping him stay clean or from drugs that don’t show up on drug screens yet. Could be other health problems. We’ll never know for sure what happened.

SOCIAL WORKER: Not knowing is hard.  

PARENT: Yeah. I just wish…[Starts to cry again.] I should have checked on him sooner.

SOCIAL WORKER: I’m sure the doctors explained that there was really nothing else you could have done. Sometimes it’s still hard to not think about “what if” though, isn’t it?

PARENT: Yeah. I expect the guilt will take a while to get over, too.

SOCIAL WORKER: Guilt and thoughts of “if only” are normal parts of the grieving process. If you think you’d like to talk to someone about that, or about any other part of your experience, I can give you some names and contact information.

PARENT: Thank you. I have a counselor already, so I think I’m good with that for now.

SOCIAL WORKER: The palliative care team will follow up in a few months, in case you change your mind. I also understand that your son was an organ donor. Have you spoken with Nancy from the donor recovery center yet?

PARENT: Not yet, no.

SOCIAL WORKER: She should be here soon. And if I can do anything, let me know. I’ll come by again in a bit.

PARENT: [Short pause]. Actually, could you…could you help me process something before you go?

SOCIAL WORKER: Of course.

PARENT: I, um… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. They’re going to bring his body back to this room. And eventually they’re going to do all of the things they need to do to unhook all the machines and harvest his organs and all that. And…what do I do? Do I stay here? Do I leave? He’s not here anymore.

SOCIAL WORKER: Different families do different things. Some parents leave. Some choose to stay. There’s no one right thing to do. There’s just what you need to do that’s right for you.

PARENT: I just… I’m not sure how to explain this. I’ve…I’ve loved him, and cared for him, and counting the time I was pregnant, I’ve spent 28 years doing whatever I could to help keep him alive…When I leave here, it means that’s not my job anymore. And I don’t…I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to leave. But I don’t know how to stay. I just know that he’s not here anymore.

SOCIAL WORKER:  You’ll always love him. And when you’re ready, and you’ve said your goodbyes, it’s OK to let go and to let the hospital staff take care of your child. You don’t have to come back to this room or even to the hospital unless you want to. You’ve done all you could and should.

PARENT: I’ve already said my good byes. And I’ve let other family members know so they can do what they need to. 

SOCIAL WORKER:  [After a long pause.] Maybe you’re not ready to let go just yet.

PARENT: [After another pause, PARENT stands, wiping eyes as the lights fade.]

Thoughts on the Do vs. Be Dichotomy

Circa 2002-2003: I wrote this while I going through my divorce. Though it's dated and in need of substantial revision, I was pleased to rediscover it and to find that something coherent came out of my pain during that time. Others have more eloquently and more substantially discussed these themes--but it was meaningful to me to write it and helped me make sense of a tremendous loss. 

I was thinking about Oprah on the way home and how she doesn’t have time to do a lot of things like answer all of her mail and shop for groceries and clean her refrigerator. I was thinking how in order for her to do the work she does she must hire people to help her do these other things. And I was thinking that it’s OK because other people can clean the toilets and do a great job, but not everyone can be Oprah Winfrey and do the things she does for people. She has special gifts to give the world.

Then I was thinking about my own life. And about the Do vs. Be gender dichotomy.  Men Do and women Be. Supposedly. I think one of the things that led to my divorce is that somewhere down the road my ex-husband thought I was the only one who needed to clean the toilets so he could do things to help other people. That’s a woman’s job, right? They’re there to take care of the mundane things so the man can focus on worldly things. Men can’t give the world the gifts they have unless someone frees up their time by cleaning for them and raising their kids for them and doing their laundry for them and cooking for them and everything for them. It is a waste of the man's time and energy and gifts to do that kind of work. And, it should be added, it does nothing for his self esteem.

To some extent it seems this kind of hierarchy is necessary. It reminds me of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. These levels of development work on a societal level, not just on an individual level. But the problem is that many marriages don't allow both spouses the opportunity to reach higher levels of development. There is no sense of self-esteem when what the men do is valued and what the women do is devalued. After all, anyone can clean a toilet, right?

The reality is that the mundane stuff never goes away. But it serves a purpose. It must be taken care of first before the other work can get done. It seems our values are mixed up. Yes, we should value the people who have special gifts. But we should also value the people who make it possible for these people to develop and share their gifts. And we should also create opportunities for all people to develop and share their gifts.

The wives who do the mundane work so their husbands can do the more valued work also have gifts to offer the world. But if they are told that the husband’s gifts are always more important, then the world lacks the gifts the wife has to offer. If wives and husbands shared the responsibility for the mundane work, then both would have time to pursue other work.

There is another problem with the Do vs. Be dichotomy: It seems that it is not true that women Be and men Do. We say that, but there is a discrepancy between what we say and how things are. We say one thing but do another. I’m thinking of a book, Why Women Get Sick, that I read recently. In it the author points out how women are told they are weak, but in reality the women are frequently the ones holding everything together. They are responsible not only for physically holding the family together, but holding them together emotionally, spiritually, and even financially in many cases. I think it is incorrect to say that women just have to Be. We tell ourselves that, but it seems that women Do a lot so that men can Be. Women buy into the myth that they are dependent on men, but in reality, the men are dependent on the women. Just as slaveholders were dependent on slaves. The slaves did all the hard work so the slave owners could be wealthy and powerful. They tried to convince the slave that s/he was inferior and incapable and it was his/her place to serve and submit. They wanted control without responsibility. That is tyranny.

Examples from popular culture illustrate how families and roles have changed. Shows like Everybody Loves Raymond and Life According to Jim are examples, I believe, of the traditional family in transition. Yes, it's great the women's movement has helped empower women, but it has not done enough to empower men and help them adjust to the changes. Many men are unsure of their role, and more importantly, they are unsure of the power they have in that role. They are feeling vulnerable.

Another characteristic of this of this transition time is that there is no authenticity. What we say is not what we live. Our performance has not caught up with our competence. Men know all the right things to say. And women know all of the right things they would like to hear. Men know how to tell women they are equal. And women and men think the women are being treated as equal if the man offers to do dishes and vacuum and watch the kids and change diapers. The problem is that the men aren't doing these things for the reasons they say. They don't do them because they think they are responsible for them: they do them as a favor. They feel like they are doing something above and beyond the call of duty. They do it because they want to, because it feeds their ego, not because they feel like they have to. 

So what happens when they have to? Some of the men I know feel resentful and unappreciated. They really haven't gotten it that it's their responsibility to take care of themselves, let alone the wife and kids in times of need. That is above and beyond the call of duty, remember. Because men have never been taught that it's their responsibility—they have never been taught how to effectively respond—they feel out of control and overwhelmed. They are used to being taken care of, and when the wife can't take care of things like she used to, the men have a lot of anxiety. And they often look for someone else to take care of them.

Many men simply repeat with their wives what they have learned at work, which is often another example of the master/slave relationship. Bosses abuse their power to keep their employees under control. If the boss lets the employees know how talented they are or that have the means, they might start their own business and compete with him. That can't be allowed to happen. It's the employees’ job to make the boss successful. They are paid to only need what the boss needs and wants. They can't do side work because it's disloyal. All their time and energy must go toward making the boss rich and powerful and happy and successful. That is their God-given duty. It's not the boss's job to make the employees rich and powerful. It should make the employees feel happy and successful when the boss is happy and successful. That is what they were created for.  And how dare they not appreciate all the boss does for them. Don't they realize they would be nothing without the boss?

Many traditional religious structures illustrate this hierarchy as well. Many of us have been taught that the hierarchy is God, then man, then woman, then children. In this system, women and children never have direct access to God. The man always serves as mediator. Just as the boss serves as mediator between wealth (and success and power) and employees.

We see how this kind of rigid traditional system can be harmful to women, but what about the damage it does to men? The women may have all of the responsibility but they also have the tools they need to thrive and be independent if the system collapses. But by assuming all of the responsibility they deny men the ability to be independent.

Men are just as much a "victim" of the current system as women. The way the system has worked has been that the man's needs always come first. Always. That's the hierarchy. And the woman is supposed to meet all of his needs. Had we taught men and women that they were responsible for and capable of meeting their own needs themselves, and had we taught them how to meet them in healthy ways, perhaps they wouldn't do it in unhealthy ways.

Women have been fighting to dismantle this system, but some have tried to invert it rather than create something egalitarian. Some people feel that taking responsibility means blaming someone else. And many women are resentful for having been oppressed in the old system. No wonder the men feel threatened. They are now in a position where they feel dependent and they fear that women will try to control them. They are anxious about their new responsibilities and feel afraid and ashamed when they can't do things as well as women because they haven't had practice. They also feel resentful and defensive. In the old system men were used to being better than. In the new system, equality feels like a step down.

Another problem we face is that our definition of respect is changing and that has left both men and women confused. The old definition of respect was to treat people as you think they should be treated. It was easy to respect women because the men were the ones determining how the women should be treated. The women had no say in it. If the man said it was respectful for him to open the door for the woman, then the woman couldn't complain he was being disrespectful so long as he was doing the things he deemed respectful. Never mind if the woman didn't care if he opened the door. Never mind if what she really wanted was for him to do the dishes.

Another definition of respect is to treat people as they would like to be treated. But that is difficult for some men. They don't have a lot of practice at letting wives decide how they want to be treated. They have more practice at telling them how they should want to be treated. Allowing others to decide how they want to be treated means acknowledging that they have needs and desires that are different from your own. And it means allowing them control of themselves. Men are afraid that women will try to control them. And they are afraid to feel vulnerable in other ways. What if the woman wants something the man can't provide? What does that do to his sense of identity, self esteem, and personal control? Or what if the woman wants something the man wants for himself? Who comes first? For many men, compromise means capitulation.

Is a struggle for power inevitable? How do we empower the men who don't want to be empowered, who don't or won't see the need for change, or who are afraid to change? What is an appropriate role for women in all of this? 

In many ways, men are at a temporary disadvantage because in the old system men didn’t think they would have to work so much themselves to feel successful. After all, if I “had been a good wife,” my ex told me once, then he would be successful. If he was ever unhappy, unfulfilled, or unsuccessful then it must be my fault. 

I don’t think my first marriage was really that atypical. Gender roles have changed and it seems like a lot of men are confused now about their identity and their desires. The old system didn’t allow women to get their needs met, but we don’t seem to have a new system in place so that both men and women get their needs met. Again, it seems like we’re in a transition phase: our performance has not caught up with our competence. Many men say they feel women are equal. And they do all the right things: they help cook, they help clean, they change diapers. But they are secretly still buying into the old system. The actions have changed, but the values have not.

And in some families when the secret comes out there is an all out war. Especially when it comes to whose values, whose definition of respect, which power structure will be passed down to the children. One of my lit professors, Greg Garvey, posited that the central issue in Shakespeare’s The Tempest is over who gets to reproduce with Miranda. In other words, whose values get passed on in the new world—i.e. whose values get passed on to the kids? There were times in my marriage where I was literally not allowed to speak. I had to hide books that I was reading for fear my ex would think I was corrupting his children. The kids and I were not allowed to have our own identities.

I have wondered if this was a typical battle between male and female values, between reproduction and transformation: do men have children out of a desire to reproduce themselves, and women out of a desire to transform themselves?

I think if men didn't fear that the new system would be as oppressive to them as the old system is to women that they would be more willing to work with women to change it. What many men fail to realize is that they are also oppressed in the traditional system. The king in the traditional system isn't the man, or even God, it's Fear.

I am reminded of the classic transcendentalist debate over how to reform society: Do you change individuals or institutions?

Individuals must change themselves. You can't change them. But when institutions change, that forces/facilitates change in individuals. The way to change individuals, then, is to give them the opportunity to change themselves.

A metaphor I came up with while having to contemplate divorce:

I feel like a slave who thinks the only way to truly be free is to reform the system, which means to create conditions so that each person may free him or herself.

I changed when I went to college, and as a result I changed the structure of my marriage which put pressure on my ex-husband to change. Like many men, he feared and resisted that change and we ended up with a war.

My ex wanted things to stay the same. And he keeps trying to relive the past. He believes that the old system is the best for him; therefore, it should be best for everyone. He was accurate to perceive my trying to change things as a threat to his values. He may continue to feel that he needs a wife to serve him so he can achieve success. He may continue to define success as having others be dependent on him. He may prefer tyranny.

I don't think that's where we're headed though. Change is inevitable. So how do we change the institutions of marriage and family in our society in order to help facilitate the highest level of development for everyone? Who cleans the toilets? How do they do it and not be resentful or wither up?

What I have discovered is that sometimes the only way to change an institution is to refuse to participate in it. I kept trying to create conditions so my ex could free himself, when really I simply needed to free myself.

Freedom is responsibility.

Margaret Fuller believed that if we could make marriage egalitarian, we could change the world. Maybe the work I'm doing is enough for now. Maybe it feels like I'm trying to change the world because in my own small way I am.

No wonder my ex felt threatened. It is a shame, though, that he was too afraid to see that what I wanted was for us to change our world together.

Inconceivable

Circa 2000: another of the prompts where you use words given to you, and another of the prompts for which I've forgotten the words...

He can’t be deceptive:

she knows

his taste, touch, smell, sight,

and sound by heart;

she knows his heart by sound:

by pressing her ear

to the left side of his chest, listening

for the eruption.

She can’t be deceptive:

he can read her heart,

her mind, find and unwind

every word, every thought

until it completely unravels

her thread bare

and him ready

to erupt.

No, it’s not the sex:

sex is deceptive;

it promises eternity,

but eternity lies

in conception;

it lies

in the desire

to abstract only his sound

from her silence:

it lies

in the deception

about to

erupt.

The Comfort of Bleeding

Circa 2007. Self-explanatory.

Every twenty eight days,

belly bloated,   eyes red,

body soul exhausted

I confess my ritual wish

to my partner

With any luck,

I will start bleeding today

Every twenty eight days,

my partner nods, shakes

his head, eases me

into his arms, confesses

he still has trouble

getting used to the sound

of that

Solitaire

Too hard to put a date on this one. I started a version of it in 1993, the year my ex and I probably should have gotten divorced, and finally finished it in 2003, the year we actually got divorced. 

I sacrificed

twenty years

to be with you

At first I was captured

by the solitaire surrounding

my finger, sparkling so fiercely

I was blinded by the physical

beauty, blinded by

the promise I believed

it held

I thought we would become

One

And your love would fill

all the empty spaces

It hurt us both

when you realized

you didn’t want the life

I’d forfeited for you

when I realized

I wanted back the life

I’d surrendered to you

But after too many years of playing

solitaire in the dark ‘till 3 a.m.

then crying myself to sleep

I finally decided

to escape

the kind of solitary confinement

your love put me in

I was terrified:

I thought we would become one

Writer's Block

Circa 2000: I was trying for humor :-)

Under the desk,

still warm, hides

a mechanical pencil,

the point lost

inside the barrel, the

eraser rubbed flat.

Next to the desk,

still cold, spills

a stockpile of

crumpled white paper:

cannibalistic snowballs

eager to feed

on the next litter.

On the desk,

still ambivalent, rests

a single sheet of

lined white paper,

blue lines creating

row after row

of tiny, empty

shelves waiting

to be filled like Old

Mother Hubbard’s

cupboard.

“The children are hungry,”

cries the paper

to the pencil,

“But Mother is too poor

to feed them,” answer

the gluttonous snowballs,

mockingly.

Revelations

Circa 2002: The result of navel gazing, not a formal writing prompt.

One linguistics course

and one manic summer

later I discovered God

is Universal

Grammar and

I am

just one more

imperfect speaker,

uttering one more religion,

one more dialect, one more creole,

at home only in my own vernacular.

Returned to Sender

Circa 2001: I was asked to write a found poem. I supplemented instructions from a packing label.

No strapping tape allowed.

There is no standard 
conventionalacceptablenormal

Form    for this            content.

Inspect and ensure the shipping label is addressed properly.

Why               do we              try        to put _____ in            a

box?    Is there            only one                      variety of _____?

Why                are there          so         few      boxes

from    which to         choose?

Use bubble wrap or foam peanuts and secure properly to prevent damage or loss.

How much      will I    have to pay  to            deliver

this?     where has it                delivered

me?                             

Oh,      no,       did I    forget

to use the foam pea-

nuts?

My Child's Eyes

Circa 1999: I was asked to write a haiku.

Two brown suns rising
slowly above my kneecaps,
my waist, my own eyes

Fine Tuning

Circa 2005: I assigned a name acrostic poem exercise in a creative writing class I was teaching and had fun creating one of my own.

Just don’t call me Dee Dee— or beware the

Anger buried beneath layers of lace and laughter

Nearly purple but not too blue, my rainbow, an

Inch or two too short, heavy with candles,

Cosmetics, compound sentences, Coca-Cola with crushed ice and a straw

Easily too much chocolate, but never enough when

Cats escape and turn into tigers, questions escape and turn into

Avalanches. The answer, I discovered, decked out in

Renaissance-style Stevie-esque handkerchief hems and high-heeled boots:  

Everyone suffers—even Eric, my

Love, whose Tibetan singing bowl I covet. Some days he finds me

Lingering in the aisles in Barnes and Noble,

Ogling books instead of grading, imagining possibilities.

[Extinguishing] The Lamp on the Stand (Luke 8:16-18)

Circa 2001: the year of the mid-life crisis and bout of depression. Though I was only 31 at the time, and I plan to live past 62, so I suppose "life crisis" is more accurate than "mid-life crisis."

“No one lights a lamp and hides it in a jar or puts it under a bed.”

You keep the anti-Christs

in your make-up case,

swallow eight pink pills

twice a day

as directed:

Take and eat. This is your body.

“Instead, [s]he puts it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light.”

You forage to find

the right shade of red

lipstick that will make flesh desirable

to flesh, to find the perfect flesh-

colored concealer to shade

the scars and blemishes.

“For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed

 that will not be known or brought out into the open.”

Prescriptions are spiritual

cosmetics: FDA approved faith

healers/ concealers/ stealers

pitching a sale

you can’t refuse.

“Therefore consider carefully how you listen.”

Listen carefully: the script

calls for cosmetic sponges,

but instead of applying

they’re trying to absorb

an insatiable desire.

“Whoever has will be given more; whoever does not have, even what [s]he thinks

[s]he has will be taken from [her].”

I had the light of God in me,

you said. Refuse the wine,

refuse the bread, they said:

This is the only communion

you need now:

A bit of Lithium, a dram of Amitryptiline,

and a pinch of Valproic acid too—

a custom pharmaceutical brew 

to conceal the witch in you— 

burned at the State,

if you don’t swallow

as directed:

Take and eat. This is your body. 

Engendered Pyrotechnics

Circa 2000: I have no memory of what inspired this poem, just a memory that one of my female profs avoided making any comment on it. 

His anger

like a wildfire

ignited

consumes

every convenient combustible contiguous object

violent flames

reach reach

resist yet invite

bodies to quench the rage

Her anger

like a fireplace

fueled

savors

every twig branch marshmallow

smoldering embers

linger linger

resist yet invite

fire irons to tend the flame

Their anger

like a firebug

growing

greedy feeding on

every firecracker firework, firing line

powerful pyrotechnics

play play

resist yet invite

rhetoric to raise the blaze

Cleaving

Circa 2000: In response to a writing prompt that challenged me to use the structure of a published poem to create my own poem. I used Etheridge Knight's "My Life the Quality of Which" as inspiration.

Two strangers

whose fervor

from their first

spoken syllables

created a desire

to marry two pasts

two presents

two futures

whose words have made them

ONE

cleave in Silence

but you have to listen for it 

Answer

Circa 1999: Based on an exchange I had with another student while I was working as a writing tutor at SUNY Brockport

 “Two kids,” I say

and you, unable to see

the wrinkles in my face,

suggest a poem about

dirty diapers.

“Nine and Twelve,” I say

and you, unable to see

my face in their faces,

require proof.

But I say nothing

Belgian Beer is Best

Circa 2003: In response to one of those writing prompts where you are given a few random words and  integrate them in a story. Platypus and Belgian beer were two of the words. I forget the others.

“Belgian Beer is Best.”

This time the slogan had been scribbled on a slip of coffee-stained stationery and slid under Ania’s front door. Lavazza. It had to be. It was the only brand of coffee Davin drank. This month. He was so obsessive about his beverages. That’s what had started the Belgian beer campaign in the first place.

Davin was no food snob: he savored a Whopper as much as smoked salmon, if he was in the mood for it. When it came to food, he was simply interested in exploring new tastes, new textures, new versions of old favorites. That’s how he had discovered the casual comfort of popcorn in tomato soup and the nostalgic gratification of frozen HoHos and fruit-filled snack pies devoured right from the freezer. But when it came to drinks, especially the potent potables, Davin was on an unending quest for the best.

Of course, the only way to determine the best is to try the rest. And Davin made it his life’s work to try every alcoholic beverage ever made. This was a full time job in itself. Not that Davin was an alcoholic. Or even that his desire was insatiable. It was a matter of experimentation, evaluation, trial and error.

Davin’s favorite explanation for his fixation was to quote Blake: “The road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” Without excess of rum how would he have learned that Black Seal was supreme and that Bacardi was better suited for mouthwash than firewater? Without excess of agave, how would he have discovered that mezcal was the finer cousin of tequila? So far, Lajita Mezcal had earned his vote, but he would need to become familiar with more gusanos before the next election. Unlike politicians, liquor didn’t lie.

In vino veritas: In wine there is truth. Davin was seeking truth. The only problem was that falsehoods came in too many enticing flavors: some tart, some sweet, some bold and sassy, some cool, distant, and refreshing. Unable to part with the past, Davin’s solution was to maintain a harem of hard liquor and a supply of wine concubines. When looking for a new beauty, packaging was certainly a consideration: a shapely, smooth bottle added to the allure, like lingerie on a mysterious woman. But a virgin display was not enough. Davin was convinced that truth lies only in experience, not in imagination. So he indulged in experience.

When I say, “Just looking,” I mean I am searching, I have my “eye out” for something. Looking is hoping, desiring, never just taking in light, never just merely collecting patterns and data. Looking is possessing or the desire to possess—we eat food, we own objects, and we “possess” bodies—and there is no looking without thoughts of using, possessing, repossessing, owning, fixing, appropriating, keeping, remembering and commemorating, cherishing, borrowing, and stealing. I cannot look at anything—any object, any person—without the shadow of the thought of possessing that thing. Those appetites don’t just accompany looking: they are looking itself.[1]

The only liquid Ania indulged in was body lotion. She collected new fragrances like Davin collected new flavors: Relaxing Anise, Stimulating Spice, Hot Toddy. Her latest acquisition was Concupiscent Cucumber-Melon.

Ania was also seeking truth. The only problem was that there were too many truths, too many interpretations. She wanted intellectual anarchy, not an election. She found fulfillment in formulations of fantasy and reality, in compositions of natural and artificial ingredients, in emulsions of lanolin and FD&C Red No. 5.

It wasn’t really an argument. And it wasn’t really about beer. It was about Ania’s refusal to participate in Davin’s elections. The problem wasn’t that she questioned Davin’s obsession or his distribution of superlatives. The problem was that she imagined.

She imagined that Davin was her lover. Sometimes. Sometimes she imagined that he was her father. And her child. And her friend. And her enemy.

Ania actually kissed him once. It happened at the State Fair. They had literally been throwing money away, trying to land dimes on glass saucers. It took Davin two hundred and forty two dimes, but he finally won the fuzzy stuffed purple platypus.

Ania wanted it. She was fascinated by platypuses, having read that male duckbills are the only poisonous mammals. Ania imagined that they used their poison as an aphrodisiac, when it worked, and as a tranquilizer when it didn’t. Davin offered to trade the platypus for a kiss. So Ania kissed him once and realized that Davin was also a part of herself. A part that petrified her.

Desire here is enacted as a restlessness reversing the libidinal economy of ownership; instead of wanting to possess or even “know” the other, we want to sustain the experiential excitement of not knowing, the seductive wonder we feel at discovering that the other is beyond us, unknown, inexhaustible.[2]

Ania actually kissed him once, but she imagined kissing him a thousand different times. She imagined she kissed him every time she found one of his notes, one of his not-so-subtle suggestions that she experience more of life. She imagined long, wet kisses in the living room where he slipped notes under the door; soft, stolen kisses outside, by the mailbox, where he wasted paper and 20 cent stamps sending her postcards; hot, breathy kisses in the laundry room where she found messages scrawled on used dryer sheets; full-bodied full-body kisses in the bedroom where he hid notes under her pillows. And after each imagined kiss she shredded Davin’s note and swore under her breath.

Explanation

 What if

I open my eyes

sing out my secrets

and those dreams drown

in your eyes?

By keeping my silence

I cannot disappoint

and the dreamer never dies[3]

Davin rejected Ania’s explanation. Ania continued to reject Davin’s intimations. Davin rejected Ania’s rejection and continued on his quest for the perfect drink.

“You want that on the rocks?”

“No, Sir, I take mine neat.”

Davin couldn’t imagine how anyone could dilute experience. Who would vitiate a shot of Oban with ice?  He didn’t even indulge in mixed drinks because he likened it to participating in an orgy. What might be gained in pleasure is definitely lost in control. Davin wanted control, so he stuck with serial monogamy.

Ania didn’t know how not to dilute experience. When you can’t manage experience with your hands you manage it with your imagination. What might be lost in pleasure is gained in control. Ania wanted control, so she stuck with masturbation.

Irony is about contradictions that do not resolve into larger wholes, even dialectically, about the tension of holding incompatible things together because both or all are necessary and true.[4]

---

[1] Elkins, James. The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing. San Diego: Harvest, 1997.

[2] Davis and Schadle, “Alternative Research Writing and the Academic Act of Seeking,” CCC 51.3 (2000):  422.

[3] Janice Carello. 1993.

[4] Haraway, Donna. Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. New York: Routledge, 1991.

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.