Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou. Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith: we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; What seem'd my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise.-Alfred, Lord Tennyson
6.21.2012
In Memoriam
11.08.2011
Human Sacrifice in the Bible
In Genesis 22, God tests Abraham’s faithfulness by telling him to make the greatest sacrifice of all: He asks him to sacrifice his beloved and only son, Isaac. Abraham has complete faith in God. Abraham intends to do what has been commanded him; however, he is confident that he will not be asked to actually carry it through. This is made clear in verse five, where Abraham says to his servants “I and the boy [will] go over there. We will worship and then we will come back to you.” Abraham has complete faith that God will provide a way out.
It might seem unreasonable for a good God to ask his servant to commit human sacrifice, but this good God is also a just God. Justice requires human sin to be atoned for with human life, but the loving God allows another sacrifice to be performed as a replacement for what is really necessary. God asks Abraham to perform this sacrifice for two main reasons: to show what a faithful servant looks like, and to prove that God will always provide a way out. Abraham learns what it really means to trust in God- to obey Him, even when it seems absurd. He also learns that in those cases when God’s command does seem absurd, there is always a purpose and a way out.
Because Abraham is willing to perform the sacrifice, a substitute sacrifice is provided. If Abraham hadn’t gone through with what he was commanded, God would not have been able to provide! By putting Abraham to the test, God showed Himself to be loving, compassionate, and kind. God Himself supplied a ram as a burnt offering, something that would later be required of the Israelites as atonement for sin.
The story in Genesis 22 does not support, but doesn’t necessarily “condemn” human sacrifice. On the contrary, it makes it clear that human sacrifice is completely necessary. If the purpose of human sacrifice is to atone for sin, then what good would anything but a human sacrifice do? It is human sin, so human blood needs to be spilled. In Genesis 22, God shows grace to Abraham and Isaac. Death is what is deserved, but God does not require it. Similarly according to Christianity, human death is required for salvation, but because God is a loving God he provided Jesus, the perfect and spotless “Lamb of God,” to be a once and for all God-Man sacrifice.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a life for a life is the principle set forth in Exodus, and according to this, one human death would only atone for one human’s sin. If Isaac had been sacrificed, it would have accomplished essentially nothing. The sacrifice of a ram or a lamb is enough not forever, but only for a little while. The fact that God initially demanded human sacrifice proves that it is actually what is necessary. Throughout the Old Testament there are innumerable instances in which the relationship between God and different people, or God and Israel, is comparable to the story told in the Christian Bible’s New Testament.
Necessity of human sacrifice appears again in the books of Moses. In the account of the Exodus, in the tenth plague, God is going to kill all of the first born sons of both the Israelites and the Egyptians. Once again, a way out is provided. This time, it is a perfect and spotless lamb that must be sacrificed by each household, and this is sufficient to save the lives of Israel’s firstborns. As Abraham and Isaac are climbing the mountain to make the sacrifice, Abraham tells Isaac that “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering.” Not only is Abraham correct in this instance, but he is also correct in a much larger sense. When the Israelites are in Egypt and God strikes down the firstborns, the Israelite firstborns are saved because God provides a different offering. According to Christianity, all humans are destined to eternal death because of sin, but because of the sacrifice of the Son of God, salvation from that death is available.
As a Christian, I would hold that Isaac’s near-sacrifice experience was meant to be a picture of what would one day happen to Jesus, but for Jesus there was no substitute ram. Isaac was led to the slaughter by his own father, and he was even made to carry the wood for the sacrifice. By this time Abraham was a very old man, and Isaac was at his prime. Isaac didn’t have to obey his father; instead, he could have overpowered him at any moment, but he didn’t. Isaac obeyed and trusted his father, even as a knife was raised to kill him. Jesus, who was fully God and fully man, did not have to be crucified. He could have stopped it at any moment, but He allowed the beatings to continue, and He allowed His killers to force Him to carry the very wood that would become His cross. To me, these stories are inextricably linked. When the ram was provided, Isaac wasn’t completely saved. Salvation didn’t come until God committed the sacrifice himself.
God committed the sacrifice of His own firstborn Son so that Abraham wouldn’t have to. So, is human sacrificed condemned? Certainly not. On the contrary, human sacrifice is absolutely necessary. But is it condoned? By no means! It has already been done. For the Jew, animal sacrifice is salvation, at least for the time being. For the Christian, the ultimate sacrifice has been performed, by God Himself.
It might seem unreasonable for a good God to ask his servant to commit human sacrifice, but this good God is also a just God. Justice requires human sin to be atoned for with human life, but the loving God allows another sacrifice to be performed as a replacement for what is really necessary. God asks Abraham to perform this sacrifice for two main reasons: to show what a faithful servant looks like, and to prove that God will always provide a way out. Abraham learns what it really means to trust in God- to obey Him, even when it seems absurd. He also learns that in those cases when God’s command does seem absurd, there is always a purpose and a way out.
Because Abraham is willing to perform the sacrifice, a substitute sacrifice is provided. If Abraham hadn’t gone through with what he was commanded, God would not have been able to provide! By putting Abraham to the test, God showed Himself to be loving, compassionate, and kind. God Himself supplied a ram as a burnt offering, something that would later be required of the Israelites as atonement for sin.
The story in Genesis 22 does not support, but doesn’t necessarily “condemn” human sacrifice. On the contrary, it makes it clear that human sacrifice is completely necessary. If the purpose of human sacrifice is to atone for sin, then what good would anything but a human sacrifice do? It is human sin, so human blood needs to be spilled. In Genesis 22, God shows grace to Abraham and Isaac. Death is what is deserved, but God does not require it. Similarly according to Christianity, human death is required for salvation, but because God is a loving God he provided Jesus, the perfect and spotless “Lamb of God,” to be a once and for all God-Man sacrifice.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a life for a life is the principle set forth in Exodus, and according to this, one human death would only atone for one human’s sin. If Isaac had been sacrificed, it would have accomplished essentially nothing. The sacrifice of a ram or a lamb is enough not forever, but only for a little while. The fact that God initially demanded human sacrifice proves that it is actually what is necessary. Throughout the Old Testament there are innumerable instances in which the relationship between God and different people, or God and Israel, is comparable to the story told in the Christian Bible’s New Testament.
Necessity of human sacrifice appears again in the books of Moses. In the account of the Exodus, in the tenth plague, God is going to kill all of the first born sons of both the Israelites and the Egyptians. Once again, a way out is provided. This time, it is a perfect and spotless lamb that must be sacrificed by each household, and this is sufficient to save the lives of Israel’s firstborns. As Abraham and Isaac are climbing the mountain to make the sacrifice, Abraham tells Isaac that “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering.” Not only is Abraham correct in this instance, but he is also correct in a much larger sense. When the Israelites are in Egypt and God strikes down the firstborns, the Israelite firstborns are saved because God provides a different offering. According to Christianity, all humans are destined to eternal death because of sin, but because of the sacrifice of the Son of God, salvation from that death is available.
As a Christian, I would hold that Isaac’s near-sacrifice experience was meant to be a picture of what would one day happen to Jesus, but for Jesus there was no substitute ram. Isaac was led to the slaughter by his own father, and he was even made to carry the wood for the sacrifice. By this time Abraham was a very old man, and Isaac was at his prime. Isaac didn’t have to obey his father; instead, he could have overpowered him at any moment, but he didn’t. Isaac obeyed and trusted his father, even as a knife was raised to kill him. Jesus, who was fully God and fully man, did not have to be crucified. He could have stopped it at any moment, but He allowed the beatings to continue, and He allowed His killers to force Him to carry the very wood that would become His cross. To me, these stories are inextricably linked. When the ram was provided, Isaac wasn’t completely saved. Salvation didn’t come until God committed the sacrifice himself.
God committed the sacrifice of His own firstborn Son so that Abraham wouldn’t have to. So, is human sacrificed condemned? Certainly not. On the contrary, human sacrifice is absolutely necessary. But is it condoned? By no means! It has already been done. For the Jew, animal sacrifice is salvation, at least for the time being. For the Christian, the ultimate sacrifice has been performed, by God Himself.
10.07.2011
Julie Nash
“Hi! You must be Sarah!” Julie Nash grinned and extended her hand to me as I swung open the door to her office and gasped for breath. I smiled and nodded as I shook her hand. “How are you?” she asked.
“Good! Embarrassed. I’m so sorry I’m late! I couldn’t find parking, and then I got lost in Dracut, and then,” I paused and looked in my bag. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I left my notebook and pen in my car!”
“Oh no!” Nash exclaimed. “Here, have this.” She handed me beautiful canvas binder with “UMass Lowell Honors Program” stitched onto the front. Inside I found a notebook, a pen, and a calculator.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Just a piece of paper would be amazing. I don’t need to take this from you….”
“It’s no problem! Keep it.”
And with that, I sat down in Julie Nash’s office to conduct an interview.
“I’m very privileged to do the work that I do. To be able to work with my colleagues and teach my students, and that they pay me for it, is an amazing thing. I don’t take that for granted.” Dr. Julie Nash was living in Minnesota with her husband and two small children, finishing her dissertation, when her husband found a job at Suffolk University in Boston. After moving to Boston, Nash knew exactly what she wanted in a job but never expected to find it. She was amazed when she discovered a job opening at the University of Massachusetts Lowell that matched her criteria to the letter. Nash applied and was asked to take the position—the only catch was that she was left with less than a month to finish her dissertation. After a few weeks of hard work, Nash began her dream job at UMass Lowell.
Julie Nash works as the Acting Director of the UMass Lowell Honors Program and an Associate Professor in the UMass Lowell English Department, and has taught British literature and writing at the University since 2002. She has a B. A. in English from Oklahoma State University, and an M. A. and Ph. D. in English from the University of Connecticut. She previously has taught at the University of Connecticut, Eastern Connecticut State University, Gustavus Adolphus College, Merrimack College, and Emerson College. Dr. Nash’s scholarly interests focus on British women novelists, servants in literature, literature of the Industrial Revolution, and 18th- and 19th -century literature. She currently is researching and writing a book about the Lowell Mill girls and the Lowell Offering, the first American periodical written and published exclusively by women.
Julie Nash authored Servants and Paternalism in Works by Maria Edgeworth and Elizabeth Gaskell (Ashgate Publishing, 2007), and with husband Quentin Miller coauthored the literature for composition textbook Connections (Cengage). She has edited two collections of essays, New Approaches to the Literary Art of Anne Bronte (Ashgate Publishing, 2001, co-edited with Barbara Suess) and New Essays on Maria Edgeworth (Ashgate Publishing, 2006). She has published articles on the British authors Aphra Behn, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Gaskell, and Fay Weldon, and she was a guest editor for a special issue on servants and literature in the journal Lit: Literature, Interpretation, Theory.
When asked to reveal her favorite part of working and teaching at UMass Lowell, Julie Nash didn’t skip a beat in answering “the students.” Her real home at the University will always be with students in the English Department, but she feels privileged now to have the chance to get to know students from all majors as the Acting Director of the Honors Program. “Students at UMass Lowell are as interesting and intelligent as students at any other public or private school, but they are completely down to earth and have no sense of entitlement.”
The students that Nash feels so passionately about clearly feel the same way about her. When asked, former students were bursting with excitement at the opportunity to recommend her. Ryan Lambert, a 2007 graduate of UMass Lowell, said “she was by far the best professor I ever had.” 2006 graduate Andre’ Gorgenyi said, “she was an outstanding, out-of-the-box professor. … She changed the way I watch TV and read books. She is genuinely a caring person. She is just awesome.” And Craig Uggerholt, a 2010 graduate and frequent writer for the UMass Lowell Connector said, “she’s the best professor I had at UML. She was such an awesome teacher and so helpful—she’s the reason I got into writing more seriously. She was also my advisor and was always super accommodating and helpful. I have nothing but good things to say about her—which is more than I can say about most people. She rules.”
Julie Nash is currently teaching Critical Methods, which is a gateway course for freshmen at the university. In her free time, Nash enjoys to travel, cook, eat, ski, and run. She lives in Medford with her husband and two sons, two cats, and a number of fish.
“Good! Embarrassed. I’m so sorry I’m late! I couldn’t find parking, and then I got lost in Dracut, and then,” I paused and looked in my bag. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I left my notebook and pen in my car!”
“Oh no!” Nash exclaimed. “Here, have this.” She handed me beautiful canvas binder with “UMass Lowell Honors Program” stitched onto the front. Inside I found a notebook, a pen, and a calculator.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Just a piece of paper would be amazing. I don’t need to take this from you….”
“It’s no problem! Keep it.”
And with that, I sat down in Julie Nash’s office to conduct an interview.
“I’m very privileged to do the work that I do. To be able to work with my colleagues and teach my students, and that they pay me for it, is an amazing thing. I don’t take that for granted.” Dr. Julie Nash was living in Minnesota with her husband and two small children, finishing her dissertation, when her husband found a job at Suffolk University in Boston. After moving to Boston, Nash knew exactly what she wanted in a job but never expected to find it. She was amazed when she discovered a job opening at the University of Massachusetts Lowell that matched her criteria to the letter. Nash applied and was asked to take the position—the only catch was that she was left with less than a month to finish her dissertation. After a few weeks of hard work, Nash began her dream job at UMass Lowell.
Julie Nash works as the Acting Director of the UMass Lowell Honors Program and an Associate Professor in the UMass Lowell English Department, and has taught British literature and writing at the University since 2002. She has a B. A. in English from Oklahoma State University, and an M. A. and Ph. D. in English from the University of Connecticut. She previously has taught at the University of Connecticut, Eastern Connecticut State University, Gustavus Adolphus College, Merrimack College, and Emerson College. Dr. Nash’s scholarly interests focus on British women novelists, servants in literature, literature of the Industrial Revolution, and 18th- and 19th -century literature. She currently is researching and writing a book about the Lowell Mill girls and the Lowell Offering, the first American periodical written and published exclusively by women.
Julie Nash authored Servants and Paternalism in Works by Maria Edgeworth and Elizabeth Gaskell (Ashgate Publishing, 2007), and with husband Quentin Miller coauthored the literature for composition textbook Connections (Cengage). She has edited two collections of essays, New Approaches to the Literary Art of Anne Bronte (Ashgate Publishing, 2001, co-edited with Barbara Suess) and New Essays on Maria Edgeworth (Ashgate Publishing, 2006). She has published articles on the British authors Aphra Behn, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Gaskell, and Fay Weldon, and she was a guest editor for a special issue on servants and literature in the journal Lit: Literature, Interpretation, Theory.
When asked to reveal her favorite part of working and teaching at UMass Lowell, Julie Nash didn’t skip a beat in answering “the students.” Her real home at the University will always be with students in the English Department, but she feels privileged now to have the chance to get to know students from all majors as the Acting Director of the Honors Program. “Students at UMass Lowell are as interesting and intelligent as students at any other public or private school, but they are completely down to earth and have no sense of entitlement.”
The students that Nash feels so passionately about clearly feel the same way about her. When asked, former students were bursting with excitement at the opportunity to recommend her. Ryan Lambert, a 2007 graduate of UMass Lowell, said “she was by far the best professor I ever had.” 2006 graduate Andre’ Gorgenyi said, “she was an outstanding, out-of-the-box professor. … She changed the way I watch TV and read books. She is genuinely a caring person. She is just awesome.” And Craig Uggerholt, a 2010 graduate and frequent writer for the UMass Lowell Connector said, “she’s the best professor I had at UML. She was such an awesome teacher and so helpful—she’s the reason I got into writing more seriously. She was also my advisor and was always super accommodating and helpful. I have nothing but good things to say about her—which is more than I can say about most people. She rules.”
Julie Nash is currently teaching Critical Methods, which is a gateway course for freshmen at the university. In her free time, Nash enjoys to travel, cook, eat, ski, and run. She lives in Medford with her husband and two sons, two cats, and a number of fish.
7.03.2011
Worlds Apart
I felt my Irish skin sizzling as I sat in the back of a tap-tap. I heard a chorus of “blanc! blanc!” coming from all around me. The stench of animal and human defecation, burning trash, and rotting food and flesh filled my nostrils. Billy knocked on the window to get my attention and said, “okay? okay!” He stepped on the pedal, and off we went.
***
“‘elp me?” An aged woman pulled back a blanket to reveal a tiny face, no more than a few hours old. I gasped, horrified, and waited for Sadrac to translate the full story.
“Her neighbor has five babies. HIV. No food. Baby in the trash,” Sadrac told me. I felt breakfast coming up my throat.
I rushed the premature and starving baby in to see Dr. Carter. The clinic had been set up just a week before with HIV testing facilities. Half an hour later our fear was confirmed. She needed care that our little clinic could not provide. In the US she would have been airlifted to the nearest major hospital, but in Titanyen, Haiti, she was bussed and taxied to the only major hospital. Jennifer, a volunteer nurse, a soft-spoken southerner with kind blue eyes and the prettiest blond curls, was sent to accompany the baby on the half-day’s journey to the hospital in Port-Au-Prince.
***
At 5:30 AM the fan in our room turned off, and I woke up instantly when sweat started to pool all over my body. Mosquitoes, no longer warded off by the fan, swarmed around my face. I climbed out of my top bunk and went to get some breakfast. Dr. Carter was sitting at the table talking to Jennifer, who had enormous black circles around her red-tinted eyes.
“What happened?” I asked anxiously.
She looked at me and spoke. “She…,” Jennifer choked on that one word and gasped as tears poured out of her eyes.
Dr. Carter finished for her. “She didn’t make it through the night.”
***
Anitha enunciated every consonant and puckered her lips as she spoke through her thick Creole accent. “Sawah, what do you do at home?” She sorted vitamins on the counter of the Mission of Hope’s pharmacy.
“I work at Starbucks.”
“Eh?” Anitha stared at me, raising her eyebrows in wait for me to actually answer her question.
“I work at…,” Sudden realization must have flashed across my face. “I work at a coffee…,” My eyes looked away as I thought hard. “I sell coffee. And food. Breakfast.”
Anitha nodded. “Oh! You like?”
“Yes… yeah, I like it.”
***
“Can you just drop off these de-worming meds on your way to the beach?” asked Dr. Carter, a wrinkly, retired, seventy-three year-old man with a thick southern accent who spent two weeks every other month volunteering at the Mission of Hope Haiti.
“Sure can!” said Andy, a pudgy New Englander who was, like me, on his first visit to a third world country. On the last day of our trip, our guilt-ridden beach day, Andy, the rest of our group, and I stopped at the same orphanage we’d visited a few days before. We were armed with a Ziploc bag of little white pills, and a party sized bag of Dum-Dums. At their teacher’s command, 45 orphans age 11 months through 14 years lined up for candy. The little ones cried when the medicine touched their taste-buds, but lit up when the flavor was put out by a Dum-Dum.
***
“Sarah! Get in here!” yelled Dr. Carter from the patient examination room.
I poked my head in the door. “Yes?” I asked expectantly.
“Here, take this. You’ve given shots before, right?” He extended his arms, and I saw in his hands a large syringe and vile filled with red liquid.
“What! You’re kidding! You do it. I don’t know how to give a shot.” I held up my hands in protest and started to back out of the room.
Dr. Carter laughed and said, “you have to learn sometime if you’re gonna be a nurse!”
“No I don’t! I’m not even sure I wanna be a nurse!” My eyebrows were raised sternly. “Oh, get over here. It’s easy.” Dr. Carter smiled and beckoned me into the room. Billy, the translator, spoke in Creole to the confused man sitting on the examination table, who laughed. He had yellow teeth and orange hair, a look that meant malnutrition. I stepped into the room, and Dr. Carter handed me the syringe and the vile. “Like this.” He motioned with his hands, and I reluctantly obeyed. I filled the syringe with Vitamin B12 and stabbed the needle into the Haitian man’s bony arm. He covered a wince with a gaping smile and a loud “merci!”
***
“What color is the discharge? And is there any burning or itching?”
Vena had a quick Creole conversation with the young patient, who had the saggiest A cup I’ve ever seen. “Yellow. Itchy.”
I inhaled quickly at the visual in my mind. My nostrils were greeted by putrid body odor. I wrote on my notepad and said, “anything else the matter?”
Vena again spoke to the old woman. “Diarrhea. That’s it.”
“Okay. She can go wait in there and then somebody will come get her.”
***
I wheeled my suitcase around a pile of cow dung and up a steep ladder. The stewardess smiled. “Do you need any help finding your seat?” I shook my head.
***
“I’m starving,” said Andy.
“Chili’s. I want Chili’s,” I said as I stepped into Miami National Airport.
Another member of our team said, “I don’t care where we go, as long as I can get a Bloody Mary.”
***
“Thank you for choosing Starbucks! This is Sarah. What can I get for you?” I spoke into my headset in response to the DING! in my ear.
“Ah, yes, I’d like a Venti Java Chip Frappuccino with whipped cream and extra chocolate drizzle,” said a sickly obese woman from her front seat.
“I’m very sorry, but we’re all out of Java Chips right now, so there won’t be any chunks in your Frappuccino. Is that okay?”
“What do you mean you’re all out of Java Chips? This is ridiculous. Never mind.”
I heard tires squeal, and she was gone.
***
“‘elp me?” An aged woman pulled back a blanket to reveal a tiny face, no more than a few hours old. I gasped, horrified, and waited for Sadrac to translate the full story.
“Her neighbor has five babies. HIV. No food. Baby in the trash,” Sadrac told me. I felt breakfast coming up my throat.
I rushed the premature and starving baby in to see Dr. Carter. The clinic had been set up just a week before with HIV testing facilities. Half an hour later our fear was confirmed. She needed care that our little clinic could not provide. In the US she would have been airlifted to the nearest major hospital, but in Titanyen, Haiti, she was bussed and taxied to the only major hospital. Jennifer, a volunteer nurse, a soft-spoken southerner with kind blue eyes and the prettiest blond curls, was sent to accompany the baby on the half-day’s journey to the hospital in Port-Au-Prince.
***
At 5:30 AM the fan in our room turned off, and I woke up instantly when sweat started to pool all over my body. Mosquitoes, no longer warded off by the fan, swarmed around my face. I climbed out of my top bunk and went to get some breakfast. Dr. Carter was sitting at the table talking to Jennifer, who had enormous black circles around her red-tinted eyes.
“What happened?” I asked anxiously.
She looked at me and spoke. “She…,” Jennifer choked on that one word and gasped as tears poured out of her eyes.
Dr. Carter finished for her. “She didn’t make it through the night.”
***
Anitha enunciated every consonant and puckered her lips as she spoke through her thick Creole accent. “Sawah, what do you do at home?” She sorted vitamins on the counter of the Mission of Hope’s pharmacy.
“I work at Starbucks.”
“Eh?” Anitha stared at me, raising her eyebrows in wait for me to actually answer her question.
“I work at…,” Sudden realization must have flashed across my face. “I work at a coffee…,” My eyes looked away as I thought hard. “I sell coffee. And food. Breakfast.”
Anitha nodded. “Oh! You like?”
“Yes… yeah, I like it.”
***
“Can you just drop off these de-worming meds on your way to the beach?” asked Dr. Carter, a wrinkly, retired, seventy-three year-old man with a thick southern accent who spent two weeks every other month volunteering at the Mission of Hope Haiti.
“Sure can!” said Andy, a pudgy New Englander who was, like me, on his first visit to a third world country. On the last day of our trip, our guilt-ridden beach day, Andy, the rest of our group, and I stopped at the same orphanage we’d visited a few days before. We were armed with a Ziploc bag of little white pills, and a party sized bag of Dum-Dums. At their teacher’s command, 45 orphans age 11 months through 14 years lined up for candy. The little ones cried when the medicine touched their taste-buds, but lit up when the flavor was put out by a Dum-Dum.
***
“Sarah! Get in here!” yelled Dr. Carter from the patient examination room.
I poked my head in the door. “Yes?” I asked expectantly.
“Here, take this. You’ve given shots before, right?” He extended his arms, and I saw in his hands a large syringe and vile filled with red liquid.
“What! You’re kidding! You do it. I don’t know how to give a shot.” I held up my hands in protest and started to back out of the room.
Dr. Carter laughed and said, “you have to learn sometime if you’re gonna be a nurse!”
“No I don’t! I’m not even sure I wanna be a nurse!” My eyebrows were raised sternly. “Oh, get over here. It’s easy.” Dr. Carter smiled and beckoned me into the room. Billy, the translator, spoke in Creole to the confused man sitting on the examination table, who laughed. He had yellow teeth and orange hair, a look that meant malnutrition. I stepped into the room, and Dr. Carter handed me the syringe and the vile. “Like this.” He motioned with his hands, and I reluctantly obeyed. I filled the syringe with Vitamin B12 and stabbed the needle into the Haitian man’s bony arm. He covered a wince with a gaping smile and a loud “merci!”
***
“What color is the discharge? And is there any burning or itching?”
Vena had a quick Creole conversation with the young patient, who had the saggiest A cup I’ve ever seen. “Yellow. Itchy.”
I inhaled quickly at the visual in my mind. My nostrils were greeted by putrid body odor. I wrote on my notepad and said, “anything else the matter?”
Vena again spoke to the old woman. “Diarrhea. That’s it.”
“Okay. She can go wait in there and then somebody will come get her.”
***
I wheeled my suitcase around a pile of cow dung and up a steep ladder. The stewardess smiled. “Do you need any help finding your seat?” I shook my head.
***
“I’m starving,” said Andy.
“Chili’s. I want Chili’s,” I said as I stepped into Miami National Airport.
Another member of our team said, “I don’t care where we go, as long as I can get a Bloody Mary.”
***
“Thank you for choosing Starbucks! This is Sarah. What can I get for you?” I spoke into my headset in response to the DING! in my ear.
“Ah, yes, I’d like a Venti Java Chip Frappuccino with whipped cream and extra chocolate drizzle,” said a sickly obese woman from her front seat.
“I’m very sorry, but we’re all out of Java Chips right now, so there won’t be any chunks in your Frappuccino. Is that okay?”
“What do you mean you’re all out of Java Chips? This is ridiculous. Never mind.”
I heard tires squeal, and she was gone.
COMBAT!
In the early nineties most of our friends watched Saved by the Bell, Full House, and Boy Meets World. Our lack of cable television left us out of the pop-culture loop, but we were blissfully ignorant. My brothers and I, always slightly different or as we thought, slightly cooler than our friends, had a unique favorite television show: Combat! The syndicated 1960s show about a squad of American soldiers in France during World War II scripted our backyard adventures. As often as my brothers Spencer and Rob could manage, our neighbors Chris and Ryan were enlisted to join our ranks. One sticky hot summer afternoon in 1994 while our mother made dinner, our backyard was a bloody battleground. I begged to be Sarge or Lieutenant, or Caje or Kirby. I wanted in on the action. There were krauts that needed to be killed! My chauvinistic oldest brother disagreed. “You’re a girl,” Spencer, age thirteen and therefore in charge, said. His sapphire blue eyes squinted in the sun as he said, “you’re a nurse.” I pouted. There weren’t even any nurses in the show, but Spencer was the sergeant.
After Spencer crawled out of our trench and before he motioned for us to follow, Rob told me, “you can be Doc.” I perked up with a smile at the thought of being one of the show’s regular characters. “He’s important! If we get shot you have to fix us or else we die.” Satisfied, I trailed along after my brothers and Chris and Ryan, intent on doctoring as many wounds as possible. I made sure I had everything I needed in my medical bag. I saw an ace bandage that Daddy brought home for me from his physical therapy appointment, a blue and yellow stethoscope with clear plastic tubing attaching the earpieces to the chest piece, one band-aid, and a bracelet-looking thing that I realized years later was supposed to be a blood-pressure cuff. I wouldn’t be letting my squad-mates die anytime soon.
We crawled through the woods—Sarge, followed by Kirby, Caje, Littlejohn, and Doc. Chris and Ryan’s mom didn’t believe in toy guns, so they made their own. They toted hockey sticks covered in black electrical tape with pieces of two-by-four taped on to fill out the shape of the gun. Our parents were more old-fashioned, so Spencer and Rob had real fake rifles, but Spencer had duct-taped a piece of two-by-four to his to create the magazine of his Thompson submachine gun, also known as Sarge’s Tommy gun. The soldiers clutched their oddly taped makeshift scrap wood rifles closely. I tugged on my doctor bag, and we all tried our best to not lose our camouflage hardhats in the underbrush. We followed Sarge’s lead, crawling on our bellies in order to remain unseen by the enemy.
Sarge suddenly yelled, “duck and cover!” and at that moment we all heard the horrifying, yet strangely exciting sound of an enormous plane flying overhead. Kirby followed Sarge’s order by tackling the straying Littlejohn under the cover of an enormous low-hanging evergreen tree and pulling me and my doctor bag along with him. My heart pounded inside my chest as I reminded myself that I needed to stay safe—I needed to be well enough to help anyone who got wounded. We heard the bomb fall hard and fast only about a football field’s length away—too close for comfort. We found some solace in the hope that it may have hit some nasty krauts.
Our hopes proved to be true—Sarge’s eyes shot from the sky where the plane had been to the grass a short distance away from us. There was a thump and we realized that the arm we saw fly through the sky had been German. The boys grinned and I felt nauseated. All was silent, and Sarge, with a wave and a grunt, gave us the OK to follow his lead and continue on our trek. He waved a hand behind himself—he heard krauts. We all stopped mid-crawl. He quickly held a finger to his lips and we listened intently. They were coming from around the abandoned shack we had been camping out in. Sarge and Kirby raised their rifles, Caje and Littlejohn waited for orders, and I crouched behind a rock to avoid getting struck by a stray bullet.
An incalculable number of German soldiers came into view as their helmets rose above the vast rock that two days later would mark the homerun line of our backyard baseball field. “BANG! BANG! BANG!” Kirby’s rifle fired but was quickly drowned out by the much louder “EH-EH-EH-EH-EH!” of Sarge’s Tommy gun filling the air. Eleven krauts down. Sarge and Kirby, my brothers, were brave and bold, shooting wildly but accurately. Kirby and Littlejohn hung back and stayed low to pick off the sneakier krauts. I could tell the Germans were losing great numbers because my squad mates emerged from their hiding places. Four prepubescent battle cries later, the boys were all up and running, determined to get every last enemy. “I got seven!” yelled Caje. “I got nine!” screeched Sarge. The sound of flying bullets and whooping, warring boys filled my ears. I remained hidden behind my tree while I waited to be needed.
The American soldiers chased the retreating cowards while I during a moment of entirely unwarranted wartime peace ran to tend to the wounded. In an area that my squad mates had already vanquished, I knelt, opened my bag, and urgently drew out my plastic stethoscope. I listened to his fading heartbeat and suddenly his eyes fluttered open. I knew they were the bad guys, but I always thought the German soldiers were so handsome. I could tell it was painful, but he managed a faint smile in my direction. I heard the dying German soldier whisper “danke” as I poured some invisible medicine into his invisible mouth. He sputtered and coughed briefly and then closed his eyes again as the pain eased. I told him “everything’s gonna be okay,” and he breathed his last.
I came out of my trance when I heard “DOC! DOC!” I looked up and I saw the boys running toward me. Kirby was wounded. He had his right arm slung over Caje’s shoulder and his left arm around Littlejohn’s. “He’s been hit!” Sarge called frantically. For the number of enemy soldiers we’d just done away with, a grazed shin wasn’t too bad. “Did you just save a bad guy?” Sarge asked with a mix of shock and big-brother pride in his voice. I nodded my head, relieved that he wasn’t mad. I hopped up to follow the boys along to our safe spot—the house-sized rock that we all thought had once been an Indian grinding stone. I began wrapping an ace bandage around Kirby’s wounded shin. His freckled nose wrinkled with his smile. “You’re a great Doc.” I grinned in response to the type of affirmation that mattered most—the affirmation of a big brother. I continued to wipe away the dirt and the blood from his shin, and for good measure I pulled a band-aid out of my bag and placed it over the wound.
Sarge leaned against the giant rock where Kirby and I were sitting, cleaning his gun. Caje sat on the ground with his back against an old oak tree, and Littlejohn stood a short distance away with a bag of sunflower seeds in his hands. His cheek looked like a chipmunk’s. Littlejohn spit. I looked and saw a growing mound of sunflower seed shells on the oak leaf-covered floor of the woods. “Stop!” Caje glared at Littlejohn after he received one too many sunflower seed shells to the body. He was going to pound his bold younger brother if it continued. “Pooowit!” A sunflower seed hit Caje’s face. He leapt to his feet and as he approached his brother, Littlejohn suddenly screamed.
“Aaaaauuugh!” He clutched his arm and fell to the ground. “We missed one!” Littlejohn pointed with his good arm, and Sarge, Caje, and the freshly healed Kirby immediately bolted in that direction. I rushed toward Littlejohn who was laughing at having so narrowly escaped the wrath of his brother. I listened to his heartbeat, and since I was out of band-aids I placed the blood-pressure bracelet around his arm. Moments later the other boys were back, victorious. “Gimme some of those!” Sarge stuck his hand into Littlejohn’s bag of sunflower seeds. “I’m starving!” I wandered off to pick some flowers. Littlejohn and Kirby began arm-wrestling, and Sarge and Caje watched and argued over who got to take the winner.
Attached to the side of our house next to the backdoor hung a giant copper-colored dinner bell, and the sound of our mother suddenly ringing the bell that evening was one of the most exciting sounds we’d heard all day. Sarge, Kirby, and I yelled “MESS!” in unison. We all ran out of the woods and toward the back porch where our mom stood. “Do you guys want to stay for dinner?” she asked Littlejohn and Caje, who excitedly responded “yes please,” and Caje went inside to call their mom to see if it was okay. I scrambled up the back porch stairs and yelled “Hi Daddy!” when I saw him open the door for me. I ran into the house and leapt into my daddy’s arms and dumped my doctor bag on the floor. “Everybody go wash your hands!” said Mommy. Daddy let me down and I skipped past the washing machine into the bathroom. I squeezed among the crowd of boys around the sink. “I need to refill on band-aids,” I thought to myself as I scrubbed the green and brown from my hands. My stomach growled. I smelled tacos.
After Spencer crawled out of our trench and before he motioned for us to follow, Rob told me, “you can be Doc.” I perked up with a smile at the thought of being one of the show’s regular characters. “He’s important! If we get shot you have to fix us or else we die.” Satisfied, I trailed along after my brothers and Chris and Ryan, intent on doctoring as many wounds as possible. I made sure I had everything I needed in my medical bag. I saw an ace bandage that Daddy brought home for me from his physical therapy appointment, a blue and yellow stethoscope with clear plastic tubing attaching the earpieces to the chest piece, one band-aid, and a bracelet-looking thing that I realized years later was supposed to be a blood-pressure cuff. I wouldn’t be letting my squad-mates die anytime soon.
We crawled through the woods—Sarge, followed by Kirby, Caje, Littlejohn, and Doc. Chris and Ryan’s mom didn’t believe in toy guns, so they made their own. They toted hockey sticks covered in black electrical tape with pieces of two-by-four taped on to fill out the shape of the gun. Our parents were more old-fashioned, so Spencer and Rob had real fake rifles, but Spencer had duct-taped a piece of two-by-four to his to create the magazine of his Thompson submachine gun, also known as Sarge’s Tommy gun. The soldiers clutched their oddly taped makeshift scrap wood rifles closely. I tugged on my doctor bag, and we all tried our best to not lose our camouflage hardhats in the underbrush. We followed Sarge’s lead, crawling on our bellies in order to remain unseen by the enemy.
Sarge suddenly yelled, “duck and cover!” and at that moment we all heard the horrifying, yet strangely exciting sound of an enormous plane flying overhead. Kirby followed Sarge’s order by tackling the straying Littlejohn under the cover of an enormous low-hanging evergreen tree and pulling me and my doctor bag along with him. My heart pounded inside my chest as I reminded myself that I needed to stay safe—I needed to be well enough to help anyone who got wounded. We heard the bomb fall hard and fast only about a football field’s length away—too close for comfort. We found some solace in the hope that it may have hit some nasty krauts.
Our hopes proved to be true—Sarge’s eyes shot from the sky where the plane had been to the grass a short distance away from us. There was a thump and we realized that the arm we saw fly through the sky had been German. The boys grinned and I felt nauseated. All was silent, and Sarge, with a wave and a grunt, gave us the OK to follow his lead and continue on our trek. He waved a hand behind himself—he heard krauts. We all stopped mid-crawl. He quickly held a finger to his lips and we listened intently. They were coming from around the abandoned shack we had been camping out in. Sarge and Kirby raised their rifles, Caje and Littlejohn waited for orders, and I crouched behind a rock to avoid getting struck by a stray bullet.
An incalculable number of German soldiers came into view as their helmets rose above the vast rock that two days later would mark the homerun line of our backyard baseball field. “BANG! BANG! BANG!” Kirby’s rifle fired but was quickly drowned out by the much louder “EH-EH-EH-EH-EH!” of Sarge’s Tommy gun filling the air. Eleven krauts down. Sarge and Kirby, my brothers, were brave and bold, shooting wildly but accurately. Kirby and Littlejohn hung back and stayed low to pick off the sneakier krauts. I could tell the Germans were losing great numbers because my squad mates emerged from their hiding places. Four prepubescent battle cries later, the boys were all up and running, determined to get every last enemy. “I got seven!” yelled Caje. “I got nine!” screeched Sarge. The sound of flying bullets and whooping, warring boys filled my ears. I remained hidden behind my tree while I waited to be needed.
The American soldiers chased the retreating cowards while I during a moment of entirely unwarranted wartime peace ran to tend to the wounded. In an area that my squad mates had already vanquished, I knelt, opened my bag, and urgently drew out my plastic stethoscope. I listened to his fading heartbeat and suddenly his eyes fluttered open. I knew they were the bad guys, but I always thought the German soldiers were so handsome. I could tell it was painful, but he managed a faint smile in my direction. I heard the dying German soldier whisper “danke” as I poured some invisible medicine into his invisible mouth. He sputtered and coughed briefly and then closed his eyes again as the pain eased. I told him “everything’s gonna be okay,” and he breathed his last.
I came out of my trance when I heard “DOC! DOC!” I looked up and I saw the boys running toward me. Kirby was wounded. He had his right arm slung over Caje’s shoulder and his left arm around Littlejohn’s. “He’s been hit!” Sarge called frantically. For the number of enemy soldiers we’d just done away with, a grazed shin wasn’t too bad. “Did you just save a bad guy?” Sarge asked with a mix of shock and big-brother pride in his voice. I nodded my head, relieved that he wasn’t mad. I hopped up to follow the boys along to our safe spot—the house-sized rock that we all thought had once been an Indian grinding stone. I began wrapping an ace bandage around Kirby’s wounded shin. His freckled nose wrinkled with his smile. “You’re a great Doc.” I grinned in response to the type of affirmation that mattered most—the affirmation of a big brother. I continued to wipe away the dirt and the blood from his shin, and for good measure I pulled a band-aid out of my bag and placed it over the wound.
Sarge leaned against the giant rock where Kirby and I were sitting, cleaning his gun. Caje sat on the ground with his back against an old oak tree, and Littlejohn stood a short distance away with a bag of sunflower seeds in his hands. His cheek looked like a chipmunk’s. Littlejohn spit. I looked and saw a growing mound of sunflower seed shells on the oak leaf-covered floor of the woods. “Stop!” Caje glared at Littlejohn after he received one too many sunflower seed shells to the body. He was going to pound his bold younger brother if it continued. “Pooowit!” A sunflower seed hit Caje’s face. He leapt to his feet and as he approached his brother, Littlejohn suddenly screamed.
“Aaaaauuugh!” He clutched his arm and fell to the ground. “We missed one!” Littlejohn pointed with his good arm, and Sarge, Caje, and the freshly healed Kirby immediately bolted in that direction. I rushed toward Littlejohn who was laughing at having so narrowly escaped the wrath of his brother. I listened to his heartbeat, and since I was out of band-aids I placed the blood-pressure bracelet around his arm. Moments later the other boys were back, victorious. “Gimme some of those!” Sarge stuck his hand into Littlejohn’s bag of sunflower seeds. “I’m starving!” I wandered off to pick some flowers. Littlejohn and Kirby began arm-wrestling, and Sarge and Caje watched and argued over who got to take the winner.
Attached to the side of our house next to the backdoor hung a giant copper-colored dinner bell, and the sound of our mother suddenly ringing the bell that evening was one of the most exciting sounds we’d heard all day. Sarge, Kirby, and I yelled “MESS!” in unison. We all ran out of the woods and toward the back porch where our mom stood. “Do you guys want to stay for dinner?” she asked Littlejohn and Caje, who excitedly responded “yes please,” and Caje went inside to call their mom to see if it was okay. I scrambled up the back porch stairs and yelled “Hi Daddy!” when I saw him open the door for me. I ran into the house and leapt into my daddy’s arms and dumped my doctor bag on the floor. “Everybody go wash your hands!” said Mommy. Daddy let me down and I skipped past the washing machine into the bathroom. I squeezed among the crowd of boys around the sink. “I need to refill on band-aids,” I thought to myself as I scrubbed the green and brown from my hands. My stomach growled. I smelled tacos.
3.10.2010
Ey You, Give Me One Dollah
I had been told countless times, but in June 2008 flying over the country into the Port Au Prince airport, I saw for the first time the reality of Haiti’s devastated existence. The island of Hispaniola contains Haiti to the west and the Dominican Republic to the East. From an aerial view, there is a line running through the entire island. The Eastern side is green and lush, and the Western side is a mix of brown, gray, smoky clouds from burning trash. The plane lands in an airport that reminds me of the K-Mart parking lot in my hometown. There is rundown and cracked concrete, bumps and potholes all over. Little bits of grass trying to poke through here and there. The lot is now enclosed by one of those short metal fences that we’re used to seeing around school playgrounds. It’s an attempt to keep cows off the runway. Once the plane stops, the doors open and we slowly make our way down the steps that have been wheeled up to the side of the plane. I step into the sun and instantly feel my Irish skin begin to burn, and the stench of animal and human defecation, burning trash, rotting food and flesh, hits my nose. I breathe in. This is Haiti.
One night we sit around Claudel, intensely listening to the words he speaks in his Creole accent over the soft strumming of his acoustic guitar. He tells us the story of the beginnings of “Aiti,” his beloved homeland. Christopher Columbus was the first well known white-skinned man to step foot on Hispaniola, and his visit was shortly followed by the arrival of other European treasure seekers and settlers, specifically the French. They attempted to use the Natives as a workforce, but they died off quickly from contact with European disease. As a replacement, boats of Africans, immune to European disease because of their proximity, were shipped in and put to work.
The African slaves came from tribes throughout their continent, so communication even among each other was difficult. They developed a new language, combining their different native tongues with French and bits of the Native language that remained on the island. Soon all Natives were eliminated, and the African slaves had their own new identity, language, and culture. In 1810 this artificially created people, led by Voodoo priests, revolted against their French oppressors. According to Haitian legend, these priests made a pact with Satan that if he assisted them in gaining independence, he would be given free reign of their country for 200 years. In an entirely unlikely and unexpected success, the Haitian people gained their own nation. Ever since, famine, hunger, disease, lack of education, unemployment, and just about every bad thing you can think of has plagued the country. More concretely, Haiti is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, has a 30% employment rate, and 41% of its two million people population is under the age of 15.
" Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father… For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?' The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
-Matthew 25:31-40, NIV
Christian groups love to do as Jesus commanded, and as you can see above, Jesus commanded that his followers help the needy. So, Haiti has been a hotspot for Christian missions trips, charity work, and all-around help for quite a while, even though it hasn’t really gotten much attention from anyone else in the world. I grew up in a very devout Christian home, so I heard about Haiti in church from the time I was a little girl. Many events and people led me to my eventual decision to take a couple trips there of my own.
Here’s my reaction to my second trip
Claudel told us that he and innumerable Haitians were praying earnestly that in 2010, Satan’s rule would be up. He asked us to join him in prayer that God would take control and make Haiti the great nation that it should be. On Tuesday, January 12, 2010, at 4:53 in the afternoon, the starving island of Haiti was struck by an earthquake with a magnitude of 7.0. Three million people were estimated to need immediate emergency care, countless were left dead, and essentially every building in and around the capital was destroyed. In all honesty, you probably know more about the devastating effects of Haiti’s earthquakes than I do. I’ve avoided the news reels and papers at all costs, because it wrenches my mind and my heart to remember the people I grew to love, and the babies who may never know more love than they felt in my touch, and wonder whether or not they’re alive.
One night we sit around Claudel, intensely listening to the words he speaks in his Creole accent over the soft strumming of his acoustic guitar. He tells us the story of the beginnings of “Aiti,” his beloved homeland. Christopher Columbus was the first well known white-skinned man to step foot on Hispaniola, and his visit was shortly followed by the arrival of other European treasure seekers and settlers, specifically the French. They attempted to use the Natives as a workforce, but they died off quickly from contact with European disease. As a replacement, boats of Africans, immune to European disease because of their proximity, were shipped in and put to work.
The African slaves came from tribes throughout their continent, so communication even among each other was difficult. They developed a new language, combining their different native tongues with French and bits of the Native language that remained on the island. Soon all Natives were eliminated, and the African slaves had their own new identity, language, and culture. In 1810 this artificially created people, led by Voodoo priests, revolted against their French oppressors. According to Haitian legend, these priests made a pact with Satan that if he assisted them in gaining independence, he would be given free reign of their country for 200 years. In an entirely unlikely and unexpected success, the Haitian people gained their own nation. Ever since, famine, hunger, disease, lack of education, unemployment, and just about every bad thing you can think of has plagued the country. More concretely, Haiti is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, has a 30% employment rate, and 41% of its two million people population is under the age of 15.
" Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father… For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?' The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
-Matthew 25:31-40, NIV
Christian groups love to do as Jesus commanded, and as you can see above, Jesus commanded that his followers help the needy. So, Haiti has been a hotspot for Christian missions trips, charity work, and all-around help for quite a while, even though it hasn’t really gotten much attention from anyone else in the world. I grew up in a very devout Christian home, so I heard about Haiti in church from the time I was a little girl. Many events and people led me to my eventual decision to take a couple trips there of my own.
Here’s my reaction to my second trip
Claudel told us that he and innumerable Haitians were praying earnestly that in 2010, Satan’s rule would be up. He asked us to join him in prayer that God would take control and make Haiti the great nation that it should be. On Tuesday, January 12, 2010, at 4:53 in the afternoon, the starving island of Haiti was struck by an earthquake with a magnitude of 7.0. Three million people were estimated to need immediate emergency care, countless were left dead, and essentially every building in and around the capital was destroyed. In all honesty, you probably know more about the devastating effects of Haiti’s earthquakes than I do. I’ve avoided the news reels and papers at all costs, because it wrenches my mind and my heart to remember the people I grew to love, and the babies who may never know more love than they felt in my touch, and wonder whether or not they’re alive.
12.06.2009
Pooh the Transcendentalist
It is very unlikely that A. A. Milne had read Henry David Thoreau’s Transcendental writings or followed them when he was writing Winnie the Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. It is also unlikely that Milne in writing simple stories for his son ever intended to create a guidebook for living the perfect Transcendental life. Winnie the Pooh is a character who is never exactly right, exactly wrong, or exactly sure of his stance on any level of existence(Arbaugh-Twitty 1). Pooh lives by simple means and by simple rules, and his lifestyle can be contrasted with the lifestyles of his friends Rabbit, Tigger, Piglet, Owl, and Eeyore. Winnie the Pooh is a Transcendentalist and is an impeccable example for anyone who wants to live a happy and harmonious life with him or herself and nature, free from needless worry and materialism.
Thoreau, just like Pooh, lived alone in the woods with quite a few friends not far but not overly close. He lived frugally; he ate only what he caught or grew for himself, built his own home, and spent his spare time walking about the forest and studying nature and gaining insight. Pooh never realizes that he is gaining insight, and he may not actually be doing so, but it doesn’t really matter because either way he is innocent and free from complication unlike his friends(Arbaugh-Twitty 1). Pooh is content as long as he visits his friends every so often, has food to eat, and something to hum to entertain himself. Pooh doesn’t worry about planting a garden and gaining materialistic success like his friend Rabbit, nor does he worry about the endless pursuit of useless knowledge like Owl, constant pessimism and depression like Eeyore, or Piglet’s nervous insecurity that comes from not having a grasp on his true self(Arbaugh-Twitty 1).
Confucius once said “to know that we know what we know and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge”(Thorough 9). Pooh is referred to as “A Bear of Very Little Brain”(Milne 50); and yet his clear and simple thought process gives his plans much more success than Rabbit’s and Owl’s more complicated ideas. Pooh doesn’t have much knowledge at all; however it is Pooh who usually ends up on top(Hoff, Pooh 16). When Eeyore loses his tail Pooh goes out and finds it. First he goes to Owl who babbles on about “customary procedure”(Milne 50) and confuses Pooh with his extensive knowledge of nothing. When Pooh finally goes outside to begin searching with Owl’s plan, he notices that Owl’s bell-rope is actually Eeyore’s tail. Pooh’s naive brilliance always seems to take him farther than Owl’s intelligent ignorance(Arbaugh-Twitty 2). Thoreau had strong dislike for people who have extensive knowledge and yet have no common sense to use it. Useless knowledge is like a luxury that has no place in the natural, spiritual, and intelligent world of the forest. Owl lives in luxurious knowledge, but his spirituality is no where near Pooh’s. Pooh is poor in knowledge but rich in wisdom. Owl is a member of what Thoreau calls “that seemingly wealthy but most terribly impoverished class of all”(Arbaugh-Twitty 14).
Eeyore’s knowledge is for the sake of complaining about something(Hoff, Pooh 16). He is a pessimist and is a constant dark cloud over everyone else’s sunny day. He is constantly pondering and contemplating and the only answers that he finds are negative. “Sometimes he [thinks] sadly to himself, ‘why?’ and sometimes he [thinks] ‘wherefore?’ and sometimes he [thinks] ‘inasmuch as which?’- and sometimes he [doesn’t] quite know what he [is] thinking about”(Milne 45). His constant dark depression is a direct result of his constant thinking about and questioning everything. Eeyore’s attitude toward life gets in the way of wisdom and happiness and prevents any sort of real accomplishment(Hoff, Pooh 16).
In The House at Pooh Corner Rabbit’s cousin Small gets lost and Rabbit spends a large amount of time coming up with search plans. Rabbit’s knowledge is for the sake of appearing clever(Hoff, Pooh 16). He is constantly planning clever and complicated plans, but his schemes never seem to do much good. Pooh comes up with a much simpler plan. His plan isn’t actually successful, but while daydreaming he inadvertently finds Small. Instead of wasting time thinking about the different ways of doing something Pooh just does it. This goes along perfectly with Thoreau’s idea that “[a person] should not play life, or study it merely..., but earnestly live it from beginning to end” (Hoff, Pooh 48). Pooh finds Small with no help from Rabbit’s extravagant planning. If the search had been left to Rabbit and his organization, Small might never have been found.
Pooh’s attitude toward life, like Thoreau’s, seems trivial, immature, and slightly unrealistic, but however childlike and simplistic it is, it is incredibly successful. While in the woods Thoreau and Pooh both live lives free of want. Their lives are full of simple joys, grand thoughts, and lots of friends. Some of Pooh’s friends can even be compared to Thoreau’s, and others can be compared to different groups in society. Owl, the great thinker and genius who never fully expresses himself is Ralph Waldo Emerson. Eeyore, the dark and pessimistic cloud over the peaceful forest who has given up on the world is Hawthorne or Melville(Arbaugh-Twitty 3). Rabbit is similar to the materialistic society which is constantly working and cannot even comprehend of simply doing nothing.
Piglet represents the people who are torn between the worlds of Pooh and Rabbit and are not quite sure where the ideal lies. Piglet is attracted to the natural and more spiritual world of Pooh but he also feels that he should be busy working like Rabbit. More than anything in the world Piglet wants to do what is right, but at the same time he longs for security which is only achieved by constant work and worry(Hoff, Piglet 26). Influenced by Owl’s brain and Eeyore’s pessimism Piglet is confused and a bit lost and ends up going back and forth between each world. Without the constant anxiety Piglet’s life could be the perfect combination of materialism that is necessary to survive in the modern day and the natural spirituality that is a part of every person(Arbaugh-Twitty 4). Piglet is able to embrace the fact that he is very small and use it for the good of others(Hoff, Piglet 50). He accepts that he is not quite as clever as Rabbit or Owl or as simple as Pooh. He simply tries to do the best that he can with what he has, living in a nice medium between the Transcendentalism of Pooh and the materialism of Rabbit.
Pooh never condemns anyone or anything and neither does Thoreau. Thoreau merely points out faults in society, says why he doesn’t agree with them, and offers an alternative solution. He teaches moderation, tolerance, and acceptance. Walden is not so much a handbook to living the perfect Transcendental life as it is a suggestion for an alternative to the materialistic lifestyle(Arbaugh-Twitty 5). Thoreau recognizes that this lifestyle is not for everyone, and the forest needs Rabbits and Owls and Eeyores just as much as it needs Poohs. Winnie the Pooh, like Thoreau, never condemns Rabbit, Owl, or Eeyore; he merely wonders why they are the way they are. He accepts them and their lifestyles and continues living his own life they way that he wants.
The parallels between Winnie the Pooh and Thoreau are unclear at times and yet somehow still strong. Henry David Thoreau’s Walden is timeless, still avidly read over a hundred years after it was written, just as is Winnie The Pooh. Transcendentalism is built upon nature, honesty, simplicity, and love and respect for the self and friends. No one is a closer representation of the Transcendental ideal than Winnie the Pooh(Arbaugh-Twitty 6). Pooh knows many truths that will never come from Owl’s or Rabbit’s brain simply because their minds are filled with self-absorption and materialism. Pooh and the Transcendentalists could change the world if only the Owls and Rabbits of the world would stop studying, working, and worrying long enough to think about what matters and listen to the innate truths that are lying in nature and hidden within the mind behind mounds of materialistic clutter.
Thoreau, just like Pooh, lived alone in the woods with quite a few friends not far but not overly close. He lived frugally; he ate only what he caught or grew for himself, built his own home, and spent his spare time walking about the forest and studying nature and gaining insight. Pooh never realizes that he is gaining insight, and he may not actually be doing so, but it doesn’t really matter because either way he is innocent and free from complication unlike his friends(Arbaugh-Twitty 1). Pooh is content as long as he visits his friends every so often, has food to eat, and something to hum to entertain himself. Pooh doesn’t worry about planting a garden and gaining materialistic success like his friend Rabbit, nor does he worry about the endless pursuit of useless knowledge like Owl, constant pessimism and depression like Eeyore, or Piglet’s nervous insecurity that comes from not having a grasp on his true self(Arbaugh-Twitty 1).
Confucius once said “to know that we know what we know and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge”(Thorough 9). Pooh is referred to as “A Bear of Very Little Brain”(Milne 50); and yet his clear and simple thought process gives his plans much more success than Rabbit’s and Owl’s more complicated ideas. Pooh doesn’t have much knowledge at all; however it is Pooh who usually ends up on top(Hoff, Pooh 16). When Eeyore loses his tail Pooh goes out and finds it. First he goes to Owl who babbles on about “customary procedure”(Milne 50) and confuses Pooh with his extensive knowledge of nothing. When Pooh finally goes outside to begin searching with Owl’s plan, he notices that Owl’s bell-rope is actually Eeyore’s tail. Pooh’s naive brilliance always seems to take him farther than Owl’s intelligent ignorance(Arbaugh-Twitty 2). Thoreau had strong dislike for people who have extensive knowledge and yet have no common sense to use it. Useless knowledge is like a luxury that has no place in the natural, spiritual, and intelligent world of the forest. Owl lives in luxurious knowledge, but his spirituality is no where near Pooh’s. Pooh is poor in knowledge but rich in wisdom. Owl is a member of what Thoreau calls “that seemingly wealthy but most terribly impoverished class of all”(Arbaugh-Twitty 14).
Eeyore’s knowledge is for the sake of complaining about something(Hoff, Pooh 16). He is a pessimist and is a constant dark cloud over everyone else’s sunny day. He is constantly pondering and contemplating and the only answers that he finds are negative. “Sometimes he [thinks] sadly to himself, ‘why?’ and sometimes he [thinks] ‘wherefore?’ and sometimes he [thinks] ‘inasmuch as which?’- and sometimes he [doesn’t] quite know what he [is] thinking about”(Milne 45). His constant dark depression is a direct result of his constant thinking about and questioning everything. Eeyore’s attitude toward life gets in the way of wisdom and happiness and prevents any sort of real accomplishment(Hoff, Pooh 16).
In The House at Pooh Corner Rabbit’s cousin Small gets lost and Rabbit spends a large amount of time coming up with search plans. Rabbit’s knowledge is for the sake of appearing clever(Hoff, Pooh 16). He is constantly planning clever and complicated plans, but his schemes never seem to do much good. Pooh comes up with a much simpler plan. His plan isn’t actually successful, but while daydreaming he inadvertently finds Small. Instead of wasting time thinking about the different ways of doing something Pooh just does it. This goes along perfectly with Thoreau’s idea that “[a person] should not play life, or study it merely..., but earnestly live it from beginning to end” (Hoff, Pooh 48). Pooh finds Small with no help from Rabbit’s extravagant planning. If the search had been left to Rabbit and his organization, Small might never have been found.
Pooh’s attitude toward life, like Thoreau’s, seems trivial, immature, and slightly unrealistic, but however childlike and simplistic it is, it is incredibly successful. While in the woods Thoreau and Pooh both live lives free of want. Their lives are full of simple joys, grand thoughts, and lots of friends. Some of Pooh’s friends can even be compared to Thoreau’s, and others can be compared to different groups in society. Owl, the great thinker and genius who never fully expresses himself is Ralph Waldo Emerson. Eeyore, the dark and pessimistic cloud over the peaceful forest who has given up on the world is Hawthorne or Melville(Arbaugh-Twitty 3). Rabbit is similar to the materialistic society which is constantly working and cannot even comprehend of simply doing nothing.
Piglet represents the people who are torn between the worlds of Pooh and Rabbit and are not quite sure where the ideal lies. Piglet is attracted to the natural and more spiritual world of Pooh but he also feels that he should be busy working like Rabbit. More than anything in the world Piglet wants to do what is right, but at the same time he longs for security which is only achieved by constant work and worry(Hoff, Piglet 26). Influenced by Owl’s brain and Eeyore’s pessimism Piglet is confused and a bit lost and ends up going back and forth between each world. Without the constant anxiety Piglet’s life could be the perfect combination of materialism that is necessary to survive in the modern day and the natural spirituality that is a part of every person(Arbaugh-Twitty 4). Piglet is able to embrace the fact that he is very small and use it for the good of others(Hoff, Piglet 50). He accepts that he is not quite as clever as Rabbit or Owl or as simple as Pooh. He simply tries to do the best that he can with what he has, living in a nice medium between the Transcendentalism of Pooh and the materialism of Rabbit.
Pooh never condemns anyone or anything and neither does Thoreau. Thoreau merely points out faults in society, says why he doesn’t agree with them, and offers an alternative solution. He teaches moderation, tolerance, and acceptance. Walden is not so much a handbook to living the perfect Transcendental life as it is a suggestion for an alternative to the materialistic lifestyle(Arbaugh-Twitty 5). Thoreau recognizes that this lifestyle is not for everyone, and the forest needs Rabbits and Owls and Eeyores just as much as it needs Poohs. Winnie the Pooh, like Thoreau, never condemns Rabbit, Owl, or Eeyore; he merely wonders why they are the way they are. He accepts them and their lifestyles and continues living his own life they way that he wants.
The parallels between Winnie the Pooh and Thoreau are unclear at times and yet somehow still strong. Henry David Thoreau’s Walden is timeless, still avidly read over a hundred years after it was written, just as is Winnie The Pooh. Transcendentalism is built upon nature, honesty, simplicity, and love and respect for the self and friends. No one is a closer representation of the Transcendental ideal than Winnie the Pooh(Arbaugh-Twitty 6). Pooh knows many truths that will never come from Owl’s or Rabbit’s brain simply because their minds are filled with self-absorption and materialism. Pooh and the Transcendentalists could change the world if only the Owls and Rabbits of the world would stop studying, working, and worrying long enough to think about what matters and listen to the innate truths that are lying in nature and hidden within the mind behind mounds of materialistic clutter.
a literary criticism: My Papa's Waltz
Theodore Roethke’s “My Papa’s Waltz” describes the unique relationship between Roethke and his father. Theirs is a relationship combining love and fear—a young boy loves and longs for the approval of his father, but simultaneously cannot escape the harshness that is contained in his father’s love. “My Papa’s Waltz” is not about an innocent dance of a small child with his father, but neither is it an account of blatant child abuse. On the contrary, there is a careful line drawn between these two which is very much influenced by Roethke’s own childhood experiences.
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy (Roethke 451).
This first stanza contains several words with negative connotations, but the denotations of these words are not necessarily negative. The “whiskey on [his father’s] breath (ibid)” automatically raises suspicion because the link between alcohol and child abuse have recently become widely documented, but when the poem was written in 1948, the connection between these two was essentially unheard-of (Smith 4). At that time, to have a drink was considered completely normal, or perhaps even a sign of masculinity. Roethke couldn’t have possibly imagined writing to an audience that is conditioned to notice even the slightest signs of alcoholism. The whiskey is not what Roethke intended to use as negative in this stanza; instead, “dizzy (Roethke 451)” is intended to be negative. If the boy were made dizzy from dancing, then the word would have the playful meaning it usually has, but instead the dizziness is caused by the father’s breath, implying that the father must be very close to the boy’s face—perhaps yelling, or just speaking in a way that is intimidating.
Next, the word “death” is of course negative, but in the context of “[hanging] on like death (Roethke 451),” a negative connotation simply doesn’t make sense. If a person is scared of dying, then he will hang on “for dear life,” not “like death.” If a person hangs on “like death,” then it is a loose hold, probably relatively limp. A person hanging on “for death” is certainly not in fear of losing his life. The darker side enters with the word “such.” With the absence of the word “such,” the line “such dancing was not easy (Roethke 451)” loses its somber meaning. “Such” implies that Roethke and his father are not doing regular old dancing. This is a different kind of dancing—a more sinister kind of dancing that is rough and relatively frightening for the boy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself (Roethke 451).
Theodore Roethke grew up in Michigan, where his father and uncle owned a greenhouse business. Roethke worked alongside his father in the greenhouse from a young age, and for that reason had a very unique relationship with his father (ROSENTHAL 263). They enjoyed spending time together, but his father was often a bit “demanding, distant, and cold (Baechler 419).” The waltzing, according to the second stanza, is rowdy and rough. The father so roughly waltzes his son around the kitchen that pans slide off the shelf, and while the mother openly disapproves of the activity she does nothing to stop it. It seems that if the child were being abused, his mother would do something more than just frown.
Even though the mother doesn’t necessarily approve of the disruption of her kitchen, she also doesn’t want to disrupt the father-son bonding that the moment creates (Smith 3). The father has kind of a mixture of tenderness and brutality, and the boy Roethke is both joyful and afraid (ROSENTHAL 264). There might be some amount of apprehension in the mother’s mind, but not enough to make her stop what’s going on. Whatever tensions may be present, the central emotion in this poem is the love, however warped it may be, between the father and son (Baechler 419).
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle (Roethke 451).
The third stanza, without correct background information, is misleading as to Roethke’s intent. A hand that is “battered on one knuckle” probably implies that the person to whom the hand belongs is a tough and rowdy person, probably gets into fights fairly often and wouldn’t be opposed to occasionally beating his child or wife. For the average person, this stereotype is probably true, but that is not the case with this father, Otto Roethke. Otto Roethke was “a Prussian through and through (ROSENTHAL 264).” He was manly, strong, and firm. He worked hard every day in his very successful greenhouse business to provide for his family. He probably did have various bruises and scrapes, all from working outdoors. Theodore Roethke always viewed his father as “the man who made the flowers grow… the man who established law and enforced it (ROSENTHAL 264).” Otto Roethke was firm, certainly, but a child-beater he was not.
Theodore Roethke’s account of his “right ear [scraping] a buckle (Roethke 451)” is by no means proof of beating. Just about any person with a normal childhood can remember standing on the tops of his or her parent’s feet, who would then walk awkwardly around while the child clung to his parent’s hands or held fistfuls of his parent’s shirt. In such a position, the boy’s head would be waist-level, so that whenever the father “missed [a step](Roethke 451)” or lost his balance, the boy’s ear would “[scrape] a buckle” on his father’s belt(Smith 3). Although this moment of son waltzing with Papa is without a doubt a positive memory for Roethke, there is also something vaguely frightening about it. The whiskey breath, dizzying speed, the powerful father who cannot be criticized by the mother, and the noisy, beating “romp(Roethke 451)” of the waltz all combine to create an activity that is fun and exhilarating because it is somewhat frightening(Smith 4).
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt (Roethke 451).
The fourth and final stanza contains the lines that confirm for many the abusive nature of “My Papa’s Waltz,” as well as the lines that confirm for many its innocence. Many make the assertion that to place the word “beat” in a narrative involving a child without question implies beating the child. This cannot, however, be true because of the direct object “time.” Roethke’s father was beating time, keeping rhythm, and certainly not beating his son. To ignore an intentionally placed direct object is entirely absurd. The father’s hand “caked hard by dirt” only further reinforces the fact that Otto Roethke was a hard-working, responsible, good father who only wanted to enjoy a little time with his son before sending him off to bed. He doesn’t even take time to clean up because he wants to enjoy a few minutes with his son doing something really fun. It’s almost time for bed, so the father does everything he can to get his son riled up rather than calmed down for sleep (Smith 2).
The father’s tight hold on his son’s wrists is mirrored by the son “clinging to [the father’s] shirt (Roethke 451),” giving the image of a fatherly power than can’t be resisted, but also a child that doesn’t want to resist (Smith 5). The father’s power is kept in check by his desire to maintain an intimacy with his son. In the same way that whiskey on the father’s breath would have been unimportant in 1948, the fact that he “[waltzes his son] off to bed (Roethke 451)” is even more noticeable as an extraordinary moment of connection (Smith 5). After beating his child, a father might carry him off to bed, and after being beaten, a child might cling to his father’s shirt; however, these two would more than likely not both occur. Both actions signify an attachment, but in the case of an unhealthy relationship although both might be attached, only one person needs to give signs of such attachment. For these reasons it is clear the father and son have just had a very fun and loving, though perhaps a bit frightening, experience.
While there is no evidence in “My Papa’s Waltz” to suggest actual beating, there are many details that suggest a kind of danger and a hint of underlying violence (Smith 5). Otto Roethke was an honest but rough man, and his relationship with his son was both tender and frightening. While Theodore Roethke’s father would never intentionally harm him, he did have a sort of tough love, and Roethke had an appreciation for his father’s violent affection. “My Papa’s Waltz” is a fantastic poem that effectively shows the fine line between actual danger and exhilarating terror.
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy (Roethke 451).
This first stanza contains several words with negative connotations, but the denotations of these words are not necessarily negative. The “whiskey on [his father’s] breath (ibid)” automatically raises suspicion because the link between alcohol and child abuse have recently become widely documented, but when the poem was written in 1948, the connection between these two was essentially unheard-of (Smith 4). At that time, to have a drink was considered completely normal, or perhaps even a sign of masculinity. Roethke couldn’t have possibly imagined writing to an audience that is conditioned to notice even the slightest signs of alcoholism. The whiskey is not what Roethke intended to use as negative in this stanza; instead, “dizzy (Roethke 451)” is intended to be negative. If the boy were made dizzy from dancing, then the word would have the playful meaning it usually has, but instead the dizziness is caused by the father’s breath, implying that the father must be very close to the boy’s face—perhaps yelling, or just speaking in a way that is intimidating.
Next, the word “death” is of course negative, but in the context of “[hanging] on like death (Roethke 451),” a negative connotation simply doesn’t make sense. If a person is scared of dying, then he will hang on “for dear life,” not “like death.” If a person hangs on “like death,” then it is a loose hold, probably relatively limp. A person hanging on “for death” is certainly not in fear of losing his life. The darker side enters with the word “such.” With the absence of the word “such,” the line “such dancing was not easy (Roethke 451)” loses its somber meaning. “Such” implies that Roethke and his father are not doing regular old dancing. This is a different kind of dancing—a more sinister kind of dancing that is rough and relatively frightening for the boy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself (Roethke 451).
Theodore Roethke grew up in Michigan, where his father and uncle owned a greenhouse business. Roethke worked alongside his father in the greenhouse from a young age, and for that reason had a very unique relationship with his father (ROSENTHAL 263). They enjoyed spending time together, but his father was often a bit “demanding, distant, and cold (Baechler 419).” The waltzing, according to the second stanza, is rowdy and rough. The father so roughly waltzes his son around the kitchen that pans slide off the shelf, and while the mother openly disapproves of the activity she does nothing to stop it. It seems that if the child were being abused, his mother would do something more than just frown.
Even though the mother doesn’t necessarily approve of the disruption of her kitchen, she also doesn’t want to disrupt the father-son bonding that the moment creates (Smith 3). The father has kind of a mixture of tenderness and brutality, and the boy Roethke is both joyful and afraid (ROSENTHAL 264). There might be some amount of apprehension in the mother’s mind, but not enough to make her stop what’s going on. Whatever tensions may be present, the central emotion in this poem is the love, however warped it may be, between the father and son (Baechler 419).
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle (Roethke 451).
The third stanza, without correct background information, is misleading as to Roethke’s intent. A hand that is “battered on one knuckle” probably implies that the person to whom the hand belongs is a tough and rowdy person, probably gets into fights fairly often and wouldn’t be opposed to occasionally beating his child or wife. For the average person, this stereotype is probably true, but that is not the case with this father, Otto Roethke. Otto Roethke was “a Prussian through and through (ROSENTHAL 264).” He was manly, strong, and firm. He worked hard every day in his very successful greenhouse business to provide for his family. He probably did have various bruises and scrapes, all from working outdoors. Theodore Roethke always viewed his father as “the man who made the flowers grow… the man who established law and enforced it (ROSENTHAL 264).” Otto Roethke was firm, certainly, but a child-beater he was not.
Theodore Roethke’s account of his “right ear [scraping] a buckle (Roethke 451)” is by no means proof of beating. Just about any person with a normal childhood can remember standing on the tops of his or her parent’s feet, who would then walk awkwardly around while the child clung to his parent’s hands or held fistfuls of his parent’s shirt. In such a position, the boy’s head would be waist-level, so that whenever the father “missed [a step](Roethke 451)” or lost his balance, the boy’s ear would “[scrape] a buckle” on his father’s belt(Smith 3). Although this moment of son waltzing with Papa is without a doubt a positive memory for Roethke, there is also something vaguely frightening about it. The whiskey breath, dizzying speed, the powerful father who cannot be criticized by the mother, and the noisy, beating “romp(Roethke 451)” of the waltz all combine to create an activity that is fun and exhilarating because it is somewhat frightening(Smith 4).
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt (Roethke 451).
The fourth and final stanza contains the lines that confirm for many the abusive nature of “My Papa’s Waltz,” as well as the lines that confirm for many its innocence. Many make the assertion that to place the word “beat” in a narrative involving a child without question implies beating the child. This cannot, however, be true because of the direct object “time.” Roethke’s father was beating time, keeping rhythm, and certainly not beating his son. To ignore an intentionally placed direct object is entirely absurd. The father’s hand “caked hard by dirt” only further reinforces the fact that Otto Roethke was a hard-working, responsible, good father who only wanted to enjoy a little time with his son before sending him off to bed. He doesn’t even take time to clean up because he wants to enjoy a few minutes with his son doing something really fun. It’s almost time for bed, so the father does everything he can to get his son riled up rather than calmed down for sleep (Smith 2).
The father’s tight hold on his son’s wrists is mirrored by the son “clinging to [the father’s] shirt (Roethke 451),” giving the image of a fatherly power than can’t be resisted, but also a child that doesn’t want to resist (Smith 5). The father’s power is kept in check by his desire to maintain an intimacy with his son. In the same way that whiskey on the father’s breath would have been unimportant in 1948, the fact that he “[waltzes his son] off to bed (Roethke 451)” is even more noticeable as an extraordinary moment of connection (Smith 5). After beating his child, a father might carry him off to bed, and after being beaten, a child might cling to his father’s shirt; however, these two would more than likely not both occur. Both actions signify an attachment, but in the case of an unhealthy relationship although both might be attached, only one person needs to give signs of such attachment. For these reasons it is clear the father and son have just had a very fun and loving, though perhaps a bit frightening, experience.
While there is no evidence in “My Papa’s Waltz” to suggest actual beating, there are many details that suggest a kind of danger and a hint of underlying violence (Smith 5). Otto Roethke was an honest but rough man, and his relationship with his son was both tender and frightening. While Theodore Roethke’s father would never intentionally harm him, he did have a sort of tough love, and Roethke had an appreciation for his father’s violent affection. “My Papa’s Waltz” is a fantastic poem that effectively shows the fine line between actual danger and exhilarating terror.
12.03.2009
it's been two years today
If there’s one person in the world who ever truly loved me, it was my Grampa. He loved me, and I knew it. I never doubted it. He thought I was great, smart, beautiful, and he loved my hugs. He always told me that I gave the best hugs in the world, and he told me I was the prettiest girl he ever saw. Grampy once asked that, if reincarnation existed, if I would wait for him to come back and grow up so that he could marry me, because I was just so beautiful. I never doubted any of his compliments, because he had no reason to lie to me. My parents could compliment me, but I’d always think that they had to say those things because I was their daughter. And with other people, no matter how much I wanted to believe them, I’d always think they that had some ulterior motives for complimenting me. But Grampy? He had six children, 13 grandchildren, five great-grandchildren, and countless friends… what possible reason could he have for going out of his way to give me a big head? None. He really thought the world of me, and I really thought the world of him.
Even without the compliments that followed, I used to love to give him hugs. He thought that I was the greatest hugger ever, but the fact of the matter is that I learned from the best. His hugs were strong and lasted for a good twenty seconds. He’d squeeze, he’d kiss my cheek, and hold on tight. He was so strong. Even when he was old and weak, his hugs were still strong. He always smelled good, like soap and old man’s cologne… not exactly a smell I would expect to enjoy, so maybe it was just a good smell because it was his. Everything about that man was filled with love. His voice, his smile. When he’d see me walk in the door, or when he came to visit and he saw me, his eyes and smile would light up, he’d be so excited to see me. “Sarah!” I wish you could hear his voice. So strong, deep, and loving. Shaky towards the end, but still full of life and love. If he was sitting, he’d instantly get up and come over to give me a big strong hug. Towards the end it’d be difficult for him to get up, but he’d do it. He’d always get up to hug me.
Yeah, I believe in Heaven. He’s there. He was a man of faith, of great faith, and now I have faith that he is with Jesus. He’s happy. He doesn’t hurt anymore. His head may still be bald, but it’s not covered with band-aids from having cancer scraped off. He no longer has scabs peeling and bleeding from his constant excruciating treatments. He doesn’t hurt anymore. He’s rejoicing in Heaven over his Savior, who he loved in life and loves now. The One who made him capable of loving me so much. I saw him when he was dying. I saw him when he couldn’t get up anymore, when he couldn’t smile and say my name.
It’s been a couple years, but I cry about him still, on occasion. I don’t cry because he died, but because I don’t know if I can wait another fifty or sixty years until I see him again. He was an incredible man and I’m thankful every day for all the time that I did have to spend with him. He hurt so much, and I’m glad, with every piece of myself, that he’s happy now; and I look forward to the day when I’ll see him again.
Even without the compliments that followed, I used to love to give him hugs. He thought that I was the greatest hugger ever, but the fact of the matter is that I learned from the best. His hugs were strong and lasted for a good twenty seconds. He’d squeeze, he’d kiss my cheek, and hold on tight. He was so strong. Even when he was old and weak, his hugs were still strong. He always smelled good, like soap and old man’s cologne… not exactly a smell I would expect to enjoy, so maybe it was just a good smell because it was his. Everything about that man was filled with love. His voice, his smile. When he’d see me walk in the door, or when he came to visit and he saw me, his eyes and smile would light up, he’d be so excited to see me. “Sarah!” I wish you could hear his voice. So strong, deep, and loving. Shaky towards the end, but still full of life and love. If he was sitting, he’d instantly get up and come over to give me a big strong hug. Towards the end it’d be difficult for him to get up, but he’d do it. He’d always get up to hug me.
Yeah, I believe in Heaven. He’s there. He was a man of faith, of great faith, and now I have faith that he is with Jesus. He’s happy. He doesn’t hurt anymore. His head may still be bald, but it’s not covered with band-aids from having cancer scraped off. He no longer has scabs peeling and bleeding from his constant excruciating treatments. He doesn’t hurt anymore. He’s rejoicing in Heaven over his Savior, who he loved in life and loves now. The One who made him capable of loving me so much. I saw him when he was dying. I saw him when he couldn’t get up anymore, when he couldn’t smile and say my name.
It’s been a couple years, but I cry about him still, on occasion. I don’t cry because he died, but because I don’t know if I can wait another fifty or sixty years until I see him again. He was an incredible man and I’m thankful every day for all the time that I did have to spend with him. He hurt so much, and I’m glad, with every piece of myself, that he’s happy now; and I look forward to the day when I’ll see him again.
You didn't really think this one through, did you?
On my way home from Starbucks today I saw a bumper sticker on a car that said:
If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you're reading this in English, thank a solider.
At first glance I thought "okay, it's just somebody who loves America and likes to show off their patriotism." But then... wait... "that doesn't even make sense! At ALL!" English has been the language of the world for longer than America has even been a huge power. The British Empire spread English all over the rest of Europe and into Asia and Africa hundreds of years ago. English is going to be what things are written in...almost no matter what.
The last time that the world... or, okay, let's focus on America... was in "danger" of POSSIBLY being taken over by another country that would have led to the speaking of another language was about 60-70 years ago. World War II. Hitler's Nazi Germany has been the ONLY attempt to take over the world in such a way that could have potentially decreased the speaking of English. And... Mr. Bumper Sticker... in case you didn't notice, most of the people who stopped that from happening are dead. That was a long time ago. The ones who are still living are VETERANS, not SOLDIERS. SOLDIERS are currently fighting in the Middle East, against people who have absolutely no interest in forcing us to speak another language.
There have been disputes in the USA about whether street signs should be in English and Spanish, for the ever-growing Spanish-speaking minority (soon to be majority), but that hasn't even happened. Street signs may be kept English, but a Spanish speaker can totally choose to put a Spanish bumper sticker on his or her car. So... man with the silly bumper sticker... if you want me to thank a soldier that your bumper sticker is in English, is it because without some soldier YOU would have been raised as a member of the minority in the US? Mr. WASP? Really?
If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you're reading this in English, thank a solider.
At first glance I thought "okay, it's just somebody who loves America and likes to show off their patriotism." But then... wait... "that doesn't even make sense! At ALL!" English has been the language of the world for longer than America has even been a huge power. The British Empire spread English all over the rest of Europe and into Asia and Africa hundreds of years ago. English is going to be what things are written in...almost no matter what.
The last time that the world... or, okay, let's focus on America... was in "danger" of POSSIBLY being taken over by another country that would have led to the speaking of another language was about 60-70 years ago. World War II. Hitler's Nazi Germany has been the ONLY attempt to take over the world in such a way that could have potentially decreased the speaking of English. And... Mr. Bumper Sticker... in case you didn't notice, most of the people who stopped that from happening are dead. That was a long time ago. The ones who are still living are VETERANS, not SOLDIERS. SOLDIERS are currently fighting in the Middle East, against people who have absolutely no interest in forcing us to speak another language.
There have been disputes in the USA about whether street signs should be in English and Spanish, for the ever-growing Spanish-speaking minority (soon to be majority), but that hasn't even happened. Street signs may be kept English, but a Spanish speaker can totally choose to put a Spanish bumper sticker on his or her car. So... man with the silly bumper sticker... if you want me to thank a soldier that your bumper sticker is in English, is it because without some soldier YOU would have been raised as a member of the minority in the US? Mr. WASP? Really?
12.02.2009
To Circumcise or not to Circumcise- written Spring 2007
I’ve babysat and been a nanny for the past five or six years, so I’ve changed a lot of diapers and given a lot of baths in my day. It didn’t take me long to notice the difference in genitalia from baby boy to baby boy. Most are circumcised, but a substantial amount are not. Around the time that I noticed the physical difference and therefore realized what “circumcision” really is, I remembered all of the verses that I had read or learned in church or in Bible Class at the Christian school I went to- verses equating “the uncircumcised” with “the unholy.” I started, at a very young age, considering the options that I will one day have as a mother. To circumcise, or not to circumcise? Aside from the fact that God, in the Torah and the Bible, commands the Jewish People be circumcised (or the Muslim people in the Koran), what difference does it make, really?
There are very few people in the world who could make a logical case in favor of female circumcision, more commonly known as Female Genital Mutilation, but male circumcision was adopted into the world as a normal practice ages ago. When a baby boy is born, his parents decide his name, his place of residence, what he eats and drinks, what he wears, and whether or not he is circumcised. Circumcision goes back thousands of years to Ancient Egypt, and is typically an important part of the Jewish and Muslim faiths. In the United States in the early twentieth century, cleanliness became associated with wealth, and a circumcised penis was generally thought to be cleaner. At that time about twenty-five percent of men in the United States were circumcised. In the nineteen-thirties the military began requiring soldiers to be circumcised, and by the nineteen-forties and fifties, nearly all males in the United States were circumcised (Pantley).
If not for religious reasons or requirements for the military, the decision of whether or not to circumcise has often been based on what is considered “normal,” so that the boy will be like his father or like everyone else, to avoid embarrassment. In the mid-twentieth century, studies were commonly twisted to always show the positive elements of circumcision, and never the negative. Many parents thus circumcised their children for religious reasons, many for reasons based on skewed studies, and many parents circumcised their children because it was the normal, accepted thing to do. In recent decades, studies have shown pros and cons of infant circumcision, so now it is in the hands of the parents to decide which pros and which cons are most important. Thirty years ago, almost one-hundred percent of infant boys in the US were circumcised, but that number has decreased to only sixty percent, so favoritism of circumcision is clearly decreasing.
Historically, one of the largest arguments for circumcision was cleanliness. The foreskins of intact penises are susceptible to infections, and an eliminated foreskin will eliminate the problem. The other side of this argument is that simple hygiene just as easily eliminates the problem, and removing the foreskin is essentially expecting and accepting that the boy won’t grow up to have very high personal hygienic standards. It’s not hard to keep an intact penis clean; it just needs to be washed regularly, no different than any other body part.
Another argument in favor of circumcision is that uncircumcised men are three times more likely to get penile cancer than circumcised men (Natural Family Online), but this can easily be combated with studies that show the close relationship between penile cancer and sexual promiscuity. It is true that of the men with penile cancer, more are uncircumcised than circumcised, but most would never have been at risk for the disease if they had never engaged in promiscuous and unprotected activities. Many other diseases are like this, too; people are more susceptible to a disease because of something they can’t control, but the disease would never become an issue if they didn’t do something to prod it along. For example, my grandfather died of lung cancer caused by asbestos poisoning. It was a tragedy, but the asbestos never would have created cancer if my grandfather hadn’t willingly weakened his lungs by smoking cigarettes for many years.
A condition known as Phimosis is a rare but real reason for having a circumcision. When Phimosis is present it is impossible for the foreskin to retract, making infection of the foreskin extremely likely (MedicineNet). When Phimosis is present in an infant, a circumcision is performed and complications are usually avoided; however, when Phimosis happens as an adult, the circumcision procedure is much more painful and complications are much more likely. In the case of an adult who has developed Phimosis, perhaps his parents could be blamed for not circumcising him as an infant, but the condition is so uncommon that treating everyone for it as an infant would be overcautious at best.
Aside from the unlikely, there are no real medical reasons for removing the foreskin; and conversely, there are no real medical reasons not to remove the foreskin. Some parents choose not to have their sons circumcised because of the possibility of their sons retaining painful memories of their circumcisions, but modern medicine now allows for the use of painkillers. Claims have been made that the removal of the foreskin desensitizes the penis, making sexual activities less pleasurable, but studies have offered no proof of this. Some parents hesitate to make a life-changing decision without the consent of their infant, but circumcisions in later life can lead to complications, and making major decisions for an infant is the nature of parenthood.
With the millions of baby boys that are born daily, millions of decisions are constantly being made. To circumcise, or not to circumcise? I don’t know what I’ll do when I have kids. Thankfully, I have plenty of time to decide. Some parents should put more thought into a decision like whether or not to circumcise their son. Other parents should probably put less thought into it, since each option has both valid and invalid arguments. One thing’s for certain: I don’t want my son (in the locker-room setting) to be made fun of over something as insignificant as a foreskin (or lack thereof). Until the majority changes or ceases to matter, parents are probably going to keep having their sons circumcised… even if it makes no medical difference.
There are very few people in the world who could make a logical case in favor of female circumcision, more commonly known as Female Genital Mutilation, but male circumcision was adopted into the world as a normal practice ages ago. When a baby boy is born, his parents decide his name, his place of residence, what he eats and drinks, what he wears, and whether or not he is circumcised. Circumcision goes back thousands of years to Ancient Egypt, and is typically an important part of the Jewish and Muslim faiths. In the United States in the early twentieth century, cleanliness became associated with wealth, and a circumcised penis was generally thought to be cleaner. At that time about twenty-five percent of men in the United States were circumcised. In the nineteen-thirties the military began requiring soldiers to be circumcised, and by the nineteen-forties and fifties, nearly all males in the United States were circumcised (Pantley).
If not for religious reasons or requirements for the military, the decision of whether or not to circumcise has often been based on what is considered “normal,” so that the boy will be like his father or like everyone else, to avoid embarrassment. In the mid-twentieth century, studies were commonly twisted to always show the positive elements of circumcision, and never the negative. Many parents thus circumcised their children for religious reasons, many for reasons based on skewed studies, and many parents circumcised their children because it was the normal, accepted thing to do. In recent decades, studies have shown pros and cons of infant circumcision, so now it is in the hands of the parents to decide which pros and which cons are most important. Thirty years ago, almost one-hundred percent of infant boys in the US were circumcised, but that number has decreased to only sixty percent, so favoritism of circumcision is clearly decreasing.
Historically, one of the largest arguments for circumcision was cleanliness. The foreskins of intact penises are susceptible to infections, and an eliminated foreskin will eliminate the problem. The other side of this argument is that simple hygiene just as easily eliminates the problem, and removing the foreskin is essentially expecting and accepting that the boy won’t grow up to have very high personal hygienic standards. It’s not hard to keep an intact penis clean; it just needs to be washed regularly, no different than any other body part.
Another argument in favor of circumcision is that uncircumcised men are three times more likely to get penile cancer than circumcised men (Natural Family Online), but this can easily be combated with studies that show the close relationship between penile cancer and sexual promiscuity. It is true that of the men with penile cancer, more are uncircumcised than circumcised, but most would never have been at risk for the disease if they had never engaged in promiscuous and unprotected activities. Many other diseases are like this, too; people are more susceptible to a disease because of something they can’t control, but the disease would never become an issue if they didn’t do something to prod it along. For example, my grandfather died of lung cancer caused by asbestos poisoning. It was a tragedy, but the asbestos never would have created cancer if my grandfather hadn’t willingly weakened his lungs by smoking cigarettes for many years.
A condition known as Phimosis is a rare but real reason for having a circumcision. When Phimosis is present it is impossible for the foreskin to retract, making infection of the foreskin extremely likely (MedicineNet). When Phimosis is present in an infant, a circumcision is performed and complications are usually avoided; however, when Phimosis happens as an adult, the circumcision procedure is much more painful and complications are much more likely. In the case of an adult who has developed Phimosis, perhaps his parents could be blamed for not circumcising him as an infant, but the condition is so uncommon that treating everyone for it as an infant would be overcautious at best.
Aside from the unlikely, there are no real medical reasons for removing the foreskin; and conversely, there are no real medical reasons not to remove the foreskin. Some parents choose not to have their sons circumcised because of the possibility of their sons retaining painful memories of their circumcisions, but modern medicine now allows for the use of painkillers. Claims have been made that the removal of the foreskin desensitizes the penis, making sexual activities less pleasurable, but studies have offered no proof of this. Some parents hesitate to make a life-changing decision without the consent of their infant, but circumcisions in later life can lead to complications, and making major decisions for an infant is the nature of parenthood.
With the millions of baby boys that are born daily, millions of decisions are constantly being made. To circumcise, or not to circumcise? I don’t know what I’ll do when I have kids. Thankfully, I have plenty of time to decide. Some parents should put more thought into a decision like whether or not to circumcise their son. Other parents should probably put less thought into it, since each option has both valid and invalid arguments. One thing’s for certain: I don’t want my son (in the locker-room setting) to be made fun of over something as insignificant as a foreskin (or lack thereof). Until the majority changes or ceases to matter, parents are probably going to keep having their sons circumcised… even if it makes no medical difference.
12.01.2009
Flying with Julia Doten
Much of my initial intrigue with Julia Doten, her mother, and her daughter stemmed about ten years ago when I met her daughter Ripley, who has been my best friend for many years. I believe that the most common response to “Hi, my name is Ripley” is simply “really?” My best friend’s name is Ripley Elizabeth Doten. When I asked Ripley, at the age of eight, where her name came from, she replied “it was my grandmother’s name.” That didn’t make sense. As unusual as a name like that is, it would have been exceedingly more unusual sixty years ago. Eventually the truth came out that although her grandmother was called Ripley, it was actually her middle name, taken from her own mother’s maiden name.
In the 1960s there were a grand total of twelve women aviation instructors in all of New England, and Ripley Miller was one of them. “Mom never let anyone tell her what to do,” says Julia. Ripley balanced the tasks of raising a family, working as a pilot, promoting women in aviation, and being a leader in the International Organization of Women Pilots. Julia clearly inherited her mother’s ambitious nature, for she has accomplished a number of things, including becoming a published author. In her book A Long White Scarf, Julia recounts the story of her mother’s life, combining it with personal childhood memories. She tells a brief story about her last encounter with her mother, “she opened her top drawer, and gave me a small box which contained a charm for my charm bracelet, engraved with my birth date from nine days ago. She explained that it had taken her a while to find the right one, and then have it engraved. I think I hugged her. Then she left for work” (Doten 130). Julia and her mother didn’t say goodbye.
Ripley worked delivering cargo out of Boston, and that night she never came home. Her plane went down over Boston Harbor, but it was several days before the plane and Ripley were found (Doten 131). Because of the days of searching, Julia and her siblings never really got a period of mourning. They didn’t want to cry while there was still hope, and by the time the search was over too much time had already passed. Julia went back to high school and on with life.
Julia says that when she was a little girl, she wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up. Next she wanted to be an archeologist, and then an architect. In high school, Julia took lots of drafting classes, feeling safe following in the tracks of her father’s civil engineering business. When she finished high school, she went to work for an insurance company, which wasn’t too gripping or thrilling, but it was a job. After a few years, Julia went out and got her Pilot’s License, knowing that her mother would have taught her to fly, had she been able to. She also has worked for her father’s civil engineering business, designing parts of houses, and parts of different locations around her hometown of Wilmington, MA. She tells me that, whether out of fear or comfort, it always seemed easiest to follow in her parents’ footsteps (Doten, Julia).
While it may have been easier to do what her parents had done, Julia has managed quite a few of her own accomplishments. She modeled occasionally, and after getting married went to Northern Essex Community College to study business. She is now a published author. Modeling and writing were and are her own things, separate from her parents. She says that writing the book about her mother was therapeutic; it was a way of putting all of those memories in order, and a way of dealing with emotions that had been left unexamined.
I have been told again and again by the younger Ripley about her mother Julia’s constant need to know where she is, all the time. To an eighteen year old girl this can be irritating, but there are reasons for what seems to Ripley to be paranoia. Julia never got a chance to say goodbye to her mother, and on top of that, her mother was missing for several days. In the constant coming and going of daily life, telling your family where you’re going and saying “goodbye” every time you leave the house can easily become a nuisance, but to Julia it’s extremely important. “Just say goodbye before you leave,” is all Julia asks.
“I asked God to never again let someone important to me die without saying goodbye” says Julia. This must have been racing through her head this past September when her brother told her “Dad crashed his plane and it’s really bad” (Doten, Julia). Julia’s father, my best friend’s grandfather, like his wife also an accomplished pilot, had crashed his plane. Julia says that for her, when a crisis happens, the only things to do are believe that everything will be alright, and keep busy. This must come from being a mother, I think. You have to keep smiling, if only for the sake of your children. She was right in believing that everything would be okay; he is okay. Ken Miller, her father, is alive and getting better daily, thanks in no small part to the constant care and attention from his daughter, affectionately known by him as “Julie.”
Julia’s mother, Ripley, worked in a highly male-dominated profession, and according to Julia, would never let anyone tell her what she could or couldn’t do. Ripley’s daughter, Julia, has continued her mother’s tradition. She wanted to be on the cover of a magazine, and she did it. She wanted to be a mother, and she did it. She wanted to write a book, and she did it. Julia Doten. A daughter, a model, a student, a civil engineer, an author, and the mother of my best friend. Through her life, Julia has been many different things to many different people, but perhaps the most important thing to consider is this: what does Julia Doten think of herself? She says “I think of myself as an artist.” She may not be as quite an accomplished pilot as her parents, but Julia has flown, even soared with everything she has set her mind to. It is clear to me that, whether in parenting, modeling, engineering, or writing, Julia has always made an effort to create something beautiful, and she has thus far been extremely successful.
In the 1960s there were a grand total of twelve women aviation instructors in all of New England, and Ripley Miller was one of them. “Mom never let anyone tell her what to do,” says Julia. Ripley balanced the tasks of raising a family, working as a pilot, promoting women in aviation, and being a leader in the International Organization of Women Pilots. Julia clearly inherited her mother’s ambitious nature, for she has accomplished a number of things, including becoming a published author. In her book A Long White Scarf, Julia recounts the story of her mother’s life, combining it with personal childhood memories. She tells a brief story about her last encounter with her mother, “she opened her top drawer, and gave me a small box which contained a charm for my charm bracelet, engraved with my birth date from nine days ago. She explained that it had taken her a while to find the right one, and then have it engraved. I think I hugged her. Then she left for work” (Doten 130). Julia and her mother didn’t say goodbye.
Ripley worked delivering cargo out of Boston, and that night she never came home. Her plane went down over Boston Harbor, but it was several days before the plane and Ripley were found (Doten 131). Because of the days of searching, Julia and her siblings never really got a period of mourning. They didn’t want to cry while there was still hope, and by the time the search was over too much time had already passed. Julia went back to high school and on with life.
Julia says that when she was a little girl, she wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up. Next she wanted to be an archeologist, and then an architect. In high school, Julia took lots of drafting classes, feeling safe following in the tracks of her father’s civil engineering business. When she finished high school, she went to work for an insurance company, which wasn’t too gripping or thrilling, but it was a job. After a few years, Julia went out and got her Pilot’s License, knowing that her mother would have taught her to fly, had she been able to. She also has worked for her father’s civil engineering business, designing parts of houses, and parts of different locations around her hometown of Wilmington, MA. She tells me that, whether out of fear or comfort, it always seemed easiest to follow in her parents’ footsteps (Doten, Julia).
While it may have been easier to do what her parents had done, Julia has managed quite a few of her own accomplishments. She modeled occasionally, and after getting married went to Northern Essex Community College to study business. She is now a published author. Modeling and writing were and are her own things, separate from her parents. She says that writing the book about her mother was therapeutic; it was a way of putting all of those memories in order, and a way of dealing with emotions that had been left unexamined.
I have been told again and again by the younger Ripley about her mother Julia’s constant need to know where she is, all the time. To an eighteen year old girl this can be irritating, but there are reasons for what seems to Ripley to be paranoia. Julia never got a chance to say goodbye to her mother, and on top of that, her mother was missing for several days. In the constant coming and going of daily life, telling your family where you’re going and saying “goodbye” every time you leave the house can easily become a nuisance, but to Julia it’s extremely important. “Just say goodbye before you leave,” is all Julia asks.
“I asked God to never again let someone important to me die without saying goodbye” says Julia. This must have been racing through her head this past September when her brother told her “Dad crashed his plane and it’s really bad” (Doten, Julia). Julia’s father, my best friend’s grandfather, like his wife also an accomplished pilot, had crashed his plane. Julia says that for her, when a crisis happens, the only things to do are believe that everything will be alright, and keep busy. This must come from being a mother, I think. You have to keep smiling, if only for the sake of your children. She was right in believing that everything would be okay; he is okay. Ken Miller, her father, is alive and getting better daily, thanks in no small part to the constant care and attention from his daughter, affectionately known by him as “Julie.”
Julia’s mother, Ripley, worked in a highly male-dominated profession, and according to Julia, would never let anyone tell her what she could or couldn’t do. Ripley’s daughter, Julia, has continued her mother’s tradition. She wanted to be on the cover of a magazine, and she did it. She wanted to be a mother, and she did it. She wanted to write a book, and she did it. Julia Doten. A daughter, a model, a student, a civil engineer, an author, and the mother of my best friend. Through her life, Julia has been many different things to many different people, but perhaps the most important thing to consider is this: what does Julia Doten think of herself? She says “I think of myself as an artist.” She may not be as quite an accomplished pilot as her parents, but Julia has flown, even soared with everything she has set her mind to. It is clear to me that, whether in parenting, modeling, engineering, or writing, Julia has always made an effort to create something beautiful, and she has thus far been extremely successful.
11.28.2009
Ice Cream- written Spring 2006
When there’s one single thing that is at least two-thirds of what you eat, see, and think about, it is safe to say that that one thing is a large part of your life. Having something like this might not always be a good thing, but it certainly can be. For me, ice cream is that thing. It’s not uncommon for me to eat ice cream three meals a day, nor is it uncommon for me to end my day by scrubbing chocolate ice cream and hot fudge off of my body. I’ve been told a few times that I smell like dairy products.
You laugh, but I am serious. I was never really big on ice cream for the majority of my life, to be quite honest. I liked it, but only the occasional vanilla cone. None of these nuts, chocolate chips or ridiculous flavors. That is until I got my first job at a local ice cream stand. I thought it would just be like any other job. I’d work; I’d be tired; I’d go home; and a week later I’d get a pay check, which I would then use to buy food and CDs. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect that ice cream would soon become one of my life’s greatest passions.
Let me give you the grand tour. In Freezer One we have the popular but interesting flavors. All the butters: Butterscotch, Butternut, Butter Almond. Then Mint Chocolate Chip and Mint Cookie. Cherry Chocolate Chip, Caramel Cashew Chip, Chocolate Almond, Chocolate Walnut, Frozen Pudding, Raspberry Chocolate Chip, Orange Pineapple, Banana, Pistachio Nut, and Peppermint Stick. Freezer Two contains the classics: several cans of Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, and Coffee, Maple Walnut, Mocha Almond, Heathbar, and Coffee Heathbar. Freezer Three holds the strange flavors, the new flavors, the experimental flavors, the yogurts, the sherbets, and the sorbets: Chocolate Chocolate Chunk, German Chocolate Fudge, Malted Moo Crunch, Malted Milk Ball, Pumpkin, Gingersnap Molasses, Heavenly Mash, Sugar-free Maple Walnut, Sugar-free Vanilla, Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip Yogurt, Grasshopper Yogurt, Peanut Butter Fudge Ripple Yogurt, Raspberry Sherbet, Watermelon Sherbet, Lime Sorbet, and Strawberry-Kiwi Sorbet. Think that’s a lot of flavors? Keep in mind that my ice cream stand is only seasonal and only opened a few weeks ago, so without a doubt I’m forgetting a lot of flavors.
I sure hope you didn’t skim that list. It may have seemed repetitive and boring, but skipping over a flavor of ice cream is equivalent to skipping over a flavor of my life. Anyway, let me continue. The difference between Sherbet and Sorbet is interesting; while they are similar, both being fruity and lighter than ice cream, Sorbet is completely dairy-free. Sorbet can be eaten by people who simply like it, or by people who are lactose-intolerant. Diabetics or participants in the Atkins diet may think that they can’t eat ice cream, but this is not true. We have sugar-free ice cream! We also have low-fat and non-fat frozen yogurt, and unlike the yogurts at other places, ours actually tastes good. We truly have an ice cream for everyone. And for every ice cream there is a type of person. I’m typically not one for flavor stereotyping, but people do it to themselves. It has gotten to the point where quite often I see a person walking toward my window, and I can pinpoint exactly what flavor, size, and possible toppings they will get. Then they order, and I am satisfactorily correct.
Even the best and most exciting jobs usually have their dull moments, but that’s not the case at an ice cream stand. Scooping ice cream, I am never bored. When regular customers come, it’s exciting to watch and help them decide between their favorite flavors, and when new customers come in it’s fun to suggest flavors. When I make a suggestion, I’m always right. The person always loves it. I can tell what a person will like, at least after asking a few questions. I also love the challenge that ensues after having to say “I’m sorry, we’re all out of that today.” I either suggest a close substitute, or something completely different that I know the person will love.
Since everyone loves ice cream, I’ve come across a wide variety of people in my day. I get people from all over the world, and it’s so interesting trying to understand a flavor of ice cream that might be hard to pronounce, topped off with some foreign accent. An entire family once came to my window, and each person asked for “berry” ice cream, and it was up to me to figure out whether that meant Strawberry, Black Raspberry, Raspberry Chocolate Chip, or Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip Yogurt. No matter the struggle of deciding on or understanding a flavor of ice cream, the smiles always come. Well, not always. A man once asked for “a small Buttercrunch in a cone.” I said “do you mind if I put it in a cup with a cone on top? The Buttercrunch is always very soft, and it will melt all over you if it’s in a cone.” He said “no, I want it in a cone.” So, I gave it to him in a cone, all drippy. Ten minutes later, he barged up to my window, covered in ice cream, demanding “this is ridiculous. I asked for my ice cream in a cone, not on my shirt.” I would have liked to have said “you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” but the customer is always right. I apologized and got him a new cone, this time with a cup as well. He walked off in an angry huff. Some people are just impossible to please.
The excitement of working at my ice cream stand doesn’t always come from the customers. Customers don’t always come, even in the summer, due to this thing known as precipitation. Whether it be rain or snow, wetness falling from the sky destroys people’s desire for ice cream. On one such day, my fellow scoopers and I found ourselves on the verge of boredom. We played cards, came up with a list of ridiculous alternate names for ice cream flavors, made action figures out of spoons, and the manager bought us all Chinese food. What’s better than wearing an apron and a baseball hat, eating ice cream and Lo Mein, and hanging out with your pals? Not much, I say.
The people I work with are wonderful, full of character, and are a constant source of hilarity. Frazer is everyone’s favorite. He’s about a hundred feet tall, and weighs about ten pounds. He trips over everything, is exceedingly personable, and has made close friends with a couple eighty-something year-old women who regularly come to get ice cream. “Fraz,” for short, is lovable and lanky. Then there’s Dave, who has been an employee for the past twelve years. He’s in his late twenties, graduated from an ivy-league college ages ago, and still lives with his parents. Most people in his position would be embarrassed to work with high school and young college students, but he thrives on teenage gossip. If you want to know the latest info, Dave’s the place to go. He gets the same thrill spreading rumors as a fourteen year-old girl. Next is Marsha, the day-time manager. She’s in her late fifties, and thrives off of cleanliness and order. It didn’t take me long to figure out that on Marsha’s shift, I’d better be scrubbing something at all times. All of the managers are middle-aged and have worked in the ice cream business for decades… except for Cindy. She was promoted to manager in her senior year of high school, and this was the cause of much controversy. She’s really nice, helpful, efficient, and knowledgeable about all things relevant to ice cream. I work with a wide variety of wonderful people; it would be near impossible to describe them all.
What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? Actually, let me tell you. Usually it’s not hard to tell. And if it’s not obvious, I can probably tell you a lot about your personality from simply knowing what ice cream you like. Undecided customers like to ask what my favorite flavor is, in hopes that it will be something they will like. I have no favorite flavor. I am a connoisseur. For every flavor there is a season, and for every season there is a flavor. Really, I like every flavor. During the summer my freezer is a mess. Container upon container of different ice cream flavors are stacked everywhere- with no reason or particular order. My parents and three brothers, although not quite as diverse in their ice cream taste as I, love it quite a bit as well, and the containers that I bring home turn into a free-for-all. When we have guests over for dinner, it is always interesting watching them choose the flavor or flavors of ice cream that they would like for dessert. I believe I recall a time that we were able to offer twelve different flavors to an unsuspecting guest, who of course was quite pleased, although perhaps a bit overwhelmed.
Working at an ice cream stand, in addition to encouraging my passion for ice cream, has also helped me to perfect many skills that are useful for life. I make pretty much the best Banana Split you will ever eat. And my frappes? Incredible. (That’s right, I said Frappe, not Milkshake. No, they’re not the same thing. A Milkshake doesn’t have any ice cream in it- it’s just flavored milk. We’re in New England.) Sundaes are delicious, but not as delicious as a Doubledae, a Banana Split, or a Special(a Banana Split without the banana), for the simple reason that in a Sundae you only get one flavor and one topping. A Doubledae includes two and two, and a Banana Split and Special three and three. Also, the larger portions tend to be more rewarding. After eating a disgustingly enormous amount of ice cream, you simply feel like you’ve done a good job.
What? You think ice cream is fattening? Nonsense. It’s all in how you do it. My boss has been working at that ice cream stand and eating ice cream like it’s nobody’s business for who knows how long, and she’s one of the thinnest and most attractive middle-aged women I know. In addition, I have not a single co-worker who is obese or even overweight. We all eat ice cream; the only difference is that we also live healthy lifestyles. Sure, there are overweight people who eat a lot of ice cream, but there are also overweight people who like to watch TV, and the television certainly didn’t increase their body fat.
I think everyone should eat ice cream. It makes you happy. I’ve seen more smiling faces while serving ice cream than I saw in Disneyland, and that’s supposed to be the most magical and happy place in the world. Ice cream is great. Every flavor is great, every topping is great. Ice cream has taught me about people, and has taught me in an enormous way to appreciate life and all its many flavors.
You laugh, but I am serious. I was never really big on ice cream for the majority of my life, to be quite honest. I liked it, but only the occasional vanilla cone. None of these nuts, chocolate chips or ridiculous flavors. That is until I got my first job at a local ice cream stand. I thought it would just be like any other job. I’d work; I’d be tired; I’d go home; and a week later I’d get a pay check, which I would then use to buy food and CDs. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect that ice cream would soon become one of my life’s greatest passions.
Let me give you the grand tour. In Freezer One we have the popular but interesting flavors. All the butters: Butterscotch, Butternut, Butter Almond. Then Mint Chocolate Chip and Mint Cookie. Cherry Chocolate Chip, Caramel Cashew Chip, Chocolate Almond, Chocolate Walnut, Frozen Pudding, Raspberry Chocolate Chip, Orange Pineapple, Banana, Pistachio Nut, and Peppermint Stick. Freezer Two contains the classics: several cans of Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, and Coffee, Maple Walnut, Mocha Almond, Heathbar, and Coffee Heathbar. Freezer Three holds the strange flavors, the new flavors, the experimental flavors, the yogurts, the sherbets, and the sorbets: Chocolate Chocolate Chunk, German Chocolate Fudge, Malted Moo Crunch, Malted Milk Ball, Pumpkin, Gingersnap Molasses, Heavenly Mash, Sugar-free Maple Walnut, Sugar-free Vanilla, Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip Yogurt, Grasshopper Yogurt, Peanut Butter Fudge Ripple Yogurt, Raspberry Sherbet, Watermelon Sherbet, Lime Sorbet, and Strawberry-Kiwi Sorbet. Think that’s a lot of flavors? Keep in mind that my ice cream stand is only seasonal and only opened a few weeks ago, so without a doubt I’m forgetting a lot of flavors.
I sure hope you didn’t skim that list. It may have seemed repetitive and boring, but skipping over a flavor of ice cream is equivalent to skipping over a flavor of my life. Anyway, let me continue. The difference between Sherbet and Sorbet is interesting; while they are similar, both being fruity and lighter than ice cream, Sorbet is completely dairy-free. Sorbet can be eaten by people who simply like it, or by people who are lactose-intolerant. Diabetics or participants in the Atkins diet may think that they can’t eat ice cream, but this is not true. We have sugar-free ice cream! We also have low-fat and non-fat frozen yogurt, and unlike the yogurts at other places, ours actually tastes good. We truly have an ice cream for everyone. And for every ice cream there is a type of person. I’m typically not one for flavor stereotyping, but people do it to themselves. It has gotten to the point where quite often I see a person walking toward my window, and I can pinpoint exactly what flavor, size, and possible toppings they will get. Then they order, and I am satisfactorily correct.
Even the best and most exciting jobs usually have their dull moments, but that’s not the case at an ice cream stand. Scooping ice cream, I am never bored. When regular customers come, it’s exciting to watch and help them decide between their favorite flavors, and when new customers come in it’s fun to suggest flavors. When I make a suggestion, I’m always right. The person always loves it. I can tell what a person will like, at least after asking a few questions. I also love the challenge that ensues after having to say “I’m sorry, we’re all out of that today.” I either suggest a close substitute, or something completely different that I know the person will love.
Since everyone loves ice cream, I’ve come across a wide variety of people in my day. I get people from all over the world, and it’s so interesting trying to understand a flavor of ice cream that might be hard to pronounce, topped off with some foreign accent. An entire family once came to my window, and each person asked for “berry” ice cream, and it was up to me to figure out whether that meant Strawberry, Black Raspberry, Raspberry Chocolate Chip, or Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip Yogurt. No matter the struggle of deciding on or understanding a flavor of ice cream, the smiles always come. Well, not always. A man once asked for “a small Buttercrunch in a cone.” I said “do you mind if I put it in a cup with a cone on top? The Buttercrunch is always very soft, and it will melt all over you if it’s in a cone.” He said “no, I want it in a cone.” So, I gave it to him in a cone, all drippy. Ten minutes later, he barged up to my window, covered in ice cream, demanding “this is ridiculous. I asked for my ice cream in a cone, not on my shirt.” I would have liked to have said “you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” but the customer is always right. I apologized and got him a new cone, this time with a cup as well. He walked off in an angry huff. Some people are just impossible to please.
The excitement of working at my ice cream stand doesn’t always come from the customers. Customers don’t always come, even in the summer, due to this thing known as precipitation. Whether it be rain or snow, wetness falling from the sky destroys people’s desire for ice cream. On one such day, my fellow scoopers and I found ourselves on the verge of boredom. We played cards, came up with a list of ridiculous alternate names for ice cream flavors, made action figures out of spoons, and the manager bought us all Chinese food. What’s better than wearing an apron and a baseball hat, eating ice cream and Lo Mein, and hanging out with your pals? Not much, I say.
The people I work with are wonderful, full of character, and are a constant source of hilarity. Frazer is everyone’s favorite. He’s about a hundred feet tall, and weighs about ten pounds. He trips over everything, is exceedingly personable, and has made close friends with a couple eighty-something year-old women who regularly come to get ice cream. “Fraz,” for short, is lovable and lanky. Then there’s Dave, who has been an employee for the past twelve years. He’s in his late twenties, graduated from an ivy-league college ages ago, and still lives with his parents. Most people in his position would be embarrassed to work with high school and young college students, but he thrives on teenage gossip. If you want to know the latest info, Dave’s the place to go. He gets the same thrill spreading rumors as a fourteen year-old girl. Next is Marsha, the day-time manager. She’s in her late fifties, and thrives off of cleanliness and order. It didn’t take me long to figure out that on Marsha’s shift, I’d better be scrubbing something at all times. All of the managers are middle-aged and have worked in the ice cream business for decades… except for Cindy. She was promoted to manager in her senior year of high school, and this was the cause of much controversy. She’s really nice, helpful, efficient, and knowledgeable about all things relevant to ice cream. I work with a wide variety of wonderful people; it would be near impossible to describe them all.
What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream? Actually, let me tell you. Usually it’s not hard to tell. And if it’s not obvious, I can probably tell you a lot about your personality from simply knowing what ice cream you like. Undecided customers like to ask what my favorite flavor is, in hopes that it will be something they will like. I have no favorite flavor. I am a connoisseur. For every flavor there is a season, and for every season there is a flavor. Really, I like every flavor. During the summer my freezer is a mess. Container upon container of different ice cream flavors are stacked everywhere- with no reason or particular order. My parents and three brothers, although not quite as diverse in their ice cream taste as I, love it quite a bit as well, and the containers that I bring home turn into a free-for-all. When we have guests over for dinner, it is always interesting watching them choose the flavor or flavors of ice cream that they would like for dessert. I believe I recall a time that we were able to offer twelve different flavors to an unsuspecting guest, who of course was quite pleased, although perhaps a bit overwhelmed.
Working at an ice cream stand, in addition to encouraging my passion for ice cream, has also helped me to perfect many skills that are useful for life. I make pretty much the best Banana Split you will ever eat. And my frappes? Incredible. (That’s right, I said Frappe, not Milkshake. No, they’re not the same thing. A Milkshake doesn’t have any ice cream in it- it’s just flavored milk. We’re in New England.) Sundaes are delicious, but not as delicious as a Doubledae, a Banana Split, or a Special(a Banana Split without the banana), for the simple reason that in a Sundae you only get one flavor and one topping. A Doubledae includes two and two, and a Banana Split and Special three and three. Also, the larger portions tend to be more rewarding. After eating a disgustingly enormous amount of ice cream, you simply feel like you’ve done a good job.
What? You think ice cream is fattening? Nonsense. It’s all in how you do it. My boss has been working at that ice cream stand and eating ice cream like it’s nobody’s business for who knows how long, and she’s one of the thinnest and most attractive middle-aged women I know. In addition, I have not a single co-worker who is obese or even overweight. We all eat ice cream; the only difference is that we also live healthy lifestyles. Sure, there are overweight people who eat a lot of ice cream, but there are also overweight people who like to watch TV, and the television certainly didn’t increase their body fat.
I think everyone should eat ice cream. It makes you happy. I’ve seen more smiling faces while serving ice cream than I saw in Disneyland, and that’s supposed to be the most magical and happy place in the world. Ice cream is great. Every flavor is great, every topping is great. Ice cream has taught me about people, and has taught me in an enormous way to appreciate life and all its many flavors.
what's coming
I'm going to post a series of essays that have been written by me. They will have nothing to do with each other, some will be informative, some will be silly, some will be boring, probably. Enjoy.
11.26.2009
Today is Thanksgiving.
Hello, Blog. Long time no see.
I am tired. Turkey has that effect. Although, chemically speaking, isn't it just overeating that makes us sleepy? I didn't really overeat. I ate the correct amount, but am sleepy because I haven't really moved all day and I ate a lot of sugar (PIE) and then I played word games for endless hours. I miss my brother Robbie. I ate black olives alone today... well, not quite alone, but usually he and I eat copious amounts and others just nibble. Today it was just I eating the copious amounts. I hope he had some black olives in AZ.
Ramble ramble.
Cleaned my room the other day. It's pretty exciting. I need to clean my car. I needed to clean my room worse than I needed to clean my car, if you can believe that. If you've seen my car. You're more likely to have seen my car than my room, anyway. Whoever YOU are. No one reads this. Maybe someone. Maybe.
A good chunk of Christmas shopping is done, and for that I am quite proud of myself. I love karaoke. It's a new discovery of mine. Another new discovery, even though it seemed obvious to me, is that eighties pop songs are huge crowd-pleasers.
Never speed on the Lowell Connector. I've gotten two tickets in the past month. Appealed them both. Haven't heard back from either. So maybe neither of them were received and now there's a warrant out for my arrest for unpaid speeding tickets. I kind of hope so. It'd be exciting.
I am exhausted. Need to change my sheets so my grandmother can sleep in my bed...and then I get to sleep in the weird not-quite-a-bed thing.
I am tired. Turkey has that effect. Although, chemically speaking, isn't it just overeating that makes us sleepy? I didn't really overeat. I ate the correct amount, but am sleepy because I haven't really moved all day and I ate a lot of sugar (PIE) and then I played word games for endless hours. I miss my brother Robbie. I ate black olives alone today... well, not quite alone, but usually he and I eat copious amounts and others just nibble. Today it was just I eating the copious amounts. I hope he had some black olives in AZ.
Ramble ramble.
Cleaned my room the other day. It's pretty exciting. I need to clean my car. I needed to clean my room worse than I needed to clean my car, if you can believe that. If you've seen my car. You're more likely to have seen my car than my room, anyway. Whoever YOU are. No one reads this. Maybe someone. Maybe.
A good chunk of Christmas shopping is done, and for that I am quite proud of myself. I love karaoke. It's a new discovery of mine. Another new discovery, even though it seemed obvious to me, is that eighties pop songs are huge crowd-pleasers.
Never speed on the Lowell Connector. I've gotten two tickets in the past month. Appealed them both. Haven't heard back from either. So maybe neither of them were received and now there's a warrant out for my arrest for unpaid speeding tickets. I kind of hope so. It'd be exciting.
I am exhausted. Need to change my sheets so my grandmother can sleep in my bed...and then I get to sleep in the weird not-quite-a-bed thing.
7.05.2009
on the road again
It has been quite a while since my last post! I'm sure no one minds, since judging by the amount of comments I have received on this blog, no one reads it. But that's okay! I still enjoy it.
Today I'm embarking with Brianne on our very first ROAD TRIP! Our itinerary is as follows:
Today: Houdini Museum, Woodstock Museum, spend the night in Scranton. Take pictures with the WELCOME TO SCRANTON sign.
Monday: Visit Jim Thorpe. Go to Gettysburg. Eat chili dogs (Brianne doesn't know about this yet). Go on ghost tour.
Tuesday: Baltimore with Brianne's college room mate. Sleep in a house. Who knows what today could hold!
Wednesday: Philadelphia! Visit Pez Dispenser Museum, hang out with my high school friend who recently moved and became a grown-up. Wait... I am a grown up.
Thursday: Drive to Rhode Island. Visit Thaeje. Sleep on a couch.
Friday: Plimoth Plantation? Back to MA!
I'll attempt to tell good stories throughout the next week. Hopefully someone reads this thing!
Today I'm embarking with Brianne on our very first ROAD TRIP! Our itinerary is as follows:
Today: Houdini Museum, Woodstock Museum, spend the night in Scranton. Take pictures with the WELCOME TO SCRANTON sign.
Monday: Visit Jim Thorpe. Go to Gettysburg. Eat chili dogs (Brianne doesn't know about this yet). Go on ghost tour.
Tuesday: Baltimore with Brianne's college room mate. Sleep in a house. Who knows what today could hold!
Wednesday: Philadelphia! Visit Pez Dispenser Museum, hang out with my high school friend who recently moved and became a grown-up. Wait... I am a grown up.
Thursday: Drive to Rhode Island. Visit Thaeje. Sleep on a couch.
Friday: Plimoth Plantation? Back to MA!
I'll attempt to tell good stories throughout the next week. Hopefully someone reads this thing!
4.10.2009
there and back again
I got home from Haiti two nights ago. Culture shock set in immediately.
When we arrived at the airport, we were greeted by one of the translators we had last year. "Sarah! Jessica! I didn't know you were coming!" Teams from the US and Canada show up at this place weekly, if not more often. The fact that he (and others) remembered not only my face, but my name, is incredible. I wasn't lied to when I was told that these people would never forget me.
One of the days I was working at the hospital I was talking to a woman who I also knew from last year. She asked me what I do for work at home. I was about to answer her, when it occurred to me, "she's probably never heard of Starbucks." So I said "I work at a coffee shop... have you ever heard of Starbucks?" I got a blank stare and a "no." If someone had ever asked me "do you think there are people in the world who've never heard of Starbucks?" the answer would obviously be "yes." But no one's ever asked me that question. I've never thought about it. It's a strange thing to think about, no?
I could talk on and on about the poverty, but it's unnecessary. I'll tell you about it if you ask me. It's depressing. And what's even more depressing is being back in the US. Watching people live so extravagantly, get so upset about things that don't matter at all... all while I have friends who are living in poverty. I mean, the people I know are better off than most others. They have jobs, are educated or being educated, they have places to live, and most have families. Well, the orphans don't have families. But they have each other. But they're all skin and bones. They clean their plates (when they are given meals). They have little clothing, and even less of other things that we take for granted. Like electricity, running water, internet, clean water. We walked past this water source where people bathe, do their laundry, and get their drinking water. It's all from the same place. And then we walked down a ways, and I noticed a dead pig lying in the water. Can you imagine living like that? That's reality. It's not the way the majority of the world lives, and it's certainly not the way we live, but there are real, live, loving, caring, intelligent, educated human beings out there who live like this from day to day.
Oops. I talked about the poverty. That's what happens... I try not to, because I know it disengages people's interest, and it always comes off as sounding demeaning. I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I've just seen and experienced things, and when you ask me to tell you about it I don't know how to respond. Do you want "it was a really great trip. I had a really nice time." or do you want "three days ago I was holding and hugging and feeding de-worming medication to hungry orphans with no pants or underwear, with bloated bellies and orange hair from malnutrition. So now it's really depressing and emotionally grueling to try to appease customers who are yelling at me because I ran out of chocolate chips for their Venti Java Chip Frappuccino." You know? People don't want to hear that. But it's true.
I wish people would say "I want to politely inquire about your trip, but if you speak more than one sentence in response my eyes will instantly glaze over with disinterest."
When we arrived at the airport, we were greeted by one of the translators we had last year. "Sarah! Jessica! I didn't know you were coming!" Teams from the US and Canada show up at this place weekly, if not more often. The fact that he (and others) remembered not only my face, but my name, is incredible. I wasn't lied to when I was told that these people would never forget me.
One of the days I was working at the hospital I was talking to a woman who I also knew from last year. She asked me what I do for work at home. I was about to answer her, when it occurred to me, "she's probably never heard of Starbucks." So I said "I work at a coffee shop... have you ever heard of Starbucks?" I got a blank stare and a "no." If someone had ever asked me "do you think there are people in the world who've never heard of Starbucks?" the answer would obviously be "yes." But no one's ever asked me that question. I've never thought about it. It's a strange thing to think about, no?
I could talk on and on about the poverty, but it's unnecessary. I'll tell you about it if you ask me. It's depressing. And what's even more depressing is being back in the US. Watching people live so extravagantly, get so upset about things that don't matter at all... all while I have friends who are living in poverty. I mean, the people I know are better off than most others. They have jobs, are educated or being educated, they have places to live, and most have families. Well, the orphans don't have families. But they have each other. But they're all skin and bones. They clean their plates (when they are given meals). They have little clothing, and even less of other things that we take for granted. Like electricity, running water, internet, clean water. We walked past this water source where people bathe, do their laundry, and get their drinking water. It's all from the same place. And then we walked down a ways, and I noticed a dead pig lying in the water. Can you imagine living like that? That's reality. It's not the way the majority of the world lives, and it's certainly not the way we live, but there are real, live, loving, caring, intelligent, educated human beings out there who live like this from day to day.
Oops. I talked about the poverty. That's what happens... I try not to, because I know it disengages people's interest, and it always comes off as sounding demeaning. I'm sorry. I don't mean to. I've just seen and experienced things, and when you ask me to tell you about it I don't know how to respond. Do you want "it was a really great trip. I had a really nice time." or do you want "three days ago I was holding and hugging and feeding de-worming medication to hungry orphans with no pants or underwear, with bloated bellies and orange hair from malnutrition. So now it's really depressing and emotionally grueling to try to appease customers who are yelling at me because I ran out of chocolate chips for their Venti Java Chip Frappuccino." You know? People don't want to hear that. But it's true.
I wish people would say "I want to politely inquire about your trip, but if you speak more than one sentence in response my eyes will instantly glaze over with disinterest."
3.31.2009
oh boy
This past weekend didn't go exactly as I had planned, but it was still lovely. Instead of fasting for about two days as I had planned, I fasted for about 12 hours. I think I accomplished all that I had planned on, and even a little more. I spent Friday afternoon walking around Walden Pond (the weather was BEAUTIFUL), stopping as often as I felt to sit, look, think, write, meditate, pray. It didn't take me long to realize that instead of starving myself for a second day, it would be much more meaningful and fulfilling to spend some time with my family. So I spent Saturday morning making jewelry with my mom, grandmother, aunts, and Suzie, and I spent Saturday night feasting on sushi with Spence. On Sunday, after packing all of the donations that we're taking to Haiti, I went to church and then out to a ridiculous restaurant with Rob and Suzie. About a month ago I won a $100 gift certificate on the radio to Masa, and I decided to take them. We had a really fun time, and I don't think I've ever eaten a meal nearly as expensive as that one.
Last night I spent a much-needed night out with Ripley and Michael. Ripley had a gift certificate to Denny's, so we went. I'd never been to Denny's before! It seemed to me to just be IHOP, but with different colored tables, and a slightly more trendy music selection. It was so good to hang out with them... I can't believe how lucky I am to have them for friends, and to have had them for so long.
Well, tomorrow I leave for Haiti. I'm a little nervous all of a sudden, probably more about the fact that I haven't started packing than anything else. I guess I should go do that...
Last night I spent a much-needed night out with Ripley and Michael. Ripley had a gift certificate to Denny's, so we went. I'd never been to Denny's before! It seemed to me to just be IHOP, but with different colored tables, and a slightly more trendy music selection. It was so good to hang out with them... I can't believe how lucky I am to have them for friends, and to have had them for so long.
Well, tomorrow I leave for Haiti. I'm a little nervous all of a sudden, probably more about the fact that I haven't started packing than anything else. I guess I should go do that...
3.27.2009
natural segregation?
This morning as I waited at LGH to get blood drawn, I noticed something very odd. The way the waiting room is set up is there is a big room, which is separated into smaller room-type things with chairs set up in U shapes, which a row of large fake plants separating each U. The chair U closest to the room that everyone is waiting to get into also has a TV, but none of the others do. This is the section that I naturally walked to. I mean, it was closest to where I wanted to end up, it had a TV, and something about it just seemed... natural. Of course, I didn't think that through, it's just where I automatically went.
Then, after sitting for about ten minutes, I began to realize that the waiting room was separated into racial groups. I was sitting in a U of chairs entirely filled with Caucasian people, the one next door had Black and Latino people, and the one next to that had people of Asian descent. I noticed this, and it disturbed me... why are people doing this? Why does it just happen, with no noticeable intent? Why did I also subconsiously follow the masses?
A woman sitting in the U beside the one I was in had her name called. It wasn't her turn yet, but she was next. As I saw her walking over towards us, I thought "this is good, she's going to sit down. This whole thing was just in my head." But, she didn't sit down. She stood, just outside of our little section. Maybe it was just because she knew she'd have to get up again soon? I hope so.
Then, after sitting for about ten minutes, I began to realize that the waiting room was separated into racial groups. I was sitting in a U of chairs entirely filled with Caucasian people, the one next door had Black and Latino people, and the one next to that had people of Asian descent. I noticed this, and it disturbed me... why are people doing this? Why does it just happen, with no noticeable intent? Why did I also subconsiously follow the masses?
A woman sitting in the U beside the one I was in had her name called. It wasn't her turn yet, but she was next. As I saw her walking over towards us, I thought "this is good, she's going to sit down. This whole thing was just in my head." But, she didn't sit down. She stood, just outside of our little section. Maybe it was just because she knew she'd have to get up again soon? I hope so.
3.23.2009
hungry
So, I'm probably going to do a 40 hour fast this weekend. I'm leaving for Haiti in 9 days. When I went last June, the thing I struggled with the most was going out into villages, playing with and showering love on kids and adults who were starving, telling them about Jesus (which I do think is incredibly important), and then leaving them... and going back to our house and eating like kings. Sure, sometimes we'd give the kids a tootsie roll, but for someone who maybe gets one meal a day? Not so helpful. Maybe even harmful.
We aren't fed so well just for fun... there is a purpose for it. We're Americans who are used to eating three meals a day, who have traveled a great distance to a country with rampant disease to work in not so great conditions for very long hours. The fact is, we need our sustenance if we're going to work efficiently. But knowing that didn't make me feel any less guilty. I knew I had to eat, but I couldn't help but think about all the people I'd seen who could use the food so much more than I could.
So, I've decided to fast. The purpose is to pray, meditate, and prepare for my trip both mentally and spiritually. I want to take time to prepare, but also to get the whole guilt thing out of my system. By fasting I will hopefully be able to relate better instead of just having guilt and pity that is completely foreign and unintelligible. I considered 3 days, because it's a nice round number. I considered 30 hours, because I've done 30 hours before. I decided that 3 days, taking my body size into consideration, is too long. It's also important that I be able to do this while not working, since being hungry and at work will not be conducive to what I am trying to achieve. 30 hours is simply not long enough. So, 40 hours, modeled after the 40 days that Jesus fasted, is my conclusion. Long enough to experience hunger, short enough not to lose scary amounts of weight, and conveniently, I have this whole weekend off of work.
So, there's my plan. I'm getting ready to be hungry.
We aren't fed so well just for fun... there is a purpose for it. We're Americans who are used to eating three meals a day, who have traveled a great distance to a country with rampant disease to work in not so great conditions for very long hours. The fact is, we need our sustenance if we're going to work efficiently. But knowing that didn't make me feel any less guilty. I knew I had to eat, but I couldn't help but think about all the people I'd seen who could use the food so much more than I could.
So, I've decided to fast. The purpose is to pray, meditate, and prepare for my trip both mentally and spiritually. I want to take time to prepare, but also to get the whole guilt thing out of my system. By fasting I will hopefully be able to relate better instead of just having guilt and pity that is completely foreign and unintelligible. I considered 3 days, because it's a nice round number. I considered 30 hours, because I've done 30 hours before. I decided that 3 days, taking my body size into consideration, is too long. It's also important that I be able to do this while not working, since being hungry and at work will not be conducive to what I am trying to achieve. 30 hours is simply not long enough. So, 40 hours, modeled after the 40 days that Jesus fasted, is my conclusion. Long enough to experience hunger, short enough not to lose scary amounts of weight, and conveniently, I have this whole weekend off of work.
So, there's my plan. I'm getting ready to be hungry.
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