Island Love

I love those little traffic islands
where the lone sign or the few
stand like emaciated haiku poets
holding up their poems,

mournful, necessary poems that always
point the reader somewhere
far away and very near
with a few right words.

Some of the islands have names
like Lieutenant William Kelley, Jr. Square, honoring those who died,
perhaps young, perhaps barely old enough to drive,

and perhaps in love
with someone far away and very
sad

driving around on a Saturday night, thinking

of a boy stationed on an island
in the middle of nowhere
dreaming of peacetime, dreaming
of making love to her right there

on a beach of that island,
one of its blue flowers breathing
its untranslatable name
in her hair.

 

Paul Hostovsky has new poems appearing or forthcoming in Free Lunch, New Delta Review, Bryant Literary Review, Visions International, Nebo, Slant, FRiGG, Driftwood, Heartlodge, Rock & Sling, ByLine and others. He works in Boston as an Interpreter for the Deaf.

Whisper All Things

The flower shop is cooler, darker than the sticky day outside. I pull my sunglasses
up into my hair and stop just inside the door.

“Can I help you?” asks the girl behind the counter.

“No, I’m just looking.”

I don’t want to tell her that I have no idea what I’m looking for, that I have never been to a florist. I don’t know how to say that I have waited fourteen years to go to my mother’s grave and that’s what I am doing today.

My sister always takes her red roses. Always three—one for each of her children.

My mother loved roses. When my father brought them home, it was a dozen in every color
possible. They would end up clustered in the same olive-green glass vase on the dining room table. She would choose a different one as her favorite each time—pink, red, white, yellow. I walk past the Mother’s Day baskets and the teddy bears with caps and gowns to stand in front of the refrigerator cases. They are full of arrangements ready for sale, finished off with coordinating ribbons and sprays of greenery or baby’s breath.

I don’t want this. I want simple flowers to lay at a headstone.

At the register, prepared to ask the counter girl what else they have, I see a woman in the back arranging a tall bunch of long stemmed, star-shaped flowers with bright pink and white blooms.

“What are those?”

The girl turns as I point. “Stargazer lilies.”

They remind me of the orange tiger lilies that used to grow along the road near our house when I was young. I used to beg my mother to stop so I could pick them and take them home. I thought they would have a sweet, heavy scent. When she finally stopped and let me pull a few, they didn’t have any scent at all.

The girl brought some of the lilies for me to see up close. I put a creamy one up to my face and inhaled. It smelled the way I had dreamed the wild tiger lilies would.

“I want three.”

~

The day my mother died, she didn’t pick us up at school. She called and told the
school that she would be late, that her mother would come to get us and we would wait
with her. She asked to talk to my sister and cried on the phone. Stephanie was still
crying, her eyes red to show how much, when she came to tell us.

Huddled like conspirators at the top of the porch stairs behind my grandmother’s
house, we waited with expectant silence.

“Mom should have been here by now,” Steph said.

“It can’t be five yet,” I answered, still too young to own a watch, “It’s not dark enough.”

“It has to be. I’m hungry.”

Jesse, always the little brother, dug his fingers into the nearly empty tub of prunes.

My sister scooped out two more, one for me and one for her, before letting the waxy cardboard disappear into our brother’s arms. He wrapped it safely against his chest. The Diet Pepsi made one more pass before the last drops rolled down my throat.

“I’m still thirsty,” I said, knowing they weren’t listening.

We were all staring at the yard and the shadows forming across it as the blue in the sky started to fade. The breeze that had made me turn my face up to the sky earlier was now getting chilly and made me want to be at home—warm inside the house and waiting for dinner.

“Mom’s late. She’s always late.” My sister’s voice was clipped, like she couldn’t get enough breath. It sounded like an answer, but no one had asked a question.

It was true. Late was normal for her. She would drink a beer too many, forget the time, and fly down the road to us at school. I had even stopped listening for our number in the carpool line because so many afternoons found us trooping across the school grounds to the convent where the sisters lived, all the other staff having left for the day. They would always call home first, as if she might have forgotten that we existed. Some of those calls found her at home, unconcerned, long after the lines of cars had deserted the parking lot.

“She’s just not coming,” I said. “She forgot us.”

“She never forgets us. She always comes.”

I looked at the ground below us. Steph was right; she always came, no matter how late. No matter what else either—drunk or angry, happy or sad—she was always there. I never knew who would be behind the wheel at the end of the day—which mother. The angry mom usually told us to pile three in the back so she didn’t have to look at us. That also meant quiet. Any noise meant there would be yelling, someone would cry, and she would reach for the leather belt neatly rolled in her purse—all while maneuvering the car near sixty.

But there were other days. Days when she pulled into the empty pre-dinner parking lot of Mr. Dee’ s, her favorite barbecue place, and we would eat dripping sandwiches and deep-fried onion rings before 4 o’clock. We would sip Cokes in red and yellow plastic booths that gave loud squeals as we climbed in and out of them. She laughed with us and told us jokes we were too young to hear.

“Your mother will be here,” our grandmother said through the open kitchen door, putting an end to the conversation.

~

Driving down the road with the heavy scent of lilies hanging in the hot, May wind, I wonder why I have waited fourteen years to go back to the cemetery. I could have gone with Steph. She goes every year. I could have gone alone once I was old enough to drive. But I never did. I have always remembered this day, the anniversary, and I have always spent it alone, quiet, holding everything in. Almost like I was still waiting for her to come home.

I think I decided to make this trip when I found the death certificate I had never before seen. For so long, I’d held onto the child’s dream that she wasn’t really dead, that she would come back some day. I needed the paper to make it real. I found it in an old family album. The pages were thick, black paper with little pockets to hold the photographs, browning with age. Snapshots mostly, her parents in childhood scenes—a rope swing at a lake, a family drive in the country in what looks to be a Model T. The certificate was flimsy and white. I ran my fingers ran across the ridges and bumps of the county seal.

I opened the tri-fold and read: Diane Lynn Jacobe, May 8, 1987, single-car accident, approx. 5 PM.

I did not blink, and I could not feel the page in my hand.

I wanted more than the words. The police report said a cigarette and the dash lighter were on the floor, that she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, that she went through the window when the car hit a telephone pole. I have known these facts since she died. They do not tell me what I want to know. I imagine her crying as she leaves the house, hot tears blurring her vision.

Maybe she drops the keys in the gravel and kneels to search for them, the rocks stabbing through her jeans and leaving marks that never heal. She gets in the car, somewhere between hysterical and drunk. She forgets the divorce papers under the seat, which the State Police will later return to my father unsigned in their manila envelope. Less than a mile down the narrow road, she decides to light a cigarette. It will calm her–it always does.

The tears are drying now, alcohol or sobriety gaining control over emotion. I imagine her reaching for the dash lighter and see it slipping. Imagine glossy soft pack of Merits falling on the floor. She looks down. She reaches. She knows this road. She knows how to drive with vision hazy from tears and beer.

I don’t want to picture her after that–the fear, the rush of trees and the telephone
pole. The wide field that may be road. Did she know? She must have seen the coming
because there were skid marks. She tried to stop. I don’t want to think about the
broken windshield, her body in the grass, the blood. I don’t want to ask if she felt the
impact, the crash of the glass. I cannot let myself think that she could have laid there
knowing what had happened.

What I want to know is this:did she think about us. About all the other times this could
have happened? Did she think about the past or wonder how she would heal, believing
she would live? The police report says she died on impact, but how could they really
know?

~

Grown now and behind the wheel of my own car, I am traveling backward. I
Begin close to my old school, By her mother’s house. The places she didn’t see that
day. I drive on the one road into the rural county where we lived then, the road she
never made it to. I never drove these roads, too small when we moved away and no
reason to come back. I am coming to the road—her road—and I turn, even though it’s
not the way to the cemetery.

I never knew where she died; our father would never say and the county gave us house
numbers long after. For years after I searched each telephone poll along Rural Route
694 for signs of an accident, checked the pavement for skid marks. That’s what I do
now. I pass the same houses, fields of wheat and corn and hay that she must have
passed. These were the last things she saw. Some of them. Somewhere on the road, I
pass the place where she died . I want a marking place, something to label—it began
here.

~

It was dark when I woke that night, lifted from bed by big hands. I knew my father in
the dark, his cologne, the shape of his lap. I felt safe. I sighed as if I had been awakened
from a nightmare. I took handfuls of his shirt. My fingers twisted the buttons, found
the gaps between them. My hand fit there, and I felt the warmth of his skin. When I
opened my eyes and blinked sleep away, I saw light slanting sideways across the room,
making him a silhouette. I thought I heard crying behind me, behind him.

I couldn’t see his face.

“Daddy? Daddy, where’s Mommy?”

“In Heaven with Jesus.”

I felt tears in my hair as he pulled me up under his chin. It is the only time I’ve
seen him cry. Even at the funeral, he didn’t cry. He held me in his lap because I couldn’t
feel my feet on the ground to walk. I don’t remember falling down but he must have
known because he carried me down the aisle to the front pew. I walked behind the
coffin, holding his hand with both of mine as we left the church. I watched as my uncles
fed the handrails onto the runners in the back of the hearse. The white curtains swung
against the coffin as they closed the door.

At the cemetery, green cloth covered the mountain of dirt missing from the dark
pit. The coffin was suspended high above it, out of my reach, on a silver frame that left
room for me to stare into the dark. A green tent kept the rain off my head. I sat in a
cold metal chair–a folding chair like in assemblies at school. People walked by and
touched me, as if they could heal me, put back the piece of myself that was gone. The
priest moved his mouth, but I didn’t hear him. All I heard was the slow, mechanical,
slightly rusty grind of gears as they carried the coffin into the ground. . I looked away
when the coffin’s shiny silver frame was the only visible sign left.

~

This cemetery sits beside US 301 as it winds toward Maryland and the
Chesapeake. I park in the empty lot beside the office and find her just beside the tan
gravel walking path, a flat, bronze marker with an inset for a vase. I’d expected a
headstone, though none of the graves have them. I wanted something to wrap my
fingers around. I kneel or maybe my legs just can’t hold me up, seeing this—her. I
want to dig my arms into the dirt. I don’t know if I am breathing or how, and before I
can stop them, tears are on my cheeks. My mouth is open, but my throat is choked
closed. No sound can come out.

I clean away fourteen years of nature and weather on that marker with spit, the
way she used to wipe my face after mud pies or a fall from a swing. My fingertips are
stained red and brown. When I lick them to scrub at the ridged letters spelling her
name, they leave a metallic bitterness on my tongue. I don’t stop until each letter and
number looks new. I think the years I’ve stayed away won’t matter if I can clean her
grave.

I pick up the lilies I don’t remember dropping. Maybe I just let them
go as I cried or when I knelt. I strip away the wrapping the flower shop girl tied so
carefully with a pink ribbon and place them across the bottom of the marker. I leave her
two stems and set the third one aside. I want to take it home and hold onto this scent,
this moment.

The wind dries the tears on my face as more roll slowly down. My fingers trail across
her name the way I would touch her face if I could. Tenderly. Uncertainly.

“I don’t want to be a ballerina anymore,” I tell her. “And my front teeth finally grew in.”
I tell her how much has changed and I find myself saying things like “but Steph probably
told you that” or “do you remember her?”. I say “I’m sorry I stayed away.” First I lie,
saying, “I’m not mad. Really.” Then I pound on the earth below the marker and
demand to know how she could have left us, what could I have done. I say “I needed
you and you never came home.” I tell her I spent my life looking for her face in crowds
of strangers.

Then, I stretch out next to her grave and prop my head up with one arm so I can lean
down and whisper all the things I would have told the mother I imagine.

 

Monica F. Jacobe is a fiction and creative non-fiction writer based in Washington, DC. Her creative work has appeared in The Ampersand and Prism, among others. She holds an MFA in creative writing from American University and is pursuing a doctorate at The Catholic University of America. A teacher of all kinds of writing, Monica currently teaches for the English Department at Catholic University, the AU/NTL program at American University, and the Capitol Hill Arts Workshop. She also runs a reading series for DC writers at Riverby Books. Monica is hard at work on a novel, revisions of a collection of essays, of which Whisper All the Things is part, and scholarly writing about literature.

The Sun, the Moon, and the Baby

“The sun and the moon could have been fighting.” Doña Luz pursed her lips in concern.

I breathed out, grateful she blamed heavenly bodies.

“An eclipse, Laurita. Without you even knowing!”

I nodded. For a moment I let myself indulge in believing this. “I’ll check my calendar. See if it happened on an eclipse.”

A woman in a blue flowered apron and long braid walked down the dark corridor of the market toward us. Doña Luz lifted herself carefully up from the chair and hugged the woman, who then turned to greet me, excused herself for interrupting, and said she needed a pot.

Doña Luz burrowed her head into a pile of precariously balanced breakables and emerged
moments later with a large aluminum pot. Her tiny market stall overflowed with woven tortilla baskets, wooden spoons, chocolate stirrers, clay dishes, metal cookware. It was a
comfortable place, like an attic converted into a cozy living room and plunked down in the
corner of a market. Years earlier, when I’d lived here in Huajuapan teaching English and doing research on childbirth practices, she’d treated me as a granddaughter. Whenever I’d needed a grandma she’d given me big hugs, and this visit—my winter vacation—was no exception.

While the women examined the pot, knocking on it and cocking their heads to judge the echo, I sat on the doll-sized guest chair and thought about the sun and the moon fighting. It didn’t surprise me that Doña Luz had shaken her head and clucked at a half-hearted explanation involving random microscopic causes. Wandering outside during an eclipse seemed much more likely to her. Menstrual cycles do correspond to lunar cycles. I liked this explanation, so poetic and mythical, with forces astronomical and ancient affecting my body.

Back home in Colorado everyone—the midwife, my mother, my women friends— had assured me it was a random event. “One in five pregnancies ends in miscarriage,” they chimed. “Lots of women don’t even realize they’re pregnant, just think it’s just a heavy period.” No one, I thought bitterly, no one could mistake the fist-sized thing that slid out of me as a heavy period. Statistics couldn’t make it less real; they couldn’t absolve me.

After the customer left toting the giant pot, Doña Luz settled down across from me in her
chair, smoothing her apron over her knees. “Or, Laurita, maybe it was a cold wind that struck you.”

I felt glad her mind was still acute enough to pick up the conversation exactly where we’d left off. Since my brief visit the prior year, she’d become thirty pounds skinnier, her hollowed cheeks and thin voice betraying a severe bout of anemia and stomach infections.

I nodded. Her furrowed eyes sifted through seventy years of life experience.

“Or”– and here she grew excited– “you could have passed by a heavy place, where an evil wind struck you. You travel so much you might not even know which places are heavy!”

For five months—since August– I’d tiptoed around some explanations, one in particular, and tried unsuccessfully to embrace others. My fear now was that my pregnancy had been a fluke, a one-time shot and I’d blown it. I blinked back tears. “So what should I do?”

“Prepare your body, my daughter! Do a limpia with herbs. Put the heat back in your womb.
Wear a red strip of cloth around your belly. And don’t leave the house on an eclipse!”

The first woman who ever talked with me about her miscarriage was in the same rural Mexican town, about five years earlier. At that time, sex was all about not getting pregnant. I wasn’t sympathetic. I thought of her fetus as an it. She was a custodial worker at the university. She had taken a series of herbal steam baths with an old woman up the road. “To bring the
heat back to my body,” she told me. “After I lost the baby, my womb was left cold.” I took a
steam bath with the old woman, not out of a concern for fertility, but curiosity, and to relax
my muscles.

Two years later, during my Masters research, women ages seventeen to ninety-six told me
how after giving birth, they’d entrusted their raw, vulnerable bodies to the older señoras who “cooked” them with steam and herbs. The consequences of failing to restore heat were disastrous: headaches, teeth falling out, chronic stomach pains, bloated bellies. One middle-aged woman told me with regret that a cold wind had penetrated her back while she was pregnant and stayed there, throbbing to this day. Another woman attributed her neighbor’s infertility to injections with cold needles and sitting on chilly ground. Although I dutifully recorded their experiences, I didn’t understand that one’s body could become a cold, inhospitable, unwelcoming place.

My miscarriage had a ridiculous soundtrack: bluegrass. Knee-slappin’, yee-hawin’, chicken
dancin’ blue grass. Last July my old freshman roommate Mara was in town. For months she’d been planning this trip from her flat swampy New Orleans home to the Rockies. She’d hiked here with other friends from our college days and wanted a nostalgic re-play of her earlier visit. For Mara, the mountains were pathways to heaven, metaphors for life and love. Months before her trip, she called me to make eager plans, her Southern twang bursting with squeals and sighs. She sent me daily e-mails confirming the three bluegrass festivals we’d go to, the rivers we’d raft, the mountains we’d climb. In July I hesitantly e-mailed her that I was pregnant, hoping she wouldn’t feel disappointed doing less strenuous versions of our original plans.

I was eight weeks pregnant at the first festival. I had never listened to bluegrass much
before, but associated it with happy outdoor things, mountains and sunshine. My husband,
Ian, Mara, and I sat in lawn chairs in a shallow stream and watched people wading through the sparkling water: pregnant hippie women in halter tops, mothers with Mayan slings toting rosy-cheeked tow-head angels, naked toddlers building sand castles. Mara and Ian tapped their feet and sipped their microbrews and I dutifully ate my high-protein peanut butter-apple snack and wished my stomach were round and full enough to smooth my hands nonchalantly over its taut skin. By October, I would look like that.

I counted months constantly, estimating the stages of the warm dark world inside of me,
moving my fingers in their secret patterns. When would the queasiness end? I’d ask myself. When would the delivery happen? When would the baby’s ears be fully formed? When would she transform herself from what my pregnancy book called a “miniature seahorse” into the promised big-headed baby?

As freshman roommates ten years earlier, Mara and I would stay up late in our narrow beds, talking tirelessly, examining our romantic flings from every possible angle. On her most recent visit, I’d listened to her boyfriend problems with detachment. Birth had become the center of human experience. Across the cultures I’d studied, motherhood bonded women together, sometimes transforming them into goddesses, saints, heroines. After years of living with Mixtec families, where women my age—twenty-nine— already had four or five children, my childless state felt unnatural. On our most recent visit to Mexico, at least a dozen times daily someone asked Ian and me when we would have our own children. “Mira, Laurita! Look at your husband!” my pregnant friend whispered as we watched Ian spinning her nephew in circles, making airplane noises. “You can tell he wants a baby!” For years I’d had the visceral urge to hold a small soft creature at my suddenly useful breast. That summer— the start of the limbo between my Masters and Ph.D. fieldwork—seemed the perfect time to begin.

Mara’s idea was to use the hike up the fourteen thousand foot mountain as a healing ritual to spiritually recover from a recent failed love relationship. The midwife had given me standard advice: “If it’s a sport you did before the pregnancy, it should be fine to continue through the first few months. Just stay hydrated.” If I had asked Doña Luz, she would have said, “Ayy, my little daughter! No! No! What about the cold wind on the mountain top?”

I’d gone hiking at high altitudes before the pregnancy, but only once a month and my legs would always ache for days, even after many Advil and hot baths. My pregnant body didn’t want to hike, but this was Mara’s long-awaited visit, and I was determined not to let my paranoia mess it up.

On the hike, Mara brought along a blue-purple kite to fly at the summit to symbolize her freedom from the ex-boyfriend. The first mile and a half was a forty-five degree incline upward, no zigzagging, just straight up. She talked about her relationship issues, and I made comments here and there. My mouth felt parched, not just from the dry air, but from anxiety. Was I overdoing it? I’d read that as long as you can hold a conversation while walking you’re alright. So I kept walking and sipping water and asking Mara questions periodically to see if I could still talk. After a half hour of hiking up the incline in open
sunshine, we entered shady woods. At that moment, with the step into the shadows, my lower belly tightened sharply. The squeezing sensation made it hard to stand up straight.

“I need to stop a minute,” I whispered. Calm down calm down, I told myself. Mara showed concern and kindness but not alarm; I suspected that since I wasn’t showing, she didn’t really think of me as pregnant. We sat on a log and I sipped water. After ten minutes the pain subsided a little, and I decided to walk it off—what else could I do? Women’s bodies were designed for carrying babies, I assured Mara; a few small cramps here and there were probably normal. We hiked for another hour or two, more slowly now, and she talked more about her ex-boyfriend while my mouth grew drier. Near the top, the pines ended and the land opened up, treeless now. Rocks and tiny shrubs and mosses huddled close to the ground. A lunar landscape. The wind whipped at us, blew the hats off our heads, knocked over the water bottle I’d placed on the rocks. I lay down and pressed myself against a flat boulder, trying to escape the wind. The blue-purple kite darted around the sky, and Mara played and danced, enraptured, free of the seedy boyfriend. I put my cold hand on my flat belly under the flimsy nylon jacket. The wind howled, a lonely moaning wind you might hear in movies set in post-apocalyptic worlds, devoid of life except for a few hardy primordial mosses.

This was the howl of the fetal heart monitor as the midwife moved it over my belly several days later, looking for a heartbeat. She systematically glided the metal instrument over the skin between my jutting hip bones, and listened to the sounds of my belly magnified. “The wind sound,” she murmured, “is your blood flowing.” For a long long time she searched, pausing every once in a while, trying to tell if a sound was static or a heartbeat. Her head tilted sideways, her ears alert as a dog’s. I closed my eyes and focused on taking one breath after another and not letting the tears well up over the sides of my eyes.

A few days later an ultrasound confirmed it. The fetal sac had already begun to shrink, to reabsorb into my body. Now it was only the size of a five week sac. The midwife hugged me. “This just means your body is functioning correctly, Laura. It recognized that something wasn’t perfect, so it ended the pregnancy.”

These assurances of randomness seemed like a well-meaning plot to absolve me of blame. Explanations involving the sun and moon and wind seemed more believable than the idea of miniscule chromosomes splitting awry. Yet the explanation I really believed, which I was terrified to admit, was the hike up the mountain.

The second bluegrass festival was a few days after the hike. Mara had spent the night at another friend’ s house, so Ian and I drove to the festival to meet her there. I cried the whole way, although at this time I hadn’t had the ultrasound yet. Still, I knew. My breasts no longer hurt; in fact, they seemed to have shrunk. They looked like little girls’ breasts compared to their earlier round moon swell. No longer did I feel lazy and queasy in the afternoons; no longer did Indian spices turn my stomach. Reclined in the passenger seat, I hit my breasts, trying to make them sore again. And yes, I did feel nauseated, but that was probably from the twisting mountain roads.

It rained most of the festival. We sat on the blanket, soaked and cold and shivering. I stole glances at a toddler with white-blond curls and a purple corduroy dress who clapped her hands and danced, catching raindrops with her tongue. For the first time I understood the rural Mexican idea of giving a child “evil eye”—an affliction inadvertently imposed by an adult who gazes at a child or a baby with too great a longing. No one noticed my struggle not to look at the girl. Ian kept his arm around me, comforting me, although he still didn’t think our baby was dead. Even after the test results confirmed my miscarriage, he didn’t cry, because for him the baby was just a miniature seahorse, a little tadpole creature that didn’t have ears yet.

By the third bluegrass concert the following night, I’d made the ultrasound appointment and resigned myself to waiting. A pool of sadness settled quietly in my belly. I hadn’t told Mara about my fears—it might have ruined her vacation. She chicken-danced and flapped her elbows and bounced up and down. I wondered how many other people there felt a settled sadness, for one reason or another, and what they thought of these people flailing their limbs around.

Almost two weeks later I was sitting on a kitchen chair, watching Ian fry onions when, after hours of especially persistent cramps, something slid out of me. “It came out,” I told him. I didn’t move, afraid to look. Would it have recognizable body parts? Images from sci-fi movies swarmed in my head—slimy alien creatures emerging from women’s bodies. I could almost hear the X-Files soundtrack playing. In a daze, I stood up, light-headed from the smoking oil, four Advil, and blurred days of dull pain on the sofa. As I waddled to the bathroom, the thing weighed down my underwear. I sat on the toilet, took a deep breath, and looked.

In no way did it look like a baby, or even a miniature seahorse. It had more in common with an organ—a kidney or liver. I called Ian into the bathroom. Our horror morphed into curiosity as we examined it, speculating on its various textures. Was this part the placenta? Was there any remnant of a fetal sac?

I carefully filled a mason jar with rubbing alcohol and dropped the thing in, as the midwife had instructed. I tucked the jar into a brown lunch bag. Several days later, the midwife translated the lab report. It had been a cluster of vessels and tissue from the uterine wall—the baby’s future feeding apparatus, now rendered useless.

Doña Luz’s name means “light” and she is light in the lives of everyone she talks to. Her eyes are crinkly and warm and grandmotherly even after her sickness. In my interviews several years ago, I found out that when she was about thirteen a man in her town raped her, and when her father found out he went to the man’s parents and made them force him to marry her. The man got her pregnant, brought her far away to Mexico City and abandoned her. She gave birth to the baby—her only son—and sold cigarettes and candy on the street with him strapped to her back. They eventually made it back to her home town, and over the years her sorrow transformed into warm wisdom.

At one of my follow-up blood tests the midwife told me, “Now you’ll find you belong to a group of women who have experienced this kind of sadness. You’ll find you can connect with them and understand them.”

I don’t know if I’ve gained any of Doña Luz’s kind wisdom, but I do think I can connect more with other women who have had losses. I’ve always thought of my baby as her, even though later, a well-meaning doctor friend told me my baby had been a soul-less it. I can concede that the tissue that came out over a week after she died was an it. But the baby had reabsorbed into my body. I’ve heard that other women, too, find comfort in this. A woman I work with told me she was going to plant a tree in honor of her own lost baby. Wind chimes outside my living room window are a memorial to mine.

I continue taking my twenty-six dollar a bottle prenatal vitamins. It’s been nine months since the conception, seven since the miscarriage. My fingers continue to move in their special secret pattern. I count months off silently—in line at the store when I see a mothering magazine or on the sidewalk passing a pregnant woman. I tap out the months on the tables at restaurants when I eye a newborn in a blanket and then look  superstitiously away. Right now I would be waddling along with my hands on my
belly, feeling kicks and hiccups.

I didn’t tell Doña Luz about climbing the mountain in the cold wind. I let her think I accidentally passed a heavy place or innocently got caught in a fight between the sun and the moon. That day at the market two months ago, she gave me a big hug and sent me off with a gift—a beautiful lopsided clay incense burner. Back at home in Colorado, a week later, I gave my apartment and body a limpia—spiritual cleaning– with sweet copal smoke. I sweat in saunas and visualized the heat and steam warming up my womb. And finally, yesterday, I checked my calendar for eclipses. There was one, about a week after the
conception.

After seeing again, this month, the heart-sinking blood stain, I’ve decided that tomorrow I will buy a strip of red silk to tie around my hips, as Doña Luz recommended. Meanwhile, I imagine life and light inside me, heat, a comfortable warm place where a baby will want to live for nine months. Welcome, welcome, welcome, I tell her. Maybe this November she will be born. I count off on my fingers and avoid eclipses.

 

Laura Resau‘s first novel, entitled What the Moon Saw, is scheduled to be published in Fall 2006 by Delacorte Press. Her essays and stories for young people and adults have appeared or are forthcoming in magazines including Brain,Child, Cicada, Cricket, Skipping Stones, and Matter, as well as anthologies published by Lonely Planet and Travelers’ Tales. She teaches English as a Second Language and Anthropology at Front Range Community College in Fort Collins, Colorado.

This piece was previously published in Brain,Child magazine.

Deep Eddy

In the morning it had been raining, and they had gotten in behind a senior citizens caravan, all in big recreational vehicles, all from Washington. Jon Dunham had been whipping down the road, heading south, sliding in and out between the campers, and every time he passed he glanced over at his wife, Deborah, who apparently expected them to get hit by one of the big mining trucks that were rumbling north. Every time Dunham pulled out to pass, Deborah clutched the dashboard and tapped the floor with her foot, searching for a brake pedal. There were 64 campers in all, big and small, and Dunham knew they must all be together because of the big red decals that each vehicle had on its rear. Once they got past Whitehorse, though, the rain stopped and traffic seemed to let up, and Deborah was able to relax and stop gripping the dashboard and tapping at her brake. She fell asleep.

She awoke sometime later as Dunham pulled off the road, a small cloud of white dust blowing up and around them. As it cleared Dunham could make out an overflowing red litter barrel, and, beyond that, a valley. A range of mountains rose on the other side of the valley, shaded by clouds. A motor home and a mining truck went by, heading west, north, blowing in more dust. Everything seemed much drier.

Deborah put her hands over her face, still half asleep. She asked, “Are we there yet?”

“Those are the Cassiars over there, I think,” Dunham said. “And that river, I guess, is the Rancheria.”

Deborah sat up and looked away at the mountains. “How much farther to Fort St. John?” They had stayed in a motel in Fort St. John on the way to Alaska: hot showers, firm mattresses, cable tv, telephones, air conditioning.

“Fort St. John?” Dunham shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe 900 miles. We might make it by tomorrow if we push it.”

Deborah sat back rested her head against the window of the truck. The weak sunlight cast a shadow across her face.

“Then let’s push it.”

Dunham waited a moment. “You’re not getting out?”

“No.” She sounded serious.

Dunham shrugged and opened the truck door. He collected five bottles—three Labatt’s and two Cokes—and a wad of the Fairbanks newspaper from under the seat and carried it all over to the trash barrel. The turnout was at a bend in the road at the top of a bluff. Below, the Rancheria River twisted through a wide marshy valley and disappeared off to the northwest. Cloud shadows scudded over the valley. The Cassiars were light gray. Between the turnout and the mountains a single cloud was dropping rain, dark gray streaks that settled into the haze. A car with its headlights on went by, blowing dust, heading north to Whitehorse. Yukon plates. Dunham walked back to the truck and leaned in.

“I have to pee.”

Deborah said, “That’s great.”

The slope of the bluff was steep and somewhat slippery. It was damp but not muddy, covered with hard pale gravels that rolled out from under Dunham’s feet. Dunham rested against a burnt-out stump and caught his breath before sliding the rest of the way down the slope. At the bottom there was a fire ring made of gathered wild stones. Ashes, some beer bottles, and a half-burned throwaway diaper were in the ring. Logs had been rolled up close for seats. A path led down to the river.

Dunham stood up close to a pale green bush and urinated. A big truck of some sort headed south on the highway, and dust swirled at the top of the bluff.

In the silence that followed the truck Dunham heard the river. He buttoned his jeans and followed the path, scrambling over a deadfall and splashing across a little creek coming from the north. The creek disappeared into a thicket, but further ahead he caught a glimpse of open water. He climbed over another dead fall, ducked under some alders, and came out on the banks of the river.

The Rancheria came out of the southeast, headed toward the bluff, and turned suddenly to the west. It flowed past Dunham’s feet and turned on into the south, dropped into a riffle, and disappeared behind some brush. At the base of the bluff, where it turned, there was a logjam and an eddy. The creek seemed to come in there. The water below Dunham was shallow and clear with a sandy bottom. Two smallish grayling cruised the base of the pool.

Pretty water, Dunham thought. Wild fish.

Those grayling have never seen a fly.

I am the first man to see them.

Dunham ducked back under the alders and re-crossed the dead¬fall. He turned and followed the creek, splashing through its dark tunnel until he came out at the logjam.

Deborah was sitting in the front seat staring off into space when Dunham opened the back of the truck. He got a beer out of the cooler and walked around to the driver’s side and got in.

“You must’ve had to go pretty bad.”

“I was looking at the river.” Dunham twisted the top off the bottle and took a long drink. His pants were wet from the knee down and there was a scratch on his face.

“I was looking at those stupid old people,” Deborah said. “All those campers from Washington—they all passed us.”

“I saw this huge grayling,” Dunham said. “I want to see if I can catch it.”

“Those old people from Seattle just passed us,” Deborah said. “Most of them—maybe all of them. They blew dust on me.”

“We’ll pass ’em again,” Dunham said. “They drive slow.”

“Yeah, and they’ll slow us down.”

“I’ll go catch that fish and let ’em get way ahead of us.” Dunham smiled, but his smile faded when she just stared at him.

Deborah said, “You’ve caught enough fish already. Okay?”

Dunham looked away and began sorting through the pile of maps on the seat between them. “Okay?”

“No….” Dunham found their battered copy of the Yukon guidebook and started thumbing through it. He looked up. “No, really, hon, this grayling is enormous—he’s never seen a fly before. Nobody’s seen him before. It’s like a whole new world down there.”

“Sure. Right off the road.”

“Yeah—isn’t that great?”

Deborah sighed and looked out the window. Two more clouds were dumping rain somewhere near the mountains.

Dunham found his place and started to read. “’DC 663.4…’ hey, I was wrong. We’re only about 600 miles from Fort St. John. Six-sixty-three from Dawson Creek.”

Deborah laughed, exasperated. “Well, hell, then, let’s get going.”

“No, wait….” Dunham began reading again. “’DC 667—”

“Shit, four more miles already?”

“’DC 667…Litter barrel with view of the Rancheria River to south.’ That’s us.”

“Great, so now we know where we are. So let’s go, okay?”

“No, wait…’Rancheria River, fishing for bull trout and grayling.’ Well, I guess. The grayling are there, at least.” Dunham looked up. “You should see this grayling I saw, hon, it was huge.”

“There’s no such thing as a huge grayling,” Deborah said.

“It’s bigger than any we saw in Alaska. Over 18 inches, easy.”

“That’s not a huge fish.” Deborah shifted in her seat, turned to face Dunham. He was looking back at the guidebook again, squinting, sunburned skin flaking off his nose. Deborah reached for his beer and took a sip.

“It’s warm,” he told her. “We’re out of ice.”

“Jon,” Deborah said, and then paused. Then she started again. “Jon. I’m really tired. I’m even tired of looking at—trees. You know? Everything looks the same. We’ve driven something like eight thousand miles in the last—”

Dunham looked up form the guidebook. He said, “More like about six thousand, hon.”

“Okay! So it’s six thousand. I don’t really care—I just want to get to wherever it is we’re going today, and I want that to be just a little closer to home than we are now. I mean, I guess—I just wish you’d have a little more respect for my feelings. You know?”

Dunham smiled at her and reached over and squeezed her hand. “Baby, hang on, it’ll just be a few minutes. This fish has never seen a fly before.”

“You don’t even keep the damn things!”

He got out of the truck, shut the door, and leaned in the window.

“You want to get out and watch?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, I’m damn well sure.”

Dunham took a step back. She was angry. He thought of the trip out: prairies, plains, grasses, rivers, badlands, rivers, mountains, rivers, trees, rivers, trees, bridges, trucks, mountains, glaciers, more trees, more rivers, good roads, bad roads, old people in RVs—ten days from Dallas to Anchorage, two weeks in Alaska, and now they were still at least a week away from home.

She doesn’t get it, he thought. This is—everything.

“You know,” Deborah said, “it would’ve been a lot easier if you’d just left me back in Whitehorse—then I could’ve caught a flight home and you could dick around in the woods and play Lewis and Clark all you wanted.”

“No.” Dunham took another step back and shook his head. She could be so damn stubborn. “I mean, it’ll be just a few minutes. Then I’ll come back and drive like hell. We’ll pass the old people. We’ll make it fine.”

“I don’t think so,” Deborah said. Dunham ignored her and walked around to the back of the truck. Dunham could see her twist rearview mirror around so that she could watch him, but he still ignored her and got busy digging in his fishing gear, pulling out a rod, a fly box, some gadgets. When he looked up again he saw her pour the rest of the warm beer out the window.

The river came straight at Dunham and then turned, the main current curving toward the south and back into the east. In front of him was the eddy, a small current circling around and around, out of the main river, against the bank, along the little sandbar the creek had deposited under the logjam, and back out into the river. Pretty water, clear and cold, reflecting the sky, the trees, Dunham.

The water here was deep. Dunham looked through the reflective surface and could see down into green shadows. This was probably where the fish in this section wintered over. The ice would come, and the snow, and the fish would hold near the bottom in the dark, locked in, waiting quietly for breakup.

A big grayling came up out of the green—getting bigger and bigger—and took a bug, a grayish-tan caddis fly of some sort. It made a little slurping noise and settled back a foot or so in the water. Two other, smaller grayling appeared and hovered off to the left. They all could stay in the eddy as long as they wanted and food would always be swirled right up to them.

Dunham blinked.

Grayling look up, he thought. They like to take flies. Dry flies. Good, good. He doesn’t know I’m here—he doesn’t know what I am if he did know I was here. Very good.

Dunham’s rod was already rigged, a size 14 Adams at the end of his leader. He stepped to the side to put more of the bush between him and the fish. There wasn’t much room to cast, but he didn’t need to cast far. He worked out a little line and slop-rolled a cast into the eddy. The leader straightened out just enough and the fly dropped softly onto the water.

It was very easy. The eddy brought the fly to the big grayling, who spotted it, rose, looked at it for a second, finning back in the water, and sucked it down.

Dunham set the hook and smiled. The shocked grayling jumped, bored out to the main river, quickly jumped twice more, then again, and then tried to go deep. The leader was heavy, though, and Dunham pressured the fish, keeping him near the surface of the eddy. One more jump. Then Dunham, out from behind the bush, was leading him up onto the sandbar. It was very easy.

Dunham knelt over the surprised-looking fish and picked it up. The grayling was slick and iridescent, gleaming in the sun¬light, green and bronze, heavy and fat. It gasped in the air, trying to breathe. The big dorsal fin was swept down but Dunham ran his finger along it, pulling it up. A big, big fin. He measured the fish against his rod, and it covered the writing right up to where it said “5 Weight”—maybe 18, maybe 19 inch¬es, easy 16 or 17, 20 when he would feel like lying.

Dunham removed the fly and got the fish back in the water, holding it by the tail. In a minute or so the fish wiggled and Dunham let go. The grayling shot back into the eddy and went deep.

It was then that Dunham heard his truck’s horn. Back up on the bluff Deborah was really leaning on it. He stood up.

Dunham found Deborah standing by the tailgate of the pickup, her big green flight bag beside her. She was saying something to a stout middle-aged woman with short-cropped gray-streaked hair. She flashed a quick, distracted smile. The woman was starting to say something to Deborah when she noticed Dunham and stopped, eyeing him curiously. Two blond children, a boy and a girl, stood next to an old station wagon with Alberta plates. The boy was throwing rocks at the red litter barrel but the little girl was watching Dunham. The headlights of the station wagon were turned on and it was parked headed north.

“Yeah, it’s about time you got here,” Deborah said. “I’m leaving.”

She picked up the green flight bag but the short woman reached over and took it from her, saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll take it.”

Dunham stared at them dumbly for a moment while he felt the bottom fall out of his stomach—his life—with a confusing, almost dizzying rush.

“Are you crazy?” Dunham finally asked. “You can’t just go off and leave.”

The blocky woman turned around and looked at him angrily. “Hey, listen, don’t you tell her what to do, okay?”

“Oh, shut up,” Dunham said.

The blocky woman dropped the flight bag and marched over toward Dunham. He watched her—march, that was the word—stepping stiffly like in a dream, and then she was there in front of him and she wound up and punched him square in the chest. Bam. Dunham stumbled back, lost his balance on the gravel, and fell hard on his butt. The little boy pointed at him and laughed.

“You don’t tell her what to do, okay?”

“What—”

“Better leave it alone, Jon,” Deborah said. “We’ve been talking.”

The little woman, Sally, kicked gravel at Dunham, and he guarded his face with a raised forearm. Now both the children were laughing.

Dunham said, “Hey, stop it!”

“You stop it, Jon!” Deborah said. “This is all your fault. Don’t you know that?”

The blocky woman opened her mouth to say something but Deborah touched her on the arm and said, “It’s okay. He won’t do anything.”

For some reason that bothered Dunham more than anything—He won’t do anything. What the hell. Nothing? Nothing? Dunham thought of their first nights, lying twined together on wet sheets watching the sun come up, planning trips, trips they actually had gone on—to Yellowstone, Alberta, Colorado, Idaho, now Alaska. How he had worked hard to have time to travel, to do what he loved, to take her with him, and how she had liked it. Well, she’d said she’d liked it, he thought. Now, though, Dunham only looked at Deborah and squinted. He said, “You can’t just leave.”

“Well, I am.” Deborah watched the other woman pick up the flight bag and carry it over to the station wagon. The little boy helped her fit it into the back. The little girl folded her arms across her chest and stared at him, frowning.

Dunham asked, “What happened?”

“Sally here stopped to let her kids go to the bathroom, and after I talked to her she said she could give me a ride back to Whitehorse. I can catch a flight home from there.”

“No, I know that. I mean, what happened? I mean—”

Sally leaned around the car and said, “She doesn’t care what you mean.”

“This has been going on for a long time,” Deborah said. “You know that.”

Dunham didn’t say anything. He looked at the angry woman, Sally, and back at Deborah. He sat there on the gravel, rubbing his chest—his heart—with his right hand. His pants were muddy and wet from the river.

“I’m taking some of the travelers’ checks,” Deborah said. “I left you enough, I think. And I know you’ve got a lot of room left on your Visa.”

“Oh, c’mon, Deb,” Dunham said. “You can’t just go like this….”

“You said that already.” Deborah bent down and touched his face. “Give me a call when you get to Fort St. John, huh?”

Dunham sat on the tailgate of the truck drinking warm beer. After a while he put his feet up and took off his boots. He looked around the back of the truck for a moment, until he found his waders, hidden beneath Deborah’s sleeping bag. She’d left most of her gear in the truck—the sleeping bag, her books, her cameras. Two ticking alarm clocks. Dunham frowned and looked away. He slipped into his waders, and put on his wading boots. More rain clouds were building up over the valley. An RV went north on the highway. It went around a bend in the road and soon the sound drifted away. Everything was very quiet. Dunham locked the back of the truck, picked up his fly rod, and headed down the face of the bluff to the river.

 

 

Lowell Mick White has published numerous stories, most notably in Gray’s Sporting Journal, Dominion Review, and Antietam Review. In 1998 he was awarded the Dobie-Paisano Fellowship by the University of Texas at Austin and the Texas Institute of Letters. He is currently a graduate student at Texas A&M University, where he specializes in creative writing, works on the staff of the journal Callaloo, and co-edits Big Tex[t] (http://bigtext.tamu.edu/).

Crayola Man

Red

“Scalpel,” the surgeon snapped. The masked nurse slapped it smartly into his
gloved open palm.

“Get ready with suction,” he ordered, then drew a thin line from below the
patient’s navel to his groin.

The blood flowed away from the incision and formed shallow pools on the flat,
newly-shaved stomach. The surgeon spread tissue and membrane to expose
the cancerous prize. The easy part was over.

Blue

“His vein is collapsing,” the surgical nurse said. “I’ll try another.” She withdrew
the eighteen-gauge needle and wheeled the IV cart around the operating table
to its other side. Palpating the patient’s right wrist, she raised one of several
ropy veins that stood out against his pallid arm and inserted a new needle. The
left wrist continued to drip.

“We could have a bleeder,” the surgeon said. “Order three more units.”

A masked figure with a blood-spattered tunic moved to the wall phone and
punched out the numbers.

“They’ve got only two more A-B positives,” he called over his shoulder.

“Slow and steady, Stan, slow and steady,” the surgeon murmured to himself.

Green

Alex crouched on a mountaintop and watched white-rimmed clouds drift by.
Below him, the valley floor was a patchwork of greens: forest, cobalt, phthalo,
sap, olive, pea, sage, chartreuse, and every shade in between. The California
city where they lived hid behind a neighboring peak.

“Do you want to make love?” Bonnie asked.

“Where? We’re barely hanging onto this ledge … and it’s too cold.”

“It doesn’t matter, I just want to be close to you.”

The afternoon wind had freshened and the couple huddled together and stared
down slope. Shadows lengthened across the mountain’s flanks, hiding the
trail. A cluster of white-coated figures waved to them from a parking lot far
below. Alex didn’t wave back.

Yellow

“Get another bag.” The assisting surgeon pointed to the urine-filled sack
hooked to the operating table. A nurse scurried to comply before the line
backed up. “This guy must have chugged a keg all by himself,” the doctor
muttered.

A slim plastic tube extended from the sack into the patient’s manhood and
upward to the bladder. Everything was still laid open and the surgeon labored
to reconnect the urethra.

“We saved most of the nerves – but I don’t like how this connection is going.”

“Just take your time,” the assistant said. “He’ll appreciate it.”

A nurse mopped the surgeon’s brow. He tied off the remaining bleeders.
Closing was as easy as opening. In two hours they were done.

Orange

Alex unfolded his stocky legs, letting them dangle over the edge. The sun had
disappeared behind the distant hills and the sky turned a brilliant ginger.

“I’ve never seen it that color before.”

“It’s because of Mount Pinatubo – you know, the volcano,” Bonnie said. “When
it erupted it threw dust into the atmosphere. The sun glints off the particles at
sunset and turns the sky orange.

“It looks festive – we should have a party.”

“We need to get down off this mountain first.”

Bonnie pushed her slender body up, balancing carefully on the ledge, the wind
whipping her mop of curly black hair. Alex rose slowly as if moving through
thick soupy air. A searing pain shot through his groin and he bit down hard,
grinding his molars.

“Easy babe, I’ve got ya.” Bonnie took his hand and led him down the shaded
trail.

“So who should we invite to our party?” Alex gasped between painful steps.

“Those guys in white, for sure.” She pointed to the surgeons leaning against
their Mercedes and Porsches in the parking lot.

“Are you kidding? Those guys have no sense of humor.”

“Sure they do. They fixed you, didn’t they?”

Purple

Alex became conscious of brilliant purple circles behind his eyes. If he squeezed
them tightly shut, the color intensified. He remembered doing that as a kid,
creating kaleidoscope shades by grinding fists into his eye sockets.

“So how are you feeling, Alex?” Dr. Norton’s voice sounded like it came from a
long tunnel – echoing and vibrating in the air.

“You can open your eyes, Alex. It’s okay.”

Slowly Alex let the light seep in under the lids. His eyes felt like they were full of
sand and had been sealed shut with some kind of glue.

He blinked to clear them but the room remained blurry. Two people stood over
him, one in white, and the other’s shape familiar.
“I’m here, Alex,” Bonnie said and bending, kissed him on the forehead. Her lips
felt cool and dry.

“Do you have much pain?” Dr. Norton asked.

Alex licked his lips, trying to wipe away the sticky film. “Yeah, my crotch hurts
like a son of a bitch.”

“That’s normal – we’ll give you something for it.” Dr. Norton motioned to an
attending nurse who inserted a syringe into the IV shunt.

Alex pushed himself up on his elbows and stared down at his exposed body,
tubes running here and there, transporting things in, carrying things away.
Deep bruises covered both wrists and his fingers ached.

“Jeez, what did you guys use for an IV – knitting needles?” The surgeon
exploded with laughter but quickly regained composure.

“Actually, everything went well. It came out cleanly. In six months we’ll know
for sure.”

“So am I gonna be okay – I mean, will everything work?”

“You won’t know for awhile, until the tissues recover and you heal.”

“It’s okay, honey. We can deal with it,” Bonnie said.

The painkiller kicked in and the two figures dissolved. Alex was again back on
his mountaintop, gazing at festive orange skies and at twinkling lights along a
far horizon.

Brown

He extended both hands deep into chocolate soil, feeling the warmth of the
grains and the dampness that held them together. The garden plot stretched
before him. Flats of seedling vegetables awaited his trowel.

“We should plant the tomatoes and squash in the sun,” Bonnie directed. “The
herbs can stand more shade.”

“It just feels good to be out and working,” Alex said. “I’m sorry I was such a
terrible patient.”

“You had cancer, honey. You’re allowed to feel bad.”

“We need more colors in this garden – nothing but greens just doesn’t cut it.”

“Since when did you get so sensitive about color?”

“Since leaving the hospital. I’ve seen enough whites and pastels to last a
lifetime.”

The couple worked through the August afternoon heat, forming mounds,
watering holes, inserting plants, tamping soil, installing stakes and chasing away
their dog that had developed an affinity for tomato plants. A Mount Pinatubo
sunset ended their day.

Black

Alex sits at his computer and watches letters form words on the screen. He’s
been doing it for so long that the sentences just seem to magically appear as
his brain conjures them. He likes the flow of the letters, the weight of
paragraphs, and the emotions and ideas that this electronic calligraphy lets him
feel.

“What are you working on?” Bonnie asks, not wanting to disturb her husband
but still curious.

“Just a little something about colors.”

 

 

Terry Sanville‘s short stories have been published in GRIT Magazine and BEGINNINGS. He is an accomplished jazz guitarist. He lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist and poet wife, Marguerite Costigan.

Arriving in Baton Rouge

Do not say that I’ll depart tomorrow
because even today I still arrive.

Look deeply: I arrive in every second . . .

Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open.

— Thich Nhat Hanh

I’ve been writing this article in fits and starts over the past year, each time with a slightly different introduction and angle, depending on the latest news.

First, the headlines linked music and movie piracy to terrorist funding. Next came the publication of the “9/11 Commission Report,” the Abu Ghraib prisoner-abuse scandal, the Madrid bombings and, most recently, London.

Each was another wake-up call about the tenuousness of life and liberty in an age of terrorism – a reminder that, personally and professionally, there are things I can do to try to change that or at least to feel a little less vulnerable.

Then came Katrina, and once again, I’m rewriting. This time it’s from the perspective of a Red Cross volunteer.

You see, I’m about to be deployed to Louisiana.

The gist of what I wanted to say is intact. My basic premise is that, as a country, we’ve all been profoundly affected by the events of Sept. 11. And lawyers, perhaps more than members of any other profession, have had to deal with some of the fallout’s hardest issues, not the least of which includes maintaining the fragile balance between ensuring our national security while protecting our civil liberties. Fortunately, we’re up to the task.

That’s not just my opinion. U.S. Supreme Court Justice Anthony M. Kennedy praised the legal profession’s contribution to maintaining security. At an American Bar Association dedication ceremony a few years ago, Kennedy urged lawyers to continue to promote democratic ideals.

Security hinges on “the acceptance of the idea of freedom,” Kennedy cautioned. And, he said, there is a “very important part for the legal profession, for the American lawyer, … to play in that struggle.” As if that weren’t enough, Kennedy called on lawyers to go the extra mile and “find ways to increase the resources you devote to this by at least tenfold.”

Lawyers were, and continue to be, a vital part of the post-Sept. 11 political and institutional landscape. “The legal profession will be intimately involved and directly affected” in building homeland security, said Dr. David McIntyre, deputy director of the Anser Institute and former dean of the National War College, in a September 2002 National Law Journal article.

Three years later, his predictions hold true. Since the creation of the Department of Homeland Security, a hundred lawyers have been hired to staff its new Office of General Counsel. The new secretary, Michael Chertoff, is himself a respected lawyer and former judge.

Of course, we can’t all go abroad to help spread democracy. If we could, we might participate in some of the American Bar Association programs, such as the Africa Law Initiative, Asia Law Initiative, Central European and Eurasian Law Initiative and Latin America Law Initiative, to help use the legal profession’s energy and commitment to helping build principles and institutions supporting the rule of law. And we can’t all move to Washington, D.C., to help the Department of Homeland Security, a work-in-progress, become a fully realized, well-oiled executive department. If we could, we also might check out the ABA’s Standing Committee on Law and National Security, which holds regular meetings and offers panel discussions for lawyers on national security issues.

But the majority of lawyers can’t. Most of us have jobs and families and other responsibilities that prevent us from doing anything on that kind of global-national scale. And that’s okay. There are opportunities to get involved locally, as well.

Today, for example, the Los Angeles County Bar Association is holding its “Dialogues in Freedom” program, which brings lawyers, judges, and high-school students together to discuss the basic rights and freedoms of Americans.

This program, like others begun after Sept. 11, probably will not be disbanded anytime soon. After all, Los Angeles continues to be a prime target of potential terrorist activities. Then there’s that little problem of earthquakes.

Which brings us back to Hurricane Katrina, a natural disaster of confounding proportions. Whether it’s a natural or man-made disaster, the results – and needs – are the same. If there is anything positive to say about this horrendous predicament, it’s that it presents us with a too-vivid picture of the chaos and complexities that accompany mass care and recovery and, as it increasingly appears, the recipe for failure and ineffectiveness that can ensue without adequate preparation.

We don’t have to wait for another terrorist attack or the next hurricane, in order to envision what we can or can’t do better. We can’t even predict, let alone control, earthquakes. And it’s hard to trust our color-coded scheme for assessing the risk of terrorist attack. But we can start preparing for these or any other potential disasters.

The Red Cross, Federal Emergency Management Agency and any number of other organizations provide materials and information on emergency preparedness plans and disaster kits. The national volunteer program known as CERT, Community Emergency Response Team, offers an eight-week training course in first aid, search and rescue, firefighting and other forms of disaster preparedness. (If you have a group of at least 20, they’ll even come to you.) It’s just one of five specialized partner programs, including the
Medical Reserve Corps, Volunteers in Police Service, the Fire Corps and Neighborhood Watch, under the umbrella of the Citizen Corps, that offers volunteer opportunities and emergency courses locally.

Twenty years ago as an attorney with U.S. Customs, I wrote an article for District Lawyer (now Washington Lawyer) titled, “Lawyers and Arms Control: Insanity Is No Defense,” in which I argued that lawyers have a special, perhaps even greater, obligation than others to defend and protect our right to a safe and ordered existence. I’m not sure I feel that way now. But I do think we lawyers have the same obligation as others do to defend, if not protect, or at least assist victims of natural and man-made disasters.

I know that some, particularly in the legal profession, consider me an idealist, or worse. Lawyers like my once-prospective boss who, during the last of our several interviews before I joined the aerospace giant, said to me, “You can’t change the world, you know.” Actually, I do know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try.

So I think I’m finally done with that long-pending article. I just heard an NPR report on new Red Cross volunteers, like me, and the trial-by-fire we’ll experience assisting the victims of Katrina. Some of us may not have had sufficient training and preparation for this catastrophe.

So I’m thinking – should I not go? Ah, but then I’d have to change my beginning once again. And I wouldn’ t have the chance to help change even a small part of Baton Rouge, La.

 

 

Karen Miller is a copyright and trademark lawyer , as well as a writer whose articles have appeared in The Washington Post and various legal journals. She balances her work on emergency preparedness and homeland security matters with designing and selling jewelry and handbags. She can be reached at kmilleresq@earthlink.net or through her web site, www.nativechic.com.

“The Question of Evil” by Chris Hoffman

There is no greater misfortune than to underestimate your enemy. Underestimating your enemy ,means thinking that he is evil. Thus you destroy your three treasures and become an enemy yourself. — Tao Te Ching, c. 500 B.C.E.

Ever since the horrors of September 11, I have been trying to penetrate the question of evil. You know what I mean: intentional human cruelty to other beings. Countless bad things do happen in this life…accidents, floods, drought…but it is the bad things caused by human beings, who as moral agents ought to know better, that we understand as “evil.” Yesterday I saw in the newspaper a photograph of a man casting his vote in an election in Africa. He held the ballot between the stumps of his two wrists. Both of his hands had been cut off by opponents of democracy as punishment for voting in the last election. Evil.

Why is there evil? We can speculate about the ultimate purpose of evil in the scheme of things, but we will probably never know for sure. Yet the practical form of this question, what causes evil, is one that we had better answer soon. Evil now has access to big weapons and life-altering technology that can affect us on a global scale. We may be running out of time.

President Bush has answered the question of evil by saying simply that we are good and our opponents are evil. He has called the war on terrorism a war of “Good against Evil” and has asked the world to choose sides. He has identified several countries as the “Axis of Evil.”

Unfortunately President Bush is wrong. While his view fits comfortably with our stereotypes and prejudices, it does not accord with the facts. According to years of research by some of the world’s best social scientists an axis of evil does in fact exist. But it is not the axis envisioned by George Bush. Instead, it is an axis of psychological processes.

The existence of this psychological axis of evil does not absolve perpetrators of responsibility, nor does it mean that we should not oppose evil actions. A lot of research in the field of conflict resolution has shown that, in the long run, a part of the best strategy for resolution is to make certain the other party quickly realizes that you can and will reciprocate if you are harmed. The point of reciprocation is not revenge but communication. Curiously, this strategy can often maximize the self-interest of everyone involved in the conflict. This strategy assumes that the parties involved are in an ongoing, long-term relationship. In the present case, this assumption is true: the world is one.

Understanding this psychological axis does however give us leverage for dealing with the root causes of evil. And it warns us that our attempts to eliminate evil by warfare or assassination or precision bombing will never succeed. If we persist in this sort of fight we will produce instead nothing but evil upon evil.

The Roots of All Evil

It should come as no surprise that, like everything else created by human beings, evil begins in the mind. From what I’ve found in looking at the question of evil, it appears that six main psychological components contribute to the axis: attachment problems, trauma, modeling, shadow, projection and inflation. A seventh component, a social-psychological component, creates systemic evil. Taken together these maleficent seven give a close approximation of what we are concerned with, close enough to be useful.

Since attachment problems may begin to develop as early as the first months of life, it makes sense to start our exploration here.

Attachment Problems

A nine-year-old boy purposefully pushes a 3-year-old into the deep end of a motel pool then pulls up a lawn chair to watch the younger boy drown. An eleven-year-old girl orders a ten-year-old out of her yard; when he doesn’t leave she shoots him with her parent’s gun. Serial killer Ted Bundy in the course of his life raped, mutilated and murdered perhaps thirty or more young women and girls. The true stories of evil are almost unimaginable for most people.

People who find such stories horrible to contemplate are people who have developed a capacity for forming an empathic relationship with another living being. For most, this capacity begins developing at the very first moments of life through our relationship with our principal caregiver, usually our mother or father. Psychologists refer to the strong bond that occurs in this relationship as attachment. When the parent (“attachment figure”) is emotionally present, by being sensitive to what the child is doing or feeling and by responding appropriately, the child usually develops what is called secure attachment.

Psychologist John Bowlby has looked at a huge amount of attachment research, with both human and animal subjects. He found that secure attachment as an infant not only predicts social competence as a young child, but also is essential to the health of the adult the child grows to be.[iii] Secure attachment provides a safe base for social and biological development. Children learn that they themselves are valued and that other people are a source of comfort and support. They are able to connect.

If on the other hand the parent is absent or rejects the infant’s need for comfort or for exploration, the child may develop insecure or disorganized attachment. There may be a genetic component to some attachment problems, but parental behavior always has a huge influence. The parent may be unavoidably absent, due to hospitalization or illness. The parent may be unskilled, neglectful, alcoholic, or abusive. Or the child may be abandoned and bounced from one foster placement to another.

To varying degrees, childhood attachment problems foreshadow problems later in life, including chronic fear, depression, inappropriate aggression, and anxiety. Moderate attachment problems may produce the salesperson who swindles you without remorse. This person is not interested particularly in doing evil; he simply perceives an “easy” way to get what he wants and has no sense of interpersonal relatedness or affection to get in his way. Severe attachment problems can result in a person who feels no qualm about harming others physically, and who at the same time often boils below the surface with feelings of intense rage caused by a sense of abandonment.

In the earliest stages of life, the infant naturally needs to have the mother available to meet the infant’s every need. This is called age-appropriate healthy narcissism. If the mother meets these needs, the child will begin to develop a healthy self-feeling, and will gradually develop an interest in the well being of others beside himself. If on the other hand the mother is emotionally needy and uses the infant to satisfy her own self-centered needs, the child never develops a healthy self-concept, but instead becomes unhealthily narcissistic and self-centered. When these kids grow up, their feelings often alternate between grandiosity and depression. Any perceived insult or ridicule can bring on feelings of intense rage and an obsessive need for revenge. Heinz Kohut calls this “narcissistic rage”

It is important to realize that narcissistic rage can be triggered by a threat to anything that is central to the self—our body, our friends and family, our gender or ethnicity, our nation, our religious or political beliefs. We know from studies of war that scapegoating and harming of enemies is particularly likely to occur under conditions that result in a perceived attack on the sense of self: hardship, threat, stress, and frustration.[v] Rage arises as an attempt to get away from the wounding pain and also to destroy the enemy who violates us in this way. Often there is a complete lack of empathy and a thirst to assert power and control. [vi] People with chronic narcissistic rage may treat others sadistically.

In a 1999 article in the Journal of Applied Psychoanalytic Studies, Peter Fonagy of University College London points out that attachment problems tend to be passed from generation to generation. Children with attachment problems often grow into adults who are themselves incapable of forming attachment, and who have a higher than average likelihood of being abusive. Narcissistically disturbed mothers bring up narcissistically disturbed kids. Evil perpetuates evil. Fonagy says that in as many as 80% of the cases, infant attachment classification can be predicted on the basis of the parents’ attachment classifications made before the birth of the child.

Attachment problems can be brought about by individual cases of abuse and neglect and also by large-scale disruptions of adequate parenting such as those brought on by war. Writing in The Atlantic about Afghanistan and Pakistan exactly one year before September 11, correspondent Robert Kaplan pointed out that many of the Taliban are orphans of war who had never known the company of women. “Indeed,” he says, “the most dangerous movements are often composed of war orphans, who, being unsocialized, are exceptionally brutal (The Khmer Rouge, in Cambodia, and the Revolutionary United Front, in Sierra Leone, are two examples).”[viii] It was the Revolutionary United Front who hacked off the hands of the courageous voter.

Trauma

Psychological trauma is a shock to the system that occurs when a person experiences, witnesses, or is confronted with events that involve actual or threatened death or serious injury or a threat to the physical integrity of themselves or others. We are concerned here not with trauma caused by earthquakes and other natural disasters, but with human-made trauma—the trauma caused by war, oppression, suicide bombers, army tanks rolling through your neighborhood, the chopping off of hands. These traumas as well as physical abuse, neglect, sexual abuse, and/or emotional abuse can be sources of childhood attachment problems.

According to Dr. Fonagy, parental abuse puts the child in an impossible situation. Abuse activates the need for protection and comfort, but the potential source of protection and comfort is also the source of the abuse. There is some evidence that this situation can create a sort of moral numbing because it reduces the child’s ability to reflect on itself. Fonagy says “Maltreatment may cause children to withdraw from the mental world. Their attachment behaviors, their proximity seeking, is disorganized because they desperately seek physical closeness while trying to create mental distance.”

A curious and unfortunate fact is that many traumatized people seem almost compulsively drawn to situations reminiscent of the original trauma. Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, past president of the International Society for Traumatic Stress Studies, tells of a Vietnam veteran who had lit a cigarette at night and caused the death of a friend by a Viet Cong sniper’s bullet in 1968. “From 1969 to 1986, on the exact anniversary of the death, to the hour and minute, he yearly committed “armed robbery” by putting a finger in his pocket and staging a “holdup,” in order to provoke gunfire from the police.” Van der Kolk adds that the compulsive re-enactment ceased when the veteran came to understand the meaning of his actions.

In the case of this veteran, no one was hurt by the re-enactment. All too often though, the re-enactment can lead to the perpetuation and expansion of evil through harm to others, self-destructiveness, and re-victimization. In a re-enactment the traumatized person can play the role of either the victim or victimizer. There seem to be significant sex differences about the choice of role, differences that hold for all primates.[xi] Males tend to identify with the aggressor and take the role of victimizing others. Females often become involved with abusive males but fail to protect themselves or their offspring against danger.

Van der Kolk cites many examples of re-enactment leading to further evil. One study showed that of 14 juveniles condemned to death for murder in the United States in 1987, 12 had been brutally physically abused, and five had been sodomized by relatives. Another study found that over 40 per cent of a sample of abused children engaged in self-destructive behavior such as head-banging, biting, burning, and cutting. Other studies show a high incidence of revictimization, with female victims of rape more likely to be raped and female victims of childhood sexual abuse at high risk of becoming prostitutes.

War of course produces trauma in combatants and non-combatants alike. Military doctors called combatant trauma “shell shock” in the First World War and “PTSD” (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) in the Viet Nam War, but the underlying phenomenon remains the same. It’s likely that the drive trauma creates for re-enactment can help propel whole societies toward more war. Trauma specialist Peter Levine says in his book Waking the Tiger, “Lasting peace among warring peoples cannot be accomplished without first healing the traumas of previous terrorism, violence, and horror on a mass scale.”

Freud thought that the aim of compulsive repetition was to gain mastery and eventual resolution of the original trauma. There seems to be no clinical evidence however for this purported “benefit” of the repetition. In fact, repetition seems only to cause further harm.

What brings about healing is rather a carefully moderated “renegotiation” of the traumatic event, in which the energy bound up by the trauma is allowed to be discharged safely by the body in the context of a supportive environment.

The “Evil” Person

In an attempt to understand the roots of evil, psychoanalyst Alice Miller studied the childhood histories of “evil” people, most notably Adolf Hitler. She found that despite many dissimilarities, everyone she studied shared a background of severe mistreatment and humiliation, “not only in isolated instances but on a regular basis. From earliest childhood, they grew up in a climate of cruelty.”

Adolf’s father, Alois, beat the boy mercilessly every day. Miller points out that the normal reaction to such treatment would be extreme rage, but that the authoritarian environment in the Hitler household forced young Adolph to suppress his rage. Miller says that she has never come across persecutors who weren’t themselves victims in their childhood, though most of them don’t know it because their feelings are repressed. The rage and despair is not consciously felt, but is stored up in the body, in the limbic brain, to be unleashed later in merciless acts of revenge on society. This does not mean that every victim becomes a persecutor but that every persecutor was a victim in childhood.

Miller’s findings are confirmed by more recent studies of bullying in schools. These studies show that bullies often come from homes in which physical punishment is used, children are taught to strike out physically as a way to handle problems, and parental involvement and warmth are frequently lacking. It turns out that many bullies are also victims of bullying and many victims of bullying are also bullies. Research on serial murderers shows that many of them suffered prolonged abuse and mistreatment as children.

Victims of torture are not unlike victims of bullying. Ayman al-Zawahiri, who many believe is the real brains behind Al-Qaeda, is reported to have said that torture in prison turns many people into fanatics who have an overwhelming desire for revenge.

Alice Miller also asked herself why so many “normal citizens” were willing to participate in Nazi atrocities. She looked at the child rearing practices in vogue in Germany at the time the war generation had been children. What she found was a “poisonous pedagogy” that encouraged parents to spank babies whenever they cried, and to use intimidation, humiliation, and corporal punishment to control young children. This kind of upbringing, Miller says, produced Eichmann, Himmler, and many others full of unconscious rage and a stunted sense of compassion for others.

Let’s be very clear here. Miller’s findings do not mean that the world should not have fought to stop Hilter and his followers. They do mean that simply killing a Hitler, or the followers of a Hitler, won’t get at the root cause of evil.

Miller also found many instances of children who were abused but grew into productive citizens rather than criminals. What differentiated these children was that invariably each had had a relationship with what she calls a “helping witness”. This person was a sibling, a teacher, a neighbor, or just somebody who liked or even loved them, though unable to protect them from abuse. Yet these relationships gave the child a notion of trust and love. This saved them from descending into the pit.

Cognitive Neglect

When deprived of secure attachment or when traumatized, children can develop deficits in the ability to think. Studies with both humans and animals show that those who suffer neglect often do not fully develop the areas of the brain that can inhibit and regulate behavior and that can infer mental states in others, a skill related to empathy. Neglected animals have lower synaptic density and lighter-weight brains than those reared in enriched environments.[xviii] Alice Miller cites a study of abandoned and severely maltreated children that showed the areas of their brains responsible for the management of their emotions to be twenty to thirty percent smaller than in other children of the same age.[xix] Such cognitive deficits can contribute substantially to impulsive and reactive violence.

Michael Gottfredson and Travis Hirschi in their book A General Theory of Crime, propose that most crimes are the result of a lack of inner discipline and restraint.[xx] They show that criminals tend to differ from ordinary citizens in that the criminals show a lack of self-control in many areas of their lives, both legal and illegal. For most people, most of the time, our inner greed, ambition, and egotism are held in check by self-control and social expectations. If these restraints are removed, evil actions can spew forth. Psychologist Roy Baumeister points out in his book Evil: Inside Human Cruelty and Violence that regardless of the root causes of violence, the immediate cause is often a breakdown of self-control.[xxi] Therefore, any cognitive problems that reduce a person’s ability for self-control can contribute to violence and evil. One way evil is passed down through families is that children learn by observing the modeling of their parents that it is OK to lose control. Evil perpetuates evil.

Bruce Perry, M.D., Ph.D., an internationally recognized authority in child trauma, gives a striking example of the role of cognitive development on violence. “In the year 1340 in Amsterdam, the murder rate was in excess of 150 murders per 100,000 people. Two hundred years later the murder rate was below 5 per 100,000. Clearly this is not a ‘genetic’ phenomenon. The genetics of the population of Amsterdam likely did not change much in two hundred years. This marked decrease in the incidence of murderous violence likely is due to the development of a higher percentage of individuals in that society having better developed cortices—more capable of abstract cognition, and, thus more capable of modulation of aggressive and violent impulses.”

Given this hypothesis, it is an ominous statistic that the subcontinent of Asia is home to 45 percent of the world’s illiterate. Correspondent Kaplan says, “I can see few priorities for the United States higher than pressuring governments in the region to improve primary education.”

Trauma is passed on not only in family histories but in national histories. Consider the case of Liberia, a nation founded by ex-slaves from the United States. Liberia was created to provide an asylum of dignity, respect, and liberty for those who had been oppressed. Yet the rulers of the new country began ruling as they had been ruled: with oppression. Many observers say that this exclusionist society set the tone for the corruption and civil war that has blemished Liberia’s recent history.

Modeling

We all hold in our minds models about how the world works and about how we should act. We hold these mental models in the form of /images of what the ideal world or ideal behavior should be, and /images of actual situations and actual behavior by people who are our “role models.” Even as very young children we begin to make sense of the world by building mental models or “schemas” and then using these models to incorporate or assimilate new experiences. Mental models function both as filters through which we see the world and as templates for our own actions.

An experiment by psychologist Albert Bandura vividly demonstrates the power of models. In this experiment a nursery school child is playing quietly. In another part of the playroom an adult stands up and begins punching and kicking an inflatable punching doll which has a weighted bottom so it always bounds back up. The adult keeps punching and kicking for nearly ten minutes, all the while yelling things like “Sock him in the nose….Hit him down….Kick him!” Then another adult leads the child away to a new playroom filled with many lovely toys. The child resumes playing happily. In only a few moments however the experimenter returns and explains that she has decided to save these fine toys “for the other children.” She takes the frustrated child to another playroom containing only a few poor toys–and an inflatable punching doll. What does the child do after it is left alone?

Compared with children who had not seen the punching and kicking, children who had observed the behavior modeled by the adult were much more likely to attack the doll. Furthermore these children usually copied the adult’s exact words and actions.

Multiply this punching doll experiment by millions and you get the modeling effect of violence in the media. Hundreds of studies over the past 40 years show conclusively that viewing violence on television increases aggressive and antisocial behavior. Depictions of violence in the media mislead people into thinking that violence is an acceptable, effective, and common way to solve problems. Modeling of bad behaviors implies both endorsement by an authority figure and social acceptance of the behavior, both of which have been shown to be powerful methods for influencing behavior.

Field studies by Leonard Eron, Professor of Psychology at the University of Illinois and expert in the effects of media violence, found that children who watched a lot of televised violence when they were in elementary school tended to show higher levels of aggressive behavior as teenagers and were more likely to be arrested and prosecuted for criminal acts as adults. Testifying before the Senate in 1999, Eron said that that the best estimate of many analyses is that 10% of all youth violence can be attributed to the modeling of violence on television.

Television can also reinforce the cognitive problems created by trauma. Studies of the physiological and neurological effects of television, conducted by Fred and Merrelyn Emery at the Australian National University in Canberra, show that television viewing reduces the capacity of the human brain to pay attention and reduces cognition to low levels thus thwarting learning.

The media are not alone in toxic modeling. A recent study of 3 – 6 year olds in Northern Ireland by the Northern Ireland Community Relations Council found influences from the family, the local community, and the school. The study also found that as early as the age of six, 15% of the children were making sectarian and/or prejudiced statements about the other side (Catholic or Protestant).

Evil from the Malignant Combination of Trauma and Modeling

Modeling and trauma can combine to create a toxic incubator of evil. In the culture of the United States, young boys are at high risk for trouble. William S. Pollack, Ph.D., Director of the Centers for Men and Young Men and Assistant Clinical Professor of Psychology at Harvard Medical School has written about this problem in Real Boys: Rescuing Our Sons from the Myths of Boyhood. He points out that boys are up to three times more likely than girls to be the victim of a violent crime and between four to six times more likely to commit suicide. Pollack says that there are two principal causes for the problems of boys in our society: the use of shaming as a way of shaping the behavior of boys (modeling and trauma) and the trauma of emotional separation of boys from their mothers at an unnecessarily early age.

In Children, Youth and Violence: The Search for Solutions, Doctor Bruce Perry calls the combination of trauma and modeling a “malignant combination of experiences”. He says this combination produces the most dangerous people in the world. Traumatic experiences include lack of critical early life nurturing, chaotic and cognitively impoverished environments, pervasive physical threat and persisting fear, all of which can produce attachment problems. The toxic modeling is: “watching the strongest, most violent in the home get what he wants, and seeing the same aggressive violent use of power idealized on television and at the movies. These violent offenders have been incubated in terror, waiting to be old enough to get ‘one of those guns’, waiting to be the one who controls, the one who takes, the one who hits, the one who can ‘make the fear, not take the fear.’”

Shadow, Projection, and Inflation

Though attachment problems, trauma, and modeling are critical contributors to evil, they don’t begin to account for all the evil in the world. Not all abused become abusers; not all traumatized become traumatizers. Many of us are fortunate enough to have avoided trauma and to have the capacity to empathize with others. Yet most of us want to eliminate evil; and this may be our undoing.

Why is it that of all the creatures on the earth human beings are the only ones to wage war, commit genocide, and build weapons of mass destruction? Social psychologist Ernest Becker raised this question and then proposed an insightful answer in his book Escape from Evil.

Becker’s answer begins with recognizing that of all creatures, human beings seem to be the only ones who are conscious enough to be aware of their own mortality. This awareness gives rise to an anxiety that most people would rather not feel. So people cope by essentially choosing sides. They choose to align themselves with the side of life rather than of death. We could call this alignment an “immortality project.”

People align themselves with the side of life by seeking anything that promises to sustain their own lives, such as power or money. Alignment with power can have two faces: malignant power over others, as the power created by the writers of computer viruses, or the power to help, as in the power vested in the skills of a physician. Likewise, alignment with money can result in exploitation or philanthropy.

People also seek to align themselves with the side of life by seeking alignment with things that endure beyond a single individual’s lifetime. These can include making a “lasting” contribution to a field of art or knowledge. These can also include involvement with religious movements or specific cultures. These large enduring things in some way assure the perpetuation of the significance of the people associated with them, a kind of immortality.

From this point of view, a threat to a person’s culture, religion, or “lasting contributions” is also a threat to that person’s own immortality project. The immortality project must be defended at all costs. This is the reason that some conflicts in the world can become so intractable. It’s not just my country or tribe that is being threatened but the very significance of my own life. Becker says, “This is what makes war irrational: each person has the same hidden problem, and as antagonists obsessively work their cross purposes, the result is truly demonic.”

People also try to align themselves with the side of life by aligning themselves with what is “good.” This is because life is associated with “good” as opposed to death, which is “bad.” Becker argues that this alignment with good is a major cause of evil. To follow his reasoning it’s necessary to take a little digression to understand the psychological concepts of shadow, projection, and inflation.

The psychological shadow is the dark complement of the consciously expressed personality. It represents those personal qualities and characteristics that are unacceptable to the conscious ego. To borrow poet Robert Bly’s apt image, the shadow is like a sack that you drag behind you everywhere you go and into which you toss all the aspects of yourself that you are ashamed of and don’t want to look at.[xxxiii] The psychological shadow is much like the normal human shadow: everybody has one; when you face toward the light you can’t see your own shadow; and sometimes everybody else but you can see it.

Oftentimes these disowned contents of the psychological shadow are “projected” onto someone else, much as a movie projector sends /images onto a blank screen. Then we see “out there” what is really “in here”. Typically the person we choose to project onto is not entirely innocent. He or she has some “hooks” on which we can hang our projections. If we’re ashamed of our own anger, we find a slightly irritated person and view her as totally enraged. That’s how projection of the shadow works.

Sometimes no “hooks” are needed. In a study of emotionally disturbed boys, researchers classified the boys along a continuum based on how much they displayed inappropriate aggression. Then the researchers showed each boy a series of photographs of people engaged in a variety of social situations and asked the boy what was going on in the photo. The most aggressive boys tended to see hostility and aggression in even the most innocuous photos.

One of the classical psychological studies of violence, Hans Toch’s Violent Men, looked at police who deal with violent criminals and at the criminals themselves. Toch found that both groups tended to see themselves as well-meaning, innocent people who had to cope with arbitrary, provocative behavior by the other group.

In shadow projection our own unacknowledged anger, hatred, jealousy, selfishness or lust are falsely experienced as qualities possessed by another person or group. This usually results in viewing the other person or group as morally “lower” than ourselves. Michael Daniels of John Moores University in Liverpool explains that when the “evil” shadow is projected onto others, “these people will be defined and experienced as our moral enemy and we will thereby feel consciously justified in the harm that we might cause them, which is cleverly interpreted by the ego as deserved harm. In this way evil (undeserved harm) is seen as good (deserved harm). Such is the moral double-talk that projection can produce.”

Inflation

Ever since the time of Aristotle, dramatic tragedy has shown how a person may be destroyed precisely because of attempting to be perfect. In classical terms, this tragic flaw of prideful self-concept was called hubris. The modern psychological term is inflation, which gives the apt image of a balloon that has size but not much substance.

Another way to understand inflation is to see it as an unconscious pattern of mythic dimensions that takes over and starts directing a person’s life. A person under the influence of inflation tends to view herself as “destined” to achieve a certain righteous end. The person is often unable to reflect on her experiences, thoughts, and behaviors, seeing her life rather as part of a pre-ordained pattern. As I am writing this, a sniper has killed eight people in the Washington, DC area. He left the following message at the scene of one of his shootings: “Dear Policeman. I am God.”

A less extreme, but still dangerous, version of inflation is egotism or high but unstable self-esteem. An egotist believes himself or herself to be the absolute center of the universe around which all else revolves. Egotism leads people to value their own personal wealth, power, fame, body, possessions, and so on, above all else in the world.

“Are You Talking to Me?”

Research by Michael Kernis and others shows that people who have high but unstable self-esteem are especially prone to violent hostility. They often seek out or deliberately provoke challenges to their egos, such as by getting into arguments in bars or insisting on deferential treatment by policemen. As soon as anyone shows any disrespect, questions them, or offends them in any way, they respond with violence.

People who have inflated self-esteem tend to receive a lot of feedback that threatens their self-image, simply because there is such a discrepancy between their image and reality. It is these people who tend to become dangerous in their attempts to ward off the threats to their self-image.

Such people often overestimate the degree to which the other person’s actions are meant as insults. Psychologist Roy Baumeister says: “This hypersensitivity to insults also makes it possible to understand what might otherwise appear to be senseless violence. A man who beats up his girlfriend or stabs a stranger in a bar might seem a malicious villain to observers. In his own eyes, however, he is merely defending himself against an attack. Many violent people believe that their actions were justified by the offensive acts of the person who became their victim.”

High but unstable self-esteem often accompanies major attachment problems. One expert who has studied people with antisocial personality disorders describes them as having a “narcissistic and grossly inflated view of their self-worth and importance.” They are a small minority of the population but commit a disproportionately large share of the crimes, especially violent crimes (by one estimate about half of the crimes in the United States and Canada).

Threatened egotism is particularly susceptible to violence when the ego is threatened in the presence of some audience, as often happens on the world’s political stage.

People with inflated self esteem find it easy to see themselves as being on the side of “good.” Becker’s argument is that in the process of taking the side of life and of good, we project our shadow onto an enemy. Then we try to kill it.

Psychologist Baumeister reached a similar conclusion: a major cause of evil in the world is the idealistic attempt to do good. Some examples include the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Thirty Years’ War in Europe in which Catholic and Protestant troops devastated much of Germany in attempting to wipe out the “evil” version of the Christian faith represented by the other side, murders committed to prevent the “evil” of abortion, and the Stalinist and Maoist purges in Russia and China. He points out that “studies of repressive governments repeatedly find that they perceive themselves as virtuous,  idealistic, well-meaning groups who are driven to desperately violent measures to defend themselves against the overwhelmingly dangerous forces of evil.”

In many ways the Nazis were idealists. The Nazi SS was composed of the elite, the noblest of the population, yet they committed the most horrible deeds. The Nazis wanted to transform their society to make it perfect. They wanted to root out the elements that they considered “evil”. Yet they almost never considered their own actions as evil, perhaps at worst an unfortunate necessity in carrying out a noble enterprise.

The Nazis projected filth and evil onto the Jewish people and then tried to establish a “pure” state by eliminating the Jews. One of the professed motivations of racist lynchings in our own history was to maintain the “purity” of the white race. Many animal species, including coyotes, wolves, and prairie dogs have been irrationally persecuted by humans in the name of eliminating “varmints” and “filth” and “disease-carriers.” Enemies are “dirty.”

Historically nations have been aroused to war by the depiction of the enemy as pure evil. In cases of reciprocal violence, such as war, each side tends to see itself as the innocent victim and the other as the evil attacker.

How does this relate to our present situation? We’ve heard President Bush frame the war on terrorism as a war of “Good against Evil.” This is irrational and dangerous. No one person, let alone a nation, can be all “good.” Let the one who is without sin launch the first missile. Tellingly, Osama Bin Laden also frames the issue as one of Good against Evil: “These events have divided the whole world into two sides. The side of believers and the side of infidels, may God keep you away from them.”[xlv] Ayman al-Zawahiri said of his terrorist activities in Egypt, “we had to fight the government, which was against God’s Sharia and supported God’s enemies.” Each side sees nothing but evil in the other.

In our name President Bush has asked the question, “Why do they hate us?” In our name he has answered, “They hate our freedoms…our freedom of religion, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other.” This answer reveals the undeniable and praiseworthy “light” of the United States of America. But it does not confront what we do not want to face: that our economy sucks the life blood out of much of the world in a disproportionate use of resources, that we refuse to work with other countries in trying to solve global warming or banning land mines, that our tax dollars have been spent spreading defoliants and depleted uranium over many areas of the world, that we helped kill over a million people in the Viet Nam war, that our country imprisons a greater percentage of its population than any other country on earth, that we are the world’s biggest arms merchant, that the most powerful economy in the world has somehow allowed the impoverishment of so many, that our media push violence as a solution to problems, that we have trained and equipped death squads and bullied many countries, that we apparently funded and trained Osama Bin Laden himself.

This is not to exonerate the other parties in our conflicts. Neither is it to say that we should tolerate terrorist attacks. It is simply to say that we also have some work to do. This work is not easy. It takes a certain amount of maturity. When I counsel people who are in conflict I suggest they apply the “80/20 rule”: 80% of what the other person says about you may have no basis in fact, but probably 20% does have some basis. We need to take a look at the 20%. When we ask, “Why do they hate us?” we cannot get the answer by listening only to ourselves. Sometimes it’s helpful to get the perspective of a neutral third party, someone standing beside us who can yet see our shadow while we are mesmerized, moth-like, by our own light.

Nelson Mandela, former President of South Africa and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, has offered us a third-party perspective. In a recent interview in Newsweek he says:

“The United States has made serious mistakes in the conduct of its foreign affairs, which have had unfortunate repercussions long after the decisions were taken. Unqualified support of the Shah of Iran led directly to the Islamic revolution of 1979. Then the United States chose to arm and finance the [Islamic] mujahedin in Afghanistan instead of supporting and encouraging the moderate wing of the government of Afghanistan. That is what led to the Taliban in Afghanistan. But the most catastrophic action of the United States was to sabotage the decision that was painstakingly stitched together by the United Nations regarding the withdrawal of the Soviet Union from Afghanistan. If you look at those matters, you will come to the conclusion that the attitude of the United States of America is a threat to world peace.”

If we as a nation do not do our own “shadow” work, we will simply respond to violence with more of the same, thereby modeling violent behavior and creating trauma and attachment problems. We ourselves will perpetuate evil.

Once a person has decided that some other is evil, the decision helps justify behaviors that tend to belittle or punish the other. Such behaviors are precisely the behaviors that justify the other person in seeing the first person as evil. This reciprocal projection and dehumanization usually leads to a downward spiral.

Patterns of violence often do grow worse over time. The typical pattern for marital violence and violence among strangers is for minor insults and slights to escalate more or less slowly to physical attacks and violent aggression.

One of the reasons violence tends to spiral downward is that there is typically a huge discrepancy between the importance of the act to the perpetrator and to the victim. Baumeister calls this the magnitude gap. For example, rape is a life-changing event for a woman, while it may be only a few moments of excitement and limited satisfaction to the rapist. Whether an SS officer murdered 25 or 30 Jews in a given day was a matter of additional work for the SS officer, but a matter of life and death for the 5 additional Jews.

The magnitude gap functions in a way that makes evil worsen over time. In a pattern of revenge, as occurs in terrorism and occupation, the roles of victim and perpetrator are constantly being reversed. The perpetrator (A) may think he has harmed the victim (B) only at a level of, say, one damage point. The victim (B) however feels harmed at a level of ten points. To exact tit-for-tat revenge, B perpetrates harm on A at a level of ten, which from B’s point of view may seem only fair, but from A’s point of view may feel like harm at a level of 100. This of course seems totally out of proportion and requires further revenge as A and B switch roles again.

Becker’s analysis offers a way to understand the instances of genocide and mass murder in human history. He suggests, chillingly, that one way to gain the illusion of psychological power over death is to exert physical control over life and death. He points out that the killings at the Nazi concentration camps increased dramatically toward the end of the war, when the Nazi’s began to have a sense that they might actually lose. Mass slaughter gave the illusion of heroic triumph over death/evil.

The School Playground

Attachment problems, trauma, modeling, and the heroic desire to triumph over evil can reinforce each other to perpetuate evil. There are, unfortunately, plenty of examples of this toxic reinforcement on the world stage today. There are also plenty of examples closer to home.

The following incident happened on the playground of a local public elementary school. Yesterday at recess a boy began dropping gravel over a wall onto the heads of some children below. The children asked him to stop. He refused. One thing led to another and soon two groups of boys were hurling fistfuls of gravel at each other. Fortunately no one was blinded by the time a teacher arrived to put a stop to the battle.

Several of the boys who had asked the first boy to stop were good kids who seldom got into trouble. Yet they wound up retaliating and soon became enmeshed in a major battle with the potential for someone getting seriously hurt. All the kids in this school have had some training in conflict resolution techniques. Competent and concerned teachers were available for help. What happened here?

The boy who started it all seems to meet many of the criteria for a child with attachment problems: no close friends, no remorse at hurting others, denial of any culpability. With little impulse control and no empathy he began tormenting some other boys. The modeling given by our society guides boys toward solving problems through violence. The boys who retaliated were trying to rid themselves of this “evil”, first by using words and then with fistfuls of stones. They were drawn into a war just as surely as good citizens are drawn into a war to destroy the evil enemy. I can imagine some innocent kid walking by getting hit with some stones from the “good” boys, getting angry and siding with the “evil” boy in order to get rid of the “evil” boys who had thrown stones at him.

On a larger scale, the interaction of the components of the axis of evil can lead to things like the Columbine massacre and the war in the Middle East.

Systemic Evil

The axis of evil, especially the heroic desire to eliminate evil, often produces systemic evil.

Many studies in the field of conflict resolution show that some conflicts are caused not by the people involved but by the system or social structure within which they are obliged to operate. Even if you were to insert two saints into such a system the saints would soon end up in conflict with each other. Such a conflict may harm others. The harm may be an unintended consequence. We could call the consequence simply “bad” if the people in the system are unaware that their behavior produces the consequence. If however the people in the system persist in their behavior despite awareness of the bad consequences, or persist in denying the bad consequences despite clear evidence, we would be justified in considering the perpetrators to be complicit in an evil of the system, or systemic evil.

Some people may find themselves participating in systemic evil despite their better judgment. For example, it’s clear that mass use of private automobiles is destroying the atmosphere, thereby harming ourselves, our neighbors, and future generations. It has been estimated that we would need nine additional planets’ worth of atmosphere to absorb the greenhouse gasses produced if all the world’s people pumped pollution aloft at the North American rate.”[l] Yet despite this awareness many people find it impossible to forgo the automobile when our infrastructure and land use patterns makes it so easy to drive and so difficult to walk or use public transportation. In our society, living simply is complicated.

An important example of systemic evil is the so-called “tragedy of the commons.” The “tragedy of the commons” expresses the idea that when everyone has access to a resource, say pasturage, then everyone will seek to maximize their own take, resulting in the depletion of the resource. Classic examples of this include depleted fisheries resulting from over-fishing and polluted air resulting from minimally regulated emissions from combustion, landfills, and industrial processes. The tragedy of the commons becomes the evil of the commons when those who would maximize their own take do so with the conscious understanding that their actions will deplete the commons and thereby harm others.

In Becker’s terms, people who maximize their own take are maximizing the “side of life” narrowly understood as their own welfare. They act to eliminate the “evil” of their own impoverishment. They ignore the fundamental fact of our human interrelatedness, a fact attested to by spiritual traditions throughout history.[li] This narrow view is possible only if one is ignorant or is defending against awareness with psychological denial and/or if one has basic attachment problems.

Scholar and poet Gary Snyder points out that in pre-modern times the commons did not devolve into tragedy because “the commons was a social institution which, historically, was never without rules and did not allow unlimited access.”[lii] In other words, the tragedy of the commons comes into existence only when the relevant relationships are missing or defective. Missing or defective relationships point to attachment problems with other people, with the environment, or with both.

The Force of Social Psychology in Systemic Evil

If Hitler had asked you, would you have executed a stranger? Most of us would like to think we would have said “no.” Yet a classic experiment by Stanley Milgram suggests that given certain social circumstances, nearly two-thirds of us would comply with this evil request. Milgram’s experiment involved subjects (“teachers”) who were instructed by an authority figure (the experimenter in a white lab coat) to deliver electric shocks of increasing intensity to a confederate (“learner”) who would scream in feigned pain and beg for release as the shocks reached high voltages. The majority of the subjects continued to deliver apparently painful and potentially lethal shocks, even when the “learner” had mentioned having a heart condition.

Milgram found that certain social psychological conditions supported obedience to evil authority. People were more likely to comply when the person giving the orders was close at hand and perceived to be a legitimate authority figure, when the authority figure was supported by a prestigious institution, when there were no role models for defiance of authority and when the victim was depersonalized or at a distance. (The first three of these conditions speak to the power of modeling. The last has to do with a capacity for empathy: an attachment issue.) If these conditions are present in a social system, they create the potential for systemic evil.

Another classic experiment shows clearly how much a social system can shape our behavior for good or evil. In the Stanford Prison Experiment a group of ordinary college students was divided at random into “prisoners” and “guards”. The “guards” kept watch over the “prisoners” at a simulated prison set up in the basement of Stanford’s psychology department building. Experimenter Philip Zimbardo had to end this two-week study after only six days, because in that brief period the social situation had begun to turn the “guards” into sadistic mental torturers, while the “prisoners” either broke down or succumbed “in cowed and mindless obedience.”

The key learning from both these experiments is that ordinary people—you or I—under certain social circumstances can be turned into perpetrators of evil. Here are some of the social dynamics and beliefs that may contribute:

· Social norms such as ignoring the starving beggar in the street

· Customs such as female circumcision or murder of female offspring at birth

· Values of male sexual conquest or of personal success at any cost

· Beliefs such as the “just world” view that victims of circumstance have deserved their fate

· Myths of racial or ethnic superiority

· Religious doctrines such as that women or black people have no soul

· Political ideologies that are fascist, despotic or that permit slavery.

 

Our social circumstances can either inhibit evil or reinforce our acquiring evil as a habit. If evil behaviors bring some sort of rewards, albeit meager, the behaviors will be reinforced. After enough reinforcement, the behaviors become part of a person’s self-concept, for example: “I am a person who gets what I want through violence.” In his book The Roots of Evil, Ervin Staub shows that patterns of evil behavior often begin with relatively minor harmful acts such as name-calling or ostracism. When these behaviors bring satisfaction to the perpetrators, further and more extreme acts of harm becomes more likely. Staub suggests that one of the most effective ways we can work to prevent great evil is by speaking or acting against the smaller evils that precede it.

So, What is “Evil”?

In some ways evil is quite human, and quite understandable. It has deep roots in our mental processes and social conditions. This has been proven by a huge amount of research. There are undoubtedly other factors at work. We know for example that all over the world the bulk of violence is perpetrated by young adult males. Yet understanding the malignant combination of attachment problems, trauma, modeling, shadow, projection, inflation and social influences can help us see evil in a new light. Gene Knudsen Hoffman, therapist and international peace worker says, “an enemy is one whose story we have not heard.”

Instead of an inflated heroic effort to destroy evil, we can work on relationships through prevention of child abuse, support for the development of attachment skills, especially in the first three years of life, parenting skills training, and relationship skills training (including relationships with the natural world). We can work to ensure that every child feels part of a loving community, and receives education in diversity skills and tolerance for ambiguity. We can encourage positive role models in the media and from our civic and business leaders. As a nation and as individuals we can reclaim our shadow projections. Of course such approaches are not replacements for firm action against an imminent threat. They are ways to reduce the potential for evil over the long haul.

Understanding the maleficent seven psychological factors gives us the opportunity to make wiser political and social decisions. We must always work to thwart evil actions. Force will sometimes still be necessary. But if we want to deal with the root causes of evil, we cannot rely on warfare or violence. Any money or lives expended there would simply be squandered. What’s worse, we would end up creating more of the evil we sought to destroy.

 

 

Chris Hoffman is an ecopsychologist, professional counselor, and organization development consultant. He is the author of The Hoop and the Tree: A Compass for Finding a Deeper Relationship with All Life (Council Oak Books), recently published in German as Lebensbaum und Lebenskreis (dtv – Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag). More information is available at www.hoopandtree.org.

“On an Invitation” by Bobbi Arduini

 

“Come over here. I want to show you something.”

John wore sunglasses, even though we were inside his house. They were dark and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could see myself. I wore an army green dress that I bought in Paris. Paris had been a graduation present from my parents, and so was the money for the dress. It was a beautiful sexy dress, but a size too big. When I leaned forward to see what John wanted to show me, I saw my chest reflected back at me in the lens of his sunglasses.

“What is it?” We knelt before a plank in the wall of his parent’s storage closet. He pulled the plank out and revealed a secret cubbyhole, filled with pink insulation and cobwebs. He reached into the shadows and felt around. I imagined his fingers brushing against the fiberglass in the insulation, burning his fingertips and palms, while soft silky webs tore apart silently, breaking like whispers against his wrist.

“You like guns, right?” He smiled.

I didn’t know whether or not I liked guns. I enjoyed the idea of guns more than the reality of them. I had gone shooting once and found it be less like “Scarface” and more like meditation. I hadn’t guessed that I would have to focus so much on my breath, or that it would be so hard to hit the target.

But John smiled at me. He had the junky jaw, the dead giveaway that someone has relapsed. He had a scary mouth but I didn’t want to see it because I had known John sober, until then.

“I love guns,” I told him. And I smiled at him, which was like smiling at myself.

He pulled out a machine gun. It looked like what I’d seen in the movies, like what every mobster used. It was black and neat and it was the suitcase of guns. He handed it to me.

“This is what I use, what I give my men whey guard my crops.” His mouth flickered in and out of a smile. He was showing me something precious and secret and sacred, showing me what he used to defend himself and his livelihood.

It was heavier than it looked and cool. Without thinking, I pointed it at him. He shoved it down and away. He laughed.

“The first rule: you never point it at someone unless you plan on shooting them.”

I pointed the gun at the wall, which is cluttered with messy stacks of papers and books, old cardboard boxes filled with toys and clothes. John used to be a child, I thought, holding his machine gun and trembling a little and laughing along with him. I used to be a child, too.

“Have you ever shot anyone?” I pretended there was field of enemies in front of me, that John was a big heroin dealer again and I was his mistress, his partner in crime. Mentally, I replaced his Raiders jersey with a pinstripe suit and my sandals with expensive high-heeled shoes. I kept his sunglasses and my dress from Paris. I kept his shaved head and my deadlocks. I kept his jaw and gave myself arrogant lips.

“Once. He fucked with my girlfriend. I don’t know what happened to him.”

I didn’t want to see the expression on John’s face. I didn’t want to know if he was proud or upset or guilty. His voice sounded neutral; he was just telling me a story.

“I went back out,” he said then “I’m dealing again. And I went back to Humboldt and got my crops back in order. I’m leaving soon, to be closer to my business.”

I didn’t know what to say, which was nothing new. Whenever confronted with something I didn’t know how to handle, I smiled and pretended that nothing was wrong. John had killed someone,  maybe, and he was dealing again and he was using again and I was in his parent’s storage room, pointing a machine gun at the remnants of his childhood. I turned around and handed him the gun.

“There are times when I want to use. You know, if I think about never doing heroin again, I start getting all panicky.” The words were clumsy in my mouth. I wanted to say the right thing, the thing that would let him know that I understood, that would prove to him I was his friend. I had just over a year sober and I was frightened of his gun and how I liked holding it, even though I could never imagine killing someone. I meant to say something sober, something wise, but I heard the question in my statement and he did, too.

John took the gun from me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“You know,” he said, “if you ever want to use, please give me a call. I would really like that.”

He gingerly placed the gun back into its hiding place, then covered the plank over the hole in the wall. He led me into the hallway, holding my hand, then locked the door behind us. I wondered about this hand holding, which was cool and smooth and soft and easy.

He checked to make sure the door was secure, turning the knob and banging against it. Then he turned back to me and lifted his sunglasses onto his forehead.

His eyes were wide and green and slightly bloodshot. A few weeks ago, we were friends. He showed me all of his photographs and we went to a baseball game together. He scalped my extra tickets and I bought him a hot dog. We took walks in the Berkeley hills with my dog and I played his songs on guitar. We met for coffee and he told me about rehab and about how badly he wanted to stay sober.

I told him about my parents in New York and about how bad it was for me when I was using. I told him about my good friend, Todd, who I had used with and fell in love with and how I watched him get sober and how he relapsed when I was in Paris and then killed himself a week after I moved to California. I told John about Todd, how maybe I could understand his death, maybe it could be okay,

if I could just save one other person, anyone at all.

I looked into John’s eyes and I saw someone the same age as Todd was when he died, 22. I looked at his jaw and saw the same junky jaw that we all had when we were using, or even thinking about using. It was a mean jaw and selfish jaw, the kind of jaw that would rob me blind if given half the chance. If he had his sunglasses on, I would’ve seen my own mouth in the same light, because I was thinking about a world with machine guns and white powder and bleached sunlight. I was thinking of a world where I would have no memory and no roots. I was thinking of a world where, when people died, it was like flies hitting the windshield of my car on the freeway.

I got into my car later that afternoon and I called other people in recovery. I cried to them, because I knew that I couldn’t see John again, because I’d never see Todd again, because I didn’t use heroin again, because I wouldn’t use heroin again. I cried because the only one I could save was myself, and I cried because my life was good. I had Iams mini-chunks and heartworm medicine and a tick collar for my dog. I had heat-activated shampoo and sensitive-skin soap and pink Daisy razor in my bathroom. I had six cans of warm diet soda on my counter and a box of fiber cereal in my cupboard and two microwave dinners in my freezer. I had memories of walking through Paris with coffee and my journal and I had a voicemail from my mother, who had called to say that she loved me.

 

 

Bobbi Arduini was raised in New City, New York. After hitchhiking across the country with her dog, Laughter, she earned her BA in Creative Writing at Hampshire College. Currently, she is working on an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at Saint Mary’s College of California. She has written a book review for MARY – Saint Mary’s on-line literary journal, where she is also the current Nonfiction editor. She and Laughter now live in the east bay.

 

How it Works

As l left the Hotel Garnier, I straightened the line of buttons running the length of
my long denim jumper. At least I would look put-together. I turned the corner
onto Rue de Rome where the street buzzed with a crazy mix of traffic. Renaults,
Fiats, and Citroens raced in both directions. I fell in step with Parisians charging to
their next destination while the sun, nearly overhead, promised another steamy
day.

An edgy feeling jittered through me. It wasn’t just the city, the ten days of
touring the country with a dozen other people, or the fact that this was my first
time out alone. I needed an AA meeting. But this was my last day in Paris and I
had one chance to visit the Musee du Cinema, the only museum in the world
dedicated to movies. I’d loved French movies ever since I took a year of film
classes before settling on English as my major.

I headed toward the Metro station with guilt and purpose as sensation won out
over spirituality. I, who never missed meetings in the nine years since I’d quit
drinking, smoking pot, snorting cocaine, and popping pills, was skipping AA today.

Here I was in France, the land of wine, celebrating my college graduation after
three decades and three tries, the first clean and sober. Here, the wafting
bouquet of vin–the pungent trace of ripe grapes fermented just long enough to
give a glow or a headache–was everywhere. At sidewalk cafes where bright
awnings flapped in the summer breezes. At dinner where it could be had every
night. In the wineries of the Loire Valley where a 30-ft. high cluster of sculptured
grapes lingered by the roadside.

Wine had been my drink of choice. Even though I had dallied with mixed drinks at
times, I always came back to a sweet rose or a dry white wine. I tried to be a
social drinker, and I never drank much–I couldn’t hold much. But I could never
say no to a night out or a night in. And wine, along with a joint and good music,
was the best antidote for disappointments of the heart of which I had many. But
that was past history.

I slipped down the steps of the Metro station with a string of others, the sound of
our footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. A dank smell lay quietly in the
tunnels contrasting with our hustle as we hurried past the turn-styles only to wait
at the platform. No one seemed particularly threatening. A dark-haired woman in
a suit shifted from one foot to the other in her four-inch stilettos. A guy in hiking
boots sat on a backpack, smoking a cigarette and looking like he needed a hostel.
Two teenage girls giggled against the back wall. The others blended into the
shadows.

When the train rumbled through the tunnel and screeched to a halt, I was glad to
board the car with the small herd. The ripe smell of a swarthy-looking man who
held onto the center pole assailed me as I passed by.

I settled in a seat by myself under a large map of Metro routes and pored over my
smaller version like it was a holy document. Get off at Charles De Gaulle-Etoile.
Take #6. Get off at Bir-Hakem. Silently, I repeated my mantra as the Metro
hurtled forward under the streets of Paris, trying to distance myself from my
loneliness.

Of my trio of roommates, all of us returning to college in our forties, I had been
the expendable one. I wanted to blame it on the division of drinker and non-
drinker. But the other two were single with a different mind-set than I, who’d
remarried in sobriety. And they needed less sleep than I did. With the Epstein-
Barr virus threatening me with fever and fatigue if I didn’t pace myself, I turned in
early, missing twittering girl-talk and late night excursions to local brasseries for
drinks.

I joined the throng exiting the subway and walked under the Arc de Triomphe for
the next connection. Safely ensconced on train #6, I watched the station names
at each stop as the subway rumbled toward Bir-Hakem.

Street vendors, selling everything from sketches to wind-up dogs lined the walk to
my first stop, the Eiffel Tower. By the time I arrived, I was wilting. I leaned
against one of the iron pillars and swigged an overpriced bottle of water, amazed
that the base of the Tower was large enough for two football fields.

I hurried across the Pont d’lena, the bridge spanning the Seine. I found the
Musee du Cinema in the palace that housed it and other museums. The Musee
was closed for lunch. I waited with a dozen others on the steps leading down to it
and journaled while the rest talked and laughed.

As the chain across the entrance was removed, I queued for a ticket, nearly giddy
with anticipation. My excitement vanished the moment the tour guide spoke–in
French. I was lost in her rapid-fire delivery just as I had been in almost every
encounter on the tour.

I attempted to translate. My mind worked faster and faster as the guide led us
into the musty rooms. She discussed the Lumiere brothers’ photoramas and
Edison’s kinetoscope, all in glass cases. She directed us to costumes that hung
on the wall–romantic gowns and western chaps and spurs, a khaki outfit and pith
helmet from an adventure film She pointed out movie posters from Truffault and
Godard movies. Finally, I gave up, catching what I could and reading the
explanations–also in French.

When I emerged, my mind was in tatters. I trundled downhill against the advance
of tourists and settled on the first unoccupied park bench. Discreetly, I adjusted
a gap in the front of my jumper that had exposed a smidgen of belly-flesh for all
the city to see.

A continuous stream of sightseers flowed across the bridge and up the asphalt
walkway in front of me. As I rested in the shady arbor of overarching trees, I
watched the parade and obsessed about my return trip.

I needed all my wits about me to hike back to the Metro stop, navigate the
subway, shower, and meet the group for our farewell dinner at 6 o’clock. After
that, just one more day and I’d be home and safe.

I didn’t feel like using, but I was lonely and tired, half of the HALT syndrome:
Hungry, Angry, Lonely, and Tired. Add two more of the big stressors and my
defenses could crumble, here, halfway around the world from family and AA friends.

A slight breeze caressed my cheek and ruffled my hair, soothing compulsion that
threatened to build. Behind me, a young couple lay on the lawn entwined in each
other’s arms.

My loneliness came and went while I people-watched: an English couple in hiking
outfits, a blonde Swedish family with lilting accents, several German students in an
intense discussion, some Americans, and others of unknown origins.

When a young Japanese family asked me to snap pictures of the four of them, I
felt useful. I was touched when they offered profuse thank you’s and bowed
before me. Upon leaving, the smallest of the two children peeked around her
mother’s legs and smiled at me, coal-black eyes dancing in delight.

In the file of travelers, I noticed a man in his 60’s with wispy, white hair sticking
out from under a beige snap-brim hat. Even though he struggled up the incline
with the help of a silver-haired woman, probably his wife, his shoulders were
square.

Cancer, I thought.

“Sit down here, Pete, and rest,” said the woman, as she guided him to the far end
of the bench on which I sat. “I’ll go on up and be back shortly.”

Wheezing, Pete sat heavily against the wooden seat and leaned back. “I’ll be ok,”
he said. His wife patted his shoulder, then turned and passed me, her short legs
working against the hill.

We sat in silence, Pete and I, while I drank in the fresh scent of green summer
grass and the woody smell of old trees. As tourists trooped up and down the hill
and the minutes passed, Pete’s breathing eased.

I took a deep breath and initiated my first conversation without the backup of
roommates or the tour group. “You’re American,” I said.

Pete turned toward me. His blue eyes were friendly and I knew I was safe. “We’re
from Texas–Garland,” he said.

“I’m from Ohio.”

A smile filled his handsome, lined face and he said his son was vice-provost at a
private university in Ohio. I told him my college story and plans for grad school
and creative writing. Pete said his wife Flo, a nurse, had just written a book on
geriatrics. Our conversation swung back and forth like a porch swing on a lazy
afternoon as the fiasco at the Musee du Cinema faded.

Without missing a beat, Pete said, “I’ve got lung cancer–had it for eighteen
months. When I went in for chemo I told them I wasn’t going to get sick–and I
never did.”

I felt a shadow of sadness pass over me. But I said, “Positive thinking,” meaning
it.

“It’s a higher power that gets the credit,” he said, laying his arm on the back of
the bench.

Something flickered within me.

“In 1982 I came in the doors of Alcoholics Anonymous,” he said.

The warm glow that comes when two AA’s connect began filling me from the inside
out. I leaned forward, listening with special interest to my new “brother.”

“I hit bottom,” Pete said, gazing across the lawn. “Flo divorced me after twenty-
two years of marriage. I ended up in rehab–my third try at getting sober. But
there was something different that time.”

His eyes focused on mine. “I surrendered. I turned my will and my life over to a
higher power and my life’s never been the same. After a year in AA, Flo and I got
remarried. And it just keeps getting better and better.”

Eager to share, I said, “I’m in AA, too. I came in May 30th 1986.” Although I
couldn’t voice the darker issues, they flashed across my mind: fear of dying after
being exposed to AIDS, still suffering mentally from a violent boyfriend.

“I wasn’t drinking much by then,” I said, “but I was tired of meeting men in bars
who forgot to tell me they were married. I lived in a room over a hardware store
with my fifteen year-old daughter and worked two part-time jobs to stay afloat.”

I paused, reflecting on the changes. “I remarried five years ago.”

“Is he in the program?”

“No, he’s ‘normal,’” I said, laughing. “Whatever that is.”

Pete and I chatted like we’d know each other our entire lives as more travelers like
ourselves walked up and down the pathway.

When Flo returned from sightseeing and discovered that Pete and I shared
sobriety, her dark eyes grew big and her laugh was full and rich. She scooched
Pete and I together on the bench and, brushing her hair from eyes, asked us to
hold out our AA tokens while she videotaped.

“Stay right there,” she said, as she whipped out her still camera and snapped
photos of Pete and I, our tokens still on display. She found an English-speaking
tourist to photograph the three of us, and we posed shoulder-to-sweaty shoulder
against the lush backdrop of the park. As we settled back on the bench, I
adjusted the embarrassing gap in my jumper that had now been recorded on tape
and on film.

Flo touched her husband’s shoulder and said, “You know, I’ve never left Pete alone
this whole trip.”

The three of us looked at each other, nodded, and smiled in understanding,
knowing that’s how it works.

As much as I wanted to stay with my new “family” in the timelessness that kindred
spirits share, I checked my watch. It was 3:45. I scribbled my address and my
phone number on a scrap of paper and exchanged it for Pete’s and Flo’s business
cards.

“I’ll send you pictures,” Flo said, holding my hand, as she and Pete stood before
me. The sun glinted behind them through the overarching trees lining the path.

Their warm hugs stayed with me as I walked down the slope toward the bridge,
my steps light and quick.

That evening my tour group met at a dimly lit restaurant on the Left Bank. Our
private room was more like a cave where stealthy waiters came and went. The
smell of vin was heady as a few sipped wine. The twelve of us toasted one
another and our magnificent trip.

Each time I raised my glass it was filled with my usual, water with lemon. During
the three-hour meal, I savored my favorite memory of France–my “meeting” with
Pete. With a sense of awe, I marveled at the orchestration that brought two
recovering alcoholics together, 4000 miles from home.

 


Rita Coleman
graduated with a BA and an MA in English Literature with a Concentration in Creative Writing from Wright State University, Dayton, Ohio. Her poetry has appeared in For All That is Our Life, a meditation anthology, Science of Mind magazine, and Women’s Center Review of Antioch College. In addition to poetry, Rita writes short fiction, memoir, and children’s books. She lives near Xenia, Ohio with her husband Frank Baxley.

There’s Poetry in the Kitchen

According to my New American World Dictionary, copyright 1974, a handsome blue
leather bound edition, the phrase “cock of the walk” refers to “a dominating person in
any group, especially an overbearing one”. This definition is reiterated by my battered
red canvas 1979 Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary. It’s always good to double check
sources. Of the two, on this occasion I prefer Webster’s because it has quite a nice
rooster illustration diagramming both the “main tail”, #1, right through to the “lesser
sickle feathers”, #28. There is no such drawing in the American World, though on the
same page as “cock” is a very elegant cockatoo image. As Mama said, you gotta shop
around.

Having grown up on a farm, my father having been an egg peddler, I really don’t have
this overbearing description in mind when it comes to roosters. I also don’t recall
roosters calling at the crack of dawn so much as at sunset, but perhaps that had
something to do with the feed. If anything, I remember the hens. They were skittish,
certainly hard to catch, and often one hen in particular was the bossy one. In any event,
I prefer the root of the word. Roost. The idea not only of a perch, but of settling down
for a rest.

On the farm there was a rooster weather vane standing vigilant and pelican style at
the apex of an old red barn. I can still hear the creak of its oscillations in the wind, still
see the gleam of its silver mirroring the sheen of a nearby silo’s dome. A talisman of
protection and hope, the mahogany rooster ever-alert in its watch while the other
animals nestle.

From the small kitchen where I write this passage, it is by the light of such a noble
fowl, a carved rooster lamp. I found it abandoned in the closet of yet another apartment
I was moving into. Finders, keepers. Its wiring works fine and its original yellow shade
creates a brown rustic glow, the glow of nostalgia. Home, it says to me, lent pizzazz by
gold and emerald foil stars winding around its brass pole before trailing off into the air.

There’s a bit of Mercury in that, an allusion to good tidings. Beginning with the
rooster and ending with the window, a sort of stretched out tabernacle is formed on
that entire left side of the room. This illusion is aided by the fact of an oblong mirror
placed horizontally against the wall at the back of the work counter. Across its top an
ivy garland acts as laurel.

Isn’t true cooking the art of a scholar? As far as that particular talent goes, I’m still
in Special Ed. This is why I hold in such high esteem those who can actually cook. Who
seem to enjoy both the science of it, and the sharing of its results. Very rarely do I
attempt to inflict my concoctions on others any more, except for my partner. He is a
master chef himself, but comes here with antacids and remains a good sport. One of my
last, dismal attempts at preparing a meal for more than two people involved a lasagna
recipe which included sun flower seeds. OK, sounds interesting. But the instructions
didn’t say anything about shelling them. I figured they’d just soften up in the stove. In
any case, it made for a very crunchy meal with guests surreptitiously spitting in their
napkins and trying to be polite.

I learned a valuable lesson from that. It’s not good to play Dr. Frankenstein with
food. My kitchen, nevertheless, still tries to pay humble homage to some galloping
gourmet ideal.

My kitchen also aims to express my country origins. Colanders and measuring cups
line the ceiling. Resting on the counter are wicker baskets of spices, bottles of olive oil,
canisters of utensils, and an assortment of flower printed crockery kept scrupulously
full. This last isn’t very hard to accomplish since I rarely open them.

Being a retiring gentleman from the old school, not entirely sure I belong in
surroundings of distressed wood cupboards and micro-waving and gadgets that
percolate, I much prefer the old west campfire. In other words, I have a can opener and
some lovely tin or other, and one great black metal pan that I repeatedly use. There is
something cosmic about it. Constellations of small white specks printed in an onyx sea
of iron. Not only does it match the faux speckled granite of the counter, it reminds me
of cowboys and pioneers, of a life not of simplicity, but of necessities basic to surviving.

Sometimes while I’m washing that pan, I think of my Ex, an alcoholic. Of those valiant
spells when he worked at staying sober. He learned from a woman friend in AA to take a
pan or a cup, and wash it over and over, scrubbing it more than spotless, keeping the
hands busy ‘til the urge for liquor subsides. I also remember a scene from a PBS special
about an elderly poet. In one scene, he’s washing potatoes at a sink, working spots off
the russet skin, the clear water a blue geyser. As he washes there is a voice over,
scotch and honey toned, reciting his poetry. The poem is about potatoes, the sanctity
of cleaning them, how at the end of one’s day, the end of one’s life, to be able to do
such mundane acts still, with love, is enough.

Having once been so much less comfortable with, and confident about, my own
solitude, I find solace in thoughts about the commonplace being sacred and grand.
Having worked in health care, I’ve learned a great deal about the blessings which disease
and aging can rob us of. I also have a partner who still does home care and shares
glimpses of his patients lives with me. So I feel an affinity with shut-ins, those bound to
dwellings or within the confines of their own paralytic bodies while the brain and the
spirit remain active. Of course homelessness isn’t necessarily any great shakes either.

“Is there no way out of the mind?” Sylvia Plath once asked, and I can understand her
beseeching desperation having been fickle about suicide by gas, pro or con, on more
than one occasion. The sense of being cornered mouse, a rabid hamster trapped in its
wheel, magnifies emotion claustrophobically in the skull. Obsession and compulsion can
beat this state, however, If you open the oven door and there’s really a great deal of
grime in it for instance. It would be a shame for that be the last thing you see on the
face of the earth, particularly at a time when you’re feeling pretty grimy yourself. Better
to clean it first, and then maybe stick around awhile trying to feel proud of the results.

Still the stove surely has a link to the Primitive, something reassuring and real in the
coils and rings on top. I once tried to photograph the yellow-indigo nimbus issuing up
from a burner through the view of the glass frying pan, the way it sighs up, a moth of
flame, to create a circle, a miniature cauldron. Those who practice Feng Shui believe in
the myth of a well functioning clean stove, a metaphor for sustenance and a means to
acquire it.

The snapshot did not capture that essence. It came out pretty bland compared to
the original inspiration and its intent. That’s often the case with photos. In the
meantime I try to remember that all of consciousness, and dreams too, are just another
kind of film.

 

 

Stephen Mead is a published artist/writer living in northeastern NY. A resume and samples of his artwork can be seen in the portfolio section of Absolute Arts.  Stephen’s book “Blue Heart Diary” is scheduled for release in 2005 from Stonegarden.net.