June 10th 2010

Summer

Summer

The grey long-haired cat from next door runs for the tunnel he’s created in the thin leaves of the deer grass in the front yard. I have startled him–nothing else is moving in this heat. I would follow him if I could.

Summer has arrived at last. I could stand perfectly still and sweat. Today, though, I am moving boxes from the garage to storage and I am soaked with myself. If I give it an hour or so, think only of the shower I will take afterward, I can do this chore. This is how summer passes: I negotiate with my body, promise it future reward for present discomfort. As long as I’ve lived in the Central Valley heat, I’ve done thus. My body is quick to forgive–it lives in the moment. But I remember, and I’m ashamed to mistreat it so.

I worked 13 years for an ice company. Summer was measured from Memorial Day to Labor Day and every day between was a Wednesday–there seemed to be no end to demand. I would step into the freezer and steam would coalesce around me. Later, when I stumbled upon the works of Andres Montoya, his iceworker persona resonated with me. It was the way the iceworker spoke up for those who don’t speak, who aren’t allowed official speech. Montoya’s iceworker was a champion; my experience was the opposite: long demeaning hours away from family, corporate disregard for employees, the Rockwell image of the iceman and cart, children running behind for ice chips, hiding the predatory nature of business. One summer, on a Sunday, there was a massive blackout in California. I was at my then girlfriend’s apartment with my kids when I was called in to work. I was told we were helping people keep food fresh and survive the heat, but we were getting top dollar for every bag sold. Meanwhile, I lost time with my family. When they fired me several years later, none of those sacrifices mattered.

My body has long forgotten those iniquities. My whole life has moved on–I have a career so different now that I wonder how it happened. I used to think I would leave the Central Valley and never return. Many of my friends did so, but I didn’t. I married, raised kids, went back to school; now I have a new career and friends here. I like that I empower people in my job, instead of contributing to their continued servitude. I like that I’m valued for my intellect and critical thinking skills instead of punished for them. My new job is like a grass tunnel–a retreat from the capitalist blast furnace. I no longer have to negotiate with my body to get up for work.

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May 29th 2010

The Letter

The Letter

Last week a letter arrived for my son from the National Guard. I did the same thing with it that I’ve done with the others, the Army, the Marines. I buried it in the kitchen trash. I even arranged the trash over it on the off chance he’d see his name and fish it out.

My father used to ask me, “When are you going to join the army, sweet boy?” I know he knew how much it needled me; I was always visibly uncomfortable. I never had the rejoinder that would shut him up. He was a tall man, fit and robust–I was a teenager and shy and my spirit cowered in his presence. He’d ask, “Where’d you get that hippie philosophy?” in a sneering voice. “Stuff I read,” I’d say, which only made it worse. He’d go on and on. He’d been a general’s guard in the Korean War and he credited that time with turning him into a man. He collected guns and one of his prizes was a Russian Luger he’d gotten off a prisoner and which he’d brazenly smuggled out of Korea. He even collaborated on books about the conflict.

Once, when I’d said something about the “enemy” being human, he said, “Down the barrel of a gun, those gooks ain’t human.” He held up an imaginary rifle and let off a few rounds. I remember vividly where my dad and I were when he said that, the smell of the restaurant, the look of the fake plants behind my father’s head. I was so stunned, I just sat there. I kept thinking of my girlfriend, who he’d met. She was Korean, adopted by a couple here in the states. I became sick to my stomach. I kept wondering how it could be that she wouldn’t be human–what circumstances could ever make anyone not see her as beautiful, full of life, human.

The war machine is getting better at dehumanizing the enemy. The latest move is to separate soldiers from their targets. War by drone, or by long-distance imagery. It is impossible for me to watch the footage of the Reuters reporter gunned down by US helicopters (you can watch the video on WikiLeaks and read the Reuters story). I start, but it overwhelms me. And the New York Times is reporting that 23 Afghan civilians were killed by, as the army puts it, “unprofessional” reporting from drone operators. We fight more and more via remote video and what then separates the “enemy” on the screen from the video game “enemies” my son’s generation spends so much time conquering?

Ironically, when my father passed away, I inherited his gun collection. They are all safely locked away and I made sure every gun had no ammunition in it. But they belong to me–me, who has never knowingly allowed a real gun in my house in my life. I remember when I was a kid my dad cleaning the guns (religiously) every weekend. He’d show me how to hold them, how to check to see if they were loaded, what never to do. He wanted to teach me to value them as he did, but we moved to California and I developed a hippie philosophy. I did not carry his values forward.

I have talked to my son about my actions. He’s seen me throw away the Army letters. He knows what all of this means to me. I have checked the box denying the Armed Services the right to send my son literature via the school or to use school records. A lot of good that does, apparently. I also preview my son’s video games and movies. But he is 17 now. I can’t shield him forever–and I’m aware that I am probably not shielding him now. I remember being that age. I just hope, if someone ever asks him to target another human being, however much they might seem like game avatars, he’ll say no. If asked why he won’t, maybe he’ll say, “My dad taught me.”

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May 16th 2010

Depression

Depression

Is anyone’s life free of stains? Not mine; in reflection, I turn up the rug and all that’s been spilled over the years has dried in accusing layers. My house is dirty. I have not kept it well.

Of course, this is a conceit. My viewpoint is a choice and, like most depressives’, it evidences a strange sort of narcissism. Woe is me, etc. It is a viewpoint that feeds on itself too–that recognizes its own conceit as further evidence of the dirty house, of the general worthlessness of the beholder. Self-knowledge does not necessarily improve the depressive illness.

And illness it is. I take medication to improve the serotonin levels in my brain. Serotonin is a chemical that we know a lot about and nothing about at the same time. It has been linked to sudden infant death syndrome and regulates a variety of cardiovascular and endocrine functions, muscles, and breast milk production. According to WebMD, “Of the approximately 40 million brain cells, most are influenced either directly or indirectly by serotonin. This includes brain cells related to mood, sexual desire and function, appetite, sleep, memory and learning, temperature regulation, and some social behavior.” Clearly, if there’s something wrong with my serotonin, it would explain a lot.

Except, like most advances in science, the more we learn, the more we realize how little we know. There is no way to measure serotonin levels in the brain or even to be certain exactly how increasing serotonin levels affects mood. Scientists aren’t sure if reduced serotonin levels cause depression or the other way around. One theory holds that a suppression of brain cells from stress causes depression. The theory suggests that increased serotonin in the brain stimulates the growth of brain cells and that these new cells are what mitigate depression, not the medication itself.

It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. My current depressive illness has something to do with stress, which I don’t handle well, but also with shock. The triggering event itself is not important to this post, but I am in deep grief and shock and this has triggered a downward spiral of emotions. I must have killed off or suppressed quite a few cells to feel so uninspired by the world around me. Suddenly all the stains are visible: layers of them.

I’ve been here before. It will pass. I’m exercising more, practicing yoga breathing, distracting myself. It’s the AA way–fake it ’til you make it. Last night my son had some friends over and I busied myself driving for pizza, taking my stepdaughter to work and back, ferrying about. All their conversations were animated, excited. They barrel forward toward an uncertain future with their brain cell factories at full production and they are high on the serotonin of youth, the dance of friendship, the courtship of possibilities. I could learn something. My son, after dropping a pizza slice on his shirt, exclaimed to his friend, “That’s gonna stain!” And with that they took off laughing, grabbing a broom to sweep their treehouse.

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June 13th 2009

colonoscopy

colonoscopy

My summer session English 4 class (a literature class) has been focused on men and women and class struggle, so we have read and had numerous discussions on the “nature” of men and women (keeping in mind that as individuals we’re all different). It is an intensive class, with a lot of reading and I’m rather proud of how my students have responded. The conversations we’ve been having have really been exciting for me.

Because we’re reading non-fiction prose along with fiction, I have felt it important to be open about my own life and my own questions on the nature of men and women and relationships. So, I was open with my class about my feeling relative to a colonoscopy I have scheduled this month.

On the surface of it, there’s nothing remarkable about this procedure and the statistics on colorectal cancer show it affects men and women virtually equally. Instead, my musing on the procedure has to do with the doctor performing it, my “male” inclinations and social conventions. When I received the notice from the gastroenterology group I was referred to that a consultation had been scheduled, the name of the doctor was a longish Indian name which I couldn’t pronounce. I assumed the doctor was a male and thought nothing of it.

Of course, he was a she. Perhaps more importantly (and at this point, I’m beginning to move into the queasy territory of literary nonfiction–the exploration of the inadequacies and foibles of the self, exposed to all) I found her quite attractive. She was neither skinny nor overweight, about 5′ 5″ I’d say, with (it looked like–I didn’t touch it) soft, medium-length hair and a smooth, creamy complexion. Her voice was low, almost husky, and I guessed her age as mid-thirties. She was wearing a black knit blouse and brown slacks–conservative, but fashionable. I’d been waiting for nearly an hour when she came in and my first inclination (to complain) disappeared as she smiled and began talking to me.

When she introduced herself, she mentioned her name was changed from the card they’d sent me because she was divorced now. We shook hands and she sat across the room from me (it was a largish exam room). I was wearing a T-shirt with Greek letters on it and she assumed it was from a fraternal order, so she asked me about it. I’ve never been in such an order, but I told her I thought they were more effective for women (sororities) than for men since I felt women networked and supported each other better. I said that I thought men were too immature and competitive at the age that most join these fraternities for them to have lasting value.

At this point she began to speak of her divorce and how ostracized she felt, of the way her ex-husband’s friends never called her, etc. She spoke of the effect of all this on her son. She talked about being the breadwinner, and thus having to pay alimony and child support. I listened to her, watching her, and I was keenly aware that I felt the urge to do something! I don’t believe in “male” roles any more than I do of “female” ones, but there I was suddenly feeling protective and wanting to comfort her. It was a strange feeling and as I became more aware of it, the more uncomfortable I became. It was almost a sexual response. For example, I found myself consciously trying to find anything to look at besides her breasts, which in turn meant I was hyperconscious of them anyway.

To make things worse, this woman will be sedating me to thread a camera and some sort of clipper thing up my butt in a couple weeks! I guess I’d have felt less self-conscious if she had been a 70-year-old grandfather-like guy. I mean, there’s no way in our next meeting I’m going to leave a good impression on her even if I cared to. And I don’t care to. I have no interest in her besides my continued good health. But that didn’t stop my mind spinning off on all the tangents…

That’s where this musing ends. Except it doesn’t–women have had male doctors and Ob/Gyns for forever. I’m just seeing this dance between the sexes, sexual (intended or not) and non-sexual, now with new eyes. I cherish my female friends as I do my male ones and I don’t sleep with any of them. But I am a little shocked at how quickly that detachment drained from me in that exam room.

[image credit]

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June 10th 2009

The Hindenburg

The Hindenburg

The Hindenburg on video at The Smoking Gun

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June 10th 2009

Just Dropped In

Watched The Big Lebowski again last weekend. Classic.

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