BROAD CAST AND UPDATES, 29 OCTOBER 2007

(People by Mollicles4)

Since my days of fever with the flu last week, I've had a series of dreams in which all of the principal "characters", including me, have the following:

*A main identity by which they are generally known
*A secret identity by which they know themselves, which may or may not coincide with the above
*A public identity known by one or more other people, which may or may not coincide with the above AND which may be perceived differently by the individuals who know them
*A "twin" identity they same with someone else who is "identical" to them based on one of the above identities but which may not be obvious to anyone else

The first time I woke up from one of these saga, I thought WTF?!! Makes my head swirl. Talk about costumes.

First, some updates via little gator. We had wondered about the conflicting information concerning Captain Laurences Oates' departure from the tent of the Scott Antarctic Expedition's trek home, i.e., if he left willingly and "under cover" in order to allow his companions to go on without him, why did he take his sleeping bag with him? One account indicated his bag was found some distance away from the tent by the rescue party which arrived too late to save any of the expedition.

(Photo from Christies Images Unlimited 2007)

However, little gator found a news piece about how a sleeping bag case belonging to Captain Lawrence Oates during his ill-fated South Pole expedition went on sale this week at Christie's auction house. This article stated:
"The sleeping bags were earlier presented by schools to each member of the team, led by Captain Robert Scott, and all the bags were named. Oates' was named Trafalgar and presented by Trafalgar House School, Winchester.

"His bags were dumped eventually by the surviving members two or three days day after he had walked out of the tent. They were later found by a search party.

"The bag case is being sold by a private collector. Oates' sleeping bag is now at the Scott Polar Research Institute at the University of Cambridge. "

A follow-up news brief stated "The case did not meet the reserve and was withdrawn from sale at Christie's. It had been expected to fetch up to £40,000 at the sale. "

To complete the answer of this question, little gator forwarded an online Project Gutenberg excerpt from the book South with Scott by Baron Edward Ratcliffe Garth Russell Evans Mountevans.

Now, on to Broad Cast. There was recently a long, at times maudlin thread on another blog I read concerning the public announcement by a formerly gay-bashing Republican elected official in California who decided to acknowledge that gays and Lesbians were human beings, after all, because his daughter was a Lesbian. This man wept on camera, which was apparently regarded by most folks as profound evidence of his change of heart.

My take on it was somewhat different than the general reaction. In the first place, I tend to associate with people who allow themselves to cry and it's not a media-worthy event. I like seeing people cry, but it doesn't tend to bring up own unshed tears because, frankly, I try to shed my tears as I go along. Secondly, while I absolutely acknowledge that knowing someone personally in a group targeted for oppression can (and often is) a catalyst for change of heart, I don't find that especially commendable as a mechanism for change. I am much more impressed with folks who can comprehend the humanity of others without requiring personal, family-based examples. It's a developmental stage of maturity, being able to grasp the value and rights of others on a symbolic and general level -- admittedly, a stage of maturity not generally demonstrated out there in the public eye. Still, I can dream.

And, thirdly, I don't have unresolved Daddy issues. My buttons cluster around Mama.

More importantly, however, a lot of the to-do was rooted in the conditioning which sees male tears as somehow more exceptional and "moving". One commenter, Liza Cowan, tried to point out the sexism implicit in this, but few seemed to comprehend it.

Part of the claptrap assigned to masculinity in our white patriarchal middle-class-aspiring culture is that they be "unemotional", which in specific means that "real" males are allowed to exhibit only anger or anger-tinged vehemence as emotions. Femininity is accorded the remaining human range of motion -- sadness, tenderness, fear, etc. -- but NOT anger, and this emotionality is labeled "weak". It's a brutal, completely non-biologically-based slicing of human expression into two ridiculous spheres that begins at birth (or before birth, if the gender of the baby is known in advance) with nonstop, heavy-handed conditioning -- a conditioning which eventually remaps the brains and likely other physical structures of the individuals so manipulated.

To briefly address all you biological determinists out there who are going to want to jump in with some tiny study which claims to prove a chemical basis for gender roles: (1) No study to date has been conducted on individuals who were raised without gender roles, so there is no control group, kids; (2) If there is ONE culture in the world or in time who have demonstrated a conflicting definition of gender roles (and there is, if you can step outside your own ethnocentrism far enough to look), then either those "other" people are not "quite human" or your argument falls apart; and (3) the influence of culture and enforced behavior on structure of the human brain is where the real discoveries are being made, not in the Watson-esque, Right-wing funded labs looking for validation of the blue/pink divide.

The story of humanity is the story of culture creating alternatives to DNA and instinct.

Back to crying: On top of the gender crap, it's also generally true in white, Northern-European-descended cultures that crying per se is frowned on. This appears to predate the assignation of weeping as a "girl thang" -- I mean, yes, we females got dealt all the lesser-status behavior, but it was already "uncool" to our whitebread ancestors to cry. Our mainstream culture is annoyingly stupid about how to behave if someone starts crying. We tend to immediately insert our own ego and act as if we are supposed to "do" something, and with that inevitably comes judgment.

So, turns out, it's complicated. (I'd apologize to those of you who want to view the world in butch/femme terms for once again pointing out that reality is complicated, but I know you haven't read this far, anyhow.) A recent article,The crying game: males vs. female tears, following up on the crap Ellen Degeneres is getting for public weeping, states "Some who study this most basic expression of feeling will tell you that in this day and age, it can be easier for a crying man to be taken seriously than a crying woman."

"In a recently published study at Penn State, researchers sought to explore differing perceptions of crying in men and women, presenting their 284 subjects with a series of hypothetical vignettes.

"What they found is that reactions depended on the type of crying, and who was doing it. A moist eye was viewed much more positively than open crying, and males got the most positive responses.

"Women are not making it up when they say they're damned if they do, damned if they don't," said Stephanie Shields, the psychology professor who conducted the study. "If you don't express any emotion, you're seen as not human, like Mr. Spock on 'Star Trek,'" she said. "But too much crying, or the wrong kind, and you're labeled as overemotional, out of control, and possibly irrational."

So, to that recently published Popular Mechanics woman-hating list of "25 Things Every MAN Should Know", in addition to dumping the sexist language, I'd add a 26th: How to be around someone who's crying. It's easy. Look kind. Listen. Don't interrupt, trying to silence them, try to "fix" it unless they ask you to help, or dive inside your own feelings. Hand them a tissue when they're done, thank them for sharing, and notice how much better they feel afterwards.


And, since I've raised the issue of the damage done by sexist language, and in partial follow-up to my earlier post about Evolution's Secret Weapon: Grandmas, I want to recommend the recent post of Reclusive Leftist Researchers discover that early Homo sapiens were all male. (It's sarcasm, campers.)

After dissecting yet another male-centered anthropological study, she states "The great reassessment happening in anthropology is the realization that the complex of behaviors that seem to mark the emergence of highly intelligent Homo are those activities that have always been associated with women: plant gathering and processing, communal resource acquisition and provisioning — including shellfishing.

"More and more, when anthropologists think about intelligent hominids making the transition to modern humans, they’re thinking about women — women figuring out how to dig up tubers and prepare them so they’re edible, how to smash hard seeds and grind them into a mush the baby can eat, how to roast shellfish and turtles so the meat is easy to get to. How to get along with each other, talking things over, sharing tasks. How to work out the provisioning so new Mom can nurse the baby while Grandmother and Aunts pitch in with the tuber-digging and babysitting. How to exploit the environment and harness the power of group effort in a way our simian cousins never do.

"Women’s work, people. Women’s work."

In its biggest definition, something we're going to need more than anything else to solve the planetary crises we're currently facing.

(Archie beats off three guys)

A post by Josiah over at Maoist Orange Cake raised questions of when is male protectiveness sexist and when is it not. A great thing to ponder, and one that I asked myself yesterday when writing a comment about Halloween costuming -- I believe that if anybody adopts masculinity without parody or overt contradiction of its lies (including women, especially including Lesbians), we're just reinforcing the conditioning. What people take away from public encounters is overwhelmingly anything they can to validate the values they were raised with and which they have not successfully sorted through/cleaned up. Subtle doesn't work.

(Women at work -- Nu gong ping)

Drag is a one-trick pony that's done nothing, in 2000+ years, to change the ferocity of enforced gender divisions in attire. The loosening up of clothing for women in the 1970s, begun by "unisex" fashions and kicked into high gear by feminists and Lesbians, occurred not from women who tried to dress "like men" but by women who pointedly said "I'm dressing like a woman, this is how women dress" as they rejected the boxes. The fact that those boxes are now being reconstructed of brick and have infiltrated the so-called queer movement is just an indicator of how successful we were. All backlashes come to an end; this one's about to sputter out.

Likewise, with behavior, it does no good to embrace/sexualize/deconstruct masculinity if any part of your behavior acts like it's not the toxic joke that it is. But sister-alive, there is some good work going on out there. And some of it is being done by straight white men, g*d bless 'em. Here's Robert Jensen again, writing with great personal honesty about The Quagmire of Masculinity.

And, concerning another box for women (we must be skinny), Queen Latifah this week "says the definition of beauty is changing. 'Beauty is not just a white girl. It's so many different flavors and shades,' the 37-year-old rapper-actress tells People magazine in its latest issue. 'It's good for regular girls because the meter (for beauty) has been a slim white girl.'"

(Page from Why Mommy Is A Democrat)

Proceeding on thematically, there's a new children's book out called Why Mommy Is A Democrat. You could order it through your local women's bookstore as holiday gifts. Sample pages follow.

(Page from Why Mommy Is A Democrat)

(Page from Why Mommy Is A Democrat)

Lastly, I KNOW you've seen this elsewhere, but still, I have to link to this Science Daily article which offers another duh moment: "Contrary to popular opinion, feminism and romance are not incompatible and feminism may actually improve the quality of heterosexual relationships, according to Laurie Rudman and Julie Phelan, from Rutgers University in the US. Their study also shows that unflattering feminist stereotypes, that tend to stigmatize feminists as unattractive and sexually unappealing, are unsupported."

(Hat tip to Feministing for a lot of the news clips making me think this week.)

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READERS' LINKS

Readers of this blog tend to share their sources and links, as they are a well-read and curious bunch. To their frustration, links don't always come out correctly in the comments box. Therefore, I've gone back, checked them all out, and turned them into HTML to be shared here. Keep 'em coming in, folks. I'll do this regularly as need arises.

Regarding Class and Classism, Kat shares an article by Michael Young, the man who coined the term "meritocracy", first used in his book The Rise of the Meritocracy in 1958. The article, Down With Meritocracy, appears in the 29 June 2001 issue of The Guardian with a tagline "The man who coined the word four decades ago wishes Tony Blair would stop using it".

Surrounded by an exhibition of her life's work, and greeted by three hundred guests and old friends, the photographer enjoys Alice Austen Day in Richmondtown, October 9, 1951. (Photo by Yale Joel, Time-Life Picture Agency, © Time Inc.)
Regarding Alice Austen, the ground-breaking woman-identifed photographer of a century ago, Liza links us to the website maintained by those who run the Alice Austen House, Clear Comfort, a National Historical Landmark on Staten Island, NY, including herstory of Alice Austen, the photographer, her life and work

(Untitled, 1979, by JEB -- a clue as to what African-American dykes actually looked like in the late 70s, instead of Clarice)
Regarding another photography pioneer, JEB (Joan E. Biren) whose slideshow in 1978 also paid tribute to Alice Austen, there's a great interview with her by Carol Ann Douglas in Off Our Backs, January 1998. In this interview, JEB says "The reason that I became a photographer was to make lesbians visible. I became a photographer to photograph lesbians and make those images accessible to other lesbians. At the time that I became a photographer, in 1971, there weren't images that were authentic, that reflected who I was, that I had ever seen. I had never seen a picture of a lesbian like myself.

"There was nothing. Nothing is not an exaggeration in this.

"Part of my work was to go back into history and uncover those earlier images, which existed but were not accessible.

"I've done a lot of photohistory as well. One of the ways that I supported myself early on was to travel around the country with slide shows that talked about the history of lesbian photography and to share those images with communities of lesbians in way that was accessible and affordable. It didn't require a lot of money, like publishing a book. That was wonderful work, to be able to travel around and feed this available hunger that people had to see themselves. It was nice to be the bearer of those pictures.

"It was my life's work to make more and varied and true images of who we are and how we live our lives. To me, the words "lesbian" and photographer go together very easily."

(Furies office in basement of 219 llth St. SE, Washington, DC circa 1972, mailing out the newspaper, l. to rt. Ginny Berson, Susan Baker, Coletta Reid [standing], Rita Mae Brown, and Lee Schwing. Photo taken by JEB, copyright hers.)

JEB co-founded (along with others, including Rita Mae Brown and Charlotte Bunch) The Furies, a shortlived but extremely influential lesbian separatist collective that flourished in 1971 and 1972. She published many of her early images in the collective's newspaper, The Furies. She is the author of two groundbreaking volumes of photography: Eye To Eye: Portraits of Lesbians (1979), the pioneering photographic book that made lesbian existence visible as never before, Making a Way: Lesbians Out Front (1987), a vigorous affirmation of lesbian lives that portrays 125 women. You can also check out her page at the American Lesbian Photography website.

Regarding Captain Oates of the Scott South Pole Expedition and Antarctic exploration in general, little gator shares several sources. The first is Scott of the Antarctic - 1868 to 1912, a website with extensive background, history, photos and links. Within this is found the information that Oates' famous last comment, "I am just going outside and I may be some time", is a remark they generally used to excuse themselves from the tent for toileting purposes.

(Scott's Expedition at the South Pole, January 18, 1912 L to R: Edward Wilson, Henry Bowers, Edgar Evans, Robert Scott, Lawrence Oates)

Finding the Bodies at the website Antarctic Heroes entry for 12 November 1912, I'm going to copy in this entry in full because of an extremely interesting line that is all but tossed away at the end:

"Captain Robert Falcon Scott and his men had been expected back at their base camp in March 1912. When they failed to return for the winter, his men knew they must be dead. On 29 October, Dr Edward Atkinson, the expedition leader in Scott's absence, headed south with a twelve-man search party.
On 12 November, barely ten miles from One Ton Depot, they found a tent, partially covered with snow. They set up camp and dug out the tent. Then each of the men went inside to view the bodies, so there would be no dispute over what they had found.
The only Norwegian on the Terra Nova expedition, Tryggve Gran, later recalled what they saw:
‘I stayed outside... as a Norwegian it was not my place. The others undid the tent flaps and went inside. Wilson was lying quite peacefully, his feet towards the entrance... Bowers, the other direction. Wilson had died peacefully... Scott was between them, half sitting up, one hand reached out to Wilson. Then I heard a noise... like a pistol shot... I was told this was Scott's arm breaking as they raised it to take away the journals strapped under his arm. Scott had died dreadfully... his face contorted with frostbite.'

"After recovering the party's papers and geological samples, and some small personal items, Atkinson collapsed the tent on the bodies and built a cairn over the spot. Further south, they found Oates' sleeping bag, but not his body. "

Emphasis on the above line is mine. If he was "just going outside" as reported by Scott, either to take a dump or inobtrusively leaving to give them permission to leave him behind, what's with his taking his sleeping bag along? My suspicions are now raised, and I immediately think of Roland Huntsford's controversial theory that Scott hounded Oates out of the tent.

The third recommended link is more traditional Scott hero-worship by Dr. Donald Stevens in British Heroism They Would Rather We Forgot.

(Machu Picchu -- Incas gave potatoes to the world)

I myself researched a few links for those of you interested in why buy brown eggs, why eat different colored potatoes, and the question of monoculture in our agricultural base. First is a good New York Times article about potatoes from 1995 by Florence Fabricant, So You Thought a Potato Must Be From Idaho or L. I..

Another source is Which Came First - Brown Eggs or the White by Tammy Dobbs. Through her I found the exhaustive chart The ICYouSee
Handy-Dandy Chicken Chart, "An Alphabetical List of More than 60 Chicken Breeds With Comparative Information".


A Q&A about egg color elsewhere states: "Here in the United States, almost all the eggs sold are white. You've probably seen brown eggs now and again, perhaps at your local grocery store or more likely at the food co-op or the farmer's market, but mostly you've seen white. You may have even wondered why this is and what the differences are. I have an answer or two.

What are the differences?
The color of the shell. That's it. Nutritionally, there is no difference between chicken eggs from different colored shells. Once they shell is cracked and the egg is in the mixing bowl or the frying pan there is no difference.
Argument from me about this statement: White chickens are easier to raise in cages and therefore are more cost effective and convenient for the commercial chicken farmer. The chickens that lay brown eggs are larger and eat more, and thus are more likely to be free-range rather than raised in cages. The chicken-raisers I know, as well as my own palate, tells me there is a big difference in taste between the two, and if there is a noticeable difference in taste, I have trouble believing there is no difference in nutrition.

What determines the shell color?
The color of the shell is determined by the breed of the chicken. Rhode Island Reds and Buff Orpingtons lay brown eggs. Blue Andalusian eggs are white, and Araucanas lay eggs that are green.

Why does my local supermarket only have white eggs?
Most eggs that make their way to market come from corporate agriculture. And the corporations have found that the most efficient egg-laying breed is the White Leghorn. And the White Leghorn lays, you guessed it, a white egg. That's why you'll sometimes see folks who are backers of biodiversity tell you to buy brown eggs. A brown egg did not come from a White Leghorn, but from some other breed. And often eggs from free range chickens or organic eggs are brown because the farmers who raise animals this way often are also interested in breed diversity.


Lastly, if you want a GREAT weekly read wherever you live by a right-on organic farmer, sign up to receive the free e-mail of Carol Ann Sayle's "News of the Farm" from Austin's own award-winning Boggy Creek Farm. Tell her Maggie sent ya.

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THE BRAIN OF A POET

(Image from a card at the marvelous Anne Taintor)

Hiya, beauties. I'm working on another post, but in the meantime, here's a nifty little bit of online fun: Test whether your brain is Right Brain or Left Brain. I turned out to be Left Brain:

LEFT BRAIN FUNCTIONS
uses logic
detail oriented
facts rule
words and language
present and past
math and science
can comprehend
knowing
acknowledges
order/pattern perception
knows object name
reality based
forms strategies
practical
safe

And after the fold is a sequence of thematically related autobiographical poems, including my favorite I've ever written (the last). Enjoy this autumn day.


AFTER THE BYPASS I

After the bypass, Mama would not wake up
I got there at three in the morning
all the way from San Francisco
The waiting room at ICU was full of men
Brothers, cousins, uncle, and Daddy
He jumped up, said Oh thank God and
grabbed my hand. Not waiting for a hug
he pulled me into a half-lit chamber
with four beds set at compass points
Nurses with whispers tried to stop him
He used his high school half-back skills
to get me to the goal: Mama, grey and
too cool to the touch
He stood behind me, to keep the nurses
off my flank, but reached around to
lay his palm on her cheek and say
She's here now, honey, wake up
then told me to talk to her
I wanted to run. They raise us for this kind of
courage, born a woman means
facing the horror of intimacy and being
the one who makes it bearable
I said her name, then mine, and
her eyelids fluttered. When she was
able to focus on me, I was sorry I had
disturbed her rest, she looked so
exhausted. She repeated my name and
at that a phalanx of nurses finally
cut us away, jubilant at her return
sure they were just what she needed


© Maggie Jochild, 11 May 2006, 8:43 p.m.



AFTER THE BYPASS II

After the bypass, when Mama finally
came out of ICU and went into
a private room, every time
she moved, she winced
The veins they'd used to replumb her chest
came from unholy mining of her thighs
Her chest itself was Frankensteinian
Pried open like a mussel, then
wired back shut with stainless steel
She wanted to see. She wanted to know
what had been done to her. I helped her
sit up, folded back the sheets, looked
at her legs first. No wonder it hurts
My brothers stood up and went to the window
Talked stiffly to each other as if we were not there
She said You'll have to untie this gown
in the back, and at that my father
walked out the door
We traced the red faultline with
my hand over her fingers, warm flesh
laced by cold metal
She sighed, and lay back down
I covered her up as she slept


© Maggie Jochild, 11 May 2006, 8:50 p.m.


(Nilmoni -- Maggie's ayah and second mother -- with Maggie's older brother Craig, mother Mary Jo, and Maggie, Kolkata, India 1956)

I MAY BE SOME TIME

That day before Thanksgiving, Mama took
me to the new mall, with energy in her
I had not seen since I was twelve
We drank Orange Julius and I told her
about Annie Dillard's writing, what
it meant to me. After emptying
our cups, we strolled over to B. Dalton
Bought Teaching A Stone To Talk
On the bench outside, my arm next to hers
I read aloud the quote by Captain Oates
Then burst into tears

Six months earlier, she had
four emergency bypasses
Cracked open before I could
even get to the airport
I came down the ramp
looking for my brother's face
The face that would tell me
if she still lived
How do we walk ahead
at times like these
air frozen and white
sound gone
alone


© Maggie Jochild, 9 February 2006, 10:00 p.m.



REHAB

At the rehab center most hips and knees
on the second floor are titanium

The average age is sixty-three
TVs are loud and families rare

The techs who bully church ladies
to one more rep, one more lift

Earn a dollar and a quarter more
than all the aides at minimum wage

Who wipe old asses, answer bells
but not too fast because the calls

Come faster than the aides can move
The pain pills are doled out in pairs

Q.i.d. which means per meal and then
one last to bring on sleep

Mornings come early and mornings mean
the first Vicodin of the day

Breakfast is chipper as a result
except for the handful of folks

Here after bypass or CVAs --
They are scared and ration words

The woman dying of lung CA
can't keep a roommate because

She coughs all night, thick and wet
They close her door but we can still

Hear her down the corridor
The third floor is all TBI

With rooms gone mute except for
multilingual gossip of aides

In afternoons, if we work hard
we get to have pool therapy

A heated cobalt chlorine sea
with one attendant each to hold

Our arms and listen, or pretend
as they coax our sagging flesh

around the ropes. At dinnertime
if there is going to be someone

Who'll come to see us, it is then
We eat together, watch the door

Tell of all we'll do now that we
can get out of the house again

Then we start the aluminum creak
of walkers down the hall alone


© Maggie Jochild, 21 June 2005, Summer Solstice, 6:25 a.m.

(Zarabanda by Alexander Calder)

CALDER

I am sitting in a wheelchair
underneath a twelve-foot mobile
Moving like the breath inside me
Every dancer on her own, but
also turning with the whole

Sunlight from the clerestory
jostles in and shifts the spin
Warms my foot like lover's hands
Changes color of the metal
floating in the struct above me

We begin in pitch deep closure
but swim up toward the bright
and air as fast as we can teeter
into creatures of the surface
Love is something we can flash

With just a glance, with just a turn
I will rotate to the light
as long as I can turn at all
And in these rooms With any luck
Perhaps I'll find you as we whirl


© Maggie Jochild, 14 June 2004, 5:56 p.m.



HIBERNATION

I know what a sleeping bear dreams
when her breath goes down to twice a minute
and the world itself abandons her

No use to shamble to her view and
wish that winter skip this year
She's in for it Covers her face

and lies back down. The only sun
is in her ribs, a buried star
She dreams not of a thaw to come

Instead she glides on berried slopes
where last October all the sweet
and tang of summer came to point

and dropletted each huckled branch
or August's shallows full of sockeye
She eats the brains and roe, then wades

to swipe another to the shore
Sitka clearing strewn with deadfall
and under brittle logs a teem of grubs

The crunchy tubers of last May
She dreams of every bite that fed her
to this point and sleeked her flanks

While ice and hunger pin her down
she fills her mouth with memory
Hope will sometimes gutter out

But memory is a magic jar
that never empties to bare glass
until it is her turn again to wake


© Maggie Jochild, 18 June 2005, 5:08 a.m., published 2006 in Natural Bridge

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MY KNEES -- PART THREE, AFTER THE SURGERY

(Maggie performing "You Know You Want Me" in rehearsal for Actual Lives show at Southwestern University; photo from American Statesman, 2004)

When I left the rehab unit for the first time, riding in the car sent me into hysterics after a block or two. The visual input of passing scenery was more than my brain could handle. My friend driving had to pull over until I could stop my shuddering. I rode the rest of the way with my eyes closed. That settled the answer of when I'd be able to drive: Not anytime soon.

A friend went out and bought me a phone that flashed lights as well as rang, so if I was in the same room, I'd know when a call was coming in. She helped me program the memory, to autodial numbers for me. I began slowly telling people what I'd been through. Too many people insisted on telling me that I sounded just the same as always, as if that was reassuring. But the point was, I'd looked the same, sounded the same, yet inside my head, severe damage had occurred. I'd always lived by my wits, my intellect, my extraordinary memory. This was much, much worse than losing the ability to walk. This was my ultimate nightmare.

And not a single person I knew who had seen me had noticed what was going on. It punched every isolation and abandonment button I'd ever had.

I didn't qualify for in-home help, so I was getting by with the assistance of friends (a single visit a day) and pushing myself to do as much as I could. I was scheduled for at-home physical therapy and a visiting nurse twice a week to begin the following week. The second day I was out of rehab, I went back to my surgeon's office for a follow-up visit. He wasn't much interested in hearing about the difficulties I'd had. He kept saying they were "routine side effects" and the point was, the knee replacement was a success.

It was time to take out the staples over the massive incision on my left leg. They'd held through all the vigorous physical therapy, despite being stretched very tight, and now they were starting to itch and get red around them. Pulling them out didn't hurt at all. I then walked with my walker to the x-ray room, managed to get up on the table and get a set of films made, and walked back to the exam room.

When I sat down again on the exam table, I noticed a small hole in one part of the incision, above the knee. I told my friend to get the doctor, immediately. It was a deep hole, I could tell. The surgeon and Patrick came back in, and as I sat there, I watched my incision re-open to a length of five inches and a depth of two inches. I could see almost to my bone, deep inside my thigh..

I was numb. I couldn't believe this was happening. The surgeon called it wound dehiscence and said it was common in people who keloided with scars. Then he left the room. Patrick stayed with me and explained a little more. He said they couldn't close the incision again because of the risk of infection. It would have to "heal by secondary intention", which meant from the inside out. It would take months.

I suddenly remembered all the reading I'd done about Captain John Oates, a member of the ill-fated Scott Antarctic Expedition. Oates had been injured by long bullet wound during the Boer War, and this was in the days before antibiotics. The standard treatment for flesh-opening wounds in those days was to keep the patient still and clean, and let the wound heal by second intention. It had affected his military career, which is part of why he ended up volunteering for polar exploration.

However, one of the signs of advanced scurvy is the body's failure to create or replace collagen in skin tissues. Collage requires vitamin C for manufacture by the body. And all scars are almost pure collagen. Thus, in end-stage scurvy, every scar you've ever sustained re-opens as if the wound had never healed.

This is what occurred to Oates on the trek back from the South Pole, as the men were hauling overloaded sledges whose design was deliberately not like Inuit design -- because Scott believed there was something "lofty" in Englishmen refusing to listen to native technology and somehow pushing their way through obstacles with brute obstinacy. According to Scott, when they were stopped by a blizzard and it became clear once the weather improved, Oates would not be able to continue marching, Oates sacrificed himself by leaving the tent during the blizzard so that the others could go on without him. His body was never found.

There is some doubt as to the veracity of this story.
(Captain Oates going into the blizzard to die, colored print of painting by J.C. Dollman, 1913)

Yep, I actually thought of all this as I sat there looking down into the innards of my thigh.

Patrick put a light bandage over my opening and told me not to dress it further. He said I would now have to go to Wound Care, which is a speciality dealing with post-surgery problems. Unfortunately, I couldn't get in until the next day. He told me to stay as still as possible, not get the wound wet, and go to Wound Care, they'd explain the rest.

The friend who had taken me to the doctor visit had spent most of the visit at the window, looking outside, once my leg had opened back up. She couldn't handle what was happening to me. She took me home and left.

Another friend, a nurse, agreed to take me to Wound Care the following day, back at the same hospital where I'd had my surgery. I had a wheelchair by now, and this made getting into the building possible.

Wound Care is often performed by nurses, PTs and other non-doctors who do it as overtime, to earn extra pay. To my shock, when I got into the exam area, I saw that the woman seeing me that day was the physical therapist who had tried to work with me shortly after my surgery, when I had mutely refused to cooperate. She had yelled at me then, telling me if I didn't work to get better, I'd be a cripple all my life, and she had added it was clear I was accustomed to being lazy -- referring to my weight. I had not been able to say a word in reply, and no one was with me to intervene on my behalf.

So, when we saw each other, recognition mingled with profound dismay on both our faces. But I am nothing if not brave. I said "I want to tell you, I'm sorry I couldn't do PT that day and that I couldn't explain why." I told her what had been going on. My friend, the nurse, listened and jumped in to add that I was the hardest worker she'd ever seen, it was definitely out of character for me to be hard-assed or ungrateful.

To her credit, the PT believed me instantly, apologized for going off on me, and, awkwardly at first, we began the training.

The point of Wound Care is to keep you from having to be in a medical facility while wounds heal. Which means the training is to enable you to stay at home and do the work of nursing yourself. Well, usually it's done by a caregiver (like a family member) at home with you. Since I didn't have anyone like that, it was going to be me.

Her tone of voice and manner was completely different from what it had been before. She was kind and respectful as she helped me get through my horror and revulsion. I had to use long Q-tips to reach all the way inside my wound, every nook and cranny, and clean it with saline thoroughly, exerting some pressure. No alcohol or betadine -- the health of my wound would depend on how well I could clean it with saline. I learned there are no nerve endings below the epidermis, thus, no pain or even strong sensation. I learned what the various kinds of flesh and muscle I was seeing were, and how to recognize signs of beginning infection, including the sniff test. I was put on oral antibiotics, given a box of cleaning supplies, told to never get it wet or cover it with more than a light bandage, and I was done. On my own from here on out, except for weekly checks by the visiting nurse who would only inspect, not do the work for me.

But telling my story to that PT, and hearing her understanding and respect, had been my first act of redemption post-surgery.

Two days later, Bea told me she was starting work as an intern for a week-long program directed by Terry Galloway for disabled people to write dramatic pieces and perform them at the end of the week, page to stage in one week. It was called Actual Lives. Bea offered to drive me there and back each night.

(Terry Galloway; photo by Kenny Braun for the Austin Chronicle)

I knew of Terry Galloway, adored her plays and thought (then and now) that she is a genius. I wasn't sure I qualified as disabled (ironic, I know) but I agreed to go. It turned out to be the saving of me, although that first night was unbelievably hard, emotionally and physically. I wound up peeing on myself in my wheelchair because I still had lousy bladder control (only recently off a catheter), though no one but Bea knew. My homework was to write a few lines, at most a paragraph, for the next night that Terry would help us edit and turn into a performance piece.

When I got home and managed to change my pants by myself, I went with my walker to my computer and turned it on. The first time since surgery. I couldn't write long-hand, not legibly, anyway -- I still couldn't sign my name, a friend was signing my checks for me to pay bills. I remember sitting at that blank screen on the page for two hours, trying to force my brain into creating sentences, then struggling to remember how things were spelled. I finally managed three lines, I think. I printed it out and went to bed, exhausted.

My initial contribution to Actual Lives, that first performance, was negligible. A few people picked up on me and we bonded, and Terry definitely zeroed in on me. So I kept going. Over the next four years, it was my chief source of writing encouragement and disabled activism outlet. Terry mentored me thoroughly, and I went on from there to be mentored by Sharon Bridgforth with her Finding Voice program. By that time, I was a daily writer, producing work that I felt was up to my potential and steadily honing my craft.

(Actual Lives ensemble at H Street Theater, VSA International Arts Festival, Washington, DC, June 2004)

Back to September of 2000, however. I had to take extra, unpaid time off work because I wasn't able to return to my job for several reasons. Five weeks post surgery, however, I drove myself in cautiously and pushed into my place of work in my wheelchair. It was then I was informed by a new boss that I was being let go. They had found some other excuse to terminate me, something that dodged the disability claim, and I was too stunned to fight it. They assured me I could get unemployment right away.

I went home and wondered how on earth I'd find another job. My ability to learn had been hammered. It was, in fact, a year before I got another job, despite non-stop effort on my part to heal my brain and body, and become employable again. During that time, I ran through unemployment and my small 401-K.

In the 18 months following surgery, here's what happened in my life, in more or less chronological order (cue the country and western song music):
Lost my job
Had PT slowed down because of the open wound
My little brother Bill died suddenly and badly at age 42
My two favorite aunts, the only family members I'd considered family aside from Bill, died suddenly
Three of my cats died suddenly and badly, including my Cats of Cats Alice
One of my oldest and closest friends died suddenly
At least half a dozen of my regular friends stopping calling or making dates with me
Bea ended our relationship, saying I had too many emotional expectations of her

(Alice Booboo the Manx, Cat of Cats, 1997)

And -- my surgeon claimed I owed an extra bill of $3000 because Patrick had assisted at my surgery and he wasn't covered by my insurance. I said I hadn't consented to paying an out-of-pocket assistant, demanding they turn up a signed consent form from me. When, after weeks of harassing phone calls, someone in his records office, a lesbian from the sound of her voice, confidentially informed me that was no such consent in the records, I told them they had to either put up or shut up. In response, he terminated my care at his office.

I've tried to get my medical records from that hospital twice, but they can't seem to locate them.

Going on during this time, also, was a second medical issue, that of my polycystic ovarian syndome, a profound hormonal disorder that had left me with uterine polyps and dysplasia that had once been labeled cancer, though that path report was overread as non-cancerous by someone from Johns Hopkins. I was having uterine biopsies every six months. When yet another biopsy turned up some dysplasia, I was referred to a surgical oncologist who told me I had to have a hysterectomy.

After examining me, she said it would have to be an abdominal hysterectomy, not a vaginal approach. I told her about my wound dehiscence issue, and she paled a little. She said the chance for infection would be over 50%, then, meaning infection of my abdominal cavity, and that I would have to lie flat for perhaps six months in order to let the incision heal by secondary intention. I said that was out of the question -- I'd never walk again if I stopped moving at all, and I had no job, no health insurance, no disability coverage. She said surgery was the only option and left the room.

So I took my care to Nancy Crossthwaite who does alternative energy work. I began having regular monthly periods (lack of periods is why the dysplasia occurs) for the first time in years, and I became determined to wait out the surgery until I reached menopause. After menopause, the risk of uterine cancer would dramatically decrease. I seem to be in menopause now. I'm still living with my fingers crossed.

I began developing arthritis in all my joints, and went to a rheumatologist. As part of his work-up, I was referred to a podiatrist for my increasing foot and ankle pain, and to a neurologist for a tremor in my hands that was beginning to affect my handwriting (an ability which had returned, eventually).

The podiatrist took a series of x-rays, came back in the room, put them up on the lightbox and put a poster of normal feet next to it. Then she came to stand beside me, her arm over my shoulder. I knew this routine.

Turns out, it wasn't just my tibia with deformities. My feet were unbelievably wrong. Plus, my ankle joints had absorbed as much punishment from the crooked tibia as my knees had. The left ankle was not as bad as the right, likely because for four years I'd now had a straight leg on that side. There was no surgical option for these issues. Not walking would be a good idea, she said.

I told her that Bill had worn braces on his feet as a baby and described them. She recognized them as an attempt to correct the same problems as I had with my feet. She was raised in Croatia, and knew about older forms of medical treatment. She looked me in the eye and said "But they didn't notice your feet, huh? Because you were the girl."

I could only nod.

She asked if she could bring in other doctors and trainees at the clinic to look at my x-rays, and I said okay. I listened to their amazed responses; no one had ever seen anything like it.

I got to choose the neurologist I was referred to, and I selected a woman whose dictation I had transcribed, Dr. Reading. I liked the tone of her voice when she talked about her patients -- kind and respectful. It turned out to be the best medical consult of my life.

She went through everything, not just the tremor (which she diagnosed as benign and not likely to progress, not needing treatment). It was a long, increasingly intimate conversation we had. She tested my memory and every aspect of my neurological function. She told me that she'd once had as part of her test of a patient's general knowledge in the mental status exam a question which said "We were attacked on 9/11 by terrorists whose leaders resided in a particular country, and we then attacked that country in response. What country was that?" She said at leat 50% of patients answered Iraq instead of Afghanistan. She called it a mass delusion.

After that, I felt like I could trust her with the story of how my brain had been affected. I'd stopped talking about it, because my friends tended to not believe I had a residue -- my memory had been phenomenal before the surgery, and it was still excellent. Though not what it had once been, and I definitely was getting the message from people that I shouldn't have feelings of loss about that, seeing how high-functioning I was.

But Dr. Reading got it. She encouraged me to keep taking it to therapy, because the loss was real and, at this point, four years later, likely permanent. She also said she was certain, from the clear and intricate description I was able to give her, that I had had an episode of anoxia during surgery, a loss of oxygen to the brain. Not enough to kill me or cause serious brain damage, but enough to hammer me good and affect my kidneys. She said she was sure it was this residue I had struggled with, more than the morphine, although she agreed the morphine had played a role as well. She said in the future, if I had surgery, to tell the anesthesiologist I had had anoxia and they would be diligent in trying to keep it from occurring again.

I cannot express what a difference this made.

So, here I am now, seven years post surgery. My right knee is starting to fail, with an old familiar pain beginning. My left knee internal hardware slips sometimes, I can feel it. My thumbs, shoulders, and neck joints ache frequently. My left foot swells when I don't stand enough, but walking is now impossible without something to lean on. I'm on daily Celebrex, which makes a profound difference in inflammation and stiffness but carries a serious cardiac risk. I am more isolated than ever, in terms of seeing other people or getting physical help. I work at home via telecommuting, the last possible job I could get and it's not paying me enough to actually get by -- but the benefits are excellent. I don't take pain pills, unless I have an ovarian cyst rupture, which seem to have stopped occurring with menopause. I have nursing home insurance that will pay $3000 a month for three years, when and if I reach that point. It's enough for a decent place, though likely not a private room. Which means my writing will come to an end, because I need a great deal of solitude to write.

What is going well, exponentially so, is my writing. And my happiness with myself, no small thing. And a few old and new friends who manage to stay close, really close, via phone and e-mail.

My final performance was Actual Lives included a finale for the entire troupe that I wrote, using the music and structure of the Jailhouse Tango scene from the movie Chicago. This piece, "Crip Ward Tango", became the break-out hit of that entire international disabled gathering in D.C., and was referenced in the closing remarks as a stellar example of what disabled art could do. I heard strangers at the conference walking around singing it the next day. The first verse/character is me, based on my life. The next three were based on getting to hear the real stories of three of my colleagues in Actual Lives: Adam Griebel, Terri Stellar, and Terri Lynn Hudson. I dedicate it to them here. Tango on.
(Actual Lives finale performance at H Street Theater, International VSA Arts Festival, June 2004. L to R: Gene Rodgers, Adam Griebel, Danny Saenz, Frankie Ramont, Mike Burns, Maggie Jochild, Laura Griebel, Cindy Massey, Terri Stellar, Rand Metcalfe, and Jeff Marsh)

CRIP WARD TANGO

(Main performers in D.C. were Maggie Jochild, Adam Griebel, Terri Stellar, Jeff Marsh; live musical accompaniment was to tune of "He Had It Coming" in Cell Block Tango scene of Chicago. Maggie in regular chair with walker; Adam fully mobile but clearly brain-injured; Terri in power chair; Jeff in manual chair)

Announcer: And now, ladies and gentleman, the merry misfits of the Travis County Cripples Hospital are proud to present their rendition of the Crip Ward Tango.

[begins slowly, words spoken emphatically with rhythm-based pauses in between]

Maggie: Wazzup?

Adam: Frankenstein

Terri: Past life

Jeff: Amnio

Maggie: Wazzup?

Adam: Frankenstein

Terri: Past life

Jeff: Amnio

[All making head motions to tango musical interlude in background]

Maggie: [spoken slowly with glee and relish]

You know how people always ask you
"How are you? How's it going? Wazzup?"
Sometimes it's just automatic
but most people do care to some extent
They keep track of your milestones
And the unspoken expectation
is that if you are sick
or hurting
or -- god forbid -- disabled
You are going to get better, SOON
They turn off if you aren't better yet
They make suggestions for treatment
Something SOMEbody can do
so the next time they see you
your answer will be
"I'm doing better"
But what if that's never gonna be true?
Are any of you ready to hear THAT reply?

All: [singing chorus, repeated twice]

I won't get better
I won't get better
This is the best I'll ever be
And when I’m older
Yeah when I'm older
Things may be even worse for me

Adam: [spoken, upbeat and humorous]

People assume if you can't talk
Then you can't think
Or if you can't remember things fast
You must be STOOO- PID
They raise their voices
They talk to you like you are three years old
And if you get frustrated
For god's sake don't show it
'Cause nothing scares people more
Than a dummy on a rampage
Can you say "Frankenstein"?

All: [singing chorus, repeated twice]

I'm not retarded
I'm not retarded
Though that's an okay way to be
Why don't you listen
Shut up and listen
And find out what is the truth for me?

Terri:

Faith healers
Now THERE's a freak show
We crips are supposed to be close to God
or at least to remind others of how
God moves in mysterious ways
And the New Agers, they think
If you can just identify and clear out
the blockages from childhood issues
Or maybe it's a past life thing
The cancer will disintegrate
Your vision will return
They know somebody in Sausalito
who regrew a crooked spine!

All: [singing chorus]

Mind over matter
Mind over matter
Your only problem's in your head
Have you tried Jesus
Think of his suffering
Stop being hopeless, get out of bed

[said rapidly by each character, following tango beat]

Wazzup, Frankenstein, Past life, Amnio
Wazzup, Frankenstein, Past life, Amnio
Wazzup, Frankenstein, Past life, Amnio

All: [singing chorus]

Mind over matter
Mind over matter
Your only problem's in your head
Have you tried Jesus
Think of his suffering
Stop being hopeless, get out of bed

Jeff:

But the biggest tragedy of all, the worst
thing that can happen to a family
is when a child is born crippled
Right?
Was it bad genes? Was it bad choices?
Is it a lesson sent from God?
Why oh why would God let this happen
to an innocent child?
What kind of life can he expect to have?
No wife, no children, that's for sure
Some of their friends will whisper
"If they'd had amniocentesis, maybe
they could have stopped the pregnancy in time"
What do you say to things like that?

All: [singing chorus]

I am not dead yet
I am not dead yet
My only obstacles are YOU
I have a body
I have a sex life
It's time to alter your point of view

I am not dead yet
I am not dead yet
My only obstacles are YOU
I have a body
I have a sex life
It's time to alter your point of view

Maggie:

What if I never heal?

Adam:

If you can't talk, you can't think

Terri:

Have you tried Jesus?

Jeff:

What kind of life?

All: [singing chorus' last line] It's time to alter your point of view

Copyright 2004 by Maggie Jochild.

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