Category Archives: personal

book reviews, faith, literature, personal

Book Reviews, March 2015

In March I read two books from the Girl Canon, a list of “books not necessarily for girls but which investigate, address, or represent the female experience in some essential way.”  I’ve read a few of the books on that list already, but I found it a useful guide to add even more to my ever-growing “to read” list.  It’s almost like there are too many books!  I also, sad to say, have my first negative review this month.  It’s more fun to recommend good and great books, but it is useful to know which books to steer away from.

  • Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh is a classic in children’s lit (it says so on the back cover!), but I managed to never read it.  I’m glad I did, though.  Even before we started having kids, I liked to pick up YA lit or kids’ classics that I missed growing up every once in a while.  Some of it is nostalgia, I’m sure, but some of it is a curiosity to know what kids are reading these days or what my own kids will someday read.  And I just like good stories, so I’m not bothered if they happen to come in packages meant for a younger crowd.  If it was the only thing in my reading diet, that might be a problem.  But usually it’s once or twice a year as a change of pace.  Anyway, enough about me, what about Harriet?  I enjoyed most the aspect of her spying/observing the world.  She spends much of her time each day observing her classmates or the people in her neighborhood, jotting down questions, stray thoughts, and sharp barbs.  Some of it is simplistic (she is in sixth grade, after all), but much of it is her learning about people and how they relate to the world.  It’s not explicitly said, but she is learning about social stratification and class structure and her place in that structure.  She’s practicing to be a writer someday, and she is learning the empathy necessary to write about all kinds of people.  There are lots of misadventures along the way (it is a kids’ book after all), but she learns to be a better person herself, too.
  • The Forgers by Bradford Morrow is a disappointing thriller about books and forgery.  I had high hopes when I picked up the book on the NEW shelf at the library on a whim.  I’m a sucker for books about the love of books (I’ve got a future post percolating on the subject), but they sometimes disappoint, and when they do it’s a big letdown.  The Forgers isn’t bad, but it starts with more promise than it delivers.  It starts with the blurbs.  I picked up the book based on the gushing from respectable writers like Michael Cunningham and Joyce Carol Oates.  I figured if they liked a book labeled a thriller, it must be pretty good.  But I suspect they liked it for its meditations on fakery and deception, both literary and personal.  The beginning also hooked me in with the description of a grisly murder of a man in the rare book world (possibly a forger) who has had his hands chopped off.   I was compelled by the mystery for the majority of the book, but I expected more of a payoff at the end.  It seemed that the action dragged in the final third as if the reader was expected to get more out of the contemplation of duplicity and double-ness of forgery.  I guess I expected more thriller from my literary thriller.  Though it has its moments, I’m sad to say I don’t think I’d recommend this book.
  • Scripture and the Authority of God by N.T. Wright is a helpful book on a difficult topic.  Part of my difficulty was my confusion on what exactly “the authority of scripture” means.  Wright contends that the authority of scripture only makes sense as shorthand for “the authority of the triune God, exercised somehow through scripture.”  The Bible is not a rule book or a book of doctrines, or at least not primarily so.  Rather, “most of its constituent parts, and all of it when put together […] can best be described as story.”  And this story is one that is ongoing.  In Wright’s formulation, we are currently in the last act of a five-act play: “creation, ‘fall,’ Israel, Jesus, and the church.”  The culmination of the story is the salvation of all of creation, not merely individual souls.  I liked all of these ideas, but it still remained mostly on a theoretical level, so I was glad that he presented some examples at the end of the book.  The first example of how to understand the Sabbath for today was particularly enlightening for me.  I liked the discussion about how Sabbath is sacred time (analogous to the Temple as sacred space) and the related theme of Jubilee.  Jubilee occurred every seventh year with the forgiveness of debts and then a great Jubilee on the fiftieth year (after seven seven year periods) with the restoration of land and the freedom of slaves.  It is the picture of the restoration of creation that Jesus inaugurated but that is not yet complete.  He closes the book with his second example of monogamy, which is more troublesome.  He contends that one man/one woman is the intended order of creation and the polygamy of the Old Testament was a sign of the disordered-ness of humanity after the first act of the play.  While it fits with his overall system and understanding of scripture, it doesn’t take into account LGBTQ individuals.  Despite my hesitation at the end of the book, I would still recommend it for anyone interested in the Bible and how to understand it.
  • We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson is delightfully macabre story of two sisters ostracized by their community.  When we first meet the narrator Mary Catherine Blackwood (affectionately called Merricat by her sister), she is shopping in the village.  She goes into town twice a week to get groceries and other necessities.  Their large house is outside of the small village, secluded from prying eyes.  They live apart, and that suits them and the villagers both fine.  Merricat lives with her sister Constance and their uncle Julian, who is an invalid.  The rest of the family, we soon learn, all died under mysterious circumstances years ago.  The Blackwoods are the object of morbid curiosity by the villagers, leading to confrontations as the sisters would rather live cloistered away from view.  Jackson gives us a wonderful narrator in Merricat, a woman we sympathize with and root for even as she does strange things like burying trinkets and money on their property or saying secret words to ward off impending danger.  The book is satisfying but not overlong, and still I wished I could spend more time with these delightfully eccentric sisters.  I’d recommend this novel to anyone who likes a slightly twisted and dark story.  As a side note, the edition I read had an introduction by Jonathan Lethem that gave some of Jackson’s bio and explicated the story, revealing most of the key plot points.  I skipped the intro initially and read it only after I had finished the book.  I wish books that had this kind of introduction would move it to the back of the book so that readers who don’t want to read spoilers could more easily avoid them.
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personal

Hospital Stories (5)

A few years ago I worked at a hospital as a constant observer.  It was a transitional job as I tried to figure out the next step of my life. What exactly is a constant observer?  one might reasonably ask.  A constant observer is basically a nurse’s aide who stays in one room to be with patients who might be a harm to themselves or others. Hospitals try very hard not to tie people down on their beds anymore.  There are a lot of reasons I might be assigned to a patient: dementia, adverse reaction to medication, brain injury, detoxing, or suicide watch, to name some.  I saw people at their most vulnerable state.  This is the fifth in what I plan to be a series of vignettes on my experiences in the hospital.

It’s possible to drink so much you turn your mind to mush.  I’ve seen it.

He went by the name Buzz. One nurse kept referring to him as Buzz Lightyear, even directly to him.  It was disrespectful, even if he was in the hospital for self-inflicted reasons.  Sometimes staff want to take it out on patients.  I found this especially true for detoxing patients—they wouldn’t treat them the same as other patients.  The first time I sat with him, it was only for about two hours or so.  Buzz was asleep, but not for long.  He wanted to wriggle out of bed, so I helped keep him from falling out.  His food arrived for dinner, but he could barely keep his eyes open to take a bite.  He was a leaning tower on the bed, and his speech was slurred and incoherent.

The next day I had him again. Unluckily for me, he was much livelier and intent on walking somewhere.  The Neuro Acute unit was small, with only eight rooms, most of them empty that day. We walked up and down the short hallway.  Each time we reached an end, he’d inevitably lurch toward it, despite my attempts to steer him away and my explanations that he had to stay.  At one end of the hallway were the double doors to the ICU.  Stopping him at that end wasn’t so bad – he seemed to understand my rationale that we couldn’t disturb other patients. But there was also the fire exit at that end.  No way.  Opening that door would set off an alarm and a world of trouble for me.  At the other end of the hallway were the double doors to the hallway and sweet freedom.  It was impossible to keep them closed for long as people come in and out of the unit all the time.  It was a lot harder to keep him from leaving the unit.  He wanted to get out.  He thought he was fine.

But he could barely stand on two feet without precariously leaning. I put a gait belt around his torso, just under his armpits, so I could hang onto something as he careened this way and that.    Meanwhile, his pants couldn’t find any place to cling on his skinny waist.  Again and again I tied them tight, again and again they fell down.  I was struggling to keep him from getting into trouble.  He wanted to go into the clean, empty rooms or behind the nurses’ station.  And I could barely keep him from falling over, but I couldn’t really stop him either. I kept hoping he would tire out and take a nap.  But he continued his exploration of the hallway, and I followed every step of the way.  I turned him around at both ends of the hallway, sometimes with a gentle nudge or a quick distraction.  I didn’t want to use force, but he was so insistent.  The gait belt was handy for holding him back, too, when he tried to make an exit.

I was about to break down after hours of this. The nurse aide marveled that I didn’t seem frustrated.  I was amazed that I had hid it so well.  We were down by the fire exit again, and he nearly pushed the door open, when a nurse and the aide came to my rescue, sending me off for my 15 minute afternoon break.  I went to the locker room, something I never did on my break, because I wanted to be absolutely alone.  I called my wife and started crying.  I was so overwhelmed with the responsibility of trying to keep this man safe even as he wanted to leave.  There was no way to reason with him.  When my 15 minutes were up, I said goodbye, wiped my tears away, and went back for more.

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book reviews, faith, medicine, personal, science

Book Reviews, February 2015

My second installment of mini book reviews as I endeavor to read more carefully and share recommendations for other readers.

  • Complications: A Surgeon’s Notes on an Imperfect Science by Atul Gawande is a phenomenal book of medical stories and explorations of the human experience at a most vulnerable time.  The book’s greatest strength is its stories.  As a surgical resident, Gawande has the goods when it comes to interesting cases, and he’s a great teller of those stories.  But it’s not merely stories.  He explores important and compelling ideas like the necessity of doctors practicing on patients and the tangled decision-making in difficult cases.  He owns up to the fact that doctors, even the very best ones, make mistakes.  It’s unavoidable as long as humans are involved.  There are three reasons that medicine is an “imperfect science”: ignorance, ineptitude, and fallibility.  Gawande details advances in surgery (such as gastric bypass) and technology that show how the field is improving in the area of ignorance.  There are some protocols in place to deal with inept doctors, but all too often bad doctors keep practicing until they do lots of harm, and he talks about these current limitations and how to improve.  Lastly, he explores how fallibility is inevitable.  There may be decisions that are never clear because the factors involved are too complex.  Each patient and circumstance is unique.  Almost as a bonus, he also spends time explaining interesting and perplexing phenomena such as pain, nausea, and blushing.  The book was a Finalist for the National Book Award.  I would highly recommend this book to anyone.
  • Evolving in Monkey Town by Rachel Held Evans is a memoir I could relate to.  Though she wrote it while still in her late 20s, she felt compelled to chronicle and share her crisis of faith that led her to doubt much of what she used to believe.  Evolution is the guiding theme of the stories she relates, both because of her changing faith and because she lives in Dayton, TN, home of the infamous Scopes trial (which I’ve written about once or twice, okay at least three times or more).  She even attended Bryan College, named after William Jennings Bryan, the defender of creationism during the trial.  Evans does a nice job summarizing the high points of the trial in one of the chapters.  But the bulk of the book is her telling how she used to be a model evangelical Christian who knew all the right answers for arguing with skeptics until she herself became unsettled by the injustice of what she calls “the cosmic lottery.”  It seemed unfair to her that so many people should be condemned to hell because they had never heard of Jesus, only to die horribly in a typhoon or of AIDS.  She couldn’t accept the answers that she used to.  Her crisis led her to rethink all of her assumptions and to be willing to throw away “false fundamentals,” her term for the beliefs that accrete onto the belief system of much of Christian teaching.  She now believes that faith must adapt and that it is okay to have doubts and to say “I don’t know.”  But she hasn’t lost her faith.  It’s a story that I share in the broad outline, and it was comforting to read how she went through the crisis but retained her trust in Jesus.  I’d recommend this book to anyone who has had similar doubts or a crisis of faith.  [Note that the book, though first published in 2010, has since been rereleased under the title Faith Unraveled.]
  • Gulp: Adventures on the Alimentary Canal by Mary Roach is the perfect bathroom book, and I mean that in the best way possible.  The book is fascinating and funny, and the subject matter is often fecal.  Roach is an excellent science writer, guiding the reader through the digestive system from before the food enters the mouth to the other end of the line.  It all goes down so easily (please excuse me, nearly every blurb for the book includes puns and wordplays nearly as bad), that it can feel almost fluffy at times.  It’s not that Roach doesn’t include the research (the notes in the back show her thoroughness), it’s that she makes it so palatable (again, sorry) with her humorous stories and engrossing tidbits.  I learned about the 19th century man who had a hole in his stomach and how his doctor used him to learn about digestion, about the importance of bacterial composition of the colon, and about the amazing capacity of the colons of prisoners and other smugglers, among other oddities.  Sometimes the book is a bit gross, but nothing made me sick to my stomach.  Anyone who enjoys science or who wants to know more about the digestive system or who simply wants a smart laugh should check it out.
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faith, personal

How I Became an Episcopalian

I recently finished Robert Webber’s Evangelicals on the Canterbury Trail, and it made me think about my own spiritual journey to the Episcopal church away from my evangelical roots.  How did I end up here?

I feel like I stumbled into the Episcopal church.  Growing up, I attended an evangelical church that emphasized missionary work.  Not as charismatic as Assemblies of God, not as strict as some Baptists, but it fit comfortably in the spectrum of evangelical churches in America.  We didn’t follow a liturgy, though the service followed a similar pattern every week: a few hymns, some announcements, a pastoral prayer, a scripture reading, and then a sermon on that reading that took up the majority of the service.  Once a month, on the first Sunday, we added communion to the service after the sermon.  In college I attended a tiny Evangelical Free church led by one of my professors.  He was an English professor, and was into C.S. Lewis and Tolkien and Milton and Spenser and the Reformation in England, so looking back, it makes sense that he incorporated parts of the Book of Common Prayer into the service.  It was the first time I had taken communion every week, and it made sense to me.  I now wondered why other churches didn’t have communion weekly.

But I wouldn’t actually try an Episcopal church until grad school.  And that first time, I was not ready for the Episcopal church.  When I first went to grad school I had imagined myself as a light on a hill, a witness to godless academia.  It fit with my earlier images of myself.  While in elementary school I had listened to a missionary doctor serving in Africa who had amazing stories of providing care to the sick in an exotic locale with animals I had only seen in the zoo.  It sounded like a dream job.  I had no idea what it took to become a doctor, let alone a missionary, but for a few years that’s what I aspired to.  It soon became apparent that I was not going to be a doctor.  When my younger brother fell off the porch into the front bushes and gashed the back of his head, I was next to useless.  I didn’t like all the blood.  I briefly held a wash cloth to the wound at my mother’s direction, but I didn’t apply enough pressure.  She took him to the emergency room by herself.  A few years later I threw up just looking at a picture of open heart surgery in a freshmen health class.  My older sister had to pick me up from school.  So not exactly doctor material.

The first time I tried an Episcopal church I was a new grad student, finding my footing in a college town that I imagined was a liberal enclave (and it sort of was; this was my foreign land).  The church was on campus, and it fit all of my stereotypes of what a church infected by academia would look like.  I don’t remember the liturgy.  What sticks out is that the priest was a woman, though in my terminology of the time, I thought she was the pastor.  I had never been in a church with a woman for the pastor.  It was exotic.  I was aware that there were women pastors, but the church denomination I grew up in didn’t allow it.  I didn’t personally have strong feelings on it, but I knew there was something in Paul’s epistles that gave guidance on the issue (rather forcefully, it turns out: “I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man”).  But maybe it was a cultural issue in the first century to have a man as the teacher of scripture.  Maybe it said more about Paul and his situation than it did for us today.  I didn’t know.  All I knew was that I had never seen a woman up front as the pastor.  It was jarring, and it didn’t feel right.  I was actually squeamish about the idea.  I certainly wasn’t ready for it.

It didn’t help when she talked about inner peace and centering and the benefits of yoga.  I can’t remember if that was in the sermon or if it was information about a group that met at the church.  Either way, it didn’t sound like the Bible to me.  It was self help alternative spirituality stuff.  The importance of breathing.  There was even a mention of a contemplative maze at some retreat center.  By the time everyone went up for the Eucharist, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to partake.  I wasn’t sure this church was even Christian.  How could I take communion if they didn’t understand it the same way that I did?  I’d be essentially saying that I agreed with all of their views by joining them at the altar.  I was definitely judging the people there based on my limited understanding of what church should be.  I was more than a little self-righteous.

A few years later I drove my little red car stuffed to the brim with my clothes and books to North Dakota in pursuit of another graduate degree.  I didn’t know anyone there and didn’t even have a place to live when I arrived.  I was completely starting from scratch.  That’s probably why I was willing to try the Episcopal church again despite my earlier experience.  I first went to a few different evangelical churches in town, but I wanted something new, something different.  It’s always been a struggle for me to go to new places and meet new people.  I get very nervous about my own perceived social awkwardness.  I avoid talking to people and introducing myself.  It’s a self-defeating cycle.  But church is basically a known quantity, so that makes going to a new one not quite as difficult.

I remember pulling into the parking lot of St. Paul’s with anticipation.  Something made me think that this experience would be different.  I think I was different, less judgmental at this point.  I took my seat in a pew near the back.  During the service I had trouble keeping up in the prayer book and the hymnal.  I listened to the scripture readings and sermon.  I knelt and prayed along with the prayers and confession of sin.  And when it came time to go up front for receiving the bread and wine of the Eucharist, I shuffled up with the rest of the congregation.  I cautiously did what I saw others doing, kneeling and holding out my hands in supplication.  I liked participating in the service, singing the Gloria and the Sanctus.  I liked getting on my knees to confess and receive communion.  I liked the beautiful words of the prayers and the liturgy.  It immediately felt comfortable this time.  It felt like home.

After the service, parishioners gathered for coffee hour.  I ducked out the first few weeks because of my social phobias, but I liked the aspect of community it fostered even if I wasn’t yet a member of the community.  The church I grew up in didn’t have coffee hour, but they did have a giant vestibule where people could chat and connect.  I’ve tried many churches, though, where everyone is sort of ushered out the door after the service.  While that agrees with my anti-social proclivities, it doesn’t seem to be the actual point of church.

To feel more a part of the community, I joined the choir for the remainder of my two years in North Dakota.  When I was leaving, moving out of the state, the organist/choir director gave me a 100 year old prayer book in which she had inscribed, “Stay with us,” by which she meant I should stay in the Episcopal church even though I was moving away.  And I have.

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personal

So Misunderstood

He made his comment with what he thought was clear sarcasm.  The statement was clearly not to be taken seriously, at least in his own mind.  He thought it ridiculous.  Surely, no one else in the room agreed with it.  But as he looked around, the looks on people’s faces ranged from blank to aghast.  There was no knowing recognition or small smiles to agree with the sentiment.  An earnest young woman looked into his eyes and said, “Well, I thought it was interesting.”  She was prepared to crouch and entrench to defend her position from this surprise attack that he had launched.  “No, no.  I thought it was interesting, too;  I was being sarcastic.”  This only further muddied the waters.  “I thought it was totally interesting.”  A little too much force.  She didn’t know which part he had been sarcastic about so she stuck with her original understanding and dug in deeper.  He couldn’t think straight.  How could he explain his point now?  He had lost all credibility to be taken at face value.  Everything he now said was suspect, untrustworthy.  What else would he take back, what further verbal rugs would he pull from under his listeners?  He walked out of the room, befuddled about how to communicate.  The moment was ruined.  Two minutes later it dawned on him how to explain himself in plain English.  Alas, too late.  He was always too late.

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book reviews, faith, history, literature, personal, science

Book Reviews, January 2015

Here is the first installment of mini book reviews that I promised earlier this year.  I’m planning on writing these reviews for nearly every book I read, first posting them on goodreads.com and then collecting them monthly to post here (so you can eagerly anticipate the next installment on February 28th!).  My goals for this project are twofold.  Most importantly, I want to make sure that I am paying attention and digesting what I read.  I’m hoping that the process of writing these reviews will encourage closer reading and understanding on my part.  The secondary goal is to provide useful book recommendations for anyone who reads my blog (I’ll try to avoid spoilers for the fiction reviews).  Feel free to add your own recommendations in the comments.

  • Saving Darwin by Karl W. Giberson is a decent overview of the creation/evolution debate from a theistic evolutionist, if not as in depth as I would sometimes like.  But sometimes it’s good to step back and view many facets of a debate instead of focusing solely on particulars.  While I am in the same camp as Giberson (someone of faith who accepts evolution), I am still learning much about the issue.  So while I’ve enjoyed more thorough treatments of the Scopes trial by Edward Larson or the history of young earth creationism by Ronald Numbers, it was helpful to read a summary of the U.S. court cases since Scopes and an analysis of the “dark companions” of evolution such as social Darwinism and eugenics.  Giberson is well read on all aspects of the debate so I found his end notes especially helpful in preparing a further reading list to delve deeper on some of these issues.  As a Christian, I especially liked the section where he wrestled with intelligent design, admitting that he wished that the argument from design were true.  He cannot accept it theologically though because of what it would say about God when one considers bad designs (human knees that wear out) or seemingly horrific designs (various parasites).  Overall, I would recommend this book to anyone of faith willing to consider evolution and looking for a solid overview of the debate.
  • The Seven-Per-Cent Solution by Nicholas Meyer is an enjoyable Sherlock Holmes adventure, filling in a perceived gap in the canonical works by Arthur Conan Doyle.  I only finished reading the complete Sherlock Holmes stories last year (though they were given to me when I was in junior high by my older brother—thanks Alex!), so I was looking for something more now that the BBC’s Sherlock is between seasons as well.  Meyer’s book was a decent “fix” for my itch.  Watson narrates, as he does most of the original stories, and his voice is a credible facsimile.  I never felt taken out of the story because of the narration.  The plot concerns Holmes’s addiction to cocaine (the “seven-per-cent solution” also mentioned in the original stories) and his heretofore unmentioned meeting with Sigmund Freud.  It’s all very clever and well done, but that’s part of what I didn’t love about the book.  It seems that books (or movies) like these—prequels, reboots, or continuations of famous characters or series—often succumb too much to fan service instead of trying to do something new.  By fan service, I mean bringing back beloved elements or tying together every last unexplained detail in the original or having a huge crossover event (world’s most famous detective meets the father of psychoanalysis!).  But maybe it’s the predictability of the original series that makes it beloved in the first place.  So a reasonable facsimile can keep people happy in the meantime.  I was reasonably entertained.
  • Evangelicals on the Canterbury Trail by Robert E. Webber is a book I needed to read.  Perhaps it would have been even better if I had read it when I first started attending an Episcopal church in grad school.  The book is mostly a story, the first half Webber’s personal story from evangelicalism to the Episcopal church, and the second half the stories of other like-minded evangelical pilgrims on the Canterbury trail, so to speak.  Webber frames his own story as a search for six needs that he found fulfilled in the Anglican tradition: mystery, worship, sacraments, historic identity, ecumenicalism, and a holistic spirituality.  Sometimes I wished he would spend more time on any of these topics, but he was more concerned with telling his story instead of deep analysis of liturgy.  I suppose that means I need to look somewhere else for that kind of book.  I found Webber’s and his co-pilgrim’s stories comforting as they found richness and freedom in the same way as I have in the Episcopal church.  The book is not meant as a critique of the evangelical churches that they left, but merely a way to tell through personal spiritual journeys how not everyone’s needs are met in an evangelical church.  Webber points out the many strengths of evangelicalism and how the two traditions can learn from each other.  I think this is a book that any evangelical who is interested in liturgical worship should read.  Episcopalians should also seek out this book to find out why evangelicals (like me) were attracted to their door. [Please note that there is a newer edition of the book which keeps all of Webber’s text and story, but replaces the original co-pilgrims’ stories with newer examples.  I have not read this new edition, so I cannot say if I prefer it over the original.]
  • The Mismeasure of Man by Stephen Jay Gould is an excellent history of science that argues against biological determinism of intelligence.  His main argument is that intelligence is not a single, innate, heritable, quantifiable entity, able to be ranked.  By going back and looking at the data and methodology of key figures along the way, Gould is able to show where scientists erred.  He shows how easy it was for scientists’ bias to affect how they measured the size of skulls in the 19th century or how IQ tests for U.S. Army recruits in World War I were inadequately administered and the content biased against immigrants and those without formal education.  This history is humbling for science, a warning always to be aware of bias.  However, I had trouble following his arguments against the theory of general intelligence (g) by Spearman and later Burt.  It involves factor analysis, a method of statistics initially invented to analyze mental tests (but used for many other things).  I don’t have any background in statistics, so I couldn’t tell if his critiques hit the mark or not.  But I did understand when he pointed out that the correlations between a set of mental tests could just as easily show the advantages or deficits of environment as a biological IQ.  He also explained how using other statistical methods on the same data, it is possible to see multiple intelligences (as in Gardner) instead of one general intelligence underlying everything.  Gould wrote the book originally in 1981, but revised it after The Bell Curve came out in 1994 so that he could add a few supplementary essays rebutting it.  The Bell Curve made a big splash when it was published, but Gould feels that it was merely rehashing the same biological determinism of intelligence that he had already shown was mistaken.  I would highly recommend this book for anyone interested in the history of science or the science of intelligence. [Please note the comment below about the controversy surrounding this book]
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personal, politics

The Needle and the Damage Done

There’s an exchange in Saga, the sci-fi comic by Brian K. Vaughn and Fiona Staples (you should read it!), where two characters debate the role of drugs and the merits of their art.  Alana is a new actress in the Circuit, an underground theater troupe whose performances are broadcast to the universe, and Yuma is the set designer and a veteran of the troupe.  The soap opera plots of the Circuit performances are hokey, but Alana has always wanted to be a star in the Circuit.  Yuma is more cynical about their role in the universe, a universe where most inhabited planets are stuck in a protracted war with one another.

Yuma: It’s true, the Circuit has only ever existed to pacify an angry and hopeless population.

Alana: Maybe shitty shows like ours, but what about actual good ones?  I got into “Filament City” when I was young, changed the way I think about poverty.

Yuma: And what did you do?  Join a nonprofit organization?  Volunteer at a soup kitchen?  Or did you lock yourself in a tiny room, shut the blinds and mainline every transmission like a junkie?  Some art might have the power to change people, but the Circuit can only ever change the way we feel, and never for very long.

Alana: Yuma, if you really think this business is just narcotizing our audience, why are you still working here?

Yuma: Because I adore drugs.

Science fiction, though set in a galaxy far, far away in some distant age in the future or past, often functions as a critique of the here and now.  These words by the two women seem pointed to our own TV entertainments.  I know I’ve binge-watched shows on DVD or Netflix “like a junkie.”  But it’s the comment about the show “Filament City” that really gets me.  HBO’s The Wire seems analogous with the fictional “Filament City.”  However, The Wire is actually good (as opposed to the Circuit productions) and socially conscious.  And it helped me change my mind on how I think about poverty and especially the Drug War, as I’m sure it has for many other viewers.

I’ve never used illegal drugs.  It’s not that I have incredible self control and just say no; I’ve never even been offered drugs.  I’ve never sought them out, either, though.  So I don’t have a lot of experience with drug users.  But I suppose I thought, when I thought about it at all, that drug users deserved their jail time because they knowingly broke the law.  I tend to be a rule follower, so it was easy to sit in judgment over those who have broken the rules.  I didn’t really think about the fact that drug users need help with their addictions.  It’s not something that a person can usually do by themselves.

So The Wire helped me change my mind on drugs by showing me lives ruined by drugs and the drug trade, from users to dealers to cops to innocent bystanders.  Yuma, in the quote above, seems to think that any sort of change, if it’s real change, would require getting involved in some way, either by volunteering to help drug addicts or becoming an activist.  And sure, those would be great things to do, but they are not things I can undertake at this time.  Does that mean that my mind hasn’t really changed if I don’t become an activist?  I don’t think so.  I think there are other ways to express my change of thinking.  For me, watching The Wire is a catalyst, leading me to want to know more about the criminal justice system (I’m really interested in reading The New Jim Crow) and the lives of those in poverty affected by drugs (I’m also eager to read Random Family).  Now I want to support political candidates who are for changing sentencing guidelines for drug offenders or other prison reforms.  Educating myself and voting behavior are not meaningless changes.

One question that bothers me is why do we lock up drug offenders instead of offering them treatment?  Why is drug addiction considered a criminal matter rather than a health issue?  I recently finished a delightful non-canonical Sherlock Holmes story called The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, where Watson helps Holmes kick his cocaine habit.  Sherlock’s cocaine use was mentioned in the original stories, but in this tale, his addiction has gotten out of control.  He is delusional, and the drug is killing him.  As his best friend, Watson naturally cares for him and wants him to be free of the drug.  He hatches a plan to help Sherlock break his addiction.  Throughout the story we empathize with Sherlock, wanting to understand his addiction and eager to see him helped.  But this is not how we treat most drug users in America.

In America, we lock them up.  Nearly half of all inmates in federal prisons are there on drug charges (48.7%, or 97,252 as of Nov. 29, 2014).  Many of the state and local inmates are also there for drug charges.  I could not find exact figures for non-federal inmates, so I looked up the stats for South Dakota, the state where I live.  Twenty three percent of inmates in SD are there on drug charges, and more than half of that 23% were guilty of possession (pdf).  Possession charges make no distinction between personal use and intent to distribute or sell the drug; it merely means the person has illegal drugs.  The total prison population (federal, state, and local) is over 2 million inmates, but it hasn’t always been so large.  Starting in the mid-1970s the prison population has grown more than four-fold.  It used to be less than 500,000 before the Drug War started.

And what has the Drug War accomplished besides filling our prisons to capacity?  The price of drugs has gone down, not up, over time.  The purity of the drugs has also increased over time.  These are evidences that drugs are more available than ever, despite the efforts of the War on Drugs.  There is also the human toll.  The Drug War disproportionately targets black people more than white people.  Whites use drugs at least as much as if not more than blacks over the course of their lifetime, but blacks make up a larger percentage of prison inmates on drug charges.  Black people are far more likely to be arrested for marijuana possession, though their rate of marijuana usage is practically the same as for white people.

I don’t claim to know what to do for those who use drugs.  But incarcerating them for the last 40 years doesn’t seem like the solution.  The War on Drugs is a war on people who need help.  And it’s a war that isn’t working.  Some of you already know this, but it took the art of The Wire and a further adventure of Sherlock Holmes to help me see it, too.

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personal

Hospital Stories (4)

A few years ago I worked at a hospital as a constant observer.  It was a transitional job as I tried to figure out the next step of my life. What exactly is a constant observer?  one might reasonably ask.  A constant observer is basically a nurse’s aide who stays in one room to be with patients who might be a harm to themselves or others. Hospitals try very hard not to tie people down on their beds anymore.  There are a lot of reasons I might be assigned to a patient: dementia, adverse reaction to medication, brain injury, detoxing, or suicide watch, to name some.  I saw people at their most vulnerable state.  This is the fourth in what I plan to be a series of vignettes on my experiences in the hospital.

He looked like a caged animal.  I went into his room in the morning, and he was there only in a diaper, a grown man probably in his 70s, a retired farmer, on his hands and knees on the bed, which was covered with a mesh enclosure to make sure he didn’t get out of bed during the night. I was supposed to wash him up and have him ready for the occupational therapist, who would help him get his clothes on.  I wasn’t used to washing up a moving target.  I asked the nurse aide to help me—she was a little put out I couldn’t do it by myself.  His diaper needed to be changed as well.  And the bed linens, but that could be taken care of when he got up.

I had been with him the entire previous weekend down on Neuro Acute.  He had fallen down the basement steps and hit his head, causing internal bleeding.  He had more tubes and lines when he was down there.  A central line, a feeding tube down the nose, telemetry leads, a catheter.  He picked at everything—it was a constant battle so he wouldn’t pull things out or off.  The tele- leads weren’t a big deal, just an annoyance, but the others were serious.  I couldn’t let him get a hand on them or it would be big trouble.  He grabbed all of them at one point or another.  I would grab his hand so he couldn’t continue pulling.  Then I had to pry his fingers off one at a time from the tube or line.  Sometimes he would try to roll over or get on all fours, which was a problem with so much attached to him.  I felt like I was wrestling him in order to keep him safe.

He looked like a writer I had known while I was in grad school.  In fact, the resemblance was rather unnerving.  It made me feel protective of him, that he was in my charge, that his care was my responsibility.  So that’s why it especially hurt when I got chewed out by a nurse down on Neuro for not alerting her right away when some machine started beeping.  Things were always beeping in his room: bed alarms, telemetry monitors, IV pumps.  I was still pretty new at the job and didn’t know what was a priority and when I should get the nurse right away.  This time it was a leak from his central line.  I put on the call light.  Eventually his nurse was able to come to the room and check, only to find that some med that he needed had leaked onto his chest.  The connection between the central line and IV pump had been tenuous.  Instead of putting on the call light, I should have found her immediately.  Now she couldn’t properly chart how much medicine he had received.  I had screwed up.

When he was upstairs later in Rehab—a halfway unit intended to transition patients out of the hospital and where I found him on all fours like a naked animal—he did manage to dislodge his feeding tube.  I couldn’t stop him in time.  It was the last evening I spent with him before he was transferred to a nursing home.  Earlier he had begun to smile and even make jokes.  He pretended that he was going to drop a cup, and then smiled broadly when I fell for it.  He still couldn’t talk, but I could see the pleasure he got from this normal human interaction.

Before he left for the nursing home, he curled up on a couch in his room (the couch was a pull out bed for guests).  Still tethered to an IV pump on a stand with wheels, he seemed like my sleeping child that I was watching over.  I put a blanket on him so he wouldn’t get chilled.  My shift was almost over.  I turned the lights off in the room.  It was already dark outside on a late November afternoon.  And we both waited to leave the hospital.

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personal, writing

New Year’s Day

“Nothing changes on New Year’s Day”

Dear stranger, I am a writer.  I’ve decided to self-identify as a writer for the first time in my life.  I’ve always been too scared that writing is something that I couldn’t succeed at, or that it’s not something that I could ever do as a job or vocation, though I could do it on the side as a hobby.  But not owning it means that I never have given writing my full concentration and effort, not even when I was a grad student.  Back then I was still aiming to be a professor or teacher, not a writer.  This identity is going to take some getting used to.  I don’t feel comfortable calling myself a writer, but I think it’s a necessary step.

Part of this change in orientation means that I am planning to devote more time to writing this year than I did last year.  I hope that means that I have more content for the blog in the coming year.  It’s a struggle to find time as a stay-at-home parent.  Even when the kids are napping or in bed for the night, it’s so much easier to sit back and stream a TV show or waste time on the internet.  But I’m making the declaration of my identity as a writer and my goal to write more here on the blog so that it’s public and it forces me to live up to my aspirations.

I meant to have this post up on January first, but I’ve been busy painting our basement.  Our basement flooded last summer, and we’re still putting it back together six months later.  It’s a split level home, so the basement is half the living area of the house.  It’s been an adjustment, to say the least, not to have use of half of the house when three little kids want to play, play, play.  When the weather was warmer, that wasn’t as much of a problem.  But today, for example, we were house bound because of below zero temperatures and even colder wind chill.

I’m not one who usually makes resolutions for each new year.  It’s not that I think it’s a bad practice.  On the contrary, self-improvement is a great goal to be renewed every year.  And it’s not that I have no areas of my life to improve either.  There’s plenty that I should be working on.  When I was in high school and college I used to set reading goals for the summer vacation.  I would make a list of books that I wanted to read during the break.  I was always overambitious and unrealistic.  Usually I only read one or two books from the list, if any.  Sometimes I would read other books not on the list, but often I ended up not even reading all that much.

The last few years I’ve made informal goals to read approximately 50 books a year, or about one per week.  Looking back over my records (because I like to make lists), I read 44 books in 2009, 55 books in 2010, 40 books in 2011, neglected to keep records in 2012 (or lost the file), 36 books in 2013, and 29 books last year.  So I made my goal once in the past six years, and, as I recall, I was able to read a lot that year while holding our first child as he napped.  I’ve gone ahead and made my 50 books a year goal more formal this year by posting it on goodreads.com (feel free to friend me at goodreads.com under the name Andy Zell).  I’m also planning on writing short reviews on most/all of the books I do manage to read this year, and I’ll collect them monthly and post them here on the blog.

As for the song embedded above, I used to be a huge U2 fan back when I was making those reading goals for the summer.  I would try to listen to this song on New Year’s Day, although I’m not even sure why.  Perhaps because I liked the line quoted above so much.  Nothing changes.  There’s so much continuity from year to year.  I’m still the same person on January first that I was on December thirty-first.  Except things do change.  I’m not the same person I was 15-20 years ago.  I still enjoy some old U2 tunes now and then, but they’re no longer my favorite band.

In 2015, I’ll continue writing about the change and continuity of my life.  I am a writer.  I am a stranger.

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personal

A Few Dollars Short, or The Reluctant Samaritan

[edit: this is a true story from my life, in case that wasn’t clear]

I hate grocery shopping. Usually I stop at this small Hugo’s on the way home from school. It reminds me of the grocery store my mom would go to when I was little. I prefer the small in this case; I have enough trouble making decisions I don’t need to be overwhelmed by food. My food choices stay simple. Frozen pizza. Macaroni. Canned soup. Soda. Potato chips/Cheez-Its. Microwave dinners. I zip up and down the aisles so I can get out of there faster. One of my former students works here. I hope I don’t see him. Sometimes he works the checkout and then he’ll be unavoidable. He’s not there. I put my groceries on my credit card. I don’t have the cash to cover the groceries. What I do find after I check out is her.

I’m almost out the door. “Excuse me.” I stop, my chest feeling a little tight, fearing what words would come next. Could I pretend not to hear even though I’ve already signaled that I have? “Excuse me, do you think you could give me a ride?” I turn back towards her and it’s too late. I know I won’t say no even though I desperately want to. The first thing I notice is her ugly brown coat. Her hair is stringy and her face unwashed. She’s squinting up at me. She’s fairly heavy set and sitting in a motorized cart provided by the store. Someone else can give her a ride. Please. It’s already 4 o’clock and the sun is going down on this Autumn day way up north. I tell her okay, but I have to put my groceries in the trunk first. Then I’ll pull around to the entrance and pick her up.

Much later I’ll realize that I could have just driven away. I’ve walked by lots of people asking for money in big cities, stared straight ahead and ignored them. Didn’t give them or my decision a second thought. I can’t help everyone. I don’t have the resources. But I gave her my word.

She has a walker that I stash in the back seat. She plops down in the passenger seat. Her unpleasant smell fills the car. Her voice is nearly as unpleasant. Whiny and nasal. She says she missed the bus and that her friend was unavailable to give her a ride. She wonders if I could take her to the bingo hall. She also wonders if I could give her thirty dollars for a motel room. She informs me that she is homeless.

How could anyone be homeless in North Dakota? It’s too far north—you can’t sleep outside in winter no matter how thick your coat. It’s going to be cold tonight. Below freezing. She needs shelter.

I don’t have thirty dollars. I know there isn’t much money in my wallet. I don’t like to carry cash because I’ll just spend it. My dad tells me frequently that I should keep some cash on me in case of emergencies. To illustrate the point, my mom carries around an emergency $20 bill which, if she uses for any reason, she immediately replaces for the next time.

Before I get in the car I check my wallet. Four one dollar bills. If I’m going to give her anything approaching what she’s asked for, I’ll have to go to the ATM machine. The only problem is that you can only take money out in multiples of $20 and I’m fairly positive I have less than $40 so the most I can withdraw is $20, plus the bank will charge a $2 service fee. I really need to open an account locally, but I hate banks and dealing with money. I don’t want to overdraw the account, though. I did that once already and it was a mess. Since I don’t have a branch within a few states adjacent, I can’t make a deposit to cover any overdraft. My paycheck from the school is directly deposited, but that’s not until the end of the month. The other time I overdrew the account, I had to ask my sister in Ohio to make a deposit to cover the amount plus penalties, and then I paid her back when payday finally rolled around. I live month to month. I have no savings, but no outstanding debts either.

I like to help people when I can, but the giving of money is so awkward. I hate tipping situations. How much to give. What to say. I hate it when the offering plate is passed in church.

But she probably needs the money. She needs to be indoors tonight. Though there’s no way I’m inviting her to my basement apartment. I don’t even have a bed for myself. I sleep in a sleeping bag on a thin pad filled with air. Basically I camp out every night in my basement room. I don’t have any furniture, either. My TV sits on a plastic crate. Naturally I have a TV, even if I don’t have a desk, dresser, or bed, because of course I have a TV. With cable, no less. It’s included with my rent. I share the phone with the other dormer who rents the other basement bedroom. The main room in the basement has a pool table, a hi-fi tuner, and a dart board. I find it all rather dreary and depressing. In addition to my dismal living conditions, my girlfriend of the past six months broke up with me right before I moved to North Dakota. A few weeks after I moved, my mom nearly died from complications with her hysterectomy. I haven’t made any friends here yet. Overall, this is not the best time for me.

I’m not aware of any homeless shelter in town. I ask her if she knows of one.

No, she doesn’t.

I drive to the ATM of the not-my-bank and slip my card in the reader. I type my PIN and accept the $2 fee. The machine spits out a twenty, and I hand it over to her along with the four ones I had in my wallet. I explain that it’s all that I have right now. Then I drive her over to the bingo hall, which is across the street from the bank. It’s connected to the mall. At least they call it a mall. It has a K-Mart, a Christian bookstore, the DMV, and a climbing wall. Oh, and a bingo hall. The entrance on this side has a hair dresser. Her friend is going to pick her up here.

I tell her I have some change back in my apartment, and that I’ll come right back so she can have the full $30, though I’m not sure I have six dollars in change. The house is right around the corner from K-Mart. It ends up I have $4.82. I stuff it in a plastic sandwich bag and head back to the bingo hall. She’s not there. I walk inside the mall, peer into the hair dresser’s, go further down the empty hall. Where could she be? She can’t have gone far. She can hardly walk. It’s only been a few minutes since I dropped her off. I give up. She’s gone.

The daylight’s faded completely. Now I have to go home and unload my groceries.

Later on I call my ex-girlfriend and tell her what I’ve done. There’s no one else to tell. I can’t figure out if I’ve been taken. It’s so easy to assume the worst about the woman. She wants money to gamble or for drugs or whatever, anything but shelter for the night. I don’t even feel particularly benevolent, but neither do I feel regret over my actions. Regret would imply I could have acted otherwise.

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