I watched the movie Blood Diamond the other day, and was struck by a line that went something like this: “My heart always told me that people are inherently good. My experience suggests otherwise.” Sentiments like this spark long, circular conversations where the state of human beings are analyzed, over analyzed, ad nauseam among friends and sociology professors. Headlines flash across the screen, reminding us constantly that there seems to be very little joy in the world. I often find myself wondering what is the truth here. My own heart and experience have defined people in both ways – good or bad, depending on any given moment’s circumstance.
Take that FotoPres exhibit up the street at Caixa Forum. The winning photographer, Emilio Morenatti, offers the public a view into a very harsh reality: Women in Pakistan abused in such horrific ways by men who were supposed to love them. The acid their fathers, husbands, suitors, or other relatives threw at them has forever mutilated these women’s faces and made them social outcasts. I’m at a loss to understand how a person could even think of committing such a perverse act of violence. What the hell was he thinking? I’m at an even greater loss to understand how these women have mustered up the hope and courage that appears to light their eyes. I can only guess that hope is all they have. It’s extraordinary, really, the dichotomy. Making the point crystal clear, one woman comments in the photo’s subtitle “He may have destroyed my face, but he did not destroy my soul.”
What if she’s right? What if joy was a soul thing? People from the dawn of time have acted in extremes that boggle that mind. They accomplish extraordinary, compassionate, humanitarian feats, while simultaneously battering human dignity to a pulp. The chances of these contradictions fading are slim to none. Human nature won’t allow it. Maybe it’s about time for the soul’s nature to start taking control. I’d like to believe – and my experience wants to tell me – the soul’s choice doesn’t actual depend on a fleeting moment or a random turn of events.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Friday, December 25, 2009
If My Father Were Here - John Fetto
The father lay in the bed, hands tied to the bed so he wouldn’t pull the thick tubes from his mouth. The machine breathed for him, providing pressure, while more tube reached out from the machines. The ventilator made a whooshing sound, breathing in and exhaling for the old man on the bed, and every few minutes another machine would grind on, filling the cup around his arm, testing his blood pressure.
Across from the father sat the son, fit, healthy, alert. He took short looks at the old father on the bed, noting the gaping, toothless mouth, jammed with tubes, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way the arms twisted inside the constraints, and the old man’s shoulders buck on the bed, and the waist lifted up, trying to escape. But mostly he watched the numbers posted on the machine, especially the heart beat, how it kept climbing, over one twenty, then one thirty, finally pushing one forty, before it dipped again. Beneath the record of the too high heart beats, another line showed the rhythm of the heart beats, or rather the lack of rhythm and a blinking red light spelled the words “irregular heartbeat.”
A nurse came in, looked at the numbers and quickly left. When she came back she held a syringe.
“I call his cardiologist. He said we can give him this.”
She punched the syringe into the tube. Stood back, and both the nurse and the younger, sitting man watched the numbers. At first nothing happened then the numbers began to change. One thirty five. One thirty. One twenty five. One twenty. Like magic the heart beats began to slow down, all the way to eighty.
“Well that’s better, isn’t it?” said the nurse and left.
The son said nothing. He was still staring at the numbers, wondering how long they would hold at a level his father’s heart would finally burst.
Across from the father sat the son, fit, healthy, alert. He took short looks at the old father on the bed, noting the gaping, toothless mouth, jammed with tubes, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way the arms twisted inside the constraints, and the old man’s shoulders buck on the bed, and the waist lifted up, trying to escape. But mostly he watched the numbers posted on the machine, especially the heart beat, how it kept climbing, over one twenty, then one thirty, finally pushing one forty, before it dipped again. Beneath the record of the too high heart beats, another line showed the rhythm of the heart beats, or rather the lack of rhythm and a blinking red light spelled the words “irregular heartbeat.”
A nurse came in, looked at the numbers and quickly left. When she came back she held a syringe.
“I call his cardiologist. He said we can give him this.”
She punched the syringe into the tube. Stood back, and both the nurse and the younger, sitting man watched the numbers. At first nothing happened then the numbers began to change. One thirty five. One thirty. One twenty five. One twenty. Like magic the heart beats began to slow down, all the way to eighty.
“Well that’s better, isn’t it?” said the nurse and left.
The son said nothing. He was still staring at the numbers, wondering how long they would hold at a level his father’s heart would finally burst.
If My Father Were Here - Cindy Rasicot
If my father were here he would be sitting in his favorite black lazy boy chair reading the newspaper. But he died thirty four years ago of cancer, so it’s hard to imagine him still with us. I remember as a small child waiting for him to get home from work, waiting for the rumble of the car engine to pull in the driveway. After he got home, the evening news would go on, Douglas Edwards, CBS news. Then my mom would make dinner, sometimes fried chicken, sometimes, tongue, sometimes liver and onions. There was always meat in the mix. We would all sit down at the kitchen table with the wooden benches. The table cloth with the small strawberries on it was my favorite. My brother and my sister and I would ask to watch T.V. but that wasn’t allowed in the evenings. We could watch Disneyland on Sundays, and that was the one program. We really looked forward to that.
I don’t remember my father saying much to us in the evening. He buried his nose in a newspaper or a book. My mom served him a bagel and a cup of coffee after dinner. Dad was more like a fixture than a person to talk to. That was okay with me. In a funny way, in his quiet chair I knew him the best of anyone in our family. We had a closeness, even in the quiet silence we shared.
I don’t remember my father saying much to us in the evening. He buried his nose in a newspaper or a book. My mom served him a bagel and a cup of coffee after dinner. Dad was more like a fixture than a person to talk to. That was okay with me. In a funny way, in his quiet chair I knew him the best of anyone in our family. We had a closeness, even in the quiet silence we shared.
It Happens When Nobody is Watching - Maria Robinson
Vera works late in the kiln. There's no food in the house.
Ted eats out with his grad students. One doing the paper on the relationship between structuralism and the French concept of liberty starts to look interesting. They start going out after seminars. Vera continues to refine the pieces for her first show at Fort Mason. The cat runs away. Ted doesn't come home one night and Vera doesn't even mention it.
There's no milk for cereal and no fine ground Arabica coffee anymore. Ted and Eva start meeting for breakfast at the "Paris Pat" before classes. Vera's show "The White Collection" sells out, and an agent takes her on. Ted tells her that he's moving out.
Vera shrugs and says, my lawyer will call yours.
Ted eats out with his grad students. One doing the paper on the relationship between structuralism and the French concept of liberty starts to look interesting. They start going out after seminars. Vera continues to refine the pieces for her first show at Fort Mason. The cat runs away. Ted doesn't come home one night and Vera doesn't even mention it.
There's no milk for cereal and no fine ground Arabica coffee anymore. Ted and Eva start meeting for breakfast at the "Paris Pat" before classes. Vera's show "The White Collection" sells out, and an agent takes her on. Ted tells her that he's moving out.
Vera shrugs and says, my lawyer will call yours.
It Happens When Nobody is Watching - Jennifer Baljko
It happens when nobody is watching. That’s the only time Evan can talk to his grandma. She doesn’t talk to him when anyone else is around. She thinks everyone else will think Evan is crazy if they see him talking to the wall. That’s what she told him once. See, Grandma Janice is dead, but every now and again she whispers in his ear. It first started a couple years ago, a few days before Christmas when Evan was playing in the backyard, trying to make a snowman from the first flakes of the season. Grandma Janice loved the first snow, how the trees looked like a lady’s long fingers dipped in marshmallow fluff. Christmas had been her favorite time of year. She decorated the house with a million lights, and ceramic snowmen found a niche in almost every corner of the house. Grandma was too old to believe in Santa Claus. But she never could tire of the magic that seemed to dance around the streets that time of year. She told Evan to look under the tree on Christmas morning. There would be something special waiting for him.
It Happens When Nobody is Watching - Darcy Vebber
Sam opened the front passenger side door of the car. Lisa heard the click of the handle and the noise of the door moving on its hinges and then felt the weight of him settling into the front seat, depressing the spring slightly. She did not sit up.
He cleared his throat. He seemed to like the sound of it and cleared it again, more dramatically. “You OK back there?”
She considered her response, searching for the right thing to say. A dozen possibilities moved through her agile mind but it did not occur to her that nothing she could say would make things any different. She had been taught that the right words always made a difference. The true words anyway.
Sam stretched out, legs over to the driver’s side, arms folded behind his head against the passenger window. “My mom and I lived in a car about this size this the winter I was five. We were in California, down by the beach. I liked waking up in the car, in the fog.”
She still couldn’t think of what to say but she rolled over onto her back, her bent knees in the air, to listen.
“I think it was the first time I was rescued,” he said. “I didn’t know then not to tell. She had to scrape money together for a motel room, just to keep me. I liked that car much better.” He fell silent.
Lisa tried to imagine Grace sleeping in a car. She imagined rumpled red hair, a perpetual scowl, blankets and pillows, amulets and half read books, Sam in the back, tucked up in a ball. “Where is she now?”
He knew she meant his mother. That kind of communication was always so easy, like a ball tossed back and forth. “Fresno. Near Yosemite? She’s still doing the fortune telling thing, still living with Bill. Man, he is one patient guy.”
“He loves her.”
“Maybe.”
She could hear Sam fiddling with something, a latch on the glove compartment or the radio tuner. “I love you,” she said. The true words.
Later she would have to acknowledge, at least to herself, that he did not hesitate or miss a beat. “I love you too, Lisa but –- “ He sighed.
Then neither of them said anything – what more was there to say? -- for a while, until Bobby came out. He peered through the windshield, then opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, testing the atmosphere.
“What happened to that girl?” Lisa asked.
“Swam away,” said Sam.
“Breakfast?” asked Bobby as he put the key in the ignition.
“No,” said Lisa. It was the first time she had ever said no to being with them and it scared her a little. “Home, please.”
He cleared his throat. He seemed to like the sound of it and cleared it again, more dramatically. “You OK back there?”
She considered her response, searching for the right thing to say. A dozen possibilities moved through her agile mind but it did not occur to her that nothing she could say would make things any different. She had been taught that the right words always made a difference. The true words anyway.
Sam stretched out, legs over to the driver’s side, arms folded behind his head against the passenger window. “My mom and I lived in a car about this size this the winter I was five. We were in California, down by the beach. I liked waking up in the car, in the fog.”
She still couldn’t think of what to say but she rolled over onto her back, her bent knees in the air, to listen.
“I think it was the first time I was rescued,” he said. “I didn’t know then not to tell. She had to scrape money together for a motel room, just to keep me. I liked that car much better.” He fell silent.
Lisa tried to imagine Grace sleeping in a car. She imagined rumpled red hair, a perpetual scowl, blankets and pillows, amulets and half read books, Sam in the back, tucked up in a ball. “Where is she now?”
He knew she meant his mother. That kind of communication was always so easy, like a ball tossed back and forth. “Fresno. Near Yosemite? She’s still doing the fortune telling thing, still living with Bill. Man, he is one patient guy.”
“He loves her.”
“Maybe.”
She could hear Sam fiddling with something, a latch on the glove compartment or the radio tuner. “I love you,” she said. The true words.
Later she would have to acknowledge, at least to herself, that he did not hesitate or miss a beat. “I love you too, Lisa but –- “ He sighed.
Then neither of them said anything – what more was there to say? -- for a while, until Bobby came out. He peered through the windshield, then opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, testing the atmosphere.
“What happened to that girl?” Lisa asked.
“Swam away,” said Sam.
“Breakfast?” asked Bobby as he put the key in the ignition.
“No,” said Lisa. It was the first time she had ever said no to being with them and it scared her a little. “Home, please.”
It Wasn't Serious - Camilla Basham
“Let me in.” she yelled through the screen door; her floral print bathrobe hastily buttoned and askew, pink plastic rollers in her hair, a sloppy attempt at applying coral lipstick all over the bottom of her face, her nightly rosary in one hand, a coor’s light in the other, barefoot. My mother flung open the screen door and jerked her inside from the mosquitoes that danced around the Mason jar that served as home to our porch light bulb.
Mom was angry; almost in tears, “I’m in the middle of making dinner, momma.” she said with a clenched jaw, “What is it now? Why are you running around outside half dressed at this hour? Did you forget to take your medicine this evening, and if you did take it, why in God’s name are you washing it down with beer?” She said rubbing her temples.
“Ruthie, did you see to it that your Maw Maw took her medicine this evening?” she yelled at me over her shoulder.
“Yes, mom.” I said, placing the dinner plates out on the table.
“Ruthie, did you sneak Maw Maw one of your dad’s beers this evening?”
I couldn’t help but laugh just a little under my breath. “No mom.”
Mom shook her head, wrung her hands, turned her face up to the ceiling and said a quick silent prayer to St. Jude, her favorite saint of lost causes. Maw Maw winked at me over mom’s shoulder. I winked back. She was a nut job and I loved her.
She followed behind mom and me, stumbling into the kitchen, alternating burps with apologies while readjusting the curlers that had come lose as a result of my mom’s rather violent means of welcoming her into the house.
“Is that chicken stew I smell?” Maw Maw advanced towards the pot simmering on the stove.
“Yes, it is and you know I’ll bring you some when it’s done. There’s no need for you to be roaming the streets at dark half dressed and three shits in the wind.” My mom said yet again looking up to the ceiling for some sort of relief.
“Well, I wouldn’t be if it weren’t serious.” she said sticking her bony finger in the pot of stew and licking it off.
“For crying out loud, would you stop that? You reek of Ben Gay and your sticking your dirty fingers in my food!” Now mom’s hands as well as her face raised to the ceiling.
Maw Maw and I both looked up at the same spot on the ceiling, then at each other. We then both shrugged simultaneously.
“Well, someone’s got a bee in her bonnet.” Maw Maw said with her hands on her hips, “So, Ruthie, what’s up with Hitler over there?” She then popped out her dentures and ran them under the faucet to make sure no stew meat had gotten stuck. This repulsed me and entertained me at the same time. It simply threw mom over the edge and she managed to smack both Maw Maw and me right in the butts with one sharp snap of a dishtowel while pointing to the door.
We went out and set side by side on the porch swing, swatting flies. She decided she couldn’t be bothered putting her teeth back in so she tossed them into the pocket of her bathrobe which caused her mouth to become like an empty cave on her face.
“So, what’s so serious, Maw Maw?”
“Huh, what’s that honey?”
“You said there was something serious.”
We swung back and forth listening to the creaks of the rusting metal chain that supported the old handmade wooden swing, the crickets in the distance, the sound of mom clinking pots in the kitchen and the sound of our own breathing. Maw Maw took a swig of beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand causing additional lipstick smearing. She tilted her head against the back of the swing, causing a few rollers to fall to the ground and looked up at the stars in the pitch-black sky.
She let out a sigh, “Ruthie, I’m seriously old.”
Mom was angry; almost in tears, “I’m in the middle of making dinner, momma.” she said with a clenched jaw, “What is it now? Why are you running around outside half dressed at this hour? Did you forget to take your medicine this evening, and if you did take it, why in God’s name are you washing it down with beer?” She said rubbing her temples.
“Ruthie, did you see to it that your Maw Maw took her medicine this evening?” she yelled at me over her shoulder.
“Yes, mom.” I said, placing the dinner plates out on the table.
“Ruthie, did you sneak Maw Maw one of your dad’s beers this evening?”
I couldn’t help but laugh just a little under my breath. “No mom.”
Mom shook her head, wrung her hands, turned her face up to the ceiling and said a quick silent prayer to St. Jude, her favorite saint of lost causes. Maw Maw winked at me over mom’s shoulder. I winked back. She was a nut job and I loved her.
She followed behind mom and me, stumbling into the kitchen, alternating burps with apologies while readjusting the curlers that had come lose as a result of my mom’s rather violent means of welcoming her into the house.
“Is that chicken stew I smell?” Maw Maw advanced towards the pot simmering on the stove.
“Yes, it is and you know I’ll bring you some when it’s done. There’s no need for you to be roaming the streets at dark half dressed and three shits in the wind.” My mom said yet again looking up to the ceiling for some sort of relief.
“Well, I wouldn’t be if it weren’t serious.” she said sticking her bony finger in the pot of stew and licking it off.
“For crying out loud, would you stop that? You reek of Ben Gay and your sticking your dirty fingers in my food!” Now mom’s hands as well as her face raised to the ceiling.
Maw Maw and I both looked up at the same spot on the ceiling, then at each other. We then both shrugged simultaneously.
“Well, someone’s got a bee in her bonnet.” Maw Maw said with her hands on her hips, “So, Ruthie, what’s up with Hitler over there?” She then popped out her dentures and ran them under the faucet to make sure no stew meat had gotten stuck. This repulsed me and entertained me at the same time. It simply threw mom over the edge and she managed to smack both Maw Maw and me right in the butts with one sharp snap of a dishtowel while pointing to the door.
We went out and set side by side on the porch swing, swatting flies. She decided she couldn’t be bothered putting her teeth back in so she tossed them into the pocket of her bathrobe which caused her mouth to become like an empty cave on her face.
“So, what’s so serious, Maw Maw?”
“Huh, what’s that honey?”
“You said there was something serious.”
We swung back and forth listening to the creaks of the rusting metal chain that supported the old handmade wooden swing, the crickets in the distance, the sound of mom clinking pots in the kitchen and the sound of our own breathing. Maw Maw took a swig of beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand causing additional lipstick smearing. She tilted her head against the back of the swing, causing a few rollers to fall to the ground and looked up at the stars in the pitch-black sky.
She let out a sigh, “Ruthie, I’m seriously old.”
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