The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

For a few months now, I have been reading rather hefty books about biology or consciousness, especially books written by Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett. One day on NPR I heard a discussion about The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot. I was intrigued, so I bought the book.

It's a short book, not even 300 pages, but within those pages is a beautifully rendered biography of an American family coupled with a fascinating description of how scientific research works.

Henrietta Lacks was a very poor African American woman, born in Virginia and living in Baltimore. Because she and her husband had so little money, they could only go to Johns Hopkins hospital, where Henrietta Lacks was diagnosed with cervical cancer. This was in the early 1950s, before the Civil Rights movement, before doctors knew that much about how to treat cancers. There are graphic descriptions of her treatment. Although horrific, she was actually given the best care for that time period. In spite of the care she did receive, Henrietta died.

During the process of her treatment, however, a young doctor, George Gey (pronounced Guy), collected some of her cancer cells to use in his quest for attempting to grow cells in a culture medium.

This was a quest by many researchers of the day, and a quest that could be compared with the quest for the Holy Grail. Not much was known about which culture fed the cells best, or about what conditions the cells needed in order to continue living for an extended length of time. Usually cells would divide and multiply for a short time, only to stop and then die. Henrietta's cells, for some inexplicable reason, not only lived, but thrived. They thrived in almost any condition. Since that time, her cells, labeled HeLa and still very much alive, have been sent into space for studies on space travel, have been used in the discovery of DNA, have helped to find the nature of viruses and how they attach themselves to cells, and countless other research discoveries.

But that is only one small part of the story. Henrietta left behind a husband and five children, all of them haunted by the death of their wife and mother, and later hounded by doctors, reporters and con artists who wanted to either study the entire family as a research project, or to "cash in" on Henrietta's legacy. Included are side bars of social injustice, racial fear, and even Deafness.

The book does a beautiful job of blending scientific research with the personal lives affected. Lack of education, but more importantly, lack of understanding on every side, caused a tragic storm that lasted more than 40 years. The Lacks family was literally blown apart.

And yet, the book is also about redemption and enlightenment. It is the first non-fiction book I've ever read that actually made me laugh, cry and simply delight in awe. By focusing on this one family, Skloot manages to give a vivid picture of twentieth century America, its triumph and its shame. It's one of the most poignant and inspiring books I've ever read.

All I can say is: Thank you, Henrietta.

Just How Does One Grow A Pair?

Have you ever had the feeling like you don't count? It's as if everyone has a special agenda, but you're not on the list.

Maybe you don't ever feel that way, but that's my usual modus operandi. Part of the reason is because I am not very assertive, nor am I very loud. My voice is quiet and I am a rather small person. Sometimes I think I could be the only person in a crowd to yell "Fire" and never get caught.

When someone else is talking, I tend to defer and simply listen. Consequently, I am considered a very good listener. What people often don't know is that sometimes I'm not really listening anymore. I'm either thinking "but, but, but..." or "Geez, when are they going to stop!" But my eyes make contact. I look engaged. I respond accordingly. Sometimes I feel like Homer Simpson listening to Mrs. Crobapple: "blah blah blah blah blah..." I really do have attention deficit issues. It's not that I don't care about what people say. I really do care. I really do listen when people speak. I want to know what's happening. If I can help, I want to do that. It's just that I allow dominant people to take over a conversation, and so then my mind just starts to wander. Conversations really require a give-and-take to be successful conversations.

My passivity has always gotten the best of me. I have deferred to people when they were unscrupulous to me. Even when I knew they were outright wrong or cruel, I just let them say whatever they wanted to say. This is one aspect to my personality that I really want to work on. If someone says something out of line, I need to be able to assert myself. I should call their attention to it.

I'm just a little tired of being seen as a kitchen mop. But as long as I don't speak up for myself, I'll keep getting sopping wet.

When a Man Loves a Woman

This is my open letter to all men.

I want to start by paraphrasing First Corinthians 13:

"Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does NOT insist on having its own way. It is not resentful or angry. It does not rejoice in the wrong but rejoices in the right."

If you love a woman, you will treat her with respect. You will be truthful with her, even when you've done something you shouldn't have. She has a right to know what's going on with you. She has a right to help to make meaningful decisions for the two of you, or for your family. She's your family, too, even if you're not married yet.

When you're angry, even if it's at something she did, you will simply state that the behavior made you angry. Let her be a part of the change. Do not yell, or accuse, or be sarcastic. She is your help-mate, and most probably the mother of your children. Show her you love her by showing some respect.

Respect is the overriding trait here. If you don't show respect, then you don't deserve respect.

Let me tell you how I work. I am not a stupid woman. I do not appreciate jokes about flakiness, or PMS or menopause. These are rude, crude and beneath your dignity, and mine. When you make these kinds of jokes, you are really saying you don't think I measure up, that you think you are better than I am at something. You make yourself less of a person by exercising superiority. You also show ignorance of biology, and a flagrant prejudice.

I personally celebrate the English language by using "hip" vernacular. However, I use these terms full-well knowing that they may not be grammatically correct. I have a degree in English, for God's sake. Of course I know when something is grammatically correct or not. If you make fun of the way I talk, it just shows that you have issues with insecurity and that you lack a compassionate sense of humor.

When I make a decision about politics or about current events, I do so only after careful consideration and lots of research. Do NOT argue with me without having solid facts to back up what you say. When I share information with you, I do it in the spirit of sharing. I am not trying to change your mind or challenge you. To say "ALL you liberals..." or "You left-wingers..." only shows your insecurity and your own lack of knowledge, not to mention the fact that when you generalize, you are once again stepping into the realm of prejudice and stereotyping.

I am an honest person. I do not lie, cheat, or fool around. However, I am fiercely independent. When I want to go somewhere, or if I have to work odd hours, I will do so. I don't need anyone worrying about me, fussing over me, or accusing me of being unsafe. I don't need anyone to "take care of" me. I am quite sufficient to myself, thank you.

When I cry, that means I am truly upset, perhaps even inconsolably so. That means BACK OFF. Let me work through whatever it is. And if I am angry with something you did, I will tell you so. I expect you to listen and then state your own case calmly. I believe in sharing and in two-way streets.

But the minute you show jealousy, the minute you accuse me of something I didn't do, then it's over.

Most especially, if you call me "Bitch" or "Sorry" or "Worthless," then I don't have to deal with you. I will be out of your life. If you say "I hope you die," then I will be dead to you. I will break off all contact with you. You are not worth my time. And you, on the other hand, need some serious attitude adjustment. You can't say you love a woman and then call her names. That's not love. That's abuse. No woman needs to take that. No REAL man would do that. In fact, if you really love someone, those kinds of names or accusations would never occur to you. They would never enter your head, no matter how angry you might be at a given situation.

Words are just as damaging as slaps and hits. I choose not to be a victim--EVER.

Finally, if you are divorced from a woman, then she doesn't owe you an explanation for ANYTHING. She is not your venting service, or your confidant, or the punching bag for you to drunk dial.

So if you think you can get a rise out of me by sending me ugly emails or text messages, think again. If I have written you off, then I have written you off. You are no more. You are a small person with a small mind, so you can just keep your head in the sand.

Goodbye to you!!!

Good Days, Bad Days

Today was a good day for my mom. She was awake and alert and making jokes with the other residents at Heritage Square. The other day, however, I walked in to find her sound asleep in her chair with her nebulizer in her lap, the machine running fast and furious. I turned it off and woke her up--well, tried to wake her up. She was really out of it. So much so, that today she had no recollection of my visit at all from last week.

It's not easy watching a parent growing old. With my dad it was a little different, because he had Alzheimer's. Regardless of how difficult it is to live with an Alzheimer's patient, there is still an expectation, or anticipation of what is to come. He began showing signs in his late seventies. By the time he was 84, he was basically incapacitated. Not that Alzheimer's is an easy thing to deal with. For me, emotionally, it was gut-wrenchingly hard. I had a very close connection with my dad. Watching my dad slip away in tiny increments was one of the hardest things for me to deal with. At that time I lived 200 miles away and I was going through menopause. It made for a perfect storm of guilt, frustration, depression and just downright sadness. I'm still very apologetic to my daughter, who was starting college just at that time. I completely lost my mind with grief and anxiety and was not much support for her.

Be that as it may, my dad had a certifiable disease, something that we could all point to and say: "Ah, this is why THAT happened..." By the time my dad died, my entire family breathed a sigh of relief. That's not because we wanted my dad dead. Not in the least. But Alzheimer's is one of those diseases that affects the whole family. It was a strain on my sister and me, and certainly a strain on my mom, who tried very hard to be the primary caretaker for him. I am convinced that most of my mother's physical problems stem directly from trying to take care of my dad for so long. He lived six or seven years with Alzheimer's; the last three years he was unable to dress himself or feed himself. My mother took care of his every need as best as she could. Even when we moved them both to assisted living, she got breakfast for him, fed him, and dressed him herself.

My sister and I were both so busy working and taking care of our own families to help that much. During that time period, Rosemary lived very close to where they lived, so that she could pop in for a visit almost every day. I, on the other hand, lived in Austin. I was teaching 180 students at a school that simply didn't believe teachers needed any time off. My husband was an alcoholic and battling his own demons of bi-polar disorder. Like I said, it was a perfect storm of crazy for me. I was paralyzed emotionally. Not a day goes by when I don't have to stop and try to forgive myself for the grief. I was in no position to offer much help to my mom then. At the same time, I continually have to battle that little voice that gnaws away at me inside that says "You should have been there. You could have done more..."

Ah, but that's all water under a very old bridge.

Now I am less than 30 minutes away from my mom. I do go by and see her every couple of days. But the grief doesn't get any smaller. I watch my mom's body fall apart. Her mind is still sharp. But she's depressed and lonely and most of the time in pain. She has osteo-arthritis and spondylitis. She has frequent recurrent bouts of gout and cellulitis. For a while she was mis-diagnosed with Type II diabetes. Her doctor accidentally ordered too much insulin for her, and twice she almost died. Thank goodness, he came to his senses.

And here I am now. I am fiercely protective of my mother. Anyone can attest to the fact that I advocate on her behalf at any opportunity, so much so that some of my co-workers in the interpreting field start to get a little uneasy when I open my mouth.

But part of my temerity comes from the fact that both Mother and Daddy were and are Deaf. Having Deaf parents comes with its own set of issues, more than I care to deal with in this blog.

Suffice it to say that I grew up as a caretaker of sorts. I had to advocate for my parents at a very young age, and there were many unscrupulous people who took advantage of me and of my parents, and I tend to be a little on the protective side.

The overriding emotion I have now, though, is that I don't want to repeat what happened with my dad all over again. I was so hoping that my mom could live out her years a little happier than she is now, a little healthier than she is now. She was always such a lively and vivacious person. She loved to go places and do things. She used to really love life.

That's why now when I visit, I am satisfied with a smile and a conversation. Today, she was smiling, asking questions and involved in conversation. Today was a good day.

Poetry and the Mind's I

I used to think of myself as quite the poet. I love to read poetry. I love going to poetry readings and listening to other poets. There's just something about narrowing down everything you want to say into 20 lines or less. Every concept is magnified, and becomes super-real. The trick is getting to that kernel, finding that apex, without getting lost in a bunch of words. A good poet looks at life with a microscope. Inside that membrane of words are individual nuclei of meaning--as difficult to explain as consciousness. The more I explore consciousness, the more abstruse and cryptic it becomes.

The more I explore meaning in poetry, the more inscrutable it seems to be, until it almost loses meaning. And yet, the poem itself is significant. All expressions of art are significant. Why? Why is it that we strive so hard to create a work of art, only to hide it away? The fact that we begin the piece shows that we are taking an initial step to connect with others around us, to express how we feel at a given moment. I have an idea and I want to share that idea with others. Yet, for me, almost as soon as I get started, I stop myself and second-guess what I am about to do. I get lost in the words and lose the meaning. How can that be? If I am expressing how I feel, how is it that I don't believe that I'm really expressing myself correctly? Derrida says that any work of art is owned by the beholder. It shouldn't be up to me to decide if my art is "correct" or not. As soon as the words hit the page, that poem belongs to whoever reads it. The reader imbues the poem with meaning, not the poet.

So with that in mind, I am going to upload a few poems I have written in the past. They used to belong to me. Now they are yours:

TOO PERFECT

(written 2009)

“Watch,” said the magician

With a dead pan expression on his face,

His hands do a pass on pass:

Six of hearts,

Four of spades,

Oh that’s my card.

We are all gathered around the table

Watching his hands move with lightning speed,

Each of us thinks we will be the one to spot the trick.

You take my hand.

Ace under glass.

Dai Vernon once set out

On a quest to find the center dealer,

The perfect card sharp,

The prestige.

In Kansas City

He found a gambler who lost the ultimate bet: Too perfect.

The trick is lost if no one knows what you’re doing.

Now you and I sit at the table watching the magician

And we marvel at the way illusion is presented.

The true art is not so much in the sleight of hand--

A trick is a trick--

But in the presentation of options

Of miracles,

Wonders

We want to believe.

You cut your hair,

Rent a car,

Hold the glass of scotch in such a way

That the ice swishes in the drink without a noise.

We wear our evening clothes,

We talk of love and kisses,

And gaze admiringly into each other’s eyes.

These are all illusions, too.

Even the magician wears a tuxedo with a tear-away back.

And yet we don’t want total honesty

We want a gentle subterfuge

A little pass on pass

Diverting our attention from the trump card

That rests on the edge of the mundane.

Tomorrow will be the day for the fights and accusations.

But right now, don’t tell me how you really feel,

Tell me what you think I want to hear.

That ace just appeared under that glass

Out of nowhere.

Learning to Say Goodbye

(written 1999)

My father fell down in the parking lot

Not bad: his hips, his bones were still intact;

Just shaken by the incident they said.

I sat there with him on the curb a while.

This man who was once all my world, my Dad--

Strong hands, proud smile and given to flirtations

Who took off work to take me to the fair--

Now stripped of anything remotely human

Reduced to drool and blood and vacuous grin,

His mind lost to disease four years ago.

A secret that his body never shared

Which shuffles on in its robotic stupor.

His tethered soul must wait so patiently

Until the body understands it's free.

Shadow and Fill

(written 2007)

Julie likes to sit on her deck and smoke early in the morning.

She inhales deeply and lets the smoke

fill up the silence with the visual noise of clouds and swirls.

She has lived her life in shadows quietly biding her time,

reptilian in her movements,

sliding into action in the dark of night.

Only when she is alone does she find true strength or resolve.

Julie lights another cigarette and holds her sway

in the mental argument she has

with all of those transgressors,

all those enemies of her state of being.

Ruthless, serpentine, she coils and strikes.

She smiles with deadly confidence.

That is, until the sun comes up

with the static and sputter of a new day

when she slides back into her body

which is cumbersome and large.

She needs her body to shield her

from the heat of day.

She hides beneath it like a cool rock.

Julie starts the morning coffee

with stiff, robotic movements.

The discord of the sunlight hurts her eyes.

She bakes biscuits, packs lunches,

sees her husband off to work

with a terse kiss and strained smile.

Then as she rides the bus to work,

she closes her eyes to contemplate the shadows.

She watches her thoughts go

slithering out the window,

sliding down the gutter,

into darkness,

into power.

The man in the seat next to her

sees a matron with a touch of gray,

her hands folded neatly in her lap.

He notices a strange serenity on her face.

Julie is grinning

because just now she is underneath the streets.

She is lithe and sinuous

and she is gliding down the staircase to her lair.

She has taken prisoners and circles the cages

keenly aware of the feel of cool reflective metal

on her skin.

Julie is immanently seductive.

Even the floor liquefies beneath her.

The darkness caresses her.

Here, Julie is raw,

and glistens with an oily power.

And those poor souls in the cages—

Some are limp and desiccated,

empty shells.

She ate them whole.

And then there are her prizes.

She will sip them slowly.

First her husband’s hands,

her neighbor’s breasts.

They will have no choice but to

watch her with those dread-filled eyes

as she quietly dismembers parts

and feeds.

She has seduced them into trance.

Upstairs, in the daylight

Julie will wear her body like an overcoat.

She will smile sweetly as she walks

past others.

She will sit at her carrel and work very hard,

all the while grinning

because tomorrow she will dye her hair

with a chiaroscuro venom.

She will shed her skin, scales gleaming.

And no one, not even the sun

will keep her from her prey.

Wanted: My Personal Eschatalogical Laundry List

I have been divorced now for three years. Some of my friends have been encouraging me to date. I am not so sure about that. Yes, I get lonely some times. It would be very nice to have somebody to come home to, to do things with. But I'm just not ready. And I'm not sure I ever will be.

Lately I've been thinking about why that is. Here is what I've come up with:

First of all, I have extremely high standards set for myself. My standards are so high that I frequently let myself down. If I can't even live up to my own standards, how can any one else? I try not to think of myself as judgmental, but I do judge myself quite strictly. This makes life with me unbearable at times. I like things clean. I like order. I hate surprises.

Secondly, I'm smart. I mean, I'm scary smart. I read at least one book a week on average, usually non-fiction. In particular I've been fascinated with aspects of teleology and consciousness. I read philosophy and theology books for fun. Although, I never thought of myself as very intelligent until recently, when I actually did start conversations with potential suitors. For so many years I tended to defer my own opinions for fear that I might be denigrated. Not only that, but I hid my intelligence from others. I felt like I could make a lot more friends playing "dumb." This was rather easy for me to do, since I am a bit scattered sometimes, and live conversations with people make me flustered. I don't feel safe when I'm talking directly to someone. I feel much safer hiding behind a keyboard. But I can't very well have complete conversations through writing, can I? Then again, when I do get into a conversation with someone, they get a little uneasy when I begin giving my honest opinions. I see things so much differently than most people. For me, everything is a part of a greater system. I see the "whole" of things. I deal with plenum, not qualia. I see how things should go much easier than I can how things are. Kind of hard to carry on a conversation with someone in past tense.

Furthermore, I have a quirky belief system that doesn't exactly fit with the status quo. I am a secular Buddhist with just a little sprinkle of Jesus. I do not define myself as a Christian, although I do believe that Christ's teachings set a perfect example for people to follow. I just believe that Jesus' divinity is irrelevant. Divinity in general is irrelevant. Like Jesus, Buddha set down a perfect example of how we should see this plane of existence and live accordingly. There is very little difference between the eight-fold path and the teachings of Jesus. Unfortunately, most Christians don't tend to follow those teachings. Hence, I gave up on Christianity long ago. For me, that is very sad. It seems to me that if Christians actually followed the teachings of Jesus, this would be a beautifully different world. Both Jesus and Buddha taught to have an acceptance of what is. Accepting what is--not expecting what could or should be--that is what gives a person serenity.

Ah, funny that I just said that, since this whole blog is bemoaning the fact that I don't have a "soul-mate!"

Okay, so you got me there.

Here's my solution. My personal want-ad:

Male, age 50+, preferably 60. Must be well educated, preferably a Master's degree or better. Must be well read. I would really like someone who has a career in the sciences, like physics or biology. Must love his work. He loves his work so much that he leaves me free to do pretty much as I please, because I love my work, too. We will have to make arrangements to spend time together. That would be fine with me.

He must be comfortable in his own skin. He is confident, without being arrogant. He is open to new ideas and loves sharing ideas. He is inventive and creative. He sees obstacles as opportunities. He is not threatened by alternative views, but rather enjoys exploring issues and researching before arriving at any judgments or conclusions.

He is grounded. He might be a little flaky or curmudgeonly at times, but knows what he is doing and why. He is just skeptic enough never to get swept up in any trend.

It would be awfully nice if he spoke with a British accent, but I realize that might be too much to ask, especially adding in there some knowledge about Deafness or American Sign Language. The understanding about Deafness is vital for me. But that British accent is just so darn sexy.

So now, after I've written this, I can see why I am alone. Ah, well. Tonight I will dream of Mr. Professor, with his silver hair and clipped Cambridge accent, drinking his tea and imagining a woman---like me.

I'm a grown up!

This past weekend I celebrated my 40th high school reunion. I thought about going through all the usual angst about planning, making decorations, the friends I lost touch with, and all of that, but what struck me about the weekend was the fact that periodically, someone would mention a teacher's name: a teacher that did one thing special, or who lent a helping hand, or who was just a very good teacher. So, as I drink my glass of wine, with each sip I'm going to toast teachers I have known. I'm paying special tribute to my own teachers, who may not have known just how vital they were to me.

To Mrs. Waggoner and Mrs. Spencer, my kindergarten teachers. I don't remember what they did, or how they did it, but I was reading by the time I entered first grade. My most vivid memory of kindergarten was the play areas, complete with castle, kitchen, costumes, and props. School was a happy place for me then, and I think that set the stage for my attitude toward education in general.

To Mrs. Swadley in first grade, who made us all begin reading the daily newspaper by circling the words we knew. By the end of the year, I could read any newspaper. She was a large woman with a very big heart. She had no qualms about hugging or cuddling, and I don't think she ever knew an unkind word.

To Mrs. Joekel in fourth grade, who was a Lutheran and took the time to explain to me who Martin Luther was and the differences between the Lutheran Church and the Baptist Church. I don't think a teacher would ever venture into that territory anymore, but I was excessively curious, and had never known anything but Baptists or Catholics. She was patient and was able to discuss theology on a fourth-grade level without being condescending or patronizing. As kids that age often do, I asked questions rather boldly. She answered my questions directly without being flustered or exasperated. I found it quite refreshing to know that there were other Christian sects. That discovery also helped me to begin my own spiritual journey for a belief system that worked for me.

To Mr. Garrett in the seventh grade, who taught science. Because of Mr. Garrett I learned about the atom, quantum mechanics, evolution, and astronomy. He loved science intensely, and because he did love science so much, we loved science, too. It's a wonderful gift, to be able to convey to others that passion for learning. I am also grateful to him for teaching evolution in a matter-of-fact way, helping to dispel the mythic Darwin and mistaken interpretations of Darwin's theories, and explaining just how evolution happens in nature. I never questioned the validity of evolution. There are many my age who do. Thank you, Mr. Garrett, for helping me to be just skeptical enough not to let misplaced faith cloud my judgement.

To Mr. Wallis, my ninth-grade World History teacher. The man looked so much like Ray Walston to me (of "My Favorite Martian" fame) and his attitude was so much like Ray Walston's teacher character in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." He was just sarcastic enough to make class interesting, but strict enough to keep us in line. I can still remember him leaning up against the radiator with his arms crossed. I remember he liked to cross his arms and tuck his hands under his armpits. Funny how that image is so persistent in my memory. He didn't really teach from the text book (a very good thing in Texas). He read passages to us from biographies, historical records, and from a book called "The Rise and Fall of Practically Everybody." I can still remember whole lectures he gave. That's a pretty good testament, seeing how it's been 45 years. Because of Mr. Wallis, I had a pretty strong working knowledge of how cultures, cities, civilizations grow and develop. This translated into my ability to see how systems work, including business operations and political parties. When I was in high school in the late sixties, I correctly predicted the eventual fall of the Iron Curtain and the dismantling of the U.S.S.R. It wasn't because I was psychic, or even particularly smart, but Mr. Wallis gave me that ability to foresee how Soviet policy was self-destructive, based on comparisons with previous civilizations. He was a great teacher and a great guy.

To Mr. Thrasher, my high school English teacher. One morning he caught me scribbling my initials on my desk. He could easily have taken me to the principal's office, but instead, he simply said "You need something challenging to do," and proceeded to hand me a copy of James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Most people think it's a dreadful book. Somehow Mr. Thrasher knew I would get the greater meaning hidden within the stream of consciousness. I think I read the book within two hours. Later that afternoon I bounced into his room proclaiming how I was, like Stephen Daedelus, going to become a writer and move to France. I was so full of enthusiasm. He calmly said, "Well, if you liked that one, perhaps you should read Ullyses, and then perhaps The Dubliners." I spent my sophomore year with James Joyce. I moved on to Faulkner and then into Russian novels. I would continue visiting his room even in my junior and senior year, discussing with him books I read and what I got out of them. He loved a good debate, and debated with a calm voice, even if I said something controversial, which I was apt to do. I was into shock value. I wanted to call attention to myself, because I felt so inept and pathetic. But after talking to Mr. Thrasher, I always felt like I was unique and gifted. I'm not the only person that felt that way about him. At the reunion, Mr. Thrasher's name came up over and over, spoken with reverence and deep affection. One person said that he was thinking heavily about quitting school altogether, except that he had Mr. Thrasher for English his senior year, and that Mr. Thrasher encouraged him to go into business as a college major. Mr. Thrasher spoke to his students with respect and understanding. He knew how to encourage using what we knew. Thanks to him, I majored in English, taught English, and still read copiously to this day. Some teachers give you some facts. But others, like Mr. Thrasher, open doors.

To Miss Burgoon--High School Sociology. Honestly, her greatest attribute at that time was the fact that she was so young. She couldn't have been more than five years older than we were. She was so optimistic, so full of ideas. We were her training ground. She crossed boundaries, and I think she probably got in trouble for that (from the administration) which is too bad. Miss Burgoon loved LOVE. She was amazingly candid and open about herself and about life. She didn't know it at the time I had her as a teacher, but I was extremely depressed and suicidal. I was latching on to anything that would just keep me alive for one more day. At one of my darkest moments, she asked me to go out to dinner with her. (See what I mean about crossing boundaries?) At dinner, she told me about her relationship with her boyfriend, which at that time wasn't going very well. For me, it was a pinnacle moment. I was in a miserable relationship with a manipulative psychopath. By simply telling me how she was dealing with her boyfriend, I realized that relationships are just hard. I wish I could say I was then empowered by her words to break up with my boyfriend and to make healthier decisions. I did none of those things. I was on a dark path and just kept going. But she did help me to realize I wasn't alone, and that I had merit, as a woman and as a human being. So here's an extra one to you, Miss Burgoon!!! I heard that the year following my senior year, she got a job with a Montessori School. I hope she's happy and that she still may have a few fond memories of GPHS.

I know other people at my reunion had teachers that I didn't. Debbie talked about Mrs. Carletti, who spent nights and weekends tutoring Debbie, not only during high school, but when Debbie was taking college algebra. George credits his love of science and engineering to Mr. Puckett. He was one of the "cool" teachers who played in a band and invited kids to his place to jam. He came to a party at my house once and made "zilchers." It's a way of setting a trash bag on fire so that as the plastic melts, it makes a great "zipping" noise. Quite the highlight of the party, I must say.

I know the guys loved Avery Miller in metal shop. He had a penchant for bawdy jokes. So I'm drinking my last gulps to those three. Even though I personally never had them as teachers, they should know they had a positive influence on people around me.

Teaching was one of the hardest, yet most profound job I've ever had. I loved the kids. Even when I was so angry I could spit, I still loved them. I love them to this day. I can only hope that I had half the influence on some of my students that my teachers had on me.

And with that, I am drunk. I will now go to bed!!!

How to De-Accelerate Decrepitude

When I first moved back to the Dallas area, I had a lot of mixed emotions. My initial plan was to get closer to my family. I had spent so much of my youth trying to "get away." I wanted to prove myself, to set my own destiny. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, that's another story, isn't it? Anyway,

now that my dad had passed away and my mom is so frail, I thought this would be a good time to reconnect with my sister. Perhaps I had misconceptions about her as she might have about me. We could finally get close. Maybe be friendly to each other. I had visions of outings with her and her kids and grandkids; visions of my nephew dropping off the girls to be with their Aunt Sara. But none of that panned out quite like I thought.

Unfortunately, neither sister has any misconceptions. We are so completely different in wrong ways, and yet so eerily alike in wrong ways. We just don't match up. It's a very sad thing, to know that you're born into a family of strangers. I had always felt like I was a female Meursault, from The Stranger. In fact, when I first read that book, I thought "Wow. So there really are other families like mine!" For some reason, Rosemary and I both suffer from an intense inability to properly emote. I'm probably more emotionally expressive than she is, but the fact is that for both of us, when the going gets tough, we withdraw. She and I are both the very people necessary in a time of crisis. Perhaps she and I would have made good nurses, or generals. When a really bad thing happens, we spring into action, take decisive measures and work with whatever we have.

Or so I thought. Truth is, we both simply don't know how to handle ourselves in times of crises, and our coping mechanism is to literally jump out of our skins and become someone else entirely. Weird, huh? But this has come in handy lately. We've had several bouts of my mom getting dangerously ill.

But on a day to day basis, she and I just don't get along. I find her repressed and cold. She finds me flaky and irresponsible. Neither one of us is willing to open up and let the other one in. We're still strangers from the same family. Like that old joke: I'm an only child, and if you don't believe me ask my sister. Ah, well. Such is life.

So if I can't get close to my family like I thought, who can I reconnect with? I became nostalgic for the kids I went to school with. Coming from a small town, there were friends I knew since kindergarten. Many of them never left town, and I craved that acceptance. I needed to align myself with people: to network.

When I lived in Austin, I had it pretty good for the most part. I had a good job as an educational interpreter for ACC and TSU. My work environment was probably the best anyone could ever ask for. I was tutoring ESL students in writing. My former students from Round Rock High School stayed in touch with me and gave me that blessed reassurance that I was a good teacher, a good person to know. That's a very hard thing to leave behind.

So I find myself in Grand Prairie trying to reestablish what I had in Austin. Major setbacks. I don't really know anybody. As fate would have it, my new insurance agent turned out to be my best friend from high school. She was my first contact. Patricia is vibrant, assertive and really so much fun. So that was one small hurdle.

Then I found Cheryl, another friend of mine from high school. Cheryl is intelligent, resourceful and has a quiet grace about her that makes her so enjoyable to be with. Through Cheryl I've gotten back in touch with some other folks, such as Skip Johnson, whose mother used to take me to school. I had known Skip since kindergarten. He's now an insurance salesman by day and a rock bassist by night. His wife, although from Houston, knows the complete history of Grand Praire ISD.

Other people I've gotten to see briefly are Roxann Combs, who used to live down the street from me; Mike Brown, who is just the nicest person on this planet; Vickie Holland, who I used to believe was the epitome of beauty (and, well, she's still quite a beautiful person). Thanks to Facebook, I've found a number of old classmates, many of them right here in town.

Then there's David Read. How can I describe him? He's a force to be reckoned with. He's an entrepreneur, a writer, producer, salesman. He likes to have coffee at the Brass Bean. So do a lot of Grand Prairie folks. So I find myself having coffee with him and then before I know it, David and I are planning our 40th high school reunion.

At first it seemed like a great idea. Nothing to it, right? Just pick a couple of places and "Voila!" He picked one place; I picked another. So easy. The cool kids will now look at all my wonderful work that they didn't have to do and then I will be looked at with new respect and admiration. But how do we contact people? How do we know who's coming? What will those former cool kids think? What will people think about not including them on the planning? There wasn't any planning. We just kind of made things up as we went along. Isn't there an alumni association that's supposed to be doing this?

Wait a minute! I was not one of the cool kids. I was not popular. I didn't even have a letter jacket. In fact, my most vivid recollections of my senior year were of me trying to keep from killing myself. What the Hell am I doing planning this stupid party? For the past month I've been vascillating between "Oh my God!!! I must do this right or else..." and "Ah, fuck 'em!" I don't even know if I will recognize anyone or if anyone will recognize me. I don't know what to wear. I feel foolish and impotent.

And yet, I want to go. I want to dance. I know I'm almost sixty, but I don't care. I don't really think of myself as old. I just want to let loose and have fun.

We'll see what Friday brings.

Ten Questions to ask an Alien

I am currently reading Carl Sagan's Demon Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark. As I read the book, I am reminded of what a truly wonderful man Carl Sagan was. As my friend said, Sagan was the Mr. Rogers of science. On television he showed us how beautiful the cosmos is. He wrote and spoke with such an infectious enthusiasm, that after reading any of his books, I came away feeling not just informed, but enlightened, as if I had just attended a seminar where he personally instructed. He had a reverence and an awe for nature, and wanted so much to be among the first to actually make contact with an alien life form--regardless of what that life form might be like.

It's not surprising, then, that he was beleaguered by a wide assortment of well-meaning people who purported to have been in contact with aliens. As Sagan notes, he was often asked "Do you believe in UFOs?" To him that was the wrong question, because it is a question of belief, of faith, and not of evidence or hard science. A better question would have been "How valid is the evidence that UFOs are actually alien spacecraft?" But no one would ask him that question.

To his lament, he says in the book that people today who would ordinarily be skeptics, or humanists, cling to the magical thinking of New Age metaphysics and alien abductions. To them, religion no longer satisfies that need to dispel mystery, to provide solace. Somehow, this trust in alien intervention does.

From time to time he would be approached by people who claimed to be in contact with intelligent alien entities. They would ask Sagan to think of any question, because the aliens were so much more advanced. He would ask for a proof of Fermat's last theorem. Apparently, the aliens didn't have an answer for that.

Then Sagan suggests there be a contest of ten things to ask an alien. But what can you ask an alien, I wonder? First off, that's taking on the assumption that this alien entity is more intelligent than we are. What is intelligence, anyway? Would aliens be bothered by aⁿ+bⁿ=cⁿ only if the positive integers are greater than 2? Would aliens use the same math? We see the universe as computational. But we may be limiting ourselves to computation and ignoring maybe greater laws of physics, ones that we haven't recognized. We understand gravity; we understand the speed of light. But physicists are often presented with quandary about observations of things that don't quite fit. Tachyons, for example. Tachyons cease to exist before they exist because they travel faster than the speed of light. So how do we know they're there? Would aliens be able to laugh patronizingly at us and say "Ah, you poor Earthlings. Don't you see that the speed of light is really only constant in a three-dimensional universe?"

How would aliens communicate with us? We assume that somehow they would learn to speak English. What if aliens are trying to communicate with us on a cellular level? What if viruses were really alien essays? How do we know aliens aren't desperately asking us for answers now?

I remember as a child learning that sound waves were really on the same continuum as light waves. I thought then about aliens who could see microwaves and sound waves. If there were such creatures, the Earth must look like a convoluted mess to them, with snarls of microwaves everywhere.

Another problem with asking an alien a question is recognizing there's a life form in the first place. How do we know that there isn't already life discovered on Mars or on the Moon? Right now on Earth we are discovering life forms that 50 years ago we were told couldn't have survived, but these life forms thrive. There are the sulphur cave worms. There are tiny organisms that live within grains of sand. There are life forms in dense saline "wells" in the ocean. We make an awful lot of assumptions about what constitutes life: that it's carbon-based, that it respires, that it replicates. How do we know that life requires these aspects?

If we discover bacteria on Mars, or methane-breathing worms on Titan, what questions could we ask then? What can you ask a bacteria?

These questions all seem childish. Yet, I think they are valid. Like Sagan, I would love to find out that Earth is not the only planet that has living organisms. I would love to know we're not alone. And yet, our search for alien life forms is so much like our search for proof of biblical events. We spend a lot of time making assumptions about a paradigm that keeps shifting. In essence, our search for aliens really is our search for a confirmation of God. We may be looking for footprints by someone who has no feet.

Accelerated Decrepitude

When it comes to politics, I usually vote Democrat. For years I called myself a Socialist, although I know full well that Socialism died with Sartre in 1980. I'm sure he sat by its bedside during those last few years of sputtering and coughing. No easy thing, to watch your ideology die. France was that last great hope, and when Sartre died, so did that hope. True existentialism: being, then nothingness.

Meanwhile, in the United States, we voted for a conservative Republican movie actor. That was the final death nail for any hope of social change in the United States. Unfortunately, for me, I was too wrapped up in being “mommy” to pay much attention. All I knew then—as did so many others my age—was that the world was a scary place to raise children, and I just wanted safety, security, and sweetness to surround my baby girl. I was just so busy changing diapers and watching Sesame Street that I let activism go. I let collectivism go. No more rallies, no more marches. Just a walk in the park with the stroller. Intellectually, I fell into a deep sleep. In that sleep I dreamed I was a good mother creating a safe environment in which to raise my child. Now I feel as if I have awakened from a coma. I find myself living in a country I don’t recognize anymore. I don’t trust anyone anymore. I am continually in a state of ennui, at best, or despair, at worst.

I cry for the BP oil spill. I cry for the wildlife that will soon go extinct, and for the life forms that we will never know about because we’ve already killed them. I cry for the plight of women in countries that continue to allow disfiguration. I cry for the victims of suicide bombers. I cry for the misguided souls who murder in the name of their god. I cry, because I am powerless. I am defenseless against a huge, corporate machine. I am angry, but my anger is impotent.

There was a time when I was so full of hope. I loved the show “Star Trek” because it showed us a future that was wonderful, filled with people who were adventuresome and innovative. Captain Kirk showed us that social democracy could work, not just in the United States, but in the Cosmos. During that time I really trusted people to make the right decisions, that sooner or later, the whole planet Earth would realize that life was so much better once we ALL became democratic. I have to admit, that was another component of my comatose dream. Unlike others I know, I did wake up. I did not become a neo-con. I now know that social democracy is a tenuous endeavor. It is so fragile, in fact, that it can disappear before our very eyes, and we don’t even notice.

Socialism is an elegant and beautiful idea, with one serious flaw. As a political system, it can only work in a fully cooperative and collective society. Very few humans are willing to work cooperatively and collectively. Perhaps there are hunter-gatherer tribes in Africa that do so. Even so, I'm sure that there's a lot of bickering and squabbling over who should be entitled to what. Plus, hunter-gatherer groups are usually very small. Twenty people may be able to pull off collectively making decisions, but any group bigger than that will have at least one bully, one person that feels a little more entitled than the others.

This is where I feel great sadness for the state of mankind. In a way, I think we have a built-in propensity to self-destruct. The other day my daughter and I were having a discussion about the role of the government in regulating business. She said that we should really look at corporations the way we look at unruly children. We would not trust children to govern themselves; yet we not only trust, but expect corporations to govern themselves. Our government has severely let us down in that regard. There are no regulations that truly protect us, and then when corporations do really bad things—Enron, for example—we are hurt and surprised. So now that millions of gallons of oil are leaking into the Gulf of Mexico, we slap the hands of B.P. and other oil companies. We can shut the company down if we want to, but that still wouldn’t bring back all the lives (human as well as animals) that were lost, not to mention the livelihoods that were lost. The point is that the accident was preventable, and steps should have already been taken so that this kind of accident wouldn’t have happened in the first place. In the same vein, regulations and enforcement should have already been in place to prevent the real estate bust. Regulations and enforcement should have already been in place to prevent the coal mine disasters. Regulations and enforcement should have already been in place to prevent the tragedy of Katrina.

A friend of mine, who tends to vote Republican, brought up an interesting fact. He said “People seem to have a misguided concept of what small government means. When I say that I want small government, I mean I don’t want the government in my house. I don’t want the government telling me what to wear, who to marry, how I wear my hair, or what I choose to do for recreation. But I DO want the government to make sure that the food I eat is safe, that I can go to the hospital when I’m sick and be sure that I’ll be given good care. I DO want the government to protect our kids from harm.”

Our government is simply doing a piss-poor job at its prime directive: to guarantee its citizens those basic rights of life, liberty, and property (I know, the terminology is “pursuit of happiness” but John Locke said “property” and I’m sticking to that, because it is the “pursuit of happiness” part that got us into trouble in the first place).

The fact is, our “democratic” government hasn’t been truly democratic since 1972. We vote for bumper stickers, not policy. We sleep to the hum of CNN, FOX, and MSNBC. We have allowed government to be a subsidiary of a major corporative network. We’re not even shareholders anymore. We’re squatters on our own land.

I don’t have a solution. I only have a sense of doom. I feel like this wonderful endeavor called “democracy” has a big neon sign on it: FAIL. Even the neon is leaking out of it. The “F” is gone, so the sign says “ AIL.”

So Happy Bastille Day. C’est la vie. C’est la guerre. C’est la mort.

Sit Beside the Breakfast Table

This is my very first blog. I'm not entirely sure what to write at this moment. My daughter assures me that this process is very therapeutic. I could use a little therapy. My life hasn't exactly been ideal. But then, whose life is ideal? Most everyone I've ever been in contact with has had serious problems, overwhelming obstacles to overcome, issues that get in the way. I suppose that's part of the human condition.

That's the crux of what this blog is going to be about: the human condition, and my miniscule part in it. I guess you could say I've been wrestling with a crisis of faith. So many things have been happening recently, to me, to my body, to my relationships with people. I feel like I'm changing, but I don't know what I'm changing to.

Last summer about this time, I was diagnosed with an arachnoid cyst. The pictures on my MRI were daunting, to say the least: a bubble of spinal fluid 9 cm. long and 4 cm. wide resting comfortably over my right frontal lobe. The first question, of course, was what to do about it. After talking to two neurologists and two neurosurgeons, my decision was to do nothing. Whatever damage the cyst might have done when it first appeared has already been done. The rest of my brain has compensated. Fenestration doesn't guarantee that the cyst won't come back. I decided that this cyst is part of who I am. As far as we know, it has stopped growing and isn't compressing the brain.

But that discovery, that who I am is not exactly who I thought I was, set me on a strange journey. At first I followed the expected rout of studying arachnoid cysts, joining support groups, etc. But I began to wonder about how much interaction this cyst had with my brain during crucial parts of my development. How much of my personality is because of my genetics, my culture, my experiences? And how much of my personality is because while I was a small child this literal bubble of fluid pressed on the parts of my brain that govern impulse control, decision-making, and mood?

My next course of action was to read psychology books. I decided most psychologists don't really know what they're talking about. There's a lot of "Woo" science out there. Because I don't particularly believe in magic, I don't exactly trust the words of psycho-therapists. Besides, I've known therapists on a personal level. I've never known one to be fully grounded or even mentally healthy. So why would I trust what they say?

One day my daughter suggested I read a book called Consciousness Explained by Daniel Dennett. The book opened up so many new possibilities for me, and bade me ask many more questions. Since that book, I have been consuming books at the rate of at least one a week, maybe more. I read everything I can get my hands on, as long as it tackles the question of being, and of becoming. I've read pretty much everything Dennett has written, and with each book I am more entranced.

The best thing this journey has done for me now is to let me "get out of myself" for a while and explore--as Douglas Adams cleverly wrote--life, the universe and everything.