Category Archives: Social Science

Dante’s Inferno

The bathrooms, clogged and overflowing since Monday, announced the second level of hell, the walkway ringing the entrance level. In the men’s, the urinal troughs were overflowing. In the women’s, the bowls were to the brim. A slime of excrement and urine made the walkway slick. “You don’t even go there anymore,” said Dee Ford, 37, who was pushed in a wading pool from her flooded house to the shelter. “You just go somewhere in a corner where you can. In the dark, you are going to step in poo anyway.”

Water and electricity both failed Monday, and three pumps to pressurize plumbing have been no match “when the lake just keeps pushing it back at us,” said Maj. Ed Bush, the chief public affairs officer for the Louisiana National Guard.

“With no hand-washing, and all the excrement,” said Sgt. Debra Williams, who was staffing the infirmary in the adjacent sports arena, “you have about four days until dysentery sets in. And it’s been four days today.”

Bottled water was too precious to use for washing; adults get two bottles a day. Food, mostly Meals Ready-to-Eat, is dispensed in a different line. Many refugees told of waiting in line for hours only to be told no food was left.

…Walking about the perimeter of the Superdome, in brilliant sunshine and blistering heat, [Major Ed] Bush could take no more than a few steps before angry and pleading residents clutched at him. An elderly woman could not get her thyroid medicine; another needed dialysis. A 3-week-old baby, clad only in a diaper, lay listless in her young mother’s arm. She had a fever.

…The president and the governor both asserted Wednesday that everyone would be moving to a spiffier football stadium. But although Gov. Kathleen Babineaux Blanco had announced at 11 a.m. a plan to evacuate the Superdome to Houston’s Astrodome, Maj. Bush had received no information through mid-afternoon. By his estimate about 15,000 people remained in the Superdome, and more straggled in through the day, either wading in on foot or dropped off by a helicopter rescue effort that so far has plucked 3,000 people from the roofs of flooded homes.

…”This is mass chaos,” said Sgt. Jason Defess, 27, a National Guard military policeman who had been stationed on a ramp outside the Superdome since Monday. “To tell you the truth, I’d rather be in Iraq,” where he was deployed for 14 months, until January. “You got your constant danger, but I had something to protect myself. [And] three meals a day. Communications. A plan. Here, they had no plan.”

—‘And Now We Are in Hell’, Washington Post

At least seven bodies were scattered outside the convention center, a makeshift staging area for those rescued from rooftops, attics and highways. The sidewalks were packed with people without food, water or medical care, and with no sign of law enforcement.

An old man in a chaise lounge lay dead in a grassy median as hungry babies wailed around him. Around the corner, an elderly woman lay dead in her wheelchair, covered up by a blanket, and another body lay beside her wrapped in a sheet.

…”We’ve got people dying out here Â— two babies have died, a woman died, a man died,” said Helen Cheek. “We haven’t had no food, we haven’t had no water, we haven’t had nothing. They just brought us here and dropped us.”

Tourist Debbie Durso of Washington, Mich., said she asked a police officer for assistance and his response was, “‘Go to hell Â— it’s every man for himself.'”

“This is just insanity,” she said. “We have no food, no water … all these trucks and buses go by and they do nothing but wave.”

—New Orleans in Anarchy With Fights, Rapes, San Francisco Chronicle

How? How? HOW can this be? We are a world superpower with well-developed technology and the best-equipped military, yet we can’t deploy these effectively in the service of rescuing our own citizens? I realize the city is a fishbowl of water, but criminey, we have rugged machines built to withstand that and more. They need to send more equipment. More guardsmen or troops should be stationed there to restore some order and move people. And how can it be that the vulnerable, the immobile, who need special transport by helicopter, are abandoned while able-bodied people are allowed to get on buses? It’s said that communications are spotty. Yet our military possesses the ability to communicate in primitive conditions. Why aren’t these in use?

The mayor and governor are trying to cope and are doing the best they can, but this is not enough. While this is an unprecedented disaster, plans should have been in place to handle it, and assistance should have been mobilized more quickly two days ago. Even the best-laid plans may not be perfect, but at least they would exist and provide a starting point. Seems that there weren’t any at all.

I am truly appalled. I grieve. I cannot personally go in there and help, so I’m doing my part with donations. (Writing about it is a coping method, and the questions I pose are rhetorical. I’m not looking for discussion, which is why the comments are absent for this post.)

International Blog Day

In an effort to expand my playground and encounter the joy of discovery, I’m participating in International Blog Day. Writer Nir Ofir noticed that the date looked an awful lot like the word blog, at least the way he and millions of other non-Americans write it: 3108 —> Blog. Okay, maybe a bit of a stretch, but an original idea. So today, 8/31, is a day to share new blog gems.

One Word: a Perioperative nurse in Boston, MA, “wanted to write 52 essays, one a week for a year.” The essays reminisce about her childhood and contemplate topics such as chaos, suffering, words, joy, color, her search for meaning, and her experience of her body. She also includes photos. I sense we are similar in age, and I enjoy her voice.
Dakota: this blog has one aim — to present photos, links, and poetry. It does not distract itself with links to other blogs. It simply is. What I find most fascinating are the poems in which some words are links. It provides another dimension to the poem.
Book of Kells: Kelli Russell Agodon is a Washington state poet. Her blog features snippets about her life as a poet, links to poetry-related and literary news, and an extensive list of poetry bloggers. She also practices gratitude and occasionally posts a “gratitude list,” something I do in my private journal.
Surrender, Dorothy: the only description in her “About Me” section is a quote: “A poet should be as sensitive as an aching tooth.” –Anna Swir She posts her poems and writes about the writing life, as well as the human life as experienced by a writer. She also once feared spiders and now takes extra care to be kind to them, a transformation I understand.
Land Mammal: The subtitle is “Feeding the Beast.” Written by Anne Haines, I was drawn to the blog because she describes herself in a way I connect with: “Mid-forties… poet-librarygirl-nerd.” And she has two cats! The blog features her poetry.

My interests lean toward a certain writing genre these days. Even if you don’t read poetry, take a peek at these blogs. Not all the posts are poems or about poetry. These are women with strong voices and rich inner lives.

Tag: BlogDay2005
Website: Blogday.org

The Aftermath

It goes without saying, but I’ll say it. What has happened in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama is heartbreaking. All of it. The fate New Orleans dreaded has become reality.

As I walk around in sunny, dry California, I’m a bit dazed when I think that massive destruction has torn lives apart a few states away. Life requires I go about my business, but part of my mind meditates on what has happened, and my heart is extended toward everyone in that stricken region.

In an effort to understand more about why New Orleans is so vulnerable, and to learn what its long-term fate may be, I found an article in the New York Times.

The Gulf Coast has always been vulnerable to coastal storms, but over the years people have made things worse, particularly in Louisiana, where Hurricane Katrina struck yesterday. Since the 18th century, when French colonial administrators required land claimants to establish ownership by building levees along bayous, streams and rivers, people have been trying to dominate the region’s landscape and the forces of its nature.

As long as people could control floods, they could do business. But, as people learned too late, the landscape of South Louisiana depends on floods: it is made of loose Mississippi River silt, and the ground subsides as this silt consolidates. Only regular floods of muddy water can replenish the sediment and keep the landscape above water. But flood control projects channel the river’s nourishing sediment to the end of the birdfoot delta and out into the deep water of the Gulf of Mexico.

Although early travelers realized the irrationality of building a port on shifting mud in an area regularly ravaged by storms and disease, the opportunities to make money overrode all objections.

When most transport was by water, people would of course settle along the Mississippi River, and of course they would build a port city near its mouth. In the 20th century, when oil and gas fields were developed in the gulf, of course people added petrochemical refineries and factories to the river mix, convenient to both drillers and shippers. To protect it all, they built an elaborate system of levees, dams, spillways and other installations.

—After Centuries of ‘Controlling’ Land, Gulf Learns Who’s the Boss

The article continues by mentioning that the islands and marshes are the defensive barrier against hurricanes. Without regularly deposited sediment, they’ve shrunk. This causes the entire delta region to sink; one expert said it sinks as much as a third of an inch each year, which is ten times the global average rate. Yet allowing nature to run its course would mean losing the economic and cultural civilization that’s populated the region for centuries. So much money has been invested there, and so much future income is at stake, that people will likely rebuild and continue to engineer systems to keep the ocean at bay. I just wonder, though, how far New Orleans will have to sink before people will admit the insanity of it. Or perhaps it will become our Venice.

Send Money!

Dear World,

Have I told you about Hands On Bay Area? I am enthusiastic about this organization for some very practical reasons.

Many people feel they don’t have time to volunteer, because agencies often request a commitment of X hours per week or month, and they sometimes want a commitment to volunteer six to twelve months. Some people aren’t sure what they want to do in terms of volunteering, while others simply enjoy variety, and commiting to several agencies isn’t feasible with life’s other demands.

Hands On Bay Area provides a creative solution that helps individuals and agencies connect. HOBA is a liasion with more than 300 community-based organizations that provide a range of services; HOBA sets up projects with these agencies. Volunteers can choose from a variety of events, from helping maintain the Heritage Rose Gardens, sorting donated goods at Sacred Heart, creating teaching kits at Resource Area For Teachers, serving food to the homeless, or reading to children who are residents at a domestic violence shelter. (And this is just a small sample!) Volunteers can choose to participate as their schedules permit. If a person has lots of free time, she can sign herself up for as many events as she wishes. When her schedule becomes overbooked, she can stop until life calms down. The orientation process takes less than an hour, after which volunteers log on to their own accounts to sign up for (or remove themselves from) projects.

In addition to their usual events, Hands On Bay Area coordinates one day a year devoted to over 75 service projects to raise awareness of their program as well as funding for the next year. I have registered to work on this day. HOBA calls this massive undertaking a serve-a-thon. By registering I have set a goal to raise funds as well as provide my physical assistance on October 15. This post is my shameless plug for your support. If you are interested, please take a moment to visit my donation page to pledge.

Intuitive and Instrumental Grieving

It is close to five months since my father-in-law died, and grief continues to visit our lives. This is no surprise; my mother-in-law’s visit was her first to us as a widow, and I keenly felt the absence of my father-in-law. The dynamics among us have altered; the intensity of grief changes us as individuals and as a family, just as iron becomes molten and is transformed by fire, then cools into a new form. We haven’t reached the cooling stage, yet. And with grief, there is no orderly process or recipe to follow, despite the “stages of grief” concept introduced by Elizabeth Kübler Ross. We will just muddle through. People cope with grief differently; the excerpt below is from an article my husband found. While it’s been suggested there are gender differences in the way men and women mourn, the research implies that bereavement is not defined by gender.

Because some individuals choose not to talk about their feelings does not mean they do not feel; but rather they don’t have the words to express their feeling in the face of the tragedy or don’t have the need to do so. For some the event is beyond words or expression and is felt deeply. This must not be misconstrued as cold or unfeeling. The person may not be ready to live with the reality once it is expressed openly. In their recent work Kenneth Doka and Terry Martin talk of “transcending gender stereotypes” and describe two main styles of grievingÂ—the “intuitive griever” and the “instrumental griever.” They present a third, the “blended style griever.” Below represents the two components that comprise the “blended” style:

Intuitive Griever:

FEELINGS are intensely experienced.
Expressions such as crying and lamenting mirror the inner experience.
Successful adaptive strategies facilitate the experience and expression of feelings.
There are prolonged periods of confusion, inability to concentrate, disorganization, and disorientation.
Physical exhaustion and/or anxiety may result.

Instrumental Griever:

THINKING is predominant to feeling as an experience; feelings are less intense.
There is a general reluctance to talk specifically about feelings.
Mastery of oneself and the environment are most important.
Problem-solving as a strategy enables mastery of feelings and control of the environment in creating the new normal.
Brief periods of cognitive dysfunction are commonÂ—confusion, forgetfulness, obsessiveness.
Energy levels are enhanced, but symptoms of general arousal caused by the loss go unnoticed.

Patterns, according to Doka, occur along a continuum. Those grievers/responders near the center who demonstrate a BLENDING of the two styles experience a variety of both patterns. One pattern may be more pronounced than another depending upon the loss and the personal connection to that loss. This pattern suggests a need for even more choices among adaptive strategies than for the griever who is more fixed in either strategy mentioned above.

—Grief Counseling Resource Guide, A Field Manual

Asynchronous

While it’s been lovely having company, showing my mother-in-law the sights and a peek into our lives, I dearly need my routine again. I am an introvert. Anytime I doubt this I need only to have extended, face-to-face contact with a person; I wilt. I need expanses of solitude. I do enjoy particular people, but as a whole, I’m not fond of the teaming masses. (I’ve spent the past week trying unsuccessfully to convey my sense of the world to an extrovert. Extroverts mistake being personable for being social.)

Another insight was refreshed for me as well. I would be well-advised to select a small range of activities and dedicate my efforts to them. I want to arrest my tendency to dabble and buy how-to books. Shallow interest, combined with insecurity about being a novice, hinders involvement. Since I have insomnia tonight, I’ve spent time prioritizing what matters to me, so I can use my time more fully. They fall into three general categories: creativity, community, and health.

Creativity encompasses writing, reading, collage art, photography, gardening, and learning to knit. Community includes volunteer work, church, nurturing budding friendships here, and tending my long-distance relationships. Health pertains to exercising daily in some fashion, participating in walkathons, and eating well. Even this is a sizable list, when one also factors in the time I want to spend with my husband, as well as time and energy consumed by mundane duties.

I like schedules — as long as I create them for myself. I find it motivating to book appointments for the priorities I mentioned. The calendar reflects my commitment to follow through even if no one else will participate. Julia Cameron writes about making an “artist’s date” with oneself. One can also make a date to exercise or to follow-up on a phone call or email from a friend. (In fact, my ten-year correspondence with a friend flourished because I made notes of points needing response and dedicated a couple hours every Saturday morning to write.)

This week’s visit full of conversations about interests and goals has triggered the second insight regarding intention, concentration, and movement into life, rather than darting over it. One can so easily talk about what one wants to do, but discussion can and does become a means of avoidance. My Wise Self implores me to remember the values I hold dear: express, discover, renew, create. Okay, I say to my dear self, this post was an effort to jump-start my life. And now I am ready to sleep.

Of Words, Textures, and Fuzzy Things

In the past week I’ve been pretty darn busy, and it’s been fun. First, I perused online writing workshops and found one I really liked — The Writing Bridge. They are a small group, but very active. Submission of writing samples was required for admission. They are serious about writing and critique, and I foresee whiling away many productive hours on the forum. I also received interest from local people who want to try writing memoir. I’ve set a date. I hope folks show up for the meeting, but even if not, I’ve put the meetings on my calendar and established a location. I will go regardless — a date with my muse. Though it would be more fun, I think, with at least one other writer involved.

Thursday my mother-in-law and I visited the San Jose Museum of Quilts and Textiles and then had afternoon tea at a downtown cafe. Since she has begun learning to knit, and I’ve been intrigued about this time-honored craft, we paid a visit to a store that Lynn referred me to. (Despite being on the east coast, she has extensive knitting acquaintances!)

We entered Commuknity and browsed a few minutes. Then I introduced myself to Nathania Apple, who runs the store. She and her friends, Kate and Chloe, were so warm and friendly that I felt comfortable peppering them with questions. They radiated their love of knitting and happily provided advice. I learned that the needles I’d bought a couple months ago were too bulky to learn on, and the yarn I’d chosen too difficult for a beginner, so they guided me to the appropriate tools. They assured me I would come to use the other needles and yarn someday. The store has an airy yet cozy atmosphere; there’s even a living room in which to sit and knit. They have social gatherings, a book group, and classes — all just two miles from my home. I look forward to this new craft.

Anniversary

Three hundred sixty-five action-packed days ago we arrived in Santa Clara. I know my way around a bit, but much of Silicon Valley remains unplotted for me. I’ve met some lovely people and made acquaintances. It was stressful, this transition, since it was accompanied by family problems and big events. My energy was scattered and I had trouble identifying the shape I wanted my life to take. I hope next year brings more clarity and depth. I intend to continue making collages and playing creatively. I commit to my writing more seriously. I will find a way to use my counseling skills.

The key, I think, to achieving the inner bounty I desire is to apply focus and discipline. I reveled in the time involved making that recent collage. To prepare for a photo session for the magazine interview I did, I started another canvas. I’ll an appointment with myself to spend time on the project, and when I finish this one, I’ll set another one in motion and make a date with myself again. Repeat, and repeat again.

With regard to writing, I’ve decided to commit effort to the genres of memoir, personal essay, and poetry. I accept that I have no interest in writing fiction and “real writers” don’t all write for that genre. I do want to learn more about freelance writing, although this may take time to break into. Meanwhile, I have plenty of source material for writing about life. I put a notice on Craigslist to create a memoir-writing group; three people have responded so far.

As for the counseling, I need to contemplate the life coach practice I’d incubated last year. I have contacts, and I could explore this. It appeals as a future source of work because it would be flexible, allowing time to be a mother — another endeavor I hope to undertake. With these aspirations, along with reading and taking care of my physical fitness, my life is rich and meaningful.

On Wednesday my mother-in-law arrives for a week — her first visit here. There will be much to do and see and probably less time spent on the Web. Then a couple of short weeks later will find me winging east to Syracuse, where I’ll visit my parents and one of my sisters. We plan to head to my mother’s hometown to see relatives too.

This is all an auspicious beginning of my second year as a Californian.

It’s the way to educate your eyes. Stare. Pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.

–Walker Evans

Outnumbered

Intruder

Since we arrived in California one year ago, I’ve noticed three traits about California living: a proliferation of shopping carts parked in places far from where they belong (more on that another time); an absence of mosquitoes; and more spiders in one year than I’d confronted in the decade I lived in Texas. This summer exposed us to dozens and dozens — nay, twice that at least. As a child I had a phobia regarding spiders. As much as my mother reassured me of their helpfulness, I was hysterically afraid of their numerous, spindly, creepy legs, as well as their sticky webs and quick movements. The sight of spiders petrified me, especially large-bodied ones. The summer I was 12, I felt something lightly tickling my arm as I lay in bed, drifting off to sleep. I switched the light on and saw the source: a not-too-large spider on the wall. I leaped out of bed, shaking and blanketed in goosebumps. I whimpered. I couldn’t get it; in those days, I was too scared to capture them in tissue and kill them, much less try to set them free. So I slept on the living room sofa instead, as well as for a few nights following (I crept downstairs after my parents retired for the day). Eventually I moved out on my own and realized my only rescuer would be myself. So I learned to grit my teeth and eliminate spiders when they showed themselves. I was still unnerved by them, but capable of coping. In my late twenties I began volunteering at a nature center and would take long hikes. As I came across tree stumps, underbrush, or nooks and crannies, I would note the spiders I saw. I disciplined myself to observe them, to watch their movement. I decided that I could be at peace with spiders, to a point, as long as they were outside. I read about them. I tried to appreciate them from a distance. During my years in Austin, the only major spider I encountered was the (I believe) black widow which had made a home in a lush plant hanging on my balcony. It startled the wits out of me when I watered the plant and saw it scurry. My solution was to wrap the entire plant in a cruddy old blanket and carry it all to the dumpster. Subsequent years brought greater acceptance. If the spiders were very small — under the size of a pencil eraser — I felt amiable toward them, and would try to capture and release them outside. I continue to do so.

Captive

But I draw the line, people, at a certain size. (Last summer I glimpsed my first tarantula with a kind of awed horror. I was visiting my sister and her husband in Arizona; they live on relatively unpopulated land. It was in a hole outside, a decent ten or so feet away from me. It still looked enormous from that distance.) Sometimes I’ve prevailed upon my husband to handle them — one night we had three medium-sized spiders in our bedroom, and he sicced the vacuum cleaner on them. Another night, as I turned down the bed, one scrambled across the comforter. I emitted only a minor yip of surprise and then gave it the facial tissue-to-toilet treatment. If I see them in the house at a distance and they aren’t too large, I leave them alone. A tiny spider lives by the edge of our kitchen sink without harassment. About a week ago, I spotted a hefty one crawling across the the kitchen ceiling. My husband wouldn’t do spider duty; he said he’d given up, since there are so many. Eyeing it with a shiver, I decided to let it alone and hope it disappeared. It did. But the next night as I lounged on the sofa with my laptop, a small dark movement in the corner of my eye alerted me; I jumped up and saw that damn spider running this way and that on the sofa. Grimly I grabbed a tissue and killed it with vengeance. My feeling is: You stay on the wall, out of sight, far away, and I’ll leave you be. But you crawl near me or over me or across my path, and you’re toast. (Yes, I realize I’m vastly larger, and that spidey is more afraid of me than I of it. This is why I get to call the shots.) The photos in this post are of the spider I encountered Friday night — the biggest so far. It was on the bathroom wall. My husband agreed it was indeed too large to ignore. Imagine trying to sleep knowing that prowled your boudoir walls. While he went to get the means of handling it, I snapped the photo. Then, when I had the mason jar and a greeting card, I captured it. It moved lightning-fast and made noise as it scuttled in the jar. I was fascinated in a slightly shuddering way. I was willing to take it downstairs and release it outside, but my husband wanted to flush it. I paused, deciding whether I would let compassion rule. It didn’t, unfortunately for the spider. It met its watery demise. And yes, I know that spiders do far more good than harm. I know this was a funnel-weaver that was not poisonous to humans and supposedly wouldn’t bite. I know that I ought not kill hapless, non-aggressive beings. Regretfully, this logic does not override my limbic response. This may explain why I would not make a very good Buddhist!