SEASONAL CHANGE

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The spray from waves turned to rainbows on the last day of winter.

This last week was mildly eventful and full of change. The final three days of winter brought a stiff east wind—which locally is sometimes quite warm in winter. For three days we enjoyed temperatures in the 70s, which would be a warm day for us in summer! It was a particular relief after the nighttime lows in the 20s the month before. And I took advantage, emptying two rooms so that I could paint floors (more on this later).

Then, naturally, the first day of spring saw an abrupt dip in temperature and a bit of rain. The change of season triggered a series of wild thoughts. We might use our passports to go someplace further than Canada—Ireland? Portugal? Italy? We have only visited the U.S. and two provinces of Canada. Is it even possible to travel anymore without a smart phone? I surveyed the stacks of books that have gathered since I last edited my bookcases—time to sort again. There are shelves of books kept specifically for teaching. Some reorganization is called for. Some hard choices about what books might leave the building. I still have books from childhood, but my house can have too many books once they start appearing in stacks on the floor.

I lay awake one night imagining tearing down our duplex. Though my grandfather rented these units by the night, we have always tried to find full time tenants. Homes all around us have become high-end by-the-night rentals and local people have trouble finding housing. Houses turn into business opportunities, cleaners arriving every few days, a half dozen cars across the street, vacationers replacing residents. Some local residents only venture forth very early while visitors sleep in. (Some rarely visit the beach at all.) We recognize that our local community will continue to change. Wealthier people will supplant those of modest means, while we have determined to rent to the latter and resist this “business opportunity.” It has been such a challenge at times—but then we have met some wonderful people too, and our remaining tenant needs his home. A neighbor came by with a suggestion for tenancy. He also rents only long term.

A good friend was visiting family and stopped by for a chat on Saturday. Everyone seems to be telling me about their children, a subject I confess to finding fascinating. How is it that for much of my life—all the pre-child years—I thought babies were all alike and raising children uninteresting? Now, even now as a grandmother, I find children marvelous.

The official spring Beach Clean-Up wasn’t finding much trash out front (we pick it up every day—a burst pipe just the day before), but while we sat in our dining room with our visitor, and a truck drove on the beach to load and haul away the cut-up tree we’d taken out of the garden. Gary was waiting for the tree to dry, for a day without wind, and we’d have had a small fire on the beach. He is, actually, quite relieved it is gone, but we didn’t understand why a cut-up five-inch trunk and some boughs needed to be hauled off. Hopefully it’s being turned into mulch, which is better than us burning it and less work for us.

I made sourdough crumpets.

We were very glad to reconnect with a local contractor we like and trust. He came by and we outlined a series of repairs and one upgrade. Several evenings with incredible sunsets, and the moon . . . oh! the moon was full and copper-bright!

The taxes did not get done last week before the start of spring. There is still a great deal of painting to do on our rental. A neighbor dug what we assume is to be the grave of their dog. We witnessed a dogfight on the beach—well, not a fight, a bullying attack by a local dog upon a somewhat smaller and entirely inoffensive visitor. No permanent damage, but low moments for the week. I did a bit of knitting. Slept badly. Began reading aloud from the ninth O’Brian Maturin/Aubrey novel. Gary seems to have been successful in getting the rats out from under the duplex. The doves are cooing louder and louder as their nesting season begins. There is a mango-sherbet sunset as I write this. Walked the beach each day. A mix.

We had seven good walks, drank a bottle of sparkling wine over a long evening, and changed our flannel sheets for percale. It’s that time of year.

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This is what a light gale force wind does: blows the waves backwards into the sea—gorgeous!

 

TO BE SURE

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The Los Angles Review of Books blog has a grammatical error.

“Unlike Nancy, who’s mother died when she was three, I had a mom, and my mom had read Nancy Drew when she was my age.”

The contraction “who’s” stands for “who is.” The writer wanted the possessive form of “who” (whose) and failed to find it. No one caught the mistake before the article went to print, or in this case was posted online.

I am not a grammatical wizard (anyone who reads my blog will have caught typos), merely a well read person who is a naturally bad speller, ignorant of rules, and not afraid to admit it, and one willing to look up what I do not know. Usually, I know when I am unsure, but sometimes I am mistaken even about that.

One thing I do know, when I find writing in a journal as eminent as the BLARB, I expect someone will proofread the copy. I hope someone might.

That would assume that there was someone on staff to do the work of editing. Years ago, every publisher had fact-checkers and line editors. We are none of us perfect, and most writers are blind to their own errors, which is why working with a really good editor is such a treat. That doesn’t happen often, and most writers today are left entirely to their own devices as far as editing goes.

Today, there are merely readers who are supposed to weed out the genuinely bad writing and narrow the list of submissions to a readable number. The actual editors come in late to winnow the list to the pieces that might see print. Among writers this is the process, largely invisible, of submission. I send a piece of writing to a journal, a reader (usually an undergraduate volunteer at literary journals produced on college campuses) gives it a yes or no, and it passes on to the next reader. Some journals use multiple readers and incorporate multiple rounds of reading, and many include the Editor in Chief in the final round that decides what will be printed. On the masthead will be listed names of the Editor in Chief as well as Editors for fiction and poetry and nonfiction. The layout artist and covers designer might show up. There are often Assistant Editors, and at the bottom of the pages, sometimes, a list of the Readers.

The only time I have seen a Proofreader listed in the masthead of a literary journal was nearly twenty years ago when I found a typo in Tin House. She did not thank me for pointing it out.

No one wants to hear about their mistakes once they have gone to print.

A California executive secretary applied for a job with the Oregon high school where I worked. The Head Secretary whose job she was applying for was so incensed by the applicant’s notations about typos that she threw the letter out. Imagine if someone who actually understood perfect grammar and spelling had been hired! I, for one, would have stood in line at her desk asking for an edit.

“The Case of the Perfect Girl Detective’ is well worth the read. The error is trivial, no worse than you might find here in every post. I was not confused as to the author’s meaning. I might have found the error reassuring, in fact.

 

A BETTER WORLD

41l+4UobkRL._SX325_BO1,204,203,200_.jpgDystopias extrapolate the fears of the day while utopias project our dearest hopes and ideals.

Science fiction writers from the Golden Age of post-WW2, for example, often address the disastrous impact of the potential for nuclear powers to obliterate the planet. They were concerned about global and intergalactic peace and the trade-off in freedom resulting in a governing body with so much power. They recognized how population pressure and a shift toward manufacturing with machine rather than human power might dehumanize our future.

Huxley missed all that.

Brave New World was written at a time when the world economy was in the midst of a Great Depression and there was concern about finding the minimal 1000 calories necessary to maintain human life. Huxley addressed the need to stimulate the economy, reinforce social class and bigotry concerning gender, sexual orientation, race, and language. In a world rapidly opening to new ideas, Huxley maintains the status quo.   

Most languages are defunct, which is nice for the UK when English remains the lingua franca, but most languages from Polish to Spanish and French are so far extinct as to be gone from general consciousness. Women (always referred to as “girls”) exist as nothing more than inferior beings necessary for procreation. Sex. It is a white and male future. Casual lines about “negroes” within the first pages had my hackles up. There is ample evidence that he actually failed to notice that some of what he presents in his nightmare future, was already a nightmare. What Huxley knew was the rigid class system (which he then codifies here into biological law) and the need to regulate markets via absolute control of both production and consumption.

It is satire, with a lively and smug tone that reports in dizzying detail about a society that is irrational and repressive. Perhaps most societies are, but this is not a warning but arrogant. Not to mention how much he gets wrong.

What does he get wrong? Basics of biology, psychology, technology, communication, education, gender, race, nationalism, and the future importance of the British Empire. As one example, exhaustive detail about artificially breeding and rearing children is ridiculous. From specifics of harvesting eggs to programing children to be fearful of flowers, none of it is plausible. His story advances hundreds of years into the future, without considering how unimportant physical human labor is to society—a shifting paradigm evident in his day. He should have seen that coming.

What else does he miss? Dangers of post-WW2 pesticides and poisons, nuclear energy, wars, global warming, population pressure. These are the threats on which most science fiction of the 20th and 21st centuries focus. It is fair to note that Huxley could not have foreseen that the “War to End All Wars” was only the beginning, that military might would overtake social controls as a threat to world peace, that toxins such as DDT would create havoc on the natural environment, that global warming would alter climate and coastlines and food sources, that all these changes and the threat of nuclear war and a world population four times larger than the one he knew would threaten human existence.

Even Huxley recognized within a decade or so that his options of “Utopia or Savagery”/insanity or idiocy are inadequate, and he belatedly offers a third option, also inadequate.

Abuse of power is central to any dystopia, but Huxley’s book is hopelessly inaccurate in terms of science and fails to predict specific concerns nearly everyone in the world worries about today. His cheeky voice and sex-driven plot (in a future where the very word “father” is vulgar) may appeal to some. He can’t be faulted for most of his mistaken assumptions about the future, but the rampant nationalism, sexism, and racism in the novel do beg the question: Why is anyone still assigning this novel to high school students?

And I know the answer, surely I must. But still.

Utopias are harder. We do not accept them as a possibility. With a unique human determination to find fault, we grasp at the dystopia as representative of everything that might go wrong. But perfection? Oh, no, we cannot imagine that.

9636460.jpgAnd then most utopian novels I have read are no better at creating perfection than Huxley was at predicting disaster. Walden is utopia, but somewhat false as nonfiction since Thoreau did not actually live the life he writes about. The novel Walden Two, by behaviorist B.F. Skinner, on the other hand, does a a more honesty job by not pretending to be true.

“We are only just beginning to understand the power of love because we are just beginning to understand the weakness of force and aggression.”—Walden Two

B.F. Skinner asks if you knew how to manipulate people into living in an ideal society, wouldn’t you do it? We are all products of our experiences and responses to societal conditioning. Wouldn’t it be best if we deliberately created a society that conditioned us to live harmoniously and happily?

If readers are looking for a conventional novel, there is a plot here, a beginning and middle and end. But that story is mostly beside the point.

The story is a thought experiment first conceived immediately after WW2. Here an academic psychologist Burris visits another psychologist, Frazier, taking with him a pair of veterans, their “girls,” and a philosopher Castle, also an academic. The structure of visitors observing and interacting with members of a utopian community has been used many times. Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1907) is an earlier example. The visitors argue against the workability of a society that clearly is working just fine.

herland-14.jpgIn 1970, my first term at the University of Washington, I took a psychology class taught by a recent retiree from the US Navy. The man was a behaviorist, of course, and had spent 20 years training porpoise to commit acts of war. I worked hard in that class, harder than was typical for an intro class. I read the novel and wrote a paper about Walden Two. Mostly what I remembered was the clever way work was set up in this imagined utopia. Everyone had to do at least a little manual labor, but all work was chosen. Payment was in credits and each member of the community had to earn 4 credits per day. Some jobs such as cleaning out sewers earned more than a credit/hour. Some, such as working in a flower garden, earned less than one credit/hour. “Payment” was adjusted if more or fewer workers were needed than takers. I loved that system.

I also recall that the founder, Frazier, was not liked much but was tolerated in his utopia, and was actually not very good at following his own utopian guidelines.

There was a great deal I did not recall after all this time, and mostly that is because Skinner got so much wrong. Like Huxley, he even got the science wrong. He is wrong to remove children from one-on-one care by parents. He is wrong in the way he describes “teaching” young children to withstand frustration, and ironically he is wrong to underestimate the impact of “delayed gratification” as a necessary skill for adolescents and teenagers. I would have recognized some of this at the time since I was aware that group-raising infants in the USSR had proven unsuccessful. Promoting childbearing by age 15 or 16 is not “much better” than waiting to have children when the body is mature. Child-bearing is not something to be got out of the way while still a child. And since Skinner is squeamish about religion and extra-marital sex, he fails to address the issues that come with promoting marriage among very young teenagers.

“In a cooperative society there’s no jealousy because there’s no need for jealousy.”

He insists there are no laws in Walden Two, yet there is a Code and violating the Code has consequences. That is law. His Managers and other officials are not government because government is irrelevant unless it is local. Citizens of Walden Two are told how to vote in local elections.

“The majority of people don’t want to plan,” the novel’s protagonist insists. “They want to be free of the responsibility of planning. What they ask for is merely some assurance that they will be decently provided for. The rest is a day-to-day enjoyment of life. That’s the explanation for your Father Divines; people naturally flock to anyone they can trust for the necessities of life… They are the backbone of a community—solid, trust-worthy, essential.”

Skinner argues hard for his scientific approach and claims that his invented society is egalitarian about race and gender. What he refers to as “Girls” and women are supposed to be on an even footing, yet we have mostly all men everywhere in charge in this novel. There is a cheerful woman dentist. All the childcare givers are women, though he insists men help too. All the characters seem to be white, and all the girls are pretty—this is actually remarked upon early. Men are “caught” by women—an out-of-date notion about marriage. (“The man chases the woman until she catches him.”) The character Castle is said to be a strong debater, but he is a peevish straw man opponent here, often failing to make his point in arguing with Frazier. Frazier himself is set up as a failure to his own cause, which is probably the most compelling and realistic detail.

There is a great deal to argue with in the specifics of this imagined utopia. I might wish he knew more about biology and anthropology, especially the latter. I am sorry he demeans history repeatedly as mere “entertainment”, while freely referencing [Western European white] history to make his case. He is actively hostile to every other scientific field. That last is particularly unfortunate.

Yet I am still intrigued by his underlying question about a perfectible society, by his approach to labor, and his emphasis on cooperation rather than competition. He might have made a stronger case had he focused less on specifics such as his tea carrier and more on how humans have cooperated for millennia, for all time. He failed to see the population bomb coming and his setting this confrontation in an agrarian society during summer is a sort of naïve cheat that repeats in many discussions and debates between characters. Remove the favoritism of parents and their poor knowledge of scientific method, remove competition, use behavioral principles and there will be no envy or jealousy? Snap! Problem solved. (I can hear the whining from here.) I found myself repeatedly thinking that Skinner’s daughter was fortunate that it was her mother who was the primary caregiver.

I still contend that Skinner’s task was more difficult than Huxley’s, and neither accomplished it very well.

“In the summer of 1945, B. F. Skinner wrote The Sun Is But a Morning Star, a utopian novel he published in 1948 as Walden Two (Skinner, 1948). An impetus for the book arose over the course of a dinner conversation in the spring of 1945 with a friend whose son-in-law was stationed in the South Pacific as World War II was coming to an end. Skinner mused about what young people would do when the war was over. “What a shame,” he said, “that they would abandon their crusading spirit and come back only to fall into the old lockstep American life—getting a job, marrying, renting an apartment, making a down payment on a car, having a child or two” (Skinner, 1979, p. 292).
. . .
“Skinner’s utopian vision, then, was not about any of Walden Two’s practices, except one: experimentation. His vision was to search for and discover practices that maximized social justice and human well-being. This was Skinner’s unique contribution to the utopian genre; it distinguishes Walden Two from all the others. As he later exhorted, “Regard no practice as immutable. Change and be ready to change again. Accept no eternal verity. Experiment” (Skinner, 1979, p. 346).—B. F. “Skinner’s Utopian Vision: Behind and Beyond Walden Two” by Deborah E Altus and Edward K Morris

And then there is Ursula K. Le Guin’s classic short story, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” She knows we find it hard to believe in perfection—how certain we are that someone else must pay for our pleasure.

PLAGIARIZED REVIEW

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What a Google search has to say about Anne with an E:

This reimagining of the classic book and film is a coming-of-age story about a young orphan who is seeking love, acceptance and her place in the world. Amybeth McNulty stars as Anne, a 13-year-old who has endured an abusive childhood in orphanages and the homes of strangers. In the late 1890s, Anne is mistakenly sent to live with aging siblings, Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, who live on Prince Edward Island. Anne, who proves to be uniquely spirited, imaginative and smart, transforms the lives of Marilla, Matthew and everyone else in their small town.

And what I found in a stupid review of “Every Netflix Original Show, Ranked from Best to Worst”:

“Netflix’s re-imagination of the beloved book series takes place in the 1890s and follows a young orphan who has endured abuse both at orphanages and the homes of strangers. Things begin to look up when 13-year-old Anne is mistakenly sent to live with her aging sibling on Prince Edward Island. In this welcoming small town, Anne is finally able to unleash her spirited and unique personality.

“The series starts off as quite bland and then, somehow, manages to become even duller. The acting is forgettable and Anne with an E does not do justice to the original source material. Although it’s beautifully shot, the serene landscapes cannot make up for the dreary dialogue and snoring plot lines There’s a high chance you’ll fall asleep while watching this snoozefest.”

You see the problem? (Not the typo I copied and pasted.) Anne is not sent to live with “her aging sibling”; she is sent to live with “aging siblings, Marilla and Matthew.” The nincompoop who wrote this stupid review had A. not read the books, and B. not watched the series either. She plagiarized the summary from another source, and got the details wrong because she A. had not read the books, nor B. actually watched the series. Stupid. So. Dishonest, stupid, and, I don’t know, did I mention stupid? How could she possibly know plot?

I only found this review from November of 2018 this morning. A more careful reading of her sources or actually watching the series, not to mention a quick read of the Wikipedia page would have aided this reviewer.

Some of our favorites made the “Best” ranking, but we were surprised to find others missing. It’s all about opinion, of course, like it or not. The reviewer is certainly entitled to her opinion, but when her opinion is so clearly misinformed and borrowed—I can think of no more polite a term—where is the credibility? I was never a fan of the Anne of Green Gables books (or the Little House on the Prairie series either—the class and race and gender issues put me off), but my husband and I were delighted with what was done with Anne.

Anne with an E is a story for grown-ups. Some children’s stories are best left to childhood.

It’s a little like trying to reread the Black Stallion series and then realizing it is no longer enough that the leading character is a horse. Instead, watch the gorgeous film version, a collaboration between one of the greatest cinematographer and editor teams ever.

In any event, the rest of this reviewer’s rankings did not mesh well with our opinions. In many cases her “Best” was unwatchable while wildly popular series such as Grace and Frankie were marked as “So-So.” I only chose to read the one complete review because it surprised me. Why would I trust the rest of her rankings?

It is worth noting that while Anne with an E ranked the “Worst.” On another site, I read this morning at least 97% of actual watchers loved it according to a another source. So do we.

 

ONLINE PRESENCE

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When we planted a rose the other day, we accidentally dug up this person. We let the salamander rest in the birdbath while I ran for my camera. Northwestern salamanders (Ambystoma gracile) can reach 10″ and like cool, wet places. We put her under the rosemary and trust she is well.

I quit Facebook last month, and my teaching job once I’d handed in grades last week. On the beach this morning I found four small pieces of seaglass. I have painted the floor in the entry and hall a dark blue-green. Now I am sitting in the atrium, waiting for paint to dry, reading aloud to my husband, and sipping wine too early in the day.

Our upstairs tenant has vacated after lending out the place to at least 16 people, and we plan to be more assertive about how future tenants use the place. There is a lot of “wear and tear” type damage, and we have painting to do there as well. I patched a couple of dozen holes, repairs a split in a door, and Gary must wash the rest of the cobwebs and dust out of the room before I can paint. I have already done my painting for the day. (Not really. I must put on the second coat before I go to bed.)

We think we might furnish the little apartment, first built in 1934 and remodeled completely in 1989. It is an idyllic location for a writer or for anyone looking for peace and quiet. It has a clear view west to the Pacific Ocean from bedroom, living, and breakfast nook. The kitchen looks east. My grandfather rented it out by the night, and Genevieve did the same right into the 1970s. We have always looked for longterm renters, but that has not always gone well. There is a burn in a counter from a tenant who lied about not smoking.

In any event, it would be fun to furnish. It might be fun to rent to writers. Or I might be kidding myself.

Yesterday we were busy with housekeeping chores—new door for the apartment, repairs to the stairs in our house, re-siding the west elevation that is sandblasted right down dangerously close to nothing, and the deck has holes. I emptied a room and painted the floor. Two coats. Gary worked under the apartment. We kept right on going and Gary did not want to talk about doing anything today.

Maybe two walks on the beach. Maybe I will paint a couple of walls. A ceiling.

A LITTLE PAIN

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My students are on drugs.

A few years ago, most of the students in my class were on drugs, mostly a cocktail of prescribed anti-depressants. Seriously. I know this because they told me themselves. Most were taking drugs prescribed for them by local doctors or therapists. More recently, several students told me that they too, were on meds. Setting aside those rare individuals (they do exist) who will require a lifetime of medication, most people do not. Teenagers are distressed but most should not be on any form of medication. There are few mood-altering medications that have been tested and found both safe and effective for someone under 18. Almost none are. Local doctors, many with no more than minimal training in treating psychological issues, prescribe anti-depressants for my students that have not been proven to be either safe or effective for teenagers. Aside from physical health, there is the danger of suicide.

With even less expertise—and I am merely well-read, so it’s fair to say it, “What do I know?”—I would argue that most of the teenagers I know who are depressed have good reasons for their feelings. That is, they are not mentally ill, but responding rationally to horrific circumstances. They are taking drugs to mute feelings no one should be surprised that they feel. They are told that their frustration, sadness, grief, confusion, and desperate longing are signs of mental illness. I wonder sometimes if these professionals remember their teenage years at all?

Instead of developing a strategy to cope with life, they may be addicted . . . or suicidal. Suicide rates in the U.S. have been climbing ever since the introduction of antidepressants. These students may find themselves on drugs for years, even for the rest of their lives. That isn’t necessarily their fate.

Some day, they might choose to stop. And that is likely to be tough. Doctors have tended to dismiss the withdrawal symptoms of people who have spent years on mood-altering medication. More recent studies suggest that the challenge of abandoning mood-altering medication is formidable. Neither is it an impossible task. With patience, it can be done.

Most recently professionals have been working on strategies. One might be as simple as slowing everything down.

In one 2010 study cited in the new paper, Japanese researchers found that 78 percent of people trying to taper off Paxil suffered severe withdrawal symptoms. The research team had them taper much more slowly, over an average of nine months and for as long as four years. With this regimen, only 6 percent of subjects experienced withdrawal.

In another study, Dutch researchers in 2018 found that 70 percent of people who’d had trouble giving up Paxil or Effexor quit their prescriptions safely by following an extended tapering regimen, reducing their dosage by smaller and smaller increments, down to one-fortieth of the original amount. This is the regimen recommended in the new paper.—The New York Times

Just as we having been asking patients to withdraw from medication too fast, we are doing other things wrong. Our lives are all about hurryhurryhurry. It is good advice to slow down. That seems merely impossible advice in modern society. Our environment is toxic in other ways.

Beyond social media, we breathe and drink poison in our water and eat it in our food. We do not sleep enough. We spend the majority of our time communing with machinery rather than people. We do not enjoy our daily chores, we hardly know how to feed and dress ourselves. We obsess over any number of trivial fears and inconveniences that simply do not matter at all.

The New York Times wonders will we have a Mac or Amazon household? Why put down the laundry first when we can tell a machine to turn on a light? Why walk clear across the room to the lamp? We might wonder if it really is too much to reach out our hand and turn the lights on and off with a switch? Flush the toilet. Lock a door.

We are a marvelously adaptable species. We can develop any number of skills. We did not evolve as a species to require a third of us to take lifelong prescription medication. We did not evolve to be “night owls.” We did not evolve to interact more often with machinery than other human beings. Nearly our entire species evolved to eat cooked food, mostly vegetables, to sleep in the dark, to live in community and in close physical contact—actually touching—other people.

Sometimes terrible things happen and we mourn, we regret, we grieve. I have a friend with a serious mood disorder who is permanently on antidepressants. His medication mostly works for him, but he says he misses the highs that he lost with the lows. His is a lifelong addiction.

Modern medicine is just one of the factors that has extended average lifespan. Our water is cleaner. Our food is inspected. Our medications diverse. Vaccinations have saved the lives of millions of children. Medicine is not always an easy fix.

We have an “opioid crisis” just now. The president wants to blame this on people who bring drugs across our southern border. But it is not the drug cartels who created the addiction. People choose to abuse. I know I am supposed to view drug abuse as a disease, as out of control, but this view seems to exist only in relation to certain drug abuse and not other, to certain people and not others, and that is something of a lie. Years ago a local doctor warned that people in her profession were overprescribing powerful narcotics and that patients were demanding them. “A little pain is not a bad thing,” she insisted. She was at least a decade ahead of her time.

A little pain is what all of us experience. Sometimes a great deal of pain dumps all at once and bends us double. That is also part of every person’s real life. The death of parents and loved ones, the frustration of a goal, fear, loss, grief. It is what we all must expect and overcome.

Today we work hard, overburden ourselves with worry and anxiety, and stare at screens. We fail to do what our mothers always told us: Take care of ourselves. If we are burdened by feelings of sadness we might be wise to investigate how we live our lives day-to-day before we assume our despair is who we are. Our easy fix makes us weak and dependent.

Sometimes we are ill and need intervention, but sometimes we are overwhelmingly sad or tired because our lives are depressing and exhausting. We accept pain as our due but want a simple solution. And our medication is making us sick.

Maybe it is time to look for healthier solutions.


update April 2019.

From The New Yorker article “Bitter Pill.”:

“Laura had always assumed that depression was caused by a precisely defined chemical imbalance, which her medications were designed to recalibrate. She began reading about the history of psychiatry and realized that this theory, promoted heavily by pharmaceutical companies, is not clearly supported by evidence. Genetics plays a role in mental disorder, as do environmental influences, but the drugs do not have the specificity to target the causes of an illness. Wayne Goodman, a former chair of the F.D.A.’s Psychopharmacologic Drugs Advisory Committee, has called the idea that pills fix chemical imbalances a ‘useful metaphor’ that he would never use with his patients. Ronald Pies, a former editor of Psychiatric Times, has said, ‘My impression is that most psychiatrists who use this expression’—that the pills fix chemical imbalances—’feel uncomfortable and a little embarrassed when they do so. It’s kind of a bumper-sticker phrase that saves time.’ ”

One challenge is that many patients, like Laura in this article, and many therapists as well believe implicitly in that “chemical imbalance” line. It is more accurately a deception.

COLLEGE ADMISSIONS

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Sourdough cranberry and pecan bread. We ate half the loaf for lunch.

Soon after I entered the University of Washington in the 70s, my mother returned to work. She was an admissions officer at the UW through the 80s. Foreign students were a significant and invaluable presence when I was there. That diverse presence ended soon after I graduated because the State insisted on favoring local students. I was alarmed to hear someone blaming foreign students for the difficulty of getting into college. I learned as much about the world from Nigerian and Haitian students as from my professors.

After graduation I taught for three years in a private prep school—ALL my students got into their first-pick colleges. This year I retired after teaching in a small, rural, and poor school district for 40 years. Over those years I was teaching high school English, I wrote recommendations for students who went on to graduate from high-prestige schools. Sometimes, the school they chose was predictable reflection of their families’ social standing and privilege, but not always. A doctor’s son went to the state school (not even the Honor college) and the daughter of a teaching assistant went to Brandeis. Some students of modest means went to Duke and Reed.

One student confessed that during his adolescence he feared he would not be allowed to attend college. His impression was that playing sports was necessary to enter college. By his senior year, he knew better and laughed at his previous naiveté. But he was not alone. A girl who would go one to earn a Masters of Fine Art in writing was bullied by her parents into playing sports—they did not think she would be accepted without extra-curricular sports on her résumé. A boy believed that winning on the football field would make up for Cs in English—maybe for a handful of students each year, but not for him. My community emphasizes sport at the expense of nearly everything. Extracurriculars can help a student gain admission to college, but almost never when the tradeoff is academics.

First generation students—those whose parents never entered college—have the hardest time. There is rarely anyone in their family who can encourage or guide them. An educator who has written on this explains that there is no reality for such students. Teacher may be the only people these students talk to who have a college education, and teachers are not models for their futures. Their siblings play sports, but sport is not the model they need.

The recent scandal concerning parents paying to get their students into college is nothing new. When I was at the UW, there were separate admissions requirements for athletes. That policy has changed and today many colleges require football players and wrestlers to meet the same standard as the PolySci or Econ major. That’s not true everywhere.

The excuse for spending millions on basketball and football and golf teams is that these sports bring money into the educational institutions. That is often true. The flip side is that nearly all of these programs cost more than they earn. College sports programs cost a great deal of money for facilities, coaches, travel, educational support, and so forth. I went looking for an article I’d read a few years ago about how seldom colleges actually benefit from their pre-pro athletic programs. I Googled: “how many universities profit from athletics?” 170,000,000 results. Suffice it to say: Not many.

The NCAA reported a couple of years ago: “Only 24 FBS schools generated more revenue than they spent in 2014, according to the NCAA Revenues and Expenses of Division I Intercollegiate Athletics Programs Report. That figure jumped from 20 schools in 2013, but it has remained relatively consistent through the past decade.”

Athletic teams are a prestige thing, a show-off thing, and largely divorced from any overall monetary benefit to the colleges and universities that maintain them. Hundreds of millions, sometimes billions are spent on glorified entertainment, and only a tiny minority of these game programs even break even. The vast majority lose. They are often partially financed through mandatory student fees, and often through the general fund at the expense of academic programs.

They also often fail to benefit the athletes themselves. These players may graduate with a weak academic record and provide a pool of potential professional athletes. Few will be fished out of that pool. They played for four years and then they were done. If they counted on a life in sport, too often they are disappointed.

I attended a fine program for writers at Pacific University, earning an MFA in 2007. When Pacific surveyed alums about opinions about beginning a new football program, I said no. My education was not a game, and I did not attend in order to watch others play. I knew the odds were that my alma mater would spend far more than it gained from a football team and I resented that. I have not sent them a dime since. Let the football alums help them with this.

One of my students searched colleges and universities across the entire nation before attending Bard, chosen specifically because it had no athletic program.

It was never easy for “ordinary” people to get into “top” schools when I was young, it is still not easy, and that is unlikely to change any time soon. But some of my students worked hard, had impressive resumes, and great stories to aid their admission. And luck. All had luck, all had persistence and support. I know three who went on to become professional athletes. One of those was in rodeo. Another played handball. I am more proud of the doctors and lawyers, the nurses and teachers, the personal trainers and parents and shopkeepers and bartenders and hairdressers and biologists.

THIS IS HOW OLD I AM

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The original logo.

I remember when there was only one Starbucks across the street from the Public Market and it also sold chocolate from Belgium and spices in little baggies as if cumin were something that could get you high and maybe it did.

I remember when Nordstrom only sold shoes.

I remember when the Smith Tower was enormous, instead of a dwarfish little icon fading from Seattle’s skyline.

I remember when it was free to visit the Woodland Park Zoo and the Seattle Art Museum was on Capital Hill and a walk along the waterfront smelled cold and thick with creosote and import stores sold seamen’s chests and incense cedar screens carved with a thousand gods.

I remember before we went to war with Vietnam and it was still Viet Nam before the American War.

I remember Jack Kennedy’s funeral and the balcony where the Reverend Martin Luther King, Junior was shot.

I remember long, slow evenings in suburbia.

I remember my father’s gold wedding band, thick around his finger, and holding his index finger as we walked, stretching my stride to match his. 

I remember the small chest in the living room with two shallow drawers at the top holding broken tools and orange index cards, a fountain pen needing ink, dental floss and model airplane glue, keys to doors and boxes the family no longer owned, ticket stubs, a pocket knife, and a miniature chess set in a folding wooden case. 

I remember my mother’s hands crimping piecrust and mashing potaoes in a white glass bowl, meatloaf and tomato soup with toasted cheese sandwiches and tuna noodle casseroles and green peas barely warmed from the freezer. 

I remember the gingham dog and calico cat salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen window sill, the clock that creaked as it marked the passing seconds, bread kept in a drawer, the junk drawer with mucilage and four brown pennies and a bent spoon, a red capped shaker with cinnamon, and the toaster that always burned the toast. 

I remember rain on the roof and the softball through the front window in an exploding star. 

I remember my brother’s cap pistols and the bright smell of burnt powder, roadway scars in the back garden for Matchbox trucks and sedans, and the juniper bush six feet across, a spiral of prickly green. 

I remember our dog Roo circling and circling to carve her space on the carpet and my mother’s slip-covered chair in the living room revealing a warm depression when we came home from the store. 

I remember the reading lamp over my bed with butterfly wings embedded in the fiberglass shade, and a bright line of light under my door and hushed voices in the living room, the blush of dawn sunlight above the neighbor’s house, condensation on the glass, and the clutter of school papers and lists of horse names marking a landscape on my desk. 

I remember scum in the corner of the bathtub, mold on the wall of my closet, the sound of the furnace coming on at night in winter because it was especially cold, the plastic cups we used for KoolAide in the summer, and the crisp pale fungus that grew between the boards of the picnic table. 

I remember cracks in the driveway. 

I remember the hollow creak of the mailbox door, splitting open an orange with my thumb, sunflower seeds in their shells, card games, bare oak floors, the World War Two surplus search lights scraping across the sky in the summer, and moths beating against porch lights all up and down the block.

I remember.

I remember how it was. The Bad Word scratched into the stop sign post. Women fired for failing to wear stockings even in the back room. The man on the block who stripped his kids’ shirts and beat them with a strap. The bullies up the street who made it dangerous to walk that way. The open gutters and frost throwing the soil up into sparkling shards. Empty lots gone to tall grass. Cows grazing in a field. Climbing trees. The shack in the woods mouldering back into the past. Tree stumps broad as foreign cars. Foreign cars so rare their drivers stop to compare notes.

I remember laughing with my brother and my children as infants. I remember what youth was like. I remember songs from their first notes and cranberry sauce from cans and the color of my mother’s eyes.

It was everything and it’s every bit gone, and if someone told me I could start over and have all that back again, I would not stop crying.

How old does that make me? If I think I could not bear to have it all again? If I can barely contain all that has happened since?

If that is how old I am, I do not want to start again.

 

Abdul Aziz

Abdul Aziz doesn’t think he is a hero. Allah had not chosen that time for him to die, and he believes he did what anyone would have done in that situation. May he be blessed for his courage and honor grace his steps.

These have been days it has been difficult to stay off social media.

Men with guns, men who talk and talk about manliness and who are afraid to be without weapons have always struck me as particularly fearful, cowardly, and weak. The actions of this father of four sons make me cry for pride.

“Three-year-old Mucad Ibrahim is the youngest victim of the mass shooting in Christchurch, New Zealand.

“Mucad Ibrahim was wearing little white socks, the type with grippy stripes on the bottom so that toddlers don’t slip, when he was carried out of the al-Noor mosque in Christchurch.

“His shoes were still at the entrance, where he’d left them when he arrived for Friday prayers with his father and older brother. His big brown eyes, usually alight with laughter, were closed as he was rushed to the ambulance.

“That was the last time his family saw him.”—The Washington Post

QUOTE

Screenwriter, television producer, television director, comedian, and comic book writer, John Rogers:

“There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs. “