Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.
—James Baldwin
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| photo from http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2013/07/why-im-encouraged-after-trayvon-martin.html?m=1 |
calvin's story
7.16.2013
change
—James Baldwin
7.15.2013
to kill a mockingbird
Back in my late twenties I entered into a five year relationship with an African American man named Jim. Despite the fact that he was smart, handsome, charming and funny, the relationship had its problems, the least of which was race. But what I learned during those five years has stayed with me, and I’ve used those lessons to try to improve myself, and the world, in whatever small ways I can.
What I learned was that Jim, like the rest of us, had been taught—wrongly—by society to fear black men. I learned that most black men—innocent ones—get stopped on the street, pulled over, harassed and bullied by white men in uniform for nothing other than minding their own business. I see vignettes of these injustices and discrimination frequently: the young black man in front of me about to board the airplane who is the only person asked to check his bag; the sharp dressed black man in the department store who is mistaken for the clerk; the African American restaurant guest who is purposefully neglected by the staff; the racist, bigoted Facebook posts about black men and prison garb.
Saturday’s verdict in the George Zimmerman case—an acquittal handed down by a mostly white jury—reminded me again of the gross injustices that occur in this country from small scale to large, reminded me that we might be better off if we lived in mixed communities rather than gated ones, reminded me of the countless times I’ve heard white people complain that they shouldn’t have to apologize for slavery, and how I’ve told them that they’re missing the point, that what society must put right is the continued oppression of black people.
Years ago, I remember my mother remarking on a dapper, tall black man stepping out of a luxury car. Her take was that he must’ve been a professional basketball player. “Why not a lawyer or a doctor or a banker, Mom?” and she seethed and spat angry words at me for what she felt was my judgment of her. Her ignorance and subsequent reaction to my query made me ill. And It wasn’t that long ago that I heard someone close to me use the N-word. I chastised her, because I believe people must be held accountable for their words as well as their actions, lest those insulting words spin out of control into hateful ideals and paradigms, into contempt, into vicious conduct fueled by that hate.
While unravelling in the shower, my mind poured over images of Trayvon Martin, the unarmed youth carrying skittles and iced tea who was gunned down by an over-zealous wannabe cop with a violent criminal past. Then I thought of the teens and young men with autism and Down syndrome who have died at the hands of security officers who used excessive force because of their ignorance, because of their fear, perhaps because of their loathing. I thought about the gawks and stares—and occasional rude remarks—that Calvin and I get every time we go out in public, which sometimes reek of disgust, even glowering in the eyes of some children—yes, children whose behavior is most obviously and purposefully ignored by their parents.
Then I reeled thinking of the Central Park Five, of Rodney King, of Martin Luther King Jr., of Oscar Grant gunned down at point blank range by a Bay Area Rapid Transit officer in the Oakland Fruitvale station, of the countless stories of African American men, women and children who have died—unjustifiably—at the end of a white man’s gun, in a burned-out church, at the end of a noose. I thought of the millions of black men incarcerated for years in jail cells or on death row, no doubt many innocent of their charges or serving weighty sentences for ridiculously non-violent crimes.
And then finally I am reminded of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, wherein a crippled black man, Tom Robinson, is convicted by an all white jury of a crime he didn’t commit against a white girl who was being abused by her father. I came across this passage of young Jem speaking to his father, Atticus Finch, who had defended Tom in court:
"Atticus—" said Jem bleakly.
He turned in the doorway. "What, son?"
"How could they do it, how could they?"
"I don't know, but they did it. They've done it before and they did it tonight and they'll do it again and when they do it—seems that only children weep. Good night."
I’m weeping, Trayvon, I’m weeping, and so too would Calvin be if only he could know.
What I learned was that Jim, like the rest of us, had been taught—wrongly—by society to fear black men. I learned that most black men—innocent ones—get stopped on the street, pulled over, harassed and bullied by white men in uniform for nothing other than minding their own business. I see vignettes of these injustices and discrimination frequently: the young black man in front of me about to board the airplane who is the only person asked to check his bag; the sharp dressed black man in the department store who is mistaken for the clerk; the African American restaurant guest who is purposefully neglected by the staff; the racist, bigoted Facebook posts about black men and prison garb.
Saturday’s verdict in the George Zimmerman case—an acquittal handed down by a mostly white jury—reminded me again of the gross injustices that occur in this country from small scale to large, reminded me that we might be better off if we lived in mixed communities rather than gated ones, reminded me of the countless times I’ve heard white people complain that they shouldn’t have to apologize for slavery, and how I’ve told them that they’re missing the point, that what society must put right is the continued oppression of black people.
Years ago, I remember my mother remarking on a dapper, tall black man stepping out of a luxury car. Her take was that he must’ve been a professional basketball player. “Why not a lawyer or a doctor or a banker, Mom?” and she seethed and spat angry words at me for what she felt was my judgment of her. Her ignorance and subsequent reaction to my query made me ill. And It wasn’t that long ago that I heard someone close to me use the N-word. I chastised her, because I believe people must be held accountable for their words as well as their actions, lest those insulting words spin out of control into hateful ideals and paradigms, into contempt, into vicious conduct fueled by that hate.
While unravelling in the shower, my mind poured over images of Trayvon Martin, the unarmed youth carrying skittles and iced tea who was gunned down by an over-zealous wannabe cop with a violent criminal past. Then I thought of the teens and young men with autism and Down syndrome who have died at the hands of security officers who used excessive force because of their ignorance, because of their fear, perhaps because of their loathing. I thought about the gawks and stares—and occasional rude remarks—that Calvin and I get every time we go out in public, which sometimes reek of disgust, even glowering in the eyes of some children—yes, children whose behavior is most obviously and purposefully ignored by their parents.
Then I reeled thinking of the Central Park Five, of Rodney King, of Martin Luther King Jr., of Oscar Grant gunned down at point blank range by a Bay Area Rapid Transit officer in the Oakland Fruitvale station, of the countless stories of African American men, women and children who have died—unjustifiably—at the end of a white man’s gun, in a burned-out church, at the end of a noose. I thought of the millions of black men incarcerated for years in jail cells or on death row, no doubt many innocent of their charges or serving weighty sentences for ridiculously non-violent crimes.
And then finally I am reminded of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, wherein a crippled black man, Tom Robinson, is convicted by an all white jury of a crime he didn’t commit against a white girl who was being abused by her father. I came across this passage of young Jem speaking to his father, Atticus Finch, who had defended Tom in court:
"Atticus—" said Jem bleakly.
He turned in the doorway. "What, son?"
"How could they do it, how could they?"
"I don't know, but they did it. They've done it before and they did it tonight and they'll do it again and when they do it—seems that only children weep. Good night."
I’m weeping, Trayvon, I’m weeping, and so too would Calvin be if only he could know.
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| Trayvon Benjamin Martin, February 5, 1995 – February 26, 2012 |
7.14.2013
sitting here watching
I'm sitting here watching my happy boy. He’s feeling better today. Sitting here watching him smile and squeal and bite his rubber giraffe and play with his toes. Sitting here watching him pirouette, Joni Mitchell filling the space with her cool sound putting us all in a trance. How does he do it with such grace and coordination?
He’s getting so big, looking so good, yet still so much like a baby. Spinning. Spinning in circles.
Sitting here watching my perfect boy, save the dark circles under his eyes, save the missing hank of white matter, save the seizures, save the drugs, save their side effects. He is sweetness embodied. He’s a pony boy, those long legs capped in white socks prancing in the jumper.
Sitting here watching and wishing for so much more. But I’ll take today, with its happy pony boy, this goofy, gangly, giggling boy, though still hoping for more tomorrow. Always hoping for more.
He’s getting so big, looking so good, yet still so much like a baby. Spinning. Spinning in circles.
Sitting here watching my perfect boy, save the dark circles under his eyes, save the missing hank of white matter, save the seizures, save the drugs, save their side effects. He is sweetness embodied. He’s a pony boy, those long legs capped in white socks prancing in the jumper.
Sitting here watching and wishing for so much more. But I’ll take today, with its happy pony boy, this goofy, gangly, giggling boy, though still hoping for more tomorrow. Always hoping for more.
7.13.2013
deb
Deb: Dedicated, Excellent. Bad-ass doc. Deb.
Deb is my son’s pediatrician. She’s been with him—with us—since Calvin was three weeks old, since we transferred from Maine Medical Center, where he was born, to our local hospital shortly after he was released from the neonatal intensive care unit. We took up residence in the labor and delivery ward for nearly four more weeks while Calvin practiced nursing.
Deb: Dogged. Encouraging. Brilliant. Deb.
Nearly every day while in the hospital, it seemed, Deb came to check on us in the morning. Usually, I had very low spirits having tried nursing Calvin with little luck since he was born six weeks early and having not yet developed the suck-swallow reflex. The nurses assigned to him would, every feeding time, weigh him on a sensitive gram scale before I nursed and then again, after, to determine how many grams of my milk he’d ingested. Then he’d get the remainder of his caloric requirement through a nasogastric tube attached to an inverted syringe full of my pumped breast milk. Deb was our cheerleader, and as such she coached us and assured us that Calvin would one day get it, would one day be going home. Without her I’d have fallen much earlier into the depths of despair because of my child that was failing to thrive. Without her I’d have had little hope.
Deb: Determined. Empathetic. Blue-ribbon. Deb.
But I did have hope because she gave it to me, and when Calvin was seven weeks old and barely six pounds, we brought him home. Since then Deb has made us feel as if Calvin is her only patient. I can’t quite wrap my head around the amount of time and effort she spends at work and then at home scouring stacks of books, medical journals and the Internet beefing up on my son’s conditions and afflictions and how to best treat them. She continually fields my copious emails, squeezes us in early for urgent appointments, speaks to us at length on the telephone long after her last patient has gone home, hugs us, at times cries with us, empathizes with us and has even made house calls on more than one occasion.
Deb: Down to earth. Extraordinary. Benevolent. Deb.
It’s difficult, if not impossible, to imagine what caring for Calvin would be like if it were not for Deb. She’s a rock. She’s Superwoman. She’s a caring individual and an indefatigable advocate for my son and my family. She’s the best pediatrician I can imagine, and though we don’t hang out together, I feel honored to call her my friend.
Deb. This one's for you.
Deb is my son’s pediatrician. She’s been with him—with us—since Calvin was three weeks old, since we transferred from Maine Medical Center, where he was born, to our local hospital shortly after he was released from the neonatal intensive care unit. We took up residence in the labor and delivery ward for nearly four more weeks while Calvin practiced nursing.
Deb: Dogged. Encouraging. Brilliant. Deb.
Nearly every day while in the hospital, it seemed, Deb came to check on us in the morning. Usually, I had very low spirits having tried nursing Calvin with little luck since he was born six weeks early and having not yet developed the suck-swallow reflex. The nurses assigned to him would, every feeding time, weigh him on a sensitive gram scale before I nursed and then again, after, to determine how many grams of my milk he’d ingested. Then he’d get the remainder of his caloric requirement through a nasogastric tube attached to an inverted syringe full of my pumped breast milk. Deb was our cheerleader, and as such she coached us and assured us that Calvin would one day get it, would one day be going home. Without her I’d have fallen much earlier into the depths of despair because of my child that was failing to thrive. Without her I’d have had little hope.
Deb: Determined. Empathetic. Blue-ribbon. Deb.
But I did have hope because she gave it to me, and when Calvin was seven weeks old and barely six pounds, we brought him home. Since then Deb has made us feel as if Calvin is her only patient. I can’t quite wrap my head around the amount of time and effort she spends at work and then at home scouring stacks of books, medical journals and the Internet beefing up on my son’s conditions and afflictions and how to best treat them. She continually fields my copious emails, squeezes us in early for urgent appointments, speaks to us at length on the telephone long after her last patient has gone home, hugs us, at times cries with us, empathizes with us and has even made house calls on more than one occasion.
Deb: Down to earth. Extraordinary. Benevolent. Deb.
It’s difficult, if not impossible, to imagine what caring for Calvin would be like if it were not for Deb. She’s a rock. She’s Superwoman. She’s a caring individual and an indefatigable advocate for my son and my family. She’s the best pediatrician I can imagine, and though we don’t hang out together, I feel honored to call her my friend.
Deb. This one's for you.
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| photo by Michael Kolster |
7.12.2013
friday faves - on god and good teeth
Just after sitting down in a booth with my husband over a cup of coffee
and a ridiculously fresh Boston cream donut, I found myself reclined in a
dentist’s chair, my tongue still covered in that gritty-greasy film
that a good donut leaves you with.
Between swabs of gel anesthesia, needles full of novocaine, sharp and shiny stainless steel instruments and rubber-gloved fingers all poking around in my mouth, I had a pseudo conversation about my disabled son.
After telling him a little bit about Calvin, the hygienist, a handsome, kind, funny guy, asked how Calvin reacted at the dentist. I told him that he did pretty well all in all. He mentioned that in college he’d written a paper about the dental health of mentally retarded people (inspired by his girlfriend at the time who had been working with the intellectually disabled.) He explained that he’d read papers about how this segment of the population was missing an enzyme that caused tooth decay, so although they had great trouble with tartar forming on their teeth, they didn’t get cavities. He went on to say something like, “It’s the good Lord’s design”—that God had given these kids cavity protection by designing their bodies is such a way as to avoid them. He explained how, being a religious man, he believed it. With a suction hose in my numb mouth I mumbled, “I don’t,” and we both laughed. What else was there to do?
My head was reeling, though not from the anesthesia or the bright light spotted on my face. Why would God go to all the trouble to protect these kids’ teeth but do nothing to protect their brains? And I don’t buy the line that God works in mysterious ways so we can’t always know or understand his plan. What kind of divine plan, or its maker, includes debilitated, suffering, and terminally ill little kids and their families? Not one that I can believe in.
I remember a fellow alumnus from my high school, upon hearing that Calvin was generally a happy little kid, telling me how God creates these mentally disabled kids with sweet dispositions just to make the road a little easier. Well, if I believed in that God I’d say He’d stopped way short of His potential.
Meaning no disrespect to the devout and their own private beliefs, or to the affable hygienist who I can imagine calling my friend, sometimes I think I’d prefer being stabbed in the gums with a sharp instrument over hearing theories of how my kid, and others like him, was intentionally designed by a supposedly all-loving, omnipotent Creator, to live a life of suffering.
Between swabs of gel anesthesia, needles full of novocaine, sharp and shiny stainless steel instruments and rubber-gloved fingers all poking around in my mouth, I had a pseudo conversation about my disabled son.
After telling him a little bit about Calvin, the hygienist, a handsome, kind, funny guy, asked how Calvin reacted at the dentist. I told him that he did pretty well all in all. He mentioned that in college he’d written a paper about the dental health of mentally retarded people (inspired by his girlfriend at the time who had been working with the intellectually disabled.) He explained that he’d read papers about how this segment of the population was missing an enzyme that caused tooth decay, so although they had great trouble with tartar forming on their teeth, they didn’t get cavities. He went on to say something like, “It’s the good Lord’s design”—that God had given these kids cavity protection by designing their bodies is such a way as to avoid them. He explained how, being a religious man, he believed it. With a suction hose in my numb mouth I mumbled, “I don’t,” and we both laughed. What else was there to do?
My head was reeling, though not from the anesthesia or the bright light spotted on my face. Why would God go to all the trouble to protect these kids’ teeth but do nothing to protect their brains? And I don’t buy the line that God works in mysterious ways so we can’t always know or understand his plan. What kind of divine plan, or its maker, includes debilitated, suffering, and terminally ill little kids and their families? Not one that I can believe in.
I remember a fellow alumnus from my high school, upon hearing that Calvin was generally a happy little kid, telling me how God creates these mentally disabled kids with sweet dispositions just to make the road a little easier. Well, if I believed in that God I’d say He’d stopped way short of His potential.
Meaning no disrespect to the devout and their own private beliefs, or to the affable hygienist who I can imagine calling my friend, sometimes I think I’d prefer being stabbed in the gums with a sharp instrument over hearing theories of how my kid, and others like him, was intentionally designed by a supposedly all-loving, omnipotent Creator, to live a life of suffering.
Originally published August 2012.
7.11.2013
what i do
When my nine-year-old son Calvin’s bus arrives at the end of our driveway I sweep him off the steps, give him a kiss and set him on his feet. He usually has a smile on his face because home, it seems, is his favorite place to be, though school comes in close second. Sometimes we step inside and wash his hands then I read his daily summary sheet looking for the number and quality of any poops, searching for remarks on his balance and behavior and for what types of activities he engaged in while at school. At times, I hand him over to the nurse who sometimes fetches him from the bus herself, in which case I go back to my gardening or my writing or, on rare occasions, my cleaning.
What I don’t do, I see other parents doing with their children, and with a clenched heart I wonder if they are cognizant of how fortunate they are to be doing them. I don’t greet my son beaming with admiration at the way he describes how he made the paper mache sculpture in art. I don’t walk with him across town, kicking stones and acorns, to buy ice cream cones at the little red shack on Maine Street. I don’t send him off on his bike to the neighbor’s house to play. I don’t take him to swimming lessons where I watch intently from the side of the pool. I don’t take him to the store to pick out a new helmet or cleats or ball or bat or jersey or a spanking new pair of shoes. I don’t hear him recite his newest poem written in neat, round letters on wide-spaced ruled paper. I don’t head to the back yard to toss a ball that might just land in a mitt that devours his little arm practically up to its elbow. I don’t teach him cartwheels or somersaults or how to make a blade of grass sing between his thumbs. I don’t send him off to walk the dog or ask him to make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or to go ask his father a question or to head upstairs to clean his room or do his homework.
What I do do, as on a day like yesterday, is to keep him out of his regrettably short day of summer school so we can drive nearly three hours to his neuro-ophthalmologist’s appointment in Boston where we sit and wait until the technician receives us then glues leads to his ears and on the back of his head as he whines and struggles to free himself from his father's restraint while he watches black and white checkerboards in various sizes dance across a screen in front of him so that the technician can record and decipher the activity of his visual cortex.
What I do do is then pace around behind him in the office for an hour waiting to get his glasses tested and his eyes dilated so that one of the Best Physicians in Boston can examine him, then I give him his lunchtime seizure medicine in a spoonful of yogurt and watch him drift off to sleep in his stroller with his eyes half open like he does when he is sick, like he does just before a seizure.
What I do do is watch him begin to jerk and twitch in that stroller and wonder if it’s a seizure and my muscles tense and I sit at the edge of my seat waiting to spring into action. But it isn’t a seizure, and some commotion wakes him up and his pupils are saucers and he stares at his snapping fingers and a soiled bib remains clipped at the back of his neck and he chews the harness we’ve strung across the stroller so that he won’t fall out and he grinds his teeth and we’re still waiting for the doctor to examine his eyes so we can get the hell out of there and drive three hours back to Maine arriving long after I’d usually be sweeping him off of the bus from school with a kiss.
What I don’t do, I see other parents doing with their children, and with a clenched heart I wonder if they are cognizant of how fortunate they are to be doing them. I don’t greet my son beaming with admiration at the way he describes how he made the paper mache sculpture in art. I don’t walk with him across town, kicking stones and acorns, to buy ice cream cones at the little red shack on Maine Street. I don’t send him off on his bike to the neighbor’s house to play. I don’t take him to swimming lessons where I watch intently from the side of the pool. I don’t take him to the store to pick out a new helmet or cleats or ball or bat or jersey or a spanking new pair of shoes. I don’t hear him recite his newest poem written in neat, round letters on wide-spaced ruled paper. I don’t head to the back yard to toss a ball that might just land in a mitt that devours his little arm practically up to its elbow. I don’t teach him cartwheels or somersaults or how to make a blade of grass sing between his thumbs. I don’t send him off to walk the dog or ask him to make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or to go ask his father a question or to head upstairs to clean his room or do his homework.
What I do do, as on a day like yesterday, is to keep him out of his regrettably short day of summer school so we can drive nearly three hours to his neuro-ophthalmologist’s appointment in Boston where we sit and wait until the technician receives us then glues leads to his ears and on the back of his head as he whines and struggles to free himself from his father's restraint while he watches black and white checkerboards in various sizes dance across a screen in front of him so that the technician can record and decipher the activity of his visual cortex.
What I do do is then pace around behind him in the office for an hour waiting to get his glasses tested and his eyes dilated so that one of the Best Physicians in Boston can examine him, then I give him his lunchtime seizure medicine in a spoonful of yogurt and watch him drift off to sleep in his stroller with his eyes half open like he does when he is sick, like he does just before a seizure.
What I do do is watch him begin to jerk and twitch in that stroller and wonder if it’s a seizure and my muscles tense and I sit at the edge of my seat waiting to spring into action. But it isn’t a seizure, and some commotion wakes him up and his pupils are saucers and he stares at his snapping fingers and a soiled bib remains clipped at the back of his neck and he chews the harness we’ve strung across the stroller so that he won’t fall out and he grinds his teeth and we’re still waiting for the doctor to examine his eyes so we can get the hell out of there and drive three hours back to Maine arriving long after I’d usually be sweeping him off of the bus from school with a kiss.
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| photo by Michael Kolster |
7.10.2013
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