Here you will find thought
pieces that we may post from time to time.
The page is not meant to be a blog in the literal sense. We both feel uncomfortable
spilling whatever thoughts just happen to come into our head onto a page.
Besides,
who really cares about the junk that goes through our heads anyway?
Therefore, these will
be pieces that are less spontaneous than your ordinary blog.
Think of them as
web essays. The content will be open to whatever strikes our fancy.
We hope you enjoy them.
All pieces on this page copyrighted by Michael Hess and Megan Kamerick. Please contact us if you wish to use them.
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3/2/2006
Lent is Here, but Oh What a Mardi Gras!
When we made the decision, in spring of 2000, to move to New Orleans so that I could begin my doctoral studies, I thought that we'd be overrun with visitors. Who wouldn't want to come to New Orleans? I had friends from college visit me in Milwaukee. We had friends come down from Milwaukee to Texas when we lived there. So it only seemed that since we were moving to one of the most, if not THE most, interesting and different city in America, we would have plenty of visitors. I especially expected hordes of friends, like Visigoths tasting the delights of Rome for the first time, to pour out of the hinterlands of America and beat down our doors during Mardi Gras.
It never happened.
Sure, we had friends visit us. But fewer than I expected. And none, absolutely none, during Mardi Gras. My mom and sister visited us during the other New Orleans event, Jazzfest, once. And that was it.
I was puzzled. Why didn't people want to come see us in New Orleans, during one of the most different celebrations in America?
I got hints here and there. Slowly it became clear to me. Mardi Gras in New Orleans was associated with big crowds of young people participating in licentious behavior. My friends, in their mid-30s, didn't see anything in it for them. Their exposure to Mardi Gras consisted of brief television pictures of college-aged kids cavorting half naked on Bourbon Street, flashing various body parts at each other for cheap sets of beads. I even heard of a teacher in a northern state getting upset at a young girl who went to visit her relatives in New Orleans during Mardi Gras and who brought back beads to give to her classmates. This teacher snatched the beads away, according to the story, and made a reference to the disgusting things that are done to get beads.
My exposure to Mardi Gras was different. I first had to learn that Mardi Gras was just one day out of a Carnival season. Technically beginning on January 6th, Carnival continues until Ash Wednesday, serving as a time when one gets all their sensual pleasures out of the way before beginning the Lenten atonement before Easter. I had known about Carnival the way it was celebrated in Europe, having been in Germany during the Carnival season, but I hadn't equated New Orleans Carnival celebrations with Europe's. But, like Europe's Carnival, New Orleans Carnival season consists of balls and parades, especially in the last two weeks before Ash Wednesday.
I also learned that the questionable behavior of Bourbon Street was something that locals STAY AWAY FROM. In fact, if you're a local, you're kind of embarassed to be on Bourbon Street. Filled with everything that appeals to tourists shedding their normal lives for a brief time, such as T-shirt shops, strip clubs, bars that serve "Huge-Ass Beers" or "Hand Grenades," Bourbon is often jammed with visitors, not people who live in the city. And during Carnival, this is doubly true.
What I discovered was that the true Carnival, away from Bourbon Street, consists of many different traditions and cultures, all of which provide reasons for and strengthen family bonding, and bind average New Orleanians to their city. Over the four years I lived there, I took in parades uptown with local families, their children excitedly waving from step ladders along the sidewalks and neutral grounds, watching contendedly the beautifully ornate floats gliding by, catching beads without having to give up anything in return (and sometimes the beads were quite creative and beautiful). I attended balls, including some with some licentiousness, but all in good fun (like the MOMS ball, where you show up in a costume fitting the theme and hope that it is judged adequate, or you show up naked, to get in). I listened to the music, and became amazed at the breadth and life of the city's musical scene. Like Christmas, which has a canon of traditional and modern carols, hymns and songs, Mardi Gras has inspired a whole canon of its own music, which is played almost non-stop in the week leading up to Mardi Gras.
So it was with only slight hesitations that we made plans to go to this, the first Mardi Gras after Katrina. Many in the rest of the country may have wondered why New Orleans would throw a party so soon after so many died and so many others lost everything. Why would a city, bankrupted by nature and the folly and neglect of governments from the federal on down to the local, spend money it didn't have to provide this bacchanalian orgy? To us, it was perfectly clear. Without Carnival, without Mardi Gras, the city would lose its soul, not to mention an economic shot in the arm from tourists. And so we went.
And it was a PERFECT Mardi Gras. The parades, smaller than in years past because most of the high school bands that participated were absent because the children still have not returned to the city and their high schools, still had us enthralled, hoping to catch the eye of a woman or man on a float and get a good set of beads. Fat Tuesday itself was warm and sunny, and the Zulu parade, the biggest predominantly black parade, actually had real Zulus from South Africa marching with them! The French Quarter, away from Bourbon Street, was filled with locals in costume (as we were) walking around and mingling, dancing to real and imagined music filling the air. The Jesus freaks who come down to harangue Mardi Gras revelers and denounce New Orleans as both Sodom and Gomorrah combined held their tongues and demonstrated quietly in Jackson Square. Just off the French Quarter, on Frenchmen Street, a crowd of costumed locals danced to latin salsa outside Cafe Brazil.
The city is not back to itself. One need only go to the destruction of the Ninth Ward, where right next to the levee breach the blocks for at least a half mile around look as if a nuclear bomb were dropped, to know that New Orleans will never be the same. One need only go to the eerie quiet streets and houses of Lakeview, by the other levee breach, to know that the city is not the same. In fact, these areas feel like graveyards, and probably should be treated as such (unlike the idiots who we saw open a strong box sitting by the side of a Ninth ward street and take out watches that were in it). But, the culture is alive. Mardi Gras Indian tribes, those groups of black families who mask and costume in amazing plumage and beads and meet in the streets to boast and parade, were still roaming the avenues and byways of New Orleans, even in the Ninth ward, on Mardi Gras. These people were forced from their homes, and in many cases still have not returned permanently, nor do they know if they ever will, but they came back to continue the tradition. Brass bands, those unique New Orleans amalgamations of marching band and hip hop performers, many trying to make it in other various venues around the country, came back to perform in nightclubs and march in the parades.
But for me, the true spirit of Mardi Gras came at the end of a long day. Megan and I, and our friend Elizabeth, on the way to our costumed wanderings in the French Quarter, stopped to get some red beans and rice in the Treme, the neighborhood just to the west of the French Quarter. As we rounded the corner, our red beans and rice in hand, we happened upon another little kitchen set up at a private home. They were serving ribs and chicken and corn on the cob, and Elizabeth was tempted. She ate some and loved it. On the way back, some five hours later, tired from walking and maybe a little tipsy from alcohol, we stopped again on the way back to our car. The owner, a man who neighbors called Peanut, and his wife Sharon served us up a plate of ribs, dirty rice, crab-boiled chicken, and some cold wine for $7.00 apiece. They were happy we came back, and Peanut explained that every day they cooked these plates for crews that were helping rebuild New Orleans. He told us that if there was food left, he took it around to neighborhoods and gave it away. He said that God was good to them, and they wanted to share his goodness with others. With a hug and a God-bless you, he sent us on our way, full and contented.
I would ask you, please remember New Orleans, and most of all, remember the Mardi Gras spirit and culture it possesses. It may seem foreign to you, and you may want to judge it. But if you spend some time there, you'll be surprised at just how deep and important it is to the city and its people, and how unique it is to America. If New Orleans is to ever come back, it needs Mardi Gras.
1/28/2006
The Risk of Challengers: Where Were You 20 Years Ago Today?
Twenty years ago today. Where were you. This type of question has often been asked about "defining" moments of generations. For some, it's the Kennedy assassination. For others, the shooting of John Lennon has served as a defining moment. In fact, I recently saw a play called "The Day They Shot John Lennon," in which a variety of characters representing a diverse swath of New Yorkers gather around the entrance to the Lennon's apartment building on the day he was killed and swap stories, remembrances, and philosophize what Lennon's death means to their lives and futures.
For many, September 11, 2001 will be a defining moment, and "Where were you when the planes hit?" or "Where were you when the towers fell?" will be a question they answer multiple times in their lives. I also have no doubt that for a number of people, the question that gets to the defining moment of their lives will be "Where were you when Katrina hit?"
But for me, one of my first defining moments was the Challenger disaster -- January 28th, 1986. I was a senior in college, walking in to class when I got the news. We were supposed to be watching a video that day, but as I walked in I noticed the professor toward the back of the class, and the launch of the Challenger was playing. I thought that it was strange that we would be watching it, and then the explosion occurred on screen. It was a repeat of what had happened earlier, and the day would be filled with images of the Challenger disaster.
The disaster was magnified in that the crew was such a representation of America. Of the crew of seven, two were women, one was black and one was Asian. While most of the crew were connected with the military before becoming astronauts, two were civilians including Christa McAuliffe, a teacher who had been selected to participate in the Teacher in Space program. Nobody suspected that anything could go wrong, and in fact, shuttle flights had become so commonplace that television had stopped broadcasting them almost entirely -- the only reason they were there on that day was because of McAuliffe's history making flight. The explosion touched America, because that day started full of American pride, achievement and hope that we could put aside our cultural and racial differences and celebrate our united taming of space. Instead, we spent it united in sorrow for a dream deferred.
The moment inspired me to write a poem. I had been participating in a poetry writing workshop that semester, but I undertook this poem outside the auspices of the class. Later, I submitted the poem along with two others that I had written in the class to a campus contest which was judged by English department professors and was very competitive. To my surprise, I won the contest and the $250 prize that went with it.
I haven't really used this poem since then, other than donating it to an artist in San Antonio who had a piece of art incorporating what he believed was some insulation, found on a Florida beach, from the Challenger. He put the poem on the back of the art piece. So, on this 28th day of January, 2006, on the 20th anniversary of the Challenger disaster, I am taking the liberty of posting that poem, dedicated to the Challenger astronauts and their families and loved ones.
The
Risk of Challengers
by Michael L. Hess
Roaring,
A bright flame,
it rises into the
morning sky, burning
a path through the air
like an inverted matchstick.
The hopes of mankind rest on this
match, descendent of the first glowing
embers that he found would broil his meat,
warm his body, run his engines, propel
his projectiles, destroy his world.
Reaching out in light and smoke,
man conquers space with fire,
whose glory occasionally
will consume the
most intrepid
Challenger.
Written February 1986 in memoriam for the Challenger.
1/23/2006
Greg Brown: A Voice of America
Last Saturday night, 1/21/06, my wife Megan and I went to see Greg Brown in concert at the Lobo Theater in Albuquerque. It was probably the 3rd or 4th time we have seen him, but also the first time in at least 10 years.
Megan introduced me to Greg Brown's music when I first met her. I was sort of an uncultured rube then, and Megan brought to me the joys of listening to public radio. She was surprised that I had never listened to such radio programs as Prairie Home Companion, which revealed itself when I professed that I never heard of Greg Brown. "But he's a regular guest on Garrison Keillor's show," she exclaimed. "What's that?" I answered, thereby revealing my ignorance of a whole segment of American society.
So, Megan set about opening to me a world that I had missed, and one of those things was Greg Brown. I confess I did not know what to think of him at first. His singing voice is unique, moving from an extremely low, powerful and almost menacing rasp to a high rough tenor, often in the same song. His guitar playing can be powerful, chopping cords or sweet and delicate finger picking, again, in the same song. He is a quiet stage presence so that if he is not miked, you might have to strain to hear him, yet his presence is unmistakable.
You also never know what you are going to get with a Greg Brown concert. You don't know what his mood is going to be. Sometimes he spends a lot of time, like singer-songwriters often do, weaving sad and funny stories throughout his performance. At other times he simply moves through his sets with a purpose, playing song after song in his extensive repertoire one after the other with little fanfare. Sometimes he appears alone, and sometimes he might have another musician or two with him, as in his Albuquerque concert where he appeared with Jason Wilber (who often accompanies John Prine) providing an extra guitar with melodic counterpoints. Sometimes he asks for requests, and sometimes he gets annoyed when someone in the audience shouts out a favorite song that he or she wants to hear. The music style changes with each appearance. For me, this latest show was perfect because he was predominantly melancholy and bluesy, and I like that combination in him. However, with his huge song-list, he can fashion a concert to sound like anything he wants.
Greg Brown is from Iowa, the son of a Pentacostal preacher, the combination of his midwestern upbringing and his exposure to both the worldly and the spiritual aspects of life pervade his music. His songs are always fused with a down-to-earth, and sometimes earthy component, but to me they soar with something else as well. Maybe its a wonderment about life throughout its ups and downs, or the sense that there is a magicalness to the seemingly mundane. He can take a song about a seedy hotel in Ottumwa, Iowa and describe it with such growling menace that you just know that it is the last refuge of the damned. But he can also make you enchanted with the simplicity of home-canned goods in the cellar.
It is astounding to me that he often flies under the radar of public consciousness, yet his peers know him well. A tribute album exists, in which a bevy of well-known female artists such as Lucinda Williams, Mary Chapin-Carpenter, Ani DiFranco and his current wife Iris Dement sing their favorite Greg Brown songs. And he has a coterie of devoted fans, which almost ensures that he sells out smaller venues wherever he goes. The Lobo seats probably around 150-200 people, in my estimate, and every seat was full with 30-50 somethings, with a handful of 20 somethings thrown in. In fact, while in the restroom after the concert I overheard two college-aged kids marveling at how he tore up Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues." "To cover it that well in his own style...," one kid exclaimed, trailing off into respectful silence, to which the other could only say "yeah!"
I have three Greg Brown CD's, and two old cassette tapes. I don't know why I don't have more. The CD's I have are "In the Dark with You" (1985), "One Big Town" (1989) and "Covenant" (2000) The cassettes are "One More Goodnight Kiss" (1988) and "The Poet Game" (1994). I don't know why I don't have more, and I should. But I do know that to me, Greg Brown's songs, his styles and his presence reveal America in all its complexities to me and for that I am grateful to Megan for introducing him to me.
1/11/2006
What I Did on my Christmas Vacation
This was the year we finally did it. After talking about how much fun it would be to drive across country to my mom's in California, we finally decided to take the plunge thanks to high air fares and our closer proximity in Albuquerque to California. So, after really not much planning, we hit the road. I now include for you a day-by-day blow of our trip:
December 22nd
Leave Albuquerque at about 7:00 p.m. in our car, a 1995 Infiniti G20 which has had a terrible habit of breaking down with mechanical problems that even our auto service professional has never seen. We leave our dog Hannibal in the care of our neighbor Rick . Hannibal is 15 and not in the best of health, but has been on a regimen of antibiotics to prevent sickness while we are gone. We have packed the car to the gills with our clothing, some rudimentary gifts (my family is not exchanging Christmas presents this year), and food for the road. Our plan is to drive as far as Flagstaff, AZ and spend the night in a Quality Inn. We make it in around 1:00 p.m. to the motel. No car problems!
December 23rd
Leave Flagstaff around 10:30 for the drive to Los Angeles, well actually Glendale, where we will stay with an old high school friend of mine. We wind through the beautiful Arizona high country, and then start a long downhill slope that ends in the Los Angeles basin, traveling along portions of old Route 66. The day is brilliant.
We make a detour at Lake Havasu City because I had heard the London Bridge was there, transported brick by brick from London. Indeed it was, and let me say that Megan and I agreed that it was a picture of everything wrong with America. First of all, Lake Havasu City lies in the middle of the desert by a relatively large lake. Water issues aside, it seems to be a retirement community that was someone's brainchild in the 60s and that really shouldn't be there. As we drive through town, which seems to be full of boat dealers and marine outfitters, we come upon the London Bridge. It is over a lagoon of sorts and you enter to see it through a "London" town square, full of old London replicas such as the Hawaiian Shaved Ice shop, a gondolier poling a gondola with two tourists out among the bridge supports singing "O Sole Mio," a beautifully restored and historically accurate old London attraction, the Dixie Belle paddlewheeler, and other curio shops and such. I got a kick out of the kid doing yo yo tricks to the immense satisfaction of a cowboy with an eyepatch named Kenny (his name was on his belt). In other words, as Megan puts it, this whole attraction symbolizes America's ability to take the history of others, claim it as our own, and put all kinds of irrelevant shit around it.
We got into Glendale around 7:00 p.m. and went to dinner with Fred and Elizabeth and their daughter Mia. After that much driving, dinner, beer and bed felt great! Car continues to work!
December 24
We awoke and after taking some time to actually get ourselves mentally and physically ready, we went to breakfast with the Genges and then hit the road. We decided to drive up US 101 instead of the faster I-5. This allowed us some ocean vistas, and we were able to visit a mission in Lompoc. We hit San Francisco around 7:00 p.m. and stopped for some Vietnamese Pho in the Sunset District. We then drove the rest of the way to Fort Bragg, arriving sometime around midnight. We went to bed pretty much immediately after tired hellos to my mom and sister who were awake and waiting for us. Car still working!
December 25
Oh jeez, guess what. That family injunction against Christmas presents? Well, let's see...Santa (aka Mom) broke the injunction as did one sister (Mari). So other sister and Megan and I look a little like idiots for not bringing anything. "But you're present is that you came," said my mom. Yeah, thanks. We had breakfast, meeting Mari's new boyfriend Rick, and then opened the gifts that shouldn't have been.
Pauline wasn't feeling well, so we couldn't do the new tradition of going to see the seals. Nor could she accompany us to the ultimate of family traditions, the extended family dinner and poker game. Dinner was not heavily attended with numerous cousins out of town, but 100 year old Papa John was there. We did not win in poker this year either -- between us Megan and I lost $10.
Car did not break down!
December 26 - January 1
It rained.
Okay well, there was some clearing at times, during which Megan and I went to the Pacific Star Winery and bought a case of wine, and we managed to get out and on the bluffs a couple of times. We met some of my old friends in a bar. We went down to Mendocino and walked around. We had a whirlpool bath in a spa that opened in the old company store where I had bought my first set of workboots when I became a lumber mill employee in the early 1980s -- can you imagine the grizzled old mill workers faces if they were told that one day in the store where they bought their equipment, that they would be able to buy a ginger bath for an hour for $40?
But it rained and rained. And the roads closed because of landslides and flooding, meaning that we couldn't leave town on January 1st like we planned.
So we sat around with my sick sister and watched 48 episodes of Scrubs -- the entire first two seasons on DVD. And I must say that Dr. Perry Cox is my new hero.
On my birthday, Dec. 29th, we got a call from Rick. Hannibal was really sick. Vet was called, and she came by the house. Hannibal needed fluids and was generally feeling crappy. There wasn't a need for us to run home immediately, not that we could, but we were worried all the same.
At least the car seems to be running okay!
January 2
Roads finally open. We leave after tearful goodbyes with sister and mom. Okay, maybe we all were slightly relieved to be out of each other's hair! Megan and I drive down to Marin County, stopping only at a winery that caught our eye, Nelson Family Vineyards, and then a quick drive through chi-chi Healdsburg. We arrive at Megan's brother's house at about 5:30, driving up just about 5 minutes after they came in from a spa vacation. We were treated to their new plasma screen television, and a nice dinner whipped up by April, Michael's wife.
Hannibal still feeling crappy, but seems to be doing better.
Starting to feel spoiled by the car. Still running!
January 3
We drive into SF and go to the new DeYoung Museum, which looks from the outside like a Sams Club warehouse. We saw the Hatshepsut exhibit, which centered around Egypt's only female pharoah, and it was quite good. We then met my college friend Richard for dinner, and then back to Marin.
Hannibal doing better.
Car still hanging in there!
January 4
We spend a lot of time hanging around Michael and April's house, then make a mid-afternoon hike in Devils Gulch on the road toward Point Reyes. It was a nice hike up to a waterfall, and with all the water lately there was a lot coming down. We then went and grabbed the Larkspur ferry to San Francisco and met Megan's brother and his wife for dinner, stopping in at City Lights to peruse books and Vesuvio's for a drink. Michael took us to a Greek place for dinner, which was really good. He felt like celebrating because he just found out that after surgery he was completely cancer free.
Hannibal got annoyed and ran away from Rick when he tried to feed him -- always a good sign!
Car still going -- might we hit a homer?
January 5
We drove over to Oakland to see a Hall of Fame traveling exhibit on baseball, and to say hello to a former roommate of mine, Amy Billstrom, when I was volunteering with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. She now works at the Oakland Museum, where the exhibit is located, and so we were able to kill two birds with one stone!
We then met Michael, April and my friend Richard for a movie in Fairfax. We saw Syriana -- dense, complex and leaves many questions. Tearful goodbye to Richard, who went back to his teaching gig.
Hannibal progressing steadily. Needs steroids to help combat his deteriorating hips.
Car still going -- I'm hopeful.
January 6
Got up early and met Megan's friend Dean in San Francisco for breakfast. Then we were off to LA. We made an afternoon stop at the National Steinbeck Center in Salinas, which was well done and would be especially satisfying to Steinbeck fans. Then on to Glendale for a dinner with the Genges and blessed sleep.
Hannibal better still.
Car still running. Will miracles ever cease.
January 7
Had some breakfast and went to the Huntington Library Botanical Gardens with the Genges. It was a beautiful day. We left LA around 4:00 p.m. for long drive to Flagstaff. Road is all uphill, and thanks to late start, most of it is in the dark.
We pull into a Burger King in Kingman, Arizona, and the car craps out on us. Yes indeed. I cannot get it into gear when the car is running, though it works fine when car is completely off. We manage to wrestle into fifth gear (first just doesn't work at all) and drive to Flagstaff.
Hannibal's doing better though -- but I'm not happy about the bill we'll get.
January 8th
Car didn't magically fix itself. We get going around 10:00 a.m. We considered stopping at the Meteor Crater, but a $15 apiece fee to get in and car worries scuttle that plan. We do stop for ice cream in Gallup, but the gears seem to be more reluctant than ever and we get back on the road quickly for the run into Albuquerque. We arrive home at around 4:00 p.m. to grateful dog.
Post-mortem
You know it's sad when your mechanic even feels sorry for you after awhile. Something is wrong with the clutch, though he doesn't know exactly what. It is one of those wierd things that continue to plague us with this car. The bill was around $750 to replace the clutch. We have now put about as much money in two years into fixing it as we did in buying the thing.
Hannibal really perked up on our arrival home. He's weak and skinny from lack of food, but shows improvement in appetite each day. At fifteen, and at the rate he's deteriorated, we know we don't have a lot of time left with him, but his ability to rally from bad sicknesses is inspiring.
Megan's back to work, and I'm back to writing on the dissertation. It was a mixed bag of tricks, this driving trip to California, but I'm glad I did it.
1/11/2006
Confessions of a Genital Teaching Assistant
I am a simulated patient, or "standardized patient" as we are known at the medical center where I do such work. When people ask what a standardized patient does, I immediately remind them of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer plays a man with gonnorhea for medical students. While my job is not exactly like what Kramer did (he hammed it up quite a bit), it often involves a bit of acting -- becoming a character with a certain ailment or condition and allowing the medical students to interview me in order that they can a) work on their doctor/patient relationship skills and b) diagnose whatever my malady might be.
But sometimes, no acting is involved. Occasionally being a simulated patient means simply being a body upon which medical students can practice various diagnostic techniques. These clinical skills workshops are important to the students because it allows them to put into practice what they have been learning in the classroom. The techniques are often things that you think doctors were born knowing how to do -- taking blood pressure or performing an abdominal exam. Yet a student's first time at these procedures can be very frightening. It may be the first time they touch an actual patient. When I served as a "body" for students learning how to take blood pressure and pulse, one young woman's hands actually trembled when she put the cuff on me.
For me, all of this is paid work. I make $10.00 per hour playing a patient, and as I can have up to four two-hour trainings and 2-3 eight-hour exam days per patient I play, the money can be pretty good.
But the gold is often in a special type of clinical skills workshop, where one serves as a "genital teaching assistant," or GTA. What is that? In essence, a GTA serves as the model for students to learn how to conduct genital exams and, in the case of men, rectal exams. GTA's get paid the $10.00 per hour, and also extra per procedure. Women get $25.00 per pelvic exam, and men get $20.00 per genital exam and $20.00 per rectal exam. Since you can see up to 8-10 students per time, the money adds up nicely.
I know what you're thinking. "Uh, Mike, uh, how can you do that?!!!" Some guys are probably thinking, "What, are you into that thing Mike? Is there something about you that I should know?" Believe me, I didn't quite jump into this enthusiastically. I'm not normally given to going out of my way to seek out such experiences. And, I really hate going to the doctor's office because I'm concerned that I will have to undergo just these types of procedures. Despite my misgivings, however, I recently performed as a GTA for the first time. The money, to a poor graduate student, is appealing and helped me will myself to tough it out. The experience was actually humbling and empowering at the same time. While I would like to say that I was calm and collected, the thought of newly minted medical students coming at my private parts was a bit intimidating, and I almost didn't accept the assignment.
Usually, the encounters go something like this. The examinations take place in small groups, usually 3-4 students and a physician, in an examining room. The physician demonstrates the various techniques for examination on the GTA. The students then follow with their own examinations, one at a time, under the watchful and helpful gaze of the physician and the eyes of their classmates. I did two of these groups, and you can do the math. Or I'll do it for you. I had two genital and rectal exams demonstrated by the physician upon me. I had eight students all take their turn at doing the genital and rectal exams. That's 8 pairs of student eyes upon areas that only my mother (when I was a young boy), my wife, and a few other assorted individuals have ever seen. Of the students, five were women and three were men. So, my genitals were dangling in front of all these people. I also had to bend over and show the least flattering part of myself to them. 10 fingers were inserted into my rear end, one at a time, over the three-hour time block. How's that for a compromising position?!
The funny thing was, that after the first demonstration by the doctor, I began to realize that this wasn't going to be too bad. After awhile, I forgot my self-consciousness, even in front of the women. The students had learned the drill quite nicely. "Can you please pull up your gown? Okay, can you lift your penis up so I can see the skin color underneath. Okay, I'm going to feel your testicles now for any abnormalities. Great! Looks good. Now I'll check for hernia...turn your head and cough please. Okay, now we'll do a rectal exam. Can you place your feet about shoulder width apart and bend over the table here resting on your elbows. Skin around the opening looks okay. I'm going apply some lubrication and it's going to be cold. Now you'll feel some pressure." All the while, the doctor exhorted the students encouragingly. "Turn your finger to the side, then push up and in. Good job!" And what was I doing? I was just kind of there. Another guy who was also a GTA said he usually went off into various thoughts about other things, only coming back to reality when asked a question or addressed. I found that I mostly did the same thing.
After I got over the embarrassment, I began to crack a joke or two to lighten their nervousness between exams. "So, you trim your fingernails?" "I feel I've gotten closer to all of you somehow!" And other stupid stuff like that, though I resisted the old gag "so now are you going to take me to dinner?" When you have people coming at your privates, the last thing you need is for them to be shaking and quaking with fear.
The difference between the genders in their examinations was an interesting discovery for me. Men were more gentle when dealing with a sensitive physical area, such as the testicles, than women! Maybe innate instinct and personal experience with what actually happens if the family jewels are mistreated was the explanation for this surprising experience. Women were a bit rougher. Once, I had to tell a woman to not squeeze a particular sensitive area so hard. On the other hand, the women were more likely to be compassionate and inquire of my mental and emotional feelings, even outside of the examination. At least three women, after an encounter, asked me how I was holding up with an expression of genuine concern, even though they did not perform the examination. The guys, on the other hand, tended to not say much. I don't think that they were being derisive of my sacrifice for their education, but were probably sensitive to my position. After all, women have much more experience having yearly exams on and in their nether areas than men do.
So, how does it feel to have done this service for medical students? The money is nice. I made about $450 for 3 hours of work. But beyond that, I feel good that 8 future doctors now have some sort of skill at conducting such exams, and relied on me to tell them when I was comfortable or uncomfortable during the process. I was able to tell them afterward my thoughts and feelings on their performance. I feel that in some small way I have helped create better and more sensitive doctors. Of course, not everyone wants to perform like this, and I had major qualms going in -- I told the students and doctor that it was my first time and that I was nervous. But I told them that in a way, their experience with me would be like an experience with an actual patient who doesn't know what to expect and is nervous about it.
At least one person I told about my experience asked me if I was worried about an uncontrollable response that would become physically evident to everyone. I can guarantee you that in this situation, there is no sexual tension at all. Charlize Theron or Uma Thurman or any other sexually attractive female could have been doing this procedure on me in this type of setting and there would have been no physical response from me. It's just too exposed. I've been asked if I would do it again. I do not have to make that decision for another year, thankfully, and I'm not sure I will repeat the experience. If I do, I won't be as nervous next time, and I'll know that a new generation of doctors, male and female, will learn how to be sensitive to the vulnerability of a man, in this case me, standing in front of them and putting his junk on display. I'll also be able to grade the performance of my own doctors when the time comes for me to have these examinations in earnest. As long as they don't have big fingers, and they trim those nails, I'll be okay!
11/25/2005
Thanksgiving and Other Holiday Memories
It has been at least 15 years since I was home for Thanksgiving. Maybe even more. It's sad, but I can't remember the last time I was there. Most likely, I was living in Milwaukee at the time, so if I went home it was because I was missing the family Thanksgiving and had enough for a quick plane ticket.
Each of the holidays at home had a different feel. One reason for this is that my family divvies up the holidays between our various houses. Thanksgiving is celebrated at Aunt Pauline and Uncle Rusty's house. They have a ranch style house in town with a nicely manicured back lawn and flowers around the borders along the fence, as well as a nice patio in back. But, we usually celebrated the holiday indoors. Their large dining room table would get the insertion of extra leaves so that all the adults and a good number of children could settle around it and dig into turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, stuffing, Aunt Betty's bean casserole, potato salad, jello salad, fruit salad, some strange salad with coconut and marshmallows in it, and desserts like pumpkin pie and mincemeat pie.
Dinner always took about three hours. The courses would just keep coming. Of course, there were always the ones who stood out with their eating habits. A couple of my cousins, and at least one person who married a cousin, always astounded everyone by their exploits. You would never imagine that they could put it away like they could. These people often earned accolades or at least respect for their efforts -- but they were always men. Women were a different story. Often, my sister's eating habits were commented upon. She was (and remains) bulimic and loaded up her plate quite a bit before disappearing for a little while. However, her eating habits always earned some comment or at least the feeling that she was being watched. Others ate very little, which always earned expressions of concern from the older folks -- "Are you not feeling good, honey?"
The holidays were often the time that the trials and travails of family life, the secrets, lies and jealousies came bubbling to the surface like bad smelling swamp gas. None of our families were safe. I think that the worst thing was that whenever a family had something going wrong, they tried to keep it secret. But everyone knew something, if not exactly what, was happening. Protecting my elderly grandmother, the matriarch of the family, was always first priority. Yet she always somehow knew that things were wrong -- you couldn't keep much from Granny.
After pies, the poker table always got rolled out. It didn't matter whether the holiday was Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Mothers Day or Easter, there was always a poker game. And what poker it was! No penny ante in my family. We played for a dollar limit on raises. The pot would often rise to $70 or $80. On one end, Uncle Rusty, a little tipsy from a couple of highballs, would make some ill advised raises and curse his unlucky cards. Uncle Elwin was the master of building a large stake, going on winning streaks that made little towers of chips in front of him. Aunt Betty would be hot and cold. My mom, usually sitting at the end of the table, was inscrutable, the great stone face. She didn't drink, and often came home the big winner and rarely seemed to come away with a loss. The poker games would last until 1 or 2 in the morning. In the old days, it was 5 card draw, 5 card stud, and 7 card stud. Later, someone was introduced to Texas Hold-em, and introduced it into our family games. The only wild-card was a joker, good only with aces, straights and flushes. "We play according to Hoyle," my mother often declared. Occasionally, someone would come in and try to play night baseball or some other game with a billion wild cards. My mother would leave her chips at that point, only coming back when Hoyle was back in force. Once in awhile, a young buck like myself would sit in, only to lose $20 in 15 minutes and be forced back to the couch to watch some comedy show, or play some type of board game with the cousins. Poker was serious business in the family.
Sadly, with my cousins, siblings and myself being grown and moved away, the holiday gatherings have grown smaller and smaller. This year, only six people celebrated Thanksgiving at the family gathering; Aunt Betty and Uncle Elwin, Aunt Pauline and Uncle Rusty, my mother, and Aunt Betty's almost 100 year old father, Papa John. My mother said that no poker game was played, because there weren't enough people. Though Megan and I are going to my hometown for Christmas this year, many of the faces I grew up with will be absent. Others will be like strangers to me -- the kids of my cousins whom I barely know. But some Christmas traditions will continue. If there are kids, most likely a pinata will make an appearance, though I'm not sure how that tradition first started in our family. If five people are up for it, the poker table will come out. The feast will begin at my Aunt Betty and Uncle Elwin's place at about 2:00 p.m. Of course, we'll be late as my family always is. Ten lottery scratch off tickets will be on everyone's plate, a gift of my aunt and uncle. Usually someone wins ten dollars or so. And life will go on.
11/13/2005
On Tuesday, Hannibal reaches the ripe old age of 15. The last year has been a difficult one for him. As most of you know, in January he had kidney stones, which really took it out of him for quite a while. Over the past two years, a neurological problem caused by arthritis has left him hobbled -- his back legs cannot support him long and he ends up sinking down the longer he stands. He can still walk, but very very slowly, and he tends to drag the tops of his back paws on the pavement, which can cause him to bleed unless we wrap a bandage around the paw that drags the most. He has trouble getting up off of the hardwood floors because of his weak back legs and the lack of purchase on the slick wood. He has bladder control problems, necessitating the use of a diaper while he is in the house.
Just this last week, I was working on the dissertation when I heard him trying to get up out in the living room. I immediately noticed something was wrong. When I helped him get up, he was listless and breathing very rapidly. I took him over to his bed, and laid him down. Usually he fights me when I try to lay him down, but this time he just let me, no questions asked. Megan came home at my request, and I called the vet. When she arrived, she took his temperature and found that it was 104.8 (a dog's normal is between 101 and 102). She took some blood to send out for testing, and she gave him intravenous antibiotics and fluids, and asked us to monitor his temperature.
After three hours, it had gone up to 105.4. After I called her, she instructed us to get Hannibal to the Urgent Care Clinic. They put him on antibiotics and fluids for the night. The next day he went to a veterinary clinic to continue the fluids and antibiotics. His temperature went down during the day but spiked up again at night, necessitating another overnight stay at the Urgent Care Clinic. Finally, the next day, we were able to bring him home after his temperature went down and seemed to be holding steady. The blood test was negative, but a urine sample they took yielded a ton of bacteria. It turns out the old boy had a massive bladder infection, probably due in part because of his inability to control his bladder -- bacteria can just waltz right up in there. He's back home now, and recovering. He wants to sleep a lot, and isn't eating properly.
Some have asked us why we spend all this money on a 15 year old dog? Why not just put him to his rest and move on? Isn't it cruel to keep a dog alive that has so many problems? I would agree that when a dog is in chronic, unmanageable pain, or has lost interest in life, then it might be time to make that decision. However, we weren't going to put Hannibal down because of a bladder infection. In addition, until last week, Hannibal was walking almost a mile every day (although very slowly), and was quite interested in life. He was eating well. We hope that he regains that interest again.
The upshot is that Hannibal is our friend, and has given us a lot. Sure we spent a lot of money on him this last week, but that's what you do with dear friends. You spare no expense to keep them comfortable. If sometime in the future, Hannibal appears to be in pain that can't be managed, we may have to make a hard decision. But for now, we are doing what we can to keep our friend happy, if not healthy, in his golden years. And for now, we'll celebrate his 15th year with us with gratitude.
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I will have some pictures or a slideshow or something up of Hannibal to celebrate his 15 years of life. I will notify you all with a link when I get them up. Otherwise, go here to see Hannibal's tribute pages.
The pictures are now up. Click here to see them.
11/05/2005
I like to think that I'm a pretty smart and accomplished guy. I've graduated from high school. I received an undergraduate degree in English, a Master's in International Relations, and hopefully next year I will receive a Ph.d in Political Science. I've been the executive director of two not-for-profit organizations. I've also worked a number of labor-style occupations -- I loaded lumber trucks in high school and was a security guard in college. I even washed dishes in a restaurant when I was 16.
So why is it that this new part-time catering job that I took to bring in some extra money has me so flustered? Why is it that every time I go into work, I feel that no matter how much I check and double check details that something will be wrong in the end? Why do I end up leaving the job feeling like such a dumbass?
The latest calamity in my catering misadventures happened yesterday. I arrived at the restaurant at 5:00 a.m. for a breakfast catering. It wasn't a big catering -- about 35 people having French toast and breakfast burritos. I had worked the day before for an hour and got all the materials ready, the two chafers, the plasticware and napkins, the paper plates, the serving utensils. The caterer, Albert, a short and slight but animated man of Italian heritage, told me to find a container for syrup, and a carafe seemed to fit the need to both carry the syrup and keep it warm. So I arrived on the day of the catering very certain that no stone was left uncovered. I assisted in getting the food ready, amusing and annoying Albert with my apparent clumsiness in burrito wrapping (I had never gotten the hang of wrapping burritos despite the fact that I lived in San Antonio, Texas for five years and now in Albuquerque, where Mexican style food is very commonplace).
When the food was ready, we loaded it into the hotbox and Albert and I left in the van for the catering gig. As we drove, I went over the details in my mind. I had checked and double checked the materials. I was certain that it would go fine.
We arrived and began to set up. I opened the large reinforced plastic box with all of our materials to find an unholy mess. Syrup had spilled out of the carafe and into the plastic bag that I had wrapped the carafe in. From the plastic bag it had spilled out into the box. Luckily I had put other materials in Ziplock bags. But, the result was there was no syrup, and a big mess. Albert kept his cool. But I was extremely flustered by this point. We set it up as best we could. I was really embarassed, flustered, and in my haste to get out of there I didn't secure the materials on the dolly, with the result that as we exited the building, the hotbox fell off the cart. This prompted a tonguelashing from Albert who had warned me about properly securing food.
"What would have happened had the hotbox been filled with food?" he growled.
All I could do was hang my head, secure the box, and continue pushing the cart.
We got into the van, and Albert said "Let this be a hard lesson about properly securing food. Wrap everything in plastic. The carafe seemed to be cracked, so wrapping it probably wouldn't have mattered. But you should exercise extreme caution on everything. The lucky thing was that this was an understanding customer I've worked with before. But if this had been someone's house, it would have been a major disaster."
I asked Albert how they responded to mistakes in chef school. "They wouldn't be talking to you like I am right now," he responded. "If something like that happened there, it wouldn't be uncommon for them to make you lick all the syrup out of the box. If you screw up a batch of Super Sauce and it tastes like shit, you would end up drinking the batch."
"How did you survive?" I asked, conjuring up images of Nazi-like prison camps run run by vicious-looking men in chef hats.
"I excelled," he replied.
When we got back to the restaurant, I raced in, grabbed a container of syrup, raced out and drove back to the catering to leave it with them. The woman who ordered the catering, Deanna, was extremely nice and told me not to worry about it, that accidents happen. "Don't worry about Albert," she said. "He's such a perfectionist. He'll get over it."
"How did it go?" asked Albert after I returned from delivering the replacement syrup. "Did you apologize 150,000 times? Did you wipe up any spilled syrup we missed?"
I told Albert what Deanna had said. "She knows me," he replied with a slight smile.
The hard thing for me about this is that I'm 41 years old, and possessed of reasonable ability. I've excelled at many things. Yet this catering thing seems to get me completely unglued. I can count on one hand the days I've done something without an mistake, and I need two to count the days where there have been mistakes. I feel like I am methodical, yet plates have been left behind, napkins have been left behind, not enough garnish has accompanied me.
Perhaps it's the "be thorough but be fast" atmosphere. Every day we are against a deadline, and a lot of the food has to be ready to go at the last minute. In the rush to get everything out the door and set up on time, I have to also be aware of all those things that I may forget. Ordinarily, when I'm methodical, I'm slow and I take lots of time. Here I don't have the luxury of time. I have to be a rapid perfectionist.
I suppose that at my age, new challenges are good. Yet I don't like feeling like a dumbass. These experiences are dredging up all the old tapes that play in my head about my inadequacies. These tapes were instilled during my childhood and adolescence, when my father's alcoholism got progressively worse. He did a lot of the skilled things he was good at by himself. When he wasn't drunk, it was because he thought I should be a kid and play. When he was drunk, and decided he wanted to teach me, he would get impatient with me and berate me for my lack of ability and send me away. Sometimes he would call me a dumbass. My mother compensated for his alcoholic behavior that she couldn't control by maintaining tight control over her household. She asked for me to help with chores, but would often belittle my efforts because they didn't meet her standards. As a result, I developed a lazy attitude in spite of them, acting like I didn't really care how it reflected on me.
I had thought that I had shed myself of many of those old feelings. However, I find that this part-time job has dredged them up again. Only this time, I do care how it reflects on me. I don't want to be that dumbass. I would like to do my job quietly, efficiently and effectively. However, I find myself increasingly doubting my ability to do that. And I find that I am holding on to these failures in this job as if they are defining my current existence.
"Are you sure that you really want me in this position?" I asked Albert, after I had broken the catering down and brought the materials back in to the restaurant.
"Mike, you're my project." he responded. "I suppose I could resort to kicking your ass -- a little pain reinforcement."
"Yeah, I suppose you could," I replied. "Look, I'm sorry about the screwups today."
"It didn't do any real damage to our reputation," he answered. "Are you available Sunday afternoon?"
Michael L. Hess
10/25/2005
Yesterday as I was talking to my mom on the phone, she said “Guess who called me.” Since it could have been one of any of the world’s 6 billion people, I said “You have to give me a better clue than that.” After a couple of minutes of whittling down, I said “Pam?”
“Isn’t that interesting?” my mom asked.
It was. Pam is the daughter of my foster parents, Laurence and Thelma Wills. Or Tia and Pop, as I knew them. I had once had Pam’s phone number and address, but the information got lost with the data from my old computer.
Many of you may know that I was adopted. I was lucky. At the time I was adopted I was 2½ years old, well past the usual window of opportunity. From my birth, when I was taken by Children’s Home Society of Oakland, California from my birth mother, until I was adopted I was placed in foster homes. I know of only two of them though I only very dimly remember one. I know that I lived with a woman I called “Mama Joyce” for a time. She was eager to adopt me, but she and her husband struggled with the question of adoption versus having children of their own. Eventually, having their own children won out, and I was placed with Tia and Pop, who lived in San Leandro, California.
I am troubled by how little I really know of Tia and Pop. They were really a part of my life when I was growing up, so I didn’t really pay attention to pertinent information. I believe that Tia was Hawaiian. I’m not sure where Pop was from. Pop worked in construction. He was a small man, probably about 5’5” or so, but he was strong. I believe he used to haul bags of cement and other building materials up ladders on high rise construction projects. He had a high pitched voice, but he was well liked and respected by his friends and peers. He was a member of the union, and I believe he was even part of their leadership for a long time. I do know that he was an avid golf aficionado. Tia mostly stayed at home, but she kept a good household, and she was involved in many women’s groups. She was also a golfer. They lived in a small house on a small street in San Leandro about 1½ blocks from I-550.
I remember the exact address because they made me as a two year old memorize it in case I got lost. Pop never tired of telling the story about how they would ask me what I was supposed to do if I could not find them. I was to find a policeman and as Pop related it, I would say “I yost. 1536 151st Street, San Yeandro, California.” He got a great kick out of that.
I wasn’t the only one in their household. After Pam left the home, the Wills took in over 80 children. At times they would have a couple of infants and a toddler to care for at the same time. Usually these were children who were in transition from institutional care to adoptive homes. My understanding is that some of these other children overlapped with me. They eventually stopped when it became too difficult to part with the children. The agency discouraged attachments to the children, especially for kids that were being moved into permanent adoptive homes. But it was hard. I remember Tia telling me that it was easier with the children that were with them for a few days, or even a week or two. But the longer term children, such as myself, they would grow attached to even though they knew they shouldn’t.
Out of those 80-some kids, I was one of only three that they continued to keep contact with. Usually the agency frowned on continued contact, but my adoptive parents felt that since I was old enough to remember them, I should continue to know them. Over the time of the adoptive process, my parents and the Wills’ became friends, and no trip down to the Bay Area was complete without visiting Tia and Pop. Tia and Pop also came up to my home in Fort Bragg on occasion to visit us, though as they got older their trips became less frequent. They would visit with me, marvel on my progress, and play golf with my parents.
To them, I really was a marvel. I remember when I was 13 or 14, I was playing football outside with some friends when they were visiting. I came back inside after our game, and Pop said that he was amazed. I asked why and he said that he never thought I would ever be able to do such kinds of activities.
When Tia and Pop first started caring for me, I was a real mess. You can imagine. I had been taken from my mother and birth and had been raised by an institution. I later had been placed in a foster home, Mama Joyce’s. She cared for me, and seemed to love me as her own son. However, she had to give me up. I came to Tia and Pop, and they continued nurture me...and helped me along even more. Perhaps I was rebelling...I would point at food and say “uh, uh” so that someone would feed me.
But Tia wouldn’t let me take the easy way out. She simply said “When he’s hungry he’ll eat.” And eventually, when my entreaties went unmet, I ate though I wasn’t happy about it. Tia also encouraged me to talk. She talked to me all the time, asked me questions and made me think. She told me once that the first word she heard me say came when I was watching a kid’s game show on television. From the other room, she heard me say “Bingo!”
Tia wouldn’t let the “experts” take the easy way out with me either. The going opinion was that I was retarded because I wasn’t talking and didn’t seem too interested in the world. Tia was convinced through her daily contact with me that I was actually a pretty smart little kid who was adept at manipulation, despite what the experts thought. She worked with me to rid me of my bad habits and to continue to teach me useful knowledge like letters and numbers, not really sure if she was getting through to me. One day when she took me shopping, I was sitting in the cart as she moved down the cereal aisle. I pointed at a box of cereal and stated “K-E-L-L-O-G-G-S.” The next time we visited a doctor, Tia demonstrated my talent to a doctor who had seen me before and was not too hopeful about my prospects. His jaw nearly dropped to the floor, according to her story.
There are many firsts that Tia and Pop were a part of, some pleasant and some unpleasant. Tia gave me my first spanking. In fact, I believe it is the earliest memory I have. I can still remember being taken into the bathroom, my pants being pulled down and getting a couple of sharp swats with a paddle (all perfectly accepted treatment of unruly children back then). Tia and Pop were present when I first became a member of an actual family. Knowing my fascination for airplanes, Tia and Pop took me on a helicopter, although I don't remember it now. And Tia and Pop remained present through my life. It was Pop who took me to my first ever baseball game, at Oakland-Alameda County Stadium to see the A’s.
Tia and Pop were products of their time, which is to say that they had their weaknesses, as all great people do. They were conservative Democrats, in the sense that they were socially conservative but supported unions and various other Democratic policies. They supported what we today would call “family values.” When my adoptive mother and father got divorced, they shook their head and called it a shame, despite their knowledge of my father’s alcoholism. Like many Americans of their generation, the huge social and cultural changes that started in the 60s did not come easily for them. Tia once chastised my sister, one year when my family visited them, when she wandered over to a “hippie” in a park who gave her peanuts to feed the squirrels. Issues of race were especially difficult. They referred to African-Americans as “colored” and resisted the newer, more “politically correct” labels. Like many whites, they harbored a distrust of the greater black community in the Bay Area, which they viewed as violent and hostile to whites like them. I learned this in college in the 80s when I stopped in to see them on my way down to college after driving through downtown Oakland to see what it looked like. They were quick to tell me how stupid they thought that was, and that I could have been shot and killed just by being white. In high school and college, I got into some political debates and arguments with them over racial issues. However, they did commingle with individual African-Americans and were close to those they knew. When Tia had appointments where she could not take me with her, she would leave me (and other children if she had them) with black woman who she employed for domestic help. Years later, when I was a teenager and visiting Tia and Pop, Tia took me to see this woman, who by this time was elderly and retired. She remembered me as if it were yesterday and relived stories with Tia about me. My point is, Tia and Pop were probably like a lot of their friends and peers, and had the same attitudes. These attitudes were relatively widespread and normal at the time. Regardless of what we might think of those attitudes today, Tia and Pop did great things for children in need.
I would like to say that Tia and Pop lived and passed on in the dignity that befitted the effort that they put into easing the lives of the children that they harbored. However, in their later years they ran into a series of setbacks. Pop developed Parkinson’s disease. I think there was some exploration into whether it might have been brought on by his work in construction. As he declined Tia, whose health was always marred by diabetes, was also beset by high blood pressure. I believe she had a mild stroke at one point, and her continued health problems and the difficulties of caring for Pop began to affect her. She developed depression. She ended up leaving this world before Pop, who entered an institutional setting where he could be better cared for. The last time I saw Pop he was in this institution, unable to hold his head up and barely understandable. He had trouble maintaining focus, but when he saw me his eyes lit up. Though he didn’t say much, he chimed in from time to time with a snippet or anecdote from my past. He died a few months later.
Though we are products of our choices, sometimes we are also products of those things beyond our control where someone or something exerts a profound effect on our future. I was lucky. Tia and Pop were instrumental in setting the path of my life. They believed that there was something in me that needed to be nurtured, and advocated for me against doctors and agency officials who didn’t believe I would amount to anything. They also battled the habits that I developed which could have made me unadoptable. Without them, I may have remained in an institution until I was released as an adult, and who knows what might have happened to me? For their belief and support, they have become heroes in my life, and despite the difficult circumstances of their later years, they shine in my memory untouched and unsullied by age or life’s infirmities.
It happens that if and when my wife and I do have children, we will most surely adopt. I can only hope that if a child we adopt has been in foster care, it will have received the same kind of care and love that Tia and Pop gave to so many children.
Michael L. Hess
9/21/2005
Canyons and valleys have been in my mind a lot lately. This is not some kind of Freudian thing, but probably because I have spent my last week in canyons of one sort or another. But really, much of my life has been in and out of canyons and valleys of one sort or another.
I grew up in a small northern California town on the coast, but every weekend in the summer my family would retreat to our cabin in the remote Irmulco Valley about 25 miles away. There we would swim, fish, hunt, and sleep under the stars. As I grew older, it was in that valley that I would explore old roads through the side gulches made by past logging crews, and where I would explore some other inner roads. Sometimes, it was like we were the only people in the world in that small valley.
After I left California, I didn't live in valleys or canyons, but they had a hold on me. I almost did a third year of volunteer service in Hazard, Kentucky because the "hollers," equivalent to the gulches I explored at Irmulco, had such an attraction to me. I still remember my drive while on a work trip through West Virginia, when I pulled over to the side of the road at Hawks Nest State Park to see the grandeur of the canyon of the New River laid out before me. There is something about being high up on the side of this massive gorge, the river flowing beneath me, and taking in that perspective, and then having an entirely different perspective at the bottom with the cliffs looming high above me, that is hard to explain.
In Texas, I learned that valleys, canyons and arroyos break up what might otherwise be an endless and perhaps boring landscape. A visit to Big Band National Park and the Santa Elena canyon, where the Rio Grande cuts through a narrow canyon separating the Mexican part of the Chihuahuan Desert from the Texas part, was a piece of some of the most stark beauty I've ever seen. Elsewhere in the same park, what seemed like an endless trudge over flat desert became an exercise in adventure when I had to traverse 5 arroyos, each deeper than the last, to reach a tremendous cottonwood, visible for miles, that was perched on the edge of even another deeper arroyo.
Of course, one should not forget the Grand Canyon, a rift so vast that you don't truly get the correct perspective of the size of the thing until you walk into it, and realize that after three hours of trudging you are perhaps only one-third of the way down.
But what often makes valleys and canyons the most interesting is the presence or remnants of human activity. This is certainly true for the most interesting canyons and valleys I've visited, whether it be the Irmulco Valley or Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. In my beloved Irmulco Valley, past meets present in a collision of time periods. Old bottles found at the remnants of a turn of the 20th century dwelling attest to some of the earliest habitation in the valley, while just a little bit away a locked up newer cabin points toward the valley's more recent inhabitants. In Chaco Canyon, large and sophisticated 1000 year old ruins of the forebears of the Pueblo Indians, aligned with each other and the sun and moon, and most likely not used for anything but ceremonial purposes, raise the ghosts of a proud ancient culture.
This past week, our visits to more valleys and canyons in Arizona only heightened that sense of connection I felt to these geological phenomena. The Verde Valley, with its Indian ruins of Tuzigoot and Montezuma's Castle representing the distant past, and Jerome, perched on it's slopes, representing the present. Oak River Canyon, just north of Sedona, wild and beautiful. Walnut Canyon, where the Sinaguan Indians built cliff dwellings on an "island" of rock that the river cut around. Canyon de Chelly, on the Navajo reservation, in which the Anasazi built their own cliff dwellings as shelter while they farmed the valley, and within which the Navajos continue to farm and raise livestock while honoring the unrelated peoples that settled the valley and left long ago and to whom they maintain a spiritual connection.
As we drove home, and descended the west mesa into the Rio Grande Valley, Albuquerque spread out and glowing like a giant jewel before us, I realized that the function of canyons and valleys is to provide us with a contrast in perspective, and some paradoxes. To truly use the valley, you have to descend to its lowest depths, but by doing so you lose touch with the world beyond. To regain a sense of connectedness with the whole, you must climb the cliffs and mountains bounding the valley or canyon. You may find yourself and your meaning below, but you plug that meaning into the world above. Perhaps that's why we are drawn to the valleys; to descend to meaning and ascend to connectedness.
Michael L. Hess
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While you are pondering over valleys and canyons, please take a moment to remember the victims of Hurricane Katrina. If you can, donate to the Red Cross, or any other legitimate organization that is providing relief services. Also, please keep in mind those that may suffer the onslaught of Hurricane Rita.
9/1/2005
I had always heard of survivor's guilt. I have never had it. Not even when the Towers came down in NYC, nor after any natural disaster that has befallen us.
Until Monday.
Until the reports started streaming in during the aftermath of Katrina. Levees breaking, homes flooding, people dying, a powerless and ineffective local, state and federal response, and a city drowning.
For the past week, I have sat almost non-stop, except when I have had to leave the house for work, and watched the horror unfold. I have heard and seen the hyperbole of Fox, heard and seen the relentless and sometimes silly questions of CNN, and have watched the too pretty and studly meteorologists of the Weather Channel. I have listened to NPR report on how the French Quarter was spared on the day that the 9th Ward filled up and people took to their second floor, then their attic, and then to their rooftops if they had axes, their deaths if they did not.
I have wept at the tragedy. I have railed at the non-response of the federal government to the growing tragedy. I have worried about my friends, especially Patrick Hall who is a city employee in the Superdome and who I haven't heard from since Sunday, the day before Katrina.
And above all I have felt guilty.
I feel guilty because I moved away a year ago. Megan and I have questioned our move many times since then, and seemingly our question has been answered -- we made the right move. So why do I feel guilty?
I feel guilty because I don't feel that I can, in a meaningful way, share the hurt, anger and the incredible losses that my New Orleans friends have sustained. I moved away. I don't feel that I can adequately express my sorrow for a city which I loved and hated but mostly loved. I moved away. I don't feel that there is anything that I can do which will show Ursula, Corina, Chad, Megan, Alice, Russell, Mike and Autumn, Holly, Gertraud, Denise, Hannes, Mike, Patrick, Susan, Les, Sarah and everyone else that I share their pain. I moved away. They lost practically everything but their lives, and I moved away.
But I do feel my own pain. And watching New Orleans suffer is absolutely killing me. I rail at the federal government for more FEMA and troops and buses and other things that will lead to an orderly evacuation and save as many people as possible, but I can't do anything. I worry about Patrick, but I can't do anything. Megan and I comfort each other, but we can't do anything.
And that is what makes me feel most guilty. When a problem comes up, I am usually right in the thick of helping solve the problem. But I don't know where to start, and what to do with all of this. Giving money to the Red Cross doesn't seem enough. I want to be there, with the people of New Orleans, even though that is absurd. I'm just so sorry, for my friends, for New Orleans and for the distance that keeps me so far away from the people and places in need that I care about.
Michael L. Hess
8/28/2005
New Orleans is about to be hit by Hurricane Katrina. For most of us, hurricanes are something we watch on the Weather Channel; large blobs of clouds moving across the radar screen with a superimposed United States interspersed with pictures of flooded neighborhoods, wind damaged buildings and eroded beaches. Those of us who live in non-hurricane areas cannot imagine what people in those areas go through. While Megan and I lived in New Orleans for only four years, and have only one real hurricane and a couple of tropical storms to claim for experience, this week's events are a reminder of what we don't miss about living along the Gulf.
Imagine that you see someone about to hit you; they wind up and then launch a swing in your direction. You probably wouldn't think about what to do. Your body would register and before you know it, you would react to evade the blow.
A hurricane is a lot like nature taking a swing at you. You see it offshore, making a big roundhouse trajectory which will take it in your vicinity. Unfortunately, a hurricane does not happen in "regular time." A hurricane takes days to reveal its true intent. And unfortunately, unlike a regular punch, a hurricane leaves you much time to make choices. You don't just react, you think. And that's the problem.
Say that you see the punch coming, but it happens over three days. You must decide first if the blow will hit or miss you. If you think it is going to miss you, there is no problem, you stay where you are. If you think it might hit you, then you have to determine how hard the blow will be, and if it will be a direct hit or a glancing blow. You also must decide when and how to evade the blow, and what is the exact moment you should take an evasive action. And, hanging over your head is the prospect that you could be wrong. If you evade and the blow misses, then all your planning has been for naught. If you don't evade, and the blow hits, you could be hurt or even killed. Hurricanes are like that. If it hits and you have not evacuated, you could be in for a world of trouble. However, if you have evacuated and it doesn't hit, then you may have left for nothing and you will be less likely to leave in the face of similar threats in the future.
In New Orleans, the situation is made worse by the fact that the city sits in a giant bowl whose bottom is under sea level. On the northern side of the city is Lake Pontchartrain. On the west and south side is the Mississippi. Levees hold both of these bodies of water back, keeping them from swallowing the city whole. A system of pumps keeps the rainwater from flooding this bowl. However, hurricanes not only pack winds, but also bring ashore a surge of water. Depending on the strength of the hurricane, this storm surge can run anywhere from 5 feet to 25 feet high. A hurricane that is big enough and scores a direct hit on New Orleans can bring a storm surge that would breach the levees from either side, filling up the bowl and putting New Orleans several feet underwater.
There is one way out of New Orleans: I-10. During evacuations, they let traffic run west and east in one direction on both sides of the freeway. However, this is not enough to stop congestion and even traffic jams. When 1.3 million people decide to leave an area, it won't happen quickly. Yet, New Orleans only usually has 2-3 days to evacuate. So, if you are going to leave, you have to anticipate that the punch is going to hit, and take evasive maneuvers just as hundreds of thousands of other people are doing the same thing.
Not everyone can leave. Our friend Patrick Hall will be, by the time you are reading this, ensconced in the Superdome, the shelter of last resort. He works for the City of New Orleans. The Superdome will serve as the shelter for those who cannot leave the city. It is not a great solution. If Katrina scores a direct hit, thousands of people will be in the building for days with no electricity, no running water, and no sewage. Those who didn't make it inside will have to take their chances somewhere else, dealing with flooding, overflowing sewage, no power and no guarantee of help for days. Russell McCulley, a reporter for Reuters and one of Megan's former colleagues, will also be in the city; as a reporter, he is expected to stay and report. Reporters for the city's only daily newspaper, the Times-Picayune, also must stay and as we understand are given the option of bringing their families to the paper's offices to shelter. Thankfully, most of our other friends will be gone somewhere else by this time.
I grew up in California where earthquakes could strike without warning. I lived for 10 years in Wisconsin, where tornadoes often gave you only 15 minutes of warning to get into the basement before they destroyed your home. Yet, I found the stress of waiting and trying to decide what to do before an impending hurricane to be the hardest natural disaster I've ever had to deal with. When Hurricane Lili was a Category 2 hurricane in the gulf two years ago, with the possibility of strengthening to a Category 3, Megan and I made the decision to stay in New Orleans. Just 6 hours later, the storm hit Category 4 status, and by then it was too late to leave. We went to bed that night not knowing what might happen, and whether we were in danger. The next morning, we woke up and learned that the storm had weakened back to a Category 2, and when Lili passed just west of New Orleans, we barely felt any effects. However, just the stress of the decision, and then the stress of thinking we had made a mistake was almost overwhelming, as was the relief when we realized that we had been spared.
Latest reports indicate that the destruction to New Orleans from Katrina will be catastrophic. Sixty to eighty percent of the buildings will be damaged or destroyed, and the city could be under up to 30 feet of water by tomorrow.
Of our friends, we know that Alice made it to Lake Charles; Hannes, Corina, Mike, Chad and Cisco are in Alexandria; Nora and her family are in Memphis; Gertraud and her family are in Atlanta; Holly and her husband are in Memphis; Fritz is in Memphis; Mike and Autumn made Houston; Kevin, Brenda and the kids were heading for Illinois; Susan was supposedly heading to Austin; Dustin supposedly got out of town; Megan went to California; Shannon went to Lafayette. Others we don't know about, and hope they got out safely. Patrick and Russell are still in New Orleans, and we ask that you keep the city and them in your thoughts.
Michael L. Hess
8/23/2005
German Language Woes: Frumpy Nuns
The recent marriage of my friend Anita in Germany this past weekend reminds me of a tale from my past in which she plays a small but amusing role.
When I lived in Milwaukee in the early 1990s, I was the director of a small Catholic volunteer organization called the Pallottine Apostolic Associates. The Pallottines were a community of priests and brothers who sponsored the program. One day, Fr. Leon came to me and told me that there would be a group of about 25 German young adults, led by a German Pallottine named Stefan, who would be coming to Milwaukee for a couple of weeks. He asked me to help find them housing and activities while they were there. I spoke with our six volunteers who agreed to help me. We planned and organized two weeks of activities, including working in social service agencies so that they would get a taste of "the other America," that tourists don't necessarily see
Things went well. Our German visitors had many great experiences. One day, they decided as a group to go to Chicago for the day, save for two. Hilmar and Ellen both said they were tired and wanted to just have a relaxing evening. So, I invited them over to my house for a movie, and two of my volunteers, Sarah and Kristen, joined us. We watched the movie, and talked. Hilmar and Ellen laughed over our fumbling attempts to pronounce correctly the German words Bruder (brother) and Brüder (brothers). You have to get the "r" sort of in the back of your throat and roll it, and the "ü" lengthens out to a "ue" sound. We were horrible, and Sarah had a lot of trouble hearing the difference between the two words. At the end of the evening, Sarah could not find her shoes. We looked all over, and finally found them behind the sofa where they had fallen. Sarah claimed that she always lost things, and said that she was kind of sloppy with her things, and asked what the word would be in German
Hilmar replied "Schlampe." Ellen began to argue with him, and I heard them say "Schlampe" and "schlampig" back and forth. I filed away the word Schlampe in my mind.
The next day, Stefan asked me to give a presentation about our program to the group. A colleague of mine, Sr. Kay, who ran a similar program for the School Sisters of Notre Dame, had been wanting to meet the German group, so I asked her to come and make a presentation as well. Sr. Kay was thrilled. She brought over all sorts of visual aids, including pictures, maps, and the like, to tell the story of her order and how it related to her program's volunteer mission. I gave a weak little presentation and handed out my suddenly inadequate brochure. Then Sr. Kay got going. She was enthusiastic. She spoke of the founding of the order. She was like a preacher on a mission!
At one point, she held up a picture of the founder of her order. It was a grainy black and white photo of a severe looking nun in one of the old-style habits. Sr. Kay joked that the white front of her habit was wrinkled. Sr. Kay said she didn't know if they didn't know how to use starch then, but that the founder looked frumpy. One of the Germans asked what frumpy meant. Sr. Kay replied, "I don't know how you would say it in German," and then looked at me
In the meantime, my mind was going along these lines. Sarah lost her shoes, and said she was sloppy. Sloppy was kind of like frumpy, and the German word for sloppy was…
And I practically shouted out "Schlampe!!!!"
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then suddenly 25 Germans were rolling on the floor laughing. There were practically tears in their eyes because they were laughing so hard. If they had been drinking milk, 95% of them would have had milk squirting out their nose. I turned to the person to the left me, Anita, and asked "Did I say something funny?"
Anita, who didn't speak very much English at the time, could only look at me with something like horror on her face and blurt out "It's too strong! Too strong!"
Sr. Kay waited a moment, and went on with her presentation. She was not perturbed in the least, probably thinking that some inside joke went on that she was not aware of. Later, after Sr. Kay had left, I asked Stefan what exactly had I said to make the Germans laugh so hard. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and a devilish grin, unsettling really for a priest and a look which I would come to know well in the succeeding years, and "You called the founder of Sr. Kay's order a slut!" And then he began laughing uncontrollably again.
It took me a long time to tell Sr. Kay. I told it in a public setting about a year later where I hoped that it would be received as the funny story it was. Sr. Kay didn't seem amused, but I swear that the two other nuns (from other orders) who heard it squirted their wine out of their nose!
Michael L. Hess
8/15/2005
Missing Real Estate Opportunities
Did you ever have the feeling that you're constantly making the wrong choice at the wrong time? I can't help but feel this way about the residential real estate market. Maybe it's because, until recently, I covered real estate as a beat. Or maybe it was when I started randomly picking up flyers for houses in our neighborhood about six months ago and my jaw started dropping. I consoled myself by explaining it away as "Oh but that's Ridgecrest." Ridgecrest is a very nice neighborhood between us and Central Avenue and we live on the shaggier edges of it (in an area our neighbors Bill and Bevin have dubbed "Fringecrest.")
Then the For Sale signs went up on my street and the ratty little house next to us sold for like $159,000.
Crap.
Why the hell didn't we buy a house in the late 90s in San Antonio, when we were both employed full-time? Now our old neighborhood there, Mahncke Park, has gone from low-rent, mixed income to trendy urban revitalization zone.
Dammit.
When we got to New Orleans in late 2000, we didn't know how long we'd be there and frankly, almost anything we could buy was a fixer upper. We reasoned that Mike was in grad school and we just didn't have the time, or know-how, to take that on. Then I watched as prices continued to climb. And New Orleans is actually full of duplexes, or double shotguns, which makes owning a home easier since you can subsidize your mortgage by renting half your place.
By the time my co-worker went looking, however, he had to go to the burbs. Prices had gone up that much.
Alarm bells started going off.
But then we moved again and I thought briefly of buying a year ago, but reasoned "We might be gone in another year."
Then I talked to a former co-worker who is listing the house she bought about a year and a half ago. She's going to make a tidy little windfall.
Groan.
Now as I read all the national stories that come my way about the over-heated housing markets around the country and see its fall-out here, as people from those markets take their windfall and make for cheaper housing, I wonder: Will we ever be able to afford a house? The price increases have in no way kept pace with the average Joe's cost of living. Most of the mortgages in California last year were ARMs or interest-only products. Will we see mass foreclosures in the coming years? Some think so. I just don't know.
I told Mike this morning on our walk that maybe we should have just moved to New York City where no one has any expectations that they'll ever own a house. But for now, I try not to second-guess myself and console myself with the notion that all these people are paying WAY too much for their homes.
Yeah. So there.
Sigh.
Signed
Housepoor in Albuquerque (aka Megan Kamerick)
8/15/2005
Recent movie reviews have almost been unanimous: the latest Star Wars is the best of George Lucas’ recent efforts. In fact, some reviewers say that it is as good as the original Star Wars. A recent review of Star Wars III by our friend Fritz Esker at his blog included a thought piece about Star Wars and why it meant so much to him. As he states: “When John Williams' score begins and the words "Star Wars" scroll up the screen, I feel something in the pit of my stomach, even at age twenty-seven. Explaining this gut feeling to non-fans of Star Wars, however, is an inordinately difficult task. I can much more easily and rationally explain why I love sports to non-fans. Explaining why so many people love Star Wars is a bit trickier.”
Fritz does a great job in drawing upon his academic training in film studies to explore some of the sociology behind Star Wars. I will present a less academic, but hopefully just as heartfelt, tribute to Star Wars and the meaning it had to me.
In 1977 I was a gangly teenager, attending Fort Bragg Junior High School. I had the usual problems. I was athletic but had only just discovered it. I was not “cool” and was not particularly good looking, therefore I did not really date though I desperately wanted to. In fact, I tended to obsess over girls I liked, which they found kind of creepy. I hung out with other kids on the margins of school society. We formed kind of a band of rebels, I suppose. My friends listened to cool music that was more sophisticated than the pop the cool kids listened to. They were beginning experimentation with drugs and alcohol. Because school had kind of a proto-gang mentality (you’re either with us or with them), we tended to stay off the radar as much as possible. Occasionally something would happen that would push one of us into popularity. When one of us traveled that route, he or she would often forget, or not admit, prior association with us. That person was lost forever.
Of course, that year Star Wars came out. I remember going to the theater to see it. It was a movie unlike any of us had ever seen. For the time, the special effects were wondrous. From the opening Da Da Da Daaaaah Daaaah Da Da Da Daaaaah Daaaaah to the assembly honoring our heroes at the end, we were engrossed in a world “in a galaxy far far away.” I have had few epiphanic experiences in my life, and most involved some sort of literary experience. I remember reading Watership Down, the first novel I truly read, as one. I remember reading the Lord of the Rings as another. As for movies, I had only just begun to see R-rated films, and usually the material was too adult for me. Sexual references and jokes went way over my head – I knew I was supposed to laugh or understand but didn’t know why because of my own lack of experience.
But Star Wars! Here was a movie I could understand. It had a main character, Luke, with unknown parentage who discovers his abilities and acts on them, becoming a hero in the process (the fact that I was adopted only increased my connection to the film). Not only that, but Luke gains the respect and admiration of the girl (remember, we didn’t learn that Luke and Leia were related until later). Luke hangs out with cool outsiders like Han Solo. The story was straightforward, and easy to understand. Good was good – the rebels were fighting on its behalf. Evil was Darth Vader and the Deathstar. The Force was not some distant god to whom you prayed and mostly received unrelenting silence in return, but a tangible thing that could be used if one only knew how.
In a way, Star Wars summed up my reality, my hopes and my dreams. In the messiness of those years, I longed for something simple to understand and, of course, something with me at the center. I wanted to be the hero because in real life I was decidedly not a hero. I hoped that someone would contact me and tell me that I was the biological son of a wealthy prince somewhere. I wanted to have the ability to impress the girls that tortured me every day with their presence and yet seemed so unobtainable. I wanted my friends to be noble even if they were a bit dangerous. And ultimately, I wanted to make a difference.
I can’t tell you how many times I saw Star Wars. Other people, like my friend Fritz, felt the same way and kept flocking back to the theater. Unfortunately, the joy and wonder of epiphanies we experience do not last. The incredulousness we felt at the movie’s effects began to fade. While The Empire Strikes Back was great, perhaps even a better film than Star Wars, we already knew what to expect. Then came the long dark chasm of the soul that were the next Star Wars films. We flocked to each, some of us waiting in line at theaters desperate to experience what we once felt, but each movie fell flat, leaving us to long for that moment elation when we too felt like we were flying an X-wing and dodging tie fighters. It says much for Lucas that he was able to get jaded film reviewers to compare this last effort with the original, but I cannot see how it can even compare to that day in 1977 when I sat down in the theater completely unprepared for what I would see. George Lucas is either a genius, or he got lucky. Regardless, the original Star Wars tapped into the hopes, dreams and longings of many of us, unlike any movie that had come before or since.
Michael L. Hess
8/9/2005
On the Search for Rootedness and Groundedness
Watching "Into the West" recently on TNT reinforced for me what a rootless lot we Americans are. If you didn't get a chance to see the mini-series, it followed several generations of a white family from Virginia heading West and a Lakota family dealing with that white impetus toward manifest destiny and exploration.
It was far from perfect, but was nevertheless quite moving in its dramatization of the decimation of American Indians and their culture by the overwhelming power of American commercial and military pressure. I think at one point an Indian character even remarks on the inability of whites to stay in one place.
I can't help pondering this as I settle back into life in New Mexico after Mike and I made a brief trip back to New Orleans. It's our third trip this year, but this time around I couldn't overcome a certain melancholy. It wasn't necessarily that we wanted desperately to move back, although we made many lasting friendships there and we love a lot of things about the city. It was really more of a feeling that I wasn't sure where I belong anymore. Mike and I spent more of our formative years in the same towns -- he in Fort Bragg, Calif. and me in Cedar Falls, Iowa.
Since leaving those towns, however, we have lived in Milwaukee, San Antonio, New Orleans and now Albuquerque. In each place we faced the challenge of learning a new city and finding new friends. These were wonderful experiences in many ways. It expanded my horizons and introduced me to all kinds of new food, music, people and points of view.
But now we find ourselves once again in a new place and I'll be damned if it doesn't get harder to keep doing this as you get older.
Yet it is also the ability of Americans to pick up and go and innovate and make new lives that is a strength of our culture, I think. It definitely gives us more choice in life, something we probably take for granted. I guess it's difficult to explain, but personally, I often feel -- what? -- I characterize it as an ache, but I'm not sure for what. It's not necessarily for one particular place. Perhaps it's more for all the friends we've made and left as we moved from place to place. Or for our families. Mine at least is scattered across the country. We try to keep in touch, but we both know how busy life is, especially when people have kids and families and other obligations.
I wouldn't take back any of our experiences, but sometimes I confess I'm envious when I look at some of the Pueblo Indians here who have occupied the same land for hundreds of years. No wonder they look askance at our wandering ways. So for the time being, at least, I continue to look for other ways to feel rooted or grounded.
Megan Kamerick
8/2/2005
A friend recently sent us a radio essay she had written describing a trip out west. In her radio piece, she described the precious value of shade in landscapes where there is very little of it. Her essay got me thinking about the simple and yet complex idea of shade. I emphasize the word idea. Shade is certainly a physical phenomenon, specifically the obstruction of light when a solid object intervenes between a light source and another non-light producing object. Shade as an idea, however, takes shade as a physical property and makes it more abstract.
In my case, as I thought about shade, I thought about types of shade. Without categorizing in too much detail, I specifically thought about the types of shade that are cast by natural objects and by human-crafted objects. Is the shade that is cast by the two different, I wondered?
Growing up on the northern California coast, with redwood trees in our back yard and large forests just minutes away, I always took shade for granted. Under the trees, I would escape from the glare of the afternoon sun. It was cool beneath the limbs, often waving in the ocean breeze. I noted, sometimes consciously but mostly subconsciously, the subtle movement of the shadow of the trees as the sun moved from east to west. Under the trees, little patches of mottled sunlight would appear, and slowly move from west to east as the sun crossed the sky, appearing and disappearing as new holes in the canopy were uncovered.
This shade was alive. It moved with the sun, it moved with the breezes, and it took on different shades during different parts of the day. And this shade attracted, enveloped, and invited me to stay underneath as long as I wanted. If I wanted to go out into the sun, that was fine, but I was always invited back to the cool shade under the trees when after my activities I was hot, sweaty and needing some rest time.
I have lived and worked in large cities, and I contrast my time under the trees with my time in the shadows of large buildings. These cast shade also, but shade that is less alive, less inviting and less welcoming. Certainly, on a hot day I have sought the shade of a large building if no other was available, but I never feel the same cool envelopment, the same living aspect of the shade, as I did under the trees of my backyard. Sure, the shadows of the building move as the sun moves, but the edges of the shade are unnaturally straight, the shade unnaturally uniform, and there are no moving parts creating that mottled and dappled kaleidoscope on the ground. When I sought the shade of a building, I almost felt cheated, and especially if I found that there was tree shade nearby that I hadn't noticed.
I now live in Albuquerque, New Mexico in the high desert. Shade is truly a precious commodity here, especially during the hot midday sun. It strikes me that the people I see taking advantage of shade are most usually in the park under a canopy of trees a few blocks away from us. Unless waiting for a bus, hardly anyone stands in the shade of a building - you may as well go inside into the air conditioning. The shade of a living thing will always hold more attraction to our lives and souls, because it emphasizes our interconnectedness with life and earth.
Michael L. Hess