It shouldn't bother me, but it does. It was just a little freckle, but it was part of me for so long, and I just cut it out. It was just an innocent little freckle, and now it's gone.
I have such a hard time with losing things. A part of me grieves over them for years. The jelly shoe I lost in a lake, the little stuffed baby panda, my childhood rocking chair, I think of them every now and then and regret their absence. Part of the problem is that I anthropomorphize everything. I imagine that all these things are somewhere, feeling sad. Now I have one more thing to regret the loss of.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
New publication - The Doll After Play
My poem, The Doll After Play, appears in the latest issue of The Pedestal Magazine, published yesterday. I wrote the majority of the poem over two years ago, after reading Hans Bellmer: The Anatomy of Anxiety by Sue Taylor. I’ve been drawn to Bellmer’s work ever since first being exposed to it in college. What struck me most about it is how his dolls take on a life of their own and don’t seem to be merely meticulously posed props. They seem to speak on their own, and their voice speaks louder than Bellmer’s.
Each tableau is an enactment of Bellmer’s fantasies, but (for me at least) his desire is subsumed by the dolls’ awareness. Their gazes—sometimes complicit, sometimes castigating, sometimes lost, sometimes knowing—are what drew me to them. These were complex creatures, with desires and intentions and conflicts all their own. Perhaps Bellmer created (consciously or unconsciously) this complexity because he saw in his victim, as abusers often do, a desire to be brutalized. And perhaps he created each scene from the perspective of the attacker (or a complicit voyeur) and always meant for any observer to view them from the same perspective. But perhaps his own inner conflict, his own desires to punish and to be punished, allowed other subtexts to creep in. Certainly whenever I viewed the images, I identified with the dolls, not the abuser, and I found their thoughts, their desires much more compelling than Bellmer’s—particularly the ones that meshed with his.
I therefore set about to write what these dolls seemed to be saying. I meant to give a voice to them but soon discovered that they had always had one, so my poem is merely a transcription of what I heard them saying to me.
Anyone familiar with Bellmer’s Doll at Play may recognize some allusions to it in my poem. I’m not sure what the effect of the poem is on someone unfamiliar with Bellmer’s work. I can only hope it’s still evocative and can stand on its own without the propping up of context.
I’m very pleased to have it published, and I’m honored that my little poem is nestled in among such fine work. I thank The Pedestal Magazine for selecting my poem for publication.
Each tableau is an enactment of Bellmer’s fantasies, but (for me at least) his desire is subsumed by the dolls’ awareness. Their gazes—sometimes complicit, sometimes castigating, sometimes lost, sometimes knowing—are what drew me to them. These were complex creatures, with desires and intentions and conflicts all their own. Perhaps Bellmer created (consciously or unconsciously) this complexity because he saw in his victim, as abusers often do, a desire to be brutalized. And perhaps he created each scene from the perspective of the attacker (or a complicit voyeur) and always meant for any observer to view them from the same perspective. But perhaps his own inner conflict, his own desires to punish and to be punished, allowed other subtexts to creep in. Certainly whenever I viewed the images, I identified with the dolls, not the abuser, and I found their thoughts, their desires much more compelling than Bellmer’s—particularly the ones that meshed with his.
I therefore set about to write what these dolls seemed to be saying. I meant to give a voice to them but soon discovered that they had always had one, so my poem is merely a transcription of what I heard them saying to me.
Anyone familiar with Bellmer’s Doll at Play may recognize some allusions to it in my poem. I’m not sure what the effect of the poem is on someone unfamiliar with Bellmer’s work. I can only hope it’s still evocative and can stand on its own without the propping up of context.
I’m very pleased to have it published, and I’m honored that my little poem is nestled in among such fine work. I thank The Pedestal Magazine for selecting my poem for publication.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The question of evolution
There has lately been some discussion among my Christian acquaintances about teaching evolution in Christian schools. Most are opposed to it, or would accept it as long as it is taught in tandem with the creationist apologies that “refute” evolutionary theories. This discussion has prompted two prongs of thought in me.
First, I am appalled by the intellectual censorship that these acquaintances are promoting. Students educated with blinders on will be ill-prepared for independent reasoning. If students are told what to think, they will have a hard time thinking their own thoughts. Besides that, such a policy of censorship is unfavorable to the creationists’ stance. It suggests so great a weakness in their position that it cannot withstand even the slightest scrutiny. Why else would they be so afraid that students who are taught evolution will embrace it and reject creationism?
It would, in fact, benefit creationists to allow students to analyze the evidence and ponder the questions involved in both positions and reach their own conclusions. Students who are taught in this manner may be able to formulate new, powerful defenses of creationism, or they will find it easier to retain some sort of faith if they do embrace evolutionism.
Second, I find myself hounded by questions relating to evolution. For instance, what drove land animals into the cold, dark sea? (Note, I’m not questioning whether it happened—that is of little consequence—but why.) What events transpired to cause angler fish to evolve in such a way that the male has only a meager existence as little more than a sac of sperm attached to the female angler fish’s side? For that matter, why would cats evolve barbed penises that make the essential act of coition absolutely unpleasant, and how does the drive to reproduce overcome that unpleasantness?
There are less scientific and more philosophical questions as well. How did we develop a concept like honor, which is often in distinct contradiction to the drive to live and reproduce? And, if gods aren’t real, why did humans create them?
First, I am appalled by the intellectual censorship that these acquaintances are promoting. Students educated with blinders on will be ill-prepared for independent reasoning. If students are told what to think, they will have a hard time thinking their own thoughts. Besides that, such a policy of censorship is unfavorable to the creationists’ stance. It suggests so great a weakness in their position that it cannot withstand even the slightest scrutiny. Why else would they be so afraid that students who are taught evolution will embrace it and reject creationism?
It would, in fact, benefit creationists to allow students to analyze the evidence and ponder the questions involved in both positions and reach their own conclusions. Students who are taught in this manner may be able to formulate new, powerful defenses of creationism, or they will find it easier to retain some sort of faith if they do embrace evolutionism.
Second, I find myself hounded by questions relating to evolution. For instance, what drove land animals into the cold, dark sea? (Note, I’m not questioning whether it happened—that is of little consequence—but why.) What events transpired to cause angler fish to evolve in such a way that the male has only a meager existence as little more than a sac of sperm attached to the female angler fish’s side? For that matter, why would cats evolve barbed penises that make the essential act of coition absolutely unpleasant, and how does the drive to reproduce overcome that unpleasantness?
There are less scientific and more philosophical questions as well. How did we develop a concept like honor, which is often in distinct contradiction to the drive to live and reproduce? And, if gods aren’t real, why did humans create them?
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
I read a couple of articles today (here and here) about facial reconstructive surgeries. These are not the first stories of this kind I've read. These stories tend toward the maudlin, the saccharine. They are told with a cloying chicken-soup-for-the-soul mentality. They tend to take place after recovery (or the extent of recovery anyone with such massive injuries can achieve), when the one who's been disfigured can speak with an equanimity that would be impossible at the zenith of their suffering.
Even their pain and the pain of their families are filtered through the normate reporter's pen. It is portrayed in broad strokes, the grief of being rejected and ridiculed glossed over or spoken of casually, and it is usually only included to show the contrast between what their life was like then and what it's like now.
It makes me wonder. (Here comes the complaining now, you think; she's always complaining about something.)
Now, I'm not going to criticize these people's efforts to have a more "normal" face. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to be missing parts of your face, to not be able to smell or eat solid food or even breathe on your own. Whatever stares and insensitive remarks I have received in my life must pale in comparison to the stupidity of norms these people have experienced. I don't fault them at all for their wish to be independent or to simply blend in.
What I do fault is the way in which these stories are told. I wish someone would have the bravery to explore this issue just a little more in-depth. That would also require the bravery to explore their own prejudices.
Particularly galling is the last page of the second article. Here, a sentence etched on a church door in Italy is quoted: "It is the divine right of man to look human." Why this should be etched on a church door is one question. What this is supposed to mean is another.
Yes, though the quotation may sound "cool" to someone who doesn't stop to think about it, it is in fact meaningless. What does "divine right" mean? What good is "divine right" when humans (and circumstance) get in there and muck everything up? We might say it is the divine right of every human to be free, but that doesn't mean very much to those in bondage. Sure, we might grant such people freedom, but then "divine right" really had little to do with it: freedom was taken away and bestowed by humans.
So what meaning does this sentence hold for a man whose "divine right" was taken away by a suicide bomber? How much less meaning does the phrase hold for someone who was born (some might say sculpted by divine hands) not looking human? What happened to their divine right? Is God joking with them?
Furthermore, who exactly decides what looks human? Sure, there is a mode (as in mean, median and mode) of humanity. Most people have two legs, two arms, a face with two eyes, a nose, a mouth. But soon things start to get tricky. Most people fall within a certain range of heights, but it's pretty arbitrary when you can say to someone, "Just one inch taller and you'd just be short, not a little person," or "Just one inch shorter and you'd just be tall, not a giant." Things can get really ridiculous. Most people have hair on their heads. Shall we then say that bald people don't look human? No, clearly that's just silly. Why, then, is it not silly to say a person with burn scars all over their face doesn't look human? Why is it that an amputee passes for human (if just barely), but someone with swollen or withered limbs does not? And why, why, why do norms assume that everyone feels the same way they do? The whole tone of this piece assumes a hierarchy of appearance. "Oh, the poor disfigured man," it says. "But yay! Now he's better. Phew! I don't know what we'd say if he weren't better." Even when it discusses the hard times he went through because of norms' stupidity, it takes the stance that, well, it's unfortunate that he had to suffer like that, but it's understandable, and plus, now he's fixed, so everything's better.
Okay. Things may be better for him, but what about the rest of us? What about those of us who can't be "fixed"? We still have to suffer the stares and the whispers, sometimes even, most hurtful of all, the looks of shock that seem to say, "What the eff is that?" We still have to suffer the stupid comments and the trepidation. And I'll go out on a limb here and say that for most of us, the biggest problem we have with our disabilities is not the things we can't do; it's the constant barrage of stupidity from norms.
Now, it's not entirely their fault. They probably don't get to see a lot freaks in their day-to-day lives, so they don't know how to respond when they do see one. The only solution is for us freaks to be more visible. If every norm knew one deformed person, they wouldn't be so thoughtless toward the deformed strangers they meet. But that would mean we would have to expose ourselves to the world, and that's hard to do when confronted with such stupidity. Ah, it's a vicious circle indeed.
Even their pain and the pain of their families are filtered through the normate reporter's pen. It is portrayed in broad strokes, the grief of being rejected and ridiculed glossed over or spoken of casually, and it is usually only included to show the contrast between what their life was like then and what it's like now.
It makes me wonder. (Here comes the complaining now, you think; she's always complaining about something.)
Now, I'm not going to criticize these people's efforts to have a more "normal" face. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to be missing parts of your face, to not be able to smell or eat solid food or even breathe on your own. Whatever stares and insensitive remarks I have received in my life must pale in comparison to the stupidity of norms these people have experienced. I don't fault them at all for their wish to be independent or to simply blend in.
What I do fault is the way in which these stories are told. I wish someone would have the bravery to explore this issue just a little more in-depth. That would also require the bravery to explore their own prejudices.
Particularly galling is the last page of the second article. Here, a sentence etched on a church door in Italy is quoted: "It is the divine right of man to look human." Why this should be etched on a church door is one question. What this is supposed to mean is another.
Yes, though the quotation may sound "cool" to someone who doesn't stop to think about it, it is in fact meaningless. What does "divine right" mean? What good is "divine right" when humans (and circumstance) get in there and muck everything up? We might say it is the divine right of every human to be free, but that doesn't mean very much to those in bondage. Sure, we might grant such people freedom, but then "divine right" really had little to do with it: freedom was taken away and bestowed by humans.
So what meaning does this sentence hold for a man whose "divine right" was taken away by a suicide bomber? How much less meaning does the phrase hold for someone who was born (some might say sculpted by divine hands) not looking human? What happened to their divine right? Is God joking with them?
Furthermore, who exactly decides what looks human? Sure, there is a mode (as in mean, median and mode) of humanity. Most people have two legs, two arms, a face with two eyes, a nose, a mouth. But soon things start to get tricky. Most people fall within a certain range of heights, but it's pretty arbitrary when you can say to someone, "Just one inch taller and you'd just be short, not a little person," or "Just one inch shorter and you'd just be tall, not a giant." Things can get really ridiculous. Most people have hair on their heads. Shall we then say that bald people don't look human? No, clearly that's just silly. Why, then, is it not silly to say a person with burn scars all over their face doesn't look human? Why is it that an amputee passes for human (if just barely), but someone with swollen or withered limbs does not? And why, why, why do norms assume that everyone feels the same way they do? The whole tone of this piece assumes a hierarchy of appearance. "Oh, the poor disfigured man," it says. "But yay! Now he's better. Phew! I don't know what we'd say if he weren't better." Even when it discusses the hard times he went through because of norms' stupidity, it takes the stance that, well, it's unfortunate that he had to suffer like that, but it's understandable, and plus, now he's fixed, so everything's better.
Okay. Things may be better for him, but what about the rest of us? What about those of us who can't be "fixed"? We still have to suffer the stares and the whispers, sometimes even, most hurtful of all, the looks of shock that seem to say, "What the eff is that?" We still have to suffer the stupid comments and the trepidation. And I'll go out on a limb here and say that for most of us, the biggest problem we have with our disabilities is not the things we can't do; it's the constant barrage of stupidity from norms.
Now, it's not entirely their fault. They probably don't get to see a lot freaks in their day-to-day lives, so they don't know how to respond when they do see one. The only solution is for us freaks to be more visible. If every norm knew one deformed person, they wouldn't be so thoughtless toward the deformed strangers they meet. But that would mean we would have to expose ourselves to the world, and that's hard to do when confronted with such stupidity. Ah, it's a vicious circle indeed.
Monday, April 20, 2009
The phenomenon of Susan Boyle
Why should I even be writing about Susan Boyle? She's not disabled (that we know), but she is, in some sense, a freak. Why do I say this? It's not just because she is that rare and freakish thing on TV: a woman who does not have model good looks. I sense something in her, some kinship with her, as she swivels her hips, saying, in response to a question about her age, "47. And that's just one side of me" (what does that even mean?). Clearly, the kinship does not extend too far; I know my place; I have some sense of what constitutes appropriate behavior—two things Ms. Boyle seems to lack, or ignore. No, I would never put on such a display, but I recognize in her someone who has, like me, been unsure of herself, who has, like me, been made to feel less worthy (ahem, less of a commodity) than the perfect, beautiful girls of the world.
More than that, I recognize her as a freak because of the way the audience responds to her. Watch the full video, and you get more of a glimpse of the derision with which the audience regards her. "This is a ridiculous woman," they are thinking. "I am going to get a good laugh at this." Indeed, most people are laughing already, as soon as Ms. Boyle walks on the stage. It's not merely her physical appearance; it's the way she carries herself, the way she presents herself. You can sense she's a little socially awkward, perhaps unaware of her ridiculousness. Yes, the audience can smell a freak, and Ms. Boyle is certainly a freak.
That doesn't change when she starts to sing. What? Why would I say that? Isn't that the reason she has become an Internet sensation? Because everyone was wrong about her? Because she turned out to have an amazing talent?Well, that doesn't make her any less of a freak. She, like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, turned out to be a useful freak, one that we can like and root for, but a freak nevertheless.
What irks me is all these norms talking about her, showing her Youtube clips to their friends, saying, "Isn't she amazing?" as though they're on team Boyle, as though they're truly sympathetic to her. Imagine for a moment that she had not surprised anyone. Imagine that she had turned out to be as terrible a singer as everyone thought she would be. All these people who are rooting for her now would, instead, have had a good laugh at the freak. And that is all.
Have these norms learned their lesson? Will they not be so quick to judge in the future? Does their admiration for Ms. Boyle somehow exculpate them? Heavens no! After Ms. Boyle leaves the stage, they'll bring out the next freak, and everyone will have a good laugh at them, and so on, ad infinitum.
More than that, I recognize her as a freak because of the way the audience responds to her. Watch the full video, and you get more of a glimpse of the derision with which the audience regards her. "This is a ridiculous woman," they are thinking. "I am going to get a good laugh at this." Indeed, most people are laughing already, as soon as Ms. Boyle walks on the stage. It's not merely her physical appearance; it's the way she carries herself, the way she presents herself. You can sense she's a little socially awkward, perhaps unaware of her ridiculousness. Yes, the audience can smell a freak, and Ms. Boyle is certainly a freak.
That doesn't change when she starts to sing. What? Why would I say that? Isn't that the reason she has become an Internet sensation? Because everyone was wrong about her? Because she turned out to have an amazing talent?Well, that doesn't make her any less of a freak. She, like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, turned out to be a useful freak, one that we can like and root for, but a freak nevertheless.
What irks me is all these norms talking about her, showing her Youtube clips to their friends, saying, "Isn't she amazing?" as though they're on team Boyle, as though they're truly sympathetic to her. Imagine for a moment that she had not surprised anyone. Imagine that she had turned out to be as terrible a singer as everyone thought she would be. All these people who are rooting for her now would, instead, have had a good laugh at the freak. And that is all.
Have these norms learned their lesson? Will they not be so quick to judge in the future? Does their admiration for Ms. Boyle somehow exculpate them? Heavens no! After Ms. Boyle leaves the stage, they'll bring out the next freak, and everyone will have a good laugh at them, and so on, ad infinitum.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Blindness
I recently watched Blindness, the film based on the book of the same name by Jose Saramago—a book which I very much enjoyed and count among my all-time favorites. Only after seeing the movie did I learn of protest at the film’s production. Advocacy groups for the blind apparently took offense at the film’s (and presumably, the book’s) use of blindness as a metaphor for moral decrepitude. This is understandable, but it made me question myself and my sensitivity to such issues since I didn’t find anything offensive in either the book or the film. Did I simply miss it because I am not blind? Or is there more to this issue?
First, I believe my understanding of the use of metaphor in the story differs from the understanding of the protestors. Where they see the film showing blind people behaving as “monsters,” I see the film as showing norms suddenly struck blind behaving as monsters. This is a key difference.
I have touched on this idea before, and will no doubt revisit it many times in the future: disability is more than a physical or mental phenomenon; it is a psychic one (as in psyche, not ESP). A person who is injured and loses the use of their legs is disabled, but is not suddenly a disabled person. They are a norm with a disability. It may take many years (if ever) for them to stop seeing themselves as a defective “normal” person. This is how I view the characters in Blindness. They are all (with one notable exception) norms, not blind people. Perhaps that’s why I don’t find their depiction offensive. I do believe that norms in that situation would be helpless, would be afraid, would be lost, and would resort to baser instincts. (What little faith I have in norms.)
In that context, blindness becomes a handy method for exploring humanity’s failings and society’s frailty. Furthermore, as I read it from a disabled person’s perspective, I see how debilitating the fear of disability is in norms. All the norms in the story fall apart when they become disabled; they are terrified and become helpless in the face of that terror. It’s actually quite damning of normate thought—at least as I read it, which to be fair, may never have been in Saramago’s mind as he was writing it.
The story also explores, not just literal, individual blindness and its possible consequences, but societal blindness. Part of the reason society falls apart in the story is that individuals need to know they are being watched if order is to be maintained.
The second issue at question is the use of disability as metaphor. For as long as art has existed, disability has served as a metaphor for weakness, immorality, and evil. Words like “lame,” “deaf,” and “blind” are fraught with meaning that goes beyond disability. To what extent are we to try to alter the meanings of these words, to remove their negative connotations? Is that even possible?
It is possible that there is something inherently symbolic in disability and it will be difficult, if not impossible, to remove all symbolism from the disabled body. Another question is whether doing so would be desirable. In all I’ve studied of people with disabilities, it seems that the more “normal” the disabled person, the more they desire normalcy, the more they desire to erase any stain of “otherness” from themselves. The true freaks embrace their otherness—perhaps because they have no choice.
This is clearly an issue that deserves more exploration than I can give it here. I am not trying to say that the use of the disabled body as something symbolic is good or bad, only that there’s a power in it that instead of denying, perhaps we could learn to utilize.
Again, perhaps I am not qualified to speak about this, since I am not blind. That is part of the problem of the disabled community: its disparateness. But I hope some of these points are valid.
First, I believe my understanding of the use of metaphor in the story differs from the understanding of the protestors. Where they see the film showing blind people behaving as “monsters,” I see the film as showing norms suddenly struck blind behaving as monsters. This is a key difference.
I have touched on this idea before, and will no doubt revisit it many times in the future: disability is more than a physical or mental phenomenon; it is a psychic one (as in psyche, not ESP). A person who is injured and loses the use of their legs is disabled, but is not suddenly a disabled person. They are a norm with a disability. It may take many years (if ever) for them to stop seeing themselves as a defective “normal” person. This is how I view the characters in Blindness. They are all (with one notable exception) norms, not blind people. Perhaps that’s why I don’t find their depiction offensive. I do believe that norms in that situation would be helpless, would be afraid, would be lost, and would resort to baser instincts. (What little faith I have in norms.)
In that context, blindness becomes a handy method for exploring humanity’s failings and society’s frailty. Furthermore, as I read it from a disabled person’s perspective, I see how debilitating the fear of disability is in norms. All the norms in the story fall apart when they become disabled; they are terrified and become helpless in the face of that terror. It’s actually quite damning of normate thought—at least as I read it, which to be fair, may never have been in Saramago’s mind as he was writing it.
The story also explores, not just literal, individual blindness and its possible consequences, but societal blindness. Part of the reason society falls apart in the story is that individuals need to know they are being watched if order is to be maintained.
The second issue at question is the use of disability as metaphor. For as long as art has existed, disability has served as a metaphor for weakness, immorality, and evil. Words like “lame,” “deaf,” and “blind” are fraught with meaning that goes beyond disability. To what extent are we to try to alter the meanings of these words, to remove their negative connotations? Is that even possible?
It is possible that there is something inherently symbolic in disability and it will be difficult, if not impossible, to remove all symbolism from the disabled body. Another question is whether doing so would be desirable. In all I’ve studied of people with disabilities, it seems that the more “normal” the disabled person, the more they desire normalcy, the more they desire to erase any stain of “otherness” from themselves. The true freaks embrace their otherness—perhaps because they have no choice.
This is clearly an issue that deserves more exploration than I can give it here. I am not trying to say that the use of the disabled body as something symbolic is good or bad, only that there’s a power in it that instead of denying, perhaps we could learn to utilize.
Again, perhaps I am not qualified to speak about this, since I am not blind. That is part of the problem of the disabled community: its disparateness. But I hope some of these points are valid.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Romance and loss
I have been listening to Small Change a lot lately. It’s populated with beaten-down, world-weary souls, longing for small things: the end of the work shift, or a job at the filling station and a shot at the waitress in the diner. This is a life I have never known, and, I suspect, Tom Waits has never known (he was 24 when he wrote these songs and, by all accounts, did not have a particularly hard childhood—another testament to his genius).
I find the world he creates in this album extremely romantic. Why? Is it the simplicity of these lives? They just want a job that will pay the bills and time to spend with their baby. That’s the best they can hope for, and it’s a pretty reachable goal, unlike my own. They don’t chase after the trappings of the bourgeoisie—fancy clothes, gourmet food, the latest appliances—like I do. And they’re free. They’re on the road, or they have no ties to hold them to any one place, as I do.
I was talking to one of my friends about this, and she said, “But that’s kind of sad, isn’t it? If you’re free to go anywhere, that means you have no one who loves you back home.” I had to agree with her; it is sad. But I think that sadness is essential to romantic ideals. Think about the archetypes we idolize: the cowboy, the gumshoe, the vigilante; they’re all lonely; they all have demons. What’s so romantic about that? Why is Romeo and Juliet the quintessential romance, and not Much Ado About Nothing? It’s loss, not gain, that defines romance. We feel for those who have less than we do, and we can see their lives as perhaps more reachable than the lives of the rich and famous. We might wish we were rich and could live happily ever after, but it’s those who die young that we raise to sainthood. Do we really wish that for ourselves? Are we all, on some level, flagellants?
I find the world he creates in this album extremely romantic. Why? Is it the simplicity of these lives? They just want a job that will pay the bills and time to spend with their baby. That’s the best they can hope for, and it’s a pretty reachable goal, unlike my own. They don’t chase after the trappings of the bourgeoisie—fancy clothes, gourmet food, the latest appliances—like I do. And they’re free. They’re on the road, or they have no ties to hold them to any one place, as I do.
I was talking to one of my friends about this, and she said, “But that’s kind of sad, isn’t it? If you’re free to go anywhere, that means you have no one who loves you back home.” I had to agree with her; it is sad. But I think that sadness is essential to romantic ideals. Think about the archetypes we idolize: the cowboy, the gumshoe, the vigilante; they’re all lonely; they all have demons. What’s so romantic about that? Why is Romeo and Juliet the quintessential romance, and not Much Ado About Nothing? It’s loss, not gain, that defines romance. We feel for those who have less than we do, and we can see their lives as perhaps more reachable than the lives of the rich and famous. We might wish we were rich and could live happily ever after, but it’s those who die young that we raise to sainthood. Do we really wish that for ourselves? Are we all, on some level, flagellants?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
My mother the madam
You might have heard about this mother in the UK who is pleading for women to have sex with her son. Her son is 21, a virgin, and oh, he has Down syndrome.
That's the pivotal point, really. Take that out of the equation, and it's just an odd story. With it, the story raises all sorts of questions.
My gut response is that this mother's actions are really demeaning for disabled people (and virgins) everywhere. When I dig a little deeper, I see that it's really more troubling than that.
The mother spouts a lot of ostensibly disabled-sensitive talk. She questions society's response to People of Difference, as I like to call us. "Why should these people be kept separate and pigeon-holed when they have the same emotions, desires and feelings as so-called normal people?" she asks, quite reasonably.
But then she ruins it with this: "If he doesn't get a girlfriend, I will feel really bad, because I have sold him this thing that he is like everybody else. That's why I'm working overtime to get this sorted for him." Does her behavior make him "like everybody else"? Does "everybody else" have mothers arranging sexual partners for them.
In fact, under the guise of wanting her son to be "normal," this mother is treating him like a freak.
She's also instilling in her son the same shallow, aesthetically based societal values she supposedly rejects:
Beyond the scope of true disability, this mother seems to have a problem with any sort of freak, i.e., anyone who deviates from the "norm," and she seems to have a very narrow idea of what "normal" is. Apparently to her, if you're not having sex, you're a loser. If you're not a parent, you're a loser. If you're not like everybody else, you're a loser. It's sad, really. And it's particularly sad that she, and many others no doubt, believe that she is truly sympathetic to people with disabilities, when in fact, she is the worst kind of bigot.
That's the pivotal point, really. Take that out of the equation, and it's just an odd story. With it, the story raises all sorts of questions.
My gut response is that this mother's actions are really demeaning for disabled people (and virgins) everywhere. When I dig a little deeper, I see that it's really more troubling than that.
The mother spouts a lot of ostensibly disabled-sensitive talk. She questions society's response to People of Difference, as I like to call us. "Why should these people be kept separate and pigeon-holed when they have the same emotions, desires and feelings as so-called normal people?" she asks, quite reasonably.
But then she ruins it with this: "If he doesn't get a girlfriend, I will feel really bad, because I have sold him this thing that he is like everybody else. That's why I'm working overtime to get this sorted for him." Does her behavior make him "like everybody else"? Does "everybody else" have mothers arranging sexual partners for them.
In fact, under the guise of wanting her son to be "normal," this mother is treating him like a freak.
She's also instilling in her son the same shallow, aesthetically based societal values she supposedly rejects:
1. in order to have any value, you must experience what everyone else does (e.g. having sex, fathering children);
2. implicitly, women are interchangeable and have value only as sex partners, not unique individuals with whom to have a relationship;
3. perhaps most disturbing, as she says she would prefer that whatever girlfriend he gets not have Down syndrome, that "normal" people have a higher commodity value than disabled people and should be sought over others.
Beyond the scope of true disability, this mother seems to have a problem with any sort of freak, i.e., anyone who deviates from the "norm," and she seems to have a very narrow idea of what "normal" is. Apparently to her, if you're not having sex, you're a loser. If you're not a parent, you're a loser. If you're not like everybody else, you're a loser. It's sad, really. And it's particularly sad that she, and many others no doubt, believe that she is truly sympathetic to people with disabilities, when in fact, she is the worst kind of bigot.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The authors who have influenced me
Sylvia Plath
Katherine Mansfield
Raymond Carver
Samuel Beckett
Djuna Barnes
Katherine Mansfield
Raymond Carver
Samuel Beckett
Djuna Barnes
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Do things happen for a reason?
There have been times in my life—those times when I feel happy and content—when I have thought that everything has worked out for the best. I may have even thought things had happened for a reason. I suppose it’s comforting, in a way, to think that the direction of your life is out of your hands. We all like the idea of free choice, but what if we screw things up? What if we make the wrong choice and make ourselves miserable? It’s comforting at those moments to believe that there’s a reason for that misery, that it’s all leading somewhere.
But what if it’s not? What if we’ve just made a stupid choice and that’s … it? Then what do we do?
We make a purpose. We say, “I can learn from this,” or “This will make me stronger,” and it often does. It’s important for our sanity to be able to this. We can create great things from our misery, but we can’t say that there’s any purpose to it. There’s no purpose to anything. Life is only one act of coping after another.
But what if it’s not? What if we’ve just made a stupid choice and that’s … it? Then what do we do?
We make a purpose. We say, “I can learn from this,” or “This will make me stronger,” and it often does. It’s important for our sanity to be able to this. We can create great things from our misery, but we can’t say that there’s any purpose to it. There’s no purpose to anything. Life is only one act of coping after another.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
She thinks her kid is scared of people with beards, too
Imagine parents complaining about the new black host of a children's television show because their children might be afraid of her. Imagine having the trouble those parents will have if their children see that black person and start asking questions about "blackness," forcing the parents to sit down and have a conversation about "blackness" with them.
I've used what I hope is an unsettling scenario to illustrate a point. (And let me be clear here that I feel uncomfortable casting black people as Other, even if it is merely as an illustration.) Most people who read the above paragraph would feel indignation or outrage at such an attitude toward black people. They would recognize it as racist and reprehensible. Yet many of those people would not feel that indignation when the attitude is directed toward a disabled person.
This is exactly what has happened to the new, one-armed host of a British television show. One viewer wrote that she didn't want her child to see this host because she thought the stump would give her daughter "sleep problems." I wonder how this one-armed television host feels knowing she is so frightening.
It is, in fact, the adult who has the problem. Children tend to be at ease, and ask open, non-judging questions. They haven't been conditioned yet to think there's something wrong with or frightening about disabled people. I feel sad that people can be as prejudiced as the mother quoted above, and I'm sad that they are raising their children to be prejudiced, too.
The thing that really irks me is that disability is still seen as something so different. Even the disabled TV host says, "I'd never comment on anyone's parenting or the time for them to have a discussion with their child about disabilities [...]. It's a totally personal thing and people have to do it when they feel comfortable to do it." Why exactly is disability something that needs to be talked about. Do people have talks with their kids about hair color? "You see, Jimmy, there are some people who are ginger..." I long for a day when disability is seen as a physical difference of no more social consequence than red hair, or at the very least, when we are not be treated as something to be afraid of.
I've used what I hope is an unsettling scenario to illustrate a point. (And let me be clear here that I feel uncomfortable casting black people as Other, even if it is merely as an illustration.) Most people who read the above paragraph would feel indignation or outrage at such an attitude toward black people. They would recognize it as racist and reprehensible. Yet many of those people would not feel that indignation when the attitude is directed toward a disabled person.
This is exactly what has happened to the new, one-armed host of a British television show. One viewer wrote that she didn't want her child to see this host because she thought the stump would give her daughter "sleep problems." I wonder how this one-armed television host feels knowing she is so frightening.
It is, in fact, the adult who has the problem. Children tend to be at ease, and ask open, non-judging questions. They haven't been conditioned yet to think there's something wrong with or frightening about disabled people. I feel sad that people can be as prejudiced as the mother quoted above, and I'm sad that they are raising their children to be prejudiced, too.
The thing that really irks me is that disability is still seen as something so different. Even the disabled TV host says, "I'd never comment on anyone's parenting or the time for them to have a discussion with their child about disabilities [...]. It's a totally personal thing and people have to do it when they feel comfortable to do it." Why exactly is disability something that needs to be talked about. Do people have talks with their kids about hair color? "You see, Jimmy, there are some people who are ginger..." I long for a day when disability is seen as a physical difference of no more social consequence than red hair, or at the very least, when we are not be treated as something to be afraid of.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
More on embryo screening
This week, we have yet another article from The Slate about embryo screening. It looks like this is the next big thing, creating perfect babies, and we are getting ever closer to that goal.
Who would be interested in such a thing? Follow one of the article's links to a May 2007 Times Online piece, scroll down to the seventh paragraph, and you'll find the answer. Just as I suspected: self-hating freaks.
Surprised? Thought it would be cosmetically enhanced, fake-tan-sporting Upper Middle Class types? Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of those who would take advantage of genetic screening, but that's almost expected. The trouble starts when one starts working to eliminate one's own kind. Instead of advocating for those with ocular disorders, this gentleman and his apparently very accepting wife (imagine—she actually married the freak!) have opted to capitulate to the status quo by not bringing into the world as loathsome and hideous a creature as the father apparently is.
I don't mean to pick on this gentleman. I infer from his drastic response (most parents just pray that their kids will be "normal") that he has suffered much in his life because of his appearance. He has suffered enough that he has come to believe that he, and those like him, are pretty worthless. Worthless enough to be destroyed before birth. He should have realized that those individuals who caused him pain are the ones with the problem. It's their thinking that needs to be changed, not the individuals who so offend their sense of aesthetics.
But it's very easy to say that. How many terata, given the opportunity, would not choose to be "normal"?
Who would be interested in such a thing? Follow one of the article's links to a May 2007 Times Online piece, scroll down to the seventh paragraph, and you'll find the answer. Just as I suspected: self-hating freaks.
Surprised? Thought it would be cosmetically enhanced, fake-tan-sporting Upper Middle Class types? Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of those who would take advantage of genetic screening, but that's almost expected. The trouble starts when one starts working to eliminate one's own kind. Instead of advocating for those with ocular disorders, this gentleman and his apparently very accepting wife (imagine—she actually married the freak!) have opted to capitulate to the status quo by not bringing into the world as loathsome and hideous a creature as the father apparently is.
I don't mean to pick on this gentleman. I infer from his drastic response (most parents just pray that their kids will be "normal") that he has suffered much in his life because of his appearance. He has suffered enough that he has come to believe that he, and those like him, are pretty worthless. Worthless enough to be destroyed before birth. He should have realized that those individuals who caused him pain are the ones with the problem. It's their thinking that needs to be changed, not the individuals who so offend their sense of aesthetics.
But it's very easy to say that. How many terata, given the opportunity, would not choose to be "normal"?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Improve your marriage: become disabled
I found an interesting article on Science Daily. It describes a study that suggests that disability can strengthen a marriage, but there are some questions yet to be answered:
Does the age of the individuals or the number of years the couple has been together affect the level of happiness? What if disability is present at the start of the relationship? Do these relationships tend to be stronger than others, or does this strengthening only apply when a so-called "normal" person becomes disabled? Does it help when the disability is perceived as the natural process of aging, rather than as something that "shouldn't be"?
To what extent do perceived gender roles affect happiness? That is, do women feel no change in their happiness because they believe on some level (probably suppressed) that the man should be the caretaker?
To what extent can these findings be applied to all relationships? Perhaps it is the simple act of caring for someone that creates a stronger bond, and this can be applied to any romantic or platonic relationship. Perhaps this is just a study's confirmation of what spiritual leaders like Mother Theresa and Ghandi have already told us.
It is worth further exploration.
Does the age of the individuals or the number of years the couple has been together affect the level of happiness? What if disability is present at the start of the relationship? Do these relationships tend to be stronger than others, or does this strengthening only apply when a so-called "normal" person becomes disabled? Does it help when the disability is perceived as the natural process of aging, rather than as something that "shouldn't be"?
To what extent do perceived gender roles affect happiness? That is, do women feel no change in their happiness because they believe on some level (probably suppressed) that the man should be the caretaker?
To what extent can these findings be applied to all relationships? Perhaps it is the simple act of caring for someone that creates a stronger bond, and this can be applied to any romantic or platonic relationship. Perhaps this is just a study's confirmation of what spiritual leaders like Mother Theresa and Ghandi have already told us.
It is worth further exploration.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Two of my poems appear in Apocryphaltext. The first one, Art Objets, was fun for me to write. I love visual art but lack the talent to create it, so I wrote poem where I described the art I would create if I could. The second poem is one of my experimental pieces.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Art and ethics
Last week I listed my top ten books. Included on that list were some authors with unsavory ideas and personal lives, so today I return to that old question that has plagued me for some time: what responsibility do I, as an ethical person, have regarding the art I enjoy and endorse?
As examples, let me explore some artists I like. Sylvia Plath may have been antisemitic in the very genteel, WASPy manner of her time. If she was, it's difficult to tell from her writing, where she in fact often identifies with Jews, particularly those that suffered during the Holocaust. This is something that is therefore easy to ignore.
Olive Moore, on the other hand, expressed in her writing some morally disgusting views toward black people, the elderly, and the disabled. These ideas are absent, as far as I can remember, from the book that made my top ten, but it is clear that she was a very hateful woman. I am able to excuse my admiration of her writing ability because I fall into some of the categories of people that are the objects of her scorn, and I guess I figure that gives me the right to like her writing even though I despise many of her ideas.
With J. M. Barrie, we get into murkier territory. Barrie was possibly a pedophile who took custody of the Llewelyn Davies boys for sinister purposes. The fact that this is unverified is the only reason I can justify my love for Peter Pan.
Henry Darger occupies the same space as Barrie: an unconfirmed, but likely, pedophile, who glamorized children in the same childlike way Barrie did. Neither have evidence linking them to acting on any impulses they may have had. Darger drew nude little girls, but he never had live models, and besides that, his naked girls had male genitalie--a clear indication that he never saw female genitalia. If some evidence surfaced regarding either of them, would I then have to condemn their art along with their actions? Would I naturally develop a distaste for it?
To answer this question, let me explore two, more complex, artists. The first, Lewis Carroll, is one whose work I have never particularly loved. I recognize the value in the Alice books, but I didn't read them until I was an adult and already aware of of Carroll's unsettling photographic works, and that may have colored my perception of the books. Carroll may never have touched any of the girls he photographed, but his perversion is clear, and his no doubt barely concealed leering must have had some sort of troubling effect on his subjects.
Second, there's Hans Bellmer, whose work I very much admired until I discovered his pedophilic desires. Unlike Carroll, Bellmer apparently never interacted with any children in an inappropriate way and was pretty meek in his relationships with adult women. He even credited his art with keeping him from acting on his desires, so why should I reject his art? Shouldn't I have a moral reason, then, to support it? I suppose I reacted so strongly against his art because I was so disappointed. What was I expecting, one might ask, from someone who created those dolls. Well, I suppose the enacted brutalization of adult women (as I believed the dolls to be) is marginally less bad than the brutalization of children. Perhaps what affected me most was seeing a photograph he had in his collection. Knowing I was seeing real children being forced to do terrible things put me off Bellmer and his art permanently.
Of course, that doesn't answer the question of whether I should reject the art of a horrible human being, or that I need to if I am to be a good person. But I'm not sure there is one.
As examples, let me explore some artists I like. Sylvia Plath may have been antisemitic in the very genteel, WASPy manner of her time. If she was, it's difficult to tell from her writing, where she in fact often identifies with Jews, particularly those that suffered during the Holocaust. This is something that is therefore easy to ignore.
Olive Moore, on the other hand, expressed in her writing some morally disgusting views toward black people, the elderly, and the disabled. These ideas are absent, as far as I can remember, from the book that made my top ten, but it is clear that she was a very hateful woman. I am able to excuse my admiration of her writing ability because I fall into some of the categories of people that are the objects of her scorn, and I guess I figure that gives me the right to like her writing even though I despise many of her ideas.
With J. M. Barrie, we get into murkier territory. Barrie was possibly a pedophile who took custody of the Llewelyn Davies boys for sinister purposes. The fact that this is unverified is the only reason I can justify my love for Peter Pan.
Henry Darger occupies the same space as Barrie: an unconfirmed, but likely, pedophile, who glamorized children in the same childlike way Barrie did. Neither have evidence linking them to acting on any impulses they may have had. Darger drew nude little girls, but he never had live models, and besides that, his naked girls had male genitalie--a clear indication that he never saw female genitalia. If some evidence surfaced regarding either of them, would I then have to condemn their art along with their actions? Would I naturally develop a distaste for it?
To answer this question, let me explore two, more complex, artists. The first, Lewis Carroll, is one whose work I have never particularly loved. I recognize the value in the Alice books, but I didn't read them until I was an adult and already aware of of Carroll's unsettling photographic works, and that may have colored my perception of the books. Carroll may never have touched any of the girls he photographed, but his perversion is clear, and his no doubt barely concealed leering must have had some sort of troubling effect on his subjects.
Second, there's Hans Bellmer, whose work I very much admired until I discovered his pedophilic desires. Unlike Carroll, Bellmer apparently never interacted with any children in an inappropriate way and was pretty meek in his relationships with adult women. He even credited his art with keeping him from acting on his desires, so why should I reject his art? Shouldn't I have a moral reason, then, to support it? I suppose I reacted so strongly against his art because I was so disappointed. What was I expecting, one might ask, from someone who created those dolls. Well, I suppose the enacted brutalization of adult women (as I believed the dolls to be) is marginally less bad than the brutalization of children. Perhaps what affected me most was seeing a photograph he had in his collection. Knowing I was seeing real children being forced to do terrible things put me off Bellmer and his art permanently.
Of course, that doesn't answer the question of whether I should reject the art of a horrible human being, or that I need to if I am to be a good person. But I'm not sure there is one.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
"Christina's World"
Andrew Wyeth died last week. He has been criticized as being merely an “illustrator,” perhaps because he was popular and people who did not “know” art had emotional responses to his work. A sign of a poor painter, we all know.
Perhaps his most famous work is 1948’s Christina’s World. The painting was inspired by his neighbor, Christina Olson, who was disabled by polio (though the body in the painting is a composite of women—we will not get into the meta-qualities of the painting here, though).
Perhaps his most famous work is 1948’s Christina’s World. The painting was inspired by his neighbor, Christina Olson, who was disabled by polio (though the body in the painting is a composite of women—we will not get into the meta-qualities of the painting here, though).
If Wyeth is to be taken at his word, he certainly intended to show Olson as a sympathetic and inspiring subject. He described her as someone who "was limited physically but by no means spiritually." He said of the artistic process, "The challenge to me was to do justice to her extraordinary conquest of a life which most people would consider hopeless." [1]
Admirable sentiments, perhaps, but there has always been something troubling about the painting for me. When I saw it for the first time as a child, I immediately felt an aversion to it. There was something about it that I responded negatively to. I believe it was the voyeuristic sensibility that saw in the piece (though I did not know to apply that label to it at the time). It felt to me as though we, the viewers, were watching the woman in a private moment, and that somehow felt wrong because she was disabled. At that time, I did not like people to watch me struggle with various simple tasks, like tying my shoelaces, and I perhaps projected my own dread onto her.
Perhaps I was also frightened by the bleakness of the landscape. The field is barren, the grass seems hard and dry (at least in the tiny reproductions, which were all I’d seen of the painting until three years ago), the sky seems to harboring a storm, and the buildings seem deserted. In this landscape I sensed a barrenness of life, of the life of the disabled woman, and of myself. She seemed alone to me, and I knew myself to be so.
Finally, and to my shame, I think I was a little afraid of her. People with disabilities are not immune to normate sensibilities, and it is often easier to fear what one is than to fear what one is not. The woman in the painting seems alien, Other. We do not see her face, and her frail arms and grasping hand suggest a terrible longing that will never be fulfilled. The figure is reaching away from us, but she is somehow reaching toward us as well, and that is what is frightening.
Now that I am older, I see the painting in a different light. I had always remembered the figure being further away and therefore more alien, but in reality she appears only a few feet ahead of us. If she were far away, we might feel we were watching the freak from the tree line, but her proximity to us suggests instead that we are with her; perhaps she is leading us to her home, where she will offer us tea and cookies. The landscape is still foreboding, but there is light on her body—perhaps too much light. It contrasts with her dark surroundings; it imbues her with vitality. Her arms appear wiry now, rather than frail; there is an energy in her reaching arm; the wisps of hair that fly about her head are not blown by the wind of an impending storm, but rather from her forward motion.
The beauty of the painting is not that it is “inspiring”; it is that it can cause feelings of peace and of dread, sometimes at the same time. One would think that a painting with so much richness, so much depth, and such that can inspire such dichotomous readings could only be painted by a real artist. Rest in peace, Andrew Wyeth.
Admirable sentiments, perhaps, but there has always been something troubling about the painting for me. When I saw it for the first time as a child, I immediately felt an aversion to it. There was something about it that I responded negatively to. I believe it was the voyeuristic sensibility that saw in the piece (though I did not know to apply that label to it at the time). It felt to me as though we, the viewers, were watching the woman in a private moment, and that somehow felt wrong because she was disabled. At that time, I did not like people to watch me struggle with various simple tasks, like tying my shoelaces, and I perhaps projected my own dread onto her.
Perhaps I was also frightened by the bleakness of the landscape. The field is barren, the grass seems hard and dry (at least in the tiny reproductions, which were all I’d seen of the painting until three years ago), the sky seems to harboring a storm, and the buildings seem deserted. In this landscape I sensed a barrenness of life, of the life of the disabled woman, and of myself. She seemed alone to me, and I knew myself to be so.
Finally, and to my shame, I think I was a little afraid of her. People with disabilities are not immune to normate sensibilities, and it is often easier to fear what one is than to fear what one is not. The woman in the painting seems alien, Other. We do not see her face, and her frail arms and grasping hand suggest a terrible longing that will never be fulfilled. The figure is reaching away from us, but she is somehow reaching toward us as well, and that is what is frightening.
Now that I am older, I see the painting in a different light. I had always remembered the figure being further away and therefore more alien, but in reality she appears only a few feet ahead of us. If she were far away, we might feel we were watching the freak from the tree line, but her proximity to us suggests instead that we are with her; perhaps she is leading us to her home, where she will offer us tea and cookies. The landscape is still foreboding, but there is light on her body—perhaps too much light. It contrasts with her dark surroundings; it imbues her with vitality. Her arms appear wiry now, rather than frail; there is an energy in her reaching arm; the wisps of hair that fly about her head are not blown by the wind of an impending storm, but rather from her forward motion.
The beauty of the painting is not that it is “inspiring”; it is that it can cause feelings of peace and of dread, sometimes at the same time. One would think that a painting with so much richness, so much depth, and such that can inspire such dichotomous readings could only be painted by a real artist. Rest in peace, Andrew Wyeth.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The implications of genetic screening
An interesting article recently appeared on Slate. It relates a news story of genetic screening. The article is certainly on the right track with its appeal to call genetic screening what it is: eugenics. But it does not go quite far enough.
If we start screening embryos for cancer genes and start destroying the ones that have them, what are we really doing? We are sparing those who are born the disease, yes. But we are also saying that those creatures who could develop cancer are undesirable. We are saying, essentially, "We don't want you polluting our gene pool!" This is undeniable:
Think for a moment of any person you know, or know of, who has, or has had, cancer. Think about what they mean to you. Think about what life means to them. If they had been screened as an embryo, they would have been destroyed. They never would have been born. Does genetic screening still seem like a good idea?
It is only a small step to carry this screening over to other areas. And what will be the first of those areas? Teratism. If the norms can screen out those who would be born with flippers or dwarfism or other deformites and disabilities, they will.
Let's be clear before we go on, people with disabilities are not necessarily a burden on society. Even those who might not be able to support themselves are no more a burden than the millions of able-bodied people the world over who refuse to get a job or who commit crimes or who are just, simply, jerks.
This may not seem like a problem to some people, and that is precisely the problem. Disability will never be entirely wiped out, as accidents will always have the potential of creating new members. These people will suffer even more from society's prejudices, though, if they live in a world where their kind is virtually nonexistent and largely regarded as undesirable. In a world that destroys the disabled before they are born, will they destroy them after they are made?
All genetic screening does is allow society to eliminate the disabled before they become big enough to make the norms feel guilty about getting rid of them.
If we start screening embryos for cancer genes and start destroying the ones that have them, what are we really doing? We are sparing those who are born the disease, yes. But we are also saying that those creatures who could develop cancer are undesirable. We are saying, essentially, "We don't want you polluting our gene pool!" This is undeniable:
The embryos were not selected according to gender, so it is a coincidence the baby was a girl, doctors said. Even if they had tried to choose a male embryo, this would not have eradicated the cancer gene because a boy could still carry it and pass it on to future generations. (Mail Online)
Think for a moment of any person you know, or know of, who has, or has had, cancer. Think about what they mean to you. Think about what life means to them. If they had been screened as an embryo, they would have been destroyed. They never would have been born. Does genetic screening still seem like a good idea?
It is only a small step to carry this screening over to other areas. And what will be the first of those areas? Teratism. If the norms can screen out those who would be born with flippers or dwarfism or other deformites and disabilities, they will.
Let's be clear before we go on, people with disabilities are not necessarily a burden on society. Even those who might not be able to support themselves are no more a burden than the millions of able-bodied people the world over who refuse to get a job or who commit crimes or who are just, simply, jerks.
This may not seem like a problem to some people, and that is precisely the problem. Disability will never be entirely wiped out, as accidents will always have the potential of creating new members. These people will suffer even more from society's prejudices, though, if they live in a world where their kind is virtually nonexistent and largely regarded as undesirable. In a world that destroys the disabled before they are born, will they destroy them after they are made?
All genetic screening does is allow society to eliminate the disabled before they become big enough to make the norms feel guilty about getting rid of them.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Why can't monsters find love?
I recently finished reading the anthology, The Best of Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and was quite enjoying it right up until the last story, “You were Neither Hot nor Cold, but Lukewarm, and so I Spit You Out,” by Cara Spindler and David Erik Nelson. First, it was only a mediocre story, competently, but not excitingly written, less than gripping, with its mock-allegorical style—hardly the strong finish an anthology should have. The real disappointment came, however, on the penultimate page:
I rankle at so many things in that paragraph: the lazy biblical revision (it’s just so easy to adapt biblical stories to your agenda; at least put some effort into it; this revision takes into account none of the details of the story and could therefore be applied to almost anything), the grating language (the juxtaposition of modern colloquialism [“he’d found himself”] with an attempt at something poetic [“born malformed, half-formed, quasi-modo, twisted and stunted at birth”], the awkward-sounding repetition of the word “half”), the fact that this “profound” conclusion doesn’t mesh well with the premise previously laid out in the story (that the protagonist’s wife turns into a monster every night—I guess it’s okay because she’s a really hot monster?).
What’s really upsetting about it, though, is the fact that few people would find it upsetting. This “epiphany” comes at the expense of a club-footed character (who inexplicably develops a bad arm at the climax of the story—perhaps to make him even less sympathetic?). The idea is that the deformed brother wants to kill the protagonist’s wife, not because the protagonist himself was afraid for his life and wanted to kill her only a few pages earlier, but because he, the Club-Footed Janitor, can’t understand love, you know, on account of being so … deformed and all.
This idea is extended beyond just the one character: by using the archetypal Cain and Abel, the authors implicitly include all deformed people in their conclusion. To sum up: deformed people—freaks—can’t get girlfriends, don’t understand love, and should be eliminated. Imagine any other minority in there—Black, Jewish, homosexual—and the insult becomes clear. The fact that I have to explain to norms why this passage is so offensive is what makes me sad.
Maybe Cain rose up because he’d found himself a girlfriend and there was no room in that tiny half-past-Eden world for a warped stray, not in the land of pairs two-by-two. Maybe Abel wasn’t so much favored by God as he was an aberrant freak, a half that could never find its better half because it had been born malformed, half-formed, quasi-modo, twisted and stunted at birth. (p. 371)
I rankle at so many things in that paragraph: the lazy biblical revision (it’s just so easy to adapt biblical stories to your agenda; at least put some effort into it; this revision takes into account none of the details of the story and could therefore be applied to almost anything), the grating language (the juxtaposition of modern colloquialism [“he’d found himself”] with an attempt at something poetic [“born malformed, half-formed, quasi-modo, twisted and stunted at birth”], the awkward-sounding repetition of the word “half”), the fact that this “profound” conclusion doesn’t mesh well with the premise previously laid out in the story (that the protagonist’s wife turns into a monster every night—I guess it’s okay because she’s a really hot monster?).
What’s really upsetting about it, though, is the fact that few people would find it upsetting. This “epiphany” comes at the expense of a club-footed character (who inexplicably develops a bad arm at the climax of the story—perhaps to make him even less sympathetic?). The idea is that the deformed brother wants to kill the protagonist’s wife, not because the protagonist himself was afraid for his life and wanted to kill her only a few pages earlier, but because he, the Club-Footed Janitor, can’t understand love, you know, on account of being so … deformed and all.
This idea is extended beyond just the one character: by using the archetypal Cain and Abel, the authors implicitly include all deformed people in their conclusion. To sum up: deformed people—freaks—can’t get girlfriends, don’t understand love, and should be eliminated. Imagine any other minority in there—Black, Jewish, homosexual—and the insult becomes clear. The fact that I have to explain to norms why this passage is so offensive is what makes me sad.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
New Year's 2009
A new year, a new start. Why does New Year’s always make one feel so hopeful, as though one can wipe everything clean, as though that can ever happen? It’s very religious thing, like the Jewish Day of Atonement, or a Christian baptism. In fact, many religions throughout history have had some sort of ceremony that involved atonement and a clearing away of past wrongs. It must be a very basic human need to feel that there don’t have to be consequences to one’s mistakes, to believe that one can change and avoid the same mistakes, to believe that perfection awaits them.
It is helpful. If a person gets a shiny new car or MP3 player or game system, they are bound to take very good care of it for a while. It’s only after that first mistake—that first little ding or scratch, the first time dropped or jolted or smacked because of skipping—that one’s care for that item diminishes. Before you know it, you’ve got a junker of a car, you don’t even bother to put a skin on your MP3 player, and you put your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on top of your game system while you play. Once things reach that point, you’re not going to go back to caring for those things the way you did at the beginning.
If we didn’t believe in forgiveness, then relationships would fall apart after a few small mistakes. Forgiveness is so important, and not just in a spiritual way, but in a very practical way. If you harbor resentment over the wrong somebody has done you, you make it that much harder for them to treat you with the care they would exhibit for an undamaged item: in essence, you keep yourself a junker rather than allowing yourself to become a shiny convertible right off the showroom floor.
All of us in the secular world should have a Day of Atonement, a day when we remember to apologize for the wrongs we have done to others, and just as important, a day when we remember to forgive the wrongs others have done to us. I guess in some ways, New Year’s serves as that day.
It is helpful. If a person gets a shiny new car or MP3 player or game system, they are bound to take very good care of it for a while. It’s only after that first mistake—that first little ding or scratch, the first time dropped or jolted or smacked because of skipping—that one’s care for that item diminishes. Before you know it, you’ve got a junker of a car, you don’t even bother to put a skin on your MP3 player, and you put your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on top of your game system while you play. Once things reach that point, you’re not going to go back to caring for those things the way you did at the beginning.
If we didn’t believe in forgiveness, then relationships would fall apart after a few small mistakes. Forgiveness is so important, and not just in a spiritual way, but in a very practical way. If you harbor resentment over the wrong somebody has done you, you make it that much harder for them to treat you with the care they would exhibit for an undamaged item: in essence, you keep yourself a junker rather than allowing yourself to become a shiny convertible right off the showroom floor.
All of us in the secular world should have a Day of Atonement, a day when we remember to apologize for the wrongs we have done to others, and just as important, a day when we remember to forgive the wrongs others have done to us. I guess in some ways, New Year’s serves as that day.
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