Showing posts with label heartache. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heartache. Show all posts
11.01.2012
worth watching
“This [genocide] is how we came to own these United States. This is the legacy of manifest destiny. Prisoners are still born into prisoner of war camps, long after the guards are gone.”
-Aaron Huey
6.30.2012
Waiilatpu
Place of the Rye Grass
Six feet tall in every direction--can you imagine?
So this is how the West was ''settled,'' as it were. The Whitmans, Marcus and Narcissa, were killed, along with ten others, by Cayuse and Umatilla Indians. Another 54 were taken captive. It took a few years, but Congress created Oregon Territory in attempts to catch and hang those responsible for the deaths.
I'm uncomfortable with the word Massacre, as it seems to negate everything leading up to the incident... the Presbyterian missionary doctor who repeatedly administered medicine for measles to Indian children who still died, while the same medicine worked for the whites. How must that have looked? The Cayuse doctrine that a medicine man pays for repeated deaths with his own life.
Or the way Whitman tried to convince the tribes, seasonally nomadic, to settle down on patches of land and farm, for the sake of the mission. Couldn't have the local population moving on to salmon grounds every fall when you're trying to start a church.
There was the fake newspaper story in East Coast papers talking about tribal men asking for holy teaching, getting white missionaries excited to go West in the first place.
And the words words written by Whitman's wife, Narcissa, the first white woman to make the trek on the Oregon Trail west and a pioneer if there ever was one, in her diary and letters, that betray a certain racism in her missionary efforts. Oh, the motives that lie within!
Because of the bickering and quarreling among missionaries, the Presbyterian leadership back East voted to close the Mission, but in an astonishing journey, Marcus Whitman left in October 1942 for New York City and Washington, DC, riding through the winter Rockies and down through Taos, New Mexico, to plead his case. He arrived in March, and the board agreed to let Whitman Mission remain open.
Anyway, a few years after the Massacre, with the tribe on the lam and in the hills, five Cayuse men consented to turn themselves in. They were tried and hanged in Oregon City. It's not clear whether these men were guilty; two of them were tribal leaders; perhaps they were just trying to protect their people.
But the entire Cayuse paid. The Cayuse War that followed the Whitmans' murders left most of the tribe wiped out by settlers, remaining members joined with the Nez Perce.
Now I believe there is never an excuse for murder, though there may be a story found in spilled blood. I know the hearts of Marcus and Narcissa were probably as troubled and pained and grey as those of Tiloukaikt and Tomahas. But I stand on these grounds, rye grass hills, wheat grass lining the Oregon Trail, and I wonder if things might have gone differently...
If the Black Hills and Cayuse, Appalacia and so many other parts of this land might not have come to their current government through dislocation. Through genocide.
Most days I push it down deep, don't want to sound extremist, don't want to offend, am more white myself than Cherokee, but this isn't about racial allegiance:
the truth is, it hurts to live on stolen land.
Six feet tall in every direction--can you imagine?
So this is how the West was ''settled,'' as it were. The Whitmans, Marcus and Narcissa, were killed, along with ten others, by Cayuse and Umatilla Indians. Another 54 were taken captive. It took a few years, but Congress created Oregon Territory in attempts to catch and hang those responsible for the deaths.
I'm uncomfortable with the word Massacre, as it seems to negate everything leading up to the incident... the Presbyterian missionary doctor who repeatedly administered medicine for measles to Indian children who still died, while the same medicine worked for the whites. How must that have looked? The Cayuse doctrine that a medicine man pays for repeated deaths with his own life.
Or the way Whitman tried to convince the tribes, seasonally nomadic, to settle down on patches of land and farm, for the sake of the mission. Couldn't have the local population moving on to salmon grounds every fall when you're trying to start a church.
There was the fake newspaper story in East Coast papers talking about tribal men asking for holy teaching, getting white missionaries excited to go West in the first place.
And the words words written by Whitman's wife, Narcissa, the first white woman to make the trek on the Oregon Trail west and a pioneer if there ever was one, in her diary and letters, that betray a certain racism in her missionary efforts. Oh, the motives that lie within!
Because of the bickering and quarreling among missionaries, the Presbyterian leadership back East voted to close the Mission, but in an astonishing journey, Marcus Whitman left in October 1942 for New York City and Washington, DC, riding through the winter Rockies and down through Taos, New Mexico, to plead his case. He arrived in March, and the board agreed to let Whitman Mission remain open.
Anyway, a few years after the Massacre, with the tribe on the lam and in the hills, five Cayuse men consented to turn themselves in. They were tried and hanged in Oregon City. It's not clear whether these men were guilty; two of them were tribal leaders; perhaps they were just trying to protect their people.
But the entire Cayuse paid. The Cayuse War that followed the Whitmans' murders left most of the tribe wiped out by settlers, remaining members joined with the Nez Perce.
Now I believe there is never an excuse for murder, though there may be a story found in spilled blood. I know the hearts of Marcus and Narcissa were probably as troubled and pained and grey as those of Tiloukaikt and Tomahas. But I stand on these grounds, rye grass hills, wheat grass lining the Oregon Trail, and I wonder if things might have gone differently...
If the Black Hills and Cayuse, Appalacia and so many other parts of this land might not have come to their current government through dislocation. Through genocide.
Most days I push it down deep, don't want to sound extremist, don't want to offend, am more white myself than Cherokee, but this isn't about racial allegiance:
the truth is, it hurts to live on stolen land.
6.07.2012
the layers / stanley kunitz
There is more to say about Blue Ridge, harder stories, but it might take a while for me to say it. For now, this poem:
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will in tact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
''Live in the layers,
not on the litter.''
Though I lack the art
to decipher it
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will in tact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
''Live in the layers,
not on the litter.''
Though I lack the art
to decipher it
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
6.01.2012
Yeah, this one basically represents how I feel about that entire out-of-control and sweet and off-the-wall first grade class. And that is always the hardest thing about leaving...
2.13.2012
dream nights
The road south out of our village, if you could call it a road, the one my neighbors used to take to Tegucigalpa before the highway was built, was one of my favorites for walking.
The land to the south was rocky, green, hard: almost more like English moors except for the maiz y frijoles, platanos y San Juan Primavera growing.
Here in WW, it is harder for me to find space outside to be alone. Small town living has me feeling a bit stifled at times, though I love using my feet instead of car; the deciduous tree-lined streets block out my craving for open sky. In Santa Barbara, Honduras, the Upper Columbia, even San Francisco, I could always find the open and steep spaces to be alone. And sunsets from the Thames were so incredible the lack of ridges was almost forgivable.
The Blues are here, their lit snow-capped ridges, but I am not daily in them, the way my body needs mountains.
One day walking out on that gutted old road, we could smell rain in the air, hear far-off thunder. Storms move so much faster in my old village than any I've seen in the West. We pressed on, not wanting to sacrifice the walk. Soon the rain started, about 45 minutes walk from home, and we turned back, climbing the ruts in the road steep from where it dipped into valley.
Llueve became granizo, large stones pelting our bare arms and legs, and we turned our backs against the force of it and walked backwards for protection in the openness. Reaching the farthest house of the village, a relatively nice ranch owned by a family with a car, we turned in at their welcome, standing on the porch as rain poured and light faded from the sky, water funneling off our glistening skin.
The rain didn't let up, but was no longer hail. The wind blew. We thanked them and left, and while S. and L. walked in flip-flops, I ran the last thirty minutes home, pouring rain, rivers on the road, water above my ankles making currents across the dust. Lightning lighting up the west and the occasional villagers running past me the other direction, both of us laughing, buenas noches.
How I miss my village, that lonely and beautiful night, the sense of homeness I have found further south. And the mountains, the mountains! Their peaks filling my pupils, their precipitous earth under my feet.
The land to the south was rocky, green, hard: almost more like English moors except for the maiz y frijoles, platanos y San Juan Primavera growing.
Here in WW, it is harder for me to find space outside to be alone. Small town living has me feeling a bit stifled at times, though I love using my feet instead of car; the deciduous tree-lined streets block out my craving for open sky. In Santa Barbara, Honduras, the Upper Columbia, even San Francisco, I could always find the open and steep spaces to be alone. And sunsets from the Thames were so incredible the lack of ridges was almost forgivable.
The Blues are here, their lit snow-capped ridges, but I am not daily in them, the way my body needs mountains.
One day walking out on that gutted old road, we could smell rain in the air, hear far-off thunder. Storms move so much faster in my old village than any I've seen in the West. We pressed on, not wanting to sacrifice the walk. Soon the rain started, about 45 minutes walk from home, and we turned back, climbing the ruts in the road steep from where it dipped into valley.
Llueve became granizo, large stones pelting our bare arms and legs, and we turned our backs against the force of it and walked backwards for protection in the openness. Reaching the farthest house of the village, a relatively nice ranch owned by a family with a car, we turned in at their welcome, standing on the porch as rain poured and light faded from the sky, water funneling off our glistening skin.
The rain didn't let up, but was no longer hail. The wind blew. We thanked them and left, and while S. and L. walked in flip-flops, I ran the last thirty minutes home, pouring rain, rivers on the road, water above my ankles making currents across the dust. Lightning lighting up the west and the occasional villagers running past me the other direction, both of us laughing, buenas noches.
How I miss my village, that lonely and beautiful night, the sense of homeness I have found further south. And the mountains, the mountains! Their peaks filling my pupils, their precipitous earth under my feet.
1.18.2012
When the rains came to our leaking Honduran house
corrugated-tin roof and gaps under the doors
water would spread over the brick-red tiles on the floor,
any clothes on the line soaked through all over again.
I remember that particular night, running back through the storm alone,
lightning-lit sky and the road a river of rainwater,
my sandaled feet metronoming a watery rhythm.
For Earth Day, we planted watermelon and frijoles,
and I watched amazed as one often disengaged student, Arnold,
came to life pushing wheelbarrows and shoveling dirt.
An hour and a half left me with blisters on my thumbs and a sore back,
leavings of the labor I was so unaccustomed to.
I think of the problems I faced with perra and prostituta namecalling, of those boys, beloved, who wept when I made them apologize, explaining that real men don't use those words.
I can't remember Jose Javier without smiling, the little guy who was okay with being called Jose, Javier, Javi, or even ''J.J.,'' but when I called him ''Javs'' informed me with utmost seriousness, ''My name is not Hobbes, Miss.''
And when I tire of my first-floor, plainish apartment, what about that week in March, when we found five tarantulas living in our casa? Later there were triple termite hatches of thousands and always, of course, the occasional cockroach.
Buses were graced by creepy and pitiful-looking payasos performing screamed songs for a lempira or two. Tambien, ladies, men and children selling cheap fried snacks to earn their exhausted living.
This land I long for, that which breathed life into me and drew my blood, leaving me unchangeably wounded and marking my mouth with its taste, so I will never drink water the same way, my leg muscles not forget how to move upon the uneven earth of the South. I take the strangeness and the heartbreak and beauty and hold it close to my cheeks. My Latin time is not finished, I know, and speaking Spanish daily meets a deep need, but the chosen separation still makes me ache inside.
12.07.2011
borders
pillowed moonlight, thin morning air
you were a mystery i didn't treasure
and i have a story you don't understand
well i've seen breaches in friendships i thought were strong
and i've known enough men to know i've only really been impressed by a handful
like the mountain in honduras, the hidden trail vista with a view like the rockies
where i stole so many afternoons and wept
and a neglected sister, twisted back
like the marriage of a man who will threaten separate bank accounts,
financial 'matching,'
who will accuse his wife of 'not even working for ten years'
when she has pulled ten thousand times his weight
empty threats so oft repeated you'd think they'd cease to touch you
but they don't
words you couldn't imagine, son
words you wish you could forget, daughter
i don't know much about construction,
but i know a twisted base can buy only fear, not love
and i just can't afford the transactions anymore.
you were a mystery i didn't treasure
and i have a story you don't understand
well i've seen breaches in friendships i thought were strong
and i've known enough men to know i've only really been impressed by a handful
like the mountain in honduras, the hidden trail vista with a view like the rockies
where i stole so many afternoons and wept
and a neglected sister, twisted back
like the marriage of a man who will threaten separate bank accounts,
financial 'matching,'
who will accuse his wife of 'not even working for ten years'
when she has pulled ten thousand times his weight
empty threats so oft repeated you'd think they'd cease to touch you
but they don't
words you couldn't imagine, son
words you wish you could forget, daughter
i don't know much about construction,
but i know a twisted base can buy only fear, not love
and i just can't afford the transactions anymore.
12.03.2011
gratitude in paying attention
To the man sitting outside at Safeway, ready for the night, and all I offer is hot coffee and a pastry, and he is peeing now, on the side of the building, and though I have seen much more in my young years I am startled, and wish him a good evening, and he thanks me, it's going to be a long night, he says. And I drive my nice heated car home in the 30 degree weather to the apartment without enough windows but is nonetheless so well heated and with a huge sliding glass door and how could I ever be ungrateful when I have been given so much?
And to the kiddos at Blue Ridge, dirty fingernails and so many with permanent lice in their hair--who knew it is so expensive to remove? And many don't have their own washing machines and all the quarters it costs to kill the parasites, let alone scissors and glue and crayons at home, which is why they're always so worried when they don't finish art projects at school.
And to the leaves in piles on the sides of the streets, grace and more grace piling up, falling down.
To each day of sunshine in December, how hard winter is for me and yet full of its own particular beauty.
To American flags in churches (ask those questions honey, should they be there?--but with love for the bride and not malice in your heart).
To G, J, and J, mama of two cerebral palsy brothers I work with each morning. 'Dejelo mi esposo,' she told me when we met. They live at the YWCA, and she works at Burger King, saving money to rent a house with the four kids and her own mother.
And to dented cars when mine has none and tin can trailer hovels when I dream of (and expect!) a handmade home of wood and glass some day.
Oh, how entitled we are, when we deserve no thing.
Sometimes I feel like I'm cheating on my kids in Honduras by falling in love with these kids here. But the gifts we are given are not exclusive to each other. By receiving one, you don't negate the others. And oh, I have been given a thousand, thousand gifts.
And to the kiddos at Blue Ridge, dirty fingernails and so many with permanent lice in their hair--who knew it is so expensive to remove? And many don't have their own washing machines and all the quarters it costs to kill the parasites, let alone scissors and glue and crayons at home, which is why they're always so worried when they don't finish art projects at school.
And to the leaves in piles on the sides of the streets, grace and more grace piling up, falling down.
To each day of sunshine in December, how hard winter is for me and yet full of its own particular beauty.
To American flags in churches (ask those questions honey, should they be there?--but with love for the bride and not malice in your heart).
To G, J, and J, mama of two cerebral palsy brothers I work with each morning. 'Dejelo mi esposo,' she told me when we met. They live at the YWCA, and she works at Burger King, saving money to rent a house with the four kids and her own mother.
And to dented cars when mine has none and tin can trailer hovels when I dream of (and expect!) a handmade home of wood and glass some day.
Oh, how entitled we are, when we deserve no thing.
Sometimes I feel like I'm cheating on my kids in Honduras by falling in love with these kids here. But the gifts we are given are not exclusive to each other. By receiving one, you don't negate the others. And oh, I have been given a thousand, thousand gifts.
11.27.2011
going north for thanks
A peace that springs soon after sorrow
of hope surrendered, not hope fulfilled.
8.11.2011
3am / gregory alan isakov [listen here]
well it's 3 a.m again, like it always seems to be
driving northbound, driving homeward, driving wind is driving me
and it just seems so funny that i always end up here,
walking outside in the storm while looking way up past the tree-line
it's been some time…
give me darkness when i’m dreaming
give me moonlight when i’m leaving
give me shoes that weren’t made for standing
give me tree-line, give me big sky, give me snow-bound, give me rain clouds
give me a bed time…just sometimes
you were my friend, and i was the same
riding that hope was like catching some train
well now i just walk, i don't mind the rain
but i’ve been singing so much softer than i did back then
the night, i think, is darker than we can really say
and god’s been living in that ocean, sending us all the big waves
and i wish i was a sailor so i could know just how to trust,
maybe i could bring some grace back home to the dryland for each of us
say what you say, you say it so well
just say you will wait, like snow on the rail
i've been combing that train yard for some kind of sign
even my own self, it just don’t seem mine
give me darkness when i’m dreaming, give me moonlight when i’m leaving
give me mustang horse and muscle, 'cause i won't be going gentle
give me slant-eye looks when i’m lying, give me fingers when i’m crying
and i aint out here to cheat you, see i killed that damn coyote in me…
driving northbound, driving homeward, driving wind is driving me
and it just seems so funny that i always end up here,
walking outside in the storm while looking way up past the tree-line
it's been some time…
give me darkness when i’m dreaming
give me moonlight when i’m leaving
give me shoes that weren’t made for standing
give me tree-line, give me big sky, give me snow-bound, give me rain clouds
give me a bed time…just sometimes
you were my friend, and i was the same
riding that hope was like catching some train
well now i just walk, i don't mind the rain
but i’ve been singing so much softer than i did back then
the night, i think, is darker than we can really say
and god’s been living in that ocean, sending us all the big waves
and i wish i was a sailor so i could know just how to trust,
maybe i could bring some grace back home to the dryland for each of us
say what you say, you say it so well
just say you will wait, like snow on the rail
i've been combing that train yard for some kind of sign
even my own self, it just don’t seem mine
give me darkness when i’m dreaming, give me moonlight when i’m leaving
give me mustang horse and muscle, 'cause i won't be going gentle
give me slant-eye looks when i’m lying, give me fingers when i’m crying
and i aint out here to cheat you, see i killed that damn coyote in me…
6.15.2011
2.28.2011
Confessedly, I still haven´t learned how to count on my fingers and memories all the ways in which you have been and you are and the ways I hope you´ll be good. Even with birdsong, the unwanted and diseased lurk like lions in every field.
G-d, forgive me my wariness as I praise you.
I don´t know if I´ve seen suffering and wickedness beyond my years, or rather that it has cut me like a chisel, shaping the way my lips try to exalt and my heart tries to believe.
But Ezekiel writes about a river, bringing life to every tree, and in this vision each tree bears fruit each month, and even the leaves are meant for healing. And when it´s seemingly impossible to believe in anything, this is it--this river--and I see it in the far-off distance and I trust you that it´s not a mirage.
G-d, forgive me my wariness as I praise you.
I don´t know if I´ve seen suffering and wickedness beyond my years, or rather that it has cut me like a chisel, shaping the way my lips try to exalt and my heart tries to believe.
But Ezekiel writes about a river, bringing life to every tree, and in this vision each tree bears fruit each month, and even the leaves are meant for healing. And when it´s seemingly impossible to believe in anything, this is it--this river--and I see it in the far-off distance and I trust you that it´s not a mirage.
6.30.2009
the next leg of the journey
i hate goodbyes, i moan
well, you can't lock yourself in a room in the basement, dan says
we laugh at that, images of sitting in a room to avoid the inevitable separation,
food pushed through a small flap in the door
on this ancient, medieval wall (we climbed up it in the jasmine air)
where we can see more stars than i have seen since i left santa barbara
(but not as many as in my washington's sky)
with five new friends, thinking and whispering together
i can't help but feel my life is lived in airports
in those timeless in-between times
in greeting and in parting, in transition
and sojourning sure brings a lot of goodbyes.
well, you can't lock yourself in a room in the basement, dan says
we laugh at that, images of sitting in a room to avoid the inevitable separation,
food pushed through a small flap in the door
on this ancient, medieval wall (we climbed up it in the jasmine air)
where we can see more stars than i have seen since i left santa barbara
(but not as many as in my washington's sky)
with five new friends, thinking and whispering together
i can't help but feel my life is lived in airports
in those timeless in-between times
in greeting and in parting, in transition
and sojourning sure brings a lot of goodbyes.
5.30.2009
The Great Game: Afghanistan; Tricycle Theatre, London
song for the taliban
[laws]:
stab out the eye (that reads)
cut off the fingers (that take)
slice off the ankles (that are seen)
beat the woman (who is raped)
but never, never, leave your old ones alone
never leave those without homes hungry
never leave widows ignored
(there are lessons to learn from you, in these things)
on blood-soaked poppy fields,
in immigrant districts like this kilburn
all i can think is, this
(this war, this exploitation, this history, this bastard child)
is so, so fucked up
and, come holy ghost
i don't mean to be offensive,
but these words lay down together on my lips
and that's all i got.
[laws]:
stab out the eye (that reads)
cut off the fingers (that take)
slice off the ankles (that are seen)
beat the woman (who is raped)
but never, never, leave your old ones alone
never leave those without homes hungry
never leave widows ignored
(there are lessons to learn from you, in these things)
on blood-soaked poppy fields,
in immigrant districts like this kilburn
all i can think is, this
(this war, this exploitation, this history, this bastard child)
is so, so fucked up
and, come holy ghost
i don't mean to be offensive,
but these words lay down together on my lips
and that's all i got.
5.06.2009
To dream of a time when spears will be beaten into plowshares
(while we are sick to our stomachs).
Shalom, Afghanistan.
(while we are sick to our stomachs).
Shalom, Afghanistan.
11.02.2008
our hearts go out to you
Pray for the Congo. Four million killed in the past decade--that is ten times Darfur.
After years of unrest, farmers in parts of eastern DR Congo only go to their fields in large groups (notice how the farmers are women, and then look into rape as a systematic weapon of war).
[Photos, thanks to BBC and Getty Images).
After years of unrest, farmers in parts of eastern DR Congo only go to their fields in large groups (notice how the farmers are women, and then look into rape as a systematic weapon of war).
[Photos, thanks to BBC and Getty Images).
6.01.2008
life is about more than what you love
I'm in a daze these days. I stumble around, lost and searching, but it's like I don't even know what I'm looking for.
Christie came up this weekend--it was like breathing again, being with her, remembering the hospital and processing how we have adjusted since leaving our city (has it really been a month??). It's getting harder to remember patients' names, stories of people I used to think of everyday. Christie and I held hands and talked, and then just looked at each other for a long time.
Tonight I came across a little rectangle of paper. "Al Smith" it read. "5D, Room 1, Bed 2." All in very straight, practiced writing, nonetheless with little tiny variations in each line, as if written by a trembling hand. On the next lines are written his phone number (with area code), address, and landlord's number, I believe. Another square of paper holds his email address. Child's writing. Al Smith needed me, bid me farewell with all of his information--even the address to his low-income seniors' hotel.
Next to these papers lay my lanyard badge for working at SF General, my photo ID and nametag. I went through three levels of bureaucracy (and waited 6 weeks!) to get this badge, and I won't be throwing it out anytime soon, I think to myself (as if my subconscious has vague plans of volunteering at General sometime in the distant future).
Who am I, anyway? Who am I anymore? "I'm Cari, the chaplain intern here at General. Do you mind if I come in? How are you feeling today?"
Christie came up this weekend--it was like breathing again, being with her, remembering the hospital and processing how we have adjusted since leaving our city (has it really been a month??). It's getting harder to remember patients' names, stories of people I used to think of everyday. Christie and I held hands and talked, and then just looked at each other for a long time.
Tonight I came across a little rectangle of paper. "Al Smith" it read. "5D, Room 1, Bed 2." All in very straight, practiced writing, nonetheless with little tiny variations in each line, as if written by a trembling hand. On the next lines are written his phone number (with area code), address, and landlord's number, I believe. Another square of paper holds his email address. Child's writing. Al Smith needed me, bid me farewell with all of his information--even the address to his low-income seniors' hotel.
Next to these papers lay my lanyard badge for working at SF General, my photo ID and nametag. I went through three levels of bureaucracy (and waited 6 weeks!) to get this badge, and I won't be throwing it out anytime soon, I think to myself (as if my subconscious has vague plans of volunteering at General sometime in the distant future).
Who am I, anyway? Who am I anymore? "I'm Cari, the chaplain intern here at General. Do you mind if I come in? How are you feeling today?"
5.11.2008
it won't be long now, baby
Friday night we went to see our friend Joe play at a Santa Barbara coffee shop. Musically, it was good listening: his sound is a sort of Conor Oberst/Iron & Wine/Sufjan/A Weather conglomerate, but he also works with his own harmonies and enlists those of friends Brett and Phil (see blogroll). The song lineup was thoughtful, too; in between, he told us the true story of a teenage girl who committed suicide a few years ago.
I write about it because, to be honest, it was kind of a difficult show to sit in on. The story woven between each song felt sharp, private. It was as if the suicide had just happened, and the girl's family were the ones on stage, the ones testifying to the pain and despair we find in each other.
I think it's more comfortable when we don't have to look so hard for the hope, when redemption sits placated and prominent on a throne. I think it's a little awkward for Joe to sing songs like these. We're not used to such bareness! We look at our feet and try not to find ourselves familiar with our aloneness; we smile tight little smiles to soothe away despair.
Joe sings, "These roads won't last long...and at least we'll have some stories to tell." I pray we adopt his honesty along the way.
I write about it because, to be honest, it was kind of a difficult show to sit in on. The story woven between each song felt sharp, private. It was as if the suicide had just happened, and the girl's family were the ones on stage, the ones testifying to the pain and despair we find in each other.
I think it's more comfortable when we don't have to look so hard for the hope, when redemption sits placated and prominent on a throne. I think it's a little awkward for Joe to sing songs like these. We're not used to such bareness! We look at our feet and try not to find ourselves familiar with our aloneness; we smile tight little smiles to soothe away despair.
Joe sings, "These roads won't last long...and at least we'll have some stories to tell." I pray we adopt his honesty along the way.
3.28.2008
"she put on happiness like a loose dress, over pain i'll never know"
knock on the wall of the room
ritually recognizing ownership of your half-space
your genitals are showing, exposed,
i gesture, awkwardly, but you miss it.
if i just look you in the eye, sir, if i ignore the accidental exposure
does that somehow offer you more dignity,
you and your 53 veteran years, rotting in this hospital room?
you are in too much pain to talk today,
i understand, laugh lightly
feeling too young to communicate that i do endeavor--
oh i endeavor!
to be with you in your ancient pain
ritually recognizing ownership of your half-space
your genitals are showing, exposed,
i gesture, awkwardly, but you miss it.
if i just look you in the eye, sir, if i ignore the accidental exposure
does that somehow offer you more dignity,
you and your 53 veteran years, rotting in this hospital room?
you are in too much pain to talk today,
i understand, laugh lightly
feeling too young to communicate that i do endeavor--
oh i endeavor!
to be with you in your ancient pain
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