tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4785351111519455992024-03-08T12:15:52.951-08:00V. Pascoe Fictionhttp://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-85978576326169305252013-09-02T14:00:00.001-07:002015-10-08T20:48:59.869-07:00Deconstructing "A Scientist's Conclusion."This is for Desi, who wanted to know what <em>really</em> happened. Otherwise, I
doubt I’d write this-reality-to-fiction synopsis of “A Scientist’s Conclusion.” I began this commentary <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/05/fiction-or-reality.html">back</a> in May, but summer got in the way of finishing it. (The story begins <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-1.html">here</a> in case you want to read it through before reading this.) Anyway, here's the story of the story.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Many years
ago, when I was doing a post-doctoral stint (those two years were the nadir of
my life), I happened upon a newspaper story in the Philadelphia Inquirer about
a Chinese graduate student in the biomedical sciences who shot his advisor. I
no longer remember the details of the story, but I do remember thinking, “One
day I want to write a story about a graduate student who kills his advisor.”
That probably reflected the grimness of my life at the time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I should be able to depict the
difficulty, the poverty, the isolation, the confusion, the demands, as well as the
indifference verging on contempt suffered by many graduate students in the
sciences, who endure a slave-like existence, living in fear that all their work may
be in vain, knowing that half the students in the program never obtain the sought-after
degree – flunking out or becoming too dispirited to continue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
I didn’t write
the story then, and I later moved, got a decent job in a good lab, worked
hard, published, and eventually became a graduate advisor in my own right. My
first graduate student was a hand-me-down (as in the story) who had not
performed well on his oral exam in another department and had been denied further
study there. However, he was rescued by a faculty member in my
department, who shortly thereafter took a job elsewhere and who begged me to
take on this student. And yes, he was Chinese and had language difficulties. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
I worked very
hard with him. I mean, VERY hard. You have no idea how hard. And yes, we had
difficulty with communication and with the very idea of what it means to do
science. We did, indeed, have an issue once with the idea of experimental controls. We
were picking out photos for his dissertation, and we couldn’t find a good photo
to illustrate a particular cell type in control animals. He showed me a photo
that looked pretty good, but when I found out it had actually come from an
experimental animal, I exploded. [Of such actions is scientific fraud born (and
believe me, there’s enough of that out there already).] He somehow seemed
unable to understand why that was taboo or why I was so upset. He later told
a fellow student that I had "blown him up” (meaning, I had blown up at him).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
When the time for his dissertation defense approached, as we were working on his
presentation, he happened to mention that one of his fellow countryman had
killed his advisor when he didn’t pass his defense. I viewed that
as something of a veiled threat. However, he did all right on the defense (as a
colleague said, “That was C…’s finest hour.”), and he obtained the Ph.D. Whew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
So I decided
to write the story from a faculty advisor's point of view, but I also wanted
to make the student seem sympathetic. The student in the story became Korean, which
was odd because later (after retirement), I spent two years in Korea. Of
course, in the story nobody wins. But I wanted to tell the story anyway.</div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-78808955815874354432013-05-22T17:19:00.002-07:002013-12-15T19:15:09.176-08:00Fiction or Reality?<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
How much of any piece of fiction is pure fiction and how much is reality-based? </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I’ve often asked that question when reading the fiction of others. I might wonder what, in the author’s life, could have evoked such a pathetic (or outrageous or humorous) situation or conclusion, one that serves to fuel the story. Is this story a chance at a voyeuristic look into a writer’s life, or is it a window into the mind of a pathological liar?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
About five years ago, I asked that question of my own fiction. I’ve always known, of course, that something – some event or personal interaction – must give rise to the impulse to write a story. Moreover, bits and pieces of past experiences feed into stories; these are often gathered from different times and places and pieced together in the mosaic that is fiction. I hope that every story I write tells some truth, however convoluted. But I also know that much – even most – of my fiction comes from imagination. I envision scenes and dialogues that I hope will lead the story through its maze to a real insight or understanding for the reader at the end. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So I decided to do a tally of my own fiction using a one-to-five scale: ‘5’ being “mostly reflects something that actually happened” and ‘1’ being “completely fabricated.” Only one story earned a ‘5;’ and one deserved a ‘1.’ All the rest, of twenty five short stories and two novellas, came in somewhere between ‘1.5’ and ‘4.5,’ with a collective average of ‘2.2.’ Of course, this tabulation – fictional fantasy vs. reality – reflects a scientist’s preoccupation with data gathering and analysis. But it also shows that, on average, the stories were more imagination than objective reality. What I was actually aiming for in each story was subjective reality, a personal "aha" moment on the part of the reader.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
All this is background for a deconstruction of the story, “A Scientist’s Conclusion,” for the next post. I’ll look at what parts of that story were reality-based and what parts were simply made up. I’ve been intending to do this for several weeks now, but life got in the way. I promise, I won’t wait so long for the next post and the actual deconstruction.</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
How much of your fiction is reality-based and how much is pure imagination?<br />
(<a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html">continued</a>)</div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-18802714704941339182013-02-20T11:33:00.002-08:002013-05-27T07:57:38.367-07:00A Scientist's Conclusion - Part 7This is the final installment of this story. If you'd like to read it from the beginning, you can start <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-1.html">here</a> and move through the links to this one.<br />
__________<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung was not in the hallway when
the committee left the room, and he was not in the Men's Room where Carl stopped
on the way back to his office. Carl was almost relieved that Sung was not
waiting in the office when he got there, because he really didn't want to face
the student. Carl was annoyed by the prospect of having to spend another year
or more working with Sung on a Master's thesis, checking on him constantly to
be certain that he was performing adequate controls, organizing his data,
correcting the grammar and sentence structure of his thesis, and then having to
sit through a thesis defense with the very real possibility that Sung would
perform as miserably on that examination as he had done on this one.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carl stayed in his office late that
evening, as usual. He tried to dissociate himself from his student's failure by
working on a theoretical paper that was his secret pride and that had been put
aside during Sung's exam preparation. The sun had set and the office window
that looked out on the silent, surrounding darkness mirrored Carl's silent,
intense activity at his desk, cluttered with references and old notes for the
paper.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Caught in thought, he glanced up
at the blackened window and saw an image there—surreal—as if standing suspended
in mid-air, three stories above the ground. Carl wheeled around in his chair.
He faced a figure standing, feet on the floor, in the fully lighted room.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Sung!" Carl exclaimed with
a start. "When did you come in? How long have you been standing there
?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung didn't answer. He stood
motionless, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the floor. He glanced up
at Carl for a moment, then lowered his eyes and focused on a spot near Carl's
feet. Sung stood there impassively; his face, uncharacteristically elongate for
an Asian, was expressionless. His eyebrows extended across his forehead in two
straight ridges and his mouth was set in a straight, firm line, parallel to the
brows. The flesh around his eyes seemed puffy and, despite high cheekbones, his
eyes had darkened circles under them. Sung seemed suddenly strange to Carl,
very strange, as if he were someone Carl had never met before, as if the
scientist were seeing the student for the first time.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"We have to talk about your
exam, today," said Carl, bringing up the subject neither he nor Sung
wanted to talk about. "You know you did very poorly on the exam."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Questions not good. You do
not advise me correctly on questions," retorted Sung with a slightly
belligerent tone.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Well, there's no way to know
for sure what people are going to ask," said Carl defensively. "You
just have to be prepared and then think on your feet. You are going to have to
learn how to think on your feet."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"When will I take next
examination?" </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"You won't. You failed the
exam, but you're lucky the committee didn't just decide to fail you outright. They recommended
that you be allowed to finish at the Master's level."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"But I want to take Doctor's
degree."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"I know that, but you flunked
the examination. You'll have to settle for a Master's degree. Even that won't
necessarily be easy."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"If I take Master's degree,
then I must take Doctor's degree again. How long to do that?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Sung, you don't have that
option. Not in this department, at least. You were recommended for a terminal
Master's degree and that's final."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"You give me bad advice,"
said Sung with a tone more hostile than Carl had heard him use before.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With that, Sung moved slightly
backwards and pulled one hand out of his pocket. In the hand was a gun.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Sung, for God's sake!"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carl was paralyzed. His mind
whirled back over all his interactions with this student, trying to find a key,
a clue, that might have allowed him to foresee such a catastrophic eventuality.
Nothing. He came up with only a series of missed communications, but nothing
that could have presaged <u>this</u>. What signs had he missed that could have
warned him of this danger? The man was clearly mad. Why had he not seen
that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about his own future?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about his theory of hydrophobic
interactions that was to be his lasting contribution to an understanding of
organic macromolecules? What about his wife and their two-year-old son? What
about his parents who expected so much of him? What about those childhood
playmates who had once taunted him, to whom he had intended to prove himself
undeniably superior?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How had his pursuit
of truth betrayed him so utterly? How was it possible for reality to be so
irrational?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"No, Sung, please."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung stood there, still, as if
eternal. Then Carl heard a click, followed quickly by a crack of the gun that
echoed blackly, a split second later, in his skull.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-53269138678033281682013-02-14T20:42:00.000-08:002013-02-20T11:58:39.084-08:00A Scientist's Conclusion, Part 6This is the penultimate installment of this series. The first installment can be read <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-1.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Harry, would you like to
continue the questioning," asked Carl of Dr. Stillwell, who was seated to
the left of Dr. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Munster</st1:state></st1:place>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Yes, thank you, Carl."
Then, turning to the student, Dr. Stillwell asked, "Mr. Park, as a
Pathologist, I’m always interested in the contribution of basic research to an
understanding of human disease. What relevance might your research project have
to the diagnosis, prognosis or management of human disease--for example,
neoplasia?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The question was a fair one, even
an easy one, and there were a couple of fairly obvious answers to it. Carl
looked expectantly at Sung. Whether Sung Lee Park was still in a state of shock
from his prior embarrassment, whether he did not understand the question and
did not dare risk having it clarified, whether he was no longer willing to
commit himself on any issue, whether he had decided that all was lost and had
given up—whatever the reason, Sung glanced quickly toward Dr. Stillwell, looked
back up at the wall and mumbled in a low tone, "I don't know."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Well then, why the <u>hell</u>
are you doing it," boomed Stillwell. Then, with a shrug, he muttered,
"I pass."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The exam was by this time clearly
an irredeemable disaster, but for some reason, all present felt compelled to
carry out the structure of the examination format like a mindless minuet. Or
perhaps no one knew what to do to prevent its inexorable progression. Like
machines, around the conference table, each professor asked his prepared
questions and, like a robot, swaying slightly back and forth, his arms crossed
over his chest, Sung responded either monosyllabically or else said, "I
don't know." Only once did he begin a sentence in response to one of the
questions, but then stopped in confusion and neither finished the sentence nor
offered any other answer or explanation.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dr. Vanadian, when his turn came,
declined to question the hapless candidate. When the prescribed ordeal was
finished, Carl asked Sung to leave the room, scarcely looking at him as he
walked out. The examination had lasted just less than one hour.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The first to speak, after Sung was
out the door, was Dr. Davidson. "That was the worst exam I have ever
attended!"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carl had been mortified by his
student's performance, and his chairman's pointed comment made it that much more
excruciating.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"The boy was obviously
suffering from panic," offered Vanadian, who spoke with an accent,
although his grammar and syntax were flawless.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Nonetheless, he can't be
passed if he can't answer a few simple questions," put in Munster, with a
tone of sarcasm.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carl did not feel like defending
his student and wouldn't have known how, had he been so inclined. He said,
"The issue we have to decide today is whether he should be failed outright
or be allowed to retake the examination."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"I really wonder if he is
Ph.D. material," mused Dr. Bock, echoing Carl's previously expressed fears.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"I've sometimes worried
about that, myself," agreed Carl.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"He's been here almost too
long to flunk him out just like that, without recourse," said Dr. Karesh.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Would it be possible to
recommend that he pursue the Master's degree rather than the Ph.D.?" asked Vanadian.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"We could," said Carl,
then added, "It would take at least another year's work to tie up loose
ends and write the thesis."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"It would be only fair to give
him that option at least," said Karesh.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Well, all right, how many are
in favor of giving Sung the option of pursuing a Master's degree?" asked
Carl.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Drs. Vanadian and Karesh raised
their hands.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"How many are in favor of
failing him outright?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Dr. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Munster</st1:state></st1:place> raised his hand.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Harry, do you wish to
vote?" Carl asked Dr. Stillwell. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"No," came the reply.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Then I will tell him that he
has failed his Ph.D. comprehensives, but that he does have the option of
finishing a Master's degree if he chooses to," said Carl by way of summary
and conclusion.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With that, the august group rose
from their chairs around the conference table and recessed from the room:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>all silent, all engaged in private analyses
and justifications. Carl felt an especially heavy mental and emotional burden,
a major component of which was resentment against this student with whom he had
spent so much time, in whom he had invested so much effort, and who had
performed so poorly—who had, in fact, never seemed to understand the WHY of
anything.<br />
<br />
________________<br />
For the final installment of this story, click <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-scientists-conclusion-part-7.html">here</a>. </div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-75638599499943952552013-02-06T13:35:00.000-08:002013-02-20T11:56:12.300-08:00A Scientist's Conclusion, Part 5<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Sung did a
good job on his oral presentation of the thesis project; Carl's coaching had
been taken seriously. The presentation was organized in a logical and obvious
fashion. Sung stood confidently and enunciated slowly and carefully. The
questioning began relatively benignly; Dr. Karesh asked about the turnover time
of the tumor line that Sung was using, which led to more general questions on
cell cycle kinetics and how cell cycle data were obtained and analyzed. Next
came a question on the antigenicity of the tumor line and whether or not it
secreted substantial amounts of antigen into the culture medium. Carl had
forseen these questions and Sung was prepared to answer them. In fact, he was
so well prepared that his answers sounded as if he were reading them from
notes. Carl wondered, absently, whether Sung had taken the questions Carl had
given him, written out answers to them, and memorized the written answers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Then Dr. Munster asked, "Why
are you using the B-14 tumor line for your studies?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung looked baffled, glanced around
at Carl, then said, "I use B-14 tumor line in laboratory."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Yes, but <u>why</u> do you
use it," pursued <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Munster</st1:state></st1:place>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"It is tumor line,"
answered Sung.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carl could not refrain from
responding. "Otto, it's a fast-growing tumor line that can be made to slow
and differentiate by a variety of agents. It's an ideal tumor line for his
problem."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Munster</st1:state></st1:place> turned in his chair. "It's not <u>your</u>
exam, Carl." He then looked back at Sung. "How long have you been
working with this cell line?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Two year," came the
reply.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"And after two years, you
still don't know the plural of year?" enunciated <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Munster</st1:place></st1:state> with Germanic precision.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung was baffled, not knowing
whether that had been a question, nor whether he was expected to answer it.
"Two yearrss," he said with effort, the "r" and
"s" sounds rolling in awkward succession off his stiffened tongue and
out his pursed lips.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"In the two years that you've
been working with it, has the cell line changed?" continued <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Munster</st1:place></st1:state>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"No," said Sung Lee</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
With Sung's definite
"NO." Carl knew that the difficult questioning was about to begin,
and he felt a sense of helplessness as he foresaw Sung sinking deeper and
deeper <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">into<i> </i></span>a quicksand
of inadequate answers resulting from <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">his<i>
</i></span>failure to perceive the <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">intent</span>
behind a question.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"How do you know the cell line
hasn't changed?" pursued <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Munster</st1:state></st1:place>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"It has same antigen,"
responded Sung, ready with an answer and regaining a bit of confidence.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Is surface antigenicity the
only criterion for identifying a cell type? Could there be antigens on the cell
surface now that weren't there two years ago and that you haven't assayed for?
What about other criteria for identification? Have you karyotyped the line
recently? Have you checked metabolic pathways?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
After this barrage of questions,
Sung hesitated a moment and finally said, "No." Another hesitation.
He glanced at the blank projector screen, then at the blackboard, began walking
toward it, stopped, and then turned back toward the expectant faces before him.
He moved his mouth a bit as if intending to say something but, apparently
thinking better of it, remained silent. He put his hands on the podium and a
blank expression came over his face as he stared over the heads of the
examiners.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"No?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, what," queried <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Munster</st1:state></st1:place> incredulously. "Have you <u>not</u>
checked metabolic pathways? Did you <u>not</u> do karyotyping? Do you <u>not</u>
know whether or not your cell line has changed?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"No," responded Sung,
still staring at the back wall of the conference room, his face reddening.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"I have no further questions
for the time being," said Munster, turning to Carl.<br />
<br />
_________<br />
For the next installment, click <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-scientists-conclusion-part-6.html">here</a>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-27799450194375153452013-01-30T14:55:00.000-08:002013-02-06T14:01:41.283-08:00A Scientist's Conclusion, Part 4<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
As the time
for Sung's comprehensive exam drew near, Carl still doubted that Sung was, in
fact, prepared, that he could ever be prepared to stand that examination and do
it justice. Even in their weekly sessions, Sung hesitated to complete answers
and usually refused to pursue a line of reasoning without receiving a nod of
affirmation, or an authoritative "Go ahead." from Carl. Carl mused to
himself, half seriously, that he might be able to nod Sung through some of the
more difficult questions on the oral exam if the student could only get himself
off to a correct start.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
The week of
comprehensives came and Sung passed the general written exam—not brilliantly
but adequately. His specialty written exam was uneven; he had badly botched one
of the three questions on that exam. Because of his performance, he had been
given a borderline pass. Thus, the issue of whether he passed or failed, and,
hence, whether or not he could continue his pursuit of the Ph.D. degree, hung
upon the oral exam. His committee was composed of four individuals in addition
to Carl: Drs. James Karesh and Otto <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Munster</st1:state></st1:place>
from the Biochemistry Department, Dr. Harris Stillwell from Pathology, and Dr.
Anando Vanadian from Immunology. Carl was very proud of having gathered this
committee for his first graduate student; they were among the best minds and
greatest reputations at the institution. Their willingness to serve on this
committee was taken by Carl, perhaps with some justification, as an indication
that he was accorded a certain esteem as a scientist, despite the fact that he
had not yet achieved national recognition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
The format of
the oral exam was structured so that the student first gave an overview of his
thesis project, including highlights of any preliminary data he might have
obtained. Then the committee members were free to question the student on any
material to which he could reasonably be expected to have been exposed during
his course work and his literature search pertaining to the thesis topic. In
practice, the examination usually began with questions centering around the
candidate's thesis project, then ranged farther afield as answers to questions
suggested new questions to the examiners. A successful exam was usually fairly
brief, perhaps an hour and a half, whereas less successful exams often went on
for three or four hours.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Carl had
rehearsed Sung twice on his presentation and, after each rehearsal, had asked
Sung several questions of the type that might logically relate to the presentation.
Carl had also scheduled the examination for the afternoon at 2:00 P.M., for two
reasons. First, he hoped that the committee would be in a pleasant, ruminative
mood after lunch, and secondly, he hoped that, since the exam was to begin
fairly late in the day, it might not last for more than two or three hours and
Sung might be spared some of the more probing and esoteric questions that often
come at the end of a long examination.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
The afternoon
of the examination, two others were present in the seminar room in addition to
Sung's committee: the departmental graduate advisor, Dr. William
Bock, and the department chairman, Dr. Henry Davidson. Carl was not entirely
surprised, since it was quite within accepted procedure for any member of the
department to be present at the oral examination of any departmental student.
Nonetheless, their presence made Carl uneasy.<br />
<br />
The next installment is <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-scientists-conclusion-part-5.html">here</a> .</div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-1115121527827952292013-01-23T13:32:00.000-08:002013-02-06T14:00:20.117-08:00A Scientist's Conclusion, Part 3The first two installments of this story are <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-1.html" target="_blank">here</a><a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-1.html/">/</a> and <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-2.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The next day, Carl announced to
Sung that he would have to postpone taking his comprehensive exams until the
following spring.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"But I already make one delay
already," objected Sung.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"I'm sorry, but I can't have
you taking the comprehensives as poorly prepared as I'm afraid you are. We'll
get together and go over background material for a few hours every week until
I feel you're in control of it." Carl thought he was doing Sung a real favor by mentoring him in the only fashion he knew how, by helping him to think and understand as a true scientist. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung had already postponed taking
his comprehensives once, because Carl insisted that he take an English course and
an additional methodology course before standing for such a demanding examination.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The retraining began once more in
earnest, that first Tuesday afternoon. Carl began, slowly and patiently, trying
to lead Sung to understand for himself the processes of logic: the differences
between induction and deduction and the types of traps and fallacies inherent
in each.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried to teach Sung to see
that it was important to ask "Why?" of everything,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that there were no final answers, only answers
that led to new questions.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And above all, Carl urged Sung to
question published orthodoxy. This was the most difficult task of all, since
Sung clung stubbornly, almost fanatically, to belief in the authority of the
printed word--not only the truth of the data, but also the validity of
interpretations drawn from them.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In order to make Sung more at ease
in the question-answer period, Carl initially asked questions centering around
assigned topics. As the sessions progressed, Carl deviated from the topic at
hand in an effort to force Sung's mind to range more broadly, to synthesize
information from several subjects into a coherent whole, to approach a given
question from more than one perspective.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Throughout this protracted process,
Sung became increasingly demoralized. The year before this, his wife, Kai-Hi,
had come over from Korea after nearly two years of separation, because they had
thought he would be finished in another year—or two at the most. Now the task
seemed endless. Sung had taught high school for six years in Korea before coming to the U.S.; he and his
wife had postponed having children so that Sung could obtain the prestigious
Ph.D. degree from an American university. The money that they saved so
carefully and painfully during those years was gone, and Sung's wife had taken
a job as a waitress in <st1:city w:st="on">Philadelphia</st1:city>'s <st1:place w:st="on">Chinatown</st1:place>. Everything in America was so expensive that
Sung's brother-in-law had also recently come to Philadelphia to provide another
family wage and was working as a cook in the same restaurant as Kai-Hi
.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That made two others whose lives
were intertwined with his, here, in this indifferent country among
incomprehensible people, three whose visas were temporary and for whom there
was not enough money for passage back to Korea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The dream of a prestigious American degree was becoming a frightening
nightmare.<br />
<br />
The next installment is <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-4.html">here</a>. </div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-56555794655101248032013-01-16T14:53:00.002-08:002013-02-06T13:53:47.372-08:00A Scientist's Conclusion, Part 2(continued from <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-1.html">part-1.html</a>) <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
It was with the realization that
Sung Lee did not, in fact, understand the importance (or even the purpose) of
controls that Carl came to appreciate the enormity of the undertaking to which
he had committed himself. That realization came about after Carl's suggestion that a drug effect on Sung's tumor-cell line might have been caused by
increased cell membrane permeability or by increased levels of a
calcium-binding protein in the cells as a consequence of the drug treatment.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung Lee thereupon went to the
library to find methods to assay those parameters. After more than three weeks
of hard work and experimentation, Sung came triumphantly into Carl's office
with the announcement that Carl had been right on both accounts. Carl asked the
obvious questions concerning the time-course and dose-dependence of the effect,
and it was clear that Sung had either not considered these questions, or else
he did not have the courage to say: "These are just preliminary
data." It was as if Sung expected Carl to be so pleased at being told that
his ideas were correct that the methodology would not be questioned. Then Carl,
in what he thought was an inquisitive (not inquisitorial) tone, asked Sung:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Why do you think your data
show increased calcium-binding protein in the cells rather than increased
binding of calcium to the protein that's already there?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"No, calcium-bind protein
increase," said Sung emphatically.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"How could you determine that
it was increased protein rather than increased affinity?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Everybody say so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anderson do same experiment on amoebae and
say calcium partition coefficient directly proportional to amount of
calcium-bind protein."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Yes, but that's in a
non-permuted system. Let me see your data."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung hesitantly gave him some
graphs and Carl asked for the counter tapes. He noticed that, on the first tape
he looked at, the counts were all quite similar.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What counts are
these?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carl asked.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"They calcium counts from
drug-treated cells," said Sung proudly.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Where are the controls?"
asked Carl.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Controls in other
experiment," explained Sung.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What do you mean, other
experiment?" Carl's voice rose through incredulity to anger.
"You don't know a God-damned thing if you don't run controls with every
single experiment! For Christ's sake, what do you think a control is for,
anyway? Do you have any idea?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Sung was mute--stunned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing in his background, nothing
in his training, nothing in his cultural heritage that had prepared him for
this outraged outburst by one who was supposed to be his guide and protector.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Well...I asked you, what do
you think a control is for?" demanded Carl, impatiently.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Confused, ashamed, and unable to
understand why such an apparently trivial matter assumed such importance for
his mentor, Sung answered, "I don't know."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Oh, for God's sake. Come back
to my office at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon and we'll talk about
controls." Carl didn't have the mental energy to deal with the subject at
that moment, and he also knew that Sung had become so alarmed and defensive
that any further discussion of the matter at the time would be futile.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
In the interim, Carl confided to some colleagues that he had serious doubts about Sung's ability to do the
work necessary for a Ph.D. degree and, more importantly, he wondered whether or
not Sung had the mind to be a scientist at all. One of the colleagues in whom
Carl confided was the departmental graduate advisor, Dr. William Bock. Dr. Bock
suggested that Carl postpone Sung's comprehensives until the next scheduled exam,
which was six months hence.<br />
<br />
The next installment of this story is <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-3.html">here</a>.</div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-88937413909718052292013-01-06T13:49:00.002-08:002013-09-04T06:06:45.162-07:00A Scientist's Conclusion, Part 1I'm reactivating this fiction blog. I've run out of fairly short and simple stories, or stories that have already been published, and I've decided to serialize a longer, unpublished short story. <br />
<br />
A little background. For most of my professional life, I taught and did research in the biomedical sciences. In the beginning, I was extremely idealistic, believing that the practice of science was the pursuit of truth, and that scientists were acolytes in that almost sacred activity. It did not take many years for me to realize that this was a hopelessly idealistic notion, and that scientists are as flawed, emotionally and morally, as any other individuals. Many of the stories I wrote reflect this disenchantment, so they are not happily-ever-after stories. And because I was still practicing science, I chose a pseudonym for these literary efforts, some of which were published. I'm now retired, and anonymity doesn't matter anymore, but I'll still keep the <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2011_08_01_archive.html">pseudonym</a> for fiction.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>A Scientist's Conclusion, Part 1</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carl Sawyer's one-time research
collaborator, George Ganon, had been an enthusiastic, imaginative man, although
by Carl's standards, not a very thorough scientist. The two of them made a
good team; George was full of ideas, and Carl tempered them with his thorough,
analytical mind and tested them with rigorously designed experiments. But
George and his enthusiasms had left the University of P... for a job in
Texas, where free-flowing oil money promised better equipment and more ample
funds for salary and supplies. Carl was left with the remnants of their shared
equipment and with Sung Lee Park, a Korean graduate student who had been
working on a Ph.D. degree in George's lab.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
George had also been enthusiastic
about Sung Lee--saw him as a diligent and willing pair of hands at a bargain
price that could grind out answers to problems. Sung Lee didn't want to go to Texas because his family had just settled in Philadelphia. So Carl inherited
a student who was essentially finished with course work and already working on
a thesis project. Carl saw Sung Lee differently than George did. Carl saw him
as a moderately well-trained technician who needed to be turned into a
scientist. Carl was willing to assume the responsibility for this
transformation, but not without misgivings.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carl thought both he and Sung
Lee were at a disadvantage, having inherited one another. It was like taking on
a half-sculpted piece of marble; the previous artist's vision can seldom be
realized in another man's hands, and one who completes another's creation is
rarely satisfied with the result. Carl realized the enormity of the task
involved in turning a pleasant, uncritical Asian into a competent and confident
scientist in the Western mold. Moreover, even if Sung did develop into a
genuinely skilled scientist, it might still be difficult for him to find a good
position. Carl did not have the network of colleagues and connections that a
more self-consciously political scientist would have generated.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Carl took on the training of Sung
Lee with the same thoroughness and objectivity that he used to tackle
scientific problems. Carl began by asking Sung Lee, during their first few
discussions together, to repeat in his own words what had just been said to
him, instead of simply saying "Oh, yes." or "Yes, Sir."
This was intended to determine whether or not Sung understood what Carl had
said and could transform it into an alternative, comprehensible form of English.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
During this time, Carl also asked
Sung Lee questions about the research problem he was working on, which had
begun under George's tutelage, and he examined the data Sung had already
generated. Carl often challenged Sung's answers and data with questions
like "How else could you interpret those results?" or "What could
you do to verify that?" </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When discussing the scientific
literature relating to Sung's work, Carl often asked, "Was
their methodology adequate to allow them to draw that conclusion?" or
"What was wrong with the way those experiments were designed?" This
line of questioning sometimes threw Sung Lee into confusion and Carl noticed
that, when they were speaking together, Sung's mouth occasionally twitched
visibly, which he tried to hide by drawing his hand to his face.<br />
<br />
The next installment of this story is <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-scientists-conclusion-part-2.html">here</a>.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
</div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-6055494281073697092012-12-29T21:40:00.000-08:002013-01-03T19:50:47.762-08:00Holiday RefrainThought I'd reblog this story from last year's December <a href="http://vpascoefiction.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2011-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2012-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=6">post</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's a cool winter late afternoon; a lazy holiday flavor hangs heavily in the air. My husband, Steve, half-dozes before a TV bowl game; our son, Teddy, beside him in the den, carefully constructs a miniature Superdome with his Christmas erector set. The girls play noiselessly in their room upstairs.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The sky dims in shades of orange and rose through the kitchen window steamed by supper's boiling pots and sputtering skillet. I step to the window and run my hand across it; the mist runs like tears down the clouded pane. Interlacing branches of bare-limbed trees show, blurred and distorted, through the cleared swath, creating an angular mosaic against the fading, pastel sky. The image is shockingly exquisite, as if the gentle tones of Odilon Redon had been emboldened by Rouault's stark strokes. I try to capture it with my eyes, to memorize each line and shade of light, realizing that, if I ever find time to transpose the scene to canvas, its memory will have faded nearly as much as the image itself.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This afternoon, a long-distance telephone call broke in on the waning holidays. Sandy Martin, a long-time friend and modestly successful artist living in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New York City</st1:city></st1:place>, called to wish me a Happy New Year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Say, Cora," she asked, "when are you going to move to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>? This long-distance friendship is for the birds! I never see you anymore. Calling long-distance is expensive for a struggling young artist." She laughed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I don't know," I answered. "I can hardly keep up with small-town life. Can't imagine how I'd handle living in New York."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sandy</st1:place></st1:city> changed the subject. "How's your holiday been?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Just great. Busy, but everyone's been in the holiday spirit most of the time."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Are you doing any painting while you’re on vacation?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"No. Haven't had the chance. My in-laws came for a few days around Christmas, and I did a lot of cleaning and cooking for that. Then we had a party last night. There was more cooking and cleaning ahead of time and cleaning up afterwards. In fact, I just put away the last load of party dishes and I'm getting ready to cook supper for the family. More dishes!"</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We chatted for nearly half an hour. After we hung up, I put a tape in the stereo and went into the kitchen to begin dinner, musing with the music, listening to the rhythms and moods of the piano etched, in some mysterious way, into that plastic.</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And I wonder, <em>What <u>has</u> happened to the ten-day holiday</em>? I realize that, in just one more day, I'll have to go back to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two canvases I planned to paint are still not begun and an unread book lies on the stand beside our bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I turn from the window to the stove, set the sizzling pork chops on simmer, pour rice into boiling water and put the vegetables on medium heat. It should all be ready to eat in ten or fifteen minutes. I call my six-year old daughter to come downstairs and set the table for dinner. She neither comes nor answers. Before I call a second time, the music stops, and I know she can hear me.</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Debra!" I call out for the third time, raising my voice. "Come down here and set the table for dinner!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">She stomps down the stairs into the dining area adjacent to the kitchen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I don't want to set the table," she says sullenly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Well, you're going to do it anyway," I respond.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I was playing. You interrupted me."</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"That's too bad."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Why do I always have to set the table?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Because it's your job."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Why doesn't Tammy ever set the table? She never does anything."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"She's only three years old. When she's your age, she'll set the table and you'll have other jobs to do. But for now, you're the one who sets the table."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">“What about Teddy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He never does anything, either.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">“He’s busy with his father,” I say, evading her accusing look.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Well, I'm not going to," she says with a determined tone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"You are going to do it whether you want to or not," I reply, my voice rising and eyes narrowing. She turns her face away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I place the plates on the counter. She picks them up, struts over to the table and slams them down at each place with such force that less sturdy plastic might have cracked. Her lithe body flings this way and that; her blond curls toss about with each jerk of the head. Her small hands and slender arms seem too delicate for such emphatic gestures.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I hate this!" she says, her voice catching.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"You'll do it and you'll do it <em>gladly</em>," I say, articulating each word slowly and deliberately.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">She begins to sob softly, putting the rest of the dishes slowly on the table. I put glasses on the counter and she sets them gently above each plate. She gets silverware from the drawer and puts each piece in its proper place. As she sets forks on carefully folded napkins, I hear a thinly voiced refrain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la..."<u><o:p></o:p></u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I smile and join in. "...'Tis the season to be jolly. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">She smiles back at me and I turn to the stove to dish up the food as she finishes setting the table.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">[This was published in the College of Charleston Miscellany in 1981]</span>http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-6202749514722688672012-07-11T08:38:00.000-07:002012-09-26T09:36:22.967-07:00EVENT<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
As an official
of this large and important city (a hub of both commerce and culture, situated
on a major inland waterway), my duties include the planning and coordination of
an annual parade that has become a community event of some magnitude. This city
is, for the most part, a modern city - not one of those decaying shells of turn-of-the-century
urban life with scarcely habitable tenements and row houses, narrow, crumbling
streets, dust- and soot-encrusted shops covered at night with grill-work. No,
this is a contemporary city; people don't live here. They live outside the city
and come here only to work or to shop or to amuse themselves. The jig-sawed
cityscape rises against the sky like cliffs and pillars of reinforced concrete,
plate glass, and steel: solid as granite, brilliant as crystal, sharp-edged as a
sword. A highway nexus joins knots of high-rise apartment buildings and
shopping centers that form islands in the sea of single houses spreading out
from the city's core.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
As I was
saying, I have spent considerable time during the past few months
occupied with planning and preparations for today's parade: setting the date,
contacting fraternal organizations and colleges to arrange for floats and
musicians, contracting for vehicles, communicating with departments of Public
Safety and Sanitation for permits and personnel. I have come into the city
early today to do the last-minute phoning required for everything to run
smoothly. The parade route has been closed to cars by the traffic control
division of Public Safety. Uniformed policemen are stationed throughout the area
to keep people off the streets and the cross-walks overhead. The general
functioning of the city, particularly that part of it around City Hall, has
been disrupted for several hours, but few are inconvenienced on a Sunday
afternoon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
After parking
my car in a new underground parking garage, I go to my office by way of an
overpass blocked by a policeman. He obviously recognizes me without
identification and nods to let me pass. People have begun to gather early for
the parade; children and their parents line the streets along the parade route,
sitting on camp chairs and blankets; vendors sell candy and roasted chestnuts
from sidewalk carts. Beyond the cement side-walls of the cross walk rise
yellowed and browning maples, bare-branched elms, green and gold sycamores.
And beyond them range multilithic skyscrapers like a giant histogram against the
gray glow of the sky, like a solid, three-dimensional, population-growth bar-graph.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 13.9pt 12pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
I walk
alone along the empty overpass toward my office in the new City Hall building,
I notice a cloud of leaves flying through the air in front of me as if borne up
by a vigorous wind. Large, yellow and brown leaves float and swirl--turning,
gliding, somersaulting erratically, some even landing on the cross-walk in
front of me near the tops of some maples. I peer over the edge of the wall
toward the trees and view an intriguing spectacle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 13.9pt 12pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
Children
are tossing leaves into the updraft of a vent above the underground parking lot.
Several families, speaking different languages, skin of various earth hues, have
gathered around the vent. Children run and squeal and pick up piles of leaves
that, when thrown, fly from their hands like scattering pigeons. The leaves
catch in the up-rush of air and rise as if by magic: floating higher and higher
into the sky, tossing this way and that, tracing graceful arabesques, and then, the
magic spent, drifting indecisively back to the ground. The children, watched by
mothers, abetted by fathers, gather leaves and throw them into the air over and
over again, laughing, jumping with each toss, heads thrown back to see the
leaves climb skyward. I stand and gaze awhile, and then, not wishing to squander
more time (since I have several calls to make), I walk briskly toward City
Hall.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
I take the
elevator to the fourteenth floor; once in my office, I glance out the window. Down
and far off to the right, yellow specks rise like a swarm of bees above the
cross-walk. From the window, I can also see the gathering spectators, diminutive at this distance, that line the parade route. I establish radio
contact with my assistant in East Side Park at the start of the parade route
where floats and bands have gathered. The organization and order of the parade
are proceeding smoothly. As the time draws near for the parade to begin, I put
on my coat carefully and leave the office; I am to be one of the officials on
the dais observing the event. I glance in the long mirror near the elevator and
feel reassured that any TV camera trained on the official box will find me
befittingly attired and groomed. When I arrive at the viewing stand, I greet
everyone pleasantly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 13.9pt 12pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
I give the
signal by radio for the parade to begin. At first, only the faint pulse of
drums and tubas can be heard dimly in the distance; soon the sharper, more
brazen din of other winds pierces the air. Crowd noises diminish; small
children are hoisted onto their fathers' shoulders; people turn expectantly
toward the sounds. <br />
<br />
The parade arrives, all trumpets and glitter. Pigeons
waddling on the streets scavenging cast-off fragments of food fly before baton-twirling
majorettes in short skirts. Behind these come brassy, strutting musicians;
lurching, stilted, high-stepping figures; fragile floats topped by bobbing,
oversized fantasy images and waving figurines. All flow by in slick
succession - smoothly, almost flawlessly - enthralling the children. I stand
ceremoniously, hoping that no engine stalls, no child runs into the street to
be struck by an oncoming vehicle, no aging clown collapses of a stroke to mar
the procession. The multitudes have waited hours for this parade; the spectacle
is over in minutes, winding, serpentine, down other streets, past other
spectators. Once the parade has passed, the crowd throngs the streets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
I walk back
toward my office to make sure the parade's dispersal goes smoothly (and to wait
until traffic thins before driving home). No leaves now fly across the overpass
as I walk along it. I take the elevator to the fourteenth floor of City Hall,
traverse the deserted hallway and enter my office. I gaze for a moment out the
window at the emptying streets and dimming sky and then turn to my desk and to
the telephone to discharge the rest of my immediate duties, a sense of relief
and exhaustion, perhaps even melancholy, overtaking me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
It's dark
outside when I leave the building. The park around City Hall is quite silent.
Leaves swish and crackle with each footstep. I notice as I pass the vent that
it's still surrounded by mounds of leaves. Looking quickly around and, seeing no
one nearby, I stoop and gather up a crisp and fluttering armful. I toss the
leaves into the air and throw my head back to watch them rise in the soft
orange glow of the park lights, see them fly up and up and up, catching gusts
of air, tumbling, and twirling, and careening, and then gliding widely as they
zigzag gently back to earth.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 13.9pt 12pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 3.0in;">
[Published in Kansas Quarterly (1992) v24, No 2&3, p167]<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
<br /></div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-66041598712533235102012-05-26T18:35:00.001-07:002012-05-26T18:35:41.301-07:00THE BLACK WATCH<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
We went to see
Her Majesty's Royal Highland Regiment at the Citadel Field House one early
autumn evening. Do you remember? We went together, you with your Scots ancestry
and I with my fondness for all things male. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
The band was
rousing and disciplined, but it was the pipe and drum corps we came to hear and
see. And we weren't disappointed. After a warm-up by the band, and with no
pause, the pipers marched onto the field house floor, applause mounting. One
might almost say they flowed onto the floor; they did not so much march as move
like oil to the hum and moan of the bagpipes, haunted by the drummers' muffled
cadence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
The corps and
their instruments seemed the very essence of manliness: the cockiness of their
strut, the Celtic kilts with elaborate ermine codpieces, the bare and knotty
knees, the peacock showiness of flowing shoulder tartans, the unyielding drone
of the pipes. And they epitomized centuries of going to war, their uniforms
binding together those of a kind to intimidate the adversary--vulture feathers
like streaks of blood in black, bobbing head gear, leopard skins slung across
drummers' shoulders. How well trained! How beautifully controlled! What awe
they would inspire in battle!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
Ah, the
ancient art of war. The fragile spirit of solitary man girded and inflamed by
the pomp and pageantry of the larger troop, wound like a coiled spring. Intense,
potential power, intent upon victory! Thus seemed those glorious pipers as they
strutted in file across the field house floor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
And then a
horrible imagining came upon me. I saw MODERN WAR, abomination of desolation,
overtake this magnificent manhood. I saw IT (unimpressed by spectacle, or
skill, or courage even…unseeing…unfeeling…uncaring…unknowing) blow a hole in
the field house floor, ripping apart the pageant. Remnants of men flew through
the air, kilts akimbo, uncontrolled, grace and order gone, beyond all symbology
or retrieval. And I knew at once, as I know still, that war is no more mere
sport for men.</div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">[This was published in the College of Charleston's literary magazine, Miscellany, in 1983]</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
<br /></div>http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-34662151778454644642012-03-28T12:31:00.003-07:002012-06-03T09:23:21.989-07:00PHILADELPHIA GYPSY<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
If you were to visit <st1:place w:st="on">North Philadelphia</st1:place>, you would see that its streets are a
naked, forsaken gray. What you might not see, if you haven't lived here, is how
deeply that gray penetrates below the obvious surface of things. Beneath the
gray gutter water and the matted gray pulp of morning newspapers crushed into
sidewalk crevices, below the gray clothes of druggies stretched like shadows across
late afternoon sidewalks, beyond the gray wails of evening sirens, lies the
grayer reality of despair accepted as fact-of-life, even embraced as destiny.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Up these gray streets I walk each
morning on my way to work as a resident in Internal Medicine at Temple
University Hospital, and down them I return in the evening or late at night. As
I walk from the bus stop to the hospital and back, I try to look beyond the
grayness of streets and above the facelessness of buildings into the tunnel of sky
that opens like a bloodless gash overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That, too, is often gray. Even if I had a naturally sunny disposition,
the relentless gray would eventually discolor my spirit. As it is, I vacillate
between despair and annoyance, with an enervated numbness stretched across the
long spaces between.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Just yesterday, I took the subway
downtown during lunch hour. Several subway-car windows were open, as they
often are in hot weather. The car stopped at a station, briefly as usual, while
stragglers ran from turnstiles to the still-open doors. Across the aisle from
me sat a young man, a boy of perhaps fourteen, with short cropped hair, a well-washed
face, and neat clothing. As the door slid shut, a group of five boys about his
age ran up to the car. I thought they were trying to catch the train as the
door was closing. Then three of them reached their arms through the open window
behind the sitting boy and hit him on the head and shoulders. The boy looked up
in bewilderment. The train began to move. He looked over his shoulder to see
who had done it, but the gang had already run down the platform, whooping and chattering as
in a primal war dance. When the train slid out of the station, he turned his head
back around and looked down at his hands as if ashamed. An advertisement for
Marlboro cigarettes, festooned with swirls of red and black spray paint in some
indecipherable script, flashed through the window behind him before we went
into the dark tunnel. I asked if he had been hurt. He didn't answer or look at
me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Since that encounter I have felt giddy and skittish, vaguely confused and threatened. On my way to and from work, I usually pass
a fortune-teller's shop with a sign in the window showing a red hand painted on a yellow
background. The name "ROSA" is hand-printed in pink block letters
above it and "FORTUNES" below. After leaving work today, I feel more dispirited
than usual. The bright sign catches my eye, and, on impulse, I walk up the cement
steps to the door.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
When the doorbell chime isn’t
answered quickly, I start back down the stairs, but then hear the door open
behind me. I turn to see an old woman in an oversized gray sweater and brown
skirt peering through the partly opened door.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What you want?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Is this <st1:place w:st="on">Rosa</st1:place>'s
fortune telling place?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"You want your fortune?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"I guess so," I reply, no
longer sure I do.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Come in then." says the
old woman, and lets me into a dim, inner room. Covering half the floor is a faded and
frayed oriental rug; a round table and two chairs stand idly atop it. At
the back of the room, a dingy green curtain hangs along one wall by rings
strung on a dark rod. The old woman calls out.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"<st1:place w:st="on">Rosa</st1:place>!"
There is no answer. She calls again: "Rosa!"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Huh?" comes a drowsy
voice.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"<st1:place w:st="on">Rosa</st1:place>.
Is someone here to see you."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What do they want?" </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"They want to see you. A
fortune."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Oh."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
A frowzy woman in her late twenties,
perhaps slightly older than I, draws the curtain aside and saunters
unenthusiastically into the room. She sits down slowly in one of the chairs by
the table.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"You can sit," she says,
nodding toward the other chair. I sit down and adjust my purse strap securely
on my shoulder.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She looks me over with a detached
air and says, "You want the ten dollar fortune or twenty dollar?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What's the difference?"
I ask.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"The twenty dollar fortune is
longer. More complete."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Ten dollars," I say.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"You pay me now."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"You have to pay me first,"
she says.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I lift my purse off my shoulder,
pull out a ten dollar bill, and put it on the table. She puts it in her pocket.
I settle the purse securely in my lap. She asks me to show her my hand and I
extend one hand tentatively across the table. She takes it, glances at the
palm, lets it go, then pulls a deck of cards from a small drawer in the table and
cuts them once.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What’s your question?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What do you mean?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"What is your question? What
do you want to know?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Oh. I didn't know I was
supposed to ask a question. Let me think."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She looks at me with narrowed eyes.
I divert my glance to the pattern of swirls on the table cover. I had expected
her to tell me something interesting or amusing. I have to think for a moment
about what I really want to know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She is stares at her hands with a
bored, impatient expression. Finally, I ask, "Will my life be
significant?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
An undecipherable expression flits
across her face, an amalgam of surprise and annoyance. "What do you
mean?" </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Will I do something that
others will consider of real and lasting value?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That will be remembered?"</div>
<br />She lifts the top card off the
deck, looks at it, looks toward me with a self-satisfied air, and says,
"No." <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
She puts the cards back into the drawer.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"Is that all?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
"You wanted the ten dollar
fortune. You get only one question."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She rises from her chair; the
interview is obviously over. She walks slowly toward the curtain. I hoist my
purse strap securely onto my shoulder, walk toward the door, open it, step down
the stairs, and walk out onto the dun-colored sidewalk.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> [<span style="font-size: x-small;">This was written in the mid-'80s as I recollected my two post-doc years at Temple Health Sciences Center in Philadelphia. It intends to capture the spirit of what I felt while there</span>]</o:p></div>http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-84490115926706719472012-03-03T17:11:00.000-08:002012-08-15T21:21:30.277-07:00WHO WILL CARE FOR THE CHILDREN?<o:p> </o:p>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
The call came at 10:30 that
night. She had just gotten back to her room from a long, late dinner with two former
fellow graduate students whom she hadn't seen for almost a decade. She had
turned off her cell phone during the conference sessions and had forgotten to
turn it back on during dinner. When the hotel phone rang, she answered in two
rings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was her husband, David.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Lynn, I've been trying to
get hold of you. Jamie's in the hospital."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
She answered in the controlled
tone she used automatically during a crisis. "What's the matter?" </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I'm not sure.
Appendicitis. The pediatrician saw him and told me to take him straight to the
emergency room. I'm here right now. In the hospital. They're going to operate."
David's voice sounded tense and disconnected.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"When are
they going to operate?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"As soon as they can. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as the surgeon gets here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may have burst. The appendix."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
She gasped to herself, but said
quietly, "I'll come home as soon as I can. I may not be able to get out
tonight, but there should be a flight early in the morning."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Your mother's with him
right now." </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Who's the surgeon?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I don't know."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I'll call you and
Marjorie as soon as I make plane reservations."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"All right. I'll pick you
up at the airport. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
As soon as she hung up the
phone, she called the airline, made a reservation on the earliest plane she
could take out of Dallas the next morning and canceled her Thursday flight. She
had to transfer in Atlanta, and wouldn't arrive home until 1:20 the next
afternoon. It was the best she could do. It was after 11:00 at night when she
called Marjorie, a neighbor and the closest friend she had, to give her the
flight schedule.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
The phone rang five
times before Marjorie finally answered. "Oh Lynn! Where are you?" she
asked in a slightly hoarse voice.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Still in Texas. Did David
tell you about Jamie?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Yeah, he called from the
hospital. I saw the poor kid before he went to the doctor. He was doubled over
in pain. Screaming and crying like mad. David called me and asked me to come
over and take a look at him. Guess he figured a mother would know what to
do."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Wasn't my mother
there?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Yeah, your mom was there.
She looked kind of upset. I believe she'd just given him an enema. Thought he
was constipated. I told David he ought to get the kid to a doctor. Quick."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Well, I'm coming back. I
won't get in until tomorrow afternoon, though. David will call you in the
morning. My plane gets in at 1:20 in the afternoon. Flight 1322, Delta."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"O.K."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Where's Melinda?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Right here. She's
sleeping on the couch." </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Good. Can she stay there
overnight?" </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Sure, Lynn. Of
course."<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"You've got a key to our
house. Send her over in the morning to get clean clothes for school. She can
take lunch money out of the vase on my dresser. She knows where it is."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"She'll be all right, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Lynn</st1:city></st1:place>." </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Thanks, Marjorie."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Don't worry about it.
Have a safe trip back."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
Still in the grip of her
compulsive calmness, she called the front desk of the hotel and left a message
for a colleague saying she couldn't have lunch with him the next day. Having
taken care of the necessary practical details, she sat in the chair next to the
bed, put her head in her hands, and wept.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
Jamie had been complaining of a
stomach ache for nearly a week before she left. She and David thought it was a
bid for attention. He'd been out running and playing with other children in the
neighborhood just the evening before she took the plane to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Dallas</st1:place></st1:city>. He always had some complaint before
she went to meetings or conferences. Usually his stomach; he'd always had a
sensitive stomach. Even when he was a baby, she and David often took him on
long drives in the car to quiet him when he (and they) suffered from his
attacks of colic.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
'Why did Mother have to give
him an enema?' <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynn</st1:place></st1:city>
asked herself. Her mother was one for keeping children's bowels moving,
especially if they had a stomach ache. Every childhood illness could be blamed
on constipation. The enema was exactly the wrong thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>'My poor baby,' she chanted to herself. He
wasn't exactly a baby, anymore. He was six years old, in first grade and
learning to read. How far behind would this put him in his school work?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
Mother, of course, would blame
her. Mother had never understood why she went back to work in the first place.
When Jamie was two and Melinda had started kindergarten, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynn</st1:place></st1:city> took a job as a research associate at
the University. She tried to justify her decision to her mother.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"We can really use the
money."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Well, Honey, you've
managed so far. You could scrimp a little. Tighten your belt. That's what I'd
do. Why do you have to go back to work?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"It's not just work,
Mother. It's a career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've had years of
training. I don't want it to go to waste! I can't stay out much longer or I'll
forget everything I was trained for. I'll never be able to go back."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"But who
will care for the children?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
That, of course, was always the
question. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynn</st1:place></st1:city>
had made the necessary arrangements. Nursery. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baby sitters. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A part time housekeeper for a while. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She managed to juggle everything so the
children were always supervised, always in somebody's "care." </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
Now that they were both in
school full time, it was a bit easier. They took the bus to school in the
morning and another bus dropped them off after school at the day care center.
Either she or David picked them up in the evening on the way home from work.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
Why did David have to wait for
Marjorie to suggest taking Jamie to the doctor?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Why couldn't he just look at the child and know he was sick? At least,
palpate his abdomen. But then, David had never bothered to learn which side of
the body the appendix or gall bladder or spleen was on. He was an engineer;
machines were his specialty. The body was a deliberately sustained mystery to
him. He, too, would blame her, though he wouldn't say it in so many words. Why
wasn't she there when he needed her? Why should he have to call a neighbor?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 35.75pt; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
And she, too,
would blame herself. Why wasn't she there when her child needed her? Could she
have forestalled this crisis by paying more careful attention to his pain? Why
had she left the children in the charge of two people who knew nothing about
medicine or even biology? But then, who else should she leave them with?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if he died from her neglect? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From her preoccupation with preparing her talk
and packing for the conference?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 35.5pt; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
She changed
into her nightgown, called the front desk and asked for a 4:00 a.m. wake-up
call and for a cab at 4:30, and then got into bed. She set the travel alarm she
always brought with her, just in case.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
As she lay in bed, she enumerated
her losses. Of the $700.00 plane fare, she had paid $300.00 out of pocket. That
was irretrievable. She had presented her talk that morning, the first day of
the conference. So at least that wasn't a loss. But she had been looking
forward to three more days of worry-free learning. That was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would not have the opportunity to talk
with Ryder and compare techniques and results with him. He had confirmed some
of her anomalous data using a different method, and now people were beginning
to take her work seriously. All the top people in the field were here. She
would miss hearing their papers, miss talking with them, miss developing a
collegial rapport with them. She'd miss learning new techniques and new
approaches to her research area. There wouldn't be another gathering like this one
for a long time. She'd have to do it all the hard way—in the library, on her
own.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
On the morning
plane ride to Atlanta, high above the clouds, she felt utterly cut off,
isolated from everything—home and family, profession and colleagues. She could
not know how her boy was doing, even whether or not he was still alive.
Somewhere in her subconscious, she believed he was, but she also knew that he
was in danger.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
By the second leg of her flight
back, her sense of suspension in a web of dichotomies had settled into her being.
Home and profession. Husband and children. Reason and an almost mystical appeal
to the power of will. Determination and resignation. It seemed as though
ambiguity lay at the very center of her soul; in it was her only security and
peace. She felt a numbness that no tears penetrated.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
David met her at the airport.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"How's Jamie?" were
the first words out of her mouth.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"They operated last night.
Apparently his appendix was ruptured. They're worried about peritonitis."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I was afraid of
that."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> it, exactly?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"It's inflammation in the abdomen. It's caused by bacteria
that get into the peritoneal cavity and spread and multiply around the
intestines. If it doesn't kill you, you may get internal adhesions, scars where internal organs stick together and can cause trouble for life."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Good heavens!"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
They got into the car and drove
silently to the hospital. She followed her husband into Jamie's room. Her
mother, in the far corner of the room, looked up from her book when they walked
in. Jamie lay flat on the bed in a white hospital gown, his left arm strapped
to a board, an intravenous tube bound to the arm with tape. A plastic bottle
filled with clear fluid was suspended high above his head and drained slowly
into the tube. He turned his head toward them and gave his mother a weak smile
as she entered the room. His face was feverish and his eyes listless and
half-lidded. She went over to him and kissed his forehead, then laid her cheek
against his. His face seemed to be burning.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Hi, Mom," he said
gallantly.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"How did you get yourself
into this predicament?" she asked.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"It wasn't my fault,"
he answered, as if taking her question seriously.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I know, Dear." She
turned to her husband. "What did the doctor say?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"He was in earlier this
morning. Didn't say much. He said he'd be back in the afternoon. I guess we
just have to hang in there and wait."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 36.45pt; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"They're
giving him antibiotics in his veins," said her mother. "He can't eat anything
but clear liquids."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 36.45pt; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
He looked so
small and frail, lying there. What would several days of clear liquids do to that
already slight body? He had never been as solid as his sister. Now he would be
even thinner. 'Thin people are supposed to live longer.' she thought, as if
telling herself a cruel joke.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
Her mother turned to David.
"Since Lynn's here, I can take the car and drop you off at work, then go
to the house and pick up Melinda. We can come back about 5:30 this
afternoon."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"O.K., Mom,"
David said.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Thanks, Mother."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynn</st1:place></st1:city> was left with the listless boy. They
were both helpless, at the mercy of forces neither had much control of. The
battle of organisms and antibiotics. The battle of Death against the
Will-to-Life. She could not will his life for him; she could only be there and
try to help him will it for himself.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
When the nurse came in to
change his dressing, Lynn left the room and walked down the hall to a small
sitting room for parents. A petite, dark-haired woman, apparently younger than <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynn</st1:place></st1:city>, sat smoking a
cigarette. She looked up. Lynn smiled and nodded toward her; the woman nodded
back. Lynn sat in a nearby chair. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 36.2pt; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
The woman put
out her cigarette and asked, "Do you have a child here?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 35.75pt; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Yes, a
little boy."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Me too. Seven years
old."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Mine is six."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Really? What's he here
for?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Appendicitis. They took
out his appendix last night."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I wish mine had something
that simple."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Oh?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Robert has
leukemia." She lit another cigarette. "He was in remission for six
months. It's back again. They're giving him chemotherapy and
transfusions."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"How long has he been in
the hospital?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Over a week now. They're
trying to get his blood count right. Something like that."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Yeah, they try to kill
off the cancerous cells and replace them with normal cells." </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"How do you know about
that?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I do research in the
area."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Really!" <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She paused. "What's your child here
for?" </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Appendicitis."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Oh, yes. You told me.
Where's his room?" </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Down at the other end of
the hall. The last room."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"That's next to my
Robert's room. I guess I heard them bring your boy in last night."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Have you been staying in
the hospital?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Yeah. I've stayed
overnight in his room all week. Don't get much sleep, though."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I guess I'll be staying
here tonight, myself." Lynn couldn't resist asking the question. "Do
you work?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"What?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Do you have a job? Are
you taking time off from work to stay with your boy?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Oh, no, I can't work.
I've got a little girl three years old at home besides Robert to take care
of."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Oh."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Do you work?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Yes."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Isn't it hard? Working
and taking care of a family?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Yes."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Well, I'm glad I don't
have to," the woman said slowly, taking a long drag on her cigarette. "My
husband earns enough to keep us going. His insurance should cover most of the
hospital bills. But we'll still have plenty to pay, I'm sure. We'll worry about
that when the time comes."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynn</st1:place></st1:city> didn't know what to say. She wanted to
get back to Jamie. As she stood up to go, she said, "I hope your boy gets
better and can leave the hospital soon." She knew that, even if the child did
improve and left the hospital, there was a real possibility that he'd be back,
and that he might eventually die of that insidious, malignant disease. She
hoped her horrible knowledge didn't show on her face.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"Same here." The
woman had a smile on her lips, but her eyes were sad.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
When <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynn</st1:place></st1:city> got back to the room, Jamie was crying.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
'What's the matter, Baby?"
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"It hurts, Momma. It
hurts."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
"I know, Darling."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
That evening, Jamie's fever was
still high. The doctor came in briefly and said the child seemed better but
wasn't out of the woods yet. David and Melinda came during visiting hours, then
left. Her mother stopped by briefly and went from the hospital back to Camden
that evening. "Dad needs me, Honey. I'll come back in a day or two."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 36.45pt; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
After they
all had left, Lynn made up the small cot beside her son's bed. She lay down on
her back and listened to his fitful breathing and the occasional short cries of
pain emitted in his sleep. Silent tears ran down the side of her face. Through
the wall that separated them, she could hear the woman in the next room sobbing
loudly.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 36.45pt; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
'She's in
even greater despair than I am,' Lynn thought. 'Staying home with her child
hasn't protected him from serious illness or the specter of Death. Why
this eternal female despair? Men get angry and lash out at those things that
threaten or frustrate them. Or they run away. We women are bound to all that
causes us pain. We remain to weep for the wounded and helpless. Is it
necessary, somehow, for the begetting and sustaining of life that women weep?'</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
She remembered another time in
another hospital, three days after Melinda was born. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Lynn</st1:place></st1:city> wanted to nurse her baby, but the milk
had not come in. That lovely, placid child had, with each succeeding day,
become increasingly fretful. Every time Lynn went to the nursery, the baby was
crying. When the nurse brought Melinda into her room, Lynn would give the baby the
breast—first one, then another—but there didn't seem to be anything there. Finally, that night,
she sat in the rocking chair in the corner of her room, the baby in her arms, rocking
and rocking, letting her suckle. When the nurse came to take the baby, Lynn
said, "Please leave us alone."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 35.8pt;">
She sat there in the darkened
room, holding her child at breast, weeping, rocking, weeping, for an hour,
perhaps longer. She lost all track of time. Finally, exhausted and hopeless,
she took the baby back to the nursery. The next morning, her breasts were
engorged and painful—so full that, at the thought of her child, they began spouting
little fountains of milk that ran down her sides and abdomen like tears.</div>
<br />
[<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This was written during the early eighties, at a time when I was stressed about work and child-care responsibilities. Although it has been submitted several times, it has not been published</span>]http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-17291453661688567382012-01-22T18:01:00.000-08:002012-02-25T17:36:06.598-08:00STILL LIFE<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Lining the ocean between Fort Lauderdale and Miami is
a strip of land, about 15 miles long and perhaps half a mile wide, from which
rise thousands (or so it seems) of hotels, motels and condominiums: white,
gold-on-white, white-and-blue structures, angling for space and view against
the glass-blue sky. The facades of these structures are smooth and flat;
beside them, palms and mangroves sustain a pruned and precarious
existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fusion of land and
Atlantic is the magnet that draws to it the smooth, clean, sun-seared bodies
that swim in blue-bottomed, hotel-side pools and bask on nearby patios.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beach itself is rarely seen except from
windows of expensive ocean-front rooms. Only the most unconventional souls
deliberately gain access to it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
On the narrow and nearly lifeless shoreline fronting
the Dominic Hotel one early April morning, the only person in view is Carleton
Hagen, there to attend the annual meeting of The Anatomical Society. His gaze, directed
downward toward the speckled sand, detects a few shells but mostly man-made debris – cigarette filters, rubbers, other plastic objects,
and black globules of uncertain origin and purpose. He picks up one of the
black objects shaped like a shark's tooth and it deforms in his hand, leaving a
viscous brown smudge. He recognizes it and others like it as sludge from some
passing tanker.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton Hagen regularly attends meetings of The
Society, but he usually sits by himself, arms folded across his chest, legs
crossed, a strangely solitary man at these meetings where compulsive
camaraderie, reunion with old friends and colleagues, and the exchange of ideas
and gossip are the rule. If you saw his name tag, you would notice that he teaches
at Union Medical College, a predominantly black school. You might wonder how it
came about that this tall, fair-haired, distinguished-looking white man in his
fifties happens to be teaching at Union. If you looked up his name in the
Society's directory, you would realize that he graduated from medical school at
the University of C... in 1960.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
Perhaps y</span>ou might guess that he was a shy, industrious student who did
well in his coursework but didn't interact much with his fellow students. Or that, in Gross Anatomy, he didn't participate
in the obscene jokes and horseplay that helped other students cope with their
unavoidable violation of the human body consigned to them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Or suppose t</span>hat his life has taken a very different
course than he imagined when he first began his professional career.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He leaves the beach and walks up narrow steps and
through a gate toward the hotel. The cement patio surrounding the pool is
covered with row upon row of closely-packed, white, sunning chairs, still empty
at this early hour. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He imagines them
filled with bodies, immobile, absorbing the sun, tanned like the pharaohs. It
conjures up the image of a giant morgue or an enormous dissecting room, full of
cadavers as still as sunbathers.</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center;">
*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
More than twenty years
ago, as a freshman medical student, Carleton Hagen first walked into the huge, gray-walled dissecting room on
the top floor of the Medical Sciences building at the University of Cincinnati.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tall windows ringing the massive room and
the large skylights overhead were gray and grime-covered, but they admitted a
soft, diffuse light that permeated the room despite its size. The odor of
phenol and formaldehyde stiffened the air. Square cement columns about two feet
in thickness interrupted the otherwise open space, determining the placing
and orientation of dissecting tables upon which lay elongated objects, each
covered with a gray tarpaulin. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
As he walked among them, Carleton knew what those
objects were, but did not dare imagine the lifeless human bodies underneath the
tarps, each corpse the embalmed cast of a lifetime: cryptic, no longer
decipherable, but still real, and not quite finished. He felt awe and a touch of
carefully suppressed terror as he walked into the room and weaved around the
dissecting tables with the formless forms atop them to a table near the wall
beneath a window through which light poured steadily. He waited until his lab
partner, Henry, arrived at the table before daring to lift the tarp off the
form beneath. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
It was the cadaver of a young black man, the skull
opened and the eyes removed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carleton replaced
the tarp and suggested they take a different cadaver. He withdrew the cover
from the form lying on an adjacent table and beheld a puffy, elderly white man
with a gray stubble of a beard and hanging, ashen flesh. On this body, too,
the skull had been cut open and the eyes removed.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Let's take the first one." Henry said.
"It's probably in better shape, anyway."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Henry's guess proved to be correct and they, with the
two other students who later joined them at the dissecting table, had one of the
best preserved specimens in the laboratory that year. Except for a chest wound
and a few superficial scars on the extremities, their cadaver was in excellent
condition. The professors often came to their table to demonstrate structures
that couldn't be found in the more obese or diseased specimens.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
During the first few days of Gross Anatomy, whenever
Carleton entered the lab, the original nausea, fear, and awe gripped him, but
with each succeeding day, he found it easier to throw them off. By the second week,
he was practically able to ignore the other cadavers and walk directly to his own
table with only slight hesitation.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Henry had nicknamed the cadaver "George."
It was usually "good old George," or "poor George," or "Georgie-boy."
One of the other students at the dissecting table, a rather thin and darting
fellow from North Carolina named Chris, sometimes called him "our
nigger." The fourth student, a quiet fellow named Bart (short for
Bartholomew), didn't have much stomach for dissection and usually sat off to
the side reading the lab manual and informing the others about structures they
should be finding during the dissection.</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center;">
*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton passes through the glass patio door into the
vast lobby of the elegant Dominic Hotel. The lobby is three stories high, and
from the ceiling hangs a large, gold-toned sun-burst. Beyond the spiral
staircase is a sunken sitting room, and above its center hangs an elaborate,
glittering glass and bronze chandelier. Carleton sits down on one of the plush
sunken sofas, crosses his legs, folds his arms across his chest and gazes
absently at the people milling about the reception desk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
This meeting of the Anatomical Society is well
attended. The reputation of the resort hotel and the promise of a warm and
sunny respite from the winter's bitter cold have enticed many from the North.
Carleton recognizes most of the older faces from meetings past; a few of them
were colleagues at a time when he was more actively engaged in research.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He does not make an effort to greet former
colleagues; if someone approaches him, he exchanges greetings and pleasantries
with a subdued and distant air. It's easy to be anonymous at the meetings these
days; there are so many in attendance – so many young people, even women – and most
of them he doesn't know.</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center;">
*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
At the time, many years back, when Carleton was newly
inducted into the Society, fewer people attended the meetings and a new member
soon came to know almost everyone. Older scientists were pointed out with awe,
almost reverence. He was much younger then and pleased, almost enthusiastic,
about his decision to go into an academic career rather than into the practice
of medicine. The two clinical years had been unpleasant for him, filled with
indigent clinic patients who were ignorant, impatient, oozing blood or pus from
various orifices, smelling of sweat or urine or alcohol, and unable to
communicate. The medicine he had seen practiced upon these unfortunates, many
of whom were black, was too often simply palliative, aimed at symptoms rather
than the disease: inadequate, unthinking and worst of all, uncaring. Carleton
had found himself drifting back to the basic science professors and their
laboratories. Toward the end of his first year of clinics, he began to work on
a small research project in comparative embryology that had been suggested by
Dr. Gerard Moseley, an embryologist of some renown, whose textbook had recently
come into wide usage.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
By his last year of medical school, Carleton was
spending several hours a week in the laboratory and was doing some model
dissections for the Gross Anatomy teaching staff. When he graduated from
medical school, he did not take an internship but rather, at the urging of
Professor Moseley, spent the next year as an Anatomy Assistant, thinking he
could take the internship later, and he would then be equipped with a much better
understanding of the human body. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During that year, he married a nursing student
he met in the clinics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
internship never came to pass, and he spent two years as an assistant in the
Anatomy Department.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
During the following year, he helped as a laboratory instructor
in addition to his research and dissections for the faculty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that year, he attended his first national
meeting of the Society, where he presented the initial results of his research
project with Dr. Moseley. He had found that the course of development in the
yolk sac of chickens was subject to mutation, casting doubt on the dogma that
"ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny" in the system he was studying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had found solid evidence that individual
development does not necessarily follow the course of species
evolutionary development.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
His results created something of a stir at the time,
and he was introduced to (and received favorable comments from) several leading
embryologists of the day. At those early meetings, although he was naturally
shy and socially awkward, he was automatically accepted into the company of
Professor Moseley's former students and current colleagues, most of whom had good
positions in medical schools and universities throughout the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
At the second national meeting he attended, he
presented a follow-up study of his initial work. During lunch one day that
week, he found himself in conversation with a graduate of Harvard Medical
School, a young black man named Janus Jenkins, who was finishing a residency in
Pathology at New York University. Jenkins talked passionately about the need
for adequate training of doctors for the black community, of “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Negro</i> doctors for the Negro community."
Carleton remembered his clinic years and the indifference of most of the clinic
physicians to the poor patients, who were often black.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Physicians need to be trained specifically to
treat Negro patients," Jenkins said, "physicians who speak the same
language, who come out of the same background, who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">identify</i> with their patients, which means <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Negro</i> physicians."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"You may be right," Carleton affirmed,
hesitantly.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"But it's not enough simply to train them, you
understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They need to be trained <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">well</i>, to have the best possible
background so they can practice the best possible medicine."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Of course," Carlton assented.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"And the only way to train them well is to get
well trained people to teach them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People
out of the best schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People like you
and me."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton nodded.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"And where are most of the future Negro
physicians being trained at this moment?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Jenkins paused. Carleton didn't answer.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"At Negro medical colleges. At places like
Howard and Meharry and Union," said Jenkins, emphatically. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Although they probably don't get
excellent training there," he added, lowering his voice, "because
they don't have the best teachers."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 30.0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"That may be true,"
admitted Carleton, feeling vaguely embarrassed, perhaps even guilty.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"But you know," continued Jenkins,
"I'm seriously considering taking a job at Union Medical College myself,
though I'm just a bit worried about going back South."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Oh, are you originally from the South?"
asked Carleton, surprised.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"No," said Jenkins with a smile. ''I grew
up in New York. A figure of speech, you know."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
About six months after the meeting, Carleton received
a letter from Janus Jenkins, by now at Union, which went into detail about
the satisfactions and challenges of teaching there. In the letter, Jenkins
mentioned a faculty position available in the Anatomy Department for an
embryologist and gross anatomist at the rank of Instructor or possibly even
Assistant Professor. He asked Carleton if he might be interested in considering
such a position and offered to propose his name to the department chairman as a
prospective candidate.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Something about the tone of the letter--its openness
and apparently genuine interest in him--moved Carleton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He remembered Jenkins' intense concern with
obtaining first-rate faculty at Negro medical schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although he realized that taking such a job
might entail a certain professional risk, something in him was stirred by the
idea. He thought about it for a couple of days before saying something to his
wife, Sharon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was hesitant at first, but she
had recently become pregnant and was concerned about how they would support a
baby on a laboratory assistant's salary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Eventually, she gave him a guarded: "Okay, if it's what you would
like to do."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
It was another week or so before he spoke to Dr.
Moseley, bringing up the subject in as casual and off-hand a manner as he could
feign.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"I got a letter a few days ago from Janus
Jenkins."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Oh really? Good man, Jenkins. Did some nice
work with McIverson on smooth muscle regeneration in atherosclerosis. What did
he have to say?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"He's teaching in the Pathology Department at
Union Medical College."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Too bad, that. Could have been predicted
though, I guess."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"He considers it a real challenge. He wanted to
know if I might be interested in looking at a position there"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Well, you wouldn't want to go there, would
you?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"It would be a real faculty position, at a much
higher salary than I'm getting now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sharon's pregnant and we'll be needing the money soon."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"I didn't know that. Congratulations, my boy.
Say, if it's more money you want, I could probably squeeze out another five
hundred or so, though we haven't got much extra in the budget. We won't have another
faculty position open ‘til Moore retires, which'll be at least three years from
now. I wish I could offer you more."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"It's not just the money I'm after, or even
really the faculty position."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"What is it then?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Maybe a sense of professional autonomy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or the idea that I might be doing something
worthwhile."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"You're doing something quite worthwhile right
where you are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don't even consider a job
at Union."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Why not?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"It would be professional suicide. Besides,
you'd probably stagnate."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"I wouldn't have to. Not if I kept up with
research and publishing. Not if I went to meetings and stayed in touch with
what was going on."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Don't do it, my boy. You'll regret it."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
That interchange left Carleton thoughtful and
insecure. He did not understand why taking a job at a Negro medical school
meant he had to drop out of the professional scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, he sensed some previously unsuspected
bigotry in this admired mentor, this seeker after truth, that annoyed and even
angered him.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He wrote back to Jenkins telling him that he might be
interested in the position if he could be assured of facilities for continuing
his research and if he could be guaranteed travel funds for attending the
yearly meetings of the Society. Within a month, he received a letter from Dr.
Sebastian Grant, Chairman of Anatomy, inviting him for an interview at Union
Medical College.</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center;">
*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton Hagen glances absently toward the hotel
reception desk and notices a moderately dark black man in his early fifties
whom he recognizes with some surprise as Janus Jenkins. He has become a bit
flabby but not fat, except for a protruding abdomen that pulls his shirt tight
beneath his unbuttoned suit coat. Carleton wonders what Jenkins is doing at the
meetings again; wonders whether or not to go up and speak to him or to wait until
Jenkins sees him (if he sees him); and wonders what to say if they do meet.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
After leaving Union several years ago to take a
better job in Ohio, Jenkins had stopped coming to the meetings. Carlton
has heard (but isn't sure it's true) that Jenkins is working in a private
Pathology laboratory in Atlanta, is no longer doing research, and has developed
a "drinking problem."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Jenkins wanders down the steps into the sunken
lounge, looking from side to side, and spies Carleton. A smile of recognition
sweeps across his face, then he hesitates and the smile quickly disappears.
Composing himself, straightening his shoulders and reforming his smile, he
walks with a slight swagger over to Carleton, who rises, tilts his head
sideways, and holds out his hand. Jenkins takes Carlton's right hand firmly and
slaps his shoulder with the left hand.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"How are you, Carleton? Looking good! How are
things at Union?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
With that, Jenkins drops his hands, his shoulders
droop perceptibly, the smile weakens, and his face takes on a discernibly
defensive look.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Things are going along as usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bailey took over the chair last year, but nothing
has really changed."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"You didn't expect it to, did you?" asks
Jenkins.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"I suppose not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I guess I <u>did</u> expect at least a symbolic gesture toward
broadening the faculty base."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"How's Histology?"</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"It's all right. Clive's still in charge and
Harper's teaching it with him."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"That's not very many people teaching
seventy-five students."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"The
administration seems to think that's all we need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Bailey hasn't challenged them."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Do they still do Pathology correlations?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jenkins tilts his head to one side.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"No, not since you left. They've asked me to
come in and do a little embryology of tissue organization, but mostly it's the
two of them handling the whole course."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Are they looking for someone else to help out
in the course?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jenkins asks,
looking intently at Carleton, as if trying to decipher the droop-lidded,
phlegmatic expression that has become the habitual mask of the professor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton looks down toward the plush carpet and up
again, over Janus' shoulders, across the lobby and out the large windows facing
onto the patio toward the variegated forms beginning to assemble there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"I don't know how things are at the
moment, Janus. They <u>should</u> hire at least one, maybe two more people in
Anatomy, but so far, Bailey hasn't said he’s looking for anybody.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't know whether the administration will
give him more money, anyway." Carleton shifts his weight from one leg to
the other. "That's the trouble with promoting an inside man to chairman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The administration thinks they have a bargain
and they aren't willing to do anything for the department, so we're stuck in
the same rut as before."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Carleton
glances obliquely at Jenkins' mouth which rolls and shifts as if he were trying
to remove a stubborn bit of fiber from between his teeth. "I don't know
how things are in Pathology. Angeletti's still got another seven or eight years
before he retires."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Closing his mouth and sucking in on his pursed lips,
Jenkins recomposes himself and responds off-handedly:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Well, if you hear of anything, let me
know, will you? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm with Pathology
Associates in Atlanta." He draws a card out of his inner suit-coat pocket
and hands it to Carleton. "The money's good, but I don't get much chance
for research doing full-time service, you know."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Yes, I'm sure that's true. . . I'll let you
know if anything comes open in the department." Carleton pockets the card.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Well, I best be getting on," Janus says,
extending his hand. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton gives his hand a brief but firm shake and
says, "It's good to see you again, Janus."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Same here, Carleton. See you around the hotel,
most likely."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton watches him walk away, down a corridor that
leads to the information desk and message board set up for the meetings. Carleton
turns back to the lobby where he selects a soft chair looking toward the patio.
From this vantage, he does not see the sunning bodies outside, only two palm
trees and the far-off, draperied windows in another wing of the hotel. As he
settles himself into the chair and crosses his legs, his mind wanders back to
the circumstances surrounding Jenkins' departure from Union.</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center;">
*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A few months prior to Jenkins’ leaving Union,
Carleton had a lunch conversation with him in which Janus criticized
the scientific credentials and even the integrity of the new chairman of
Pathology, Dr. Dante Angeletti. In fact, Jenkins had suggested that the
analysis of morbidity in sickle cell crisis, Angeletti's major scientific
contribution, was more show than substance.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"He's oversimplified everything,"
complained Jenkins. "The disease is far more complicated than he makes it
out to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For example, shock is
sometimes an important component of the critical phase and needs to be treated
as such.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Furthermore, the organ where
sickled cells are primarily trapped varies from individual to individual. I
know. I've seen lots of autopsy material. It's important to be able to
recognize this individual variability in order to treat the crisis effectively.
Believe me, he hasn't done anybody a favor by presenting the phenomenon as
simple, or by proclaiming his three key rules for treating sickle cell crisis.
Those famous three rules have probably killed more patients than they've
saved!" Jenkins added with a hint of exasperation mingled with contempt.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton looked at Jenkins incredulously, then
commented, "You don't dare say that straight to Angeletti, though, do
you?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"I don't suppose so,” Janus said, raising his
eyebrows, closing both eyes and grinning briefly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 30.0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"On the other hand,"
Carleton went on, "the students really ought to be aware of the way things
are, because they'll be dealing with sickle cell crises throughout their
practice."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Angeletti gives the lectures on sickle cell
anemia, so he's pretty much in control of what they hear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only time I get them alone is in the
autopsy service, particularly if they stay on for their residency."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Maybe Angeletti would be willing to pay some
attention to your observations and evidence," Carleton suggested.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Not likely. I tried talking with him about it
once and he as much as told me I didn't know shit about sickle cell,"
responded Jenkins angrily. "Hell, I've got a niece who died of it. He told
me to stick to atherosclerosis. He's got his career and reputation invested in
being right in his oversimplified nonsense about sickle cell anemia."</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Well, you're in a tough position,"
commented Carleton, turning back to his unfinished rice and stew.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
It was, in fact, not long after that conversation
that Jenkins told Carleton Hagen he was going to the University of Cincinatti to
interview for a position in the Pathology Department there. They were looking
for someone with a background and reputation in atherosclerosis.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
"Besides," confided Jenkins, "they
need a black man. The government's after them to get blacks on the faculty. I'd
be an obvious asset," he added with a grin that was almost a sneer.
"And I need to get out of this little swamp."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
After Jenkins left Union, Carleton began seriously to
consider taking a job elsewhere. He had been at Union for seven years but had
few colleagues there with whom he
could discuss research or socialize.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He contacted a number of colleagues at other
institutions throughout the country, both by letter and at the annual meetings
of the Society, inquiring about the possibility of positions available
elsewhere. He had by that time become an Associate Professor at Union.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those who bothered to respond gave that as
the reason they couldn't consider him for a position. Any jobs available were
going to younger men who could come in at the Instructor or Assistant Professor
level, at a lower salary.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
For the most part, however, his inquiries went unanswered.
And Carleton began to realize, reluctantly, that despite his broad base of
contacts among Dr. Moseley's students and associates, despite his steady productivity
in research and his frequent publications, despite regular attendance and
presentations at meetings, he was being intentionally ignored as a potential
member of any other department. He suspected that neither he nor his work were
taken seriously anymore, that his colleagues were perfectly happy for him to
teach at Union, that they were willing to exchange pleasantries at meetings and to
tell him it was commendable of him to teach at a "minority"
institution, but that they didn't want to have to admit him again to the circle
of those with prestige and influence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
had been prepared for hostility, even contempt, on the part of some in the
Society who might view his job at Union as a threat to their segregated world
view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What he had encountered instead
was a studied, uncomfortable politeness on the surface and underneath, a
profound and deliberate indifference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
had been prepared for anything but to be dismissed out of hand, as if he
scarcely existed.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; tab-stops: 30.45pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He stayed at Union and was
eventually promoted to the rank of Full Professor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was placed in charge of the combined
course in Gross Anatomy and Embryology and continued to perform in a competent
fashion, though he was not (nor had he ever been) a charismatic teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sometimes, although not often, wondered
whether it did make a difference in their later practice of medicine that his
students received a good, solid course in Anatomy. At Union, he was neither
fully accepted nor shunned by his predominantly black colleagues. His old
chairman, Sebastian Grant, had been good natured and almost paternalistic
toward him; his new chairman, Melvin Bailey, treated him with distant respect.
When he was placed in charge of the Gross Anatomy course, his research became
increasingly neglected; he had not obtained grant money for several years.
Supplies and equipment were so expensive that it was almost impossible to keep
a laboratory operating on the modest research budget that had been a part of
his original contract.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Even though he no longer presented papers at the annual
meetings, he still attended regularly. That, too, had been a stipulation of the
original contract. On his return from the meetings, he always gave a report to
the department on the keynote talks and symposium papers, since others
in the department rarely attended the national meetings.</div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-align: center;">
*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Carleton sits in the comfortable chair in the sunken
lobby for a while longer, his arms held loosely across his chest, watching
people aggregate around the reception desk: older men, younger men, occasional
women. They smile, exchange greetings, gesticulate, huddle together, then
separate and walk off again in smaller groups. He wonders if they, too, are
aware of the transience of what they are doing here, at this scientific
gathering with its pretensions of consequence reflected in the glittering decor
of a grand hotel?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He glances at his watch and realizes that the
Embryology papers are about to begin. He always attends the Embryology
sessions, partly from habit, partly out of a sense of duty. He rarely hears
reference to his own work, as he used to. He rises from his chair, walks across
the lounge next to the patio window and glances out at the gleaming, sun-baked,
mulatto-brown bodies filling the lounge chairs, jig-sawed into every bit of
square area around the pool. He walks on, down a long corridor and through a
door into an already darkened room. He sits at the back of the room, crosses
his legs, folds his arms across his chest and leans back to listen to the first
speaker of the session.</div>
<br />
[This was written in 1979, one of the first in a set of short stories entitled "Laboratory Notebook.]<br />
<br />http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-47464991486391162302011-12-04T15:20:00.000-08:002012-05-26T18:50:26.196-07:00HOLIDAY REFRAIN<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's a cool winter late afternoon; a lazy holiday flavor hangs heavily in the air. My husband, Steve, half-dozes before a TV bowl game; our son, Teddy, beside him in the den, carefully constructs a miniature Superdome with his Christmas erector set. The girls play noiselessly in their room upstairs.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The sky dims in shades of orange and rose through the kitchen window steamed by supper's boiling pots and sputtering skillet. I step to the window and run my hand across it; the mist runs like tears down the clouded pane. Interlacing branches of bare-limbed trees show, blurred and distorted, through the cleared swath, creating an angular mosaic against the fading, pastel sky. The image is shockingly exquisite, as if the gentle tones of Odilon Redon had been emboldened by Rouault's stark strokes. I try to capture it with my eyes, to memorize each line and shade of light, realizing that, if I ever find time to transpose the scene to canvas, its memory will have faded nearly as much as the image itself.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This afternoon, a long-distance telephone call broke in on the waning holidays. Sandy Martin, a long-time friend and modestly successful artist living in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New York City</st1:city></st1:place>, called to wish me a Happy New Year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Say, Cora," she asked, "when are you going to move to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>? This longdistance friendship is for the birds! I never see you anymore. Calling long-distance is expensive for a struggling young artist." She laughed.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I don't know," I answered. "I can hardly keep up with small-town life. Can't imagine how I'd handle living in New York."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sandy</st1:place></st1:city> changed the subject. "How's your holiday been?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Just great. Busy, but everyone's been in the holiday spirit most of the time."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Are you doing any painting while you’re on vacation?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"No. Haven't had the chance. My in-laws came for a few days around Christmas, and I did a lot of cleaning and cooking for that. Then we had a party last night. There was more cooking and cleaning ahead of time and cleaning up afterwards. In fact, I just put away the last load of party dishes and I'm getting ready to cook supper for the family. More dishes!"</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We chatted for nearly half an hour. After we hung up, I put a tape in the stereo and went into the kitchen to begin dinner, musing with the music, listening to the rhythms and moods of the piano etched, in some mysterious way, into that plastic.</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And I wonder: What <u>has</u> happened to the ten-day holiday? I realize that, in one more day, I'll have to go back to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two canvases I planned to paint are still not begun and an unread book lies on the stand beside our bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I turn from the window to the stove, set the sizzling pork chops on simmer, pour rice into boiling water and put the vegetables on medium heat. It should all be ready to eat in ten or fifteen minutes. I call my six-year old daughter to come downstairs and set the table for dinner. She neither comes nor answers. Before I call a second time, the music stops and I know she can hear me.</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Debra!" I call out for the third time, raising my voice. "Come down here and set the table for dinner!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">She stomps down the stairs into the dining area adjacent to the kitchen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I don't want to set the table," she says sullenly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Well, you're going to do it anyway," I respond.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I was playing. You interrupted me."</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"That's too bad."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Why do I always have to set the table?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Because it's your job."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Why doesn't Tammy ever set the table? She never does anything."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"She's only three years old. When she's your age, she'll set the table and you'll have other jobs to do. But for now, you're the one who sets the table."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">“What about Teddy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He never does anything, either.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">“He’s busy with his father,” I reply, knowing it's an evasion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Well, I'm not going to," she says with a determined tone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"You are going to do it whether you want to or not," I reply, my voice rising and eyes narrowing. She turns her face away.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I place the plates on the counter. She picks them up, struts over to the table and slams them down at each place with such force that less sturdy plastic might have cracked. Her lithe body flings this way and that; her blond curls toss about with each jerk of the head. Her small hands and slender arms seem too delicate for such emphatic boldness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"I hate this!" she says, her voice catching.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"You'll do it and you'll do it <u>gladly</u>," I say, articulating each word slowly and deliberately.<u><o:p></o:p></u></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">She begins to sob softly, putting the rest of the dishes slowly on the table. I put glasses on the counter and she sets them gently above each plate. She gets silverware from the drawer and puts each piece in its proper place. As she sets forks on carefully folded napkins, I hear a thinly voiced refrain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la..."<u><o:p></o:p></u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I smile and join in. "...'Tis the season to be jolly. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">She smiles back at me and I turn to the stove to dish up the food as she finishes setting the table.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">[This was published in the College of Charleston Miscellany in 1981]</span>http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-76761866163250270602011-10-22T18:24:00.000-07:002012-05-26T18:43:59.131-07:00THE CELLS<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.2pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
Suppose one day you were to walk upstairs to the second floor of the Clinical Science Building of the medical school near you, one hurried step behind your new boss, Dr. Harris Green, Chairman, Department of Medicine.<br />
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You pass down a corridor wide enough to allow five or six people to walk comfortably abreast, except where lockers or freezers or gas cylinders or temporarily unused centrifuges jut into the hallway. The walls are a light lime green on top and amber ceramic on the bottom; the floor is white and gray chipped marble inlay, common in public buildings of decades past. The odor in the hallway is disturbing - rich and slightly fetid - like a mixture of sour cream and decaying seaweed.</div>
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You turn to the right abruptly as Dr. Green takes you through a door, then you walk down a narrow inner hallway and through another door into a quiet internal room. There, three young women are working, surrounded by racks of test tubes filled with a rose-colored fluid. You're in a laboratory catacomb; you could never have guessed its complexity from the corridor outside.</div>
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"This is the tissue culture womb," you hear Dr. Green say, then realize he meant 'tissue culture room.' "This is where we grow the cells."</div>
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The young women look up from their work with expressions ranging from disinterest to hostility. Dr. Green scans the scene and says, "Girls, introduce yourselves and show her what you do." Then he walks out abruptly.</div>
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"Hi, my name's…," you begin. As you say it, the young, dark-haired woman sitting at the bench nearest to you twists the cap on a tube forcefully and snaps the glass with a sharp crack, gashing her finger. She cries out, and her blood and the rose colored fluid begin to mingle and spill onto the lab bench and onto the floor as she rushes to the sink. The others stop their intense activity and gather around her, like bees around a wounded hive-mate, as she runs cold water over her finger until the bleeding stops. Your presence is eclipsed by the episode. It's not the time for introductions.</div>
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"Ooh," shudders the woman with the bleeding finger. "I hate that. It's one of the things about this job that makes me want to quit."</div>
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The other girls go back to their tubes and begin working once more with silent speed and agility in an assembly-line rhythm. The dark-haired woman says, "I'm Carolyn, and that's Betty and Marie. I'm sorry I got so upset when you came in. It's just that it frightens me to cut myself when I'm changing the tubes."</div>
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"Why's that?"</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
"We work with HeLa cells. They're cells from the uterus of a woman who died of cancer a long time ago. I really don't like to get them on me, and especially not in a cut."</div>
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"What do you use the cells for?" </div>
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"We grow viruses in them."</div>
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“What will I be doing in the lab?"</div>
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"I don't know, for sure. At first you'll probably just feed the cells. You can watch the rest of us for a day or two, then take over some of the routine jobs yourself. I do tissue culture—grow the cells and make up the medium. That's the pink fluid in those tubes.</div>
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"I'm planning to quit work in two months. If you're good at the job, Dr. Green may want to train you to take my place and do the tissue culture. Betty does most of the virus titrations, and Marie takes throat swabs from clinic patients and inoculates the swabs into the tubes."</div>
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For the rest of the day, with the exception of lunch and coffee breaks, you watch the others change the medium in the tissue culture tubes. Dr. Green comes into the lab twice during the day; on neither occasion does he speak to you, but he says a few curt, incomprehensible words to Carolyn and Betty.</div>
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On the second day, the technicians show you how to set up a sterile syringe, and you change a rack of tubes. The test tubes are set at an angle in aluminum racks—15 tubes in a row, five rows of tubes in each rack, each tube tilted up slightly from the horizontal so that the pink fluid forms a small pool at the base and along one side of the tube. The cells can be discerned, barely, as a faint, whitish streak—a mere apostrophe—at the bottom of each tube.</div>
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The racks are set from top to bottom and front to back on one side of a large, walk-in incubator, its temperature set to match the warmth of the human body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you take the racks out of the incubator, the fluid in the tubes is a muddy orange like a mixture of blood and urine. When you bring the racks back after changing the medium, the fluid in the tubes is a delicate rose color.</div>
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Day after day, you change row upon row of tubes in rack upon rack. You take a tube out of a rack, take off the cap, flame the top, empty the tube, squirt medium into the tube from a syringe, flame the top to sterilize it, and cap the tube over and over for unending racks of tubes, each tube containing perhaps a million cells.</div>
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As the days bleed into weeks, you pick up the rhythm and perform it mindlessly. The tubes, the cells—you could change them, feed them if you needed to, in your sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as time goes on, the other technicians become less aloof, and you begin to make friends with Carolyn. Dr. Green has decided that you should learn to do the tissue culture, so you begin to follow Carolyn as she works, and you ask questions. As you pick up the details of her techniques for growing cells, you also discover that Carolyn is having marital problems.</div>
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"Every married woman who has worked in this lab has had marital problems, especially if they do tissue culture," Carolyn says after she has hinted that her husband wasn't always coming home at night. "He says he's on call a lot and has to stay at the hospital at night, but I don't really believe him. When I told him I had trouble sleeping when he wasn't home, he gave me a prescription for sleeping pills."</div>
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She takes a stack of bottles out of the incubator. "It's like it's something with the cells. They get to you after a while. That's why I'm going to quit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may have been here too long already."</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
"That's pretty hard to believe. How on earth could such tiny things as these cells influence a person's life?"</div>
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"I don't know. All I know is that Lillian was doing the cells when I first came. She left her husband after she'd been doing them for two years. And Denise—she did tissue culture after Lillian—broke up with her fiancé after only three months on the job. She quit work, and they got back together. Then I took over."</div>
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"But those are just coincidences," you say. Yet you feel an odd chill in the warm laboratory. You ask yourself, 'Could some glass-encased fragments of life really upset a stable marriage?'</div>
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"Maybe. I wanted to have kids, but Andy wouldn't hear of it until he finished medical school," Carolyn continues. "Then he wanted to finish his internship. He said we couldn't afford children on an intern's salary. Then he started his residency, and he asked me to work a while longer so we could get ahead. Now I'm sure he's got a girlfriend."</div>
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"Really?!"</div>
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"I even know where she lives," Carolyn says as she turns back to the incubator and lifts out another stack of bottles. "One night, when he didn't come home, I went out driving around and found his car."</div>
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"No kidding! Did you wait there for him to come out?"</div>
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"No."</div>
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"Did you go up to the house and knock on the door?"</div>
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"No."</div>
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"Well, what did you do?"</div>
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"Nothing. I drove back home. It wouldn't have been very civilized to go knocking on some strange woman's door looking for my husband."</div>
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"It wasn't very civilized of him to leave you stewing at home all night, either."</div>
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Carolyn smiles strangely. "The car was there another night when he didn't come home, too." She turns back to her bottles of cells. These are large bottles that lie on one of their flat sides, millions of cells growing on the inside, covered by a thin layer of the pink liquid. She flames the top of one of the bottles, gingerly removes the stopper, flames the top again, and pours off the fluid.</div>
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Into the bottle, she pipettes a solution containing trypsin, an enzyme that causes the cells to come up off the glass. She waits for a few minutes, and then begins to pipette the solution up and down, rhythmically, to lift the cells off the side of the bottle so that she can transfer them to other bottles and tubes, where they will continue to grow, divide and multiply.</div>
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That weekend, you invite Carolyn to play tennis with you. You urge her to stay and have dinner with you and your husband. The evening is pleasant enough, but Carolyn doesn't talk much. You're aware of tenseness, a distance that you have felt before with her, particularly when you imagine she is preoccupied with thoughts of her husband. She is self-conscious and self-contained, as though her inner life and this outer one were only tenuously connected.</div>
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A few days later in the lab, she remarks: "Why do you have everything—a happy home, a husband who loves you—and I have nothing."</div>
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"In two years, Carolyn, everything will have changed. Either your husband will be back with you, or if you two separate, you'll find somebody else you'll be happy with."</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
"I don't think so."</div>
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"Look, this weekend is the lab picnic. My husband has a friend, a fellow named Ron. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's quite attractive. Why don't I ask him to come along to the picnic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can go as a foursome."</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
"I don't think I should. How would it look? After all, I'm a married woman."</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Carolyn, you might as well not be. Besides, almost everybody in the lab knows what a louse your husband has been. No one would think twice about it. Come on, it would be good for you. You'd probably enjoy it. He's really a nice guy!"</div>
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"I don't think it would be a good idea."</div>
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You ask Ron to come to the picnic anyway, thinking you'll surprise Carolyn. When you phone her apartment Saturday morning, you get no answer. You and your husband stop by her place on the way, but no one seems to be there. She's not at the picnic when you arrive. In some vague way, you're almost glad that she isn't there, because you're annoyed at her stubbornness. Besides, your husband's friend seems to enjoy your company very much, which pleases you more than it probably should.</div>
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Monday morning, Carolyn is not at work at the usual time. An hour later, Dr. Green comes into the small tissue culture room and says, "Carolyn is dead. She apparently took an overdose of sleeping pills over the weekend."</div>
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That's it; that's all he says. For a long, slow, bewildered moment, no one moves; no one speaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything in the lab stops; the restless, directed activity is stilled; the click-clack of tubes going into and out of the racks is silenced.</div>
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You are stunned almost as much by the cold-blooded, matter-of-fact manner of his announcement as by the news itself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, you open the tissue culture log book and see the entry: 'Saturday, July 20. Changed medium on HeLa cells."</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
You open the shiny, stainless-steel incubator door. In it are 24 large, rectangular bottles, lying on their sides, stacked three deep, a thin layer of pink fluid covering the almost invisible, slimy film on the bottom of each bottle. The cells—millions of them—are warm, nourished, growing, dividing and very much alive.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;">
"From now on," says Dr. Green, looking toward you, "it's going to be your job to keep the cells alive."<br />
<br />
[<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">This was a winner of the South Carolina Fiction Project in 1986, and was published in the State Magazine (Columbia, SC</span>)]</div>
</div>http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-52493048719128918962011-09-15T05:20:00.000-07:002012-05-26T18:45:29.420-07:00THE GALLERYWe take the Metroliner to <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Dupont Circle</st1:address></st1:street> and walk up from there to the gallery. It's an early November evening and the air is cool and brisk. You walk with your hands thrust firmly into the pockets of your heavy, dark-blue pea jacket; the legs of your <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Levis</st1:place></st1:city> rub together with each step; your dark hair escapes in ringlets from under your gray wool cap. You stride along quickly, eager to arrive, although you've already seen much of the art work to be shown at this opening.<br />
<br />
The name of the gallery is partly obscured by an overgrown hedge but you know where it is. You say,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Everyone knows where it is," although I certainly would not have known. The gallery is a converted brick row-house, painted an unassuming gray. This is your first invitation to an opening at a major gallery and you consider it a signal that your career as an artist is finally underway. The front door opens into a crowded hallway, and a large room expands to the left, its walls a stark and glaring white. Dimly lit stairs covered by a black corrugated runner lead to the upper floors. You decide that we should go to the top of the gallery and work our way back down to the first floor.<br />
<br />
On the way up the narrow stairs, we press past other guests, mostly oddly dressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pass a black man with an iron-gray beard jutting in all directions from the skin of his cheeks and chin; his wide eyes seem wild behind thick, round glasses. A loose, gray overcoat, trailing nearly to his ankles, is open in front, exposing striped overalls of a type worn in days past by railroad engineers. A tall, thin woman, heavily made up, her hair swept into a roll set like a beret at a cocked angle on the side of her head, stares boldly at me on the lighted landing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dark blue body shirt plasters her flat shape; maroon, skin-tight pants are bound at the waist by a knotted red sash and tucked into knee-high black boots. The sash sags like a wilted flower on a stick figure stem. I must seem bland by contrast in a light blue shirt and khaki slacks, my normal office and lab attire. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We climb and angle to the top, to the third floor of the building. The brightness of the room and the whiteness of its walls glow into the dim hallway.<br />
<br />
You stop just inside the door and take off your coat. Your quick glance darts first one way then another, seeking familiar objects and people around the room. You take off your cap; your dark curls swirl about your face as you toss your head in a gesture of freedom and abandon. I love you when you're like this – your excitement, the vigor of your movements. We look at the art work; I follow you, but not too closely because you don't like me to crowd you when you're in this mood. You talk with others you know or seem to know. I watch at a distance as you gesticulate with your hands, obviously analyzing a piece of wood and terra cotta sculpture set on a stone block. You draw two fingers of your right hand parallel to a curve of the piece in a broad gesture as you talk, your eyes glancing first at the sculpture, then at your listener, then back at the piece. You draw your shoulders back and open both hands, palms upward, your arms spread widely. You slowly curl the fingers of your left hand as if holding a small bird and then draw your arms together, so that they hug the sides of your chest. Your left hand rises, dove-like, toward your head, which tilts backwards as your arms spread once more like petals of a flower unfolding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sequence of gestures seems so understanding, so informed; even more, it has a beauty of its own that, to me, transcends its source of inspiration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look at the <i>objet d'art </i>- at its formlessness, its obscurity, the bits of stick stuck obliquely, to all appearances randomly, in a mound of clay - and I wonder that this could have inspired such a dance of comprehension and appreciation in you.<br />
<br />
We spend two hours at the gallery and then go back to my place that evening because I have work to finish before I leave for a conference in the morning. In the small living room of my apartment, posters are laid out neatly, symmetrically, on the floor. I have to mount two graphs that were not finished by the illustrator until this afternoon. You walk slowly toward the posters and bend over thoughtfully. You take off your coat and hat and lay them carefully on the couch, then kneel and stare at the graphs and photographs for a few minutes.<br />
<br />
Finally, you ask, "Can you tell me what you've done? What have you found out?"<br />
<br />
I tell you that, within cells, certain chemical elements are present in different compartments but, until now, no one has known for certain where these elements were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell you we now have good evidence for where calcium is localized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mention the measurements we made and the controls we performed to show that our information and conclusions were correct. I tell you what we expected to find and how reality surprised us. I tell of my excitement at being able to determine whether a certain element is in one cellular compartment or another, even though those compartments are only a millionth of an inch apart.<br />
<br />
You glance first at the graphs and pictures, then up at my face, then back at the posters, an obscure look in your eyes. You nod occasionally, your brow creased with attention and concern.<br />
<br />
When I finish the explanation, you ask, "Why have you done all this? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of what <u>use</u> is it?"<br />
<br />
You gaze at me hopefully, as if in expectation of some explanation that I realize I will not now (perhaps not ever) be able to give you.<br />
<br />
"I can't tell you," I reply, kissing you lightly on your upturned forehead. I kneel next to the display and pick up tape and scissors lying on the floor beside it. You go to the kitchen and pour a glass of wine, then come back and settle into a chair from which you watch me, the glass tilted slightly in your hand, a disappointed expression on your face, as I finish the project.<br />
<br /><br />
[<span style="font-size: x-small;">This was published in 1981 in <em>Miscellany</em>, the College of Charleston literary magazine. It was also a semi-finalist in a New Millenium Writings contest in 2009</span>.]http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-47220258165700559982011-09-11T06:57:00.000-07:002013-01-23T15:10:09.738-08:00Acknowledgements<br />
I would like to express gratitude to all who provided encouragement
and ideas for these stories; many of you had no intention of serving as
models or foils.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the stories (although
not all) are virtually totally fabricated, their plot lines arising from a passing
remark, or an indignant comment by a colleague, or some dynamic of departmental
politics, or expressions of "collegiality" in meeting rooms or at
scientific conventions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Such stories began to formulate themselves in
my mind when it became clear to me that scientists are as irrational in their
behavior as any other category of people. This was initially a surprise, and
contradicted a rather naïve world-view held until my third decade. There was plenty
of evidence to contradict such naiveté before then; I simply hadn't paid
attention to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stories that will
follow on this blog were written long-hand in notebooks, and on pieces of paper,
on planes going to or from scientific meetings, during car rides with the
family, or during those few other periods of forced inactivity in what was an otherwise
extraordinarily busy time of my life, juggling a demanding scientific
career and the duties of being Mom to two small children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The typed versions were mindless therapy that
occupied many evenings as I wound down from a busy day.<br />
<br />
I would like to thank my ex-husband, Michael Smith, for his support
of these efforts, which he read and praised, and for his willingness to be
ignored during many family outings, although my neglect may have eventually doomed the
marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughter, Briana, later
also read and commented on several of the manuscripts.<br />
<br />
I would particularly like to thank Marion Hinson, a former secretary
in the Department of Anatomy and Cell Biology at the Medical University of
South Carolina, for her unstinting help and support with all of my writing
efforts--both scientific and literary--during the time that we shared
departmental facilities.<br />
<br />
I am also deeply grateful to my
parents:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to my mother for her
encouragement of reading and good literature, and to my father for his
encouragement of science and for the commitment to question everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without the harmonies and dissonances of such
disparate influences, these stories would never have been imagined.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Two
of the stories to follow have been published previously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Cells</i> was a 1986 winner of the South Carolina Fiction Project, and was
published in The State Magazine, Columbia, SC. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Gallery</i> was published in The College of Charleston literary magazine,
Miscellany, in 1981<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-40734469112873147862011-08-29T14:24:00.000-07:002014-10-15T10:47:56.491-07:00WHAT'S IN A NAME?Jo Ann(e) Valentine (Pascoe) Simson (Smith) <br />
<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: .5in; text-align: right;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Symbol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Word for something.</i><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Words have power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Names define</i>.<br />
</div>
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The issue of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the name</i></b> crops up intermittently when an identity crisis pops into my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a small foreboding of name-change anxiety while still a teen-ager, when I discovered that my name was not spelled the same way on my birth certificate as it was on my driver's license, and as I had always spelled it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I changed it to the birth-certificate version. That name change caused only a ripple of concern and involved simply adding an "e" to the given (personal) name.</div>
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Upon marriage however, the name change – from Valentine to Simson – felt radical, and I experienced it as a loss. At the time, the pleasure of marriage seemed to compensate for the maiden name's forfeiture and my identity confusion. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No woman I knew had kept her family name when she married. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Shortly after that marriage, I flew to Wisconsin to be bridesmaid for a college friend. Waiting in the airport for the bride-to-be's family, a rather desperate plea from the public address system broke through my reverie: "Jo Anne Simson PLEASE report to the courtesy desk." I realized that they were paging ME, "Jo Anne Valentine", so recently become "Jo Anne Simson" that I did not recognize that name as mine.</div>
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</div>
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<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Selfhood.</i><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Two factors contribute importantly to low female self-esteem:</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1) the frequency of sexual abuse of girls and young women, </i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">2) the almost obligatory name change when women marry</i>.</div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only when my marriage began to falter, then crumble, then dissolve into the chaos of divorce, did the issue of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the name</i></b> resurface. Although I had been working and paying bills while my husband was a graduate student, our credit was in his name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the separation, I was refused credit and, as a single mother with limited income, was forced, slowly, to establish a new personal and economic identity. </div>
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For practical reasons at the time, I kept the married name instead of reverting to my maiden name. My daughter's last name was, after all, the same as her father's. Keeping that name seemed the easiest and least expensive option. So, I entered graduate school and re-established credit with the name "Jo Anne Simson."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obtaining the Ph.D. in that name solidified it for me; it encoded the personal and academic struggles of a decade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On several occasions however, I have been unable to locate a female colleague in a professional directory or meeting roster because I didn't know her married name. This problem tends to diminish professional networking for women; after they marry, colleagues simply can't find them anymore.</div>
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A few years after finishing graduate school, I remarried. That was during the early '70s, before the full wave of that decade's feminism crested.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was assumed that I would change my name, but I was determined not to change it again. I had established credit in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the name</i></b> and had earned the Ph.D. in that name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I initially resisted the marriage proposal, saying, "I might consider getting married again, but I really don't want to change my name." What won me, I believe, was his response, "Well, you shouldn't have to change your name if you don't want to." </div>
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So I went to a lawyer and had a document drawn up enabling me to keep the name I had before the marriage. Everyone thought it was strange, keeping a first husband's last name when I remarried. Most of the children in the neighborhood called me "Mrs. Smith." Their parents found it scandalous that I did not have the same last name as my husband. </div>
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Still, it became something of a precedent in my family. My sister's daughter kept her previous husband's last name when she remarried. Her college degree and her professional credentials had already been established in that name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sister, herself, did the same when she remarried in middle-age. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my eldest and youngest daughters both kept their maiden names when they married.</div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Control</i></b>.</div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Adam named the beasts and gained control over them</i>.</div>
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My sister had two name-change crises early in her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first occurred while she was still in grade school. She decided to change her name when she discovered that she was being called by a name given to her by our father, but the name did not remotely correspond to the name on her birth certificate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our father had been conveniently absent at her birth but decided to give her a name of his choosing when Mother brought her home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The method my sister used to manage the transition to her new, "real" name involved simply refusing to answer anyone who called her by the other name.</div>
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Her identity crisis was no doubt precipitated in part because she was then in rebellion against our father's often autocratic parenting style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her rebellion didn't abate until much later, long after she had married in secret, having become pregnant at age 18, a taboo of major proportions in the '50s. When her marriage was revealed, she was disowned and expelled from the house, and my father took all her personal belongings to the local dump. Thus, when she married, she lost her identity in a great many ways: her name, her clothing, her books, her photographs, her mementos.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Being</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></div>
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<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We do not believe that something exists if it doesn't have a name</i>.</div>
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Ours is a country with a history of changeable names and flexible identities, except perhaps among New Englanders and Anglo-Scots-Irish South-Easterners. An immigrant's name might have been changed intentionally, perhaps to hide from a past identity, or by accident, because a customs official could not spell the foreign name. In many cases, the change was not contested because the past had been an unpleasant reality from which the newcomer was fleeing. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Continuity</i></b>.</div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Slaves were given the master’s surname;</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this could be changed if a slave were sold</i>.</div>
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Among African-Americans though, the name change ruptured a connection to a past culture from which they had been torn most violently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moreover, the change in name signified an identity conversion from personhood to property which still echoes in the deep undercurrent of resentment that disrupts the order, cooperation and stability of this country's culture. <br />
A woman's name change upon marriage also carries, historically, these same (rarely articulated) implications:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leave your past behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are now property, not person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your identity is tied to that of your master.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Personhood</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If you steal my money, I become poor. </i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you rob me of my name, I become nobody</i>.</div>
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I was active in Amnesty International in the 1980s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that time, our group had a prisoner-of-conscience who was imprisoned in Bulgaria for refusing to change his name from a Turkish name to the Slavic name assigned to him by the government. He was so impassioned about keeping his name that he was willing to go to prison rather than forego that key symbol of his identity and heritage. His personhood was intimately entwined with the name by which he had always been known, and he could not imagine an authentic life without it. We wrote letters to Bulgarian national and prison officials in an effort to persuade them to release him, suggesting that they were effectively trying to rob him of his very humanity by forcing him to change his name.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Individuation, specification</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There are more than twenty names for snow in the Inuit language</i>.</div>
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The issue of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the name</i></b> resurfaced when I began writing fiction and poetry. In writing scientific articles, I used the name "J.A.V. Simson." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were fewer hassles from editors if initials preceded my surname. A few colleagues who knew me only through the scientific literature expressed surprise, when we met, that I was a woman.</div>
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Since about half of the fiction I have written is set in the laboratory, and the stories are often not flattering to the practitioners of science, I didn't want to jeopardize my professional position by using the name that was on research articles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn't seem like a very personal name anyway; it was the last name of an ex-husband whom I hadn't seen in years. </div>
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My maiden name was Jo Anne Valentine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my literary inclination came largely from my mother, whose maiden name was Helen Pascoe, and who had earned an M.A. in English from Bryn Mawr. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mother's maiden name was Temple. I can't trace it farther back than that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women's names become lost in the mists of history. </div>
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I thought perhaps Pascoe would be a good literary name. I tried it in combination with Valentine, yielding the possibilities: "Pascoe Valentine" or "Valentine Pascoe." A friend preferred the latter, since Valentine could be a first name – if somewhat exotic – and was not gender-specific. Eventually it was abbreviated to "V. Pascoe." I prefer not to call it a pseudonym but rather a literary name, because it doesn’t seem like a false name. I see it as a true name, the name of my literary self, and I would have trouble writing fiction or poetry with any other name. </div>
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The name was intended to honor my mother, and the literary career she didn't have, as well as my matrilineage (if you'll allow me to construct a term). When I showed her my first story published in a national literary magazine, she read it and said: "Well, Dear, it's not the sort of story I would have written." We honor as we can.</div>
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Literary pseudonyms have been widely used, especially by female writers: George Eliot, George Sand, Isak Dinesen (all women hoping to be taken more seriously by using male names). Even Jane Austen was published as "Anonymous" until after her death. And of course, O. Henry, certainly one of the great American short story writers, was "really" William Sidney Porter. Or was he? Perhaps he was really O. Henry. And what about Mark Twain (a.k.a. Samuel Clemens)?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, what could be more natural than using a pseudonym for fiction?</div>
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Now I’m faced with a new dilemma. My children are grown. I have retired from scientific research. That name continuity is no longer important to me. I have considered assuming my maiden name once again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I have begun writing non-fiction. NOW, what should be my name? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who is it, here and now, writing this?</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Meaning</i></b>.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A name is a basket where meanings are cradled</i>.</div>
http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-478535111151945599.post-68132880310711631342011-08-21T18:40:00.000-07:002011-08-30T17:02:47.088-07:00V. Pascoe, Fiction<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">From the late 1970s to the late 1980s, I wrote a good deal of fiction as well as some poetry using the pen name <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">V. Pascoe</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of it was published, most wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the late 1980s, I had received over a hundred rejection letters - to be expected, of course, for any literary effort. I had published only two short stories in wide-circulation magazines (<em>Kansas Quarterly</em> and the <em>SC State Magazine</em>) and three others in a local literary magazine (College of Charleston <em>Miscellany</em>), as well as a few poems – including two in <em>Perspectives in Biology and Medicine</em>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The total receipts for all these publications came to about $300.00.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This seemed like a meager success after ten years of effort (part time to be sure, but intense and consistent). So I folded my tent (threw away the box of rejections), and moved on to other efforts like travel and travel-journal writing, which were satisfying and done largely for self and friends.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">With the advent of blogging and online publishing, it’s no longer necessary to win the lottery from a slush-pile genie, so once again, I’ve decided to put some fictional efforts “out there” – that is to say, here on this blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stories are quirky, with subject matter often depicting irrational human activity in the pursuit of science, and are definitely not MFA-style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One collection is entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Laboratory Notebook</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve also done stories of odd chance encounters between strangers, tentatively called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brief Encounters</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to paint word-pictures, and the stories don’t have much dialogue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tolstoy was my early, poignant, and persistent model for fiction, followed later by Nabokov, so those influences come out in my style.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ll load one or two stories a month, beginning with the shorter stories and those that have already been published.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll work up to longer stories, and then maybe serialize a couple of novellas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope you enjoy the stories, or are at least surprised and intrigued by them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before submitting the fiction, though, I’ll post an essay written a few years ago entitled: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What’s In a Name?</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This should explain the pen name and may offer a clue to my literary motivation.</span></div>http://solowomenathomeandabroad.blogspot.com/http://www.blogger.com/profile/00116246897231606697noreply@blogger.com0