Sunday, December 16, 2007

Tree Update

I need to add to Anna's initial tree descriptions. Our tree does not come to a point. Its like a church without a steeple. It is Howard Roark's tree (any readers out there? Who can name it?) I think our tree might be missing some chromosomes. Or have too many. The more the merrier we say at this time in the season. I have not fed the tree since that first night we turned it into a diabetic. I bathe the leave in metformin twice a day, glipizide on days when it acts very thirsty. Who feeds a tree soda? It can make its own food. Let just bottle up some sunshine and put that in the till.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

O Tannenbaum

My roommates and I got our first Christmas tree the other day, and the arguing began before we even got the tree in the car. I guess this sort of thing is bound to happen – all four of us have set notions of how Christmas ought to be celebrated, and the tree quickly became the vessel embodying all that expectation.

You could say I started it. Bundled up and squinting through the foggy windows of Jenn’s car, I was concerned, as usual, about something that was still a few steps away: what did we have to trim the tree? I had one string of lights, but no real ornaments. I was envisioning some long ribbons, classy chains of silver or gold balls, but when I suggested “tinsel” as a broader category of trimming supply, all hell broke loose. Turns out Dari hates tinsel; Alli suggested popcorn strings and was probably sorry she did.

We had wanted to cut our own tree down, but as the freezing rain continued all afternoon we opted for pre-cut, on the grounds that at least we weren’t getting a fake tree. We had scoped out the tree sales in our neighborhood, and we cruised around the eastern suburbs of Cleveland, yelling about tinsel all the way to our first stop. The first church was closed; the second looked more promising. We filed out of Jenn’s car into the parking lot, hidden under hoods and hunching our shoulders against the freezing rain.

Our options were scotch pine (the cheapest), then Douglas Fir, then another tree which we immediately disregarded because it seemed to be going for around $95. “We’re girls on a budget,” I told the Christmas tree guy, who looked dubious about our prospects of buying anything from him.

Alli wanted to know if a group of trees had been painted. (Painted?) “Yeah, those are the painted ones,” the tree guy told us grudgingly, and as soon as he admitted this, I realized it was pretty obvious – the needles were a shiny blue-green that, after having been to many Christmas tree farms as a child, I did not recognize.

“How did you know they were painted?” the tree guy’s supervisor asked, in a tone which implied that the rest of the sentence was, “and don’t tell anyone else about it, either.” (Alli’s inside information came from having gone Christmas tree shopping with her mother the weekend before.) Dari and I refused to have a painted tree in the house, but we also refused to pay $95, so we headed back to the car. Shivering, we waited with Jenn while Alli negotiated with the tree guys. Jenn was hopeful: “this is the part where she comes back with a tree for $20.” But alas - an unpainted tree for $44 was the best we were going to get, so we gave up and headed to the one place guaranteed to have a tree which would fit both our living room and our pocketbooks: Home Depot.

Home Depot had Douglas Fir, Blue Spruce, and a variety of pine which we did not further investigate because Jenn refused to have a pine in the house, for reasons she did not delineate. Personally, I have always like Douglas Fir[1], but it’s hard to go wrong with blue spruce, which is what the rest of the house wanted. I felt like Charlie Brown as we stood in the rain in the Home Depot courtyard and picked out a tree which did not quite look the six-to-eight-feet advertised by its label. It and all its neighbors were wrapped in blue plastic netting, which made Alli nervous about any defects hidden underneath. “What if we get home and it’s all scraggly?” someone wondered aloud.

We could only find a plastic stand, which led to a lot of griping about what had become of Christmas these days. (“What happened to metal stands?” I asked.) Once we had the tree in the car, though, we inhaled deeply the smell of Christmas and forgot all about the plastic stand.

On the way home a second dispute was born over the issue of nutrition: did the tree require any sort of supplement? I said no, just water, and called my father for confirmation. Dari claimed that trees needed soda (“Black or clear?” Jenn wanted to know), which we deemed preposterous.

I insisted on setting the tree up to dry in the basement. Jenn and I freed it from the plastic hair net and opened up the branches, which turned out to be a relatively painful endeavor. (Dari later told me this was the first she’d heard of drying the tree.) A few hours later we pulled it up the stairs. Five-foot blue spruces weigh more than you’d think, and we listed up the stairs, squeezing ourselves through the door and back again on our way to the living room. We released a shower of needles with every movement. Jenn held the top – and most of the tree’s weight – as I guided the trunk into the stand. I seemed to remember that there was a lot more yelling when my father and brother set up our family tree.

We tackled the lights next. The decision to use white lights was unanimous, but I also insisted on using the lights with green wire – which, along with using straight-up water to feed the tree and drying it before placing it in the stand, is in accordance with Linden Brady Christmas tree dogma[2]. Instead, my green-wired lights ran out after one loop around the base of the tree, and we had to finish with icicle lights. Taking great pains to hide as much of the white cord as possible, we sang along to WHAM! and Mariah Carey (thank you, satellite radio).

The sum total of tree trimmings was the following: half-a-dozen miniature ornaments, the largest about a cubic centimeter in volume; a stuffed animal mouse; two colored globes, sans hooks, which we balanced on the branches; a lego angel which I got in my shoe on St. Nicholas Day about 14 years ago; and two long, red shoelaces[3] which I draped like ribbon between the boughs. Halfway through the trimming Dari announced that her mother had confirmed the value of soda in tree nutrition, so we spiked the tree’s water with Sprite. “We’re making the tree diabetic,” yelled Jenn, but despite the high-sugar diet, I felt it would be hard to destroy the tree in the two weeks remaining before Christmas.

We wondered what to put on the top of the tree. A star – maybe. I vetoed an angel. Jenn suggested a blood donation bag, at which point I informed her that she could never call me a nerd again. I wasn’t sure what should go on the tree, but I felt it should embody a value of our house. (Hence no angel.) Should we put up the blue-and-yellow HRC equals sign? A toy stethoscope? A peace sign? So far the tree remains relatively unadorned, but that hasn’t detracted from the effect it’s had on the collective mood of our house. Just the sight of the lights through the window as I arrive home is enough to lift my spirits with memories of Christmases past.



[1] My attachment probably stems from a childhood of Decembers spent listening to our cassette of Raffi Christmas songs, which included “Trimming the Wicks on Douglas Mountain.” It’s not exactly Johnny Mathis or Robert Goulet, but it’s a fine album – “Petit Papa Noel” is probably my favorite track.

[2] I say “Linden Brady” dogma because my cousins, the Summit Bradys, always used colored lights on their tree, and I can’t truthfully speak to the particulars of all the other Brady trees.

[3] If you were to investigate the tree closely, you might notice that the shoelaces say “The LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon” in black lettering. They’re an appropriate decoration for our house; we joked about adding old sneakers – maybe they could go on top, especially since the tree sort of plateaus, rather than peaks.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

A Kit Kat has 218 calories (thoughts on Halloween)

I’m a little nostalgic for the Halloweens of old. Gone are the days when my siblings and I trooped around in the Buffalo snowT before coming home to dump our candy on the family room floor, the better to search for the razor blades and syringes that might be hidden among our loot.

I am the one passing out the treats these days, not without a significant amount of guilt – I’ve seen too many diabetic and obese patients struggle with changing their eating habits to feel good entirely good about passing out candy to little kids. Still, one evening (or a few) of candy binging isn’t going to ruin anyone, and I’ve always liked the eerie, semi-pagan atmosphere of All Hallows Eve. It’s the Celtic in me.

My roommates and I got pretty into things this year: we carved three pumpkins[ – at the neighborhood coffee shop’s pumpkin party, no less – and roasted pumpkin seeds, then arranged our schedules so someone would be home for the neighborhood kids.

At the hospital during the day I’d bragged about how tough I was going to be: “No candy without a costume or without saying ‘Trick-or-treat,” I’d claimed. We – my fellow medical students and I, the nurses, the social workers – had complained about the many ways in which people violated Halloween these days. Teenagers who show up without costumes, whoever it is smashing pumpkins overnight, parents who insist on collecting candy for the baby who is “at home.” If your baby is at home, this chocolate is calorie-free. (And if baby really is at home, too young to be out trick-or-treating, what are you doing bringing home a pillowcase full of candy for him or her?)

In reality, I was less firm when the time came to light our jack-o-lanterns and pass out Kit Kats, Hershey bars, and Almond Joy (chosen because they were on sale and because we’d appreciate the leftovers).

I harassed a few people: every kid without so much as a bandanna or ski mask was asked, “And what’s your costume?” Inventive answers included “just a boy,” and “a kid skipping school – don’t tell my mother.”

“You have to say the magic words,” I told a group of five or six teenage boys who silently held their plastic bags out in anticipation. They obliged in a mumble. “I haven’t had to say that since I was like twelve,” one boy said. I rather thought this proved my point, I told my roommate Dari. If you’re too cool to say “trick or treat,” then you are too cool to be on my doorstep asking for candy.

I won’t pretend that kids who showed more effort got more candy (we had a light turnout, and my roommates and I have a collective sweet tooth that made keeping too many Kit Kat bars around a dangerous idea). It’s occurred to me that some of these kids might not be able to afford a great costume, or their parents might not have the time to spend on an elaborate homemade one. But there’s really no excuse for not saying “trick or treat.”

“Is she old enough for candy?” I asked one woman who was filling a bag for her child, sleeping behind her in a stroller. “She’s one,” the mother replied. One-year-olds really need those Almond Joys.

My yuppie self sat there, eating edamame and squash while snarking about childhood obesity, during the two hours which had been designated for trick-or-treating by Cleveland Heights. This irony was not lost on me, and I started thinking about ways to make Halloween more healthy for the neighborhood kids next year. Little raisin boxesX? Mini popcorn bags? We’d be that house, the one where you don't get anything good. Probably we’ll give out candy again. Halloween just isn’t the same without it.



T Actually, I only remember it snowing once, but nostalgia is all about exaggerating. I should note that we also walked uphill both ways while trick-or-treating.

[ It was suggested that we make our three pumpkins into a non-traditional family (two mommies + baby) until I pointed out that pumpkins were gender-neutral, which made them sort of radical decorations to begin with.

X Apparently when my parents took me trick-or-treating for the first time, I got a box of raisins at the first house and wanted nothing more than to go home and eat them. My confused parents forced their three-year-old daughter to go to a few more houses and collect candy before giving in. I then hated raisins for about twelve years.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

Dr. God-complex

At work the other day, I heard such profanity as I've never heard in real life before. It was like the YouTube clips of The Departed or Good Will Hunting which feature four straight minutes of profanity. I swear, no pun intended.

Really, I have never heard the F-word used so much in real life. "Pass me the f&#!ing [this / that]." "Could you f%!@ing hurry up?" "Jesus, what the F^&! is taking so long?" Literally hours of swearing like this.

I have to believe that in any other field the person spouting these epithets would be fired - who would stand for this sheer disrespect? What other working professional, what other adult, could get away with this sort of behavior?

Only surgeons. What is it about medicine that makes people feel they have carte blanche to do whatever they want? They can speed, run red lights, swear at everyone in the operating room, talk incessantly about themselves, and society is supposed to put up with it. After two-plus years of medical school, I understand the joke in the West Wing where President Bartlett, upon meeting someone who mentions his son is a doctor, says, "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm married to one. Wait, you meant that as a good thing."

Something about the medical field makes doctors and doctors-in-training think we are above everyone else. Don't get me wrong - medicine is an amazing profession, surgery's incredible (more so when it works, which isn't every time). Yes, we save lives. But so do a lot of other people - in different ways, some more obvious and some more subtle. Soldiers, aid workers, lawyers who defend otherwise vulnerable people against the death penalty, against dictators, against all sorts of crimes; teachers who work in the inner city and make sure all kids have a shot at a career and a life; engineers who design the devices we doctors use.

No, there is such hubris in medicine, and what gets me is that many doctors - even medical students - acknowledge this without the slightest hint of remorse. The same surgeon who swore for hours at every person in the operating room (besides the patient, who was under the age of one) bragged to me later about how I'd be telling my friends about the asshole attending I met. I've had other people admit to me that they feel they are entitled to passage through traffic because - as a second-year medical student - they're worth more than, you know, the lawyers and city officials and firemen and nurses and teachers and parents making their way home after a day at work. I'm not joking.

Do I sometimes hear what people do and think, whoa, where's the greater good in that? - and feel a little superior. Yes, I do. But the self-righteous proclamations of those in medicine are worse, I think. We're on our way to making a lot of money - potentially, though there are plenty of docs who don't make the outrageous salaries of, say, neurosurgeons.

My desire to do work that matters and which helps others is one of the things which drew me to medicine, but I will readily acknowledge that medicine does not have a monopoly on work that matters. Far from it. I frequently think that if I really wanted to have a big impact, I'd drop out and go into journalism, or teaching, or law.

I realize that assholes can be found in every profession and every avenue. It just seems that there are a lot in the medical field, and I will have to work with these people for years. I just hope I don't become one.

Friday, June 29, 2007

The Pride of North Buffalo... still

This story in today's Buffalo News is about my old parish school and the pastor who's served there since before I was born. I think this sort of community spirit is why my parents continued to drag us to Mass years after we realized they didn't really believe much, if any, of the Roman Catholic doctrine we heard there.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Dangerous precedent

I don't have much more to say about this story from the New York Times besides the fact that this situation is absurd: two doctors who have voiced reservations about a new drug developed for prostate cancer have received threats for their trouble. The drug, Provenge, is waiting to be approved by the FDA for use. (The FDA voted that it seemed "generally safe" but has asked for more information before it gives the go-ahead for use.) Two physicians who are not convinced that the benefits of the drug outweigh its risks have received threats - one a death threat - after they voted against approval.

Now, I admit that I have not read the Provenge trials, and that I do not treat people with prostate cancer. That said, does the name Vioxx ring a bell? Remember, the fantastic painkiller which later turned out to increase the risk for heart attacks?

The bottom line is that drugs get approved all the time and are later found to be dangerous - there aren't enough people in the studies to catch all the possible adverse effects. The job of the FDA and the scientists who help it decide whether to approve drugs is to be cautious without unduly restricting. Threatening doctors who voice concerns about the efficacy and safety of a drug helps no one.

It's not as if someone woke up one morning and thought, "Gee, I'd really like to make life harder for people with advanced prostate cancer, so I'll vote against this drug."

Regardless of what ultimately happens with Provenge, it is NOT acceptable to threaten people who advocate for patient safety. Doing so sets a dangerous precedent - literally.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Do you feel a draft?

I wish someone would just have the guts to call for a draft. Everyone and his mama, include the Dub and Barb, know we do not have enough troops to do what they think needs to be done. Someone out there, anyone, with an ounce of political will, with serious intention, bring it up again. It has been said in so many ways, now lets just use plain English: It is not working. Or the Queen's English: Ye olde surge hath rendered ye little. No funciona, people. You can't run a business without workers! Call for the draft. Lets get everyone lined up and see how the tone changes. I am in. Sign me up. Birthdate 8.22.80.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Whole Hype

I made my first real visit to Whole Foods yesterday. I say "real" visit because while I first set foot in a Whole Foods a few weeks ago, that visit did not afford me time to conduct a proper survey of the store – I’d gone in with a specific, very limited shopping list, and I was in Seattle, which, as far as food is concerned, is how I picture paradise.

But yesterday I had some time to kill and decided to put a Whole Foods gift certificate to good use: a cousin of mine refers to Whole Foods as “whole paycheck,” so the gift card was the excuse I was looking for to investigate the store, which is a recent addition to the Cleveland area. We don’t have Whole Foods where I come from; I used to think of its absence as a reflection of the Rust Belt’s progressive status – or lack thereof. I’m not so sure about that now.

In general, I consider myself to be health-conscious and environmentally-conscious, so you might think that Whole Foods is my kind of store. In some ways, it is: it’s full of organic produce, zero-trans-fat goodies, hormone-free milk, unsulphured fruit. (If you have never had unsulphured apricots, they are worth the money – trust me). In the end, I got fair trade coffee, apricots, dates, tea, and a little carton of chocolate soymilk, for a treat sometime.

That said, I’m not about to become a regular shopper any time soon. First of all, I was disappointed by the coffee selection – there were plenty of beans, but very few of them were fair trade. Admittedly, one of the fair trade roasters was local – which I appreciated – but still, I could have gotten a broader selection in my tiny local supermarket in Buffalo (the first indication that the lack of Whole Foods in Western New York doesn’t necessarily mean much) or the local market I go to here in Cleveland.

On my first pass around the store, I noticed the food, the clean floors, the well-stocked shelves, all of which I appreciated. On my second loop I became more critical. Is it really necessary to have a fountain running all the time before the plants which are displayed in the garden section? If you’re going to claim that your store sells environmentally “friendly” goods, the fountain just seems a little out of place. Clean floors go a long way toward creating a nice ambience and promoting shopping; I just felt foolish when I passed the fountain.

The bottom line is that I didn’t buy anything at Whole Foods that I absolutely could not have gotten at the Food Co-Op on Euclid Ave, or the Lexington Co-Op on Elmwood Ave in Buffalo. Sure, Whole Foods had a lot of imports, but, frankly, neither my budget nor my taste makes imported goods high on my list of things to buy – with the possible exception of date and fig bread (the only things which would make me likely to return to Whole Foods soon).

Was the atmosphere nicer? I’ve never pretended I don’t prefer to shop in clean grocery stores, and Whole Foods fit that requirement much more than some of the chain stores I’ve shopped at in Cleveland and Buffalo in the past. To be honest, however, I’d have to say that most of the atmosphere was superfluous. I’d rather shop at my local general grocery store, and the next time I’m in the mood to splurge on unsulphured apricots, I’ll visit the local Co-Op.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Another book I don't have time to read

This is written by one of my favorite writers - he's reviewing a book by another of my favorite writers. How meta-something. Here's the link.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

A line drawn in the snow

“If lines were drawn, and the US and Canada were at war, which side would you be on?” a friend recently asked me after hearing my recollection of an evening spent watching the Tragically Hip in downtown Cleveland. (At the time I told him Canada, though, to be honest, it’ll probably be a game-time decision. After all, most of my family lives in the States – though, frankly, if lines were drawn in the snow, they might also move north.)

At any rate, about a month ago I saw the Tragically Hip live in Cleveland. The Hip are not my favorite band (Sam Roberts, if you’re reading this, my number is …ahem), but I grew up listening to them, and they put on a great live show, so it’s hard to pass up the opportunity to see them in concert. Apparently, most other people from Buffalo feel the same way (and I know a lot of women who feel the same way about Sam Roberts). I walked into the House of Blues in downtown Cleveland and immediately ran into a girl who grew up a block away from me in North Buffalo. The last time I’d seen her was three years ago – the last time I saw the Hip in Cleveland.

More striking was the observation that literally half the crowd was wearing Sabres jerseys. (I had on my “I love Buffalo” Tshirt … picture that “I love NY” shirt that everyone has, with the outline of a buffalo in the heart.)

“Oh, you’re from Buffalo? That’s pretty much like being Canadian,” an expat Torontonian told me this spring, when we met in England while traveling. But it’s sometimes hard to explain to people not from Western New York / Southern Ontario the strange affinity Buffalonians have for Canada – reference my friend’s question about which side of the 49th parallel I’d choose. Likewise, some residents of Fort Erie, the small town immediately over the border from Buffalo – where I lived till I was three and a half – have had to explain themselves recently, as they are rooting for Buffalo against Ottawa in the Stanley Cup playoffs. (http://www.buffalonews.com/101/story/71646.html)

This quirky wannabe-Canadian attitude – and our devotion to the Sabres – is what gives Buffalonians an instant sense of community when we meet out of town. I wonder if the concert venues are similarly packed with Sabres jerseys when the Hip play Seattle, for instance. I like to think so, and I like to think that one day, when I find myself living farther from Buffalo, all I’d have to do is seek out Canadian musicians to find some friends from back home.

This is not to say that Buffalo is the perfect city – any time you want to hear me lament about the terrible urban planning, the segregation, the extreme graft of city and county government, the dire fiscal straights, the famous local food that pretty much just slowly kills you (chicken wings, roast beef on weck), I'm up for it.

But everyone’s gotta root for the Sabres! Even some Canadians: http://www.thestar.com/Sports/article/212194

Friday, May 4, 2007

Veto fever

Someone needs to call the public health department in Washington DC because the president has some veto fever. The Repubs have a new tactic, and watch closely: Bush, unable to govern effectively is sitting like a child on the rails of progress, threatening to issue vetoes simply because he does not like something. Somebody get this kid a snack. He is cranky. Furthermore, note when the veto has been used - twice in his whole political childhood. The first time related to stem cells, the second to blocking the war spending bill. He is now threatening a veto on a hate crimes bill that would supply funding to local law enforcement to prosecute crimes committed against people due to their sex, diability, or sexual orientation. Today there was a threat to veto any spending legislation that comes through with attachments that, 'attempt to further build the abortion industry.' With no real political clout to spend, these clowns are going back to their old reliable social issues to try and fire up the base to salvage something from the Titanic as it goes down. THEY ARE CREATING SITUATIONS THAT DO NOT EXIST. THERE IS NO PROPOSED LEGISLATION THAT TIES ABORTION RIGHTS CLAUSES TO SPENDING. This is like saying, 'If Martians land, we will fight them!' Has not happened so far. Join reality people.

Furthermore, 3 of the 10 empty suits in the Republican debate this week raised their hands when asked who in the group did not believe in evolution. Is anyone here interested in a president that does not believe in evolution? Anyone? Perhaps they can't believe it because it has yet to happen to them in their lives. Sort of like I can't believe that the Lord will take care of anything - if he is supposed to, he is asleep at the wheel.

Healthcare is not a six pack of beer

Healthcare is not a commodity because it is not something that can simply be bought off the shelf. Consumers do not actively go out and select it; it is not an object but the assistance provided to cure and help educate people who are in need of care. The central tenet is the two people involved. The transaction does not end with the provision of care; care is not consumed as a bag of beans or a six pack of beer. The people involved in the transaction have an interest in each other beyond the transaction. It would further be suggested that, if healthcare is a commodity, it is easily exchanges for a different ‘type’ of commodity, based on the wide variety of choices available. Such a model fails to recognize that it is not usually the consumer who is buying the product from an unlimited set of options; employers are generally selecting the cheapest option and offering it to employees, who are happy to have anything at all. This circumstance does not resemble a market. It has also often been demonstrated that people are resistant to switch; the doctor is not the phone company or the airline.
Furthermore, the ethics of a commodity-based business transaction are different from an ethic of care. Business ethics that accept health care as a commodity will take an approach that is investor oriented, and looking for competitive edge, legitimizing unequal treatment based on unequal ability to pay. Professional ethics would require a certain degree of altruism and an abdication of self-interest at times, in the interest of the patient. Business ethic does not appreciate the protection and assurance of care that is required when people are ill and exceptionally vulnerable. Of course, a market ethics would not per se foreclose altruism; rather, it leaves no obligation to it. The ethics of the marketplace, then, easily replaces the more difficult ethics of professionalism. A marketplace structure erodes the commitment of the physician to the patient; the corporation ensures that this role will be filled by ‘someone’ – just not likely anyone the patient has seen previously. And what of the patient who makes a consumer choice to go without insurance, and then shows up at the physician’s door? If there is no moral obligation to care for all people in a commodity driven system, what does this say about our values?

Friday, April 27, 2007

Ten Reasons Gay Marriage is Wrong

From the NY Times blog re: NY Governor Spitzer's introduction of a marriage equality bill in the NY State Assembly.

Ten Reasons Gay Marriage is Wrong
1) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.
2) Straight marriage would be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed. The sanctity of Britney Spears’s 55 hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.
3) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society. We could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven’t adapted to cars, theservice-sector economy, or longer life spans.
4) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn’t changed at all. Women are still property, blacks still can’t marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.
5) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
6) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn’t be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren’t full yet, and the world needs more children.
7) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
8) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That’s why we have only one religion in America.
9) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That’s why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raisechildren.
10) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Inactivism

I'm in my annual post-Earth Day cycle of guilt, resolution and compromise. Back when I was, oh, ten, I was a little more tangibly connected to April 22: we'd partake in some kind of school-sponsored recycling or tree-planting. In college, during my brief and somewhat tortured career as an environmental activist, I participated in various Earth Day activities. (On a pretty politically inactive campus, I was one of the few active members of the Sierra Club - I was enticed by the vegan barbeque early in freshman year and then stuck with the club partly out of idealism, partly out of my annoying tendency towards reliability. Someone's got to show up and get things done.)

I showed off hybrid cars on the engineering quad; I chalked campus sidewalks; I planted a tree or two. Mostly, what these endeavors had in common was bad weather. Cleveland's spring, like most of its other seasons, is known for its fickle nature - no pun intended - and my memories of college activism are of being cold, wet, and disgruntled. To be fair, part of the disgruntlement came from trying to convince fellow students that it was worth their while to care about the environment at all.

Sure, hybrids look cool, and if you happen to value fuel efficiency, they're better still, but what 19-year old is going to be bothered to stop between computer science labs when it's 34 degrees and sleeting to hear all about Earth Day? I found it hard to be enthusiastic when all my energy was going into keeping the blood flowing through my fingers, especially when I knew it was highly unlikely I’d have the funds to buy a hybrid till long after grad school was done. I was a compromising sort of environmentalist, the person always saying, "yeah, but who's going to come to that event?"

From there, my activism has ratcheted down a notch. I'm sure that if I added up all the good things I do for the environment (carpooling twice - sometimes three times! - a week to school; recycling at home; turning my computer off at night) they would be far outweighed by the dozens of little ways my day-to-day life is slowly destroying planet earth. Am I hyperbolizing? Not really.

I drive a car. I shower longer than I need to. I don't recycle as much as I could; I own a lot of electronic appliances; I don't always eat all my food. I did buy some Ecover to wash the dishes, but I still use bleach to clean the bathroom. I dried the lettuce (which was probably shipped across the country and thus wasted lots of gas) for my salad with a paper towel, not a cloth one. Etc etc etc. It’s depressing if you let it get to you.

I guess it comes down to doing what you can: I live in an area where I can (usually) walk to the grocery store, and if I don’t walk I try to bring a canvas bag or two instead of letting the checkout person use three plastic bags for one half-gallon of milk. My roommate and I carpool when we can – to be fair, we could carpool every day, but it’d be a huge pain in the ass sometimes. I could bike more than I do, but at some point I put the health of my back (medical textbooks are heavy), not to mention my personal safety, ahead of my Sierra Club ideals. At least my household recycles.

There’s a line between picking your battles and being complacent; there’s a line between being informed and obsessing about things beyond your control. I guess that line moves for me, depending on any number of things, from the news to my own energy level (too tired to bike today). On this particular April 23, I didn’t do a very good job of being earth-friendly, but I’m carpooling tomorrow.

CNN bedtime stories?

Sitting in a cafĂ© in Cleveland Heights, an astute 7 year old is sitting behind me relaying to his grandmother how George Bush started a war in Iraq and how it is all George Bush’s fault that his friend from school’s dad has to go back to Iraq. He continues to detail the reasons for the war, explaining we are in Iraq because the South wants slavery and the North does not. This poor child is mixing his war metaphors. This reminds me of a spring day driving my niece Leah to soccer practice. Just as I was about to flip over the Peter is Bossy book on tape, she pipes up from the back of the car with, ‘Catherine says it is good that John Kerry is not the president because John Kerry kills babies.’ I nearly drove off the road. Catherine is a simple minded God-squadron foot soldier who on occasion will watch Leah if my sister is at work. I do not care what you think about abortion; these thoughts are not appropriate for sharing with a seven year old child whose chief priorities are American Girl Dolls and soccer. Why did Leah choose to tell me this? I live hundreds of miles away from Leah, but I am a diligent, guilty aunt, brimming with gifts and enthusiasm. She shared this bit of information, I think, because she knew I would disagree with Catherine. She wanted someone to know that Catherine had said this to her, and I think she saw me as a safe harbor. Next time I saw Catherine I practically pulled her out the window of her leased minivan and told her if I heard anything remotely resembling this type of comment to any of my nieces again I would kick her back to the Medieval age she wishes she lived in. Bottom line folks is that kids are watching. They will tell on you or they will reflect you or they will internalize whatever is shown to them. You cannot fool them, so do not try to lie. You do more of a disservice in the long run. Just try, as best you can, to give them tools for evaluating a diverse world full of misinformation. If you do not fill the gap, someone else will.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Re-read

I have taken to re-reading novels I took in when I was a teenager. The first was Old Man and the Sea. The first time, I was bored, kind of tired of the terse prose, more interested in finishing the book so I could write some pithy essay on it, an essay that hid my ignorance behind skillful writing. Reading was not for pleasure; it was an input time, a short breath before the self-righteous output. It was not reading; it was pausing to reload. Ten years later, all I want to do is revel in simple stories of consistency and dedication and loyalty. Herein runs a theme: consistency, dedication, and loyalty are also characteristics I also perceive to be attached to nuns (see previous post re: nuns). I have picked up a second one now – a re-reading of Catch-22. First time around it was absurd, repetitive, and frustrating. This second time around, I am in the midst of genius. Try it. Pick something up for a second time. A new person is reading it. Next on tap for me will be a re-reading of what I call my favorite book – Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. I can find out if I still like it or if the lure of length and Russian-ness was what carried me through.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Calling all busybodies

Calling all busybodies: the government of Cuba may have a job for you.

Well, not really – but for Cubans like you. The national health care system in Cuba, which works remarkably well given its shortage of medical supplies (thanks in part to the US embargo … but that’s a story for another time), is based on a dense network of family practitioners. One in each neighborhood (per 400 people, actually), with a supporting network of nurses, assistants, and brigadistas de salud. .

The term doesn’t translate literally – “community health worker” isn’t really an adequate translation. The brigadistas are basically gossips with a government mandate; all-seeing and all-knowing, they are on the lookout for disease in the community, and they’ll snoop around your house to find it.

Part of me loves the idea of legitimizing the role of the busybody: there’s at least one in every neighborhood, every circle of friends … why not put that person to work for a “good” cause? They get jobs, the local doctor knows what sort of problems his patients are dealing with, and probably a few more people are encouraged to seek the care they need. (It’s unclear to me to what extent this gets people in trouble for behaviors not directly related to health, but it seems like it’s mostly problems with diabetes and asthma that get reported, not smoking, which is bad for your health everywhere but also banned in public places in Cuba).

Here’s another one to get your mind around: every child between the ages of six and fourteen who’s had two asthma attacks requiring him / her to miss school is forcibly removed from home and sent to attend a special boarding school for asthmatic kids. They go home on weekends and during the summer. The idea is that this will be cheaper than the visits to the emergency room the kids would be making otherwise – since at the school they actually have access to the medications that control asthma. And this is what’s so mind-boggling: it is cheaper for the Cuban government to pay for the room and board and medications for those children, so that after just two asthma attacks it is financially worth it to prevent future ER visits. At least, that would be the justification.

Then there is also the business of quarantine for all HIV-positive Cubans, which is a thornier ethical issue. It’s sort of an optional quarantine: you could leave the compound, but the amenities inside are probably much greater than those you’d enjoy outside. And inside, your HIV medications are guaranteed. Again, it’s unclear whether the motivation for this is to optimize treatment or to isolate a segment of the population.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Reviving the City, part I: Cleveland Gift Ideas

Some friends and I went to see a great documentary the other night: Cleveland – Confronting Decline in an American City. As you might guess from the title, it was an uplifting 58 minutes. Actually, the film was more uplifting than I’d anticipated: along with the obvious references to the Cuyahoga catching fire and the city declaring bankruptcy, it featured some interviews with people who’d moved back to the city.

I wanted to make all my grad school friends – maybe all grad students and young professionals in Cleveland – watch the film. In the meantime, here’s idea No. 1: convince people my age of the importance of reviving the city and inner ring via judicious use of our spending money, such as it is.

I can imagine the arguments against getting involved in revival: “Yeah, fine, but what am I supposed to do about it now? I’m not buying a home, and anyway I’m only going to be here for another few years, blah blah blah. Nothing for me to do.” Not true. We all spend money – at coffee shops, at movie theaters, at restaurants. Why not spend it at local coffee shops, local movie theaters, and local restaurants? It really does make a difference.

Buying someone a gift? Go to http://www.altrue.net/site/futureheights/section.php?id=13808 and get a gift certificate to a local shop. Birthday dinner? Think about it: you can drive 25 minutes from Cleveland Heights to eat at some chain restaurant in Legacy Village, or you can drive 5 minutes and eat at a local place. I guess it depends on how much you really like the generic food served at Claddagh. I would rather walk or drive the short distance – or if I’m going to drive 20 minutes, I’d rather eat at some place like Johnny Mango’s (http://www.jmango.com/) than the Cheesecake Factory, or Dewey’s Pizza (a chain, but an Ohio chain!) than the California Pizza Kitchen. I realize not everyone shares my food preferences, but still.

I’m not saying that we should all become full-time community organizers; that said, I believe that living somewhere for three to five years (i.e. during grad school) and actively ignoring the community you live in is just plain wrong, not to mention myopic.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Heartless or mindful?

Humans are in some sense, Colt guns. We have interchangeable parts; my young marathon running heart would fit tidily into another persons’ chest. It would keep ticking away. I am interested in the associations that get tied to organs – in Chinese medicine, for example, the liver is the window into the person’s overall being. A combination of Western myth and Hallmark has located the heart as the center of the human soul. Yet it really is just a muscle; you would still be you if you had someone else’s heart being in your chest. Your laugh, smile, values – none of it emerges from the glorified hunk of meat that propels blood through your body. Imagine you are on the transplant list, and the only heart that comes available is from a murderer that died in prison. Or perhaps Saddam Hussein had been an organ donor. Would you pass that heart up, even though another might not come along? Would you be more likely to accept a pancreas from such a person? Outside of the mind, I would take any of it.

Rutgers v Smith

I periodically check the websites of major foreign news organizations (the BBC, El Pais), since it's a good thing to get some perspective on the news you see from home. I wondered whether non-US news outlets had anything to say about radio personality Don Imus's comments about the Rutgers women's basketball team (if you haven't heard about this yet). Thus far, the story doesn’t seem to be featured outside of the US, though the BBC had a prominent article about the results of the paternity test done for Anna Nicole Smith's baby.

In fact, the paternity test featured prominently on many of the sites I checked. The Rutgers story was given top billing on most of the US outlets but absent on the international sites. Do I necessarily expect the BBC to be giving what is ostensibly an American story top billing? No, but then, they’ve got stories about Anna Nicole Smith and Salma Hayek, and Johnny Cash’s house burning down.

The BBC and other news outlets don’t make the news, but they do prioritize the information they share with the world. In choosing to cover a story, they bestow it with some degree of importance. The front page (or its online equivalent) has a tendency to legitimize.

There's been enough written about what should or shouldn't happen to Imus - that is not my point here. The point is that the furor about what he said is newsworthy, and the clamor over the paternity of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby is not. People rely on the media for information about what’s important.

If you’re reading the news to get a sense of what you ought to be aware of, then what’s more important? Some deceased celebrity’s messy life? Or the continued existence of racism and sexism, despite years of dialogue? Which is more relevant to your own life?

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Holy Research Assistants

I am recruiting volunteers for two research projects related to the Catholic Church. The first involves going into confessional and asking hard questions of the man behind the grate. Stem cells, divorce, women’s ability to be priests – fire away. For example, ask, ‘My wife is very ill and there is great evidence that a stem cell injection to her failing heart can save her life. There is a spot for her to receive this treatment in Brazil. There are no other options for her, beyond heart transplant, which is unlikely. What should I do?’ I am interested to see if the advice dispensed from the dark side is in line with the party policies handed down from the Bridge himself. I am particularly interested in the issue of transubstantiation. Catholics are actually supposed to believe that the Eucharist and wine turn into the body and blood of Christ, but that they retain the physical characteristics of wine and bread. This is a key distinction between the rituals of being Catholic and the rituals of being Protestant. Ask the priest, please, if he actually believes this. All I can think of is the musty cabinet on the floor at St. Luke’s Church that held the wine and Eucharist. The wine was in a plastic jug, and the Eucharist came in packages like Saltines, bulk purchased at the Christian Costco. Body and blood. Really?

The second project involves the secret life of nuns. There must be a whole secret mentality, networks, competition, jealousies, loves, near-misses. If you know any nuns, please speak to them and get back to me at barrels.empty@gmail.com. I would love to speak to them directly. Maybe what goes down in the convent stays in the convent, but there is always a gossip, someone just dying to spill the beans. I mean the beads.