Sunday Morning ~  One Rotten Groundnut

Nshawa yoola ilabvulitsa zolimba. ~ One rotten groundnut makes you spit out the good ones.

~ Chewa proverb

April 25, 2021

Hi Everyone,

A member of your tribe behaves in a way you don’t condone. What do you do? How do you keep your personal reputation intact? Who’s approval do you seek, the public or the boss? What if, per usual, money is involved? How hard is it to call someone out with resulting consequences? In theory, it shouldn’t be difficult. We should butt in, pushing the offender out of the way, stand up for what is right. But in reality, that’s often not what happens when it is a member of our tribe. 

Take medicine. I’ve seen doctors, skilled practitioners, behave atrociously. The murmurs of disgust are hushed and ineffective. The behavior does not stop because there is often financial gain. When I worked at a prestigious teaching institution, an obstetrician would leave bloody footprints down the hall, high heels clicking, after needlessly and roughly tearing out a placenta, causing massive pain and unnecessary blood loss. Many who knew her practice abhorred both the act and the result. Nurses complained. Those in charge said nothing, shook their heads as if, oh well, what can you do? Well, they could have done a lot. Revoked privileges for one thing. And this is just one example; there are many more. Were women harmed? In my opinion, yes. Did they recover? Probably. Did they know they could get better treatment elsewhere? Don’t know. No one went into the room and said, “Hey, between you and me, you can get better care from someone else.”  No one did that. If a woman died there would have been a review, but would the doctor be banned from practice? Probably not. What was her motive for this behavior? It was not standard of care. No research supported her practice. Was this one bad apple? This excuse is not unique to the police force. 

While this is not a fair comparison to the police brutality we’ve seen thanks to Steve Jobs, it is about peer review and what we tolerate from our professional colleagues. I quit my job, a job I loved, because of a dangerous practitioner working on the medical staff. The doctors knew he was unethical and immoral, the nurses knew it, the administrators knew it, some of the patients knew it, but many didn’t. He brought a lot of money in to the hospital so his transgressions were tolerated for years longer than they should have been. The one doctor who stood up and spoke out was herself targeted and bullied until she, too, quit. Ultimately, the community pays a price.

Look at the Catholic church. How many years was despicable, criminal behavior overlooked or tucked away? Every accusation and revelation made me crumble. Not again. Not another. The way the world regarded Catholics after that put me on the defensive. But there are so many good priests, I’d argued! And there are. But if they keep the bad ones propped up, for whatever reason: ignorance, shame, confusion, or arrogance, it hurts all of us. After thousands of lives shattered, and millions of dollars in reparations, they are cleaning up their act. Why isn’t this a lesson for other professions? 

It seems to matter who the victims are. Those without a voice, or video camera, have little ground to stand on. Perpetrators, seeking power over a group, get consumed with power once they get away with it, repeatedly. If a woman with means feels she has been cared for improperly, or if there is a bad outcome, she can sue. This practice dramatically changed the face of medicine. Monetary settlements was the driving force in attempting to make the medical community accountable. But it did not remove bad apples. It just makes insurance costs higher and those costs are passed onto patients. So, “bad apples” have made medical care more expensive and invasive. Unethical practice (for which there is financial gain) props up profitable treatments. Then this hurts all of us when the public does not trust medical research.

Defensive medicine is not the answer, but being financially accountable changes the landscape. If that’s what makes the decision makers stand up and take notice, decide they won’t tolerate inappropriate  or dangerous behavior, then bring it on. Start suing. The ones who have real reason to sue, often don’t. They don’t have the resources, the energy, or the inclination to force the system to treat them fairly; they get depressed and mistrustful. What if municipalities had to pay large sums repeatedly for civil servant’s abuse? Would the mayor finally say, “Enough!” and fire these suckers?

I was so incredibly relieved this week when the guilty verdict was announced. I tried to manage my fear when the jury went into deliberation. I prayed. I thought of Rodney King. I prayed we’d made progress. My anxiety of the past four years bubbled up as soon as I heard the verdict was imminent. I couldn’t breathe. I thought about that, I couldn’t breathe! I kept trying to inhale deeply to calm myself down. I prayed that we as a nation were turning a corner, finally taking responsibility for our past abuses. My relief was tremendous, and that’s just little me. It wasn’t my son murdered. We have to make the abusers start paying. We have to create a system where we aren’t excusing the whole because of a bad  apple or groundnut. I was guilty of this. I got defensive about the fact that all priests were being branded as child molesters. I get it now. We’ll all rot. 

What a waste to spit out the whole mouthful when we are usually so painfully clear about exactly which ones are rotten.

Love to all,

Linda 

Sunday Morning ~ Avoiding the Pit

Ng’ombe ya ukali imagwa m’mbuna. ~ The angry cow falls into the game pit.

~ Chewa proverb

April 18, 2021

The angry cow, consumed by it’s anger, stomps around, does not see the trap set out in the form of a pit, and stumbles into it. The calm cow sees the pit and walks around it, avoiding an embarrassing and undignified situation. In this proverb I’m assuming the calm cow is also angry but uses anger productively and rationally and avoids traps. That must be so nice. I always wanted to be the calm cow, but I’m really not. I’ve fallen into more than one pit. I watch measured responses, well thought out and even, spoken in calm words, that can be quoted and marveled at, and always wondered how their brain works that they can deliver with such composure. Is it a God given talent or inherent serenity? Or did they grow up in a home where anger was rationally channeled? Not sure, but it never ceases to impress me. 

I listened to an interview yesterday with the Reverend William Barber, a man who has every right to be angry. As I listened to him, I thought, he does not fall into the huge American pit. I listened to him lay out the timeline for the journalist in a methodical and calm way. He described how slowly change in a culture like ours unfolds. They were talking about the union vote in Alabama. The flashy news cycle declaring defeat, triggering anger and frustration, to him is irrelevant. What is relevant is progress, not winning or losing. It is progress, he says, that there was a vote. I’m moved by his lesson and I am grateful to him. I’m impatient for all the changes I want to see in my lifetime. He made me think about measuring progress in a new way and how easily we  can get discouraged and burn out if we have unrealistic goals. It is the progress, slow and sometimes imperceptible, but always a step forward we need to focus on. I see how, when I am the angry cow, my vision is blurred. 

In college I attended an assertiveness training for women. This was an effort to teach us how to speak up for ourselves without being angry. I watched with awe as the instructors modeled assertive behavior with integrity, grace, and ease. To be assertive and not angry is an effective skill and I wish I had mastered it better. It’s a joy to watch. Nancy Pelosi has it down. As I’m teaching this course about the history of women’s health care, it’s bringing me back to the 70s when assertiveness was angry, or labeled as such. Anger welled up as women were being demeaned and finally decided to say something about it. This justified anger resulted in them  being mocked, ridiculed, and punished, but it was a first step. I took the new notions home with me, thinking, surely everyone would see the light and get on board, but that’s not how the story went. My father regarded any woman speaking up for herself as a personal affront, as if he’d lose his livelihood. He referred to them as “Libbers” with undisguised contempt. It was a decade full of controversy and struggle, but for me and many young women, it was a step. 

It’s so strange to be teaching about an era I lived through as history! I feel like Cleopatra or something. It just doesn’t seem that long ago. These years have all melded together and it’s hard to separate the steps forward from current issues that take us back. But when I break it down, I see the steps more clearly and it’s easier to gauge the progress. When I feel like we are fighting the same battles over and over, I look to differentiate the similarities with the progress, cognizant of the common thread that connects us. I see a dying gasp of patriarchy clinging to desperate artifacts, knowing their line won’t hold. This history, the courageous women who struggled  before us with far fewer tools than we have now, teach us to be clear and calm, put one foot forward, and avoid the pit. It seems a solid strategy for longevity.

Love to all,

Linda 

Sunday Morning ~ To Keep From Rotting

Pamodzin di pamodzi padaolera citsononkho. ~ Always on one place made the cob rot.

~ Chewa proverb

April 11, 2021

Hi Everyone,

We are moving from faux spring into real spring, which is a bit early this year in Maine. Tomorrow I’ll get my snow tires off, which, should guarantee a snowstorm later in the week but today the crocuses and daffodils are blooming, day lilies and tulips are starting to poke up. I had my last day of downhill skiing this week, the first time ever I have skied without a jacket. It was nice, but felt a little confusing. The snow was like soft brown sugar, just this side of slush, and it was hard on the legs. I’m glad I went though; I’m all about proper goodbyes. I liked knowing it would be my last day for the year. It was a healthy way for me to get through a solitary winter. The peepers and frogs are singing in the evenings. I haven’t got the screens in yet so I’m a little nervous about sleeping with the window open. I’m not too worried about insects, but I’m afraid a squirrel might come in and that would be a hellish nightmare. Neighbors would be calling 911 for sure. Today I’ll get at least the bedroom screen in so as not to miss the most perfect Maine lullaby.

I drove an hour yesterday to get my second dose of vaccine, waited in line in the warm sun, wearing only one jacket as opposed to the three layers I wore three weeks ago. The people in line were much younger than the last time I was there and it was heartening to see so many young adults. Maine is doing something right. Again, the system was incredibly efficient, friendly, and professional. My heart was full as I waited my post-dose fifteen minutes. Even the parking lot was a pleasant place with people pointing to spots about to open up as they headed to their cars. It was so sweet. I thought, if an alien landed in the middle of this lot and looked around they would believe that earthlings are very helpful people! They’d write stories about how very kind and attentive we are to each other. There is no controversy or disagreement, only polite and friendly chatter, assistance for those in need, and subtle greetings with funny cloths over their faces. Maybe the air is bad to breath, they might think, but the people are remarkably kind to each other. 

Now that I’m fully vaccinated I definitely feel a sense of relief, though I’m not feeling so great today. Thank you immune system. I have been exceedingly careful as the thought of spreading this virus unnecessarily is abhorrent to me, but in two weeks I’ll feel safe having dinner with my vaccinated friends. I can’t wait to share a meal.

I started teaching at the local college and am settling in to my class via zoom. It’s incredibly awkward. I spent the first week wondering why I did this to myself. When I taught at this college ten years ago I was given a class list and a room number. I showed up and taught. Good God, now I practically had to take an entire course just to learn how to navigate the online system, fulfill my orientation requirements, and figure out how to set up the class with students joining from various locations. I’m still unsure about etiquette and boundaries. Not sure yet if I should require the video be on and struggle with measuring what each student has learned. I dread grading them. 

I had very few college courses that I considered fun. They were mostly a chore, a slog through piles of required dry, boring reading. I want the students to look forward to this class, yet don’t want to be a sap. I had a couple of college professors who were inspiring and that’s what I want to be. This one class, a total of three hours a week face to face, screen to screen, or whatever you call it, seems like a full time job! I don’t know how full time teachers do it. I really don’t.

The first book I had them read was Witches Midwives and Nurses, a history of women healers written by two women from the Boston Women’s Collective. (It is sinking in that these students could be my grandchildren, and the women’s movement is ancient history to them.) I stress the importance of telling your own story, in your own voice. No witch got to tell her story. Imagine how our perception of women healers might be different. So much of their wisdom was lost. And for what? I wonder how much fear they lived under? Or with no mass communication, did they know they were burning midwives down the road? Now we are reading A Midwife’s Tale, a historical account of colonial midwifery in Maine from the diary of Martha Ballad, a midwife in Hallowell during the revolution. She made a daily record for twenty-seven straight years at a time when few women could write. It’s fascinating to compare the focus when the story is gleaned from women’s perspective. The day to day tasks recorded in this diary were passed over by many male historians as insignificant women’s work. But she was the first person in America to keep birth records. It is astonishing. 

I thought about the comparison between historical accounts, how stories are now being told from different voices, how this can turn us over and create healthier minds and beings. Being immersed in readings about racism I’m learning how the history books of my youth colored my perspectives and how organizations have systematically contributed to racist oppression. It’s painful to read and process. But, as I’ve said to many women in labor, there’s no other way but through. 

Love to all, 

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Rising

Kanthu aonenji adagwira kanthu mu mdima. ~ Mister “How can we see something” (blind) caught something in the dark.

~ Chewa proverb

April 4, 2021

Hi Everyone,

Easter this year is the anniversary of the day Hannah died seven years ago. It’s cold today. Seven years ago the day was cold, but in an April way. Today is cold in a December way, freezing and sharp with a biting wind. The light betrays us. On April 4th seven years ago I was painting my kitchen. It was half done. I never liked the color after that. I kept it, though, for five years. It was always a reminder. But it was never right. I never looked around and thought what a nice warm color. I always thought, I was painting that day. The day my friend’s child was gone on April 4th.

“Never a cross without a resurrection!” That’s what Irene used to say when I worked in her Stitch It Shop. Whenever I was upset about something she’d chirp, “Never a cross without a resurrection!”  I believed her, after all, she was living proof. Her life before I worked there had been difficult for a good long while. She told us of the years she carried her cross having one day off from the shop and traveling between the mental hospital and the prison. Husband at the first stop, son at the second, she’d visit them both every Sunday after mass. She told us stories of these visits without bitterness or self pity. At least I didn’t notice any, though as a teenager I may have missed some nuance. I marveled how she could still have a sense of humor. She told us the Lord had rewarded her after her husband died with a loving second marriage and more material comforts than she’d ever dreamed of. She’d list the presents she got for her birthday or Christmas. When I marveled at the romanticism and generosity, she said, “God is rewarding me because I went twenty years without a gift.” For her, the connection was evident. Famine followed by feast for the faithful. She spoke of bible stories as if she had been there when they happened. There was always meaning for her in real time. She was generous. She often opened the cash register and handed out bills to the less fortunate who’d stop in to chat. I never heard them ask for money; it was small town compassion. A masterful storyteller, she recalled details about our town in the depression, war time, the aftermath. I learned a lot about our town’s history from her. She was born in that town and never left. She knew all the players and many of their secrets. Her stories were raw and honest. Coming from a family where troubles were not aired and personal failings never discussed, I found this incredibly refreshing. It was a relief. I felt permission to do the same. A son in prison and you talked about it? That would have been unthinkable in my house. My parents took mysterious family history to their graves and I still wonder if I’ve got a step sibling out there somewhere. No one is left to tell the story.

I’m teaching a course at College of the Atlantic this term and asked the students to write a story about an experience they had in the healthcare system. Keep it tight, I told them, don’t waste words but tell us what happened. I asked them to consider all the women’s stories that have never been told and how much history has been filtered through a male screen. Imagine, just imagine, if your brother, boyfriend, husband, priest or father were the ones to tell your story. Imagine how your story might be told. Then imagine what you’d like unborn women to know.

I went to church today for the second time in a year. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until I walked in and felt a wave of safety, calm, and peace wash over me. I sat at the back, the church much fuller than I expected. I’d believed during this pandemic that going to church was something I could omit along with grocery shopping. Why add to the chances of contagion? But the Easter tug was strong and I’m glad I went. I thought about the twelve who got to tell the Easter story. I went over the list of historical tools: artifact, autobiography, documents, deeds, journals, diaries. I thought about the privilege of telling your own story. As I listened to the gospel I thought about the power of storytelling before written language existed and how things changed when it was possible to write an account. “Then when we retire we can write the gospels so they’ll all talk about us when we die.” I listen to Jesus Christ Superstar. Brilliant. 

I have been following the coup in Myanmar and am horrified by the stories. It’s not only the shocking violence but the reported daily death toll. Curiously the media did not report similar death tolls of the Rohingya. How many innocent protestors have the military killed today? The voice is evocatively shocked. The numbers are rising daily, as if once the killing starts they might as well keep going; the world is getting used to it. When the number rose to a significantly shocking number, reported as such, accumulated deaths, numbers stacked upon corpses, reported with the emphasis on the number, total, since the coup began, I decided to look up the number of people killed in this country, my country, by white men during the same time frame. The numbers are similar. Wounded. Killed. The numbers pile higher and higher. But I don’t hear reporters on NPR stating how many people were killed by white men in America each day, total.  Unless it’s a flashy mass murder, the two here, four there, an ex-wife over here, aren’t shockingly reported since their lives weren’t apparently lost to a noble cause with a storyteller nearby.

Who tells their story? Will it still be told in two thousand years? If Mary Magdalene knew how to  write, if she’d been given the tools, how might the world be different?  I wish I could have said, “Mary, you really should write this all down. Keep a journal. Your story is really important. Keep it tight. Don’t waste words. People will want to know this story. It may help someone.”  

Love to all,

Linda