Tyger's Blog

Whinny All The Way: Of Horses And Economies

2009-02-06T21:09:00.000-08:00

Farmer Brown bought a horse. He didn’t need one to farm with, but prices were down due to the economy and he had always wanted to ride, so he bought ‘Lucky,’ one bay gelding with four white feet.

At first, Farmer Brown only rode his horse in the evenings, but he quickly became enamoured with the beautiful and spirited creature. After a couple of weeks, he was often seen riding across his property on the prancing Lucky.

With the increased workload, Lucky began to demand extra rations and that concerned Farmer Brown. Money was in short supply, so he cut portions and poor Lucky paced in his stall with a hungry stomach.

After a few weeks, Farmer Brown noticed that Lucky’s pace had slowed and all the kicking and finger snapping in the world did not entice the poor horse to run. Weaker and weaker he grew until Farmer Brown, knowledgeable about animals, recognized the caloric deficit.

What if, he wondered, instead of increasing Lucky’s food supply, he just reduced his activity? Would he be able to save money? With a heavy heart, he stabled the beautiful gelding and resigned himself to look at him over the stable wall. To make up for the inactivity, he cut Lucky’s food rations in half. Grinning, he rubbed his hands together in the knowledge that he would save a good sum of money by the end of the year.

The problem with Farmer Brown’s reasoning is that he is missing the point. He didn’t buy the horse, so he could stare at him in the evenings. He bought him to ride. Lucky, shut inside the stall day in and day out, became moody and mean. He developed digestive trouble and dropped weight. He stood, listless in his four walls and sulked. He picked up bad habits and chewed on the food trough. The vet had to be called for broken teeth, rotten feet and colic. Farmer Brown worried.

Farmer Brown reminds me a lot of those lawmakers who oppose an economic stimulus bill. They call loudly for spending cuts and yell for tax reductions. They refuse to feed the horse and instead try to stable it. The point of a healthy economy is that people make money and spend it. The point of having a horse is to ride it.

If we want to ride our horses, we have to feed them. We give them the best food money can buy: rich, sweet smelling hay and clean horse-approved oats and sweetfeeds. If we want a functional economy, we must also feed it. With job incentives and progressive spending. We must not stable it and let it starve.

Those who oppose the president’s stimulus bill are missing the point. Farmer Brown missed the point. An economy has to flourish, a horse has to run. It’s the law.

A Subtle Shift

2008-11-12T09:14:00.000-08:00

Of course, I’m floating on air! It has been days since the landslide election and I still have trouble hitting solid ground. What once seemed an impossible dream now lights up my every waking hour in countless, hopeful ways: A thoughtful, intelligent, eloquent multicultural democrat ousted the bush-infected rightwing reactionary, male supremacist good-ol’-boy administration. While I write these lines, he is busy tightening the nuts and bolts on an enormous, wide-sweeping machinery of honest-to-goodness change that will roll through the staunch White House and leave us breathless and excited.

The tide has turned. Years of Bush/Cheney-induced depression seem to fall from my soul. There is a light on the horizon and its name is Barack Obama. I still pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. I pick up Time magazine umpteen times a day to look at the headlines and make sure it really happened. We, the people have spoken. King George’s reign is over.

I went to work the day after election, all smiles and with a Tigger-like bounce in my step and studied my coworkers. In a notoriously red state, emotions were mixed and not openly displayed. To my surprise, nobody gloated, but I did not hear any negative rants either. What I did see, was a subtle shift in the bearing of some of my non-white coworkers.

I saw no arrogance anywhere. No loud celebrating. No in-your-face nyah-nyah-nyah, as so many white folks feared. Only a gentle pride and a sense of their own brighter destiny. A quiet satisfaction that now, at long last, Americans of Color have come home. It seemed as though they were saying, “We were always here. We were always Americans, you just failed to notice.”

While white America was busy categorizing, judging and stereotyping African Americans, we did fail to notice the real depth of black culture. And perhaps, tired of our ignorance, black people stopped bringing it to our attention. Who can blame them if they resign to a ‘what’s the use’ philosophy? Why continue to try to prove that they are smart and strong, creative and resourceful if nobody wants to hear it?

Now, with an intelligent, sensitive, popular and incredibly cool non-white man heading for the Oval Office, my African American friends and coworkers suddenly find themselves written into history. With one of their own heading for leadership, they no longer need to doubt themselves or prove themselves. I notice the gleam of hope in their eyes, but also something greater: a sense of destiny and self we whites have long taken for granted.

A black janitor stops to glance at a newpaper, carelessly tossed on the counter. It is not his paper, but it headlines his president. He simply must read it. A black nurse quietly scans the internet for updates on the election. Two black clerks discuss the unbelievable in hushed voices. When I greet them, they respond. And they seem just a little friendlier. This is their moment. Yet, in the long run, it is opportunity for all Americans to grow in friendship and understanding. It is our best stab at racial equality.

They were always here. Strong, smart and black, they were always Americans. It is time for us white folks to get with the program…

How Not To Fall For The Gidget Act

2008-10-03T18:02:00.000-07:00

I know it is difficult not to be charmed. Last night at the debate, Sarah Palin pulled all the stops and turned on every ounce of Alaskan girly-girl-ness. She winked at the camera, smiled, and told us the secrets of her inner soul in a most endearing, conspiratory whisper. How can we not be taken?

With all the finesse of a Victoria’s Secret model, she flirted and teased and covered up her ineptness at debating. For every point Jo Biden made, she gave us a flurry of lace; for each of Jo’s solid steps, she produced a can-can. For every fact, a fantasy, for every question, an evasion. And we sat with our jaws agape with a silly smile on our faces, overcome by so much genuine femininity.

How can we not love a voice so bubbly, even if it tells us the most incredible lies? How can we not fall for a smile so sweet, even if it covers up the fact that we’re about to experience the most vigorous butt-screwing in recent history?

It’s difficult, not to be charmed, but it is possible. Before we can free ourselves from the beguiling personality of Sarah Palin, we must first re-engage our brains and try to think.

Let’s eliminate first some key phrases from Ms. Palin’s speech, such as “The American People” (used at least fifteen or twenty times and sometimes without context), “This great country” (two or three times out of context), “Do the right thing” (although she never mentioned what the right thing is), “Freedom and democracy” (out of context), “Government, get out of the way” (while in the same sentence demanding more government oversight), and “Alaska” and how she faced down the bad, bad oil companies. Now, let’s see what’s left.

She says ‘nookeelar’ like George W Bush. OK, I guess I can forgive her for that. And it did get Bush elected. She has no clue of alternative energy or any interest in pursuing it, because she has not grasped the reality of Global Warming. She can’t put together two sentences without repeating herself or running in circles. This also reminds me of our current president. She is against gay marriage and did not affirm that she would actively work toward granting basic rights to same-gender couples. Her exit strategy from Iraq is to continue to do what Bush is doing. No exit strategy at all. She want tax breaks for the wealthy and reduction of government spending and we all know where that leads with Republicans: Cut the programs that help our poor and sick and elderly.

In light of all these facts, perhaps it is not so hard to resist the seduction and stand fast against the conspiratory whisper. Perhaps it is easier now to understand the reactionary politics of the McCain/Palin ticket without falling for the sweet Gidget smile. Perhaps you will send your man to the nearest strip club to find a more straightforward seductress, one who does not hide behind the hockey-mom image, but stands by what she does without apology. And when she winks at him and whispers her sweet secrets into his eager ears, remember that at least she won’t be living in the White House on tax dollars.

My Best Friend

2008-09-14T17:24:00.000-07:00

In the long nights
When shadows scurry through my mind
When there is that clank of memory
Making me want to rant and scream
You hold me
Though you are miles away.
I sail across the oceans of my soul
Until the wind turns sour
And then you are beside me
With puffed up cheeks
Blowing until your lungs give out
And my sails billow once again.
If I sass you
You’re apt to push me from the boat
But if I sink
Eyes filled with fear, and pale
You bravely chase me into soggy depths
Where fate and karma dance like star-crossed lovers.
You battle
Tooth on tooth against my many demons
Shredding skin and thought with vicious claws
I’m safe, but thick and crimson
All that blood
Is mostly theirs - and yours

Are We That Dumb?

2008-09-10T07:20:00.000-07:00

You wanted a woman, he said
Well, here’s one!
A slap in the face
Of all who supported Hillary
No matter that the other one stands
For all things unprogressive
That life is sacred only when
It isn’t born yet
That we are to be
One nation under one church
That our rights and strengths
Are to be squashed once again
Our children to be spent
In a holy war
Our sick and needy
Forsaken yet again
To fatten Alaskan Oil Sheiks
No matter all that
Which insults the woman in me
Still by the scores
Dumb white women
Abandon their cries of hope
And plummet to the low regions
Of Republican corruption
Sell out your families if you must
I won’t!
I’m still voting for a Democrat

The Birds

2008-08-17T09:46:00.000-07:00

When I leave work in the evenings, my car seems as eager as I to get home. I rarely stop, except to fill up the gas tank and I don’t dally on the way. For one, I can’t wait to see my son, to pet my cats and to relax in my newly refurbished living room, but I also hurry each day, so I don’t miss The Event.

Each and every evening, between six forty and six forty-five, as I drive toward the setting sun, The Event takes place on the highway. My sun glasses mellow the golden sky to a fiery golden-red and against its glorious backdrop, hundreds of birds sail high above the tall East Texas pine trees across the highway in front of me. They fly in V-shaped flocks or in disorderly multi-flock swarms and they all fly at the same unhurried speed, light-winged as if floating on a stream of water. Each day, I ambition to count them, but give up after the first few flocks. And each day, I drive, spellbound, into the glowing sunset.

How is it that those birds know time? Do they travel by a secret schedule? Or do they simply wait until they spot my little gray MINI Cooper before taking to wing? Perhaps they swarm to honor some avian deity and paint the sky with their tiny wings. Or perhaps they greet the sun with their graceful dance.

The truth is probably much more prosaic, but it doesn’t take away from the splendor of The Event. They fly from feeding grounds to nesting grounds, where they sleep, perhaps on an island, heads tucked under wings and safe from predators. A change in the light conditions of the sky most likely triggers their migration and I just happen to pass through at exactly the right time every evening. Yet even in their mundane pursuits, the birds teach us something. As ordinary as our lives are, nothing keeps us from creating our own Event each day. Nothing prevents us from turning humdrum into inspirational, if only we open our eyes and hearts.

If we do all things with beauty and grace – not the commercial beauty that’s sold on TV and in department stores , but the true, long-lived grace of a magnificent soul; if we inspire with kindness our friends, family and co-workers, if we arrange our homes and lives thoughtfully, if we treat strangers with compassion, children and animals with love, and if over all our actions, a glorious sun-kissed disposition rules, we cannot help but bring beauty into our own lives as well.

Each small, insignificant bird covers only one inch of sky, but together, they form a painting that takes my breath away. If, like the birds, we humans weave together our color-rich fabric of experience and goodwill, we too can create such a painting. If we all step up to the challenge, some day, we will ourselves be The Event.

I Used To Swim

2008-06-05T04:47:00.000-07:00

I used to swim
Head proudly above water
Long hair streaming
Behind me in the stern wave
Strong and even strokes
Propelled me effortlessly
From here to there
I used to relish the wet
Fresh water’s gentle buoyancy
Like tender fingers
Ever so lightly on my skin
I cherished the soft scents
Of navy blue and aqua
The sounds of golden spray
Sweet droplets’ quenching taste
But today, I struggle
Breath by breath I fight
Dark water, thick and angry
Rolls through tortured lungs
My hair has fallen
Like black sea grass
To the lake bed
And my love fell with it
Now that you carried my trust
Into another woman’s arms
My muffled screams go unheard
When the lake spirits
Pull me to their silent depth

Loss

2008-05-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

I reel from the abyss
Beside me
The gaping void
Where you once were
Pandemonium of
Broken promises assaults
My shredded soul
While stench of
Broken dreams invades
My precious sleep
Under a hundred blankets
I still shiver
On softest pillows
I still ache
Heart pounding
Against the prison
Of my ribs
Perhaps I’ll rip it out
And sacrifice it
To the Aztec Gods

Men - And Cats - In Trees

2008-04-22T08:18:00.000-07:00

Never get a fifth cat!

I knew not to break that rule. It was better than set in stone; it was scratched into trees and into all the tender spots on my ribcage. And it was sacred.

I reached for the phone to place another embarrassing call to the fire department.

“My cat is stuck in a tree.”

Chuckles on the other side. Someone tried to compose themselves.

“I beg your pardon?”

I sighed. This was not going to be easy. “My cat. He is stuck on top of a tall tree. Don’t you guys rescue cats?”

“You watch too many movies, lady!”

“Oh come on, please? I know you did it once before for…a friend of mine.”

“Hold on.”

I held. And I recapped the sacred rule. We’d always had four cats. One for each direction of the wind. A North cat, somber and caught up in her own world; an East cat, tender and dreamy, all purrs and cuddles; a South cat, dominant, temperamental and apt to roam; and a West cat, eccentric and not quite right in the head. If we ever lost one, a new cat miraculously appeared to adopt us and settled easily into the vacant spot. So long as we adhered to the sacred rule, all was Zen. There should never be more than four.

“Ma’am?”

I snapped back to the present. “Yes?”

“Your address please?”

I prayed that she was new, that she had not been working five years ago, when we had to call for Mario, who sat, treed, for twelve hours in twenty degree weather, before they came to his rescue. I stuttered my address.

“That sounds familiar. What kind of cat is this?”

“A big orange tom. He’s been up there for hours. I can’t get him down.”

“Sit tight. They’ll be there as soon as they can.”

Just like last time, all three trucks roared up our drive way. Were they expecting a Mountain Lion? Like last time, one of them pulled straight into my flower bed and I, grateful for their appearance, bit my lip and said nothing.

They remembered me. They remembered the house and the call and the orange tom cat. I didn’t bother to tell them that Mario was dead and this was Yolotl and that we once again broke the sacred rule and adopted a stray, who battled for dominance within The Pride. Poor Yolotl, already at the bottom of the food chain, became the first victim. The newcomer chased him up the same tall oak that the firemen so well remembered. Meanwhile, the newcomer sat, large-eyed, paws tucked under, tail curled around his body and gloated.

I should not have brought him home, but he was torn and bleeding. I named him Spirit, because he had plenty of it. I spent $200 at the vet’s office. After two weeks recovery in my bathroom, I set him free. Ten acres was enough for five to spread out, right?

Not so. Just like the last time when we had five, the new guy started trouble. Spirit chased and provoked, harassed and intimidated. And he never grew tired.

Quickly, nimbly, the fireman scrambled up a tall ladder. He plucked a whimpering Yolotl from a skinny twig and clutched him against his body. Yolotl dove to the man's shoulder and clawed his chest. The fireman cursed, but he held tight. When he plopped Yolotl into my arms, he grimaced.

“Don’t let this happen again!”

Last time, I sent a cake to the fire department for their troubles. This time, it would cost me at least a brisket. It promised to be a busy week. And of course, I had to find a home for Spirit, before he chased off my other felines.

I was still red-cheeked when the fire trucks pulled, single-file, out of my driveway. Spirit rubbed against my legs and meowed sweetly, moonlight reflecting in soulful eyes.

“Sorry fellow, I don’t think this is going to work out.”

As if he understood, he trotted away, for once leaving Yolotl in peace. The Pride closed around Yolotl, unified in their disdain of the newcomer.

I vowed never to break the sacred rule again.

The Labyrinth

2008-01-22T20:21:00.000-08:00

Unlike me, my Dad has an innate sense of direction. Like a homing pigeon, he always finds his way back. He is one of those rare males who truly don’t have to stop and ask for directions.

Still, the hospital confounded him. The labyrinth of corridors, turns and corners threw off his homing sense and got him lost. The worry over Mom, who was caught up in the machinery of hospital policies and procedures, probably caused some of that confusion. We who work in that environment forget how overwhelming the atmosphere can be.

My parents live in Switzerland, but came to visit me for a few weeks to celebrate my graduation. One night, Mom experienced chest pains severe enough to warrant an investigation. She asked me take her to the emergency room. Once she was hooked up to monitors, the hours began to pass at a snail's pace. She agreed to some thorough testing and was told, she might have to spend a couple of days in the hospital. When we left her late at night, she still waited for a room. They admitted her at 3 a.m. when Dad and I were already home and sleeping soundly.

They ran several expensive tests that night and the next day, tests that required an empty stomach and my mother fasted, feeling faint and hungry. Dad and I visited and tried to keep up with her schedule. I thought I saw a moment of panic in Dad's usually confident eyes when he returned from lunch and her bed was empty.

“I guess they came to get her early. I tried to be here on time, but she was already gone.”

“Do you want to go find her?”

His hands flew up. “I don’t know where she is.”

Luckily, I knew. I had done clinicals in that hospital and knew my way around. I introduced my parents to the nurse in charge and functioned as go-between, when language barriers or procedural twists obstructed the flow of information. Thus, I was able to reassure my parents and lessen their anxieties.

My parents’ experience reminded me to be gentle with my patients, because I realized that their spirits may be troubled and they may be afraid or nervous. Hospital patients move in unfamiliar surroundings and are forced to trust strangers with their bodies and their health. They have husbands, wives, sisters, brothers, parents and children who share their fears. They enter the labyrinth and worry that they will not find their way out. And if they seem restless or uncooperative, lost or confused, it is because they are out of their element and have lost their groove.

Some patients may stay only a day or two, others may remain there until life fades from their eyes, but they are guests in the giant labyrinth and we should care for them with courtesy.

For the most part, my mother was treated kindly by the staff – perhaps because I was there to guard her. In the end, we found our way out and Mom is better now. The daunting experience may be forgotten soon and the memories faded.

But wait! There will be a bill - and it will not be gentle...

Code Time

2007-11-23T10:51:00.000-08:00

Code time is different. Those of us who work in the health care field know this. When a patient codes, when his breathing stops and his heart beat slows and fades down to nothingness, we, the rescuers, step into a different time zone. This is Code Time, a dimension of paradox.

As rescuers, we slip into a different skin. Our thoughts zoom into keen focus, as we concentrate on all the essentials and only the essentials of our patient’s condition and the effect of our efforts. Wide awake eyes miss not even the smallest movement of a patient’s chest; razor-sharp ears filter out unwanted noise and amplify the sounds of resuscitation. This heightened intensity of awareness pairs with a detached perception, which allows us to keep overview without losing ourselves in the details.

We are at once involved and distant. We see everything, yet we may be unaware of other faces in our surroundings. We run on adrenaline, yet we feel calm and composed. Time flies and yet it stands still as well.

Luckily, someone records everything that happens during a rescue down to the minute. Afterwards, we review the events of the Code, surprised that an hour has passed, that we gave rescue breaths or performed chest compressions for thirty minutes at a time. Or that seven drugs were given during the course of the Code.

We work until circulation and ventilation are restored, until the patient’s heart resumes beating at an acceptable pace and he breathes spontaneously. Or until the doctor decides that our efforts are futile and the patient is dying.

After a rescue, regardless of the outcome, Code Time still lingers for a while. Minutes, perhaps hours pass before reality catches up with us. As if our second skin peeled off only slowly and the paradox had to run its course. We remain split on two levels for a while until we reunite the fragments of our Selves.

Code Time allows us to perform our jobs without hesitation. It lets us deal with danger and death without falling apart. And it helps us not to second-guess ourselves when we make decisions.

Code Time eventually wears off and sadness or doubt may sneak into our tired minds. We are not unaffected by tragedy. When we tell you that we are so sorry we couldn’t revive your loved one, we mean it. We tell you that we did everything we could. And that is also true. We ache when we lose a patient. Like soldiers who see too much death, we struggle with our emotions.

Yet, when we are called to the next rescue, we are again calm, capable and efficient. Code Time, our friend, waits for us and we embrace it eagerly. And we will do everything we can to revive this new patient as well.

Ruby And Celine

2007-11-20T07:27:00.000-08:00

Recently, someone asked me, if I had to chose between having a healthy body and the mind of a turnip or a sound mind and disabled body, which would I prefer. Most people I surveyed opted for the sound mind, but I'm not so sure. To clarify things, I wrote the story of Ruby and Celine. Read the options and make up your own mind. Leave comments if you wish.

Ruby And Celine

Celine huddles in her regulation hospital bed and stares at the boring, white ceiling. Her face glistens with salty wetness. The pain medicine has worn off and the giant bedsore on her butt smarts like fire. She’s been lying in a wet diaper for hours and no one has come to check on her. She wants to reach for the call button, but her skinny arms curl against her ribcage in rigid contractions.

She cries, not because of the pain – she’s used to it – but because of how far she has sunk into humiliation and misery.

A careless attendant stomps into her room and she sighs relief.
“What have we here? You made a mess of yourself,” says the girl and Celine retreats into silence.

‘Rub it in,’ she thinks. ‘As if I didn’t know.’

The attendant flips Celine back and forth to change her diaper and slops moisture barrier cream on the raw flesh on her butt. Celine bites her lips to keep from yelling. She knows better than to complain. They always retaliate somehow.

“What’s new in the paper?” she asks the girl, hoping for an intelligent conversation.

“Nothing much,” says the girl, while she wads up the soiled underpad. “They haven’t raised your social security yet.” She backs out of the room, glad to escape. She’s got other patients to tend to. No time for idle talk.

Celine closes her eyes and seeks refuge in her memories, conjuring up a time when she held a degree and taught English and political science at a prestigious college. Everyone loved her then and held her in high esteem. She taught with a rare passion and fired up those young minds like no other.

A different attendant brings her a food tray and jolts her back to reality. Everything on the tray is blended and looks disgusting. The girl raises her up in bed and begins to feed her. She shovels green slop into her mouth at lightning speed and Celine chokes and begins to cough.

“We really need to look into getting you a feeding tube,” says the girl.

*******************

Ruby’s laughter pearls through the air and echoes in the hallways. Ruby, feisty and spirited; Ruby, quick and oh so direct with her words; Ruby who’s arm is still strong and who has lost all her marbles. We all know Ruby well, the unpredictable one whom we watch like hawks on a sunny afternoon. She’s cussed me out a few times and when she swings, I know to duck, because she has quite a right hook for an old lady.

Ruby likes to paint and sculpt. Strange looking artifacts clutter her small room. She happily interprets her artwork for us. We praise her and sometimes we even buy a figurine from her to make her happy.

Ruby tends to run away if we’re not watchful. We have to hunt her down and a couple of times, we’ve had to call the police. Lord knows where she gets money, but somehow she managed to buy a bus ticket once and we caught up with her in San Antonio, where she tried to sign into a hotel on the river walk.

We don’t know much about her history, but neither does she. Ruby has no family that we know of and she doesn’t care. We’re her family. She’s told us more than once. She’s loony and brash, but she’s funny too. And when she’s in a bad mood we tiptoe, because she throws things.

Once in a while, she has a lucid moment and she realizes that her mind is gone. “It’s ok,” she says. “At least I forgot all the bad stuff too.”

The Outskirts

2007-10-28T11:19:00.000-07:00

I have four cats. And since I know what’s right, I also have four identical food bowls. At feeding time, I leave enough space between the bowls, so each cat can circle unhindered and freely decide in which direction it wants to hunker down and eat. I place equal amounts of Meow Mix in each of the four bowls. I’m very careful about that. And yet, we still have arguments over the food.

There are no loud or overtly aggressive displays, my cats are too cultured for alley cat behavior. Claws remain sheathed and rarely a sound is heard from a feline throat. But they all have an unlimited arsenal of indignant stares.

My cats are fairly democratic. Any one of them may rule on any given day and size is not always a factor. I don’t have any intact toms; everyone within the pride pads on equal footing. Dominance is only for the moment and they may sleep peacefully after dinner, only inches apart in the sunshine.

Human territorial behavior is less harmonious. While pleasantries are initially exchanged, once a group settles into its dynamics, the struggle for power begins. Human social order is rigid and permanent. It is based on the majority principle and enforces strict norms and standards. Like pack behavior, it celebrates the typical and predictable. And it has very little tolerance for the extraordinary.

The people who live with us, work with us, or go to school or church with us display various levels of social skill, determined by how well they understand and adhere to these standards. Those who move within them easily, find each other almost by instinct and form powerful cliques. The rest of us are expected to hover at the outskirts and beg for crumbs.

I know the outskirts. I’ve lived there most of my life. But I’m creative and resourceful enough, I have no need for leftovers. There is more room here, away from the cliques. Wide expanses beckon and tempt my sense of adventure. And the outskirts are populated by some of the most fascinating, impressive, and unusual individuals.

In a cat world, I would be floating in and out of power circles, but in a cat world it’s all about food. As a human, I understand the finer points of hierarchy, but I ignore them. I care little for scraps of tolerance handed out by the ‘in’ crowd. Although I understand cliques, I don’t need them and I have no desire to join. I enjoy living away from tightly knit circles. I feel comfortable here and I continue to meet the remarkable folks who have courageously carved their personal path into the fabric of society.

So, don’t pity us, clique dwellers. We from the outskirts live and dream in a rich world. We don’t require handouts. We don’t depend on your benevolence. And we really have more clout than you think!

Latent Fire

2007-10-09T18:16:00.000-07:00

I admire the gentle slope of your broad shoulders. Your long ebony hair curls around your ears and tumbles down your back like water spilling over a rugged rock. Strong jaw line defines a clean shaven chin and cheek, Café-au-Lait skin with golden over tones.

Stand tall! Your chest is miles wide, inviting me to throw myself against it, seeking shelter from the cold. I raise my eyes. Your lips, slightly parted and more brown than red, accentuate your exotic good looks. Heavy brow ridges, distinctive of your racial heritage, overshadow dark, expressive eyes. Your eyelids slightly lowered, you study me under thick, black lashes.

Do not reach for me yet! Let the moment linger. There is no rush, I am already captivated. With my finger, I trace the smooth swell of muscles on your bare, brown arms. I feel you shiver slightly, but otherwise, you remain still.

You breathe warmly against me. So very near you, I lose my resoluteness. I see it in your eyes that you want me, but you make no move. The merest hint of a smile embellishes your face, giving your eyes a deeper glow.

Do not drop your eyes! Do not break the magic to steal a look at my breasts. There is ample time for that later. Keep me captive and listen how my breath catches in my throat, as my legs weaken. Burn your gaze into mine with that latent fire, which softens and bends my will and entices me to yield. Let me sense your desire and drink in the silent promise, until I believe you will fulfill it.

Your arms reach around me and your warm hands touch lightly against the goosebumps on my skin. You know you have me yearning now. You run your hands over me with a feathery touch, pausing briefly to put gentle pressure against my spine. Right above my belt, you find a smidgen of bare flesh and you rake your nails across it, making me gasp.

My vision blurs and my knees are about to buckle. Aware of your effect on me, yet still surprised by its magnitude, you bend to kiss me, ever so tenderly. Your tongue probes my mouth and your hands bury in my hair. I moan as you gently bite my bottom lip. You stop and our eyes lock, fire against fire, as we reveal our passion. I can no longer resist. I must surrender.

Like a master musician, you play me. You tremble with want, but you restrain yourself and with your self-control, you set me ablaze. Heat and fear tumble together in my belly and spread a dangerous ache through my shivering body. I hold out just a little longer, just one more delicious, autonomous moment before I yield. Now I am yours and I will bear the pain and the joy without reservation.

You move with purpose now, knowing you will have me, knowing I am powerless to refuse. For as long as the fire burns, as long as the momentum carries us, I am weak and you may own me. For as long as my enchantment lasts, I will accommodate you, unresisting, passionately, willingly, in complete submission.

All Grown Up

2007-09-28T13:34:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I remember a timid young girl, socially awkward, eager to please, shy in a crowd and sincere in friendship and love. Sometimes she still stares back at me in the mirror, as if the years hadn’t happened. For a moment, lines and creases blur and eyes grow wide and full of wonder. For a moment I smile and my smile is young and tender.

Fast forward to the school of hard knocks, where she graduates summa cum bitch, shoulders a bit tenser, eyes a bit harder, lips curled with cynicism. No longer easily fooled, no longer so vulnerable, she has learned to raise an expressive eyebrow and glare.

Unwilling to stroke an ego, quick to mock and snap and slash, she resembles me more now and I nod at the mirror. My language improved in vocabulary but harshened in tone. And what of all the sweet words, the loving words, the gentle words that stick and clump up in my throat and threaten to choke me?

I cough them up later and hide them in a spare words jar.

Twin Menace

2007-08-31T14:50:00.000-07:00

Just after lunch, traffic is semi thick and rather viscous. I stay in first and second gear, mostly, as I crawl from light to light in the summer heat. Halfway up the hill, my radar detector delivers a staccato of beeps and its female voice warns, "K.A. band detected!"

I’m not surprised. They usually swarm here, in what they proudly call the ‘bad part of town.’ Spend their days ticketing busy motorists and their nights harassing teenagers and persons of color.

There is a pair of them today, huddled on enormous Harleys like malicious insects, side by side, drunk on their own power. A shield in front and wide-set handles make their shoulders appear broader. They hover at the light, feet planted firmly, helmets with face shields turning left to right like terminators, scanning for life forms. The connection between them is so tangible, even I can sense it. The presence of a partner enhances their power exponentially and swells chests and penises, as they revel in each other’s magnificence. I suspect they crave one another, perhaps entertain secret fantasies, which they suppress and sublimate with simultaneous revving of engines and perhaps twin fierceness in their pursuit of hapless offenders.

I could run them down easily. I have enough horses in my black Stang and once downed, they’d struggle a while to get the heavy bikes back upright. But I suspect there is a swarm of them, ready to attack, wasp-like and angry, eager to riddle my car with bullets - so I desist.

They spot a young girl in a blue Chevrolet and set out after her, communicating with scarcely a nod. She’s pretty and frightened and tears fill her eyes as she pulls over, caught like a criminal. They secure their bikes and swagger toward her car, circling from both sides. They are bad boys on the right side of the law. Shaky girl fingers hand driver’s license and insurance papers through a window. Large fearful eyes stare at the pursuers. She craves her cell phone and wants to call her mother.

They take their time, savoring endless moments of intimidation. They wish they could rape her, taking turns, but it’s too public. So they revel in making her cry. They caught her red handed, speeding in daddy’s car. She’ll be grounded for a month. They have raised their face shields, revealing stern expressions in brutal faces. They bark orders in unison with rough voices. They posture self-importantly, while they write her ticket. When they finally let her go, she stalls the engine twice, trying to get away.

They strut back to their Harleys and mount with self-importance. They nod at each other and give a triumphant ‘thumbs up.’ Together they start the mighty engines. Together they pull out in front of me and veer off to make a U turn. I can’t stop myself: I rev up the Stang to out-rumble the Harleys. Once I hear the guttural sound of my car, I feel better, as if I just cleansed the air of their presence. In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of them; they ride side by side, blocking the whole lane. I catch up with the girl at the next red light. Pale and tearful, she talks frantically on her cell phone. She looks as if she had just been raped.

One Child

2007-06-25T04:41:00.000-07:00

You can find a whole world in a child’s face.

Gently rounded cheeks, short stub of a nose, wide-set eyes with too-long lashes reveal a soul, enchanted and bewildered by the mysteries of life. A scar stretches across her young face, not large enough to disfigure, but hinting at past hardships and injuries. Her right eye squints. She can open it but she does so only if she trusts you. As a newcomer, you will earn merely a sideways glance.

Her skin is dark and even, smooth on a forehead which rises steeply above heavy brows. Her nose is wide and flat with nostrils flaring, as she eyes you suspiciously. Her lips form a thoughtful pout, characteristic of her age. In her own world, she is quite a beauty.

She flashes me a quick smile, revealing perfectly symmetrical teeth, which, ironically, she has never used to chew anything. Someone pulled her hair into tidy little braids and pink bows, but a thin ringlet escapes and snakes across her forehead, where it defies law and order with disarming innocence.

What a precious child! The longer I stay, the more she draws me into her world. Her spine, twisted and bent, cannot hold her upright. Her legs are stiff and contracted, her hands curl into tight fists. From time to time, she dissolves into coughing fits, strong enough to rock the bed. The pole, which holds her liquid nutrition, teeters precariously.

I’m here to care for her today. I should perform my respiratory duties and move on to the next child, but somehow I can’t. Medically frail, she has a powerful hold on me. I stroke her face gently, smooth back the precocious ringlet. She turns and studies me, this time opening both eyes. I speak to her in soft tones and am rewarded with another timid smile. She knows my voice. I sing for her, glad that no one else is here to listen. She doesn’t mind that I’m off key.

Later in the day, I think about that moment, when she stopped time with her smile. I sense deep, emotional scars, hidden beneath it. Surely she has suffered more than is allowed for one so young. Unable to make words, her language is subtle. I only lingered at her bedside for a few minutes, but she revealed a whole world to me in her expressive face. At shift end, I catch myself humming her song again. Even now, I smile, as I leave the building.

(Purely fictional. Resemblence to living persons is coincidental and unintended)

Little Girls And Worms

2007-06-18T15:27:00.000-07:00

I never knew seven little girls and a handful of worms could create such mayhem!

They came from all different backgrounds. Some were tough, some were squeamish. Some were bold and some were timid. Each of them came armed with a cane fishing pole with a dangerous looking hook at the end of the line.

More accustomed to boys from my years of Cub Scout leadership, I approached them with a wait-and-see attitude. There was way too much pink in the group for my comfort. Cutesy tennis shoes dressed busy little feet and sported colorful designs. Luckily, there was little jewelry and the hairdos looked fairly simple.

Unwilling to attend camp voluntarily, I had shown up only under duress. I would have preferred a strenuous day at the clinical site, rushing from patient to patient, but in the end, it was not my choice. I was immediately assigned to a team, headed by my friends, Kristine and Heather. Their group of seven little girls welcomed me easily into their space.

They lined up along the bank with their fishing poles, which measured three times their body height and tried to cast. After they banged each other with poles several times and crossed lines, I hurried to their rescue, but not before one girl’s pink shorts got caught in a hook, making her squeal loudly because the worm touched her clothing.

One of the activity directors - wearing latex gloves – bated their hooks. Another, equally clad, removed the miniscule fishes from the lines, whenever a beaming girl proclaimed a glorious catch. Kristine and I busied ourselves with casting and untangling lines.

“Ewww!” somebody screamed and I rushed to investigate. “What’s that? It’s slimy!”
I pulled a clump of water plant off the hook. “It’s just a plant,” I explained, “It’s like grass; it just grows under water.”
“Like grass?” they said. “Oh…” Little mouths open in amazement.

Surprisingly, they managed to stock our bucket with fifteen small Crappy. Each girl was properly photographed with her first catch. Some beamed with pride, some remained solemn, understanding the seriousness and importance of their achievement. A couple of them became quite adept at casting, but the others still tangled their lines, keeping me occupied.

Our time was up much too soon. We released the fish and while we waited to be picked up, the tough girls threw worms at the squeamish ones, making them scream. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. The mayhem they created was only partially out there. Much of it raged within my soul, as I remembered that a really do like kids and that I miss these camp experiences, the lazy times at the fishing hole, the crazy times playing games, the laughter and the happy memories I always took home with me. I stayed for supper because the girls asked me to. And I left only reluctantly to return to my own life.

Left Sock

2007-06-08T16:45:00.000-07:00

Where does the other sock go when you do laundry?

Yesterday, my left sock lamented that my right sock filed for divorce. Left Sock was inconsolable, so against my better judgment, I sat down and asked for the whole bizarre story.

They were a nice pair, well-lived, but not old yet; comfortable and still marginally white. I tend to treat my socks fairly well, so I was surprised to find out that I was a player in this tragic sock tale. Left Sock hung limp and dejected over the couch arm rest, smelling freshly laundered when he took a deep sock breath and began to tell me his woes.

Right Sock had moved out that morning, right about the time when I tossed a load of laundry in the machine, assuming, as I usually do, that my footwear was wrapped up in the rest of the clothes. But Right Sock was peeved, so much so that she disappeared and sent over a deputy to serve papers on her partner within the hour.

My fault! I am the reason for this tragedy. Evidently, I'd been wearing the pair switched, on the wrong feet, Right Sock on my left, and she, born for the dominant side, felt offended and underprivileged. I didn’t even know it mattered!

Left Sock wouldn’t have minded, really. It made no difference to him which foot he dressed, but Right Sock would not take the insult in stride. She stormed out, without any consideration for poor Left Sock, who pined away for her, deeming his life worthless.

I wasn’t much help to him. What was I supposed to do, walk around half-dressed? I told him, he would have to make some concessions, promise her a window seat in the washing machine or something. And I made it clear that his job was on the line if he couldn’t get her back.

Was it just my imagination, or did he look a bit grayer when I walked away?

Watermelons

2007-06-01T17:09:00.000-07:00

Winter, my classmate, has a warm glow about her these days. We’ve been watching her. In only two weeks of summer break, she has grown much rounder. What bulges under her new blouse looks suspiciously like a full-grown watermelon. A smile brightens her face when we tease her and her eyes twinkle. We all share her anticipation. Winter is family – Respiratory family. Her baby will have lots of adoptive aunts and even a few uncles.

Kathy, whose baby was born a while ago, also shared her joy with us with pictures and anecdotes. And we cheered for her and worried when the little one was sick. Seeing her with her young child in her arms was the highpoint of our Austin trip. Knowing that we can in some small way participate in her first year of life makes us smile.

As every woman knows, babies belong to everyone. The moment a woman begins to show, she loses her status as an individual. And her swelling belly, once carefully hidden, is now the object of overt admiration. When baby is born, friends and strangers alike stop to flirt. We can’t help ourselves. Babies are irresistible.

When I watch Winter move and stretch around her swollen midriff, I am whisked back to my own pregnancy, years ago, when I felt the joy of new life within me. My friends teased me then, asked me if I really meant to swallow that watermelon seed, and I heard the familiar phrase: “Haven’t you had that baby yet?”

A small child is alluring and entices us to strange behaviors. It’s automatic. When I address a baby, my voice changes to a higher pitch and I can’t get the smile off my face. Baby’s response is delightful and worth the trouble. I work a little harder to sustain the effect. Too cute!

The cuteness wears off proportionally, as children mature. Once they voice opinions and exhibit unpleasant behaviors, we tend to back off. Not so with the special children who are stricken with disabilities, the ones I will begin to care for at work tomorrow. The ones who remind me so much of my own special needs son.

Innocence is endearing and charming and appeals to us, because we can forget that the world is not perfect. Innocence lives in babies, rocked in loving arms. Innocence also lives in special children whose minds have stayed simple and sweet and whose hearts shine through the smiles on their gentle faces.

Monday, when I see Winter again, I’m sure her watermelon will be a little larger still. As she carries her child into the summer months, she will feel its weight. She may stop from time to time to wipe perspiration from her face and she may ask herself: “Did I really mean to swallow that watermelon seed?”

A Little Birdie Told Me

2007-05-25T17:00:00.000-07:00

Birds are graceful, colorful and for the most part fragile. They are prey to a host of predators and their nests are exposed to the elements. Their young, once hatched, depend helplessly on their parents for food and protection. Many die before they learn to fly. And yet…they are opinionated and outspoken. And they have guts. How else would I explain the audacity of a small bird to express what so many of us are thinking in the most notable way?

Of course, you watched the news. Of course, you saw the snippet of our fearless leader, as he explained how many more soldiers he wanted to feed into the war machine. And, like all of us, you grumbled to yourself, fearful of speaking up, afraid of showing your true colors. You never know who’s watching! You’ve heard it before: the government has official permission to spy on your conversations.

Yet in the middle of the presidential speech, someone did speak up. Someone small and insignificant, who cared little for camera time and didn’t stick around to take a bow. Someone, unable to speak a word of English, or Spanish, or any other human language, yet managed to get the message across just fine. And you laughed and cheered, didn’t you? You clapped your hands and stomped your feet with glee when the birdie flew by and left a deposit on the President’s coat sleeve, expressing openly and odorously what at least half of America would like to say: Poo on you and your crazy war!

Birds are graceful, colorful and often fragile. We knew that. But they may speak up unexpectedly and unmistakably. And they may express our political dissatisfaction in a most direct and discourteous fashion, impatient perhaps with our silence, and unerringly show us the way.

Be silent no more, promoter of peace! A bird has spoken…

The Day After

2007-05-20T10:08:00.000-07:00

I am smiling today. My mind is filled with wonderful memories my friends placed there last night. I hear laughter and music and fragments of conversations thrown lightly into the air. I see glowing faces and sparkling eyes, hair tossed back or blown from smooth foreheads. Jokes and quips echo in my mind, as I reconstruct the evening. I am at ease.

Celebrations are good for us. They refresh us and bring back a sense of play, reminiscent of childhood. And they feed our souls long after the party is over. Today, I will work joyfully, stopping from time to time to savor a memory. Thoughts and ideas will flow freely, as I remember my friends.

What makes celebrations so special? What makes them memorable? What distinguishes them from ordinary days, ordinary moments, ordinary events? I believe they bring us a sense of wonderment, maybe even an inkling of the unreal. How can we make this magic happen more often in our lives?

Celebrations can be planned or spontaneous, but they always require a certain amount of organization. We want harmony, so we carefully hand-pick the participants and we may exclude ‘Uncle Jake’ or ‘Aunt Rita’ if their energy doesn’t merge well with the group. If Caroline feels ‘under the weather’ today and wishes to exclude herself, we understand. If Frank feels out of sorts without his Significant Other, we may allow her participation, in order to placate the party spirits.

We choose a location that allows us to remain undisturbed and doesn’t create trouble with outsiders. We also prefer an atmosphere where conversation is possible and direct interaction is encouraged. A Videogame night does not qualify, but a Superbowl afternoon may, depending on circumstances.

We make sure that participants feel relaxed, unhurried and safe. A bit of alcohol may ease transition from work week to celebratory time, but too much alcohol may be counterproductive, as tempers may flare or misunderstandings may abound. Once the setting is achieved, we just let things happen, trusting in the supportive environment and the good mood of the celebrants.

Lastly, we create memories. We snap pictures, save bottle corks, remember game scores and conversations. And we laugh. And when the party is over, we leave joyfully, knowing that we’ll remember and that our days ahead will be brightened for a while. And on the Day After, hopefully, we’ll have more than just a hangover to commemorate the occasion. I know I do. My friends live deep in my heart and I’ll keep the magic alive until next time. I am smiling today. All is well.

Weed Therapy

2007-04-29T20:30:00.000-07:00

No, it’s not what you think. I don’t smoke Marijuana, although sometimes I envy those who do, especially now, when exam stress is my daily bread. But I did indulge in my own version of weed therapy today, when I took a study break and stepped outside to survey my severely neglected and completely overgrown flower beds. For the past several months, I had no time to even look at flowers, much less grow them. I was immersed in sedentary indoor activity, head in the books and butt growing increasingly larger.

The sun beckoned today, leaving me no choice but to abandon my study notes, so I could bask in its glow. I walked around what used to be a Medicine Wheel garden, ten feet in diameter, but now looked like a three foot circle of shrubbery and an invasion of stringy, unattractive runners.

Mercilessly, I began to pluck. Realization dawned that I had procrastinated too long and that I desperately need to get out of the house more. I had forgotten how great it felt to labor in the heat. I had forgotten the satisfaction of interacting with nature and the sweet smell of earth crumbling under my fingers.

I didn’t have much time today, but I cleared out the Medicine Wheel. Stone paths criss-cross again, uncovered from hiding. They lead into the directions of the four winds, indicating the four major human races and meet at the center, where a multicolored rock symbolizes the unity of all peoples. Fire ants have taken over much of the terrain. I know, because I danced inadvertently, when they chewed up my feet. I raked a ton of dead leaves, piled up like snow drifts after windy days and stormy nights. Underneath all the overgrowth, delicate flowers emerged, perennials from earlier years, when I had time to tend them.

From time to time, I treat my life like a flower bed. Radically, I remove unwanted parts of myself, toss them out like ragweed and crabgrass, discarded and despised. I shed skins like an onion and underneath, new and fertile soil appears, ready to be tilled and planted, piled loosely around precious growth saved from years ago.

Some claim it’s impossible to get away from oneself, but I disagree. I have re-invented myself time and time again when the need arose and I will continue to do so. If my way of being resembles a weed-infested dirt pile, I must discard it. There is no room for weeds in my garden and no room for discord in my life.

I am not gentle when I clear out flower beds, nor can I show mercy toward myself. Only radical and vigorous work gives satisfactory results. This is no time for sentimentality. What threatens to strangle new growth is unwelcome and must go. This vigorous shedding may involve habits, possessions, or people. Or it may mean thoughts, feelings, or beliefs. It is never easy and like the earth, which lies bare and vulnerable before me, my soul also bleeds.

I felt renewed when I finished weeding. Perspiration ran from my forehead and stung my eyes, but I breathed more easily. I vowed to devote a few minutes each day to yard work, squeezed between house duties and school work. I need it. It will help me clear out the mental cobwebs and ease my spirit. And perhaps while I rejuvenate my garden, I will also refresh my soul. It helped today. It may help again tomorrow. It is certainly worth a try...

I Am

2007-04-22T13:32:00.000-07:00

I Am

I’m not a sparrow, huddled at the feeding place
I am a raven, shrouded in black gleaming mystery

I’m not an antelope, free and bright on prairie sand
I am a tiger, obscured in shadows dim and always watching

I’m not a gentle rain, blessing to the arid fields
I am a storm cloud; wrath and thunder under gloomy skies

I’m not a pebble running from a child’s prodding foot
I am the dark crystal; hide my deepest heart from prying eyes

I’m not a rose, blushing in a lover’s hands
I am an Eleagnus bloom, invisible, but of haunting sweetness

I’m not a dogwood tree, ducked below a sweet gum’s shelter
I am the mighty fir, reaching from earth into the heavens

I’m not a rivulet, lost upon a window pane
I am a deep river, treacherous to cross, yet cool and rich with life

I’m not a diamond ring, sparkling for a youthful bride
I am a treasure chest, buried deep within the cave of night

I’m not your gentle savior, standing in a ray of light
I am the unforgiven warrior, triumphant in my finest hour

I’m not your joy of days, your sweetest twilight moments
I am your oldest grief, your fondest dream, your latest dark obsession

I am.

© Tyger Valverde, 2007

Walls and Hedges

2007-04-15T05:35:00.000-07:00

My friend Nev was raised in India, but his papers say that he is an Arab. His darker skin and foreign accent distinguish him from our group, although we, who work and study with him, barely notice a difference. Nev is intelligent, articulate and kind – a wonderful and rare combination. I admire him greatly. His unusual status didn’t dawn on me until this week’s job fair, when three out of twenty something vendors, vying for our attention, were from the armed forces.

Dozens of respiratory and nursing students milled around the room, gathering brochures and business cards, pens and key chains and weighing one job offer against another. There were delegates from hospitals, home health agencies and nursing homes - and there was the military. None of our group were interested in being shipped to Iraq, so we stayed away from the Army/Navy booths, although they were loaded with free goodies and manned by enthusiastic recruiters, eager to make our acquaintance.

“So, are you going to join the army?” I asked Nev, jokingly, when I saw him make a wide circle around the table.

“Are you kidding?” he laughed. “They hear my accent, they’ll think I’m the enemy!”

As funny as that was, it made me painfully aware of our national xenophobic attitude. Folks who once would have qualified as fascinating and unique are now considered suspect invaders. Our much-lauded American openness has given way to anxious exclusiveness. We have become a nation of haters, protecting a country with invisible, but oh so tangible walls!

But what is it that we are so ferociously protecting? And against whom have we erected the walls? Some say, our freedom is at stake, and I couldn’t agree more, but it is not our foreign guests who present that danger, but our very own government, our very own people, our very own antisocial attitude. Freedom is lost when we give in to xenophobia, because we give up the independence of mind which served humanity so well over tens of thousands of years. All our knowledge and most of our cultural heritage were acquired through the exchange of thought and the sharing of ideas from tribe to tribe, from country to country and from ethnicity to ethnicity.

America is a country, rich in diversity, but it could be even more so, if we didn’t hide behind walls and hedges of seething resentment. With the constant influx of multinational visitors, our cultural knowledge and understanding could expand to vast proportions and increase our power in the international market and the world political scene. Instead, we build walls and label skin colors. We rank religions, according to how closely they resemble mainstream. We fiercely protect a language we don’t even speak well for fear that another might gain too much importance. And we hate.

The Hippie generation, with its ‘live and let live’ or ‘make love not war’ philosophies and its openness to change must be slumbering somewhere in cryonic sleep. Otherwise, they, who are now old enough to hold office and wield power, would surely advocate openness and liberal thinking and provide a link from culture to culture, from color to color, as they did back in the sixties. Where is their wisdom now? Did it drown in a sea of too many drugs? Or did it fade from memory, as their music faded from the airways?

I am an American, but I have lived in and seen other places in the world. I have experienced cultures that are very different from the one I now encounter day by day. There is value in all of them. They all contribute to the human community.

The world has become small enough, we can be its citizens. And we have the unique privilege of world communication, far beyond anything possible in previous generations. For the first time in human history, we can truly learn from one another. So why, the hell don’t we do it?