In Honor of My Muse: Patricia Neal

Posted on 03/29/2008 by Jane Devin

She’s got that low, sensual, beautiful, Southern voice. The perfect blend of drawl and inflection that’s all at once a lullaby and a catalyst — an invitation to lay back on the porch swing and lazily watch the moon, or to rise up in the morning like Joan of Arc, prepared to honor the trumpet’s call to battle.

When I write short stories and poetry, it’s most often her voice that accompanies, reading the words back to me, imbuing them with a wealth of feeling that belies the ragged poverty of pen and paper.

Sure, I can write a pretty good line every now and then, but without her cadence, the sentences seem like only so much type — forgettable words that fade all too quickly into a pale background, or that fall short for lack of tone and timbre.

Hers was the first voice I heard that made me really want to sit up and pay attention. I was nine years old, and she was the original Olivia Walton in The Homecoming: A Christmas Story. I would have traded all six kids, and grandma and grandpa too, just to hear her tell the tale on her own.

I love her face. Her strong lines and proud features speak to me of dignity: of standing steady in the face of adversity, while honoring the spark of passion that creates, laughs, loves, and sustains. Unadorned, her true-to-life beauty rose above her profession of acting. The bleached and painted others who shared her craft seemed stiff next to her, unreal, as if they really were just actresses, and not wise, resourceful women who had known, and could tap into, every emotion in the well of shared humanity.

She is a woman whose voice once inspired a child to write poetry, and whose voice I still hear when I’d rather listen than speak.

This is what I want for navigating the circumstance:
swift justice and tender mercies.
To bestow a fortune of luck upon the unlucky.
An untying of the knot that binds my hands.

To open that heart-shaped Pandora’s box
and find it mercifully empty,
wanting for nothing more than locks and chains
and a place deep in the mantle of Earth
where it will melt into legend,
a myth of Hades’ proportion.

There’s some key around my neck, but I don’t mind.
The clink of decades past,
or the rusted metal of prolonged strength.

If you listen closely, you will hear it — that perfect blend of drawl and inflection. That knowing tap into the well of human experience. On my birthday, I honor my longest, dearest, and most inspiring muse — Patricia Neal.

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But She Won’t Make Love With the Lights On

Posted on 03/28/2008 by Jane Devin

When I close my eyes, I see the dresses and the gowns. The paper dolls and the Barbie dolls; the pretty bows that tied me down. Then I see my face, staring down at my shiny shoes. . .they took me to a place where they gave me pink instead of blue.” – Tina Schlieske, “Paper Dolls,” Monster Album, 1994

My friend Pamela was about four years old, tumbling away happily in her living room, when she found herself shaken from her childhood reverie by her father’s voice. “Cover yourself!” her father shouted. “Young ladies don’t show their underwear to the world.” Her father’s words stung then, leaving Pamela confused and feeling shamed.

Welcome to girlhood, circa 1960′s, when wearing dresses was mandatory, and monkey bars and swings filled the playgrounds – a mean temptation that required creativity and presented us with our first catcalls. “I see London, I see France. . .”. Yes, our underpants were of paramount importance in the scheme of things, inhibiting our movements, stifling our physical expressions, and causing us to worry, at the tender age of five or six, how best to cover up to avoid the shameful display of our undergarments.

Today, only a handful of schools mandate skirts for girls, but the shame factor that’s been part and parcel of girlhood for centuries has lessened only by small degrees.

Biological imperatives aside, the traits attributed to girls are often a source of shame. Sensitivity is mocked as weak. Empathy is often viewed as “girlish” and unfitting for a competitive world. Gentleness is seen as less effective than brutal frankness. Those who have these traits, whether they are male or female, are often seen as less competent than those who have a harder-edged, less sensitive, personality.

In fact, the crux of sexism (and homophobia, racism, and almost every other hateful attitude towards difference) can be summed up in one word: shame. Whatever does not fit into the dominant paradigm must be cast out, ridiculed, and shamed into its submissive place.

We know it, we’ve seen it, but how do we process this information?

“It’s like the McDonald’s story about the woman and the coffee,” my friend Barbara says to me. “What you’re talking about, shame and sexism, becomes a water cooler joke. People hear the stories, but they don’t really understand what’s involved, or how long-term the damages are, and the whole matter ends up being diminished into some yarn about entitlement, with people blaming those who got hurt, and even feeling sorry for the ones who caused the hurt in the first place.”

Being familiar with the case of Stella Lieback, I understood what Barbara was saying. McDonald’s did, in fact, sell coffee at 190-degrees, thirty degrees higher than normal, and capable of burning skin down to the muscle layer in two to seven seconds. Lieback’s injuries required skin grafting and took almost two years to heal. Yet, Lieback’s case is often called up as an example of trivial lawsuits.

“When you talk about the lives of girls, and the shame they learn, and the sexism they face as they grow older, it’s often dismissed, or treated as something we should just get over,” Barbara continues. “It becomes a joke – women seeking some sort of due they don’t deserve, with men being “forced” to play along. And really, so much of what passes as social change or enlightenment is just smoke and mirrors, still. Look at what happened to Anita Hill in the 80′s. Look at how the media treated Hillary Clinton when she showed emotion this year. Women are still being trivialized and ridiculed at every turn.” Barbara, at 56, had excellent parents who encouraged her to excel, but she was not immune from feeling shame about her sex in girlhood.

“There was always the “cross your legs, be a lady” thing,” she says, “but it went so much deeper than that. We could be smart, but we weren’t supposed to act it, because that would be arrogant or unfeminine. On dates, we were advised not to show our appetites, not to laugh too hard, and to let men lead. We were, it seems, always having to act something, instead of merely being ourselves.” Barbara, who has been married for close to thirty years, recalls her first year of marriage with a bittersweet laugh.

“I went to sleep with my makeup on. There was no way I was going to let him see me without ‘my face’ on. . .and no, I didn’t think I was ugly. I just. . .I guess I thought I always had to be as pretty as I could. Weird, huh? The funny thing is, since then he’s always thought I look better without makeup.” Despite her awareness, and the support of her husband, Barbara still struggles with issues of beauty and femininity. She doesn’t feel “right” going to the store without makeup, and feels “naked” without her jewelery.

“The cover-ups,” says Kathy, “that’s what I remember most.” Kathy developed early, sprouting breasts in fourth grade. “Trying to find clothes that covered my bra straps, and getting my bra strap pulled from the back anyway. And oh my God. . .the shaving! The short gym shorts we had to wear, or the bathing suits. I was mortified by the thought that my pubic hair would show, and as mortified by the stubble and the razor burn.” Kathy’s experience points to the fact that the development of girls is more public than that of a boy’s, a situation we both agree is made worse by advertising.

“If you were to listen to all those feminine product commercials as a child, without a good grasp on the facts of biology, you’d think women were these continuously leaking, bleeding, smelly creatures that constantly needed to be on guard against drips and odor. I know that’s how I viewed them and even now, in my forties, all those messages have had an effect.” Combined with schoolyard jokes about girls smelling like fish, Kathy, like many girls experienced an anxiety about her developing body that boys, in general, didn’t and still don’t.

Outside of growing taller and getting deeper voices – both of which are praised in our society – the turn from boyhood to manhood is a relatively quiet and private affair, edged with pride and a sense of accomplishment. Girls, on the other hand, grow their breasts under the watchful eyes of classmates, and grow hair where it is deemed unacceptable.

The faces and bodies of pubescent girls and women, with their “unwanted body hair” and menstrual cycles, are a marketing goldmine. Dozens of magazines exist for the sole purpose of selling them on fashion, cosmetics, perfumes, and beauty products. Between the slick ads, diet tips, and sex advice, there may be an article or two on self-esteem or empowerment, but look where it’s coming from — between pages of size 2 models selling the concept that everything about a woman, from head to toe to attitude, needs to be changed, buffed, dressed up, fixed, or enhanced in order to achieve true beauty, find love, or win acceptance in society.

Pretty is as pretty is marketed. The airbrushed model of womanhood exudes confidence, but this lies in her ability to betray and hide the truth of her humanity. Only in the perfection of this betrayal does she emanate happiness. At size 0-2, she has kept the girl and abandoned the woman. Her straight teeth have been capped or bleached to ultra-whiteness. No stray hairs grow from her waxed figure. Her skin does not wrinkle or dimple – she is a well-manicured, unblemished, soft-skinned, long-lashed, long-legged, full-lipped beauty.

To undo her takes work. To undo the damage, and ease the anxiety the marketing doll has caused, can be a years-long, even a life long, endeavor.

My friend David, after telling me all the reasons he was crazy about his girlfriend, once complained, “but she won’t make love unless the lights are off.” She was witty, brilliant, kind, just an exceptional person, he explained, but she had this hang-up, and he couldn’t understand why, or why his assurances weren’t enough. After all, he told her how beautiful she was all the time.

It was hard to explain to David how all of his words, no matter how personal or strongly felt, were already undone a thousand times over by Cosmo, Ralph Lauren, Abercrombie, Massengill, and others – and how the indoctrination into shame that began when we had to learn to navigate the monkey bars without showing our underpants metamorphosed into a shame of our imperfect bodies and our womanly selves.

“Why do women put themselves through all that?” David asked.

We don’t. We don’t “put ourselves through all that” any more than we put ourselves through growth spurts or physical development. Much of the shame we know is not consciously learned, but inherent in the messages given to girls and women from the cradle to the grave.

When the mannequin becomes the model, and the model becomes the treasured icon, what is feminine becomes not only what we fear in its natural state, but what we fear we will never measure up to in its enhanced form. We will never be polished enough, thin enough, fit enough, or perfect enough to earn the fearless confidence of the mannequin-model.

It takes strength and awareness – and a strong desire to grow past shame – to unlearn the lessons and mitigate the damages. To make love in the light of day, knowing we were never meant to be mannequins, but real women – organic, warm, sensual, curvaceous – and of far greater beauty and worth than the social paradigms and mass marketers would have us believe.

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Mothers Don’t Let Your Daughters Read Harlequin

Posted on 03/25/2008 by Jane Devin

I came late into my own sexuality, tumbling into it with all the confusion of a molested and battered child, and the shadowed blinders of a woman who thought her worth, even her ability to survive, was dependent upon making others, namely men, happy.

I never wanted to marry. While other girls were gracefully sashaying their Barbies down the suburban sidewalk aisle, I was dreaming the life of a writer, who had a small beach house overflowing with books, a mahogany desk littered with papers, a warm and tattered gray sweater, and two dogs named Holden and Phoebe. As I grew, so did the dream. I’d have friends, but not so many that they’d interfere with my writing – and I’d have a lover I’d see maybe two or three times a year – but they would be very passionate times, fueled by all the searing love letters we’d write to each other in-between writing Great American Novels.

Funny how things work out. I ended up pregnant and married in my late teens to someone who hated books, dogs, and romantic dreams. As I stood in the Justice of the Peace’s office, eight months pregnant, listening to the vows read by Mildred Pierce (yes, that really was her name), I had something of a breakdown. I began to laugh hysterically and couldn’t stop, a situation which only got worse when Mildred, in a sing-song whisper, sealed our vows with an “Indian blessing” that had something to do with the fruit of loins and a harmonious teepee.

Outside of the birth of my daughter, which was like a beautiful epiphany that reinvented and expanded my heart, the snapshots from 1981-1983 are sad and grainy – full of attempts that never hit the mark, and love that felt wrong and misplaced. I see me standing in the kitchen (wearing a skirt! I hated skirts!) making spring rolls and prime rib, neither of which he would enjoy because the first was too “ethnic” and the second was a waste of money. Me, hiding candy bars in my glove compartment because at 145 pounds, I was too “fat” for his liking. Me, constantly accused of infidelity and being checked on twenty times a day to ensure that I wasn’t fucking one of the neighbors in-between diaper changes, feedings, baths, housecleaning and cooking.

Me, in the midst of some cosmic accident where I ended up married to the enemy, feeling all at once adult and locked into a life of dread and spiritual poverty.

Of course, it ended quickly. The last pretenses were discarded the night he slapped me and threw my typewriter in the outdoor dumpster. I had one of my first freelance writing jobs, and an assignment that was due in the morning. He wanted me to put it away and watch television with him. When I said no, he lost it – and I lost the last of the love, or pretend love, that I had for him. I kept our daughter, and the son that I was two months pregnant with. He skipped out, never saw his daughter again, never met his son, and never paid child support.

It would only be after this, when I realized I was solely responsible for the outcomes of three lives – two of which were totally defenseless and dependent on me – that I was shaken into understanding that I had better learn who I was, and quickly. I could not afford to rent my dreams to the intentions of others, or to pretend my way through an existence with two children.

Sexuality was the reason I got pregnant, and the reason I had married a man I had nothing in common with, and in fact, sexuality had played a huge role in my life since I was first molested over the summer at age 10, when I was sent away by my mother to live with an ex-babysitter and her husband. It was a summer of horrifying and increasingly invasive moves (his) and increasingly creative, evasive tactics (mine), but like many children I stayed silent, fearing my mother would blame me, or that I would not be believed. I also took the molester at his word that he would kill my sisters if I told, so I didn’t. I swallowed the experience, and looked for answers elsewhere – which, in my case, meant books.

Being 10, I didn’t check out proper books on sex and sexuality from the public library – instead I stole them from the “free” book exchange that Washoe County offered in the library entrance. I scoured the jackets looking for any mention of sex, which is how I ended up reading “Last Tango in Paris” under the covers with a flashlight in my fourth grade year.

It’s how I learned that men were brutal and rough, and that women loved them despite, and maybe because of, their brutality. That, according to Harlequin and Harrold Robbins, fear was an aphrodisiac, and a bodice-ripping rape was an exciting and bloodless act that turned a faint-hearted girl into a swooning heroine.

When I was violently raped at 13, and left to lay in a puddle of blood, there was still nobody to talk to – I was alone in a repressive world where obedience to authority figures dominated any other consideration. I had already had my share of troubles earlier in the year for failing to tow the line, including a six-week stint at Wittenburg Hall Juvenile Detention Center, for possession of my sister’s boyfriend’s marijuana (I wouldn’t narc then, but I think it’s safe now). In my sixth week at Wittenburg, my jaw was broken in eighteen places and my teeth shattered by Dana Stevenson’s baseball bat. (She thought I stared at her boyfriend. I didn’t even know who he was, and was unlikely to be staring at boys in any case).

I bled for three days after I was raped. I took a lot of baths. I was afraid to look in the mirror. I was scared of what the wound might look like, and I was afraid it would never heal.

There was no one to talk to, but people talked to me.

Joy Pribyl and Marlene Cain were two girls Galen Miller told of his conquest, which is what the rape was in his 17 year-old mind. He was proud to have pinned me down to a boulder and taken my virginity, and he was proud of the blood, which he told them about, apparently with great relish and in detail.

“Like a stuck pig,” Joy chanted.
“Now you won’t think so much of yourself,” Marlene said.
“Fucking slut.”
“Whore.”
“Crybaby.”
“Loser.”
“You deserved it.”

And I wondered, really, if I did. I wondered if reading all those books – seeking them out like I had and devouring their contents – led Galen to stalk and then rape me. Did having all those words and scenes in my head translate into some signal I was subconsciously emitting?

What was it Tom Jones sang? “A woman wears a certain look when she is on the move, and a man always knows what’s on her mind”. Was I that woman? Was I on the move in some way? Were men only reacting to what I had read and learned and had etched into my mind? Even before the age of 10, wasn’t I thinking about things I shouldn’t have been thinking of? What was wrong with me? What did I do to cause this?

I was thirteen then, but I would be tormented by this major mind-fuck until I was in my mid-twenties.

I thought I was alone. I was not, but it would take me — and so many other women of my generation — years to find each other, and in the process, find ourselves.

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White Silence, Illogic, and the Political Prigs

Posted on 03/20/2008 by Jane Devin

Prig
n.
1. A person who demonstrates an exaggerated conformity or propriety, especially in an irritatingly arrogant or smug manner.

I don’t believe that a Caucasian person could have given a speech like the one Barack Obama did on March 18th.

In fact, it is almost certain that a white person could not have even given a similar speech on race, or any subject pertaining to race in this country without being bent over the social and political knees of the liberal Prigs. I’m speaking of those within the Democratic party who have spent years framing the constitution of “political correctness,” not as a method to enhance dialogue, but as a way to inject fear and panic into the hearts of those not-of-color people who might speak openly and honestly of race and relations in this country.

The Prigs in our party seem to lie in wait for any mention of race made by a politician, nominee, or supporter and then jump dramatically, and often en masse, upon any comment they can twist into an accusation of racism.

The politics of language for white America has become drenched in fear and trepidation, and the political correctness that was meant to cleanse our speech of worn out, bedraggled stereotypes has itself become a ridiculous stereotype.

Witness this exchange between two Huffington post readers, one of whom did not support Barack Obama:

SERFIE: I gave a contrary view to what was expressed in this blog submission and you say that I have no intellect and not heart. Welcome to Obama’s Thugocracy. . .

LOSTONECHAMPION: Serfie, I think the criticism of you is well deserved. You refer to Obama and his supporters as Thugs? Is that supposed to be some comparison to Tupac? Maybe subconciously you are trying to get across that you think that Thugocracy is the political equivalent of Thug Life gansta rap? . . .

The Huffington Post, which has not exactly been subtle in their support of Barack Obama, gave the comment referencing Tupac a seal of approval by making it a “HuffPo Pick“, which only encourages others to use race as bait.

Yes, the Tupac comment may have been employing exaggeration to get (some) point across, but that would only work if the first commenter’s words had contained some reference to Tupac, or rap music, or linked the word thug to race. Instead, this was what “Serfie” wrote (in its entirety) that caused the small firestorm:

SERFIE: Funny, I was sitting in a Starbucks when I heard three old white guys almost go to blows over that speech. Two of the white guys liked the speech, another didn’t. The two guys were ridiculing and mocking the third guy just for having a different opinion. Hmm, just like the bullies at the Huffington Post. Welcome to Obama’s Thugocracy.

Unlike the word “lynch” which has clear and historical ties to racism, the word “thug” has no connection to color outside of the world of the fading and faddish genre of music known as “gangsta rap”. Mafia members, corrupt politicians, and aggressors of all colors, from here to the Middle East have all been called thugs. To say that Obama’s supporters are bullies, and that an Obama presidency would be a “thugocracy” may not be an accurate or even intelligent comment– but it hardly constitutes racism.

Internet posters seem to be following the lead of the professional, major league Prigs, who have used race as a tool of convenience, to stir up a ready-made dispute, freeze dialogue, or to outright silence those they oppose on other fronts.

For instance, let’s look at what Hillary Clinton actually said about Martin Luther King Jr. and Lyndon Johnson:

“I would point to the fact that that Dr. King’s dream began to be realized when President Lyndon Johnson passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, when he was able to get through Congress something that President Kennedy was hopeful to do, the president before had not even tried,but it took a president to get it done.”

Incredibly, even this simple, factual sentence of Clinton’s was misquoted, truncated, misused, and — yes, purposely distorted — in order to taint her with the toxic brush of racism. The critics, according to the Washington Post, “read (Clinton’s remarks) as playing down King’s importance in the civil rights movement.” Obama, reacting to those Prigs, (black, white, and other), called Clinton’s comments “unfortunate” and “ill-advised.” Yet he also told ABC News that he didn’t believe what Clinton said was “in any way a racial comment,” and that only the way it “played out in the press” made it appear so.

The unavoidable and absolute fact is that as visionary, inspiring, and intelligent as Martin Luther King Jr. was, he did not stand alone. He did not, and could not have, effected changes in federal law on his own. It did, in fact, take a President — and the consensus of a diverse America — to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964. To accuse someone of diminishing King’s leadership and contributions by pointing out the obvious is ludicrous in itself, but adding the accusation of racism is reprehensible.

According to the Prigs, though, what Hillary Clinton was really saying was that “it took a white politician to fulfill a black man’s dream.” Never mind that it was not just one politician, or one social activist who shared that dream, some for decades prior to its realization — and never mind that the majority of the country, including Hillary Clinton, was invested in that dream — it’s more poisonous and deadly to the opponent to create a political wrecking machine out of one sentence. The kind that got Clinton, who has a long history of supporting civil rights and equal opportunity, booed at an MLK rally.

Edith Childs, a fervent Obama supporter who gave his campaign the slogan “Fired Up! Ready to Go!”, took her complaints of Clinton “racism” to the London Daily Telegraph, where she accused both Hillary and Bill Clinton of making racist statements — Hillary for “downplaying the role” of King in the passage of civil rights legislation, and Bill for his remarks about “a fairytale” when discussing the Obama campaign.

For those who have not seen Bill Clinton’s talk about the “fairytale”, here is the You Tube link.

It defies all logic to imply Bill Clinton’s remarks about a fairytale were racist — they had absolutely nothing to do with race at all. “Fairytale” isn’t in any way a racially charged word. Yet, according to Mrs. Childs, “They (the Clintons) could both have been less racist. It’s not a nice word but there you go.” Childs’ illogical, “not nice” accusations were echoed by Obama’s supporters, black and white.

Asked to respond to the flap, Illinois State Senate President Emil Jones, an Obama supporter, said “They (the Clintons) owe the African-American community — not the reverse,” he said. “Maybe Hillary and Bill should get behind Sen. Barack Obama.”

Jesse Jackson said, “”Regrettably, (the Clintons) have resorted to distasteful and condescending language that appeals to our fears rather than our hopes. I sincerely hope that they’ll turn away from such reactionary, disparaging rhetoric.”

This is how one gets from point A to lockstep racial dogma. By distortion, poor logic, charged responses, and bad intent. It is how Geraldine Ferraro, who has given this country an impressive three-decades of political service, becomes an overnight enemy of so many she has faithfully served.

When Ferraro said “If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position. And if he was a woman of any color he would not be in this position,” she clearly was not opining on the superiority or inferiority of any race, but on America’s readiness for a change away from the traditional white male hierarchy. “He happens to be very lucky to be who he is,” Ferraro continued. “And the country is caught up in the concept.” And in fact, aren’t they?

A March 9th article in the New York Times illustrates Obama’s lack of experience, and goes so far as to detail the strategy that led Obama to begin planning for a Presidential run before he had even completed his first year in the U.S. Senate. According to the NYT:

Early on in his tenure in Washington, he (Obama) concluded that it would be hard to have much of an impact inside the Senate, where partisan conflict increasingly provoked filibuster threats, nomination fights and near gridlock even on routine spending bills.

“I think it’s very possible to have a Senate career here that is not particularly useful,” (Obama) said in an interview, reflecting on his first year. And it would be better for his political prospects not to become a Senate insider, which could saddle him with the kind of voting record that has tripped up so many senators who would be president.

Behind the insubstantial voting record was not just a charismatic idealist, but a long-term strategy which involved making the fewest enemies and most friends possible in Washington.

“Hillary and McCain are the perfect examples of this,” Tom Daschle (D) said, “the longer you are here, you take on enemies. And these enemies don’t forget.” Obama has not been in the Senate long enough to earn those enemies — he has not faced any great opposition, or gone head-to-head with the entrenched politicians he often rails about. He has not had to make any life or death decisions on behalf of this country, nor has he been in the Senate long enough to rally for the massive changes he says he wants to make as President. Instead, he spent much of his time in the Senate raising money for other Democrats, garnering support, and grooming himself as a Presidential candidate.

Ferraro, who has said that her own nomination as Vice President was largely due to her gender, is no stranger to the American desire for social progress. When she pointed out that Obama’s lofty place in politics at the moment would not be if he were white or female, she was not speaking as either a sexist or racist, but as a career politician whose finger is very much on the pulse of society.

Ferraro knows that the “Obama = change” equation is very much at play in this election, and that the change goes beyond Obama’s soaring rhetoric and inspirational speeches. It is his combination of hope-filled messages, along with his sex, his race, his “clean slate” in Washington, and his diverse multi-cultural background that has helped generate excitement over his candidacy. It is not — and even his most avid supporters cannot convincingly claim — about Obama’s political experience and readiness to lead.

Obama’s speech on race was eloquent and moving, but I was surprised by the florid overreaction it stirred among Democrats, who hailed it as being on par with Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, and called it “magic” and “a monumental moment.” Jon Robin Baitz, in a Huffington post article, said “We are finally talking about race. . . Someone running for the highest office in the land finally talked about it — the dark and secret swamp that we Americans dodge at every possible opportunity.”

I do not believe white Americans would dodge the issue of race if the political Prigs were not so intent on poisoning the discussion pool with irrational and scarring accusations of racism when white politicians or speakers so much as dip a toe into the water.

White silence is not caused by a lack of interest in social progress or equal opportunity, or a lack of desire to engage in discussion and be “part of the solution.” Instead, it’s a silence caused by the fear of saying the “wrong” thing in an atmosphere where even a common word like “fairytale” is whipped up to racist proportions, and where even those with sterling records on civil rights are ridiculed in order to create politically expedient and damaging racial tension.

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In Praise of the Elephant Girls

Posted on 03/16/2008 by Jane Devin

“When an elephant is in trouble, even a frog will kick her.” – Hindu Proverb

1. Strength

Among the first things noticed about an elephant girl is her incredible strength. She can shoulder the burdens and carry the weight of many human experiences, and do so with dignity, even when her threshold for pain is made to rise ever-higher.

The strength of an elephant girl is not just an accident of birth. What was innate was her desire to survive. To do that, she had to push beyond the limitations of her own considerable endurance many, many times. She had to develop new muscles and ways to rebirth her spirit after forging through man-made obstacles.

One by one, she had to face her fears and conquer them. When new tragedies brought new fears, she had to teach herself ways to calm her pounding heart and carry on, putting one foot in front of the other, until she had walked through the worst of circumstances and found herself on the other side.

“Strong,” they often called her. And when she was young, the elephant girl took pride in this accolade, perhaps even making it a mantra that assured her passage through a particularly trying time. I am strong, she would remind herself, I will get through this.

In those tender years, the elephant girl might have mistaken strength for invincibility. It is possible that, in the midst of her own turbulence, while filled with the all-encompassing sense of an indomitable spirit, she felt called upon, even obligated, to lift whatever weight she could from the backs of others who did not have her strength, or her strength of spirit, or her survival skills.

“So strong,” she would continue to hear in later years, but by now the elephant girl would recognize these words not as an inspiring accolade, but as a weary expectation. It was almost inevitable that those who would notice her strength were looking to use it in some measure. There was a cause, a want, or a need of some sort, which lacked only the strong back, keen intelligence, and steadfast determination of an elephant girl to carry it through.

2. Loyalty & Temperament

The elephant girls are fiercely loyal. They make friends for life, but they do not make them easily.

Given their intelligence, well-worn hearts, and long and precise memories, the elephant girls are not easily forgiving, particularly to those whose emotional and physical marks were imprinted upon them during their journeys. The scars of the ankus on the skin or the psyche are not resented as much as those who purposely inflicted them, without conscience, and without regard for consequences.

Particularly resented are those who brush away or justify the damage they caused by pointing out the elephant girl’s strength, as in “she’s strong, she can handle it,” or “look, whatever wrong I did only helped make her as strong as she is today.” To them, she will offer no loyalty and give no protection.

Those who have never had to rebirth a spirit many times over have no regard for the pain of that particular labor, or the dangers. A spirit may be broken beyond repair, or crushed beyond the possibility of rebirth. Not even the strongest and most determined of elephant girls are free from these dangers that, although rare, loom as possibilities — especially in later years when the ability to rebound is not as assured.

The elephant girl will use her considerable strength and intelligence to pull a friend up and out of whatever pit she has fallen into, and will expect nothing in return except the continuation of friendship. She finds thankful expressions among her friends unnecessary. What she has, she is often willing to lend or give away, and the only expressions of gratitude she ever requires are the ones she practices herself — loyalty, care, and consideration.

3. A Love of Peace

It is true that elephant girls often participate in or even lead a stampede, but they never do so for weak causes such as revenge or hatred. They do so for the love of peace.

They brook no respect for the fraudulent kind of peace some claim to receive by turning a blind eye to injustices. Ignorance of facts, intentions, and circumstances is not peace, and has no goodness at its core.

The peace of the elephant girls is born from the strength of their convictions, which holds truth, fairness, benevolence, and integrity as most-high. Refusing to fight for a just cause, or at least to stand strong in the face of adversity, are not the actions of peace-lovers — but the baneful responses of those who are weak, and apathetic to all but themselves.

The elephant girl has learned that the barricades to truth and healing are not removed solely upon a peaceful request. The swollen rivers of human malevolence and misdeeds are not parted by mere wishful thinking.

There are times when only the sheer force of strength and a survivalist’s determination will remove the barricades and dam the river, allowing passage to those who wish to reach the freeing fields that lie on the other side.

There are times when the precise and visceral memories of an elephant girl lead her to know more about a particular moment than the moment itself presents. It is not intuition but experience that informs the path of an elephant girl. She recognizes old obstacles even when they appear as new.

There are times when an elephant girl must retreat in order to heal or rebirth her spirit, but no matter how long she might wish to enjoy sanctuary — and even when she declares a desire to make it a permanent state — eventually she will hear a call that speaks to her heart and takes her back to the wilds. The nature of the elephant girl is as much about her love for humanity and justice as it is about the tranquility found when she has an opportunity to repose and reflect.

4. And Finally. . .

The elephant girl is capable of the deepest kind of love and nurturing, particularly when it comes to children, because even when she is very old the elephant girl cannot, and would not wish to, forget her own once-young spirit — which long past childhood and through many rebirths, retains all the radiant hopes, bright wishes, and idealistic dreams of youth.

As a mother, the elephant girl is fiercely protective, but also pushes her young to try new experiences. She lends them her strength while helping them grow strong on their own. She guides and counsels, and rarely dictates, except when necessary to save her children from imminent and avoidable danger.

As a life partner, the elephant girl will constantly surprise you, not only because her loyalty is unwavering and her heart is continuously growing, but because in-between and even in the midst of triumphs and tragedies, the elephant girl has a childlike love of play. Strength alone did not get her through the roughest of times. Intellect and reasoning did not, of their own accord, bring her a sense of happiness. It was the ability to laugh — out loud and with the full strength of her being — that kept her survival instinct strong and helped her soul eclipse even the most painful of journeys.

The freeing fields on the other side of human discord reverberate with her laughter. Her all-encompassing spirit is at its best when roaming freely and without limitation, as it does when she is surrounded by the consonant spirits of those she loves.

There, on the other side, scars are not forgotten, but reinvented as works of art. The pain and tribulation of days past are not buried, but pulled up and transformed into wisdom.

The frogs who would kick her stand not a chance when the elephant girl soars.

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Poison not Just in the Neglect, but in the Cliches

Posted on 03/10/2008 by Jane Devin

Poverty is Poison was the headline of a February 18th editorial in the New York Times. Every time I read something like this – old news passed off as a new discovery – I want to scream a little bit. Massive amounts of research, some of it quite famously cruel and spectacular, has been done on child development. That “children growing up in poor families. . . .experience unhealthy levels of stress hormones which impair their neural development” is not a new finding, nor is it surprising. These same stress hormones are found in children from abusive or neglectful homes, and it has been far beyond proven that children who are not nurtured in infancy, if they survive at all, will experience a host of problems, from social attachment disorder to learning disabilities.

What is surprising is that we, as a society, continue to expect and demand a cure through self-determination. That we negate the factual science of neural development in favor of blaming, shaming, or shunning the affected, believing that moral weakness or poor character, rather than any significant physical or cognitive deficit, is responsible for those who fail to rise to the social challenges of our competitive society.

I’d like to find your inner child and kick its little ass.

“Get over it,” pop star Don Henley once sang. “Complain about the present and blame it on the past, I’d like to find your inner child and kick its little ass”. Henley’s popular song, which seemed to show equal disdain for real victims as well as those faking it in exchange for a car crash payday, reflected the attitudes of many Americans at the 1990′s height of child abuse stories. Unfortunately, there was a window of time when it became somewhat hip to come out as an abused child – and celebrities, whether jumping on the popular bandwagon, or sincerely trying to help, only caused a serious issue to be taken less seriously. People started to recoil, not from the horrors of child abuse, but from yet another sad tale of alcoholism, rape, or rage – especially those told by people living a privileged existence far removed from the hardscrabble lives of the working and middle classes.

The backlash against abuse victims was swift, hard, and long lasting. English professors across America added “child abuse” to their list of cliched topics. More and more writers were steered away from the topic by threats of non-publication. When books were published, such as “A Child Called It” or “The Glass Castle”, the endings were happily-ever-after.

The old but persuasive bromides of positivity were shined up for a new generation who were spoon fed the concept of self-esteem without the struggles and accomplishments that naturally lead to a sense of self-worth. I remember arguing with my daughter’s second grade teacher about this when Elisabeth came home one day and told me spelling didn’t matter. I was sure she misunderstood the teacher, but no. Mrs Greene informed me that correcting a child’s spelling could “stunt” their creativity and lead to lowered self-esteem. My argument that self-esteem would be a natural byproduct of mastering the task of spelling fell on stubbornly deaf ears – as did my argument that creativity isn’t so fragile that it’s destroyed under structure.

That new generation is now grown up, and they seem all too willing to carry the torch for the crumbling and blind school of self-determination, regardless of scientific discoveries, old or new. Poverty is character, and character is destiny. Trauma is gotten over by self-help books and positive self-talk. Neural pathways, receptors and hormones are nothing that an hour with Joel Osteen or Dr. Phil can’t fix. Think it and be it. Get real. Or, as Oprah – who was once of the foremost advocates for the misunderstood underclass before taking the Cosmo girl road of peddling everything from diets to beauty secrets – might suggest, discover your spirit. Live your best life.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with feel-good philosophies, positive thinking, or living one’s life with passion. The wrong enters when these things are held out by the dominant society as a cure to problems that are far deeper, more serious, and more poisonous than everyday problems.

Not feeling great about the way one looks in a bathing suit is in no way equivalent to actually being (as opposed to merely feeling like) a social outcast.

I feel like a fraud. I’ve never fit in anywhere…

“I feel like a fraud,” says *Kari, who spent her first six years of life with a neglectful mother before being sent to live with her elderly grandmother. “I’ve never fit in anywhere … and my thoughts just don’t seem to work the way other people’s do.” Kari, now 46, spent most of her adult years trying to climb the ladder as a graphic artist in the corporate world.

“No one ever told me I didn’t have talent,” she says, “I did, and was probably even above-average in that area, but I just wasn’t well liked. I wasn’t liked when I was myself, and I wasn’t liked any better when I followed the advice of all those self-help, how-to-heal, or how to make friends books. I knew there was something different about me – something that made other people uncomfortable – but I never found what it was. I kept trying out all sorts of different approaches, but it was like I had some invisible mark of a social pariah. My work was valued, but I couldn’t get promoted. There were convenient acquaintances, but no real friendships.

“I went to therapists. I meditated. I read every book I could find on healing and being social, and I trained myself to carefully consider every response and every action. . .

“The weirdest thing has always been the way people respond to me. For some reason, my words were always taken far more personally than if they came from someone else. For instance, if one of my colleagues casually complained, it was no big deal. If I did the same thing, even using almost the same exact words, it was an Oh my God event – people would be shocked, or instantly label me a chronic complainer.

“It’s that kind of over-sensitivity. . .to me as a person, and to my words. . . that made me afraid to speak out at all. I was labeled weird, no matter how normal I thought I was, or how like them I tried to act. I became quieter over the years, and my own sensitivity around other people became so heightened it was almost paralyzing.”

After seven jobs in 19 years, Kari quit. She subsisted on unemployment and savings for two years, while struggling with intense depression and thoughts of suicide. One therapist suggested Kari might have a mild form of Asperger’s Syndrome, a diagnosis that left her with little comfort. “Even if I agreed with that, which I really don’t seeing that I don’t have many of the symptoms, it really doesn’t change anything,” she says.

Eventually, Kari went to work as an $8/hr. checker in a small grocery store, which pays her extra on the side to create signage. It wasn’t the life Kari planned, but she’s not alone.

There are profound and visible differences between a “wild child” like +Genie, who was discovered at age 13, after having been isolated from infancy in a dark room in her parents’ home, and David Pelzer, whose childhood abuse and isolation was chronicled in the book “A Child Called It.” Genie never recovered, while Pelzer went on to become a successful journalist and author. Their experiences, the extent of abuse suffered, their brains, and exposures to other people, were quite different even though there are several parallels that can be drawn.

What is less obvious, and almost invisible in society, are those who were significantly poisoned in childhood – those who were permanently affected by the crossed wires, mixed-up hormones, and neural changes caused by poverty, neglect, and abuse. Most often, those affected are physically indistinguishable from those who were reared in relatively normal and healthy homes.

The emotional and social differences, not seen by the naked eye, may range from mild to severe, with Kari’s case being somewhere in the moderate middle.

There’s no “get over it” cure, and no amount of shame or blame placed on victims can reorganize or “fix” the brain that was damaged in infancy or childhood. The best that survivors can do is to be aware of the differences and develop the patience, personal strength, and comprehensive understanding necessary to deal with being something of an outcast – with being, perhaps, “of this world, but not necessarily in it.”

For society, the question should not be about a cure that doesn’t exist, but a two-fold one of awareness and prevention. Rather than throwing the science (and its subjects) away in favor of the quick, convenient, and empirical “bootstrap” approach – which seeks to make everything from financial achievement to social success mere matters of character and effort – society might instead seek to understand the deeper, more realistic reasons why some former victims of poverty and abuse fail to thrive.

Understanding that, we might put more stock in prevention and make the end of poverty and child abuse in America a real and urgent priority, rather than shuffling both off to the easy-to-forget realm of stale news and tired cliches.

*Real name not disclosed.
+Genie was the psuedonym given to Susan Wiley by researchers. She now lives in an undisclosed group home in Southern California.

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