Wednesday, September 30, 2015

How We Do It, Part LV

I drove up Venice Boulevard today, back from a doctor's appointment on the west side, no traffic, blue skies, hot dry sun, the silk floss trees dropping their pink petals. This is what I thought. Sophie had a huge seizure this morning, a big one, related, I'm certain, to the fact that we've cut her drug in half. I rubbed some THC on her gums during the seizure, and she recovered fairly quickly. I don't know what's what, but what I do know is that I've lost all trust, or maybe not all but most trust. You must have figured that out all ready.  Trust in what if not what's what? I don't remember exactly when I became unmoored -- was it when that doctor from New York City told me that I'd had a good idea when I suggested that the three drugs my baby was on were perhaps interacting with one another? Was it that moment when he hmmmmed on the phone and I realized the gig was up? Is it because I'm a woman, formerly a girl who was taught to please, to defer to authority, to pipe down, shut your mouth, too opinionated, your head in the clouds?Just the other day, I was told, Who told you that you're special? What makes you think that? with all the implication that I'm not, which I know, at last, to the questioner. But this -- this trust -- lost -- the sense of trust lost, the yearning to hand it all over (not let go, let god), the impossible decision-making, the plunges, the leaps. The silk floss tree blossoms are like windmills on Venice Blvd, spinning and falling. The trunks are spiked, so sharp that we shaved them from the tree in the backyard when the children were young.  My windshield -- wind shield -- covered with flowers that fall, whole. She seemed confused today, her brow furrowed, her eyes too often swiveled to the right, a jitter, a blip. I imagine taking Sophie under my arm and running, running to China, away. She's still that baby, under my arm, so many trips to China. Don't get me wrong. I'm not going anywhere but there in my head. These seizures, those, this loss, that baby, trust gone -- they are compressed in time, over and over, just mused over on Venice Boulevard while I drive.

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

My Favorite Genius

This morning, I woke up and read about Alex Truesdell, a recipient of a MacArthur Genius Award. She is described as

a visionary social entrepreneur who creates low-tech, affordable tools and furniture that enable children with disabilities to participate actively in their homes, schools, and communities. Truesdell challenges our assumption that disabilities are fixed and instead suggests that limitations can be minimized, or even eliminated, with effective user-inspired adaptations—the kind she creates as founder and director of the nonprofit Adaptive Design Association (ADA).

You can read more about her here.  If you need a good, cleansing cry about something beautiful, watch the video.

The Universe is abundant, and there is much for which to be grateful. Thank you, Alex, for the work that you're doing.

Monday, September 28, 2015


If I were French, I might call our current situation with Sophie -- the hives, the CBD, the THC, the Vimpat and the Onfi -- LA  SIT U AH SEE ON. There's something about the supercilious accent that helps me cut through the fear and cope. Writing it down here also helps me to impose some order, however illusionary or delusionary because, let's face it, after twenty years, the main thing I know is that refractory epilepsy is a big, dark hole and no one, absolutely no one, knows what the hell is going on.*

I had a conversation with The Neurologist this afternoon about Sophie's hives, and she suggested that I cut Sophie's dose of Vimpat in half. My initial response is Whoa. Any of you regular readers know that weaning anti-epileptic drugs, like weaning drugs for depression or anxiety, is serious business, and that the slower you do it, the better. I also carry around a veritable salt lick when it comes to neurologists' opinions and directives about drugs -- the titration schedules, the weaning schedules and the side effects. It's been my experience that neurologists, in general, over-prescribe, ramp up too quickly, take down too quickly and dismiss side effects. That being said, I see the hives, I have the tiniest gut feeling that they might be related to the Vimpat, and therefore, the Vimpat must go. I really like and respect The Neurologist, and she made the call.  That being said, what if it isn't the Vimpat? Ripping off the Vimpat quickly will inevitably cause some withdrawal, including increased seizures and discomfort, but not taking it away could cause some serious shit. I've gotten good advice today from my comrades in seizurology and from my dearest friends. Christy of Calvin's Story (if you haven't read her writing, yet, you need to), said the most profound thing to me after she'd listened to LA SIT U AH SEE ON.

She told me that she has learned to never make a decision based on fear.

We chewed on that for some minutes, laughing at times over the impossibility of it all, how if we really sat down and thought about it, we'd have some kind of fear over all this shit we've faced and continue to face raising our children. We also acknowledged how our gut feelings are generally right -- maybe not even generally, but always. The trouble comes when you don't have a real gut feeling or it's occluded by -- yes -- fear.

So, here's the thing. I'm plain afraid of weaning Vimpat so quickly. I'm afraid that Sophie will go into status or will go insane. I'm afraid not to wean Vimpat because of the possibility of a serious allergic reaction or something brewing. While Vimpat has never really helped her, she's been on it for over seven years, so I'm banking on its relative uselessness as a seizure medicine as far as taking her off it. I have THC and CBD to help during withdrawal, and I have Diastat in the cupboard (currently expired because we haven't had to use it once in the nearly two years she's been on CBD) if there's a real emergency. On the plus side, we were going to wean Vimpat eventually, as soon as we had finished the Onfi wean.

When I lay out my fears and allow my gut to breathe, I think the Vimpat has to go. LA SIT U AH SEE On calls for it.

I think.

*If you have any ideas about what's going on or have a SIT U AH SEE ON of your own to share, please feel free to do so in the comments, especially if you're acquainted with epilepsy and drugs. I'm all ears -- fear and ears.

Saturday, September 26, 2015

Saturday Cue: Mrs. Braddock's Laugh

I periodically use the cue words: Mrs. Braddock's laugh. That iconic scene from The Graduate includes the most maniacal, fabulous laugh ever uttered by a character or an actor with the possible exception of a Jack Nicholson sneer from one of his iconic roles. The laugh is something that I call upon during difficult or absurd situations, most of which happen during my interfaces with the Systems of Care around Sophie's epilepsy. Even if I am the model of restraint, calm and cool, on the inside, I'm throwing my head back and screaming the scream of the absurd.

Watch the whole clip, because the last two lines of it are also pretty damn fabulous.

Ben, this whole idea sounds pretty half-baked.

No, it's not. It's completely baked. It's a decision I've made.

Friday, September 25, 2015

Drug Wars

I posted the above photo, innocuous enough, and told my Instagram followers that if such things turned them on, they should come over here and read this blog post or rant or whatever you might call the twenty-first year of wrangling with drug companies, pharmacies and insurance companies. I spent a bit of time today on the horse, trying to get Sophie's prescription of Vimpat refilled. I write a lot about the benzos -- Onfi, in particular -- but you might not realize that Sophie is also on Vimpat and has been since it was approved for use by the Almighty FDA in the fall of 2008. Yessiree Bob, as they say, and anywho. We slapped that drug on, along with the Onfi, numbers twenty one and twenty-two of drugs both approved and not-approved by The Almighty FDA and then spent the next eight years fighting for coverage by private insurance companies and Medi-Cal despite the grim fact that it doesn't really work. 

What does it mean when a drug given for seizure disorders doesn't really work?

It means the seizures don't stop.

Why, then, did you keep Sophie on that particular drug combination?

Because taking away drugs is a hideous process, and we had no other options. Oh, and because I used to listen to The Neurologist and do what he or she said with the exception of adding a third drug which I had earlier declared I would only do if Jesus Himself offered it to me. The Vimpat didn't appear to affect Sophie negatively, as far as we could tell (which isn't very far as she can't talk or express whether she's having any of the following:

Common side effects of Vimpat:

  • Blurred Vision
  • Dizzy
  • Double Vision
  • Feel Like Throwing Up
  • Head Pain
  • Throwing Up
  • Uncoordinated

Infrequent side effects of Vimpat:

  • Abnormal Manner of Walking
  • Diarrhea
  • Drowsiness
  • Feeling Weak
  • Involuntary Eye Movement
  • Involuntary Quivering
  • Itching
  • Loss of Memory
  • Low Energy
  • Sensation of Spinning or Whirling
  • Signs and Symptoms at Injection Site
  • Rare side effects of Vimpat:

    • Atrial Fibrillation
    • Atrial Flutter
    • Atrioventricular Heart Block
    • Decreased Neutrophils a Type of White Blood Cell
    • Deficiency of Granulocytes a Type of White Blood Cell
    • Feeling Faint
    • Giant Hives*
    • Having Thoughts of Suicide
    • Increased Eosinophils in the Blood
    • Inflammation of the Middle Tissue Heart Muscle
    • Kidney Inflammation
    • Liver Inflammation caused by Body's Own Immune Response
    • Mental Disorder with Loss of Normal Personality & Reality
    • Multiple Organ Failure
    • Slow Heartbeat
    • Stevens-Johnson Syndrome
    • Suicidal
    • Toxic Epidermal Necrolysis
    • Abnormal Liver Function Tests
    • Aggressive Behavior
    • Anemia
    • Chronic Trouble Sleeping
    • Confused
    • Depression
    • Difficulty Speaking
    • Disturbance of Attention
    • Dry Mouth
    • Easily Angered or Annoyed
    • Feeling Restless
    • Fever
    • Hallucination
    • Heart Throbbing or Pounding
    • Hives**
    • Incomplete or Infrequent Bowel Movements
    • Indigestion
    • Mood Changes
    • Muscle Spasm
    • Numbness
    • Numbness and Tingling
    • Prolonged P-R Interval observed on EKG
    • Rash
    • Ringing in the Ear
Sophie has two different Vimpat prescriptions because she gets a smaller amount in the morning, so we try to keep the number of pills she has to swallow to a minimum AND avoid cutting pills into quarters or halves or other infinitesimal amounts. Today, when I went to pick up the refills of BOTH prescriptions, I was told by The Earnest Pharmacist (sigh, they're always so earnest) that Vimpat is a controlled substance, and they couldn't release it to me until Monday. I told The Earnest Pharmacist (bless his corporate heart) that I knew that because my daughter had been taking the drug for seven years (even though it doesn't fucking work) and then The Earnest Pharmacist said he would check to see whether if he over-rode that stipulation the insurance company would cover it, and I, of the tiny, little mother mind™ suggested that he give me three pills to tide me over to Monday and The Earnest Pharmacist said, Oh, no, I can't possibly do that and right before I morphed into Terms of Endearment Epilepsy Drug-Style Shirley MacLaine and banged on the counter, The Other Earnest Pharmacist looked up from her computer or little desk where she was counting out some other poor soul's drug and said, Oh, I can take care of that! Then I forked over my $120 co-payment that Medi-Cal is supposed to pick up but has mysteriously neglected to do so without the six thousandth prior approval.

Then I grabbed a bottle of cheap vodka from the liquor aisle and a bag of Cheetos and ran from the store to add to my stash of Vimpat that I am hoarding for thrills at home in the brown basket right next to the bottles of Onfi and the Lone Ranger cookie jar.

* The reason for this post has just occurred to me. Sophie has been getting hives off and on for a number of weeks. I have no idea why and am now wondering if it's due to the Vimpat? I had thought a drug rash unlikely when I first saw them, because drug rashes usually show up right after you begin taking the drug, and it has been over seven years, but --- well --- sigh. 
** See above.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Waiting for the Dishwasher to Drain

I'm waiting in my bedroom. There's a man from Armenia in my kitchen, crouched down by my dishwasher. He's waiting for the Quick cycle to complete so that he can determine why it's not draining.  I only mention that he's Armenian because he looked at me strangely when I asked whether he was checking out the Dodgers schedule, a large magnet attached to the refrigerator door and at his eye level. In my country, we don't watch baseball, he said, I love soccer. I asked him what country although I had already guessed by his accent, but unlike The Donald, I veer toward the politically correct and didn't want to profile him in any way. Capische? my father would say. That's you, I'm asking, not the dishwasher repairman. I'm fascinated these days by the collision of language and culture, a collision that seems inevitable for all but those who've taken vows of silence. It seems like there's always someone or something to offend, whether you're being completely rude and calling someone a fucker, let's say, or mincing your words while wearing the yoke of politically correct intentions.  There's rape culture and microaggression and ableism and racism and sexism and what means yes and what means no, good intentions and bad ones, consciousness and unconsciousness and subconsciousness. And then there's the law and the interpretation of the law and the protection of the law and the rebuffing of the law.  It's a weird sort of tyranny, I think, but I haven't thought deeply enough about it to make sense here. Did you participate in the Armenian 100 year celebration? I asked him, looking for something to share. Oliver and I had walked to the end of our street during the parade and watched the tens of thousands of Armenians walking toward the Turkish embassy. The dishwasher repairman said, Yes, but my grandfather had waited all of his life for it and was waiting to go back and visit his home that he'd fled. He died right before. I told him that I was sorry to hear that, to hear that his wait had been for nought, and the dishwasher repairman shook his head and replied that at least they could acknowledge this waiting, this crime. Then we both looked at the dishwasher, like it was waiting for us. I came back here, to my bedroom, to wait. Capische?

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Silence in Talk

Le Silence, 1900
Odilon Redon

to J.

I first saw the Symbolist painter Odilon Redon's work Le Silence at a museum somewhere on the coast of France during the summer of 1985 when I was backpacking through by myself. Yes, by myself for three weeks. I don't think I spoke ten words during that time, and it was glorious. The painting knocked me flat. I've called upon the peace of it, in my mind, hundreds of times since and most recently today after an exchange with a beautiful human being.

Thank you, J. And yes:

Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.
Pablo Picasso

The Personification of Skin

My mother and father with me at UNC Parents' Weekend
September 23, 1982
33 YEARS AGO!!!!

I have always had "good skin," which I'll attribute to genes, lots of Mediterranean genes. Thank you, Syrian and Italian ancestors, thank you.* Nevertheless, I have been approached to "do a story" on dermatology. 

This morning's Marketing Email of the Day:

Blackheads are a common complaint that will drive them to visit their dermatologist. Most people complaining about blackheads do not truly have blackheads.  What makes a blackhead a true blackhead? Could it be oversized pores?  How do you treat blackheads?   Dr. Janet Prystowsky, board certified Dermatologist in New York City, with over 25 years-experience, is available to speak to blackheads, what a blackhead truly is and how to treat them.
Please let me know when you would like to speak with her.

Apparently, blackheads can be personified.

*If we're going to use the literary device of personification, here would be mine:

Elizabeth,Long black hairs sprouting from moles and freckles overnight are a common complaint of the Mediterranean skin that will drive them to visit the cup in your bathroom that houses the tweezers. Most people complaining about long, black hairs do not truly have long, black hairs. What makes a long, black hair a true long, black hair? Could it be an evolutionary mutation? Dr. Glenda Oblonsky, board-certified Dermatologist in Beverly Hills, with over 345 years experience, is available to speak to long, black hairs, what a long black hair truly is and how to treat them.
Please let me know when you would like to speak with her about yours. We won't tell them that you are seeking eradication and a higher position on the evolutionary ladder.

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Waxing Gratitude (with profanity)


I kind of winced around all day because of my previous post where I used the f word and waxed righteous about a woman's right to have an abortion. I was responding to the Reverend Promise Dixon's righteousness, but everyone knows that you shouldn't talk about abortion or anything else that so polarizes people because there's just no end to it all. No end to it at all. I've been trying to be still in my heart these days, to not jump down throats or to stir up controversy or to mouth off like I am accustomed and, dare I say it, quite good at doing.

We often stir things up that are unrelated to us when we're facing difficult issues in our personal lives as I am. So, I'm going to be popping in and out of here, periodically mouthing off but probably more likely waxing my gratitude for my community and friends and family.

The Reverend Promise Dixon can still go f*^k himself.

*I posted that photo of Sophie on Facebook and just had an enormous amount of love sent my way, so forgive me, Facebookers, for double-posting it here as well.

The Day After International Peace Day Contains Profanity

It's the day after International Peace Day, so let's rant.

I get at least three emails every single morning from various marketers, peddling products and services as diverse as stand-up urinals for women and books catering to those who believe in manifesting your destiny even as you're swept away in a flash flood in a keyhole cavern. Today's email, though, got my proverbial panties in a wad (I hate the words "panties" and "wad," but some self-flagellation is in order for my upcoming rudeness). This email was promoting a singer named The Reverend Promise Dixon, the 10th of 14 children from Oklahoma. He has a new song, Killers, that addresses the recent Planned Parenthood conspiracy, and the marketer hopes I'll listen to and tell ya'll about it. Normally, I'd delete this kind of thing immediately after seeing that it's evangelical Christian (how in Buddha's name do these people get my email?), but I kept reading until I reached the final paragraph where I promptly burst out laughing (as opposed to combusting which I'm sure the Revered Dixon would have preferred). Here's the last paragraph of the email:

When people talk about Planned Parenthood, it is most often discussed from the perspective of a woman.  Rev. Dixon says that his song sheds light on a different perspective; “This is a unique story, because you always hear about the woman's perspective, but never from the perspective of a man, who actually paid for the abortions.”  It is Rev. Dixon’s hope that through his song, people will be awakened out of complacency and into action.

Here's the action I'm awakened into, Rev. Dixon. Go f*#k yourself.


Speaking of music, Oliver was walking around the house this morning humming bars of "Ebony and Ivory," although he was using different words. I made the mistake of correcting and telling him that the singers were Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney and that it was about racial harmony. Oliver rolled his eyes and said in his most incredulous fourteen-year-old tone, Have you ever even heard of that song, Mom?

Monday, September 21, 2015

International Day of Peace

This morning I read the New York Times article about the Afghani military practice of raping boys and young men, even at military bases. It's a sign of status for upper-level police and military to surround themselves with these boys. Evidently, our military, the ones we support with not only our tax money but our hearts (and if we don't we're called treasonous or cowards), have been instructed to basically turn away from what is determined to be a cultural thing. The article explains that many of our military have shirked from "turning away," have "beaten up" some of the Afghani men who they've caught with boys and -- well -- I wish I had words, but this is about the best I can do. I won't even go into why the hell we're still "over there," why we appear to be, now, (and arguably have always been) a colonial power, and the whole magnitude of the thing we've wrought as a country since that terrible day in September, 2001.

International Day of Peace, indeed. I guess it starts at home, so I'm going to continue the disconnect that is the disease of this country and refrain from telling my boys that if they don't pick up their wet towels from the bathroom floor, they will be lashed with wet noodles. I'm going to go quietly and gratefully into the bathroom, pick them up from the floor, fold them inward on both sides, like I like it, and hang them just so, just where the light illuminates their neat blue folds.

The poet C.K. Williams died today. Here's a poem:


    from the Sanskrit of Mayura

The claws of the mighty nation dabble the gore-pools
and wallow the muddy flesh of the horrible enemy.

Human mouthfuls plucked like reeds. Hearts, plucked.

The claws dancing in the torn chest like herons.


Sunday, September 20, 2015

Saturday, September 19, 2015

Saturday Musings

I saw a pigeon dying in the middle of the turn lane on La Brea this afternoon. I sat at a red light and watched its wings flapping, its efforts to get up, the cars flying by, my eyes pricking with tears.

I don't want to talk about the circus, The Clown, The HP Destroyer, The Ayn Rand Lover, The Texan, The Lethargic Scion, or The Big Guy.

It makes me tired and irritable that all the people I know eat or smoke marijuana products with ease, while I and the other people I know in similar circumstances have to gird our loins daily to deal with the above circus.

Why don't you travel with Sophie to other states? someone asked last night at a party. Because it's a felony to transport marijuana, and I do not trust that if caught, the Powers That Be would be reasonable and let me remain Sophie's conservator, I said.

Sunlight. Broken windows. Dark rooms.

There's still illumination.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

The Spider and The Fly

It's popular today to let go of your story, or to stop your story or to rewrite your story. Yoga teachers, self-helpers, mindfulness people -- everyone, it seems, believes that our stories can hold us back from whatever our true purpose or intentions might be.

I've always felt uncomfortable with this, perhaps because I've woven a dense one. A thick story that I'm living by, a web that I've woven, sticky and strong, full of flies. Do I have to tell a different one? Is it holding me captive?

The poet Mark Nepo wrote that sharing our stories -- even over and over -- as they continue to press upon our hearts -- is sort of like chanting a mantra whose truth is, finally, released. His take on story is quite different in that it is by repetition that we find release.

I'm mulling these things as I tell my story -- here and elsewhere. The story that you know and the story that you don't know and won't know. I'm the spider and the fly.

Monday, September 14, 2015

Blue Heaven, LA-Style, With A Series of Admissions

What was blue heaven to me, back in the day, was my years as a Tar Heel at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Blue heaven to Oliver, though, is Dodger Stadium. I went with him to a game tonight and admit that I had a great time. I used the hashtag motheroftheyearwhohatessports when I posted some pictures from the game. Oliver and Henry received a whole series of tickets from Uncle Tony last Christmas, all in the outfield section where there's an All You Can Eat theme.

Lila Downs sang the National Anthem, and I will admit to shedding tears.

I ate a Dodger dog with ketchup, spicy mustard and sweet relish. Although I'll maintain that they look nasty, I'll admit that they taste damn good.

I ate some tortilla chips and nacho cheese. I admit that I like this disgusting fake food.

I shared an ice-cream cookie sandwich with Oliver that cost $4,987,632 and was thankfully not in the all you can eat category. I admit that I really didn't need to eat it.

I drank a Diet Coke.

I did not drink beer although it looked tasty despite the plastic cups that I, admittedly, drank too much out of back in my blue heaven and thus feel a gentle snobbery toward --

The guy at the end of our row kept standing up and shouting insults at the opposing team's outfielder. When I expressed dismay, Oliver reassured me that they are "trained" to deal with the insults, that they don't care about it, and that they are making millions of dollars to stand out there so I shouldn't feel sorry for them. I admit that he had a point, so I texted with my friend Lisa a bit as a distraction.

One of the rookies is a guy that looked pretty darn cute, and when I asked Oliver who it was and said how cute he was, Oliver told me that he was twenty years old and that I was weird. Whatevs, as the youngsters say. I admit to a boy crush.

I have to wear my glasses for another ten days because I have some sort of inflammation under my eyelids. I can't believe that I wasn't picked to appear on the GLAM CAM, although the prospect of appearing on those giant cameras that hang in the LA skyline rivals the archetypal nightmare of walking down your middle school hallway nude. I admit to my vanity, particularly when it comes to glasses.

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Lutefisk Love

So, have ya'll ever had lutefisk? I ordered a pound of it from a Norwegian food company in Minnesota and girded my loins to open the bag when it came on Friday afternoon. J. Ryan Stradal's book Kitchens from the Great Midwest describes the processing and cooking of this traditional food in detail, and it wasn't good. In an interview with the author, he compares the taste to what he imagines aquarium water to be. I'm not sure about aquarium water, but the moment I cut open the bag, I smelled fish and not the good, clean smell of fish. The texture of the filets was spongy -- grossly so -- and later, when I'd roasted it in the oven, it seemed more like jelly than fish. A couple of brave souls tasted it, declared it okay, but fishy, and one woman suggested I crumble it into balls, roll it in Panko and fry it.

I threw it away when everyone left.

So that's my lutefisk experience -- apologies to all Norwegians who hold it close to their hearts.

Other than the lutefisk, we had a really lively discussion about the novel with nearly everyone agreeing that it needed a bit more character development but was otherwise entertaining and a good read. Given how light it was, though, I'm tempted to suggest a heavier one for October and am floating around To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. That's probably one of my top three favorite novels and has an incredible dinner party scene that I could replicate for Books & Bakes. What do you think? Anyone out there have any suggestions for next month's book? Please leave a note in the comments if you do.

Here's the menu from Friday night. All food, except for the caramel ice-cream, was mentioned in the book. A few of the recipes even came from the book!

Wisconsin Cheese and Crackers
Summer Corn Chowder
Caesar Salad with Croutons
Vegetarian Lasagna
Pork Shoulder Tacos with Mint
Black Beans and Feta
Heirloom Tomato Salsa
Apple Crisp
Homemade Caramel Ice Cream
Celeste's Mud Bars

Friday, September 11, 2015

Books & Bakes

My little sister Jennifer is here visiting. She's got that thing, that touch, that know what you're doing as far as arranging a wall of paintings, throwing cool fabric over old furniture kind of thing. That's what she's been doing all day.

Tonight is my monthly Books & Bakes salon. Saint Mirtha had an unexpected emergency, so I'm going a little nutso in the kitchen. I'll post my menu and all that good stuff later tonight or tomorrow morning, if I'm still alive. We read J. Ryan Stradal's novel Kitchens of the Great Midwest. It was an entertaining read with great food scenes. Lutefisk is involved. Look that up and try to imagine this one-half Italian, one-quarter Syrian and one-quarter Scotch English gal serving it.

I hope your Friday is going well. It's still hot as hell here in southern California. Thank the good lord Jesus for air-conditioning.

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Fear, Carry and Conceal

Tucson, Arizona, 2011; photograph by Paolo Pellegrin
via The New York Review of Books

I have several friends, particularly in the medical marijuana community, who are ardent Christians and political conservatives or libertarians. Their beliefs in many regards are antithetical to my own, despite the fact that we share much in common, namely our children with seizure disorders. A couple of years ago, I had to disengage from one member of this community when he derided the anguished cries of the father of the UCSB shooter for stricter gun laws. This person then derided me, called me a coward and declared that it was people like himself that had to protect lazy people like me. It's too easy, I think, to call a person like this insane or stupid or even to feel scared as shit that they're carrying guns around.

Lately, I've noticed on Facebook that a number of these people -- my friends -- are posting quite exuberantly about gun shopping, about applying for gun licenses and carry and conceal permits. The comments that follow these status updates are enthusiastic, even down to the emoticons of guns and happy faces. Their reasoning is generally along the lines of protection, that carrying a gun will protect them and their family. The other day, I sat on my front lawn with Sophie and a guy who was going to do a little work on my house. He, too, is an ardent gun enthusiast and spoke openly about the need to protect oneself from bad people, to arm oneself and learn to shoot well, in the event of a home invasion or a threat to my children or myself.

I might just be a dumb-ass, but I am not afraid.

I really don't understand what everyone is so afraid of, why they think concealing a sophisticated piece of killing technology is nifty and what sort of statistics they've seen that I haven't regarding defensive gun use in the home or out at the movie theater or in a grocery store or child's school.

To be frank, the only caveat to my lack of fear is -- well -- you. You with your glib photos of guns, your cocky aims to protect yourself and your children from dark forces, your conceal and carry ardency, your deep cynicism and paradoxical blind faith in -- what? In what lies your faith? Please enlighten me.

I've been mulling these things the last few days, inarticulate and struggling to understand, repelled and repulsed and uncomfortable. I didn't want to resort to sarcasm, to scorn or contempt -- I like these people, feel bonded to them, even devoted. Yet, distance. My brain's wrappings -- they're undone. I don't understand. In one of those amazing instances of synchronicity, tonight I read the brilliant Marilynn Robinson's long essay on faith and guns and fear in The New York Review of Books.  I hope that it will provoke some response, that I will. I'm not afraid and have nothing to carry or conceal.


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