Prejudice, The Moro Reflex and Freedom

2/24/06
Another reminder of one's instinct to judge a "book by its cover" or in this case a blonde by her boobs, while at the dog park today. Chatting about her pit bull (which I always think of as thugs, but learned today, aren't always), watching another dog bury a bone and then dig it up, I was reminded about the Moro reflext which I had just reviewed in Medical Spanish class. It's the instinct babies are born with that cause them, when startled, to grab at the air and crunch into a fetal position. This is a remnant of our symian days when we had fur and a baby suddenly dropped or misplaced could indeed grab at thin air and likely catch a handful of Mom and stay tethered. The dog's instinct to bury a bone had reminded me of this new born talent and I mentioned it to the blonde with a full explanation as I expected her to not know what I was talking about. Turns out she's an OB, and so of course knows more about any of this stuff than I ever will. I am always amazed at this tendency we all have to classify people based on appearances, or mannerisms or how they speak. This too must be an instinct to perhaps always be on guard to suss out the potential enemy, or equally potentiallly valuable ally. How sad that so many of our politicians, including numero uno, can't see the world in any other way than as enemies lurking at every corner mosque. Why can't they look for our similarities rather than the differences?

An article in the NYTIMES today talks about how choice means different things to different income/education levels: to college grads it means "freedom, action, control." To high school grads it means "fear, doubt & difficulty." Very interesting and helps explain a sign my son saw that read: Freedom = Slavery. I had thought about it for a while and decided that indeed, in this land of plenty, when you've got means, you can be enslaved by the perceived need to have it all or at least to have more. Choice can mean making the wrong one, or being aware that you don't have the freedom to make one. Choice can be liberating if you're miserable where or how you are (to wit, transgendered surgery) if indeed you can exercise that choice. But what if if you can't make choices, either due to economics or the environment, wouldnl't knowing that others have the freedom you don't have make you feel the opposite of free, ie. enslaved? Doesn't America, by flaunting her freedom worship around the world, and by bullying others to buy into our pursuit thereof at all costs, enslave others by mere contrast? If we could just be honest and tell people we want their resources at a good price and we don't care how they live their lives, wouldn't that be more liberating?

If babies still grab at their mother's missing fur, after all these years of evolution, I guess it should be no surprise that those of us in power will continue to grab for more and will keep lying about why, touting "Freddom is on the March." We were startled on that great day, 9-11; we were caught naked in the day light and our instinct is still to lash out and grab for security, to hold onto mother for dear life. What a sign of truly growing up, of evolving beyond helpless infancy, if we can stand up after being knocked down and look around first, before blaming, before retaliating and maybe ask a question or two.

Flight of the Imagination

2/16/06
I awoke the other day sad at the ready realization that a recent flight of the imagination had landed, and now lies grounded like an eagle whose talons have tred too deeply in a patch of tar. Its wings flap furiously now and again, when she's not being generously fed by her mate who stands apart, content in his heaviness. A fig tree sways near by in teh breeze, bearing fruit in varying stages of ripeness, some ready ot pluck, many already rotting in teh sun, others just budding in maturity, like babes in a green leafy womb. The eagle has her basic needs met now and occaisionally lifts herself of her adhesive trap, but her avian soaring strength is sapped daily by her earthbound tethers. Her tree beckons; the sky , azure and clear, calls and the eagle remembers her soaring days, when all the world was possible and figs were hers for the plucking.

Her mate watches the struggle, puzzled by her malcontent: doesn't he give her his all? Isn't it enough that he protects the nest, feeds her, guards their home? His eyes soften now and then as hers flicker in frustration. No matter the carion he brings, the water he lovingly spoons into her beak from his, he knows it's not what she craves. For in his tender, uni-linear gaze he cannot see her beloved fig tree and when she looks over his shoulder in yearning, he knows not what she seeks.

She tries to ignore those fan shaped green leaves, the gnarly brown bark and black leathery sacs of succulent seeded fruit beckoning beyond her loved one's sad eyes. And at times the tree fades from view in teh sand storms created by her flapping wings and she wonders if it had ever been tehre. But then the dust settles slowly, like a whisper, powdering the feathers of their wings. ANd she can see her golden dream again.

ONce she begged her mate to rescue her by stepping onto the tar and pulling her out. But he was too fearful of being trapped himself so threw her a few branches instead. She looked at them and realized they were not strong enough to hold her weight. So she had another fit of winged exasperation, this one longer & feircer than any other. ANd, by surprise, she found she had lifted a talon almost out of the gluey mass entrapping her. Her mate dozed as she made the discovery and her heart lightened a bit. She drew her wings under her & rleased them in a new surge of confidence. She could, would get out by her own will. Memories of juices dripping out of a pierced fig, cool winds across her brow, claws firmly hooked int othe highest branches of her beloved tree as her world view opened up again; all these fueled her ardor.

And one talon rose. ANd soon teh other until only a thin string o ftar connected her to the earth like an umbilical rubber band. WIth a huge gulp of air and a magnificent caw, she rose into th3e air as her mate opened an eye to witness ehr airy ascent. Straight past him she flew and glided to her arbor. One perfectly ready fig awaited her and this she grabbed in her eager beak. Savoring the redolent scnet she breathed it in as she rolled the long awaited manna on her tongue and then swallowed. Filled with the succor she needed, she took off from the tree and aimed high, higher than her last horizon.

And below, her mate watched the flight of his dear one, called after her not noticing the stray fruit that had landed at his feet. Lowerin ghis head, perplexed at what he'd just witnessed, he now saw the fig and kicked at it in annoyance. The dust of her departure now covered the tar patch and she was long out of his line of sight. NOt knowing what to do he lay down and looked at the oft orb nearby and pecked at it, dis-consolately. The sweet meat was new to him and he found it not unpleasant.

High above and beyond, our freshly released eagle was on her way. She knew not where and cared not; was ready for the next windstorm, a sharp shooting hunter, a bear lying in wait. The route was hers to navigate. She knew by her inner compass wehre to find the next fig tree and how to survive between feedings. She thought lovingly but not longingly of her mate and knew he would find his own current of air to hang on . THey might cross paths again. They might not. But she turned her head proudly to the past and left it behind. With a flick, the last tarred feather fell away and she veered ahead to greet the sky.

Kindness of Strangers

2/7/06

Yesterday a father at my kids music school gave me a CD of arabic/gypsy themed cello music he had found on I-Tunes. We had talked a while ago about my having started the instrument 7 years ago while gestating my daughter, how I loved certain kinds of music, especially anything klezmer, sephardic, jewish, gypsy, basically eastern europe and anadlucia. I was so touched at his having thought about my interests and taken the time to download some music I might be interested in. A couple of weeks ago a former pre-natal client gave me a bag of black disco, dance dresses that she now longer wears. Another kind gesture from someone I don't know very well. Both offers made me grateful for the connections we make in life; and how important it is to allow ourselves to be open to the people we come across in our various spheres. Not for the gifts they might bestow but for the knowledge that in receiving, with thanks, we validate another human. And that is one of the greatest gifts any one can give in return.

self immolation

2/1/2006
At work yesterday one of the med students reported on a woman who had self-immolated because her husband had had an affair. She was completely burned over 75% of her body. The Medical assistants were appalled, could not understand how/why anyone would punish themselves for a sin committed by another and we got talking about the different roles of women around the world. These sassy Latina ladies wouldn't stand for an affair by their men, much less set a single hair on their head on fire. With scissor slashing fingers they articulated exactly what they would do to their husbands wandering dicks. And I got to thinking about all the cultures that still repress women and what incredible power we wield when men have to cover us with chadors and limit our movements in teh world. Yet, when women gain equal status with men, either economically, socially, sexually (and these usually come hand in hand) are we any more respected for our inherent worth? When the 17 year old stick thin, (yet basketball boobed) female ideal is paraded about as the highest goal in physical attractiveness, what sort of de-feminization is that proposing? Toothpicks walking along Melrose avenue gazing at all sorts of "put it here" thong underwear and glue tight jeans have lost their womanly allure when compared to the women in "Kandahar" swirling in their rainbow colored Bhurkas across the desert. Under those undulated sheets of fabric, we know there are curves, and thighs and breasts with skin and flesh, even though we can't see it. The toothpicks bare all, yet there's nothing there except rubber band taught skin, sinew tendons holding muscles to bones topped by a bushel of bleached, tossed hair. In countries where women are punished or who punish themselves when their men err, their all too sensual flesh must pay the price, as if the entire tribe of woman kind is at fault when a single one lures a married man away. And in a way, we are. As descendents from one, the first earth mother, woman-sister-daughter, each of us has the power to create and to destroy and in that omnipotence we share a bond. So when one snares another's man away, it's as if another has lost a piece of her power. But one culture will turn blame inward and another outward.

I burned myself the other night with hot olive oil, thinking a prohibited thought and was reminded of the many uses that vegetable ungament can serve. Was it God's warning not to think about proscribed activities? The new skin is crusting over now and this patch will serve as a reminder of how our sensuality and need for that kind of connecting with another human being can lead us on unknown paths. That poor woman, should she survive her self induced barbecue, will be forever made to think, when she looks at herself, of the power of skin, its temptations, its naked invitation to feel lust and exquisite pain, desire and shame. Even though those sentiments were not her own, by punishing herself for her husbands indulgence, she acknowledges our universal woman bond.

3/1/08 addendum: Someone suggested that this woman's act might have been more to punish teh husband, for the world now will, in looking at her, know what he did. What a horrible way to seek retribution, by branding oneself to shame another. How sad that she sacrificed her own right to feel, to relish touch, just to punish someone else who indulged his own need to do so. If anything, seh should have set him on fire. But I didn't say that.