OCTOBER 2004

The GRAVITY Issue:

• Grave Matters -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• Today -- Regina Walker
• My Two Breast Friends -- Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
• Just Another Ribbon? -- Jim Turner
• Renewal -- Gerry Di Gesu
• I Read [Bleep] as a Child. Am I Bad? -- Elizabeth Ross

Grave Matters

It was late one night, and my daughter and husband were already asleep. My four-year-old son, Jared, was still winding down for the night, but eventually settled on the couch next to me, as I read a book. Out of the blue, he suddenly turned to me and blurted out: "Mommy, I don't want to die."

"Oh, sweetie," I said. "I know you don't."

My son was quite healthy and there wasn’t any fear of imminent death to him or anyone else in our immediate family. So, I wasn’t quite sure what provoked my son’s sudden declaration against death.

"But Mommy," he said as tears welled up in his eyes, "I want YOU to change the rules. I don't want to die. And I don't want you to die, or Daddy, or Olivia, or Elvis (our dog)."

I held him tight, and tried to console him. But I felt completely ambushed and unprepared to dive into a deep philosophical discussion on death with my usually silly little boy. And so I stuttered a bit, and tried to tread as lightly as possible into a world I wasn’t quite ready to explore. The problem WAS and IS is that I don’t want to die any more than Jared. But like most people, it is something I try not to dwell on.

That night, I wished I did have the power to change the rules, if not for me, then at least for him. And I silently wished that I didn’t have to be the one to help him, my four-year-old son, confront an essential, yet harsh fact of life: all things must die.

And I worried that I would give Jared more information than he sought. Perhaps, he just wanted to feel safe, and be reassured that he would have a long life before him. But I couldn’t know his fate for certain, and I didn't want to lie to him and tell him that he would live forever. I also didn't want to scare him or mistakenly let him think that he could or would die soon.

This was clearly one of those times where I could have relied on the beliefs instilled by my Catholic upbringing. I could talk of heaven, the soul, and GOD. The problem was that I stopped believing in all of that years ago. I had never found solace in organized religion. I personally never needed simple answers that were driven by blind faith. But content as I was to live without answers or a core spiritual belief system, I now stumbled to give my son the comfort he sought.

"Please, Mommy," he begged. "I don't want to die."

I just kept holding him, and whispered, “I know, sweetie...I know.”

It is one of the great ironies of life, isn’t it? As humans, we have the amazing intellectual capacity for complex thought, reasoning, and understanding. And yet, just like a flower or any other living thing, we also must eventually die. We are each born with endless possibilities and yet, we immediately become aware of our own impending demise. And this knowledge influences just about everything we think about and do. It compels us to seek answers to life’s greatest mysteries. It leads some to denial, depression, or despair. It encourages us to make our marks on the world in an attempt to attain a sort of immortality. And it unconsciously encourages us to procreate – a last ditch effort to leave our DNA behind.

Ironically, giving birth has reminded me of my own mortality. Like many, I believe that laboring has brought me as close to my own death as possible. I feel as if I am one with the universe, part of its perverse cycles of life of death. And I sometimes cry when I realize that the beautiful babies I have created – will some day –like all things – DIE.

And I am haunted by the pain this causes my son – who at the innocent age of four has already discovered the brutal fact of life: none of us can escape our eventual deaths. And so, my typical rough-and-tumble boy, who is wired to jump, leap, wiggle, run, and blow things up, is also very introspective and aware of the gravity of life.

******

In late September we flew to Arizona to celebrate my father-in-law's 60th birthday. I realize now that it was just after our return to New Jersey that Jared began asking about death and about my father, his other grandfather – the one he never met. He innocently asked where my father was and why we never visited him.

“Your other grandfather, my father, died a long time ago,” I told him.

“What was his name?” My son asked.

“David,” I said.

“Why did he die?” Jared continued with his thoughtful investigation.

“My father was older, and sick for a really, really long time. He had a sick heart and it kept getting sicker and sicker until he died.”

I don’t tell him that even though my father has been deceased for almost twenty years now, that he wasn’t really that old when he died. In fact, he was only 59 years old, a year younger than Jared’s other grandpa just turned.

Again, I stutter, and hesitate, worried about how to explain this death to a four year old. How do I convey the fact that people die without causing unnecessary anxiety in a child? How do I simplify the meaning of life and death without oversimplifying it? How do I know if my son understands just how sick my father was before he died? How do I assure my son that yes, kids get sick too, but they usually don’t die? How do I know the right things to say, when I’m still searching for answers myself?

“When did he die?” Jared wants to know.

“Long ago, before either you or Olivia were born,” I tell him.

And then, as if truly understands the scope of what has been lost, Jared says, “It's not fair. Me and Olivia can't never meet him.”

“That’s true,” I say. “But you know what? We can go visit his grave in the cemetery. Would you like that?”

“Really?” he says with boyish enthusiasm. “Can we go right now?”

“No, not now,” I say, buying time. “Soon.”

After this talk, Jared becomes increasingly intent on seeing my father’s final resting place. Every time we go out in the car and pass a cemetery, Jared yells out from the backseat, "A graveyard! Is that where your dad's grave is?"

“No, that’s not it,” I say.

“When can we go see it?” He asks me again and again.

“Next week,” I finally say, knowing that the anniversary of my father’s death is coming up. I decide that it is time for a visit.


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

We arrived at the cemetery in the late afternoon. I had waited for the kids to get out of school and then I picked up my mother on the way. The cemetery is located in a small bay town on the Jersey shore where I grew-up, where my mother still lives. When I was a kid the cemetery was known as “The Green Light Cemetery” because of the eerie green glow that lit up the cemetery at night. According to urban legend and all the kids in town, the green glow was caused by ghosts. Turns out that the glow was created by a green light set atop a hill at the tip of the cemetery. It was a beacon for any boats out at sea lost in a fog. When we were in high school a bunch of us piled into a car and snuck into the cemetery to find the green light. And there it was. Just a light. Mystery solved.

During the day, there is no green glow. In fact, the cemetery is pretty private and secluded, hidden and set-back from the road at the back of a 1970's housing development. And if one didn’t know it was there, they might simply pass it by. It is a quiet place, surrounded by trees. I don’t visit often, but when I do, I feel at peace.

At this visit, the kids piled out of the car with mild anticipation and let me lead the way to my father’s grave. My mother immediately commented on the overgrowth at the site and said something about not visiting enough. She doesn’t drive anymore and usually has to wait for one of her children to make the trip, and then she feels guilty for not visiting enough. But in the year after my father died she visited his grave almost every day. EVERY DAY. I was only seventeen then, and I didn’t want to visit the cemetery every day or even every month. It brought my mother comfort, I guess. But a cemetery is not a place for a teenage girl who is still alive and needs help understanding life, and not death. It’s not that I was in denial. The sad fact was that I knew more about death than most adults. I had been confronted with its harsh reality earlier than most. But part of understanding death is understanding how to live in the face of it; or in spite of it.

Seeing my mother’s distress, Olivia volunteered to help spruce things up a bit. She began weeding around the plants placed previously by my mother, and also helped pick up the scattered dead autumnal foliage. Like a typically active little boy, Jared didn’t sit long by my father’s grave. There’s not much to see. A name. . . a birth date . . . and a date of death.

Jared took off running excitedly from tombstone to tombstone. Nobody else was there to be disturbed by my son’s loud and youthful exuberance – nobody living, that is. Jared began reading the numbers from each tombstone.

“Mom, this one says one, nine, twenty-one and one, nine, eighty-six.”

“That’s because the person was born in 1921 and died in 1986,” I explained.

“This one says one nine thirteen and one nineteen eighty-seven,” Jared read rapidly before running off to the next grave.


I followed as quickly as I could, but was no match for the enthusiasm and energy of a four-year-old boy.


"Hey look Mommy, TWO PEOPLE died together," Jared said while pointing to a tombstone that was in fact engraved with the names of two deceased people – husband and wife – buried together for all eternity. Their names were elaborately etched in entwined hearts.

I tried to explain that the couple had actually each died fifteen years apart but were simply buried together. But Jared had moved on. He didn’t need a full explanation, and was content with his own observations. Then Jared noticed that there were miniature American flags that were placed atop several of the graves. My mom explained that in this cemetery flags are placed on the graves of war veterans. At the age of seventeen, my father was a Sergeant stationed in Germany during WWII. Like many of the “greatest generation”, my father was still a boy when he was called to defend his country. Instantly, he became a man. And now, a simple, flat bronze gravestone memorialized his service to our country.

Armed with this new information, Jared made it his mission to locate all the flags that indicated a veteran’s grave. Undeterred be the sheer numbers of veterans buried in this cemetery, he gleefully pointed to each flag, yelling, "Mom, was this guy in your dad's army?"

As I followed Jared around, I was drawn into the lives of those around me, curiously reading the gravestones. I recognized several family names. Most of the graves were for older people and most in this section of the cemetery had been dead since the mid to late 1980's. Some of the deceased have long been forgotten, their graves barely marked. Next to my father’s grave is a simple gravestone for a baby who also died in 1984. After twenty years, I’m sure the baby’s parents no longer visit the grave. But I doubt the baby is forgotten. I know that I think about that baby every time I visit my father.

I chased Jared some more until I came upon a tombstone for a young woman, a name I recognized from school - Tracey B. Seeing her grave stopped me cold in my tracks. She wasn’t a friend or even an acquaintance. She was simply a contemporary, and I shuddered as I looked at her grave with her short, uneventful life carved in the stone, stating the facts: Born 1968 – Died 1995. I’m pretty sure I had heard about her death somewhere. But still it was a shock; reminding me that death doesn't just take the old and sickly. Sometimes death comes early, and takes a young woman before she’s even had much time to live at all. “Beloved Daughter,” the inscription read. I wondered about her grieving family and remembered the words my Nana, my mother’s mom, had said at my father’s funeral: “A parent shouldn’t bury a child.”

The sun began to drop behind the trees and the wind suddenly kicked up out of nowhere dumping more dead leaves from the sky. The once balmy October day became filled with a late-afternoon chill. I made my way back towards my mom and daughter with a reluctant-to-leave Jared. Olivia called to me excitedly, proud of how she had helped to clean things up at my father’s grave.


As we climbed back in the car, the kids grew quiet; tired from their long day. We drove out of the gates of the real cemetery and passed countless homes festively-decorated for Halloween, with their fake graves, fake ghouls, and other morbid celebrations of make-believe death and dismemberment.

By the time we arrived home, the temperature had dropped considerably. I was reminded that it was October, and as such, here in New Jersey, the seasons tend to change overnight. One moment it is sunny and bright and the next it is windy, cold, with leaves falling like omens of impending gloom, and stark winters. The days grow increasingly shorter as Halloween approaches with all of its dark reminders of death.

And it always seems like the date of my father's death - October 14 -- is the day in which the world grows cold; autumn turns to winter; and hope is replaced with cold uncertainty and graver matters. At least it seems that way to me.

*********************************************
Copyright 2004 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (8), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (3). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother and a columnist for Literary Mama. You can read her daily blog, MOM & Pop Culture.

Today

I am squished in a mini-school bus with Sam. He is 3 1/2 years old and today is his first day at a therapeutic nursery that serves children with speech delays, PDD, and Autism. I still do not know where on the spectrum Sam falls and I no longer care. I just want him to get to school safe and be okay. It seems like a reasonable, reachable goal but I fear, as a mother, that such goals are often not so simple. Sam is nervous. He doesn't have the words but I can sense it in his body language and feel it in the energy he is emitting.

I murmur reassuring words to him and rub his head. But the truth is, I am unsure too. Where is this bus taking us? Where will Sam end up? All of these questions are mine, but my job now is to make Sam comfortable and to allay his fears. This is one of the primary jobs of motherhood, and I have finally realized and accepted it.

We arrive at the school and I hand Sam over to pleasant strangers. He cries fat tears that fall over his fat cheeks. I apologize, I wave, and I am ushered out by professionals who see my behavior as making things more difficult. Separation is difficult, I am told. It is a process, I believe. But I am instructed by the staff that it is an action I must just take. So I leave. I walk home -- fifty New York City blocks. And for some reason on this day, I notice every oddity on display. I see the bums rummaging through the garbage, the religious fanatics warning of the impending apocalypse, the political zealots shouting their beliefs. I think about Sam and wonder how he will do in school; in life.

It is 2:30 and I am awaiting the school bus. They warned me it is often late so I am not concerned when 2:45 passes. At 3 p.m. I call the principal who tells me calmly the bus had an accident. She tells me to go to an uptown hospital where the children have been taken. Sam is okay she assures me.

I finally find a cab which crawls uptown because President Bush is in town. I decide for sure I will not vote for him -- this traffic he created prolongs my agony. I think all kinds of things. I feel guilt for leaving my baby with strangers. I feel inadequate for being a mother who is unable to keep her child safe. I wonder if what they say about the impending apocalypse is true. I wonder if I am on the threshhold of a personal apocalypse.

I get to the hospital and find the children from Sam's school. But Sam is not there. No one knows where he is or who he is. The staff confirms that a bus from his school was in an accident and the children were brought to this hospital, but no one knows Sam. The hospital is busy and I panic. Sam does not speak much at all and trusts strangers. "WHERE IS HE?" I find myself shouting at the nurse. She pages the bus company. The principal made a mistake. It was not Sam's bus in the accident, but a different bus from the school. Sam is okay. He is home. His father picked him up.

But it could have been him. And I realize the lessons of this life start early. I crawl back home in a cab and weep warm tears the whole way. Both relief and fear are washing over me. Sam is okay. Today. His brother is okay. Today. Today.

**************************
Copyright 2004 Regina Walker

Since March 2003, Regina Walker has been a monthly contributing writer to The Philosophical Mother magazine. Her work has appeared in Hip Mama, widdershins, The Future Generation, Motherevolution, Motherload, Commie Mommie, Community Mother Magazine, and the online magazine www.stickyourneckout.com. Her work will be featured in an upcoming issues of Atheist Bear and Motherload. She is the author of the "Clinical Viewpoint" column in the Substance Abuse Letter published by Pace Publications. Regina received her B.A. from Bennington College and her MSW from Fordham University. She is a social worker and addiction treatment specialist in NYC. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com.

My Two Breast Friends

By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson

“Oh I should think I will never see anything droopier than the two of these!”

My husband walked by our bathroom and caught a quick glimpse of me staring at my naked reflection. He snapped his head back into view and gave me a perplexed, “What the hell are you doing now?” sort of look.

I just stood there - lifting one breast, then the other, letting go and watching both flop back into place, and astonishingly not too far from my belly button, like a pair of empty saddle bags – sadly surrendering to the bare effects of gravity.

“It’s just that, every year, they seem to be pointing further and further south.”

I continued to stare, this time motionless, and felt totally betrayed by my own body. My husband moved closer and put his hands on my shoulders. He gave them a quick jiggle that sent ripples through my breasts similar to those caused skipping a stone over a smooth pond.

“I don’t have a problem with them. I’ve grown rather fond of ole’ Zeke and Elmer.”

Okay – so, he affectionately calls my breasts, Zeke and Elmer – just don’t ask me which one is which. They both look the same, though one is slightly larger than the other, and I just don’t care to remember anymore. This happens to me about the same time every year, when the seasons change, and I begin to feel restless. I want to change everything.

“I hate the color of our bedroom! I’m sick of the wallpaper in the living room! I’ve just about had it with the floor in the kitchen. And I need a new pair of breasts!”

My husband playfully causes the ripples to migrate to my backside and says, “Cheer up! Besides, don’t you start your exercise class tonight? All you need is a good work out. That’ll perk you right up!”

When it comes right down to it, Zeke and Elmer were way past perky. The boys and I have been through a lot. In the last 10 years, of what I’ve come to refer to as our Baroque Period, I’ve watched them grow to an alarming (my husband would probably relate more to the word thrilling) size with each of my four pregnancies. I looked as if I were inflated and ready for flight, but felt more like a vessel carrying a pair of burning hot boulders as my attempts at breast-feeding consistently failed. I ignored my husband’s futile attempts of encouragement and insisted that he run to the drug store for formula, as I alternated between ice packs and violently swaddling Zeke and Elmer with an ace bandage. They’ve been pulled, bitten, fondled and squeezed to unbecoming lengths and sometimes bear a resemblance to a haphazardly folded roadmap.

Zeke and Elmer have done their time and time has done them in. I grabbed for a towel and demurely covered the old boys.

“Don’t worry guys, I won’t mess with you. You poor things deserve an early retirement.”

Later, sitting behind the wheel of my minivan on the way to another physically humiliating and exhausting session of pilates, I listened to an advertisement sponsored by the National Breast Cancer Awareness Organization. There was a dad talking about losing his wife to breast cancer. He talked about how his children missed their mother and how he felt that no family should go through what they did in the short six months after her diagnosis. I was stunned to learn that she died at age 35. That In 2004, it is estimated that about 216,000 new cases of invasive breast cancer will be diagnosed in the United States, along with 59,390 new cases of non-invasive breast cancer. And that every woman is at SOME risk for breast cancer – that this is merely the “risk” of living as a woman.

I turned 40 this year and made a mental note to finally make an appointment for a mammography. Not that I looked forward to having Zeke and Elmer sandwiched in between pieces of cold machinery in a very clinical way, but I was gradually becoming thankful for my healthy body; grateful to be able to feel anything and everything.

So, I salute you – Zeke and Elmer – as I become a little more aware of my two breast friends. I'm hoping for a favorable diagnosis and looking forward to acceptance, because there’s nothing immediately ailing the old boys that a good underwire couldn’t cure.

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month - October 15th is National Mammography Day

To learn which facilities in your area are taking part in the event, call:

American Cancer Society (800) 227-2345
National Cancer Institute (800) 4-CANCER
Y-ME National Breast Cancer Organization (800) 221-2141

************************************
Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson

Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.

Just Another Ribbon

Breast Cancer was a myth to me growing up. I had heard of it, but never really understood the disease. I had never lost a loved one, and to my knowledge I never had a friend that lost a loved one to the disease.

The unfortunate fact was, I am not sure this disease was on anyone’s radar until Susan G. Komen’s story in 1982, and then the invention of the pink ribbon in 1991, symbolizing Breast Cancer Awareness. Pink ribbons began appearing on the lapels of celebrities, and the color pink came to symbolize one of the largest charities in the world. The pink ribbon had no relation to me other than I knew what it symbolized.

Then during my wife’s pregnancy with our first daughter, during one of our first appointments, we asked the doctor about a lump that my wife had in her right breast. This was not too upsetting, because my wife had this lump for some time following a sports injury, and the lump had grown and continued to remain without incident. The doctor then had said that it was probably nothing, but that following the pregnancy we should schedule a removal and biopsy. At that time, the doctor was not too concerned because of the history of the lump, and the fact that she had had this lump for a period of time without any other symptoms. But there was a shadow of doubt because of her family's history of breast cancer, and other types of cancer.

Given the trials and tribulations of a pregnancy, we did not give it much thought until some time after the birth of our daughter and after she had finished breast-feeding. Then we made the appointment. It was not an issue until then, I had blocked my feelings about it. But once the day arrived for the surgery, it became all too real to me. My wife was unusually calm, and I tried to remain strong for her because I suppose there is not much reason to panic or be concerned until the time has come to be otherwise concerned.

I waited in the family waiting room while she underwent the outpatient procedure under a local anesthetic. That was a long time to wait in spite of the relatively short procedure. The doctor appeared and indicated that he had removed not just one lump the size of a golf ball, but another about half its size. She had just finished breast-feeding so he indicated he had to work around some of her milk ducts but that he was quite certain that he had removed all of the masses. This was great news, but the real news would not come until days later -- after the biopsies were done. Her doctor had found squamous cells on her cervix during her first checkup and pap smear of her pregnancy, and they were able to isolate and destroy those cells. Having dodged that bullet, I was sure that they would find something within the masses that they had removed that day.

Those next few days I spent agonizing for hours thinking of what we would do if they were in fact cancerous. What if the doctors could not fix what was wrong? What would be in store for my newborn child and me? It was a very real fear and I could feel my anxiety build each day with the thought of losing a loved one to this once mythical disease that I knew nothing more about than the pink ribbon I had seen on a celebrity. I would sit in the dark wondering how I would handle bad news. How would I fight the disease with all my heart to assure that my wife would live to watch our child grow? Would the diagnosis mean financial ruin for my new family? Would the little girl we just brought into this world know the mother that had worked so hard to be healthy and to assure she would also be healthy?

A few days following the surgery the results came back that the cysts were in fact benign, and that no cancer could be detected. I fell to my knees that day and was thankful for the blessings that were bestowed upon my family and me. I was overcome with emotion as I thought about those who were not given the same blessing -- the daughters, mothers, sisters, and friends that had been lost to this deadly disease. Unlike me, they were forced to deal with the worst news possible -- the news that a struggle for life would have to be undertaken. I see stories of cancer survivors and cancer victims, and I hope that some day a cure will be found and the disease will be eliminated. It is our responsibility to fight this disease for future generations, and to allow the possibility of a new mother to enjoy her new family, or for a man to feel the elation of a wife and mother being here to enjoy life.

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and a time when all of us should reflect on this disease and the havoc it can wreak on our lives. The pink ribbon symbolizes the need for awareness, and our ability to fight the battle against breast cancer. It gives hope to those that have been diagnosed with breast cancer and gives a rally cry to support those that are without hope.

This is not just another ribbon.

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

Copyright 2004 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

Renewal

I sit on my back steps with a sandwich for lunch and inhale the beautiful day that surrounds me. Blue jays squawk and splash at the birdbath; squirrels chase each other in endless circles around the base of the maple tree. A fragile Monarch butterfly floats across the yard. Yellowing leaves from the birch tree brush by my face and land next to me, announcing that fall is near.

This fresh coolness is a respite from endless humid, polluted air which has choked and immobilized us. September is always the beginning of a new year for me and this day is an affirmation of my feeling of renewal. I feel refreshed after summer vacation, ready to meet the challenges of my “new” year. My family is out fishing, squeezing in a final day of fun before the colder weather arrives. Soon they’ll return and the hum and rhythm of my life will pick up again. I don’t feel guilty sitting here; I realize the need to enjoy such a special time and say “thanks, God” for making it possible.

Patches of brown lawn have turned green again after constant watering and care. Bright yellow mums planted last week reach to the sun and fill the yard with their glow. Impatiens are bushier, their petals a rich salmon color. Bushes that drooped all summer now stand erect. The plants want a second chance, a final opportunity to strut their colors. “We’re still vibrant; you haven’t seen us at our best yet!”

Beyond the trees the noise of the Parkway traffic vibrates through the clear air and a new office building under construction at the edge of the cemetery abutting our property insults me. Its stark facade is an intruder against the soft green silhouette of the trees in my yard. I remember when I could look out my kitchen window and see only green. Now a new warehouse creeps closer to me, its monolithic presence choking my privacy as each new stage is added to the construction. I’d like to be able to flee to a place where no huge buildings intrude, yet I know this is where I must make my home. My husband’s job and the best educational opportunities for my children are here.

I block out the vision of tall buildings and the roar of traffic and focus on the soft sunlight filtering through the leaves onto baskets of ferns hanging on the fence. This yard is my oasis. I come here to seek peace during times of stress and fatigue and to be renewed and strengthened by the timelessness of nature’s kaleidoscope of changing colors and patterns.

We cannot run. We need to find our refuge whether relaxing with a book in a favorite chair, a shared cup of tea with a friend at the kitchen table, standing at the workbench in the cellar, or harvesting the last crops from the garden. Then we can carry peace and renewal within our hearts as we face each day.

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

Copyright 2004 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry Di Gesu is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in New Jersey and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her essays and poems have appeared in the New York Times, Catholic Digest, Cape Women magazine and a variety of publications, journals and anthologies. She has recently published a collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – which is available from iUniverse, amazon or barnes and noble.com. E-mail Gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.

I Read [Bleep] as a Child. Am I Bad?

For many years, I have kept the idea of banning books and other media in the back of my mind, in the same file drawer with legends of alligators in the New York City sewer system, and the Loch Ness Monster. Our community had its little suburban legend about a radical Christian church that spent an entire weekend burning books and records, but I never saw real evidence of it, nor did I ever find anyone who witnessed it.

In high school, there was a minor scuffle with the parents in the PTA over a health textbook we had that detailed stories of teens who were questioning their sexuality, but the school board brushed past them with assurances that the teachers using the textbook would remind the students daily that the stories were just examples, and not suggestions. It was a moot point anyway, since the provincial nature of the community at large did not lend itself to sexual experimentation, homosexual or heterosexual in nature, unless one wanted the reputation of street trash.

Now my attention was re-drawn to the nebulous subject of book banning and censorship thanks to an article in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette heralding the arrival of Banned Books Week. Beyond the obvious issues with the USA Patriot Act allowing the authorities to research the reading habits of US citizens, there was the mention of the American Booksellers Association’s Banned Book List and the American Library Association’s Challenged Book List.

At first glance, the ABA’s Banned Book List is depressing, and after a few moments contemplation, horrifying. The perennial favorite of the closed-minded, To Kill A Mockingbird stands at number one on this proverbial hit list. It was required reading for me at some point in my high school career, and re-emerged in some dorm mates’ freshman literature courses when I attended college. My roommate that year was left with another on the list as required reading, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, in keeping with the conservative nature of our college, a small Catholic institution. Fahrenheit 451 was also left for consumption in those venerated halls of learning, albeit in its cinematic form. Two of my favorites for the students I tutored at that time, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Brave New World found homes on this onerous list.

I probably should have neglected looking up the ALA’s Challenged Book List after the shock of the Banned List, but I gulped and grasped at a bit of courage as I clicked my way to the page. Laughter suffocated the tears, as I scrolled down, determined to take the list in from 100 down to one, but I couldn’t help but catch a few familiar titles and authors along the way. I must have a truly wretched fate in front of me, for as I scrolled back up through, the list was reading more like a journal of what I had read, instead of tomes I would have avoided. The Headless Cupid was the first to truly catch my eye, as I vaguely remember a worn line art dust sleeve protected with cellophane sitting on the shelf of our town’s library. I read it, but couldn’t tell anyone a thing about the book to save my life, so it must have left a truly horrible impression on my psyche.

There were the obligatory entries screaming in protest to such august authors as Howard Stern and Madonna, two whose works no one could pay me enough to read. Stephen King, R.L. Stine, and Alvin Schwartz got the nod for their works on the things that go bump in the night. I wonder if J.K. Rowling was objectionable for her content, or for the increasing lengths of her novels, previously credited with a rash of pre-pubescent migraines. Madeleine L’Engle wasn’t appreciated for her slight run into science fiction with A Wrinkle In Time, but at least only the first story was found inappropriate, leaving the rest of her series unscathed. Authors, Mark Twain, Toni Morrison, William Golding, J.D. Salinger, and John Steinbeck, are still annoying those who find it necessary to decide what others should read. Vonnegut was only “slaughtered” once, in spite of the fact that the same spirit seems to pervade all his works, leaving one to wonder if it was merely the title that left him with the axe.

Two that greatly disturbed me were Maurice Sendak and Shel Silverstein, as that must be definitive proof that I am a horrible mother, allowing my children to read those works. I suppose I should retire A Light in the Attic from the bedtime reading list in our house. My one question is, since James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl is an unacceptable read, does that mean I should also remove the videotape from the shelf where I keep the kids’ movies? I guess I have to find a new “coming of age” book for my daughter, since the one I used doesn’t fit well anymore: Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, by Judy Blume.

Up until now, I had no great aspirations as a writer, given the fact that the majority of my energy has been devoted to editing these days. These two lists have given me a kind of inspirational lift, something that the individuals responsible for them probably did not wish for, or intend. I think just about everyone in the publishing industry, regardless of job description, has at least one or two back burner ideas that could become written word given the time and inclination. My own would undoubtedly ruffle the feathers of the ones who created these lists in the first place, and I think I owe it to my children to pursue those projects instead of allowing them to gather dust and cobwebs in the back of my mind. “We the people” is slowly becoming an arcane concept, buried under tons of pages of bureaucratic nonsense that chips away the very cornerstone of this country.

I believe now more than ever, it is the responsibility of writers to keep that spirit alive, by flying in the face of any who wish to curtail the freedoms this country was built to protect. We the writers need to place a spotlight on the great hypocrisy of spreading democracy and freedom around the world while stifling it at home. I have read many of the objectionable tomes I saw on those lists, and will undoubtedly read more of them on principle. I will share these books with my children as they grow older, and will tell them about the people who want to see certain books disappear from public view. Most importantly, I will teach my children to be open-minded, and protective of the rights of others to speak their minds, even when my children don’t agree. Those lists are about people trying to make everyone agree with their beliefs, forcibly, by silencing the most dangerous weapon of a free nation -- the written word.

The bookselling industry and libraries of America devote one week to awareness about book banning, but this is a year-round concern. Please visit the following sites, to see what you can do to stop censorship, and encourage legislation that fosters free speech and press.

American Library Association
American Booksellers Association

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Copyright 2004, Elizabeth Ross

Elizabeth Ross is a 32-year-old mother of four, freelance writer and editor from Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Imperfect Parent, MomsVoice, and is slated to appear in Momentum, the magazine of the National Catholic Educational Association. She is the publisher of River Walk Journal, a bi-monthly online literary journal which is an expansion of her online editing group.