Writing and Thinking

Out of Time

2011-12-22T17:38:00.001-08:00

There is only forward, reaching-now, as is.
A past, unique bounty of human consciousness, does not
Exist outside of synthetic construction.
Incomprehensible time; event as time, observed substrate of my pacing.

Observer.

What is an instant?
Conjure me infinitesimals.
When one dies there is no time, therefore there was no time.
“Was” – how to reckon this?

Beauty.

Pre-reflective experience is secret.
Bridges are crossed…
Dearest Hominini: Idaltu, Neanderthalensis, Homo, Sapiens
You’ve walked so far.
Which one of you thought of God?

America un-Hitched

2011-12-18T21:56:00.001-08:00

Among the rare and exceptional characteristics of the late Christopher Hitchens, I found one in particular to be most remarkable: a robust ability to rapidly and with brevity, marshal his pithiest thoughts with sharp verbal reasoning, logic and precise vocabulary - while he was drunk. This uncanny skill can appropriately be declared Churchillian and was used with astonishing success as he publicly debated strong opposing minds, each of which was naturally advantaged with stone cold sobriety. One wonders what he might have accomplished if he’d been able to put the cork in the bottle. However, and more importantly, this surprising fact belies so much more about the man and what I think will be his enduring legacy.

Hitchens was not a philosopher in the proper sense, nor was he a religious scholar, though he skillfully used the broad landscapes of both these disciplines at will and with great effect to make his sometimes-ferocious arguments against belief systems he saw as deeply hazardous to humanity. A literary scholar and humanist in the deepest sense, Hitchens made the public square the locus of his redounding and pugnacious challenges to the status quo of religiosity in America. British by birth, he made America his home, not as a resident, but as a genuine citizen. In fact, he was a nationalist in the strongest sense of that word and made it his business to argue on behalf of the country he believed represented the greatest human potential in history, much like Thomas Paine, a man he greatly admired. To some, he could be at once brilliant and in a turn exasperatingly over the edge as he was to this writer when he lent his disputatious support to the invasion of Iraq. “Hitch” would certainly relish a contretemps to make his atheist position against the rabbi or priest, something he was famous for, but his particular lines of argument were not new and represented well-worn positions from the old quarrel made by others as far back as David Hume. One could respect his ability to quickly identify inconsistencies and paradoxes in the faith position, but at the end of it all, at least in one view, the God or no God propositions remained in qualitative limbo for the audience.

Where Hitch was most devastating, was in his critiques of particular faith traditions - or, more correctly in his world-view - of organized religions. He went to work like an engineer, identifying the clear fault lines and demanding, on purely moral and ethical grounds that these institutions be held to account for what he saw as their undue and harmful influence in American civil life and throughout the world. Whether it was acutely identifying circumcision as genital mutilation and therefore abject torture of infants, or shining a light on pervasive and unchecked sexual abuse of children by clergy on a massively disturbing scale, he so dominated these debates that his opponents seemed unable to make the case for the goodness possessed by their respective traditions. To openly criticize Mother Theresa is an act so audacious as to make one wonder, what kind of meanness the critic was imprisoned by. But to actually attack a woman, esteemed throughout the world as the essence of Christian virtue, is to engage in the bizarre. But this he did and he did it relentlessly. And as it turns out, Hitch had his facts straight.

On a trip to Vietnam in 2001, I met a woman from the International Mission of Hope who had worked with Mother Theresa for a short time in Calcutta. She recounted to me some of her disturbing experiences. Among these was the fact that sick patients and dying patients (often mixed together despite the presence of communicable disease) were not allowed access to doctors or to pain medications. Only “presence and prayer” were allowed, despite the fact that some patients were in a great deal of pain, while medical help was available via aid worker organizations. The credo of Mother Theresa and her nuns seemed to be that physical suffering was a gift that would bring people closer to Christ. Pray over them and let them writhe in pain. The aid worker and her colleagues were so disturbed by what they saw as the willful irrationality and obstinacy of the nuns that they had to withdraw, lest they become complicit in what was becoming increasingly like purposeful torture. No doubt these laboring souls had good motives, but they must have been blind to the sadistic nature of their ministrations. It was Hitch who brought these and other disturbing facts to the fore. But he also used this and other examples to make his more general argument against religion: that supernatural belief systems are inherently irrational, yet play a central role in moral reasoning and ethics in modern societies, despite the fact that their premises are based on a Bronze Age world view. Furthermore, he argued, some of these ethics enable and often justify inhuman behavior. How persuasive his arguments were or will be with the general public is not clear, but his presence in making them made all of the difference. Despite long odds he appeared to relish the fight and he grasped the essence of America’s First Amendment, as a right with responsibility attached to it, better than most American-born citizens.

While Hitch will certainly be remembered as the mischievous raconteur and colorful personality that he was, his lasting legacy might be that he forged a stronger position for Humanism in America, so that others may take the conversation further and deeper into our culture. Who the next Hitch will be is probably the wrong question. To this writer at least, it is clear that Christopher Eric Hitchens, like Thomas Paine, may not be replaceable. Clearly Hitch would be in full agreement with H.L. Mencken who said, “The most curious social convention of the great age in which we live is the one to the effect that religious opinions should be respected.” Touché.

It is not in the agreeing or disagreeing that we find progress, but in the rethinking of our own strongly held or wrongly held views. Hitch wanted to move us out of our comfort zones and bring sacred hypocrisies in to the light of day. And in this I think he succeeded.

Kevin Swanwick
December 18th, 2011

On the importance of excellent teaching: A tribute to Sally Littlefield | Kevin Swanwick

2009-08-09T21:11:00.000-07:00

Study hall was quiet and I was deeply immersed in the complex moral crisis of Frank Campbell, protagonist of the Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. novel, Mother Night. I was taken away, as a young reader can be, to a place less banal and more profound than what seemed an unsatisfying teenage existence.

“Kevin, another Vonnegut?”

“Oh, Hi Mrs. Littlefield, uh, yea I know it seems like a lot, but soon I’ll be done with all of the novels – I want to finish them.”

“Kevin, you need to start reading some other authors; there is so much more out there.”

I had not been a reader in childhood. It wasn’t that I had trouble reading, or even disliked the activity; it was more closely related to the fact that playing outdoors, riding my bicycle and studying dinosaurs were all more interesting. The reading that was compulsory at my Catholic elementary school was not of whole books, but bits of work exercises and short biblical retellings, packaged with pictures for the young mind. Most of it left me looking out the window. I didn’t know what a book could do. The first book I can recall reading all the way through, was the short and syrupy novel Love Story by Erich Segal. Originally written as a screenplay for the movie of the same name, Segal had been enlisted to write the novel so that it could be published before the film’s release. My encounter with it was by accident really. My oldest sister Debbie had been a foreign exchange student in Great Britain and in my thirteenth summer it was time for our family to reciprocate the exchange. Our house had three bedrooms: Mom and Dad’s, mine and my brother’s and the three girls’. It was decided that the girls would use temporary, nightly arrangements: younger sister Pattie bunked with little brother John, Debbie and Mary Kay would move into the cleaned-up basement where Dad had put down a cover rug and I’d be with “Andrew.”

When Andrew arrived from the UK, we all did what we could to make him comfortable, but his awkwardness was overpowering, especially in a verbally busy household like ours. There was lots of jousting and sarcasm, tools of the trade in a big family where personal rivalries and competition needed to be carried on with wit, when physical force was either ineffective or imbued with adverse consequences. In the evening, while Debbie was off with her British friends, I had the dubious responsibility of keeping company with Andrew. At thirteen there wasn’t much I could interest him in and he would answer most of my inquiries with one-word answers. Well over six feet tall, Andrew was gangly, with an overbite and looked oddly like the young T.S. Eliot sans eyewear. He reclined on one bed, reading and smacking away at a lollipop, while I uncomfortably reclined on the other. He kept the light on long after my normal bed time as he read his book. With nothing else to do, I noticed the paperback on the night table. This was my introduction to the literary form known as the modern novel. As I began to read the tragic love story, I was quickly drawn in. When it became apparent that Jenny Cavelleri was really sick, I encountered a dilemma: I was welling up with tears and shuddering. I’d been duped by Segal and there I was at thirteen, sobbing over a book. I had to finish the book in secret, so that no one would see me crying; this was not something that an Irish Catholic man-boy should get caught doing. While I wouldn’t count Love Story among the list of important books, it was my first encounter with the power of written words and their ability to evoke human passions, thoughts and emotions.

That was the last book I read until I met Sally Littlefield in a classroom. A pretty woman with an angular face, she had bright and lively eyes and a husky voice and when she conversed with you, you were keenly aware that she was paying close attention and thoughtfully considering what you said. I believe she was a student of people, particularly young people. I don’t know if this was an acquired skill, developed over years of teaching English or an innate gift that flourished in an educational setting. She was always teaching. I first met her at the age of 11 when my friend David and I fished, uninvited in her pond. The pond was set on a beautiful corner property at the bottom of Fletcher Street in Goshen, NY, just inside the village line. She came out to greet us and talk with us, certainly performing a discreet safety survey and then welcoming us to fish as long as we’d like and offering us some lemon aid and a cutting board with a proper knife to clean the fish with.

“Do you know how to clean a fish?”

“Oh yes, we do it all of the time; we just forgot our gear. Thank you.”

Several minutes later we would deliver her a grotesquely butchered sun fish, scales intact and chopped into bloody sections, including the head. Neither of us knew how to clean a fish.

“Oh, dear; why don’t we bring that inside?”

We didn’t have a clue that this fish was unsalvageable. We stepped inside her revolutionary war-era home to fetch our lemon aid and for the first time in our lives saw antique hand-hewn beams, over 200 years old, across the kitchen ceiling. She gave us a brief history of the house and we left with the idea that it was likely that some of George Washington’s troops had billeted there and perhaps George himself. The imagery was delightful and we returned to the pond looking around at nearby fields, wondering where the troops lined up and where the Indians were. Perhaps the Indians watched from the wooded hill above us, which separated the village from this lowland site full of rye grass and Queen Anne’s Lace.

I stayed in Catholic school until the seventh grade and then, at the urging of my friend David and the acquiescence of my parents, transferred to Goshen Middle School. Bigger sports programs, more kids, science labs and a real gymnasium had me lurching between the anxiety of being accepted in a new social network and the excitement of all of the new opportunity. Still, I read no books and left studying as an unexercised activity whose lack of existence in my world was an ontological problem for someone else, parent or teacher, to discover. The first day of ninth grade at the CJ Hooker High School building started with “home-room” where attendance was taken. From there we each set out for our first real class of the day. Mine was English. When I arrived at class, I knew something was peculiar: I recognized most of the kids, some of whom I knew, but I had never been in a class with them before. What is different, why am I here?

Mrs. Littlefield introduced herself to everyone and explained what kinds of things we’d be doing in class and it was clear that we would be reading and writing. The first book assignment was S.E. Hinton’s little novel, The Outsiders. We were to read as much of the book as we could and write an essay on it. For some reason, perhaps because I knew Mrs. Littlefield already and didn’t want to make a bad impression, I read the book and wrote the essay. The day after papers were handed in we sat in class for several minutes with no teacher in the room. Then suddenly, Sally Littlefield’s head popped in through the door, from the hallway.

“Kevin, would come here please?” She was holding a piece of paper in her hand.

What had I done wrong?

My mind was spinning, trying to think about what antics I had been involved in during these first days of school and who on the faculty had discovered them. I walked out to the hallway. Mrs. Littlefield addressed me softly, in a low voice.

“Kevin, you do not belong in this class and I want to apologize to you. You were mistakenly placed here.”

Holding my Outsider’s essay in her hand, she said “You have done good work here and you need a greater challenge than this class will give you. I also want you to know that I teach a creative writing class and I think you would enjoy it. Why don’t you sign up for it?”

“I’m taking you down to Mr. Miller’s class and starting today, that is where you will go for English class, OK?”

“Yes Mrs. Littlefield. Thank you.”

Much as my lack of studying was a non-event to be discovered by someone else, my lack of a correct academic placement in ninth-grade English was a non-event to be unearthed. And Sally Littlefield unearthed it. In Bob Miller’s class we would read from Edith Hamilton’s Greek Mythology and discover classical literature of different genres. Ancient Ionic images whirled in my head with the drama of Persephone being snatched from the fields of Enna by Hades and later being rescued - romance and treachery, side by side, woven into classical myth. Mr. Miller, perhaps anticipating some resistance to the material, used humor in a way that kept most everyone’s attention. In Mrs. Littlefield’s class we would study and practice writing, read and discuss lyric poetry, the short form and other samples of good exposition. We would write and reveal our work to others for criticism with Mrs. Littlefield pointing out good samples. When she graded your writing, she identified the cliché and the disjointed by asking a question as to the relevance of the image, phrase, sentence or paragraph. You were encouraged, but always asked to do better. Her written questions, seemed designed for the fragile adolescent ego and were delivered in a way that gave you enough space to figure out that you hadn’t really put in enough effort or you were being careless or maybe, you were trying to show off and in so doing, writing in an inauthentic way.

In Mr. Giattino’s Social Studies class we listened, from a 33 RPM turntable, as Bob Dylan sang The Times, they are a-Changin’. I had discovered, I thought, a poet of a different kind and immediately began to listen to more Dylan records and enthusiastically introduced this exciting artist to my friend and Beatles expert Tom Degan. In the midst of his own adolescent intellectual explosion, Tom introduced me to the Kurt Vonnegut Jr. novel Breakfast of Champions. We were off to the races. Later we discovered the influence of the French Symbolist and American Beat poets on Dylan’s work and then read those writers. The love of art and literature had begun and a new lens was placed in my mind’s eye.

What is a good teacher? This can surely be explained in a technical way, leveraging pedagogical theorem and science. But it seems clear that a student who has experienced the lasting influence of a teacher in their lives is uniquely qualified to offer an explanation. Sally Littlefield changed the way I think. She changed the way I looked at the world. She helped me translate undifferentiated musings - day dreaming – into a more disciplined and focused passion. She allowed me, and others, to develop an esthetic sense of literature and life, to learn history, psychology, philosophy, anthropology, politics, religion, spirituality and much more from works of fiction. In Shakespeare we learned about human nature and the discreet character of personality, realizing only later that anything Freud and the psychoanalytic school had “discovered” about human psychology, Shakespeare had described in detail centuries before and in a much more compelling way. Great books, with the guidance of a great teacher, offered us different views of the world and enough space to inhabit them, try them out and sharpen our own reasoning and esthetic sensibilities. Romanticism and Naturalism, the world as it ought to be in a hero’s mind versus the way the world is with its varying degrees of existential meaning. All of this came rushing like a wave from the stage that Sally Littlefield created in her classroom.

One day after a review of my latest writing assignment I asked “Mrs. Littlefield, do you write, you must be very good.”

She smiled and paused before she spoke, as if I had touched on something very personal. “Well I have done some writing, but not as much as I’d like. Do you know the book A Day no Pigs would Die?”

The book, a novel for young adults published by Knopf in 1972, was the first of many by Robert Newton Peck, and told the dramatic, hard luck, life-and-death story of a farm family in Vermont. In later years, when the Moral Majority would come into being, the book would make it on to banned book lists, due apparently, to its graphic depiction of swine reproductive behavior and slaughter in a small farm setting.

“No, I don’t know that one.”

“Well, Mr. Peck had a contract to write the book and his manuscript was delivered incomplete and needed more work to be finished. I was asked to finish the book and I did.”

“Wow, did you get credit for that?”

Her bright eyes twinkled. “He started the book and it was based on his experience growing up in Vermont, but I did receive a small attribution with initials, in a very tiny way, in the first edition. You have to look closely to see it, but it’s there.”

I was thrilled. Her modesty was genuine and I sensed she was a little embarrassed, but I could see that serious writing must have played an important part in her life.

More than any teacher I have ever known, including all of my college professors, Sally Littlefield used her version of the Socratic Method to both inspire and educate. Most of what I know about teaching others in my professional career I learned from her.

One of the most important things that can happen to a young person thrust into that uncertain space between childhood and adulthood is intellectual awakening. While it may appear on the surface that learning is a slow and gradual process, my own observations and experience tell me that it occurs in sudden upheavals and explosions of varying magnitude. Good teachers know this and are skilled at setting the stage for the mind-life drama and getting the players to learn their parts. Sally Littlefield was the best. God Bless and keep her.

”And since you know you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover to yourself,
that of yourself which you yet know not of.”

- William Shakespeare

A Lost Fragment from Telling Time | Kevin Swanwick

2009-08-01T21:34:00.000-07:00

After completing his residency at New York Presbyterian Hospital, Sean continued to work there and would commute on the train, always enjoying the time this gave him to think. His days were crammed with work and constant communication and interruptions and the hours were long and on some days he had to stay overnight at the hospital. There was little spare time for anything. The morning stomach infirmity he now experienced was partially quieted by the strong cup of coffee he brewed and drank before heading out the door and his regular practice of intense reading while on the train. During this week in particular, he was reading a lot. The hospital was leading a research study on Schizoaffective Disorder, a recently established medical diagnosis. Some in the field were hoping that the study might shed light on why women were affected by this disorder at a higher rate than men. Was it environmental? The trial included a number of treatment protocols, data collection and analyses and Sean as part of his practice, was participating in the group study and seeing patients.

But today, for some reason, he was thinking about the Arizona desert in 1979, when he seemed to have had all of the time in the world. He had spent nearly a year there, in Phoenix, when he was 20 years old and had taken a job at an employment agency as an apprentice employment recruiter during the early days of the great economic boom there; a time when the city’s welcome sign indicated a population of 700,000. A vast oasis in an environment friendly only to scorpions, lizards and the great Saguaro cactus, Phoenix was a magnet for characters of all kinds from everywhere in the US. The term “Snow bird” was a commonplace and referred to the many people from places like Montana, Ohio and New York, migrating to the Valley of the Sun during winter months, opening bank accounts, working for a time and then heading north again. The place seemed to always be in flux and he met many interesting people there. He had gone on a whim, after meeting an old high school girlfriend in a local bar when she had come home to visit her folks. It was the Holiday season and she would be driving back to Phoenix from upstate New York the day after Christmas. Did he want to come? Why not, he thought. Soon after arriving he had found a job with a personnel recruitment agency from an ad in the Arizona Republic.

He remembered his brief friendship with Libby Epstein, a small woman in her late 50's who suffered from severe arthritis and whose hands were knotted grotesquely and lacking individuated fingers; she was both deformed and arthritic and her hands operated like clamps when she used them for the most basic functions, like picking up a pencil. Her neck was fixed in place and her view of the physical world was limited by the perspective of her shoulders and she turned her whole body in order to look at a person who was only a few degrees off of her center. Libby had owned a personnel placement agency before succumbing to the crippling effects of joint disease and had subsequently undergone a number of surgeries. After a period of recovery, she had decided to go back to work, but as an employee of another agency, the same one Sean apprenticed at.

Sean was fascinated by Libby. It was clear that she was living with great physical pain, yet she always maintained a positive attitude and was both an intellectual and practical person with enormous energy. When they spoke during lunch or after hours, she was full of interesting ideas and proposals. Analytical and a natural teacher, she often gave Sean suggestions about how to succeed and soon he realized that she was really teaching him how to think about life. Libby and her husband Joel had developed affection for Sean, a young person far from home, only half way through his undergraduate career and searching for his place in the world. They became his extended family away from home. Perhaps they had wanted a son? They would invite Sean to their house for dinner and long talks. Joel had been a philosophy major in his younger years and loved to start a conversation with some profound question like “Do you believe in God?” It was on one of these nights when the conversation had touched on work for a brief moment and Libby had emphasized one of her basic points. “The client should always be on time for any appointment, preferably ten to fifteen minutes early. Time is very important; it is sacred. Time is Holy. You know, I have made this point many times at our Temple. Rabbi asked me to give a sermon on the subject, so I took great care in preparation and did it. Abraham Heschel – have you ever heard of him? Oh, probably not, you were raised Catholic you said, well, he had already written on this topic and I have found this theme all through the Torah. Time is Holy. If you waste time, you are committing a grave sin.”

He was shocked. He had sat quietly, listening. On other nights he was often overtaken by his enthusiasm to contribute to the conversation, but not tonight. The idea that had been placed before him was completely new. A profound thought had just occurred in his mind, one given to him in simple and beautiful terms and he understood it. Time is Holy.

The following morning he had gotten up at 4:30am to go for a run in the desert. Even in May, running during the day was out of the question because of the intense desert heat. He ran through the early twilight and as the sky began to turn a lighter shade of blue he was thinking about Libby and he was thinking about time. His world had just changed. Life was different. Now, as he considered that list of things that he thought he should do, like finishing college and applying to medical school, the idea of the future was altered. It was on this day that he decided to move back east and finish school.

He looked out the window of the train realizing that he needed to pay attention to the stop calls. Normally he would get off at the 125th Street station and take the subway north to the hospital at 168th street, but today he would be stopping at the Harlem Valley-Wingdale station. Conveniently, the station was adjacent to the old Harlem Valley Psychiatric Hospital where he needed to go to meet, observe and possibly interview some patients who were being included in the study. The hospital, which had opened in 1924 and was noted for the introduction of insulin shock therapy in the 1930’s, would be closing within a year as part of a large cutback in the state’s budget and the emergence of more modern facilities. A number of buildings on the campus had been opened and closed over the years as methods of care changed and outdated programs needed to be replaced. The grounds reflected their early 20th century beginnings and he walked up the hill to the main building, noticing the mature, well branched trees all over the grounds. He made his way to the Administration office and checked in.

“Good morning, I’m Doctor Timmons and I will be here today seeing patients with Doctor Heffler. I believe its building F?”

“Yes, I see you on the list; would you have a seat, while I page Dr. Heffler?”

He noticed the old gray asbestos tiles on the wide hallway floors that lead symmetrically out of the lobby and he wondered whether the hospital had received an abatement certificate. He had heard that this had been done before when older hospitals had been allowed to keep these tiles in place, provided that they were coated with a heavy sealer and he speculated, from the bright reflection of the tiles, that this was the case. The swirls were there and it had been a long time since he’d seen them. He had been a few minutes early, so he took up a position in one of the circa 1970’s chairs off the center of the lobby. After a few minutes he was summoned back to the desk. “Doctor Timmons? Doctor Heffler said he can meet you at the entrance to building F, do you know where that is?” “Thank you, I think I can find it, please tell him I’m on my way.”

He walked out into the morning light and turned to his left, where he recalled seeing several other smaller buildings and soon he was upon a sign with directions pointing him toward building F. The remnants of what he knew to be an insane asylum were everywhere and he was struck by the cage-like metal bars over all of the outside vacant porches and room windows. What was it like to be a patient here in the 1920’s 30’s? What was it like to be a doctor, using the crude treatments of the day that were thought to be humane and scientific? He remembered hearing stories about his grandmother being institutionalized for alcoholism in the early 40’s and receiving electric-shock therapy and other crude treatments. He knew her when he was a child and she seemed like a women of good spirits and he never saw her drink. She must have been a success story for her doctors.

When he came to building F, he was met outside by Doctor Heffler, who explained that the building was one of several that had been converted to a semi-residential facility for clients who were stable enough, with medication, to reside there with less supervision than in the institutional setting they had come from. Today they would be seeing an elderly woman by the name of Irene and Dr.Heffler passed her file to Sean so that he would have any clinical notes he wanted. They entered the building together. Sean noticed that the building was well lit, more so than the main building he had just come from and that the long hallway had brightly colored doors, leading to each resident’s room. When they entered Irene’s room it was clear that some effort had been made to make the old look new and rather than a single room there was a small efficiency apartment, with a kitchenette, small dining and common areas and a smaller bedroom. Irene sat in a chair with a pillow behind her back. She looked awkward in the chair and had long limbs and an aluminum walker stood next to her chair.

“Hello Irene, how are you today? This is Doctor Timmons and he came to visit with you today.” Doctor Heffler walked over to the window off the kitchen area and lifted the blinds to allow more light into the room. “Irene has been with us for two years. She has no living family. She had apparently lived with a her parents until they both died and she was placed in an Adult Protective setting for a short time, but did not do well there. She was then placed in hospitals, including NY Pres on the psychiatric unit until she was moved here. I’ll leave you alone. When you are done, or if you need me for anything, there is a phone at the end of the hallway where we came in and you can dial extension 200 and they will page me.

“It’s nice to see you Irene, have a nice day.”

She had been looking downward and lifted her head slightly and from her pale face offered a short smile. Sean pulled up a chair and sat down. He took out his note pad and quickly wrote the date at the top of the page. “Hello Irene, my name is Sean, do you know what day it is?” She nodded and said “yes, Friday.” Sean noticed a crucifix on the wall, next to clock that looked like it might be an original part of the building. Black rosary beads sat in her lap and she was lightly fingering them with her right hand.

“What time is it Irene?”

She sat silently. Sean opened the clinical file and began to sift through the papers. He examined her chart and could see the diagnosis of Schizoaffective Disorder had been made at New York Presbyterian three years ago. It was a big file, so he went to the back of the folder to look at the oldest documents first. He could see that Irene O’Donnell was born in New York City in 1934; that with the exception of various gastroenterological ailments Irene had had few physical problems. Had she ever held a job? Her older medical records indicated that she had been diagnosed with manic-depressive disorder in 1966, had received electro-shock therapy and was later reclassified as “bipolar” and had been medicated, mostly with Lithium, 300mg daily, since then. This had become a commonplace when the generalized diagnosis of manic-depression fell out of favor in the psychiatric profession. In the back of the file he looked for the oldest case notes he could find to see how she had presented originally. The oldest papers were photo copies and clearly someone had made them from very old notes. Fortunately, the writing was in beautiful cursive and he began to read.

“According to DSS home visit records, patient came to hospital from parents home, where evidence of a history of mental illness and neglect is indicated by case worker. Mother stated Irene had lived in a convent in upstate NY, before being hospitalized in 1966. Prior occupation: elementary school teacher.”

Sean closed the file. He looked at Irene for a long time, slowly examining her hands and her face. He was sitting before a consecrated person and in his mind he placed a habit on her and looked at her face again. He tried to stay focused, but all at once, he was feeling his own stomach tighten and his head felt funny. He thought about getting up and walking outside for a few minutes, but quickly decided not to. Though she was seated and leaning forward, he could see that she was still a tall woman. He looked at the clock on the wall; it was 9:30.

“Irene, what time is it? Do you know?”

She looked up at the clock on the wall. Her head seemed unsteady and Sean noticed a quiver.

“Sure I do, its 9:30, don’t you know that? It’s right there on the clock.” He mentally noted that her verbalization was slow and she spoke in a detached way. This was normal for someone on her dose of Lithium.

“Yes, Irene, I do. I was just checking in to see if you did.” Her question made him feel defensive for a moment and this made him uncomfortable. He looked back at her file and noticed that there was no history of her early life. He tried to imagine what that might have been like. She had started fidgeting and seemed to become restless. “Irene, would you like to take a walk?”

She looked at him and smiled. Sean stood in front of his chair and offered her his hand; he wasn’t sure how mobile she was, but he’d not seen anything in her chart that identified any physical limitations. She placed her rosary beads on the small table next to her chair and reached for his hand. He gazed at the long fingers and was surprised at the strength of her grip. He leaned slightly forward, bracing himself for a heavy lift. She looked upward and while pulling against him for support, they began to move forward together, making a gentle and mutual protest against gravity and time. They turned and moved slowly toward the door, and in a moment, they were out in the hallway. Looking down the length of the hallway, from one end to the other they came to unspoken agreement and decided to walk in the direction of the light, toward the entrance he had come through earlier. Irene continued to hold his arm and he guided her, gently and at her pace. When they reached the front door, which led outdoors she stopped. She looked downward and he waited and after a few moments he looked down too…those tiles with the interesting swirls. Was she looking at them and seeing patterns, or was she just staring, contemplating her fear?

“Irene, would you like to go outside with me?”

It took her a long time to respond. “Will you stay with me? I haven’t been outside for two years.”

“Of course I’ll stay with you, come.”

Sean was having unlikely feelings and he began to think of Libby again and of what she had taught him about time. He had not been inside of a church for many years and had discarded much of the emotional trimming that came with the aura and ritual of it. But now, as he walked with Irene, he was thinking about Holiness and about the meaning of time in his life and hers; its value and how much he still had to learn.

They had a nice stroll, stopping periodically and when they returned to Irene’s small home, he had forgotten what he came for. He had not written many notes and when he looked at the clock on Irene’s wall noticed that it was nearly four o’clock. He realized she had not eaten and neither had he, so he offered to walk her to the building-F cafeteria for some dinner. She pointed to the small refrigerator and suggesting that they could eat from there. Sean opened the fridge and could see that there was only milk, butter and some cold cuts, probably delivered by food service staff. He suggested a compromise: they would walk to the cafeteria and bring food back to her apartment. It was Friday and cod fish was being served, along with potatoes and vegetables, but also chicken breast. They both selected fish and Sean combined their meals on one tray and they started back to her residence.

The Garvaghy Road, 1997 - Part I | Kevin Swanwick

2009-08-01T20:50:00.000-07:00

At 3:07AM the bedroom door burst open, breaking our uneasy sleep.

“They’re goin’ down! I told yuz! Get up. They’re goin’ down right now!”

We’d gone to bed late after some vodka, bitters and good craic and the long, covert ride from Belfast, easing through Army check-points, getting held up in Portadown and finally making it to the short “Queen’s Highway,” known in this town land of Drumcree as the Garvaghy Road. I had been drinking club soda, and received some curious glances, but now I was grateful for my alertness. The driver of our small white sedan, Martin, was a former IRA man who seemed to navigate easily on our ride from the Europa Hotel in central Belfast, taking rights and lefts effortlessly and in all of the right places. He’d spent eleven years in Long Kesh prison and when I inquired as to the nature of his incarceration, he flatly replied “Ay, bombin’ the Old Bailey.” He was referring to the historic building in central London, which houses the Central Criminal Court. And while he freely admitted his offence in the context of his "Freedom Fighter" vocation, he went on to tell us how members of his family, who were unrelated to the IRA or any of its activities, were arrested on trumped-up charges and jailed. Such was the beginning of our adventure in Drumcree.

Kathy was up quickly and must have been wondering why I thought it was a good idea to go on “vacation” in Northern Ireland; how acting as “official observers” at a contentious Orange Order march would be a relaxing way to spend two weeks of hard-earned time off.

Ann Marie, frenzied at first, paced back and forth to make sure that the newly arrived American couple was getting out of bed before she ran down the stairs. I could hear her voice from upstairs, cursing and shouting about lies and treachery and history repeating itself. Lawrence had not awakened with her and four-year-old Nathan was still sleeping soundly in his room. We arose and went to the window. It faced the Drumcree road and when Ann Marie had shown us the room earlier that evening, I looked out the window and could see the Church of the Ascension across the road, upon its rise, overlooking the Orangemen spread across a large field next to the church. The Drumcree road itself was blockaded a few yards past the house by a tall, prefabricated metal barrier-wall erected by the Army to keep protesters on either side from getting at each other and to communicate clearly that no march would happen until the British government said so. Now looking out the window and into the dark, I felt my heart pounding as I was filled with a fear I’d not expected. The small front yard and hedgerow were completely obstructed by the shiny black helmets atop flat black “spacesuits” of RUC men, carrying shields, truncheons and automatic weaponry.

“Oh fuck.” I realized we were in a dangerous place; this was not a game.

The small road was occupied on the near side by RUC Saracens, parked bumper-to-bumper, while the middle of the road was a fast-moving lane for more Saracens and other armored vehicles moving in at sustained, high speed. This all had the character of a science fiction movie set. If only it wasn’t real.

When we arrived in Drumcree, we’d been dropped off at the community center where we met a smiling Ann Marie. Lawrence was quiet, but gentlemanly and was holding Nathan by the hand. They had thanked us for coming to their wee town to bear witness to their struggles, for to most of the world, Drumcree was an unknown and forsaken place. We met with the representative of the local resident’s association, Breandan Mac Cionnaith, who it was reported, lived under the cloud of an active death threat. We discussed the challenges of the community and then took a walking tour of the Ballyoran estate. Ballyoran at one end faced the Drumcree road and on the other, the Garvaghy road. It was one of a handful of Catholic housing estates clustered together along a small section of Garvaghy road and an even smaller section of the Drumcree road. These estates house 22,000 Catholics in the middle of the larger Portadown population of 88,000 Protestants. As we walked about we met families and neighbors. Just next door to our hosts, the Spence’s, was the Hamill family. As we met, the parents and grandparents of 25-year-old Robert Hamill were still grieving from his recent murder. "Robbie," the father of two, had been beaten and repeatedly kicked, as reported by eye witnesses, in the full view of RUC officers while they sat in their armored vehicle. He died 11 days later on May 8th. Six arrests had been made and all of those arrested had asked to be placed in the Ulster Volunteer Force wing of the Maze prison. The UVF were a sectarian, loyalist paramilitary group.

We walked out to the Garvaghy Road and looked up the hill and to the corner where it intersected with the Drumcree road. A small "women's peace camp" was set up on the hill, staffed by what appeared to be the grandmothers of the community. Signs were posted, urging the community's youth to abstain from alcohol during the run up to the marches go or no-go determination so that they could keep their heads about them if the march was forced through. The ladies had set up small tents and were offering non-alcoholic drinks and sandwiches to all who would listen. The Drumcree and Garvaghy roads, due to the absurdity of proximities that exist in North of Ireland, offer a route from the Church of the Ascension to the old Portadown Loyal Orange Lodge number 1, the first Orange Lodge in Ireland. This is not any Orange Lodge, but rather the heart of the heart of Orangeism in Northern Ireland. The Orangemen of this district have insisted for many years, that it is their inherent human right to march down the Garvaghy Road after attending church services there every July 6th. The Orangemen of Portadown made their first March down Garvaghy Road on March 1, 1807. While the Garvaghy Road Residents Association had offered to have talks with the Orangeman to discuss parade planning in a cross-community forum, this invitation would not be accepted anytime soon as aspersions were cast about regarding each side’s representatives and motives. The march would go on, the Lambeg drums would pound and the British Army and its young – some very young – men, would secure the “Queen’s Highway” for another year.

After our visit to the camp, Laurence treated us to a delicious Chicken Fillet sandwich down the road a bit. He had asked me if I wanted a "checkin fullit" and I had to ask three times what he meant before I got it. "Ay," I finally said. Later in the evening we had gone to Mass at St. John's Catholic Church, at Ballyoran Heights, just a short walk away. Little did we know that this would be the last freely held Mass of the weekend.

Now, throwing on my pants, I made my way down the stairs and turned toward the kitchen at the rear of the house. The row houses opened in the rear to a common area of grass and small trees and offered a setting for children to play and neighbors to congregate all within the security of the their estate. It also made it easy for one to move from Ballyoran to Woodside and other adjacent estates. Ann Marie was not in the kitchen and I saw that the back door was open. I walked to the door and looked out into the tiny, walled enclosure where the waste bins were stored on one side and some chairs set on the other. The outer, wooden door that opened into the common area was closed and latched. I could hear Ann Marie's voice outside and she was yelling. I quickly moved to the door, heart racing and opened it. As I stepped forward I was stunned by the enormity of force before me. Having just seen nothing but black-outfitted and armed RUC men at the front of the house, I was welcomed by a sea of green. Even in the twilight, the color of the British Army soldier fatigues was clear. They were spread about evenly, too many to count, and their faces were painted with black pitch. Ann Marie, at five feet tall was no match for the these armed men. Despite this fact she began to curse them loudly.

"Are yez proud a’ yourselves? Are ye? If I didn't have a wean, I'd join the IRA and make a bomb an' blow yez up!"

And with that she charged through the middle of a group of four soldiers pushing them out of her way.

“Get the feck out of my way; this is our estate and you're in my way!"

I was stunned. I had never seen someone with such odds stacked against them, act with such unchecked ferocity. The eyes of every soldier I could see were now trained on me. To my front, a few feet away, was one young soldier. He was looking at me while he held the muzzle of his automatic rifle aimed at the lower half of my body. A non-smoker, I had just picked up the practice on the way down from Belfast, bumming cigarettes off of our group's guide Gavan Kennedy. I quickly lit my cigarette, took a puff and said as cheerily as I could "Good morning." The change in expression on the young soldier's face told me he was relieved.

I don't think Ann Marie was happy with my demeanor and I expected her to reprimand me for being nice, but she didn’t. The soldier tipped his chin down to his shoulder-mounted two-way radio and quietly announced, in perfect cockney, "American." He lowered the rifle. In and instant, this message made its way all around the estate and I could see some of the soldiers direct their attention elswhere as other residents were beginning to roust. I smiled and I could see that this soldier could be no more than 18 years old and he looked even younger. It was clear to me that he wished he were somewhere else.

End of Part 1

Notes: Ballyoran Park, Woodside Hill, Churchill Park, Woodside Green, Ballyoran Heights, Garvaghy Park, Rose Cottages, The Beeches.
The Dungannon and Corcrain Roads.
The Carleton Street Lodge.
The River Bann. Saint John the Baptist Roman Catholic church.

Telling Time - A Short Story | Kevin Swanwick

2009-08-01T11:16:00.000-07:00

“Mr. Timmons” she commanded, “what time is it now?”

He suddenly awakened from his daydream, brought back with a jolt from his brief retreat from the terrorizing wait. But the wait was over and suddenly it was his time. With measured steps she moved forward, slowly and steadily, her tall and slender figure carrying the black habit with ease, brushing lightly, one by one, against the neat, perfectly aligned desks. The musty scent was unmistakable when she passed by. With one hand she held that press-board archetypal clock, yellow face with black numbers and notation and bright red contemporary clock hands. Her gripping long fingers obstructed the number 4. This threw him - the break in the analog series and his panic, brought hesitation.

"What time is it?" He sat silently, eyes watering. He knew a response was needed quickly, but he could not think.

Telling time was the new subject being taught in Sister Ignatius’ second-grade class. For Sean this was something he knew only by the major markers of the day: waking up, leaving for school, lunch time, going home, dinner time and bed time. Of course, there were others, like the end of Topo Gigio on Sunday night’s Ed Sullivan Show, but weekdays for a seven-year-old student at Saint Stephen’s Elementary school were defined by these basic, temporal signals. Today was only the second time the Sister used the clock in class. Sean hadn’t paid attention the first time.

“I don’t know Ssturr.”

Her deep voice grew louder. “Stand up, Mr. Timmons and tell us what time it is!”
He stood up slowly beside his small desk and inhaled uneasily; this was going to be a bad day. Steadily, she moved closer to him. He felt ashamed and afraid, standing bare in front of his forty or so second-grade classmates, unable to conceal his shame while not brave enough to hold back tears. He tried to breathe normally, but could not and began to shudder uncontrollably.

Now she stood only a few feet away. “Alright, slap yourself in the face.”

Her small eyes, set beneath unusually dense, black eyebrows, did not move off of him. The white crown of her headpiece dug sharply into her forehead and established an austere lookout from which unquestioned authority could hold persistent vigil.

“Yes Ssturr.”

The classroom was silent. He could not see anything to his right or his left, her menacing, long dark form the only object in his field of vision. With his right hand, he lightly slapped his cheek, praying for some undeserved mercy. Please make her stop.

She stepped forward, teeth clenched tightly as if to physically restrain her tongue while forcing air from her mouth.

“Slap your face harder!”

He could no longer speak as he raised his right hand slowly, for emphasis, as if to say “see? I really mean it this time,” and slapped his own cheek with sufficient force to leave a sharp sting. His vision blurred and he began to drift off again to that place where he could watch events unfold as a sleepy spectator.

Sister Ignatius was thinking about how Sean could become a turtle when he wanted to and this annoyed her as she always wanted a child’s total focus when she spoke; the same way she had to focus when her teachers had addressed her. This talent of Sean’s was an obstacle for her. She saw him trying to withdraw and with keen purpose, moved in to recapture the tension she knew so well. This was her domain, her mark of excellence and she had perfected the form.

“Slap…your…face…hard!

Delivered again to his pillory, he began to hear the quiet sobs of other nearby children, but could see nothing, save the towering black and white personage before him. With utter resignation and obedience he smote himself for the third time. The sting pierced a vague sensation in his body and his legs felt weak. He was becoming nothing. He sensed an answer to his prayer. Please her; disappear. Disappear. Hail Mary, full of grace….

The second-grade classroom at St. Stephen the Martyr Elementary School was a study in order and symmetry. Like all of the other classrooms in the school, desks were perfectly aligned in columns and rows and if one moved by even the smallest measure it was returned promptly to its correct position. Because Sean’s last name began with a “T”, his desk was near the back of the room, on the side furthest from the door. The luck of a name, he had thought.

Now he saw only black. The sudden, exemplary blow to his head brought gasps and sighs to the room, but only for a moment. Then silence. He did not hear anything outside of his body as his head throbbed and there was a ringing sound in his ears. It was a long way to the door and he understood that he’d be moved toward it against his will. Presently, her hand gripped his white shirt collar, making a fist that choked him as her holy “wedding ring” dug into his throat. The clip-on uniform tie fell to the floor and his head was forced backward. They struggled as a single entity in convulsive, halting movements; the familiar and awkward march began in unified forward motion, interrupted only by oblique collisions with the desks of his row and maintained by the jerking pull of her arm as it anchored, with hardened fist, on the fulcrum of his adam’s apple. He felt a great pressure in his face and head as the blood of his jugular veins backed up against the unyielding force of Sister Mary Ignatius.

Her mind was at ease as his head was easily moved in any direction she suggested. This short and turbulent trip to the hallway was giving her release from her own peculiar tension. Her excellent peripheral vision was at work, despite the fact that she continued to look straight at him and she could see and feel the children of the class looking on with pure fear and confused fascination. It felt good. Sean saw himself as the singular target for her forceful anger, but for her, Sean was a source of pleasure. ‘He responds so well’ she thought as she was savoring the drama of their encounter and the affirmation it brought her. For Sister Ignatius, educational training was a postscript to what she had learned in childhood and gentle touching was beyond her sense of the world and was hidden in a place too dark to apprehend. A slow, soft embrace – from anyone - would bring waves of fear. It was clenching, pulling and thrusting that came naturally to her, always, briefly bringing her the desired result - in the classroom - the sanctum. This would then be followed by a deep sense of remorse and often she became depressed. When she was with other Nuns, she would rarely speak and then only tersely in response to a question. In the classroom she would freely hum as she moved about the children doing their work, sensing each's discomfort as she approached.

“You…will…move…now!” Her verbal cadence was following the controlled stumble of their clumsy waltz.

Briefly, in small flashes, she remembered her novitiate when she’d struggled with hard questions. Her superior, during scheduled moments of “reflection” had asked her if she understood her own motives. She was proud of her association with the Sisters of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, their courageous roots in Ireland in 1776 and their instructive teaching so grounded in the Beatitudes. Lord, let me teach this boy as you would have me do it….

Sean would unwittingly receive his instructions, delivered in a long game of “telephone”, over two centuries, where distortions materialize not only from honest human failing - the limits of auditory sense and short-term memory – but from the great will of a tortured soul.

The heavy Maplewood door swung open and just as quickly slammed behind them, its murky and opaque glass sealing off any possible observation from one side to the other. She thrust him to the wall of heavily painted concrete block and then stood closely over him. The classroom entrance stood at the end of a long and poorly lit hallway just before the descent of a deep flight of stairs leading to the rear entrance of the school on the first floor. He wondered if she would throw him down the stairway. Ignatius was six feet tall in stocking feet and her head, whose actual shape was disguised by her habit, was disproportionately small for a person so tall. Her skin was fair and her nose was long and narrow, but slightly bulbous and when she came close, the pores of her skin were clearly discernible as was the oil they secreted. Her breathe had an unpleasant odor as she spoke in a tight whisper.

“Do you want me to smash your head through the wall?”

“No Ssturr.”

She had grabbed his ears as if they were the handles of a heavy milk can and lifted him from the floor. She smiled softly and leaning to the wall, pressed her body against him until he could not breathe as he was nearly suffocated by the pressure of her abdomen against his mouth and nose; the musty habit offering a veil of separation between her flesh and his. Her thighs were pressed against his small chest and she sighed softly. He had felt momentary relief when she released his collar allowing him to breathe freely and blood flowed from his head, but now he was struggling again. Standing straight, she turned her gaze down the lengthy hallway for what seemed a long time and then back to him again. She whispered.

“Do you want me to smash your head into that wall?”

“Nooo Ssturr.” He shuddered.

Suddenly she moved back, still maintaining her grip. The smile was gone, her face was flush and her eyes looked wild. Her breathing had quickened.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.

He could no longer feel the back of his head. The first few blows hurt, but after that, numbness. He started to believe that he could continue on for a long time. Just let me breathe. Her murmurings were now indiscernible. He imagined that his head was like one of the balls he threw against the wall outside the school as it seemed to have a small bounce with each strike.

She stopped and he could see that she was breathing heavily. Continuing to hold his ears and momentarily lightening her grip, she lifted her head and looked down the long dark hallway again. Silence….

Thud, thud….

When he awoke, the polished asbestos floor tiles were coming into focus. They were always so shiny and clean and during class he often followed the colored swirling patterns they presented on their background of slate gray. But he had never seen them this closely before, could no longer identify a pattern. They looked different. Where am I? His face was touching the floor and his head was partially supported by the bottom of someone’s fall coat. The back of his head hurt. He was in the rear of the classroom, lying on the floor against the open coat closet that spanned half the distance of the back wall. What time is it? Irony was not part of his world yet. He could see classmates at the back of the room turning their heads and gazing at him, making remarkable glances at each other and turning back to him. The bell rang and all of the children began to move out of their desks and he knew it was the end of the day. He arose slowly and turned for his coat in the closet. He looked toward his desk and could see that it was as he left it. Sister Mary Ignatius was gone to Friday’s teacher conference and the lay teacher at the front of the room was giving instructions about homework. He could not comprehend what she was saying except for the word “spelling.” He loved spelling. He walked to his desk, straightened it up and collected his books, paper and pencil and followed the other children to the door where Ms. Stephenson, the attending lay teacher, stood.

“Sister Ignatius said that you were being punished today for disrupting class. Did she say that you could sleep?”

He felt the back of his head and the large bump that had grown there. It hurt and it felt oily.

“No M’a'm.”

As the children formed a column in the hallway along that wall, his friend Peter whispered “Hey Sean, what did she do to you this time? You OK? I thought it was my turn today.” He wanted to form the right words, but instead he shrugged, wanting only to get outside and soon they moved quietly down the hall.

It was Friday, so dinner would be fish, probably fish sticks; not his favorite, but his stomach was growling. He noticed that when he touched the back of his head he would find dark crumbs on his finger. His heart pounded and he felt angry and took a quicker stride. As he walked, he became confused and the sensation of hunger in his stomach changed to a tight feeling and he stopped thinking about food. Normally he would wait for his older sister Colleen and they would walk the four village-blocks home together, but once outside, he turned quickly at the end of the building and headed toward the back of the school, where he could crawl under an unfastened section of fence and cut through Ms. Robertson’s yard to his preferred short-cut and then down a quiet street. Ms. Robertson lived alone, a widow, and was a member of the church and he had only seen her twice, but she had smiled and didn’t seem to mind when he cut through the yard.

“Sean!” It was his friend Brian coming from Ms. Robertson’s yard, running to catch up with him.

“I had to go to the Nurses office for my hearing test. Pete told me that she smashed you in the head and then took you out into the hall. Is that true?”

“Yea.” He was embarrassed and wondered how many kids were talking about his humiliation.

“My father says they are not allowed to hit us and that if they hit me or my brother that my parents are going to put us in public school.”

Public school…he wondered what that was like -more than just basketball; a different Cub Scout troop….?

“They can’t hit kids in public school?”

“No, and you don’t have to wear a uniform!”

When he arrived home, his mother was busy in the kitchen where she was beginning dinner preparations and watching his baby brother in the bassinette. His sister wasn’t home yet and he didn’t want to talk to anyone anyhow, so he went to his room and changed into dungarees and sneakers and then ran to the back yard. The yard was less than a quarter of an acre but was lined with a few mature Maple trees and an Ash tree that was his favorite. It had a low, perpendicular bough which he could jump up and grab with both hands and this was just enough for him to swing his leg up and flip himself over and climb to the tree trunk. Once there he would navigate the other branches, or shimmy sections of the trunk until he got to his perch near the top of the tree. He loved this spot, because it was out of common view and it was his secret place and he could safely watch the world and think about whatever he wanted to. He leaned back to rest his head on an overhead branch, but that hurt too much, so he decided to just sag forward a little to balance himself and this seemed to work fine. He sat for a long time. He thought about what his Dad would say if he told him that he’d gotten in trouble in class and had cried and then was taken out into the hall and…”are you a boy or a man-boy son? A man-boy doesn’t cry.” Why hadn’t he listened well enough the first time she used the clock in class? What was he thinking about that day? Why did she pick on him? These were questions he could not answer and after a while he stopped thinking so much and his mind drifted as he looked over the roof tops of neighboring houses.

Suddenly he heard the loud blaring horn from downtown and his heart raced as it always did, at first, from the sudden, concussive noise. It was the village fire whistle. He knew it wasn’t a whistle at all and had wondered why it was called a whistle when it always sounded like the loudest horn in the world. He heard two blasts, followed by another two blasts. He knew this as 2 – 2, or Mutual Aid. His Dad was the fire captain in the volunteer fire company and Mutual Aid meant that a nearby town had an emergency and needed the help of other local fire companies. Dad had a radio in his pickup truck and would be able to hear the dispatcher tell where the fire was and then he would be one of the first men to the fire house. And he wouldn’t be home for dinner. Sean waited for the sounds of the sirens and they came. He could hear the loud barking of the diesel engine from the pumper truck as it roared through town and he knew that his Dad was probably sitting in the right seat, using the radio. The rattle of sounds that accompanied a fire call continued for several minutes and then gradually subsided as the sirens faded into quiet.

“Sean! Dinner time!”

His Mom was yelling out of the kitchen window. He and his sister would normally be within shouting distance in the yard or one of the nearby neighbor’s yards and then in a few minutes would be seated at the dinner table. Mom moved quickly and usually had some pre-dinner chores to delegate, like putting out the silverware and then it would be time to eat. He took his helpings of green beans and the fish sticks and drank from a large glass of milk.

“Sean, did you start your homework?”

“Not yet Mom.”

“Don’t wait until Sunday; you better get started tonight. We don’t want to see another bad report card.”

He hated getting his report card at school when the Monsignor would come to the classroom and call by name each student who in turn rose from their desk and walked to the front of the classroom to stand before him, as if to receive Holy Communion. Through Him, with Him, in Him….Slowly handing over the card, the Monsignor would always glance at it for several moments. You always knew the kind of grades by the greeting he gave. Kids with higher grades got a slight smile and a short nod and heard him say softly, “very good”, while those like Sean got a blank and sustained look. It was uncomfortable and it was designed to be that way. The Monsignor wielded a power that was expressed in silence and he exercised it in a precise and economic way. Afterward, Sean would have to bring his report card home and show it to his parents. Second grade was not going well and as he thought about the next report card, he lost his appetite. He had done well in first grade and his teacher, Sister Mary Agnes, had smiled often and would sometimes kneel next to his desk and look closely at his writing and offer encouragement. What had happened? Now he was confused….

“How does that feel Sean?”

Her warm and bitter breath enveloped him.

Thud, thud….

At bed time, when his mother said “don’t forget your prayers”, he thought about praying, then about God, then about Sister Mary Ignatius and soon it was all jumbled together and he tried to think about something else. Maybe he could be sick on Monday. It hadn’t worked the last time he tried it, but maybe he’d try again or maybe he would disappear, but how? Anyway, tomorrow was Saturday and he could play kickball with Brian and ride his bike. And with these thoughts he rode off to sleep….

The second grade year continued and visits to the hallway became common, but remained unpredictable. Sister Ignatius now looked at Sean in only two ways. One was when she smiled at him, which she would do at least once a day, as if he had pleased her, but he could never understand how. The other was when she was moving in on him with her jaw clenched and he couldn’t discern what made her want to do that either. Some days he noticed a sad look on her face as she sat at her desk and she wouldn’t look up or speak. At the end of the school year, Sean’s Dad had to go to the convent to talk to the Sister about whether or not to move him to the next grade and after some discussion it was decided to move Sean along, but to put him on probation. His father had taken Sean with him to the convent, in the old pickup truck, an experience Sean normally enjoyed, but they didn’t speak during the short ride. When they got to the convent it was getting dark and it was unusually cool outside. Sister Mary Gregory, the school principle and Mother Superior, had answered the door, not Sister Ignatius and when she saw Sean she hesitated before opening the door completely.

Does she know what happens in the hallway?

He could hear her whisper to his Dad that it would be better if Sean stayed outside and he could see that his Dad wasn’t happy, but he'd complied and said “wait out here son.” When the door had opened fully, Sean could smell the remnants of dinner and of wax candles burning.

He sat on the front steps of the convent wondering what the Sister was saying and wondering in turn, what his Dad was saying back to her. It was getting cold outside and he didn’t have a coat. Soon it was dark and he sat for a long time. He knew that it wasn’t good to be at the convent at night time and he was uncomfortable, but he felt safe because his Dad was there. Suddenly the door opened and he could hear his father’s deep voice from the vestibule, “alright Sister, goodnight.” Sean looked back at the Nun in the doorway and she offered him a slight smile and closed the door. When they got to the truck, Sean asked his Dad what was going to happen and he said “nothing son, but you need to buckle down and behave better for Sister Ignatius.” Buckle down…behave. They rode home in silence. When the truck came to their driveway it stopped in front of the house, without pulling in.

“Tell your Mom to give you a glass of orange juice and an aspirin before you go to bed; they shouldn’t have made you stay outside all that time. And tell her, I’m going down town.”

Going “down town” meant going to McShane’s bar and Sean would always ask his Dad if he could go with him when he said he was going down town and his Dad always said no. He hopped out of the truck and went inside. When he told his Mom what his father had said, she looked at him quizzically.

Third grade started and on the first day of school Sean met Brian along the way. They talked about the summer they had and about how glad they were that they didn’t have to go to Sister Ignatius’ class and how they felt bad for the new second-graders. At the main entrance they were greeted by Sister Mary Gregory who was smiling broadly and welcoming the children to school and giving directions to those who were confused about where to go.

“Good morning Mr. Timmons, did you have a good summer?”

“Yes Ssturr.”

He moved quickly inside and down the hallway to the third-grade classroom. He took a seat knowing that when it was time for class to begin, everyone would have to get up and go to the front of the room as final seats were assigned by alphabetical order. He looked around and tried to guess which seat was his. He gazed intently at the clock on the wall, seeing all of the numbers. After a moment he determined that it was quarter till eight. Children continued to enter in a steady stream and soon the sound of soft classroom chatter changed from discernible conversation to din. A new topic was making its way around the room and Sean was able to glean elements of a theme: Sister Ignatius wasn’t the second-grade teacher any more. No one had seen her. It was rumored that she had left the school, that she was sick, that she was made to leave, that…..

“Attention, please! Good morning children. My name is Mrs. Puzzuoli and I will be your teacher this year.”

The new lay teacher was a pleasant looking women and she was smiling. She seemed nice enough.

Sean never saw Sister Ignatius again. Rumors continued about why she left, but no one really knew. Pete and Brian and Sean were still together. They liked their new teacher. She would sometimes tell jokes and teach the children Italian words.
Upon awakening each day he felt anxious as he had for the past year. He still looked forward to weekends, but Sunday nights brought a peculiar anxiety and after Topo Gigio said “Goooodnight Ehhddy” and disappeared, a certain angst set in.
Sean continued to walk to school and while he liked Mrs. Puzzuoli, he would not speak to her. He often had stomach aches and the familiar smell of the school hallways and classrooms made him so anxious that he had trouble hearing what people were saying. He chewed his fingertips so that they regularly bled. Daydreaming became his primary activity and his school work suffered. On the day of first report cards he vomited before breakfast. He wanted to run away. He was less worried about bringing the report card home and more worried about standing in front of the class and facing the Monsignor; the same Monsignor who stood beside Sister Mary Ignatius and glared at him. Her spirit would be there and she would be smiling while Sean tried to hold back tears.

Sean skipped breakfast and headed out the door, walking to school alone. He took the long way this day and as he turned up Church Street, the final stretch, he saw the speeding ambulance, lights flashing and he heard the loud siren screaming as it rushed by. He turned and watched as it slowed down at the Stop sign and then sped off again toward the hospital. He imagined that one of the elderly residents of the neighborhood was very sick and he hoped it wasn’t Mrs. Robertson. When he arrived at school no one mentioned it.

At the hospital, the sisters had arrived quietly despite having used an ambulance.
Ignatius looked at the ceiling, restraints still in place, as Sister Gregory answered the attending physician’s questions.

“We don’t know doctor, her father committed suicide when she was a teenager and her mother later died in a mental hospital on Long island….no, there is no one else. We are her family.”

“She refused to get out of bed this morning, she won’t eat and she hasn’t spoken a word to anyone. Look how she cut her arms.”

Sister Agnes was praying over her and hoping for an acknowledgement, at least, to break the deep catatonia.

It is finished. I am not worthy… Daddy, we are not worthy. These were thoughts only, as spoken words had left her now. Her last descent had been too swift and no child, no prayer or thought, could break the grip as it held her fast.
At Saint Stephen’s, the classroom was quiet as the Monsignor entered the room and everyone, on cue, rose from their desks and stood until he quietly asked all to be seated. Sean began to feel dizzy and he was sweating as the first name was called. “Adams…”

Suddenly Sean had to pee. They were only just starting the “B’s.” He tried to pray. Our Father who art in Heaven…. It was no use. He looked out the window and could hear the rhythmic pounding of a basketball on the playground below. He imagined that he was playing and he took possession of the ball and at each pause in the dribbling, he took a jump shot and scored. The yelling was for him and everyone was impressed with his skill, especially the bigger kids. Soon he grew bored with the game and decided to show off his flying skills. He sprinted across the playground and from his left foot took a long leap, stretching his arms to the sky and was airborne. He waved to everyone on the playground and soared above the building and the trees and looked at the school and the church from above, examining the sloping, slate roof tiles that seemed as though they should fall but never did. He circled around the steeple once and then shot off in the direction of his house, sailing over Mrs. Robertson’s yard and instead of following the streets flew over homes and yards until he could see his own house and the Ash tree in the back. He was able to slow down as he approached the tree and grab on to the top branches, swinging himself into the trunk. He stood looking out from the treetop, searching for some of the neighborhood kids, but there were none, since everyone was in school.

“Timmons.”

His chest pounded furiously as he turned his head. All eyes were on him. As he began to rise from his desk, the coolness of the air on his soaked trousers gave him a chill. The pee was now running straight down his leg and into his sock. He didn’t dare look down at his pants and bring more attention to the situation. He walked unsteadily to the front of the room. His right foot was squishing inside his shoe and the pee was already becoming cool. With each step he felt wetter and wetter. The Monsignor stood with the report card in his hand watching Sean move up the aisle. When he arrived at the front of the room the Monsignor bowed his head down as he slowly examined the report card. Sean stood quietly for a moment. He felt his knees buckling and then it was dark.

He was back in his tree again, but was feeling colder than before. Next time, I’ll remember to wear a jacket when I fly. He could see some of the children walking and running below, rushing to get home to their bicycles and he was content to just watch them now. He wondered if his Mom would be yelling for dinner soon and he looked for his sister, expecting her to be coming to the back yard searching for him.
“…yes, his mother is on her way. Oh, his color is coming back; I think he’ll be fine. Look, he wet his pants...Oh, I can smell it too.”

He could hear the nurse speaking to someone as she came in to focus. He recognized the smell of the nurse’s office – rubbing alcohol vapor - and he felt cold. His wet pants were now uncomfortable and he noticed a burning sensation on his thighs. He sat up slowly with the help of the nurse. She handed him a paper cup of water, but he was too tired to reach for it.

“Here, drink this Sean. You passed out in the classroom. You’re lucky you didn’t hit your head. Your Mom is on her way. You are going to be fine. Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

“No, Ma’am”

Sean’s Mom came with a friend, Mrs. O’Brien, who had her own car and together they drove him home. He knew that tonight would be report card review and his Mom would also have to clean his pants before tomorrow morning. The women were chatting in the front seat. Sean rested his head in the back seat and thought about the day when he would be big enough for a newspaper route and how he would save his money and buy a watch. Before his thoughts could wander too far, he heard Mrs. O’Brien say that her sister, a nurse, was working in the Emergency Room when Sister Mary Ignatius was brought there. His Mom turned around in her seat.

“Sean, please pray for Sister Mary Ignatius. We understand that she is sick and in the hospital.”

“Did they say what’s wrong with her?”

“Yes, they say she is suffering from exhaustion.”
And Sean was suffering from exhaustion too. He fell asleep in the back seat and dreamed about the yellow clock. And he didn’t pray.

Winter Musings | Kevin Swanwick

2009-02-23T19:11:00.000-08:00

Winter changes its serious face daily; presents a mood to me that I can either follow without a thought or willfully turn from, while still being shaped by it. One day brings high pressure, dry air and bright cobalt blue sky, the next overcast ceiling and cold damp air with dirty, half-frozen slush.

Last night, while walking the dog in the heavy falling snow, I was drawn to the softly lit windows of a small country house a half mile down the road. The sensuality of light and warmth, seen from the winter night is unique. Comfort is there and images of the hearth are easily conjured. Perhaps they were drinking hot chocolate, or sherry? The dog was more interested in looking closely, quickly, this way and that, stimulated by the flying flakes and the brightness of the landscape, which strangely reflects and amplifies whatever light there is.

Winter is quiet and a snow storm brings a special solitude to anyone who ventures in to it. Someone could be walking two hundred feet away and you won’t see them or hear them. If the wind is blowing, you may not go far.

Today I saw a bright woodpecker, the Common Flicker, outside of my kitchen window hopping along the trunk of an old maple tree. He is an expert tree clinger. I wonder where he was last night when Dante and I took our walk. Winter requires looking closely. It reveals itself in the transitions, along the edges. Movements in the atmosphere carry a natural drama that changes how we feel life on the ground. It is not casual and easy, but it is a gift.

******

The east end of Newburgh, staring out over the Hudson, meets winter on bended knee with its leaky buildings and unplowed streets. The shelter, known as Winterhaven, has twenty two men tonight; all grateful to be sleeping on an old factory-room floor. The men have each received their cardboard boxes with folded vellux blankets and are settling in. Someone, a volunteer, was kind enough to bring food. This is winter in the historic city, the home of Lobster Newburgh and the great wide Broadway. This old building saw its manufacturing pass away long ago and now has become the silent witness to mercy.

Everyone is exhausted and the initial bursts of chatter that started outside of the door during the patient waiting for opening time have quickly faded as the warm air from the overhead blower makes the idea of sleep become sleepiness itself. A winter day is long and hard on the street, but John tells me that it is beautiful; he loves to be on the street when the snow starts and it makes him smile when he talks of it. It is the cold that he hates. Frank tells me how beautiful the river looks from his hiding places, one of which is in the operator's cabin of an elevated crane off of Water Street. He tells me that he sees the Hudson River winter in a way that no one else does and invites me to climb with him to his perch tomorrow.

I am thinking about the mercy and democracy of beauty, the beauty of winter doing its bidding for all, even in the east end. And I am seeing it through these people and it will stay with me long after I drive to my warm and peaceful home.