Weird title for a blog post, I know. But stick around. It will all make sense soon...
Seven years ago now, I posted something here in an attempt to explain the name of my blog. Actually, it wasn't an attempt. It's pretty simple. I love Somerset Maugham. I'm a lot like Gerald Haxton in that way. Ok, so not exactly.
But if you know me (and even if you don't, what I am about to write is still true), I also love 19th century British novels. Austen, Thackeray, Eliot, the Bronte sisters, Wilkie Collins, some Dickens, Gaskell. You get the idea. All the way up to Thomas Hardy. And do I love Thomas Hardy.
This post will cover a little more Maugham territory and then proceed (actually go back in time) to the 19th century.
So, yeah, Somerset Maugham. Let's go clear back to high school and establish the fact I was like a lot of boys. "Hated" reading. It was always assigned. English class. No choice of which text. Write about it. Learn from it. But although I "hated" reading, I was aware even then that I enjoyed what I read most of the time. I was proud I had finished a book, could say "I've read that." But I still didn't read very much.
In my second year of college, however, something happened. An older brother of mine, who I very much looked up to, was reading. A lot. And apparently liking it. And reading some more. I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I took a couple suggestions and read them. Liked them. And he suggested a Somerset Maugham novel. After that, the ship sailed, as they say. And people DO say that. I know.
So in the first few years after I was married (in 1993 so you have a reference [although you must know, because I can't imagine anyone other than my mother is reading this]), I read several Maugham novels: Of Human Bondage, The Razor's Edge, The Narrow Corner, Mrs. Craddock, Liza of Lambeth, Of Moon and Sixpence, and so on. And since those early years I have read almost every other novel of his (and short story, and play), and several more than once.
I loved Maugham because of how he writes (well, wrote, since he is dead). He does not judge. He reports. His characters sometimes do terrible things (if you consider murder, prostitution, betrayal, and duplicity terrible things), and he does not tell the reader how to feel about it. He also introduced me to something that may have set me off toward my love of 19th century novels. This thing is hard for me to identify exactly but is something like this: the non-explicit conveying (description? relation?) of profound emotion. Does that make any sense? He did not have to say, "And then the man told the woman he loved her very, very, very, very, very much. A ton. Really strong feelings, reader. Take note of this!" He simply described their interactions and my mind did the rest. And it did something to my heart. Or something like that. I put that disclaimer there since at the time (and even sometimes now) I hate to admit that about myself. Why? Another post, I imagine.
But let's leave Maugham for now and travel to 1995. In that year, a movie called Sense and Sensibility was released. I remember how the following year it won an Oscar for something, and even recall a lampooning of it on Saturday Night Live. I also remember I had no interest in seeing such a movie. People dressed in crazy old clothes, talking as they did, falling in love. Come on, a chick movie!
So I did not see Sense and Sensibility until several years until after it was released. To say it affected me is an understatement. I could not attempt to deny I loved it, loved how it made me feel. Obviously I did not discuss these feelings with anyone, but I felt them. And I realized it was because of the interactions between characters. They made no blatant declarations or demonstrations; the sum of their feelings was very many times only betrayed by a look or a stare or an uncomfortable silent moment. Have you watched it? Do see how Edward (I like to call him Eddie) looks at and acts around Elinor? Can you not tell by just looking at her how much she loves him in return? You have to, since she cannot tell him, forced by circumstances into her guarded reserve. I like to think it is painful for her even to speak his name.
Ok, that might be going a little far. The movie doesn't mention that, and perhaps I just wanted it to be true. But I think it helps my point: when a movie is done well enough to make clear there are profound feelings, but leave the fullness and depth of emotions between its characters to the imagination of the viewer, it is well done indeed. So say I.
So realizing I loved this movie, I soon set out on others of its type and time. Pride and Prejudice (the 1995 BBC version--definitely not the Keira Knightley one!), Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Nicholas Nickleby. Then I realized I must read all these books. And if I have painted a positive picture of them as movies, let me assure you I love them all more as books. Perhaps the movies are a bit better at drawing out a stubborn tear at just the right time (although I have had to set a book down a time or two to compose myself), but the skill and imagination and wit and dead-on portrayal of human emotion in 19th century British novels cannot be equalled. Again, so say I.
And if you think I am wrong, keep it to yourself.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Facebook killed the blog, y'all
Right? At least the family blog? You know the one I mean, the blog recapping family trips, birthdays, and other significant events in the life of a family. And pictures. Lots of pictures. A great idea, I admit. Other family members and friends could subscribe to your blog and stay up to date on your family.
And, yes, I think Facebook put a hurting on that. Much easier to reach your audience, know you are being followed, post pictures, tell stories, with Facebook.
But that isn't what happened to me (I don't think). I never used my blog or my facebook to post family pictures (at least not a lot of them) or to write (which is what I use my blog for). I really think I just got lazy. But I also think I stopped truly following the theme or mantra or whatever-you-want-to-call-it of my blog: I write stuff and you decide whether you want to read it or not.
Because you can tell when people are reading your blog and when they aren't. And not just using analytics. The comments decrease, the references to it conversation with others decrease, you get the idea. And I am sure that affected me. You want to think (I do, anyway) someone is reading what you write, thinks the story is good, thinks you are clever, thinks you are funny.
Well I still want those things, but I also need to write. That much occurs to me. There is stuff inside me. Stuff that needs out. Stories to tell. Names to change. So I will write some more. And you will decide whether you want to read it or not.
And, yes, I think Facebook put a hurting on that. Much easier to reach your audience, know you are being followed, post pictures, tell stories, with Facebook.
But that isn't what happened to me (I don't think). I never used my blog or my facebook to post family pictures (at least not a lot of them) or to write (which is what I use my blog for). I really think I just got lazy. But I also think I stopped truly following the theme or mantra or whatever-you-want-to-call-it of my blog: I write stuff and you decide whether you want to read it or not.
Because you can tell when people are reading your blog and when they aren't. And not just using analytics. The comments decrease, the references to it conversation with others decrease, you get the idea. And I am sure that affected me. You want to think (I do, anyway) someone is reading what you write, thinks the story is good, thinks you are clever, thinks you are funny.
Well I still want those things, but I also need to write. That much occurs to me. There is stuff inside me. Stuff that needs out. Stories to tell. Names to change. So I will write some more. And you will decide whether you want to read it or not.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Tour Guides: Marlene
The tour group we used (based in the states) had someone travel with us to England, and help coordinate our hotel stays, excursions, and so forth. Her name (for the purposes of this post) is Marlene. She met us in the Chicago airport, and after mentioning to us there was another young couple in the group, explained what would come next in her strong Chicagoan accent (while I pondered what it meant that she thought we were a young couple):
"Now once we get on the plane, after about half an hour they will come through with a drink service. At about eight o'clock, they will come through with dinner. After that is through they will turn out the lights in the airplane, and that is when you should try to sleep." I literally cannot tell you how grateful I was for the information.
Just as we were about to take off, an older gentleman (let's call him Harry) came and found his seat a few rows in front of us, but in the center seats. He was carrying a bag with the name of our tour group on it. And sure enough, as soon as he sat, Marlene came down the aisle to speak to him. "Harry, where WERE you?!?! You almost missed the plane!!! I was paging you at the gate and everything! You almost didn't make it!" I was entertained but afraid now to make a misstep once we began our tour lest Marlene bite my head off.
Once we got to England, Marlene found the bus to take us to our hotel. On the ride in to town, she covered some important information: "Okay the temperature here right now is eighteen degrees." She paused to allow for our incredulous response. None came. "Now, of course, that is centigrade, hee hee. They use centigrade over here. But here's how you convert it to Fahrenheit. You double it and add thirty. So let's say it's eighteen degrees. You double that. What's two times eighteen? Yes, thirty-six. Then add thirty. What's thirty-six plus thirty?...Yes, correct. Sixty-six. So that's how you convert it. Let's try it again. Let's say it's twenty-one degrees..." And she proceeded to step for step explain it again. She continued to spoonfeed us information in this way the entire trip, but I believe she earned her paycheck on the morning our group left for France.
We had been instructed to leave our bags outside our hotel rooms at 7:30am, and to be ready to board the bus to St. Pancras station. (By the by, none of the Londoners I asked could explain why their bus station was named after an organ.) Anyways, at about 7:35, MLB and I were down in the lobby waiting to eat breakfast; our bags were outside our door already. Just then, I heard the 'ding' of the elevator and high-pitched old man's voice cry out, "Can you help me? I locked myself out of my room."
I turned my head enough to see Harry's head leaning out of the elevator--oh, sorry--the lift. I thought little about it, not surprised that Harry would do such a thing, and knowing the concierge could help.
But people, including MLB, were looking intently at him still as I looked away from him and faced MLB. The looks on their faces were a mix of pity, embarrassment, and incredulity while at the same time I could see they were all stifling laughs. A few people murmured to each other things I could not understand, so I gave MLB the best "What is it?" look I had.
"He's locked out of his room and he's in his underwear."
"No way."
"I'm serious."
Marlene had missed most of this until a member of our group burst out, "Um, Marlene? Can you help Harry?" And off she went. She had the fortune of getting another key (which you need by the way to make the lift go up at all) and escorting Harry back to his room in his tighty-whities...and without his toupee.
"Now once we get on the plane, after about half an hour they will come through with a drink service. At about eight o'clock, they will come through with dinner. After that is through they will turn out the lights in the airplane, and that is when you should try to sleep." I literally cannot tell you how grateful I was for the information.
Just as we were about to take off, an older gentleman (let's call him Harry) came and found his seat a few rows in front of us, but in the center seats. He was carrying a bag with the name of our tour group on it. And sure enough, as soon as he sat, Marlene came down the aisle to speak to him. "Harry, where WERE you?!?! You almost missed the plane!!! I was paging you at the gate and everything! You almost didn't make it!" I was entertained but afraid now to make a misstep once we began our tour lest Marlene bite my head off.
Once we got to England, Marlene found the bus to take us to our hotel. On the ride in to town, she covered some important information: "Okay the temperature here right now is eighteen degrees." She paused to allow for our incredulous response. None came. "Now, of course, that is centigrade, hee hee. They use centigrade over here. But here's how you convert it to Fahrenheit. You double it and add thirty. So let's say it's eighteen degrees. You double that. What's two times eighteen? Yes, thirty-six. Then add thirty. What's thirty-six plus thirty?...Yes, correct. Sixty-six. So that's how you convert it. Let's try it again. Let's say it's twenty-one degrees..." And she proceeded to step for step explain it again. She continued to spoonfeed us information in this way the entire trip, but I believe she earned her paycheck on the morning our group left for France.
We had been instructed to leave our bags outside our hotel rooms at 7:30am, and to be ready to board the bus to St. Pancras station. (By the by, none of the Londoners I asked could explain why their bus station was named after an organ.) Anyways, at about 7:35, MLB and I were down in the lobby waiting to eat breakfast; our bags were outside our door already. Just then, I heard the 'ding' of the elevator and high-pitched old man's voice cry out, "Can you help me? I locked myself out of my room."
I turned my head enough to see Harry's head leaning out of the elevator--oh, sorry--the lift. I thought little about it, not surprised that Harry would do such a thing, and knowing the concierge could help.
But people, including MLB, were looking intently at him still as I looked away from him and faced MLB. The looks on their faces were a mix of pity, embarrassment, and incredulity while at the same time I could see they were all stifling laughs. A few people murmured to each other things I could not understand, so I gave MLB the best "What is it?" look I had.
"He's locked out of his room and he's in his underwear."
"No way."
"I'm serious."
Marlene had missed most of this until a member of our group burst out, "Um, Marlene? Can you help Harry?" And off she went. She had the fortune of getting another key (which you need by the way to make the lift go up at all) and escorting Harry back to his room in his tighty-whities...and without his toupee.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Europe
Just got back from Europe. Spent time in England, France, and Belgium. Saw a lot. Learned a lot.
Over the next few weeks I plan to post quite frequently as my trip to Europe gave me much source material for stuff I can post here. So if you are now looking forward to hearing about my travels in Europe, the sights and the sounds, the places and the history...TOO BAD. I will be writing mostly about the people I interacted with. Yep, that's right--the typical cynical misanthropic garbage I usual fill up this place with.
Starting with...
Over the next few weeks I plan to post quite frequently as my trip to Europe gave me much source material for stuff I can post here. So if you are now looking forward to hearing about my travels in Europe, the sights and the sounds, the places and the history...TOO BAD. I will be writing mostly about the people I interacted with. Yep, that's right--the typical cynical misanthropic garbage I usual fill up this place with.
Starting with...
Friday, June 10, 2011
Essay
I found this well-written and important essay in one of the classrooms I was working today at the high school where I work that has summer school:
Drugs and the usage of some drugs should be legal.
The usage of some drugs should be legal because some help kids focus better in school, they help you relax, and they let you have a good time.
Some drugs, like weed, help kids focus more. If weed was legal, and the kids who focus more while on weed did it, test scores for some schools would go up 69% percent.
If some drugs were legal, like pot, much more people would be relaxed, and layed back. There wouldn't be as many stressed people in the world currently.
Pot should be one of these legal drugs because it helps you have fun.
Some drugs should be legal because some drugs help kids focus, help relax, and let you have a good time.
Drugs and the usage of some drugs should be legal.
The usage of some drugs should be legal because some help kids focus better in school, they help you relax, and they let you have a good time.
Some drugs, like weed, help kids focus more. If weed was legal, and the kids who focus more while on weed did it, test scores for some schools would go up 69% percent.
If some drugs were legal, like pot, much more people would be relaxed, and layed back. There wouldn't be as many stressed people in the world currently.
Pot should be one of these legal drugs because it helps you have fun.
Some drugs should be legal because some drugs help kids focus, help relax, and let you have a good time.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Dear Brain, I Give You the Finger, Part 2
(Don't confuse this post with this one.)
[Oh, and watch for the endnotes.]
by Phyllis
When I went to the mission office in downtown São Paulo, Brazil that Monday to find out who my new companion would be, I was anxious. I was hoping he would be an American. During the last seven months I had been with an American for only two weeks(1). Obviously, I had more in common with Americans, and most importantly, an American was more likely to want to go somewhere and play basketball or some other sport on our preparation day(2). My experience told me Brazilians liked to sleep, spend all of preparation day writing letters, and they didn’t usually want to play any sports unless it was soccer. And they didn’t like the way Americans played soccer. They felt Americans were too physical and rough; we had no finesse. But all the new missionaries were Brazilians, so those of us who had met at the office to find out the assignments could now only hope our companion would be cool.
I was assigned Alves(3).
Even when I was twenty years old, I was over six feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds(4). If I was a big person by American standards, I was a giant in Brazil. Alves was physically my polar opposite. He was, perhaps, five-foot-four and couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds(5). I shook his hand and we walked to the bus station to travel back to our apartment. I couldn’t help but notice as we walked and talked that he had a delicate step and a childlike, soft voice with very a pronounced, soft ‘s’ in his words. Something told me he would not be up for a game of basketball next Monday with the other Americans I worked with.
Alves was, I learned over the next few weeks, a pleasant person to have around. He enjoyed cooking, and when we weren’t fortunate enough to score a meal from a family we were visiting, we would come back to our apartment and he would make pancakes. They were delicious, as he would frequently mix in chocolate chips, berries, or bananas. He was also very neat, and kept his few things organized and in his own part of the room(6). We didn’t get in to arguments very often, as I had done with previous companions. He asked lots of questions, was eager to learn, and followed my instructions.
I also appreciated his musical ability. I had sung in choirs throughout high school, and could read music and sing different parts. Alves could sing as well, but his voice was pretty high, so he sang the melody. We sang a few times together at church, and at Christmas we sang a number of carols for a family we were visiting. They were impressed and asked us how much we had rehearsed. We hadn’t.
With all of Alves’ good qualities, he had some that caused me some stress. I wrote in my journal that he sat too close to me all the time, and that he was too touchy-feely(7). I dealt with these issues as best I could. But I also had to deal with comments from everybody else, too—-from my fellow missionaries most of all.
“Dude, what is the deal with your companion?”
“What are you talking about?” I would ask, like I didn’t know what they meant.
“He’s…he’s…very effeminate.” This was the most careful way it was ever put to me.
“So what?”
My buddies weren’t the only people making comments. One time I was visiting a family with another missionary; Alves had gone with someone else for the day. The family burst out in laughter when I came into the house. When I asked what was so funny, they told me about the time they had witnessed Alves and me walking along the street. As we approached a rain puddle, I had taken a long stride over it, while Alves had pranced up to it and delicately skipped over it. They even imitated what it looked like when he did it. Another time, a Brazilian in my zone, Lima, came to me to report what a family he was teaching had said to him. They had told him they were surprised to find out that the church allowed homosexuals to serve as missionaries. He had informed them that it didn’t. The family refused to believe him, saying “What are you talking about? Alves is gay!” We assured them it was not the case. But this is what it was like living with Alves(8).
I lay down one night to sleep, drained by another day walking around under the sun. I plopped myself onto the top bunk and started to relax. At some point after the light was turned off, I rolled over on to my stomach, and let my left arm hang over the side of the bed. I don’t remember how much time passed, but enough had passed that I might have certainly have fallen asleep—-I never really had trouble falling asleep in Brazil. Then something hit my hand. I could not tell what it was, but I knew it had been Alves, so I was not alarmed. It was quite possible he had rolled over, sat up, or done any number of things to explain why he bumped my hand. Soon, however, he hit it again. By this time, if I even was partially asleep before, I was now wide awake. What was going on down there? He started tapping and hitting my hand playfully, and now I was concerned. And I didn’t quite know what to do. I convinced myself the best thing to do would be to continue to act like I was asleep; surely he would notice I was not noticing and would quit what he was doing. He did not. After a few minutes in which he continued his sporadic gentle amusement with my hand, it stopped. I felt like I had successfully waited out this strange game, and could now go to sleep. Only a couple of things remained: I had to wait a sufficient amount of time before I sleepily rolled over and brought my arm with me to the top bunk. And I would have to act like I didn’t know he had done it tomorrow. I wanted to forget it, and I certainly did not want to talk about it.
That is when everything went wrong. After a pause of a couple minutes, he resumed his game with renewed courage. I felt something wet on my finger. I was completely frozen with fear at this point. There it was again. And I had gone too far down the road of faking asleep to acknowledge that I was awake now. To acknowledge to him that I knew he was doing this would be to sanction it. It never occurred to me that a natural reaction if I had really been asleep would be that such a thing might wake me up. And definitely, down deep in there, boiling up from within was the sum of all those judgments I had made, the comments I heard from others, the teasing I received. If I was going to let this happen to me, I was not going to leave any doubt. There could be no room for claims that I had misunderstood or “misfelt.” So I let him go.
The next thing I knew he was sucking my middle finger on my left hand. I was still terrified. To think about how scared I was is funny now, but I was close to crying then. Why me? What is this happening for? Why did he have to confirm every rumor against him? Why couldn’t he just be a small, effeminate boy who was good at cooking, ironing, and being polite? In any case, the second he stopped for a minute, I jumped down from my bed, and went immediately outside to wash my hands. I have never washed them as diligently as I did then; I was a doctor preparing for surgery. I scrubbed and scraped and lathered and rinsed, and did it all again. Perhaps if I repeated it enough times I could clean the past few minutes from my memory.
When I returned from washing my hands, Alves was also up out of bed, with the light on, sitting slumped forward in his chair, obviously upset. I did not speak to nor look at him. I sat at my desk, organizing papers and books, and looking for a cassette tape. He began:
“I have tried so long to overcome this. I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I am talking about!”
I did, but I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted him to admit it to me. After a few seconds of sobbing and sniffing, he did. “I’m gay, Elder.”
“Okay. Well, that’s all you need to tell me. I don’t need to hear any more. We will go tomorrow and talk to the president about it. He will figure out what should be done.”
“I know.”
Alves went home the next day.
This is what I wrote in my journal on January 14, 1992: “Last Monday when I went to bed I let my hand hang down off the side of the bed and he started playing with it. To make a long story short he started nibbling on it, licked it and sucked my finger. I left my hand hanging there as if I was asleep to see what the heck he was doing. He already went home now. Everyone is asking me what happened…” And that’s the only written record besides what you read above. The rest is in my head, “etched sharply, with unbearable exactitude.”
(1)Yes, I am going to use footnotes—well, actually, these are endnotes. Why do this? There are many reasons. I’ve never used them in a document before, and this is kind of neat. Also, I’ve read a few papers and documents that used them, and they work fine for me. After all, what form of in-text citation is the best? They all distract you from what you were doing in the first place: reading the main text of the paper. That is unless, of course, you just skip right over it and read right through. You may be only reading this now as you have completed the the rest of the post. Maybe you loathe endnotes and you won’t even read this. All of that is fine, because in any case, using them has served me a purpose in what I am writing about. For example, what was I writing about when I placed the reference to the end note? Can’t remember? Is it coming back now? Like I said, memory is a sketchy thing; sometimes we need something to jog it. Seven months straight with Brazilians, remember? Yes. Well, of the many things I write about in this story, this comes close to being a verifiable fact. I kept a written journal of my doings in Brazil and referred to it before I wrote that sentence to make sure I had the “facts” straight.
(2)We worked seven days a week. On preparation day—Mondays—we took the morning and early afternoon to do our laundry, buy groceries, write letters, etc. We even had a few hours to get some exercise. We got together with other missionaries so we could play basketball, volleyball, and soccer. But we always had to stay with our companion, so if he didn’t want to go (and wouldn’t cave to pressure) I couldn’t go, either. We did all these things on preparation day so we could spend the rest of the week working all day.
(3)Pronounced ‘ow´-veez’ in case you care.
(4)Now, that is a fact. I stepped on a scale in Brazil once after not having weighed myself in months. I was alarmed when the scale measured over ninety kilograms. Some quick math confirmed my suspicion—I was a growing boy.
(5)I know he was much smaller than me, but I never wrote in my diary what his height or weight was. I know it is possible I have constructed a memory of him as a puny person to reinforce to myself that he was my opposite in all ways. At this point, who knows?
(6)I know I liked his cooking—or at least I remember that I do. Was he really neat and clean? I think so. Most of my Brazilian companions were. But is this one of those things that I have unwittingly (or even purposely) associated with Brazilians in my brain? I cannot deny it is possible.
(7)I suppose I have taken a little liberty here, for this is what I wrote in my journal: “…Alves [i]s femmy. He’s sort of a nerd and reminds me too much of Rebouças [another missionary I had worked with]. He walks and sits too close to me.” I never wrote that my other companions sat too close to me, or invaded my personal space, but I am sure they all did at some point.
(8)I have no written record of any of these memories, but I tell myself they are vivid and that I can recall them well. How many of them are manufactured, are activated by my brain network (possible erroneously) when I recall Alves. What have I associated in my brain with him and the way he acted—and what he did to me later?
[Oh, and watch for the endnotes.]
by Phyllis
When I went to the mission office in downtown São Paulo, Brazil that Monday to find out who my new companion would be, I was anxious. I was hoping he would be an American. During the last seven months I had been with an American for only two weeks(1). Obviously, I had more in common with Americans, and most importantly, an American was more likely to want to go somewhere and play basketball or some other sport on our preparation day(2). My experience told me Brazilians liked to sleep, spend all of preparation day writing letters, and they didn’t usually want to play any sports unless it was soccer. And they didn’t like the way Americans played soccer. They felt Americans were too physical and rough; we had no finesse. But all the new missionaries were Brazilians, so those of us who had met at the office to find out the assignments could now only hope our companion would be cool.
I was assigned Alves(3).
Even when I was twenty years old, I was over six feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds(4). If I was a big person by American standards, I was a giant in Brazil. Alves was physically my polar opposite. He was, perhaps, five-foot-four and couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds(5). I shook his hand and we walked to the bus station to travel back to our apartment. I couldn’t help but notice as we walked and talked that he had a delicate step and a childlike, soft voice with very a pronounced, soft ‘s’ in his words. Something told me he would not be up for a game of basketball next Monday with the other Americans I worked with.
Alves was, I learned over the next few weeks, a pleasant person to have around. He enjoyed cooking, and when we weren’t fortunate enough to score a meal from a family we were visiting, we would come back to our apartment and he would make pancakes. They were delicious, as he would frequently mix in chocolate chips, berries, or bananas. He was also very neat, and kept his few things organized and in his own part of the room(6). We didn’t get in to arguments very often, as I had done with previous companions. He asked lots of questions, was eager to learn, and followed my instructions.
I also appreciated his musical ability. I had sung in choirs throughout high school, and could read music and sing different parts. Alves could sing as well, but his voice was pretty high, so he sang the melody. We sang a few times together at church, and at Christmas we sang a number of carols for a family we were visiting. They were impressed and asked us how much we had rehearsed. We hadn’t.
With all of Alves’ good qualities, he had some that caused me some stress. I wrote in my journal that he sat too close to me all the time, and that he was too touchy-feely(7). I dealt with these issues as best I could. But I also had to deal with comments from everybody else, too—-from my fellow missionaries most of all.
“Dude, what is the deal with your companion?”
“What are you talking about?” I would ask, like I didn’t know what they meant.
“He’s…he’s…very effeminate.” This was the most careful way it was ever put to me.
“So what?”
My buddies weren’t the only people making comments. One time I was visiting a family with another missionary; Alves had gone with someone else for the day. The family burst out in laughter when I came into the house. When I asked what was so funny, they told me about the time they had witnessed Alves and me walking along the street. As we approached a rain puddle, I had taken a long stride over it, while Alves had pranced up to it and delicately skipped over it. They even imitated what it looked like when he did it. Another time, a Brazilian in my zone, Lima, came to me to report what a family he was teaching had said to him. They had told him they were surprised to find out that the church allowed homosexuals to serve as missionaries. He had informed them that it didn’t. The family refused to believe him, saying “What are you talking about? Alves is gay!” We assured them it was not the case. But this is what it was like living with Alves(8).
I lay down one night to sleep, drained by another day walking around under the sun. I plopped myself onto the top bunk and started to relax. At some point after the light was turned off, I rolled over on to my stomach, and let my left arm hang over the side of the bed. I don’t remember how much time passed, but enough had passed that I might have certainly have fallen asleep—-I never really had trouble falling asleep in Brazil. Then something hit my hand. I could not tell what it was, but I knew it had been Alves, so I was not alarmed. It was quite possible he had rolled over, sat up, or done any number of things to explain why he bumped my hand. Soon, however, he hit it again. By this time, if I even was partially asleep before, I was now wide awake. What was going on down there? He started tapping and hitting my hand playfully, and now I was concerned. And I didn’t quite know what to do. I convinced myself the best thing to do would be to continue to act like I was asleep; surely he would notice I was not noticing and would quit what he was doing. He did not. After a few minutes in which he continued his sporadic gentle amusement with my hand, it stopped. I felt like I had successfully waited out this strange game, and could now go to sleep. Only a couple of things remained: I had to wait a sufficient amount of time before I sleepily rolled over and brought my arm with me to the top bunk. And I would have to act like I didn’t know he had done it tomorrow. I wanted to forget it, and I certainly did not want to talk about it.
That is when everything went wrong. After a pause of a couple minutes, he resumed his game with renewed courage. I felt something wet on my finger. I was completely frozen with fear at this point. There it was again. And I had gone too far down the road of faking asleep to acknowledge that I was awake now. To acknowledge to him that I knew he was doing this would be to sanction it. It never occurred to me that a natural reaction if I had really been asleep would be that such a thing might wake me up. And definitely, down deep in there, boiling up from within was the sum of all those judgments I had made, the comments I heard from others, the teasing I received. If I was going to let this happen to me, I was not going to leave any doubt. There could be no room for claims that I had misunderstood or “misfelt.” So I let him go.
The next thing I knew he was sucking my middle finger on my left hand. I was still terrified. To think about how scared I was is funny now, but I was close to crying then. Why me? What is this happening for? Why did he have to confirm every rumor against him? Why couldn’t he just be a small, effeminate boy who was good at cooking, ironing, and being polite? In any case, the second he stopped for a minute, I jumped down from my bed, and went immediately outside to wash my hands. I have never washed them as diligently as I did then; I was a doctor preparing for surgery. I scrubbed and scraped and lathered and rinsed, and did it all again. Perhaps if I repeated it enough times I could clean the past few minutes from my memory.
When I returned from washing my hands, Alves was also up out of bed, with the light on, sitting slumped forward in his chair, obviously upset. I did not speak to nor look at him. I sat at my desk, organizing papers and books, and looking for a cassette tape. He began:
“I have tried so long to overcome this. I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I am talking about!”
I did, but I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted him to admit it to me. After a few seconds of sobbing and sniffing, he did. “I’m gay, Elder.”
“Okay. Well, that’s all you need to tell me. I don’t need to hear any more. We will go tomorrow and talk to the president about it. He will figure out what should be done.”
“I know.”
Alves went home the next day.
This is what I wrote in my journal on January 14, 1992: “Last Monday when I went to bed I let my hand hang down off the side of the bed and he started playing with it. To make a long story short he started nibbling on it, licked it and sucked my finger. I left my hand hanging there as if I was asleep to see what the heck he was doing. He already went home now. Everyone is asking me what happened…” And that’s the only written record besides what you read above. The rest is in my head, “etched sharply, with unbearable exactitude.”
(1)Yes, I am going to use footnotes—well, actually, these are endnotes. Why do this? There are many reasons. I’ve never used them in a document before, and this is kind of neat. Also, I’ve read a few papers and documents that used them, and they work fine for me. After all, what form of in-text citation is the best? They all distract you from what you were doing in the first place: reading the main text of the paper. That is unless, of course, you just skip right over it and read right through. You may be only reading this now as you have completed the the rest of the post. Maybe you loathe endnotes and you won’t even read this. All of that is fine, because in any case, using them has served me a purpose in what I am writing about. For example, what was I writing about when I placed the reference to the end note? Can’t remember? Is it coming back now? Like I said, memory is a sketchy thing; sometimes we need something to jog it. Seven months straight with Brazilians, remember? Yes. Well, of the many things I write about in this story, this comes close to being a verifiable fact. I kept a written journal of my doings in Brazil and referred to it before I wrote that sentence to make sure I had the “facts” straight.
(2)We worked seven days a week. On preparation day—Mondays—we took the morning and early afternoon to do our laundry, buy groceries, write letters, etc. We even had a few hours to get some exercise. We got together with other missionaries so we could play basketball, volleyball, and soccer. But we always had to stay with our companion, so if he didn’t want to go (and wouldn’t cave to pressure) I couldn’t go, either. We did all these things on preparation day so we could spend the rest of the week working all day.
(3)Pronounced ‘ow´-veez’ in case you care.
(4)Now, that is a fact. I stepped on a scale in Brazil once after not having weighed myself in months. I was alarmed when the scale measured over ninety kilograms. Some quick math confirmed my suspicion—I was a growing boy.
(5)I know he was much smaller than me, but I never wrote in my diary what his height or weight was. I know it is possible I have constructed a memory of him as a puny person to reinforce to myself that he was my opposite in all ways. At this point, who knows?
(6)I know I liked his cooking—or at least I remember that I do. Was he really neat and clean? I think so. Most of my Brazilian companions were. But is this one of those things that I have unwittingly (or even purposely) associated with Brazilians in my brain? I cannot deny it is possible.
(7)I suppose I have taken a little liberty here, for this is what I wrote in my journal: “…Alves [i]s femmy. He’s sort of a nerd and reminds me too much of Rebouças [another missionary I had worked with]. He walks and sits too close to me.” I never wrote that my other companions sat too close to me, or invaded my personal space, but I am sure they all did at some point.
(8)I have no written record of any of these memories, but I tell myself they are vivid and that I can recall them well. How many of them are manufactured, are activated by my brain network (possible erroneously) when I recall Alves. What have I associated in my brain with him and the way he acted—and what he did to me later?
Dear Brain, I Give You the Finger, Part 1
by Phyllis
“As a recorder, the brain does a notoriously wretched job. Tragedies and humiliations seem to be etched most sharply, often with most unbearable exactitude, while those memories we think we really need—the name of the acquaintance, the time of the appointment, the location of the car keys—have a habit of evaporating.” I recently read that in a National Geographic article about memory, and I think I agree—-with most of it, anyway. It jives with other things I have studied, read about, and experienced. Even the part I may not totally agree with--the tragedies and humiliation part--can be interpreted to reflect how I have come to understand memory, because it says that certain important events seem to be more clear and definite, not that they in fact are more clearly remembered.
That is what I think.
What I learned about comprehension and memory in some linguistics courses I took in college seems to back this up. I don’t know how hard it will be to distill this idea in a few short sentences, but I will try: one theory about how the brain works is that comprehension—short-term memory, working memory, whatever you want to call it—relies on a huge network of interconnected “groups” of information in the brain. The groups are different for everyone, but when we hear or read words or concepts, those concepts, and all the things we associate with them, are “activated.” They are ready, primed.
For example, I say “cat.” Upon hearing or reading the word, you have activated concepts in your brain network that you associate with cats. You start to think about whatever you associate with cats: you have one and it is very important to you. You are thinking about him now, and you picture him; he nuzzles against you and purrs quietly. Or you hate cats, and all the negative associations you have with cats are brought to your mind. They scratch, they smell, they’re lazy. You can’t even claim that you have no associations with the “concept,” because everyone who hears someone pronounce the word “cat,” at the very least activates the groups in their brain that include information like: small, furry animal, drinks milk, meows. It is involuntary—you can’t help it. And all because I said “cat.” Does this make any sense?
And what about vivid memories I have? What I read in National Geographic would tell me they are because the event I remember was significant—yes, even a tragedy or humiliation. But things I have studied tell me they may be mostly constructed. Yes, we remember events, but our brain has done its best to store away this memory like it stores everything else: in this interconnected maze of related concepts, these “groups.” Perhaps the brain misfiles things sometimes. I remember, for example, losing a tooth as a child while listening to sports on the radio. With the money I got from the tooth fairy, I bought myself a present on my birthday (in March). Later in life, I tell my family the story. I say I lost my tooth listening to a Seattle Mariner baseball game on the radio (I do remember listening to a lot of games on the radio, and I can’t imagine what other sporting event it could be.) My son points out to me there are no baseball games being played in March, and I am at a loss. What part have I remembered incorrectly? How much of my memory was manufactured? Have I connected more than two memories into one? What was a “vivid” memory for me is now a hazy mess. But that’s what happens when we recall past events sometimes. We swear we remember something clear as day. And, again, we can’t help it. It’s automatic. It’s the way the brain works. But it means that memory may not be entirely accurate.
That sucks.
Because I write to remember. I want to get down on paper what is in my brain so I can remember it. I have taken great comfort in the idea; I think to myself, Self, you will read this later and be glad. Your writing will serve you when you can’t remember the details of your life, when you are grasping for a piece of your past feelings, thoughts, emotions, and desires. I am not so sure now. What will I really have? Annie Dillard writes: “After you’ve written, you can no longer remember anything but the writing. […] After I’ve written about any experience, my memories—those elusive, fragmentary patches of color and feeling—are gone; they’ve been replaced by the work.” Great. So I used to have memories; they were hazy and unclear and I struggled to sort them in my brain, but once I wrote about them, they ceased to be memories anymore.
What remains is constructed, fabricated, solid, definable…there.
I wonder then, as I think about the time I spent in Brazil, and the many experiences, emotions, trials, and adventures I had, what really happened. What do I remember and what have I manufactured? Perhaps there is no way to know. It happened nearly twenty years ago, and I was twenty years old. Keep that in mind when you read my next post.
“As a recorder, the brain does a notoriously wretched job. Tragedies and humiliations seem to be etched most sharply, often with most unbearable exactitude, while those memories we think we really need—the name of the acquaintance, the time of the appointment, the location of the car keys—have a habit of evaporating.” I recently read that in a National Geographic article about memory, and I think I agree—-with most of it, anyway. It jives with other things I have studied, read about, and experienced. Even the part I may not totally agree with--the tragedies and humiliation part--can be interpreted to reflect how I have come to understand memory, because it says that certain important events seem to be more clear and definite, not that they in fact are more clearly remembered.
That is what I think.
What I learned about comprehension and memory in some linguistics courses I took in college seems to back this up. I don’t know how hard it will be to distill this idea in a few short sentences, but I will try: one theory about how the brain works is that comprehension—short-term memory, working memory, whatever you want to call it—relies on a huge network of interconnected “groups” of information in the brain. The groups are different for everyone, but when we hear or read words or concepts, those concepts, and all the things we associate with them, are “activated.” They are ready, primed.
For example, I say “cat.” Upon hearing or reading the word, you have activated concepts in your brain network that you associate with cats. You start to think about whatever you associate with cats: you have one and it is very important to you. You are thinking about him now, and you picture him; he nuzzles against you and purrs quietly. Or you hate cats, and all the negative associations you have with cats are brought to your mind. They scratch, they smell, they’re lazy. You can’t even claim that you have no associations with the “concept,” because everyone who hears someone pronounce the word “cat,” at the very least activates the groups in their brain that include information like: small, furry animal, drinks milk, meows. It is involuntary—you can’t help it. And all because I said “cat.” Does this make any sense?
And what about vivid memories I have? What I read in National Geographic would tell me they are because the event I remember was significant—yes, even a tragedy or humiliation. But things I have studied tell me they may be mostly constructed. Yes, we remember events, but our brain has done its best to store away this memory like it stores everything else: in this interconnected maze of related concepts, these “groups.” Perhaps the brain misfiles things sometimes. I remember, for example, losing a tooth as a child while listening to sports on the radio. With the money I got from the tooth fairy, I bought myself a present on my birthday (in March). Later in life, I tell my family the story. I say I lost my tooth listening to a Seattle Mariner baseball game on the radio (I do remember listening to a lot of games on the radio, and I can’t imagine what other sporting event it could be.) My son points out to me there are no baseball games being played in March, and I am at a loss. What part have I remembered incorrectly? How much of my memory was manufactured? Have I connected more than two memories into one? What was a “vivid” memory for me is now a hazy mess. But that’s what happens when we recall past events sometimes. We swear we remember something clear as day. And, again, we can’t help it. It’s automatic. It’s the way the brain works. But it means that memory may not be entirely accurate.
That sucks.
Because I write to remember. I want to get down on paper what is in my brain so I can remember it. I have taken great comfort in the idea; I think to myself, Self, you will read this later and be glad. Your writing will serve you when you can’t remember the details of your life, when you are grasping for a piece of your past feelings, thoughts, emotions, and desires. I am not so sure now. What will I really have? Annie Dillard writes: “After you’ve written, you can no longer remember anything but the writing. […] After I’ve written about any experience, my memories—those elusive, fragmentary patches of color and feeling—are gone; they’ve been replaced by the work.” Great. So I used to have memories; they were hazy and unclear and I struggled to sort them in my brain, but once I wrote about them, they ceased to be memories anymore.
What remains is constructed, fabricated, solid, definable…there.
I wonder then, as I think about the time I spent in Brazil, and the many experiences, emotions, trials, and adventures I had, what really happened. What do I remember and what have I manufactured? Perhaps there is no way to know. It happened nearly twenty years ago, and I was twenty years old. Keep that in mind when you read my next post.
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