GOD LOVES YOU AND YOU ARE HIS
I am strength for all the despairing, healing for the ones who dwell in shame…
- David Haas *
In January I journeyed to New Mexico to attend a Memorial Mass for a priest who died in prison. His name will be omitted here because of his family’s concerns about hate groups. Father was the first incarcerated priest to write to me when I reached out to ask how priests were being treated in prison. He never asked for sympathy. He was forthright about his imprisonment, other inmates, and he answered all of my questions. We wrote regularly to each other as friends until his death late last year.
Father died in November but we didn’t learn of his death until mid-December when a priest friend of his went to the prison to visit him. He walked out of the prison in shock and numb. He telephoned me as he sat in a nearby park and we cried together as we mourned the death of our friend.
I will come to you in the silence
I will lift you from all your fear
In January this priest arranged for a Memorial Mass to be held for Father in New Mexico. On January 28, 2009, four noble priests of the order of Melchizedek concelebrated a Mass for Father. Also present were three women there to honor a man and a priest who had been so vilified. Due to the past negligence of the diocese in New Mexico, we concluded that permission to have a Mass said for Father in a Catholic Church would have been refused, so the Mass was held at another location. Those present came from California, Texas, New Mexico and Indiana.
The readings for that day spoke of priests and seeds planted and nourished, as we remembered Father's joy in the small garden he planted and tended. On the altar were flowers and a framed watercolor painted by Father, a gifted artist. Our Mass cards featured an exquisite water color painting done by him. Some letters written to us by him were laid at the base of the "altar." Those letters spoke of his dark night of the soul, his love of his priesthood and his faith, his angst over his sins, his search for forgiveness, and his acceptance of his punishment. Pain hung heavy in that room. One celebrant asked if a man should be remembered for the worst thing he ever did and no thought be given to the good things he did. We remembered Father for his priestly ministry that he tried hard to live.
You will hear My voice
I claim you as My choice
As we prayed and sang, I felt like the early Christians must have felt when they met in secret in the catacombs. Twice I heard loud sounds from somewhere in the building and I wondered if our Mass was going to be disrupted by hateful factions. After Mass the seven of us went to the cemetery to visit Father’s grave where we placed flowers, prayed, and sang. Each of us knelt for a moment and touched his grave. We were not able to be with Father when he died, but we were with him that day, and he was certainly with each one of us.
I am hope for all who are hopeless
I am eyes for all who long to see
This priest’s suffering went beyond his prison sentence. His talented fingers were broken once when he refused to give an inmate some of his artwork. On a visit to a doctor, his ankles and legs were shackled so tightly that the doctor was unable to examine him and complained to the warden. He was never taken back to the doctor. Instead, every morning he was given an aspirin and some “lotion” for his legs. Nobody in the diocese cared enough to check on him, despite phone calls asking them to do so.
In the shadows of the night,
I will be your light
In his final days, a guard put him in solitary for a trumped-up charge. He was supposed to be there for two days, but he was “forgotten” and left there for two weeks. There were apologies, but at that point Father had lost his will to live.
Come and rest in Me
On November 13, Father wrote what would be his last letter to the priest who visited him monthly. In the letter he indicated that he had made funeral arrangements because, “I feared the New Mexico prison system will treat my dead body with the same disrespect with which they have treated my living body.” He died of a broken heart. He is buried in a plot donated by an order of nuns.
Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
There is no doubt in my mind that this wounded priest is in heaven with our Lord.
In Psalms 85 we are told that – “Love and truth will meet; justice and peace will kiss.” I pray that it will happen during our lifetime.
I will bring you home
I love you and you are Mine.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Fr. Gordon J. MacRae: A Curious Case
Fr. Gordon J. MacRae: A Curious Case
by Charlene C. Duline
Precious Lord, take my hand
Thus ends the Year of the Priest. It might also signal the end of the priesthood as we know it. The terrible tar brush of sexual abuse accusations dating from 50 years ago now touches every priest in the United States. Every diocesan priest now is aware that he is only one phone call away from having his priesthood destroyed. One phone call away from being a respected priest and spiritual adviser to his parishioners, to being looked upon as a pervert operating as a priest in order to molest children. Every diocesan priest knows that he is on his own; there is no support from his bishop.
A good example of this is the curious case of Fr. Gordon MacRae, a priest of the Diocese of Manchester in New Hampshire. When Fr. MacRae was accused, his bishop offered to help fund his legal expenses. It is the rare diocesan priest who has the money to pay for a legal defense. Fr. MacRae accepted his offer. That was the last he heard of the offer. Not one word of help or hope has been issued from his diocese since. His accusers were paid $700,000 and a good priest went to prison for, in effect, the rest of his life. The betrayals continued.
Lead me on, let me stand
Fr. MacRae never stood a chance. During his trial, the judge, Arthur Brennan, apparently had decided that the defendant was guilty and needed to be made an example for others. He instructed the jury to disregard the multitude of inconsistencies in the testimony of the accuser; refused to allow Fr. MacRae and his attorney access to the accuser’s juvenile and adult criminal records, and ignored signals given to the accuser from a witness in the courtroom. The prosecutor was running for a state office, and the conviction of Fr. MacRae was a very public notch on his belt. Between the judge and the prosecutor, it was a match made in hell.
The judge castigated Fr. MacRae for maintaining his innocence, and he also had extremely harsh words for Fr. MacRae’s canon lawyer who testified on Fr. MacRae’s behalf. Furious with Fr. MacRae for insisting that he was innocent, the judge sentenced Fr. MacRae to 33 ½ - 67 yrs for crimes that never happened. Later his accusers said they had been assured that Fr. MacRae would take the plea bargain offered to him, and he would be out of prison in one or two years. Their twisted minds could not fathom that someone with the religious convictions of Fr. MacRae would not succumb to such an offer. They might have been sorry that Fr. MacRae went to prison for the rest of his life, but apparently they were not sorry enough to return the money they obtained fraudulently. Be that as it may, Fr. MacRae knows that he will be delivered one way or another, for didn’t God deliver Daniel from the lions’ den, and David from Goliath, and Jonah from the belly of the whale? Fr. MacRae's faith is what keeps him strong, decisive, brilliant and priestly.
Through the storm, through the night…
When this good priest went to prison, he was greeted by the usual welcoming party reserved for those accused of molesting children: late at night three hooded men came into his cell armed with broomsticks, and beat and kicked him mercilessly. He woke up in the prison’s infirmary where he spent several days recovering from his injuries. From the infirmary he was sent to the “hole,” solitary confinement, for several months. What was he guilty of you ask? He was guilty of being a high profile prisoner, and that made his attackers almost kill him. It was all his fault that he was brutally beaten, and for that he went to solitary for months. Now 16 years later the results of those injuries are manifesting themselves. Fr. MacRae is in constant pain from two collapsed disks in the fourth and fifth vertebrae, highly likely to have been caused by the beating delivered that terrible night so long ago. He says it is unlikely that the prison officials will allow him to have an MRI to determine the extent of his back damage because of the expense. For now, Fr. MacRae is given an over-the-counter pain medication which does nothing to begin to mask the pain, he says. It is becoming increasingly difficult for him to turn his head or to sit for hours on a plastic bucket typing letters or his blog.
I’m tired. I’m weak. I’m worn …
Medical treatment in prison is neither a given, nor is it a right. No matter how sick an inmate is, he has to line up for hours, and hope to see a nurse or someone who has read a first-aid manual. Then, and only then, if that first-aid manual graduate decides the inmate doesn’t need to see a doctor, he won’t see a doctor. Not long ago, one New Hampshire lawmaker proposed hiring veterinarians instead of medical doctors to look after prisoners’ medical needs. His attitude was that prisoners are only slightly above animals, so why shouldn’t they have a veterinarian to look after them, and it would be cheaper. Fortunately his fellow lawmakers did not agree with him.
Fr. MacRae, this priest, this holy man, this noble person, offered to withdraw his defense and remain silent in prison for the rest of his life if his bishop asked him to do so for the good of the Church. “Bishop McCormack later told me that he considered my overture.” The bishop CONSIDERED asking Fr. MacRae to sit quietly in prison for the rest of his life without attempting to save himself, even though the bishop said he knew Fr. MacRae was innocent? That is absolutely unfathomable to me. I’d like to shake both of them - the one for even considering that idiotic notion of staying in prison in order not to embarrass the Church, and the other one for considering such an asinine offer to save his hide. Dear God, forgive me, I just cannot believe You would allow such cruelty, such inconsiderateness, such stupidity to reign in the name of Your Church. What does go on in the minds of men?
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home …
The traditional day of ordination in my Archdiocese is the first Saturday in June. This year there were no men kneeling before the Archbishop for the powerful words ordaining them to the priesthood. Will this change next year? On one hand, we lament this dearth of seminarians. On the other hand, one has to wonder who in his right mind would want to join the number of priests being cast asunder.
Consider the numbers of good priests who proselytize by their very being, who are loved by their parishioners, who work tirelessly, and only during the dark, lonely nights let down their guard and tell our Lord of their struggles. Think how incredibly difficult is for our priests to represent our Church while fearing the wrath of the heathen, and even the wrath of some of their parishioners? One priest said to me, “I now shake hands with the altar servers (the children) and I hug the adults.” He thought that was safe, and so did I at the time. But now I realize that it’s not so safe - God forbid that his hug should accidentally touch a woman’s breast. If she’s a certain type of woman, she’ll be on her way to SNAP and our Archdiocese will be held up by some grubby attorney for millions of dollars. No, our dear priests are not safe anyplace, especially in Church.
Hear my cry, hear my call
I know that our Lord forgave sinners and preached love, compassion and forgiveness. So far, I have heard NONE of that directed to priests in prison. All the rhetoric is about the “victims.” Well, many years ago I was a victim, and nobody has ever apologized to me; nobody has ever thrown any money at me; nobody knows what I still suffer. So, who do I take to court? Is there a Diocese out there with money it can’t give away fast enough, and some attorney who makes his living by suing the Catholic Church, who could help me get some of that money? I could certainly use it for incarcerated priests - to purchase books, magazine and newspaper subscriptions, money for commissary items, money for telephone calls, for postage stamps, for toilet tissue, for shaving cream, shoes, craft projects, etc.
Hold my hand lest I fall …
As for Fr. MacRae, in prison he is saving souls and converting inmates solely by his own example. Those around him feel his spirituality even before they learn that he is a priest. The toughest of the tough hang out at his cell. One precious soul sits in a corner in the cell that Fr. MacRae shares with Pornchai, my Godson, and watches television. Skooter has a cell now that he shares with another inmate, but he prefers to sit on the floor in a corner in the cell of this holy man. Inmates stand in the cell and outside the cell asking for Fr. MacRae’s help with any and everything. His patience is unlimited. He turns no one away. He is amazing. As the song goes: “ … more than amazing, more than marvelous; more than miraculous could ever be …** that’s what Fr. MacRae is to those who live with him, to those who know and love him. His is indeed a curious case that gets “Curiouser and curiouser!”
Read it for yourself: www.TheseStoneWalls.com.
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home*
*Written by Thomas A. Dorsey
** Sandi Patty
by Charlene C. Duline
Precious Lord, take my hand
Thus ends the Year of the Priest. It might also signal the end of the priesthood as we know it. The terrible tar brush of sexual abuse accusations dating from 50 years ago now touches every priest in the United States. Every diocesan priest now is aware that he is only one phone call away from having his priesthood destroyed. One phone call away from being a respected priest and spiritual adviser to his parishioners, to being looked upon as a pervert operating as a priest in order to molest children. Every diocesan priest knows that he is on his own; there is no support from his bishop.
A good example of this is the curious case of Fr. Gordon MacRae, a priest of the Diocese of Manchester in New Hampshire. When Fr. MacRae was accused, his bishop offered to help fund his legal expenses. It is the rare diocesan priest who has the money to pay for a legal defense. Fr. MacRae accepted his offer. That was the last he heard of the offer. Not one word of help or hope has been issued from his diocese since. His accusers were paid $700,000 and a good priest went to prison for, in effect, the rest of his life. The betrayals continued.
Lead me on, let me stand
Fr. MacRae never stood a chance. During his trial, the judge, Arthur Brennan, apparently had decided that the defendant was guilty and needed to be made an example for others. He instructed the jury to disregard the multitude of inconsistencies in the testimony of the accuser; refused to allow Fr. MacRae and his attorney access to the accuser’s juvenile and adult criminal records, and ignored signals given to the accuser from a witness in the courtroom. The prosecutor was running for a state office, and the conviction of Fr. MacRae was a very public notch on his belt. Between the judge and the prosecutor, it was a match made in hell.
The judge castigated Fr. MacRae for maintaining his innocence, and he also had extremely harsh words for Fr. MacRae’s canon lawyer who testified on Fr. MacRae’s behalf. Furious with Fr. MacRae for insisting that he was innocent, the judge sentenced Fr. MacRae to 33 ½ - 67 yrs for crimes that never happened. Later his accusers said they had been assured that Fr. MacRae would take the plea bargain offered to him, and he would be out of prison in one or two years. Their twisted minds could not fathom that someone with the religious convictions of Fr. MacRae would not succumb to such an offer. They might have been sorry that Fr. MacRae went to prison for the rest of his life, but apparently they were not sorry enough to return the money they obtained fraudulently. Be that as it may, Fr. MacRae knows that he will be delivered one way or another, for didn’t God deliver Daniel from the lions’ den, and David from Goliath, and Jonah from the belly of the whale? Fr. MacRae's faith is what keeps him strong, decisive, brilliant and priestly.
Through the storm, through the night…
When this good priest went to prison, he was greeted by the usual welcoming party reserved for those accused of molesting children: late at night three hooded men came into his cell armed with broomsticks, and beat and kicked him mercilessly. He woke up in the prison’s infirmary where he spent several days recovering from his injuries. From the infirmary he was sent to the “hole,” solitary confinement, for several months. What was he guilty of you ask? He was guilty of being a high profile prisoner, and that made his attackers almost kill him. It was all his fault that he was brutally beaten, and for that he went to solitary for months. Now 16 years later the results of those injuries are manifesting themselves. Fr. MacRae is in constant pain from two collapsed disks in the fourth and fifth vertebrae, highly likely to have been caused by the beating delivered that terrible night so long ago. He says it is unlikely that the prison officials will allow him to have an MRI to determine the extent of his back damage because of the expense. For now, Fr. MacRae is given an over-the-counter pain medication which does nothing to begin to mask the pain, he says. It is becoming increasingly difficult for him to turn his head or to sit for hours on a plastic bucket typing letters or his blog.
I’m tired. I’m weak. I’m worn …
Medical treatment in prison is neither a given, nor is it a right. No matter how sick an inmate is, he has to line up for hours, and hope to see a nurse or someone who has read a first-aid manual. Then, and only then, if that first-aid manual graduate decides the inmate doesn’t need to see a doctor, he won’t see a doctor. Not long ago, one New Hampshire lawmaker proposed hiring veterinarians instead of medical doctors to look after prisoners’ medical needs. His attitude was that prisoners are only slightly above animals, so why shouldn’t they have a veterinarian to look after them, and it would be cheaper. Fortunately his fellow lawmakers did not agree with him.
Fr. MacRae, this priest, this holy man, this noble person, offered to withdraw his defense and remain silent in prison for the rest of his life if his bishop asked him to do so for the good of the Church. “Bishop McCormack later told me that he considered my overture.” The bishop CONSIDERED asking Fr. MacRae to sit quietly in prison for the rest of his life without attempting to save himself, even though the bishop said he knew Fr. MacRae was innocent? That is absolutely unfathomable to me. I’d like to shake both of them - the one for even considering that idiotic notion of staying in prison in order not to embarrass the Church, and the other one for considering such an asinine offer to save his hide. Dear God, forgive me, I just cannot believe You would allow such cruelty, such inconsiderateness, such stupidity to reign in the name of Your Church. What does go on in the minds of men?
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home …
The traditional day of ordination in my Archdiocese is the first Saturday in June. This year there were no men kneeling before the Archbishop for the powerful words ordaining them to the priesthood. Will this change next year? On one hand, we lament this dearth of seminarians. On the other hand, one has to wonder who in his right mind would want to join the number of priests being cast asunder.
Consider the numbers of good priests who proselytize by their very being, who are loved by their parishioners, who work tirelessly, and only during the dark, lonely nights let down their guard and tell our Lord of their struggles. Think how incredibly difficult is for our priests to represent our Church while fearing the wrath of the heathen, and even the wrath of some of their parishioners? One priest said to me, “I now shake hands with the altar servers (the children) and I hug the adults.” He thought that was safe, and so did I at the time. But now I realize that it’s not so safe - God forbid that his hug should accidentally touch a woman’s breast. If she’s a certain type of woman, she’ll be on her way to SNAP and our Archdiocese will be held up by some grubby attorney for millions of dollars. No, our dear priests are not safe anyplace, especially in Church.
Hear my cry, hear my call
I know that our Lord forgave sinners and preached love, compassion and forgiveness. So far, I have heard NONE of that directed to priests in prison. All the rhetoric is about the “victims.” Well, many years ago I was a victim, and nobody has ever apologized to me; nobody has ever thrown any money at me; nobody knows what I still suffer. So, who do I take to court? Is there a Diocese out there with money it can’t give away fast enough, and some attorney who makes his living by suing the Catholic Church, who could help me get some of that money? I could certainly use it for incarcerated priests - to purchase books, magazine and newspaper subscriptions, money for commissary items, money for telephone calls, for postage stamps, for toilet tissue, for shaving cream, shoes, craft projects, etc.
Hold my hand lest I fall …
As for Fr. MacRae, in prison he is saving souls and converting inmates solely by his own example. Those around him feel his spirituality even before they learn that he is a priest. The toughest of the tough hang out at his cell. One precious soul sits in a corner in the cell that Fr. MacRae shares with Pornchai, my Godson, and watches television. Skooter has a cell now that he shares with another inmate, but he prefers to sit on the floor in a corner in the cell of this holy man. Inmates stand in the cell and outside the cell asking for Fr. MacRae’s help with any and everything. His patience is unlimited. He turns no one away. He is amazing. As the song goes: “ … more than amazing, more than marvelous; more than miraculous could ever be …** that’s what Fr. MacRae is to those who live with him, to those who know and love him. His is indeed a curious case that gets “Curiouser and curiouser!”
Read it for yourself: www.TheseStoneWalls.com.
Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home*
*Written by Thomas A. Dorsey
** Sandi Patty
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
THANK YOU, BRITTANY!
Thanks to a very special snake, a ball python named Brittany, I no longer throw across the room magazines with pictures of snakes, or feel repulsed at the sight of snakes. Indeed, I actually cuddled Brittany and other snakes at the zoo where I volunteered, and loved every minute of it. These amazing and adorable ambassadors of their species have undoubtedly helped to change attitudes of many who have met them. It was a special privilege to work with them. At the zoo, an adoring public can touch an exotic animal, learn what it eats in the wild versus its zoo diet, learn how it reacts when confronted with danger, its reproduction cycle, and other interesting facts. My greatest joy was introducing a critter to a child. Innocence meets innocence and a connection is made. Thus, children grow up knowing that animals are precious beings whose care and protection has been entrusted to mankind, and that animals are to be respected and loved, not hurt.
Being an volunteer animal handler was an invaluable learning experience. I handled animals I had never heard of, i.e., blue-tongued skinks, leopard geckos, bearded dragons, radiated tortoises and chinchillas, among others. I enjoyed working with all of the animals, but I was proudest of myself for overcoming my fear of snakes.
I remember the day I picked up our daily newspaper and read that the zoo needed volunteer animal handlers. Fantastic, I thought! That was me! I promptly showed up at the zoo and told the volunteer director that I loooooved ALL animals except snakes! I stopped short of telling her my REAL feeling: that all snakes should be rounded up and set on fire! And my ears were closed to the arguments that snakes had a place in the environment. They certainly had no place in my environment! When she said I would have to work with snakes as well as the other program animals, she might as well have said I would have to work with the devil himself.
I shook my head and sadly said, “I can never touch a snake.”
She smiled and replied, “Oh, yes you can, and you will come to love them.”
I thought the woman had lost her mind! Love and snakes was an oxymoron! It seemed that my animal handling was over before it began. The woman extolled the virtues of snakes. My mind closed down. Nothing good could ever be said about snakes. She asked me to give it a try. I joined the training class and tried not to think of the session when we would meet the reptiles.
Our first training session taught us about the cuddly animals we would work with. We met the cute, furry critters: ferrets, chinchillas, rabbits and guinea pigs. It was a heavenly experience. Our training continued with parrots, nun pigeons, and the like. And then came the night we were to come face to face with – shudder - reptiles.
I talked to St. Francis at length. I have always prayed that I could be like St. Francis and walk among wild animals without fear, to be able to talk to them and to have them listen to me. In fact, I tried to talk to birds, butterflies and a few stray cats, but they were far too busy to stop to listen to me. I wondered how on earth St. Francis ever got wolves and adders still long enough to listen to him. Now, I was closer to realizing my dream of being like St. Francis, and the only thing that could stop it was a snake. I asked my family and friends to pray that I would not throw the snake one way and run the other way. I knew that definitely would be the end of my animal handling career. By the time that evening arrived, I was crazed with fear! I thought mean and evil thoughts about snakes. Why, oh why, would anyone want to see one, to touch one, or to listen to anything about a snake? I had no answers.
Several people were absent from our class that evening and there were snickers that they were afraid of snakes. I swallowed hard, and concentrated on not trembling. The first animal was a leopard gecko, a type of lizard with leopard coloring. He was tiny, beautiful, and fit right in my hand. The bearded dragon was awesome and gentle. I was in love. The next critter was a blue-tongued skink from Australia. He was awesome. He cuddled right up to me. When I put him away, our trainer said, “Charlene, you have just handled a snake with feet.”
I replied, “Yes, but those feet make all the difference in the world!"
And then the trainer brought out a cloth bag knotted at the top. She carefully rolled the top down, reached in and pulled out a snake. I gulped, shut my eyes briefly, took a deep breath and said a little prayer. This was it. This is where the animal handlers are separated from the would-be-animal handlers. The snake was a ball python named Brittany. She was about four feet long. There was no getting around it, she was a snake. I have never been more afraid of anything else in my life! She was passed from hand to hand so that everyone could get a feel – pardon the pun - for her. I announced that I would be the last to hold her. Much later I realized that being the last person to handle Brittany could have been a mistake. She might have tired of being handed around. I barely noticed the reactions of the other volunteers; I was concentrating on the snake. And then she was placed in my outstretched hands. She had worked herself into a huge bow with her face in the middle. She was very still. She looked at me as if she knew that I was terrified.
Barely breathing, I said, “Hi, Brittany. Ooh, you are being so good. You’re not moving.”
And something passed between us that let me know I had nothing to fear from her. She had the sweetest, dearest little face. Snakes I had seen in magazines and on television had evil faces, and looked positively wicked. But not Brittany. Her face exuded gentleness and goodness. I knew without knowing how that she would not harm me. Brittany and I bonded! People guffaw when I say this, but it’s so true. And then she began moving and I handed her to the instructor. After our training ended, I went in several times and worked with the instructor and Brittany. I learned that snakes feel their surroundings with their tongue. I learned to let Brittany do that to me. I stood very still and as she flicked her tongue over my arms and hands and I became quite comfortable with her.
For our final exam each volunteer had to go into a different room and handle and talk about the animal in that room. I did fine with most of them. The chinchilla got away from me when I was putting him back in his carrying case. The instructor and I ran around the office trying to catch him. I was thankful that we were not out in a park! The last room I walked into contained a pillowcase tied at the top. I knew a snake was in there. I prayed tht it was Brittany, but I couldn’t be sure. I looked at the bag and I looked at the tester. If Brittany was in the bag I knew I would be fine, but if another snake was in there, I didn’t know what I would do. I began shaking. I was not ready to handle another snake – I only felt safe with Brittany. I knew the snakes were not vicious and they were not poisonous. None of that mattered. I did not want to come face to face with some strange snake. I had only been introduced to Brittany and I only wanted to see Brittany. I was terrified. I began visibly shaking. I was scared and disappointed in myself, and then the tears began to flow. I knew my dearest dream of working with animals was ended because I could not open that bag. I timidly asked if Brittany was in the bag. The tester said he could not tell me. I was paralyzed. There was no way I was going to open that bag. I stood staring at the bag, and he waited. Finally he asked me to tell him about Brittany and I did. I knew all about ball pythons and why they were called that, what they ate in the wild and what they ate at the zoo and on and on. I could barely talk. I was so upset and I could not take my eyes off the bag. I wanted to get out of that room before whatever was in the bag got out of the bag. I finished and fled. I returned to the instructor’s office feeling very dejected and disappointed in myself. There was just no way I oculd open that bag and no way could I handle any snake other than Brittany. I learned that Brittany had been in the bag. The instructor comforted me by saying that I was too hard on myself and she insisted that I would be a wonderful volunteer who would come to love snakes. She was partly right; I was a good volunteer, and while I enjoyed working with all of the snakes, the ball pythons were always my favorites.
And then I met our other program snakes: corn snakes, milk snakes, the majestic king snake and later, the most awesome snake ever, Bob, a huge ball python who was a gentle giant. Bob was extremely heavy and when I took him out to do a program, I could only hold him for so long. He was an awesome snake, and he was so laid back. I enjoyed taking Bob out to meet people. Not too many wanted to meet him, but he seemed to look forward to meeting them.
We were taught to watch for signs of stress in all of our animals. If too many people surrounded an animal, or if too many people tried to touch it at once, it could become stressed, and it might bite its handler. None of the volunteers was ever bitten. The reptiles, like our other program animals, did not seem to mind being touched and rubbed by children and adults alike. Most people think snakes are cold and slimy. In fact, they feel like a basketball and they are not slimy at all, as many people learned. It was such a joy to present to an admiring public the wonderful, fascinating, wild creatures who share our world. I felt blessed and privileged that these animal ambassadors trusted me to be gentle with them, and to introduce them to the public.
The Bible tells us that when peace and justice prevail, the wolf will be the guest of the lamb, instead of the lamb being the dinner of the wolf; the leopard will nap with the goat, and the baby calf and the baby lion will graze together. The cow and the bear will be neighbors. A baby will play happily beside the cobra's den. And no harm will come to any of them. What a glorious day. I will caress the mane of a majestic lion; tickle the tummy of a black bear; walk on ice with a polar bear and her cub, knowing that they will take care of me. I'll rub the tusk of a rhino, admire the ivory teeth of a hippo, and talk to an anaconda snake about his life in the rain forest. I'll caress the chin of a majestic elephant, and cuddle her baby; kneel down to chat with a gigantic tortoise, and each of us will understand the other's language.
Imagine the joy of St. Francis who had the amazing ability to speak to animals about God, and they listened! He spoke to the birds, and wolves, and other wild things. They never harmed him. What a gift God gave to St. Frances. Oh, that I could come close to having a small part of that same gift. And in some ways, my request has been granted.
When the first African elephant conceived through artificial insemination was born in the Indy zoo, I was among the volunteers privileged to meet her when she was about three months old. She was adorable. She and her mother were in their exercise yard. Amali greeted each of us. She kept coming over to the fence to me and I put my fingers through to rub her little trunk. She was like all babies, curious, extremely sociable, and mama Kubwa was content to see her baby having a great time with humans who obviously adored her. Animals feel love.
When we received our three white rhinos from South Africa, volunteers were allowed to meet them early on. My first question was, “Can we pet them?” “Yes,” was the reply! I was in heaven. I could pet a rhino. Well, they had had a mud bath the day before and the mud was caked on them. It was like petting a Mack truck! I doubt that they even felt the petting. It was weird to pet an animal whose skin you could not feel. I only felt that thick coating of mud. I didn’t feel that I was petting an animal, but it was still a treat to be up close and personal with rhinos.
My hat is off to all the awesome creatures that allowed me to introduce them to their public, but especially to Brittany for taking away my terrible fear and loathing of snakes, for which I will always be grateful. Thank you, Brittany!
Being an volunteer animal handler was an invaluable learning experience. I handled animals I had never heard of, i.e., blue-tongued skinks, leopard geckos, bearded dragons, radiated tortoises and chinchillas, among others. I enjoyed working with all of the animals, but I was proudest of myself for overcoming my fear of snakes.
I remember the day I picked up our daily newspaper and read that the zoo needed volunteer animal handlers. Fantastic, I thought! That was me! I promptly showed up at the zoo and told the volunteer director that I loooooved ALL animals except snakes! I stopped short of telling her my REAL feeling: that all snakes should be rounded up and set on fire! And my ears were closed to the arguments that snakes had a place in the environment. They certainly had no place in my environment! When she said I would have to work with snakes as well as the other program animals, she might as well have said I would have to work with the devil himself.
I shook my head and sadly said, “I can never touch a snake.”
She smiled and replied, “Oh, yes you can, and you will come to love them.”
I thought the woman had lost her mind! Love and snakes was an oxymoron! It seemed that my animal handling was over before it began. The woman extolled the virtues of snakes. My mind closed down. Nothing good could ever be said about snakes. She asked me to give it a try. I joined the training class and tried not to think of the session when we would meet the reptiles.
Our first training session taught us about the cuddly animals we would work with. We met the cute, furry critters: ferrets, chinchillas, rabbits and guinea pigs. It was a heavenly experience. Our training continued with parrots, nun pigeons, and the like. And then came the night we were to come face to face with – shudder - reptiles.
I talked to St. Francis at length. I have always prayed that I could be like St. Francis and walk among wild animals without fear, to be able to talk to them and to have them listen to me. In fact, I tried to talk to birds, butterflies and a few stray cats, but they were far too busy to stop to listen to me. I wondered how on earth St. Francis ever got wolves and adders still long enough to listen to him. Now, I was closer to realizing my dream of being like St. Francis, and the only thing that could stop it was a snake. I asked my family and friends to pray that I would not throw the snake one way and run the other way. I knew that definitely would be the end of my animal handling career. By the time that evening arrived, I was crazed with fear! I thought mean and evil thoughts about snakes. Why, oh why, would anyone want to see one, to touch one, or to listen to anything about a snake? I had no answers.
Several people were absent from our class that evening and there were snickers that they were afraid of snakes. I swallowed hard, and concentrated on not trembling. The first animal was a leopard gecko, a type of lizard with leopard coloring. He was tiny, beautiful, and fit right in my hand. The bearded dragon was awesome and gentle. I was in love. The next critter was a blue-tongued skink from Australia. He was awesome. He cuddled right up to me. When I put him away, our trainer said, “Charlene, you have just handled a snake with feet.”
I replied, “Yes, but those feet make all the difference in the world!"
And then the trainer brought out a cloth bag knotted at the top. She carefully rolled the top down, reached in and pulled out a snake. I gulped, shut my eyes briefly, took a deep breath and said a little prayer. This was it. This is where the animal handlers are separated from the would-be-animal handlers. The snake was a ball python named Brittany. She was about four feet long. There was no getting around it, she was a snake. I have never been more afraid of anything else in my life! She was passed from hand to hand so that everyone could get a feel – pardon the pun - for her. I announced that I would be the last to hold her. Much later I realized that being the last person to handle Brittany could have been a mistake. She might have tired of being handed around. I barely noticed the reactions of the other volunteers; I was concentrating on the snake. And then she was placed in my outstretched hands. She had worked herself into a huge bow with her face in the middle. She was very still. She looked at me as if she knew that I was terrified.
Barely breathing, I said, “Hi, Brittany. Ooh, you are being so good. You’re not moving.”
And something passed between us that let me know I had nothing to fear from her. She had the sweetest, dearest little face. Snakes I had seen in magazines and on television had evil faces, and looked positively wicked. But not Brittany. Her face exuded gentleness and goodness. I knew without knowing how that she would not harm me. Brittany and I bonded! People guffaw when I say this, but it’s so true. And then she began moving and I handed her to the instructor. After our training ended, I went in several times and worked with the instructor and Brittany. I learned that snakes feel their surroundings with their tongue. I learned to let Brittany do that to me. I stood very still and as she flicked her tongue over my arms and hands and I became quite comfortable with her.
For our final exam each volunteer had to go into a different room and handle and talk about the animal in that room. I did fine with most of them. The chinchilla got away from me when I was putting him back in his carrying case. The instructor and I ran around the office trying to catch him. I was thankful that we were not out in a park! The last room I walked into contained a pillowcase tied at the top. I knew a snake was in there. I prayed tht it was Brittany, but I couldn’t be sure. I looked at the bag and I looked at the tester. If Brittany was in the bag I knew I would be fine, but if another snake was in there, I didn’t know what I would do. I began shaking. I was not ready to handle another snake – I only felt safe with Brittany. I knew the snakes were not vicious and they were not poisonous. None of that mattered. I did not want to come face to face with some strange snake. I had only been introduced to Brittany and I only wanted to see Brittany. I was terrified. I began visibly shaking. I was scared and disappointed in myself, and then the tears began to flow. I knew my dearest dream of working with animals was ended because I could not open that bag. I timidly asked if Brittany was in the bag. The tester said he could not tell me. I was paralyzed. There was no way I was going to open that bag. I stood staring at the bag, and he waited. Finally he asked me to tell him about Brittany and I did. I knew all about ball pythons and why they were called that, what they ate in the wild and what they ate at the zoo and on and on. I could barely talk. I was so upset and I could not take my eyes off the bag. I wanted to get out of that room before whatever was in the bag got out of the bag. I finished and fled. I returned to the instructor’s office feeling very dejected and disappointed in myself. There was just no way I oculd open that bag and no way could I handle any snake other than Brittany. I learned that Brittany had been in the bag. The instructor comforted me by saying that I was too hard on myself and she insisted that I would be a wonderful volunteer who would come to love snakes. She was partly right; I was a good volunteer, and while I enjoyed working with all of the snakes, the ball pythons were always my favorites.
And then I met our other program snakes: corn snakes, milk snakes, the majestic king snake and later, the most awesome snake ever, Bob, a huge ball python who was a gentle giant. Bob was extremely heavy and when I took him out to do a program, I could only hold him for so long. He was an awesome snake, and he was so laid back. I enjoyed taking Bob out to meet people. Not too many wanted to meet him, but he seemed to look forward to meeting them.
We were taught to watch for signs of stress in all of our animals. If too many people surrounded an animal, or if too many people tried to touch it at once, it could become stressed, and it might bite its handler. None of the volunteers was ever bitten. The reptiles, like our other program animals, did not seem to mind being touched and rubbed by children and adults alike. Most people think snakes are cold and slimy. In fact, they feel like a basketball and they are not slimy at all, as many people learned. It was such a joy to present to an admiring public the wonderful, fascinating, wild creatures who share our world. I felt blessed and privileged that these animal ambassadors trusted me to be gentle with them, and to introduce them to the public.
The Bible tells us that when peace and justice prevail, the wolf will be the guest of the lamb, instead of the lamb being the dinner of the wolf; the leopard will nap with the goat, and the baby calf and the baby lion will graze together. The cow and the bear will be neighbors. A baby will play happily beside the cobra's den. And no harm will come to any of them. What a glorious day. I will caress the mane of a majestic lion; tickle the tummy of a black bear; walk on ice with a polar bear and her cub, knowing that they will take care of me. I'll rub the tusk of a rhino, admire the ivory teeth of a hippo, and talk to an anaconda snake about his life in the rain forest. I'll caress the chin of a majestic elephant, and cuddle her baby; kneel down to chat with a gigantic tortoise, and each of us will understand the other's language.
Imagine the joy of St. Francis who had the amazing ability to speak to animals about God, and they listened! He spoke to the birds, and wolves, and other wild things. They never harmed him. What a gift God gave to St. Frances. Oh, that I could come close to having a small part of that same gift. And in some ways, my request has been granted.
When the first African elephant conceived through artificial insemination was born in the Indy zoo, I was among the volunteers privileged to meet her when she was about three months old. She was adorable. She and her mother were in their exercise yard. Amali greeted each of us. She kept coming over to the fence to me and I put my fingers through to rub her little trunk. She was like all babies, curious, extremely sociable, and mama Kubwa was content to see her baby having a great time with humans who obviously adored her. Animals feel love.
When we received our three white rhinos from South Africa, volunteers were allowed to meet them early on. My first question was, “Can we pet them?” “Yes,” was the reply! I was in heaven. I could pet a rhino. Well, they had had a mud bath the day before and the mud was caked on them. It was like petting a Mack truck! I doubt that they even felt the petting. It was weird to pet an animal whose skin you could not feel. I only felt that thick coating of mud. I didn’t feel that I was petting an animal, but it was still a treat to be up close and personal with rhinos.
My hat is off to all the awesome creatures that allowed me to introduce them to their public, but especially to Brittany for taking away my terrible fear and loathing of snakes, for which I will always be grateful. Thank you, Brittany!
Monday, April 19, 2010
EBONY: THE DAY I CRIED
EBONY: THE DAY I CRIED
On the last day of my life I watched my mommy get out of bed. She came over to my little bed, smiled and said, “Good morning, Ebbie. How’s my baby?”
I said in my own way, “Not good, but I won’t let you know it. I’m tired and I hurt, but I don’t want you to worry.”
As we went out for our morning walk I stopped and peed a tiny bit on the welcome mat outside our door. Mommy looked at me, but didn’t say anything. She knew my kidneys were very weak now and nothing I did these days seemed to bother her. Rather, I know it bothered her, but she hid it well.
Outside I tried to walk normally, but my hip hurt. I hurt all over. I tried to have a bowel movement, but nothing came out. I strained and strained.
Mommy said, “Maybe later today you’ll have one.”
I hung my head. She tried to be so optimistic, but I knew my end was near. Back at home she called my doctor and told him I must be constipated because I had not had a movement for three days. I lay in my bed and watched and listened. She was looking at me, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. Then the tears poured down her face and she turned away from me. I could hear plain as day the vet’s voice:
“It’s time to let Ebony go. You’ve done all you can do, and more than most. Let her have peace.”
Mommy spoke a few more words and hung up. We gazed at each other and we both thought of our twelve years together. She sat on the bed crying. I always went to her when she cried, but today I was not able to.
After a few minutes Mommy called Mary, a friend who lived nearby, and asked her to take us to the vet. She wrapped me in my baby blanket given to me by Granny Bertha when she presented me to Mommy on her birthday twelve years ago. Mommy carried me out of our little apartment for the last time. She held me tightly and talked to me as Mary drove. She told me how much she loved me. She thanked me for being her daughter. I wanted to thank her for being a wonderful mommy. I hoped she felt my tiny heart thanking her. She also said I would be happy and healthy and I was going to heaven to play with Granny Bertha, who would be so happy to see me.
She said, “Ebony, thank you for being a beautiful, loving and protective little daughter. I will never forget you.”
I could feel Mary’s nervousness as she drove through the busy streets to my vet. When we arrived and Mommy opened the car door to get out, Mary must have said something because Mommy replied, “She can’t hear you.”
Mary then touched me gently and I turned to look at her.
She said, “Goodbye, Ebony.”
I tried to give her a smile.
Outside the car Mommy put me on the grass as she always did so that I could pee. I squatted and I could not get up. Mommy waited and then she seemed to realize that I could not straighten up. She wrapped me in my blanket and we went inside. A woman was standing at the desk apparently waiting for the technicians to bring out her dog. She began smiling when she saw me, but then she saw the tears streaming down Mommy’s face and her smile disappeared. Lynette and Valerie were at the desk. They were somber today, not jovial as they usually were. Nobody said anything.
Lynette looked down at the desk. Valerie came toward us and opened a door into an examining room and Mommy carried me inside. Mommy laid me on the table and Valerie asked some questions. Mommy just nodded; she couldn’t stop crying. I knew this visit was different. I knew this was the end. Mommy signed some papers and came back to me. She leaned down, kissed me and told me she loved me.
Valerie gently gathered me in her arms and said Dr. Hurd was waiting for me. She hugged Mommy. Mommy turned to leave. I don’t think she could see because of the tears. She found the door knob and left the room. Valerie stood for a moment and I heard the woman who had smiled at me ask Mommy if she could give her a hug. I didn’t hear Mommy’s reply, but I’m sure that she nodded. In my mind’s eye I saw the woman envelop Mommy in a huge hug. I then heard Mary come into the office asking Mommy if she was OK.
Mommy didn’t speak, probably because she couldn’t speak. Her mind and her heart were still with me, the little daughter she would no longer be taking home.
Valerie took me to Dr. Hurd, who was waiting for me. I heard his soothing voice say, “Ebony, you won’t hurt anymore.” He gave me an injection.
I closed my eyes and my last thoughts were of my loving Mommy and what she would do without me. We loved each other so much. I didn’t want to leave her, but I couldn’t help it.
And for the first time in my doggie life, I cried.
On the last day of my life I watched my mommy get out of bed. She came over to my little bed, smiled and said, “Good morning, Ebbie. How’s my baby?”
I said in my own way, “Not good, but I won’t let you know it. I’m tired and I hurt, but I don’t want you to worry.”
As we went out for our morning walk I stopped and peed a tiny bit on the welcome mat outside our door. Mommy looked at me, but didn’t say anything. She knew my kidneys were very weak now and nothing I did these days seemed to bother her. Rather, I know it bothered her, but she hid it well.
Outside I tried to walk normally, but my hip hurt. I hurt all over. I tried to have a bowel movement, but nothing came out. I strained and strained.
Mommy said, “Maybe later today you’ll have one.”
I hung my head. She tried to be so optimistic, but I knew my end was near. Back at home she called my doctor and told him I must be constipated because I had not had a movement for three days. I lay in my bed and watched and listened. She was looking at me, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. Then the tears poured down her face and she turned away from me. I could hear plain as day the vet’s voice:
“It’s time to let Ebony go. You’ve done all you can do, and more than most. Let her have peace.”
Mommy spoke a few more words and hung up. We gazed at each other and we both thought of our twelve years together. She sat on the bed crying. I always went to her when she cried, but today I was not able to.
After a few minutes Mommy called Mary, a friend who lived nearby, and asked her to take us to the vet. She wrapped me in my baby blanket given to me by Granny Bertha when she presented me to Mommy on her birthday twelve years ago. Mommy carried me out of our little apartment for the last time. She held me tightly and talked to me as Mary drove. She told me how much she loved me. She thanked me for being her daughter. I wanted to thank her for being a wonderful mommy. I hoped she felt my tiny heart thanking her. She also said I would be happy and healthy and I was going to heaven to play with Granny Bertha, who would be so happy to see me.
She said, “Ebony, thank you for being a beautiful, loving and protective little daughter. I will never forget you.”
I could feel Mary’s nervousness as she drove through the busy streets to my vet. When we arrived and Mommy opened the car door to get out, Mary must have said something because Mommy replied, “She can’t hear you.”
Mary then touched me gently and I turned to look at her.
She said, “Goodbye, Ebony.”
I tried to give her a smile.
Outside the car Mommy put me on the grass as she always did so that I could pee. I squatted and I could not get up. Mommy waited and then she seemed to realize that I could not straighten up. She wrapped me in my blanket and we went inside. A woman was standing at the desk apparently waiting for the technicians to bring out her dog. She began smiling when she saw me, but then she saw the tears streaming down Mommy’s face and her smile disappeared. Lynette and Valerie were at the desk. They were somber today, not jovial as they usually were. Nobody said anything.
Lynette looked down at the desk. Valerie came toward us and opened a door into an examining room and Mommy carried me inside. Mommy laid me on the table and Valerie asked some questions. Mommy just nodded; she couldn’t stop crying. I knew this visit was different. I knew this was the end. Mommy signed some papers and came back to me. She leaned down, kissed me and told me she loved me.
Valerie gently gathered me in her arms and said Dr. Hurd was waiting for me. She hugged Mommy. Mommy turned to leave. I don’t think she could see because of the tears. She found the door knob and left the room. Valerie stood for a moment and I heard the woman who had smiled at me ask Mommy if she could give her a hug. I didn’t hear Mommy’s reply, but I’m sure that she nodded. In my mind’s eye I saw the woman envelop Mommy in a huge hug. I then heard Mary come into the office asking Mommy if she was OK.
Mommy didn’t speak, probably because she couldn’t speak. Her mind and her heart were still with me, the little daughter she would no longer be taking home.
Valerie took me to Dr. Hurd, who was waiting for me. I heard his soothing voice say, “Ebony, you won’t hurt anymore.” He gave me an injection.
I closed my eyes and my last thoughts were of my loving Mommy and what she would do without me. We loved each other so much. I didn’t want to leave her, but I couldn’t help it.
And for the first time in my doggie life, I cried.
Monday, March 22, 2010
THE GENTLEMANLY MOUSE
A few years ago I lived in a high-rise condominium in Washington, DC. I arrived home one evening in November, walked into my bedroom, opened the closet door and out ran a mouse. As I watched, he ran under my bed. I did not jump and scream because I am not afraid of mice, but I knew he could not live there with me. I called the desk and raved that I had a mouse in my sixth floor apartment. A maintenance man was sent up, but Mouse was nowhere to be found. The maintenance guy put some glue traps in my closet, bedroom and the kitchen.
After he left, I fumed. I was NOT going to live with mice in my apartment. I wondered how many more were around. I peeped under beds and sofas, and moved baskets and sculptures looking for the mouse. I had no idea what I would do if I found him, but I was determined that he would have no peace in my home.
A few nights later I was awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of paper rattling. When I sat up in bed the sound ceased. I laid back down and it began again. When I moved the noise ceased; when I lay still the crunching continued. I got up, got the flashlight and searched under the bed. Nothing. I knew it had to be Mouse but where was he? The rattle of paper sounded so near. A few days later when I went into the linen closet next to my bedroom to get out some gift wrap, I saw that Mouse had been busy munching on tissue paper and gift wrap. I wanted to strangle him.
I could just imagine him and his family living behind the range. Someone suggested that perhaps Mouse got in through a hole behind the gas range. When the range was pulled out we found that the hole in the wall was stuffed with steel wool, and there were no signs of mice. Everyday I checked the glue traps. I hoped against hope that nothing would be attached, certainly not a mouse. Yet I wanted Mouse gone. I was more afraid of dead mice than live ones.
On a cold, dreary Thanksgiving morning I got up feeling blessed. I planned to serve dinner at a home for battered women. And then I walked into the living room. Mouse had left me presents. He had used the back of my white sofa as his own private indoor outhouse. I vibrated with anger. Mouse had also left droppings along the top of the white drapes as if to decorate them. I spent the rest of the morning cleaning the sofa and drapes, and, oh yes, cursing. I was distraught. Mouse wisely stayed out of sight. That did it! Mouse had to go. I had even begun to sort of mellow and thought maybe we could co-exist, but now, never!
One of my adopted brothers came over later that day. As we sat chatting in the living room, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. There standing in the kitchen doorway was Mouse looking directly at us. I said softly, “Michael, look. It’s Mouse.” Michael got up from his chair to look. Mouse didn’t move. He apparently wanted an introduction to Michael. The three of us gazed at each other. Mouse stood there fearlessly as if he had every right to be there and to know who the visitor was. After several moments he ran back under the range. Yes, this was indeed a different kind of mouse.
I alternated between despair and euphoria, and rage and passivity. One minute I was telling our property manager that there would be no peace in the kingdom until an exterminator got rid of Mouse. Other moments found me daydreaming about making Mouse a pet. Friends thought my situation was hilarious. One friend said Mouse knew how much I loved animals and felt very welcomed in my apartment. I said he was not welcomed, especially since he was not housebroken and was wont to use my sofa and drapes as his private privy!
Finally the building manager sent an exterminator from an environmentally correct company. He said mice can get through or under anything because they have no bones in their bodies. He checked every inch of the apartment and finally found a tiny area underneath my hall door which allowed Mouse to get in. I wanted him to get out. I asked if Mouse would be able to find his way out. The exterminator assured me that Mouse would get out the same way he got in. He then made little balls of something poisonous to mice, but environmentally correct. He placed the little balls in strategic places and said he would return in a few days. I did not see or hear Mouse during those days.
When the exterminator returned he checked the bait and said, “Well, some of it has been eaten. A mouse is dying somewhere.” Oh no! I felt bad for Mouse. The exterminator added, "Let's hope he got out and didn't die inside the walls, or that will be another problem." My heart sank. I hoped that he had gotten out before finding the bait. I never saw or heard Mouse again.
I have wondered over the years why he was not afraid of me. Was it because I did not run and scream whenever I saw him? That must have been a nice change for him to meet a human who was not terrified of him. Mouse seemed to be a gentle creature who wanted only to nestle in gift paper in the linen closet, or nap in my clothes closet, and keep warm underneath the kitchen range. Of course Mouse had to eat too, and since they don’t sell mouse food, Mouse and I would have fallen out when he began nibbling on my food items.
Still, there was something about the little rascal. He seemed to be social because he obviously wanted to meet Michael and gazed at us from the kitchen doorway before retiring back under the range. I had visions of a nest of mice under there. And in my mind’s eye I could see them taking over my apartment and throwing me out when I became too worrisome!
I often think of the evening that I turned on the oven and Mouse came out and stood glaring at me. When I looked down and saw him, I almost burst out laughing. The range had gotten hot and Mouse clearly was unhappy with me. His silence was eloquent. He took up an indignant stance almost with his hands on his hips, and all but shouted about the indignity that had befallen him. My amusement quickly turned to anger and I yelled at Mouse. He did the unmanly, but no doubt, mousely thing, and ran out of the kitchen, down the hallway and into my bedroom! I wanted to hurl curses in mouse language at him, but I’m sure that he got my message.
I’m disappointed that Mouse and I never became better acquainted. I often wonder if Mouse could have become domesticated or would he have remained or reverted to being the disgusting, nibbling-on-everything vermin that people think mice are. Mouse never had a chance to show me. How disappointed he must have been when he realized, as he writhed in agony, that this human being was like all the other humans who only wanted him dead.
I’m sorry, Mouse.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
QUIRKY AND QRAZY: THE AMERICAN CHARACTER
During my many years of living abroad, I always found people curious to know what Americans are really like, what makes us run. Recently I gave it some thought and I concluded that we are more complicated than we know, that we are basically quirky and qrazy!
It’s the quirky, qrazy things that make Americans what we are proudest of being: American. For most Americans it is difficult to avoid the superlative when discussing our country and its attributes. We are brave, creative, compassionate, and silly. Sometimes we are all of those things at the same time. We are a mélange of offbeat colors, cultures, and creeds, but all of us believe in the law of the land that defines America: liberty and justice for all. That creed inspires awe in those who don’t have such freedoms.
We Americans want to be loved and admired. We are arguably among the most envied, the most imitated, and the most hated people in the world. We Americans are distinctive in our dress or undress, in our often-strident voices, in our love for the underdog, in our idiosyncrasies, and in our fierce independence.
We believe that with the honor and privilege of being the wealthiest and most technologically advanced democracy in the world there comes an obligation to fight for the same rights for everyone else on Planet Earth. We willingly send our first-born or only-born to distant lands to defend and help those less fortunate. Despite our generosity – to a fault some say – we are often castigated for our capabilities and extraordinary willingness to share. We reach out to the world through our government agencies, UN agencies, and private exchange groups, and are among the first to assist in relief efforts in any part of the world.
Americans have a zest for living. We treasure our traditional values of freedom of the press, of religion, of assembly, and of individual rights. We believe that to disagree with our leaders is as natural as taking the next breath. We believe in assembling peacefully – and sometimes not so peacefully - to air our grievances. America was forged in the revolution of 1776 when the colonists revolted against British colonial rule. That revolution continues to inspire. The freedoms demanded in 1776 are the same freedoms desired by millions of people who make desperate attempts to reach American shores.
Americans believe in the dignity of hard work and we know with an inborn certainty that with hard work anything can be achieved. Americans worship, or not, as our spirit dictates, but we demand the freedom to do either, and we defend everybody else’s right to do the same. Slavery and segregation are an ugly part of American history, but the nation rose from the horrors of that shameful past, and through laws and the goodwill of most Americans, established the goal of liberty and justice for every American.
Americans are an extremely generous and giving people. We are the people some love to hate; however, on a one-on-one basis, most nationalities love us. The success of the Peace Corps demonstrates that. Young and old, we Americans take our expertise abroad, and spend two years living in rustic conditions, endeavoring to uplift the lives of the poor by demonstrating what can be accomplished with meager resources. In return, the volunteers learn about other cultures, are sensitized to the poor, and discover that feet were indeed made for walking.
Americans want to live well and we obsess over how to live extremely well. A two-car garage is no longer to be wished for, but is mandatory. Americans are contradictory. Families love to eat out, yet we search for restaurants that feature “home cooking,” and, as at home, we want “all you can eat.” Americans have a love affair with their cars, and enjoy hitting the open road. There is a strange reluctance to get out of our cars until we get back home. For that reason there are drive-up banks, drive-up restaurants, drive-up telephones, drive-up laundry-dry cleaners, and someone is working on a gadget to enable Americans to pump gas without getting out of the car.
The bywords of the younger generations are wash and wear, carry out, and the all-time favorite, buy now-pay later. Instant gratification is the order of the day. Americans no longer carry money. We carry plastic credit cards that are used to pay for groceries, movies, fast foods, clothing, mortgages, in short, almost everything. Of course that means that a considerable number of Americans are deep in debt; however, we go on happily charging whatever our hearts desire and adding to our liabilities.
Americans visiting other countries are sometimes gregarious, loud, and obnoxious. This usually comes from feelings of inadequacy in not knowing the local language. It is only in the recent past that we have recognized the need to learn a foreign language. The attitude previously, odd though it may seem, was that everybody in the world should speak English. And as quiet as it is kept, English is not the official language of the United States. This news does not lessen our insistence that everyone coming to our shores should speak English.
Ah, yes, Americans are people of great humanity with a unique sense of justice and fair play. We are proud of living in a democratic country, and are patriotic to a fault. We are at our best in times of adversity. An outrage committed against one American is one committed against all Americans, and the country bonds in solidarity. We Americans are magnificent in our collective mourning and outrage. In times of great tragedy we wave the Stars and Stripes, the national symbol of unity, a rallying declaration that as long as that flag flies, Americans will not be defeated by whatever tragedy. We come together in anger and grief to demonstrate our support for the fallen, and to make a potent statement of our pride in being Americans.
When Americans, and others, were attacked and killed in places with strange sounding names – Beirut, Dar es Salaam and Nairobi – our compatriots shuddered, but felt certain that such death and devastation could never happen on American soil. September 11, 2001 shattered forever our notions of safety at home, and changed the welcoming character of Americans. We no longer welcome the world’s tired, poor and hungry because they might be terrorists.
When America sneezes, some countries catch a cold, or come down with other unpleasant maladies, and they feel it most in their bare money coffers. During the years of the Cold War, the United States and Russia competed against each other by pouring money and aid into countries they had interests in, in an attempt to win those nations over to their side. An African proverb says when elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. And so it was when the two powers engaged in tugs of war over small countries. When the Cold War ended many of those countries learned to their great surprise that America, as other nations, has interests, not friends. It was then that the “grass” truly suffered.
Americans have some quirks that are more distinctive than others. Perhaps the French invented perfume, but Americans have the market on deodorants. While some cultures might prefer natural body odors to the use of deodorants, Americans have an anathema to body odors – our own and anybody else’s. We are personally offended if we get a whiff of anything from anybody that doesn’t have soap, spices or flowers in it. That might help to explain the other oddity to foreigners. Americans do not want people to stand too close. We value our personal space. When we talk to a foreign visitor, we stand several feet from the visitor. This causes the visitor to get closer. We inch backward and this weird dance continues until a wall is reached. At that point we Americans make a hasty exit.
When Americans say, “Time is money,” we mean it. We want to meet, greet, and get on with the business at hand. We do not mean to be rude; we just don’t want to waste time. In some cultures it is customary to meet, sip tea, and inquire about the person’s nephew’s cousin’s step-uncle, the weather, and current events on Mars. By the time the foreign person asks about the American’s fifth cousin’s step-niece, the American’s eyes have glazed over, and he might appear to be in a catatonic state.
Such are the ways of Americans, a people courageous, gentle, noble, warm, funny, generous, and above all, quirky – the ultimate word that can be used to adequately describe those of us who proudly call ourselves Americans.
***
It’s the quirky, qrazy things that make Americans what we are proudest of being: American. For most Americans it is difficult to avoid the superlative when discussing our country and its attributes. We are brave, creative, compassionate, and silly. Sometimes we are all of those things at the same time. We are a mélange of offbeat colors, cultures, and creeds, but all of us believe in the law of the land that defines America: liberty and justice for all. That creed inspires awe in those who don’t have such freedoms.
We Americans want to be loved and admired. We are arguably among the most envied, the most imitated, and the most hated people in the world. We Americans are distinctive in our dress or undress, in our often-strident voices, in our love for the underdog, in our idiosyncrasies, and in our fierce independence.
We believe that with the honor and privilege of being the wealthiest and most technologically advanced democracy in the world there comes an obligation to fight for the same rights for everyone else on Planet Earth. We willingly send our first-born or only-born to distant lands to defend and help those less fortunate. Despite our generosity – to a fault some say – we are often castigated for our capabilities and extraordinary willingness to share. We reach out to the world through our government agencies, UN agencies, and private exchange groups, and are among the first to assist in relief efforts in any part of the world.
Americans have a zest for living. We treasure our traditional values of freedom of the press, of religion, of assembly, and of individual rights. We believe that to disagree with our leaders is as natural as taking the next breath. We believe in assembling peacefully – and sometimes not so peacefully - to air our grievances. America was forged in the revolution of 1776 when the colonists revolted against British colonial rule. That revolution continues to inspire. The freedoms demanded in 1776 are the same freedoms desired by millions of people who make desperate attempts to reach American shores.
Americans believe in the dignity of hard work and we know with an inborn certainty that with hard work anything can be achieved. Americans worship, or not, as our spirit dictates, but we demand the freedom to do either, and we defend everybody else’s right to do the same. Slavery and segregation are an ugly part of American history, but the nation rose from the horrors of that shameful past, and through laws and the goodwill of most Americans, established the goal of liberty and justice for every American.
Americans are an extremely generous and giving people. We are the people some love to hate; however, on a one-on-one basis, most nationalities love us. The success of the Peace Corps demonstrates that. Young and old, we Americans take our expertise abroad, and spend two years living in rustic conditions, endeavoring to uplift the lives of the poor by demonstrating what can be accomplished with meager resources. In return, the volunteers learn about other cultures, are sensitized to the poor, and discover that feet were indeed made for walking.
Americans want to live well and we obsess over how to live extremely well. A two-car garage is no longer to be wished for, but is mandatory. Americans are contradictory. Families love to eat out, yet we search for restaurants that feature “home cooking,” and, as at home, we want “all you can eat.” Americans have a love affair with their cars, and enjoy hitting the open road. There is a strange reluctance to get out of our cars until we get back home. For that reason there are drive-up banks, drive-up restaurants, drive-up telephones, drive-up laundry-dry cleaners, and someone is working on a gadget to enable Americans to pump gas without getting out of the car.
The bywords of the younger generations are wash and wear, carry out, and the all-time favorite, buy now-pay later. Instant gratification is the order of the day. Americans no longer carry money. We carry plastic credit cards that are used to pay for groceries, movies, fast foods, clothing, mortgages, in short, almost everything. Of course that means that a considerable number of Americans are deep in debt; however, we go on happily charging whatever our hearts desire and adding to our liabilities.
Americans visiting other countries are sometimes gregarious, loud, and obnoxious. This usually comes from feelings of inadequacy in not knowing the local language. It is only in the recent past that we have recognized the need to learn a foreign language. The attitude previously, odd though it may seem, was that everybody in the world should speak English. And as quiet as it is kept, English is not the official language of the United States. This news does not lessen our insistence that everyone coming to our shores should speak English.
Ah, yes, Americans are people of great humanity with a unique sense of justice and fair play. We are proud of living in a democratic country, and are patriotic to a fault. We are at our best in times of adversity. An outrage committed against one American is one committed against all Americans, and the country bonds in solidarity. We Americans are magnificent in our collective mourning and outrage. In times of great tragedy we wave the Stars and Stripes, the national symbol of unity, a rallying declaration that as long as that flag flies, Americans will not be defeated by whatever tragedy. We come together in anger and grief to demonstrate our support for the fallen, and to make a potent statement of our pride in being Americans.
When Americans, and others, were attacked and killed in places with strange sounding names – Beirut, Dar es Salaam and Nairobi – our compatriots shuddered, but felt certain that such death and devastation could never happen on American soil. September 11, 2001 shattered forever our notions of safety at home, and changed the welcoming character of Americans. We no longer welcome the world’s tired, poor and hungry because they might be terrorists.
When America sneezes, some countries catch a cold, or come down with other unpleasant maladies, and they feel it most in their bare money coffers. During the years of the Cold War, the United States and Russia competed against each other by pouring money and aid into countries they had interests in, in an attempt to win those nations over to their side. An African proverb says when elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. And so it was when the two powers engaged in tugs of war over small countries. When the Cold War ended many of those countries learned to their great surprise that America, as other nations, has interests, not friends. It was then that the “grass” truly suffered.
Americans have some quirks that are more distinctive than others. Perhaps the French invented perfume, but Americans have the market on deodorants. While some cultures might prefer natural body odors to the use of deodorants, Americans have an anathema to body odors – our own and anybody else’s. We are personally offended if we get a whiff of anything from anybody that doesn’t have soap, spices or flowers in it. That might help to explain the other oddity to foreigners. Americans do not want people to stand too close. We value our personal space. When we talk to a foreign visitor, we stand several feet from the visitor. This causes the visitor to get closer. We inch backward and this weird dance continues until a wall is reached. At that point we Americans make a hasty exit.
When Americans say, “Time is money,” we mean it. We want to meet, greet, and get on with the business at hand. We do not mean to be rude; we just don’t want to waste time. In some cultures it is customary to meet, sip tea, and inquire about the person’s nephew’s cousin’s step-uncle, the weather, and current events on Mars. By the time the foreign person asks about the American’s fifth cousin’s step-niece, the American’s eyes have glazed over, and he might appear to be in a catatonic state.
Such are the ways of Americans, a people courageous, gentle, noble, warm, funny, generous, and above all, quirky – the ultimate word that can be used to adequately describe those of us who proudly call ourselves Americans.
***
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