Ms. Alaimo’s ELA Blog

Metropolises fall.  Multitudes Die.  Men of Medicine inquire. 

2000 BC 

Bathe in the river 7 times to rid my body of this disease!  These are not a the words of a prophet-healer of God but of a charlatan!  I refuse to travel a hundred days to bathe in the
Dead Sea!  Send a servant to take my place!   

Do you not know you the beliefs of pagans! They believe thatcurses  of fallen angels have ravaged their bodies with disease. They believe that the ugly tumors that have spread over their bodies will take over the land as well.   They believe that evil spirits spread vapors over the earth and cause the body to shrivel into a a knarly, deformed cadaver.  What have you to say, healer? 

Perhaps it is the filth of man that has caused this disease.  Tell me why have the Jews been saved from this wretched fate? Might it be because they follow not the practices of mortal men?  Might it be because they follow not the magic folly of devious gods that inhabit the stars.  Might they be saved by following the Holy Word of God written in the Scriptures? 

Centuries later, it was discovered that bacteria causes disease and that hand washing was the cure. Before science was understood, Jews all over the world were saved from a hideous death by following the ceremonial cleansing practices found in Leviticus. 

1780 AD 

Inject the body with the disease itself!   Preposturous babble! 

But Sir, it has been observed that milkmaids who catch the disease from livestock do not fall ill…mothers who care for their infected children are not prey, nursemaids who tend to the ailing are immune!   

And how will you convince the multitudes, that by receiving the disease, they will be cured of this merciless malignancy that knows no bounds? Do you think they will accept this plague that has wiped out their own ancestors and continues to anhilate generation upon generation…this monster that is no respecter of age, gender, race or location.  Distinguished colleague, how will you convince them that these horrific pustules that have wiped out entire populations, are the very vesicles of hope that will save their children?  How will you convince them to take within their bodies the very infection that brings cities to its knees with the stench of death?  

We must enlighten them to the advances of scientific inquiry. 

What will you  tell wretched fearful, illiterate minds  rooted in ignorance and given to rumor? How will you do this, dear Doctor? 

Experiment on an orphan, you say…innoculate him, see whether he lives?  What if the end result is death.  Have we, men of medicine, not sworn to the Hypocratic Oath?  Do we not owe  the poor and helpless the dignity of choice? 

The choice, Sir, is to sacrifice the life of one to save the multitudes.   

That, surely is the choice of men playing God. Not the choice of of an orphan sacrificed!  Is he not entitled to live out his days like the rest…or will he go nameless into a grave forgotten  and forsaken… 

It is probable, Sir, that he goes into the annals of  history as a savior. 

2000 AD 

Cells gone bad that claw and wind themselves around organs,multiplying wildly out of control, suffocating, snuffing oxygen, and extinguishing life… 

An experimental drug?What decisions you are burdened by.To give a weary person extra time on earth by  interfering with nature, or abandon the body to wallow in it’s own rhythm, succumbing to it’s own frailties in its own time. 

What responsibility is bestowed upon you!Mighty men and women of medicine!Men and women of power and compassion! 

Bearers of hope and doom, of that all is good, and all that is corrupt You hold fate in your hands,In you we lay our faith and bear our fears, 

Divinely anointed with a calling to save humanity from the injustices of disease,trapped by the limitations of human knowledgebuilt upon past trial and error of those who dared 

You who are condemned for practicing what you know,decades of study and meticulous practice with uncertain outcomes;You who teeter between compassion and callousness… Callousness born of the need to survive, to save one’s own life, And yet to the save the next generation. 

You are accused of callousness.A callousness that is necessary as you tell a parent that his child has died,  or tell a wife that her husband will never walk again, before sinking into tormented sleep. Callousness that is necessary when inserting a scalpel, blood squirting in your face, not ever sure of the outcome, a heart that may stop beating or lungs that fail to breathe…a dangerously bulging vein. 

Callousness that began as compassion; that grew over time, after years of tireless giving and healing, years of miscontented patients, of complaints. 

Callousness necessary perhaps for scientific advancement …a compulsion to practice a new surgical procedure, to leave a thumbprint; a contribution to mankind…still and yet a compulsion born of the need to save. 

What we do not see is that, you too, men and women of medicine who know mortality best of all, succumb to a power mightier than youself.What we do not see is that, you too, mighty men and women of medicine, fall to your knees as do we, in fear and terror,in hope and faith,praying to One mightier than yourself, the Creator of men and angels,Healer of healers,Omnipotent, giver of lifeSovereign, taker of life. 

My son whose hands inspire a pencil to form lines and geometry that take on a life of their own, creating colossalness from nothingness.A builder of monuments, conceived from a dreamthat stand tall into the future against the gleam of the rising sun.Buildings, gargantuan and erect, cement, concrete, glass and shining steel, where men and women make their contributions. Buildings that transcend time and establish permanence in a not so permanent world. 

My son, who puts music into spaces, fusing spheres and rectangles into dwellings of cotidian splendor,where children grow and think and flourishto the beat of each new decade;dwellings that flow to the next generationand the next and the nextinheriting roots in a world of uncertainty. 

My son, who sees in lines and shapes and squiggles what others cannot see, whose mind beholds a truth that others cannot feel,who has conquered fear, clutching tight to the vision that thunders within, who will not succumb to the ordinary,  who struggles to understand what it is to be a man, a gleam of the enormity of his soul. 

My son, the architect, the seer, the builderwho holds the promise of the sunrisewith the courage to see dreams yet to be realizedconquering the age of a new dawn. 

My son, how did I know when you spent seasons stacking legos, stones, and sticks in the sand, that you were answering to a higher call. 

My son, the architect, the dreamer who builds, the builder of dreams… 

And God saw that his creation was good and blessed him. 

A lifetime ago at twenty-two, blood boiling with indignation, vibrating with fervent desire to Save the World….

Peace Corp        Greenpeace        Beannie for Peace

March for Apartheid, petitions to clean the rivers…the food…the air, just wages for South American farm workers

All causes were good and unquestionably accepted…

25 years later at this same spot, where the fresh, dewy morning air breezes; the hunger for meaning is diminished into a tamer acceptance… Passion sedated by the realities of the daily grind…Lesson plans, alarm clocks, balanced dinners, trash out on Monday nights…Passion that 25 years ago exploded with utopian ideals, is today content with the sound of songbirds, the chime of church bells, the smell of burning wood, good art and the ticking of time… 

25 years later contented just to participate in God’s great Creation, happy to live in the moment and not the Middle East…happy not stuck in the subway or worse yet, an airport… 

25 years later,  happy to be here with Writing Project comrades, knowing better than to save the world

25 years later armed with tenuous and ancient wisdom of the way things are, will always be        there will always be war somewhere…    there will always be genocide somewhere…                        there will always be oppression somewhere…there will always be exploitation of the weaker ones somewhere… 

but not here, not now…where spirit sings free…or perhaps 

apathetic middle age malaise disguised as mature acceptance?     

Mirror mirror of the soul

Tell me what you see and know 

Are they apathetic and care free? 

Or are they just reflecting me? 

(follow this with Fourth Period Bell) 

She revels in the stillness of the tawny afternoon,

shadows half-hung against cream-colored walls.

The air is sweet and peaceful.

Remnants of family strewn about;

things that on other days might be annoying

today are comforting:

dishes in the sink

unopened mail,

sneakers haphazardly thrown at the foot of the stairs,

the steady hum of the 20 year-old furnace,

the smell of burnt coffee at the bottom of the pot,

a birthday card left unsent yet another day…

She languishly spreads onto the couch

with a pink flannel throw

and a cup of Earl Grey

and her poodle

She revels for a moment in the rhythmic silence of the afternoon…

She reaches for the remote and sighs blissfully

as Oprah’s voice fills the room, and

soon she is in that contented place,

somewhere between sleep and consciousness where

reality and creativity become one…

the fertile void….

savoring…

Suddenly,

she is interrupted by a violent burst through the front door,

and then the urgent, whiny, unaware bleet of her offspring

“Moooommy can you drive me…blah blah blah?”

With just the slightest bit of reluctance,

and the teeniest bit of resistance,

she takes a breath,

and grumbles only a little bit,

clicks off the remote,

grabs her car keys

locking the door behind her.

The smell of decaying flesh permeated his nostrils as he dragged the putrid, maggot-infested body of his fellow comrades through the stagnant, yellow swamp, thick with mosquitoes.

1955 – 2001

dedicated to Tony, unsung hero and victim

who died from complications of agent orange 

and who served our country by pulling dead bodies out of Cambodian waters.

He once had a foot where he now has a stub,

shiny and grotesque with deep, pink, knubby scars…

A painful reminder of the frostbite that ate his flesh

Fourth Period Bell. The boys stand tall with feet apart against lockers, vigilant and on guard, shooting quasi-threatening looks at their peers. Their eyes alert and calculating, their ears plugged with IPODs, which run down their necks and hide beneath shirts. They eye the girls with controlled stares, intentional and predatory….

They slap elaborate greetings, an evolved handshake or sorts, symbolic and ritualistic. At my insistence, they reluctantly s l o w l y shuffle into the room, slump into a desk, chewing gum…

Reminders to put away the electronics,

take the caps off

take out a pencil, which they may or may not have,

revisit yesterday’s notes, which they may or may not have,

take out homework, which they may or may not have done…

I begin “Today we will…” which they may or may not hear

Inevitably, there are requests

to borrow a pencil,

to use the bathroom,

an urgent need to see a counselor,

or go to their locker to retrieve yesterday’s homework

or a reminder telling me they weren’t here yesterday, hence the absence of homework….

among statements of the unfortunate outcome of yesterday’s homework….

but mostly,

the sense of obliviousness,

or lessons lost,

of moments slipped away,

forgotten words, or

words not heard

ideas never germinated,

a desperate, s l o w suicide of the spirit

lost potential

possibilities denied

a dream witheld

lost to the stronger pull

of an alcoholic parent

of a cell phone
of a churning stomach

of a spring afternoon……

Today we are learning about blogs.  I feel the need to practice deep breathing as my mind floods with essential questions.   Will I be able to do this by myself tomorrow?  and, What is a blog?  I assuredly guess at the answers, a blog, of course is a place to write where others can comment.  I’m not really crazy about this idea.  I have a hard enough time writing privately, let alone publicly for all to see and comment on.    I am excited as well, as I realize it’s time to embrace this great divide between the static, antiquated written word of the books of old and the fast-moving, colorful, popping images of cyberspace. (Is this still a term we use today?)  I tell myself it is high time I conquer my fears and move into  this new for the greater good of mankind. 

Another thing about technology, the vocabulary changes constantly.  Did blogs even exist a year ago?   I’m still trying to catch up with instant messenger, and by the way, what is an podcast?… and what is the difference between a webpage and a dashboard?  Opening a book seems so strightforward, no need for username and id’s and passwords, which by the way, I also have difficulty differentiating between.   As I sign in, I notice the computer flashes “Howdy, Chazzy.”  Chazzy is my dog’s name. It was a convenient, easy name for me to remember at the time…I didn’t realize it would become my screen name…..