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Showing posts with label Martha Woodroof. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Martha Woodroof. Show all posts

A donut of a blog post . . .

Martha note: My husband Charlie says there's no such thing as an inanimate object. This came to mind as today's entire blog post (on the subject of China's 200-year drought, complete with complicated research and the resulting links) disappeared from my computer screen.   
Pouf! 
Suddenly, it was just gone . . . 
This, I realized, is why it's good to have led a rackety life. When one's blog post vanishes and there's no time to recreate it, one can just rummage around in one's own past for a back-up.
This is another story from my long-ago days as a freelancer, back when I had a pick-up with a camper and drove around looking for radio stories. It's just a vignette, a beignet, a donut of a blog post meant to accompany your morning or afternoon cup of coffee . .


Fort Bragg, North Carolina, seemed enormous;  the size of a small country; one with many more rules than I ran into in Charlottesville, where I  lived at the time. On that very hot day, for example, I, a civilian woman dressed in a t-shirt, was required to wear a heavy camouflage jacket whenever I was around enlisted men.

I was there to interview boxers who have a shot at competing in the Olympics.

Robert Riggs, Club Fighter, lithograph, circa 1933-34
The boxing gym at Fort Bragg was a very macho place. It was, in fact, the most palpably macho place I had ever seen, and that includes the insides of pro and college sports locker rooms. Every ounce of energy in that gym was directed toward the refinement of aggression. It was packed with ripped, almost naked men working out; jumping rope, lifting weights, punching bags and each other. The din was overwhelming; smacks, ooofs, groans, yelps, violent taunts. There was just nothing about me that belonged there except my microphone.

Between 1954 and 1962, Muhammid Ali won six Kentucky Golden Gloves championships, and two national Golden Gloves titles. I was at Fort Bragg to interview that year's super-heavyweight Golden Gloves champion, a huge, sculpted, truly beautiful man, who carried no discernible body fat. The two of us chatted awkwardly for a while, seated in the gym's disordered front office. among boxes of gloves, broken weights, dusty boxing magazines. We talked about boxing, about training, about the Army, about the Olympics. He was polite, but uncomfortable; a rock-hard tower of aggression who'd been ordered to stop training and talk to a strange woman.

When the interview was over, I asked to go to the ladies' room. It took some time for him to figure out where this was, as the demand for a ladies room in the Fort Bragg boxing gym was not great. He finally figured out that it was directly on the other side of the boxing gym.

I remember standing there in that office doorway, holding my recorder tightly to my chest, looking out into that big room full of boxers, wondering if these men and I were really, truly of the same species.

And then, America's super-heavyweight Golden Gloves champion quietly took my hand and, holding it tightly, guided me across the room.

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Jared Loughner and me . . .

I just read a long, front page piece in The Washington Post, about Jared Loughner, who'd evidently been quite desperately ill for some time. And please note that I say he was "ill," not "mentally ill," because to me part of the responsibility for the Arizona shootings comes from society's (meaning yours and mine) habit of differentiating between mental and physical illness. We've already established that separation did not lead to equality in schooling. Nor, I would submit does it lead to equality in our treatment of the sick.

Isn't it time we recognize that, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, an illness is an illness? That behavior is as legitimate a symptom of a need for medical intervention as a temperature or a seizure? That those of us who would reach out to anyone who faints, should reach out anyone who acts as Jared Lougher has for years?

Photo of Loughner playing the saxophone as a teenager in a jazz program.
Photo courtesy of Robert Blanco Photography
The Washington Post article about Mr. Loughner paints a portrait of a musically gifted kid who had some kind of a break in high school, for which he was never treated, and from which he never recovered. Instead his illness got worse, as untreated illnesses do, and we all know what happened.

Two thirds of the way through The Washington Post article, researched and written by three Post staff writers, was this:
In the past year or so, the crumbling of what was once Loughner was clear to anyone who bothered to look. Teachers, fellow students, even the anonymous e-buddies who substituted for the real friends he had lost - many suspected mental illness and said so, to one another, to Loughner, even to people who might have taken action. But no one did.
Later on in the article comes ...
By last summer, evidence of Loughner's increasingly deteriorating mental state was littered across the electronic worlds he inhabited.
On one site, Above Top Secret, Loughner left dozens of posts with bizarre theories about U.S. currency, the Constitution and grammar. Finally, another regular on the site wrote back that "I think you're frankly schizophrenic, and no that's not an amateur opinion and not intended as an uninformed or insulting remark. I really do care. Seek help before you hurt yourself or others or start taking your medications again, please."
Loughner, known on the site as "erad3," responded, "Thank you for the concern." 
There's already been a lot written about how inadequately we, as a  society, deal with mental health. Here's an excerpt from George Kubin's OpEd in Wednesday's Chicago Tribune.
... As a nation, we fail over and over to address the problem of mental illness and then wonder where these people come from when there is a mass murder. These people do not see the world like most rational people. Applying a rational form of justice on an irrational individual does nothing to address the core problem. Rather than viewing these events as isolated incidents, we as a society need to do a better job of educating people about what options there are to get people with mental illness the help they need.
Sure. Sure. I agree with Mr. Kubin completely. But, to me, the language of this piece still somehow separates the mentally ill from the physically ill, as though "these people" were somehow something other than "people."

This issue is personal with me, as I am chronically ill with both the disease of addiction and the disease of depression. Both -- hallelujah -- are in deep remission through treatment, but I am still ill. If I hadn't gotten treatment, who knows what I'd be doing this fine bright morning instead of blogging away for WMRA!

Treating the mentally ill begins with accepting -- and I mean accepting -- that "mental" illness is no more of a stigma per se than any other illness; say, for example, diabetes. Both are conditions that threaten a person's ability to lead a healthy life as a fully functioning member of society. Both need medical intervention. We've got to stop separating how we, as individuals and as a society, view the two.

This post is a plea to examine your own attitude toward the "mentally" ill. If you think of  Jared Loughner as "an other," then think of me as "an other" as well. Conceivably, the difference in what we did with our lives could be attributed, at least partially, to the difference in the help we got.

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Surfing and Christmas, a Civic Soapbox essay by Martha Woodroof


Even though I was raised a heathen, I was raised with holiday traditions. 

My family went into a kind of rigid, 24-hour dance on Christmas Eve that went something like this: Oyster Stew at 5 pm, caroling at 7, home to listen to a scratchy recording of Dylan Thomas reading “A Child’s Christmas in Wales;” everyone to their previously staked-out corners of the house for final present preparation; the burning of the note to Santa Claus in the fireplace (this, even after my sister and I were both at schools a thousand miles from home), the hanging of the stockings (my sister’s had more jingle bells because she was older, and I’m still mad about it): and then, to bed. Christmas morning: the emptying of the stockings; breakfast of stollen and bacon; parade to the tree (I got to go first because was the younger); the opening of presents, and then, the walk.

Christmas Day in North Carolina was almost always grey. My sister and I would step out briskly into the neighborhood. There would be an occasional child about. wobbling along on a new bicycle or pulling a sled around a snowless front lawn, but mainly, it would just be quiet. Two cars in every driveway; smoke rising from every chimney.

From the time I was old enough to consider such things, I realized that this day was as close as my world was probably going to come to feeling secure. And that I was not the only person experiencing this, because for 24-hours, huge chunks of civilization worked hard at keeping bad behavior to a minimum.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to believe more and more in the devil, a slathering creature that yaps at my heels and tempts me to indulge in fear – the great limiting, dark side of experience. The feelings associated with December 25th remain the best defense I have against that Dark Beast of Fear, for Christmas day still bids me to find the Light in this world and walk toward it.

There’s a line in “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” which claims  that the “the holy tide of Christmas doth bring redeeming grace.” Growing up, I stacked my Beach Boy records right alongside old Dylan Thomas, and perhaps this slight physical association of Christmas with surfing is why, when I sing about the Holy Tide of Christmas, I have this  vision:
We are all out there together, on the vast Ocean of Life, sitting on our surfboards, most likely worried out of our minds about something – which is, I do think, the general human condition. Then, someone yells, “Surf’s up!” We turn toward the horizon and there it is: the holy tide of Christmas. 
Suddenly, we’re scrambling into position on our boards; and, full of joy, thinking of nothing but catching that giant wave.
Martha note: Wishing you the merry-ist of winter holidays from all of us who have the good fortune to work at WMRA.

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