Category: Uncategorized (Page 1 of 2)
Three weeks into my residency at the U of C medical school, I feel overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the generous welcome extended to me by faculty, administrators and students. Overwhelmed by the shockingly concrete but cerebral nature of the medical world. Overwhelmed at my inability to navigate the medical school administration structure (my kingdom for an org chart!). Overwhelmed by the volume of information that can be passed on to students in one short hour.
And I feel vicariously overwhelmed, listening to students as they unwind, commiserate. Someone will express their shock at the sheer volume of notes they’ve produced for one class, or their shock at the sheer longevity of their fatigue since beginning medical school. Or their struggle to stay abreast with the curriculum: Surely they can’t fail us all! Or a more pleasant shock, realizing they are capable of witnessing a surgical procedure without sinking to their knees, without losing the integrity of their peripheral vision to the thick, dark curtain of consciousness (which makes me wonder … what would I do if I witnessed the true slice of a knife – correction, what will I do, since I have asked to view a surgical procedure during my tenure as writer in residence at the medical school?).
As part of my effort to immerse myself in the medical school culture, I recently attended a lecture on heart failure pathophysiology. Sitting in the vast, tiered space of the Libin Theater, I was not surprised to find much of the terminology foreign to me. Yet I managed to follow the gist of the lecture – thanks in part to the instructor’s use of analogies.
Side bar: There is a down-side to a lecture that pierces the non-scientific brain while illuminating the imaginative potential of said brain … I exited the lecture theater convinced that I had congestive heart failure. But please don’t worry yourself, gentle reader; I have since convinced myself that I have a lingering cold.
But we were speaking of analogies. I had never considered the similarities between a toilet and a heart before, but how useful is this unexpected comparison! Equally useful, the evocation of a garden hose to discuss pressure and flow – stepping on a hose stops the water from proceeding but does not decrease the flow or the pressure.
The PowerPoint slides in this lecture will, if all goes well, directly inform students’ experiences in examination rooms, Emergency rooms or operating theaters as they move through their clerkships and residencies, placing stethoscopes on the shivering skin of a patient (a feng shui consultant? A spelling bee prodigy? A failed astrologer?).
The practical applications of the PowerPoint slides separate the medical world from the English studies class, the value of which often befuddles even those of us who truly believe in the value of literature. As an English instructor and TA, I’ve created hundreds (thousands? Oh dear; why is this so alarming?) of PowerPoint slides, some of which draw elegant, meta-level dotted lines between learning outcomes and real-world skills: A close reading of The Tempest will bolster critical thinking, and enable you to employ language in all its layers of nuance and subtext.
In teaching English 201, a literature/composition class for non-majors, I continually pointed out the skill set we were building: societal critique, collaboration, understanding the power of language and rhetoric, and, of course, writing clearly and persuasively.
As someone who has worked in communications and marketing, I know that these skills are useful in the workplace (at least, the workplaces I’ve known). Ask any professional writer what it’s like to have their work reviewed by a director unaccustomed to tracking the twists and turns of verbs, nouns and adjectives.
The writer will simply grunt, being too polite to comment further.
But I also know that millennials often struggle to imagine how skills like close reading and the interpretation of literature can benefit them once they step outside the English classroom.
So I was pleasantly surprised by my visit to an Ethics class during the first week of my residency. The instructor had told me I absolutely needed to attend her Ethics class – and she was absolutely right. I hustled from a meeting about my potential role in physician learning programs, but arrived late to the class, interrupting a group of second-year students who were presenting book reports.
Now, you may be thinking: Is this really what medical students do? Book reports? When you saw the phrase, “book report” you may have closed your eyes and relived a nostalgic grade-three montage:
You select a dog-eared paperback from your book case. You dig a Sprite-stained scribbler from your backpack, sharpen your pencil and scrawl a few quick lines: “… and that’s when his brother sprouted fur on his elbows!” You read your manuscript in a wavering voice to your classmates while curling your toes inside your sneakers.
But the Ethics class was no sophomoric exercise in plot summary.
These students conducted a rigorous investigation into the role of ethics in medical practice, using literary representations of physicians as a departure point for discussion.
When I barged into the class (the students kindly making space for me), two participants were discussing a collection of short texts by Richard Selzer titled, Letters to a Young Doctor. The presenters explained that the texts were meant to teach junior doctors the art of humility – a trait held in high esteem by the ethics class. But the book’s purported purpose and its actual message had little in common, according to the presenters.
The writer in me was fascinated by this exploration of the old creative writing maxim: Show, don’t tell. Selzer tells his readers that his essays and letters promote humility, but the words on the page show a completely different ideal: the doctor as a version of Alexander the Great.
Rather than a book that shows how physicians can treat patients with respect, the collection, according to the presenters, acts as a cautionary tale to those wanting to pursue the life of a physician (note the apt use of literary terminology to characterize the unintended and ironic effect of the stories).
As the class described one particular piece titled “Brute,” in which a physician sutures a flailing patient to the table in order to treat a laceration, one student confessed:
I hated this book.
After all, here was a portrait of a doctor as a God-like man, written by an old-school surgeon who could never live up to the standards of the 21st century. A surgeon who knows he behaves inappropriately but doesn’t know how to change.
A few days later, I decide the much-maligned Richard Selzer merits a closer look. Perhaps a non-medical reader would be more sympathetic to this patriarchal dinosaur. As it turns out, the U of C library has not made space for this particular tome on its shelves, so I download it on Kindle.
I come across an introductory section titled, “Textbook,” in which the narrator offers advice to a fictional addressee, presumably an intern. In discussing the physical examination process, the narrator says, “If your examination is performed with honesty and humility,” messages will be sent between patient and physician that “will cause the divining powers of the Augurs to be passed on to you – their last heir.”
I imagine Richard Selzer draped in his trabea, brandishing his lituus, interpreting the gestures of gods.
What a revealing reference.
I think Selzer is trying to emphasize that a physician’s power comes from an honest and humble connection to the patient, but I can’t get past this reference to the augur, to which he alludes again at the end of the chapter. Is it simply arrogance couched in humility?
Bear with me while we travel back in time.
The role of the augur shifted over the years, but originally these religious officials of ancient Rome were men of great merit and high birth. The role had great political importance – augurs advised governors on divine omens integral to decision-making processes. And their divinations focused on the observation of … birds.
To properly interpret the will of the gods, the augur would select an elevated spot affording a panoramic view of the Roman landscape and sky.
Between midnight and dawn he staked out his position, ready to read the creatures who fluttered past. The east on his left, the west on his right. Signs occurring on the left-hand side of the augur indicated prosperity; those on the right were unlucky.
Here it should be noted that in Greece, augurs found the opposite to be true.
How did the augur interpret his fowlish friends? Certain birds, such as vultures and eagles, offered information through their manner of flying. Others, such as owls and crows, exposed divine secrets through their distinctive cries. Having interpreted these bird signs, the augur would render his report. If positive, he would intone:
“The birds allow it.”
So what does Selzer’s association of the physician with the augur signify? Does he see the medical doctor as having a special relationship with divine powers, able to interpret data and guide the population toward insightful decisions and, ultimately, healthy lives? Or is Selzer simply spelling out an equation:
Humble physician + patient = useful insight
The reference to augurs foreshadows a discussion that took place later in the Ethics class as students reflected on the power invested in physicians – a power they will, one day, wield. Students acknowledged that humility seems well within their grasps now, but they wondered how easy it would be to remain humble in a world where physicians – and particularly surgeons – are hoisted onto pedestals, raised to dizzying heights.
You, the patient, might abhor an arrogant surgeon while your body is strong and well, but the moment your flesh fails you, will you seek out a surgeon who slices into your flesh with the confidence of the nearly divine birdwatcher? Will you be part of the pedestal problem?
Setting aside the hypocrisy of the patient, I next make my way to a piece by Selzer titled “Brute.” It’s written in the second person (“you”), a point of view that can be either accusatory or inclusive. The story begins with the narrator, once again the experienced mentor, speaking to an intern. The intern has treated a patient badly, in part because the intern was tired. “You must never again set your anger upon a patient,” warns the narrator.
The narrator then asks the intern to step into the shoes of an imaginary patient. “You are worried that there is something the matter with your heart,” the narrator tells his addressee. “Chest pain is your Chief Complaint. It happens that your doctor has been awake all night with a patient who has been bleeding from a peptic ulcer of his stomach. That is your doctor’s Chief Complaint. I have chest pain, you tell him. I am tired, he says.”
As a student of empathy, I’m fascinated by this narrator, a construct of Selzer’s brain. How interesting that this augurly narrator would ask a medical neophyte to put themselves in the shoes of an anxious patient. And how interesting that the narrator minimizes the physician’s fatigue. Selzer tries to show, with a minimum of sentimentality, that a patient’s need for treatment should always trump a physician’s physical requirements.
But is this a case of the surgeon recognizing himself as a subject whose physical state has less value than the patient’s? Or does this passage imply that surgeons should always have the emotional and physical wherewithal to raise themselves up (as high as a pedestal?) out of the mire of the mere mortal, to a higher plane (a hill near Rome perhaps), where the air is somewhat rarified?
Let’s look at what happens next to answer that question.
Next in “Brute” we have a story within a story. The initial incident, in which the mute intern is called onto the carpet by the narrator, is simply a frame to the real narrative. The real protagonist here is not the intern but the wise and generous narrator, who proceeds to recounts the incident which, as I mentioned earlier, caused one of the Ethics class students to profess their hatred for this book.
I click to the next page of “Brute,” telling myself to remain open, objective. Sure, Richard Selzer has compared himself to a Roman sitting atop the highest peak, divining the meaning of the noble eagle. But surely this piece will reveal more about Selzer’s vision of the physician than an ego on a hill.
And indeed it does. But it’s not a revelation that endears Selzer to this particular reader.
Four sentences in to the story-within-a-story, the physician narrator hears a commotion and a “huge black man” is escorted into Emerge in handcuffs. Already, I am on my guard. Why the reference to the color of the man’s skin?
Two sentences later, “the man rears.” Then, the “mythic beast” resists, “rearing and roaring” to shake off the police officers.
I suddenly need to know when the book was written and I find the date – 1982. Not surprising that Selzer was not writing in the 21st century – this sort of animalistic portrayal would never have been condoned by a modern editor. But I continue on.
The narrator continues to identify the patient as a black man, noting a deep laceration on his forehead, and adds, “Had he horns he would gore [the police officers].” He “roars something, not quite language.”
Now my hackles are fully raised.
I’m also flashing back to Shakespeare … The Tempest. I hear the European Miranda upbraiding the lowly islander, Caliban, saying that he would “gabble like a thing most brutish.”
When I see “brutish” and equate Caliban’s gabbling with the black patient’s “not quite language,” I wonder if Selzer is a student of The Bard, and is pulling from The Tempest for inspiration. Is he fascinated with Prospero, the authoritarian Magus who colonized the barely human Caliban?
Prospero, too, is an augur of sorts, a wielder of knowledge and power, an alchemist and scientist, a man who can perceive the mind of God.
Then again, maybe Selzer is Shakespeare himself in this scenario. Some scholars argue that Shakespeare tried, with his seventeenth-century quill, to bestow some dignity onto the colonized Caliban. Caliban, to the careful reader, only babbled because Prospero did not speak the language of the islander.
And surely there is more to the black patient’s “roaring” than meets the eye. Surely readers in 2018 cannot help, as they read this narrative, hearing the names that have been shouted and keened across the United States and around the world: Michael Brown, Philando Castile, Alton Sterling, Walter Scott and more.
The racist language continues throughout “Brute.” I will spare you the details.
By the time the narrator finally makes a feeble attempt to empathize with the patient (“What is he thinking? I wonder.”) the situation has escalated beyond hope. The patient is strapped down on a stretcher and the narrator tells him to hold still so he can stitch the laceration. But the man rolls his head, spitting and cursing, and tells the doctor, “You fuckin’ hold still.”
Our intrepid narrator, exhausted by a long shift and sucked into the panther-like brutality of the patient, threads a needle and … stitches his patient’s ears to the stretcher.
To his credit, the narrator looks back on his actions with a certain level of self-awareness. When he grins at the prisoner, it is the cruelest grin of his life, he tells us. The grin of a torturer.
For a brief moment the narrator speculates on the patient’s motivations: he is so wild that ripping off his earlobes would not faze him. But he must harbor a “beastly wisdom” which tells him he has lost. Perhaps he has a woman waiting for him, or a child, who will elicit paternal shame by asking about his father’s scars.
Here is the narrator’s attempt at empathy. Speculation, fueled by his vision of the patient as less than human, about the man’s barbaric intuition, his family situation, his paternal pride.
A huge gap exists here.
What is the patient’s back-story? Shouldn’t the police officers have pulled the physician aside and told him why the patient is in such a state of rage?
Let me digress for a moment, to tell you that I recently spoke with a physician who runs a palliative care program called CAMPP for homeless people, out of the Foothills Hospital. He laments the current lack of understanding around homeless people and their back-stories, and works hard to advocate for his patients as they move through Calgary’s health care system. He and his team understand the need to know a patient, to establish a trust-based relationship with them, and to know enough about them to properly empathize.
Surely this is the sort of compassionate medical practice that Selzer’s narrator should have striven for.
Now, I’m not assuming that our narrator’s patient is homeless; it just seems that knowing something about his history would be more helpful than speculating about a patient’s beastly wisdom.
But let’s return to the Ethics class. The race-based analysis of Selzer’s narrative demonstrates how a book report can spark discussion on the issues physicians will likely face in the curtained spaces of Emergency rooms. The class didn’t get to a discussion of race, but they explored the issue of humility, as raised by Selzer’s collection. Prompted by their instructor, students reflected on the importance of preserving their humility, and the vulnerability required to assume the perspective of a patient.
Toward the end of the discussion, the Ethics class students returned to the idea of Selzer’s text as a cautionary tale. The presenters were not sold on the narrator’s eventual desire for atonement (“How sorry I will always be. Not being able to make it up to him for that grin.”) Where is the sincerity? Where is the narrator’s recognition of his paternalistic language?
The narrator’s lack of authentic empathy, combined with the racist attitude in “Brute” makes it difficult to sympathize with the narrator. But the text does make you question whether the narrator is simply a monster, or if there is something about working shift after shift in Emerge that erodes your capacity for compassion. Something that makes you think you’re in a battlefield.
I can’t help but wonder if the Ethics students were considering how they themselves will respond when faced with a challenging patient. Will there be an urge to strike out, to shout, to exercise the power of a physician, as granted by our culture? And if so, how will they control this urge?
Will any of the students recall, in a moment of frustration and anger, their feeling of repugnance as they read Selzer’s narrative? If so, the memory of this Ethics class – one planted firmly in the limbo between humanities and medicine – would underscore the value of using art and literature to foster reflection on medical issues.
The discussion in this class ranged from meta-level explorations of the role of a physician to case study-like investigations of specific ethical issues. A text such as Selzer’s enacts, in intimate detail, situations in which physicians must make choices with ethical implications.
Indeed, all the books discussed in the class provided students with complex, provocative jumping-off points for reflecting on the ethical dilemmas ahead of them. The students seemed passionately engaged in discussion, and genuinely concerned about the challenges ahead of them. They approached the topics with sensitivity, eloquence and insight, unafraid to tackle issues such as euthanasia, exploitation of minority groups, compassion for the vulnerable Other, and the stereotype of the egomaniacal surgeon.
All this, from a simple exercise on book reports.
“Where there is love for the man, there is also love for the art.” Hippocrates; On Precepts
I am late for my first meeting as writer in residence for the Cumming Medical School. As I spiral through the TRW parkade on the Foothills campus, my windshield blanketed in condensation, I crank the heat, peering through the tiny crescent of clarity at the bottom of the windshield. The parkade must be full. Have I missed the red neon warning (FULL) at the entrance?
Inching past the cars whose owners were more organized than I (had they risen earlier? Drunk coffee rather than tea? Driven directly to the lowest level, wasting no time dreaming of Level 1?), I consider the possibility that the stereotypes are true. That English majors – and perhaps their Humanities colleagues in general – are, indeed, less capable of coping with life’s concrete challenges than their STEM counterparts.
Surely the cars in this parkade (resting comfortably between yellow lines as my sedan judders along, sweating, darting, recoiling like an eight-year-old in Musical Chairs) belong to people who have spent years in laboratories, emergency rooms and surgical theaters. People focused on real-world issues of anxiety and health, rather than the worry-lines of a sedan and its imaginary relationship to imaginary eight-year-olds. What was I thinking, accepting this role of writer-in-residence at the Cumming School of Medicine? What value could a creative writer bring to the owners of comfortably parked cars?
But before I can flesh out the pros and cons of my Humanities-based education, a black F150 backs out of a spot.
I am saved.
Salvation is a relative term, however. I learned that in my Paradise Lost course.
Have I mentioned that I have the visual-spatial skills of … well, an English major? The health sciences center is wonderfully bright and airy but its glass-doored spaces have few distinguishing features.
If you stood in the center of the atrium, closed your eyes and turned around rapidly, it would be impossible to tell, upon opening your eyes, which direction you faced. At least for someone with my visual-spatial sensibilities.
Thankfully, on this, the first day of my residency, I am meeting my Cumming contact in the only location I am capable of finding in the Health Sciences Center – the coffee shop.
Having apologized for my tardiness, I ask if there is a shuttle between the two campuses. I describe my experience in the parkade, leaving out the personification of my sweaty sedan. Surely there is some way to avoid the downward spiral of the spot-less parkade.
No, I am told. There is no formal thread connecting the Health Sciences Center to the Other Campus.
As I consider the pros and cons of traveling between campuses on foot, I realize that I had thought of the University of Calgary as a sort of museum, unfolding to visitors through a labyrinth of wings – Arts, Sciences, Medicine, Kinesiology, Business and so on.
Rooms that are separate but connected, where you can study in peace but then float back to the main atrium, finding signs that point toward the other wings. A naïve vision of the university, obviously. Obviously each faculty rises abruptly from its foundations, in the manner of a tower filled with grain, too busy, too absorbed in its own work to acknowledge the other towers, however fascinating the work of the other towers might be.
Still, I had hoped that the faculties of my institution would be more solidly linked. And here, perhaps, lies my attraction to the writer-in-residence position. The bleeding of the arts into the practice of medicine. The potential for interdisciplinary collegiality to build an intricate system of Plus-15s between the world’s towers.
I remain hopeful that the medical school is less a new world than a new wing.
But I can’t shake the new-world sensation as I move through the first-week challenges of the novice. My knowledge of the university, of the English department and its enigmatic processes, has no relevance on the Foothills campus. I am no longer a fifth-year PhD candidate but a novice.
Let me give you an example.
The email invitations I receive from the wonderfully welcoming Cumming faculty often conclude with: “Meet me at Hippocrates!”
To the Cumming neophyte this imperative invites a pleasant list of speculations.
Hippocrates the restaurant? The lecture hall? The pita place? The parkade, god forbid?
But my Humanities-based education leaps to my rescue, whispering in my ear that Hippocrates is likely a tallish, concrete representation of the man who helped define modern medicine. Who drafted an oath that has maintained at least part of its relevance through the centuries, preserved like a message in a bottle, washed up on the shore of the Cumming School of Medicine.
Meeting our own Hippocrates for the first time, I make a mental note to read about the man whose name has been familiar to me since I was a child. Where did I first hear his name? I am just old enough to remember Marcus Welby, M.D., and later in life I gobbled up E.R. and Chicago Hope. Cumming readers should feel free here to roll their eyes or flex their gag reflex as they reflect on the failures of the Doogie Howsers, the Gregory Houses and the Cristina Yangs to accurately capture the life of a physician. I’m sure creative license was taken. Feel free to stop by and chat about your most hated (or your best loved?) medical show. Most days you’ll find me in the Global Medicine workspace.
But to return to Hippocrates – it was likely on the small screen that I first encountered this Greek man and his enduring oath.
And now I am determined to get to know this influential figure. In fact, what better way to begin my first blog post than with a pithy quote from Hippocrates, if I can find one that fits my meandering message.
So I climb up to the Health Sciences Library, where I am not only welcomed with enthusiasm but am ushered without ado into the office of Library Director Diane Lorenzetti. Unfazed by this interruption, she is fascinated by my new role. Make yourself at home in a quiet carrel or a meeting room, she tells me. And I do.
But first I wend my way through the stacks, seeking a tome that fulfills an impossibly perfect, Platonic-ideal sort of vision of a book on medical history. This text could never exist in real life; who even reads books any more?
But then I see it.
The thick spine, steel-blue with imposing gold letters – it reminds me of my art history textbook back at U of A.
Medicine: Perspectives in History and Art, by Robert E. Greenspan, M.D.
I haul it down from the shelf, run my fingers over the cloth cover. The glossy sheen of full-page color plates: The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicholales Tulp by Rembrandt; a sketch of the skeletal system by da Vinci; and …
The Visit of the Physician (The Love Sick) by van Mieris the Elder. Each image suggesting a story in the life of a patient, a physician, a human body.
I flip through the pages and notice a section near the beginning on Hippocrates, but I can’t help thumbing past it. Focus, I tell myself. You’re looking for a quote from Hippocrates – an opening hook for the blog.
On page 35 I spot an illustration of a man who is half-human, half cadaver. His head is turned from the gaze of the viewer, as if he is embarrassed by the intimate depth of his exposure. Or perhaps someone has simply called his name.
His head, for the most part, is that of a living being – one eye, barely visible, but open; pink flesh; hair curly and slightly sweaty, as if he has just awakened from a midday nap.
But the pink flesh has been peeled away by the illustrator, revealing – according to the plate description – the venous system of the shoulder and neck. Revealing networks of veins (blue) and arteries (red), as well as a series of muscles (plaid).
Can you see the plaid muscles? (perhaps someone at Cumming will explain to this medical neophyte why the muscles are plaid in this illustration.) Here is a detail from the neck area:
So what made me stop at this particular image? The Medicine text is full of arresting images; I had casually flipped past an arrow remover, the first operation performed with ether, the circular amputation technique and a 1930s ad for cigarettes:
All these I simply scan. But I can’t flip past the half-stripped man.
Perhaps it’s because I recently had an extremely comprehensive tour of the anatomy lab, where I glimpsed what must have been the foot of a formerly alive human being, under cover of a plasticky bag, as well as a smorgasbord of porcine organs neatly folded into a fridge. Perhaps it’s because I recently asked a Cumming student about his first experience in the lab (he remembers mostly the silence). I also recently read a Vincent Lam story about dissection (“Take All of Murphy”) and I can still smell the acidic sweetness of formalin.
But, anatomy labs aside, this image of the half-stripped man gives me pause. It seems unfair, somehow, to treat the man in the illustration – I have come to think of him as Earl – as both living and dead. So invasive, this stripping away of Earl’s protective layer, the thin sediment of flesh that guards his vulnerable, pillowy coils and silken pouches from the violence of the outside world. This dualistic image muddies Earl’s identity. Is he human or cadaver? Of course the cadaver is still human, is it not? Or was, at one point.
Perhaps Earl is wholly dead but has died recently; that would explain the healthy glow of his flesh. But under what circumstances does a physician dissect a recently deceased man? It seems unfair to the viewer, too, to juxtapose the view of dissection, which must be performed on a man whose last breath has left his body, with the view of pink, living flesh. How are we meant to characterize this man?
Even from the small square footage of pink flesh visible in the image, that area not altered by dissection or obscured by hair, you can see that Earl is (was?) muscular, fit. Attractive. The sleek bands of muscles on his torso suggest hours on the rowing machine, or shooting free throws. His ribs undulate beneath his skin but not in a gaunt, bony way; they are interconnected by unseen plaid ropes which enable this man to heave, leap, tuck and twist. These ribs lure the fingertips of a lover, lend themselves to a leisurely touch, transforming the abstract idea of beauty into a concrete, breathless rise and fall.
This juxtaposition of elegant undulation with the inner workings of red, blue and plaid ask too much of the viewer, do they not? They confuse the beauty of the surface with the workmanlike interior. An interior that is at once taut and fragile. The stripped-back interior of Earl’s body reminds us that the surface is just that. A surface. The workings beneath the skin – the coursing of blood and oxygen, the digesting of food, the four chambers hammering beneath a rib cage, morning noon and night – that’s what really matters. Isn’t it?
And here, surely, we have stumbled across one of the divides between the Humanities and medicine. The English major drones on in great detail, exercising the part of her brain that specializes in metaphor, imaginary landscapes and plaid musculature. Whinging about the injustice of a cadaverous drawing, while expecting the very best from her own medical practitioners. The practitioner, on the other hand, studies the actual landscape of the body, is unafraid of running a thin blade along its surface (after a certain amount of practice on someone like Earl, presumably) and spilling open the contents, in the name of investigation, containment, and healing. Are these two approaches to Earl mutually exclusive?
I turn away from the illustration, reminding myself that I am looking for information on Hippocrates (I can hardly begin the blog post without finding my quote from the great Hippocrates), and I flip back to Greenspan’s introduction.
But allow me to digress for a moment, gentle reader, and share an unrelated anecdote from the introduction.
But actually, before I share that anecdote, allow me to digress (gentle reader, if you are offered a chance to bet on whether I reach the end of the Greenspan tome during my tenure at Cumming, I suggest you wager ten dollars against me). Bear with me while I share the quotation Greenspan selected for the beginning of his introduction. It is a lengthy one, so brace yourself.
“There is nothing men will not do, there is nothing they have not done, to recover their health, and save their lives. They have submitted to be half drowned in water, and half choked with gases, to be buried up to their chins in earth, to be seared with hot irons like galley slaves, to be crimped with knives like cod-fish, to have needles thrust into their flesh, and bonfires kindled on their skin, to swallow all sorts of abominations, and to pay for all of this as if to be singed and scalded were a costly privilege, as if blisters were a blessing and leeches a luxury. What more can be asked to prove their honesty and sincerity?”
The quote comes from Harvard professor Oliver Wendell Holmes, MD. Greenspan borrows from Holmes to illustrate the value mortals place on medical care, presumably since the days of Hippocrates and before.
I will digress one more time (torn by the knowledge that Hippocrates, the original goal of my research, is only five pages away!), if, gentle reader, you’ll bear with me while I tell you that the name, “Oliver Wendell Holmes” sounded familiar to this English major and, when I googled him, I found that he was also an essayist and poet.
In fact, one of the poems on the Poetry Foundation website showcasing Oliver Wendell Holmes’s oeuvre is titled, “Cacoethes Scribendi,” a Latin phrase referring to the uncontrollable urge to write. Surely Wendell Holmes points me toward the connection between the Humanities and medicine. Surely it’s an omen. A sign that my time at the med school will be as fruitful as Hippocrates’ pedagogical practices.
But to return to Greenspan’s introduction. He opens with the Holmes quote and then, to elucidate the dynamic nature of medical therapy, Greenspan turns not to facts and figures, or scientific observation.
No. Greenspan tells us a story.
He tells us the story of Ignes Simmelweiss, a 19th-century Hungarian obstetrician who dramatically reduced the rate of mortality in new mothers, through the simple act of hand washing.
Simmelweiss’s supervisor ridiculed him for his attention to hygiene, and forced him out of the hospital. Greenspan goes on to say that “Simmelweiss was subsequently confined to a mental institution, and, by some accounts, ironically died of infection” (xi).
Here is irony, a key element of narrative, harnessed by Robert E. Greenspan, M.D., to help readers understand that the narrative of medicine is not strictly linear. It does not march solemnly toward its logical conclusion.
We can imagine poor Dr. Simmelweiss, plunging his hands into a vat of chlorinated lime solution before turning to his patient, a woman with swollen belly, screaming through clenched teeth, screaming through contractions. But before Simmelweiss can ease the baby from its mother’s loins, his chief bursts through the doorway, grabs the good doctor by his lab coat and hauls him from the room, shouting, “chlorine is no match for childbed fever!”
But enough embellishment of Greenspan’s ironic narrative.
On to Hippocrates!
Unfortunately the page introducing Hippocrates is preceded by a note that I absolutely must share with you: the study of anatomy was first written about in Egypt in the early 16th century BCE. Egyptians of the day were prohibited from studying organ systems in any depth, due to religious restrictions, but it was thought that “vessels carried not only blood but tears, mucus, urine, semen and air (the word artery meaning “air tube” in Greek)” (4). How far we have come since the days of Tutankhamun! Did Egyptians have any knowledge of the plaid exterior of muscles?
But I am sensitive to your impatience, gentle reader. Let us move without further ado to the man described by Robert Greenspan as the father of medicine.
Hippocrates of Cos (460-377 BCE), according to Greenspan, elevated the medical care practice from the realm of magic and religion, ensuring that patients were treated with logic and common sense. He advocated for the diligent study of the body, and scorned the idea that tumors and coughs were planted inside humans by the volatile rulers of Olympus.
Hippocrates was a stickler for language, drawing a line in the Grecian sand between knowledge and speculation: “To know,” posited Hippocrates, “is science, but merely to believe one knows is ignorance” (4). On the island of Cos, the founding father of medicine developed his famous code of ethics (although it seems his role in authoring the oath is disputed).
(Not even a digression but a few quick facts about Cos: four kilometers from the western coast of Turkey; shaped like the clawed forearm of a velociraptor; the place where Syrian toddler Alan Kurdi came to rest.)
Reading the Hippocratic Oath, I notice that it begins with the echo of an epic, with its own sort of evocation of the muse: “I swear by Apollo the physician, and Asclepius, and Hygieia and Panacea and all the gods and goddesses as my witnesses that, according to my ability and judgment, I will keep this oath and contract.” The oath goes on to outline the duties of a pupil to a teacher, and then emphasizes the need to do no harm to patients. It also recommends avoiding the seduction of the patient, and advocates for patient confidentiality. In the same breath as Hippocrates asks physicians not to assist in euthanasia, he requires them not to assist a woman with an abortion.
Now here is part of the oath that is probably not mentioned by Marcus Welby or Gregory House.
The oath ends with:
“If I fulfill this oath and do not violate it, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and art, being honored with fame among all men for all time to come; if I transgress it and swear falsely, may the opposite of all this be my lot.”
Which makes me wonder, given the compass-like presence of Hippocrates in the atrium of the Health Sciences Center, how students and faculty feel about this oath. How they feel about the student-teacher relationship; the responsibility to do no harm, and to treat patients with respect. I can only imagine that these are highly complex relationships and responsibilities. Are these not challenging promises to keep?
I am grateful that I have the next 20 weeks to explore those questions.
See you at Hippocrates!
Gentle reader, I have a confession.
It is Sunday morning (not quite afternoon) and I am sitting (okay lying) in my cozy bedroom in Canterbury, with the electric heater on full blast. I am on my second cup of tea, and have read only 14 pages of Iris Murdoch. I have read only 1.5 articles in The Globe & Mail. I began an in-home yoga session which lasted for approximately four minutes, at which point I hit Downward Dog and lost interest in an activity that only exacerbated the ache in my calves, brought on (I can only assume) by my day in London yesterday. I have read approximately two-thirds of an article about the rewards of the Stour Valley walk, which I could have completed by now. But I remain in bed, drinking my second cup of tea.
Gentle reader, I am tired.
I say this with a blush, since I am in the lovely Canterbury thanks to the generosity of Canadian taxpayers. I would like to tell my taxpaying readers that I am about to spring from my bed and stride down the Stour Valley pathway, toting my little blue laptop, and stop in a pub (The Henny Swan? The Fighting Cocks? The Tickled Trout? Really, my job here is made far too easy by reality).
I’d like to tell you I will walk over to the Tickled Trout and plunk myself down to write at least ten pages before the sun sets on the Canterbury Cathedral.
But I must confess that I will likely remain in this bed for another few hours, then drag myself down the High Street to Tesco and buy a few groceries, apologize to my flatmate for yet another uninspired dinner, and then watch Offspring on Netflix (yes, yes, I have seen it twice already).
Or, if I’m feeling really ambitious, I will watch another few episodes of Designated Survivor.
Why, you may be asking, is the gentle writer so tired?
Allow me to explain.
Yesterday I packed up my reading glasses, my phone cable and adapter, my extra phone charger battery, my hat and gloves and a bottle of water and set off for London – one of my last forays to the great city before I come back to Calgary on December 12. I planned my day, filled with that I-May-Never-Be-Back-Here urgency. I would catch the 8:20 AM train and go to the British Library, which is just steps away from the St. Pancras station where my preferred train (the high-speed, direct train) would arrive at 9:25 AM.
I would spend approximately 45 minutes in the Reading Room, where I had arranged to see some letters written by Virginia Woolf (something I had never even thought to put on my bucket list – but now, here is the opportunity!). I had pre-registered online, and I felt confident with the hoity-toity library system, having helped my supervisor navigate the Bibliothèque Nationale a few years ago in Paris). I would sail in, commune with Virginia, and sail out. I would then scoot up to the Camden Market, stopping for a quick bite at Niven’s, a café described by Tyviano on TripAdvisor as “a little less pret and a lot more authentic,” and then I would prowl around the colorful stalls at Camden, thus killing another bird by finding the ideal Christmas presents for the folks back home.
From Camden I would take the tube (Northern line in the direction of Morden) to the Young Vic Theater where I was to see the first of two plays – both of which (taxpaying readers will be happy to hear) tie in with my research area. The play would end at approximately 4:00, giving me a few hours of free time to do some more shopping and have lunch at one of four historical pubs I found in an excellent online article titled “Proper London Pubs.”
At 7:10 I would alight at the Royal Court Theater and take in play number two, after which I would take the tube (Circle Line east) back to Saint Pancras, stroll forth to my train and relax for an hour whilst being swept back to Canterbury, full of satisfaction with a day well lived.
Gentle reader, that is not what happened.
Here is what happened.
I arrived at the Canterbury West train station in plenty of time to catch the 8:20, and was told there would be no trains from that station today. None at all? No, none; there had been a signalling malfunction.
No problem. Not a big deal. A cute little fly in the ointment.
I walked briskly to Canterbury East and caught the 8:50 to London. So what if it was a little later? A little slower? So what if it stopped at nine different towns on the way? So what if it arrived at Victoria station rather than the ultra-handy St. Pancras, which was located just steps away from the British Library? I would simply take the tube (Victoria line east) to the British Library.
So I arrived at the library an hour and a half later than my original plan. I had to complete my registration process with a real person (a real person? In what world is this necessary??) who gave me a ten-minute speech on how to comport oneself in the library. Which I was expecting, having been through the iron-clad (literally) system of the Bibliothèque Nationale.
I would have been okay if it hadn’t been for the pompous man at the cloakroom. He somehow knew that I was a newbie at the British Library; he smirked when I made the rookie mistake of leaving my wallet in my briefcase rather than putting it in the clear plastic bag (the only thing you’re allowed to take into the Manuscript Reading Room).
I then made the rookie mistake of being frazzled by the pompous man and neglected to put my reading glasses into my plastic bag. I also neglected to put my phone cable and adapter into my plastic bag. I had had to use my GPS function to get to Canterbury East, so already my phone was at 75%. I was unable to charge my phone on the milk-run train, which, unlike the lovely high-speed train, has no plug-ins.
But never mind. I was at the British Library, about to read the original letters written by Virginia Woolf just before she decided to pass from this world to the next.
And this, gentle reader, was a moment that is difficult to describe.
At first I looked at the letter from Virginia to her husband, Leonard, and saw unintelligible scrawls of black on aged ivory paper. Then I saw at the top of the page, the day of the week.
Had she done this automatically, since she always wrote the day at the top of her journal entry? Or had she wanted to be leave an accurate record of her thoughts before her death? Or had she been in such a state of mental turmoil that she wrote the day before realizing it was completely, unutterably, unnecessary?
Then the first line of her letter came into focus.
I feel certain that I am going mad again.
When I read this line, the whole of the letter began to shimmy and swim. Virginia, scarcely able to concentrate, her head pounding with unwanted voices, had wrapped her fingers around her pen and scratched those lines across a blank sheet of paper, moments before setting out to fill her pockets with stones and walk into the Ouse River.
I sat in the quiet of the Manuscript Reading Room and kept the letters company for a while. I don’t know what I was expecting to derive from that moment of communion, but I was glad I was there. I felt somewhat like an exploiter, a voyeur, witnessing a moment between husband and wife that was such an intimate expression of feeling by a vulnerable woman.
But I knew that somehow (I would need time to digest this experience) the reading – the absorption – of Virginia Woolf’s letter would work its way into my own writing.
This, gentle reader, was a wonderful moment. I took my time in the reading room; indeed, I forgot about the time. I was wandering down to the British Library Exhibition Hall to see the writing notebooks of Jane Austen when I glanced at my phone and saw that it was 1:30. My first play started at 2:30. I had not shopped at Camden Market or had lunch at the authentic (not pret) Nivens café! Indeed, I had not eaten since my half-bowl of muesli at 7:30! And those of you who know me know it’s best if I eat. But there was no time to spare.
I jogged over to the Saint Pancras station and caught the tube to Southwerk, where the Young Vic Theater is located. I grabbed a pain au chocolat at the station and arrived in plenty of time. My plan, although altered, was still intact! I even had time for a ploughman’s sandwich at the café near the theater, where I attempted to charge my phone (I did plug it in but it only charged by 2%…why??).
The play, titled The Suppliant Woman, is based on an ancient Greek play by Aeschylus (BTW Aeschylus has the most hilariously ironic death story ever – read about it on Wikipedia, I beg you! Never mind that – I’ll sum it up for you: Aeschylus was supposedly killed by a tortoise dropped by an eagle – the eagle had mistaken Aeschylus’s bald head for a rock upon which the eagle could shatter the tortoise’s shell.
Aeschylus had been staying outside as much as possible because there had been a prophesy that he would be killed by a falling object – ouch!).
Anyway, this particular play tells the story of a group of women who had been pledged to marriage to Egyptian men, and who end up seeking asylum in Argos. There is no real dialogue in the play; the story unfolds through a chorus of singing and dancing women – the women seeking asylum – as they beg for compassion and express their fear and anger.
It was an incredible performance, with haunting harmonies and powerful choreography. The chorus was composed of a leader, played by Gemma May, the only professional performer. The rest of the women were volunteers from the local community, who gave strong, compelling performances. It’s a modern take on the original – the players are dressed in ordinary street clothes – but it rings too true in November 2017.
A group of women fleeing potential male violence, asking the greater world to believe in their need for asylum, even if it challenges fundamental norms. It was hard not to think of Trump, of Pence, of Weinstein and Spacey, as I watched. It was hard not to think of the Syrian war, the refugee camps in Greece, the Canadians who think Syrians might take their jobs or threaten the peace.
This, gentle reader, was a wonderful moment.
And I was still more or less on schedule. Sure, I had missed the Camden Market and Niven’s café. But I now had time to wander up to Sloan Square, where the Royal Court Theater was located. Plenty of time before 7:30 to be spontaneous and fancy-free. Plenty of time to discover cool pubs.
I have to confess that I never looked up any of the proper London pubs. Why? I’m not sure. By the time I got close to Sloan Square, it was already dark. At a street corner, a group of three people stopped me. The woman, who was wearing a hijab, asked me for help. We have no clothes, she said. The man, presumably her husband, said, Where can we buy clothes here? He and his teenaged son looked around them, confused. We were standing on a vast street corner, dimly lit, traffic ploughing by, enormous buildings (condos? Offices?) on either side.
I stopped and – perhaps inspired by the mayor of Argos – tried to help. I am not from London, I told them in the interest of full disclosure. But let’s use my phone to find some shops. Do you speak French, they asked, and I switched to French. I located a shopping area and tried to tell them how to get there.
Trop compliqué, said the man, looking overwhelmed. They started to move away as I apologized, feeling terrible, but the woman came back and said, Please. Can you give me money for some shoes?
I couldn’t help wondering if the whole conversation had been some sort of ploy to get unwitting tourists to give them money, and then I thought back to the people I met at the refugee camp in Greece, who would likely land on a street corner like this, with virtually nothing, and no knowledge of the city.
I gave her ten pounds. Which, gentle taxpayer, was my budgeted allowance for dinner that night.
Oh, she said. Another ten – I need two shoes! Please, this is not enough.
I lifted my palms. Sorry, I said, and turned away. That was not how I envisioned that moment unfolding. But then again, visions rarely unfold properly.
As I walked the remaining few blocks to Sloan Square, the city seemed to have darkened prematurely. Surely at 5:00 Calgary is not so dark. Maybe it is. Maybe London seemed darker because I didn’t know where I was going, and hadn’t been to Sloan Square before.
By the time I found the Royal Court Theater, I didn’t have the energy to find a proper London pub. I walked by the pub close to the theater but it was too bright or too… something. It was full of families and groups of friends chatting away, drinking their proper London pints, and I didn’t feel like plopping myself down at a table amongst them all and pulling out my cell phone.
So I headed down the street and found a noodle place with long tables where I could sit and look out the window without being conspicuous.
There was nothing proper or particularly London about it, but it was my London I suppose. There were other people eating on their own, texting or reading the paper.
So I perched myself on a bench, stretched out my tired legs and pulled out my phone to figure out how to take the train from Victoria Station to Canterbury East – I had bought a return ticket, unsure whether Canterbury West would ever open that day. The website was glitchy and wouldn’t show me the later trains, so it was hard to tell what time they came, and whether they were direct or not. I knew many of the trains at that time of day required you to change trains at least once. I downloaded the app but it wouldn’t show me trains more than two hours later than the current time.
But then it was time for the play, so I headed to the Royal Court Theater. This play was called Goats, by Syrian playwright Liwaa Yazji.
The premise was fascinating: the Syrian government was rewarding families of martyred soldiers with a live goat. And the stage was filled with live goats, who, to their credit, were extremely well behaved and convincing.
The production was a bit uneven; I had trouble hearing the actors’ voices at times. But the story was strong – it tackled difficult subjects like the conflict between Syrians who are loyal to the government and those who are not.
At intermission I pulled out my phone to try and figure out the train situation. Still glitchy. It was a long play, and I would likely have to take a train that required at least one change – all this at 11:00 PM or later. I was tired, cranky and my feet were beginning to ache. I had not purchased any Christmas presents and had not eaten at anything resembling a proper London pub. If anything, I had succumbed to the pret instead of seeking out the authentic.
My day was a failure of logistics and now … the problem of the train. But this was not an insurmountable problem. I had made it this far with my plan, and really, for the most part, it had not failed me. Besides, these sorts of experiences build character. This is what traveling on your own is all about. You feel independent. Capable. You have logistical problems but you are agile in your ability to think critically and find creative solutions. You are adept with technology. So I sent my agile fingers flying over the surface of my little phone.
I texted my husband.
I told him about the train and the time and the play, and my tired feet, and the possibility of having to change trains at unknown stations after midnight. I should maybe just leave at intermission, I texted. To be on the safe side.
He tactfully suggested that leaving early sounded like the safest plan. Was there an earlier train that was direct?
Yes, I told him. There was. That much I could see on the gitchy site.
Gentle reader, I left the play during intermission.
Was I just being peevish? Was I giving up? Perhaps. It didn’t feel very Argos to abandon the boy soldiers on stage with their symbolic goats. But I had my own London to contend with, and I would have to accept that today was a day where the plan had failed (only partly) and I would go home early.
Maybe the gods of Argos took their final revenge as I got on the train at 9:00 PM.
I asked the train attendant if it was direct and he said, “Yes, just get on and relax!”
What he didn’t tell me was the train would stop at a total of thirteen towns before arriving at Canterbury East. And the train attendant could hardly know that my car would eventually fill to the rafters with shouting students who had surely spent the entire evening at proper English pubs.
But, gods or no gods, I arrived in Canterbury some two hours later, and after walking the wrong direction from the station, I finally ended up in my cozy bedroom.
I cranked up the electric heater to level 8 (out of a possible 8), ate a Milka chocolate bar (yes, of course, the whole thing) and forgot to plug my phone into the charger. I stretched out my aching legs and watched half an episode of Offspring.
And that, gentle reader, is the last thing I remember of my perfectly imperfect day in London.
A trip to the weekly outdoor market.
Not a big deal, right? Some produce, some clothes. Maybe the odd bargain. Nothing to get excited about.
But at LM Village refugee camp, when the bus pulls up to take residents to the market, there is a mob of people shouting and pushing, sneaking tickets back and forth and arguing and getting in your face.
This is kind of crazy, isn’t it? After all, it’s just a trip to the market.
It was my job last week to escort the residents to and from the market, so at 10:00 I walked with the volunteer coordinator to the camp gates. When the bus drove up, a cluster of children immediately started jostling for position so they could get onto the bus, in case there were not enough adults to fill the seats.
We only allow one person per family on the bus so that as many families as possible can send someone to the market. Sometimes there are spare seats, so people show up hoping to get on. And they’re prepared to be vocal about getting on that bus.
Although we had told people that only one person would be allowed on the bus per family, we are never sure if they have completely understood, given that most of these folks don’t speak much English. We do our best to explain the rules, speaking slowly and loudly (a foreign word spoken loudly is still incomprehensible!) using gestures and pictures drawn on the back of the ticket book.
Obviously some of the message is bound to get lost in translation.
And even for those who understand, they are often willing to challenge the system.
As people drifted down the main camp road toward the bus, we could see that many had children in their arms (no children! We told them – only one person!), and many were walking in pairs – husbands and wives.
When they got to the bus, we explained once again the ‘one per household’ rule, but mothers told us they did not want to leave young children at home; husbands wanted to carry purchases for pregnant wives; teenaged sons were needed to try on shoes.
You have to imagine all these objections being voiced together, by a crowd of people who urgently need to get to the market. People who have no way to get there besides this bus. Who can’t just stroll over to Sobey’s or drive over to Safeway or hop on the train to get to the mall.
The weekly trip to the market is a big deal.
Plus, don’t forget that the camp residents have very little to do. They get up, eat, chat with family and neighbors, go to our little grocery store at the camp, text their friends, do the laundry, look after the kids, clean their suites, and that’s about it. They don’t have jobs, they don’t have extended family or friends to socialize with. They don’t have cars and most don’t have expendable income for entertainment.
So there is a lot of angst around who gets to go to the market.
Plus, having seen the market, I can tell you this.
It’s pretty fun.
It’s full of color, chatter, banter. Great deals on clothes and food. Some of the most gorgeous produce I’ve ever seen. Jars and jars of local honey. Brilliant mounds of spices.
The market is fun. The market is not the camp.
So yes. It’s a big deal.
And it’s not surprising that the kids who had been waiting in hopes of getting on the bus, should it not be full, began pushing and shoving and climbing up the bus steps, past me and the volunteer coordinator.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Am I allowed to physically move these kids? Do I let them on the bus? We can’t over-crowd the bus because Refugee Support is careful to follow all local laws; we can’t afford any trouble with the police.
So we blocked the children from getting on and enlisted the help of a couple of IOM (International Organization for Migration – a branch of the UN) guys who work on site. One of them helped translate, and after a dozen or so lively conversations, most of the problems were solved. The bus gradually filled up with peaceful residents, but there was one problem.
This was a man who had come into the grocery store that week and had gotten quite excited about a misunderstanding and the volunteer coordinator had to ask him to stop shouting at us.
So when we saw him approaching the bus with his wife, we both took a big gulp. He insisted, loudly, that he needed to go with his wife, and he would not listen to our ‘one per household rule.’ He had two wives, he said, he needed to be with one of them. By this time he was standing toe-to-toe with our volunteer coordinator, who climbed up onto the bus steps to look him in the eye (he was quite tall and she is … not) and when he tried to push past her, she said loudly, No. She did not give an inch.
Meanwhile, I’m standing on the ground beside him, with the jostling children pushing me up against the angry man. He continued shouting at the Vol Coordinator and she kept standing her ground. We eventually enlisted the help of the translator again, and convinced the man to wait until the other adults arrived, and see if there was extra space.
There was mass confusion at this point – people were pushing to get off and pushing to get on; children were trying to scramble up the steps, the bus driver was rolling his eyes; the IOM guys were trying to translate for other adults who wanted to bring small children on the bus – “he’s asked very nicely to bring his very tiny daughter…”
Finally, it appeared that there were enough spaces for all the adults who were waiting. They trooped onto the bus, including the angry man, and then I got on to see if there were any spaces for any of the children who had been waiting. But the IOM guy suggested we not take any, since it would just cause hard feelings to let some go and not others. As I was counting the empty seats, I sensed the bus moving. The driver had made the executive decision to leave without the children, and frankly, I was relieved. I sat in the trundle seat beside the driver and breathed out what seemed like an inordinate amount of air from my lungs.
By then the bus was utterly peaceful. People had accepted that their children /husbands /wives/ brothers /parents could not accompany them, and off we went.
When we arrived at Andravida everyone piled off the bus. I called out as they filed past me that we were to meet back here at 12:30, but they all brushed me aside; they all seemed to know the routine.
My mission at the market was to buy socks and gloves for the residents using the donation kindly given by Kay and Ken Grove. I followed along with the crowd through the streets lined with stalls – huge bins of fresh fish – tiny ones, slippery ones, floppy ones – gorgeous lettuces, fresh herbs, kale, cabbage, courgettes, aubergines and more. The aromas shifted as you moved past, with the fish, herbs and spices the most pungent.
I heard what I thought was a ruckus but it was only a couple of men hawking their wares, competing with each other to reach the swarms of people squeezing between the stalls. Further up were stalls with clothing, and finally I found socks. I made my way to several stalls and compared prices, before finding one that offered to sell me 53 pairs of socks for 53 Euro.
I then found a guy who had billions of pairs of gloves. I was hoping to get the thick fleece ones, but they were beyond my price range. I settled for some thinner knitted gloves, and remembered to ask someone to take a photo of me with the vendor. The founder of Refugee Support likes to post pictures of us supporting the local economy – presumably it helps keep our relationship with the Greek folks steady.
Since there was still almost an hour until the bus would arrive, I looked around for a café. Unwilling to wander around aimlessly with my two heavy bags (my arms already weak from the lack of tennis), I stopped at the honey stall and asked for directions. The woman spoke absolutely no English but took great pains to direct me using grunts and sign language. I understood that I was to go to the corner, turn left, go three blocks, and turn right.
Which I did.
I found a town plaza that was completely unaware of the frenzied market just blocks away. It was lined with quiet cafes and shops, as well as palm trees. I plopped down at a table and a lovely young woman brought me a fizzy lemonade.
Which I drank.
Slowly and with great relish. It seems you expend a great deal of energy being involved in confrontations with angry men and children who refuse to stay off a bus after being told ten times to stay off the bus. It was heavenly to sit in the tranquil square with my cool lemonade, letting the achiness dissipate from arms, legs and shoulders.
I sat there thinking, how lucky I am to be in Greece on a gorgeous sunny day, sipping a lemonade in a beautiful town square. And I was acutely aware that for me, the trip to the bazaar was just part of a two-week stint at LM Village. I would be going home to my bungalow and my car and my children and husband and mother and all my friends. I would drive to the farmer’s market whenever I wanted to, and drive to Safeway whenever I ran out of bread. My trip to the bazaar had no urgency because I would be going home.
My time in Kyllini was full of these contrasts and paradoxes – the casual, slow atmosphere of small-town Greece versus the hectic bustle of the camp when the store is busy. The warmth of our volunteer dinners at Kyllini restaurants, where they owners know us and bring us wine for mere pennies.
– versus the moments at the clothing boutique when residents can’t find pants that fit and toddlers stomp around the store screaming.
There are moments of great peace at the camp, with Syrian music floating from windows, the smell of garlic and onions floating from kitchens, women chatting in low tones on their porches, waving at you to come and share their food – My friend! My friend!
Versus the driving in small-town Greece, getting jammed into an intersection that seems to have a thousand roads converging in a space the size of a closet, with a touring bus cutting you off so you have no choice but to squeeze past it, your rear view mirrors nearly scraping the car parked beside you, sweat streaming down your shoulders and pooling in the small of your back.
Or trying and failing to tap the drop-down menu on the tablet in the grocery store that serves as our till; sometimes it doesn’t like my fingers and will not recognize the feel of my skin on its surface. Meanwhile, the customer is piling oil, mint, apples, tomatoes, yeast, raisins, olives on the counter and I have not yet entered the first item.
But all of this is just a few grains of scratchy sand in the long stretch of beach that is my time at Kyllini. I was so glad to be there, adding my energy to the efforts being made to help refugees get back on their feet.
Seeing the camp first-hand gave me a much clearer sense of what people go through as they make their way from war-torn countries to a safer environment. Even at LM Village, where life is relatively good compared to camps with tents and mud and snow, life is still incredibly demanding, and incredibly discouraging. This isn’t really life at all; it is a waiting zone. A place where you hold your breath and wait, hoping that there are enough people out there who are willing to move over a bit and make a space for you.
In the meantime, you line up for the bus that goes to the weekly market, and you push back against the rules a little bit. You get frustrated when you’re told you can’t go along and help your spouse do the shopping. It’s just one more frustration in a week full of frustration. Another week in a month where you have very little control over your life. Where you wonder if you’ll find a place to live that’s safe, where your kids can go to school and you can learn the language and find a job.
So you shout a little bit at the woman in the volunteer t-shirt and eventually you get on the bus. It’s just a market, but still. You know the volunteer woman means well; she just doesn’t always understand everything you’re going through. When you bump into her at the market, she is haggling over men’s socks. You wave at her and she waves back. Then you hustle off toward the truck that sells live chickens.
The bus will leave for camp at 12:30 and you still have to pick out the best chickens and load them into the bus.
Barking dogs. The incessant barking of dogs who wander the streets. This is probably the sound I will always associate with the LM Village refugee camp and Greece in general. Right now, outside my hotel room, it sounds like ten thousand dogs are barking themselves hoarse. I picture two teams – maybe the short haired vs the long haired? – facing off à la West Side Story, the Jets versus the Sharks, dancing around each other and puffing out their chests.
Most likely the dogs are fighting over a doughnut left on the beach.
In the town of Kyllini, there are dogs and cats everywhere. Even the quiet corners of restaurants.
In the camp the dogs breed freely, living on the street, or between shrubbery, or in nooks and crannies of camp buildings.
A man, one of the camp residents, came into our clothing boutique the other day and asked if we could help him with a violent dog.
We said no.
There are puppies everywhere, trotting along by themselves and in pairs, but not usually with a parent. Black dogs, short haired dogs, long haired dogs, tan dogs, tiny dogs, rangy dogs. They survive here, occasionally fed by the residents, or picking up bits of food on the ground.
Some of them sleep on the abandoned tennis court. In the late afternoon the court is dotted with furry shapes, stretched out on the brilliant green surface.
They are passing time here.
And really, so are the residents. There are about 150 people here, mainly from Syria, and they usually come to us after a stay in other camps in Greece, where life is much more difficult than it is at LM Village. Our camp is located in a former resort, so the residents have actual buildings to live in, with plumbing and kitchens – rather than tents.
Most of the camp residents are registered with the government, so they get a stipend that pays for a certain amount of food. But the camp is miles from any other village, so it’s very difficult to do the shopping, and there is almost nothing to do here. There are often far too many people living in each suite to be comfortable.
One man said he dislikes living at the village because all you do is eat. I assume that life here can revolve around preparing meals and eating meals.
As you drive into the camp, you’ll see men clustered in small groups, chatting and huddling over their phones. Women are often working, cleaning their suites, cooking, caring for children, doing laundry or buying food at our store. Some of the older women sit out on their porches, chatting with the younger women as they work.
Teens hang out in the communal area, watching television, or hanging onto the edges of the male groups, as if waiting for crumbs from the adult debates.
Many of the smaller children roam freely, sometimes playing football or basketball, or spending some time with an NGO called SchoolBox, which offers informal classes.
Gentle reader, let me give you an idea of what my days usually look like.
The NGO I’m volunteering for, Refugee Support, runs a small grocery store and clothing store. There are only three volunteers right now, and we get together in the morning in Kyllini, the port town where we’re staying, about 15 minutes’ drive from the camp.
We have breakfast at a local bakery and then buy produce from an amazing veg stand along the highway. We load up on tomatoes, aubergines, courgettes, potatoes, onions, garlic, peppers, apples, cucumbers. The owners of the veg stand break into grins and call out, “Kalimera!” when they see us coming, and they always throw in something extra – last time it was mandarin oranges that smelled like Christmas. We ate a couple and then gave the rest away for free at the store.
It’s important to Refugee Support to contribute to the local economy, and we certainly spend our donated money regularly at the local shops. With Greece in its continuing economic slump (unemployment is at around 23%), every little bit helps.
Side bar: If any Greek tourism officials are among my gentle readers (they’re obviously not, but what the hell), here’s a friendly suggestion. You will attract more tourists if you embrace a culture of customer service more consistently. To be clear, much of the service I’ve had in Greece has been really wonderful – the people in Kyllini are unfailingly kind and considerate. But I’ve run into some objectionable men working in places like bus stations who feel that shouting at customers is the best way to encourage tourism.
Peevish side bar to the side bar: At the Athens bus station I asked at the ticket wicket for a ticket to Kyllini and was told there was no bus to Kyllini that day; I would have to go to another town and take a taxi. I told him I knew for a fact there were three buses to Kyllini, my friend had recently taken this bus. We debated this for about thirty seconds until his face turned the color of a beetroot and he began shouting at me to call my friend and verify my information. I just stared at him until he told me to go further into the bus station and ask at another counter. Which is where I found the bus to Kyllini.
If Plato and Socrates caught wind of this behavior from their graves, surely they would turn over in their togas.
But to return to the daily routine of the camp. Our day continues with the three of us driving to the camp – I am one of our designated drivers so I’ve learned to maneuver our little Fiat along the narrow highways and village streets.
Side bar: The lanes here seem to be more of a suggestion than a rule – white strips of paint that offer possible strategies for dividing the cars running in either direction at about 40 km/h over the posted speed limit/suggestion. In the villages, the streets are often just little strips of pavement jammed between the tiny sidewalks, and you have to pull over if a car comes from the opposite direction.
But – to return to our routine… Once we get to the camp we stock the grocery store, which is a small but bright and efficient space lined with shelves, with a stock room and fridge.
At 11:00 the store opens and the residents come in one family at a time to spend the “money” we distribute to everyone (think Monopoly). Refugee Support organizers have devised a clever system of points for each family, based on their ages, also taking into account pregnancies. Along with the produce, our store carries items like cheese, yogurt, tahini, spices, toilet paper, soap, oil, and cookies (sorry – biscuits).
We divide our time between the grocery store and the clothing boutique, where we give out clothes that have been donated by local Greek folks. The selection isn’t always fantastic, but we manage to put sensible clothing on people’s backs, and prepare them for the colder months ahead.
Right now the temperature is usually around 20C and sunny, but it will cool off soon and people will be glad they’ve gotten a jacket, scarf and hat.
Because we are only three volunteers right now at LM Village, we are short staffed. So it can be frustrating not having enough time to sort clothing and stock the boutique as well as we would like to.
But our volunteer coordinator is very good about reminding us that we are doing our best, and that we are still providing much-needed services for the residents. She reminds us that the Refugee Support routine works well because it’s fair to the residents and it ensures that volunteers don’t burn out. So when the grocery shop closes at 5:00, we lock the door, and if anyone knocks after five, we ask them to please come back the next day.
Side bar: if any of you gentle readers are interested in helping out – do! Your time and energy would be greatly valued. Here’s the link to the Refugee Support page in case you fancy spending some time in Greece, and helping out at a camp.
I haven’t had much of a chance to talk with many of the residents, and many of them barely speak English. But from what the volunteer coordinator tells me, the residents have been struggling to survive since their journeys from Syria and mainly feel fortunate to be at LM Village. One of them actually described it a paradise, despite the cramped conditions and the lack of activities available.
The IOM (International Organization for Migration – a branch of the UN) has done a lot of work to make the camp as liveable as possible for those who spend time there. Yesterday there was an enormous truck parked outside our grocery store, and all day it unloaded new mattresses for the suites. Because the suites had been unused for so long, there are problems with mildew and water quality, so getting fresh, clean mattresses is a big help.
Some of the suites are packed full to the brim with people – there are often two families living together in a suite with two sleeping areas, a small kitchen and no real living room.
We are due to get another bus load of new arrivals next week, so it will be interesting to see how they will be squeezed in.
It’s not surprising, given what the residents have been through, and given their current state of limbo, that some of them are occasionally irritable. The vast majority of customers at our grocery store and boutique are friendly and respectful, but there have been moments when tempers have flared, voices have been raised.
Already feeling out of my element, striving to learn the volunteer system and work with people who don’t speak English, I feel anxious during these moments of confrontation. It’s easy to wonder why our customers can’t be more cooperative, why they can’t respect our rules and follow them with good humor.
But I ask myself how I would behave under these circumstances. Having left my home, family and friends behind, having walked for miles or crossed seas on flimsy boats, having struggled to feed my children for months and months, having faced corruption and intolerance more often than fairness and kindness – would I be able to smile and nod when I’m told I can only have three bananas, not six? When I’m told I can’t accompany my husband to the market?
I really don’t know.
But I suspect that irritability would be one of my most positive attributes after that kind of a struggle.
What I see at LM Village is resilience, patience and endurance. I salute the residents for simply putting one foot in front of the other, while they pass through an asylum system that is, at best, imperfect.
Our residents try to be patient as Europe and the rest of the world sort out how they will handle this huge wave of displaced people. This wave is washing up larger questions, it seems to me, questions that can be terrifying for those who feel strongly about national borders and national values. Questions like: Who has the right to live within national boundaries? Who gets to determine a country’s national values? What obligation do nations have to support victims of war, corruption and violence? What should international organizations do when some nations don’t live up to their obligations?
Meanwhile, the residents at LM Village continue putting one foot in front of the other, baking bread, changing diapers, buying groceries, texting relatives back home.
They live life in waiting mode, in a resort owned by the Kyllini town council. The residents of LM Village squeeze themselves into suites that were built to house small European families taking short vacations, just steps from a sandy beach.
It’s both lovely and ironic.
The mayor of Kyllini is originally from Syria, the first naturalized Greek of Syrian origin to be elected mayor. He suggested taking the resort, which had been abandoned for six years, and turning it into a home for refugees.
Refugee Support has helped turn the camp into a place that is more like a village, where there is some sense of normality. Being able to buy groceries on site helps residents feel like they have some agency, and a normal routine, which – hopefully – counteracts the sense of limbo that they must feel.
So I will rest up this weekend and on Monday, go back to the grocery store, help stock the shelves, measure out tomatoes and aubergines in kilograms, and close up the shop at the end of the day, even if there are a few people outside wanting to get in. Tomorrow will be another day.
The week of October 23 was a week of smallness.
Name calling. Presidents tweeting schoolboy taunts, seemingly unaware of what’s at stake. Hollywood dotards dominating the news. Women around the world revealing that they, too, have been sexually harassed or abused – this last act, though, is only small in that each woman’s voice is a small drop in a large, shameful bucket.
So it was a week that did not restore my faith in humankind.
It was also a week where I met a couple of women who are part of the Kent area lobbying campaign, working hard for refugee rights. They, unlike our friend DT, are painfully aware of what’s at stake right now in the whirling political dervish that is the refugee rights debate.
I met Jill and Valerie at a demonstration supporting the “Dubs Amendment” which supports child refugees. The demonstration took place right across the street from the Parliament buildings in London.
One of the most topical points in the refugee rights debate in the UK revolves around children – minors, if you will – who are trying to get into the UK. Advocating for these minors is Lord Alfred Dubs, Labour MP and a former refugee from the Czech Republic.
He is responsible for the “Dubs Amendment” to the 2016 Immigration Act, an amendment that requires the UK to accept unaccompanied refugee children into the UK, in response to the global refugee crisis. He spoke with great eloquence at the demonstration, responding to a young man from Syria who had been welcomed into the UK as a refugee, and who has gone on to attend university here.
The Syrian man was going to go into Parliament after the demonstration and do some advocating for the Dubs Amendment. It was amazing to see such strong activism from both British folks and those who have already benefited from Lord Dubs’s (and his supporters’) hard political work.
While I was standing there listening to the boys speak to the crowd, I looked over my shoulder and saw – gasp! – Juliet Stevenson!
Now, I am not normally one to become weak-kneed at a celebrity sighting, but … Juliet Stevenson! And… Truly, Madly, Deeply! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please stop reading this blog, drop your coffee cup on the carpet and run, do not walk, to your nearest computer and stream, illegally if necessary, Truly, Madly, Deeply. After you watch it, you’ll understand why I gasped (quietly, politely, Canadianly) when I Juliet Stevenson standing right next to me.
Whether Juliet Stevenson heard me gasp and politely, Britishly, decided to ignore my exclamation, we will never know. She simply took the stage and spoke movingly about the need to ensure the UK is living up to its obligations regarding child refugees.
It was a powerful demonstration, and I am incredibly glad I went. What an antidote to the week’s news of intolerance and misogyny. Standing in the crowd of demonstrators, it was rejuvenating to see a group of people who took time out of their day to speak up for some of today’s most vulnerable people. Here was an empathy that had led to political action.
After the demonstration, the organizers told us that were all going to march into Westminster and ask to see our MPs, and speak to them about the child refugee issue.
At this point I said goodbye to Jill and Valerie and said it was best to let the actual British people (who would vote in actual British elections) handle this part of the protest. But Jill insisted I come along (thank you Jill – you’re a woman of great wisdom!) and so I toddled off to the queue to go through security.
I actually thought that at some point my Canadian identity would be discovered but no one seemed concerned with my identity at all; the armed guards merely wanted to ensure that I was not armed.
So, having cleared security, I toddled off through a massive hall and upstairs to the reception area, where we all filled out green cards asking to see our MP (I had had enough wits about me to Google the Canterbury MP).
We were told that if our MPs didn’t come out to the reception area within 45 minutes, we could toddle off to the great outdoors. Clearly this was a paradigmatic act of going through the political motions. No MP would appear, but the masses would be appeased.
The odds of a Canadian student getting in to see her MP at Westminster seemed slightly less than winning the Loto 649, so I handed my green card to the nice man and toddled off to the Parliament canteen to get coffee and sandies for Jill and Valerie. I sat down in the canteen to gobble a sandwich, and tried to eavesdrop on the men in dark suits huddled next to me, but I have little of interest to relate, other than they were feeling refreshed and ready for their upcoming meeting.
So I toddled back to the reception area and sat down to wait out the remainder of my 45 minutes. But then a young man in a dark suit approached and asked, Had I requested a meeting with Rosie Duffield? I admitted I had, and steeled myself for a question regarding my status as a foreigner/fake voter/rabble-rouser/interloper.
But the young man, Duffield’s researcher, just wanted to assure me that Ms Duffield would be out as soon as she possibly could – please could I wait just a few more minutes.
I assured him I could, assuming that hearing my accent would spark accusations of rabble-rousing and imposterhood. But no, he got on his phone and started texting his boss, and in a few minutes Rosie Duffield appeared.
She was startlingly young (although many people are, as I creep through my 50s) and exceedingly generous with her time. I decided to come clean right away and told her I was on a study abroad program from Canada, but she seemed most interested in hearing my opinions on the refugee rights issue. My friend Jill ambled over and we stood chatting, the four of us, for about 20 minutes about the situation with the refugee crisis.
It was an amazing conversation – I am grateful to have had this opportunity to stroll through Westminster and have a meaningful conversation with the MP for Canterbury about an issue that means a great deal to me. Ms Duffield even asked me about my research, and we then had a conversation about the politics of empathy, and the debate around empathy’s ability to spark prosocial behavior.
I am pretty jaded about politics but must confess I found Rosie Duffield to be sincerely passionate about the plight of refugees in the UK.
So that day will go down in the record books for me. The moral of the story, if there is one, is either: Never risk going to the canteen while waiting to see a British MP! Or perhaps: You can never be too Canadian – even while making an appointment with a British MP. Or, better yet: No amount of smallness can completely wipe out my faith in humanity.
Whatever the moral, I am sure that the experience will somehow inform my dissertation. At this point I have no idea how – I will have to let my Westminster experience settle a bit before I figure out how it will work its way into my novel. And what better place to ponder the experience than the LM Village refugee camp in Kyllini, Greece? Which is where I am right now. But that’s a story for another day.
Gentle reader, I’ve only been in Canterbury a few weeks. Maybe that’s why, when I go to London or Broadstairs or Whitstable, I feel like it’s a voyage within a voyage. A Russian doll within a Russian doll.
My roommate and I took the train to Broadstairs last weekend, a coastal town about a half hour away. We were hoping to tour “Bleak House,” which is where Charles Dickens spent many summers, and – some say – the home that gave him inspiration for the fictional Bleak House (that fact is hotly debated and may be a pile of rubbish). Anyway, it’s rather a moot point since Bleak House was firmly locked when we got there – despite the fact that we had phoned that morning and were told enthusiastically to come and bring our cameras!
But never mind. Instead, we took a taxi to Botany Bay (no, we did not travel to Australia, there is another one) and saw the most gorgeous beaches.
I get up to London quite regularly, and it’s a bit of shock after the peace and quiet of Canterbury, with its mossy river and weeping trees.
London, in comparison, is hectic. Full. Noisy. It exists on a completely different scale – not just in terms of population (Canterbury is about 45,000 souls) but its sheer size. The massive network of tube stations, squeezing people in and out of tubular cars and pumping them back out on the streets, where they throng past massive buildings that rise out of the pavement and soar into the sky, drawing the eye upward, constantly upward, with their domes and arches.
Last weekend we wound our way through the Temple Gardens, just off the Thames, where the Inner and Middle Temple (legal societies) are headquartered, to find the Temple Church – built by the Knights of the Templar.
You enter the unusual round church (you might recognize it from The Da Vinci Code) to stumble over the fellows above. Rather a surprise. But London is a series of surprises. Like New York, everything is here. Iconic things, which you have read about, seen in films and TV shows. The Eye, looming like a Ferris wheel on steroids above the Thames. The theater district, with all the shows that come to Calgary once in a blue moon, all packed into a few dense blocks of cobblestoned streets. Mama Mia, Kinky Boots, Annie, Dream Girls. And now, The Ferryman.
I went to a London Literary Festival event yesterday to celebrate a poetry installation called the Wall of Dreams, designed by Danish poet and artist Morten Sondergaard.
Above, you see the front of the Royal Festival Hall, taken from the Jubilee bridge. You can see the line from the Wall of Dreams: I dream of my mother’s smile. Here is the wall on the other side of the Royal Festival Hall:
Here’s a better picture, taken later at night. The wall features snippets of poems by refugees, and the event I attended was a performance by women refugees, reciting snippets of their poems.
Some quotes from the performance:
“I dream of living without fear in UK.”
“I dream that someone finds a pill for broken souls.”
“I dream of meeting my children again.”
A powerful performance by the Women for Refugee Women, based in London.
The city of London is also home to the British Library. I have emailed my guest supervisor requesting a letter of introduction so I can introduce myself to the letters of Virginia Woolf. Thank you, Virginia, for setting the stage so women can access important documents without the company of a man.
Yes, thank you for trying so hard, Virginia. Thank you for taking on the men of the literary and academic worlds, for attempting to walk on forbidden lawns and enter forbidden libraries. The men who honored you with awards which you refused. Thank you.
When I look at her letters, written in her own handwriting (who else’s would it be – I am a pile of mush just thinking about reading her actual letters) I will no doubt wish that her labour had taken us further down the road to equality. As I read the news about Hollywood, about Washington, it’s impossible not to feel Virginia-like, despite the decades between us.
I felt particularly Virginia-like on the train from London last Monday, coming home from a brilliant play called Labour of Love about the Labour Party (starring the wonderful Martin Freeman and the amazing Tamsin Greig – if you haven’t yet watched Episodes on Netflix, please do – not to see Matt LeBlanc but to see Tamsin Greig). Long story short, a drunken arsehole (let’s call him AH) sitting behind me had a revolting conversation on his phone with his girlfriend – on speakerphone – about knickers and the removal thereof, which clearly made the 12-year-old girl across from me uncomfortable (her mother had fallen asleep). I am sad to say that I said nothing, since AH seemed unpredictable at best. Once he hung up, he tried to strike up a conversation with the girl across from me, who looked over at me in alarm. Had she been to the concert that night, AH wanted to know. She said nothing. He asked again, sounding drunkenly annoyed. I turned around and suggested he let her be. At which point he told me that people who jump in on other people’s conversation are asking to be slapped upside the head. Which made me re-assess the situation. In the meantime, the girl’s mother woke up, telling AH in no uncertain terms that he should not strike up conversations with twelve-year-old girls.
Thus capping an otherwise lovely weekend in the city of London.
So (and this is my curt nod to HW), it has been a week of women speaking out. Not perfectly, but speaking out.
Gentle reader, I am writing to you from a place that is not my home. Many of you know what it is to live in a place that is not your home, and many of you live in places that must seem worlds apart from the place you grew up. So I want to note that my temporary home in Canterbury is not unintelligible or difficult to manage. But occasionally there are signs that entry into this world will be an imperfect process. Or that there might be new choices to make; directions to take.
But there are still stumbling blocks as I shift into Canterbury life. The word I speak most often when conversing with British people is: Sorry? As in, could you repeat that please? I didn’t quite understand – maybe it’s the accent; maybe it’s your use of vocabulary. For example, here, you don’t “tap” your debit card, you use the “contactless.”
These simple discrepancies require simple acts of translation, and they make me feel lethargic, cumbersome, requiring countless Canterburians to become less efficient, to repeat themselves to someone from away. They are endlessly patient, these laborers at stores (shops), drug stores (chemists), pubs (pubs), and universities (uni’s). And their patience likely stems from necessity; Canterbury is filled with Americans, Canadians, French, Spanish and more. The phrase I hear most often on the streets here is, “Where are you from?”
Every day, I am reminded I am not at home by the humidity – have I mentioned that it drenches my back as I walk up The Hill to campus? And after two weeks of walking the streets of Canterbury, I am still befuddled by pedestrian-car relationships (why do cars come from the wrong direction? Why do pedestrians not have the right of way? How does one navigate a roundabout where cars hurtle themselves around at breakneck speed – while going the wrong way?). So I regularly attract the glares of drivers as I dash across the street.
But why all this whining (whinging?) I came here to be in a different place. To write from a new perspective. To feel different as I write.
And the fact is, gentle reader, I do.
I find myself thinking of the year I spent in France as a teenager, my attempts to fit in to a culture I didn’t understand, to learn a language that was always one phrase ahead of me. The other day, I found myself relating to my flatmate the story of writing a dictée in French class. Madame Voisin (her name has been changed to protect the not-so-innocent) would read an excerpt from a novel aloud and the class would transcribe it, applying the various rules of grammar – which, since I had only just arrived in France, were completely unknown to me.
I did my best to transcribe phonetically, but managed to write down only every third word or so that came out of Mme Voisin’s mouth. I was horrified to discover that my pathetic attempt at transcription was to become public knowledge; we were to pass our papers to the student behind us for grading. We were to start with a score of 20 and deduct a point for each error. I knew that the chances of my having only 20 errors were slim to nil, so it was not surprising when the boy behind me raised his hand and asked what to do – The American has already zero points, Madame. I wanted to cry out to the class, who giggled as Madame Voisin told him to simply go into negative numbers, that I was not this stupid in English.
This is the experience I think of when I reflect on being a foreigner in a foreign land. Now, some forty years after my year at the collège, I can see that, relatively speaking, I was not that foreign. France was not that foreign. The food was similar. The clothing was similar. Even the words, once you tuned your ear properly, were similar: tomato, tomate. Adapting to life in France was manageable. Still, this experience is a crack in a doorway; it reveals a tiny glimpse of the experiences inhabited by the character I try to write about in my novel.
I say “try” because my Syrian character evades me. Rasha, as I’ve chosen to call her for now (what act of arrogance is this!) hides behind the keys on my keyboard, challenging me to know her. I defer to her there, in the indented space on my page, animating her with tentative letters as I sit in my carrel in the sociology building which smells of fresh paint.
Even here in my blog, I hesitate to write about writing about her. Sitting in my carrel, where I do the actual writing, I replay the interviews I’ve conducted with Syrian women and I read online the stories of Syrian women. I tell myself my novel is about a Canadian woman. It’s about Canada, trying to convince itself that it opens its arms while the rest of the world closes its doors.
Meanwhile, my Canadian characters speak in louder and louder tones. They speak to me as I walk up The Hill. They speak to each other. Their voices reveal new traits as I curse the humidity and remove my jacket, then my sweater. Thea can be naive. Felix is nostalgic. Gerry is an old soul in a teenager’s body.
I notice new things about these people as the page breaks on my screen turn into chapters. I notice that Thea notices Felix. The smell of his clothing after a shoot. The worn smoothness of his flannel shirt. She notices that he notices. He notices her arthritic shoulders. Her impatience with his fussiness. He mocks her whinging. They are colleagues.
You might think that these characters’ voices would become solid and clear as the chapters wear on, but it’s not always the case. Their voices often lift into the shape of question marks. Especially Rasha. Why, Rasha asks, would I tell my story to these odd Canadian people? I have been through so much; I hold my head high and am not the sort of person who requires help. Anyone’s help. And besides – the risks.
I have put Rasha on Canadian soil and am trying to understand her new relationship with the dusty landscape of Calgary. Does she really believe her new country is so wonderful? Does she really forgive her new next-door neighbors who tell her she should return to the place she came from? I try to see her new life from the eyes of a woman who has nearly lost everything, who understands life as a stitch that is easily dropped.
I think of my friends (my real, living and breathing friends) who love their new country but often feel a deep well of empty space inside their stomachs. I imagine (and this is somewhat easier in this humid town with its ancient towers and cathedrals) the feeling of a gap between the streets you walk on and the streets where your own family live. The people you grew up with, raised your children with, became yourself with. Surely there are times when it’s easier to imagine the streets of your childhood than the one that exists outside your door, today.
The gap between this:
So this week I’m embracing the gap. I’m even embracing the woman who calls out “Mind the gap!” when you get on the Tube. I’m going to be mindful of that gap between the familiar and unfamiliar, and I’m going to step into that blank space and hope for a better view as I fall.
Gentle reader, it has been a week of ups and downs – literally and figuratively. First, let me tell you about my love-hate relationship with The Hill.
I have heard dozens of warnings about The Hill, on which the University of Kent is situated, resulting in a spectacular view of Canterbury. You would not want to walk up this hill, I was told. You must take the bus, I was advised. It only takes about 15 minutes. In my feeble head I managed to do the math. The walk up the hill takes only 30 minutes, so why bother taking the bus if it saves you only 15 minutes?
What else, I wondered, did the bus save you? I pictured a lovely day – not necessarily sunny but not raining – and an ambling, cathartic trek up The Hill. I could see on Google Maps that there were many options for walking The Hill, several of which take you through lush green fields or bridleways crowned with dense vines and shrubbery.
Sure, your legs would be tired at the top but it would be worth it!
Why, I now wonder, did no one tell me the real reason for taking the bus? The real hardship saved by taking public transit up The Hill?
The full nature of this real reason came crashing down on me like a salty tsunami last week as I sat at my carrel, with every inch of my skin gasping for breath. It had rained that morning and the air, when I walked out the door that morning, felt like a cozy blanket tucked beneath your chin. It was going to be a lovely day! I set out in a t-shirt and sweater, my rain coat tucked over my briefcase. I wore my thick leather boots, figuring the ground would be damp. All of which was fine, until I was about three-quarters of the way up The Hill. At which point all the humidity in the planet tried to force its way into my body while all the air inside my body tried to force its way out, through the impermeable seal of dampness. I wasn’t hot so much as swimming in my own juices. As I sat at my carrel, I counted the drips of sweat running down the small of my back.
Six, seven, eight.
Would it be possible, within the normal bounds of polite behavior, to remove the boots that were making my feet feel as if they’d been lost forever in a steam bath? Would my carrel mates mind?
Eleven, twelve, thirteen…
No, I decided, visions of Speedo man from the U of C grad commons floating into my head.
I will keep shoes on, come what may.
As drop fourteen trickled down my back, the real reason for taking the bus finally dawned on me. The Hill does not tire you because of its pitch or length. It sucks oxygen from your cells and force-feeds them with H2O until your eyeballs fill up with humidity, thinning and stretching until finally they pop like a balloon.
Why no one told me this remains a mystery. I can only guess that once you’ve lived here a while, you take this balloon-popping effect in stride. It goes without saying that sweating is unpleasant. You keep your balloon intact by not walking up The Hill.
Before the weather became so humid, I went with my flat mate and her friends to the Canterbury food and drink festival.
The entire city had squished itself into the lovely Dane John gardens (this is a bastardization of the Old French donjon, referring to a Norman castle founded by William the Conqueror) which features a “mound,” likely an ancient Roman burial mound from the 1st or 2nd century.
In this venerable location were packed stalls featuring everything from churros and chips to wine and jams to Pims and cheese. Also this:
Give me careless jam with sloe gin any day!
The gin jam was just one of many tasty food sensations… We inched our way past the stalls, reaching out as vendors distributed slivers of local brie, samples of gourmet oils, splashes of spicy dips. The samples were delicious, as was the curry I bought for lunch. I topped it off with a Pim’s cocktail and went waddling home.
On Sunday I cycled a pathway out to the coast called the Crab and Winkle Way. That’s right. Crab and Winkle.
Side bar: in my next life I’d like to come back as the official namer for British places please. Side bar side bar: I was walking along a nondescript suburban street the other day and saw this street sign:
Now, to me this sign belongs in a forest where people in jodhpurs are riding horses and chasing steeples. This sign might also belong in a war film:
Where the sweaty soldier shouts: “Fox down close! Fox down close!”
But I digress. Back to the Crab and Winkle Way. This is a pleasantly named, pleasantly flat cycle from the university to the beach town of Whitstable, and it’s named after one of the original rail lines of Kent.
I approached the excursion with caution, since I would be cycling alone through farmland, woodland and more. I asked my flat mate if I should be concerned about security, and she said, Absolutely, if you’re terrified by elderly people in tweed jackets. She was quite right; the main cause for alarm was the density of said elderly people, all of whom had at least three dogs (all of whom were either labs, long-tailed spaniels, pugs or Westies).
Still, you can’t be too careful. I was diligent in obeying all traffic signs. Such as this one.
I got off my bike, took a picture and laughed out loud. Then I saw this.
The picture is a bit blurry because the horse was yelling: Fox close down! Fox close down!
Clearly all signs must be obeyed.
It was a gorgeous cycle, very peaceful, through an ancient wood called The Blean, and then through farmers’ fields.
After about an hour and a quarter, I was cycling through the town of Whitstable, where Brits seem to come to get away from city life.
I found a pub at lunch time and had a cheddar and chutney sandwich, then headed back to Canterbury.
On Monday, I headed back up The Hill to my carrel in the sociology building, and began pounding out the old dissertation.
I had another chat with my guest supervisor, who continues to be generous and kind. I was to hand in my first submission to her, so she could offer feedback and see if her research group was interested in reading it too. I have more than 100 pages in the manuscript so I was not worried about finding about 50 that would give her an impression of the characters, storyline and theoretical undertones. I had a few chapters in mind, several of which I had already revised. As I sat in my carrel, waiting for the sweat to evaporate, I scanned the chapters.
Oh, the horror.
These chapters were, in a word, awful. They were also pedestrian, reductive and turgid. I could imagine my guest supervisor reading these pages of prose and thinking, Good lord, how much of this drivel will I have to read over the next three months? How can I tell this Canadian woman that she is not – and never will be – a writer of interesting words?
So I spent the day replenishing my sweat reserves and revising the chapters.
In the end I was not unhappy with the pages, but that’s the way it works, isn’t it? You read them right after you write them and you think, Yes. This is compelling. I’ve captured a certain atmosphere, I’ve said something interesting about life and human nature.
The next day you boot up your computer and you see yourself for what you really are: a bottom-dweller, slithering along on your belly through the sand, oblivious to the fishy fecal matter that’s been left there by other, higher beings, which is now sticking to your flesh in dark glutinous clumps.
But never mind. I know I am not the only one to experience this slithering sense of self-loathing. I simply rise from my carrel and head back down The Hill. There is the cathedral, bobbing in and out of view between clumps of maples. There is the densely clouded sky, with its promise of rain, or worse – humidity. And there is the trickle, running damply down my back as I make my way down The Hill.
Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
Do the No-Jet-Lag pills really work? They taste like sugar pills but I chewed them diligently as I flew from Calgary to Canterbury. After just two days in the UK, my home-away-from-home, the place where I will magically finish the first draft of my dissertation, I have nearly become a non-jet-lagged Canterburian. Canterburyite. Canterbourois?
I managed to sleep a bit on the plane, despite the angle of the seat, which forces your chest to curl forward and your head to tip back until you feel as if a lovely spike has been driven through your neck.
Fast-forward to the Heathrow customs line, where, after an hour-long wait, the border agent refused to look at the bundle of paperwork I had assembled for my crossing. She cared not one whit that I had made a special trip to the bank to have my statement printed out on official Bank Paper, signed by an official Bank Person. She brushed away the original letter from SSHRC, the notice from U of C that I am truly a foreign exchange student. Feeling miffed, I collected my bag and made my way to the public area of Heathrow, where I found my assigned driver so fast I had no time to experience the palpitations about potential airport terror attacks, which I had planned into my schedule.
Having gotten the spike-induced kinks out of my neck as we walked to the parkade, I piled into the car and dove into conversation with my driver. I am here, after all, to do research. And to get a handle on how Brits feel about insularity, refugees, Brexit and more. Here was my first opportunity to grill an ordinary citizen on the politics of the day. The Zeitgeist of the UK. The yay-or-nay on Teresa May.
It was a short conversation.
The driver, although lovely, had taken The Oath of Quiet Living. He had resolved never to turn on the television set, scan a news site, or sully his eyes with social media. You have to turn all that off, he explained. If you want to live happily. The news will make you mad.
So we covered other territory. My driver, it turned out, was the son of a Thai government advisor – the right-hand man to the former king, he told me. Fascinating! When I asked how he felt about British monarchs, he snorted. What a waste, he said. They do nothing! But what about Diana, I protested – the land mines, the AIDS patients. Well, maybe Diana, he grumbled.
I asked who he thought should succeed the Queen, and he said, Well, it certainly won’t be Harry.
Why not, I asked.
He’s not Charles’s son; everyone knows that.
Everyone except me, I thought, but decided to grunt appreciatively instead, and nodded knowingly when he mentioned James Hewitt. I made a mental note to google Rumors Re Prince Harry as soon as I could find a wifi connection (spoiler alert – Daily Star readers voted decisively that Harry is indeed the son of Hewitt, due in part to his ginger hair and also – small canine teeth).
Fast-forward to my arrival in Canterbury. My flat mate, Tamara, is wonderful. She swept me up to our second-floor flat and, seeing that I was on the verge of starvation (Really, Air Canada? White flour pasta and white beans in water sauce?), cooked me a delicious meat pie using puff pastry and beef/mushrooms slow-cooked in herbs and tomato. Which I certainly did not eat, due to my unfailing devotion to my vegetarian lifestyle choice.
Fast-forward to my first trip to the Kent campus. I dash from the flat at 8:15 AM, having slept marginally better in my new comfy bed than I did on the Air Canada bed of nails, and still needing change for the 8:30 bus. Mission accomplished. Small corner store: open. Bottle of water: purchased. Bus fare: obtained, almost exactly. The bus driver, unlike the Canadian drivers I know and love, does not seem to care that I ask him where he is going. In Calgary if you ask your bus driver his destination, he will look at you as if you’d asked him to co-sign your mortgage. Not Mr. Canterbury Bus Driver. He tells me politely that the bus will go to the University of Kent, and then he proceeds to GIVE ME CHANGE from the coins I have given him (not completely sure what they were or what the fare was). This is a foreign concept to anyone who has stepped onto a Canadian bus. We in Canada do not expect the driver to pause for more than a millisecond before waving you to your seat and stepping on the gas, causing you to slip on a patch of melted ice and sending you sprawling across the lap of the elderly gentlewoman in the front row.
As it turns out, I was not the only one in the precarious situation of not having mastered the Canterbury transit system. At almost each stop, a studenty-looking person got on, handed over some coins, asked a question, and stood for a moment, pondering the information offered by the driver. At first it was charming. How much lovelier these drivers are than the ones back home! But then there was another stop with another inquisitive student. And another, and another. This, surely, is meant to be a five-minute bus ride, and already fifteen minutes seem to have gone by. I began to feel nostalgic for the jolt of a Canadian bus and the puddle of melted ice. However, I stand by the value of friendly drivers – huzzah!
At the campus, I breezed through the hyper-organized registration process, facilitated by a young woman named Dora, no less (a sly reference for those of you who know my mother’s name), and her colleague Sarah, who once visited her sister in Calgary and thoroughly enjoyed it, having spent the bulk of her visit in Banff and Jasper. Huzzah! Bolstered by my success with bus drivers and registrars, I strode boldly to Cornwallis East, home of the sociology department.
My supervisor met me in the lobby and showed me around the building, which I had thought might smell of moss or possibly of Henry V, but no. This is a newly built building and it smells of paint. It is also warm, unlike buildings which smell of moss, and this pleases me no end. Huzzah!
I have been welcomed into the School of Sociology fold – they are a truly gracious bunch, making room for a Canadian interloper. I can use any of the carrels in the PhD study space, but one of the students confirmed my suspicion that existing students have long since marked out their territory. I promised to ask if my chosen spot had already been chosen. This territoriality will not surprise my own U of C cohort (is Speedo man still in the Grad Commons, wriggling his bare toes at the window?).
Such has been my Canterbury experience so far.
You’re probably thinking, surely it’s not all kittens and rainbows. Surely there has been at least one drop of rain on the sunshine of my Canterbury?
And to that I say, pish posh! After all, who doesn’t enjoy a good 1-800 session with the Apple Service Team? I’m taking a page from my sunny bus driver’s book; I will see only the positive side of the six to eight hours spent fixing my aesthetically pleasing iPhone. How else would I have made so many new acquaintances at Vodafone, StormFront (the lovely Apple re-seller folks in Canterbury!) and of course the Apple Service Team, available until 7 PM nightly, toll-free? I feel confident that my inability to send and receive texts to my friends and family back home will be remedied any day now.
So I lay myself down in my comfy bed with the Apple phone call to look forward to. And then, the lovely walk up to campus, which winds through fields that are still brilliant green, lush with ivy vines and chestnut trees (I think). And then, the calm of the carrel, where the real work will begin.