Presented in honor of the 34th birthday of Lauren Gabrielle Rousseau
I shall imagine life
is not worth dying, if
(and when) roses complain
their beauties are in vain
but though mankind persuades
itself that every weed’s
a rose, roses (you feel
certain) will only smile
Lauren’s story is so much more than the story of her passing – and yet a Google search will find mostly the story of her passing. We can overcome that. Today is June 8, 2016 – the day Lauren Rousseau would turn 34. Spend some time with her story and with her family. Learn something about Lauren’s life. Your understanding of her will become a part of her legacy.
Peter Gøtzsche is a sort of anti-vaxxer in the field of mental health care.
The Danish physician is head of an organization called the Nordic Cochrane Center at Rigshospitalet, a Copenhagen, Denmark, hospital (which does not, by the way, list mental health care on its website as among the services it offers). The center has made recent assertions that challenge solid presumptions of traditional medical care.
They claim mammograms subject women to significant, long-lasting emotional trauma, but produce barely any statistically significant medical benefit, such as reducing breast cancer mortality.
They (and Gøtzsche himself) also claim the medications used to treat mental illness actually produce symptoms of mental illness.
It seems nearly impossible to know definitively how often rape occurs in the United States – partly because so many different reporting agencies have different criteria for what “rape” means, but perhaps even more than that it is because so many rapes – possibly as many as 70 percent of the rapes that occur – are never reported to police.
Why are so many rapes left unreported? There are so many reasons; here are a few.
There is no crankier mammal on the face of this planet that a grumbly black cat with a bone to pick about her name, who was probably rescued against her will.
I’ve probably set myself up to explain a lot, but even that is really just the beginning of it, because we also forced a new kitten on “the poor thing” just as she was done settling in, so there’s that, too.
I’ll begin with the name: Her name is Neville. Yes, Neville. Three (or so) forces conspired to set a boy’s name on this once-tiny and terrified/furious kitten, and to leave it there.
In the Ward family, birthdays routinely stretch into weeks, Mother’s Day is an attitude, and even Christmas can be shifted to accommodate the complicated schedules of our extended, blended families …
… So bear with me if I insist on extending Memorial Day past midnight Monday. (I believe they deserve it, those who have died in the service of our country.)
I was 12 the year Life magazine published its controversial project called “A Week’s Dead” in the June 27 1969 issue of the still popular news and lifestyle magazine. The project, stuffed between ads for cigarettes and booze, included vignettes of 242 men who had died “in connection with the conflict in Vietnam” during the week of May 28 to June 3, 1969 – which included that year’s observance of Memorial Day. (There were photographs of most, and basic information for all.)
In the introduction to the 11 full yearbook-style pages (plus a few additional photos), Life editors expressed their concern that the nation was being “numbed by a three-digit statistic which is translated to direct anguish in in hundreds of homes all over the country” and urged that we “must pause to look into the faces.”
I am privileged to teach in a first-year writing program at a northeastern U.S. university that allows me to draw in readings as I see fit, as long as the structure of the class follows a model shared by other classes in the program.
My class is called “War Stories.” Everything we read has something to do with war.
Most classes have read large sections of Homer’s “Iliad” (a modern translation, although we dove back into older translations to explore language variations). We always read from Walt Whitman’s Drum Taps, about the Civil War. We view John Trumbull’s paintings from the Revolutionary war as well as photographs from the Civil War. We read British soldier/poets of World War I, including Wilfred Owen’s often-anthologized “Dulce et Decorum est.” We might read Elie Wiesel’s Night, Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughter-House Five, we might see movies (always by Stanley Kubrick), and we end with more modern conflicts: Vietnam and Iraq.
This is not a history class. Neither does it seek to glorify war or warriors. (Hence the reference to Isaiah 2:4: “… neither shall they learn war any more.”) But we do read a lot about war and its often debilitating consequences.
An address from, to, for the Class of 2016 in the Harvard Graduate School of Education, by Donovan Livingston, Ed.M. ’16 – which phrasing sells way short what you will experience if you play this brief and inspiring video.
[Some very brief biographical information: Mr. Livingston is a 2009 graduate of UNC Chapel Hill (BA History), earned an MA from Teachers College in 2011, and became a member of Phi Beta Sigma in 2008.]
And here, for posterity, is the transcript of Mr. Livingston’s address, as provided by the Harvard website:
(Above photo by Todd Heisler / Rocky Mountain News)
Monday, May 30, 2016, is this year’s Memorial Day – a federal holiday set aside to honor Americans who died while serving in our nation’s military.
Officially, the day has been noted in some manner since 1868, when it was called Decoration Day. It is not to be confused with Veterans Day – Nov. 11 – which honors all of our nation’s veterans.
Monday – Memorial Day – is a time to honor the more than 1.3 million Americans who have perished during their service over the 241 years of our wars and conflicts and operations, from the beginning of the Revolution that brought us our independence, through Operation Inherent Resolve.
Lily Burana’s extraordinary post from the May 2012 New York Times, along with Todd Heisler’s image of love, heartbreak, dedication, tell a story that echoes across all those years.
In my own family, we will be honoring my Great-Great-Great-Uncle August Heller …
On a Christmas Eve more than 50 years ago, my parents got me out of bed and took me to the window nearest the head of my bed.
“Can you hear that?” my father asked. “I think I hear bells!” he said. “Look up there! Does that look like a sleigh?”
He was pointing up through the pine boughs, and yes, I believed that I could hear bells, and that I could see a distant sleigh coursing across the sky.
I learned many years later that our kind and generous neighbor Charlie Finnegan had been hiding behind a tree, shaking a set of sleigh bells – creating the perfect fantasy for a young boy who hoped Santa might be on his way.
Tonight, on this particular Christmas Eve, my wish for you is that you can feel what I felt those many years ago – what I still feel every year.
I hope you have trust in the revitalizing power of magic and community, whatever that means in your life. In mine, it means that Charlie Finnegan is still ringing the bells from behind the tree.