Peggy’s prompt—leaning forward—

Peggy’s prompt—leaning forward—


Leaning forward, she could almost reach the….

“Try leaning forward,” he said gently, as she tried to hoist her nearly immobilized body off the examining table….

Leaning forward, I could see the baby elephant standing behind her (his?) mother, trunks touching, almost entwined, and I heard the guide say, “the most dangerous position to be in is between a mother and her baby”, but this mama didn’t seem to like us even though her calf was right by her side. The mama flared her ears, an early warning sign. “We’re backing up,” the guide said, “just to be on the safe side.” He let out the clutch and the 4-wheel drive vehicle backed slowly away from mama and child for about 100 feet, where he stopped again. Mama’s ears slowly lowered. Clearly, this distance suited her better. This also gave her a clear path to the rest of the herd, most of whom were busily breaking off acacia branches and poking them into their mouths. Now the baby seemed less fearful, too, and turning around, bumped his mother in the stomach with his broad forehead, and grabbing her nipple in his mouth, began to have his breakfast….

You’re leaning forward, he calls. Stand up straight. Right, I think, my first time on ice skates and you’re worried about form. I’m worried about my ankles, which appear to be on the point of shearing off from the rest of my legs. The tightly laced skate boots are supposed to help hold my ankles steady, but my ankles are swirling around in circles where space does not, theoretically, exist. Not to mention the pain. Not discomfort. Pain. How do those beautiful Olympic skaters stand the pain, I wonder. But mostly my thoughts are on remaining upright with all limbs intact and making it to the side of the rink where there’s a bar to hang on to. You’re doing great, he yells. Keep going. Keep going? What else would I do? I have no idea how to stop, and I’m sure it will involve falling down. Hard. On the cold ice. Where my blazing ankles can get some precious relief from the fire caused by the exertion of holding the rest of my body aloft. Not a bad idea, falling. Let’s see. How to do this gracefully. How to do it at all. OK, I’ll lean back, like he says.

There, I knew it. Leaning forward is the only way my ankles will support me on this ice. Leaning forward equals go. Leaning back equals fall. Simple, once you get the hang of it.

Peggy’s prompt—when she’s through

Peggy’s prompt—when she’s through

When she’s through, she hangs the dishrag carefully over the water faucet, spreading it out to dry. The dishrag, like most everything else in the house is a piece of recycled cloth from an old housedress she had sewed for herself years ago. The dishtowel, to dry the dishes with, was also once a skirt, or a pillowcase, or a feed sack, cut and hemmed to serve again. She doesn’t use feed sacks anymore to make her daughters’dresses; she’d gotten embarrassed when her oldest daughter’s teacher complimented her on her pretty dress, and her daughter had replied, “Mama made it from a feed sack.” While that was true, it made their precarious financial situation a little too obvious, so she had begun to buy up cloth for dresses when it came on sale at JC Penney’s. She bought most basics through the Sears catalog—underwear and socks and her husband’s work pants, but for dress material she needed to be able to see it before she bought it. The saleslady at Penney’s, who was a widow and had to work, was nice as she could be, and confided to her that she made all of her clothes, too. They just fit better, don’t they, the saleslady had said, and she’s agreed, although they both knew it was because homemade was cheaper. Some things were better left unsaid.

Peggy’s Prompt----what used to fit

Peggy’s Prompt----what used to fit-----10 min

What used to fit in the trunk of a sedan…
In one shopping bag—paper
In my wallet/purse
Me, until I gained weight
Easily into an overnight bag
The baby, just two weeks ago
Into a deep corner of my mind
In my pocket
Into one car driven by a teenage has, sadly, been downsized by the regulations about seatbelts. No longer, or at least seldom, do teenage kids delight in cramming all their buddies into a VW bug or Ford Fairlane on a Saturday evening and driving up and down the one main street of downtown, and then perhaps past the darkened high school, and then, as in the case of my town, to the beach to see who was “parking”, ie, couples “making out” in their cars while pretending to watch the waves roll in. Dangerous as it may have been, in terms of being thrown out of the car in the case of an accident, it was also safe, as in safety in numbers. With 6 or 7 kids in the car, seldom was the driver allowed to speed (much), or to drive while or after drinking, or to play “chicken” with another car, or drag race, or do much of anything dangerous, other than the no seat belts, of course. Them were the good ol’ days.

Peggy’s prompt—when she’s through

Peggy’s prompt—when she’s through

When she’s through, she hangs the dishrag carefully over the water faucet, spreading it out to dry. The dishrag, like most everything else in the house is a piece of recycled cloth from an old housedress she had sewed for herself years ago. The dishtowel, to dry the dishes with, was also once a skirt, or a pillowcase, or a feed sack, cut and hemmed to serve again. She doesn’t use feed sacks anymore to make her daughters’dresses; she’d gotten embarrassed when her oldest daughter’s teacher complimented her on her pretty dress, and her daughter had replied, “Mama made it from a feed sack.” While that was true, it made their precarious financial situation a little too obvious, so she had begun to buy up cloth for dresses when it came on sale at JC Penney’s. She bought most basics through the Sears catalog—underwear and socks and her husband’s work pants, but for dress material she needed to be able to see it before she bought it. The saleslady at Penney’s, who was a widow and had to work, was nice as she could be, and confided to her that she made all of her clothes, too. They just fit better, don’t they, the saleslady had said, and she’s agreed, although they both knew it was because homemade was cheaper. Some things were better left unsaid.

Strength in What Remains

Strength in What Remains

I’ve just finished reading a book called “Strength in What Remains” by Tracy Kidder, a biography of a young Burundi male medical student named Deo who escaped the genocides of both Burundi and Rwanda to make his way to New York City. Then, in a near-miraculous series of fortunes and misfortunes, he advances to a financial position where he can return to his home country to help with its rebuilding.

By itself this is a fascinating and compelling story, horrific in some spots, despairing in others, and often depressing. And yet, I was also left with an uplifted feeling and was glad that I had read the book, if, for no other reason than to get a clearer picture of the Hutu and Tutsi rivalries in those two countries.

But what really hit me was the realization of how close by, geographically, I had been to Deo’s flight from Burundi/Rwanda and yet how far I had been from comprehending what was happening in Deo’s world.

The situation was that, in early April of 1994, just prior to the historic election in South Africa that made Nelson Mandela the president of his country after twenty-seven years as a political prisoner, an extraordinary story in itself, I was in South Africa as a consultant to a medical school in the Transkei, a black “homeland” established during apartheid. This was the South African approach to “separate but equal”, yet another story.

But at this particular time, just before the beginning of the Rwandan genocide, I was attending a banquet at a South African winery near Stellenbosch, in the heart of Afrikaaner land, as a guest of my Transkei medical school host for those several weeks of consultation. He was attending a Pan-African Oncology Research Conference and the banquet was part of the offerings of the conference. That in itself was quite a story—a white winery hosting a banquet for mostly black Africans, although there were a few white South African doctors and researchers there as well. The banquet hall was filled with surgeons, oncologists, public health officials and other well-educated, well-connected African black elites. At our round banquet table of eight, all men and all black except for me, a white female—but that’s also another story—there were Ugandans, Kenyans, my South African surgeon host, and, to my left, a Rwandan surgeon working in Kenya. We struck up a conversation, the Rwandan doctor and I, as dinner guest do, trading professional titles and positions, and wandering a bit into personal histories of birthplace, schooling, and so on.

Then we were interrupted by one of the Ugandans on my right. “Say, Professor, did you hear? On the telly today? He asked. “No,” said the Rwandan doctor, “I was traveling all day.” “Well,” said the Ugandan researcher, “there was an incident. Your President’s plane was shot down and he was killed. Along with some others, I don’t know who.”

The Rwandan doctor’s face turned ashen, the palest shade I’ve seen on a black man. He closed his eyes, turned his head slightly upward, as if to heaven, and said, “Oh my god! There’ll be war. And all of my family are in Rwanda.” And then he left the table.

Just a few days later, the South African TV news was filled with headlines and statistics—100,000 Killed in Rwanda-- Neighbors Slaughter Neighbors with Machetes-- Children Burned Alive in Church-- Boy Forced to Shoot His Mother. Headlines hard to believe, much less comprehend the amount of suffering behind the words.

But I did think again and again of that Rwandan surgeon and his shock and horror when he heard that his President had been assassinated. And I think of him to this day whenever I hear or read the words “genocide” or “Rwanda” or even “machete.” I know, intellectually, that the surgeon’s family may have been lost in the mayhem, as he was most certainly Tutsi, part of the more privileged groups in Rwanda, and at the time it was the Tutsi’s being slaughtered by the Hutus. I’ll never know for sure. I can only hope they survived, as did Deo in the biography. And I hope, to the corners of my soul, that I never have an experience that would allow me to comprehend the depths of his horror.