I stood on the side of a suburban swimming pool in a sweltering Texas backyard in a crowd of other parents, hefted my three-year-old daughter up on to my hip as she begged and wept, pried her tiny pleading fingers from my neck, and then threw her, forcefully, in a high, athletic arc, into the water.

Some of the other parents smiled approvingly, others clapped and cheered, and a few looked away with the strained-neutral expressions of people consciously deciding to ignore a present tragedy.

Years ago, when she was around my current age, my mother went to Mexico and was robbed.  She had just been granted American citizenship, so it was very important that she was able to find her papers.  The story has been passed down to me since puberty, as a word of caution for a woman entering the world: freedom is a risk.

The Brazilian government has finally done it. Like a sadistic child with a stick beating a dog to death, it has authorized the Bel Monte dam. We are talking here of a region that functions as the lungs of the planet, the vast Amazonian wilderness. 400 000 hectares will be flooded and in the region of 40 000 people displaced from rich, important land whose biodiversity is twice that of the entire land mass of Europe. It will be the end of the Amazonian basin as we know it. The Brazilian government will authorize, in total, some 60 dams across the Amazon to supply the country with energy.

Energy for what, you might ask? What do we need all this energy for?

I wish the human race could summon a bit of moral energy, a bit of intellectual energy, and stop being ruled by the lowest, cheapest, meanest forces.

An idea like Bel Monte, the enormity of a decision that will kill and harm so many people, is akin to a war crime. It reaches the very depths of depravity, to the level of slavery, human trafficking and ethnic cleansing. I know of course that I will receive enraged comments about this – but in the end, the total number of dead will extend right across the world, people will suffer and die, everywhere, for years and years because the Brazilian government has judged this project to be “in the national interest”. A somewhat narrow definition is being applied, no doubt.

I have written before about the dysfunctional banking and free trade system that is slowly tipping the human race into absurdity. Decisions are based on financial criteria that are invalid. Economic science has failed because it does not recognize true value systems. It is intellectually fraudulent.

Ruut Veenhoven of the Erasmus University in Rotterdam has published her findings on happiness in the so-called “World Database of Happiness” and her findings are startling. For instance, she suggests that “…the appraisal that one’s life is ‘exciting’ does not necessarily mark oneself as happy [either]; life may be too exciting to be enjoyable. A Chinese curse says: “May you have interesting times”.”

The simple fact is that the human race is enjoying a bit too much of the interesting life. Is it interesting watching the ending of things? Yes, very. Also very disconcerting. Who will be able to sleep while all these crimes are taking place?

If America really is a nation of destiny, a nation that will exert moral force in the world, it must stop its fixation with armed conflict and concentrate on supporting environmentalism. Ultimately, while spending close to a trillion dollars per year on armaments, the country is bankrupting itself (just as the old USSR did) and preventing serious engagement with more important ideas.

The developing countries – China, Brazil, Indonesia, India – are captivated by their growing power. They need to be challenged and opposed in their thoughtless expansion.

The world needs its forests to breathe. It is time for enlightened nations to start fighting for the happy survival of all its peoples, not just political supremacy. The people – that is, you, me, and all of our friends – have to start telling our politicians how tired we are of their rhetoric. Electoral boycott would be a very good start.

Let’s get real. Put down your spoon. Don’t finish your dinner. Do something.


For my 10th birthday my family took me to a steakhouse. This was the last time in my childhood I really enjoyed eating meat. I ordered steak tips medium rare. Before they brought the food they brought out tin buckets full of peanuts. My brother and I finished an entire pail, cracking the shells open with our fists, crunching the remnants on the floor. When our meals came, I could still feel the empty shells crushed under my feet.

Please explain what just happened.

I’ve been trying to figure that one out myself for years…

What is your earliest memory?

Running back from a creek with tadpoles in my hands and getting yelled at. Slapped, too!

If you weren’t an adventure filmmaker/musician, what other profession would you choose?

I would pursue whatever profession would allow me to wander around aimlessly.

 

Four months after their extraordinary rescue from being buried alive 69 days, the Chilean miners, Los 33, made new headlines by revealing that, during their ordeal, they contemplated suicide and cannibalism.Well, if we were buried a half mile under the earth, certain that a slow painful death was inevitable, thoughts of suicide would most likely shadow our minds too.Interestingly enough, cannibalism is the exact opposite thought, the life force exerting itself.Two choices at polar opposites: Kill yourself to end pain versus stay alive by any means.As good luck would have it, the miners weren’t forced to carry out either extreme.

Nevermore

By Irene Zion

Memoir




It was two weeks past my due date.  My babies could hardly move anymore.  It was just too tight inside.  It must have been uncomfortable in there.  My doctor was on vacation; so another one took his place.  I saw him three days before my labor began and he said everything was great.  I was two weeks overdue with enormous twins. There were two separate heartbeats in there, nice and strong, everyone alive and ready.  He gestured with his hand for me to leave the room.  I was told to go home and continue to wait.  I wasn’t his patient.  He was just covering for my doctor.

When my labor began, I was thrilled.  I had been carrying the names in my wallet for two girls and two boys.  This is the paper with the names from my wallet:



I was in the labor room alone with the nurse.

I’m having twins! I said, laughing.

I was so happy.  I was so happy that I thought I would burst from happiness.  Finally I would find out who my babies were.


In the delivery room with me were Victor, my Lamaze coach, the covering doctor and a nurse.  There was another doctor in the room, but I did not notice him.

I pushed and I pushed and all the while I was puffing and I was laughing.  I was so happy.  My first baby was born and someone quietly said she was a girl.

That’s Lenore Emily! I was delighted!

No one spoke. There was no sound.  The other doctor was working feverishly with Lenore Emily at the side of the room and then he ran out the door with her.  She had never made a sound.

Where did he take her? I asked. Who was that doctor? I wasn’t worried, though.  Everything was going to be so great!

No one answered me.  No one said a word.  Then I was having contractions again.

I pushed and I pushed and my second baby was born, but again, there was no sound.  The doctor didn’t speak.  Victor didn’t speak.  No one looked at me.

Who is the baby?  Is it a boy or a girl? I asked.

Still no one spoke to me.  No one answered me.  I was delivering afterbirth in total silence.  Everyone in the room looked away from me.  Finally, my Lamaze coach walked to my side.

Your second baby is a girl, but she is dead, she said, already walking away.

Her name is Margot Eliza! I shouted, and then a noise began low inside me and got louder and louder.  It filled me up; it filled up the room.


A nurse brought Margot Eliza over to me all washed up and wrapped in a blanket.  Her lips were a deep, dark red.  Her skin was milk-white.  She looked healthy and beautiful.  She looked asleep.  I was convinced she was alive, but no one was trying to bring her back to health.  No oxygen.  No commotion around her of doctors and nurses.

Why aren’t you trying to help her? I cried out, over and over.

The panic was growing inside me.  I looked away from Margot Eliza’s perfect face.  I thought of Lenore Emily.  I screamed at Victor to go find her, to find out where she was, to make her be alive. He didn’t speak but I didn’t stop screaming.  He left.


The doctor was sewing up my torn flesh.  I couldn’t get up.  I was alone with the doctor in the delivery room.  He never said a word.

If it were true, if Margot Eliza were dead, then the doctors had to hurry to harvest her heart and her liver and her kidneys and her lungs and her corneas and her skin so that other babies could survive because of her!  I begged the doctor to get more doctors to quickly do this.  My entreaty was met with more silence.

I found out later that Margot Eliza had died before she was born.  Her parts couldn’t be used to save other babies.  Margot Eliza was more than dead.  She was too dead.


Then I was in the recovery room.  Victor came back to say that Lenore Emily was in the neonatal intensive care room.  She needed blood.  She had swallowed meconium.  She couldn’t breathe.  She was dead, but they brought her back. Victor looked broken inside.  He was so quiet.  Victor had to go home to the kids.

The nurse in the labor room had only heard one heartbeat, and it was weak. She hadn’t told me because I had been so happy, but she had called the neonatologist.  That nurse and Dr. Cohen saved Lenore Emily’s life. Victor and the rest of the people in the delivery room already knew that one of my babies was dead. They already knew the other baby was in trouble.  I was so happy, no one wanted to tell me.  No one knew how to tell me.  No one wanted to be the one to stab me in the heart.

Margot Eliza had her umbilical cord wrapped around her neck three times.  Three times. Dr. Cohen knew he couldn’t bring Margot Eliza back to life.  He was trained.  He knew the difference between dead and too dead.


I was alone in the recovery room.  My brain was spinning.  I no longer knew what was true and what wasn’t. A nurse came in the room.  She asked me if I would like to see my baby.  I jumped from the bed, but she said I couldn’t go into the neonatal intensive care room.  She took out a Polaroid picture and gave it to me.  Part of Lenore Emily’s head was shaved and an IV was inserted in her head.  She was in an incubator.  She was getting oxygen.  Tubes came in and out of her everywhere.  This is the picture.


I asked the nurse if Lenore Emily could survive.  She looked so frail. The nurse said that she probably would.  She needed O negative blood, but the hospital had run out of it.  They had sent for more.  The nurse said that the oxygen was helping her to breathe.  I wish I knew this nurse’s name.  I still hope to find out.  She knew how to speak to the grieving.  She was an angel.


Your other baby was beautiful, she said. 

She was exactly like this one, she said.

I asked if they were identical, because no one had told me, no one had spoken to me.

She said that they were perfectly identical.


I asked if I could see Margot Eliza.

I asked if I could touch her.

I asked if I could hold her.

Not right now, she said.


My father and my mother came into the room.  My father was in a three-piece suit and his tie was held with a gleaming silver tie clip; there were silver cuff links on his cuffs and his black shoes were shined. Tears were pooling in his eyes.  There was nothing he could say, but he had dressed formally to show respect for the dead.  My mother spoke.

You see, Irene Marie, I was RIGHT to not buy that double stroller you wanted, wasn’t I?  You just had to have it ready, didn’t you?  You didn’t even think of the inconvenience for me, did you?  I would have wasted all that money and then I would have had to go to all the trouble of trying to return it!

The keening began again; it arose unbidden from deep inside me.  It increased in intensity, permeating my cells, suffusing the room.  My father took my mother by the arm.  He took her away from me.  He knew she was poison.


Victor returned.  I had no sense of time. There was a knock at the door.  A woman came in with a clipboard.  She had red lipstick on and she had a huge smile on her face.

I was right!  Everything was a mistake!  My babies are fine!

She walked over to me in the bed and handed me the clipboard.  I just need your signature, she said.  She was smiling.  I looked down.  It was a death certificate.  I threw the clipboard across the room. The keening began inside me again, penetrating my muscles and my fat and my sinews and my organs.  It emerged into the room, pervading the atoms in the air, pushing forcibly at the walls and the ceiling and the floor.

Victor picked up the clipboard and signed the death certificate. He moved so slowly, as though he were moving under water.

She asked if we would be having a funeral.

Victor said no, not a funeral. It would be too depressing.


Just take care of it, he said, quietly.


I told Victor that Lenore’s middle name had to be changed to Margot.

Victor looked at me and spoke.


We were never going to have twins.

This never happened.

We have a daughter.

We won’t speak of it again.


Then he had to go home to the kids.

He never spoke of it again.

Everyone grieves in his own way.


I understood what had happened.  My middle is Marie.  Victor’s is Michael.  Sara’s is Miriam.  Lonny’s is Misha.  Timothy’s is Maxwell.  One of my babies died and the other was born dead because the middle names I gave them did not start with the letter M.  I killed one of my babies and almost killed the other with my thoughtlessness.  Both my babies would be alive if only I had given them middle names beginning with M. The guilt was paralyzing.


I wanted a funeral. I called the nurse.

I said that I needed to hold my baby.

I said that I needed to have a funeral.

I needed a headstone.


It’s too late, she said, she’s gone.


I understand that she is dead, I said,

but I need to hold her.

Please.


I’m sorry, she said, your baby has already been cremated.


They were very efficient.  No time for second thoughts.  No one had ever once asked me what I wanted.


They took care of it.


Someone had taken her little body with her paper white skin and her blood red lips and her perfect sleeping face down the back elevator to the basement incinerator.  Someone had slid her immaculate little body into the furnace where the fire was already burning with gangrenous feet and cancerous tumors. Her flawless little body was consumed in the fire of medical detritus, and I had never even touched her.  I had never even held her.


They could give me no ashes to bury.

There is really nothing left when you burn up a newborn, she informed me, they are so small.


Margot Eliza was the big one; she weighed close to eight pounds.  Lenore Margot was slightly smaller.  She was born first.  She was dead and then she came back to life because I changed her name.  She was safe now.  My live baby had a safe name.  Her middle name began with M.


The next day they put me in a room with another, empty bed.  My real doctor visited.  He was sorry.  Sorry didn’t help.  The room filled with flowers. The smell of the flowers made me feel sick.  It was the smell of death.  Flowers kept arriving:  flowers in vases, arrangements of flowers, and flowers in pots. Flowers of death overflowed the room.  The windowsill was cramped with flowers.  Flowers spilled out onto the nurses’ station.


I got a roommate.  The woman behind the curtain was on the phone complaining bitterly.  She had another boy.  She didn’t want a boy.  She wanted a girl.  She told all her visitors how unlucky she was, how devastated she was.  She had only wanted a girl.

I thought of ways to kill her.  I could smother her with a pillow as she slept.  I could stab her with the butter knife from the food tray.  I wanted to kill her, but I didn’t do it.  I was too tired.  I went home instead.


I had three little children at home and Lenore Margot in my arms, but I was no longer in my body.  I was on the ceiling.   I watched from the ceiling.

My body virtually never put Lenore Margot down.  It had to protect her.  My body was doing a good job.  It nursed Lenore Margot and sang to her and played with my other children.  It was a good mother.  It read to my children.  It helped the children with their homework.  It was a good wife.  It made wonderful dinners from scratch every night.  It slept with my husband.

I watched from the ceiling to make sure that my body did everything right.  We had dinner parties every other weekend.  My body prepared course after course of gourmet food.  I watched from the ceiling as my body’s hands folded the napkins a different way each time. It used the good dishes. It prepared it all while carrying Lenore Margot.  It served it all while carrying Lenore Margot.  It never put flowers on the table.  My body did not disappoint me.  It continued to function well, while I lived on the ceiling.


One day a friend came over.

How are you, really? she asked.

I returned to my body and I said,

I want to die.

She had to leave; she forgot that she had an appointment.


I went back to the ceiling.


In my dreams Margot ages along with Lenore.  She is always just out of reach.  She is silent.  In my dreams, Margot now has tattoos of beautiful birds on her milk-white skin, birds in every color, birds landing, birds taking off.  Quiet birds.  Margot dyes her hair dark now.  Her lips remain red.  She is thin and beautiful.  She is silent.  She stands at the edge of the door.  She doesn’t come closer, but she is interested.  She watches Lenore and me quietly, in my dreams.  I talk to her, but she doesn’t answer although she looks right at me.  So far, for twenty-nine years she visits me at night.  So far, for twenty-nine years she has not spoken a single word.




Dear Real Bigfoot,

I super love you. I want to hug you. You might not like that. I wonder what you smell like. Like a wild animal, I guess, but you’re not a wild animal. You’re different. You’re a freak of nature, and I mean that in the most outstanding way. You are electric and organic and everything the rest of us wish we were. You are what e.e. cummings wanted us to be. You are everything we’ve lost touch with: Nature, body hair, animal instincts, and the sheer size of life. You’re a hunter-gatherer, baby, and that is hot.

When I saw the photo of you last week, I was skeptical, of course. All photos of Bigfoot or other legendary creatures are subject to skepticism because, as reasonable, mature, working adults, we can’t be always buying into fantastical stories then finding out we were duped. The whole Santa Claus thing was embarrassing enough. Do you know about Santa Claus? Do you even concern yourself with this stuff?

Anyway, I was skeptical, but the thought of you stirred such strong feelings in me that I felt compelled to write to you. I hope you can read, or I hope someone reads this to you, maybe some very lucky liaison of the hairless world who brings you snacks and cookies in the woods and shows you how to read and stuff. But you are such a savvy woodsman you probably don’t need that kind of help, and in fact, the cookies would be an interference with your natural, healthy diet. Look how strong you are, how tall, how stealthy and smart, how luxurious your hair! You don’t need anything from us soft, bald, squishy, oil-addicted, technology-dependent folks, and that is what I love about you. I dare say that’s what all of us love about you — you are so not us in all the right ways, even if you are exactly like us in some other ways.

My first instinct was to say that photo was a hoax because people are always claiming to have seen, found, caught or even killed you. I know, it’s awful. Last year, some guys even produced a frozen corpse, which I was so grateful to discover was only an ape suit, and not even a very good one. I was completely offended by that hoax and didn’t want to be fooled again, but I can’t help it. I want to believe in you more than I want to believe in God.

Honestly, I shouldn’t be calling you “Bigfoot.” It’s like if you called me “Squishythighs.” I wouldn’t appreciate that very much. I’d like to give you a name. I’d like to call you Francis. It’s a good name, gender neutral, and has a bit of a rock-n-roll twist while being quite classic. If you don’t like it, I can call you something else, OK? But for now, I’m going to call you Francis.

So, Francis, sometimes I day dream about the life you must live. So many of us supposedly civilized people have drifted so far away from what matters most — and I’m not just talking about family and love — we’ve lost touch with our real survival needs, our health, our basic nature. I’m talking about eating, breeding and staying warm. You’ve got that down.

Is your life hard? Do you like it? Is it worth living? The rest of us tend to think we couldn’t cope with life if we didn’t have our houses, our jobs, and our cars, and yet those are the very things that make our lives so complicated. I don’t want to lose my job, and yet, in any given day, the hardest thing I have to deal with is most likely related to my job. Most of us are in codependent relationships with our jobs, wanting to be free of the responsibilities of work, yet feeling that without the money we earn from work, we couldn’t be happy. What kind of sense does that make?

I wish you could tell me about your days, Francis. Do you spend a lot of time looking for food? Do you cook your food over a fire, admiring the warm glow on the faces of your family? Or do you eat it alone, satisfied by your natural ability to provide for yourself? Are you tired at the end of the day? Do you wonder if there is more to life than eating, breeding and staying warm? I wonder, too.

I love you, Francis Bigfoot.

Sincerely,
Mary Squishythighs

I probably shouldn’t be writing this right now. It’s only January 15.

But I did make it through the darkest month of the year, so I’m going to risk it.

I’m feeling bold.

I have a theory; I have a plan.