Welcome to Forgotonia

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

An amazing story that’s disturbing and entertaining (as this writer tells it) at the same time.

I would’ve had no interest in the subject matter if the author hadn’t presented the story in the way she did, like a family mystery unfolding.

There were times when I started to lose my grip on the understanding of exactly why the “immortal” cells in question were able to live on the way they have–has there truly never been another living human whose cells could be as valuable in research as Henrietta Lacks’ have been? But otherwise the author breaks down the scientific matters to a level that the layperson can understand.

I read this book while I was (and still am) in the process of teaching African American adults who struggle with literacy, and I have to say I had serious trouble sleeping one night because of the way the black family in this book was left in the dark (until the author steps in with her investigation) about what had occurred after their mother’s death. The author also recaps certain medical experiments done on humans (but particularly blacks) that are unfathomable.

Overall, though, I thought the book was uplifting despite some of its disturbing subject matter, and inspiring to see how one journalist helped a family find answers and closure (and, to some degree, peace).

P.S. I read this book on my Kindle, and I “checked it out” from my local library, and, despite what I might have thought previously, I survived!

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The building where I’m teaching English to immigrants, refugees, and American-born citizens who need help learning to read and write–the job I started doing part-time in October, and which I’m beginning to think may become a real career shift for me–is located in a weird, windowless building in downtown Davenport, Iowa.

I’ve been told it was once a car dealership, and also that it was once a fallout shelter. I lose my cell signal when I’m down in the basement, which is where we ESL and ABE teachers dwell.

no takers yet this morning, as of 8:40 a.m.

At some point in the near future, the center where I’m teaching is supposed to re-open in a brand-new, multi-million-dollar, state-of-the-art (that’s a lot of hyphens) building in a more suburb-y part of Davenport.

the current building is ...er... *not* state-of-the-art

The move-in date has been pushed back several times since I started late last fall. I’m telling my students that I promise I’ll give them the heads up as soon as I know the date for sure. Most of them are excited. One is concerned about how she’ll get there now that the bus route she’d have to take would double in length.

I’ll try to remember to share some “after” photos of the new, fancy-schmancy location. (I’m excited about the move, on the one hand. On the other, I’d be content just to have a locker or a cubbyhole to park all of my books and papers, wanderin’ adjuncter that I am. Or some index cards [for homemade flashcards] that I didn’t have to purchase with my own money. Or…you get the drift.)

From laughter to near-tears, in less than two hours flat

I snapped these photos with my phone in a nervous moment this morning when none of my students had yet arrived.

I have to admit, I was most worried about the absence of D____, an African immigrant, usually the most punctual student, who also happens to be the one I’ve been high-fiving and doing little excited dances around because he’s making such awesome progress. When I see that I’m actually helping him recognize and read words for the first time in his life, I feel so excited I make loud whooping noises that I’m sure prompt some of the other teachers to wonder about me.

But he didn’t show up today. He missed all of last week, too.

Three other students did show up, about five minutes after I snapped these pictures. And we ended up laughing a lot. We did an exercise that depicted two people stuck in an elevator, and one of the students noticed that, in the drawing, the man’s shirt was un-tucked when he and his lady elevator-traveler emerged, finally unstuck after 19 hours.

“They talked, and talked, and talked,” the caption had read. R____, an American who is in her 60s, said slyly, with a cocked eyebrow, “Look like they did somethin’ else up in there, too.” The whole class cracked up.

But about a half hour after class, my phone rang, and I knew it would be D____, and I knew that he’d be telling me something was wrong.

I was correct on both counts.

D____, I learned, has found himself to be in a situation that has left him homeless. He might be living out of his vehicle–or, if he can get enough money together, a hotel.

I wasn’t sure what to say. I told him I was sorry about his situation and wished there was something I could do to help. I dug up some phone numbers for shelters, though they seemed to require certain specifications, none of which apply to him. I told him I very much hoped he’d be able to come back to class.

I’d been warned, in my little online trainings before starting the job, that adult learners often experience  “outside circumstances” that effect their education.

Somehow, though, that doesn’t make it feel any less heartbreaking.

–

Things I Love About Davenport, cont’d:

3) That you can stop in to Boozie’s (above) for a beer, and then head downstairs to Faith Explained, the Catholic store. (But only if you make an appointment.)

Here were today’s most interesting teaching challenges (from my morning Advanced ESL group)

1. When the word “partner” came up, (as it will frequently, since nearly every page of our new textbook encourages the students to work with a partner), one student said, “I say ‘partner’ one day at work and someone say to me, ‘Are you gay or something?’ Is ‘partner’ like a bad word or mean gay or something?” (…thus resulting in my awkward attempt to explain use of “partner” for “person with whom someone makes a home, but who said person may not …uh…be married to…”)
2. and, (from the same student, after I had said, “Good question. Please speak up if you have questions about any other words”), thus resulting in an awkward charade that I hope no one noticed as they walked past my classroom): “What is ‘wrestling‘?”

My parents bought me a Kindle for Christmas.

And, ingrate that I am, I’m going to publicly list everything I don’t like about it.

I feel the need to do this, you see, because I once hated the idea of the iPod, (which I now can’t live without).

I’m aware that I’m on the brink of abandoning something I care about deeply (the book, the printed word, the future of human civilization, blah blah blah). So,

I Knock Before I Try, Because:

1. The damn things necessitate accessorizing. I dread this scenario (which I’m sure will happen in the not-too-distant future): Person 1: “What color Skin did you purchase for your Kindle?” Person 2: “I got a pink polka-dotted one to match the pink supply of Air that I purchased to breathe for this month.”It’s like taking the last decent, non-materialistic part of our culture and turning it into one more consumer experience. This is just simply wrong. (Never mind that a certain person  may or may not have added a bright pink, lighted cover to her Amazon Wish List today).
   
2. Books were the last things that encouraged patience, sitting still, focusing on one thing at a time. Now you can buy another book when you’re supposed to be reading the one in your hands. Soon we’ll see the new Amazon “Order with One Blink” option. (Amazon Prime will provide a free tube of Latisse.)
3. Libraries, which you could say are central to democracy, are already struggling. So, you’re already down, eh? Well here’s a big swift kick in the arse!
4. The way people defend the necessity of the Kindle’s existence by saying “It’s so much more convenient.” Really? Holding a small paperback in your hands was seriously “inconvenient”? I will allow this line if you are, say, Susan Orlean, or the President, and are therefore traveling constantly and reading and researching a lot. (That’s the kind of President I hope for, anyway). But otherwise, the number of books you’re reading simply cannot be breaking your back. My great-grandmother probably hauled water for the wash–which she conducted with a washboard–from the well to the farmhouse and back again. My ancestors’ ghosts laugh at your definition of inconvenience. (Take that, Jeff Bezos.)
5. Magazines don’t mind if you drop food on them. (I read at the table when I’m eating lunch. A lot.) Kindles probably cannot tolerate such abuse. (Wimps.)
6. The fact that I know I’m going to be an underdog here. Just like all those poor fools who are trying to save the U.S. Post Office from going under. (If only the U.S.P.O. had invented Blink Mail or colored Air.)

Left: books I received for Christmas. In this corner (right) the opponent awaits.

Chris and I joined some of his co-workers for a small gathering at the Bierstube in Davenport, during which I consumed:

1. Blue-cheese burger (on a pretzel-roll bun),
2. Waffle fries (whole serving, nary a crumb left behind), and
3. Three–three!–of these tall boys. (I am part German, [and part Irish], you know).

Oh, and then half a cheesy pretzel (split with C-Nor).

In other words, B’DANKA! That’s the sound (in German) of my big ol’ butt falling off the Weight Watchers wagon. Ouch!

It was delicious, though. No regrets. (Until I try to put on my jeans tomorrow…)

Thankfully, I’m settled in–for the most part–into my new life in Iowa.

On the one hand, it’s not too huge a change from my past life; it’s not like I’m living in a commune of cult members or de-boning fish on a boat in Alaska.

But I did leap from full-time employment in writing/editing/marketing/public relations to part-time status as an ABE (adult basic ed) teacher; from living in a rental house that I had all to myself, to sharing a small apartment with my husband.

(More about the moving misadventure here. And, as I’ve mentioned recently, I’ve chosen this time to finally deal with the large mountain I’ve amassed from the detritus of my youth.)

When I moved into my husband’s already-established apartment, he gently pointed out (or, um, pointedly stressed) the fact that we wouldn’t have much space, so I should bring with me only what I truly needed, and deal with the rest later.

Rather than rent a storage locker, we  parked all of my sentimental and /or not-totally-utilitarian stuff–books, CDs, photo albums, family history fragments, creative projects in half-assed state–at my in-laws’ house in a spare bedroom. (They live nearby).

STUFF MOUNTAIN, only partially pictured

The good news: my in-laws are kind, patient people, and they’re okay with me storing this stuff here temporarily.

The bad news: we probably need to have a talk about the difference between “temporarily” and “indefinitely.”

In other words, I still need to find a place for, and/or otherwise “deal with,” every single one of the things in these boxes.

Maybe it doesn’t look like that much.

But it feels overwhelming to me.

I’m starting to wonder if I should just toss it all and enjoy the freedom of having absolutely no tangible reminders of my past. Like a soap opera character who wakes up in the hospital after the bridge explosion (for at least the second time in her character’s existence) with amnesia.

Or maybe, the next time either my husband or one of his parents brings up the subject of the pile, I should suddenly become stricken with said affliction. (What boxes? Who am I? How did I get here?!?

A note about this post: despite what you might begin picturing, I am not, as of this writing, wearing Birkenstocks, eating out of a bag of homemade soy-granola, or stinking up the local library because of my refusal to wear chemical-laden anti-perspirant.

You may, however, go ahead and call me a tree-hugger. (Or if you can come up with something catchy and alliterative for “obsessive recycler who freaks out if she sees nary a Post-it going into the trash,” let me know.)

Chapter 1: Footprints in the (Toxic, e-Polluted) Sand

If you’ve stopped by here recently, you now know that I have some difficulty letting go of sentimental things.

But now I must admit that it’s not just mementos I find hard to throw away.

I feel incredibly guilty any time I know I’m throwing away something that will end up in a landfill.

And that’s on a regular day. The moving process only increases this anxiety.

Dragging old mattresses and box springs to the curb, (as I did on moving day), makes me not only worry about the environmental footprint I’m leaving, but also, about how many other people in the world are dragging their crap to the curb on a regular basis and don’t give a f#$%. (Like the neighbors in our apartment complex who left this the other morning. I had to fight the urge to chase after them and beat them with a bamboo-handled, made-from-repurposed-dental-floss tennis racket. [Just kidding, they don't make those. ...do they?])

And it’s not just the broken futons I’ve deposited over the decades that make me feel bad. I hate throwing burned CDs in the trash. I’m not worried about whatever data might be on them, so much as how the physical thing is (not) going to break down.

And I need to know that when I do finally force myself to part with my good-attendance certificate from sixth grade, I can at least make “use” of my trash.

So as soon as I moved to Davenport to join my husband a month ago, I began gently but firmly insisting that we needed to start sorting out recyclables even though the apartment complex doesn’t have curbside pickup. Doing so, however, would create even more clutter in our apartment, (and perhaps it’s not a stretch to say my husband, C-NOR, is a bit of an anti-clutter fascist.)

But upon watching him throw a “perfectly good” milk jug into the “regular” trash, I shuddered, then walked over to the can and retrieved the offending numeral-one-in-a-triangle receptacle: “Nuh-uh. We are so not doing that.”

And that’s only a hint at my level of  obsession.

Chapter 2: Doing the Can-Can

For several months this past year,  when I would go out for a walk–especially in late spring after the college kids had vacated the rental premises near the campus–I’d take along a plastic bag and pick up bagfuls of empty beer cans so I could recycle them.

It felt like a sort of twisted, adults-only Easter egg hunt, like, I spy a Four Loko under that bush! And then I’d actually scurry over to get my hands on the giant thing before some other crazed recycling-addict could get their grubby paws on it. (Or more like get their paws grubby on it. But whatever.)

And you thought they'd been banned. How wrong you are.

True, this strange hobby sometimes earned me looks from people driving by. (Sometimes I worried about seeing myself in the police blotter:

“At 5 p.m. Monday, a resident reported seeing a woman in business-casual attire, in the front yard of  house at the corner of University Drive and Rental Apartment Row, allegedly in a scuffle with a transient over a tobacco-spit-containing can of Keystone.“

But I did gather, and recycle, hundreds of empty cans from those littered lawns.

So of course there was no way I could live in this new Dumpster-only apartment complex without coming up with some sort of solution.

Chapter 3: Fling, Flang, Flung

My first week here, (rather than sending out resumes to become more than marginally employed), I Googled and called around until finally figuring out how and where to take our recyclables.

Luckily, I discovered there is a drop-off facility just a few miles from where we live.

Along with the public library, this is the other hip local spot I've been frequenting.

But it’s still less than convenient to take the items to this place ourselves. And rather than store our rinsed-out refuse in a garage, (which we don’t have), we have to find an out-of-the-way place and organized way to let stuff accumulate until there’s enough of a pile to necessitate a trip to the facility.

At first I thought I had come up with a genius solution.

When we were planning our wedding and reception earlier this year, one of my goals was  to be as eco-friendly as possible. I found recyclable beer cups (did I mention our wedding reception, was, technically, a kegger? See profile pic at right), and I ordered some pop-up recycling containers called Flings, in which guests were asked to deposit the ceremony programs and, later, their empty cups.

The handy little pop-up receptacles were smaller than I had hoped, but they held up well and did the trick.

So I figured we could use one of these in the apartment for our junk paper.

But I had that thing stuffed in, like, an hour after moving in.

And then when I took it to the recycling facility, I had to upend it inside the mouth of the giant bin, which is protected by these rubber-curtain flappy things. In the process of trying to shake the stuff out of the container and into the bin, my genius solution collapsed in on itself and got caught in the rubber flaps.

Finally, I got so frustrated I just dumped the whole damn Fling in there and stomped away in a huff, startling the retired grandpa guy behind me with my foul mouth. (Sorry, sir.)

Finally, a few days later, I ordered a set of matching, wipe-able-out-able color-coded bags on Amazon.

So now we’re hiding them behind the kitchen table–until they fill up and it’s time to take them to the facility. (But only if it’s not rainy, cold, too dark out, too early, too late, or, is a Tuesday and I just don’t feel like it. You blame me? You take it there, then. Isn’t it your turn, anyway? Oh and the dishes too. Thanks!)

This would be just one of the many cards I found in this Reebox box stuffed full of cards, as part of my ongoing process of trying to get moved in and pared down. This would be, more specifically, a card from my 8th-grade graduation, May 1991.

As I mentioned recently, I’ve been trying to get rid of stuff as the result of moving to a smaller space.

It’s taken a lot for me to get this point, but, I now want to keep things only if I can state a solid reason:

• “This inspires me.”
• “This reminds me (in a non-depressing way) of someone I will never see again.”
  and/or,
• “I’m actually, for certain, going to use this, and it will happen on [this specific date].”

But despite this new sense of empowerment, I’m still struggling with a philosophical problem. Let’s call it “The Aging Hipster Faces Her Existential Angst.”

Chapter 1: Shirting the Issue

During the move, I unearthed from the back of the closet a bunch of concert T-shirts from shows I saw in the late 90s and the early 00s.

There, in a giant plastic bag, was a whole folded-up past; 100%-cotton, size-XL proof of  once-passionate devotion (not to mention of disposable income) for bands like Wilco, Guided by Voices, and, yes, Dave Matthews Band.

And  in sticking with my pledge to pare down, I knew that if I was going to move them to the new apartment, I’d have to find space for them or actually do something with them.

At first I thought about looking into having one of those memory quilts made. (But something about cuddling up on the couch under an ugly album-cover image by a band I can no longer stand just doesn’t quite go with IKEA decor.)

And, thanks in part to certain reality-television stylists’ sage advice, gone are my days of wearing boxy cotton T-shirts that reach down to my knees, (i.e., a fashion line called “The Alison, 1990-2002″).

But I’ve been saving these shirts for a reason. And now, somewhat painfully, I have to admit what–who–it is.

Chapter 2: Sweater Song

When I was in middle school and heard “Light My Fire” for the first time–and learned that my uncle in Seattle, my mom’s hip brother who I idolized, had been a fan when he was in high school–I was mesmerized.

By seventh grade, I had developed a full-blown obsession with  late-60s and 70s pop counterculture. I’d ask my parents quizzically about why they hadn’t gone to Woodstock. How could they have lived through the Summer of Love without being blissed-out hippies or passionate protesters (rather than, say, a church-going prospective high school teacher and a Navy seaman)?

Still, in my late teens and all through college, when I would search rather desperately for jeans with a flared leg, my mom would lament, “Man, I wish I’d kept my bell-bottoms and disco shoes….Stuff always comes back in style.”

And all of this time, my uncle periodically shipped me cassettes and CDs of non-top 40 music, exposing me to Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, Jimi Hendrix, on and on. Stuff that, not to be too dramatic about it, changed my life.

So I guess I’ve always expected that I, too, would someday be a passer-onner of the cool stuff from my own era.

I would never have to regret not having held on to such-and-such. Instead, I could say to the kid whose school was having “90s Grunge Day” for their week of “crazy” Homecoming days,

“Let me grab that hole-y green cardigan out of the attic, hon–you’ll have the best costume in the whole school!”

But as I’ve had to face plastic tubs of sentimental stuff I’ve kept from high school and college–I really do have an old-man sweater that I thought looked Kurt Cobain-ish when I bought it at the Salvation Army circa 1998–I’ve had to ask myself, “Whom, exactly, do I presume will be the recipient of all this ephemera?”

As every news outlet seems to announce on a monthly basis, women at my age are biologically supposed to be having kids by now (at least if they want to have a better chance at healthy ones).

And yet my husband and I–who’ve been married all of two months–happen to have other things on our immediate priority list than bringing a new life into the world (and hence changing both of our lives forever). Things like learning how to bridge our two single lives together. (Or at least finding a place for me to store my socks and underwear.)

Chapter 3: I’ve Finally Decided My Future Lies Beyond the Yellow-Pitted [war]‘drobe

I’ve come to realize that hanging on to stuff for the sake of my own nostalgia–or the sake of someone who might never exist–is actually causing me stress, rather than enjoyment.

The picnic basket I’ve had since seventh grade is stuffed with folded-notebook-paper notes my friends and I passed in junior high. I have all of them. No, really. ALL of them.

I still have every diary I’ve ever kept–and I started keeping a diary at, like, age 9.

Why–when I’d been alive all of a decade–did I feel a need, even back then, to document everything? Why this protective urge to be able to refer back to every lived moment?

It’s like whatever must possess people to carve proof of their existence into bathroom stalls and state-park trail signs: “I was here.”

And I guess I saved my Lollapalooza 1996 shirt because I wanted to prove to my future self what I was truly like at one time, not an edited, more flattering version of myself. (I thought I was so, so cool for getting to go that show–even though it was widely panned as “the year Lollapalooza sold out.”)

But I’ve got to free myself from this potential landslide caused by pieces of the past.

(And let’s say I do hang on to all this stuff for the sake of impressing my nephews? Ten years from now, if I relinquish my T-shirt from the 2001 Radiohead show, this is what I’ll hear: “That’s nice, Auntie, but…didn’t you ever go see Creed?”)

So, for now, (in a moment of strength), I’ve decided I’m going to get rid of as much of my memorabilia (or at least the wearable kind) as possible. Even if the only way I can get myself to do it is to stop to document it first, (as I’ve done below with a set of photos on Flickr).

(Now, don’t even ask me what the hell I’m gonna do with all those diaries.)