Intermedia Arts presents Queer Voices: LGBTQIA+ Reading Series September 27, 2016 | 7:30PM At Intermedia Arts | 2822 Lyndale Ave South | Minneapolis $5-25 Suggested Donation Supports the Series!
I got an email today from excellent writer and fine person Dale Gregory Anderson, a man who has been nothing but kind to me for as long as I’ve known him. Check out his website here. I consulted Dale several years ago about a story I was writing. He read it, suggested changes, and generally encouraged me to continue working on it. I did, and it became one of my best publications (“Seizure,” Spring 2014 Ploughshares, listed under “Other Distinguished Stories of 2014” in BASS 2015.)
Dale’s got two big events coming up, so I’d like to begin to return his many favors by letting you know about them. The first is an Intermedia Arts event publicized above. On Tuesday, September 27 at 7:30 p.m., Dale will be reading as a part of this distinguished series. Below is his bio and, and the here’s the link to the event.
Dale Gregory Anderson has published short stories in North American Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Indiana Review, The Greensboro Review, and other journals. He earned an M.F.A. from the University of Arizona and has received a number of awards for his work, including a Loft Mentor Series award, a SASE/Jerome award, a Jerome Foundation travel grant, and the Jack Dyer Fiction Prize from Crab Orchard Review. He is a fiscal year 2016 recipient of an Artist Initiative grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board.
This Intermedia Arts event is a kind of “pay what you can” situation. But there’s another event being conducted by Dale that’s ABSOLUTELY FREE: a class he’s teaching at the Walker Library in Minneapolis on revising your fiction. I tried for about an hour to reproduce here the cool flyer he’s prepared, but I had to settle for a kind of cut and paste. You get the idea:
Join Minneapolis writer Dale Gregory Anderson for a free class on revising fiction. Whether you write short stories or novels, this class will explore many of the techniques writers use to develop characters with the emotional complexity and motivation needed to drive a work of literary fiction. All you need to bring is a pen and paper or a laptop. While we won’t have time to critique individual manuscripts, participants will have a chance to ask questions.
This is a wonderful opportunity made possible by a very talented friend of mine. You’ll only be sorry if you miss it.
Neon-colored cells divide in a cell culture. Wendy Crone and graduate student Suehelay Acevedo are looking at how the mechanical properties of their surrounding might influence cells during division. The green stain marks centrosomes, which are one of the main mechanical components involved in cell division. The blue marks cell nuclei, and the red marks the DNA of dividing cells. Images by Max Salick
In her August 24 love letter, EA Farrow writes, among many other things, about how she fell in love with a microscope as a child. About the microscope as a tool to her better understanding the “forests of 8,000 years ago,” research of which has been a part of her scientific career. And then she talks about introducing her microscope to her young children:
I pulled out my scope this morning, touched it like I would a lover. I introduced it to the boys like it was an old friend. I felt the urge to dive in, leave off. But what we had to look at was bits of our neighborhood: oak leaf, dirt, kale, onion skin. I could see without looking the cell walls, reaching vein structures. As if once you see, you cannot forget the level of detail in each bit of life.
My husband is a pathologist, the only other person I know to use the near-to- affectionate word “scope” for microscope. We’ve purchased a few, one a long time ago when we could ill afford it and yet it is the microscope and my husband’s keen eye that has made most things in our life possible. It is why those good eyes of his have gone myopic and why his body wishes he wouldn’t sit so much. It is what has helped him recognize disease: inflammation, infection, cancer. He has saved lives–many, many lives–with his scope.
He told me yesterday about a remote place in the world where surgery for cancer occurs, but there are no pathologists. No scopes to find detail in tumorous cells that might help make a diagnosis, which predicts a prognosis, which directs a clinician to treatment. Life saving treatment, but not without a scope. Without a scope, without a pathologist with a keen eye looking through a scope, people in these small and remote villages sometimes purchase a container (from container-selling vendors who set up shop near surgery clinics) in which to place and preserve, with the appropriate chemicals, the tumors removed from their loved one’s bodies. Families take the tumors (and, presumably, their loved ones) home, and wait until they can raise enough money to later bring the preserved tumor to a setting where a pathologist practices.
Only then do they get to see the tiniest details in this bit of life (and possibly death) of the people they love. Only then do they benefit from the keen eye of a pathologist, as s/he looks through that miracle of science, the microscope, to the miracles of science, ourselves, our cells.
It may seem odd to some that in a love letter to science, I’m writing to you, since you’ve been gone now for over three years. But today you came back to me, and if it wasn’t through science I don’t know how it happened.
Your namesake grandson is home, as you may know–I’m not about to go all “I know you’re watching from on high,” although I refuse to eliminate the possibility. Anyway, he’s home for a few weeks before he moves to his apartment. The other day he made a pasta salad and I liked it so much I thought I’d try to replicate it today. In preparation, last night I grilled him on the ingredients–how much pasta? How much salami? Any must-have other ingredients? Yes, he said. Mushrooms, artichokes and roasted red peppers.
I think I may have made pasta salad on occasion when he was a kid but I’m certain I never used roasted red peppers, because various other food-consumers in the household do not like peppers, thank you very much. So I haven’t opened a jar of roasted red peppers in…well, in a very long time. And yet there I was today, pulling those beautiful red peppers, quite tightly packed, out of their little glass jar.
And there you were, too.
You were at the kitchen table. It was lunchtime on a Saturday, and on the dining room table were a host of delicious, familiar ingredients: a long loaf of crispy Italian bread, deli-paper-wrapped slices of salami and provolone, and you, fishing (with your oversized fingers) for roasted red peppers out of the jar.
You made this “better keep myself from drooling over this uber-tasty food” sound, and you made this face I can see as clearly as if you were sitting next to me, today: wide-eyed, purse-mouthed, anticipatory. All for our entertainment, of course. All out of a true love for salami and provolone and an even truer love for a weekend lunch, together.
I don’t know exactly what memories are–like what they ARE, in the world. But they seem to me to be some extension of consciousness, which is the world’s best science question, right? What is the biochemistry of consciousness?
And what triggers a memory? If you’re lucky, and I am, it’s love. And then it’s something else, too: a smell, the reach of fingers into a small jar, the taste of a Saturday afternoon.
Thanks for stopping by today, Dad. Come again soon.
In Sunday’s Minneapolis Star Tribune there was an excellent article by writer Mila Koumpilova, Years with no nation, 90 days to become a Minnesotan. I read it with great interest, not only for the story it tells about the remarkably difficult passage of recently immigrated Somalis to the Minnesotan/American mainstream, but because my daughter has done similar work in Utah for the past several months.
Here in Minnesota, the caseworker’s name is Katia Iverson and you should click on the link simply for the opening photograph (which I unfortunately couldn’t reproduce here) of Katia standing by as several children of the Abdullahi family experiment with turning on an electric lamp. The simple phrase “their first home visit” immediately brings to mind the many phone conversations I’ve had with my daughter, who worked (continues to work, even as she returns to her academic teaching and research position this fall) tirelessly to find landlords willing to rent to immigrant families new to Utah, people with no credit rating and who often do not speak English. As you can imagine, that’s not an easy task, but workers (angels) like Katia, my daughter and some open-minded landlords seem to be making it happen, and places like Minnesota and Utah are welcoming families like the Abdullahi’s.
I would so much prefer you read the article I’m going to make this short today. Milo Koumpilova is wonderfully understated in describing the experience of the Abdullahi family as they transition to life in the United States. If you’ve ever thought “These people have it made, coming here,” please read Years with no nation, 90 days to become a Minnesotan. If you’ve thought recent immigrant experiences are comparable to your own family’s century-old immigration story, please read Years with no nation, 90 days to become a Minnesotan.
And please keep Katia Iverson and my daughter and every person in each of the families they’ve worked to settle here in your prayers. May these families be safe until they are comfortable, hopeful until things start to go their way, proud of their courage and resolve, always. And may all of us do our best to welcome them.
Friend, excellent writer, dog lover and fine man Brad Zellar wrote in a recent Facebook post that he was at a local SuperAmerica when a man buying a lottery ticket glanced at a newspaper displaying the photo above, with which many of us are now distressingly familiar, and said,
“Boo hoo, some kid in Iraq had to go to the hospital.”
Brad had a few reflections on this. The following are my selections, statements of Brad’s that stayed with me long after I closed my computer.
To the guy at SuperAmerica I just said, “Syrian. The kid is Syrian,” and
There was a time not all that long ago when I really believed that very, very few people were genuinely evil. I’m starting to change my tune on that. I think the loneliness of this century is corrosive, and is an incubator for terrifying psychopathy, and
I just cannot grasp the extent to which so many people seem to be completely bankrupt in the empathy department.
When and why have we become so bankrupt of empathy? My computer definition of empathy is “the ability to understand and share the feelings of another.” How is it possible that a grown man could look at the photo of this child and be absolutely unmoved by the boy’s suffering? And even if he were, privately, unmoved, why in God’s name would he say such a blatantly evil thing out loud?
Evil–Brad’s word and mine. Again, a definition: “profoundly immoral and malevolent.” Yes. Both. If you object to finding this man’s attitude immoral, I would ask you this: What has happened to our collective sense of responsibility for children? You could argue endlessly that if this child were grown, to some degree he participated in his situation. But this kid looks like he’s about five years old. He did NOTHING to warrant a fire-bombed house caving in on him, NOTHING to deserve having his 10-year-old brother die in the same air raid, NOTHING to sit, alone, injured, frightened into a silence he will no doubt hear for the rest of his days.
And if the guy is bereft of compassion because the child is from another place in the world, a place he couldn’t even be bothered to accurately name? Here’s the fact of the matter, the evil of the matter: An adult American man, a man who in spite of whatever circumstances he may be living in here is among the luckiest 5% of the world, made light of a child’s suffering. Publicly.
What might motivate such a response? Brad suggests loneliness, perhaps the unique isolation of our times. At first, I’m not sure I agree. I’ve been plenty lonely at times (Brad, too, I think) and I’m guessing neither of us has come close to expressing it in this way. Is the guy a psychopath, then? Can we excuse his behavior as that of a mentally ill person? I think I’d need to confirm that–walk home with him, see how he behaves with the people in his house who love him and eat with him and sit with him in the evenings. But now maybe I’m getting somewhere, somewhere closer to what Brad is saying. What if the guy comes home to no one? What if he comes home to no one and flips open his computer to hours of porn? Or what if he comes home and there ARE people there but there might as well not be, because the guy is going to drink a six-pack and go to bed without a word to any of them? Or maybe they all hate him even before he pops the first can, for things that are simply true: that he works too hard/too little; that he says things that embarrass them; that he’s inadequate six ways to Sunday; that it’s been so long since anyone has shown him patience or kindness he’s forgotten what they mean; that he’s quick to anger because anger is easy and he is tired.
Aw, crap. Now I’m feeling sorry for the guy.
You know what that’s called?
Feeling that you are alone in this way, that not another soul in the world has your back, that not one person cares about what you are feeling: yes, I suppose this could lead to the empathy vacuum this man has fallen into. And if, instead of feeling angry at the guy (kinda easy) I try to walk just a few steps in his shoes, it seems I approach Brad’s more evolved way of thinking: that perennial, intense loneliness, absolute isolation from the love of another human being is what makes a person, in the end, not care about anybody else.