The Other Side Of Foursquare

Lately there has been a lot of buzz about Foursquare within my circle. First there was an article in the Boston Globe on October 21st entitled “Virtual tracking fosters real-life connections.” Then Ari Herzog wrote a blog post detailing why he deleted his Foursquare account. Finally, a friend of mine sent me a series of messages about a scary Foursquare experience she had recently.  I have no desire to beat a dead horse but there was a common denominator in all three instances which deserves a little more mulling over and discussion.

In the “about” section of the Foursquare website they describe the application as a “friend finder, a social city guide….Foursquare lets users ‘check in’ to a place when they’re there, tell friends where they are and track the history of where they’ve been and who they have been there with.” That is a lot of information to be sending out over the World Wide Web, especially in real time. So why are people so surprised when they are approached by a similarly connected stranger? Scary? Yes. Unexpected? Shouldn’t be.

One function of Foursquare is to allow people to track where other people are in real time. It is great for conferences where it is hard to find one’s friends within a field of hundreds. It is great for businesses to track those who frequent their establishments and what those people are saying about their business. Like anything else on the web, it can be abused. People are people. That is my shorthand for saying, not everyone has your best interest at heart.

When I check into Foursquare I am aware I have broadcast my location over the internet. Even if I have checked off the necessary boxes to not display my information to Twitter or my friends, it is the internet and things can go wrong. This is the scary new world we live in.

Stay safe, friends. You can increase your network and therefore your exponential reach to others but never give into the temptation to be lazy with the tools of the internet. You may not be a carpenter and a mobile application may not be a saw but that does not mean it can not cause you to lose more than a limb. 

Neither Owner Nor Parent

I know this post is going to make me sound like some sort of bare feet having, peasant dress wearing, granola eating, incense burning hippie. I am writing it anyway.

I love animals. I have several I cohabitate with voluntarily. They live in comfortable accommodations with plenty of food and water. Most people would call those accommodations cages but I leave the doors open so they can come and go as they please.  Usually no one but the parakeet pleases and he doesn’t so much. They are my friends. I hope I rescued them from worse lives they may have had but I am not a fortune teller.

They are not my children. I am not their mother. They may rely on me for comfortable dwellings and sustenance but they did not choose to be domesticated.  I give them what I can because I love them. In return, they love me. They trust me. They know I am the least likely person to hurt them. Isn’t that who most of us try to end up with? Those we think are least likely to hurt us?

I don’t own them. They are living beings, with hopes and desires like any other. They have a life they wish to live. Who can own that? Sure, sometimes I need to be the alpha and show them the way in life but that does not grant me ownership. I don’t refer to them as “pets” because I believe that sounds pejorative.  I am their guardian and nothing more. We trade companionship. I think I have the best deal.

I get annoyed by people saying I am their “mom” or their “owner.” I love these beings. I would not insult them by pretending to be either. They are smart, entertaining and loveable in exchange for respect and a proper home.

I worry about people who say they are a pet mother, father or owner. Maybe they have issues with wanting to have children or feel a need to dominate. That is not their animal companion’s issue. Is it really fair for a person to place their issues on another being?  I don’t happen to believe because humans are the dominant race on this planet it gives us the right to subjugate all others. It is because we are the dominant race on this planet that we are better than that. 

Ripping Down The Columbus Myth

If there is a more superfluous or insensitive holiday than Columbus Day, I have not heard of it. As children, we were instructed Columbus Day celebrates Christopher Columbus’ discovery of America. In fact, in the Bahamas, where Christopher Columbus first landed, it is called Discovery Day. But here is the rub: the continent of America had already been discovered and populated by massive tribes of people who lived, for the most part, in harmony with nature and each other.

An argument could be made (though you won’t see it from me) indigenous population collapse was an unfortunate byproduct of European colonization of the American land Columbus happened upon while seeking a direct route to the Indies but Christopher Columbus didn’t stop there. Not the least bit phased by legions of Native Americans dying from exposure to smallpox, influenza, bubonic plague and other diseases against which they had no natural physical resistance, Columbus gathered the living and transported them back to Spain for use as servants. Observing the native population Columbus wrote,

“They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance.... They would make fine servants.... With 50 men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want."

During his second voyage in 1495 Columbus wrote of the Indigenous people,

"Let us in the name of the Holy Trinity go on sending all the slaves that can be sold"

and he did, with many of them dying before they reached Spain. While it is impossible to know for sure, due to incomplete and, at times, biased record keeping, some historians estimate colonization of the American continent resulted in up to an eighty percent decrease in the Indigenous population. This was a convenient boon to Europeans since the decrease in indigenous population made it all that much easier to take over and repurpose Native American land and other resources.

Roman Catholic Bishop Bartolome de las Casas, who emigrated to Hispaniola in 1502, left some of the most complete diaries of Spanish conquest of the Americas. After witnessing the unprovoked slaughter of thousands of Tiano men, women and children, de las Casas wrote,

“I saw here cruelty on a scale no living being has ever seen or expects to see."

As early as 1511 Dominican Father Antonio de Montesinos termed the wholesale butchery of Indigenous Americans as genocide and asked,

"Tell me by what right of justice do you hold these Indians in such a cruel and horrible servitude? On what authority have you waged such detestable wars against these people who dealt quietly and peacefully on their own lands? Wars in which you have destroyed such an infinite number of them by homicides and slaughters never heard of before. Why do you keep them so oppressed and exhausted, without giving them enough to eat or curing them of the sicknesses they incur from the excessive labor you give them, and they die, or rather you kill them, in order to extract and acquire gold every day."

In his biography of Adolph Hitler author and historian John Toland wrote,

“Hitler's concept of concentration camps as well as the practicality of genocide owed much, so he claimed, to his studies of English and United States history. He admired the camps for Boer prisoners in South Africa and for the Indians in the wild west; and often praised to his inner circle the efficiency of America's extermination - by starvation and uneven combat - of the red savages who could not be tamed by captivity."

UCLA Professor and Historian Geoffrey Symcox, general editor of a volume of Columbus era documents entitled, “Repertorium Columbian” said of Christopher Columbus’ legacy:

"Many of the unflattering documents have been known for the last century or more, but nobody paid much attention to them until recently. The fact that Columbus brought slavery, enormous exploitation or devastating diseases to the Americas used to be seen as a minor detail - if it was recognized at all - in light of his role as the great bringer of white man's civilization to the benighted idolatrous American continent. But to historians today this information is very important. It changes our whole view of the enterprise." 

So why, if clergy, dictators and historians have known for centuries the true nature of Christopher Columbus, do we still celebrate a day in his memory? Over the past several years, when this holiday has rolled around and I have pointed out the true nature of the individual to whom this holiday is dedicated many people have grown defensive and said, “You can’t take my three day weekend from me!” While it would be barbaric of me to try to pry away from United States citizens a federal Monday holiday dedicated to the attempted mass extermination of an entire race, this is not my intent at all. I propose we instead do what South Dakota already does and declare the second Monday in October National Indigenous People’s Day. I’m not pretending this is my idea. It has been celebrated in Berkeley, California and several other municipalities since 1992, the five hundredth anniversary of Columbus’ first voyage to America. After more than half a millennia of perpetuating a false myth of a very flawed man isn’t it time we became honest about American history and give the remaining Indigenous population their due?  

(Image courtesy of emersonkent.com) 

Erase The Taboo

I have experienced a great deal of death in my life from my favourite Aunt who committed suicide when I was ten because she was no longer physically able to care for my infirmed Uncle, through my parents who died when I was twelve and twenty-two, to two siblings in the past few years. Most of my experience with death has been with the drawn out process of terminal illness, with the exception of my Aunt and my boyfriend Don, who died of an accident when I was twenty. I’m not a medical doctor, a psychologist, a sociologist or a philosopher but believe I can speak with some authority on the subject of death from having stared into its eyes more times than many people my age.  I am not frightened of death, though I’m in no hurry to meet it. I am frightened by what it does to the living: the emotional pain, the senseless worry, the callous denial of its existence.

Medical breakthroughs have extended life far beyond what was possible in the past. Many people routinely survive horrific diagnoses and carry on to live long, rich, meaningful lives but we still haven’t reached immortality. We all know how our life will eventually end and that is with death. So why is it most people can not talk about death openly? Why is it still so uncomfortable, a taboo?  

For centuries people shunned the dying and mourners who came in contact with the dead for fear it was “catching.” Widows could only come out in the dead of night because it was said, anything living they touched would wither and die. Intellectually most people know this is nonsense but yet many still behave that way. I’ve lost friendships with people who have a loved one with a grave diagnosis. Logically, they know I don’t carry death to all I meet simply because of my experience with it but why take chances, eh? I can cope with this but at times I feel this is a sickness greater than a life threatening terminal illness.

Our cultural fear of speaking of death and dying ill prepares us for our own demise and makes it all the more difficult for our loved ones to enjoy any quality of life they may have remaining when a doctor pronounces there is nothing further they can do, treatment-wise, for a terminally ill patient. I am disgusted by it. There is no sense to it. It makes me inordinately sad.

The saddest part of all is the effect it has on the living. Those who have suffered loss know what it is to not be able to discuss it in polite company, to bury their mourning. “Are they over their loss?” people will ask. The simple answer is, no. One never recovers from the loss of a loved one but they survive and sometimes they become better people. That simple revelation may make some, who have never lost a loved one, squeamish. It shouldn’t. The experience of mourning is inevitable (with the exception of children, who seem much more honest & adept at handling death). The one gift a person can accept from someone going through the mourning process is to listen and absorb their grace.

I have read it and seen it, time and again; when people are about to die, they have a “crisis of meaning.” What has my life meant? Even with death by accident, this is the “life flashing before your eyes.” Death happens and my inordinate sadness evolves from people unable or unwilling to accept that fact in their own life. The crisis of meaning is going to be all that much more difficult for them and for their loved ones when the day comes for them to say goodbye.

Palliative care has grown by leaps and bounds in the past fifty years. This means that someone who is dying can live largely without the pain, anxiety, loss of sleep, shortness of breath, nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting until their very final days. That innate fear we all have of going through that process is all but gone with modern medicine. I can promise you, as a witness, terminal illness shuts down the body, one organ at a time, in tidy order. The human machine is efficient and with modern care, death is often quite peaceful.

The primary cause of suffering among the dying is psychological distress (caused by loved ones who fear letting go) which undermines the capacity for pleasure and amplifies pain and other symptoms. It also impairs their ability to say “goodbye” on their own terms.  Is that what you want for your loved one? Is that what you want for yourself?

I hope I won’t have a crisis of meaning. When people want to discuss their loss, I’m there because through them, I meet another person to love. That is another person who has touched my soul even though they may not be on this terrestrial plane to do it in person. That is their meaning.

Morrie Schwartz, who eventually died of the effects of Lou Gehrig’s disease, said it most succinctly, “Death ends a life. Not a relationship.” I wish more people understood and embraced that. Everyone from the tiny infant too young to overcome weakness to the century old grandmother is remembered and loved by someone. Don’t let old taboos interfere with celebrating that life or helping others mourn and thereby grow to celebrate it or you’ll learn to regret it when you reach your own crisis of meaning.

(Image from Mark Voorendt under creative commons license, Mourning Angel at the churchyard of  San Miniato al Monte in Firenze, Italy)

On Bullies

For months I have been haunted by Phoebe Prince, the 15 year old South Hadley (Massachusetts) High School student who took her life after being bullied incessantly by classmates. I've read articles and the comments under those articles. Her classmates may have taunted Phoebe after her death but most of what I have seen has been outrage that the bullies were not stopped before the situation resulted in suicide.

Another theme I have seen running through the comments is people recognizing bullying has always existed. Why, in this instance, did this student succumb to it and decide to end her life? Was it because it was relentless and followed her home via Facebook, Twitter, Craigslist and Formspring? Couldn't she just shut these off? Or was it something unique to her situation?

From radio reports I have heard Phoebe Prince was a model student. None of her teachers in Ireland would have imagined her classmates treating her the way they did. She was neat in appearance, well behaved and earned good grades. She was loved by family and friends. She must have been excited to come to the United States, imagining all the people she would meet and opportunities awaiting her. Nothing could possibly have prepared her for what she received when she arrived here.

As I have mulled this over in my brain I had an epiphany the other night. Being loved has an unexpected dark side; you don't know how to behave or react when you are not loved. Everyone has to learn this eventually but how much can a fifteen year old have learned about hate without the exposure?

That isn't really how my epiphany started. It started when I realized I can't remember when I was NOT bullied. I wasn't “supposed to be born.” I “ruined all our lives by being born.” If I wasn't born “everything would have been better.” I could go on with the phases etched in my brain by my older siblings but I don't think that is necessary.

Our mother was my saving grace but there wasn't much she could do once I was in school. Back then you did not question educators for fear they would kick your child out of school. They put me in the “stupid class” because “you Devlins are stupid and never amount to anything.” There I was treated like “white trash” even though my mother paid the deepest attention to make sure I was clothed well, had manners and good grooming.

In high school I was informed they were “expecting me.” They knew I'd “be trouble” because there had been a line of Devlins before me who proved “you are no good.” I don't think anyone likes to be type cast, especially when you are not the one casted but people before you. But I was used to it by now and knew there was little I could do. I was a freak my freshman year when my father, brother in law and grandfather all died within six months of each other. I never missed an hour of school. (There as a scholarship for perfect attendance.) Kids aren't used to death but adults are and children follow the lead of adults.

I discovered power my sophomore year of high school. I was not a suicide risk but I did not really care if I died. I saw a known bully unmercifully picking on a freshman and I stepped in. I said something like,
“You want to pick on someone, pick on me. You do it anyhow. She's fat and defenseless. An easy target. Go ahead, beat my face in.”

And it didn't happen. Neither to me nor the originally intended victim. (We became friends). I learned then it's no fun when your target is unafraid of what you may do to them. I wasn't unafraid. I did not care. Subtleties in those definitions are rarely picked up by bullies.

After that I was bullied by the school administration. They tried to keep me out of the honor society. In my school you had to not only academically excel but also excel in the community. I was a First Class Girl Scout (equivalent of Eagle Scout in Boy Scouts) and was Head Acolyte in my church as well as being in the choir. My art teacher spoke up for me: Ryder Martin, and his wife, my home room teacher, Mrs. Margaret Martin. I'll never forget that. Some people are just golden.

Senior year, our class project was to clean and make beautiful the quadrangle of our high school. I helped. While I was out there the Spanish Teacher, Ms. Hartung, interrupted her class to yell out the window, “Isn't that appropriate? Trash cleaning up trash.” I kept doing what I was doing. Funny to think of that now. Teachers could get away with more back then without repercussion. Behavior like that is not right but we were tougher back then. When there is little recourse, you have to be.

In college, freshman year, I was raped. I reported it to the Assistant Dean of Students and was informed, “That doesn't happen at our school. If you want to remain a student here, you would do well to remember that.”

When I was twenty two, Mum died. After being her primary care giver for months, I rushed back to work and my siblings divided my belongings, as well as hers, when settling the estate. They neglected the portion of her will that singled me out to divide everything she had not specifically willed to others.

It goes on and on to this day. I am adult now; old enough to have my own children, had not decided early on I would never subject a child to the possibility of the life I have had. Since I can not guarantee my child would never say, “I wish I were never born,” I can not in good conscious have a child.

When my oldest sister calls, she can still make me mental. For days. Mind you, she does not call often. She only calls when someone is dead or dying. She left me alone for a while, lulling me into a false sense of serenity. I raised her ire when she found out I had been communicating with our ill sister in law before she had the opportunity to tell me she was dead. She did not plan to tell me until after her funeral and there I was, AT her funeral. Her joy is telling me enough to upset me but not enough to have closure with anyone in our family. Heck, she made up a drug dependency with our mother's half of family. She told them I was hopelessly addicted to something requiring rehabilitation. Me, who just went through wisdom tooth removal without filling my prescription for narcotics. You can't combat that kind of rumour because then you just look like you are in denial. So I had to kiss half my family goodbye. When you are bullied you learn to be a realist. Even if doing so is painful.

Our oldest brother leaves me alone, for the most past. As a little girl I worshiped him. When he flung me face first on concrete that was a little passive aggressive wake up call. When he embezzled funds from our mother's estate, I uncovered it and held him accountable. That was our playground moment. “Go ahead, beat my face in.” I know even more he has done and I think he is aware of that so he leaves me alone. Best not to wake a sleeping tiger.

Even through social media I have met people who bully. Someone gains fame through something remarkable and lets that define them. Suddenly none of their other actions matter. They feel they are bigger than you or anything you contribute to them. You are an ass to think otherwise. Unless you have spent a lifetime being bullied and manipulated. Then you can walk away from that behavior even if it makes you a pariah. You still have your soul.

I now have no wonder Phoebe Prince took her own life but it does not make me less sad. She likely saw her future life being full of manipulation and bullying. She did not want to live in that world. I don't want to either. But there is light in that world. When one has moments of triumph despite the deck being stacked against them, the triumph is sweeter. I wasn't “supposed to be born” and was a “mistake.” I am “stupid” and will “never amount to anything” but I am still here. And I speak for the stupid, worthless detritus, like me, who sprinkle mankind. We survive. We even accomplish great things when we are allowed to. Look at the civil rights movement.

Phoebe, I will never forget your trial. One reason for your fifteen years on earth was for the eventual wake up call to everyone else. We could use more people like you. What saddens me most is, this was not your battle to fight. You were and still are loved. It should have been me. I was born and raised for this battle.

Go ahead, beat my face in.

(Image courtesy of: http://www.themedguru.com )

You Said What?

I was thinking of this anecdote today and decided to share it. I am often torn between speaking my mind or playing it safe. Anyone who knows me knows the former usually overpowers the later. I believe most people think this is to my detriment. I am very good at controlling my impulses when acting on behalf of another but when I am being me, I tell people what I think. I am poor at playing politics. I know fully what is most popular to do and say but it is not always what is honest or real. I hope this means people know where they stand with me. I have the same tools to bullshit as others do but primarily choose not to use them.

I took a temporary position with a much maligned company within my industry. It turned out, they were great. They treated me with courtesy and respect plus they were really good at what they did so it was a joy to go there. What was supposed to be a short term position lasted months because they liked the work I did. There are certain freedoms about working as a temporary employee for a company - you are expendable. You can be replaced. Some might have fear from this but I find it freeing because my expectations are so low. Now onto the story...

I went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and two executive looking types where bitching about the quality of the coffee. The building we were in had a cafe so they had another choice if they were compelled. As I waited for them, I could not help but hear them malign what the company had to offer. When they finally got out of my way but did not leave the kitchen I said they should be thankful the company provided anything at all. Not all companies offer a full kitchen and free coffee. The company was under no obligation to provide them coffee. I pointed out they didn't know how good they had it and had no right to complain about a service that was free. They acted ashamed and both agreed they were out of line to be complaining about something minor, they were not entitled to.

A few weeks later I was invited to a company party. I did not officially work there, so it felt slightly awkward but my manager & coworkers seemed to really want me to attend. There I learned the two executive looking types were the President and Vice President of the company. They remembered me and laughed at my discomfort at realising who they were. Both said they wished more of their "real" employees were as grateful as I am. I was soon after hired as a direct, full time employee at a salary exceeding that of most employees in my position.

Image courtesy: http://thetweetermama-becausemamasaidso.blogspot.com/

Suitcases and Other Such Baggage

“The thing is, it's really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs - if yours are really good ones and theirs aren't. You think if they're intelligent and all, the other person, and have a good sense of humor, that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. They really do. It's one of the reasons why I roomed with a stupid bastard like Stradlater. At least his suitcases were as good as mine.”
Holden Caulfield, Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

Today I heard someone speak this quote from the character Holden Caulfield in Catcher In The Rye and it really struck me. I'm not sure I could have expressed this as an adolescent but I know just what the character means.

Notice this statement is from the viewpoint of the more affluent Caulfield. “You think...that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. They really do.” So who is the one who is really bothered by the difference? Caulfield is uncomfortable enough that he would rather room with a “stupid bastard.” He is not immune to the differences between them and acts accordingly. The last time I became homeless, people who spoke with me the week before suddenly stopped speaking with me. This may have happened when I was previously homeless but I had not noticed. All I know is, I had not asked anyone for anything but they still steered clear. Once I struggled to my feet again a few of those people reflected to me how admirable it was that I was able to work my way back to normalcy again.

I think it would be asking a lot of me to forget who those people are. I have not. I never bring it up but it is there. It taught me what is in the heart of many. If people see a weakness, in this case poverty, people will shun you as Caulfield shunned his roommate. I've learned that about people. I knew it before but could not express it effectively and besides, who would I express it to?

I often feel strong knowing the things I've survived but then I feel weak because I am forever the pariah. I don't have a safety net. I can't “network.” Networking involves schmoozing , connecting and being connected with others in the hope that something will come back to you. Don't get me wrong – I'm not a wallflower. I enjoy meeting people so I can connect them with other people. The only one that is missing from the equation is me.

Sometimes I am angry I am not like other people but that same thing that is not like other people is appealing for some and liberating for me. I don't have to kiss ass because I am not going to get anything in return regardless of my behavior. Knowing that, it is freeing to be who I am. I know how to play the game but I won't because people are the same in the end, whether you ask anything of them or not. They worry about themselves, their image, what spoils they will collect.

Like Caulfield's roommate, people can see my suitcase. It may be sturdier and show fewer nicks but it's the same suitcase. I can't leave behind the suitcase because that luggage remembers who I am. Funny how it never works in reverse. No one gripes of good baggage gone bad except the tabloids. Even the tabloids admire a good suitcase that has gone around the world, been beaten up but returns well, to the right destination.

People expect bad baggage to return where it came from or not at all. And if it was bad to begin with, who will miss it?

Concentrating On Cancer And The Cure

Today is the first day of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. If you know me at all you know I am an advocate for cancer patients, survivors and  a cure for cancer so obviously I am in favour of a whole month focused on ANY cancer awareness. Early detection of breast cancer is important because it is the most prevalent form of cancer among women with 26.57% of female cancer diagnoses being breast cancer. The statistic for men is .25% of all cancer diagnoses. Although the statistic for men is far lower, it should not be overlooked. It is interesting to note that although the diagnosis of breast cancer is most prevalent among women, the number one cancer killer for women is lung/bronchus cancer with a death rate of 5.04 compared to just 2.84 for breast cancer.  These statistics* show early detection often leads to survival.
* Statistics from the National Cancer Institute www.cancer.gov.

I am all for the promotion of mammograms and other forms of early detection. What I am not all for are the images used to promote this. I think it is hazardous, misleading and insulting to suggest to women they need to be on guard for breast cancer so they don't lose their breasts. Everyone, female and male, should be on guard against breast cancer so they don't lose their LIVES. It is dangerous to suggest a woman is not a woman without her breasts. It is equally dangerous to suggest breast cancer is a female risk because females are culturally identified by their breasts whereas men typically are not.

One byproduct of this image of women leads some women to put off early detection for fear of losing one or both breasts. Another byproduct is leading some breast cancer survivors into undergoing additional painful, ELECTIVE breast reconstruction surgery. I am not saying I am against breast reconstruction surgery. That is an individual choice but it should be seen as a CHOICE, not as another step in the treatment process. We should shift the focus on early detection for survival and raising funds for actual treatment and a cure rather than bowing down to an outdated superficial image which is damaging to both the women and the men who develop this disease.