Whole-hearted Evil: Kermit Gosnell

     They say he joked about the size of some of his victims. “Big enough to walk to the bus stop.” They say he kept the feet. Cut them from the bodies and preserved them in jars. Trophies, I think, like the head of a deer, or the skin of a Jew stretched onto a lamp shade. At the trial, he smiled. Found guilty of three child-murders, he seemed surprised. Too evil to be real. But real.

     In Perelandra, by C. S. Lewis, the character Ransom wakes one morning to the discovery of the body of a colorful little frog, crippled and left to suffer. “The whole back had been ripped open in a sort of V-shaped gash, the point of the V being a little behind the head. Something had torn a widening wound backward—as we do in opening an envelope—along the trunk and pulled it out so far behind the animal that the hoppers or hind legs had  been almost torn off with it… He told himself that a creature of that kind probably had very little sensation. But it did not much mend matters.”

     Ransom follows a trail of twenty mutilated animals. It leads him to the character Weston tearing yet another frog, “almost surgically inserting his forefinger, with its long sharp nail, under the skin behind the creature’s head and ripping it open… Then he finished the operation, threw the bleeding ruin away, and looked up. Their eyes met.”   

     Weston “looked at Ransom in silence and at last began to smile… a devilish smile… It seemed to summon Ransom, with horrible naïveté of welcome, into the world of its own pleasures, as if all men were at one in those pleasures, as if they were the most natural thing in the world and no dispute could ever have occurred about them. It was not furtive or ashamed… Ransom perceived that he had never before seen anything but half-hearted and uneasy attempts at evil. This creature was whole-hearted. The extremity of its evil had passed beyond all struggle into some state which bore a horrible similarity to innocence. It was beyond vice…”

          They say he joked about the size of some of his victims. “Big enough to walk to the bus stop.” They say he kept the feet. Cut them from the bodies and preserved them in jars. Trophies, I think, like the head of a deer, or the skin of a Jew stretched onto a lamp shade. At the trial, he smiled. Found guilty of three child-murders, he seemed surprised. Too evil to be real. But real.

Sterling Garbage Men

  

     “Even our garbage men are white,” said the city manager of a town with a nasty past of racial violence. I was a girl reporter at the time, as white as they come, blonde and blue-eyed, and he seemed to assume I would be impressed with the pallor of the city’s staff. I thought he was an idiot. That was 40 years ago, so he may have gone to his reward. I just hope his soul came to life before he met his Maker. Since then, I’ve lived in neighborhoods served by the full spectrum of garbage men, and I’ve found the content of their character to be, for the most part, sterling, regardless of the outer layer.

     Across the street from us once lived a retired couple. The husband was disabled, so the wife did all the outside work, including hauling the garbage down to the curb. One particular garbage collector, a very large black man, always carried the can up the driveway to the garage after emptying it. This was the only house that got such extra service. If the woman was outside, the collector would greet her cheerfully. He was doing a kindness to a little white lady, just because he saw she could use some help. I was so impressed, I called the garbage collection company to tell them about it and congratulate them on the quality of their employees. I think the woman who took the call was happy to hear something other than a complaint.

     Sometimes my little grandson and I are outside when the recycling truck comes by. The men, who mostly appear to be Hispanic, always smile and wave at three-year-old Edward, and the driver blows the horn. The guy who empties our bin into the hopper knows he’s putting on a show for the pre-school cutie-pie, so he pulls the lever with a flourish and grins at the rapt little face as the machinery roars, lifts and crashes. He gives a thumbs-up as he hops back onto the truck.

     This morning, I happened to be out by the mailbox when the garbage truck pulled up. I crossed the driveway, smiled at the man who emptied the can, and said, “Thank you.”

     He answered with enthusiasm, “You’re welcome, ma’am.” That made me wonder how often he and his co-workers hear thanks, or even how often they are recognized as human beings. Hey, everybody! These men are doing a strenuous and very important job. (What would we do with our garbage otherwise?) They deserve a smile, a wave, and a word of gratitude.

Oh, That's Just Swell

One of these days, I'm going to get into a fistfight with a museum docent. I often find myself disagreeing with their analysis of a painting as I lurk on the edge of a tour group. (I never sign up for the tour groups, but I do sidle up to them out of curiosity.) At the Corcoran Gallery in Washington, DC, one such group and I stood in front of the painting above, "Ground Swell," painted in 1939 by Edward Hopper. The docent asked whether anyone was familiar with Hopper's best-known painting, "Nighthawks." None of the group knew it, but I raised my hand. It's the rather depressing nighttime view from outside a diner where a few customers and staff are not looking at each other. One of those existential things. "Ground Swell" is in the sunshine, but it has its own grimness. Note the year, said the docent. 1939. War is in full swing in Europe. The US is not in yet. It wasn't a big leap to agree that the painting suggests rough waters ahead for these carefree young Americans. What kind of shape are the guys in? Buff! What are they wearing? White pants! What do the pants suggest? Blank stares. The Navy! Soon they'll be in the Navy! Um, OK. But white is traditional sailing attire, military or not. In my symbology, the white suggested the innocence of the young folks out for a day of fun. There's a little sad irony in the idea that these strong, handsome, untroubled young men may soon be tested (wasted?) in war. Each focuses on the buoy bobbing in the swell. Here's where I really had to bite my opinionated tongue. The docent quoted some art expert who said the buoy is shaped like an old-fashioned radio, the radio being the main news source of the day, through which came rumors of war. Sorry, but that's not the shape of any radio that ever stood in my grandparents' home, or turns up in photos of the era. The large wooden radio cabinets were either rectangular or shaped like an arch, a column with a curved top. Come on, experts, that buoy is a pyramid with the top cut off. No resemblance. My interpretation: the buoy is an elemental sort of warning. A disturbance in the sea tips it and makes the bell clang, but it doesn't spell out the nature of the problem. The sailors who hear it must listen, look, and try to gauge the threat. The posture of the men suggests they have heard the bell and are wondering, "Hmm, how seriously should we take this?" The woman lying so casually next to the mast seems calm. Perhaps she represents hearth and home, which the men may soon be called upon to protect. She's counting on it. Over all, I thought the docent and his expert were trying a little too hard to make the painting tell a story by assigning such specific meanings to elements. What does the coffee cup represent in "Nighthawks"? Anyway, I kept my mouth shut and sauntered away to absorb some nifty bronzes by Remington, St. Gaudens and freres. In the 1800s, the US had a booming production of bronze sculpture, but it faded away after the first world war. Who knew? Off to the museum cafe for a plate of Amish chicken salad. Honest. But with no bonnets or buggies in evidence, the chicken could have been a Presbyterian.

Fiend in Fern Form

      When I saw big pots of asparagus fern for sale in BJ's the other day, I had to stifle an "NNNNGH" worthy of Miss Piggy. Asparagus fern. Stores sell it. People pay money for it. And I can't get rid of it in my yard.
It creeps through the fence, as you see on the right.
It luxuriates under the azaleas, as you see below.
 
 
 It sprouts innocent-looking, pale green pioneers which soon send runners out in every direction, like the ones lurking behind the blossoms below. 

 

The stems get thicker, and they produce nasty little thorns that make it impossible to pull the little blighters up without leather gloves. If you don't get the roots, new stems pop up in a trice. Asparagus fern! Did someone actually buy a potful and plant it somewhere near my house? Thanks a lot, unknown person. Couldn't you find any plague-bearing rats to introduce? Or rabid bats? Who thinks this noxious weed is pretty? Who thinks it should be cultivated? Bizarrely enough, biology students-- horticulture students? obnoxiousness students?-- grow the stuff in the greenhouse attached to the Hillsdale College science building. When I saw it during a weekend visit, I nearly collapsed in a paroxysm of irony. Unless they are growing it to find an antidote, (Aside from being invasive, it's poisonous in leaf and berry.) I want to tell them "Noooooooo!" but no one is there to hear my protest.

  If that weren't enough, they also had pots of other green vermin, the "tuberous sword fern," which would take over every yard in Florida if homeowners slacked in their vigilance. Sheesh. I've yanked it out by the bushel and still alarm the neighbors when I attack the ubiquitous new sprouts with a loud "yaaaa!" 
   Please, please, growers of green things, not every plant is your friend. Beware the photosynthetical rabbit, the botanical tribble, the wire coat hanger of the plant world. The sanity you save could be mine.
 

Don't Worry Your Little Head

A scientist/artist marvels at infant development.

Thousands of comments greeted Alexander Tsiaras's artistic presentation of life in the womb. Many were hostile. His biggest crime? He called it a baby. In other words:

     Don’t tell me about the vertebrae that form to hold a spinal cord. Don’t tell me about the neural cells that meet to make a brain. Don’t tell me how the eyelids form. Don’t tell me about the little hands that meet across the heart. When the heart beats, don’t tell me. Don’t worry my head with fingerprints, or DNA, or bones. I have a right, you know, to choose.

     So don’t you dare say “baby.” I have a right to words that sound not-human--zygote, foetus, embryo. I don’t care what your dictionary says about “unborn humans.” No “baby.” That word is anti-choice. I will not say what I have chosen. Damn your transitive verbs. I choose a choice. A choice to choose. No “what.” No “whom.” Don’t ask me.

     You try to show me pictures. I won’t look. How dare you try to make me see. I’ll keep my mass of cells, my blob, my thing no different from a chicken, no better than a lizard. Those can be cut and crushed and burned, and I don’t have to feel a thing. That’s all I will remember. A wart, a fingernail, a cyst. It’s gone.

     Besides, I’m just a teen. I’m starting my career. I have to finish school. The guy doesn’t care. Besides. It’s my body. It’s my life. It’s my choice. I don’t want to be tied down. Adoption? That’s too hard. Besides. Some kids are poor. Wouldn’t it be better not to live?  Unwanted, wouldn’t it better not to live? Besides, the baby… no, the foetus… no, the product of conception might grow up to be a criminal. Might grow up. Might grow. Wouldn’t it be better not to live? I’ll decide.

     Keep your scans and sonograms. Keep your physiology. Keep your scientific observations and your logic. Keep your photos and your Bible and your wonder. Keep it. It’s only propaganda. It’s only meant to deny me choice. Don’t use it. Don’t tell me. Don’t show me. I will not see.

 

Valley Forge Vision

A group of half-starved men, their feet wrapped in rags, huddles around a small fire built of the few sticks they could scavenge from the snowy ground of Valley Forge. They try to warm their stiffened hands over the feeble flames. One of the men looks across the little circle and says, “Caleb, why do you fight?”

“Well,” says the one so addressed, “I see a day when an enormous government will collect a larger percentage of the people’s money in taxes than King George does today, and they will scarcely bat an eye. And you, Micah?”

“Ah,” came the answer, “‘tis like your vision, as I imagine whole generations of citizens dependent upon that great government for their bread. In fact, there should be more of them than there are people who pay the taxes.”

“Of course, that means the Holy Scriptures will have to be ignored,” another of the soldiers spoke. “How I long to see schoolchildren prevented from reading them. Even public display of the Commandments should be forbidden, and certainly no cross must be seen in any public place.”

“A worthy goal, no doubt, Ezra. Beyond that, oh, picture it. Some day our daughters will be able to shack up with men, and we will have no fear of their becoming pregnant out of wedlock, because they will be free to kill off our grandchildren.”

“Mm, yes, imagine. That is why we fight,” arose from every throat about the fire. “And certainly our children should be forbidden to carry such firearms as we use to feed and protect our families and our freedom.” Then all became silent. Pairs of eyes met across the flames. Each of the group rose, and with a muttered, “Hell, we might as well keep the king,” they shouldered what tattered packs they owned and trudged away into the darkness, leaving the struggling fire to die in the snow.  

Hillsdale and Handel

     Are you supposed to hallucinate during Handel’s Messiah? I guess I didn’t actually hallucinate. It was more like synesthesia, seeing sound as shapes and color. Whatever it was, it happened to this Floridian in Michigan in a Baptist church that looked Episcopalian while listening to a mostly-student production of what may be the most nearly perfect piece of music ever composed on this earth. I’d been looking forward to this concert since my youngest son first applied to Hillsdale College in Hillsdale, Michigan, and I learned they put on the Messiah every four years in order to give every singer/musician a chance to participate. Isaac is a junior, and he was in the choir. I flew up for the weekend and attended both Friday and Saturday performances.

     Just being on the Hillsdale campus starts my perceptions altering. Strolling the “quad,” I feel I’ve been transported into a Jimmy Stewart film with the same spirit of serious study, good fun and general wholesomeness. Students smile at me and say hello. This does not happen on large state university campuses. Jeans and sweatshirts abound, but so do pretty dresses, trim wool coats and fanciful scarves. Some of the young men wear coats and ties, and even fedoras, if they happen to be members of a certain music fraternity. If my math is correct, a good tenth of the students are part of the Messiah choirs and orchestra. Their majors include everything from math to economics to biology, not just music.

     I’m told that all tickets are spoken for, and the College Baptist Church fills quickly from floor to balcony. The stained glass, high ceiling and exposed beams look more like Episcopal style than the Southern Baptist churches of my youth, and they make a perfect setting for the music. Robed choristers file onto rows of risers, followed by the Chamber Choir, boys in black suits and red ties, girls in elegant black dresses with sweetheart necklines. In the center of the orchestra is an ornate harpsichord.

     At Christmas time, I inundate my kitchen with Messiah on CD, the Academy of Ancient Music version, conducted by Christopher Hogwood. I’ve never heard the whole thing in person before, and I’m pretty excited when the overture begins. There’s the tenor, “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people…” The choir belts out  “And the glory, the glory of the Lord shall be re-veal-ed…” Do choirs belt? At any rate, the powerful rush of sound tells me I’m to be carried out of the ordinary. They are singing the Bible to me, and I think they must believe what they are singing, or at least have a pretty good idea of the majesty and eternal importance of the words. The students all have papers due and finals to prepare for, yet they’ve devoted themselves to this production. It’s a fine thing.

     One of the lovely sopranos steps forward and begins her aria, “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion…” I close my eyes to marvel at the richness and intricacy of the sound. How does it come from a human throat? Here is the synesthesia. The sound rises in plumes, bright white on one side, shaded on the other, curving around an invisible axis. I wish I could draw it. Have you seen pictures of the Spanish dancer sea creature? (It’s a “sea slug,” but that word is far too coarse. So is “nudibranch.”) Its edges undulate like the hem of a dancer’s skirt. The sound was like that. You see how weak words are for this. I suppose that’s why the sound had to go three-dimensional in my head. 

A Spanish dancer. Hear it?

       Not everyone was transported. One preteen boy near me clomped out and missed the Hallelujah Chorus. He returned at its end to drop back into the pew and just about bounce me off the end. Too bad. The rest of us had stood, like George II, and thrilled to the music. Conductor Hogwood of my CD version calls the tradition “unnecessary,” but I love it. 

      Altogether, the program was about two and a quarter hours of music, with no intermission. It didn’t seem that long. After the final “amen,” the audience stood and cheered and applauded for a long time. “The glory of the Lord” indeed.