Rafael Campo and the Poetry of Medicine

Tuesday nights are sacred because Tuesday nights are writing nights. Every Tuesday I drive to San Francisco to attend Matthew Clark Davison's Writing Lab, a six-week generative writing workshop. Since completing graduate school I have felt anything but that--complete. The stories I started in Davis and San Francisco rattle around in my bones like a lost ache. In Matthew's class I've had a chance to step back and see the characters and conflicts with a greater kindness and compassion than I ever did in grad school. Last night's lesson had something to do with that.

Matthew shared an interview Cortney Davis did of poet and physician Rafael Campo. Campo believes that poetry is not only an expression of humanity, but an ongoing exercise in empathy. The interview, which is available on Poets.Org,​ explores how Campo turned toward medicine because he first thought it might "straighten" him out and "whiten" his identity. Over time, though, poetry became an important part of his practice. I was especially moved by Campo's belief that patients need to hear both a data-driven narrative and a poetry-driven one:

I think my patients are surprised sometimes to find a poem together with patient education pamphlets or scientific articles—and yet so often that’s what they want to discuss at the next visit. A poem says to a patient that I want to know more than just my own biomedical narrative of her illness—that I want to take care of her as a whole person, with attention to both the blood sugar results and also her struggles to maintain them in our target for treatment—that slice of birthday cake she couldn’t eat at her child’s party, the sting each time she must administer her insulin, are just as important. Such an approach, I think, not only has practical value—because the patient who trusts me will confide in me the detail of a symptom that helps me reach the correct diagnosis more expeditiously—but also is more rewarding on a personal level. So many docs these days feel alienated from their own work and from their patients. I think that’s largely due to all the obstacles to caring for patients, really caring for them, that poetry can help short-circuit: the burdens of such a rapidly expanding knowledge base, the constraints imposed by managed care on the time we can spend with our patients, the challenges of caring for increasingly diverse, multicultural patients. Poetry gets us past all the machines, literally to the heart of the matter; poetry expands the interaction with a patient to a space without time limitations; poetry bridges those cross cultural gaps by speaking in the most elemental and mutually understood form of language we have. ​

​Last night I was struck by how perfectly Campo captured the exact feeling I have had, time and time again, while sitting in a doctor's office. I've written before about that gap that so often occurs between bedside manner and effective treatment. Test results and emerging technology can help us analyze data, but data is useless without full human understanding. As a type 1 diabetic, few things speak to me more than a physician's ability to see a blood sugar result and fully see the person behind it--the circumstances that caused a high number or the stress that caused a low one. As a writer, it is always my intention to approach my subjects with compassion, but that means seeing beyond deeply embedded cultural stereotype. That's the crux of it--that's where stories get interesting.

When Campo says that "poetry helps us get past all the machines," I think of all the times we find the easy​ story, versus ​the honest​, more compelling one. Writing honest fiction to me means being patient with my characters, really doing my homework, reading, traveling, listening to other writers read, accepting shitty first (and second...and third...) drafts, and aspiring for empathy. When I sit down to write, it's hard not to take all of these expectations with me.

When I go to the Lab, though, the rules are different. Time is set aside to think and write. The burden of accomplishment, of having a fully realized, living story, is secondary to the greater intention to explore who we are, who our characters might be. That freedom reminds me of why I like to write in the first place.

Daft Punk Gets Lucky

This song makes technical editing way more groovy.​

I Heart Tig Notaro

​Tig Notaro is one of my heroes. Last year she survived an intense bacterial infection and pneumonia, lost her mother in a tragic accident, was dumped by her girlfriend and then was subsequently diagnosed with breast cancer. You want to give her an award for surviving it all. Impressive though that is, that's not why I love her. I love her because she somehow found a way to make it funny.

Within days of her diagnosis, she opened her now-famous comedy set with the lines, "“Hello! Good evening. Hello. I have cancer. How are you?” The half hour set represents comedy at its best--both as a confrontation to life's lowest moments, and as an irreverent antidote to all the reactions people are "supposed" to have when the shit hits the fan. Esteemed comedian Louis C.K. insisted that she release the set as an album and sell it online. Ira Glass aired an excerpt of it on This American Life. I bought it and can vouch that it is worth way more than its $5. It is aptly titled "Live."

Last week's spot on Conan reinforces not only her unique voice and perspective as a comic, but also her underlying social critique. The lady's a genius. ​Get off your phone and buy her album.

The art of teatro

When I lived in southern Spain, I had the good fortune to meet Marta Moreno, an English teacher at the Escuela Oficial de Idiomas in Fuengirola. I spent my days trying to teach Spanish to British elementary students in the neighboring town of La Cala, and my nights learning Spanish proverbs via Marta's engaging (and free) teatro classes. About half of the group were Spanish speakers enrolled in her English classes, and the other half were Americans and native English speakers who were there to practice Spanish. Marta encouraged us to bring in photos from our high school proms, to share American slang, to bring in recipes and cultural anecdotes that would provoke discussion. One week she gave us a Xeroxed handout with a number of different cartoon expressions with adjectives written under their faces (agobiado, liado, encantado) --a resource that I still have six years later, pinned to the pliable walls of my cubicle at work, though its edges are frayed and curled.

I'll never forget those final weeks in Málaga, when she invited a group of teatro regulars over to the condo she shared with her husband and daughter, just blocks from the city's central square. I remember how groovy it all was; they were intellectuals, artists, educators, speakers of multiple languages, and they lived in the most beautiful space. It was a warm night in late May when they led us up a narrow staircase to their balcony. We had to walk through a curtain of gauze to get to it. I remember the way the fabric felt against my face, the way my Belgian friend Geoff sat in the sun with his guitar.

For my first several months in Spain, I was obsessed with the French film L'Auberge Espangole, which followed a group of young ERASMUS students from half a dozen countries. How badly I wanted that feeling--the exposure to other cultures, other languages, other everythings. It wasn't until that evening on Marta's balcony that I realized that that's exactly what teatro was: a group of people bound together by language and location. A group of people gathered on a sunny balcony not far from the sea, the throng of cathedral bells echoing off cobblestone.

Marta and I have stayed in touch. A few years ago, she established a multilingual publication called Collage Magazine that her English classes have been producing every spring. The magazine showcases writing both from her students and with her friends from around the world, and also features the glorious photographs of her husband, Lorenzo Hernandez, whose skill and talent have taken him around the world. (This is the same Lorenzo Hernandez who took the picture on my About page--taken that very day on their famous balcony.)

In 2010 she asked me to contribute a piece about San Francisco. This winter, she contacted me because they were working on a jazz issue. I submitted a piece about New Orleans, and encouraged my mother, longtime journalist and nonfiction writer Lyra Halprin, to submit as well. The issue is gorgeous--there are essays, interviews and stories written in Spanish, English and French, as well as Lorenzo's stunning images of musicians and artists from around the world. It is a true work of art--and you can view all 62 pages of it here.

I feel like it is especially important to share this right now, after the tragedy of the Boston Marathon, and the explosions in West Texas, and Congress' failure to pass crucial legislation. All week I have meditated on this violence, this tragedy, this surprising and ferocious turn of events, but it is projects like Collage Magazine that surface true beauty in the world, in multiple languages, in multiple countries. It is a humble effort, but an important one, a good reminder that regardless of what's happening in the world we can still write, we can still sing, we can still take photos, we can still revel in it, all of it, together.​

For Boston

I was at work when I heard what happened in Boston today. Roughly 23,000 runners started the prestigious Boston Marathon early this morning--and only 17,580 crossed the finish line after two hidden bombs were detonated, killing three and injuring more than a hundred. The irony of it, stealing healthy people of their limbs just before accomplishing a major physical feat--it hit me in the knees. It's macabre.​ It's cruel.

For Boston: that you rebuild, that you heal, that you find strength. ​

On persistence

Ryan, Shirlee and I ran a half marathon in Santa Cruz this morning. It was Ryan's first half, my fourth, and Shirlee's seventh. This is perhaps my favorite course; it runs along West Cliff, around Natural Bridges State Park, and circles the bluffs out at Wilder State Park. Shirlee and I ran it last year and I convinced Ryan to train with me this winter. ​

A few weeks before we started dating, Ryan told me about a 10k in Golden Gate Park. He sent me link and mentioned that he'd be running it with his family. My dad and I ran it together, though I kept my eye out for Ryan and Richie. I kept pace with my dad until the final mile, at which point I broke free and tried furiously to catch Ryan, thinking what a badass I'd be if I beat him in that final push. ​Needless to say, I did not beat him, though I very nearly caught up. We said hi to each other and then walked our separate ways to stretch. Two months later he donned his now-famous Christmas moose sweater and surprised me with a kiss on his back porch.

The two years I was in grad school, I ran three half marathons with Shirlee, and at each of them, our families were there to cheer us on, Ryan always waiting on that final corner to shout encouragement. ​Last spring, he trained for a 10k and placed well. This winter, while juggling five classes and coaching badminton, he ran with me every Saturday morning. Within a few weeks he had me beat.

I've come to realize that the activities I love most require the fiercest form of persistence. Writing, running, camping, traveling--in some cases, even reading demands a sustained attention that these days is kind of rare. These are all activities that I enjoy doing alone--and love​ doing with my favorite people. I've noticed, too, that it is much easier to be persistent when can feel support the whole way through---on the sidelines or even a mile or two down the road.

On careers

​One of the tasks I must complete at my day job is to write useful "career tips" for professional engineers, scientists, educators and environmental hygienists. Thus, I spend a lot of time researching professional organizations, career sites and blogs that boast the latest and greatest approaches to finding the right job.

One of the sites this took me to recommended a friendly aptitude quiz. I couldn't help myself. When I got home I had to take it. The results recommended the following jobs, based on my skills and interests:

• Teacher
• Professor
• Tour Guide
• Landscaper/Groundskeeper
• Stock/warehouse clerk
• Grocery Bagger
• Dining Room and Cafeteria Attendant
• Custodian/Janitor
• Cook
• Baggage Handler
• Research Assistant
• Editor/Writer
• Production Line Worker
• Web Developer
• Data Entry Clerk
• Nursery/Plant Worker
• Construction Worker
• Librarian

I was surprised by these results -- not so much in their accuracy, but by their spread. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be a better writer if my daily work required me to sit or stand for hours, simply observing. In a way, all jobs require one to observe, but in how many is that our primary occupation?

"Dining room and cafeteria attendant" might be one of my favorites. This, I believe, was selected because I had indicated both an interest in working with children and a willingness to lift objects over a certain weight. When I think of the cafeteria attendants I have known, I immediately think of people who can tell stories, whose daily uniforms are in themselves stories, whose lives are instantly interesting.

Perhaps the best part of this list is the fact that the writer of this quiz somehow took the average of all of my dream jobs and actual jobs. The summer after I graduated college, I was working three different, equally wonderful jobs: tutoring college students, leading poetry workshops at a summer camp for teens, and giving college tours to incoming freshmen. I remember the afternoon it struck me that this is the way I would live a fulfilling life: simply juggling multiple interesting projects, as each project satisfied some passion or creative challenge. It seemed genius...until I realized that I'd have to pay out of pocket for health insurance.

I really wonder whoever wrote the algorithm for this career quiz. I wonder how many jobs they have. I wonder what stories they'd tell.

On marriage (or perhaps, more accurately, on equality)

This is what I think of when I think of marriage equality:

I remember when Ellen DeGeneres came out on her sitcom, and that it was the only episode of that show I ever watched, because the hype was so great, and the stakes seemed so high. Because this was 1997, one year before Matthew Shepard was killed, one year after the Defense of Marriage Act passed--the act that currently bans federal benefits for 130,000 legally married gay couples.​

​All I remember from that famous episode is the big climactic moment, the moment Ellen's character says the words, "I'm gay," and does so, quite by accident, into an airport microphone. I was 13 and terrified, as many teenagers are, not only of homosexuality but sexuality itself--it didn't matter who was attracted to whom, it was all scary. But the pure genius of Ellen's "big reveal" was its humor--the way the publicity of it all suddenly seemed so unwarranted. As in, oh, she's gay? Okay, great. Do we care? Probably not. This idea -- that in the end, our sexuality really only affects ourselves and our partners -- came as a huge relief to me.

​When I think of marriage equality I think about alliance. I think about my friends who have same-sex partners. I remember the gallantry of Gavin Newsom, and how in 2004 it felt like he rode into San Francisco and bestowed it with this great big wand of love, though of course it was much more complicated than that. And how wonderful it felt, one year into the second Iraq war,  to feel like that despite it, and despite so much, real human progress was being made. People were being "awarded" rights that should have been there in the first place.

I remember my favorite college professor driving upstate to marry her longtime partner in San Francisco. ​I remember my parents' friends, activists who had been together for decades, trekking to City Hall to pledge their love to each other. 

I remember living in San Francisco in 2008, and how all the houses on my block had No on Prop 8 signs except for one. That house kept its windows open and propped its big YES sign right opposite my bedroom window. The word had been misappropriated. It never makes sense to say YES to something that is, in its very essence, a big, ugly NO.​

I think about marriage equality and I focus on that second word. We can argue back and forth on the definition of "marriage," but when it comes down to it, equality is, and must be, universal. Civil rights are non-negotiable. Who you choose to spend your time with, who you love, who you own a house with, who you have children with, who you take care of, who takes care of you -- this is what makes up life. This is the good stuff. This is what we all fight to protect. This is not what defines commerce or religion. It seems arbitrary to decide that some couples are entitled to the legal and financial protection afforded by marriage, and some are not.

I think about marriage equality and I think, we should be there by now. ​

Or perhaps, maybe we're nearly there.​

Equality = Love.

​Let's make it happen, America.

Donae's song

This is Donae James Johnican. Last month he won the Silicon Valley De-Bug Schoolin' the Schools Media Contest. He taught himself to play guitar and this is his song.​

Donae was a junior at Lincoln High School in San Jose. On Tuesday afternoon, he was struck and killed by Caltrain as he was crossing a platform. He was 16. ​

He was a student in Ryan's English class.​

I never met Donae but I can't stop thinking about him. ​It is hard to understand how and why these things happen; if the universe is random, if anything is possible, if everything is possible. And how, sometimes a person's essence is so unshakable, you can miss them, even if you've never met them.

Feast of Lightning

Tomorrow night, Quiet Lightning joins forces with Feast of Words for a unique literary potluck. I'm so looking forward to this.

Grandma's hats

I've been dreaming of my grandmother lately.​ She would have been 87 last week. In my dreams she is on a bicycle, wearing one of her stylish hats from the 1950s.

When she died my grandfather invited me and my mother to go through her closet. I slipped on her shoes and tried hard to make my soles fit into the grooves her feet had created. We ran our fingers through the sweatshirts she had embroidered in flowers and hummingbirds. And then, at the very top: a big green hatbox. I pulled it down and it took me a moment to spring it open. Inside there were hats of many colors: purple hats, green hats, black hats, hats with lace, hats with curly bows. A singular white hat, its fabric delicate and neat. There was something about the careful way she had stored them, deeply embedded in that big green box, one for each decade she'd been alive, none of them crushed, all of them well-kept, well-loved.

​I tried trying them on, but only a few fit my head. Many of them were too small, or perhaps I wasn't tilting them at just the right rakish angle. When I put them on I half expected to hear her thoughts--to embody who she was the last time she was wearing them. I knew that she'd been married in one of them. Surely she'd worn some of them to church, others to social functions. Did the world look differently when she was wearing a hat? Did it mean something? Was she making a statement?

Grief is a funny thing. It has been well over a year since she died and still I have days when I have a sudden, desperate need for her. It's a specific and surprising panic. It isn't a fear of death, or what happens after. It's the mournful recognition that there are things in life that simply go uncommunicated, at least in ways that we understand. ​

On nights like this, when I find myself missing her, I like to take down her box of hats and try them on for size, to see if maybe this time, they'll fit.​

For Mikey

A hate crime was committed in Davis this past week -- one that people should know about.

Mikey Partida was brutally beaten and called homophobic slurs on the streets of Davis after leaving a relative's home the other night. After spending a few nights in the hospital, he is now being moved to a rehab facility. News reports indicate that there might be long-lasting neurological and psychological effects of this vicious attack.

I don't know Mikey personally, but he went to my high school. He is a friend of my friends. I think of him and I see my older brother, the boys I grew up with, my friends at school. My heart goes out to him and his family.

How does one recover from something like this? ​How is it that things like this still happen?

​Mikey's family and friends have organized Mikey's Justice Fund to help raise awareness and money for his case. He has a Facebook page as well. I don't know who reads this but I ask you to take a moment and read about him and share his story. This isn't over.

Badmitten

This spring Ryan is coaching badminton. Incidentally, Ryan also teaches high school English. He posted this picture last night on his team's website and asked his students to "find the error."​

I love him.​

I love this.

The other inescapable expression from the TV show "RuPaul's Drag Race". Enjoy.

Ode to an anonymous dancer

Every week, Kurt Andersen asks the question "What work of art changed your life?" Andersen is the host of PRI's Studio 360, a weekly radio show and podcast that focuses on art, architecture, literature, design and culture. He is one of my many heroes.

This is a question I've been contemplating lately. Since settling into my job and new lifestyle post-grad school, I find myself missing what it means to be inspired. Productive, yes, and efficient, maybe, but inspired? I miss that.​

There are those moments of awe that one expects when encountering a famous work of art. I remember the hour I spent at the Prado in Madrid, standing opposite the gorgeous, caterwauling Guernica​. How I'd never survived anything so harrowing and yet was struck by an insane sense of familiarity, staring at all those mournful open mouths, those absurd horses. I still think of wandering into Neue Wache in Berlin, where Kathe Kollwitz's iconic sculpture Mother with Dead Son filled the entire room with an emptiness that only solid rock can create. I remember hearing Amy Goodman speak one winter at UCSB, in the depths of Bush's second administration, when all things independent and all things progressive seemed somehow at risk, and here she was, this small woman with the loudest, smartest, clearest voice.

These were all grand, immense moments of feeling; experiences that made me want to go home and write like mad, find the truth of it, whatever it was, and make it real. Make it raw. ​

And yet one moment somehow stands out, perhaps because of its irreverence. It was the summer of 2007 and I had just moved back to the States after a year abroad. I was working as a teaching assistant and camp counselor, the kind of job that requires you to be awake and on for 12-15 hours a day, seven days a week. I was a year out of college, lost in that schizophrenic gap between being a student and being a professional. My students were loud and outgoing and demanding of attention and time. I was worn out.

One of our last responsibilities during the three-week session was to host a camp talent show. There were skits and inside jokes, magic tricks and songs. I kept my eyes on my watch. And then a young woman came to the stage. She couldn't have been more than 15. She was wearing dance clothes but she didn't look like a ballerina, at least not the Balanchine kind. She danced to a long, slow song, a breathy song, a mournful song, a song that cast a pall over our teenage audience. The room grew quiet. I couldn't tell you what it was exactly that she was doing--they weren't pirouettes, but rather something more modern, more messy, yet controlled.​ It was a quiet, intense fury. It was adolescence; underrated, difficult, surprisingly articulate. She never broke a sweat. She had a self-possession that I, years older, had yet to learn. I had no idea what I was doing with my life but she expressed it all for me, without the crutch of words.

I never found out her name. As talented as she was, I almost didn't want to know. ​I've been lucky to witness a number of amazing performances since, but I've never forgotten the way she danced. The abandon, the forgiveness, the grace.

There's no comparing her performance to any other work of art that has left its impression. What makes art impressive to me is the narrative it creates for us--whether it's a story we all know, or a story we believe is being told to us, and us alone. And those are the stories I want to write.​

Welcome!

Welcome to the new-and-improved Writings in the Raw.

This site was designed and developed by Heather Reed of Creative Fuel web design. ​Heather worked with me to create a unique style and aesthetic for this site. I want users to feel like they are cracking open a notebook full of stories and drawings. Stories and drawings that might be or could one day be featured in a book of their own.

Feel free to explore the site. Check out the Projects page if you want to learn about Foreigner, one-hundred-word-stories and Fictionables. If you are looking for a freelance editor, writer, teacher or tutor, take a gander at the Services page. You can find a list of selected publications on the Portfolio page and breeze through past performances and readings on the Appearances page. And, of course, if you have any questions or feedback on the site, you can contact me directly.

Thanks for stopping by! Stay tuned for more stories, drawings, and musings on Writings in the Raw.​

Still Life

Monday evening still life:

My aunt April gave me these wonderful sock puppet gloves with button eyes and blue noses. Occasionally they'll get separated, as they are now, one on the hassock, one on the sofa, its button eyes staring up at me, imploring.

A road map of the U.S. pinned to the wall with two different routes highlighted, one in orange, one in pink.

Blue and white lights curled around our standing light, making the corner glow.

A solitary orchid perched by the window. There's only one flower left.

The gift Ryan's grandmother gave us for Christmas: a small candle holder with four cookie cutter horses suspended above it, ready, as always, to spin once the wicks are lit.

The sound of light rail humming down the street: an urban murmur.

A paper chanukiah still taped to wall, three months later.

And, barely visible from my seat on the couch: Ryan pulling hot macaroni and cheese out of the oven.

In case you missed it...

...the wonderful, amazing A Practical Wedding reposted my "Miracle of the Latkes" piece on their blog yesterday. A Practical Wedding is a truly useful resource for anyone considering marriage -- everything from the intricate details of event planning to the bigger political and social questions that relationships imply. Reading APW has helped me own the excitement of getting engaged and offered a cajillion helpful ideas for honoring personal aesthetics, setting a budget, including family and friends, and acknowledging the marriage equality movement.

Thanks APW!