A camera is an instrument that teaches people to see without a camera.
Dorothea Lange
Lange at work, circa 1930s (photo: Library of Congress)
I am a huge admirer of Dorothea Lange. I discovered her photographs when I was a graduate student in American Studies. It was love at first sight (pardon the pun). Her photographs reached into my heart and seemed to say, "this is what it is to be human." Lange is best known for her photographs of migratory workers taken during the Great Depression of the 1930s and for her photographs of Japanese Internment Camps taken during World War II. No matter what the circumstances, Lange allowed people their dignity. She saw how people responded to the most difficult situations and still retain their humanity and she documented that. Her photographs inspire me; they show the resiliency of the human spirit.
Dorothea Lange was born on May 26, 1895 in Hoboken, New Jersey. (Which is why I'm writing this post now. I missed her birthday, but it's still May.) Lange began her career as a studio photographer in San Francisco, California in 1918. She began working for the American government documenting the Depression in the 1930s, and became, along with Walker Evans, one of the most famous of the Farm Security Administration photographers. I particularly enjoyed reading this profile by young writer, Susannah Abbey, called My hero: Dorothea Lange.
Below are a few of my favorite Dorothea Lange photographs. I've tried to choose ones that are less well known than some of her iconic images. Less well known, yet no less beautiful. Another thing I love about Lange's photographs, is that she often records stories to go with her pictures, including word-for-word quotes from the people she meets along the roads, in migrant camps, and on tenant farms. The words beneath the photographs are her original captions.
Family between Dallas and Austin, Texas. . . . Penniless people. No food and three gallons of gas in the tank. The father is trying to repair a tire. Three children. Father says, "It's tough but life's tough anyway." (August 1936, Library of Congress)
Farm child, New Mexico, 1935 (Library of Congress)
Migratory cotton worker, Pima, Arizona, circa 1940 (Library of Congress)
Near Douglas, Georgia. "You don't have to worriate so much and you've got time to raise somp'n to eat." The program to eliminate the risk and uncertainty of a one-crop system meets the approval of this sharecropper. She sits on the porch and sorts tobacco. July, 1938 (Library of Congress)
On U.S. 99 between Bakersville and the Ridge, migrant man shaving by roadside. February, 1939 (Library of Congress)
Calipatria, Imperial Valley, California. Daughter of ex-tenant farmer. "Back in Oklahoma, we are sinking. You work your head off for a crop and then see it burn up. You live in debts you can never get out of. This isn't a good life, but I say that it's a better life than it was." (Library of Congress
There are ex-husbands and ex-wives, but there are no ex-moms, ex-dads, or ex-children.
Anonymous
Newborn baby (photo: Barbara Tang, flickr creative commons)
Between 1940 - 1970, approximately 4 million women (in the U.S. alone) relinquished newborn babies for adoption; I was one of them. This time period is now known as The Baby Scoop Era and there has been a great deal of research on the unprecedented numbers of adoptions that took place during those years. I gave birth to a beautiful daughter on July 25, 1971 (still within the boundaries of this era, in my opinion) and wasn't allowed to hold her or touch her. The pain of the moment they took my daughter away, has echoed through the rest of my life. Tragically, when my baby was born I was only 17 and my boyfriend and I didn't understand any of the consequences of this relinquishment and subsequent adoption. It wasn't a choice, however, but more like the only thing we knew to do or were allowed to do by the adults in our world. No one told us what the consequences might be, what our rights - as parents - were, or what help we could have had in raising our child. We also had no idea of the huge consequences this act would have in our daughter's life. That's because it is rare, even today, to tell the truth about adoption: not the sugar-coated truth, the truth.
Pregnant woman on the street, Thailand (photo: drbutoni, flickr creative commons)
Recently, I was delighted to discover the book Adoption Healing: a path to recovery written by adoptee, and therapist, Joe Soll. This book validates many of the feelings I've had over the years about the lasting pain of adoption loss. As Soll says, "Everyone involved in an adoption has many losses." The book is broken up into short, digestible chapters and Soll, a longtime counsellor, provides helpful advice at the end of each chapter for those readers who have become emotionally overwhelmed (Soll calls this "whelmed") through reading.
Each chapter also has valuable sections that contrast the Myths of adoption with the Facts. I found these sections to be particularly healing for myself and I hope they will be just as healing for adoptees. Here are some of my favorite facts.
Most people surrender a child to adoption because they lack the resources to do otherwise
Birthparents (Soll is now using the more politically-correct terms first or natural mother) care forever and have great difficulty going on with their lives.
Bonding begins before birth.
Adopted children think about their birthmothers all the time.
Babies suffer from the loss of their mothers.
My favorite chapter of the book, however, is the one titled, "The Respect We Never Got." In this chapter, Soll describes the many ways in which all members of the adoption triad were not treated with respect. Much of what he says in this chapter rings so true that it made me cry. As a first mother, I was treated like a criminal by most adults. Kindness was rare and after I agreed to relinquish my daughter for adoption, comfort was nonexistent. Soll uses a wonderful analogy to describe the deep truth of adoption.
It was like a big plane crash in a field. All the mothers and babies lying there crying and the rescuers came and carried them off in different directions. When they got to the Emergency Room they dusted them off, told them they were fine and sent them on their way. The mothers went home and the babies went to new homes. All were told they were fine. The most sacred relationship in the world has now gone up in smoke. They were told that there wasn't any accident, no crash, forget about it, just get on with your lives. (Soll, p. 153)
According to Soll, "Real healing can only be done when you know where you hurt, why you hurt, and the extent of the pain." I agree. This book, although written for adoptees, is recommended for anyone who has experienced adoption loss. My only criticism is that, as with much of the literature on adoption, there is little mention of the role of the first father and the pain he experiences. Soll and a co-author have written several other books, including one specifically for mothers. Unfortunately, my local library doesn't have a copy. I will suggest that they purchase it and, if they don't, I'll buy one myself.
Soll runs Healing Weekends in New York State Even though I live on the West Coast, I am considering going to one. If his small book is so powerful, I can only imagine what workshops would be like. From a look at his website, they must be good because I see that they fill quickly.
Note to readers: If you want to take a look at my other blog, you can either follow the link here to The Caregivers Chronicle or click on the link at the top of the page. The Caregivers Chronicle is about caregiving for my aging parents and topics that interest other caregivers.
For those who were interned, I hope this work brings them some peace
Pia Massie, filmmaker
Japanese family waiting to be "evacuated," Hayward, California, May 1942 (photo: Dorothea Lange, National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), Records of War Relocation Authority)
Today, the little girl in the picture above would be about 80 years old and the baby wouldn't be much younger. The mother is probably no longer alive and the baby probably has few memories of the day his/her family was forced to leave their home. The girl, however, from the look in her eyes will never forget. Her expression says everything about what it must have been like to be caught up in the frightening experience of the relocation of Japanese Americans and Japanese Canadians during World War II. It is her story - the story of people who were young during the internment - that Pia Massie has set out to tell in her new film, Just Beyond Hope.
Japanese farmer waiting to be relocated, Woodland, California. photo: Dorothea Lange, NARA
Just Beyond Hope weaves together the stories of three very different women: Mine Okubo, a Japanese artist who was interned at a camp in California; Margaret Sage a Canadian woman who worked at Tashme, the internment camp located "just beyond Hope," about 200 kilometers from Vancouver, and renowned photographer Dorothea Lange who took hundreds of moving photographs documenting the internment camps. When Massie began actively working on the film - she had been thinking about the topic for 30 years - she was surprised to discover that even after more than 60 years, survivors were still reluctant to speak about their experiences. As Massie told writer, Kenji Maeda, in an interview in The Bulletin: A Journal of Japanese Canadian Community, History + Culture. "It was stunning to realize how taboo the stories were to speak about; how much emotional freight they still carried. This, if anything, spurred me on more to connect with the elders that had lived it and let them set down some of the pain they they had been carrying."
Tashme Internment Camp, near Hope, B.C. photo: www.discovernikeii.org
My husband and I went to the World Premiere of Just Beyond Hope last Saturday at Vancouver's DOXA Documentary Film Festival. I'm delighted that Massie didn't let people's reluctance to speak stop her from producing this beautiful film. Just Beyond Hope is an "experimental" documentary, as Massie referred to it after the screening. The film blends footage of photographs from Dorothea Lange and other photographers, with shots of the landscape and ocean of the West Coast of British Columbia, contrasted with shots of the harsher landscape of the internment camp. Narrators read excerpts from the letters that Canadian Margaret Sage's wrote while working at Tashme, and excerpts from Okubo's book, Citizen 13660. The excerpts from Okubo's book are read, somewhat ironically, by an "aunt" (actually cousin) that Massie discovered while researching the film. Massie's aunt, now in her 80s, was more than willing to read from Okubo's book, but was reluctant to tell her own story. Interwoven with the three main stories are snippets of Massie's own family history.
Woman, Hayward, California; posters on wall list the names of families to be relocated; photo: Dorothea Lange, NARA.
The film was both a challenging and moving experience. There were so many layers of information and overlapping voices in the film, that I need to watch it again - maybe more than once. There were also layers of language, particularly untranslated Japanese, that enriched the film. One of the most surprising things I discovered while watching the film was the story of how Japanese Canadians were deported to Japan. Apparently, they were given a choice of moving east of the Rockies or going to Japan. Although, the factual details don't all come through in the film, Canada clearly didn't come off much better than the U.S. when it came to their treatment of Japanese Canadians during World War II.
Another aspect of the film that I loved was the way in which Massie wove the voice of white social worker, Margaret Sage, into the story. Sage's voice added to the film's texture and provided a subtle way to show the heartbreak of the deportations and separation of families. I loved the film. It provides an intimate look at the experiences of relocation and internment from the viewpoint of a member of the Japanese Canadian community. I highly recommend the film and urge you to see it, if you have a chance.
Almost 8,000 photographs taken by photographers including Dorothea Lange, Russell Lee, Japanese photographer Hikaru Iwasaki and many others. A treat for the eyes, mind, and heart. Be careful, however, or you can be sucked into the vortex of these beautiful photographs and spend hours clicking through photo after photo.
And for quite a different film about one survivor of an internment camp, check out the clip from The Cats of Mirikitani below.
Note to readers: If you want to take a look at my other blogs, you can either follow the links here Digging Out and The Caregivers Chronicle or click on the links at the top of the page. Digging Out is a blog about getting my life in order - digging out of debt and clutter. The Caregivers Chronicle is about caregiving for my aging parents and topics that interest other caregivers.
God respects me when I work, but He loves me when I sing.
Rabindranath Tagore
Girls singing in Bangalore, India (photo: Sabarish Raghupathy, flickr creative commons)
This Thursday (May 10) I performed in my second choir concert in less than a year. Like the December (2011) concert this one included our choir, Home Cookin', and our choir director's other choir: Harmony Mountain. The venue was a small brown Anglican church nestled in a quiet side street in North Vancouver. The audience wasn't quite as large as the previous concert, but it was large enough to make it exciting and to appreciate the fact that we weren't just singing for ourselves. In fact, we were singing for both the audience and to benefit The Stephen Lewis Foundation, an organization that supports people living with AIDS in Africa, the families of those who have died of the disease, and grandparents who are raising AIDS orphans. That fact made me feel good. But, to be honest, singing with my choir in front of an audience would have made me feel good even if we weren't supporting a worthy cause. (It's great that we were, but it isn't a necessary part of the process.)
Singing is a human universal. People of all ages from every culture in the world sing when they're happy, when they're sad, and when they're sad and want to be happy. Singing is a gift, especially for those who are recovering from trauma and grief. It releases the heart strings and lets us breathe again and connects us to our own breath and to those who are singing beside us. Our choir is a pretty informal one and we sing what our director calls "roots and folk" music, which is a good description of what we do. On Thursday, our program included a folky song from Newfoundland, a gospel song that is the basis for the well known civil rights song, "Keep Your Eyes on the Prize," a Georgian folk song (from Georgia, Russia) and a nice mix of singer-songwriter stuff. We had soloists, quartets - one of which I was in - trios and duets. We were accompanied by piano, a small bluegrass band, and nothing - i.e. a cappella. All of it was a blast. The other choir was a real treat too. They did music that ranged from the gospel song, Angel Band, to songs by Joe Cocker and Sting. (Women singing, photo: Rusty Stewart. flickr creative commons)
Man singing, photo: Tobias Leeger, flickr creative commons
For me, singing has been a large part of my healing journey. I'm not the only one who is using this practice. Here is a moving story about an Iraqi War veteran who has returned to singing to save his life: not metaphorically, but literally. He made three suicide attempts before rediscovering the joy of singing that he had practiced as a young man. Haitians living in New York City have also been using singing to heal from the grief and trauma of the Haitian Earthquake of 2010. I think singing has such a powerful healing affect because it's based in a different part of our brain than spoken speech. I know this is hard to believe, but I've read about it and witnessed it with my own eyes. In fact, singing therapy is being used to teach stroke survivors how to speak again. One of the most moving performances I've ever witnessed was the veteran blues and jazz singer Sippie Wallace singing after she had had a stroke. Sippie couldn't walk or talk and had to be helped onto the stage. But, boy, could she sing. She opened her mouth and a beautiful sound came out. I've never forgotten watching this small old woman, recovering from a stroke, sing with such huge joy. (Singing above, one of the members of The Connections Zulu Choir, photo: Andrew, flickr creative commons)
In the video below, Sippie was younger, pre-stroke.
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What healing practices do you use that bring you joy and feed your heart? I'd love to hear about them.
There is no better exercise for your heart, than reaching down and helping to lift someone up.
Bernard Meltzer
Girl in Haiti who lost her leg in the earthquake, the Red Cross/Red Crescent provided her with counselling to deal with psychological trauma (photo: Olav Saltbones, IFRC, flickr creative commons) May 8 is World Red Cross Day, which recognizes the birthday of Jean Henri (Henry) Dunant, the founder of the International Red Cross. 2012 is the 184th anniversary of Dunant's birth. Dunant established the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) in 1863 and the first Geneva Convention in 1864 was based on his ideas. Dunant received the first Nobel Peace Prize in 1901 for this important work. Why write a post about the Red Cross on a blog about trauma and PTSD, you may ask? Because Red Cross volunteers respond to disasters of all kinds, from "natural" disasters like earthquakes to man-made disasters like war. The quality of the Red Cross response to any particular human disaster can make a great deal of difference to the lives of those caught in traumatic events and may even prevent the development of PTSD for some people.
Originally, the Red Cross was started to deal with the trauma of war. The founder of the American Red Cross, Clara Barton, worked as a nurse in the American Civil War and later successfully lobbied the U.S. government to support the International Red Cross. The Red Cross also had a large presence in World War I, with many people, including American writer Ernest Hemingway, working as Red Cross ambulance drivers. Most of us also associate the Red Cross with responses to such recent disasters as the earthquakes in Haiti and Japan and other natural disasters around the world. (photo: helping a wounded soldier into an ambulance, circa 1918, National Library of Scotland collections)
However, this post isn't intended to provide a history of the Red Cross. I'm sure there are plenty of other resources that do a great job of that. I'm more interested in reflecting here on how this international organization has facilitated people helping each other under the most horrific conditions. There are almost 100 million (yes, million) Red Cross volunteers in countries around the world. Without such an organization, I'm sure that people would still help each other. However, under extreme conditions it would be difficult to do this on an ad hoc basis, all by yourself or with your neighbors. If you were trying to help in a war zone, for example, without the "red cross," you'd obviously risk being shot or killed. The Red Cross's reputation wasn't built overnight and the Red Cross, as with any group of people, undoubtedly has its flaws. Nonetheless, without it, people caught up in terrible situations would face even worse trauma. And even though the Red Cross couldn't stop the genocide in Rwanda or the Holocaust, it served the invaluable function afterwards of helping survivors locate family members. (photo: Red Cross volunteer in India, IFRC, flickr creative commons)
Woman in Bangladesh talking to a Red Cross volunteer about climate change (photo: Amir Jina, flickr)
What I find even more interesting than the work that the Red Cross does in disasters and wars, is the work they do in the areas of health care and mitigating climate change. Red Cross volunteers and paid professionals work around the world on campaigns to help prevent and treat such diseases as AIDs, tuberculosis (TB), and malaria. The Red Cross also helps women and children with nutritional support in disaster zones and refugee camps. In countries hardest hit by climate change, such as Bangladesh, Red Cross volunteers are working on projects to help mitigate damage that has already happened and study ways to prevent future damage related to climate change. All of this work can prevent trauma, in the sense that it can prevent parents from dying of disease and leaving orphaned - i.e. traumatized - children behind and, in some cases, this type of work can even prevent more people from becoming climate refugees. I'm not sure how long this preventative work has been going on, but it is so important.
Check out the video below. Yes, I know Bono doesn't exactly have the reputation as one of the world's most humble people and, in a way, this clip is an ad for the Red Cross. Despite that, however, it contains some powerful footage people helping each other during disasters. Sad and inspiring and, at times, overwhelming.
Something to think about: the Red Cross helps with "public" disasters. Who helps with private disasters, such as sexual violence, domestic abuse, child abuse, etc.? Sadly, these smaller, hidden disasters create just as many - maybe more - trauma survivors and people with PTSD than some of the larger more visible disasters. Watch for future posts on this public vs. private trauma.
Red Cross Day is part of a larger celebration of the Red Cross that lasts until May 12 and is recognized in many countries around the world.
If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people.
Thich Nhat Hanh
Boys picking tomatoes, circa 1940s to 50s. Boston Public Library, flickr creative commons
My mom thinks that the last time she saw her brother Junior, he was going to pick tomatoes in Indiana to earn some extra money; he was in his teens then. (I know she saw him later, but this is how she remembers it.) My Uncle Joe remembers seeing Junior in Chicago in the early 1950s and only realized much later that he was probably the last person in the family to see his brother alive. My Aunt Eve can't remember the last time she saw her younger brother, but she remembers going with other members of the family to get his ashes and his things when he died. All of Junior's siblings have a tinge of sadness in their voices when they talk about their "missing" brother. My mother has a framed picture of her brother. Last summer, out of curiosity, I took the picture out of it's frame and turned it over to see if there was anything written on the back. "My brother, Elmer Jr. Loy, two years older than me," was written in my mother's handwriting. Not long after that picture was taken, Junior walked out of her life just as surely as he walked out of her parent's lives.
I don't have any answers about family estrangements. I wish I did, but there are as many answers and outcomes as there are families. And so, I thought I'd tell what I know about how my mother's brother became estranged from his family and how that estrangement lasted a lifetime. The estrangement began because Junior resented his father. As my uncle told me, "He didn't think he was done right by." My mother's family was a close-knit one who lived in a small rural community where everyone knew everyone else, so Uncle Junior couldn't have visited the family without seeing his father and, apparently, he was willing to sacrifice his whole family to avoid that possibility. And if he thought of the sadness he was causing his mother, he didn't let that convince him to go home. Or maybe it wasn't that way at all. Maybe he was too proud to come home and then as months stretched into years, he didn't have the money or he was too ashamed. We'll never know because he died when he was in his 50s in Salt Lake City, Utah without having spoken to anyone from his family. Ironically, he died alone in a place where the passion for genealogy is intense. However, I know he still kept his family in his heart because he left a note with his landlord that if anything happened to him, they should contact his oldest brother Dellous, and Junior left Dellous's phone number. I assume, that's how Junior's family found out about his death. (photo: my mother and her younger brother Clifton, Kentucky, circa 1960)
Tobacco farm, Tennessee, flickr creative commons
Several of Junior's siblings drove across the country to get his ashes (he had been cremated) and brought them back to Kentucky, where they were buried in the family cemetery. It was early August, then, and I imagine it was hot and humid; the cicadas would have been shrilling in the heat of the day and the tobacco would have been getting tall and lush and green. People stayed in their air conditioned cars and homes as much as they could, but they would have been out in the heat of the day at the cemetery when they laid what was left of my uncle to rest. I'm sure people were crying and sweating and hugging each other and talking of the man-child they once knew. Junior left his family and they forgave him and gathered to mourn his life and his absence. That provided a sense of closure the way rituals always do. Junior came home in death, if not in life.
That's one take-away from this post: you can leave your family, but you can't make them quit loving you. Family ties are enduring and people yearn for connection. "Take care of yourself and live a long time," a friend of mine told me, "because maybe one day your daughter will want to see you again." I hold onto that hope. My alternative is bitterness and anger and I'm trying hard not to go down that path because while I cannot control what she does, I can still love her. And I would be surprised if she doesn't think of me with love too, even if she hasn't mustered up the energy or courage or whatever she needs to pick up the phone and call me. Maybe I'm too optimistic, but I do believe that love can overcome many obstacles.
How long would you continue to hope that a reconciliation was possible between yourself and an estranged family member?
Finally, A Long Time Traveller by the Wailin' Jennys.
