The Nameless Surgeon

I used to work for a mid-sized American company, at their London offices. Every so often, they liked to drag you into a glass-walled conference room for training sessions, team building and such like. I'm sure you all know the kind of thing.

On this particular occasion, I believe lateral thinking was part of the schtick. The trainer, a charming individual as it happens, related the following story to us.

A young boy is in a terrible car accident. He's very badly injured. The ambulance rushes him to the hospital. He is taken straight into an operating theatre. But as soon as he gets there, the surgeon says "I can't operate on this boy. This boy is my son." But the surgeon is not the boy's father. How come?

I had heard this so-called riddle before, which I immediately avowed, and was determined thereafter to maintain the magnanimous silence befitting one who had an unfair advantage.

I looked around. Blank faces. A hint of panic. Then the first tentative suggestions began. We ran the gamut. Explanations began on the mundane side, and swiftly and with increasing confusion began to wax more and more exotic. We had adoption. Fostering. Separation at birth. Test tube babies. Cloning. Complex scenarios involving incest and abduction by aliens.

It seemed that to the people in that room, most of whom were male but a couple of whom were female, mistaken-identity sperm-stealing extraterrestrials were more obvious, more likely to spring to mind at a pinch, than the concept of a woman being a doctor.

I could feel my blood pressure rising. I caught the trainer's eye a couple of times. I think I lasted a good long time, given the circumstances.

Finally I cried out, probably nearly shouting, "How many biological parents does a child HAVE?"

Two, came the sheepish answer.

"And the one that's not the father is called the.........?"

Mother, came the sheepish answer.

Looks of embarrassment all round. At least the people in that room knew enough to be embarassed. There are many people who probably wouldn't be. Every single individual sitting around that overpriced fuckety-foo conference table had a university degree. Most spoke multiple languages.

I'll be a post-feminist in the post-patriarchy.

Star Trek: The Next Generation. Best. Show. Ever.

I personally believe that "Star Trek: The Next Generation" should be compulsory viewing in all middle schools. Yup, right along there with the compulsory Philosophy classes that I believe should follow a child up, age-appropriately of course, right from the age of 5 through to when they first rub their nooby little eyes in the harsh sunshine of adulthood.

Will making every future citizen spend an hour a week gawping at Picard and his crew arguing, solving problems and relaxing in holodecks create an earthly utopia in a single generation? No. But it sure as hell can't hurt.

I will be honest with you from the start, my friends. I am a dedicated fan of sci fi. For some people, the vehicle for imagining alternative ways of being, of living, and of organizing society is what is generally known as "Fantasy". Elves. Orcs. Warring kingdoms and arcane magic. That's fine too. It's just not my bag. No, for me, science-fiction is the door that allows us to see things differently, the safe space to kick about ideas that would seem too radical in Real Life (TM).

Now, the original series of Star Trek (from now on, TOS) was revolutionary for its time. Gene Roddenberry was forced by the cash-wielding Powers That Be to make compromises, but he didn't give it all away. He agreed to drop the female First Officer, and the darkly haunted Captain, but he kept the black, female Communications Offier, and refused to part with the off-puttingly rational jewboy alien. We had the infamous Interracial Kiss, we had Spock's constant "outsider" viewpoint, we had the beginnings of some sort of moral examination of cultural relativism in the form of the Prime Directive, and Kirk's semi-regular and semi-heroic disregard for it.

But I'm not a huge fan of TOS. Kirk was annoying. If he couldn't shoot it or shag it, he really didn't know what to do with it. The doctor's signature racism towards Spock got old fast, especially as it seemed to be more about some sort of Gay Love Triangle (TM) than about genuine ideological differences. The number of times that some kind of "trouble" was 2 days away, and in the next shot you saw the feisty crew arrive to deal with said "trouble" without any sort of analysis or discussion or, you know, actual PLANNING in between was legion. I'm happy to accept that this was the absolute shiznit in 1964, but I don't see myself sitting down to watch every episode right through with my kids, and then trying to gode them into philosophical debate.

Then, in 1987, along came Star Trek: The Next Generation (from now on, TNG). New crew, new Captain, new Enterprise. 1964 shiznit reinvented for the nephews and nieces of power-suited, filofax-wielding career cunts.

Gene Roddenberry was still alive at this point, and so this was the last show in the franchise that was truly "his baby". And boy, does it show. A couple of episodes of "Voyager", and you wonder if you're watching Star Trek at all, or some kind of Lord-of-The-Flies-In-Space. Unfortunately, he died quite early on in the whole shebang, so we never got our promised gay characters and whatever else his cheese-eating liberal mind would have given us.

But still, how fucking COOL is Star Trek TNG?

We have a crew we can actually BELIEVE in. As in, if you were facing a crunch moment with these guys, you'd actually trust them to help you live through it. And then to give you counselling afterwards so you didn't turn into a gibbering wreck, or have to shovel even more shite underneath your granite macho facade. They work well together. Yes, actually together. As in, they are not just window-dressing for an egotistical overgrown adolescent of a Captain who's just looking to seem like a hero and get his hole. And talking of captains, please don't respond with how Captain Kirk would "kick Picard's faggot-ass behind" or whatever. If you think that an intelligent, cerebral, thoughtful, experienced Captain who functions as the genuine leader of a team of capable crew-members is "gay", then you should just slither back to your trash-strewn refuge of a basement and wank off to the underwear catalogue like you always do.

When these guys are two days away from trouble, the next shot you see is not of their Captain facing down a gnarly-faced foe on a viewscreen. The next shot you see is of all the crew members with relevant expertise actually sitting around a table and discussing options and scenarios. Looking through schematics, arguing about tactics and ethics, and giving their advice to the Captain. You know, like an actual team. Whole episodes can revolve around just one character, or one relationship, and involve no life-and-death peril to ship or crew. There are civilians on this ship. Children. Schools. Sure, they get into some good old-fashioned scraps at times, but they are also a vessel of exploration, of research, of diplomacy.

Situations are not always resolved to my satisfaction, nor to every member of the crew's, and I feel the show sometimes comes down on the wrong side of an ethical quandary. But that's par for the course, and it is, of course, part of the point. What is the nature of being "human"? What criteria need to be fulfilled for an entity to be considered "sentient"? To have rights? What is the proper balance to be struck between respect for "groups" and respect for individuals? When is violence necessary? What really constitutes "honour"? These are important questions, and they are all explored.

And they are explored in a context where equality and respect are taken as a de facto baseline, and where difference is not seen as being automatically threatening.

Also, the universe that is created feels real, and solid. And it's just a nice place to be. A nice place to spend 45 minutes of your time now and again. A decent bunch of people (in the broad sense) to find as your friends when you next have time to park your ass in front of Tivo and hit "play". They have their strengths. They have their faults. Sometimes they fuck up. They're on a journey, and they're not ashamed of it.

So sit back, hit "play", and enjoy...

Mental Illness and the UK - A Culture of Respect, Concern and Compassion

An article from the BBC website, this Friday just gone:


"ARREST OF ASBO 'SUICIDE' WOMAN

A woman given an Asbo for making repeated suicide attempts was arrested near cliffs just hours after failing to overturn the order, it has emerged.

Emergency services were called out near Aberystwyth last Friday to Amy Beth Dallamura, 45, of Hove, Sussex.

Aberystwyth magistrates had refused to lift her anti-social behaviour order (Asbo) just hours earlier.

A previous court hearing heard how she had cost emergency services nearly £1m after they had rescued her 50 times.

Ms Dallamura moved to live with relatives in Hove in September last year.

But she returned to Aberystwyth, where she once lived, on 20 February to try to persuade magistrates to lift the Asbo which banned her from going in the sea, onto beaches or the promenade in the town.

The refused, saying it would remain in place until further notice.

But later that day shortly before midnight, Dyfed-Powys Police, the ambulance service and the coastguard were called to Borth, near Aberystwyth.

Ms Dallamura was on cliffs near the village, said police. She was arrested, but was released without charge.

Earlier that day in court, she apologised for the concern she had caused in Aberystwyth.

But she argued that her Asbo was 'no longer necessary'.

Temporary Chief Inspector Mark James of Aberystwyth police said: 'We received a report from the ambulance service that they had been alerted to her being on the cliffs over Borth. It was outside the area from which she is excluded. She was arrested and released without further action.'

The Asbo was imposed for an indefinite period in January 2006 after Ms Dallamura, a former golf professional, made repeated suicide attempts.

She had waded out to sea and leapt off piers, jetties, rocks and cliffs when she lived in the Ceredigion seaside town.

Ms Dallamura breached her Asbo in 2007 and received a two-year supervision order."



I just don't think I have the words. We live in a society where mental health is seen as a priority only insofar as its effects "bother" other, "normal" people. We get headlines about Schizophrenia when an affected individual commits a violent act against someone else, bemoaning that they weren't locked up or "controlled" better. We get tabloid articles, and occasional ignorant and grossly misinformed comments from politicians, about how Clinical Depression either doesn't exist, or is best treated by the affected individual "pulling their socks up" and getting on with it. We are constantly reminded how much "these people" cost the NHS, the Benefits System, and the country generally, with the clear implication that "they" are lazy, work-shy, good-for-nothings sponging off decent ordinary folks.

And now, we have a woman in dire need who should be getting truckloads of medical help and resources thrown at her, effectively criminalized for being sick.

Mental Health services vary wildly depending on where you live, and how far you are able to advocate assertively for yourself (something, by the way, that is often particularly hard for people with mental health problems). My own experience of this patchy provision includes having to re-explain my situation again and again to a series of apparently random doctors and nurses, none of whom spoke English as a first language, and some of whom responded to me in ways which suggested that they only had the most cursory grasp of what I was trying to communicate, before being told to try going to Marriage Counselling.

At the time, I was suicidal, completely incapable of regulating my own mood or taking any control over the vicious cyclical ruminations that completely dominated my consciousness. I made serious efforts to try and get this across to the parade of mildly-bored professionals I had struggled to get the chance to see. On some occasions, my then-husband was with me, and in his frustration and bone-gnawing worry made valiant attempts to put his foot down and prevent them from fobbing me off completely. I was made to feel as though I were seriously wasting everybody's time, and it rapidly got to the stage where I strongly suspected that they didn't actually give a fuck if I lived or died. I wasn't wielding a machete and gibbering about how the voices were telling me to kill kill kill. If anyone died, it would "only" be me - a damaged, pathetic, resource-wasting person. So why invest time and energy?

We ended up concocting fraudulent evidence that we actually lived at my in-laws' address, in order to access better services in a different part of London. If we hadn't done that, I wonder if I would still be alive today.

But then, who cares? If I had thrown myself off a cliff, the only concern would presumably have been for the trouble and expense I was putting people to by necessitating the involvement of the Emergency Services.

My condition is now much better-managed, and I am able to find pleasures and satisfactions in life that I would never have thought possible again eight years ago. But even maintaining this level of stability and functionality is very hard work, and involves the contributions of extensive support services and resources. I am not able to work outside the home, and am therefore dependent on Social Security for my meagre income. That in itself is enough to make me worse than shite in the minds of many people.

Amy Dallamura and I are not pariahs. We are people. We have the same rights to first-rate medical care and simple human respect as anybody else who suffers from a serious illness. My illness has threatened my life, and sometimes I feel as though my society is a little miffed that I survived.

But You Don't Really Care For Music, Do You?

So, it looks as if it's all over bar the counting. One way or another, my favourite song ever written is going to be the UK's Chrismukkah No1.

In the last couple of days, a young lady named Alexandra won the TV talent contest, X-Factor, and her cover version of The Cohen's Hallelujah hit the (largely virtual) shelves today. Almost immediately, various internet campaigns began to prevent this single reaching number one in the charts - largely predicated around encouraging people to pay en masse for downloads of Jeff Buckley's cover. The original is also now in the charts, although languishing far below.

I cannot claim to have watched The X-Factor, nor to know very much about this year's winner. I'm sure she's a lovely person, and I congratulate her on her achievement and wish her all the best in the future. But I find myself sympathizing with those who would do her down, and actively try to thwart her festive success. Why?

Is this just snobbery? The X-Factor is a proley show for proles, and the proles shouldn't presume to mess with the sacred texts of us poetry-loving intellectuals? Maybe it is. Maybe it is just that. This does not seem like a very noble emotion to feel, least of all towards a nice young woman who has worked incredibly hard to bring her talents to fruition.

I sincerely hope that this is not the alpha and the omega of it, not least because I have no desire to be forced to think of myself as a priggish, small-minded cunt. I hope it is a little more complex than that.

When I first heard Leonard Cohen sing Hallelujah, and in the hour that followed, while I listened to it over and over again, letting the lyrics and the incredible chord progressions first hit me like a sledgehammer and then soak inexorably into my malnourished spiritual bones, it quite simply changed my life. Just as with Like A Rolling Stone a decade earlier, I experienced a moment of clarity and kinship that turned me inside out - a moment of pure fucking-hell-he-just-said-EXACTLY-what-I've-been-trying-to-grasp-at-so-impotently-in-my-own-writhing-mind. It's not something you recover from quickly or easily, or, indeed, ever.

And at the end of the day, it's hard to see an artefact that has profoundly helped me to clarify my feelings about g*d and the universe, taken by someone innocent and unconcerned and turned into something mawkish, superficial and, in the end, ordinary. A damn good tune that lends itself well to an accomplished, soaring female voice, with some weird-ass incomprehensible lyrics thrown in.

I hope that it is this, rather than simple snobbery, that is giving me that slightly cold feeling in my abdomen whenever I think about mindless goons swaying to Alexandra's Hallelujah in the BBC studio on Christmas Day.

44

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer."


Ladies and Gentlemen, it's official. The Star-Spangled Banner in triumph still waves, o'er the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

President-Elect Obama has a long and hard road ahead of him. He and his administration will make mistakes, as every administration does. His presidency will not be perfect. There will be challenges and difficulties, triumphs, compromises and disappointments. Nobody doubts that.

But, just as we did on September 12th 2001, we wake up today to a new world - a world irrevocably changed. Except that this morning, it is the light of hope, and not the spectre of fear, that greets us - that allows us to see, if only for a moment, our world as a place transformed, a place of unlimited potential.

Because no matter what happens in the next four years, the simple truth is that symbols matter. Hope matters. Faith matters. Attitude matters. Belief in a better future matters. The grandmother turning on her TV this morning, who remembers having to drink at a different water fountain matters.

I have bought newspapers this morning to keep for my children.

God bless America.

Tomorrow's World?

"Rosa Parks sat so that Martin Luther King could walk. Martin Luther King walked so that Obama could run. Obama's running so that we all can fly. I can't wait until 5 November and I'm going to say 'Hello, Brother President'. I can't tell you who to vote for. All I can do is tell you to vote."

Jay-Z, rapper


There's a knot in my stomach. Partly it's excitement. Partly it's a vague and leaden kind of fear. Partly it's that most frightening of emotions - hope.

America - deep inside my heart - I believe in you.

I believe in Ginsberg and Kerouac, Steinbeck and Miller. I believe in Tarantino. I believe in Loving v Virginia. I believe in Steven Spielberg. I believe in Matt Groening. I believe in Woodward and Bernstein, Rawls and Dworkin, Marshall Mathers, Edward Hopper, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Ben Cardozo. I believe in John Denver, Dolly Parton and Tammy Wynette, in the First Amendment, in Abe Lincoln, in Santa Monica pier. I believe in Mrs Parks and Dr King and Senator Obama.

There's a knot in my stomach. And I know that it will not ease until the early hours of Wednesday, when we shall know if the sun is rising on a new world.

The Myth Of Perfection

Why don't I blog more often?

I often ask myself that. I enjoy updating my blog, having a bit of a mental and verbal meander, and saying hello to whoever is out there reading this.

The truth is almost certainly one of a perceived issue of quality. If what I write today, or what I write tomorrow, or what I write next month, isn't witty and wonderful and sparklingly original, so the fuck what? I'm not trying to be Dostoevsky here. But nonetheless I feel this pressure to be more than myself, to have something deeply "meaningful" to say, or to be interesting in some kind of abstract, objective way. All of this is bullshit. I'm not a little girl anymore, trying to impress my teachers or my parents, or even an exam board. I'm a grown woman of intelligence and warmth, and I shouldn't need to feel as though I am always "performing" for a shadowy judgemental audience.

The other thing is a lingering sense that I have to exude an air of completeness, certainty, and assuredness about my life. As if I cannot fully and openly admit to the world, without any shame or self-doubt, that my life (like everyone else's life) is a work in progress.

I have doubts about decisions, beliefs, relationships - sometimes the way I feel or decide to react to things changes. There is nothing embarrassing about sharing this with others, with friends and strangers.

If they pretend that their lives do not contain the same uncertainties - the same sense of evolution and lessons learned - they are almost certainly lying.

So enough with the weird self-consciousness, I say. I didn't call this blog "Broken Hallelujah" for no reason. It's time to be out and proud.