Author: stevekuusisto

Over at Shakesville there’s a disturbing post about a woman who was fired by Citibank because, according to reports, she was so attractive that her co-workers couldn’t concentrate on their jobs. You can read the story by means of the links above. It seems obvious that the woman in question was hyper-sexualized by the men in her work environment. It is also apparent that these were sighted men. SIGHTED MEN! To paraphrase Ronald Reagan: “Well, there they go again!” SIGHTED MEN! Hire the blind, my friends!

S.K.

I am sitting in Boston's Logan Airport awaiting a flight to Chicago. The doyens of the airport have decreed that some kind of bleached jazz must be played over the sound system. A lot of guitar notes without evident soulfulness pour out around the travelers who are eating Dunkin Donuts at Gate 20. There is a faint hum of air conditioning. In my view, when considering the hierarchy of air terminal noise pollution via Muzak Logan ranks around a 3, with 10 being the worst. Perhaps the worst airport I know of is Atlanta, where they play CNN constantly and at very high volume. By turns, the music of euthanasia doesn't sound so bad. Yes, yes, it could be much worse. Let me assert that I'm no Polyanna. I hate the sterilized, decorticating ersatz jazz as much as I disdain television talk shows and vending machine food. I have forgotten my noise reduction headphones. I'm listening to the tuneless bleating of the lost while all around me men eat donuts.

A man across the way is staring at me because he thinks I don't know. He is as bad as the soundtrack. Have I just arrived at the age when one naturally prefers to stay home? The idea is of doubtful provenance. What I like is a good multi-cultural mix of languages being spoken, no Muzak, no donuts. Sure. I'm an aesthete. I like human conversation.

Meanwhile today is the launch date of my new book: Do Not Interrupt: A Playful Take on the Art of Conversation.

Here is what the folks at The Cape Cod Times had to say http://www.capecodonline.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20100530/LIFE/5300302/

May you be free from infusions of false jazz my friends.

S.K.

I am presently at the Vermont home of the poet F.D. Reeve who late last evening sat up and read his poems aloud. I am here with my friend Ralph Savarese who is a poet and nonfiction writer and disability studies scholar. Franklin Reeve’s house sits on a gentle hill and from his front windows one can view Haystack Mountain in the south west. What a thing, to be among poets and writers in a house that overlooks matchless mountains. It is a pleasure to be here for many reasons.  Franklin is married to the writer Laura Stevenson whose essay on living and communicating with a cochlear implant is one of the grace notes of the latest issue of Seneca Review. The delicate and lovely pleasures of hearing poems, talking about literature, and yes, discussing the lyric life of our bodies–all these offer the sustained and optimistic correspondences between our lives and our hopes. All today in sight of a mountain.

Here is a poem by F.D. Reeve:

          A New House in April

         In late afternoon light the hemlocks shine like old silver;
         a woodpecker drills its tattoos on a dyng ash;
         my father walks ahead in the woods by the river
         where the marbled water rolls off the mountain’s back.

         A warm wind softens the past, like the snow,
         making him lighter, quicker, to every taker the giver
         explaining, “ One must possess one’s ignorance
         like knowledge.” He sweeps like a hawk along the river.

         I shout to him through the speckled air, “Wait!
         When you came to the end of your life, did you measure
         from failure down or up from success?”
         Silence. The wind in the hemlocks. A kingfisher’s cry.

S.K.

I read this morning in the New York Times that a BP executive and another from Transocean have declared that they can’t appear before a congressional committee investigating the gulf oil spill because they are too ill to appear on Capitol Hill.

I wonder how ill that would be?  As a disability rights advocate I’d like to know. Perhaps its true, maybe these two executives have a pericardial condition or phlebitis. Maybe standing up could cause them to instantly perish. But one doubts these scenarios are operative. One thinks of the phony people who cheat their way into having disability parking placards because they have warts on their feet. Or spurious back conditions which do not prevent them from playing golf.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope these guys have something really horrid and that by turns they will get well. I wish the best both for their ethics and physical lives.

But I smell rats. Presumably they a doctor’s certificate. But I still smell rodents…

S.K.  

Trouble was, I knew zip about music.  I knew what I liked.  Pretty girl singers with big voices who made me feel that I’d just spent a wild weekend with them that had broken my heart and turned my world upside down.

via lancemannion.typepad.com

I am an avowed friend of Lance Mannion whose politial views are gently and openly liberal and small c Catholic. But I also love his blog for its appreciation of popular culture in our lives. This post about being a college disk jockey who discovered "The Band" is wonderful.

One week ago we at Planet of the Blind wrote a post decrying New Jersey Governor Chris Christie’s budget plan calling for the elimination of the Garden State’s lending library for the blind. The so called “Talking Book” program (which is directed and administered by the United States Library of Congress) has been recording and distributing books for the blind since the great depression and they have done so with remarkable professionalism and devotion. Recorded books for blind and physically disabled readers are not your average commercial audio books. They are recorded and developed in ways that allow blind readers to access the same books you might read in your public library and in effect this service makes it possible for borrowers to read far more printed material than one might find in the audio books section of your local Barnes and Noble. Talking Books represent the nation’s library, and in a very real sense they represent our nation’s conscience.

Yet it was inevitable that we would receive a vituperative comment from a reader who identified himself as being conservative (for so we must presume given his disdain for “liberals” who, he argued, support government waste.)

I have been scratching my head ever since I received the comment below because for the life of me I can’t follow the line of thinking that supposes that books for our nation’s most vulnerable citizens (war vets, the elderly, disabled kids) represent a “liberal” agenda. Here is what the commenter wrote (his original mistakes included:

I guess if you say talking books mean so much to the blind i will go along with it and it sounds like a wonderful thing, but how in the hell did it become government’s responsibility to provide such things. This should in no way be part of the government’s duties. Mainly because by the time the government pays what it costs for salaries, health care & pensions for the people who would have to staff the program you could probably build a library the size of the clinton library and massage parlor of talking books. These sorts of programs should be left to charities or these people’s family and friends. I know if i had a family member or friend who needed such things i would be more than happy to help out. I am sure the cost to a friend, family member or charity would be a lot cheaper and more properly run than some government bureaucracy. That is the problem with you liberals, you want government to be the provider of things that should be provided by oneself.

Books for the blind are not expensive, nor does the provision of state-wide library services cost much money. But leaving aside the nickel and dime arguments, who in his or her right mind would propose that our national identity, nay, our very “ethos” is not built upon the idea that all should have an education? Perhaps I can put this in personal terms. I’m a blind college professor. I make a six figure salary. My books have been translated into more than a dozen languages. I pay taxes. I spend my money widely. I am paying for my step kids educations. I bought each of them an automobile. I will simply point out that these things were made possible in no small part by the Talking Books program which has allowed me to have a place at the table of my culture. The commenter assumes that some kind of charity or community based citizens group can provide books for people with disabilities. Fair enough. But I’ve got news for my correspondent: our nations charities are in bad shape and many of them are failing. Programs and services for the blind are overrun and the numbers of blind and visually impaired people in this country are growing at alarming rates. This is because we are fighting two wars and yes, America’s population is aging fast. My dear correspondent, would you like to rely on a neighborhood group or a charity to provide you with the means to literacy? My God! We give school kids a hot lunch when their families are too poor to feed them. Such values are neither liberal or conservative. They are American values and they are what my dad fought to preserve when he went to war in the Pacific.

I have long been a fan of William Bennett’s volume The Book of Virtues. Who says I’m an ivory tower poet? 

The man who misses all the fun
Is he who says, “It can’t be done.”
In solemn pride he stands aloof
And greets each venture with reproof.
Had he the power he’d efface
The history of the human race;
We’d have no radio or motor cars,
No streets lit by electric stars;
No telegraph nor telephone,
We’d linger in the age of stone.
The world would sleep if things were run
By men who say, “It can’t be done.”

S.K.

I've been thinking all day about why the Obama administration can't or won't take ownership of the crisis in the Gulf Coast. As I've scratched my noggin I asked myself "when was the last time an American president took ownership of a disaster?" I'm not thinking of the passive constructions that have passed for apologies–the "mistakes were made" gambit that Reagan and Clinton liked to use–I'm thinking of real presidential ownership. It was Jimmy Carter's appearance on morning TV when the U.S. military operation to rescue the American hostages in Iran had failed. He said that it was his sole responsibility. Remember that?

I received the following e-mail this morning from my friend John D. Mikelson who directs the veterans affairs programs at the University of Iowa. The first sentence is from John.

I don’t tend to pass on random emails but this is awesome. Please read and pass on! I look forward to seeing you all this Memorial Day

I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey’s. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 1655. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever–the heat and humidity at the same level–both too high.

I saw the car pull into the drive, ’69 or ’70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail’s pace.. An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of flowers–about four or five bunches as best I could tell.

I couldn’t help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: ‘She’s going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts like hell and I’m ready to get out of here right now!’ But for this day, my duty was to assist anyone coming in.

Kevin would lock the ‘In’ gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make it to Smokey’s in time.

I broke post attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight: middle-aged man with a small pot gut and half a limp, in marine full-dress uniform, which had lost its razor crease about thirty minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.

I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman’s squint.

‘ Ma’am,may I assist you in any way? ‘

She took long enough to answer.

‘ Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days. ‘

‘ My pleasure, ma’am. ‘ Well, it wasn’t too much of a lie.

She looked again. ‘ Marine, where were you stationed? ‘

‘ Vietnam , ma’am.. Ground-pounder. ’69 to ’71. ‘

She looked at me closer. ‘ Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I’ll be as quick as I can. ‘

I lied a little bigger: ‘ No hurry, ma’am. ‘

She smiled and winked at me. ‘ Son, I’m 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off.. Let’s get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name’s Joanne Wieserman, and I’ve a few Marines I’d like to see one more time. ‘

‘ Yes, ma ‘am. At your service. ‘

She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the flowers out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn’t quite make out.. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC: France 1918 .

She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X.Davidson, USMC, 1943 .

She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944 ..

She paused for a second. ‘ Two more, son, and we’ll be done ‘

I almost didn’t say anything, but, ‘ Yes, ma’am. Take your time. ‘

She looked confused.. ‘ Where’s the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way. ‘

I pointed with my chin. ‘ That way, ma’am. ‘

‘Oh!’ she chuckled quietly. ‘ Son, me and old age ain’t too friendly. ‘

She headed down the walk I’d pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman, USMC, 1968 , and the last on Darrel Wieserman, USMC, 1970 . She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn’t make out.

‘ OK, son, I’m finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home. ‘

Yes, ma’am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk? ‘

She paused. ‘ Yes, Donald Davidson was my father, Stephen was my uncle, Stanley was my husband, Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all marines. ‘

She stopped. Whether she had finished, or couldn’t finish, I don’t know. She made her way to her car, slowly and painfully.

I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin, waiting by the car.

‘ Get to the ‘Out’ gate quick.. I have something I’ve got to do. ‘

Kevin started to say something, but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road. We beat her. She hadn’t made it around the rotunda yet.

‘ Kevin, stand at attention next to the gatepost. Follow my lead. ‘ I humped it across the drive to the other post.

When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny’s voice: ‘ TehenHut! Present Haaaarms! ‘

I have to hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye–full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud.

She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing duty, honor and sacrifice.

I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.

Instead of ‘ The End ,’ just think of ‘ Taps. ‘

As a final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer: ‘ Lord, keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or overseas. Hold them in your loving hands and protect them as they protect us. ‘

Let’s all keep those currently serving and those who have gone before in our thoughts. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy.

‘In God We Trust.’

Sorry about your monitor; it made mine blurry too!

If we ever forget that we’re one nation under God, then we will be a nation gone under!

Last year I had surgery on my “long blind” left eye and I now can see “at” or around, sometimes above, sometimes below the level of legal blindness. Three weeks ago I had my right eye operated on, (the same procedure, a delicate cataract removal–made more complicated by my damaged retinas from premature birth) and while the right eye can’t see as well as the left, I’m able to walk around and take note of things.

When one says “things” one means items both sublime and ridiculous. This morning in the early Iowa heat my guide dog Nira and I saw a rabbit in the uncut grass and it was standing like Pythagoras, all stately, probably scenting love. Damned if I knew. That rabbit was the color of a very dirty brownstone in Greenwich Village. It reminded me that my sister’s apartment is just half a block from Eleanor Roosevelt’s 11th St. flat. I decided to name the rabbit Eleanor. This further reminded me that Eleanor Roosevelt once observed that “England has 7 green vegetables–six of them are Brussels sprouts.”

Of course properly speaking, the sight of a rabbit, even a Pythagorean rabbit is hardly sublime. “The sublime” as Longinus told us long ago has to do with the sense of eternity and the human apprehension of all that is beyond our understanding. I’ll venture that human beings understand the rabbit. We do not of course understand the night sky or the chance music of a winter storm and so those things are still sublime.

Sometimes the commonplace–the “rabbit factor” becomes sublime through a marriage of happenstance and human incomprehension. This is when seeing is quite interesting. Take this morning’s walk. NIra and I were crossing a footbridge over the tributary of a small pond. Because I see things “up close” I noticed three stones on the hand rail of the bridge, three stones artfully arranged as if we were in a Jewish cemetery–surely these were the stones of remembrance. “How tender it is, to see that someone has arranged these stones,” I said to myself. And then I surmised that they were not stones at all, but rather, extraordinary deposits of goose shit.

The balloon of the mind expands only so far…

S.K.