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On Saturday the wind blasted from the east and there was rain all day. And all day I read, gripped by The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot. Ten years in the making, this book is well-written and beautifully structured. It tells the story of the making of the book, Skloot’s investigation, Henrietta Lacks and her family, medical ethics and Lacks’s cells, which have been astonishingly vigorous. The book is thoroughly researched, the author’s treatment is compassionate, knowledgeable, honest, lucid.

Back in the day, not as far back as one would hope, scientists and doctors experimented on vulnerable populations: African-Americans, soldiers, psychiatric patients, orphans, and others who were either disenfranchised or sold for the purpose. This is the context for the horror and suspicion which Henrietta Lacks’s family felt when they discovered that she lived on in some incomprehensible way, blasted into space, used in cancer research, and a thousand other ways.

Her family was poor. Their education, such as it was, ended in grade school. They’d suffered from systematic poverty and racism for 150 years. And the most recent generation has also suffered from familial abuse that included torture and starvation by step-parents. They did not choose, or understand, how Henrietta’s cells led to uncountable medical and scientific discoveries, including the Salk vaccine for polio.

When Henrietta Lacks underwent surgery for cervical cancer in 1951, at the age of 30, the doctor sliced a bit of her tumour. This slice was used in research on culturing cells. Up to this point, human cells had quickly died in culture. But Lacks’s cancer cells turned out to be uncommonly vigorous. They multiplied in the millions, for decades, and are still doing so. Ironically, the disease that resulted in her sad and early death provided the human tissue necessary for testing drugs, vaccines, and even effects of space travel. Known as HeLa cells, they were freely shared among scientists at first. But then a bright entrepreneur took on the task of turning HeLa production into a billion dollar business.

Yet her family can’t afford health care. They suffer from diabetes, high blood pressure, osteoperosis. They die young from strokes and heart attacks.

This is her younger daughter, Deborah Lacks speaking. She was a toddler when her mother died of cancer.

Truth be told, I can’t get mad at science, because it help people live, and I’d be a mess without it. I’m a walking drugstore! I can’t say nuthin bad about science, but I won’t lie, I would like some health insurance so I don’t got to pay all that money every month for drugs my mother cells probably helped make. (p 256)

A poem by Deborah Lacks:

cancer
check up
can’t afford
white and rich gets it
my mother was black
black poor people don’t have the money to pay for it
mad yes I am mad
we were used by taking our blood and lied to
We had to pay for our own medical, can you relieve that
John Hopkins Hospital and all other places, that has my mother cells, don’t give her
Nothing. (p 280)

Just a few years ago, Henrietta Lacks’s middle son had a quintuple bypass when he was 56 years old. He woke up from surgery $125,000 in debt because he didn’t have health insurance to cover it. (p 306) His mother’s cells sell for about $200 a vial. The quantity of cells would cover the earth several times over.

The doctors who treated Henrietta Lacks did so to the best of their ability and the medical knowledge at the time, at a hospital which was established specifically to treat poor people regardless of race at a time when most hospitals wouldn’t treat African-Americans at all. George Gey, who did the original research on HeLa cell culture lived modestly, putting his own salary into the lab equipment and working around the clock, while his wife, Margaret Gey supervised and ran the lab with no salary at all.

But there is something immoral and callous about the subsequent arguments and court cases around use of human tissue. Protesting (successfully) that scientific progress would be halted if people had rights over the use of their own discarded body bits, scientists, their lawyers and other authorities seem to have no problem with the fact that those people have no access to the benefits that are derived thereby.

This is not only a fascinating book, but an important one. While never stated as such, it is a clarion call for universal healthcare.

Hela cells being used to research familial pancreatic cancer, 2007 by Slater E, Amrillaeva V, Fendrich V, Bartsch D, Earl J, Vitone LJ, Neoptolemos JP, Greenhalf W

Spring is coming. The geese are returning.

In anlaysing data from an experiment with Swiss students playing a “public goods game”, James Fowler and Nicholas Christakis

found that the volunteers’ later moves were influenced by the behaviour of their fellow players. Each act of generosity by an individual influenced the other three players to also give more money themselves, and each of them influenced the people they played with later. One act became three, which became nine. Likewise, players who experienced stingy strategies were more likely to be stingy themselves.

(Full story here)

It is encouraging to know that generosity is paid forward. The article brings up some arguments about how this would function in different cultures, warranting further research, but I also wonder if that isn’t a reflection of how some societies (Russia is mentioned) already have this principle operating as corruption and the long history of secret police have led to hoarding, stinginess and suspicion as a way of life.

It’s a lesson in the necessity for generosity especially now when people are feeling the pinch and shock of recession, all the more necessary among readers and writers when the publishing industry is retreating and the impact of e-books is as yet unknown.

This is much on my mind as I’ve just finished Draft 9. It’s off at the agent’s. The sky is celebrating with sunshine and warm temperatures (though the rest of the week is due to be rainy, cloudy and flurry). It is a time of pause–not much anxiety yet because I need a rest and my kids will be off for March break next week.

But after that, I wonder if I can hold onto the spirit of generosity and faith in love and light amid the pressures of profit and expediency. I know that both exist for all the people involved. But if we can be generous with each other, then the light will win out, don’t you think?

Until every day is women’s day, I’d like to take a moment to celebrate some women around the world.

All photos courtesy of Wikipedia Commons:

Doris Uboh, NIgerian engineer, photo by mslawanson

Ogino Ginko, first woman doctor in Japan

Bolivian woman weaving

Mariya Dolina, dive bomber pilot, Ukraine 1944

Inuit woman, 1907

Women on the beach, Palestine 1921

Young jingle dancers by blw

Woman in India by yosarian

Lesotho women protesting violence against women by K. Kendall

Women protesting for rights in India by Lajpat Dhingra

Women protesting cost of food NYC 1917

Frances Benjamin Johnston self-portrait 1896

Dancing in China by stougard

Women's 5k speed skating 2010 Olympics by Robert Scoble



Dawn Floods the Hills, originally uploaded by Ragstatic.

I want that house!

Some of you may remember the mystery I posed here, and the solution I found here, regarding the puzzling Hebrew words above the entrance to Theatre Passe Muraille. Having discovered it was part of the gestalt created for the theatre’s play about a traditional Jewish wedding, I looked no further. But my Hebrew speaking friend didn’t give up.

He recently emailed me with the solution, brilliant and obvious as soon as he mentioned it (but brilliant because nobody else had come up with it!)

The Hebrew is an approximate translation of the theatre’s name. Passe Muraille is a French expression that means passer-through-walls. Theatre Passe Muraille originated back in the 1960’s with the

radical intention [to] create a distinctly Canadian voice in theatre. It was conceived in the notion that theatre should transcend real estate; that plays can be made and staged anywhere—in barns, in auction rings, in churches, bars, basements, lofts, even in streetcars and it was interested in the idea that theatre need not be a vehicle of social change, but rather it should endeavor always to be a mirror to social change.

In the 1970’s the theatre’s production of “I Love You Baby” was closed down by police for immorality, though charges were dismissed. The upside was that the play was so successful, the collective was able to put a downpayment on the old bakery/factory, which was in serious disrepair at the time. That was the old Queen St West, before it became chi-chi.

The Hebrew words, pass/passageway and walls is an approximate translation of “passe muraille”, while the “house of” was intended to give the impression of a synagogue, which it did. So hats off to the clever people who designed it and to my friend who arrived at the complete solution.

Further to the subject of creativity, my younger daughter (age eight) offers up the following:

click on photo to enlarge

And the snow has all melted, but the day it came down, my children built this on the back deck:

click to enlarge

Completed, it looked like this:

click to enlarge

On Saturday, A and I got to go out, just the two of us, for the first time in ages. We had tickets to see Intimate Apparel, which is part of a program where the Canadian Stage Company has linked up with Random House to match books and plays. I’ll be facilitating a discussion this Saturday March 6th, 10:30 am to noon, at Nicholas Haure Books at 45 Front St. East (if you’re in Toronto, I hope you’ll come!). The Singing Fire was chosen as the companion book to this play and there are a number of meeting points. But first–the story of how we got to the theatre.

We were to meet my sister-in-law and her boyfriend at a subway stop. I knew this wasn’t a good idea. I felt it in my bones, but ignored my bones because they were helping us out. We took a more circuitous route to meet them, and we had to go up to the exit, as they were waiting outside the turnstile, where we’d hand off kids to them.

It doesn’t sound like a bad idea, unless you have kids, and you know how long it takes to get them out the door. And you know that changing trains adds time that you’ll have lost getting them ready. We left a little late and we had to wait a little longer for the train. So we ran up the stairs to the turnstile, handed the kids over with scarcely a hello and goodbye, and ran down again. There was now a chance we’d miss the start of the play.

On the train, biting my lip, I thought of a contigency plan. If there was no bus at the other end, we’d hop in a cab. At Union Station, A and I dashed out of the train, ran for the exit (frantically studying the signs, not that way, this way). We sprinted for the bus, made it, and then the driver told us that he would be waiting there for 15 minutes. Out of the bus, run across the street, grab a cab. Now, folks, I had the address in my pocket as I had googled the theatre and examined the map before we left.

Except that there was no theatre there. The Canadian Stage Company’s building was across the street from where the theatre should have been, but was not, and I ran inside, banging on a door until someone came out and told me that the theatre was actually right next to the subway stop, which we had left sometimes earlier, and run for the bus.

Out we went, running back along Front Street, jogging and waving at cabs. Walking, catching my breath, wondering what I’d do if I missed the play, cursing google. Finally a cab stopped and we rode back to the theatre, arriving with 10 minutes to spare.

It was a very good play. The acting was excellent, the script solid (except for one moment that jumped out at me as out of context, but I’ll pass over that). Lynn Nottage, the playwright, has won numerous prizes, including a Pulitzer for Ruined.

Intimate Apparel is about an African-American seamstress in 1905 who sew undergarments for a white society woman and an African-American prostitute. Living in a boarding house for “coloured” women, she corresponds with a man in Panama, who is working on the canal, and buys her coth from a sympathetic Jewish vendor in NYC.

Points of contact with The Singing Fire: sewing, prostitution, lives of women, class differences, turn of the century immigrant neighbourhoods, fertility issues.

Princess Margaretha of Sweden sewing for the Red Cross 1914

I was most fascinated by a small but central detail in the set: the treadle sewing machine. (No surprise there for those of you who follow my blog). I was trying to identify it by its salient features during the intermission, walking around to get different angles, taking off my boots to stand on a seat in the front row to see if I could examine it more carefully. I knew it wasn’t a 19th century Singer treadle. That was easy to determine because it didn’t have the fancy decals. I didn’t think it was a class 15 machine because I didn’t see a tension knob on the front plate, but couldn’t say for sure as I still wasn’t high enough to see clearly. But the stage hand who was getting the set ready for the second act, kindly wrote down the serial number for me.

Singer has digitalized its serial numbers, for no gain of its own, so I was able to determine that the sewing machine in the play was made in Clydebank, Scotland at the Kilbowie factory. It is a 15k Singer, made in 1922, and so is about 17 years out of period with the play. My curiosity was sated.

As an aside, Lisa Berry, who plays Mayme (the prostitute) is going to be Lady MacBeth in an upcoming production. I’d love to see that.



Koyaanisqatsi, originally uploaded by escribirconlacabeza.

This fit my mood yesterday: homework purgatory and jamming sewing machine. (And not in the good way of a musical jam!)

*Jingoism Lite

Canada hosted the 2010 winter games, and came out of it with a new record for gold medals, and only behind the U.S. and Germany in total medals, though per capita ahead of them both. If only this could be it–just the games and the national pride expressed thereof, the financial burden created thereby–instead of war and the cost paid, both financial and in lives, our people’s lives and those in Afghanistan.

Wouldn’t it be better for countries to marshal athletes and artists, singers, performers, inventions, and have competitions and prizes?

So for this moment I’m completely willing to cheer for Canada and all the athletes who put their all into it. A special shout-out to the athletes who fell and got up again, who didn’t win the medals they hoped for, but risked, tried, and will go on trying. It’s all about practise, not a moment.

And of course the mounties…

*Blind Colour

John Bramblitt became an artist after he became blind. His sense of colour–and his paintings are vividly colourful–comes from the tactile feel of oil paint. He says:

White feels thicker on my fingers, almost like toothpaste, and black feels slicker and thinner. To mix a gray, I’ll try to get the paint to have a feel of medium viscosity

Brain imaging shows that visual parts of the brain become devoted to touch in people who are blind, enhancing their skills especially for more complex patterns. (Full story here.) But that to me doesn’t convey the wonder of it the way that actually looking at Bramblitt’s art does.

Check out Bramblitt’s website. The gallery is fascinating, especially with his commentary on the paintings. The texture and unconventional colour scheme jumps off the screen.

It gives me pause for thought: the plasticity of the brain; the gifts that come with adversity; the unusual perspectives those gifts can bring; the truths they can reveal and the beauty that they can shape.

*Mystery Solved

At first my investigations into the mystery (posted here) only deepened it. Alternative translations for the Hebrew phrase above the red door were suggested by a friend of Emily’s and by a friend of mine, who, though fluent in Hebrew, was puzzled and said as a phrase this didn’t make sense.

Today while on a wander-ponder, I stopped in at the theatre (to which the door opened) so I could ask. And the young woman in the box office made it all clear. The lettering was put up by the production company to create a fake synagogue for the play Yichud,, which takes place during an Orthodox Jewish Wedding. To add to the atmosphere, the audience is segregated, men sitting on one side of the theatre and women on the other. (This is not my idea of an adequate date with my husband! However we will be seeing another play, Intimate Apparel, which sounds like great fun, on Saturday.)

*Monday Feb 22/10



Welcome to the New Year!, originally uploaded by hvhe1.

And on the theme of colour…

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