Clinton St. Quarterly, Vol. 10 No. 1 Spring 1988 (Portland)

A MESSAGE TO THE PEOPLE OF OREGON FROM DR. LENORA FULANI INDEPENDENT PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE DEAR FRIENDS, My independent Presidential campaign for fair elections and my call to democratize the political process to include and reflect the aspirations of people of color, environmentalists, lesbians and gays, rank and file labor and all liberal and progressive-minded people has received broadbased support across the country. In January, I became the first African- American woman ever to qualify for federal primary matching funds and plan to be on the ballot in November in all 50 states and. the District of Columbia. I need your help. To appear on the ballot here, an independent Presidential candidate must hold a nominating convention of a thousand registered voters by August 30, 1988. Will you support my right to be on the ballot so that the voters of Oregon can have a choice in November? FOR FAIRNESS AND DEMOCRACY, CONTACT MY REPRESENTATIVES AT 1-800-458-1215 DR. LENORA FULANI PAID FOR BY LENORA B. FULANI'S COMMITTEE FOR FAIR ELECTIONS Regional Headquarters 1331 Third Avenue #523, Seattle, WA 98101 (206) 623-4864 31 NORTHWEST FIRST AVENUE • 223-9919 MONT BLANC Masterpiece Series Sale 15% OFF THRU MAY 1 MONT° BLANC THE ART OF WRITING 2 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988

‘Z & DM King of Zyd Stockert Paying last respects to Clifton Chenier. . .even the bartenders are dancing. The Clinton St. Quarterly is published in S Oregon, Washington and National edi- S tions by CSQ—A Project of Out of the 5 Ashes Press. Oregon address: P.O. Box I 3588, Portland, OR 97208 —(503) 222-6039. Washington address: 1520 j Western Avenue, Seattle, WA 98101— J (206) 682-2404. Unless otherwise ! noted, all contents copyright ©1988 ' Clinton St. Quarterly. sc-®] * Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 3 Rhonda Kennedy Merilee Bunker, Lisa Miller Account Representative— Washington Philip Minehan Ad Production Stacey Fletcher, Qualitype, Robert Williamson Typesetting Harrison Typesetting, Inc., Lee Emmett, Marmilmar, Arrow Typesetting, Qualitype Camerawork Craftsman Lithop'.ate, Inc. Cover Separations Portland Prep Center, Inc. Printing Tualatin-Yamhill Press Thanks Judy & Stew Albert, Robert Anderson, Linda Ballentine, Walt Curtis, Dru Duniway, Jeannine Edelblut, Molly Hershey, Anne Hughes, Keith Jellum, Maria Kahn, Craig Karp, Elizabeth Leach Gallery, Deborah Levin, Peggy Lindquist, Zak Margolis, Theresa Marquez, Melissa Marsland, Doug Milholland, Kevin Mulligan, Larry Needham, Laura Russo Gallery, Norman Solomon, Northwest Film & Video Center, Missy Stewart, Sandy Wallsmith, John Wanberg, The Clinton 500 Cover image: Carmen Miranda. C.T. Chew of Seattle, self-proclaimed World’s Greatest Fake Artist, ” has a one-man show currently at the Seattle Art Museum. This is a self portrait. This Meeting Did Not Happen, This Birth Never Occurred— Bob Sawatzki Kabengo is born to an Amazon as midwives and the forces of nature vie with the State of Utah. I Tipped a Toddler— Leanne Grabel Mommy in the Hollywood District works through the spinach shards and fantasies of exile in Bali. Paternity— Ruthann Robson Recreating that “family feeling without father.. .the magic of numbers and the art of accounting. Praise Failure—Rick Rubin One man’s experience crossing a 13 year desert of personal pain and growth.. .keeping lean and limber during the hard times. Noriega. . .North. . .Nugan Hand . . .Just say No! People, campaigns and events have whirled around so much recently that it’s hard to see the forest for the trees. With a senile, lame-duck president in office, eager to clear his administration’s squalid slate, it’s a dangerous period for our nation and the world. It’s critical that we make connections between what seem at first to be totally unrelated incidents. Consider what is unfolding—the U.S.-fed crisis in Panama rises to front page status. Bud McFarlane is convicted for withholding information from Congress on the Iran-Contra scandal. Nicaragua invades [Contraoccupied] Honduras. Lt. Col. North, Rear Admiral Poindexter, Ret. Gen. Richard Secord and arms dealer Albert Hakim are indited for “conspiracy to defraud the U.S. government.” The U.S. sends the 82nd Airborne to [client-state] Honduras, not surprisingly pushing the “North & Co.” indictments back to page 16 (Oregonian- Mar. 18). Geo. Bush eliminates his Republican opposition and Jesse Jack- son emerges as the Democratic frontrunner. Att. Gen Edwin Meese’s house of cards begins to collapse as key aides resign. The Iran-Contra affair has unveiled a Byzantine web of relationships exDad—John Callahan Dad brings WWII to the homefront. Growing up with a flattop and forks to spare. Downtime—Bernadette van Joolen A young woman is helped to discover she’s a special person by a man on his way out. Year of the Tree—Jon Robertson Tapping into Tree Time.. .making a home in the deeply rooted world of old growth. tending worldwide, all clumsily choreographed by the White House and the CIA. Wall Street Journal reporter Jonathan Kwitny’s book, The Crimes of Patriots, an in-depth look at the CIA- front Nugan Hand Bank, helps explain the rot that led to that bank’s unraveling in 1980 and the roots of our present crisis. Secord, ex-CIA head William Colby and an immense cast of mafiosi and “ex-U.S.-military” men were using the bank for drug money laundering and illegal arms transactions long before the Reagan administration was installed. Nugan Hand Bank had offices in the opium fields of Thailand, did business with the Sultan of Brunei and the Marcos family, and stole hundreds of millions of dollars from “depositors” across the globe. It took advantage of lax banking scrutiny in Panama, the Cayman Islands and even its home base, Australia. Bank officials destroyed boxes of documents without being challenged, even after the bank had fallen. Meanwhile, an agent of the bank was sent back to Saudia Arabia to fill up large plastic bags of currency in exchange for unwritten “claim numbers.” The CIA and Defense Department refused cooperation with banking authorities of any nation, preferring to pretend that nothing untoward had happened. Multi-Cultural Education at the Crossroads—Melissa Laird Northy schools unfold strategies for building past prejudice and reinforcing pride. Taking the Tea—Barbara Kerley f It JO/ The view from Hari Bahudar's teashop on the road up from India. Take your time. . .things come around again. The Reagan team thought they d learned much from the Nugan Hand experience. That profits from drug money laundering could be used for foreign policy initiatives invisible to Congress. That saying “No!” to drugs in the U.S. would serve as effective cover for illicit operations elsewhere. That U.S. citizens care less about what happens to foreign individuals than their fellow Americans. This level of deceit may not blow up in George Bush’s face, but it should. It’s time for us to “Just say No!” No to Contra-aid. No to the far-greater sum (estimated to be 5 times the aboveboard congressional appropriation) of CIA money channelled to the Contras. It’s time to look behind the Noriega crisis in Panama to imagine why the U.S. is desperate to unrail one of the original Contadora sponsors. Strange the lack of press coverage on the 22 Latin American nations who have urged the U.S. to end its meddling in Panama. Or on the underclass supporters who continue to keep Noriega in power. It’s truly time for the U.S. to turn a new leaf in its relations with the world, to stop playing policeman and start picking up its own economic pieces. Soon. Or we re due for some nasty surprises.

FTlwo hundred thousand humans were born on f June 12, 1983 and this is the story of one of X them. His name is Kabengo. At the time, the mother was 33 years old, it was her first birth, she knew she was pushing the envelope. The father was 31, he couldn’t believe this was really happening. Kabengo just wanted to get out. MEETING ? * DID M O T HAPPEN, Xx ii • • ■ t THIS Let me out of here, he said that morning and gave a kick within the embryotic sack, punching his mother’s kidneys. She wet the bed. It woke her up. My water has broken, was her immediate assumption. My wife Loreli thinks she is the Queen of the Universe. In fact, she looks like an Amazon. My name is Nick Diamond and I’m a very lucky guy. Salt Lake City, Utah, is a unique kind of place for an Amazon Queen to be waking up but there it was, all around. The sun streamed in through the very large windows and French balcony doors of our cheap, high-ceilinged, upstairs apartment. Outside the city was sleeping on a beautiful summer Sunday morning—this state of repose suits Salt Lake very well. Loreli heaved her body over like a watermelon and levered herself up on one elbow to a sitting position, then stood up, six feet tall and a hundred and ninety pounds. It must have been the bed bouncing back that woke me up. “We’re going to have a baby,” she said. Then she called the Utah Women’s Health Center. They said they were occupied until noon and asked her how far apart her contractions were. “What contractions?” Loreli said. She was very calm. She was in no pain and it was six o’clock in the morning. When in doubt take a bath was Loreli’s general rule for ambiguous situations, and so she did. “What’s this you’re trying to tell me,” said Loreli. “Sue Barton’s very competent,” said Dr. John. “She’s performed several births already you know. She’s already licensed in Alaska where the first birth she assisted at was a home birth. I’m saying I am out of here in the morning. I am going home to Ashland, Oregon. I am history, sister. Tonight is my going away party and I know, I have a strong feeling, that this being your first birth and you the Amazon that you are, there will be an interminable hangup, I just know it, and ruin my party. Besides, on my way out, it’s a way to flip- off this block-headed state of Zion. J’t was a long slow quiet afternoon. We sat on the front lawn sanding the baby crib. The way to do it is hold up the piece of frame you are working on with one hand, sand with the other and peer through the bars. We took pictures of each other. I was thinking, I don’t want to see myself behind bars. Loreli got her first real contraction. “Ooooh,” she said, “kind of takes your breath away.” By 5:30 the contractions were coming at regular five-minute intervals except when they weren’t. “This is not clockwork,” I said to Loreli, but we called the Birthing Center anyway and Sue Barton came to check Loreli’s progress. After all that time and serious conDR. JOHN WAS SUGGESTING WE PERFORM A CRIMINAL ACT. I WOULD BE AN ACCOMPLICE TO THE CRIME. LORELI WOULD BE THE WILLING VICTIM AND KABENGO THE UNWITTING CRIMINAL, GUILTY OF ILLEGAL ENTRY INTO THE WORLD. I got up and had a ritual last breakfast as a free man—Spam and eggs. I packed up my backpack and got Loreli’s big bag ready to go, full of tapes and books and changes of clothing. We planned on hiking to the Birthing Center and spending the day like a day at the beach. Then we went back to bed. I unplugged the phone so we could sleep. Afew hours later we were up again and ready to go. Loreli clumped downstairs to nip a rosebud—to have something to look at when it really hurt—but immediately came clumping up again, laughing. Dr. John was outside in his truck, concerned. They thought we had been run over or gotten lost or had an emergency. They had been waiting for us. Dr. John was not really a doctor, he was technically a nurse-midwife, but his very demeanor let you know in every way that he was up to the situation and a cool capable hand and could be an M.D. if he wanted to but was just not all that fond of golf. Dr. John whisked Loreli off to the Birthing Center where they tested and proved that, no, the crystals did not form, therefore her amniotic sack had not burst but her mucous membrane was leaking. She was only dilated three centimeters. That meant that sometime within the next 36 hours we could expect birth. “Don’t call us again,” Dr. John said, “until the contractions are coming five minutes apart like clockwork.” And whisk, in the little Japanese pick-up truck with the Oregon plates, he swept her back to the apartment. It was on the way there that he first suggested the idea to Loreli— why don’t we have a home birth? Well of course that had been our original intention before it was explained to us that midwives in Utah could be licensed either for home birth or for hospital and clinic births—not both. Choose one. We did. We’d been assigned a student midwife, Sue Barton, at the University Hospital Birthing Center, and were resigned to a perfectly sterile birth experience. trading she had only dilated to four centimeters. Pretty soon Dr. John showed up carrying your basic black extra-large size doctor’s bag. It rested inobtrusively but with quiet authority on the table by the bed. What did he have in that bag? Only all the vital contents of a modern surgical operating room. What do you say, Dr. John suggested to Sue, we have the baby here? Although he had successfully officiated at nearly a thousand births, Dr. John was not licensed to perform home births in the State of Utah. Sweet Sue Barton was certainly not sanctioned for such activity, she was just trying to get licensed at all in Utah. Dr. John was suggesting we perform a criminal act. He and Sue would be co-complicitors. I would be an accomplice to the crime. Loreli would be the willing victim and Kabengo the unwitting criminal, guilty of illegal entry into the world. It’s what we all wanted but we responded with jokes and nervous laughter. We kept going back and forth. We waffled. All the way up to the critical moment we pretended we were going to do the right thing, but the allure of an actual, natural, home birth was undeniable. “Our ace in the hole is you guys don’t have a car,” Dr. John pointed out. “We’re not going to have this baby till eleven or so. Instead of hanging out at the Birth Center I can be at the party. You guys keep me posted. I could call this turkey in over the phone.” At this point I remembered to turn on the tape recorder: Sue: Well whadayou think, Dr. John? Dr. John: I think one way we could to it is that if you agreed, um, on a friendly basis to stick around, and I sanctioned it. You’d be covered. Sue: But I wouldn’t if you’re not here. Dr. John: You would be covered on your own—just on your own recognizance. Sue: What’s that supposed to mean? (Nervous laughter—Silence) C an d ac e Bie n em an Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 5

Dr. John: Don’t feel comfortable with that. Okay. Loreli: No, l ean tell she doesn’t. Nick: (Resigned) We can go to the Birth Center. . . . Dr. John: All right. Is it a big deal, is it... . Nick: It’s just exciting to have it at home. Loreli: It’s.... We want to have it at home! Sue: I agree! I don’t have any problems with home birth, I love it. I mean I’ve done it before. Loreli: But I don't want to put you in a position. . . . Nick: With the cops, you know, raiding us: All right! Put that baby back in there! Loreli: We want Sue to be comfortable. away. “Breathe,” Sue said. “This is what those breathing exercises were for in the birth class. It’s to distract you.” r. John arrived with a change in the weather. Outside there was a breeze picking up and clouds moving in. We put layers of blankets down to protect the mattress. Loreli called for pillows to prop her up to a sitting position. Dr. John was snapping on rubber gloves and unfolding and laying out a sterile field, one of half a dozen stuffed into his bag of medical Dr. John: Sue: Dr. John. , We like her. (To Sue.) We want you to enjoy it too. Oh- ohhhhmmm. (Sigh) One good thing about contractions is they get over. Okay I’ll tell you what we'll do. I’m going to run back up to the party. Stick around. Check her when she needs to be checked. And then we can go down to the Birth Center as soon as you document the change. Want to do that? Do you feel all right with that? All right. Okay. Arid just call me, you know. You can just call me if anything happens in the next two hours. You're not here. You were going home as far as I know. This meeting did not happen. IT WAS AS IF magic. Dr. John: Sue: Dr. John: Loreli: Okay Sue I called you at whatever time it is now. You got my call and it's ten to nine. Okay. You can, you know, do the whole thing, but I’m going to show you how I do Intacts. If you just kind of listen to my voice I’ll.. .if I sound kind of bossy that's just how I get here toward the end. That’s okay. We need somebody Loreli’s voice was getting ethereal, wispy, with the tremendous exertion of the contraction. It was a relief to push that hard and an exhaustion, her body in a frenzy of absolute arousal while pushing followed immediately by total collapse when resting. Sue coached her breathing: “All the way down to the bot- * ......< * I ABENGO WAS ALREADY WITH US BUT IN A ROOM WITHIN A ROOM. LORELI WOUND UP AN ANTIQUE MUSIC BOX AND LET IT RESONATE, FOR KABENGO’S BENEFIT, AGAINST HER DISTENDED BELLY: “THE HAPPY WANDERER.” It was a blessing to have Sue Barton, student nurse, with us that evening. Loreli was really getting to be art invalid and was nauseous. She tried eating crackers but just vomited them up again. We listened to Keith Jarrett’s Koln Concert. At regular intervals Sue applied the fetal heart monitor. The kid’s heart was fine. It was as if Kabengo was already with us but in a room within a room. Loreli wound up an antique music box that was shaped like a little Swiss chalet and let it resonate, for Kabengo’s benefit, against her distended belly: “The Happy Wanderer.” tom of your lungs, make your blood bright red. Deep slow, breaths.” “ Stroke your nipples. . . . real light, just light,” said Dr. John. Listen to my voice. You won’t rip and you’ll be good as new in two weeks. Okay.... Relax.... Sue: That was a good push. Loreli: The harder I push the sooner it comes, right? Okay this next , push is going to be colossal. Sue: I call those polar bear pushes. What time is it? Dr. John: Ten minutes to nine. I’m not even here yet. I was supportive during the contractions, pushing on Loreli’s back against the pressure the baby was putting on it. I kept a record of the intervals between contractions and wrote down Loreli’s comments: “That was an easy one. That was a funny one. This is a real one.” Between 7:00 and 8:30 Loreli went through “transition”—intensely painful contractions that increased her dilation from 41/a centimeters to 8V2 centimeters. Loreli wasn’t, couldn’t have been, ready for this new pain. She threw up her apple juice. She couldn’t stand to be touched. She was laying on her side clenching and unclenching her fist. Loreli just wanted to get away from the pain. She tried walking, kneeling, laying on her back, but there was no getting Dr. John threw away the first set of rubber gloves and snapped on another pair, then generously globbed lubricating jelly onto his fingers. “Tighten your vaginal muscles. Now loosen them. Now feel me stretching, two greasy fingers, okay. ... You’ve got real strong muscles. You do your Kegels. “Yeah, I’ve done Kegels all my life,” said Loreli, from somewhere far away, out of her mind. In between contractions, the midwives applied the fetal heart monitor. “As long as that baby’s heartbeat is all right we won’t cut,” said Dr. John. “Try squatting. It will open you up a centimeter more. It slipped back as the contraction ended. “I’m chickening out, I know I am,” said Loreli. Loreli was acting like she was pushing, and she was pushing, but she would not let herself tear. And the wind began to blow. I discretely opened the balcony door. The Amazon woman needed help. Kabengo we are trying to get you out of there. There was suddenly lightning in the near vicinity and Sue laughed, startled. Then more lightning and great claps of thunder right out there on the corner. You could hear the trees bending in the wind. And the rain. It was a delight, a relief, a distraction. “YOU CAN FEEL THE BABY’S HEAD. DON’T BE AFRAID. PUSH! PUSH THAT WHOLE FEELING AWAY. IT’S NOT GOING TO GET BETTER SO DON’T LET IT HAlQG YOU UP. PUSH AGAINST IT!” W will bring the baby’s head down, into the perineum." We helped Loreli into position holding onto the brass bedstead. Then she tried standing. Then she tried laying on her left side. Pushing hard she got a cramp in her leg. “Don’t use your legs, let your legs loose,” said Sue. The contraction ended as outside the balcony windows Isaw adull distant flash of lightning and heard slow rumbling thunder. “Do not be afraid to push against a burning feeling or a feeling that you’re gonna split ‘cuz you’re not gonna split.” “I’ve started to feel that already.” . “Don’t hold back. You can feel the baby’s head. Put your fingers down there in the vagina next time. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. Push! Push that whole feeling away. It’s not going to get better so don’t let it hang you up. Push against it!” “That’s good.” “You are doing beautiful. Touch your baby! Touch your baby’s head!” Resting. Breathing. The fetal heart monitor again, Kabengo’s heart beating, sounding like a very tiny washing machine on an infinite cycle. “Many kids will take a dip here but you’re so healthy. She’s got such incredi-, ble tone in her pelvic muscles. There might be a little tear.” “Can’t we cut it?” “No, we’ll try it this way. I’d rather sew Loreli pushed and pushed and hearing the thunder and feeling the lightning she did not notice that she was crying and shelet herself tear. She was ripping apart at the seams—her Amazon muscles just too tight to admit such a thing as the human skull. She pushed and let herself be torn. She tore in three places. There was a baby’s head sticking out between her legs. Loreli was laying on her back, leaning against me to relax. When I saw the baby’s head beginning to emerge I forgot about him facing upside down. So it was from over Loreli’s shoulder that I saw this black, bloody, mushy round thing sticking out. It’s a monster, I was thinking. Dr. John and Sue Barton didn’t say anything about it so I thought perhaps I had better not mention it to Loreli. Things were happening very fast. The forces of nature were in full concert and Loreli was pushing again. Dr. John coached Sue as she caught and turned the baby’s head and I saw he was human. Kabengo gasped and cried out, just his head sticking out deep between Loreli’s thighs, his shoulders still inside, like: Get me out of here! The shoulders came easily on the next contraction. Dr. John pulled him out and then there was a little boy on Loreli’s stomach. Sue reassured Loreli, “You have a fine baby. You’ll be alright.” The placenta came a few minutes later. Dr. John neatly tied the umbilical cord in two places then handed the surgical scisTHE FORCES OF NATURE WERE IN FULL CONCERT AND LORELI WAS PUSHING AGAIN. DR. JOHN COACHED SUE AS SHE CAUGHT AND TURNED THE BABY’S HEAD AND I sors to me to cut the cord but I declined the ceremonial honor. I didn’t need that simple symbolism. No one could be more cognizant—I was the author of this child. SAW HE WAS HUMAN. Loreli wants to push but she was afraid to push. She would tear, she knew she would tear. “Too healthy,” said Dr. John. “Such a fucking Amazon you are. Your pelvic floor muscles are so healthy and so strong there’s going to be a bit of bleeding.” up a laceration. When you cut you usually cut nerves, you either get hyper-sensitivity or numbness.” Sue spread out another sterile field— to put the baby on. Loreli had another tremendous contraction. The baby crowned again, momentarily, then Writer Bob Sawatzki lives in Salt Lake City. His first story in CSQ was “Sexuality, the Neighbor Lady and the Family.” Artist Louise Williams lives in Lacey, Washington. Her last illustration in CSQ was for “At Play in the Paradise of Bombs.” ------- PERSONAL INJURY |------- WE KEEP YOU INFORMED OF OUR PROGRESS Call us for a Free Consultation EMERGENCY ON CALL AFTER HOURS & WEEKENDS DIXON & FRIEDMAN 6 Clinton Si. Quarterly—Spring, 1988

■ PORTLAND MUSIC ASSOCIATION PRESENTS THE FOURTH ANNUAL what we produce. NATURE'S will be hosting dozens of Oregon and Washington food producers who will prepare and offer samples to taste every day! Beaverton 4000 SW 117th Corbett 5909 SW Corbett Fremont 3449 NE 24th photo laura ewig ART MEDIAS A l SPRING SAL MARCH 28-APRIL 9 spring's a breeze f / W / * / / NATURAL FIBRE CLOTHING V now open fridays until 9:00 pm new market village • 54 SW 2nd •228-1693 • open daily •fri till 9:0 / / DON’T MI§S / / THESE EXCITING^ / DEMONSTRATIONS: ' THURS., MARCH 31ST 11-3 Puppet-making with Gisela Forstermann. SAT, APRIL 2ND 11-3 Jackie Svaren, will demonstrate her embossing kit. SAT, APRIL 9TH 11-3 Sheila Richmond will demonstrate Neopaques - the new waterbase opaque fabric paint. 20% OFF STOREWIDE* Choose from the Northwest’s largest selection of artist materials all at h 20% OFF! LOOK FOR OUR ART PRODUCTS SHOW MAY 14TH. TRY OUR CONVENIENT DELIVERY SERVICE. ■(Magazines, Pantone Books, and Yellow Tag items not included in sale) A l ART MEDIA 902 S.W. Yamhill 223-3724 HOURS: Mon.-Thurs. 9-8 Fri. & Sat. 9-5:30 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 7

8 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988

TODDLER Dedicated to Michael Marino Wherever He Be deftness By Leanne Grabel Illustration by O n a Friday in November offofSandy In an ecru two-bedroom house Atop aging gold mixed-pile rugs System, and it lacks in d) Mop sonofabitch. Chapter 1 a) Today there is absolutely no chance I am doing the floors. Inother- words, I am not going to vacuum, mop nor sponge up my jewhair, lying knotted and lint-specked, lying moist and mildewish, under corners, in the bathroom, in the house, off of Sandy, that isn’t mine, and never will be. b) This isn’t funny. c) Today there’s no way I am picking up shards of old spinach, all crusted, lying slathered, under corners, in the kitchen, because my mop is not a corners, in the shadows, on the platforms. Joanna! See her stonefaced. See her fear-tinged. She was snappy. See her snappy. d) And my name used to bob up ‘neath those slabs of wordgray. All those slices of life I found irksome. e) Now I’m Mommy in the Hollywood District. With shirley and Alma and Hickie and Flo I’m bringing the Mean Block Age down. f) It was Leonard who said that a baby can tame. And I felt way too brawny and brassy and phobic. g) And my mind was immense in its own desuetude. h) We were bored with our pontification. i) So, I coupled and bore. j) Yes, I heard you all slithering upward. k) No, I coupled and bore. Chapter 2 a) Well, now that you’ve asked, I’ve been having some trouble with my titles. Yeah, my new ones—Mommy and Wife. b) DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM??? c) I’m Joanna, I am. And I rode with the best of ’em. Decked out under e) Today I’m not leafing through cookbooks, my fingertips prancing, like round baby dancers in search of some leaf-latticed dinner ensemble. Like a pony, going trotting and snorting across the tiles to the foodbased instruction. f) My baby’s at Paula’s, and, thus, is not stroking my thighs with her fervent beseechment. g) Call the henchmen. Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 9 :a n d ac e Bie n e m an

Chapter 3 a) Harry, my husband, is happy by nature. His large heart. His large head. b) He pounds with inertia. I brain him. c) He loves me. I love him. d) Yet ever since I’ve known sweet Harry, no single day’s passed on which he’s been with no one. e) I had spaces so huge they grew tangible. f) Yes. Yes, I know. g) Pass the kleenex, please. Chapter 4 a) So two weeks ago Thursday, I purposely tipped over a toddler. b) I restrained but a fraction of my fervor. c) Yes, she fell, but sustained no major laceration. d) Yes, aggression, unclenched, was what powered me. e) No, the issue was stillness. The toddler forbade it. f) My desire! Impatience! g) So, I decked her, and the stillness I was craving overtook us just the instant that the toddler hit the floor. h) The toddler’s blameless. i) I feel the endtips of the spectrum. j) Call me Mommy. Chapter 5 a) See, the point is, the year I got pregnant was the year AFTER the year I craved Family. b) It was the year AFTER the year Rosie died. c) It was the year AFTER the year I was cloaked in obsession with Warren, who had one. A family, I mean. d) What a setup. The sadness, the challenge. e) Pass the hairshirt. Chapter 6 a) See, the point is, the Family sends me straight to my dungeon. b) At 4, I was dreaming of dinners with Mommy and Daddy, when Daddy bent down with a straight pin. There were candles on the table. c) Then Daddy pierced my eyeball, and my eyeball ran yellow. d) And Daddy was remorseless. THIS LILLIAN ROSE* By Leanne Grabel I here are days for the first time I lie almost hours Near Lili in bed. And her Thick mutton legs kick so madly My senses jerk wildly ( Full strength to attention. She’s got new mocha eyes that are Open, yet almondine. Soft shaggy cheeks made of Skin that is pottery. Buffed to a smooth wheaten Shine that is brownish. And NO, there’s no feeling of ownership. It’s more A matter of lack that it’s me who’s her comfort. It’s me. It’s the first time it’s happened to Me. What a compliment. Lili’s got all of her features and All of her toes. She’s got fingers and faculties. No open spots on her spine although last year She struggled for life in my dreams. I was miming it. This year I grew us a Lili. This Lili’s face melts all my past, which then Divebombs straight through me. Gets stuck in my gut. Makes me hunger. I’m stalking My innocence. Fear that I feel for her Cripples my juices. But Lili palms hope in her hands like Gold tassels that bedaub the shawl on the Wicker chair. Fuzz golden threads getting Stuck in her creases. HER CREASES! This Lili’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I could eat her for breakfast with orange juice and eggs. Wipe my mouth with her butterflesh. Begging O Mystery God: Let no tragedy, sorrow or ignorance maim life for Lili. O Lili. Lilian Rose. Chapter 7 a) While the bleakness the Family purports to adorn was familiar, the idea of Family sent my stiff arms out flailing. b) Made my elbows touch backwards. c) Pursed my lips so damn tight, all my wrinkles grew vertically. Chapter 8 a) See, the point is, I feel like a Cossack next to photos of Family, all hazied and heathered. The children dressed up in their blondes, forest greens, satin plaids. b) And the twist is my single friends think I’m so Family, they walk over buses to get to the eastside if I’m on the westside. c) Yes, the issue is luck. They don’t see my luck’s just a thin powder that breezes as wee as a whisper might blow off at whim. d) My luck’s partial, which basically cancels it out. Chapter 9 a) Yes, I know what I’ve got and I’m glad, but I pay with my nerves. b) I blame Harry. We’re mired in shake from the rustclumps. c) All the rusty I’ve met all these years have unnerved me! Chapter 10 a) That’s why I’m raging, b) Wait! Wait! I am diving in. c) Wait! I am swimming to Bali as a chieftain. It’s a job I applied for in search of that stillness. Chapter 11 a) No, my daughter is lovely. My daughter is fine. b) Go ask Harry. Writer Leanne Grabel’s last story in CSQ, “That Pale, Hollow Rush” won a first prize in the regional Sigma Delta Chi journalism competition. She Ilves in Portland. Artist Laura Ross-Paul lives in Portland, where she Is represented by Elizabeth Leach Gallery. This is her first contribution to CSQ. 10 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 Breitenbush Hot Springs Retreat & Conference Center We offer a wide variety of stimulating personal and social transformational workshops, retreats and conferences. • Sunday thru Write our new number down in your “little black book” Office Salem message phone 3 (503) 854-3314 (503) 371-3754 Please call or write to us for a complimentary Breitenbush newsletter with our calendar of events. • Special midweek rates thru April 30 Thursday night $25.00, includes cabin, meals, unlimited hot springs & sauna • Discounts for children • Licensed massages available Breitenbush Community, P.O. Box 578, Detroit, OR 97342

An EXTRAORDINARY selection of books & an exceptional staff to assist you. BEAVERTON BOOK COMPANY Beaverton Town Square 644-7666 ---------------------- FMMI Front COOPERATIVE GROCER Contemporary Crafts Gallery CERAMICS - TEXTILES GLASS - WOOD - JEWELRY Featuring NW and National Artists Tues-Fri 11-5 Sat 12-5 Sun 1-5 3934 SW CORBETT 223-2654 edJLBB E SBEEtEB S16 NW 31»t PORTLAND, OREGON 9721Q PHONE (5031 348-9143 The Coffee Merchant ♦ The finest imported coffee beans, teas, chocolates, and beverage brewing accessories. ♦ THE BROADWAY COFFEE MERCHANT 1637 N.E. Broadway • 284-9209 THE HAWTHORNE COFFEE MERCHANT 3562 S.E. Hawthorne • 230-1222 RON HINCKLEY MATT LABAOIE Open to All 9am to 9pm Daily NW Thurman at 23rd Place 222-5658 Tri-Met Bus Routes 15 and 17 The City's Natural Grocery Community Owned — Open to All! PRINTING DESIGN CALLIGRAPHY 7740 SW CAPITOL HWY IN MULTNOMAH 246-1942 915 NW Twenty First • 224-1084 S TOP BY AND TASTE OUR NEW KITCHEN Come celebrate our 4th Anniversary ☆ PARTY-APRIL 15TH ☆ Catering now available to parties of any size. Your place or ours. Call for information. The Real Mother Goose S.W. 9th & Yamhill 223-9510 AShop and Galleiv Washington Square 620-2243 Colorful, Functional, Handblown Work by Some of America’s Best Glass Studios. Vase sandblasted (10" high) bv Vitrix Glass CONTEMPORARY ART GLASS Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 11

jeans. The jeans were like those she had ogive her from his gambling winnings. Some saw him give her mother a hundreW Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 ^ w a s only a dollar bill. Usually it was a five or a arid rarely it was a twenty. It all depended on henfather’s luck had run the night before, or so

•ATERN Illustration by Claudia Cave Clinton St. Quarterfy—spring,

No matter how much money there was to hand out, her father always brought home fresh custard doughnuts and bloodshot eyes. She would break open a warm doughnut and watch her father’s weary face transform as he told of the night’s exploits. It wasn’t just bragging, she knew, for her father was what they called a card-counter, and a good one. He was not a compulsive gambler, but a man blessed with a mathematical mind and cursed with the absence of opportunities that might provide other outlets for his talent. His only problem with gambling was finding people to bet against a that often supports four sleeping bodies for at least part of the night. Breakfast is luxurious, and Kyla is thankful again, although she thinks the world is unfair for defining the simple pleasures of life as luxuries. There are fresh strawberries and lush pieces of whole wheat toast with home-made apple butter and the chatter of children with food on their faces. There are curtainless kitchen windows, open to admit the tropical February breeze and the glimpses of red and pink hibiscus waving to the sun. There is the humming of her own washing machine in the garage and a selecpaper, novelty notecards and postcards by local artists. Rose is one of Kyla’s few clients whose business shows a substantial profit. Kyla considers it one of the limitations of her present life that Rose is also one of her best friends. “What’s up? Ijust thought I’d stop in on my way to the shop from Nita’s. Nita and I were just talking about you and the children. How brave you are to raise them all by yourself. And,” Rose pauses to smooth the backs of her hands under her shoulder-length hair and flip it in the humid air, “how your children look so much alike.” Kyla attempts the time-tested diversion of offering libations, in this case, a cup of tea, with a litany of choices including Rose’s favorite, orange blossom. No matter how often it happens, Kyla is startled when Rose chooses to divulge gosthat have guided her course in life. The numbers that were always the solution to her father’s “I’m thinking of a number from one to ten.” It was just a matter of choosing which one of the two, and her father usually allowed her guess to be correct. “Of course, you know that everyone in town wonders. I mean it’s only natural.” Rose sips her steeping tea. “And I wonder what will happen when this man finally appears to claim the fruits of his seed.” “Life is not like a soap opera.” “Oh, I don’t know about that. I had a friend in New York who used to write for one of those things. All she did was read the newspaper and remember her childhood. Have you ever watched any? Some of those daytime- dramas are very realistic.” sip to its subject. Kyla knows that people “You mean the scenes where the darHe was such a man, with his blond crewcut, his talk about her. After all, she and the children inhabit a close community in a tourist trap on the southern tip of Florida. Kyla also knows that although she is respected for the fees she keeps reasonable with her unerring efficiency and the ling little boy—who has aged five years in two weeks while no one else has gotten any older—has survived a terrible car crash and needs several gallons of a rare type of blood and the hospital loudspeaker blares for the real father of little angular six foot six frame, his large hands scarred by machines and his hard blue eyes that bulged like frogs’ eyes when he was angry. She couldn’t imagine that she’d look like him when she grew up. white man who always seemed to win; a man who inspired distrust because he did not drink or smoke. She’d eat too many doughnuts and her jeans would get tighter and tighter. She’d make her father a second, and then a third cup of coffee. As she got older, she’d look at the man on the other side of the table and wonder if people were right when they said she was the “spitting image” of her father. It was hard for her to tell. He was such a man, with his blond crewcut, his angular six foot six frame, his large hands scarred by machines and his hard blue eyes that bulged like frogs’ eyes when he was angry. She couldn’t imagine that she’d look like him when she grew up. After all, though her father -was fairly handsome, he’d look pretty ugly as a woman in a culture which admired women who were delicate. The intensity of her speculations would be dissolved by the routine of the remainder of Saturday. Her father would go to bed, reading the newspaper until he fell asleep. Her mother would go off for a half a day of overtime at the shirt factory. Kyla would be left alone with her list of chores. Washing clothes was what she hated most. There was always a crowd in the basement laundry room of the apartment building. No matter how thoroughly she’d checked the pockets, it always seemed that a stray piece of paper or tissue would make its appearance known. She tried to clean out the washing machine as casually as possible, hoping that none of the fretting women in the small hot room would notice. But even if they did not see the inside of the machine, no one could ignore the paper shredded all over the wet clothes. Kyla’s children are waking her up by putting their fingers in her nose, in her mouth, in her ears. She usually enjoys sleep like a good cleaning, but today she wakes up feeling tired and dirty. Pieces of dreams still cling to her like shreds of soggy tissue. Her secrets often tumble out of their pocket in the watery world of sleep. “You kids,” she says, trying to be stern. Yet she is already smiling, already putting the names and faces of the night behind her. She finds it difficult to resist admiring her children, as Rachel, Donovan and Marina giggle and exchange the conspiratorially innocent looks of creatures still seeking a workable vocabulary. She kisses and cuddles each of them in turn, but in no particular order, and then all of them together. They tumble around, laughing and shrieking, Kyla thankful that she invested in the queen-size bed tion of Japanese “new-age” music on the public radio station. Kyla wants to know why everyone can’t live like this—and she isn’t interested in hearing economic theories. The music seething from the stereo’s one working speaker is enough theory to digest in one morning. Then there is the colorful rush of getting four human beings outfitted for one day: matching socks, a pair of striped cotton overalls to iron, a purple barrette for the baby’s hair, rainbow shoelaces tied in double knots and the search for the missing red shirt. Scurries to the car, a short ride, kisses good-bye and Kyla is pulling . back into the alley with JQ only the baby, Marina, in the carseat. The older two children have started their day, equipped with lunchboxes and new beeswax modeling clay, at the Free Hearts Alternative School. Kyla and Marina do not enter their stucco house from the same door they exited. Instead, they walk from the wide gravel driveway around to the front of the house where they are greeted by a huge woodburnished sign: KYLA DADE C.P.A. The office is windowed, neither small nor large, neither neat nor disheveled, with a few framed photographs of children scattered on the wall among the diplomas and political posters. The slightly rusted baby swing welcomes Marina, who watches as Kyla flicks on the computer and sifts through the account books and tax forms on a long wooden table. Kyla puts on her glasses and begins to work on the pitiful income statements of Spectrum, a cooperative art gallery whose members are contemplating Kyla's suggestion to apply for nonprofit status. The brass bells tied to the door ring at about half past two, while Kyla is breastfeeding Marina and eating a slice of date bread piled with cream cheese. It is Rose, of Rose’s Paper Works, a small shop near the ocean selling handmade 14 Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 services she performs with her unremitting reliability, she is considered slightly inferior because she is not an “artist.” Her art of accounting is disparaged, as if it is merely a technical skill. There is no one in this town who shares j Kyla’s conviction about the magical nature of numbers. There is no one here who understands the mystery of Kyla’s favorite numbers, three and seven. The numbers

Jeffrey Robinson to report immediately to the operating room and all the doctors and nurses raise their left eyebrows at each other?” Rose laughs, but is undaunted. “I guess you’re right. Men just don’t care about kids.” Kyla doesn’t remember saying that, but she lets Rose continue. “I mean, I never knew my father. He left my mother when we were kids. I hated him. I saw him once when I was twenty and I couldn’t even look at the bastard.” Kyla has heard this story before, from Rose and from a hundred other adults whose voices receded into childhood tones when they talked about their father’s desertion. Then there were those who talked about the emotional distance of their fathers, as if they were men with hollow bodies. It all made Kyla vaguely defensive, as if she should rush to protect the institution of fatherhood. “That must have been difficult,” Kyla tries to sound sympathetic. “Oh, I survived. What was your father like?” “My father is a nice guy, regular salt of the earth. He was always good to me, still is. Nothing traumatic in our relationship. Kind of boring, actually.” “Well, I always suspected as much. But while we’re trading secrets,” Rose persists despite the downward turn of the Kyla’s full lips. “Why don’t you just tell me the truth. Your children all have the same father, don’t they?” Rose sits back, as pleased as if she thought her bland invocation would be sufficient to convince a pathological liar to make an exception, a guiltless sinner to confess. “What makes you think that?” “They all look so much alike.” “They look like me.” Kyla is exactly right. The four people share the same pale coloring, the same honey streaked curling hair, the same eyes round as blue moons and protruding from the oval angularity of their faces. Their lips are uniformly even and full, their noses aquiline, their fingers long and their hands disproportionately large. “That’s true,” Rose admits, only slightly hiding her disappointment. “Though they must have inherited something from their father—or fathers.” Not if they don’t have any.” Kyla rocks Kyla also knows she is considered slightly inferior because she is not an ‘‘artist. ” Her art of accounting is disparaged, as if it is merely a technical skill. There is no one in this town who shares Kyla’s conviction about the magical nature of numbers. Marina, pressing their faces close together like a nineteenth century painting of mother and child. The day rapidly collapses around Kyla as if Rose’s raw echoes had started a landslide. When Kyla loses interest in her clients’ fiscal tax years, she tries to edit her computer program on nonprofit corporations. Marina’s whining distracts her and she overwrites the program. Three days work is lost. Free Heart School telephones to announce that Donovan has had another accident: “Can you please bring a change of clothes, and are you really sure that he is toilet trained sufficiently to be in the preschool?”Kyla dutifully bustles Marina into the compact blue station wagon to deliver a shirt and pair of overalls for her son, but then decides to take both Donovan and Rachel back home, in the hopes of a quiet, early evening. “ Why don’t you just tell me the truth. Your children all have the same father, don’t they?” Rose sits back, as pleased as if she thought her bland invocation would be sufficient to convince a guiltless sinner to confess. The children have a different agenda. They bicker and demand Kyla’s absolute attention. Marina cries. Rachel pours the dog’s bowl of water over Donovan’s head. Marina spits up. Donovan pulls the training pants from his dresser drawer and puts them in the toilet. Marina screams. All three children want only to cling to Kyla. A sweet supper does not console them. Attempted treats of bowls of ice cream, favorite books, Lego blocks, forbidden pastel chalks, blowing bubbles and coloring books are useless against their ill tempers. The usually enjoyed communal bath only results in six round blue eyes which bulge and stare at Kyla as if she is a traitor to some cause to which she does not know she should belong. It feels a hundred hours past midnight when she outlasts her children’s burst of tyranny and the children are asleep in their own small beds, seeming to listen to each other’s cranky breathing, waiting for the signal to renew the mutiny. It is one of those nights Kyla cries from exhaustion. It is one of those nights when the joy of stretching diagonally across her queen-size bed is not enough; she wants someone to gently move her over as he comes to bed after checking the children. It is one of those nights Kyla doubts the passion of her choices and curses the career that gives her the freedom to implement her schemes. She wishes the phone would ring with a rescue message. The only problem Kyla has tonight, like all such nights, is that she cannot decide who should be the bearer of the message. She only knows that it would be a man and that he would look like her enough to be her twin brother. Only in her fitful sleep does Kyla allow specific men to be contenders for the role of rescuer. She has dreams about pulling a list of three names from her jeans, rejecting each one, then folding the list carefully and slipping it into her tight pocket as she reaches for another custard doughnut. When the phone finally rings with a would be rescue message rather than a client or a request for Kyla to volunteer at the battered women’s shelter, it is weeks later—weeks too late. Things have been running extraordinarily smooth. Donovan hasn’t had an accident in all of March. Rachel has learned to love to read aloud to her brother and sister for hours. Marina is sleeping through the night. Kyla’s accounts are in order and the income tax deadline is approaching gracefully. Kyla is spending less time with Rose, and more time with Evelyn, a new and more considerate friend. Besides, it is early spring and the weather is heavenly. It is the season which makes the populations of the northern sections of the country plunder their address books for acquaintances in the subtropics who wouldn’t mind a visitor or two. All of Kyla’s children were born in winter. Douglas is on the other end of Kyla’s long distance line and he wants to visit. He and Kyla have been friends for a long time. They met each other in college, years before Douglas went north to Mackinac Island at the strait between the icy lakes Michigan and Huron and Kyla came south to a narrow strip of land off the “Gold Coast” of Florida. Yet there are certain old lovers one should never trust; lovers who left living scabs rather than mending wounds. She is trying to remember her vow never to see Douglas again. And Kyla is suspicious because he is now married. Douglas has a charm that penetrates while it implies that he needs to talk to Kyla about family problems only she will understand. The wary Kyla tosses her hair generously, and somewhat flir- \ tatiously, and tells him she’ll pick him up at the airport next Tuesday. She puts her better judgment to sleep like a naughty child. That child gets restless once Douglas is actually in her presence. Her real children seqm to overwhelm him at first with thek busy corporeality, but by the time the troupd arrives at the stucco house facing west,Douglas is easy with the kids and they all seem to like him. He loves children, telling, Kyla this fact over and over on the ride bpm the airport, as if it is not obvious, as if it contains some deeper message. Kyla is Carefully registering her perceptions to see if he gives any one child extra attention. Kyla shows Douglas to the guest room, its demure twin beds outfitted with pink and sea green striped sheets that look fresh as the first squeeze from a new tube of toothpaste. He laughs and strokes her head. Once she had called him oenmel, an ancient Greek beverage made of wine and honey, something that is both strong and sweet. She was studying philosophy then, fascinated with the ancient Greeks and their myriad theories about the perfect number. He was studying French literature and used to read her Flaubert in his faltering rendition of the original. Now he sells hand-hammered silver to tourists on a summer resort island that allows no cars. He married a former fashion model. Now Kyla delves into columns of numbers, making sure each is accurate, if not perfect. She is an unwed mother three times. The small ironies of life are not wasted on either of them. It takes him two days to tell her he is disturbed because his wife Lenore is sterile. He tells her this after her own three children are safely asleep and it is just two adults sitting on the back step listening for the distant sound of sloshing salt water. It seems Lenore knew she could not conceive, but did not tell Douglas because she thought he wouldn’t marry her. Douglas is weeping. “Deception,” he says, “always makes me this way.” > > w yla, I want to know. I need * * B^^ to know.” BF^ “Come on. We’ve got to A Wget going. Your plane leaves at near midnight.” “I can’t leave until you tell me.” “Evelyn’s already on her way over to stay with the kids.” “Kyla, don’t be so cruel. I’ve got to know, is Donovan my child?” “Ssh. The children are sleeping. And I told you, he’s not. Now don’t be ridiculous.” “It’s not ridiculous. We were lovers the last time I came down. He looks enough like me to be mine, doesn’t he?” “Look, let me tell you in plain English. I got my period after we fucked the last time. You aren’t Donovan’s father. You aren’t Rachel’s or Marina’s father either.” Kyla notices that she has lapsed into the harsh tones of her childhood neighborhood; tones her father never used; tones which meant that the speaker was either lying through her teeth or telling a horrible truth. “This is serious. Very serious. Because if Donovan isn’t my child, I’m going to have to divorce Lenore. I mean, I’ve always wanted children. I’ve always thought I’d have at least one child somewhere in the world. I don’t want to hurt Lenore, but I’ve got no choice.” “I don’t understand. If you suddenly found out you were a father by some woman other than Lenore, you’d stay with Lenore?” Kyla is stifling her soft laugh, reminded of soap operas. She almost regrets that she can’t trust Rose, the two of them could relish this story over a glass of wine. But then it would be all over town. “My kid could visit Lenore and me on the island in the summer. I could teach him to swim and we could bike around the town. It would be great.” Douglas has a notion he might be convincing Kyla of something. “What does Lenore think of your great plan to save your marriage.” “Well, she doesn’t know about any of this. But she'd get used to it. She’d have to.” On the drive to the airport, Kyla falls into herself. She tried to disguise her inner silence with witty conversation and the recalling of shared anecdotes. She tries to erase the strange exchange with Douglas back at the house with memories of college and stories about the scenery. Despite her efforts, Douglas launches into a disjointed tirade about fatherhood, in which the words “natural” and “unnatural” dominate. He is talking about fruits and seeds and immortality while Kyla is trying to direct his attention to mango trees, to a cultivated avocado, to the remnants of an orange grove dissected by the bypass from the highway. Suddenly Douglas is talking about his own father, who he calls Clinton St. Quarterly—Spring, 1988 15

RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz