Sunday, October 22, 2000

I wrote the following piece in college for an exercise in a Writing course. The exercise involved writing about a particular moment or day that had the largest impact on our lives. Most of the other students wrote about plays they had been in or winning the game. On a beautiful autumn day, when I was 16 years old and in my Junior year of high school, my father died. That day defined a point of two different lives that I have led.

This day marks 9 years.

David Ole Viste was a wonderful man. I could have not asked for a more brilliant and loving father that only brought out the best in my mother, my siblings and myself. He embraced everyone without judgment, without regret. He trusted and believed in people to a fault. He was truly the best of the best.

“Sunday, October 22, 2000”

I wake up around 8 am; it is quiet downstairs. I look out my window; it's a usual fall morning, with a crisp, colorful look to the world. I can't fall back asleep and being all warm and cozy under my pile of blankets, I don't get up, (I'm a junior in high school after all). My cat, Dante, is on my bed. I move my foot one-way; he leaps and falls like a ton of bricks crashing down on my foot with a wild purpose in his eye.

It is about 8:28am, mom is up. I can hear the gurgling noises of the steam from the coffee pot as my mom pours herself a cup. She is now walking toward the back door, probably on her way outside for a smoke, and to bask in the morning sun with my dad, which I usually like to do also. My dad has a way of speaking without really speaking; it's always great to just sit with him. I hear the old back door creaking open, "No!" The door slams shut. I lay silent and stiff in my bed thinking "Matty, (our family dog) is dead" or "Matty is ripping a squirrel apart in the backyard." A couple of minutes pass and mom is still outside, wait!

The door slams back open, "NOOO!" My mom's screams are a mix of anger, fear, and pain. I tear out of bed and run downstairs. Mom is screaming into the phone that is in the hallway. She runs into the back room and comes out with the cordless phone, and proceeds to run to the back door, all the while screaming "no." I follow her every stop of the way with a feeling of impending doom.

We reach the door. My mom is directly in front of me. The door swings open, and I see a long body on the ground. I begin to scream. I feel as if someone has literally ripped my heart from my chest and is picking the organ apart lobe-by-lobe, ventricle-by-ventricle. The body is that of my father.

I run to my dad and the closer I get to him, the more I know he is gone. He is lying on the ground that is parallel to the door, and perpendicular to the gate; the wind plays with the fallen purple leaves from the ornamental plume around his body. His face has taken on a bluish tinge; otherwise he looks as if in a deep, peaceful sleep. His left leg lies limply over the other and his hands with blue fingernails are over his broad chest. He is wearing a gray, blue whale sweatshirt, blue jeans, and his "hip" beige shoes.

My mom is desperately tying to bring life into my dad. She blows air into his lungs, a deep bellowing sound results. She does five compressions while counting and saying, "Come on Dave, no, 1-2-3-4-5." She stops after the a second set and screams to the 911 operator, "I'm a respiratory therapist. He's dead, send someone over here." She shoves the phone toward me; the operator is still on the line. Mom begins CPR again.

The operator tries to calm me down and help me assist my mom. I straighten out my dad's long legs; they feel like two pieces of wood covered by raw beef with denim pants stretched over so the meat wouldn't fall off the wood. Mom blows air into Dad's lungs again. I move by my dad's head, "Now tell her to tilt your dad's head," mom is already way ahead of the 911 operator. She again blow oxygen into my dad's lungs, the same empty, bellowing sound results. Mom does the compressions and grabs the phone from my hand and repeats to send someone over. She turns off the phone and thrusts it back toward me, directing me to hang it up in the house. I get up. My brother Fred is sobbing to my right on the deck, no doubt trying to believe this isn't happening. I run into the house. My brother Davy-Joe is coming up from the basement to see what is going on, and runs outside.

I hang up the phone in the house and return to my father. My mom and brothers, Fred and Davy-Joe are gathered around him. I resort to sitting by my father's big, bulbous, wonderful baldhead. I remember Dad saying that baldness was a way of showing intelligence, the balder, the more intelligent, and when I was younger, I actually wished to become the baldest person in the world. I place a red fleece jacket that my dad had bought for my mom, under his limp head to serve as a cushion. Above the sounds of the fraction of my family's sobbing and muttering, I can hear the ambulance that is on its way to claim my dad. It seems to take forever to arrive. Along with the ambulance arrive police officers and gawkers from the neighborhood, all there to behold my dad.

Upon arrival, the police officers and the ambulance crews begin to swarm like bees inside and outside the honeycomb, which is our house. They are trying to reach my brother Paul, who attends college in Stevens Point, and my sister Marie, who lives in an apartment on the other side of town. And I, during all of this, remain outside with my big, wonderful dad, massaging anything I can latch onto. At one point during this horrific reality, my brother Dave and I fight off an ambulance technician from covering my dad's face with a ghastly white shroud. With his head still cushioned by the jacket, and face now displaying a sickly yellow pigment, I lay over my dad's chest with legs curled up. I involuntarily repeat over and over, "Daddy, I'll keep you warm, I'll keep you warm daddy." And with tears streaming down my face, I sing to him an Old Irish tune called, "Little Love Affairs," by the Chieftains. A police officer stands next to me, tears in his eyes.

"When I wake in the night
And find myself dreaming,
You're the first thought in mine.
And loads of fair weather,
Friend when you're lonely,
You were my shared state of mind."

"And does it sing to you nightly?
Does it lie down beside you?
Does it make you hear songs on the radio?
What once was my shadow,
Grown weary with travel,
'Til you gave it hope."

As I lay crying atop my father, I begin to recollect things that I thought would never surface again from the back of my mind. I remember hugging my dad good night, the way my cheek would press onto his broad chest. My fingertips could only brush behind his back, and the sweet smell that could only be recognized as his own. I then would go on tiptoe so he wouldn't strain his back to kiss the top of my head; even then he would have to bend. After thinking about this I remember, "I never can do that again. I will never be able to hug him again, listen to his "hip/cocky" remarks that make you smile, sit with him in the morning or evening, and see him smile a big ear to ear, mischievous grin."

This day, Sunday, October 22, 2000, hurt me in more ways than anyone could imagine. Every day I wake up and it occurs to me. My dad is dead. All I wish I could do is hug my father again, to smell him and feel his big arms around me. It hurts that I can't wake up at 5:30am each weekday morning, and leave at 6:20am so I can get a ride into school with my dad. I once claimed that I liked to come in early just so I could have an hour to study; the truth was I came in so early just so I could spend those five minutes or so with my dad in the morning. It was the only time I could spend with my father in the morning before learning or working. And now this has been taken from me, I can never do this again.

A couple of weeks after my father's death, I learned that my dad died at 8:15 am of a massive heart attack. I know I cannot blame myself for his death, but I still wonder, "Had I gotten up when I awoke. Gone outside to admire my dad's garden, the sky, and the birds, as I usually did on Sundays, he might still be puttering around his garden, still pouring his mind into mine, still driving me to school, still inquiring me about my life."

Armchair Anthropology - Marriage and Love

Marriage by many scholars is believed to be a universal practice and a socially recognized union between two or more people. While the standards of ritual or tradition may vary from culture to culture, the suggestion that one marries for Love is a recent phenomenon. In Western Europe, as well as the United States, Love has been a marker for marriage since the late 18th century; however, Love had not bloomed into ‘practice’ until the recent Industrialization period and the modern family has become an independent unit without relying upon extended family members. Nonetheless, this idea of marrying for Love is still fresh in other countries, such as Bangladesh. And while it is socially accepted, it is advised as not being the best way of finding a suitable marriage partner.

Bengal lies in the Indian subcontinent, where its people, the Bengali, have lived for nearly 2000 years. Previously ruled under a powerful kingdom that was one of four major kingdoms during the time of Buddha and during the early 13th century, the region was taken under Turkish Muslim rule. During the late 18th century when India had become under British rule, Bangladesh became more invested with the nation-state of India. The British partitioned Bengal into the East and West in the mid 20th century in order to separate the Hindu and Muslim cultures. The importance of these brief historical facts illustrate the importance of religion in these areas and all practices of the Bengali people as the nation-state consists of four major religions: Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam and Christianity. For purposes of restraint, this brief article will concentrate on the Sacred and Non-Sacred marriage practices of Bengali Hindus.

In Lina M. Fruzzetti’s article: “The gift of the virgin: women, marriage, and ritual in a Bengali society,” Fruzzetti describes that the institution of marriage is not merely for a change of status (girl to woman, daughter to wife); otherwise the idea of a love marriage would easily be attained. For most Bengali couples, marriage is arranged by immediate and extended family members to develop stronger ties between households, thus providing economic cooperation, promise of future generations (children), etc. The marriage is performed by tradition (exchanges: i.e. Dowry, etc.), and not only by a priest, but must be ritualistically recognized by adult men of the family, again re-establishing a male kinship line. It is to be expected that during these arranged marriages, the couple would eventually fall in love with each other and create stronger ties to either family.

Marriage for love is largely considered immoral. It does not establish strong kinship ties and most family members will consider it as a deviant act from the family. For those marrying for love they must seek a civil judge passing all religious and familial hierarchies.

Marriages not performed in the Hindu ritual manner are often referred to as “love-marriage” or “love biye.” The use of the English term indicates the lack of an appropriate Bengali term. There is an indigenous term for ‘love,’ prem, meaning the conjugal love of husband and wife, but when it is used outside of the sacred context it refers to adultery; carnality, nonsacred, physical, antisocial love.” (Fruzzetti, OCM 581, 582, AW69)

Fruzetti’s article was published by Rutgers University Press in 1982 and uses a Sociological approach. Her research is important because within the context of globalization, it is important for all cultures to have some understanding of cultural practices of other cultures and go beyond ethnocentricities. In the context of Love, it is important to understand the historical and cultural background in order to find the evolution of Love as we find it today in the West. Similarities include asking the father’s permission for the daughter’s hand in marriage and so much more. If we completely erase the word Love from our vocabulary, how would we describe what it insinuates?

First Things First

Blogging. Web + Log = Blog. This concept was once completely unknown to me until I broke out into the post-graduate real-world. The Writer's Market Manual from college, (dated 2006), did not include any information of the need for writers to blog. For any lover of English or any language for that matter, the very word blog either induces giggling or cringing. English students come out believing in old fashioned portfolios and they take two steps back when asked incredulously: "You don't have a blog?!"

Having recently begun my career as an Associate Editor, I have found a great many striking things besides the concept of blogs that were not covered in my academic career. I hope to cover any number of those things here in Red Ink Notes and to bridge the old fashioned academic techniques to the world we live in today - the world of technology and communication.

The name of this blog, Red Ink Notes, came after much musing. Titles such as "Stumped Me," "What do you do with a degree in English?" and the bland "Former English Student's Blog" were passed around. Then I pulled out all of my old writing from college and saw the drafts. The ugly, messy drafts, littered with red ink. It occurred to me that after all that time as a student and that shameful red pen, how poignant that now I wield a red pen - although in the real world, it is not so much a red pen as a keyboard and mouse.

In Red Ink Notes, I will resurrect past writing from the dusty portfolio and of course write new observations. Ranging from literature, film, environmental issues, society and much more, Red Ink Notes will be a communication of diverse ruminations to provide information and inspiration.

Thank you and I'll see you soon.

Catherine

"Diversity makes great minds." Julie Ann Lintereur