Pondering the Butterflies - Thoughts on 'Flight Behavior' by Barbara Kingsolver

One of my best childhood memories involves monarch butterflies. I believe I was in kindergarten when I first learned about the monarchs' life cycle: the caterpillar weaving himself a cocoon, taking a long nap, and waking up as a striking orange and black butterfly. I remember walking in the fields near our house to find milkweed for our classroom caterpillars. I vaguely remember harboring a few cocoons in mason jars and watching the life-cycle work its magic. Today, there are houses where those fields once attracted their brilliant summertime residents. The milkweed is gone, and sadly, so are the monarch butterflies.

I was blessed to grow up when I did, to have those afternoons tromping through milkweed-laden fields. In the years that followed, the demolition of the ecosystem behind my house became a harbinger of much graver destruction. Those breeding grounds and many others like it would be bulldozed or sprayed with pesticides, killing the caterpillars' lifeline and stymieing population growth. I saw this happen before my very eyes; what I did not see was the other half of the decimation. In recent years, monarch wintering grounds in Mexico have been subjected to landslides due to extensive logging. Additionally, climate change has affected the migratory patterns of butterflies, hindering their ability to survive the winters and reducing their chances of reproduction. And even if they do reproduce, their children will most likely starve in a world saturated with chemicals but devoid of sustenance.

Now, twenty-five years after my first monarch experience, I learn that 2015 may be the year when the dazzling monarch finds its way onto the endangered species list. In the past several days I've seen numerous articles predicting such a fate. Ironically, these articles showed up in the news only a few days after I'd finished reading Barbara Kingsolver's book Flight Behavior. The recent findings brought reality to a sad plot that first appeared in a work of fiction. The world is changing, and the treasures of my childhood will not be available to the generations that follow.

Kingsolver's story of the butterflies was woven into the story of Dellarobia, a young woman trapped in a life that was too small for her. When butterflies appeared by the millions on her in-law's farm in Tennessee, her world was expanded and transformed. Global warming and environmental degradation had led to the loss of the butterflies' winter habitat in Mexico, so they chose a mountainside in Tennessee, which was far too cold to sustain life until spring. The researchers that migrated with the butterflies opened up Dellarobia's eyes, not only to possibilities that lay beyond the four walls of her small home, but also to the fallacies of the conservative right. She was challenged to think, to dialogue, and she realized that life's questions do not always have neatly-packaged answers - at least, not the answers we want to hear. Her tight-knit, conservative community centered around a revered pastor named Bobby Ogle. Her husband's family, and most of her friends followed him blindly. When he wasn't around to tell them what to think, they tuned in to the conservative media outlets. Thus, when the butterflies landed in the mountains nearby, they believed it was a miraculous act of God, not a perilous consequence of global warming.

What I love about Barbara Kingsolver is that she's able to deconstruct this mentality without totally dismissing the people that she's criticizing. As a native of Appalachia herself, one could ascertain that these characters are indeed her own friends and neighbors. I too grew up in a poor, rural community, and fell prey to the teachings that put Scripture at odds with science. Those who espouse this anti-science mentality often surround themselves with speakers and pundits who echo the views they've heard from the pulpit. Yet one of the reasons why Kingsolver has become my own literary role model, is because she recognizes that people are a product of their environment. She understands complexity. In areas where good schools are not available it is difficult to break the chains. In communities where education is lacking, such things as science are deemed "the enemy" and intellectuals are often viewed with suspicion.  Dellarobia is the only member of the community to bridge the gap between the locals and the research team that comes to study the butterflies. Even she struggles to trust them, and understands that they too are products of their environment. They are products of homes that could afford computers. The graduate students she befriends grew up in neighborhoods with good schools and access to universities.  They did not grow up in homes where parents had to struggle to provide basic necessities, where books were a luxury, often coming second-hand and out-of-date. As Dellarobia grapples with the close-minded nature of her community, she astutely perceives that all sides have a tendency to hover near their own kind, at one point realizing that, "Nobody truly decided for themselves. There was too much information. What they actually did was scope around, decide who was looking out for their clan, and sign on for the memos on a wide array of topics." I read this and immediately chuckled, feeling keenly guilty of the same tendency. (I regularly joke about the fact that the NPR reporters are my best friends. They come with me in the car, they talk to me while I'm making dinner; I laugh at all their lame puns, and download the podcasts whenever I miss a show. They are indeed "my clan.")

As Dellarobia begins to step outside the mold she is often ostracized by her own community and her own family. But for her, the truth of the butterflies was far more important. What was once a thing of beauty has now become a dire warning. Knowing the truth causes her to question her faith, her marriage, and her path in life.

Like most good books, these questions are left unresolved. In fact, I've written my own little "happy-ending" in my head (my apologies to Barabara Kingsolver). I too have considered the gap between science and religion, but come to find that it is not very difficult to bridge. I've never been content with the "God works in mysterious ways" explanation that seemed to quell Bobby Ogle's congregation. God works rationally, scientifically, and purposefully. And He's given us a brain. I think He intends for us to use it.

So whether you're a fundamentalist Christian or a atheistic hippie - or a little bit of both - please understand, science is not our enemy. It is not morally good or bad. Sometimes it's messy, sometimes experiments are done poorly, and sometimes the wrong conclusions are drawn. However, more often than not, science gives us answers. What we do with those answers determines the morality of our lives and our societies. Science has allowed child mortality rates to decrease exponentially and it has allowed us to live longer, more productive lives (vaccines rock!). Unfortunately, science has also allowed us to ravage the earth in ways that God never intended. Instead of being stewards of the plants and animals He created, we all too often dominate the earth abusively. Yes, science has allowed us to grow bigger, tastier crops with less natural predators, but at the expense of some of God's most beautiful artwork (i.e. monarch butterflies). God has given us dominance over the plants and the animals, but does that mean chickens should live in cages with no room to turn around or stretch their limbs? (props to California for getting this question right!) God has given us this earth and the responsibility to care for it. Unfortunately, we have replaced this God-ordained responsibility with one of our own design: the quest for profit. This is yet another reason why I believe Christ would not condone modern capitalism.

No, we're not all farmers, but we all eat and we all consume electricity. Perhaps we could drive less, and use our gas savings to pay a little more for free-range eggs. Perhaps we could frequent farmer's markets and seek out pesticide-free produce. If everyone were to adjust just a few elements of their daily routine, perhaps the monarchs will survive to be studied by another generation of eager schoolchildren.

"The Circle" by Dave Eggers

The Circle is a hyperbolic, yet strikingly haunting cautionary tale of our society's rapid retreat of from privacy. The novel tells the story of an ambitious young woman named Mae who has just landed a job at a groundbreaking tech giant called The Circle. At first I thought the "the Circle" was meant to represent Google, but apparently The Circle is the next best thing. The Circle has taken over and filled the gaps. It has given all individuals one user account through which all social, business, and even domestic transactions occur. (Think Google+Amazon+Facebook+Twitter+LinkedIn+Pinterest+etc = The Circle.) The Circle is everywhere and its rise to preeminence makes it a happening place to work.

The problem is that The Circle is everywhere. Innovators at The Circle have created ingenious mechanisms to make every facet of life not only controlled by The Circle, but also public. Politicians go completely "transparent," meaning that they wear a camera around their neck at all times so that all their interactions are live-streamed and broadcast to the world. Their followers, or "watchers," can comment on their every move from the cookie they ate for breakfast to the approval granted in high-level committee hearings. These inexpensive cameras can be surreptitiously hung in homes, on street corners, and just about anywhere humans frequent. Thus, any crime, any instance of domestic abuse, any call for help can be immediately seen by millions and attended to almost immediately. Genealogy can be tracked back to the Middle Ages, dredging up family history best left in the past. Online identities are not concealed. Since everyone's Circle account is tied to their credit card real names always appear in comments and postings. While ridding the internet of anonymity has indeed made users more civil, what we find is a world where expectations for communication have drastically risen. Friends take offense at the slightest delay in "liking" a post, accepting a invitation, or signing a petition.

This is not some futuristic dystopia where the government is imposing strict surveillance on it's people (though it would be easy for the government to do this if it wanted to, since The Circle has all the information) No - this is a society in the not-to-distant future where individuals choose to give up their privacy. They choose to be constantly harangued by companies looking for product reviews, choose to publicize their every moment by posting videos and photos, choose to give up hours of sleep following others' lives and commenting on their day-to-day activities. This is not a cautionary tale against the NSA and drone surveillance. It's a cautionary tale warning us of the dangers inherent in our voluntary relinquishment of privacy.

The Circle's ethic centers around the belief that secrets are bad. 'Has anything good ever come from hidden knowledge?' The Circles creators, called the Wise Men, ask.   If people are not doing something shameful, why should they hide? The Wise Men believe that the concept of privacy was created to mask wrongdoing. Mae slowly falls into their clutches. Like most of the other young, innovative minds at The Circle, she cannot resist the pull of group-think. Total transparency, thus total accountability, is the goal. Privacy and solitude are viewed as shameful and suspect.

The Circle and its many followers certainly have their opponents. Yet these people are seen as backward, unenlightened and antisocial. Mae, in her first days at The Circle, proves to be an exceptional employee, but is chastised repeatedly for not being social enough online, and for not attending The Circle's plethora of evening and weekend functions. Mae, ever the people-pleaser, then embarks upon an exhausting array of online and offline activities. Working by day, managing her Zing feed (The Circle's version of Facebook/Twitter) and hopping between Circle social events in the evening, her schedule is so packed that she doesn't even have time to go home. Rather, she takes advantage of The Circles dormitories, offered free of charge and often stocked with food, clothing, and personal items consistent with the preferences gleaned from each inhabitant's online activity

It gets even creepier. Soon there is talk of mandating every U.S. citizen to have a Circle account and use that to mandate voting. Thinking optimistically, Mae and the Wise Men believe this will ensure full voter participation and allow for politicians to more closely represent the people - or even do away with the need for politicians altogether as society moves toward a direct democracy This is where the book "jumps the shark." Once the story line moves out of the realm of company policy and social conformity to rewriting the Constitution, it all becomes a little absurd.

Fortunately, the shark jumping didn't occur until near the end, so I would conclude by saying that overall Dave Egger's book was an enjoyable read and made valid points about how often we voluntarily put our security and privacy in jeopardy. I revel in the irony of it all. I chuckle to think about how our nation was in an uproar last summer with the Edward Snowden revelations, yet these same uproarious citizens give up a plethora of data and freedom every day through Gmail, Facebook and Twitter. How important is our privacy anyway? I understand the principle is enshrined in the First Amendment, and no one should be forced to give up their privacy. But just like Mae was not forced to attend Circle social functions and post about her every waking moment, the pressure to be a contributing part of her environment essentially drove her into the clutches of full transparency. While the "Wise Men" of the Circle contend that transparency makes us more honest and would argue that the watchful eyes of millions reduce crime and corruption, it also makes our lives infinitely more stressful. We are always putting ourselves out there to be judged, criticized, and yes, even applauded. In doing so we are constantly molding and remolding ourselves into the image of our watchers.  So not only does this foster homogeneity, but it put us dangerously into the clutches of others. Our constant quest for approval, for attention, for validation through the comments, the likes, and the shares, reveals our true insecurity. And if we are seeking security from the "likes" of our followers, we are on very tenacious footing.

While few would deny there are benefits to social media used prudently and in moderation, Eggers' book firmed my resolve to more consistently put the computer away, close out of Facebook, and seek more meaningful avenues of spending my time. How often does social media shift my focus away from the ones whose approval truly matters. There are only a handful of people on this earth whose opinions should really hold any weight. And really, the only "follower" who knows my every move and every thought is God. Ultimately, it's His approval that matters most. So why spend all this time trying to impress others? He already knows I'm not impressive. He created me to depend on Him; but he also gave me gifts and resources that I can use to serve Him and others. Sometimes those gifts do involve social media (i.e. blogging to hone my writing skills) but other times they require my mind and my heart to be totally offline and unplugged.

"My Age of Anxiety: Fear, Hope, Dread, and the Search for Peace of Mind" by Scott Stossel

Imagine a personal memoir, crossed with a college textbook, crossed with a doctoral thesis. That is precisely what you get in My Age of Anxiety. It is a book you read to learn - and learn I did.

Anxiety, in all its forms, is no stranger to 21st century America. More people than you realize are on drugs for anxiety, depression, or both. In his book, Atlantic Monthly editor (and nephew of TV journalist John Stossel) takes us through his harrowing journey through many forms of therapy while wrestling with the pressures of life and navigating the enigma of his anxiety. Stossel has been plagued with phobias since his childhood. Emetophobia, or fear of vomiting, seem to be his most pressing battle, though many others invade his psyche and leave him chained to a series of often debilitating rituals. In addition to illuminating his readers on his own personal struggles, Stossel traces the history of mental illness, including the different theories that each generation has held towards "neuroses."  He tries to offer some explanation as to why this particular epidemic is sweeping our society. Is it really the drug companies manipulating us to buy their placebos? Or is there a chemical/biological component to anxiety and depression? Is it genetic? Or, as Freud would attest, does anxiety arise purely out of our upbringing (and our repressed sexuality)?

There is no easy answer because the brain is a bewildering realm. Many studies in recent years have shown the presence or absence of certain hormones and chemicals can leave one predisposed to anxiety. Yet, as the book seems to conclude, just because one is born with a "worry gene" does not mean that person will definitely have an anxiety disorder, just as having a genetic predisposition to breast cancer does not mean one will necessarily end up with the disease. Stossel delves into a host of studies covering everything from brain chemistry to parenting. Perhaps the most interesting tidbit I gleaned involved the neurotransmitter, Neuropeptide Y (NPY) a chemical that potentially creates resiliency to stress and regulates emotion. Those with higher levels of NPY tend to adapt better to stressful situations. For instance, a study of Navy Seal trainees, revealed that those who graduated from the program also had high levels of NPY. Those who did not make the cut generally had lower levels of NPY in their system. Similarly, studies of NPY have been shown to predict which veterans will end up getting PTSD after serving time on the battlefront. Those with lower levels of NPY are more shaken by war trauma while those with high levels of the neurotransmitter tend to have generally lower levels of empathy, engage in more sexual promiscuity, and are generally more aggressive. However, do not show up at the VA complaining of PTSD symptoms.

This of course led me on my own tangent of reflection. As a historian, I wonder if perhaps the rise in PTSD in the past century is in part a consequence of the wartime drafts and the modern benefits offered to servicemen.  Perhaps some men are just not biologically cut out to be the brave, battlefield warriors epitomized by traditional patriarchy. Some have lower levels of NPY, and arguably, make better husbands, but not great soldiers. However, did the wartime drafts of the 20th century force hundreds of thousands of passive young men into the field? Does the free college tuition, health care benefits, and other perks draw people into the military who would be better suited for a desk job?  Generals Patton and Marshall claimed that modern society was mollycoddling our young men by catering to their mental illnesses. But could it be that we have forced young men to kill people when they were biologically ill-suited for the job?

I also resonated with the studies that discussed how high serotonin levels correlated increased levels of extroversion. People that are brooding and depressive tend to have lower levels of serotonin and prefer to be alone or with smaller groups of people. While this does not always correlate to anxiety disorder, social alienation and anxiety/depression often go hand-in-hand because the same brain chemicals influence both tendencies. However, those same depressive or anxious introverts tend to rate higher on intelligence tests, and often achieve unique and creative feats. Studies have also shown that these mildly obsessive types make the best employees. Furthermore, the great artists and intellectuals of history have often been depressive or plagued by anxiety. Charles Darwin himself, whose theories help us understand how some of these traits have evolved, was plagued by such severe anxiety that after returning from his voyage on the Beagle he never left his home again. However, staying home allowed him to complete the Origin of Species. Many other greats had the same experience. Their phobias and introversion left them tied to the house, but allowed them the time and the peace that they needed to complete the great masterpieces of our age.

So if you wonder why I sit home knitting on Friday nights, and spend most evenings and weekends reading books and blogging about them, well, now you know. My brain doesn't simply doesn't have enough juice to party. Maybe one day all that staying home on weekends will add up to a literary masterpiece. For now though, I've got some pretty great homemade sweaters.

"Oryx and Crake" by Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood refers to Oryx and Crake as a work of "speculative fiction." This first installment of the MadAddam Trilogy launches us into a futuristic dystopia where humans have genetically engineered solutions to every real or imagined problem. The novel opens with "Snowman" alone in a ghastly post-apocalyptic urban wilderness. The landscape contains remnants of human life, yet Snowman is likely last of his species. He is lives alone, scavenging on the outskirts of a "humanoid" colony - a people he calls the "Crakers." He stands in stark difference to the Crakers, avoiding the suns rays and clothing his body in a thin sheet. His nickname represents how poorly adjusted he is, unable to withstand the elements, frail and sickly, compared to this new species which epitomizes the results of unnatural selection. These beings have been altered to eradicate all of the complicating facets of human life. They are intelligent, yet innocent; they are vegetarians who live at harmony with their environment, and they have efficient mating rituals to ensure optimal levels of procreation. Their skin is designed to absorb the suns rays without harm, they see no need for clothing and are perplexed by Snowman's garment. They are animalistic, yet advanced - a paradox in their very essence.

Snowman relays the story of humanity's downfall through a series of engrossing flashbacks.  Snowman, once Jimmy, grew up as the child of scientists, living comfortably on biotech company compounds. These scientific microcosms contained homes, schools, shopping centers, bullet trains, genetically enhanced food and genetically engineered pets called Rakunks (a mixture of a raccoon and a skunk). Only rarely did the inhabitants have to venture out into the "pleebands" where human life seemed chaotic, messy, and yet secretly alluring. Jimmy befriends young Crake, a somewhat demented genius. Soon after, Jimmy is first exposed to Oryx while watching internet porn in Crake's bedroom. He is captivated by her face, a face that represents human suffering amidst innocence and beauty. Upon graduation from high school Crake is recruited by the nation's premier scientific university, while Jimmy finds himself on a lower rung of the academic ladder. It is not until they graduate from college that the paths of Oryx, Crake and Jimmy intertwine. By this time Crake has completed his crowning achievement: a perfected race of humans.

Atwood's bleak depiction of humanity's future is not altogether unrecognizable. I'm confronted by this every time I buy the unnaturally large and juicy chicken breasts from my local grocery store. I can't help by recall Atwood's "ChickieNobs" derived from genetically engineered "chickens":

""Those are chickens," said Crake. "Chicken parts. Just the breasts, on this one. They've got ones that specialize in drumsticks too, twelve to a growth unit.

"But there aren't any heads..."

"That's the head in the middle," said the woman. "There's a mouth opening at the top, they dump nutrients in there. No eyes or beak or anything, they don't need those."

Is this where we're headed? I ponder this as I take chicken breast out of its individually wrapped packet. It is the size of my whole hand. Atwood's work is a cautionary tale written in 2003 (the sequels have been released in recent years). I'm hopeful that in my lifetime that the burgeoning slow-food movement will effectively resist uncontrolled genetic engineering. It's really only been in the last 75 years that scientifically altered food has become a staple of the American diet. In the old days food was grown and often consumed seasonally. In the spring and summer people ate berries, in the fall there were peaches and apples. Sometimes women would can or preserve fruits and vegetables at home. The children would be sent out to pick the apples and they would assist in the peeling and coring process, watching as they were ground down into applesauce and perhaps savoring the smells of apple butter cooking over a fire pit. In the winter when mom opened that mason jar of applesauce, the children knew exactly where it came from and all the work that went into creating that nourishment. Similarly, meat came fresh from the butcher, or it was raised, slaughtered and preserved in one's backyard.

Fast-forward to WWII. The Industrial Revolution had only begun to change food production. The Great Depression was over and factories were producing in high gear. While some industries produce weapons and enriched uranium, others are canning applesauce and Spam. Additives and preservatives kept the food flavorful and prevented spoilage.  It kept our men and women alive and nourished to fight the Nazis.  However, when the war ended factories faced a dilemma. How would they sustain profits now that all the troops are home? The answer was easy. Food production companies marketed their wartime foodstuffs to the new American housewife. The baby boom was under way, women were back in the kitchen, but who said they needed to be a slave to a hot canner? Soon we got ads like this one:

This was just the beginning. Boxed cookies and cake mixes came next. They took a little longer to catch on because women felt like they were cheating the system if they could bake without cracking an egg. The mixtures were modified to take out the powdered egg product, allowing women to crack an egg and thus feel like they were fulfilling their role.  As America launched itself into the Cold War, we began to take pride in our neatly packaged  T.V. dinners, our Kraft Mac and Cheese and our Hamburger Helper. And it if all else fails there's always MacDonalds.

By the late '60s and '70s the women's rights movement was in full force. Betty Friedan wrote A Feminine Mystique, encouraging women to realize their full potential in the workplace, and Margaret Sanger and other feminists were gaining strides in the fight for birth control. I'm not knocking any of this. I love it! But working women also don't have time to can their own peaches or bake cakes from scratch. It became commonplace, even trendy to eat out of a box or a can. By the closure of the century agribusiness and biotech firms were getting involved in the growth of our produce and meats. Now even the fresh stuff is comprised of questionable genetic and chemical elements. Is it harmful? The jury is still out. According to all the mommy blogs and yoga pundits we're all going to get cancer or autism - or both. Actual science is far less conclusive on the potential health effects of bovine antibiotics or GMO strawberries (though conspiracy theorists like to point out that science gets kickbacks from Monsanto). Whatever the verdict, I believe that buying tennis-ball-sized strawberries in January is harmful to my soul. 

I grew up eating "slow food" before it was a "thing."  In fact, I thought it was normal. (I also thought mommies who bought their children cookies from a box were bad people.) I grew up shopping at our local farmer's market, even playing in the fields with the owners' daughter. Long before farmers' markets became the hip and somewhat pretentious Saturday morning ritual among professional suburbanites, we frequented our local one for fresh-picked corn on the cob and heaping bushels of peaches and apples. This would commence canning season. Those cans of peaches and applesauce were stocked on our basement shelves and enjoyed throughout winter. I knew where they came from. I knew that peaches did not naturally occur in January. The sweet juicy peaches were the product of long hours of labor on a hot August day.

Many children grow up with no knowledge of each season's produce. I'm thankful that I've grown up playing in the dirt and harvesting its gifts. I've known for as long as I can remember that strawberries grow in the spring, while blueberries show up in July-August. Blueberry picking is as much a summer ritual for me as fireworks on the Fourth of July. I also remember many a summer afternoon when I would pick beans from the backyard garden and Mom would cook them up for dinner. A few weeks later, on the first day of school we always had warm chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, baked fresh in time for our arrival home. Once winter came there would be blueberry pie and homemade blueberry muffins, baked with those same berries we'd picked and frozen so many months earlier. It would almost make that blustery January evening feel warmer, as if the berries contained some remnant of the summer sun.

Recently, I heard a story about a kid who was arguing with a farmer about where food came from. The child said that the fruits and vegetables he ate came from the grocery store. It is sad that so many children today do not understand how their food gets to their table. Why is this important? Well, like it or not, eating is fundamental to our lives. For millennia people's entire days were centered around acquiring food. Though we no longer have to work so hard for our food, eating is still the one thing we do several times a day (that and excreting it). It is an activity that brings family and friends together, that allows for the exchange of cultureand the transfer of ideas. Food also represents heritage; our food traditions reach back centuries. Some foods represent elements of our faith (i.e. Jewish matzo bread) or family traditions that bind generations of family who've never met (i.e. my Great-Grandma's sugar cookies). Food also represents labor. In a society where most of our day-to-day labor is disconnected from our actual survival, there is just something so wholesome about actually growing, picking,and preparing one's own food.

I know there are many other arguments in favor of the slow food movement. All of which have their merits. I do not profess to be a paragon of clean or slow eating. My freezer is stocked with the aforesaid GMO chicken breasts (they're cheap and convenient). I do enjoy bananas and pineapple far too much for any moral arguments over conserving fossil fuels to prevail upon me. However, for me, the slow food initiative is really about a daily quest to live intentionally. Since a significant percentage of my household budget goes toward food, I strive to support ethical companies and empower local farmers who are good stewards of the land. If I can get eggs from well-loved chickens, I'm happy to pay a little bit more. But perhaps even beyond that, I don't want to lose those traditions of my childhood and the lessons that sowing and reaping provide. In no other area of life does the value of hard work prove true in such tangible ways. The work we do in the spring will pay off at harvest. The work we do at harvest will pay off as we're enjoying warm blueberry muffins on cold winter nights. Labor and food are two elements fundamental to our existence, to our humanity. God created humans to labor in a garden. We have since reinvented and often perversely repackaged the gifts and responsibilities He's given us.  Slow food means slowing down, reconnecting with the Earth, with the seasons, and with our Creator. If we miss out on where our food comes from, we take one of God's most fundamental blessings for granted. If we don't know how to sow, reap, and prepare our food, we don't have a chance to reflect on the bounty and the diversity of the Earth, and the sheer creativity of its Designer.

Which brings me full circle. Reading Oryx and Crake reminded me that while humans are capable of amazing feats, none of us can recapture the perfection and beauty of the world that God created. Though sin has perverted much of it, human efforts at "fixing" nature's flaws often leave us worse off than we were before. And most importantly, we'll never be able to genetically select the perfect human. Only God can do that. In fact - He already did.

"Five Days At Memorial" by Sheri Fink

In a world of 30-second news blips and catchy sound bites, Five Days At Memorial: Life and Death in a Storm-Ravaged City offers an uncommon investigative expose. In her book, Sheri Fink, shines a light inside a hospital at ground zero of Hurricane Katrina. It was a natural disaster followed by a bureaucratic disaster. The forces of nature and human error collided into a horror where post-apocalyptic fantasies became reality on the grounds of New Orleans' most esteemed medical facilities.

Fink's story begins in the days before the hurricane hits. New Orleans' citizens are no stranger to hurricanes, and the medical staff at Memorial embarks upon their normal pre-hurricane routine. Doctors, nurses, and other personnel, flock to the hospital as they have done in all previous storms. The hospital, with its sturdy construction and back-up generators is a refuge in the storm. Hospitals are supposed to be built to withstand the most treacherous elements, as they are rarely evacuated when storms hit. The medical staff comes with their families, their pets, and coolers full of food in tow. This is standard operating procedure for Memorial. They have to let the families come - including the pets. If they did not, all qualified medical staff would be hightailing it out of the city with their loved ones.

This storm will be different. Katrina's deadliness was not simply in the strength of her winds, but in the flooding levees and the waters that raged throughout the city. The hospital's backup generators were on the first floor. Slowly they started shutting down, taking with them the life-force that many terminally ill patients depended on.

When Katrina hit, Memorial had an unusually high proportion of patients on hospice care. The Lifecare facility, which provided this type of care and operated as a hospital-within-a-hospital, had imported some patients from other facilities in the days before the storm. Four days in, the staff and volunteers are exhausted The heat, the stench of human waste, the hopelessness, and the fear of looters bear down on them hard. Helicopters are coming irregularly. There is no organization to the rescue effort. The hospital's execs, miles away in Texas don't want to foot the bill to charter a private helicopter company, so they leave evacuation to the overextended Armed Forces, who are flying day and night in the wake of the storm. These pilots are torn between rescuing premature babies from hospitals and desperate people off rooftops. All sorts of questions arise. Who goes first? The ones with the greatest chances or survival? Or the sickest? Where are they going? If they are seriously ill, will they receive appropriate care wherever the helicopter lands? Do we send the old? The young? What about the 300+ pound man that would be almost impossible to move up to the helipad?

They start by euthanizing the pets. I nearly cried. Not the dogs! The next step was clear. And somehow, killing sick people saddened me far less than killing healthy dogs. When I pictured the terminally ill Lifecare patients, lying hot, sweaty, wafting in and out of consciousness in their own vomit and feces, I really couldn't help but be glad for them. According to Fink, the order was given to inject the patients with Do Not Resuscitate orders. These patients were given a cocktail of sedatives that would lead to a quiet, peaceful, and somewhat dignified death, under the circumstances. But, as Fink points out, a DNR order only means that the patient does not want to be revived if his or her heart stops beating. It does not mean they are signing themselves up to be sacrificed for the greater good. And, ironically, as the order was given Tenet executives were finally signing on with a private contractor to send in helicopters and evacuate the rest of the patients. By the time these round-the-clock airlifts were provided, there were significantly fewer patients to be airlifted.

The second half of the book deals with the aftermath of the tragedy. It largely centers around Dr. Anna Pou who, according to Fink, commandeered the euthanasia at Memorial. At this point in the book it is somewhat difficult to follow. There are a lot of attorneys, Tenet execs, doctors, patients, and nurses whose stories weave in and out of the book. While it is clear that Fink assumes Dr. Pou was guilty of euthanizing patients, I do not get the sense that Fink is entirely repulsed by Pou's decision. As I read the book, I found myself attributing most of the blame to the Tenet company itself, and to the hospital's shoddy disaster-preparedness plan. This plan seemed to have been made up from a standard template downloaded off the Internet. It is ridiculous to me that a hospital located below sea level would put its generators on the ground floor. And that is only one of the many failings in the bureaucratic mess that was Katrina. The medical personnel never should have had to choose between life and death. This whole thing could have been easily avoided.

But they did. They felt, in the moment, that they had to choose. We know now that Tenet's contract with the private helicopter firm would have evacuated all the patients, but the doctors did not know that at the time. Communication was abysmal. What galls me, as one of the interviewees pointed out, was that Dr. Pou was arrested and put on trial while violent murderers and criminals roamed the streets of New Orleans. New Orleans has one of the highest per capita crime rates. Dr. Pou should not have been the priority for law enforcement.  Even in the days following the hurricane, the city was plagued by looters. There are haunting stories of rapes and violence at the Superdome. But this doctor, if she was indeed "guilty" of administering lethal doses of sedatives, was forced to endure a long trial and a media frenzy because she was making, what she felt to be, the most humane choice in a disaster.

I know that life is sacred, and obviously doctors shouldn't be going around euthanizing patients without proper consent under normal circumstances. I know that most of my fellow Evangelicals, and religious people in general, stand firmly opposed to euthanasia. But I often wonder why.  If we're the ones with the most hope for an afterlife, why are we so attached to keeping our lives here on this earth? If we truly believe we're not made for this world, that our earthly bodies are dying from the moment they are born, then why do we work so hard to stick around? Quite honestly, if I were a terminally ill patient at Memorial, I'd be asking for that cocktail! Get me out of this broken body ASAP! While it's true, that most of the patients at Memorial were not being artificially kept alive at the moment (most of those who depended on ventilators, etc had already been evacuated), I wonder how many were still breathing only because advanced surgeries, expensive drugs, and high-tech equipment prolonged their physical lives months and years after they had lost all quality of life. Do we ever use our advanced medical knowledge to subvert God's will to take life? Is that possible to do? You often hear the anti-euthanasia set rail on their opponents for "playing God." But don't we play God every day by offering chemotherapy, cholesterol drugs, resuscitation, etc? Or do we assume that He's given us the knowledge and ability to prolong life so it's always His will for us to use it? Are we only supposed to use our God-given intelligence to artificially prolong life?  Or are we allowed to use our knowledge to end life when it seems humane and appropriate? And personally, I wonder, is it wrong to want a Fast Pass into Heaven? I mean I would love to just bypass all the pain and suffering that comes with old age and death (pain and suffering that our drugs and technology often prolong). I don't want my body to outlive my brain - and with my genetics I'm a little afraid that's going to happen.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not against using medical knowledge/technology to prolong life and save lives - especially when there is hope for recovery. But at some point, I feel like we're not doing ourselves any favors. While I don't think it was right for doctors at Memorial to make a decision without the consent of the patient or proxy, I don't exactly blame them either.  At any rate, it does us cause to stop and ponder some of these end-of-life issues. Do we really want to be alive, but confined to a bed or a wheelchair?  Perhaps, more practically, the book has given me impetus to think about making a living will (not that any of that was followed at Memorial, but I'm going to hedge my bets on probabilities and assume I won't die during a natural disaster).

In conclusion, Five Days At Memorial was a heavy, heavy book. Literally and metaphorically. It was quite long and chock full of information. It was easy to get lost. However, in the end, it made me think. It didn't leave me with any easy answers, but it forced me to take a look into the complex world of medical ethics and ponder its convergence with Divine intervention. Medicine is a realm I don't often ponder, and Divine sovereignty is a thing I don't really understand.  But journeying into the unfamiliar and unknown, is, after all, the whole reason why we read.

"Escape from Camp 14: One Man's Remarkable Odyssey from North Korea to Freedom in the West" by Blaine Harden

This is not an enjoyable book. (It is a short book, but I listened to the audio version so that prolonged the agony.) However, that is not to say that is it not a valuable book. We know very little about North Korea, so Blaine Harden's account of the life and escape of Shin Dong-Hyuk is truly a rare and unique glimpse into this surreal country. It is especially noteworthy because Shin is the only known escapee of a North Korean prison camp.

Shin's story begins at Camp 14, one North Korea's no-exit prison camps. He is a child of two prisoners who had been selected for one another in a "reward-marriage." Unfortunately for Shin, his destiny was set the day he was born. He would live and die in the confines of Camp 14. The North Korean government believes that the sins of the parents are visited upon the next three generations. Thus, if one is convicted of a crime, their children and their grandchildren will remain imprisoned. Only after three generations will the seed of rebellion have been eradicated.

In a North Korean prison camp, the concept of familial affection is virtually non-existent. Prisoners often have to turn to their basest, most animalistic instincts in order to survive. For Shin, this meant stealing his mother's food at a young age, and, later in life, turning his mother in for plotting to escape. He watched as his mother and brother were executed, knowing that he was fully responsible for their deaths. And yet, at the time he had no regrets. In this distopian microcosm where children are taught that their parents are criminals they often learn to despise their parents and turn to the guards as their "teachers." Guards, while often cruel and abusive tormentors, teach children from an early age that they are the ones who should be honored and respected. The children grow up to believe that they have no self-worth; because of the wrongdoings of their parents, they too are tainted by evil.

As you can imagine, this kind of childhood will have huge repercussions for Shin once he makes it out of the camp in 2005. In the camp the children learned nothing of the world beyond. Shin would have remained ignorant were it not for his interaction with a new prisoner named Park. It was really Park's description of Chinese food that convinced Shin to escape. Constantly hungry, and persistently scavenging for food beyond his meager rations, Shin longs for the regular meals of meat and rice, a luxury that Park says is commonplace in China. Shin takes his life in his hands to make that longing a reality.

Shin makes it to freedom, but freedom means wandering as a cold and homeless drifter through the North Korean landscape. It is January; he has no provisions and no shelter. Soon Shin learns the art of larceny, which provides him with the necessities for survival and goods that become useful in bribing the North Korean border guards. In a country where policeman and guards are working on empty stomachs, bribery runs rampant. Using this tactic, North Koreans routinely escape into China and integrate themselves into Korean communities. Yet even in China Shin is not completely safe. China does not recognize the refugee status of North Koreans. If caught, Shin knows he'll be sent straight back to a no-exit prison camp in North Korea.  After a couple years of drifting in and out of China's biggest cities, Shin's perseverance combines with a lucky twist of fate. He soon finds himself safely on a plane to Seoul.

I wish I could tell you that the rest of the book is an uplifting account of Shin's healing and his persistent drive to reinvent himself and rise above his past. However, the wounds run too deep. Not surprisingly, Shin suffers from PTSD; he is unable to manage his money, keep a job, maintain healthy relationships, or decide on a realistic career path. He receives aid from many places: the North Korean government, human rights organizations, even a kindly family in California. But Shin does take advantage of any of it. Unfortunately, none of this is out of the ordinary for North Korean refugees. Shin is slow to trust, he struggles at understanding or expressing emotion, the concepts of love and friendship are completely foreign to him, and he has never in his life been confronted with the need to actually make a plan for the future. The scars of the camps are physical, mental, and spiritual. Shin will never truly escape.

This book is a chilling account - appropriate for the chilling weather that permeated my bones while walking the dog and listening to Shin's story. In the midst of the coldest days of the year, I think I felt even colder as Shin wandered around a wintry North Korea, ill-clad and homeless. What I like about this author is that he does not paint Shin as a hero. After conducting a series of interviews with Shin and others who know him, Hardin outlines Shin's life honestly and truthfully. He does not skirt around Shin's faults and he talks extensively about the shame that Shin eventually learned to feel over the death of his mother. The author does not write judgmentally, but in a way that emphasizes how Shin is truly a product of his past.  Additionally, the author weaves Shin's story in with other factual information on North Korea. As a former Washington Post journalist in East Asia, his book is more of an investigative report than a biography. He interviews former prison camp guards and other North Korean defectors. He cross-checks Shin's story to verify that the details of Camp 14 are true. He intensively researches North Korea past and present - providing historical context and more current information on the leader's ostentatious palace, gleaned from satellite surveillance. He accounts the years of famine where Western aid never actually made it to the people and it became common for children to eat bark off trees. And though it is a mysterious country, full of isolated and brainwashed people, in the last few years some smuggled media has made its way in. North Koreans are hooked on blurry Western movies and T.V. shows. While Charlie's Angels may not be providing a realistic picture of American life, it may be just enough to cause North Koreans to question the world beyond their borders. If more North Koreans, like Shin, can turn that longing for three solid meals a day into a movement against tyranny and repression, perhaps the reign of Kim Jong Un and his family will one day come to an end.

"The Fault in Our Stars" by John Green

I'll be honest, I wasn't sure how this book was going to go. I mean, John Green writing about kids with cancer??? John Green, by his very nature, is supposed to make me laugh, not cry! (If you have not been exposed to the brilliance that is John Green, please stop reading this immediately, go to Youtube and type in his name. Indulge yourself for no less than 30 minutes before coming back to this post.) So I picked up the book with some trepidation, and though I'm not generally a gambler I decided to give it a go and take a risk with the next few hours of my life.

Before long, I found myself pleasantly surprised with how such an utterly depressing plot could still be so "John Greenesque." Basically, The Fault in Our Stars is the story of two kids with cancer who fall in love. I know, sounds rather cliche and sappy doesn't it? But the beauty of the story is that it is not. The main characters are these brilliantly precocious teens named Hazel Grace Lancaster and Augustus Waters. They are intelligent, sarcastic, witty, and unique among teenagers in their penchant to not take themselves too seriously. This attitude is in part due to a book they've read entitled an An Imperial Affliction written by an author who is, to quote Hazel and Augustus, quite a bit of a "douchebag." Their love for this book and for one another catapults them into a rather intense existential crisis that takes them all the way to Holland and back. In the process, they deal with the prospects of their own deaths and the fact that separation will come sooner that they would like. Somehow, in the midst of this ridiculously sad book about kids with cancer you find yourself actually laughing. It's not like a "haha, cancer is fun" kind of laughter, but more of a dark humor that pervades the story through the incredibly well-developed characterization of Hazel and Augustus. As a high school teacher, I must admit that I find the main characters a little hard to believe. I mean, my kids are funny every so often, but never as eloquently sardonic as these two! Clearly, John Green is behind this. But then again, it's not totally unbelievable. I suppose if you were a fairly intelligent teenager who'd been staring death in the face for the last five years you'd have to develop a satirical sense of humor as well. 

So in short, this is not a Jodi Piccoult or a Nicolas Sparks kind of book. And it won't be a Lifetime movie. It is truly John Greenian. It makes you laugh, but it'll also make you think. It is not about two perfect, sweet cancer kids fighting courageously in the face of death. There are moments of smashing basketball trophies, taking advantage of "cancer perks,"  fighting with parents, and crying tears of frustration and hopelessness. They make fun of Disneyworld, other kids with cancer, their nurses, and their depression counselor. There is some egging of cars, a whole lot of eye rolling, and even a bit of "scoodlypooping" as John Green is apt to say. Essentially it's a book about  kids who realize that they've lost the lottery. Cancer is not the problem. Dying is the problem. They are just a "side effect." In a world infected by Death, cancer is just one of the many side effects. 

For a young adult novel, I found this book pleasantly challenging and delightfully philosophical. At some points I had to reread certain conversations just to fully process the weight of their thoughts: What is our purpose here? Are we here to change the universe, or just to observe and leave it undisturbed? Does our existence make the world a better place, or does it just produce scars when we die? And are those scars worth it? Are the scars of loss worth the joy that preceded it? 

These are all questions that are not easily answerable and certainly cannot be fully dissected in a 300 page young adult novel. I didn't really come away with any new understandings about life or existence, but I did come away with a deeper appreciation for the art of humor. Some use humor is used rather unartistically and for no purpose but to disgust and entertain (i.e. Daniel Tosh). That is cheap humor. Others, like John Green, Stephan Colbert, and John Oliver, know how to use humor appropriately and intellectually. That is a talent and an art that I can truly admire. 

"Dirty Little Secrets" by CJ Omolulu

So I have this weird fascination with hoarders. I really don't understand it; I've watched those shows on a few occasions and I am just so enthralled by them. Maybe it's because my psychological disorders tend to shift in the other direction (my husband will attest to this as he often comes home to find much of his stuff "missing" when it's actually just been put away) or maybe it's just because hoarder shows appeal to that natural human penchant of self-righteousness. We watch them because we feel better about ourselves in the end. I don't know what it is, but Dirty Little Secrets drew me into the story of Lucy, a girl trying to hide her mother's hoarding tendencies by remaining aloof and secretive with those closest to her.

This is the story of a teen girl who lives a normal life on the outside, but never lets anyone on the inside - both literally and figuratively. The last time a repair man was at the house he refused to do the work because he could not get through the piles of stuff. As a result, Lucy and her mother live without hot water and with no working kitchen appliances. Lucy routinely showers at the local gym and spends as much time as she possibly can at her best friend's house.

As far as teen books go, this was filled with your typical plot points - boys, friends, school, etc. However, the hoarding element was something new. Lucy hates her mother's lifestyle and is pained by her mother's deteriorating health, which is exacerbated by the conditions in the home. Lucy tries desperately to clean up the house at times, but to no avail. Her mother won't stand for it; everything in the home is a "treasure." When Lucy finally makes a best friend and begins to make some progress with a boy she likes, you, the reader desperately hopes that she will come clean (pun fully intended). All you want is for Lucy to tell someone, to give her friends a little credit and trust them to stick with her despite the mess.

While I will not reveal the ending of the book, I will tell you that it left me extremely dissatisfied. Thankfully, a student informed me that there was on additional chapter on the author's website. This did help to bring the sense of closure that I needed; although in truth, I must wonder, is there ever total closure when one's childhood is shaped by a hoarding parent?

Ok, now I need to go vacuum something.