Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking

It is Friday night and I am sitting in my reading loft with two dogs, one cup of tea, a Nook, a Kindle, and a plethora of old fashioned books. This is my favorite place to be on a Friday night - or any night for that matter.  On Saturday morning I will awake and spend an hour or two running and walking my dogs. And then, and only then, will I be fully ready to re-enter society.

One third to one half of us are introverts. Susan Cain's book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking is written for us. It is for those of us who find respite in the bathroom in the midst of a crowded party. It's for those those of us who feel nervous and out of place at school pep rallies or football games. It is a book written for those of us who were miserable at summer camp, who cringed when the teacher said "get into groups and complete this assignment," who still shudder at the proposal of "game night" and awkardly sit in a corner and knit in the midst of a cocktail party.

Yep, that's me. I'm thirty years old, and I'm not gonna change who I am.

Charles Darwin, Eleanor Roosevelt, Bill Gates, and Al Gore, were/are all introverts too. Being an introvert does not mean that one fades into the background. Eleanor Roosevelt married one of the most gregarious extroverts the world has ever known, but it was her thoughtful intellectualism and her keen sense of observation that allowed her to be the moral compass of the New Deal. It was her conviction, her quiet sense of purpose, and her firm belief in racial equality that led her to pen her famous letter to the Daughters of the American Revolution, renouncing her membership in the organization after they refused to allow Marian Anderson to perform at Constitution Hall. Months later a multiracial throng gathered at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to see Marian Anderson perform. That concert drew thousands, many more than could have fit into Constitution Hall. That my friends, is the mark of an assertive introvert.

Introverted does not mean shy. I am not shy, but I do not bother with small talk. You'll never find me talking about clothes, babies, or sports, but bring up sweatshop workers in developing countries, homeless pets, factory farming, or the corruption in the football industry and watch as the fireworks erupt. Introverts enjoy depth, not breadth in conversation. We don't strive to talk to as many people as we can, we strive to really truly have a meaningful, purposeful conversation. I feel like Eleanor Roosevelt and I would get along swimmingly.

In addition to initiating a parade of great minds, this book presented the reader with a few forays into the realm of neuroscience. In chapter four, the author describes experiments conducted on infants. A group of infants who reacted intensely to new stimuli (loud noises, bright lights, etc) tended to grow up to be introverts. Those highly reactive babies that had increased heart rate and heightened cortisol (stress) levels also had a lot of activity in their amygdala. The amygdala basically controls emotion and responds to threat. In short, babies who got stressed at any change in their environment tended to grow up to be more introverted. Which makes sense doesn't it? I for one crave stability and routine. I hate surprises. Unexpected social situations are my worst nightmare. (So if you see me in the grocery store, yes, I'm probably avoiding you. I had not planned on having a conversation with you right then and there. Don't take it personally, my amygdala is freaking out.)

This book also helped me to understand an essential difference between my husband and I. You see, while I read books, he plays video games. I like to put my money away in a secure, admittedly low-interest savings account; he would rather maximize our returns by investing in tech companies. He thinks that family time should involve board games, I don't see why we can't all just sit around read books. Apparently it all comes down to brain chemistry. He has highly active dopamine pathways. This neurotransmitter triggers the brain's reward network and gives competitive risk-takers like my husband a rush when someone proposes a competitive game of backyard volleyball. I, on the other hand, will run and hide behind my knitting needles. Apparently, this is typical of introverts. We tend to have very low reward sensitivity. It is not an absolute, but there is a strong correlation. Brain studies have even shown that the orbifrontal cortex, which is a major part of body's reward system, is larger in extroverts. Thus, high reward sensitivity tends to correlate with extroversion.

See what I did there, I just implied that my husband's brain is larger than mine. But don't worry, I'm not done. I am a little competitive. The orbifrontal cortex is the primitive part of the human brain - the part that is most similar to animal brains. Introverts and those with low reward sensitivity tend to have a more developed neocortex. This is the part of the brain that is unique to humans. It is the part that moderates our primal impulses and allows for complex processing, specifically risk analysis. This is why introverts tend to prefer smaller, more intimate social groupings. Larger groups contain more risk. Introverts have heightened ability to assess that risk, and as a result experience greater stress levels in large social contexts. We also tend to mull over decisions and consider all the alternatives. No, we're not the charismatic, quick-thinkers. We're the intellectual tortoises that beat the hares and win the race.

Lastly, I loved how Cain referenced the "Orchid Hypothesis" toward the end of chapter four. This theory, named by Atlantic writer, David Dobbs, posits that some children are like dandelions; they can flourish anywhere. Others - those who are highly reactive and introverted - are more like orchids, "they wilt easily, but under the right conditions can grow strong and magnificent."

"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.

"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 Girls of Atomic City: The Untold Story of the Women Who Helped Win WWII" by Denise Kiernan

After recently reading Full Body Burden, the story of the Rocky Flats nuclear weapons plant, I felt compelled to go back and review Girls of Atomic City, a book that I finished a few months ago, just before life got busy again with school.  However, Denise Kiernan's book has stuck with me, and thus gained the right to a place in my blog.

I first heard about the book when the author was interviewed on The Daily Show. I immediately put it on my reading list because I correctly sensed that it contained several topics I love: American history, WWII, women's rights - oh, and atomic bombs - because that's always fun (just kidding NSA...I know you're reading this). The book is about the women who went to work at the Clinton Engineer Works (CEW) in Tennessee, better known today as Oak Ridge National Laboratory. The author follows  the stories of several women employees, most of whom were young and single since married women were still expected to remain at home. The plant acquired large amounts of uranium and was responsible separating out the unstable isotopes of uranium 235. This fissile uranium was then sent on to New Mexico's Los Alamos facility where Oppenheimer and others became the "destroyer[s] of worlds." Secrecy at CEW was paramount. The community surrounding CEW had no real idea what was going on there. Inside, you found a weird microcosm. Families with children lived in prefabricated housing, single women lived in dormitories (where their activities were closely monitored to prevent any scandalous carousing), and African-Americans, still segregated, lived in substandard "hutments." There were schools, community centers, cafeterias, stores, and of course giant buildings housing the uranium-separation facilities. After work, people gathered for sporting events, barbecues, dancing, and all the other normal activities of 1940s life. But no one was allowed to talk about work. Under no conditions could you say anything about where you worked within the compound, what you did, or who you worked with. Wives could not ask their husbands how their days went, and the children never knew exactly what their father did to earn a living. The authorities even recruited some of the workers to moonlight as spies and report anyone who talked about work in their off-hours.

The weirdest part of this microcosm was that most of the people actually staffing the facility did not know exactly what they were doing or what they were working with. There were theories, to be sure. Some of the higher-ups obviously had a more accurate knowledge of what was going on, but few people knew that they were all part of a massive plan to create a technology that could destroy the earth. The women profiled in the book served in a variety of roles. Some worked as secretaries, others as chemists, others monitored the machines controlling the enrichment process, and African-Americans were relegated to the janitorial tasks. Not many people knew that they were working with or near a dangerous element. Those tasked with monitoring the machines had no idea what these machines were creating. They were told to just turn the dials and keep needles and gauges within a certain range. Additionally, nothing in the Manhattan Project was called by its real name; even the bomb itself was referred to as "the gadget." You didn't ask questions. You just did what you were told.

Somehow it all worked. Before reading this book I had no idea how many people were actually involved in the project. The number of workers at Oak Ridge alone peaked at around 82,000. Had Clinton Engineer Works not taken such careful precautions to keep its workers in the dark while using propaganda and fear to ensure that lips remained sealed, the Manhattan Project could have easily fallen into the lap of the enemy. (We found out later that the Soviets had infiltrated the project in Los Alamos, but fortunately they were on our side until 1945.)

In contrast to the Rocky Flats book, Atomic City did not address any of the potential environmental and health hazards of uranium enrichment. After reading about Rocky Flats I began to wonder how the workers at Oak Ridge fared and whether there were any noticeable environmental impacts in the area. While Rocky Flat tended to verge more on the anti-government side, this book really emphasized the  patriotism of the workers who joined the ranks to win the war.  Once the bombs were dropped and the war came to an end, the secret project was revealed. Most the women were overjoyed and proud of their part in the war effort. Many were just as happy to be off the farm and on to a new life.

Now whether or not you agree with how the United States chose to end the war, you have to admit that WWII permanently expanded opportunities for women in America. Many of the girls coming in off the farms and mining towns were carving out a new kind of future for themselves - one that had never been attempted by their mothers and grandmothers. The "Rosie the Riveters" of this war moved women's rights forward. Of course, it would continue on a slow trajectory. The 1950s would pose a setback as women returned to the realm of babymaking and fine china, but their daughters would go to college right along with their sons.Those WWII women had a taste of freedom, a taste of a life outside the confines of domesticity and they wanted their daughters to have that same opportunity. They opened up the eyes of a nation. Women could and would achieve more than tradition had dictated. They could not be held back.

(And to the NSA agent who is reading this post because of all the trigger words herein - be assured, I have not taken chemistry or physics since high school, and I remember very little of it. I can't even work my husband's Playstation, let alone build something destructive.  I'm a history nerd, and a bit of a feminist, but still, completely harmless. However, thanks for stopping by, I hope you enjoyed your visit.)

"Full Body Burden" by Kristen Iversen

Full Body Burden: Growing Up in the Shadow of Rocky Flats is a riveting blend of history and science, memoir and investigative journalism, personal awakening and academic research. It's hard to imagine such an amalgam of styles - but it works. Kristen Iversen's memoir begins in her childhood during the Cold War. It is an era where America was obsessed with "keeping up appearances," keeping secrets hidden, keeping problems buried under the surface. That is the theme in Iversen's life.

Her family lived in a country neighborhood where they owned horses, dogs, and various other creatures. Her mother stayed home, her father owned his own law practice. Down the road was a factory that purportedly produced cleaning products.

But that was only the surface. Underneath is a much more harrowing story. Kristen's dad was an alcoholic, their finances were in disarray, and her mother struggled with bouts of depression. And the plant? It made bombs. Nuclear bombs.

To be specific, the plant down the road made plutonium pits, the core of a nuclear bomb. The area residents had no idea that two fires - one in 1957 and one in 1969 - released significant amounts of plutonium into the air. The second fire nearly led to a major nuclear accident; but for a small stroke of luck Denver would have experienced a nuclear disaster on the scale of Chernobyl. The newspaper story was buried deep on page 23.

Residents also did not realize that the local water sources were contaminated with plutonium run-off. Radioactive waste stored in rusty and leaking barrels at the back of the plant ran into the creek which fed the nearby lake where neighborhood children swam. The plant's incinerator also illegally burned plutonium waste while families inhaled it downwind. Plutonium got lodged in their lungs and local children began dying of cancer.

Yet none of this was made public. Employees were required to maintain confidentiality - in the interest of national security of course! Whistleblowers lost their jobs and environmental protesters were jailed. Finally, in 1990 the government listened. The FBI raided the plant and uncovered a litany of incriminating evidence documenting years of mismanagement and 3000 pounds of "missing" plutonium - plutonium that can be found in the sediment, soil, and animals surrounding Rocky Flats. In 1992 a Grand Jury indicted the contractor with criminal charges. However, they got off easy with a plea bargain. A few years later residents of the area tried to collect damages in a class-action lawsuit. Research had shown that one-millionth of a gram of plutonium can put a person at high risk for cancer, and medical doctors ran studies in which they found significant levels of plutonium in the bodies of those who lived near Rocky Flats. However, the claimants lost in an appeal. They appeals court said they could not prove a direct connection between the nearby nuclear weapons plant and the residents' deteriorating health.

Today Rocky Flats is a wildlife refuge. The Forest and Wildlife Service's website says nothing about plutonium's 24,000 year half-life (meaning that it'll be 240,000 years before the plutonium manufactured in the 1940s is gone.) The website does say that they monitor the soil and a water to promote optimal growth for plant life and managements of the animal populations. However the controversially haphazard cleanup of the 1990s failed to remove much of the  plutonium that escaped from the plant in its 30+ years of operation. Today, a burrowing animal can kick it up into the air, a deer walking into a pond or creek can bring plutonium-laced sediment to the surface, and any wildlife that comes into contact with plutonium particles can carry them afar. As a result hikers, bikers, and schoolchildren get to bring home a little souvenir from the Cold War (to be fair, the DOE claims it's not enough to pose a significant health risk).

Iversen's book comes with extensive footnotes that include court documents, interviews, scientific studies, medical reports, and news releases. However, just to make sure that I wasn't embarking down the road of anti-government conspiracy theory, I did my own research externally. A brief round of fact-checking confirmed much of what I'd read, though there are disputes as to how much plutonium can cause a significant health risk. Regardless, I found no significant rebuttals to Iversen's research, only numerous awards and accolades associated Full Body Burden. 

So, if you don't really think this book is up your alley, that's fine. However, if you are ever in the Denver area stay on the safe side and avoid the Rocky Flats National Wildlife Refuge!


To hear an NPR interview with Kristen Iversen, click here

Rurally Screwed by Jessie Knadler

When I picked up the book Rurally Screwed from the library the other day I thought this was going to be a light summer read. I figured it would just be a humorous glimpse into the life of a city-girl gone country. When I told my husband that the premise of the book was about a girl from New York City who falls in love with a cowboy, he pretty much verbalized what I'd been thinking all along: "That sounds like it won't work out." But sometimes people's bad ideas make great summer reading, so I plowed forward.

What I did not expect was a genuine love story between a woman who is remarkably similar to me and a guy who is really, truly not a jerk. (Nice guys have been in short supply among my summer reads) The author, Jessie Knadler, chronicles her journey from the yoga studios and bars of Manhattan to Lexington, VA where she currently resides as a mom and chicken farmer.  The first part of the book lived up to my initial expectations of light summer reading. Jessie was the epitome of a trendy, urban 30-something with a fast-paced career, a solid income, and an identity crisis. She gave all that up when she met Jake while on assignment in Montana. Jake was the complete opposite. He was a horseman, a soldier, a country-music fanatic, and a Republican. A few months later Jessie was moving to Lexington, Virginia and helping her new husband build a massive portable chicken coop.

In the early years of their marriage Jessie thought she'd solve her identity crisis by making a 180 degree transformation into the Martha Stewart of country living. Far away from journalism and yoga classes, she now devoted her days to growing her own food, making artisan bread, raising chickens, brewing beer, and canning pretty much everything. She was the goddess of country living. And yet, she kept comparing herself to her husband, feeling that she fell short of his strength, his work ethic, his emotional stability. While he encouraged her and cheered her on, she tore herself down. She felt inferior for staying home canning all day. She questioned her choice of a very traditional marriage and retrogressive role as a housewife. She stressed out when she friends suggested that she should start having children. All the while she secretly compared herself to the "sexy horsewoman" down the road - the one who she feared Jake should have married. And Jake, the silent, stoic country cowboy never communicated how deeply he admired his wife - until the day she hightailed it back to New York City.

Now, since the book jacket says that Jessie is currently living with her husband and daughter in Lexington, VA, I don't feel too guilty about letting on that Jessie does not stay in New York City. She does not fit there either. During her time in the country the city trends have shifted. Everybody in NYC has been gripped by the back-to-nature lifestyle. They are raising chickens on the roof and growing tomatoes on the patio. But Jessie is struck by the fact that they are doing it all wrong. They busy are buying expensive artisan pickles, while Jessie's homemade ones sit unopened in the pantry!

This is about where Jessie's story nearly brought me to tears. She has spent her life trying to fit herself into some socially prescribed box. Neither the trendy urban box, nor the organic, country housewife box fit perfectly. She has nearly given up on her marriage because she couldn't fit into the box that she had built for herself. Jessie must accept that she does not have to earn her husband's love. Jake, she realizes, loved her all along. Yes, he enjoyed her pickles, but he was happy just to have her.  She drove back to Lexington, made up with Jake, and went to McDonalds.

Jessie writes, "I finally understood that identity comes once you stop searching for it, once you stop looking to conceptual thought for definitions of who you are or think you should be." But how does one stop this cycle of selfish thinking? The answer: have a baby. With a baby, Jessie says, "I was finally too busy to think about myself."

I don't can. But I've frozen about 30+ pounds of local fruits and vegetables. I have homemade artisan bread rising in the kitchen, I just finished making bruschetta and pesto, both with produce from my patio garden. I get up early on weekends and run about a dozen miles (literally) then hightail it to the farmer's market. I'm a member of a CSA where I frequently go to pick my own fruits and vegetables. I also knit and drink smoothies made with local peaches and kale. And yes, I have a lot of time to think about myself while I'm in the kitchen or out on the running trail. I try to drown out some of those thoughts with NPR or country music, but let's face it, neither one of those things totally stop the vain, foolish, and futile thoughts that start running through my mind. Things like, "Do I really want to have kids? What if I gain weight? How can I raise kids, keep my career, maintain a clean house and cook delicious, homemade meals from scratch? Oh dear, I should have gotten local honey to use in that recipe. Is it worth it to exchange my cheap Club Pack of chicken breasts for expensive grass-fed chicken?"

I've been trying so hard to transform myself into this paragon of a physically fit, kale-smoothie drinking locavorian that I've stressed myself out. It's ridiculous how we women go to such great lengths to fit into our ridiculous molds. That is why Jessie's story is so refreshing. (more refreshing than a peaches n' kale smoothie)

I'm glad Jessie Knadler wrote this book and has been continuing the story in her blog (www.rurallyscrewed.com). I'm glad that a woman who didn't like babies had one and enjoyed it so much that she's having another. I'm glad she confessed to using formula. (because apparently when mom doesn't make enough milk, formula gets a hungry baby to shut up!)  I'm also glad that she's still canning, still raising chickens, and still married to her awesome husband.

And I am seriously craving some Papa Johns.