The old TV series Star Trek used to play around with the concept of alternative universes. In one lived a “good” Kirk and Spock; in the other, a “bad” Kirk and Spock. Sometimes, it’s tempting to consider another pathway for ourselves or others. Is there a Lori who stayed behind in Pontiac, IL instead of moving with her family to Winter Haven, FL? If so, would she have stayed with the same set of friends, many of whom indulged in habits not shared in the Florida existence? Would the Illinois Lori have smoked in the bathroom and casually dated boys? The Florida Lori did neither. Or is there a Lori who stayed in Japan, never to return to the U.S.—or perhaps a Lori who impulsively followed her heart to England, never to return?
I’d like to think that I am essentially the same person in either universe. But there are people whose lives were dramatically changed in seconds. One of these I’ll call “Tammy.” She’d visit the school library almost every day, wanting to visit. I couldn’t get much work done, and finally found her an alternative waiting place when she came back from the sheltered workplace early. I felt pretty guilty about this, because Tammy had only one good hand, the other curled under, almost useless. And she limped awkwardly, almost sideways. She wore thick glasses and had difficulty talking. I figured she must have been born with a very unfortunate birth defect. Instead, I discovered months later that Tammy had the misfortune of being born to very cruel parents who threw their baby against the wall when they grew tired of her crying. When I think of Tammy, I truly wish the dubious laws of science presented in Star Trek were true. It would be lovely to imagine a Tammy who could walk straight and tall, without a limp. A Tammy who didn’t need thick glasses and could talk clearly. A Tammy who possessed two useful hands. But such an alternatively happy ending could only occur in science fiction.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Drawn to Disaster
When I was about ten, I began reading every book on the Titanic I could find. I also watched every movie that popped up on TV: A Night to Remember, SOS Titanic, etc. In fact, I strongly disliked the Cameron version because of its inaccuracies, which shows what a Titanic geek I had become. And of course, a pilgrim of peril, I journeyed to two Titanic museum exhibits.
My interest in disasters has not been limited to the Titanic. I’ve read books on ship fires, explosions, disappearances…...also, non-maritime disasters such as circus and coal mine fires….In fact, I’ve perused books on about every conceivable disaster that’s occurred to (sometimes caused by) humans. Every summer I read at least one gripping account of people attempting to escape a terrible fate. Right now, I’m reading about the great Peshtigo fire.
Why would I do this to myself, you might ask? Most people pick up Danielle Steele or John Grisham for their summer reads. I suspect the answer lies in my birth. I was born in the early 1960s, when babies didn’t always survive difficult births. I nearly died of asthma at birth, later nearly drawing my last breath once again at age two. When I was a teenager working the breakfast shift at McDonald’s, I looked both ways at a sleepy rural intersection. It was 5 a.m.—but my father always taught me to look both ways. A truck barreled through a red light from the other direction—and had I not looked, I would have been dead instantly. In my twenties, I took a propeller plane from Oahu to Molokai; this same plane crashed with a total loss of life shortly thereafter. Just a few days ago, a woman died when railroad cars carrying ethanol derailed, sending up a wall of flame. I have passed this same intersection many times, often at the very time this accident occurred.
I think these occurrences, at least in part, explain why I am drawn to disasters. I don’t like to read about pain or death…..but I do like to read about survivors. How do some people manage to elude the Grim Reaper? Sometimes it’s sheer luck, but other times it’s due to a refusal to give up or by keeping a clear head. Sometimes in my life, I was purely lucky to escape injury or death, but in the cause of the asthma attacks, I stubbornly held on to life, like a survivor hanging onto a life raft after her ship has sunk.
Perhaps this is the reason I don’t like to read about disasters or tragedies without survivors, such as Pompei or the 9-11 airplanes. Survivors’ stories are often exciting and varied—and something about their narratives connects to the part of me that fought for every breath as a baby.
My interest in disasters has not been limited to the Titanic. I’ve read books on ship fires, explosions, disappearances…...also, non-maritime disasters such as circus and coal mine fires….In fact, I’ve perused books on about every conceivable disaster that’s occurred to (sometimes caused by) humans. Every summer I read at least one gripping account of people attempting to escape a terrible fate. Right now, I’m reading about the great Peshtigo fire.
Why would I do this to myself, you might ask? Most people pick up Danielle Steele or John Grisham for their summer reads. I suspect the answer lies in my birth. I was born in the early 1960s, when babies didn’t always survive difficult births. I nearly died of asthma at birth, later nearly drawing my last breath once again at age two. When I was a teenager working the breakfast shift at McDonald’s, I looked both ways at a sleepy rural intersection. It was 5 a.m.—but my father always taught me to look both ways. A truck barreled through a red light from the other direction—and had I not looked, I would have been dead instantly. In my twenties, I took a propeller plane from Oahu to Molokai; this same plane crashed with a total loss of life shortly thereafter. Just a few days ago, a woman died when railroad cars carrying ethanol derailed, sending up a wall of flame. I have passed this same intersection many times, often at the very time this accident occurred.
I think these occurrences, at least in part, explain why I am drawn to disasters. I don’t like to read about pain or death…..but I do like to read about survivors. How do some people manage to elude the Grim Reaper? Sometimes it’s sheer luck, but other times it’s due to a refusal to give up or by keeping a clear head. Sometimes in my life, I was purely lucky to escape injury or death, but in the cause of the asthma attacks, I stubbornly held on to life, like a survivor hanging onto a life raft after her ship has sunk.
Perhaps this is the reason I don’t like to read about disasters or tragedies without survivors, such as Pompei or the 9-11 airplanes. Survivors’ stories are often exciting and varied—and something about their narratives connects to the part of me that fought for every breath as a baby.
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