Poem by guest blogger Amy Pratt.
Amy, 12, with Dick Zlab and guide dog Celeste, 19 months, at graduation for Guide Dogs for the Blind, San Raphael, California. ©2010 Amy Pratt
What is the value of a name?
~1~
Just ask any survivor
with numbers tattooed on their arm
what it means to have their name remembered.
This entry is dedicated to Judy C. Miner,
one of the few who has bothered
to remember my name all these years
and who is still willing to at least make eye contact
and speak with me.
I am so tired of being a ghost in a community where I once belonged.
I had no idea I could lose more
than my health and my job of nine years.
I am unable to work,
labeled as “a liability.”
I have cognitive issues
and often rely on pre-written scripts.
Ironically,
I cannot read or write on a consistent and reliable basis.
I used to be a Library Technician for a community college.
Education you never lose,
but the ability to use it,
that’s a different story.
Acknowledgement is a basic need
for support and understanding.
“In order to communicate with
and show respect to others,
a name is a basic need.”
~2~
The first time I witnessed a soul
willingly and completely ignore me
was the last time I saw Celeste.
It was the most painful and proudest moment of my life.
We had been reunited just hours before.
We had not seen each other for a few months.
It was at her graduation,
to become a Guide Dog
when I last saw her.
I remember waiting offstage,
her at my side.
She did her usual lean-into-my-leg
and she looked so happy to see me again.
It was as if we had never parted.
I could tell she wanted to play,
but it would have to wait,
she knew she was at work.
I could smell her new leather harness she was wearing,
already as a second skin.
We waited to hear our names called.
We were the last to be called,
I could not believe it.
I remember feeling unsteady,
and as we walked up the three or four steps,
Celeste was as calm and confident as ever,
adjusting her stride, aiding me up the stairs.
I handed over her lead to her new partner,
as he soon began their valedictory address.
I had raised her and trained her for over a year.
Then in a matter of weeks,
she finished the final training
earlier than most dogs.
She was given to me very young
due to a major Parvo outbreak,
and she still graduated earlier than the majority
of the Parvo puppies.
The disease even killed some of her siblings.
Her new partner, Richard,
met his wife at Guide Dogs,
a few dogs before Celeste.
He did not need to be trained,
he had had several dogs before,
and in fact,
had to learn how to keep up with Celeste.
She was a very smart dog.
He told me he was a tad chagrined
that he was the slower half of the team.
I told him,
she had that effect on a lot of people.
He was still adjusting to their new union,
I could tell even though I was only 12 at the time.
His last dog was just retired due to ignoring cars.
It must be hard to retire one dog and get another so soon.
They were packed and ready to go home.
We said our goodbyes.
I was alone,
making my way back up the hallway
to see Celeste and Richard one last time.
I wanted to say something,
only I couldn’t speak.
I was watching them walk by
when Celeste noticed me
and allowed herself to be excited for only a moment.
And then she completely and totally ignored me.
I felt my soul crack open,
it was so bittersweet.
She did exactly what was expected of her.
They had only known each other a few months,
and she was leading him
in more ways than he knew at that moment.
She was committed to her new partner in every way.
It was at that moment
I knew
I had succeeded.
My baby was gone.
That cute little puppy,
who never wanted to stop playing,
was gone.
I knew from the start
I could not keep her.
I knew she would ignore me
when in her harness.
The knowing didn’t ease the pain.
Celeste was on the job,
working as a guide,
giving someone the tools they needed
to live their life
as independently as possible.
Sure enough,
Richard called me when they arrived in Omaha.
Celeste,
as I predicted,
was less concerned about her first flight,
and her first time being in snow than he was.
She was 17 months old when they met.
They worked together for more than 10 years
before Celeste was retired due to arthritis.
Once again the dog beat me.
It is one thing,
when you train an animal,
to ignore all distractions in order to do a job,
verses
when a person goes out of their way to ignore another.
Acknowledgement is a basic need for support and understanding.
I include the narrative of Celeste
to illustrate my first experience as a ghost.
Invisible in a crowd
is what I miss being.
(Every one can hear my tics—
it’s like parting the seas
when I am really bad.
It makes blending in “challenging,”
at least I don’t have many long lines
to stand and wait.)
~3~
What is the value of a name?
Just ask any survivor with numbers tattooed on their arm,
what it means to them to have their name remembered.
I once worked
with a man named Jim.
“In order to communicate with
and show respect to others,
a name is a basic need.”
With all that he had been through,
all that he had lost,
the one thing that he refused to sacrifice
was his name.
He would not compromise.
“In order to communicate with
and show respect to others,
a name is a basic need.”
He could have been a CEO
or a political leader;
he was content to be a janitor
for Adult and Community Education.
It is where he felt he belonged.
Where he felt he could do the most good.
Where he could keep his demons at bay.
Where he was ok to be himself.
Amy's tattoo of Lucy.
~4~
How do I name this illness?
I have not—
I have named what it has done to me—
how I relate to it—
Lucy is there to help me.
She is a part of me.
I am not completely alone.
The only good of this illness is
I now know who my friends are—
I know who truly loves me—
and I know who truly believes me:
those who I have not yet lost,
and those Friends I have still yet to meet.
Since I have lost my job,
I have become a leper of sorts.
People I used to believe were my friends
don’t even return my calls.
Worse yet
is when I see people duck behind a tree or something
in attempt to hide.
It is almost funny to see someone try to hide
behind a clipboard
or even a coffee cup.
I have witnessed people within arm’s reach
slink away to hide,
hoping I do not see or speak to them.
It is harder when it is someone you once respected
or trusted to at least attempt to do the right thing.
To help.
To save.
To do their job.
To be more human.
(Some people did help me.
Often with one phone call or a brief email.
They did more in a few seconds
than it took to get rid of me.)
Who does it hurt more?
The individual being ignored?
The person avoiding the other?
Or all of us?
Denial is deadly.
What is the only way to PREVENT
or cure
Multiple Chemical Sensitivity?
Acknowledge it is REAL.
We are ALL at risk.
Thank you Judy,
for at least acknowledging
I still exist.
Maybe now you can see
how much it means to simply wave or say hi.
Or remember someone’s name.
~5~
I had no idea how much was at stake,
how much I could and did lose by working.
This following story has taken me close to a year to write,
because I have lost the ability to read and write consistently.
P.S.
I do hope to raise puppy number 5 before I get too ill.
~6~
I once worked with a man named Jim.
I remember his name
because the only thing I knew that got him upset
was when the payroll people would invent other names,
like James,
John,
or Jimmy
for him.
“It’s Jim, short for JIM,” he would say.
He had so many other things to be upset about—
being a concentration camp survivor.
He was bittersweet about his scars—
the numbers barely legible on his arm.
It wasn’t time that faded the number—
one by one, in an anti-staccato row—
it was the way it was carved into his arm
that made it so hideous that it was close to illegible.
It was huge—
and not the small,
neat and tidy kind
they show in the movies.
It actually twisted across
from the front into the inside of his forearm—
each number getting larger as it twisted and bit deeper into the flesh…
clawing its way further up his arm.
Jim said he was five or seven at the time,
and had to lie that he was older—
and it almost worked until the tattoo.
“If they thought I was younger,
they would not have bothered,
lucky I was tall for my age.
As he (the Nazi), started—
I squirmed too much and thus he took it out on me”
To think that any person
could be that cruel
to mark a young child that way sent shivers up my spine.
“I’m sure he knew I was much younger than I had told him,
he was intent on forcing the truth out of me,
only I knew better.”
And then to hear him mostly complain
about his name being dishonored
on his time card and paycheck.
Wow—
that was a different kind of shiver upon my spine.
I knew at that moment,
the glimmer of my brief soul cracking pain—
was nothing to what this man had survived.
I had a single hit of lighting compared to his storm
of years of aguish and utter hell.
I remember saying the first thing
that popped into my head.
I meant to only think it
and next thing I knew I heard myself saying,
“Work shall set you free.”
Jim said, “Yes, it can if you let it.
There is value in doing the work you want to do.”
~7~
“Arbeit Macht Frei” (Work Leads to Freedom)
What was intended to destroy him and too many others,
did set him free.
I remember watching him looking at his arm
with a mixture of disgust,
anger,
pride,
and optimism.
With an edge of bitterness kept dull
by a state of content-ness.
He was in a trance—
he had done it so many times—
he was staring at the numbers—
twisting his arm with just enough torque—
he could see it without seeing
the necessary motion of his arm.
His “new assistant”—
a teenager,
a war refugee and recently new to the U.S.—
with a big chip on his shoulder.
Asked us: “What are you talking about?”
The tension between these two was palpable.
I had heard Jim and the big boss talking
about the “joys” of having a young assistant
for the summers—
it wasn’t easy to get started.
Jim’s response was,
“Read up on your history,
1940’s Germany,
WWII,
and then I will answer any of your questions.
I will not and cannot be responsible
for all of your information on this subject.
You need to learn about the full picture
before you see my small part,
and then you can tell me more of your past too.”
Basically, you show some effort—
a little initiative and I will listen to you—.
When asked,
“Why not have it removed or covered up?”
with an “it’s ugly”—old man attitude.
“Why should I bother having it removed—
I will always know it was there—
I refuse to deny it—
and no one else should deny it—,”
he said as I was still trying to read the carved numbers facing me.
Of course the numbers were to be read by the Nazis—
and not by the bearer.
I could tell that Jim should have been in a bigger pond—
he was just fine where he was.
He had an air of knowledge,
of possibilities,
that could have been—
He had the aptitude in his manner and grace
to be anything.
If history was different,
Jim should have been a big business man—
a leader of commerce or “big things,”
instead he was a custodian.
A janitor
for adult and community education.
Working with a bunch of misfits like myself—
at least for the summer of 1982.
I was 15 and in the summer of many changes.
This was my first “real” job.
(The first time I had to pay taxes.)
He did appear to be much older than he was.
Too long working in the sun,
or too much stress took its toll.
I saw him just a handful of times,
in the break room
or when he was doing his trash rounds
he would see me in the copier-print room
where I was assigned to work.
He and his teenaged misfit in tow
would chat a little or sing along to the radio—
We would try to tell the jokes we remembered
and the usual, “Seen any good movies?”
I did witness the change
between Jim and his summer companion.
They were worlds apart, literally.
They had one big thing in common,
war had destroyed their childhood,
and nearly destroyed them.
With Jim’s help,
I saw that chip on his new pal’s shoulder
get smaller ever day.
Jim did have trouble at first
when his student made such a fuss over him,
he even made Jim lunch for a whole week.
All to show his respect and gratitude to him
for helping him see there is life
after the “really heavy shit hits the fan.”
As I think of how many holocaust camp survivors
I have met in my life,
it is more than the number of MCS survivors.
Mostly because we are condemned to be isolated—
away from and out of public view.
(I agree with Jim.
I cannot refuse the existence of what I have become—
I will not sugar coat it!
And no one else should deny it.
I am a human Canary—
I have no fucking future!!)
“In order to communicate with
and show respect to others,
a name is a basic need.”
Jim never compromised on his name.
It was the first thing returned to him.
The true value of a name
is its grace and power of hearing it said.
I had made a promise to Jim.
From his lesson,
as a result of meeting him,
to always make an effort to remember someone’s name.
To make an effort to spell it correctly.
To show respect in a simple way.
Now I know what it is like to have kept a promise,
the promise of hope
(only now the MCS has made this harder to keep.
I can’t remember my own name all too often.)
The promise I made to him was his gift to me.
His lesson of how respect and honor—
the faith in the power and grace,
in the value of OUR name.
The trust of Acknowledgment.
© 2010 Amy Pratt. All rights reserved.
Top photo: Amy, 12, with Dick Zlab and guide dog Celeste, 19 months, at graduation for Guide Dogs for the Blind, San Raphael, California.
Lower photo: Amy’s tattoo of Lucy. Read more about Lucy here: Naming the canary.
Amy is a potter who developed the first signs of Multiple Chemical Sensitivity in 1997. Read more about Amy and her pottery here. View photos of Amy’s pottery here.
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