I want to know if it’s the illness that forces me to be selfish, or my selfishness that brings on the illness. It is an awful sin – selfishness, but necessary, I suppose, for survival. It’s tiring too, this self-absorption. And terribly uninspiring.

These past couple of weeks have been difficult. I really didn’t think that a lapse in medication for a couple of days, okay, maybe a few more days than that, would bring the devil home again. Wherever he is, whatever she wants, I seem to hear its voice so loud it burns my ears, and I forget to control myself, all walls down, and that’s not a good thing. Not a good thing at all. Now I have a husband. I have a child. A magnificent child. One of these children that brings in the Light, swirls and prances within it, and forgives you everything. One of these children that you ache to protect from the cruelty of the world, plan to create a utopia for, and that’s no good either, is it? I don’t know. How soon do we let the butterfly fly?

From: xxx@comcast.net
Sent: Wednesday, February 06, 2008 3:13 AM
To: George Stranahan
Subject: Re: FW: Update from Ethiopia

Dear George,

It was really a nice surprise to get your e-mail. Nivedita, the counselor for our WISH project sat and read it with me and she had tears in her eyes. It was really a beautiful note from Abby and I am so happy to hear she ended up going to Ethiopia. The start of this kind of work is the most amazing time. Her e-mail gave both of us inspiration this time. You can forward this to her if you like.

Things are going well here, although at times challenging. The sewing machine is running in the other room and the laughter and chattering (in Oriya) of several young women living in the house can be heard. They have become like daughters. We have established a six month tailoring program and the Prajnana Vocational Training Center will be inaugerated on Sunday. We have concluded the addition of one large room (at house owner’s expense). I advanced the money for next year’s rent and extended the lease so that we can be here through 2009. We have brought in an older Muslim tailoring master to teach and we intend to be the best school in Cuttack. Several women are coming for the training.

Tulsi and Amita have been added as household residents. Tulsi was found working in a crusher unit (crushing rocks for the road). She is 15 (almost 16) and was removed from school 4 years ago to work for the family when her father died. She is an amazing and beautiful human being and everyone loves her. Amita, 21, is from a very poor family and her father is very sick and cannot work. She is the eldest daughter and wants to help her family too. Both were referred by the people at the Hariharananda balashram since they are currently doing extensive interviews of the poorest families.

Our two nurse trainees, Babita and Bebina have recieved a resident job offer to work in a nursing home so they will be our first graduates who will be self-sustaining. They will earn enough to support themselves and send money home to the family too. We will have their graduation ceremony this weekend. They are so excited and we all are proud of them. They have been working 12 hrs a day seven days a week for the past 6 months.

Laxmipriya was just starting to do really well and had just gotten a job at a reputable beauty parlour and was also doing the tailoring course. This past Sunday her father showed up and took her away. He basically said that her mother was sick and he needed someone to clean the house and cook for the family, making her a servant in the house. He was also trying to get money out of us and I had to be firm about not doing that or it would not end. To see the complete fear and regression on her face when he came was gripping. She broke down sobbing and clinging to me. All of the girls were crying. The psychologist Nivedita came and we tried to speak to the father but in the end she couldn’t go against his wishes and she expressed that she wanted to go. Daughters here will never challenge their fathers. We will keep track of her and I am sure will see her again, but we had to let her go. She had transformed a lot and will have a tough time going back to a life that she has grown out of. I am thinking about what to do with her and have some ideas - we will see.

Jayanti, our star tailor is full of enthusiasm with the new instructor and so is Lilima. They have been sewing the curtains for the new room, doing lots of embroidery work, make machine covers for the four new machines we have purchased for the new school, etc. Their parents came on Sunday too and were exactly the opposite of Laxmipriya’s father - especially Jayanti’s mother. She had tears in her eyes, full of joy at seeing her daughters transformation.
Sumita is getting top grades in the college and studies non-stop. How she does it in this noisy house is beyond me, but she does and is a beautiful young lady. She keeps the others in line, demanding a peaceful house.

Most all of these girls are eldest daughters, unwanted in this patriarchal society. Huge psychological problems and Nivedita is indispensible. She is also a WISH participant and not unlike the girls - married into a rich family and living under the in-laws rule. They made her give up her dreams of a clinical psychology doctorate degree. I am making her participate along with the girls in some exercises that they are doing in learning to create their wishes and their lives. I think will will enroll in a doctorate program here this time being more firm with in-laws. She is braver now and sticking up for herself. They have started to give her more freedom and are being supportive of this work she is doing, so it helps.

All have savings accounts that have started and a little income has been generated to help with vegetables, but we are still a long ways from program self-sufficiency. Now that the capital has been established the budget is pretty low though. Nivedita is great with keeping the costs down and we have lots of support from the local people. This project is unique and getting a good reputation for being genuine. (So many NGO’s here are completely corrupt)
Grassroots India (India non-profit) has been formed and everything should be ready to be signed next Monday!

I will spend more time at the Hariharananda Balashram this next month now that the tailoring school is coming to completion. 38 new students have been selected. Strong emphasis is now on the English language education and I interviewed two men this morning. I am trying to help with the academic improvement through teacher training programs. The new boys’ dormitory is under construction and moving fast. We will add a staff quarters too. I think we just hired a new principal too who is very enthusiastic.

Shraddha Bhaban is functioning perfectly with the new funds they got from Global Giving and the gov’t. I stop by occasionally to see the girls and they may also come to this WISH program when they are out of school and ready.

More later….

I am sending you much love and thanks - you are making your imprint on this side of the world too! I, like Abby, am extremely grateful for the opportunity you have given me to have an experience unmatched in this lifetime!

My deepest love to you,
Debbie
————– Original message ————–
From: “George Stranahan” <xxx@sopris.net>
Debbie, you met her and gave her great encouragement.
From: Abbey Fox [mailto:xxx@mac.com]
Sent: Sunday, February 03, 2008 1:30 PM
To: George Stranahan
Subject: Update from Ethiopia
Dear George,

I don’t know where or how to begin. I have been writing and/or filming/photographing every day so I am comforted by this– otherwise there is absolutely no hope in bridging the space between what I’m witnessing/experiencing and what I wish to express. I have appreciation for storytellings, for our ancestors and oral histories.

Yesterday was one of the best days of my life. Let alone birthdays. I am currently in Awassa, a village in the South of Ethiopia. I am living in a hole in the wall–safe, but scary by Western standards. I am so glad to be traveling alone as I wouldn’t want to explain the lack of electricity and hot water (let alone running water, we have it once every three days, heading into the dry season). For the past ten days, I have been working at a place called the Awassa Youth Campus– an organization founded by an ex-pat Bohemian Boston fellow who served in the peace corps in Zambia fo r two years and has lived in Ethiopia for seven. The campus is run as a home for vulnerable street children– orphans, some with HIV, others without–however, they don’t sleep there. The philosophy revolves around individual expression and creativity through community oriented education. It reminds me of the Community School set in rural Ethiopia. The children paint and act and put on circus like shows that they create for villages throughout the country– based on issues like HIV, abuse, male/female relationships. Some of them also go there for lessons as many of them either don’t have the support to go to local schools or have to spend the day begging. I have been in charge of running the lesson programs for many of these vulnerable children and it has been absolutely wonderful, rewarding, painful. I have hope. There are specific ways to help these children in long-term self-sustaining ways– namely, supporting them to get the consistent education they deserve.

Yesterday we went for birthday cake at the local restaurant– everyone wondered who the crazy white lady was who was eating with savage street kids. Friends know no boundaries and we just did our thing. I bought them (you bought them) all shoes– for several it was the first pair they owned. I thought of you. We went on a boat ride to see hippos and sat in a park watching the monkeys. Several of them cried and asked if I was their mother. I said I was their friend. They are so beautiful, their inner strength is unwavering, tender in their fragility. They are who they are, and they are survivors. I cannot convey the determination, the eagerness, the pride in their eyes they reveal after a good day of lessons. The Bohemian (he loves Hunter Thompson and Flying Dog brew) peeked in one day last week and saw this crew of boys lying in a circle holding hands. You could have heard a pin drop. He was undoubtedly surprised. I have the boys go off on their own daily to draw pictures– their idea of love, what anger feels like. I have interviewed them and asked them what they want, what they wish for. (Your idea). There is so much untapped potential but no one has been there to guide them. They believe in themselves, and despite struggling to survive on the fringe of Ethiopian life, they are effortlessly smiling and loving and receptive. It truly rocks me to my core. I love them.

There is so much more to say but this is only a slice to share. I don’t know how to thank you for encouraging me and supporting me on this endeavor. I am proud of what I am doing and it feels natural–despite how difficult and painfully lonely I have often felt. .

I return to Addis next week where I intend to follow up at the children’s oncology ward at the Black Lion Hospital. I will also be re-visiting and interviewing the adolescent girls orphanage for those who were wrongly incarcerated. I am supposed to visit the prison thanks to an Embassy friend I have made. I have many ideas and I am working hard to keep record of thoughts, conversations, ideas, moments–writing and using my kick ass unbelievable new video camera.

I hope this finds you smiling and surrounded by beautiful fresh white snow. Email has been more consistent recently. Please write more when you can. I miss and love you. Abbey
I told George I was going to include these emails in this book because I believed they unequivocally illustrated, “who you are.” Especially since he had never mentioned Abbey or Debbie, or their projects, to me before, which I attributed to his characteristic humility. His response was: “Eddie’s letters. That’s who I am…She’s not doing well,” he continued. “Going downhill. She wrote me a Christmas card again this year. I still have to write her back.”
[One of Eddie’s past Christmas cards.]

December 12, 2001

Hi George!

Merry Christmas to you and Ben.

I like this Ranch Home. Am feeling better. Must be Christmas. We shall see. I can wait. I do housework here. Some of us help on the farm. I like the fresh air probably because I smoke. Want to quit again. I try – have several times and start up again.
I have to get up early in the morning for a treatment at the hospital.
I haven’t started my Christmas shopping yet.
Oh yea! You asked me to write about Okemos when I was going to O.H.S. smoking pot. When I graduated in “73” I went hitchhiking out West for the summer. Ended up in Phoenix and stayed with a drug dealer and I remember that’s when my problems started with the schizophrenia and left when I got home, we were moving from town to Albany, NY. Went to the hospital and started meds then. Don’t remember the Drs name. Moved several more times. Dad & Mom visited here. I like it here. How’s it going I got a cold.

Love you,
Cynthia

Will write more soon

Mental illness is a broken record, with the same messages repeated within your mind, constantly. It is that trite adage: the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome. I cannot say that I view George as mentally ill, in any clinical sense of the definition. He is a highly, perhaps over-, functioning person who is perpetually seeking the next challenge, the better way to attain social justice. What goes on in the recesses of his mind when he is all alone with his self: that is another question. Are there messages that he hears ad nauseum, the voices that propel his endless search? Are they the voices that he can only quiet with a bottle of, or several, beers each night? Regardless, he can put them to rest long enough to realize his visions, to be there for others, to fulfill his daily rituals and commitments. But does he believe that he is just one step from losing is mind, of falling down that chasm that one never really escapes?

There is an escape from the madness, though, there is. At least for some of us – I hope. And although medication can help in slowing down the speed at which emotions overwhelm, it will never erase the pain associated with each of our personal histories and the contexts of the societies we live in. The escape is a letting go, a handing over of things that are out of our control, after recognizing that we do not truly control anything or anyone. This letting go is not failing. It’s not a giving up, a running way, or a rejection. It’s a rising above, and a passing on to powers far greater than our comprehension. Although I have read these truisms in countless self-help books, I have found that words never make any sense, anyway, unless you come to them yourself. And today, these words feel as if they are my creation, as if I am the first one ever to connect these dots.

I have intellectualized universal wisdom forever. Intellectualization is connected by a spider’s web to understanding. Understanding is physical, while intellectualization is abstraction. Where is truth if it is not put into action?

And then, on occasion, I understand something subconsciously, physically, so that it thrusts  itself from me – happens like quick-fire when I’m not medicated – and shows its ugly face, the devil I suppose is who I am referring to, but it takes me weeks to understand the truths I have uttered. But they come so violently, like brushfire, that I cannot stop the field from burning.

People only have power over you when you allow them that power. I’m not giving up on the family I was born into. I am not dismissing them, but I am letting them go. I can’t carry them with me anymore. Some people realize this as children, as my parents did towards their parents, and my husband, his. Other people, like me, attach themselves for far too long, and allow others to attach back, wet and hard like cement. I have held onto the role of the first-born child – the second wife, the second mother –  while I am a first wife, and a first mother now. I have my own family to care for today. I must be with them moving forwards, not locked in the past. If I let go of the family I was born into, they will all survive. If I don’t, I won’t. The drama of the gifted child, as I’ve heard it defined.

All this, personal events not worth delving into that forced these conclusions, and then yesterday’s meeting with People’s Press (just Mirte and me) and another entity (an independent bookstore) that wants in on a regional publishing company. We are jointly contemplating the purchase of an existing publishing company in order to launch an umbrella organization that would hold several publication imprints beneath it, including People’s Press. I have loosely been considered the one who would get the company off the ground, the Chief Operations Officer (without an existing Chief Executive Officer to report to, only an Editorial/Executive Board). I have been trying to calculate how I could do this, even for only a year, while still spending a significant amount of time with Ruby and also writing. I thought I could do the job part-time, as efficient as I have been at all my other jobs, doing the work of 2-3 people at once. But the representatives of the bookstore, who would bring in the other 50% investor to start the venture, is convinced that the COO role would not only have to be full-time, but a 24-hour, 7-day a week job, at $55,000/year plus health benefits. This is the second time I’ve had to choose between a job and my daughter, but the first decision was a simple one considering the work was not very exciting, I was in an inferior position, and there was no potential, financial upside. With this venture, however, I would be taking the helm and given the opportunity (if it was even granted to me) to lead. But it just doesn’t work. The risk could never be worth neglecting my young family, no matter what the price, and $55,000/year is nowhere close to contemplating it, even with the Group Health option which I desperately need. (Group Health: the chain that makes us slaves to working for others).

This has been a long, cold, snowy winter. Record-breaking. Spirit-breaking. Sharing one car between JP and me, I have been isolated here – in my first house. I have been learning to cook, out of necessity. I have always hated cooking, viewed it as a chore, especially being as uncoordinated and clumsy as I am, but I have also always wanted my family to enjoy eating meals made from their own kitchen. So, we are one mile from the only restaurant in Redstone (The Redstone Inn), and fifteen miles from any other eatery. And to my great surprise, I am loving cooking. I love preparing the meal – following the recipe (mostly out of The Joy of Cooking, a gift from friends), substituting ingredients, serving, making my family happy, and healthy. I get it now. This domestic thing. It’s not so bad. It’s not so demeaning. It can be fun. I’m not willing to give it up yet, not entirely at least. And I’m definitely not willing to give up this book. Something’s gotta give.

Here is a recipe of George’s that I should try this Thanksgiving:

Tomato Pudding

Traditional Thanksgiving dish.

White bread sufficient to cover 125% of the area of the flat pan; set out to dry several hours before baking time. These can be cubed about 3/8 inch either before or after drying. I prefer to cut them soft, trim off most of the crust, and spread them out in the pan which should be covered by the bread cubes

Today 8 cups bread
29 oz. Tomato sauce
24 oz. Tomato paste
1 1/2 c brown sugar (5 tbs for each 10 oz of tomato mixture)
1 big tsp salt
3 tsp dried basil
12 oz melted butter
5 tbs finely chopped stuffed green olives
This was enough bread and butter for, and not enough sauce for, a 16 5/8 X 11 7/8 inch pan (200 sq. in.). This amount of sauce would be appropriate for about 133 sq. inches and anout 5 1/2 cups of bread cubes.

Heat the tomato mixture, sauce, sugar, salt, basil and olives. Melt the butter and drizzle over the bread cubes, pour the hot tomato mixture over; no stirring! Cover tightly and bake 30 minutes at  375

And perhaps in time, when I am much more ambitious: Venison

Most wild game share the common properties of leanness, toughness, and a gamy flavor. This is particularly true of venison. While here in the West the name venison implies the meat of the mule deer, the word has an interesting etymology. The Latin Venatio, to hunt or chase seems closely related to the Sanskit Vanati, he loves or desires. To me, it makes perfect sense to find the word for the flesh of a mule deer related to this lovely Sanskit verb, for the meat is delicious if prepared with attention for its unique properties. Along with wild duck, venison is particularly gamy in flavor, and the cook must take this property and amplify it rather than disguise it. This suggests that the flavors of onion, garlic, bay, thyme, and certainly a red bordeaux or a tawny port are appropriate for the cook to consider. Mushrooms, the wilder the better, are a good accompaniment.

Much about the meat depends upon circumstance: was the animal gut-shot, hung out in hot weather, were the scent glands properly removed prior to skinning, and so on. Let’s assume that you got your meat from a hunter as interested in the table as in the hunt, and that the meat is in good shape and properly aged. If you have steaks or chops the meat is tender enough to cook as one would cook a similar cut of very lean beef.

Use several pieces of suet; put into a skillet and render these until there is enough oil for frying the steaks or chops, discard the chittlins.

Just before adding the steaks or chops to the smoking hot skillet, rub the meat with a cut garlic clove and sprinkle it with freshly ground pepper. The quick sear and browning will seal in the few juices of this meat and it will come out relatively tender. The addition of the meat will cool down the pan, let it do so. The proper steak or chop will be dark brown, not blackened, when cooked to rare or medium rare.

I offer two choices for the finish.

One: Remove the meat and deglaze the skillet with a half cup of good red wine. As the wine reduces to about a half, add a tablespoon of tomato paste and a tablespoon of butter. Pour over the meat and serve. Catsup can be used instead of the tomato sauce and yields a sweeter taste.

Two: remove the meat and forget the skillet. Soften about 4 tablespoons of butter and mix in 2 teaspoons of mustard and a dollop of Worcestershire sauce. Whip this with a fork and put on top of the meat.

The majority of the deer is not steak and chops; it is chuck, flank, round and other parts of muscle well developed for the deer’s active lifestyle. For these parts I recommend a stew. And for me, a good venison stew can be much better than any steak or chop. The venison flavor is dark and profound; the stew must be the same.

Cut the meat into 1 inch cubes. In a grocery bag put in flour and paprika until the mixture is a good pink.  Put in the venison cubes and shake vigorously. Spread the meat out in a baking sheet and put under the broiler. Cook and turn until browned. The carmelized meat and flour will both darken and thicken the stew.

Put the browned meat into a stew pot, add equal parts of beef broth and red wine to cover and a bay leaf. Your taste matters here; I put in diced garlic and raw onions cut into halves. The onions will be removed towards the end of the cooking.

Simmer the stew for 3 to 5 hours. If it is naturally thick, fine, otherwise thicken with a bit of flour and water. Towards the last hour of cooking fill a frying pan with mushroom caps top down and cook these very slowly without turning, about 30 minutes, until the tops are quite browned and the mushroom cooked though without becoming soft. Add the whole caps to the stew for the last half hour of cooking.

If the sauce is just thick enough there is the possibility of adding up to a quarter pound of butter at the end. Do so unless your doctor forbids. Salt to taste.

Serve with flat noodles.

There is some good advice, some good recipes, and some crazy recipes, in The L.L. Bean Game and Fish Cookbook, Angus Cameron and Judith Jones, Random House, New York, 1983.  In looking these over, I offer my advice to avoid marinades, nutmeg, barbecue sauces, and carrots.

There are many memories, accompanied by such specific smells, that come back with the cooking of venison. They are about hunters, my father and my uncles, their friends and whiskey; about cabins, woods and the smell of smoke: the smell of gunpowder, the smell of the dead animal and warm blood on the ground.

As a child I was allowed to clean the guns at the end of a day’s hunt, swabbing down the barrels with Hoppe’s Number 9, a nitro solvent. No sweeter perfume do I know for bringing back floods of memories than Hoppe’s Number 9.

Hunting was getting up before dawn, eating a breakfast of hotcakes and sausage, and being with my father, who said little to me directly. He did, however, seem proud whenever I made a good shot, for he himself was an excellent shot. I remember, with total recall, a fast and low flying green winged teal shot overhead with a single .410 shell that amazed him and myself. He clapped me on my shoulder and bragged that night to his friends. Never, ever, had my life seemed more filled with possibilities.

What is it, about a pat on the back from one’s father, that makes one feel so worthy, so good? We need to claim that feeling for ourselves, and own it. Reclaim the power that we have so innocently given to others, and then forgotten.

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