![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
From Twitter 01-12-2011
Jan. 13th, 2011 02:03 amTweets copied by twittinesis.com
Jan. 13th, 2011
Loughner, meaning and mental illness
Jan. 13th, 2011 09:36 amMark Tiedemann wrote an excellent and thoughtful blog entry about Palin's speech. I commented
I've been thinking a great deal about the gunman, Loughner. One thing that has bothered me is the way that the media has been attempting to frame him (i.e., is he a political liberal or a conservative), without sufficiently taking into account what seems in hindsight to be blindingly obvious: the man was mentally ill. Sarah Palin characterized him as "an evil man." Obama did better, referring to him in factually more neutral terms, i.e. 'the gunman' and 'the killer' and said, in rather more measured nuance
As some have taken care to say, the mentally ill are not in most cases likely to become violent; on the contrary, they are most often likely to become the victims of violence, because of their vulnerability. Whatever his actions, I do believe that because of his illness he has diminished responsibility. I do feel very deeply for his parents, who according to all reports are in desperate anguish over their son's actions.
Obama sounded a note of compassion in his speech about almost all parties in his speech involved in the events in Arizona with I think one exception: Mr Loughner and his parents. He did touch about the necessity of discussing the adequacy of our mental health system, and that, I suppose is something. Perhaps it just wasn't politically feasible for him to say something sympathetic about a man who commited such a heinous act. I still wish that he had. I understand that he visited and spoke with many of the people he mentioned in his speech. I wish and hope that he had visited and spoke with Loughner's parents too, but I suppose political realities might make that impossible--people would be outraged at the idea that the parents of "such a monster" might need comforting, too.
But the situation of the medically ill in this country can be truly desperate. There is so little help for parents of a child who is sick in the mind, so little assistance, so little guidance, and most bitterly of all, very often so little compassion.
So many have expressed their condolence for dead and the wounded. I wish that more could have spared a sympathetic thought or even dared to speak aloud condolences for the family of this young man who lost his way in darkness and madness. I am sure they are hurting, too.
Edited to add: Saw this link elsewhere: a truly stunning first person article written by Susan Klebold, mother of Dylan Klebold, one of the perpetrators of Columbine, talking about what insights she has gleaned, ten painful years afterwards.
What no one seems to have pointed out yet is one way that, weirdly enough, Palin allied herself with Loughner. By insisting that her words should not be taken as having had any effect on events, she seems to agree with one of the thoughts that came to be an obsession for Loughner: that words in fact have no meaning (other than, perhaps, the meaning he personally attributed to them).As peeved as I've been with the man lately, I thought Obama's speech was really excellent, and quite a pointed contrast with Sarah Palin's.
I've been thinking a great deal about the gunman, Loughner. One thing that has bothered me is the way that the media has been attempting to frame him (i.e., is he a political liberal or a conservative), without sufficiently taking into account what seems in hindsight to be blindingly obvious: the man was mentally ill. Sarah Palin characterized him as "an evil man." Obama did better, referring to him in factually more neutral terms, i.e. 'the gunman' and 'the killer' and said, in rather more measured nuance
Scripture tells us that there is evil in the world, and that terrible things happen that defy human understanding. In the words of Job, "I looked for light, and then came darkness." Bad things happen, and we have to guard against simple explanations in the aftermath.I am sure that Mr. Loughner will be carefully assessed, and I suspect that the diagnosis will be something close to paranoid schizophrenia. This is a disease that often shows up right when he started showing symptoms, in the late teens, early twenties. He showed classic symptoms: incoherent thought, inappropriate laughter and hostility, and confusion about causality.
For the truth is none of us can know exactly what triggered this vicious attack. None of us can know with any certainty what might have stopped these shots from being fired, or what thoughts lurked in the inner recesses of a violent man's mind.
As some have taken care to say, the mentally ill are not in most cases likely to become violent; on the contrary, they are most often likely to become the victims of violence, because of their vulnerability. Whatever his actions, I do believe that because of his illness he has diminished responsibility. I do feel very deeply for his parents, who according to all reports are in desperate anguish over their son's actions.
Obama sounded a note of compassion in his speech about almost all parties in his speech involved in the events in Arizona with I think one exception: Mr Loughner and his parents. He did touch about the necessity of discussing the adequacy of our mental health system, and that, I suppose is something. Perhaps it just wasn't politically feasible for him to say something sympathetic about a man who commited such a heinous act. I still wish that he had. I understand that he visited and spoke with many of the people he mentioned in his speech. I wish and hope that he had visited and spoke with Loughner's parents too, but I suppose political realities might make that impossible--people would be outraged at the idea that the parents of "such a monster" might need comforting, too.
But the situation of the medically ill in this country can be truly desperate. There is so little help for parents of a child who is sick in the mind, so little assistance, so little guidance, and most bitterly of all, very often so little compassion.
So many have expressed their condolence for dead and the wounded. I wish that more could have spared a sympathetic thought or even dared to speak aloud condolences for the family of this young man who lost his way in darkness and madness. I am sure they are hurting, too.
Edited to add: Saw this link elsewhere: a truly stunning first person article written by Susan Klebold, mother of Dylan Klebold, one of the perpetrators of Columbine, talking about what insights she has gleaned, ten painful years afterwards.
Seen on Daily Kos: Using word clouds from wordle.net, here's an interesting visual comparison of President Obama's speech at the Tucson memorial service and the web video delivered by Sarah Palin from her home television studio.
First, President Obama's word cloud:
Here is Obama's Wordle:
Next, here is Sarah Palin's:
First, President Obama's word cloud:
Here is Obama's Wordle:
 |
Next, here is Sarah Palin's:
 |
I went to class last Tuesday. We worked on marching basics and form, both aspects at which I feel more confident than my real Waterloo, kicking. After class, Mr. Sidner took three of us aside to remind us that the first black belt screening of the quarter is January 18. As if we could have possibly forgotten. "You need to be preparing," he told us sternly. "You've all been through this process before, and we need to see an improvement since the last time. At the very least, you should be doing your slow kicks every day."
If you'll remember, I went through the first screening last time, which I characterized as the hardest physical thing I've ever done, but the concussion rendered the question of whether I could attend the second screening moot. Now I have to face the first screening again, after a period of interrupted training. The two other students are both kids, who have been through the screening round twice, failing each time to advance to the black belt test itself, and thus, like me, have to start the screening process all over again.
Slow kicks are recommended for every karate student throughout the training, particularly leading up to the black belt test, but they are particularly important for me, because this is truly my weakest area. I am painfully aware of how my age impairs my strength and stamina, and how my injuries (right knee and now left foot--I tripped over Fiona's shoes lying at the bottom of the stairs three weeks ago and my ankle still hurts) impair my balance. The poster on the wall of our dojo defines the meaning of one of the most important qualities for earning a black belt:
Focus
Maximum mental and physical intensity at the point of impact
The mental piece necessary to earn the black belt, the mindset, Mr. Sidner tells me, is so much more difficult for adults than kids. Which is strange, because I'm so painfully aware of how my physicality falls short compared to (let's pick a TOTALLY random example) Fiona. She's so much more flexible, so much stronger, that I have a hard time not being eaten up with envy when I watch her. But what in the end has the greatest risk of defeating me is the heavy weight of the fear of failure, the thought that keeps seeping up that I can't do this. There's no way. I don't have what it takes.
I have to fight that back. Time after time.
For this, slow kicks are key. Practicing slow kicks is not only a physical discipline, but a mental one: I have to practice concentrating on keeping my balance and what's more, on not giving up. Each day, as the clock edges closer to the midafternoon break that I set aside for this task, I feel the dread rise. Fifteen minutes before I go down to the building gym, I drink a large dose of water (slow kicks require such a huge effort that they suck every molecule of water from one's body.) Once there, I take off my shoes and socks, I look myself square in the eye in the mirror, I fold hard, fists tight, and assume the fighting stance. Up. The knee goes up. The slow kicks begin. I count them off carefully, fighting to keep the knee up, fighting to keep my breathing calm and even, fighting to keep my balance, fighting not to rush. Each kick is an attempt to convince myself: You can do this. You will do this. You can become a black belt.
And that's why I have to do them every day: not only because I have to build my strength, but because in order to get through the screening, I'll need to psych myself out with the memory of day after day of success: I know I can do this because I've done it.
I had been doing ten of each type of kick on each side. Today I upped it to fifteen of each type on each side, and I did the kicks twice, both slow and fast. On the slows, my knee wobbled and I fell out after ten on a few, but I fought off the fear this aroused and got the knee up again as quickly as I could. Don't take it as a sign. Don't take it as curse, an omen, a mark of failure. You'll be able to do fifteen tomorrow. Each day it will get easier. (Please, let it get easier.)
You can do this.
You can be a black belt.
If you'll remember, I went through the first screening last time, which I characterized as the hardest physical thing I've ever done, but the concussion rendered the question of whether I could attend the second screening moot. Now I have to face the first screening again, after a period of interrupted training. The two other students are both kids, who have been through the screening round twice, failing each time to advance to the black belt test itself, and thus, like me, have to start the screening process all over again.
Slow kicks are recommended for every karate student throughout the training, particularly leading up to the black belt test, but they are particularly important for me, because this is truly my weakest area. I am painfully aware of how my age impairs my strength and stamina, and how my injuries (right knee and now left foot--I tripped over Fiona's shoes lying at the bottom of the stairs three weeks ago and my ankle still hurts) impair my balance. The poster on the wall of our dojo defines the meaning of one of the most important qualities for earning a black belt:
Maximum mental and physical intensity at the point of impact
The mental piece necessary to earn the black belt, the mindset, Mr. Sidner tells me, is so much more difficult for adults than kids. Which is strange, because I'm so painfully aware of how my physicality falls short compared to (let's pick a TOTALLY random example) Fiona. She's so much more flexible, so much stronger, that I have a hard time not being eaten up with envy when I watch her. But what in the end has the greatest risk of defeating me is the heavy weight of the fear of failure, the thought that keeps seeping up that I can't do this. There's no way. I don't have what it takes.
I have to fight that back. Time after time.
For this, slow kicks are key. Practicing slow kicks is not only a physical discipline, but a mental one: I have to practice concentrating on keeping my balance and what's more, on not giving up. Each day, as the clock edges closer to the midafternoon break that I set aside for this task, I feel the dread rise. Fifteen minutes before I go down to the building gym, I drink a large dose of water (slow kicks require such a huge effort that they suck every molecule of water from one's body.) Once there, I take off my shoes and socks, I look myself square in the eye in the mirror, I fold hard, fists tight, and assume the fighting stance. Up. The knee goes up. The slow kicks begin. I count them off carefully, fighting to keep the knee up, fighting to keep my breathing calm and even, fighting to keep my balance, fighting not to rush. Each kick is an attempt to convince myself: You can do this. You will do this. You can become a black belt.
And that's why I have to do them every day: not only because I have to build my strength, but because in order to get through the screening, I'll need to psych myself out with the memory of day after day of success: I know I can do this because I've done it.
I had been doing ten of each type of kick on each side. Today I upped it to fifteen of each type on each side, and I did the kicks twice, both slow and fast. On the slows, my knee wobbled and I fell out after ten on a few, but I fought off the fear this aroused and got the knee up again as quickly as I could. Don't take it as a sign. Don't take it as curse, an omen, a mark of failure. You'll be able to do fifteen tomorrow. Each day it will get easier. (Please, let it get easier.)
You can do this.
You can be a black belt.