Yesterday, I wrote about historical heartbeats, and about the possibility of touching the past. But there’s been something even more fascinating (well, to me) rolling around in my head: the experience of a new heart beating.

A recent scientific study examined the lived experience of heart transplant. Drawing on stories they had heard about how individuals coped and lived with their new hearts, researchers designed a phenomenological study to interrogate the meanings of living with a new heart. Interestingly, medical researchers have apparently not put much focus on this area of research. For doctors, new hearts are like any other new organs: living tissue and nothing more. Doctors see bodies as a puzzle to be solved and not so much as the material substance of lived experience.

I operate from the opposite perspective: I’m much more interested in the puzzle of human lived experience than I am in the puzzle of organic tissue. Sure, that’s an important puzzle, but for me it’s much more important to figure out how we live with the meanings we invest in those tissues. How does the body shape identity? How do tissues, organs, bones, blood, cells, marrow shape who we are?

According to this most recent study, heart transplant results in significant “identity disruption” for recipients. Heart transplants affect not only how they experience their bodies, but also how they imagine the donors. More specifically, it demonstrates that individuals who have had heart transplants sometimes feel as though they are doubly embodied, their very selves shaped by the self who once owned the heart they now possess.

The interview comments from study participants are intriguing:

 “My heart is like it’s mine and somebody else” (9)

“… I felt I had an alien thing in me, or somebody else [heart]…. I missed my old heart.” (10)

“I feel as if another person’s spirit is in me.” (10)

“… because I have somebody else’s organ, and so to a certain point it is almost like a two-in-one …” (10)

These comments reveal some of the split subjectivity that has marked feminist theorizing in the area of pregnancy and childbirth (thinking here of the work of Iris Marion Young, Julia Kristeva and Hélène Cixous, among others), and certainly demonstrate that an approach centred on organ rejection is not nearly enough.

But it’s also important on another level, in that it points to the centrality of the body in the way that we understand our very selves. As the researchers argue, “our work with transplant recipients insists that the phenomenological self is always embodied, and that embodiment is undeniably the continuing condition of being a self at all” (13).

In the news this week: historical heart beats – including the recorded and recovered heartbeat of a Frenchman born in 1769! Just like the photo  that returned me to the eighteenth century, so too does this heartbeat take me back to what has, for a long time now, been “my” era.

One of the fascinating things that I’ve found about studying embodiment is how people’s perceptions of their bodies have shifted across time and space. An eighteenth-century body may have looked very much like a twenty-first century body, but it was not at all experienced the same way. Bodily workings are never just neutral things; it’s never just about tissues and organs and blood flows. Rather, it’s about the meanings that we attach to all of these things. And those meanings emerge in the ways that we understand and live our lives. Eighteenth-century people lived in a completely different world. They dressed in a completely different way (wigs, wigs and more wigs!). They moved through their days in different patterns (no showers! My 9-year-old would be delighted). They ate different foods (although Tissot regularly counsels a diet of moderation….). They sat on different furniture. Their belief systems were different.

Unsurprisingly, their bodily understandings were different, too.

We can laugh at what they thought about their bodies. We can chuckle when we learn that one suffering individual thought his problems were caused by excessive masturbation. We can laugh at what doctors and scientists believed, too. What, indeed, was Tissot thinking when he argued that menstrual blood transformed into breast milk during pregnancy?

But if we’re being honest with ourselves, then we need to laugh at our own beliefs and understandings as well. As Lauren Slater, in Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir, reminds us: “Illness, medicine itself, is the ultimate narrative; there is no truth there, as diagnoses come in and out of vogue, as fast as yearly fashions.” (221). What will researchers giggle about two centuries from today?

So why does it matter that we can hear the heartbeat of a 100-year-old Frenchman born in 1769? What can that tell us? Why might it matter? To me, it matters in the way that archival materials matter. The way that historical buildings, paintings, furniture, streets, cups, and teapots matter. They give those of us interested in the stories of the past something to hold onto. Something tangible to touch, to hold … a space through which we can imagine the materiality of past lives.

A heartbeat reminds me that these were real people. That they lived, loved, raged, dreamt, and died. And those tangible reminders are important.

I’m a huge fan of historical photographs, from the box of “Instant Ancestors” my mom and I came across in a second hand bookstore in London, Ontario, to the 1950s baby photo buried in the middle of an interlibrary loan I once picked up at the library, to the photos that grace the walls of local historical societies and tell stories of communities and families and histories and practices, and finally, to those in my collections: the online family tree curated by a cousin, the photos that fill my albums, and those on our wall of ancestors – a collection of sepia prints featuring serious and carefully-arranged family members standing dutifully for the camera.

There are stories in photos. Stories that written records can’t always tell. Stories that come from the body. From the way that a camera captures an arrangement. From dress. From the backgrounds.

Meanings in historical photographs aren’t fixed. They change every time you look at them; they shift with every new bit of information you might come across. Move the photos around and new stories burble to the surface.

And I suppose that’s what artist Julie Cockburn is doing with her photos. She’s using them to tell stories, excavating the narratives that emerge when the historical image encounters the present period. But I can’t say that I’m fully convinced. It’s almost as if, in her tellings, she’s fixed the narratives. They’re glued – or rather, stitched – in place. And while I can absolutely accept that works of art are open to interpretation, I’m more concerned with the photograph that inspired the art. In these new interpretations, it’s almost as if the photograph itself – as a fluid, mobile text – has ceased to exist. Instead, it’s become something else entirely.

There’s cleverness here. Definitely. But I also find them troubling. And I’m not entirely sure why.

Mental health has been all over the mainstream media in the past few months. Workplace stress. Mental health among students. Mental illness and criminal activity. The suicide of Robin Williams. Lack of funding for mental health. I could link in endless articles from newspapers around the globe.

It’s a conversation that’s long overdue, really and it’s good that something is happening, but at the moment, it’s almost as if it’s the flavour of the month, having taken over where earlier public health conversations about dementia, breast cancer, obesity, euthanasia, chronic pain, abortion – you name it – left off.

And perhaps I’m cynical, but I can’t help but wonder how long will this particular conversation will last. I wonder who is actually listening. I wonder who is learning. I wonder how meaningful these conversations will be. I wonder if they’ll just scratch the surface of something that is much more complex, so complex, in fact, that it can’t ever really be examined on its own, but rather, as part of a bigger social, cultural, historical and political picture. And I wonder if these conversations will fade once a new flavour of the month emerges.

Because as this story, in last week’s New York Times demonstrates, there’s so much work still to be done. Over a century, some 55000 inmates of New York’s psychiatric hospitals died and were buried on hospital grounds. All that remains of them are numbered markers, if even that. As the article explains: This numerical system, used by other states as well, was apparently meant to spare the living and the dead from the shame of one’s surname etched in stone in a psychiatric hospital cemetery.”

But the continued stigma around mental illness – a stigma that enforced anonymity by number in the first place – continues to shape current practice. According to state law, there is no way to give names to these numbers, or to the thousands of anonymous plots scattered across New York state. And, if the comments in the article are reflective of the state’s general approach, then there appears to be no real interest in changing the situation.

And yet, this continued silence has political and social relevance. As Larry Fricks, the chairman of the National Memorial of Recovered Dignity project, has stated: “There is something embedded deep in our belief system that when people die, you show respect.”

If we can’t even name people suffering from mental illness. If we have reduced them to numbers. To markers sold for scrap metal. To institutions whose stories are kept hidden away, even in the face of advocacy for change… then what stories can we tell?

 

Like many, I’ve experienced anger, horror, rage, frustration, and sorrow this week, as the Jian Ghomeshi story has broken. I have never listened to his program, but am fully aware of his popularity. That such a popular host would a.) get fired  and b.) follow his firing with a massive PR campaign and lawsuit that accused the CBC of prudery in the face of what he articulated as a soft form of Fifty Shades of Grey  was not what I expected. And that the floodgates would then open, with first 4 women and now, three days later, 8, all coming forward with stories of violence, has horrified me. That they would be vilified by so many, even as their numbers have risen and even as Ghomeshi’s word – likely carefully constructed with one of the country’s leading “reputation management” firms – has been accepted as gospel truth, has seen me alternately raging, weeping and nauseous.

And now, as the story progresses, there’s even more: it seems that it was common knowledge that he was a ‘bad date.’  That people have known this – and whispered about it – for over a decade. They also tweeted about it months before his firing.

There is so very much to process here. I find myself overwhelmed with grief – for abused women, for a system that can’t (and sometimes won’t) protect them, and for a society that still thinks that it’s ok to allow this kind of thing to happen.

And if I’m overwhelmed, if I’m angry, if I’m grieving, if I’m horrified, and I’m nauseous, then what must all of this be to the women whose stories have emerged in The Star and on the CBC?

No, the vast majority of these women have not identified themselves. No, they have not gone to the police (Sandy Garossino offers a thoughtful commentary on why this might be). No, there has been no court case. No, these allegations have not been ‘proven in a court of law.’

But now there are 8. Just ponder that for a moment. 8. How many more are there?

If there is one good thing to come out of this ever-expanding horror it is the fact that this conversation about violence against women has now become a very public, national conversation, and that it has led to some very thoughtful, and well-considered commentaries about sex, consent, violence, kink and more . But those conversations should never have had to happen on the bruised bodies of 8 – and possibly more – women.

A beautiful little essay by Gretchen Vanwormer on the power of things to evoke memory, and about how we respond to the memories inside them. Here’s a snippet to get you going:

“Now my mom swings open the front door, and Theresa’s mother trudges inside, squeezes in next to my sister and me on the green couch. The living room has a different feel now, like inside a wave. She says something about how much Theresa loved playing with us, what nice little girls we are, good friends. She hands us each an animal, and my mom squeezes her tight. Then she trudges back out the door.

At first I’m upset that I didn’t get one of the toys that turns inside out. But then there’s something about my mom’s words, or the way Theresa’s mother had held the animal, that lets me know it’s not a toy anymore. And that, no matter which one of Theresa’s animals I got, it wouldn’t be a toy either, but something else. A memory thing.”

What memories do your stuffies carry?

Sunday morning in Zaandam, just two train stops out of Amsterdam. Last night, I’d planned for a quiet morning of reading before a train trip into Leiden to the university library.

This morning I woke to the sound of running water and thought to myself that the apartment owners (who live upstairs) were having a lovely, long bath. That was before it occurred to me that many Dutch homes don’t have a bath. And before the frantic knock on the door and the apologies from the owners (as I stood there in my pyjamas with my hair in all directions). And before they opened up the door to the cellar and discovered a few feet of water with ever more spilling in. And before they walked past all the handwash I had draped over every available surface.

Something had obviously gone wrong. Time to call the plumber. So much for my quiet Sunday morning.

Before their arrival, I was thinking through photography, identity and ways of seeing. More specifically, I was reading through this book, The First Photograph from Suriname, which I picked up at the Rijksmuseum on Friday.

On the cover is a photograph dating from 1845, of a young couple at their engagement: Maria Louisa de Hart, the daughter of an Jewish Amsterdam merchant and later major Surinamese plantation owner (with 500 slaves) and a Surinamese Creole slave, and her betrothed, Johannes Ellis, son of Abraham de Veer, the Dutch governor of the African Gold Coast, and his concubine, a Ghanaian black slave named Fanny Ellis. Here’s a shot of the photo in full, as taken from another website.

oudefoto

It’s a fascinating historical artifact that tells us much, not only about the history of photography – the author notes that the daguerreotype process only emerged in 1839 and had, within six years, already made it to the tiny jungle colony of Suriname – but also about the complexities of kinship in the globalized world of Dutch colonialism and the Atlantic slave trade, where “family” moved well beyond the nuclear model so common in Western societies today. When this photo was taken, slavery and the plantation system were in decline, but the institution of slavery wouldn’t be abolished for another 18 years, and even then, it would be followed by a ten year transition period. Following this, the plantation owners would rely on four decades of indentured labourers drawn from China, India and Indonesia.

The family histories of the couple captured in this photo span three continents, and mark many kinds of journeys across the Atlantic Ocean – the journeys of a moneyed elite travelling for work and leisure, and those of enslaved peoples, on whose bodies the wealth of the de Hart family was based. The photo itself also functions as a time capsule, revealing dress, hairstyle, posture. And more than all of this, it opens us to what John Berger would call a “way of seeing” – it teaches the viewer about the eyes that took the photo.

The oldest photo in my collection is a copy – a modern reprint of a photo taken in 1911 of my grandmother, then a baby, in Suriname. She’s wearing a white, lace-trimmed dress, her brown toes sticking out the bottom. Her mother – presumably – is holding her, her face serious, her pose stiff. Both are posed in front of an idyllic pastoral painted backdrop that resembles no photo of Suriname I have ever seen. It’s a wonderful, curious photo that’s filled with stories I have yet to discover…

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