Friday, July 20, 2012

Death Penalty


It’s interesting the unexpected bits that readers pull from your work, the bits that hold meaning to some and are passed over by others. When I mentioned my opposition to the death penalty in my memoir, The Thirty-Ninth Victim, it was in passing, an explanation to my lack of objection to the plea bargain offered Gary Ridgway – life in prison without parole in exchange for a full confession.

The crux of the matter lies in one's beliefs about the death penalty. Since I do not believe in institutionalized killing, in 'an eye for an eye,' since I do not believe that we can justify taking another human life, except perhaps in self-defense or the defense of those we feel compelled to protect, I do not see any justification for killing Ridgway or anyone else on Death Row. 
 (The Thirty-Ninth Victim, p. 173)

There were some who were extremely supportive when they learned of the publication of my memoir of my family's journey before and after the Green River Killer murdered my sister, Maureen. But once they read the book and learned my position on the death penalty and on the inefficiency of the Green River Task Force, they vanished into silence.

Now, four years after publication, two new groups have found their way to my book and contacted me – those advocating the repeal of capital punishment in Washington State. (For more information, visit www.sjawa.org and www.ejusa.org.)

With advances in DNA technology, the identities of additional victims might be learned. Should science reveal the identity of victims that Ridgway did not confess to murdering and should evidence be brought to bear his guilt, he could be tried for these crimes and the death penalty would be back on the table.  

I thought the horror was behind me, but maybe it never will be. I was opposed to the death penalty before my sister was murdered in 1983. I am opposed to it now. I don’t know at what age I first learned about capital punishment, but I clearly recall sensing an inherent contradiction even though I was too young to understand or articulate my feelings. Instead, I turned to one of the many saying that my parents used as tools of parental instruction: Two wrongs don’t make a right. And I wondered how the death penalty could be legal if two wrongs never make something right.

As I got older, as I learned of the inequitable, biased, racist application of the death penalty in the United States, as I learned of its total failure as a deterrent to violent crime and as I studied the financial costs of the endless appeals and legal processes that precede any execution, my conviction that the death penalty is just plain wrong grew stronger.

Then my youngest sister was violently murdered at the age of nineteen. For twenty years her killer was at large. For twenty years I questioned my belief system. But when push came to shove, in the face of the painful loss of a sister, my opposition to capital punishment remained solid. Killing Ridgway would do nothing to appease my pain or bring back my sister. All it would do would be to keep him in the limelight of media attention and in the process add interest to his life of incarceration while at the same time costing taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal expenses and assaulting the friends and families of the victims with ongoing, unending news coverage.

I cannot but wonder how Maureen would feel about it. Would she want the death penalty for her killer – a punishment of retaliation but not justice? I don’t think so. Maureen was young when she was killed, but her sense of right and wrong was formed at a very early age, just as mine was, and I don’t think her beliefs differed much from my own. No, I don’t believe Maureen would have supported the death penalty, even for her own killer. And neither do I.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Hamburgers or Pancakes?


At dinner Saturday night, I offered my sister-in-law a spoon. "Eat the apples," I said as I pointed to the broth in her bowl of steamed clams."They're really good with the onions."

My brother stared at me. "What did you say?"

"Tomatoes. I mean the tomatoes. They're really good." I said trying to cover my mistake.

"Do you do that a lot?" he asked.

"More often than I'd like," I said. "I can't help wondering if Mom knew when she was beginning to lose words."

"You could get the test," my sister-in-law said.

Would knowing that I was cursed with my mother's dementia help me face the inevitable? Or perhaps the odd substitution of words that slips from my lips now and again can be chalked up to stress, age, hormones, or any of a variety of causes we tossed over the Formica table top the other night.

If it weren't for another linguistic swap that has entertained my husband and daughter for years, I'd be terrified. I've used the words hamburger and pancake interchangeably for as long as I can remember. Is it because of their similar round, flat shape? The way they both fill a skillet by threes or fours? Or could it be that my childhood fondness of hamburger dinners and pancake breakfasts around the big kitchen table muddle the two words? Maybe that loose language conduit has existed for years and simply shorts now and again to taunt me.

What is memory? As my daughter and her boyfriend began planning their first European adventure and worried about how they were going to pay for it, I encouraged them to make the trip, to gather experiences and memories, regardless of cost. They'd be returning to jobs, they'd be frugal, they'd figure out how to pay it off. Gather the memories and hold them tight, I urged. In the end it's those remembered experiences that make us who we are.

So who are we when our memories are gone? Who do we become when we no longer remember our own names or those of the people we once cherished? Who is my mother now as she wastes away in a wheelchair, her memory a blank?

As my daughter wanders the streets of Dublin today is she walking the same path that my mother and father walked decades earlier and in some way recreating the memories that my mother no longer holds? What memories do the streets of Dublin hold? Do they remember the footsteps of my daughter's ancestors? Is she innocently exploring streets that her grandfather's grandfather once struggled to escape? I don't know the stories and cannot pass on those memories, that family history, to my daughter, a girl named Erin to honor her unknown ancestors. In the void of family history, my daughter builds her own memories and history.

As I sat surrounded by cobalt walls in the fish market restaurant confusing the words apple and tomato - both round, red fruits enjoyed either raw or cooked - I thought about memory and dementia, time and relationships, life experience and family history. I wondered, as I often wonder, if I will know when to end my own life before I suffer the fate that my mother now suffers, the fate of losing all memory of life and love. And if I am able to recognize the clues, will I have the strength to avoid the inevitable?

As Erin gathers memories on the streets of Dublin, I hope she buries them safe where they can never be stolen.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Hadiyah Joan Carlyle's Torch in the Dark


In September 2002, Seattle writers and teachers Jack Remick and Robert Ray began a year-long memoir writing program at the University of Washington. Those first weeks and months I was so buried in the story I had begun to write I was blind to my classmates and their stories. Hadiyah Joan Carlyle was one of those classmates.

We wrote and read together in the same classroom for months. At break time I would usually wander off by myself lost in thought. I'm not sure what the others did. I do remember the day Hadiyah stopped me in the hall and pinned me to the spot with her piercing blue eyes.    

"Come to Third Place Books with me," she said. "There's an open mic. It would be good practice."

"Are you reading?" I asked.

"No," she said. "But you need practice."

A few weeks later I was standing before my first audience with trembling hands and shaky voice, reading from a very early draft of The Thirty-Ninth Victim.

Since that winter of 2003 when Hadiyah refused to read at Third Place Books, she continued to work on her memoir. Torch in the Dark is now in print and I couldn't be happier. What I didn't know until recently was that throughout her struggles to get her story on the page and in print, Hadiyah was coping with the long-term effects of a brain injury sustained less than a decade earlier. She was riding her bike when she was hit and left unconscious at the side of the road. Doctors told her son she'd never recover. But Hadiyah proved them wrong just as she'd done earlier in her life, the life she explores in her new memoir.

Torch in the Dark takes the reader inside the mind of a young woman struggling to build a future on the brutal foundation of sexual child abuse and incest. Hadiyah headed for Haight Ashbury in the 1960s, a time and place that allowed, even endorsed experimentation, and freed her of incarceration in a mental institution - the place her father knew would seal away her (and his) secrets forever.

Torch in the Dark is as unique in Hadiyah's use of language as it is in her life experiences. As the first female welder in the Bellingham shipyards, torch in hand, hidden behind a welder's heavy mask, she found the strength to face her past and build a future for herself and her son. In a direct voice, and with unflinching honesty, Hadiyah Joan Carlyle tells her story.

I hope to see you at one of Hadiyah's upcoming readings:

1521 Tenth Avenue
Seattle, Washington 98122
Sunday, June 3, 2012 @ 2:00PM

1200 11th Street  
Bellingham, WA 98225
Thursday, June 14, 2012 @ 7:00PM

Monday, April 30, 2012

Back up, Back Up, Back UP


It was last Monday. A new work week. I headed off to the college at 7:30 am as I do every morning. Tom left the house around 9:00 am. The house was empty. The street was empty. The neighborhood was empty.

My niece stopped by around 5:00 pm to pick up a dehumidifier to dry out the interior of her car. (I still don't know how her car got wet on the inside, but that's a whole different mystery.) We live in a safe neighborhood, or so we've thought for the past 21 years. We leave windows open in the summer. There have been days when Tom's left the back door wide open - not intentionally, of course, he just has other, more important things, on his mind than locking the back door. But this was April and the house was locked up tight. Tom left the dehumidifier outside the back door for my niece to pick up on her way home from work in case she got there before either of us were home. I was having a rare, get-ready-for-sandals pedicure at the opposite end of town when I got the call.

"I saw the broken glass, but I just thought Tom was working on another project," my niece told me. "I was all the way out to my car before I realized that Tom wouldn't leave such an awful mess, so I ran back."

As I listened, my niece walked through the house. I was numb to her words: "oh my god... oh fuck... sorry about my language... a knife on your desk." I don't know if I said "call 911" or if she did, but I ended the call and my unfinished pedicure in the same moment. Then I called her back. "Get out of there," I told her. "You shouldn't be in the house." And then I texted my husband.

"I know," she said. "I'm talking to your neighbor. Did you know he's a cop?"

I got home through rush hour traffic in record speed, but still Tom beat me. As I drove, I imagined the worst: lost manuscripts, lost photographs, vandalized artwork. I saw my sofa, rugs, furniture destroyed. Tom's new flat screen, a Christmas gift, gone. I saw a ransacked home and I was heartbroken. I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't allow myself to cry. Instead, I drove.

When I walked through my front door, I released a few tears and a big sigh of relief. There was no vandalism and the thief took very little - only what he or she could carry in a backpack. He (I'll stick to the masculine, but there's really no way to know) came in the backdoor and went downstairs. He rummaged through our bedrooms where he found my prescriptions for thyroid, estrogen and progesterone in my bedside table (on second thought, maybe the he was actually a postmenopausal she, desperate for HRT). He found Tom's backpacking knife and headed upstairs, armed.

My writing room was his primary target. He left with both my laptops, as well as cameras, watches and a number of other small items - we're still finding things we can't find. Then, he/she unbolted the back gate and rode away through the back alley on my new bike.

We were lucky. I won't even list what wasn't taken, but as a writer, it was a wake-up call, a reminder to back up everything daily, weekly, monthly. Ask yourself: What are you willing to lose? A week's work of work? Could you recreate a week's worth?

I'd just sent my latest manuscript drafts to a backup email the Friday before. A friend had also set up a cloud account for my writing folders. Still, the losses are profound: all the documents on my desktop that I'd failed to file - gone. All my photographs that I'd yet to back up on CDs - gone. All my contacts, emails, addresses and phone numbers - gone.

I know I'll be making changes in how I do backups and in how I think about home security. I'm still not willing to live behind an electronic fence, but a local sound maker triggered when the door is opened, perhaps. And maybe it's time to consider a new dog. A big, furry, messy, stinky, scary, loving mutt like Mozart. We never had a home intrusion while Mozart shared his long life with us. I wish we could have cloned him.

(Note: If you want to be in my new address book, please send me an email at aw@arleenwilliams.com. Thanks!)

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Goodreads Q&A

Greetings,

I'm currently in the midst of a wonderful author Q&A on Goodreads at http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/878321-q-and-a-with-arleen-williams.  Because I can't figure out how to post a photo on Goodreads, I've jumped to my blog.  

For those who have jumped with me, here's the photo I mentioned of the storyboard:



And here's my latest response on Goodreads...


Hi Jack,

I was thinking a bit more about your last question and I realized that if we're talking about process and self-editing, I'm leaving a big hole in the middle... and that is the number of times I see and read each sentence and paragraph before it reaches a manuscript.

For those unfamiliar with timed writing practice, let me explain that most writers use pen and paper. So that means, in terms of style and self-editing, I see and read my scenes aloud after the first write.

Then I see them again as I type and save them. I save them as individual pieces, in appropriate computer folders, and I tend to label them according to the storyboard I have on my writing room wall (here I'd like to insert a picture of the story board, but since I can't figure out how to do that, I'll send you to my blog at http://www.arleenwilliams.com to see the storyboard!)

When I have enough scenes to start lacing together a manuscript, I read again as I pull scenes from folders and put them into manuscript form. As the manuscript grows, I read aloud on a regular basis to hear how the story flows.

Though seemingly cumbersome, especially to those who prefer to draft on computer, all of those steps contribute to the self-editing process.

Now, I'm headed to my blog to post that picture of my storyboard. This is for a new novel that is still in the planning stages, so the board is very simple showing only the plot lines. No subplots are currently included. As to the two colors, those represent points of view of the two main characters.

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Invitation to Goodreads Q&A


Are you a member of Goodreads?

If not, I hope you’ll consider joining so you can grill me with questions this coming weekend. I’ll be doing a Writer Q&A Friday, April 27 to Sunday, April 29. To participate in the online conversation – and I hope you will! – you need to be a member of Goodreads and of the Writers and Readers group. But it’s simple, painless and free to join both. It only takes a few minutes…

If you’re not yet a member of Goodreads, just go to http://www.goodreads.com/, click the Join button and follow the on-screen instructions.

Once you’re a member of Goodreads, go to the Writers and Readers group homepage at http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/37092-writers-and-readers and you'll see a Join the Group button.

Now that you’re an active member of the Writers and Readers group, you should receive an invitation later this week to participate in a Q&A with yours truly. Hope to “see” you there!


Saturday, April 14, 2012

My UN

A normal week, a mid-quarter week, holds at least two timed writing practices. I meet with other writers, set a timer for thirty minutes and let it flow (or trickle or slosh). But not these past two weeks. I whine to my clever friend and dedicated writing partner, Pam Hobart Carter, about my lack of writing, lack of progress on my latest project, lack of time. Pam sends me her sage response: “Many famous and accomplished writers do not write every day. It is a pattern we’ve had touted as if it were the natural and sole road to success. It is only one of the roads.” And I let myself off the hook.

I examine my writing cycle, a cycle that mirrors the three-quarter academic cycle. I write like a maniac during quarter breaks, but when a new quarter begins there are several weeks when I am consumed by work. When I am not writing, I teach. I can say that among writers. At work, I say I write when I’m not teaching. It’s all in where you want to put the emphasis.

A student once asked if I preferred writing or teaching ESL to adult refugees and immigrants. I struggled for an answer. I love both. How could I not? Each quarter I face a tiny United Nations and I get to be Ban Ki-moon, but with greater powers and perhaps more direct, hands on support.

Spring quarter began two weeks ago. Two weeks of dropping and adding and moving the waitlist have passed. Students preregister for these tuition-free college classes, but life changes in a flash for those living on the edge: their boss switches their minimum wage work schedule, a family member falls ill, there’s no money for childcare, there’s a death back home.

I’m teaching two classes this quarter. There are twenty-five students in my 8:00 a.m. class.  Mexico, El Salvador, Honduras. Tonga. Cambodia, Vietnam, Myanmar. Somalia, Eritrea, Ethiopia. Iraq and Bulgaria. Twelve nations. In the 11:00 a.m. class there are thirty students. Liberia in West Africa, Morocco to the north, Ethiopia and Somalia to the east. Iraq and Iran. Vietnam, Cambodia, Myanmar, China and Korea. Mexico and El Salvador. Another dozen countries, a few new ones thrown into the mix.

Languages: Arabic, Amharic, Bulgarian, Burmese, Cambodian, Chinese, Farsi, French, Italian, Khmer, Korean, Kunama, Moroccan, Oromo, Somali, Spanish, Swahili, Tigrinya, Tongan, Vietnamese. Twenty languages. Twenty-one when we add English. The number is far greater than the number of home countries because unlike most Americans, these immigrants often speak two or three languages before they arrive on our shores.

How many of us have the privilege of that kind of daily international interaction? I watch and listen as these students negotiate a path begun long ago (or perhaps not so long ago) and faraway when they first made the decision to leave behind all they know and love: home and family, culture and language. Or when that decision was forced upon them by war, violence, famine or religious persecution. All come to America in search of safety and freedom. Concepts that seem to lose their depth of meaning in the complacency of middle class comfort.

As I hear the stumbling conversations, as I look into the eyes behind the veils, as I see the scars, both physical and emotional, I am daily reminded of my amazing good fortune to have the opportunity to work with these survivors. In this tiny microcosm of ages from early twenties to late forties, of educational levels from primary school to university graduates, of religious beliefs and cultural traditions, we build a peaceful community based on a shared goal – to learn the English language. If only all international goals were so unified and all conflict resolution so simple as in my own United Nations. I remember Pam’s words, quiet my whining about finding time to write each day, and enjoy my other life’s work.