Kristina, and the quandary of giving

It’s my last night of vacation in Chicago, and I can’t sleep. I spent five lovely days here visiting two close friends, enjoying the beautiful weather, and seeing bits and pieces of the city. It’s been five days of bonding, relaxing, and unwinding, and altogether, it’s been very pleasant.

The last three days, though, the contentment has been mingled with distress. One of my friends is in DePaul University’s PhD program, and another member of his program is caught in a bind that is nothing short of heartbreaking. Kristina is a young woman rendered disabled from a lifelong struggle with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis and, as a result, chronic pain. She can’t work in the U.S. due to her immigration status, and on top of everything, her fiancé was recently diagnosed with two aggressive forms of cancer. As of this fall, DePaul is no longer offering student health insurance because “premiums have skyrocketed as a result of the implementation of the Affordable Care Act” and Kristina will have no health care or income to cover her medical costs, which are mainly for pain management medication (and given the stress of her situation, most likely for antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications as well).

This is upsetting to me for a number of reasons. For one, by terminating health care coverage, a university is not taking care of their students. It’s difficult enough for students to have to deal with red tape in securing financial aid, registering, repaying debt, etc. Many schools are gaining notoriety for responding poorly to student victims of sexual violence and offering them little support or justice. Ceasing to offer student health care is just another example of schools showing more concern for money than for their students’ physical and mental well-being. For another thing, I’ve struggled with getting medication—in my case, solely antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication—without insurance and frankly, it’s a bitch. Even with insurance, I’ve had to go through hours of phone calls with the provider, my pharmacy, and psychiatrist in order to get full coverage of all my medication. I can’t imagine what Kristina will have to go through to make this work without them.

Perhaps the most upsetting thing to me, though, is realizing how little support Kristina is receiving from other people. Forget the school—the entity—the lack of individual support is astonishing. What if this was you? Your family member, your friend? Wouldn’t you look to others for support? So many of us proclaim our support of gender, racial, and LGBTQ equality, of equality in general. Equality for the disabled is also a thing, and even though having open dialogues about equality is incredibly important, so is taking action to do what we can to help those who are negatively impacted.

And yet, this raises a difficult question: what action can we take? I’ve been working in various nonprofit fundraising offices for about four years, and now I’m about to start a graduate degree program myself. I’m extremely busy, I live paycheck to paycheck, and I’m pretty broke. I hate feeling like I need to stop working for nonprofits in order to give more time and money to nonprofits and other charity causes. Most people I know are in similarly tight situations in terms of finances and time, and the reality is, we don’t have money or time for everything. Plenty of us can give $5 to a cause and buy one less beer next time we go out, but we can’t give money to everyone for everything. How do you choose?

I don’t have an answer for that. Some of Kristina’s fellow graduate students have started an online campaign to raise funds for her, and I’m happy to see a pretty solid chunk of change has been secured so far. I got to spend some time with her this week; she’s lovely and her courage is admirable. Asking “why her?” or thinking “she doesn’t deserve this” serves no purpose, in my mind. Even if there were answers that could suffice, these aren’t the right questions. What can we do going forward? How can we help each other? What can we give of ourselves and how? In the same way it doesn’t matter at the end of the day if we say we love someone unless we treat them with love, it doesn’t matter if we say we’re allies of marginalized groups if we aren’t taking action to educate others, raise awareness, and find solutions to help these people. I’m not sure what to do next, but I’m going to keep trying to figure it out.

V. Lucy

I never gave her a toy crown or tiara, for even though she’s my princess she is that to no one else, and the world will only see a cheap circlet of painted plastic bejeweled w/more plastic, and isn’t plastic the fakest of the fake? But she is flesh and toothy grins and an abnormally large head of unruly, imperfect curls that add up to a perfect bouquet to gather in my hands and dig through to find the base to cover in kisses, the kind of pecks reserved for the sweet-smelling brain-cap that protects the unspoiled dreams that float through the misty evening fields. Even the fireflies have silenced their softly smoldering glow that manages to blare through the peace belonging to the mysterious constellations. In this darkness, the black blanket is peppered with those named maps of stars whose names everyone forgets or perhaps never knew, and perhaps they will forget or never even know my princess, but my hand to the god of those heavens, those who remember her eyes, heavenly white-streaked violet eyes, will never forget the warmth they bestow on every living creature from ant to great white whale, and when your heart rises to your smile to answer hers, her spirit jumps higher than any great white’s. I can’t stand to think of how this hard world will place road blocks and hurdles in her path, and can’t bear to bring those on by spoiling the dreams under the brain-cap and curls that smell sweeter than a bouquet of spring violets w/hearts of white and gold, because truly, a plastic crown painted gold would take my princess away. And so she remains crown-less, and while I never call her “princess” to her face, she will always be that to me, curly head to my heart.

“Personal tragedy”

Is there a right way to write about personal experiences that have affected you profoundly in ways that you have trouble verbalizing to even yourself? When self-consciousness settles in, it traps you in a sound-proof room where you can’t hear — or be heard. How does one write with honesty, with respect for one’s feelings and experiences, without sounding patronizing? Hemingway kind of had a point when he told Fitzgerald, “Forget your personal tragedy…be as faithful to it as a scientist — but don’t think anything is of any importance because it happens to you or anyone belonging to you.” But, Hemingway was also kind of an ass.

There’s a certain beauty in that particular facet of the human experience. Everyone has his or her own personal story, but there is a universality to it all that connects us, and everyone’s story is valuable. My “personal tragedy” is not worth more than yours — but it isn’t worth less, either. We all have voices that deserve to be heard, and so many of us are silenced on a regular basis. Here, in the technologically democratic world of the internet, I am free to speak, and theoretically, I have an audience. In the real world, I often feel bad when I unintentionally hop on some kind of social justice soapbox, but here, it is easier for you to ignore me should you choose. And so, having taken 235 words of your time beating around the bush, I press forward unapologetically.

I talk (i.e. write) about identity a lot, and how mine is very fluid and murky in color. At times I feel my experiences are invalidated because I am not enough of any one thing to lay reasonable claim to them. Technically I am a person of color, yes, but my experience as part of the Asian minority is much different than that of an African American, Latino, or other race. I am a person of color, but not socioeconomically disadvantaged the way so many others are. But, I am still a person of color. I am still a woman of color. I am still a woman.

I can talk for hours about the instances of the unintentional racism, blatant racism, and racial stereotyping I’ve experienced. Often my white friends (which is to say, most of my friends), even the many good liberal-minded among them, are either deeply uncomfortable with or mildly dismissive of these conversations and feel under attack when I try to explain the inherent sexism and racism that exist in America. They are uncomfortable when I say that I get frustrated when people ask “where are you from?” and are not satisfied with any answer that isn’t “Korea.” They are dismissive when I say that I get frustrated when people ask me if I’m Chinese or Japanese and tell me those people don’t know that they’re being rude or offensive. To stories like those, they say, “that’s stupid, don’t listen to them.” I appreciate the advice, but it doesn’t exactly work like that. I know it’s stupid, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I am being categorized as “other” and “less” because of the difference in my appearance.

The males among these same friends are also uncomfortable when I speak of the many instances of street harassment that have infuriated and frightened me. They are uncomfortable when I tell them about the man who approached me on the street at 4 in the morning one Saturday as I was walking home alone from the subway, who asked me for directions then pressed me to get a drink with him, asking repeatedly, though all the bars were closing. I walked three blocks out of the way so he wouldn’t follow me to my apartment building. They are uncomfortable when I talk about the guy who stalked me at work on my college campus, who’d tried to talk to me about being Asian then came back looking for me frequently and occasionally followed me around campus. I’d rather my friends be uncomfortable than dismissive, though. They’re often unintentionally dismissive when I mention how a guy outside a bar drunkenly demanded, “Do a little dance for me, baby!” Dismissive when I say a group of young men cat-called and harassed me on the street as they passed me early one evening, and I immediately regretted my automatic reaction of telling them to fuck off, hoping they wouldn’t turn on me. Dismissive of my story about a man who followed me for 5 blocks making lewd comments from twenty feet behind in broad daylight. They tell me I should carry a knife or pepper spray. They care, but they don’t understand that that isn’t the point.

I sometimes wonder, would they be dismissive if I told them that there are times when I go out purposely wearing conservative clothing or extra layers so no one leers at my body? That I don’t take especially good care of myself physically, I think, because I subconsciously do not want to appear attractive or garner any undue attention? That my general goal in terms of appearance is not to look good, but to not look terrible, because I don’t want to stand out for either reason? That there are days when I don’t want to leave my apartment because I feel like I only exist to others as an object?

Would they be dismissive if I told them I was sexually assaulted last year? That I told an acquaintance repeatedly that I did not want to have sex, yet still found him repeatedly trying to pull my legs apart? That when I told him to get off or I would kick him in the face, he laughed, climbed on my chest, and forced his penis in my mouth? That I never reported it because there would be no physical evidence that he had done this to me and because I didn’t think I’d be taken seriously because I had been drinking earlier? That I had a hard time not blaming myself, even though I understand that sexual assault is never the victim’s fault? That I still see this guy around, and every goddamn time, it feels like someone has shoved my heart into my stomach and wrapped my intestines around my windpipe?

Would they be dismissive if I told them that I am terrified of sexual assault not only because I am scared of being violated and overpowered in such a way, but also because I am terrified of pregnancy? That I have a deep-seated fear of becoming pregnant and not wanting my child, the same way someone didn’t want me? That this makes me feel like I am a bad person, like I am worth even less than the marginalized person I am treated like? I’ve never spoken or written about most of these things, perhaps in fear of being dismissed, but also because 1) I feel like I can’t, and 2) I don’t want to. And yet, I feel like I have to: I shouldn’t feel like I can’t, because I have a voice.

One day when I was ranting to a good friend about some instance of racism or misogyny or another, I apologized for being a Debbie Downer, and my friend said to me seriously, “Corey. Never apologize for being passionate or feeling strongly about something.” I appreciated that. I still appreciate it. I apologize less for my soapboxing these days; my temper is a lot more volatile than it used to be. It’s terribly frustrating to talk to a guy about the Rolling Stone debacle, UVA, Emma and her mattress at Columbia, or any such issue, and barely be able to hold their interest with it when I am clearly emotionally invested in these stories, and I hate having to back up my investment with testimonials of my own experiences. I should not have to out myself as a victim of sexual assault in order to get people to care about victims of sexual assault. I should not have to tell and retell the stories of racist experiences I’ve had in order to get others to understand that all people of color experience what I do — usually much worse than what I do. No one should have to defend herself or apologize for feeling passionately and strongly about ending racism, sexism, and misogyny.

These are my “personal tragedies,” but they also belong to every person of color and every woman in America. They may not be as tragic or traumatic as other people’s experiences, and they may not be important to you, but collectively, our personal tragedies are universal tragedies, and we cannot eliminate them from the narrative until they are important to everyone. This is my story — what’s yours?

The language of suicide

One balmy and rainy evening last January, I received a message from one of my dearest friends saying, “I don’t know how you used to deal with this on a daily basis.” Baffled, I asked him to clarify, and he responded simply, “Suicide.”

I previously worked at the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP), a great organization that specializes in researching and educating people on mental health and suicide, as well as providing resources for those bereaved. I asked my friend to call me, and standing in the drizzle under a tree, I got chills not from the rain, but from my friend’s explanation that a young alumna from the high school in his hometown in northern New Jersey had died by suicide. Madison Holleran had graduated the previous spring and the community was grieving deeply. It was a tumultuous time, not least because of the difficult nature of comprehending suicide and why it is a thing that happens. A few months later, another young alum from that high school died by suicide, creating a growing fear of suicide contagion.

Now, one year later, Madison’s parents Jim and Stacy have released to People magazine the contents of the notes she left before her death, spurring international coverage and a reinvigorated conversation on depression and suicide. As when beloved comedian Robin Williams died by suicide last August, media outlets have latched onto the dramatic, sensationalistic language often associated with suicide, which incidentally is also extremely stigmatic. People’s article is called “Why Did a Popular, Smart, Athletic College Freshman Kill Herself?” while UK publication the Daily Mail published a piece with a title that edges on histrionic: “Parents share tragic suicide note of Ivy League track star, 19, who jumped to her death from a parking garage and left gifts for friends and family members nearby.” Many of these articles have mentioned the Hollerans’ desire to help other teenagers and college students who live with depression and anxiety, their eagerness to encourage a conversation on mental health, and the foundation they started in Madison’s memory to work towards these goals. And yet, most of the articles contribute to building the stigma the Hollerans want to destroy.

I learned a lot while working at AFSP, but if I had to say, the most valuable thing I learned was the importance of talking about mental health and suicide in an open and honest way, because if people cannot talk about the problems that lead to suicide, it cannot be prevented. It is amazing how people are willing to speak candidly about their experiences or losses when they meet someone they instinctively think will understand, that they think they can trust. I was always reluctant to tell strangers at parties or bars that I worked for a suicide prevention organization. Most people remarked that it must be a depressing place to work, that they recently heard a story in the news about a suicide, or that they’ve lost loved ones. One girl told me about her boyfriend who died by suicide when they were in high school. Another told me about his father who died by suicide when he was 12, and how he felt he could tell me this because I would understand how to react – and how not to react.

Even though I grew weary of this, I also was grateful for it. Yes, dealing with suicide on a daily basis was difficult, and on Saturday nights, I really wanted to relax and talk about something else – anything else. But, I also want people to voice their stories, their experiences, and have a conversation about mental health that doesn’t involve phrases like “committed suicide” and “killed herself” and “chose to die.” Such language is so heavy with negative connotations and weighty judgements, and indicates a lack of understanding about depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and other mental and mood disorders that too often lead to suicide. When the dialogue includes these phrases, it’s not a constructive dialogue.

During my time at AFSP, I was also in therapy myself for depression and anxiety, and I’ve since learned to speak of it freely and share my experiences with others. I’ve always believed that trust begets trust, and if you open up a little to others, it’s very likely they will open up to you. I admire and respect that Jim and Stacy Holleran shared Madison’s notes, but it frustrates me that the media are sensationalizing their grief and dramatizing their efforts to use their experiences to help others in need. There’s a certain amount of risk in reporting suicide – contagion is always a concern – and there’s a lot of irresponsible journalistic endeavors circulating. Many of these pieces further imply that Madison’s death is more tragic than others’ because she was so successful in her academic, athletic, and social lives, but the real tragedy is that she is one of thousands of people who died by suicide last year, and very few people are talking about it in a productive way.

I sincerely hope that the Hollerans’ willingness to bring about something positive from their loss helps to start honest conversation that doesn’t focus on describing someone’s death as a tragic end, but looks forward at how to eliminate that narrative altogether. I don’t work at AFSP anymore, but I hope I can still contribute to building a world without suicide, a world where no one, be it the track star or the outcast, experiences suicidal ideation or acts on it. It’s still something never far from my mind, so next time you see me at the bar, please don’t hesitate to pull up a seat. Let’s talk.

On Korean adoption and adoptee identity (again).

Hi. My name is Corey. I am Korean. I am American. I am adopted.

The known facts are simple enough: I was born in Pusan, South Korea, in 1987. I lived in a foster home. When I was four months old, I was flown to Philadelphia, and an Irish-Norwegian man and a woman of English, French, and German descent picked me up. They were my parents. They are my parents. I know nothing of my family history, the situation of my conception, the conditions of my birth. As far as I am concerned, I was born the day I arrived in the United States and was embraced by my parents.

They took me to a town in New Jersey where the vast majority of the population is Irish and/or Italian. Approximately 1% of the students in my high school of 1,800 teenagers were Asian. Probably less than 1%. I never made much of how I looked different from my peers. Being adopted was cool. It was unique. I was part of an adoption group run by the Holt Agency where adopted children would gather for social events and bond with others in situations like theirs. My parents encouraged me to take pride in my personal history: I made a book with hand-drawn pictures and photographs when I was four or five that told the story of how I made a long journey from Korea to my parents, who had so very much wanted a daughter. Every year, we celebrate the day I arrived. It’s great.

It wasn’t until I was in college that it occurred to me that there was something negative to all this. In studying and learning about cultural identity and race, I began to reinterpret seemingly innocent occurrences in my past. In kindergarten, I was never “allowed” to play the Pink Power Ranger because I didn’t look like her – I had to be the Yellow Ranger. Now I think saber-toothed tigers are way cooler than pterodactyls, but that didn’t matter when I was 5. I liked pink. As a teen, I was automatically assumed to be good at math and science because I was Asian. I wanted to be a doctor, right? Wrong. I’m terrible at math and science. Later still, people made racist jokes to me rooted in stereotypes about Asians. That’s why I like photography, right? Will I flash peace signs and giggle for you? “I’m sorry we don’t have the floor cushions your people like, but you can sit on the couch, you know.” (That’s my personal favorite. Makes me laugh every time.) I have a sense of humor about it, truly. I can laugh. But 18-year-old me was much better at laughing than 27-year-old me.

For a long time, I was confused. People seemed to be implying that I should identify as Korean. The women in nail salons who automatically speak to me in Korean. The people whose first question is, “Where are you from?” and aren’t satisfied with the response, “New Jersey.” I never really feel Korean, though. I never feel like a person of color – except for when I am treated like a person of color. I don’t take the jokes as well as I used to, and racism born of ignorance at times seems cruel. The racism against Asians is often very different from the racism against other people of color. The sexism against women of color is often different from the sexism against white women. I feel like I’ve experienced all of those different prejudices at various times, and yes, it’s hard to figure out where I stand, let alone where I fit in. Sometimes I get angry or sad about it, or hurt and isolated. However, one of the most liberating revelations I’ve ever had is that I don’t have to identify as Korean. It’s okay. It’s okay to feel alienated, but it’s also okay to occupy a space between the fixed identity of “Korean” and the fixed identity of “white,” and I can own that space. It’s mine. I don’t have to struggle to be one or the other – I can just be me.

The New York Times published a magazine piece recently on Korean adoptees born in my generation who have been returning to Korea. Many of those interviewed and discussed want to end international adoption, and many seem resentful of the fact that they were taken away as small children and sent to a foreign country to be raised by people of another race, regardless of how much those new people loved them. I understand that. I do. I understand that they feel racism that their white parents haven’t and can never experience or fully relate to. I understand that they have an urgent desire to learn more about where they came from in terms of both blood and culture. I have a harder time understanding those who want to curb the flow of international adoption completely.

Sure, I understand that it would be ideal if the South Korean government provided more support to the mothers and families with no means of supporting their children who are then put up for adoption. I would love for that to happen – I would love for fewer children to be abandoned. I would love if they could weed out the fraudulent papers and “export” fewer babies. One thing that does really encourage me is that they took the time to put in at least some kind of legal framework and procedure for international adoption. It’s sad to read about these displaced children who were sent away from Korea to live with middle-class white parents who love them but can never truly understand them. It’s positively heartbreaking to read about the displaced children whose adoptive parents decide they don’t want them or can’t take care of them and abandon the already abandoned. If you read Reuters’ investigation into the adoption home exchange, which I highly recommend everyone does, you’ll learn that there are very few legal processes that supervise the exchange of guardianship both internationally and domestically, and it is incredibly easy for a child to fall into abusive hands. For me personally, there are so many more problems in regards to adoption outside of Korean international adoptions. I think adoption procedures as a whole need major reform internationally, but I don’t think adoption necessarily has to be a negative experience for the adoptee.

I don’t mean to invalidate or silence those interviewed for the Times or those who share the same views. These are stories rarely told and voices that deserve to and need to be heard. This article, though, doesn’t tell everyone’s stories at the same volume. The hardest thing for me is that the majority of the feature made me feel like there’s something wrong with me for being a Korean adoptee who doesn’t care to get in touch with my cultural roots or ancestry. I feel as though I’m being judged for being untrue to myself, when I don’t believe I’m being untrue to myself. One interviewee said, “My parents are Caucasian. I didn’t identify as Korean. I wasn’t mature enough to realize I could explore that side,” and that before moving to Korea, he never had an Asian girlfriend because, “It was part of my feeling of wanting to be white.” I don’t feel like I want to be white. Is that what I am doing? I don’t think that’s what I’m doing. Am I not “mature” because I don’t want to explore my Korean heritage, because I don’t identify as Korean?

The tone of the piece suggests to me, more often than not, that I’m a bad Korean adoptee. It hurts to read that so many adoptees are angry about their life circumstances and struggling with torn identities because I don’t think it has to be that way. I don’t think the desire to end international adoption has to be motivated by a desire to keep Korean children in Korea, but a desire to give everyone a safe space to grow up where they are loved and taken care of. Towards the end of the article, it is said that adoptees are “not fully American, not fully Korean [and] instead live in a third space: Asian, Western, white, adopted, other. It’s a complicated place but not always a bad one.” An interviewee writes, “I am, maybe, in a way, proud of my in-betweenness.” That’s what I want to hear. That’s where I want to be. I don’t want to be in a rigid box, but in a fluid space where my honest self lives without fear of being judged for not living in a rigid box. For me, that’s what it means to be an adoptee, and I say this sincerely: it’s not a bad place to be.

For the love of film

As a surprise for my nineteenth birthday, my best friend registered me for a non-credit course through NYU which basically consisted of attending weekly screenings on Saturday mornings, watching indie films, and listening to and participating in “discussions” led by film critic and professor William Wolf. The year before, my friend had given me a biography on Cary Grant, sparking an interest in film, and with this course, he lit the fire. The first time I stepped foot into the Walter Reade Theater at the Film Society of Lincoln Center, it was January 2007. I settled down in a row near the back and stayed bundled in my coat the whole time; it was so cold. We watched Paul Verhoeven’s Black Book, which was quite an introduction to the auteur. I was easily the youngest person in the room by a good 40 years, and it was interesting to see the reaction the older demographic had to this sensationalized WWII adventure. Upon exiting, I picked up a few intriguing cards advertising the Film Society’s upcoming programming. As I descended the staircase to West 65th Street, I didn’t realize I was leaving what would soon become my favorite cinema and second home in the city.

In the past 8 years, I’ve fallen deeply in love with the Film Society, its programming, its literature, and its staff. The Film Society is where I saw so many brilliant Q&A’s with so many brilliant filmmakers and actors, including the wonderful James McAvoy, Tom Stoppard, Joe Wright, and David Fincher. It’s where I shook Paul Rudd’s hand and told him I liked his suit. It’s where I sat when David Wain walked past me and patted my head. It’s where I’ve escaped many cruelties of reality, finding refuge post-Hurricane Sandy at a screening of Anna Karenina and solace in last year’s George Cukor retrospective. It’s the publisher of my favorite periodical, Film Comment, which is home to my favorite film writer, Kent Jones. I had my first film festival experience there at NYFF 2008’s “Film Criticism in Crisis” panel, and I had my most comprehensive, enriching, life-altering film experience at NYFF 2012’s Critics Academy, headed in part by Film Society’s fearless Deputy Director Eugene Hernandez. Most recently, I’ve been especially grateful to have had the privilege of seeing Mike Nichols at a Q&A at the Film Society in 2010 after a glorious screening of The Graduate.

Truthfully, nearly every screening I have attended at the Film Society is glorious. With its incredible programming, the organization attracts, engages, and retains the most delightful audiences I’ve ever experienced. The best audience members, the most ardent of film lovers, can be found at the Film Society of Lincoln Center. With your support, it can keep offering tremendous film-going experiences and continue to be my second New York home. My birthday is next week, and I’d be most honored if you would consider making a donation for me in any amount to support the Film Society for Giving Tuesday. So much of who I am has grown out of that little theater on West 65th, and I hope that the Film Society of Lincoln Center receives the support it needs to allow many others to be able to say the same in the years to come.

IV. Baby

I hear the baby crying at the other end of the car in shotgun screams pausing only for breath as the train races underground, popping ears and causing discomfort for all but for none so much as this infant whose tiny head must feel as though it is being crushed in a vise grip like a nut in a little handheld nutcracker, the kind that so handily cracks crab shells and lobster claws so someone can pick and pull the white meat from within. The pressure mounts and the shrieks continue and I sit on my hands to actively resist clapping them over my ears and crying for the crying to stop because it’s so unbearable to hear such expressions of pain from a creature so small and unspoiled knowing that not so long from now the pain that causes such tears will come from the pressure within and not without. Everyone’s ears pop and everyone feels discomfort but no one’s physical pain rivals that caused by the internal invisible hand which cracks their bones and picks and pulls the heart meat from within, daring us all to cry in shotgun screams that we cannot allow ourselves to cry. Mummy and Dad try to soothe Baby who wants none of it and continues his gulps and yells and no one on the train can look at him for we all know that in his every tear and sobbing breath is a little of ourselves, a little of the wrenching ache we suppress because we’ve grown and spoiled like an old quart of milk left in a hollow log in a clearing in the woods that none will approach except the bearer of the hand that scraped our guts and left us there to spoil. And so we bury our heads in papers and books and turn up the volume and close our eyes, turning away from the little pan of new milk at the other end of the car with the fresh cream rising and threatening to spill as the train rattles along, because unlike Baby we know our destination approaches rapidly and there is nothing we can do to save the milk that will inevitably spill and spoil.