Author: J. Thorp

(Pro) Life, Without Religion, Part 2: A Little … Something

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Inspired by recent ultrasounds of our tiny child resting peacefully in utero, last month I shared my response to a common abortion-rights argument: “It’s my body; it’s my choice.” In that post, I argued that, in no way could an embryo or fetus be considered the mother’s body, or even part of the mother’s body.

The question remains, then: what is it? A few possibilities come to mind: it may be a bit of foreign debris or tissue; it may be a tumor (benign or malignant); it may be nonhuman organism (like a parasite or symbiotic microorganism); or, it may be Homo sapiens – a human organism. I’ll address these possibilities one at a time:

  • Foreign debris or foreign tissue. If an embryo were nothing more than a bit of foreign matter that had somehow found its within the woman, it makes sense that her body would respond accordingly, targeting the embryo in the same way it might a sliver or a piece of shrapnel, either to eliminate it from the body or encapsulate and neutralize it. Of course, an embryo consists of living cells, so the body does not react to it as thought it were a simply a foreign object. If an embryo were living, foreign tissue, it makes sense that the woman’s immune system might react negatively to it, in the same way that it might reject a donor organ. In fact, in the vast majority of cases, the woman’s body does the opposite, suppressing it’s own immune system and laboring to provide a protective, nurturing environment and nutrients to encourage growth and development of the embryo. It is true that in certain cases (e.g., an Rh-negative mother carrying an Rh-positive fetus), the woman’s immune system may react to presence of Rh-factor in the fetus’s blood, sometimes leading to death of the fetus – however, most of the population (approximately 85 percent, I believe) is Rh-positive, so such a reaction is certainly not the norm. Nor does it change the fact that the woman’s body continues to try to accomodate the fetus even as antibodies in her blood attack the fetus’s red blood cells.
  • Benign or malignant tumor. I’ve heard it more than once “It’s just a ball of cells.” Actually, I did a little reading for this post to help ensure I’m using the right terminology, and learned that tumors are more commonly defined as a neoplasm that has formed a “lump” – and a neoplasm is a new and abnormal growth or proliferation of cells not coordinated with the body’s healthy tissue. Is an embryo a neoplasm? It is certainly a new proliferation of cells, but typically (left to its own devices), its growth is in clockwork coordination with the healthy tissue around it; in fact, the surrounding, healthy tissues of the woman’s body (left to their own devices) change to become more accommodating to the new growth – again, encouraging growth and development. To quote Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop: “It’s not a tumah!“
  • Parasite or other nonhuman organism. An embryo or fetus certainly derives nutrients and protection, and at some cost the woman in whose body it resides – but is it a parasite (like a tapeworm) or some other symbiotic nonhuman organism (like our gut flora and other bacteria that exist on or in our body and are beneficial or neutral to our health and well-being)? First, consider that non-human organisms (parasitic or otherwise) are not native to us nor do they spontaneously generate within us. Instead, they are acquired. Even our gut flora are acquired at birth and rapidly afterward, from our mothers and the environment. An embryo, on the other hand, is not something caught from another person or acquired from the environment which then colonizes the uterus. And while it takes the introduction of a male gamete to fertilize an egg and ultimately form an embryo, even sperm cells cannot be considered parasites or symbiotic organisms – they have a short-life span and cannot reproduce themselves or “colonize” the woman on their own; those that do not fertilize an egg ultimately die off and are eliminated.
  • Human organism. To review, start where you like: a zygote, an embryo, or a fetus. Clearly these are not non-living things; they are living cells that use nutrients and multiply. If it were merely foreign tissue or an infection, the woman’s body would work to destroy it – no abortion necessary. If it were a parasite or symbiotic organism, it would be acquired externally, not formed internally from two cells whose sole function is reproduction. Now, consider that when a sperm and egg unite and form a zygote, the result is genetically identifiable as human – 23 pairs of chromosomes is the norm, but even some variation in this number (as in the case of Down Syndrome), when permitted to develop, can result in a viable independent organism that we would recognize as human. Some will argue that a skin cell, or an eyelash, or a cancer cell might be alive and genetically human, but we kill those all the time; certainly that isn’t murder, is it?  Of course not. But as we’ve already established, an embryo clearly is not any part of the woman’s body (it’s not even a genetic match) nor is it a tumor (it is developing in coordination with the woman’s body and the result will be a viable, independent human organism). Without a doubt, an embryo is a living, human organism.
Even some abortion supporters make it this far. At this point, the arguments become much more philosophical: abortion supporters claim is that this human organism is not a human being – it is a genetically human living thing, but only a potential human being. This raises a fundamental question: What makes a human organism a human being? I’ll share how my pre-religious mind tackled that question in my next post on this topic.

The Second Third, Week 38: Being Cross Versus Bearing Cross

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I’ve had a number of conversations in recent months about the delicate ethics and art of downsizing one’s list of Facebook friends. Some are aghast that I would ever do such a thing; others wonder why I would accept the Facebook friendship of someone I might later “unfriend” in the first place. I try to assure them that, in most cases, it isn’t personal. I generally accept friend requests from anyone I am acquainted with; if, after the initial reconnect, we appear to no longer have anything to say over a period of several months, I may unfriend them. “Unfriend” is an unnecessarily harsh term – as I see it, we are just as close as we were before Facebook; we just don’t have to wade through extra content not meant for, or meaningful to, us.

In a few rare instances, however, I have unfriended folks on Facebook because being around is just too difficult. Perhaps our views are so different that I find myself constantly biting my tongue to not start a fight. Perhaps they expect too much interaction, when I don’t feel as connected or close. And truth be told, this happens in the real world, too. The older I get, the more disinclined I am to spend time around people who inspire tension or unease in my life.

I struggle a bit with this. Occasionally, I’ll feel an “unfriendly” impulse, only to, upon further reflection, realize that I am simply being impatient or selfish, and that I must take a deep breath and respond to this person as all people deserve..with love. But it’s a fine line between bearing a cross and loving my neighbor or my enemy, and simply being cross – enduring the company of a person who, without reservation or apology, pushes all my buttons and brings out the worst in me, to the chagrin or detriment of those for whom I care.

The other day I left my office and walked to rest room, passing, in the process, a person who had long been a thorn in the side of my colleagues and I during a previous job. With welcome relief, I noted that my blood pressure didn’t rise when I saw our former adversary; in my new role, these past conflicts were no longer relevant, and so the person was just a person, and I was free to have no opinion.

That, to me, is what I hope to better embrace in my Second Third: who to embrace, who to avoid, and when to gracefully bow out and feel free to have no opinion. I hope the latter option because increasingly prevalent, because each of the former two is exhausting in its own right.

Book Break: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay

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A couple years back, I recommended to my boss the book Carter Beats the Devil (which may be magically transformed into a movie at some point in the future), and she loaned me, in return, her copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. I told her at the time that it would take me a long while to get to it. I was right; I just finished it today. It’s the story of two Jewish cousins – one escaping Czechoslovakia ahead of his family; the other escaping a crippled and fatherless existence in Brooklyn – who break into the fledgling comic book business in the run-up to World War II. As soon as I cracked it, I could see the parallels with Carter. I knew I was going to love it.

As it turns out, I loved most of it. About 85 percent of the book was engaging, compelling, genius fiction. The other 15 percent left me scratching my head, picking through my own thoughts and prejudices (a good thing), and coming away with the conclusion that certain parts just didn’t add up (not so good).

Two aspects of the story stuck out like sore thumbs to me. First, one of the themes of the story is the conflict within one the characters concerning the possibility that he may be homosexual. The possibility is hinted at early in the book, and is actually presented in an interesting and thoughtful way, subtly showing his inner conflict, particularly since, at that time, a young gay man might not only be harassed and bullied, but arrested or publicly interrogated and humiliated by government officials. Toward the end of the book, we see this character realize that he has never fully dealt with this conflict, but has instead spent his life pretending that there is nothing to see here. Regardless of your feelings and beliefs about homosexuality, the unresolved turmoil of a lifetime spent going through the motions and consciously not dealing with the central problem of one’s existence is tragic, and overall, this thread ties in with themes of escape and rescue and hope that pervade the book.

However, in the middle of the book, a fair amount of time is spent on a key relationship with another gay character. Parts of this were well written, even if, as another (surprisingly sympathetic) character suggests near the end of the book, “I don’t cotton very well to these proclivities” – but given the nature of this particular protagonist and his internal conflict, I was never convinced he would have been attracted to such a handsome dingbat. Later, details and situations emerge that were particularly strange (to me, at least) and unsavory (for the protagonist). It seemed to me that this section was written with less context and introspection than the rest of the book (though I supposed it is possible that since I haven’t lived through it, I simply didn’t get it). I never grasped the character’s motivations; as a result, these few sentences and paragraphs struck me as the author attempting to illustrate “gayness” – conveying “this is gay and strange,” “this is gay and funny,” “this is gay and tragic,” rather than simply this is strange, funny, or tragic. For me, this section backfired: what I’m sure was meant to make us see this character in a sympathetic light seemed stereotypical and made me instead wonder, “What the heck is he doing? He should trust his gut – gay or not, he doesn’t belong here!”

My other objection was in the portrayal of the other protagonist’s sexuality, which was decidedly hetero. This individual is shown as a deeply emotional young man who (to our knowledge) has only loved one woman in his entire life. He is also shown, early in the book, taste-testing American cursing and slang. There is strong language scattered in bits and pieces throughout the book, including, on occasion, by this particular character – and in most cases, it fits the time, place, and situation. I was disturbed, however, to notice that, when this emotional young man who doesn’t quite understand the lingo thinks of his beloved, he does so in terms befitting a sailor. Both he, and the narrative, use abruptly vulgar terminology for anatomy and sexuality which, between two tender lovers, seemed to warrant more gentle and affectionate treatment.

I am not reflexively prudish about cursing or sexuality in books, and I have used my share of foul language – in fact, in college, I may have used up my share. But I remember, in a college psychology class, reading a study that purportedly showed that use of obscenity for emphasis when making an argument was ineffective. I’m not sure I disagree with the conclusion, but I recall perceiving a flaw in the experiment – namely, that the words chosen for “emphasis” were words and phrases that I rarely if ever heard an adult use, even in anger. They were over-the-top, the kind of thing that would shock a person to hear; it didn’t seem realistic that people would use those words and phrases in any reasonable context. Similar to the objections above, the instances in which the author chose to use obscenity to describe objects of affection seemed to me like overly intentional doses of “realism” – grit, in situations in which grit could only cause discomfort.

I spend time laying out these objections because these areas stuck out to me as inconsistent and bothersome additions to an otherwise cohesive and beautiful book. I laughed out loud at times, choked up at others, and found much inspiration for my own writing. I do not recommend it without reservation, but if my PG-descriptions of my R-rated objections above do not scare you off, I do recommend it.

Trevor Contemplates the Nature of Fear

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I brought Trevor in on the train this morning. As we were waiting at the Elk River Station, I related the story of Gabe, standing with his back to the tracks on a narrow train platform in Connecticut, when a freight train blasted through. Somehow, immersed in the newness of it all, Gabe hadn’t heard it coming. “It scared the bejeebers out of him!” I laughed.

Fifteen minutes later, safely aboard the Northstar, Trevor asks, “Dad, is ‘bejeebers’ just a made-up word, or something real?”

He told me later that he couldn’t imagine what “bejeebers” would be if it was something real that had come from Gabe.

The Second Third, Week 37: Can-Do Attitude

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“I am always doing that which I can not do, in order that I may learn how to do it.”
– Pablo Picasso

Jodi has commented more than once that she wishes she were more like my sister when it comes to trying new things. “Jill can do anything,” my bride tells a friend. “She painted that mural in Emma’s room, and bought a hanging lamp, cut the cord off it, and turned it into a ceiling light. She’s like, ‘I’ve never done that before; of course I can do it!'”

Jill gets that from my dad, a mostly self-taught machinist, mechanic, and builder of … well, pretty much anything, and my mom, who has been known to take a raised eyebrow or a snicker of unbelief as reason enough to turn a cartwheel in the living room, just to show she still can. (That was years ago, but please, don’t tempt her.)

I got just enough of the can-do attitude to believe, just after we were married, I could change the water pump in my car with a socket set, a couple screw drivers and wrenches, and a Xeroxed copy of the Chilton’s instructions in the open parking lot of our first apartment in Sioux Falls. When the landlord came out halfway through the procedure to point out that Jodi’s lease forbade auto repairs on the premises, I apologized, but suggested it might be best to let me finish and clean up the mess than to snarl things any further. I’ve retrofitted a flush-mount ceiling fan to hang on the level from a sloped cathedral ceiling. I drew the picture my sister projected and painted on Emma’s wall. I did these things because somebody had to do them, and I was available. But I don’t necessarily go out of my way to look for new challenges of this sort.

So this past week, Jodi and I looked at the calendar and realized that Gabe was registered for a mid-day soccer camp, and both of us had to work. We suggested he ride his bike a mile or so up the road to the middle school on quiet residential streets and paved bike paths, for the most part. We also suggested that Brendan accompany him on his bike, with his cell phone – at least on the first trip – to be sure Gabe didn’t have any problems.

I was informed that Bren hasn’t really been riding his new bike much since last summer, mostly because he didn’t “get” the gears: he couldn’t find one he liked, and whenever he shifted to another, the chain made annoying noises. Gabe’s problem was more practical: he wasn’t sure how he could ride a bike and carry his soccer ball at the same time.

I was exasperated. When I was their age (and younger!), I stripped all the “extras” off my BMX – chain guard, reflectors, handbrake, etc. – because I wanted the lightest functional bike possible, and I rode my bike to the lake near our house with a lifejacket, tackle box, fishing pole, and bucket for the catch, without issue or explanation. I explained to Brendan that he should take a minute to look at his sprockets as he shifted gears, and when his chain was making noise, so he could see what was going on – that most of the time, you just need to back the shifting mechanism off slightly once you changed gears to make the noise stop. I suggested to Gabe that there was a hands-free way to carry stuff to school that would work just as well on a bike as it does on foot: his backpack. I assured them (somewhat sharply) that they could handle this little adventure – and might even enjoy it.

Only later did it occur to me why I was that way as a kid (and as a newlywed). My dad did all his repairs – auto repairs, home repairs, you name it – himself, and required me to be with him, come sunshine, rain, or snow. I didn’t have “the knack,” but I learned to look more closely at how things worked, and learned which tools did what, and where to find them. After hours in the shop, working on my bike was a piece of cake.

And Mom and Dad set clear boundaries and rules, then gave me the freedom to roam the neighborhood, the woods, and even the docks and beaches, playing, exploring, fishing, and even hunting. If I wanted to take advantage of this freedom (and make the most of my time) I had to figure what I needed and how to transport it. We built forts in the woods, repaired bikes on the road, camped on islands in the middle of the lake, without anyone carting me around.

We do live in a different place and time, but I have consistently opted to keep the kids close to home rather than send them out on their own, and I avoid DIY projects in order to protect “family time.” As a result, my kids are well-mannered, bright, obedient … and perhaps overly dependent. In my Second Third, I need to recognize that working together with my kids, or even letting the kids do thing together on their own, is family time, too. I need to do what my folks did: create opportunities for my kids to do, to learn, and even to make mistakes – so when they are my age, whatever challenge they face, they’ll echo their Aunt Jill: “Huh. I’ve never done that. Of course I can!”