Gallows Humor #8: FINIS!

The Fairfax memorial service has a coordinator other than me!  I’m done!  God is good indeed!

The last item I was working on was collecting accounts of the dumpster months.  ChristyAnne’s story is not available in electronic format.  Juli’s reflection, a context for a larger thought, is available.

Juli Loesch Wiley is the best writer in the pro-life movement: balanced, funny, insightful, unpredictable, imaginative, clear, gentle, gutsy, independent, prayerful, loving.  One of the great blessings of my life was that she lived awhile in the DC area, including a stint with my family.  In fact, where I’m writing now used to be a prayer room, then her room.

Today is the feast of St. James.  I think of James and his brother John as another Martha/Mary pair: John the loving contemplative, and James the activist.  That may be just ignorant confusion; the activist James probably wasn’t John’s brother, but rather another man with the same name.   Anyway, Juli’s reflection starts with a pungent remark from the Letter of St. James (the activist).

What follows is an excerpt from “Conformed to Christ,” by Juli Loesch Wiley, published in the flagship issue of Caelum et Terra.  C&T is a personalist, agrarian, Christian journal, a delight to the left, often intemperate, illustrated as thoughtfully as the New Yorker.  The editor had ties in Maryland and Michigan, so he settled carefully in midpoint Ohio – which is neither.  His approach to politics and religion is similar.

Sin, when it is full grown, brings forth death. James 1:15

On December 21 – on the Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year – I went out with a few friends before dawn to collect garbage bags from the dumpsters behind some Washington, D.C. businesses.  We hauled our “take” – eight bags – to a secluded area and went through the contents.  And we found what we were looking for.  There, amidst cigarette butts, newspapers, and half-eaten hamburgers, we found the battered bodies of children.

I was not shocked.  I’d seen the pictures and I knew what to expect.  Still, something made me catch my breath as I held in my hand the severed shoulder, arm, and hand of a child who was perhaps 10 to 12 weeks into life at the time of death.  The arm, which was intact from shoulder to fingertips, measured about the length of my little finger: the hand alone was as long as the end of my own finger up to the first joint.

No, we were not shocked, my friends and I; we hardly spoke.  We prepared the remains as respectfully as we could, said a brief prayer, and buried them.

But that arm stretching the length of my finger, and that delicate, sensitive hand, continue to haunt me.  They are a blunt kind of evidence – like traffic-killed raccoons gummed with red, or the mutilated body of an Indian on a Guatemalan roadside – that we are being steadily diminished.  Something is tearing us apart.

 …

Full article available.  Thanks, Juli.

Gallows Humor #7: Burial by Moonlight

In the fall of 1986, there was one night when I buried several bodies in a private graveyard, and had an odd experience.  I make no claim that the experience corresponds to reality.  I had an experience.

After we started retrieving bodies from the trash in August 1986, it took a couple of months to enlist support from churches, and to start lining up proper funerals.  So in the early fall, there were some nights when we retrieved bodies from the trash, and then buried them the same night.

On this particular night, I was working alone, with three bodies to bury.  It was a clear night, with a full moon – a silent but brilliant moon, lighting up everything.  I am sure I had a flashlight with me, but I didn’t use it; there was no need.

I dug, and sweated profusely.  I don’t recall any insect noises, and certainly there were no animal noises; it was quiet, except for my shovel.  There was no movement, except for me and my shadow.

Halfway through the job, I had a strong sense that someone was watching me.  It is possible that I glimpsed the moon over my shoulder, and it got confused with an eye in my imagination.  But that wasn’t what it felt like; I felt vividly that someone was up above me, watching.

Sometimes a person will step into a room silently, and you will feel that presence, although you didn’t see anything, or hear anything, or smell anything, or feel any motion – at least not on a conscious level.  But you are sure someone is there.  So you turn to see who it is, and there’s the quiet intruder.  It was like that – a vivid impression, but not tied to sense data. 

More specifically, I believed – without any proof, without any sense data – that the mother of one of the children I was burying was watching me.  I didn’t change anything I was doing, except to pray that the little I did would be a comfort for her.  I completed the grave, then took off my hat and prayed for the children, prayed for their parents, prayed for the community that had learned to ignore death and destruction – and covered them up.  I had little to give, pretty close to nothing at all.  But at least those children were buried respectfully, prayerfully.

I think that someone was watching.  And I think it was a comfort to her.  I think she knew that someone could care for her child’s body and also be supportive of her.  I think she knew I would hug her if I could. 

I do not expect to meet her.  But I will not be surprised if I meet a woman one day who had a vivid dream the night after an abortion, a dream that comforted her – watching someone bury her child in a moonlit field.  Her dream – well, it wasn’t a dream.  May God grant her peace.

Gallows Humor #6 -- Deep of Night

Gallows humor #6 (posted on FB July 24; copied to blog 7/24.  “Deep of Night”)

There will be memorial services for children killed by abortion on September 14, all over the country.  The DC area event is taking shape; details TBA.  For now, it’s here, labeled “gallows humor.”  Skip if offended.

I love the “deep” of night.  Odd metaphor, that.  Why is the night like an ocean?  Where’s the “shallow” of night?  Or when?  The deep of night is a different world – different sounds, different smells, different population.  Charlie McCarthy, who pioneered peace studies at Notre Dame, wanted to have retreats scheduled in the deep of the night, with conferences between 1 am and 4 am, because the mental cues are all different then, and deep new insights can surface.

For me, part of the experience of the deep is in my ears.  Everything is cotton-ball muffled, and moves slow.  Thoughts don’t travel by snapping synapses, but by clumsy messengers wading through molasses.

One night years ago, the “deep” found a group of us in a parking lot near Peirce Mill, going through trash we had taken from dumpsters at two sites.  We had a large haul, perhaps 30 bodies.  To find the bodies, we had to remove and poke through everything – about 30 stinking trash bags that night.  We had learned to work efficiently, to look for baby-blue “chucks” (disposable absorbent bed pads) rolled around the debris of an abortion, including a small mesh bag from the nozzle of a suction machine, with a smashed body inside.  When we found the bodies, we set them apart, individually wrapped.  From the mountain of trash, we expected only a couple of pounds of humanity.

We were spread out over a couple of parking spots.  We had a pile of unprocessed bags on the left, a tarp to work on in the middle, with a growing block of small bodies arranged neatly, and a pile of re-bagged trash on the right. 

Deep night.

A couple of cops showed up.

“What are you doing?”

Dennis Burdick was standing aside at the moment, smoking.  He has a very engaging style – respectful, hesitant, but blunt.  “Well, we have the bodies of babies here, from the trash in back of two abortion clinics.  We are taking them out of the trash, to give them a respectful burial.”  Puff.

One cop stared at him, while the other inspected the worksite, looking at the bodies quietly, then cussing a bit.  I kept working: dumping, spreading, checking, scooping, stuffing. 

“Hell of a mess,” commented the first cop. 

Dennis: “Yes, sir.  I wish you would do something to stop it.”

Cop: “You want me to stop it?  Arrest you guys for littering?”

Dennis: “Oh, no.  I mean, stop the killing.  Look at those babies.  What can you do about it?”

Cop: “I can’t do anything about that.  But you guys – make sure you clean up this mess.”

Dennis: “Yes, sir.  We sure will.”

Thirty bodies, still bloody.  Make sure you pick up all the Macdonald’s wrappers.

Best we can do?

Deep night.

Gallows Humor #5 -- Clothed in Innocence

Gallows humor #5  (posted on FB July 23; copied to blog 7/24.  “Clothed in Innocence”)

There will be memorial services for children killed by abortion on September 14, all over the country.  At least for now, I’m the memorializer-in-chief for the DC area.  I’m labeling my remarks about this event “gallows humor.”  Skip if offended.

This one is doubly offensive.  It’s pro-life, which offends one social sector; and it’s R-rated, which will offend another sector.

Unborn children are generally naked.  Nekkid.  Nude.  Unclothed.  That’s obvious on the surface, where naked-ness happens, but startlingly complex.

Shortly after the end of my dumpster-diving days, I was invited to debate some silly law in Maryland.  For some reason, I brought a child’s body with me.  Maybe to show it to the radio audience.  When my opponent asked what was in the jar, I told her.  She was a little freaked, but – admirably – had sufficient presence of mind for a conversation (not on the air).  I said it was a boy.  She asserted fiercely that sexual differentiation doesn’t take place that early – perhaps 10-12 weeks in this case.  I said it sure looked like a boy to me; did she want to take a look?  Definitely not.  She repeated her assertion: there’s no sexual differentiation at that age.

If an embryologist wants to explain the fetal clitoris to me, I’m interested.  But it’s the nakedness that interests me for the moment.  Why was I so ready to display the kid’s privates?  When do privates get private?  I don’t have an articulate rationale.

At a mixer years ago, I met an attractive girl from Wellesley.  Skip the chat: it was interesting, but this is about bodies.  She was very guarded, very defensive.  When we danced, she held me six inches away.  In her eyes, I thought I could see a high stone wall of protection around herself.  I thought I understood why; she had remarkable breasts, and had probably spent a lot of time swatting off uninvited guests.

Some time later, she invited me to her apartment in Boston.  Interesting evening.  She had an appalling roommate – very beautiful, very foul – who explained how to [bleep] a guy off.  How to use the most intimate and precious of human acts to communicate contempt and final rejection.  I had heard the phrase before, but had never imagined for a second that it carried meaning.

Anyway …  On the floor, buttons away, the historic breasts revealed in all their magnificence.  But I looked in her eyes, and the high protective wall was still there.  Still there, but pulled closer than her chest.  The wall was still high and bristling, but her breasts were outside the wall.  I didn’t want her breasts (well …); I wanted her trust.  I buttoned her up and fled.  Later.

I don’t understand that wall very well.  I approve; it’s an essential social construct.  But I don’t understand it well. 

I don’t think that babies are nude.  They may be naked, but not nude.  They are clothed in innocence.  They are wrapped in splendor and majesty.

Gallows Humor #4 -- Civility

Gallows humor #4 (posted on FB July 22; copied to blog 7/24.  “Civility”)

There will be memorial services for children killed by abortion on September 14, all over the country.  At least for now, I’m the memorializer-in-chief for the DC area.  So I’m going to keep running ads for the event (in Fairfax, mid-day, 9/14/13, details to be determined).  I’ll label them “gallows humor,” whether the ad is funny or not, so you can ignore them easily, and not read it expecting something sweet and silly.

An event for a child is probably meaningless if it is not also an event for the parents, mother especially.  But it’s a memorial service, and the parents aren’t dead.  So how do we get mom into the title?  “Memorial Service for Children KIA, Plus Non-judgmental Prayer for Bereaved Parents” – how’s that?

One year at the March for Life, there were counter-demonstrators lining the avenue, chanting “Racist, sexist, anti-gay, born-again bigots, go away.”  That’s got an irresistible rhythm to it; I liked it.  I did think that unrepentant racists should go away.  I did agree with Pope John XXIII that sexism is a grave evil, and so I was ready to ask unrepentant sexists to (1) repent, or (2) engage in dialogue about the role of women, or (3) go away.  “Anti-gay” is somewhat ambiguous, but the context seemed to make clear that it referred to habitual bad-mouthing (or bad thinking, anyway) directed at people; I’m still on board.  I oppose bigotry; we’re in agreement there.  And if you have been or probably will be born again as a bigot, that’s a damn bad thing.  “Go away” is a little harsh, but “go away unless you want to enter into mutually respectful dialogue” doesn’t scan well.  Bottom line: I can chant all that!  So the counter-folks flipped birds and chanted, and I danced a little and chanted, too.  “Racist, sexist, anti-gay – Born-again bigots, go away!”  Same applies on September 14.

I will try to get Eric and friends to come bounce for the event.  Eric was the Maid of Honor at my son’s wedding a few years ago.  The wedding plans hit snags, and two prospective maids or matrons of honor produced bona fide solid gold reasons for absence.  So we (they) hit the bottom line: what’s a maid of honor for, anyway?  Well, if Eva has a meltdown, who does she want to talk to?  She won’t melt down; she’s tougher than …  That is, she’s tough.  If she gets stressed, she beats the living …  That is, she deals with it in direct and externally expressive ways.  But just hypothetically, if she does experience stress, who does she want right there, right now?  Well, if #1 and #2 are unavoidably absent, then #3 is Eric.  Got it.  He’s Maid of Honor.  Definitely do not tell the Best Man until the last minute.

Anyway, Eric is huge.  If he says, “Racist, sexist, anti-gay – born-again bigots, go away,” those twice-born children of Satan who are behaving disrespectfully will depart, forthwith.

Behave.  You have been warned.

Gallows Humor #3 -- Banana-Head

Gallows humor #3.  (posted on FB July 21,late, copied to blog 7/24.  “Banana-Head”)

Hey, Banana-head!

For reasons that escape me entirely, a young lady who shall remain nameless usually addresses people whom she likes as “Something-Head.”  Mama-Duck-Head, Papa-Duck-Head, Banana-Head, Bunny-Head.  I like her very much, but she is strange.

Banana-head: I want to focus on that one briefly.  Bananas grow in bunches, like grapes.  But the weird thing is, grape bunches hang down is a rational fashion, with the pointy end toward the ground.   Banana bunches point up, like flowers.  Flowers don’t weigh half a pound apiece, so it’s okay for them to go up.  Bananas have heft.  When they go up, they challenge the eye’s reasonable expectations.  They seem to defy gravity.  They are upside down, like the famous baobab tree.

Well, banana-head, when you grew your skull, you started out in a totally bizarre fashion, like the platypus.  The platypus seems to be part beaver, part kangaroo, part unicorn, part bumblebee – a very confusing creature indeed.  And you: you don’t resemble a platypus, but you were such a jumble!  Part human, part armadillo-head, part banana-head.

Hm. This isn’t very funny, is it?  Well, suck it up.

What I mean is, your skull is made of plates, like armor.  The plates were like coral, with a clear stem and branches, and with all of the stunning swirly beauty of coral.  Or like fractal crystal growth.  Your plates were beautiful like coral, or like a two-dimensional fern.  Delicate, thin, but strong.  They could have been made by master craftsmen, maybe the Elves in Rivendell.

Beautiful, but still armor.  These plates are between the tough rubber-like pigskin-football that holds your brains, and the whole skin covering.  They grow on the sides of the football; they are hooked onto – probably more like rooted into – the tough membrane around your brain.  They are designed to protect your brains from getting damaged.  (Too late.) 

BUT, banana-head, your armor plates didn’t hang down in a rational fashion.  They hung UP.  The hook that holds them to the wall of the brain-bag is at the BOTTOM of each plate.  Ferns grow up, and coral grows up; but armor hangs down, and these plates are armor.

Armor hangs down, okay?  But you, banana-head, attached your armor at the bottom, and laid it out neatly, pointing up, like a bunch of bananas.

Adults don’t have pretty ferns or swervy curvy coral in their heads.  Years ago, your armor plates met and knitted together into a single solid piece, and – no offense meant – it’s pretty ugly.  Skulls are grim and sober – “remember death” and all that stuff – and they are functional.  So we don’t expect them to be beautiful like a gazelle.  But at first, they were oh-so-charming.  You can still see the seams where the plates met and meshed, like continental plates colliding and forming mountains; but pre-collision delicacy is ancient ancient history. 

I learned that in dumpsters.  Never saw pictures of it, or read about it.

I guess it’s not funny.

I cried then.  Now, too, actually.

Gallows Humor #2 -- Ka-Bluey

Gallows humor #2.  (posted on FB July 21, early, copied to blog 7/24.  “Ka-Bluey”)

Day 2, and I have run out of dead baby jokes.

J. K. Rowling is a dry droll writer.  She has a new novel out, written under a pseudonym, “Robert Galbraith” (as in J. K. Galbraith, I think.)  It’s a detective story, with some standard arrangements: one damaged, scarred, ugly but somehow very attractive man, and four gorgeous women.  The gorgeous wife who just dumped him calls him “Bluey.”  Rowling, who once worked with torture victims, does not explain the nickname (typical of her style), but it’s pretty clear (typical of her style).  See, he was in Afghanistan, with an elite British army unit, and was injured in an explosion.  One leg went ka-bluey.

Sick-o.

Sept 14, 2013, there will be memorial services for children killed by abortion and dumped 25 years ago.  The 25 year thing is not about children, nor about their parents; it’s about a service organized by Monica Migliorino Miller, for children whose bodies she retrieved, 25 years ago.  She and some other faithful Midwesterners have asked body-snatchers from all over the country to join them in prayer on that date.

Okay.

The DC area service will be in Fairfax, Saturday, 9/14.  Details TBA.  Eight people worked from August 1986 to March 1987, taking bodies out of dumpsters at four abortion clinics in Maryland and DC.  One of the bodies in the memorial at Franciscan University, outside the Portiuncula.  Some were taken by Providence Hospital pathologists.  75 were buried in a quiet private graveyard.  The largest group were buried at a church in Fairfax.

The bodies we didn’t take out of the “waste stream” ended up in different places.  In Virginia, they went to the dump in Lorton.  The dump is off Gallows Road.  The place to dump is (was) labeled: “Citizen Disposal Facility.”  That’s blunt.

ChristyAnne Collins Dickson, Juli Loesch Wiley, and I have written in different places about our experiences during those painful days.  Each of us wrote in first person singular, and it is not obvious from what we wrote that we were working together.  We were cooperating.  I do not know whether any of the other five wrote about their experiences.  They included: Fr. Vincent Fitzpatrick, from the diocese of Fargo; Vincent’s father, a physicist who worked on acoustics at Carderock; Dennis Burdick, and Harry Hand.  There was one other person who was with me when we found the first bodies, who has always wanted to be kept out any public comments; I have not checked to see if that still applies.

Vincent took a lot of careful pictures.  It was interesting to see people’s reactions to the photos, over some years.  Most people didn’t react to the photos; they reacted to the fact that I had them.  They thought I was nuts.  Probably right.

My story about these events is available in an appendix to a book on the rescue movement.  I’ll post the excerpt – free, so I won’t be accused of plundering dumpsters to make a buck.