Friday, February 27, 2015

Leonard Nimoy Will Never Truly Die for Me.

Some time in late 1980, my father, Jack B. Sowards, was approached to write the screenplay for the next attempt to bring Star Trek to the big screen. The first attempt, Star Trek: The Motion Picture, had been a box office disappointment and had cost Paramount Pictures a small fortune to make.  Though it would, through cult standing alone, eventually make back its money (and then some), the motion picture arm of Paramount had little taste for trying to bring the franchise to the big screen.

Enter Paramount Television.

Television executives at PPC, who had an ongoing relationship with ST creator, Gene Roddenberry, refused to give up on the idea that Star Trek could play to a film audience successfully, and would regenerate interest in the characters and the premise of the story.  They suggested making a second feature, but this time, producing through the television arm. Paramount had proven in the 60s that with some ingenuity and clever budgeting, they could make a science fiction space travel series on a relatively small bankroll.  The powers that be at Paramount agreed to give them another chance, and hired television showrunner Bennett (known for his penchant for coming in on budget) to oversee the production.

Bennett quickly set about collecting Star Trek's actors to participate. Almost all immediately, readily agreed.  Except one - Leonard Nimoy. Nimoy had never made any bones about being glad to move away from Spock, and had only participated in the first feature reluctantly. He had moved on, was a writer, a photographer, an artist and a poet.  The constant airplay that the three seasons of the television series provided him were enough to provide him with the ability to pick and choose how and when he worked, and he had moved on to other series work, as a regular (Mission: Impossible, In Search of....) and as a guest star (Columbo, Night Gallery). He didn't need Spock anymore, and wasn't anxious to don the ears for what might be another box office letdown.

Thus, when Harve Bennett approached my father to write the screenplay, he told him there would have to be a new Vulcan character, because the old one wasn't available.  My father (being my father) wasn't about to quit so easily.  "Get me a meeting with him," he told Bennett. "Just a lunch. I will get him to sign."

A week later, he was sitting across a table from Leonard Nimoy himself, the latter having agreed to a brief, half-hour, hard-out meeting with Bennett and my dad.  My father listened carefully to Nimoy's rational explanation for why he did not want to rejoin the cast.  Then he said to Nimoy, "What if I could give you a glorious death scene in the first 10 minutes of the film?"


Then Nimoy said, "The first ten minutes?"


"A glorious death scene?"

"Explosions. Fire. Sizzling control panels. The works."

He pushed the first draft of the first 20 pages of what would become Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan across the table. Nimoy agreed to read them.

He'd captured Nimoy's attention.  Nimoy was no fool. He knew that, should he sign on, no producer or writer in their right mind would actually agree to kill Spock off in the first 10 minutes. There had to be a catch. And, of course, there was one. But Nimoy was intrigued by a writer who seemed to be more in tune with the original concept of the show than the high-fallutin' movie producers and screenwriters who had botched the first film.  My father knew what made the series great, and Nimoy was able to see that and understand that it could be great again.

The first twenty pages of the film, for anyone who knows the movie, contain the Kobayashi Maru scene, where Spock does indeed "die" in the first ten minutes of the film. For those not familiar with the movie, it's a simulated death during a training exercise. But once Nimoy had read the pages, he was onboard. He signed the next week, and the rest is, indeed, history.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan opened in theatres in the U.S. on June 4, 1982, and went on to gross over $14 million dollars that weekend, the largest opening weekend in history at that time.  In its first release, it made $97,000,000 worldwide. And it spawned the resurgence of the franchise, which later went on to make four more films featuring the original cast members, plus three additional television series, and features made from those series.  And J.J. Abrams' remakes still continue to rake in the cash. STII:TWoK "saved the franchise", as my friend, Tony Serri, once said.

Those first 20 pages were the hook for Nimoy, who would, through the films and his appearances on the spin-offs, make peace with Spock, come to love him in fact. Without Spock, STII:TWoK would not have been the film it was. It would not have provided my father with a lasting legacy as a screenwriter.

I'm sorry Leonard Nimoy is gone. He was an artist on a lot of levels.  He took great pictures, and wrote lovely poetry, and saw the beauty in everything.  He was funny and smart and eloquent.

Safe travels, Mr. Nimoy, and may you find a new adventure waiting for you on the other side. You live on in the series, in the films, in your pictures, your paintings and your poetry.  To me, you are tucked into a casket pod, lying on a steamy, just-baked, fern-filled planet, waiting for right moment to regenerate.

(Note: For the sake of expedience and focus, I have truncated the story somewhat. A more detailed account can be found here, in this HuffPost blog by Robert J. Elisberg, for those who are interested. And it is an interesting story, because Nimoy was so key to the success of this film. No one knew that better than Nimoy himself, except for maybe my dad.  I encourage you to read Elisberg's account.)

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

And, Because The Universe Thinks It's So Fucking Funny....

Perhaps you will remember this post I made just a few short weeks ago.  The one where I said I was done talking politics because I wanted to divert my energy to things that were more in line with what I really want to be doing... like writing... singing.... acting....

And then....

And THEN....

This happened:

Which was right after this happened:

All of which, let to this:

All of which, I offer to you with absolutely no comment.

Because I'm not talking about politics.  The inside of my right cheek is bleeding like you wouldn't believe from all the biting... but I'm not talking politics.

Because I have other fish to fry.



*Walks away reciting soothing mantra.... "Unicorns are pretty.... Unicorns are pretty...." followed by slightly stifled sobs, interspersed with giddy laughter*

Friday, January 02, 2015

Retro-Chron: Land of the Beautiful (Squished Flat) People

First published here in November, 2010:

A couple of days ago, I walked from the office where I'm temping to the Century City Mall.  It's warmed up in Los Angeles again, and it was about 90 degrees out. I had the iPod on, and that always has a strange effect on me when I walk. Usually, I walk in the city the way a city-smart person walks -- alert, aware of my surroundings, conscious of what the strangers around me are doing. When I'm wearing the iPod, I generally only pay attention to the city, not the people. The buildings, the street, any physical obstacles, walk/don't walk signals, automobiles (but not the people in them) -- these are the things that catch my eye in between the measures and the rests.

Two days ago, I noticed an inordinate number of dead things on the way to the Mall. There was something in the road that resembled a little hedgehog (probably a baby porcupine), prickly and crushed in the street. A few yards away, an earthworm that had gotten caught on a busy sidewalk in the searing Indian summer sun. And then a bit further down, a bird, fallen, crushed and decomposing in the carefully sculpted landscaping outside of the Sun America building.  All of these casualties can lead one to only one conclusion.

This city will run right over you, if you're not careful.

Today, I had occasion to drive through Beverly Hills on my way somewhere else. You can't mistake driving through Beverly Hills.  The people have a look about them.  Even the ones in their cars look different if they're coming from Beverly Hills.  Walking down Rodeo Drive, you see the most beautiful women. They're all wearing the same uniform -- tight ponytails, calculated to show off the work of their brilliant plastic surgeon (and the work is beautiful -- not that hideous, rubbery-lipped, pug-nosed atrocity one usually sees as L.A. plastic surgery), tight t-shirts to show off their hours in the Pilates studios, expensive, well-cut designer jeans to show off the hours of yoga and spinning. Big sunglasses, wildly expensive jewelry, wildly expensive shoes, all of them seemingly desperate to be looked at, yet all of them looking exactly the same.

And all of them looking just ever-so-slightly unhappy.

I'm wondering where I'm going to be living in a month or two. I'm fat, I'm getting old, a plastic surgeon hasn't been within miles of my face, my shoes are from DSW, my shirt and jeans are from Target, I'm driving a banged up Hyundai... and... I think I can safely say that I am miles happier than the vast majority of these women.


Because they failed to be careful, and this city ran right over them.

L.A. will poison you if you let it.  It's a beautiful place, full of beautiful people, and it runs on one of the most glamorous industries around. The most beautiful people come here and they work to make themselves even more beautiful, by Hollywood standards. This city tells you there is one standard only for Beauty -- the Hollywood kind.  And maybe, if you're a studio executive or an agent or an actress, you buy into that lie.  But there are a lot of us for whom Los Angeles isn't an entertainment mecca.  It's home. It's not home because we came here with a suitcase full of dreams and a heart full of hope.  It's home because we were born here, raised here, just like so many of the emigres here call Duluth, Minnesota or Syracuse, New York home.

We're not here for the glamour.  We're here because here is where we have always been. We know this city -- know it like the back of our hands.  This city can't lie to us.  It can try, but we'll see right through it. This isn't a mecca for anything. It's just a place where people come, hoping their lives will be better and happier and more affluent than the place from whence they came. Or it's a place where people stay because it's everything they've known or want to know. Or it's just a place they move to so they don't spend the better part of every winter digging their way out of 22 inches of snow.

It won't make you happy, and it won't make you forever young. If you are beautiful, it might make you more so (with the right trainer, the right aesthetician and the right plastic surgeon), but it won't care one way or the other. It will tell you what you have to do to make it love you, you'll do it, but it still won't love you.

Let's face it -- L.A. is a bad boyfriend. If you let it, if you show it you care what it thinks about you, it will use you and abuse you, then step on you and leave your decaying, surgically enhanced carcass on the sidewalk, just like that baby porcupine.

Those sad ladies in Beverly Hills, wearing their little Rodeo Drive uniforms, with their Botoxed foreheads and their tight ponytails, will never understand that. Those of us who are from here, who belong here, who can survive here... we already know.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Me and My Big Mouth

So, yeah.

I have an opinion or two. Or thirty-seven.

"According to your answers, the political group
that agrees with you most is Left (Liberal)."
(Any more Left, and I fall off
end of the Known World, apparently!
And I've been pretty unrestrained about expressing them, often with startling amounts of vigor, candor and passion. I was raised by an ultra-political woman to be ultra-political. Also ultra-left-wing.  Okay... socialist... but who's counting?

If you could take the governmental structure of Norway and put it in the weather pattern of SantaMonica, then that's where really, really good people get to go after they die.  That's how Socialist I am. Big government. HUGE, big government... more government... MORE, MORE, MORE.... I'M STILL NOT SATISFIED!!!

I feel strongly about my politics.  I read a lot. I research a lot. Compared to the average voter, I probably know a lot. Voting for me is a ritual. I mail in my ballot, so I can spend the Sunday before election day, in bed, with the laptop, and the ballot and voter information pamphlet open in front of me, going over each candidate (yes, even the judges and school supervisors), and picking the one I think will do the best job. Or do the least bad job. As is sometimes the case.

I don't foresee a time in the near future when this will no longer be the case.  There's too much satisfaction in coloring in one little dot, while purposefully leaving the other dot blank ("take that, you ass clown!").  Still, the last election was an epiphany for me.  I made it a point not to discuss politics with anyone - except my daughter, who called to ask about the legal ramifactions of a particular ballot proposition.  But she asked . And that's my point.

I'm not talking politics anymore.  Not with anyone. Not even with most of the ones who ask.  Savannah's the exception, because she's my grown daughter, and any time she comes to me to ask advice (which is rare these days), I will happily give it. It's nice to be the mom again when I get the chance.

I've learned some things in the past year. First, I've learned there are thousands - maybe millions - possibly even billions of people on the planet, who manage to get through their entire lives without the benefit of my eloquent postulates and theorems.  As difficult as we all find this to believe, I have incontrovertible evidence that this is true.

That being said, while I find it confusing to believe people don't need to hear from me, it's also quite a relief to know that the world will go right on turning, whether I express my opinions or not. What a load off my shoulders, eh?

I started all this political mish-mosh in 2000, when the Supreme Court of the United States decided it didn't like my choice for President (surely, I must have meant the other guy), and chose one that IT thought was more suitable. I was... uhm.... peeved.  My dander was already up from the Ken Starr hearings. Bush v. Gore sent me into a fury spiral that lasted about... well... right up until this past November.  Now, I'm not angry anymore. I used to threaten to move to another country where freedom still reigned. And then I remembered I actually live in one - P.R.C.  (People's Republic of California).  It's not perfect, but we have health care exchanges and access to legal abortion and contraception, gay people can get married, and we even have - janky as it is - a form of single-payer health care coverage (Medi-Cal).  It's still more conservative than I'd like it to be, but I wasn't kidding about Norway.... only by moving to Scandinavia could I find governmental systems that were perfectly in line with what I believe to be proper. Most Americans will never feel as strongly about caring for their people equally as I do, and I have to live with that.  This is a country birthed in slavery and inequality at it's most fundamental level  A huge part of our nationalistic make-up is heavily invested in separations along race, religion, and cultural lines. I'm not sure we'll ever get over that. I hope so, but I'm not holding my breath.

This brings us to the second, and perhaps more important of the things I've learned in this moment of enlightenment.  Now that we're left with all this energy - energy that used to be devoted to rage, rant and rampage -- what do with that energy? Where could it possibly be diverted where it would do the most good?  Perhaps I could... I don't know... divert it into my art.  Like... and this is just brainstorming, mind you... writing.

For years, I've been ricocheting around like a Pachenko ball on crack, hoping to get the world to believe what I know to be true politically. Of course, realistically, I didn't actually BELIEVE this was possible. But I thought I would feel like a total shit if I didn't at least try.

And then I stopped trying.

Know what I found out?

I don't care.  I really don't.  I don't feel like a heel if your state denies you access to abortion. Well, I mean, I do feel bad about that, especially if you're fighting against it.  But I don't feel personally responsible anymore. I'm sorry, but I can't help you. My political ire is not useful to you.  Your elected officials answer to you, not me. They don't care how many petitions I sign, calling them Neo-Fascist Pieces of Shit (even though I think we can all agree, they are).  Unfortunately, those good Baptist ladies who voted right along side you this past November elected the Congressmen and Senators that will be responsible for stripping you of your legal right to terminate pregnancies for no other reason than that you'd just prefer not to have a child at this point in your life.

Here's the third thing that occurred to me in all of this. Parties can gerrymander for race, and for cultural ethnicity. They can gerrymander to some extent for age (safe to assume that you're looking a lot of retirees in Miami, for example). But you cannot gerrymander for gender ("gender-mander"?).  That means that women are either consistently not voting in these elections, or they're voting against their own best interests - probably because Preacher Billy Joe Don Bubba Bob told them to.

You can't fight that, liberal ladies of Mississippi and Alabama. I love you, but those women want to see you dead.  You already are dead to them, because their own personal Jesus says so.  I wish I could change that, but I can't.  Maybe I'm destined to do it through fiction, but I'm damned if I know how. You might just have to move to the P.R.C.  (You can crash on my couch until you find a place of your own.)

So, for now, I just have to continue to pursue my own passions, my own calling, using every molecule of heat-energy I can to get it done.  If there's a way to use my calling to save the rights of others, I will do that.

Until then, I'm keeping my politics to myself, at least when it comes to public discussion. Allegorical meta-fiction is where my head is at, and that's where my heart lies now as well.

So as Linda Richman from SNL used to say, "Talk amongst yourselves."

Monday, October 13, 2014

Autumn in the House of Reflection

Photo by Nick Kenrick
Published under Creative Commons license
I am staying in my friend, Jim's, house for a few days, while he's out of the country on business. I'm minding the house and his 13-year-old daughter, Maddie. so she doesn't have to stay at other people's houses while he's gone. I do it because I care about Jim, who frets about the time his professional obligations keep him away from his girl.  I also do it for Maddie, who is just starting to traverse teenager-hood, and (like all of us at that age) just wants to have her space and her things and her life, as uninterrupted and stable as possible.  Having been a 13-year-old girl, I feel her need for this as sharply as I felt it back when I was that age.

However, I confess that I do this also for myself, for a number of reasons. On a purely superficial level, the house is a beautiful house, large and airy, full of light. It has the requisite real estate selling points - hard wood floors, granite countertops, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves (complete with a rolling librarian's ladder, for easy access to the highest shelves).  It is clean and open, but also has little spaces that permit seclusion.

At times when I can't work anywhere else, because of distraction or temperature, I hide out in Jim's house, so I can write. I find the environment there perfect for writing. It's not my house, so for me, it's like going to work in a really nice office.  I don't feel the need to be doing a chore or seeking alternative activity, so I can write with more focus.  I get what I call "binge-writing" done at Jim's house.

The time I've spent here recently has made me come to appreciate it more than I used to. I have never been a fan of rambling, two-story houses, mostly because the idea of caring for them seems daunting to me. All the nooks and crannies, all the places to misplace things (I'm famous for this, as many of you are well aware). I have maintained for a long time that homes - particularly ones where families live, and where there have been both happy and tumultuous time - have personalities. I won't go so far as to call it a "soul", since I reserve "souls" for living things. But there are persistent and abiding energies in a place where people live their lives every day. For better or worse, we leave an energy trail behind us that invisibly marks where we've been and how we felt when we were there. Who knows how long it lasts, this vaporous trail?

I know when I first came here, the house seemed a little foreboding, almost intimidating. I felt uneasy here, a little edgy. When I first came here, it hadn't been that long since the main planner and dreamer of this house, Jim's late wife, had died. She had been gone less than three years when I first walked through the door, and I expect that the grief and sadness of her loss was still sitting in the corners and hugging the baseboards of the house.  The house's planning, construction, decor, and furnishing were undertaken with the enthusiasm and exhilaration. The journey to its conclusion took an abrupt left turn at some point, and the completion of this house, as a building project, came at a time when energy and focus were drawn away to other, more pressing events.  This is a family home, built with family life in mind. Not just any family, though - this very family that lives here now. But it's a smaller family than initially intended - smaller by one, in fact. And the loss of that one is still felt here.

Which is not to say the house isn't loved and appreciated by its occupants. The teenager probably doesn't appreciated it the way one would like, but only because to her, this is home, and has been for as long she can remember. I think this is only right. There are certain times in a life when you should be allowed to take things for granted, to expect that they will be there, to depend on them. Like, say, three square meals on the table. Or the comfort and solace of your childhood home, whatever its size or grandeur. Or the idea that both of your parents will be there to watch you grow up.

Sadly, you can't have everything. One of Maddie's parents must do her watching from elsewhere. As the years go by, and Maddie's memories of her mother have faded, the photos on the walls of this house, and the memories that others have of her mother, must suffice.

Over the years, the sadness has dimmed. The darkness has receded like a low tide. Lives move on. A toddler becomes a little girl, turns into a young woman. Time moves forward. The house's skylights and windows seem to let in more light, more warmth. The house has, as I said, shrunk, becoming less intimidating, less weighty. Time may not heal all wounds, but it does act as a kind of physical therapy, building the muscles and coordination necessary to live with the wound and its aftermath.

Photo by Seyed Mostafa Zamani.
Published under
Creative Commons license.
I woke up in the little guest bedroom of this house this morning, a little before the alarm was to go off.  I had set the coffeemaker to auto, and the smell of fresh brewed coffee right outside my bedroom door probably did the trick. (Note to self: get help for severe coffee addiction.) It was foggy and chilly outside this morning. The California weather seems to be getting the idea that it might actually be time for autumn to start kicking in. I lay in bed and thought of this house, the grey light outside, getting brighter by the minute, and the sleeping girl upstairs, ignoring her alarms for that extra five minutes sleep.  She was four and a half when I met her. Her father, now one of my best friends, was still feeling the loss of his love keenly. Now, they are both going forward. He delves cautiously into the frightening world of dating. She plans her adult life and career and dreams of her future in the spotlight. The passage of time has changed them both.

I have changed, too. I am, deep into middle age and nearing another birthday, finally retooling a life away from pure subsistence and toward creativity. It is a struggle, financially and practically. But I am, for the first time in my life, truly happy and hopeful. I should be terrified at the prospect of poverty and financial hardship at this age, but truly, I've never been less afraid then at any time in my life. Fear, it seems to me, is a useless emotion, particularly when one is pursuing a life in the arts. This is what I decide as I'm lying in a guest bed, in a house that is not mine, smelling freshly brewed coffee.

Autumn seems to have arrived at last. It's my favorite season - the season for shedding the old and readying for the new. Halloween and harvest, the Day of the Dead and my birthday, then on to winter and giving thanks and offering gifts and another turn of the calendar. Some like the spring, for the new growth. I like the autumn and winter for shedding of old things that get in the way of that growth.  Loss of leaves on a tree is an ending, yes, but also a beginning, too.  If you want your spring, you're going to have to walk through your autumn and your winter to get there.

This house knows that. This house has lived it. This house has figured out that if you just sort of stick around, doing what you were meant to do, fulfilling your natural function, day in and day out, without waivering or falling back, things get better.  Things get lighter and easier to manage. Sadness comes. Tragedy happens. So does triumph. Events take a turn for the better, and then the worse, and then the better again.  But sorrow that hovers near the baseboards cannot stick. It will fade eventually, from enough sunrises, and season changes, and holidays, and milestones.

It's autumn. And I'm writing. In this house, where people live and get through the day. Nothing bad can come of that.

(NOTE: All Photographs in this piece were acquired through Flickr, under the Creative Commons license.)

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

When It's Time To Let Go (Or, That Rose DeWitt Bukater Was One Smart Cookie)

Several years ago, I made the decision to end a friendship. It had been a close friendship that meant a lot to me at one time.  In fact, when I ended it, it still meant a lot to me.  Letting go of that friendship was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made.  And it wasn't a throwing away. It was truly a letting go, the same way that, in the movie Titanic, Rose lets go of Jack when she realizes that he is beyond saving.

The friendship was beyond saving.

Whatever it was that had brought us together as friends, the thing that continued to bind us had become unhealthy and unwieldy.  There were unkind words spoken and boundaries broken, on both sides, that had slowly eroded the foundation of the friendship.  The final blow was, I'll confess, my doing.  I had suffered a loss - a death in the close family - and this loss had caused my ordinarily temperamental and difficult family to be even more so.  After months of caring for a very ill old man, all of us were frayed and damaged and just plain exhausted.  We had no patience for each other.

There were a handful of friends who picked me up during that time and carried me through that very difficult time by being loving and supportive, by handing me some really useful advice, based on their own recent losses, and by just plain telling me they loved me and, no matter when I called, they would pick up the phone.

And they did.

But she - this friend I released - wasn't one of them.  Instead, she said some harsh things to me that hurt badly, and then when asked to apologize, simply couldn't bring herself to do it. Our final, sad email exchanges sit in a folder in my Outlook - me asking for an unqualified "I'm sorry", and her saying, "Well, I am sorry you misunderstood," or "Well, I'm sorry, but here are all the things you've done to me."  I didn't want to hear that right then. My old man was dead, my heart was broken, my spirit was depleted, and what I wanted to hear was, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. What can I do to help you now?" If I had heard that, all would have been forgiven and the slate would have been cleaned.

When I compared her treatment of me over the past couple of years with that of my other friends, I realized I had a choice to make. A hard choice. I could go on in a friendship that took more energy than I had at that time, that occasionally resulted in emotional and psychological bumps and bruises, and that somehow didn't seem to serve either of us anymore, since she seemed unhappy and dissatisfied as well. Or I could just find a way to walk away.  When I put the choices about this friendship into my mental centrifuge, trying to separate the useless product from what really mattered, I kept coming up with the same results.

Love shouldn't hurt.

This love did. So I did what I needed to do, and said "good-bye".  It was hard. As she got smaller and smaller in my life, more and more distant, I wanted to reach out and scream, "No, come back!" I knew I would miss her.  I would miss the inside jokes. I would miss the movie dates and brunches and birthdays.  I would miss hearing her voice and her laugh.  She was a good friend, whom I'd loved dearly, whom I still love in some small way.

Yet when I said goodbye, when I let the frozen hands of that friendship slip slowly into the metaphorical Atlantic and then turned my attention to saving my own life, as Rose did, I realized that there was a lot more out there for me. My life became a little less chaotic, a little less painful. I missed our good times, but those had become fewer and fewer.  I had thought at one time I'd never be able to survive without her in my life.  In fact, I believe she said nearly these exact words to me.  I did survive, though. I thrived, in fact.

This experience was an invaluable lesson to me. Sometimes, friendships are like Volvos. Sometimes, they're like Yugos.  Ours was somewhere in between - maybe a Ford Fiesta.  But what I learned was that when it's time to get out of that vehicle and into something that better suits my life, I don't have to hesitate.

I don't do that anymore. When the car breaks down, and can't be reliably repaired, I have the right to go. I was reminded this past week that it's all about boundaries.  And sometimes it's about self-salvation.  I can pull those frozen fingers away from my hands and free myself.

Life is short, and I have a lifeboat to catch.

Thursday, September 11, 2014

A Nice Hot Steamy Cup of Condescension, False Analogies, and Things That Grow in the Dark

On September 8, I wrote a letter to Janay Rice, responding to her Instagram post extolling the horrors she and her husband (former) Baltimore Raven running back Ray Rice have suffered over the exposure of his violent assault of her at a casino in Atlantic City earlier this year.

My response was simply to the list of grievances Janay Rice had regarding media scrutiny and her husband's sudden and now possibly permanent suspension from the NFL , and how it had hurt both of them, and how she wished people would just leave them alone because it was an embarrassing moment, and the constant playing and replaying of that scene in the elevator where he punches her in the face and she goes down like... well, like a woman whose football player husband just punched her in the face... only serves to force her to relive the moment.

I've gotten a lot of response to my letter.  Most of it has been positive and in agreement with my points.  There were a few nitpicks - such as my decision at the last minute to add "And All Women Who Stay" to the title of the piece.  In retrospect, I probably should have written, "All Women Who Choose to Stay", since I meant to address the letter to women who voluntarily choose to stay, while too many women who stay in abusive relationships are not staying out of choice, but rather because they have no choice.

A couple of the critiques, mostly on the post on the blog and on Liberals Unite (which picked up and printed the letter later in the day) mentioned that we should "just leave her alone" or we should "just pray for her and give her privacy".  While I understand people's sentiments here, there's a specific reason I think such advice is utterly wrong-headed and potentially fatal.  But let's come back to that in a moment.

Two people (whom I imagine were writing in tandem, since they're responses were worded nearly identically) mentioned that I was condescending.  In my letter, I used expressions like "darling girl" and "dear one", and they felt this was my attempt to belittle Ms. Rice.  In fact, I use these expressions often, especially on the occasion when I am trying to have a difficult conversation in the gentlest way possible.

There is no condescension meant, nor did most people who read the letter take it that way. Oddly, both responders referred mostly to things I'd written in the first two paragraphs, which leads me to believe that neither of them (if they were separate people at all) read through the entire letter, and also leads me to believe that they were trolling the internet, Googling "Ray Rice", hunting for blog posts to respond to on behalf of the Rices or the Ravens or whosoever they're hoping silence will benefit.  Ordinarily, I ignore trolls (which is why I deleted their posts - trolls get no free airspace on The Chron).

However, while reading through a lot of conversation that ensued in the comments sections of my original post - the comments having veered a bit off the topic, as comments will do from time to time -- I noticed that "condescension" was a recurrent theme.  Having just been accused of the same thing, it caught my eye, and I studied each post which someone had accused of being condescending or "blaming the victim", to see if those posters and I were missing something. It's always easier to spot in someone else's writing than your own, after all.

What I found was that comments that were labeled "condescending" did not condescend at all. They were, to be sure, straightforward in their rebuke of Ray Rice's actions, of the NFL's responses and in their confusion at Ms. Rice's ongoing alliance with a man who punched her in the face not two months before their wedding. This didn't strike me as condescension.  It still doesn't. It strike me as truth.

In more than one instance, including by one of the trolls on the Chron, the analogy of rape was brought up.  To wit: "If she were raped, would you blame her because of what she was wearing?"  My reply to which is, no. Absolutely not. Of course not.

However, the rape analogy is a false one.

A rape survivor only has to comply with her attacker's wishes as long as it takes her to get out of the violent act alive.  Anything she has to do to this end is above reproach.  Coming out of a rape alive is the act of a hero, and you will never hear me criticize a woman for what she had to do to accomplish it.

Likewise, I have never, nor will I ever, blame Janay Rice for what went on in the elevator. I have been very vocal about the fact that Atlantic City police added insult to her injury by watching the elevator tape and concluding that she was a criminal, too, then promptly arresting her.  (This will be covered in another blog post very soon, by the way).

Now, ask me what I'd do if our hypothetical rape victim married her attacker two months after the attack, moved him into her house, and gave him free access to herself and her child, in spite of the fact that incontrovertible evidence of the rape not only existed, but has been made public for all to see.

I promise you, I'd have a thing or two (or fifteen, or seventy-nine) to say about it, and many of those things might well sound condescending.  Because if I said them to our hypothetical rape survivor, I would be attempting to have a very difficult conversation as gently as I could with a woman who obviously wasn't thinking that straight. Aligning yourself with someone who has hurt you - whether he's forced you to engage in non-consensual sex, or smashed you in the face with his fist - is not natural.  Truly not. Ever.  Trust me on this. Aligning yourself with your abuser so completely that you find yourself apologizing for being abused is even more nutty. Cult members do this.  If you're going to use an analogy about the victims of domestic violence aligning themselves with their abusers, then you can't use the rape analogy, because victims of rape do not ordinarily stick up for their rapists.  That is not healthy.

Descending into an abusive domestic relationship is much more like joining a cult. You become conditioned by the cult leader to believe that, though he hurts you, though he abuses you, he only has your best interests at heart, and if there is any failing in the relationship, then it's yours, sweetheart. If you were better, if you could just quiet his demons, you could keep it from happening. It is brainwashing, clever and brutal, designed to render the abused so mixed up that she doesn't know what is truth and what is a lie anymore.

This brings us to the part where we're supposed to "leave her alone" and "pray for her and give her privacy".  I'm sorry, citizens, but this is simply not an option. Domestic assault is a mould, thriving in the dark corners and behind closed doors and windows.  The only way to destroy it is to throw open the sash, let the sun in, and keep going at it until it dies out.  I realize that all the things that Ray Rice suffers affect Janay Palmer Rice as well. But that's only because, two months after he smacked her a good one in that elevator, she married the guy. For better or for worse. For richer, for poorer.

No, sir.  I will run the risk of sounding "condescending" to Janay Rice now, while she's alive, than risk keeping politely quiet, and watching another woman die the way Cherica Adams (killed by hit men hired by her boyfriend, Carolina wide receiver Rae Carruth) or Kasandra Perkins (killed in front of several coaches for the Kansas City Chiefs by her boyfriend, linebacker Jovan Belcher,  who then shot himself as police arrived).  I simply cannot bear it.  I cannot keep silent when the stakes are so high.

A woman who is fighting for her life during a rape must acquiesce to her attacker's demands long enough to survive her attack.  How long would you have a battered woman acquiesce to her attacker's demands when her attacker is her husband?

Til death them do part?