Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Respect: Another Way of Looking at Class Structure

About a year ago I got a tattoo of the staff of Asclepius from a shop in Hudson to commemorate the end of my career in medical publishing.  It's cute and I still like it.  While weeding my garden yesterday and contemplating the end of my professional life, I tried to think a bit more deeply about the meaning of this image and the value, if any, of spending three decades providing primary care doctors -- the major physician caregivers -- with information. 

I had just completed a contract with Medscape, which involved writing captions and an article on survey results for physician compensation, and, no surprise, the survey shows that primary care physicians (family docs, general interns, and pediatricians) are the lowest paid among all specialties. The highest earners are the surgeons and interventionalists.  (Of interest, dermatologists fall slightly above the middle in compensation but in our Medscape surveys are the happiest physicians.)  

In considering the different specialties and the disparities in how physicians are rewarded by our society, I began to conceive of a slightly different American class system, which determines a person's cultural status not by income but by respect based on the visibility of a person's successes or failures within specific groups.  A key element in this structure is the low regard given the caregivers in our society. As with all my theories, this one is half-baked and will not stand up to any rigorous investigation, but I thought it was worth a blog entry.

The following are the five categories in my new class system, with examples of participants, ranked highest to lowest by respect according to our society's values --- or lack of them:
  1. Exploiters: Most corporate leaders, wealthy indolent heirs, people in financial services, major criminals, and long-term politicians. Some major religious figures, media personalities, performance and conceptual artists, and all cats. Although exploiters can be feared and hated by their victims, they have attained the greatest respect in our culture because of the high visibility of their success (ostentatious display of money, power, tooth and claw) and their considerable resources (money, power, tooth and claw) to conceal any failures. On the rare occasions where non-feline exploiter failures are exposed (e.g. Madoff, Nixon), their fall in cultural respect can have extreme consequences -- massive public humiliation, jail, and in some cases death, although this doesn't always happen (e.g. Limbaugh).
  2. Heroes: Cops, firemen, soldiers, surgeons and medical interventionalists.  Heroes (except for surgeons) are not always rewarded well financially but they are ranked second in cultural respect because their successes are dramatic, immediate, and highly visible. Failure can be fatal for non-surgeon heroes and is not associated with a reduction in public respect. Surgeon failure might be fatal to their patients, in which case they do risk being sued, but not necessarily lose their place in the respect ranking.
  3. Observers:  Most of the working and middle class, including nearly everyone who spends more than four hours a day looking at a screen and all editors, figurative artists, academics, and dermatologists. This very large group falls solidly in the neutral center, because it bestows cultural respect and disrespect, rather than having either. Neither its minor failures nor successes are very visible, and are vaguely noted only by small circles of family and friends.
  4. Caregivers: Most primary care physicians, nurses, teachers, social workers, baby sitters, religious professionals who practice what they preach, parents or anyone who cares for family members, plus a few short-term politicians. This group doesn't make much money, and any cultural respect paid is usually lip service. Their success relies on improving the lives of victims (see below) and it is slow and rarely visible.  If they fail their victims, however, they are typically scapegoated and severely punished.
  5. Victims: Infants, toddlers, dogs, patients with chronic or fatal illnesses, small farmers who rely on the weather, people who get cheated sexually or financially, addicts, students in impoverished areas, and any adults without jobs and money for whatever reason. Victims have no success at all and only their failure is visible, which, except for very small children, dogs, and local farmers, is often considered to be self-imposed or caused by their caregivers.  Rarely are exploiters considered causal in a victim's failure, although they usually are. Some victims are momentarily saved by heroes.  Observers frequently contribute money to prop them up, but like heroic action, the success that this produces is typically brief and not visible.  In general, victims are served long-term only by caregivers. (In the past one or two victims have lifted themselves visibly into the exploiter class by their bootstraps, although unfortunately no one knows what a bootstrap is anymore.) 
The amount of respect and status bestowed on individuals in these groups has nothing to do with whether they are good or not. Although most exploiters are bad, many lose power and money and transform into other categories, usually victims.  Heroes and victims can be either good or bad, sometimes in the extreme. Observers shuffle back and forth between mild versions of the two states, typically living out their lives in variations of guilt, resentment, and smug contentment. Caregivers are generally good, just by virtue of their choices, but a caregiver who turns bad is bad indeed, typically transforming into an exploiter.

My Place in the Class System
I've been lucky enough so far not to be a victim (but Old Lady Gaga lurks in the shadows).  I never had the interest or nature to be an exploiter, but I was too much a physical coward to be a hero and too emotionally helpless to become a caregiver. My career as an editor, writer, and publisher puts me solidly in the observer category.

The best I can say about my place in the respect system is that I have been a caregiver cheerleader, counting some good friends and children in this best of all groups and spending most of my working life providing high-level information that will save time for the family doctors, general internists, and pediatricians -- the physician caregivers.

Caregivers: The Best Class With Nearly the Least Respect
Caregivers, who do not turn into exploiters, have made active life decisions to engage and not to be observers and to provide services for both the real and imagined victims.  
Caregiver incomes, no matter what profession, are nearly always low, because they typically rely on society for salaries and they don't kill anything and they don't steal.  And, the more victims there are, the more caregivers are needed, and the less money there is available to pay them.  So the more work caregivers have, the less money they make. 

Their success depends on the consequent improvements for the victims they serve. If they succeed, however, they are rarely credited with success because their actions are non-heroic, slowly progressive, and rarely visible. (The student goes to college five years after his teacher took a chance and gave him an A on a badly written history paper because his intelligence was obvious in its ideas; the patient with high blood pressure controls it with weight loss and exercise after months of badgering by her family doc; the mental patient goes back on his meds after he's considered what his social worker said in the emergency room a week before.) 

More often then not, however, in spite of caregivers' best efforts, they fail the victims, sometimes because victims are lazy or criminal but most often because of intransigent barriers to success: genetics, poor environment, severe emotional or physical illnesses, financial downturns, catastrophes, just lousy luck, and, of course, exploitation.  Unfortunately, when something seriously bad happens to a victim under someone's care, that failure is often visible (student drops out, psychotic kills himself, patient has a heart attack, child is abused), and because the real causes are unresolvable, the caregivers are often blamed and subsequently humiliated, yelled at, fired, attacked, or sued. 


So maybe there should be a sixth group--a highly loud and visible Monster Nagging Uber Caregiver, reminding the exploiters, the heroes, the observers, and the victims that the best chance our culture has is not only to pay caregivers a decent income and give them the deep regard they deserve, but to transform everyone into well-paid, publically respected caregivers.  Each of us a brother's keeper.  Now, where's my next victim?

Friday, April 11, 2014

The Lure of Big Jim

A lecturer on vegetables during Garden Day at the community college told the class that it was too late to plant chili seeds. "Get them in before March 15th or it's too late."
 "What?' I asked, alarmed. "What if I get them planted this week?" (It was April 2.)
 "It's over for them."
I don't think she understood the cruelty of her remark. She is a no-nonsense upstate second-generation farmer, who wanted nothing to do with fancy seeds, like heirlooms or, horrors, those from New Mexico. On the other hand, why am I so worried?
Green chilies, specifically Numex 6 and Big Jim, may be the primary reason why I'm leaving New York. Michael introduced me to them 25 years ago on my first trip out to Albuquerque, where he grew up. Duran's, a drugstore, across from Old Town, served a cheeseburger graced with green chili -- spicy, slightly sweet, with a subtle sweaty undertone. It grows on you. Eventually everyone becomes addicted. Sometimes people overdose. (My daughter who moved out West with her husband and kids years ago was a major addict but recently and unexpectedly has switched over to red. She sent me a recipe yesterday that was obviously intended to undermine my faith!) 
I started my first vegetable garden up here nearly 10 years ago with the intention of growing the basics for my favorite dish -- eggplant Parmesan. I had previously identified the perfect eggplant -- Rosa Bianca -- at the Union Square greenmarket, which is about four blocks from our New York apartment. You slice this oval, beautifully tinted lavender fruit into pretty thick rounds, coat it with flour and parm and sauté it first before you bake it layered between homemade tomato sauce, cremini mushrooms, and fresh mozzarella. When it's cooked through (and that's important!) the eggplant comes out tasting like thick custard, and everything else is dense, gooey and fabulous.
So I planted this eggplant and its pals San Marzano tomatoes and basil, and tossed in a cast of boring extras -- beans, cucumbers, squash and other WASP vegetables that my farmer lecturer would approve of. That first summer the beans turned to rust, and after one salad I let the cucumbers bulge and rot, because I didn't know what else to do with them. But the tomatoes and eggplant and basil thrived. My landlord Dave and I bought a freezer together, and I loaded one side with tomato sauce and grilled eggplant, ready for winter.
Encouraged by the egg-parm success, I introduced green chilies a couple years later. I bought the seed from Chimayo, New Mexico, a small town north of Albuquerque, which has its own eponymous chili and is known for a church that has a pit inside filled with miracle-established sacred soil that is sold by the teaspoonful. I bought a tiny box of it along with a couple of green chili packets, added them to my garden plan for the season, and, although not expecting much, by August, the miracle had worked. There they were, long, shiny, and green, dangling like jewelry and nearly invisible underneath the green shiny leaves that they closely matched. The first thrill every August is this discovery.
The second is grilling them on the Weber in the yard behind the barn, watching them char, then shoving them into brown paper bags, where they cool a little and their skins loosen up. Sitting like an old dog in the late summer grass, I flay the chilies and pile them up in steel bowls, ready for freezing.
The third and ongoing thrill is using them: The fattest ones are doomed for a pseudo chili relleno, stuffed with cheese, lathered with a batter, and baked for an hour. The thinner chilies are typically chopped and cooked with onions, garlic, and chicken stock. I might just freeze this mix, or put it in the processor with roasted tomatillos and cilantro (both growing in the garden) and mush it all together for salsa verde. This serves as a base for almost everything I cook over the winter. It goes into pasta sauces, mayonnaise for sandwiches, marinades for any kind of meat, and it cheers up soups and stews I am also planting cucumbers again for making sweet spicy pickles with raw chilies. Last year I threw soaked apple wood into the weber and smoked the chilies, which processed into a subtle chipotle. If I could put green chili into deserts I would.
I can't always count on the heat of the green chili, so I also plant two serranos, which emerge as tiny hot green thumbs early in the season. They have a neutral flavor and reliable spiciness, so I can throw them in with the New Mexico chili sauce to boost heat if I need to. And at the end of the summer, when the serranos turn red, I roast and process them by themselves with turmeric, cilantro, ancho chili powder, cumin, garlic, and a thick tomato base to make a phony harissa. Note to daughter: this does not predict any movement in my belief system to the red state. Serranos are no substitutes for the Numex 6 and the Big Jim. Nothing is.

I still buy my seeds from an online site located in Chimayo. Unfortunately, no one else grows New Mexico chilies around here, so if my plants don't make it, I won't even be able to buy the final produce in local farmers markets or even in the Ur-Market in Union Square. I don't know why I’m worrying. I'm a victim of upstate expertise, even against my own experience. The farmer down the road who nurses my new plants every spring in his green house never gets the seed in until April. One year, a chipmunk broke in and ate every one of the green chili plantlings, and he had to replant them again in early May. Even then the chilies still grew, although a lesser crop. But if the lecturer is right and "It's over for the peppers", then I guess we'll be forced to move to New Mexico.  Although I planted some Italian broccoli and cauliflower last year that were pretty great...And then there's a new kind of eggplant and Mosque de Provence pumpkin, which lends itself to all kinds of variations on its theme..We'll probably stay here even if Big Jim betrays me this season.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Why My New Hometown Paper Is Better than the Times

I got a call this morning from Lisa, who works in the circulation department (or actually may be the department) at the Register-Star, Hudson's local paper, whose weekend edition I recently subscribed to during a promotion at the Shoprite, where I also entered a raffle and got $10 off on my groceries.  Lisa called to find out if I had gotten my first issue. I told her I hadn't checked the mail yet because of the rain, and she pointed out that the postman isn't allowed to put newspapers into a mailbox. (An unexpected bit of upstate knowledge.)  She was worried it might have gotten lost and asked if I'd call her back. The mailman had kindly put my paper in a plastic bag and hung it from the mailbox.  I called Lisa back to reassure her.  What's not to like about this place? 

So, I went inside, out of the rain, poured a cup of coffee and tucked into my first R-S weekend edition.  In addition to its fabulous customer service, here is what's great about the paper itself.

The front-page headliner:  Last Tuesday, a "Hudson man", Austin Suarez, whose nickname is Porky, was arrested, escaped in his car, and while doing so ran over a cop's foot (who is ok).  The police chased him across the river into Catskill but he eluded local forces on both sides of the Hudson and went home, where they managed to nab him later on after "a struggle".  The charge: having small amounts of hydrocodone and a needle. 

Second lead story:  A tractor-trailer truck driver after being stopped by the police took off and led them on an 8-mile chase down one of our local highways until he was finally caught. His crime: using his cell-phone non-hands-free

Front-page image: Someone at a cultural workshop for kids at the local primary school demonstrating a coat? Muskrat? Sting-ray?















Other front-page stories:
  •        Treated discharge from a local toxic landfill was dumped into the local kill (old Dutch word for creek). Apparently the stuff is ok but we're encouraged to sign a petition to keep it clean. I'll do that.
  •        Columbia county officials held a meeting on either privatizing a nursing home, keeping it, or building a new one, none of which was clear since the reporter didn't give any background or describe the roles of the people he quoted.
  •        The town may set up a conservation advisory council to protect the Hudson River from rising sea levels.  If only every town would do that.  Or country for that matter.
Second section:  Less important news about Obama visiting the Pope, the missing plane, the health care deadline, the federal budget.

Columns:
  •        The Clutterbusting writer just published part 3 on organizing your things before you move.  Exactly what I need. I went online and found her column but it didn't have parts 1 and 2. Or maybe it did but the articles weren't arranged chronologically so I couldn't find them.
  •       ,The writer for the food column has been to Venice and likes to punctuate her recipes with Italian words for food, but otherwise she writes without pretension and warns me to get to the local farmer's market by 10:00 or I won't get any greens. I'm going to try her frittata spumosa, which she folds over into a "loaf" and, although not on the ingredient list, adds a "blob" of goat cheese to the top. Fresh basil is listed as an ingredient, but she doesn't have any because it's still cold and uses dried oregano instead.
Culture Section. Its cover sports a raft of heart-breakingly enthusiastic teeners who are performing in the Germantown Central School's production of the Wizard of Oz. Glinda still has braces. Aunt Em is both shorter and younger looking than Dorothy, who is taller than everyone except for a pretty girl next to her in a black outfit, which could be the costume for either the scarecrow or the witch.  (The witch might also be a young person in the back row wearing aviator glasses.). A small boy in a baseball cap and jeans, squatting in the front row, is probably the lion because he's making his hands look like claws, or he's just goofing around. (I was once one of them.  Best part of my youth.  I got a little weepy.)

Columbia and Northern Duchess County are riddled with culture at a more advanced (but not necessarily more fun) level, which the R-S promotes and reviews in the weekend edition. Dancers, actors, musicians, performance artists, poets, writers, and other talent at every proficiency either live around here or take the train from New York to amuse the natives at Bard, Kaatsbann, Hudson Opera Center, Ghent Playhouse, Club Helsinki, Basilica, TSL, and various welcoming churches, book stores, and other venues.

Tonight we go to Helsinki to see Reed Waring, my friend's former handyman who has a band, Two Gun Man, which we saw a few weeks ago and became fans. Reed is a terrific singer/songwriter of "sometimes mellow and heartbreaking, sometimes boisterous and joyful" music (from this today's Register-Star.)

So, here's why I don't miss the NY Times anymore. 
  •         Even if it wrote about Porky, it wouldn't give us his nickname,
  •        It wouldn't give more coverage to the Wizard of Oz than to Purcell's' Dido and Aeneas (playing at the Kinderhook Church),
  •        It doesn't have a police blotter or weekly calendar
  •        If it covered a potential toxic event it wouldn't also provide a link to a petition that you can sign
  •        It doesn’t use the word "blob" in its recipes,
  •        I don't know anyone personally that it's writing about
On the other hand, I hope Reed Waring becomes famous someday and when he does I hope he gets reviewed by the Times.  I'll undoubtedly read it.  In spite of its inferiority to the R-S, it's very hard to give up the Times.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

No One Will Read This Particular Blog

I was reviewing a book on Amazon today,  Confessions of a Bad Teacher: The Shocking Truth from the Front Lines of American Public Education by John Owens.  I became so incensed while I was writing the review (not at the book, which I really liked, but by its message) that I thought I'd publish it as my blog this week.  It doesn't really fit my theme, but it does reflects another aspect of my New York past -- the experience of my family with its public school -- and why it gets less difficult to leave my city.

This is a book about the current state of NY public schools.  Sadly, I know that this sentence will prevent almost everyone from reading on, but really, really, it's important for anyone involved with kids, teachers, or humans.  And it's funny.

Owens spent less than a year teaching middle school but his observations echo those of my son, who currently teaches middle school in Brooklyn.  The NY school system has never been anywhere near perfect, but over the years when my kids, now adults, attended public school, it did provide a lively, haphazard, but ultimately good experience for them.  New York public schools had, as they still have, the severe challenges of serving communities that are weighted with low-income, non-English-speaking families.  However, when my kids were growing up, they were packed with engaged, creative teachers who were passionate about serving its city's children. 

Like Owens and my son, they still are, but that energy and creativity may now be fatally subdued by a system patched with a Kafkan bureaucracy, barraged by incessant standardized tests, and drowning in empty clichés that are pumped out of a marketing cesspool to "inspire" and "direct" exhausted teachers.  No real solutions and no effective rules are offered that a burned-out teacher can use to subdue those hormone-riddled chaotic nests called "classrooms".  All that the teachers have to guide them are helpless administrators (see Major Major from Catch 22) and inane sound bites disguised as training guides.  NYC teachers are burdened by the full responsibility of educating kids, who go home each night to vacant homes or adults who can just manage to live, and they are blamed when these students fail. 

Teachers live, like all of us, in a culture that respects only wealth or mindless accomplishments that evaporate when a screen goes dark, that disregards people who chose jobs that serve the most vulnerable rather than the most arrogant.  Right wing attack dogs are out to destroy their only protector, the union. Teachers are accused of having an easy job because they get long vacations, but as Owen writes and as I've observed with my son, new teachers typically leave early in the morning during the week and come back home to work on into the night and most of the weekends grading papers and torturing themselves with lesson plans. During vacations, they often work on the curriculum for the next year and catch up on educational tracts. 

And what my son faces and what Owen faced every school day, hour after hour, are doomed out-of-control children, who are either pampered inappropriately because of politically correct blinders, bludgeoned with incomprehensible tests, handed Ritalin, or left to wander the halls and finally the streets. And even worse, so many teachers, like my son and Owens, love these troubled and troubling kids and are stunned by their inability to help them, until, like their students, they believe they have failed.  Fifty percent of teachers are gone within five years. 


Read this book.  It's engaging and funny, but if you stop laughing with Owens, you will weep.  As a coda, Owens left before the end of his first year.  My son has lasted three years and will be leaving at the end of this year to become a priest.  I'm not surprised. 

Friday, March 14, 2014

Magical Thinking and My Shoulder Pain

I've had this shoulder pain for about 10 years and haven't done anything about it, but it's worsened during this joke of a winter. (God to Global Warming Worriers: "You want winter back?  I'll give you winter back!")  I'm losing function, but, like many people, I avoid doctors.  This is of course a personal irony because I have spent 40 years working with, talking to, and interviewing physicians, and I really like them as a tribe and many as humans. 

Some of them are my heroes, in fact, for instance George Lundberg,  my ex-boss at Medscape and former editor of JAMA.  George spent a portion of his considerable intelligence and energy in fighting the false promises of complementary and alternative medicine (CAM for short), which he perceives as wracked with inadequate studies and insubstantial evidence

As one of his acolytes and having followed the literature on CAM for years, I'm a strong supporter of this view.  The evidence on any benefits for most herbs, CAM procedures (eg. acupuncture. chiropractic), supplements, and other so-called natural substances, is weak at best.  Very few rigorous studies have been conducted on these so-called natural therapies, particularly randomized trials that pit them against placebos or FDA approved treatments.  Some reasons for this:
  1. You can't usually patent CAM agents because they're natural, so drug companies have no incentive for spending the big bucks required for conducting clinical trials. 
  2. CAM manufacturers sometimes publish their own studies, but these are even more suspect than those run by that popular villain, Big Pharma, whose trials and drugs are FDA reviewed and regulated, which CAM's aren't. (FDA, however, can go after false claims and contamination of natural agents.)
  3. CAM has no standards, at least in the US, so let's say you want to study Echinacea purpurea, one of nine cornflower species, to see if it cures the common cold. You throw its leaves in a pot, boil them up, strain them, and bottle the results. You and your sniffling friends swallow a tablespoon or two, and hurrah, it cures your colds (maybe).  You publish the results in a tiny journal. Someone else using roots, a different species, or different dosages, does their own tiny study and says Echinacea is useless for the cold. A cornflower by the same name wouldn't smell just as sweet. 
  4. The Fed has a CAM center (NCCAM) that funds research on natural treatments, but because big clinical trials are so expensive, most of its money goes to very small ones, basic research (not human relevant), or analyses of existing published CAM trials. The latter typically can't tell if there are any benefits with the CAM agent in question because the trials analyzed were too weak to support any evidence (Go to point 1 and use this list as an infinite loop

Another point, natural stuff is not always safe.  (In fact, really, think about nature for even a nanosecond -- tooth and f-ing claw).  Some observations on CAM's safety:
  • It would follow that CAM treatments powerful enough to be effective would also have side effects and interactions, just as our regulated drugs do. St. John's wort, for instance, actually may relieve some depression, but then it becomes no different from any other approved anti-depressant. It can cause problems
  • Using CAM as a substitute to tested treatments for serious illnesses can kill you.  Farewell Steve Jobs
  • Taking too much of anything, even nice natural things, can be bad.  Beta-carotein and smokers -- good example. 
  • Regarding traditional Chinese medicine (TCM), the darling of New Ageists, a guy who runs the biggest physician social media company in China told me that by Chinese law TCM isn't allowed to be studied.  Everything in the big fat TCM Book was written about a zillion years ago, so I suppose it would be embarrassing to find out that practices done for centuries might be useless or worse. Furthermore, Chinese doctors are now injecting TCM potions, even though the Great Book only talks about oral remedies, and no one knows whether spurting herbs into the blood stream may be lethal, because THEY CAN'T STUDY THEM.  (We can study them here if we want, but see previous numbered list for why we won't.)

But, given this pious rant, here's the humiliating truth.  I am a CAM junkie. I've taken glucosamine to prevent arthritis for 15 years based on a couple faulty optimistic studies (so far so good).  I'm a major user of probiotics, coenzyme Q10, vitamin D3, and B complex -- all based on inadequate positive studies that I chose to believe over the equally inadequate negative ones.  I house apple cider vinegar and raw honey for cold emergencies, and I have a secret recipe for elderberry syrup that I plan to bottle this summer for curing everything. I meditate every day and I took yoga for ten years, until some power-hungry instructor bellowed me into straining my shoulder during chaturanga.

So, full circle and long story long.  My shoulder was injured practicing some hyperactive version of an Eastern practice, so what did I do this week?  I went to an acupuncturist in Hudson.  A very smart and pleasant young woman, who studied in Seattle and lived in China for a while, pinned me up, electrified me, and gave me hickies on my back with vacuum cups. I lay on my side for an hour and dozed, came home, and slept that night without waking up from shoulder pain for the first time in months. 


I can't imagine acupuncture will cure whatever is wrong with my shoulder, and I have little faith that the relief will last.  But, what seems to be clear from pretty good evidence is that stress and its sidekick, an over enthusiastic immune system, are making a lot of us sick. And many CAM treatments target these bad friends.  Furthermore, even if the benefits are only a placebo effect, we know from studies that this can be pretty substantial, with placebos sometimes even beating the drugs they're up against.  So, I say, what the hell.  I'll keep going to the very comforting lady with the needles and put off the burly orthopedist with his scary knives as long as I can, and I won't tell Dr. Lundberg.