23 June 2019
[Above photo: A young woman, thanaka-smeared, throwing small dishes on a primitive electric pottery wheel in Twante.]
I’ve wearied of feeling like a slacker because I haven’t studied for my weekly Burmese language lesson. It was similar in Malawi, where I was so incredibly busy teaching and seeing patients that I had little energy or motivation to study Chichewa. I’d go to our weekly group class at the French Cultural Center and sit with my eyes cast down, praying I wouldn’t be called upon. It gave me empathy for the children I’ve seen who found academics difficult or otherwise didn’t do the work; a dread builds up beginning two or three days before the class when you realize that you can hardly recall the last lesson, let alone be able to use what was presented spontaneously in conversation. Given my mild hearing loss, my life-long difficulty with auditory discrimination, the tonal nature of spoken Burmese, the total lack of cognates, and the fact that after 5 months of study I can speak some but can understand nearly nothing except prices in the market and brief phrases on taxi rides, I figure I won’t achieve conversational fluency at this rate in the next 5-6 months. So I’ve called off my lessons for now—-possibly forever. It is a great weight off of me and I still will chip away at trying to learn more but without the pressure. Whew!
We visited two schools for the deaf on Friday, punctuated by a great lunch at Thai 47. This time I successfully used my professorial prerogative to demand that I pay. The first school was founded in 1918 by Mary Chapman, a wealthy British do-gooder who really has done good. It is a wonderful and going concern with regular education for K through 4th grade, assistance for the children to continue in the local public schools, a beautiful new 5 story hostel where they can live, a large indoor gym/sports facility, a training college with a 1 ½ year curriculum for Special Ed teachers, and all manner of extras for vocational training: a coffee shop, a gift shop, a massage studio, a beauty parlor, and a large room for tailoring and crafts, all set in a woodsy area in the midst of Yangon. The children looked happy and cute and were very friendly; apparently many do not feel well-treated when they go home on weekends and are eager to return to school and to see their friends. I bought an amazing box woven out of discarded instant coffee packages—You know, the kind that are so tough you cannot open them—in the gift shop. And a red, black, green, and yellow string bracelet and a bottle of homemade shampoo. I returned the next day for a shiatsu massage.
The massage was done very professionally and upon completion I felt nearly new. But during it, the pain made me want to cry out at times. I thought about it on the spot and decided that life has a lot of pain for most of us and crying out really isn’t much help unless you are attempting to change something. I didn’t want the masseur to stop what he was doing, as I assumed it would loosen my tightness. And it felt unbecoming to scream in this peaceful room where others were likewise being tortured, but in silence. An hour of the most thorough massage I’ve had cost 7000kyat, less than $5. I signed up for next Saturday, although I may change the time if I decide to travel.
I braced myself for our visit to the government school after lunch, given how awful the government Boys Training School had been. But I was pleasantly surprised. While more modest in appointment, and it is only 5 years old, the atmosphere was cheerful, the children appeared happy, and the teachers were animated and engaged. I suspect that the leadership of each institution, above and beyond the funding and the population of children, has a lot to do with how they function. The Boy’s Training School was led by a dispirited man whereas both schools for the deaf were led by upbeat women. Also, it always improves a system to have a training mission; it reminds us to do our best, always, given the responsibility of teaching others.
I wondered what my reaction to the deaf children would be. Meeting a handicapped child can stimulate sympathy. I wanted to inoculate the students against this but didn’t need to. They responded to the children as if they were children, not handicaps. I’ve heard blind adults say they view their blindness as a blessing, because it heightens their other senses and helps them to adapt in unique ways. Think of George Shearing, Ray Charles, Art Tatum, Stevie Wonder, Doc Watson, Reverend Gary Davis, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Sonny Terry, and countless others. While it is perhaps a reaction formation, I can understand why many of them say they fear being sighted, as it would expose them to a world for which they aren’t prepared.
I recall when taking Erhard Seminar Training (EST)—-Remember that?—as part of my Family Medicine Residency at San Francisco General Hospital in 1973, during the recruitment meeting in the Masonic Auditorium a man wondered if he might receive a special discount since he was blind. “We can talk about that afterward”, said the charismatic, gold-bechained, open-at-the-neck-shirted leader, “but I want you to know I don’t feel sorry for you.” It seemed gratuitous and cruel at the time but he was making a point in response to the man’s plea for special treatment. There weren’t, I might add, many particularly valuable points I extracted from the several weekend trainings, other than that stress can trigger panic and psychosis in vulnerable people. Witness the man who charged at the exit doors, blocked by large men and tables, screaming, “Let me out!” Or the other man who stood up and repeated many times in a dreamy voice, “Away with the old, in with the new. Away with the old, in with the new.” I think the man who peed on the carpet in our hotel ballroom simply had a full bladder; we weren’t allowed to exit the room during the “seminars”.
A 15yo girl, an only child, was brought to clinic by her parents 2 weeks ago because she wasn’t interested in school and just wanted to draw anime on social media. She lived her early life in Papua, New Guinea where her father worked. She was homeschooled by her mother. Neither were allowed by the father to leave the house as he felt it was dangerous for women and girls to be out and about unescorted (by a man). The girl has been sleeping in bed between her parents since birth. Co-habitation in the parental bed, even if there are other rooms in the house, is surprisingly common here. We gently suggested that the girl be given a bed in her own room to see what might happen. Lo’ and behold, she came in with her mother this week looking happy and assertive. She’s sleeping on her own, doing her schoolwork, willing to limit her animation to an hour a day on weekdays and two per day on the weekends. She’s even interested in joining a badminton club to play with friends on the weekend. I think she has hope she might be allowed to grow up. Another one saved! The students are so funny, being pleasantly surprised by the often dramatic changes wrought with simple measures. Use other methods of discipline than beating your child; get him/her out of the marital bed. I suggest to them that it always isn’t so easy. I have added a question to the Assessment Form, “Where does the child sleep?”
DT is enjoying yet another accusation of rape as detailed in New York Magazine. I worry it may further nudge him to distract us by starting a war with Iran. It’s strange, he equates bullying impulsivity with decisiveness, groping with masculinity. Our politicians have little incentive for peace, as they raise election money from industries that flourish during wartime. Election finance reform and eliminating the Electoral College must be central to the Democratic platform. The latter was perhaps helpful when we were a small, rural population but no longer. I cannot wait to get back and get to work for this election. Senator Susan Collins’ time ended for me well before her calculated dithering Brett Kavanaugh endorsement but that underscored her finale. And good ol’ Mitch is currently the least popular senator in the country. The times they are achanging—we hope!
A Psychiatrist in Myanmar 