I'm having an uneventful train ride home. Peaceful, even. I cross the platform at Chambers Street to a waiting 2 train. The doors close and a man from the opposite end of the train car shouts, "REPENT!"

What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a subway preacher.

The subway preacher is a unique type of busker. He's not trying to entertain you like the strolling mariachi band or the guy who plays Big Band-Era hits on his horn. Nor is he pleading his sad story in a bold-faced attempt to get donations. No, no. The subway preacher is simply sharing information which is, to be direct about it, that you're going to hell.

On this evening, my subway preacher is a fire-and-brimstone type sporting a thick Jamaican accent. Since it seems that I'm stuck in a traveling pulpit, for the subway preacher does not change cars at each new stop like the musicians, I figure I'll make the best of it.

"The answer is not in your fancy house or your fancy purse or your fancy car. No, mon. The answer is not in any of those things."

He seems to be saying that we place too much importance on material things. That's something I can get on board with, but then he crosses the proverbial line in the sand.

"You think you can listen to the devil all your life and then follow God to the kingdom of heaven? No, mon. It doesn't work like that. Let me tell you how it works. You will all go to hell. You have to break free of your devilish ways. Tell that demon inside you: "You are not welcome here anymore.' Repent, earthly children, REPENT!"

Um…

"God made Eve for Adam. He didn't make Adam for Adam. That's the devil taking up in you."

And because New Yorkers can't keep their mouths shut, a woman protests about this recent comment. The preacher rains a barrage of Bible quotes down upon her. This scene reminds me of a woman affectionately known to F train riders as the Chinese curses lady.

The Chinese curses lady, who eerily resembled Yoko Ono in her giant glasses phase, had one big pet peeve. She did not like anyone to talk on the train. The subject matter wasn't important.

"So, I heard it's going to rain later today."

"One hundred curses on you," said Chinese curses lady. "You call the Chinese name from the devil? One hundred curses!"

Inevitably the offending person would glance her way, realize the lady's elevator was not rising to the top floor, and continue the conversation. "I forgot to bring my umbrella and I have to go way uptown."

"Five hundred curses on you," said Chinese curses lady.

I've seen people move to another part of the train car to get away from her, but she would not be deterred. She would simply follow them, sending curses their way the whole time. For months, I'd traveled unscathed until one day I made the mistake of talking to a friend before I realized she was there. From behind me, her voice boomed, "One thousand curses on you." Whoa. That's a lot of curses. Don't we usually start at 100?

My friend began talking, oblivious to the blight now on our auras.

"One million curses on you." That's some bad ju-ju.

Meanwhile the subway preacher continues railing, having moved deftly from homosexuals to George Bush — the transition easier than one might think. I alight at Grand Army Plaza while he still has the devil on his mind.

Jacquelin Cangro

According to Jeffrey Toobin's book on supreme court justices, Justice Souter is a low-tech person who loves the outdoors. He does not have a television or a cell phone. A bachelor, he was appointed to the court by President George H.W. Bush in 1990. Although President Bush appointed him assured of his conservative leaning, Justice Souter soon stunned everyone by supporting Roe v. Wade, voting to uphold the landmark ruling on abortion rights.

Now he is firmly on the more liberal side of the court. So when President Obama appoints his successor, there will not much change. But since Justice Ginsberg's health is a big concern because of her recent illness, the Obama administration could get lucky and get a chance to turn the court into a more liberal one.

CBS News is saying that the new appointee to the court could possibly be a woman from a minority group. Judge Sonia Sotomayor, a Latina woman, and solicitor general Elena Kagan are mentioned as possible choices.

US News & World Report writes about the calculations going on about the confirmation hearing, citing reports from today's New York Times, Politico, and The Washington Post.

Bhumika Ghimire

By the time you see me in the hospital, you have no place else to go.  The system has failed you: you’ve alienated family and burned through your support systems.  Perhaps you’re in your first all-out psychotic break or stopped the meds that stabilize your moods, thoughts and behavior.  You could be dangerous – to yourself or someone you once knew and loved, or to a total stranger on the street.

Layers of symptoms interfere with negotiating the basics of daily living – shopping, cooking, paying bills, doing laundry, washing your face and brushing your teeth.

Juggling a job, partner, kids – all things being equal, this is hard enough when everything is great, let alone when you’re battling depression or voices that tell you to hurt someone, voices no one else hears.

It’s a major undertaking just to get out of bed and feed yourself.  Going to the pharmacy or market, making a phone call, knocking on a neighbor’s door, reaching out – these are impossible if you have to fend off menacing and terrifying command hallucinations. or believe the CIA is following you.  In full blown mania, patients may be so euphoric that food and clothing are unnecessary accouterments to life.

You’re beset by bizarre and mysterious somatic complaints for which no medical text can account.  Doctors don’t believe you.  You tell them you’re feet are on fire or that you have electrodes in your brain, that there are fingernails in your scrotum.  You believe the CIA is following you, that cameras are hidden in your walls, that the television is giving you orders.  You leave a trail of chaos in your wake for family and friends to clean up.  They don’t fully comprehend your ailment.  They believe that you have some control over your symptoms and that you’ve chosen to behave in ways that deliberately undermine their best intentions and efforts to save you.  They will doubt and deny and when they finally understand you, they’ll understand you’re a stranger with a familiar face.  

It’s shameful – you know that with what’s left of your ability to reason.  It’s shameful that the weakest and most confused among us are left to negotiate a labyrinth that leads inevitably to the emergency room, where you enter the maze, only to learn there isn’t a psychiatric bed for you.  There aren’t enough beds to start with, and you don’t have the right insurance.  

I apologize.  Society’s failings are compounded by our own.  I can name the agencies involved in educating us, but their programs fly in the face of how we feel when we encounter someone like you.  You’re different and we’re afraid.  You frighten us.  The reptilian brain still cowers in the cave or whispers aggressive thoughts.  There isn’t much to it, the oldest smallest region of our most mysterious organ.  Fight or flight is hard-wired into it.  Stigma lives there.  “Not in my backyard,” stigma whispers.

As self-congratulatory as Portland, Oregon may be, homeless schizophrenics are as common as Starbucks’ franchises.  You give off fumes acquired sleeping in doorways, huddled against the rain in clear plastic dry-cleaner bags, picked up from the exhaust of a million cars, from urinating wherever you can.  Your hobo skin is the product of time and layers of grime.  Your wear all that you own, shabby raiments layered on in no particular order. 

Walking down a tony street in Portland, I feel that same moment of panic and indecision as anyone else.  When you approach me yelling at someone I can’t see, do I cross the street?  Would that hurt your feelings?  Would you understand that I avoided you, recognize my rejection?

Our fears are not baseless.  Statistics in the May 19, 2009 issue of JAMA indicate that 28% of schizophrenics who also abuse alcohol and drugs are convicted of violent crimes, compared to 8% of those who do not have substance abuse problems and 5% of the general population. 

There are other statistics: 25% of the mentally ill population benefit substantially from medication; there are another 25% for whom medication does nothing; medication helps the remaining 50%, more or less.

This is mental illness and you are one of my patients.  Faces and names change; your symptoms do not.  I pull you up from the ground or down from the sky, I stand by as your newborn is removed from the delivery room by a social worker from the Department of Human Services.  I try to help you manage your demons.  You know how that goes.  Sometimes the magic works.  Sometimes it doesn’t.  And in any case, this probably won’t be your last visit here.  The ward, 3East, where you come to stay for a night or a fortnight, is shelter from the storm, a bed and a meal – three hots and a cot, an E-ticket ride at Disneyland, the card that fills the inside straight.  You’re with me as long as your insurance lasts and no longer.  Your oddly worded letters of thanks, your strangely drawn sketches take up a wall of my office. 

Rest now. 

I’ll  tell your story.

Evelyn Sharenov

From CNN:

White evangelical Protestants were the religious group most likely to say torture is often or sometimes justified — more than six in 10 supported it. People unaffiliated with any religious organization were least likely to back it.

Ah, the evangelical mind. God forbid we believe in evolution, but torturing other human beings is A-OK.

Can I get an Amen from my fellow secular liberals?!

Jennifer Leblanc

The homeless man who spends his mornings on the platform at Grand Army Plaza is back after a long absence. (See "So easy. You just smile, okay?" post.) He showed up a few days ago, sporting a new knit cap. I found him carefully pouring most of a 5 lb. bag of sugar into a bottle of orange soda. His cart was intact and contained more or less the same things when I last saw him weeks ago.

I was relieved to see him and comforted to know that he had not been victimized while he was away. Every morning that he'd been gone, I'd thrown out some positive vibes for his safe return, but then I realized that instead maybe I should have been hoping to never see him again, that he would find a way out of his current situation and into a better life. Is that egotistical of me to presume that one way of life is better than another? He could be perfectly happy in his current situation, surviving on the kindness of strangers, unencumbered by the traps of society.

Many people might look at my existence and assume something similar — "How does she live in a 600-square-foot apartment in a fifth-floor walk-up? I hope that someday she can move up to a big house with a fenced yard." While that would be very nice, I'm actually happy in my tiny apartment, thank you very much.

I'm starting to rethink the notion that "more" means "better." Maybe instead of hoping that the guy at Grand Army Plaza gets what I want for him, he should get whatever it is he wants for himself.

Later that evening, I was returning home after walking my dog around the neighborhood. An elderly woman came out of her building with a yellow lab. She's partially blind and shows signs of dementia. In fact, the only reason she seems able to live on her own, and not in an assisted living home, is due to the dog.

I've seen her many times before. She never strays from the straight line between her door and the curb so the dog can relieve himself. Occasionally I see her wrap his leash around the fire hydrant so she can brush him. She is not gentle or kind, using the brush as if she were scrubbing a linoleum floor.

Easily more than 80 pounds, the lab remained docile while his owner jerked his collar and whined, "Come on! Why are you doing this to me? Hurry up!" His inky, soulful eyes watched intently as I passed with my dog. They stared at each other and I would swear in a courtroom that this dog was begging to be released from this situation. "I did it, your honor. I stole this dog and drove him upstate to a farm where he can breathe fresh air, sniff another dog's butt, eat gross stuff, and run until his tongue is hanging out."

As I put my key in the door, I glanced once more at the dog, still staring at us as the lady yelled again, "Hurry up!" I felt so sad for him, just as I'd felt sad for the guy at Grand Army Plaza, and I wished the dog a better life — the life I wanted him to lead, the life I thought he should have. But maybe, just maybe, he's fine just where he is. Maybe he doesn't mind the 600-square-foot apartment in the fifth-floor walk-up. Maybe he's actually already happy.

Jacquelin Cangro

Upon arriving at your destination, your first order of business, before you put your bags down or remove your coat or get a cup of coffee, is to unconsciously make a beeline for the nearest sink to wash your hands.

See "Spring is in the Air" post, April 6, 2009.

Jacquelin Cangro

The beaconing white twin longhorns of the aptly named Texas Grill, located half a kilometer from my apartment, could very well be located off any interstate from Oklahoma to New Jersey.

The promise of one-inch-thick steaks and the carved wood totem pole outside in the parking lot remind me of restaurants we used to make pit stops in on the long drives down to Florida from Ohio.

But the Texas Grill I'm referring to is not a highway pit stop for weary travelers. In fact the restaurant in question is approximately a four-minute walk from my local boulangerie in a city called Dieppe. In upper French Normandy. In France.

The extent of proliferation of American culture into others often astounds me. Not that in this day this is all that surprising, but for a culture that is notoriously protective of its traditions, the Americanisms that have wheedled their way into the French periphery are, as many would argue, some of the worst. McDo is a favorite among teenagers, and KFC has become an increasingly popular lunch spot in Paris.

The Texas Grill, with its red roof and painted white bull, claims to offer up hearty American food, fresh from the ranch, in a commercial, outside mega-center complete with the Wal-Mart equivalent, Carrefour, and outlet stores selling everything from electronics to house furniture.

That isn't to say on any level that France is not entitled to partake in the idea of bulk convenience or even in culturally themed cuisine such as the Texas Grill. (The United States is guilty of everything from Don Pablo's to Hunan Express, after all.)

But from a foreign perspective (or I guess my foreign perspective), this side of France, it doesn't tend to register immediately in my cultural constructions. One of the ways we differentiate culture is to do exactly that. Register the differences. How is Spain different from Hungary, or different from Indonesia? And these lines tend to blur once we enter the world of globalized mega-markets and strip malls.

About two months ago, I found myself for the first (and last) time eating lunch in a restaurant called Flunch that is the French take on the infamous buffet.

As I sipped my coffee that mysteriously came from a token machine, my friend Andrea looked up at us mid-conversation, forkful of frites halfway to her mouth and exclaimed,"We could actually be anywhere in the world right now in this restaurant."

And it's true. I swear I've seen the same carpets in the Wendy's across the street from my old high school—the same porcelain coffee cups, the same yellow -wallpapered walls.

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

Women are easy marks for drug companies.  They’re more likely to do their health care homework, correctly fill out insurance paperwork and pay attention to television commercials that feature medications.  They’re more comfortable advocates for their own well being as well as that of family members (a man has to be standing on a bridge ready to jump before he’ll admit he’s depressed) – and more easily turn her healthy behaviors into sales.  Women also pay close attention when an ad features beautiful young models, ads that pitch lifestyles as well as birth control.

So how does big pharma market a new birth control pill?  Several years ago, Bayer started a campaign to push Yaz to the top of the birth control pill charts; it was incredibly successful, until the FDA forced Bayer to pull the ads featuring women kicking balloons labeled "irritability," "headaches," and "increased appetite."  When a pill implies, to the background pulse of a popular rock tune, that it will end pimples and monthly bloat, who wouldn’t pay attention?  Who cares if it can kill you?  

I’ve followed the advertising campaign since it started.  Less obvious and more insidious than the original ads are the ones that feature a beautiful woman lecturing her friends at a high-end party where you just know everyone will go home and fuck.  Yaz is selling something beyond contraception; pregnancy prevention is just the start of the message in these commercials.   

The party pooper, as she’s come to be known in my household, states, “I didn’t go to medical school for nothing,” when her friends express surprise at her vast font of knowledge regarding Yaz.  This is not exactly the same as saying, “I’m not a real doctor, I just play one on TV.”  Ask a viewer whether she thinks that woman is a physician.  She just said she was, didn’t she?

The FDA has been all over this advertising campaign.  Given the politicization of the FDA during the Bush administration, it’s difficult not to read into their maneuvers; however, it does feel right that they are coming down on Bayer in this case.  The pill addresses a majority of menstruating women with its promise to cure pimples and PMS.  It does not deliver.  You don’t have to shoot headaches and cramps with an elephant gun; Midol, acetaminophen, or ibuprofen all work well.  Yaz is helpful for the minority of women who experience an actual psychiatric disorder, PMDD.  PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder) actually interferes with quality of life and the ability to function during the premenstrual phase.  Yaz was also approved for prevention of moderate acne.

Yaz’s formulation includes a synthetic hormone that causes an increase in serum potassium — the level of potassium in the blood.  This is risky business; excess potassium can lead to serious heart problems, as well as involvement of other major organ systems.  As the corrective television advertisement states, "check with your doctor" to make sure your heart and kidney function are normal before starting Yaz.  And unless you’re intent is to purchase a lifestyle in addition to oral contraception, a more traditional birth control pill would work as well.  In 2008, Yaz was the best-selling birth control pill on the market.  And the corrective ad campaign only skimmed the top of Bayer's deep pockets.

Evelyn Sharenov

Birth of a daughter is still seen as a bad omen by many parents in the impoverished country. A girl child is more likely to be married off early, receive less education (or none), and be denied health care. In urban areas, child marriages may be rare, but in poor villages it is very common.

But now children themselves are leading the charge against child marriages. According to Republica, students called in the police to stop the marriage of four of their schoolmates, all of whom are minors.

It took quite an effort though to make the parents agree to stop the marriages. Dipak B.K, program coordinator of a local social group, said the parents refused to cooperate at first.

“After the refusal, local children took to the streets, rallied. and sloganeered. The parents then agreed to stop the marriages,” B.K. said. Among the slogans chanted by the children are “marriage only after twenty” and “child marriage will land you in jail.”

The students have done an admirable deed, but the battle against the evil of child marriages is far from over. The same report suggests that some parents may shift the marriage venue to neighboring India.

Bhumika Ghimire

It seems that not a month goes by wherein some study or another reveals alarming statistics proving that people lose their memories as they age. (I wouldn't be surprised if most of these studies are government funded.) In fact, I read about such a report just last week. Apparently by the time we are 27, we begin to lose the ability to store specific details for long periods of time. This doesn't seem too horrible. Maybe you've forgotten the name of your kindergarten teacher? Or perhaps you are unable to remember quadratic equations. Let's face it, you really weren't planning to use the stuff from algebra, were you?

Fast forward ten years and you are now having trouble remembering more recent events. Sadly, I realize I am falling into this category. Here's a conversation I had with some co-workers yesterday:

Me: So I saw a movie this weekend. It was the best movie I've seen all year!

Co-worker #1: Oh, yeah? Which one?

Me: Huh. It's on the tip of my tongue. You know, it's about the thing with the guy in the place.

Co-worker # 2: Well, who starred in it?

Me (wracking my brain): Wait. It'll come to me. It's the guy with the crazy hair and big eyebrows? He has an accent?

According to the report, by the time you're 47, you can't retain your kids' names. ("Come here, Johnny. I mean, Joey. I mean, Janie.") And by the time you're 57, you might as well just stay home because you won't remember what you did when you went out anyway.

This is all considered "normal." So is it normal to be on the 2 train, hear your name called, and not be able to place the person if your life depended upon it? About two stops from work, a woman makes a beeline for me, skirting a subway preacher and a strolling mariachi band.

"Hi," says Blonde Woman. "You're getting to work early today."

"Uh, yes? Uh-huh." This could be some kind of rouse for money, so I am using Standard Subway Tactic #1: no eye-contact.

"Thanks for all your help on the Schneider project. It was a lifesaver."

Abort tactic #1. Abort. I look at her. Not even a glimmer of recognition. I ratchet up to Standard Subway Tactic #8: vaguely worded answers. "Don't mention it."

"Are you kidding? After 10 years at this place," she winks and elbows me, "I know if we don't give each other encouragement, who will? Anyway, how's your dog doing?"

Not if someone told me that I would win five million dollars could I simply utter this woman's name. I'm now breaking out in a bit of a cold sweat. How is it possible to draw a complete blank? The subway only makes this situation worse — there is no escape, no polite way to excuse myself. No, oh-look-at-the-time!

Is there something wrong with me? In the spirit of hypochondria, as soon as I got to the office, I did a quick search on WebMD. I do not recommend this for the inexperienced. You will learn one of two things: either there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, or you are dying. In this case, I may have an affliction called prosopagnosia, an inability to recognize faces, something millions of people might have but not know it. Or it's entirely possible that this is a direct result of all the brain cells I decimated before waking up in my dorm room and uttering the phrase "I will never ever touch vodka again."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do something, but I forgot what it was.

Jacquelin Cangro