(Photograph by Ina Jang for The New Yorker)
A recent issue of The New Yorker carried Hye-young Pyun's "Caring for Plants," a short story about a man, Oghi, who had lost his wife, as well as the use of his own legs, mouth, and the ability to go to the bathroom by himself in a terrible car accident. After being released from the hospital, he returns to his home and his wife's beloved garden with a home healthcare worker who isn't particularly nice to him. She does the bare minimum to keep him alive but goes over and above when it comes to stealing his late wife's jewelry, drinking his booze, and laughing at his damaged penis and its inability to urinate without assistance and more. He tries to speak up for himself, to ask for -- to demand -- help, if not respect, but his words, while clear in his mind, come across only as moans and groans, as though he is in constant pain, which isn't all wrong. But also like he isn't able to think for himself, which is absolutely wrong.
Eventually, the cruelly indifferent caretaker is fired by his mother-in-law, a widow who blames him for her daughter's death. The caretaker's position is terminated in an explosive argument where Oghi's mother-in-law is able to insult and humiliate him while attacking the caregiver:
Reading "Caring for Plants" reminded me of an incident that had occurred just a few days earlier. One that I had tried to put out of my mind, and continue to think about. My wife and I were at a fun, casual birthday party. While Jimmy Buffet seemed to be playing on repeat throughout the day, the conversation somehow turned not toward lost shakers of salt but to genetic differences. We had just attended a conference about a rare genetic syndrome that our daughter was recently diagnosed with and we were talking about all the fun she had had and the friends who shared this same genetic difference she had made there. My wife had just said that there are probably millions of people walking around with genetic differences that either go undiagnosed as such or that don't present any issues that bring them to anyone's attention. At that moment, one woman started to make jerky movements, and pretended to groan and act otherwise inarticulate as she made a "funny" face and lolled her tongue out of her mouth. The crude joke earned a couple of chuckles, but my wife and I ignored it, as we were at a party and didn't want to start something that would ruin what had otherwise been a good time.
I regret that. This guest had arrived at the party with gifts for our daughter, photographed her, hugged her, even professed her love for her, just a few hours before portraying people with genetic differences as groaning, drooling, inarticulate buffoons -- as party gags. In that moment, like Oghi's physical therapists and doctors, I failed my daughter and all of the bright and beautiful friends she had made at that conference, as well as all of the amazing parents and caretakers of all the kids and people we know -- and don't know -- who have genetic, neurological or other special needs or disabilities, only to preserve propriety at a birthday party by turning a blind eye to a willfully inarticulate clown who chose to express her understanding of genetics and disability through groans, drool, and jerky movements, while in the background Jimmy Buffet went on and on about drinking himself into oblivion.
Eventually, the cruelly indifferent caretaker is fired by his mother-in-law, a widow who blames him for her daughter's death. The caretaker's position is terminated in an explosive argument where Oghi's mother-in-law is able to insult and humiliate him while attacking the caregiver:
"Oghi lay there in bed and listened to the two women. What shocked him more than the caregiver's calling him a cripple was hearing his mother-in-law echo the word when she yelled at the caregiver that her life would never amount to anything more than wiping the asses of cripples."
Reading "Caring for Plants" reminded me of an incident that had occurred just a few days earlier. One that I had tried to put out of my mind, and continue to think about. My wife and I were at a fun, casual birthday party. While Jimmy Buffet seemed to be playing on repeat throughout the day, the conversation somehow turned not toward lost shakers of salt but to genetic differences. We had just attended a conference about a rare genetic syndrome that our daughter was recently diagnosed with and we were talking about all the fun she had had and the friends who shared this same genetic difference she had made there. My wife had just said that there are probably millions of people walking around with genetic differences that either go undiagnosed as such or that don't present any issues that bring them to anyone's attention. At that moment, one woman started to make jerky movements, and pretended to groan and act otherwise inarticulate as she made a "funny" face and lolled her tongue out of her mouth. The crude joke earned a couple of chuckles, but my wife and I ignored it, as we were at a party and didn't want to start something that would ruin what had otherwise been a good time.
I regret that. This guest had arrived at the party with gifts for our daughter, photographed her, hugged her, even professed her love for her, just a few hours before portraying people with genetic differences as groaning, drooling, inarticulate buffoons -- as party gags. In that moment, like Oghi's physical therapists and doctors, I failed my daughter and all of the bright and beautiful friends she had made at that conference, as well as all of the amazing parents and caretakers of all the kids and people we know -- and don't know -- who have genetic, neurological or other special needs or disabilities, only to preserve propriety at a birthday party by turning a blind eye to a willfully inarticulate clown who chose to express her understanding of genetics and disability through groans, drool, and jerky movements, while in the background Jimmy Buffet went on and on about drinking himself into oblivion.
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