The Intervention that Wasn’t

Lately I have been completely hooked (har har) on the show Intervention. I’d seen it a couple times on cable at my parents’ house, but I found it too depressing. But then it showed up on Netflix Instant, and I have been watching it serially. If you’re not familiar with the show, it’s basically What Not to Wear for the soul—it involves a family staging an intervention with a drug-addicted, alcoholic, or mentally unstable family member, who (if they choose) will get 90 days of rehab paid by the show. The actual intervention doesn’t happen until the last 10 minutes of the episode, and it’s almost always completely nerve-wracking: will this week’s subject say yes to rehab? If they don’t, will their family members be able to stop enabling them from that day forward? Sometimes, the subjects straight up run away from the intervention; occasionally they end up in jail before rehab. It’s a surreal, heartrending mix of exploitation tv and serious documentary. And I’ve watched dozens of episodes in the last month.

It took me at least a dozen before I realized why the show haunts me: I tried to be part of a one-woman, long-distance, half-assed intervention myself. I didn’t think of it that way at the time, but that’s what it was. Around 2004, when I was living on the West Coast and my family was back East, my mother started acting very strange. She said things that didn’t make sense; she wrote letters addressed to the wrong people; she hung up the phone when my boyfriend answered, convinced she’d dialed a wrong number. For months I wondered what was happening; I would ask her if she was okay and she would insist nothing was wrong. I conspired with my stepfather to get her to go to the doctor, but she kept refusing, and from 3000 miles away, I couldn’t make her go. I wasn’t sure if I was exaggerating the weirdness out of paranoia—until one day in April, I got two birthday cards from my mom on the same day, one signed “Mom” and one signed with her first name. My birthday is in August. I called her to ask if she’d mixed up some envelopes, and she flatly denied that she’d sent cards to anyone, refusing to believe that I was holding them in my hands as we spoke. After I got off the phone, I cried for hours. I called and begged her to go to her doctor. I asked my stepdad if we could get her there without her consent. Neither of us knew what to do, and no one else knew how bad things were getting; she was still clever enough to hide her confusion from people who weren’t as intimately involved in her life.

If you know me from Shapely Prose, you probably know what I didn’t then: my mother was at the beginning of a rapidly progressing dementia. On Intervention, they say that the only way to make an addict choose recovery is to make them face their rock bottom; the only way to get my mom to admit her health was failing was for her to hit rock bottom, too—she collapsed at home and hit her head, which led to the ER, which led to neurologists, which led to a diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease. She died in 2009. Her autopsy showed that she also had Alzheimer’s. These diseases are currently incurable, but some people live for a long time before dementia completely takes over. I have no doubt that my mom’s insistence on maintaining the illusion of control hastened her decline; she didn’t start neurological treatment or occupational or speech therapy until she was very confused and scared. The weird blessing of dementia is that the more ill a demented person gets, the less their illness scares them: eventually my mom lost the desire to control her health, and thus lost the anxiety that came from not being able to. Part of the thrill of watching Intervention is seeing how different the subjects look after rehab—they’ve been reborn, and they know it. In our family’s situation, that was a fantasy, but it remains a stubborn one even after my mother’s death.

I’m not sure what I’m getting at, exactly, except that when I watch friends and family members on Intervention beg their loved ones to accept help, I think of how pitifully inept I was at convincing my mom to accept help. I don’t say this out of self-flagellation; I was a devoted daughter, and I was an important caregiver in the last years of her life. But she was so scared, and I was so scared, and neither of us knew what to do or how to stop what was happening. Even though my mom’s problem wasn’t addiction but a different disease, she desperately needed help beyond what our family could give her—and her disease made it impossible for her to seek it out. We really could have used Candy Finnigan, is what I’m saying. I think maybe I still could.

No false patriotic wreath

Rick Santorum made a funny! He thought his campaign slogan “Fighting to Make America America Again” would really stick it to all those Muslims, gays, feminists, and so on, who obviously want to dismantle the republic, stat. But apparently he slept through senior English, because he was totally surprised to find out about this extremely famous poem by extremely famous American poet Langston Hughes. Here, read it again, and thank Rick Santorum for giving Hughes a shout-out during National Poetry Month.

Let America Be America Again by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free?  Not me?
Surely not me?  The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

I’d like to officially nominate this song as the Feminist Theme for 2011. Who’s with me?