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Owen L. Boyd

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Proper Respect for a Wound
by Owen L. Boyd   

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Books by Owen L. Boyd
· Thanks Be to the World
· The Unintentional Healing of Soul
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Literary Fiction

Publisher:  Changeling / Trafford ISBN-10:  1412047390 Type: 


Copyright:  April 2005 ISBN-13:  9781412047395

Where feelings of perceived hurt and woundedness are taken too far, offers of healing meet rejection.

Barnes &
Proper Respect for a Wound

Delgado, a disabled resident of an intentional community in Santo Domingo, the Dominican Republic, reflects on the vicissitudes of life growing up handicapped in a slum district of the spread out metropolis. He recalls his father's aversion and flight and his upbringing at the hands of his mother, who would forcibly bring him to the local church so others might take pity on their plight and give alms.


On her death, neighbourhood women take turns at attending to the needs of Delgado, who adamantly refuses to do anything for himself. His attitude in this respect hardens when he is brought to live in a community established with the needs of disabled people in mind. In time, he finds himself living in a house with five other disabled residents and a succession of caregivers, including a young local man, Juan.


Juan has more success in curbing Delgado's recalcitrance than any of his predecessors or colleagues. But when he leaves to travel to the United States, Delgado experiences anew a sense of abandonment similar to what he has known at various junctures of his life.


At first, Juan struggles to adapt to the way of things in his new community in the Deep South of the US. However, all goes better for him soon enough and his isolation is counteracted by the warmth shown by certain of the residents, among them Loretta. He also becomes firm friends with a young German caregiver, Daniela.


Like Juan, she struggles in the different culture, as well as with the demands of the caregiving role, which permit little of the freedom she has been used to as a student in the former East Germany. One of her means of escape is the balcony next to her room, where she often receives visits from Juan. They chat long into the night, listen to music, smoke and drink.


Loretta develops a crush on Juan, much as she has done with male caregivers employed by the community in the past. In a jealous fit of rage, spurred by a recently arrived caregiver, she accuses Juan of sexually abusing her, airing her charge a day or two after Juan leaves the country to revisit his native land.


He arrives home in time to assume a small but important role in a play the Santo Domingo community have rehearsed during the latter stages of his absence. True to form, Delgado has been a reluctant participant in the rehearsals. He takes the self-same attitude into the actual performance of the play, about an archer in the Greek army abandoned by his shipmates on an island after he is wounded by a snakebite.


Since then the archer has wilfully rejected all attempts to help him take the road to healing. Delgado, in a seminal flash of illumination, at last realises the significance of the play at the very end. He is thus empowered to do something he has stubbornly refused to do all his life.





























Part One / Delgado

The cry they hear from me every day.
Concon! Concon!
At lunchtime and again in the evenings, when we often have reheated leftovers, I bandy the word about in much the same way fishermen toss bait into streams. They know I'm going to badger them with it until someone scoops the blackened, stuck-together remnants of rice from the bottom of the pot and spoons a portion on to my plate.
I like most this part of the meal. But then something redeeming has to come out of eating white rice day in and day out. Our lone respite comes at breakfast when Milagros and Sylvia dole out fruit, yogurt and bread complemented by various kinds of spread including cheese. In fact, I can never raise interest in the meal and would sit it out altogether but for their pushy ways. Sylvia near yanked my arm from its socket dragging me to the table the other morning.
When I have concon on my plate I'll begin eating as opposed to acting the goat. I'll grab the spoon they've provided, stick it in the casserole - or whatever name it goes by - and ingest a mouthful. I'll yelp a lot less than usual. I'll be a good deal quieter all round, my noises under wraps.
Gumming the crunchy pieces or, better still, chomping them with the teeth I have remaining, I fidget less and reduce the frequency with which I smack myself on the back of the head with my left hand and gnaw my index finger, sometimes in the same instant.
Milagros and Sylvia will stop eating and exchange the most eloquent of knowing looks, one imbued with a modicum of genuine hope. If Delgado can sit still and behave himself when he chooses, might there not yet come a day … ?
But before they get carried away with a there may be hope for him fantasy I pull the rug out from beneath their feet in no uncertain fashion. I'll spit out the medicine they thrust between my lips and upend my plate or push it halfway across the table.
One time the contents ended up in the distraught Blanca's lap. Sylvia flew out of her chair, screamed at the top of her lungs and would've given me a terrific slap had I not shielded my head with both arms, denying her vehemence access.
I'd be the first to admit my table manners leave something to be desired. In truth they used to be much worse. But what did they expect when they brought me here? Did I ask to come and join this community? I hadn't been in the place an hour when they stuck me at the head of this table and here I've sat morning, afternoon and evening ever since, like a prize exhibit.
As often as not in the early days, I grunted, chewed a piece out of my index finger, thumped myself on the chest with my right fist and hit the turf. Not one mealtime passed without their trying to anchor me to the chair and my rebelling against their resolve with all my might, as one long accustomed to squatting on the ground and eating with his fingers.
I had no use for knives, forks, spoons and fancy ornamentation like napkins. My knife, fork and spoon rolled into one lay at the end of my right arm. But in time I grew disillusioned with waging a one-man war. On a morning weeks after my arrival they led me to the table and there I stayed. The then caregivers looked amazed at my lack of resistance. To all intents and purposes, there ended my habit of languishing on the floor and stuffing my face with my fingers.


My earliest recollection, in this life of perdition, comprises two faces glowing down at me. Two young faces, the male one aloof, gruff, in spite of the smile, a two or three-day growth around the chin and cheekbones. I'd entered the world weeks before and no one had as yet pinned the malevolent label handicapped.
However, the smiles gave leave to other expressions soon enough. A kind of revulsion in the visage of the man and deep sadness and concern - I would call it trepidation - on the face of my mother. I hesitate to class the man my father. Before long his face receded, then it became fuzzy, then it vanished. I know not where.
We subsisted in a shantytown on the outskirts of the capital. When savvy enough to take in more than the few feet extending either side of me, I recognized our small hut of wooden planks to be one of many, no better or worse than its neighbors.
The outside world began its trespass, an encroachment more daunting by the day. For most in the neighborhood, hightailing it from point a to point b meant getting off the backside and walking, an idea shocking to me. My mother coaxed and cajoled to no avail. I can picture her today, turning away disgusted whenever I collapsed in a heap where I stood.
But this never stopped her bringing me to the church to beg. When I became too big for her to bear in her arms, she sought the assistance of a neighbor or passer-by. At the church, we propped beside the main doors. While the spiffily dressed congregation filed in and out, my mother implored me to thrust a hand and accept what the goodly-hearted had to offer.
She met their gazes with a look of lamentation, explicit in its quality of earnest beseeching. Words would have sullied the effect created. My lamentable state spoke for itself in any case. I could neither walk - no one would've guessed the part unwillingness played in the scenario - nor talk. In this regard, my mother's efforts and those of others met with failure ignoble and complete.
I understood the comments people directed at me from their enormous heights but elected to respond in a language home-brewed, with a signature tune of grunts, yelps and squeals. I would perfect it in years to come and it communicated all I wished to convey.
I never considered how people looked at me, whether with sympathy, as in many cases, indifference or disdain bordering on malice at the thought such a pathetic one had been born, breathed and lived. But now and again, those who deemed me a figure of fun had to be shown a lesson.
A casual acquaintance in the village, a boy about my vintage, used to come calling with his mother, a woman on good terms with mine. Thinking back, her darling may have been beset with a disability too but one lacking the profundity of mine. If you want my opinion, most people have a disability though I won't open that can of worms here.
His parents had named their boy Rafael, far from an auspicious moniker for any toting knowledge of the not-too-remote history of this pretty but tarnished Caribbean nation. Did his parents possess none or had they been admirers of Trujillo? Whatever, pintsized Rafael exhibited dictatorial traits, notwithstanding the shorts and grubby fingers.
Whenever he and his mother dropped in, they discovered me on the floor of the hut or lounging on the step out front, minding my business and doing my thing. He would stop and stare as if no more peculiar specimen could have existed on the planet.
I didn't appreciate the look in his eye because I discerned more behind it than our dear mothers did, entangled in the latest gossip about so-and-so down the street who had broken his arm in a car accident or someone else who had decorated his wife with a black eye, or another who had done or failed to do God only knew what. They had plenty to keep their tongues wagging.
Sure enough Rafael played the cherub until they left us alone. Then he revealed the card he wished to play. I grunted louder and rocked back and forth in my place upon his approach but my mother, immersed in the gab with her neighbor, never noticed.
Rafael would tug at my matchstick thin arms and legs, harder and harder until it hurt. He would fling an open hand or clenched fist in the direction of my face, drawing back from striking me at the last moment. He would put food out of my reach and grab it himself when I lunged. A sweet boy, like I said.
This had been going on months when I taught him a lesson. He had begun interlacing the tugs, pulls and feints with pinches when I bit him fair and square on the left hand. He lacked the limberness, the suppleness of form, to pull back in time. Of course he burst into tears and ran and took refuge in his mother's skirts. He maintained his distance from then.


Someone nicknamed me Delgado, on account of my lean physique, when I arrived in the community. The designation has held down the years. These days most people wouldn't equate me with Otto, my real name. To friends of the community, to anyone who stops by the house long enough, I'm Delgado.
I don't care what they call me. But if I loathed the name and could make the fact known would it change anything? I doubt it. More than likely they would go on using it. All sacredness flies away when you're in the position I'm in. They pinned a nickname on me with the same impunity they did everything else.
Would Sylvia appreciate it if all and sundry began referring to her as Flaca? Few are as skinny as she, after all. By the same token, would Milagros - older than me by five years - thank anyone for the soubriquet Vieja? Of course they wouldn't. Both of them would be ticked off.
Sometime after I turned the tables on Rafael, my mother abandoned me like that man had done years before. From overwork, her heart stuttered to a halt. During the last years of her life the burden of daily hauling me off to church, to say nothing of dealing with my behaviors, must have done her in.
I fought tooth and nail every inch of the way in an effort not to face the churchgoers, whose guilt and self-torment hung from the rafters. The cocksureness they radiated at the same time struck me as funny. But my mother, with her clips around the ears, always won the day.
Once, a man in his thirties halted before us, took one look at me, bowed his head and burst into tears. Finding his exhibition distasteful, I grunted loud in the hope of scaring him away but gained another crack across the ear for my trouble. The bleeding heart fished in the pocket of his trousers, withdrew a handful of coins and then entered the church.
The most infuriating of the lot elevated their hands and prayed over me, intoning mumbo jumbo, as if they had a direct line to God in His manifestation as the Holy Ghost. Did they believe He might then descend upon me in all His mercy, like the proverbial dove out of heaven, and erase my ills in a trice?
I know parents never miss an opportunity to extol the virtues and successes of their children. But what did my mother have to show? A useless lump, good for nothing bar taking up space. I never did a thing for or by myself, with the exception of eating, though for several years, in an ironical twist, I amounted to her principal means of livelihood.
Neighbors buried her and in so doing banged shut the lid on my days of forced marches to the church and humiliating alms begging. I didn't shed a tear when it dawned on me she'd gone and would not be transporting me anywhere anymore. My vision never advanced beyond the day at hand - the moment at hand, in actual fact. Nor did I ponder how I'd survive alone.
I would have preferred to be left alone, to dream cockeyed dreams of the world and my martyrdom, to flounder in the dirt in a corner of the hut. Instead, neighbors from the parish looked in on me daily, washing and feeding me. Their degree of efficiency depended on my state of mind.
They took turns attending to my needs. For instance, Rafael's mother bagged Monday mornings. Of an afternoon, Mercedes had her turn. In conclusion, in the evening, Pilar trilled her way into the hut. Three other women had the dubious pleasure of my company the next day, another three the next day and so on.
The more intrepid endeavored to persuade me to step into the open air for light exercise though the majority met with failure. Had my caregiving circle been comprised of young, pretty women the success rate may have been higher. Alas, the lined faces of the señoras denoted the hardship of their lives.
Their ministration palled. But I had absorbed a fact or two over the years and knew I wouldn’t have lasted long without them. Sometimes I refused to open up and swallow the food they spooned toward my mouth or coughed it back in their faces. Other times I accepted it with relish.
This went on a long while. I read nothing into it when I began overhearing chatter about an intentional community in an impecunious neighborhood on the other side of town. I never objected to the visits of the delegation representing them, headed by Mariane. She didn't mind when I propped myself beside her and lowered a hand on her bare-from-the-knees-down legs.
One day more than a year after my mother passed away, Rafael's mother bid me good morning, faithful as ever to her Monday calling. Afterwards, she and a neighbor insisted I climb aboard a van with Mariane and two other members of the delegation.
The stop-start transit across town to my new home took an hour and a half. The prayers my unsung, unofficial caregivers had held in their hearts since my mother's death had been answered. And I'd been abandoned again.


Allow me to digress and introduce my family. I've mentioned Milagros, Sylvia and Blanca. Blanca sits to my left at the table. In a population in the main made up of people with shades of complexion ranging from olive through to ebony, they don't come fairer than Blanca. She couldn’t have been christened with a more apt name.
Like me she doesn't have much to say for herself. Sometimes I reach out my left hand and grab her or interfere with her plate or bowl. This elicits a reaction but at no time could she be accused of garrulousness. Her favorite word by far is Dee. I assume this is the name or nickname of a relative. She comes alive, quivers with delight, wrings her hands, at the mention of the woman.
She acts much the same on prayer night when we chorus at the outset of the meeting or when a favorite tune airs on the radio. I have seen her pick her nose and masticate the contents when she believed no one, Milagros and Sylvia at least, to be watching though God would be an inflexible customer if he held this against her at the pearly gates.
Frizzy-haired Lidia occupies the place on her left. We call her Liddy. At her last birthday she turned fifteen. I remember the day, long ago, a shamefaced young woman brought her to the house. I had never glimpsed agony of conscience on a par.
Liddy draws the attention of most everyone who comes to the house to the photographs fastened to a notice board in the living room. She prods the guest or visitor into hazarding guesses as to who the people are.
One features her as a young girl, hair in pigtails and ribbons. Another shows a young woman with features similar to Liddy's. But she can't make up her mind about the identity of the individual in this print. It boils down to her mother or her sister.
Her carefree laugh resounds in the chapel, in the workshop, in the other house and her bedroom. She has to suppress a chuckle on the frequent occasions I'm taken to task. The other morning Milagros declared straight to my face tu eres un bebé. Liddy laughed so hard her food channeled down the wrong pipe.
Next to Liddy we have Didi, when she'll consent to join us at the table. Often the last to take her place, she needs constant reminders to sit up straight like a young lady, stop roaring at the rest of us, concentrate when she pours water into her or someone else's glass, to name the most common infractions.
Our neighbors across the street invite Didi over every once in a while. The daughters often pop in to say hello, warm hands outstretched. Whenever they run out of water they ask if they can replenish their supply from the black barrel in our yard. We maintain it as near to the full mark as possible.
Didi dashes on to the front patio and yells out their names at least once a day. But then I've seen her scream at perfect strangers in the same fashion. Since she entered our lives I've watched her bite, spit, scratch, hit, pinch and gouge.
I'll own she can melt into another's arms when the mood is on her. But the sight fills me with unease for thinking of the risk run by the embraced one. The expression in her eyes never changes and when she tilts her chin and gazes at the one she has her arms around I know the hug will soon metamorphose into a vise.
I once saw her clinging to Miguel. She raised her head, laughed a deep-throated laugh and pinched him so hard he jumped. Countless times I've witnessed her aggression, camouflaged or not, with the folks from the other house.
Sylvia occupies the place at the other end of the table. To her left, morning, noon and night, sits Reynaldo. When I say morning, noon and night, I'm discounting the times he absents himself, claiming no interest in food. I doubt anything will ever satisfy his pining for the place he hails from, west of the capital. To this day, Reynaldo's father makes his home there.
On my day I can wake the dead hammering on the closed door of my bedroom. But this pales in comparison to the din of Reynaldo slamming his bedroom door. How the hinges have stood up to the battering as long they have I'll never know.
When he has done with the door he stuffs a bag with rudimentary items. Then he bolts out the front door, slamming it on its springs for good measure, realizing the futility of his flight only after rounding the bend leading to the main road. People gape and the less empathetic among the younger brigade taunt him.
When I've been walked to my room of an afternoon or gone there of my own volition, I often hear the local boys improvising a baseball game out front of the house, their pet gathering place for sport and less arduous recreational pursuits.
The plastic slats doubling as a window shade in my bedroom will be closed against the afternoon sun. Nonetheless, noise filters in, the smack of a ball hitting a board propped against a brick or several large rocks - their approximation of a pitcher's throw - and the subsequent giving chase depending on how well the hitter dispatches the ball when it ricochets toward him.
They're spent within half an hour, at the latest forty-five minutes. I can tell the ones who aspire to the American leagues and baseball's Hall of Fame. I've observed from the patio and know right off the swagger and the portentousness.
But why did I refer to this? To make the point: besides improvised baseball contests they expend a good deal of time and energy baiting Reynaldo. And how he falls for it. I overhear the ruckus much as I do the clap of ball against wood when they're at play.
When he has launched all the rocks within reach, he slams the palms of his hands down on the roof or hood of the nearest parked vehicle - as a rule the property of the father, uncle, cousin or elder sibling of one of the provokers.
This gang of young underemployed goads each and every one of us who reside in the houses. I notice them leering at me when I occasion by on a walk. They entertain each other with random impersonations of my behaviors. But, unlike Reynaldo, I pretend they don't exist.
Reynaldo's father, Pedro, enters our midst once or twice a month. He tends to arrive early on a Saturday or Sunday, worn out after the overnight journey. Following a bite to eat, he unbuttons his sleeves at the wrist and drops to his haunches in the garden. Milagros reminds him he needn't feel obligated but he proceeds in all weather.
Reynaldo's elation on these weekends knows no bounds. He shadows the small-boned man, whose creased brow and jowls take me back to the women who provided my care through thick and thin after my mother discarded the burden of her body.
But he sinks into the depths in the days thereafter. Then, more than ever, he lowers his hands on my shoulders and guides me into his room across the corridor. In the inner sanctum, he rustles up and proffers his most treasured possession, an old-style black and white portrait.
I'm able to recognize Pedro in the young man. The attractive woman with him must be his wife, Reynaldo's mother. Whenever Reynaldo reveals it, he taps the image of his father, as sober and somber in youth as now, and kisses it.
'Pedro,' he says.
The woman exudes pensiveness the equal of Pedro's. On the photographic evidence, I think of the couple as having united less out of joy than a need to find solace and companionship in a hostile world, putrid around the edges. Reynaldo resulted from the merger. I once overheard someone inquire about the whereabouts of the woman in the portrait.
'In heaven,' he answered.


Milagros situates herself two down from Reynaldo, on my immediate right. By design. Her reprimands wouldn't carry half the sting they do if she couldn't physically upbraid me at the same time. Every second mouthful of food she takes she precedes with a verbal and / or physical volley.
Between them, she and Sylvia have run the household for the last four years. During this time many people, young men for the most part, have played second fiddle. Their regular station at the table has been between Reynaldo and Milagros.
A number come to mind. Rainer, who lugged a camera with him everywhere we went, spoke Spanish with a distinguished accent unlike anything I'd heard. Then came Isabelle, also from a far-off land and fair of cheek like none in this country.
There have been locals too, Miguel and in his wake Juan. Miguel's stay lasted a year and a half and he continues to play an important role in our lives. He'll rally round for a day or two when his schedule allows, undermining us with his high-pitched cackle.
Of late, the talk about Germany, where a relative lives and works, has waned. I wonder if he'll make an exploratory trip let alone shift there. By his own admission, his German leaves a lot to be desired and we don't hear of courses, tapes, books or other efforts to expand his knowledge.
I miss Miguel, notwithstanding the guest appearances. I miss his jovial nature. He wanted me to do the same things Milagros and Sylvia do every day but his approach led me to laugh at things otherwise found daunting and objectionable.
Returning to the residents, how could I not make honorary mention of Oscar? Until he died he formed the axis. The house, maybe the entire community, revolved around him. They took turns feeding him at the table, his wheelchair drawn close to Milagros, between her and me, or Sylvia, betwixt her and Reynaldo.
The women, not only Milagros and Sylvia but also Luz and Liana from the other house, adored him. He magnetized with his helplessness. Sensing his pain, they gathered him out of the chair and cradled him in their arms. Instinctive mother love never invested in children of their own - with the exception of Luz, who has a daughter - found release in the crippled frame.
Oscar's death came out of the blue regardless of the sicknesses lined up one after the other on the short stem of his truncated existence. Months before he passed, a chest infection throttled him. But somehow he rallied and pulled through, giving in to death without a whisper one fine morning in the middle of the wet season.
The women could not be consoled. Liddy paced the property, tears streaming. Rachel and Adriana, from the other house, keened like seasoned pros. Ages after the event, Liddy gravitates toward the front patio and signifies the stars above.
'Look,' she'll say. 'Oscar.'
Who would be bold enough to take the wind out of the sails of her assertion? Not Reynaldo, who talks as often of his mother being up there. Somehow I'm unable to visualize lame Oscar shining down from the stupendous heights though everyone else accepts the idea. But wherever Oscar has gone could it be worse than the place he left? I have my doubts and therefore envy him.
Besides Luz, Liana, Rachel and Adriana, the other house accommodates Vivian, Max and Ricardo. On the same site as the second house we have a chapel. The two-level building adjacent houses the community workshop.
Didi in confrontational mode makes a point of targeting Rachel and Ricardo. Both are able enough for self-defense, in particular Ricardo who prefers crawling to wielding the two shortened crutches a benefactor endowed him with in days gone by. All arms in the tussles, he can yet hold his own against Didi.
Rachel and Vivian are in their thirties. Adriana, on the other hand, would be around twenty, the same age as Reynaldo. Gazing at her, a young woman poised and charismatic enough to represent the community at conferences abroad, I never fail to wonder how she ended up in a place like this.
Last year, together with Milagros and three of the board members, she traveled to Europe. What heart palpitations she must've caused when she lowered her eyes, knowing those of a boy or a man had singled her out.
Luz and Liana must go through a box of tissues daily wiping the dribble from the corners of Max's mouth, or if not then after it has fallen in elongated droplets, moistening his shirt, shorts and bare knees as well as those of the individual sitting beside him.
A natural imbalance has him on a perennial incline. A domino effect begins at the tiny, round head and continues down the shoulders, chest and arms, taking in the belly before ending at the legs. His legs may be thinner than mine.
I don't appreciate being stuck next to him in the van on our jaunts to the river or the beach at Boca Chica, to cite two of the more common outings. If he starts leaning in on me like he has no ballast and nowhere else to go, I make my displeasure plain.
But for all his lack of finesse and social graces, as it might be termed, he makes more of an effort to fend for himself than I do with fewer limitations. I envy the closeness of his daily relations with Luz, his primary caregiver.
I would have been more willing to compromise in the day-to-day picture had Luz rather than Sylvia or Milagros been my principal helper. Milagros would make an ideal schoolmarm while Sylvia's solemnity has become full-fledged over time. I can warm to neither.
Were Luz to become disillusioned with her lot, as Sylvia often appears, I gather she wouldn't think twice about leaving and pursuing another way of life. The eyes of the neighborhood louts pop at the sight of her, clad in shorts and a light top, when she shepherds us into the van on the days set aside for an excursion to the water. Green to the gills they might be, though they yet make time to snigger for thinking of the ineptitude of idiots when it comes to the realm of the senses.
I could tell them a thing or two. For envisioning Luz's honey-colored skin, I had an interesting experience sometime ago. We had taken the day off from the workshop and usual activities to go to Boca Chica - or Chica Chica as Reynaldo likes to refer to it with his lopsided grin.
Luz occupied the front seat with the driver and Sylvia, who sat nestled between the two of them. Rojo, the driver, and Luz had their windows down. Her brown hair danced every which way on the breeze and whenever she turned to him - he could talk without drawing breath, Rojo could - she raised a hand to the side of her face to keep the unruly strands out of her eyes.
Observing her from my perch in the back of the van, I grunted my approval at the character in her face. Other women might have turned heads quicker but few could've possessed more spunk. Her face and figure inspired confidence and in her presence I remained peaceable on the journeys to the river or Boca Chica, arduous though they could be.
At our destination Luz lathered several of us with suntan lotion. Before long Rachel and Adriana teamed up and tried without success to lure me into the water. I would've held my position, midway between the water and a shady nook at the rear of the beach where the non-swimmers had gathered, had Luz not tiptoed by, left hand extended.
In contrast to most of the foreign women, many of whom strolled the sands naked but for the flimsiest of coverings on their lower parts, she had stripped to a more modest one-piece. Like most of her attire, it suited her down to the ground.
Over the next half hour she accompanied me in the shallows. Further out, in deeper water, she splashed me until I received a more thorough dousing than I ever gained at the house. Her tender, well-modulated voice enticed without stint.
On the brink of sleep hours later, huddled in warm semi-consciousness, Luz's skin and hair loomed up in my mind's eye. Soon, the odd appendage of mine down below became rigid. I placed my right hand on the spot and when I drew it away it came covered with a sticky substance.

Professional Reviews

So Many Different Realities
"Anyone who has been paying attention to recent trends in television is aware that an ever-greater chunk of airtime has been dedicated to what is now known as reality television. While there have been many variants of this genre in the past few years, the immediate common ancestor of most of them is MTV's The Real World. Beginning in the early 1990s in New York, The Real World's producers had assembled a "cast" of attractive and diverse twenty-soemthings, placed them in upscale real estate, and filmed their interactions. Whether of not the end product, mediated by extensive editing and constricted by a half-hour format, is art is highly debatable, but the commercial success of this kind of program suggests that they are popular. One of the more compelling features of most reality programming —something pioneered by The Real World— is that the producers of these shows often allow individual participants to vent their fears and frustrations to the audience. As confidantes, the audience can better see themselves as participating in the "real" world playing itself out on their television screens. This confessional-within-ensemble method has a great deal of potential in fiction, though it has not been extensively explored. Lindsay Boyd's novel Proper Respect for a Wound, however, finds the artistic potential and cultural currency of the personal confessional and crafts a tale that will lead his audience to identify with the disabled and their caregivers. In this novel, plot is secondary to setting and to characterization, just as in reality television, but it nevertheless opens up an important window into a segment of real life that is often ignored.

Since the strength of Boyd's novel is in tis ability to create vivid characters though letting them reveal their inner selves to his audience, we should discuss them in order of their appearance. We fist meet Delgado, a resident of a community for the disabled in the Dominican republic. Though aware of his relative good fortune in a country that has slender resources to devote to any social programs, Delgado displays a refreshing candor about using his disability to keep other emotionally distant. When reminiscing about begging with his mother, he notes that he "could neither walk —no one would have guessed the part unwillingness played in the scenario—nor talk." Yet even though he "understood the comments people directed" at him "from their enormous heights," he "elected to respond in a language home-brewed, with a signature tune of grunts, yelps, and squeals." Delgado perfects this language over time until, as he note, it "communicated all I wished to convey" (p. 3,4). Delgado had other strategies for controlling his environment, admitting that sometimes he wet his "pants at the workshop out of willful bloody-mindedness" (p. 43). In Delgado, Boyd presents us with a portrait of the disabled that is three dimensional. He is not a hero or an angel, nor is he a cartoon. He is a grumpy, caustic, yet ultimately sympathetic person.

The next character Boyd allows to communicate with readers is Juan, who we meet while he is working with Delgado. Juan quickly leaves to work in a community in Mobile, Alabama for six months. With Juan, and later Daniela, Proper Respect for a Wound becomes more like reality television. In these sections, the residents of the care facility are relegated to the background and the interaction between the caregivers becomes the central focus. Of course, this is all good gossipy fun, a sort of Real World Mobile, featuring caregivers instead of chic layabouts, but it lacks the profound insight of Delgado's portrayal. Nevertheless, most of the time it is easy to care about Juan, an articulate and sensitive person who is attractive to both men and women and yet is mysteriously unattached. Occasionally, howe er, Juan's section catalogs his reactions to living in the United States and begins to seem like a slightly dull letter home to his family. These passages tend to slow down the otherwise crisp pace of Boyd's narrative. For example, when Juan discusses a painting that impresses hi, he notes that "the artist's tender, unadorned depictions of the plants, animal life, and people of the Gulf Coast region moved" him because the artist "portrayed them in watercolors, drawings oils, block prints, ceramics, and carvings" (p. 61). Clearly, Boyd needs to refrain from slipping into the idiom of the tourist's guide, but fortunately these digressions are rare.

Daniela, an attractive twenty-something college student from Jena in the former East Germany, has the floor next. Her inner thoughts are presented as journal entries. As with Juan, Daniela mostly discussed the personalities of the care facility and her impressions of America. Things become interesting when open-minded and secular Daniela realizes that she may or may not have feelings for Juan, who may or may not have feelings for her. They hang out after hours in her apartment, discussing the other residents, the difficulty of communicating in a second language, and Daniel's boyfriend, Albert. Again, there is nothing profound here, though it does make for entertaining reading. Her indecision over what to do about her boyfriend in Germany provides much voyeuristic pleasure, for example. And both Jan and Daniela help to humanize caregivers and make that career appealing. As with Juan, however, Boyd occasionally has Daniela sound more like Frommer's guide to the former Warsaw Pack countries than an actual person. For example, she writes in one of her letters that "everyone who resides in Jena knows, the walkway beneath the regional history museum leads to the Gothic Stadtkirche St. Michel and the original engraved tombstone of the reformer, Martin Luther" (p.139). But she is communicating to Katrina, who would know this, and Boyd's desire to inform readers about Jena leads him to make Daniela sound like an annoying prig who talks down to her friend. Not only is this out of line with Boyd's overall characterization, but it also slows down the story's pace.

The novel then returns to another satisfyingly complex disabled character. Loretta gives voice to the the realities of sexuality and disability as she discussed the crushes she has had on many of her male caregivers. For example, when her thoughts turn to a caregiver named Sandana, she remembers that she "ached to e held but he refused to give ground. Off would come the glasses, and to repeated quivers of the head, he would bring up the justification of his culture, when men and women, blood relatives included, did not touch. 'Then how did they manage to have babies?' I asked, a question met with gales of laughter" (p. 156). Once again, Boyd creates a deeply human portrayal of a person with a disability, one with understandable needs and a ready sense of humor. Boyd furthers this challenging characterization when he refuses to pander to audience's expectations of a uniformly sympathetic character as he later portrays Loretta coerced into falsely accusing Juan of molesting her.

Boyd's novel is not quite as episodic as this review makes it seem. Juan and Delgado are important to each other, though since good reviewers don't spoil the endings of the books they write about, I won't explain why. There is an easy rhythm to this novel, and its conclusion fits in well with what has gone on before. so while Delgado and Loretta have more important things to say than Juan or Daniela, Proper Respect for a Wound is an important and entertaining contribution to the literature of disability. Boyd's economical novel —packing quite a bit of narrative action into 218 crisply written pages— will interest anyone who is familiar with care workers and communities for the disabled. Because of its appropriation of the idiom of reality television, however, this would be an excellent tale to assign to bright high school or college students. These readers would identify with Boyd's youthful and adventurous caregivers and they flawed but compelling people with disabilities he creates because they are used to the kind of personal confidences Boyd uses to structure his novel."

Mark Decker, Ph.D.
Kaleidoscope, Winter/Spring 2008 issue

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