“You never look at me from the place at which I see you.”
Jacques Lacan, Seminar XI, 103
Much has been written in the past month (by better writers than me) about the abuse of prisoners at Abu Ghraib, and while I have nothing new to add, I have a few observations to offer. It struck me as odd that the guards put black bags over the prisoner’s heads. I suppose they did that to disorient the prisoners, and to create fear and uncertainty.
Another reason, though, may be that the guards didn’t want the prisoners to see them, for if they did, they could see their shame; the guards shame, not the prisoners’. Or it may be that if the guards could see the prisoners’ pleading faces, they would be forced to perceive their humanity, which would make the job of degrading and humiliating the prisoners more difficult to carry out. It’s easier to treat human beings like animals if you can’t see them looking at you.
But why then did the guards photograph their own abusive behavior? If they didn’t want the prisoners to see them, why show off for their fellow soldiers? Smiles and “thumbs up” gestures usually convey attitudes of confidence and victory. In this case, they conveyed a sick enjoyment of cruelty. To me, those photographs said, “See me acting like a sadist.”
What bothers me most are the claims that this was an isolated situation perpetrated by only a few bad apples. Others, myself included, believe this indicates systemic abuse throughout all or many Iraqi prisons. War creates conditions of extreme violence, which leads to atrocities being accepted as commonplace events. But it doesn’t have to be like that.
I came across a post from Mike at vitia about the Abu Ghraib fiasco, in which he explains why the soldiers involved deserve the harshest punishment. Mike writes, “Not only have they violated the military’s rules and international law, they’ve forgotten the reason why such laws exist, the moral imperative: whatever the horrors of war, the people on the other side are human beings, with families, with lives.”
Mike was a sergeant who taught training sessions on the Geneva Convention and the Laws of War. He believes the abuse was due to putting Reservists and National Guard, who don’t receive training in the treatment of prisoners, in charge of the prison. Add to that an administrative policy, from the president to the CIA to Military Intelligence, which views all opposition to American interests as suspect, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.
War is not the only situation which fosters such behavior. In an opinion column in my local paper (The Virginian Pilot), Tony McNair, a prisoner at Greensville Correctional Center in Jarratt, VA, says that America has its own Abu Ghraibs. “It is common practice for (Virginia) prison administrators to allow despicable control tactics,” which according to McNair, include strip searches, use of lethal shotgun fire for minor violations, use of attack dogs, stun shields, three foot long batons, brutal beatings, and four point restraints.
McNair points out that one of the guards at Abu Ghraib, “Chip” Frederick, was also a guard at Virginia’s Buckingham Correctional Center, a place that’s been in the news for several years for allegations of abuse similar to what happened at Abu Ghraib. We like to think that such things can’t happen in America, but they do. What puzzles me is that we tolerate behavior at home that outrages us when it occurs abroad.
McNair says that prisoners’ complaints have long been ignored by the media and ruled unfounded by Virginia’s courts (one of the most conservative court systems in the country, by the way). McNair blames tolerance of the intolerable on the general public’s apathy. “Indifferent attitudes such as these give prison guards a green light to continue their mistreatment of prisoners with impunity.” McNair hopes that the attention given mistreatment of Iraqi prisoners will lead to exposure of mistreatment of American prisoners as well. I hope he’s right.
This is my first blog ever, so I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Nancy Jolemore, and I teach college and developmental writing at Tidewater Community College in Norfolk, VA. I have a B.A. and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing, and an M.A. in the Teaching of English. The campus where I teach is in the downtown Norfolk area, but unlike most inner city downtowns, this one is not blighted (anymore). We’ve gone through an amazing revitalization phase, partly due to the college campus being located here, and partly because of the new downtown mall and the restoration of historic Granby Street. And yeah, I know that downtown Norfolk’s history is somewhat seedy (catch a glimpse in “The Last Detail” with Jack Nicholson), but we aren’t like that anymore. We welcome everyone here now, especially if they have money to spend.
I’ve been thinking for some time about what to title my blog. I want my title to reflect my blogger persona in a combined professional and personal way. After an hour drinking coffee at Max and Erma’s, I finally decided to call my blog “everyone knew her as nancy” which, for those of you who have been living in a cave for the last 30 years, is a reference to some lyrics from “Rocky Raccoon” by the Beatles.
“Her name was Magil and she called herself Lil
But everyone knew her as Nancy.”
My description (after twenty years, she still knocks ‘em out) is a paraphrased reference to Firesign Theater’s radio play, “The Further Adventures of Nick Danger,” which contains, it’s been said, over thirty references to the Beatles. One of the characters is a woman known by many names (Melanie Haber, Audrey Farber, Susan Underhill, and Betty Jo Bialowski), but whom Nick had known years earlier as simply “Nancy.”
Nick: “There she stood at the top of the stairs. Nancy! After twenty years, she still knocked me out.
Sound of someone falling down stairs.
Nick: “Uh. Where am I?”
Sound of someone slapping someone else.
Nancy (in a falsetto voice): “Nicky, Nick, Nick, Nick. Are you alright?”
Nick: “Uh, yes.”
Nancy: “Then stop slapping me.”
I chose these phrases because I like the idea of pseudonymous identities, of fictional representations of the self such as noms de plume (or is that nom de plumes?). I’ve always hated my first name and throughout my life, I have made up imaginary identities for myself. When I was an actress, I had a stage name ready for the day I became an overnight sensation. I can’t remember it now, but I’m sure it was a good one. In my restaurant days, I mapped out a plan for a bistro I would own someday, and had the name Rita’s Roadhouse Café picked out for the place. I was going to be Rita. Online, I’ve posted as Betty Jo. When I took my first creative writing class, though, my teacher said my name would be perfect as is. She told me it sounded like a novelist’s name, so no need to change that if I ever write and publish the Great American novel, not that that’s a goal of mine, but just in case.
I tell my students to call me Ms. Jolemore or anything that sounds similar. I’ll answer to Ms. Jollymore, Jellymore, Jolimeyer, Ms. J., and even Teach, but I warn them that calling me by my first name will result in an automatic “F”. I’m just kidding of course, and I convey that to them through facial expression and tone of voice, but it really does bother me, this name thing.
I wish our culture had a custom that supported changing our names when we reach a certain age to signify ourselves the way we prefer. I did get to choose my confirmation name when I was ten, but we had to stick to saints’ names. I chose my favorite saint, Francis, because it was said he could talk to animals and I was a dedicated animal lover, but I don’t really like that name either. Some people go by their middle name, but mine (Jeanne) is almost as bad as my first name. Some people acquire nicknames, but all the ones that have been given to me were stinky and the ones I’ve given myself didn’t take. So, whether you call me Nancy, Jeanne, Francis, Rita, Betty Jo, Jellymeyer, or Bialowski, I’ll turn my head and answer, “What?”
