Ode to History
Had she not lain on that bed with a boy
All those years ago, where would they be, she wondered.
She and the child that wouldn’t have been but was now
No more. She would know nothing
Of mothering. She would know nothing
Of death. She would know nothing
Of love. The three things she’d been given
To remember. Wake me up, please, she said,
When this life is over. Look at her–It’s as if
The windows of night have been sewn to her eyes.
-Mary Jo Bang
I have been without a television for nearly a year and a half now, and while my immunity to its powers is pretty impressive (not counting the recent Saturday during which I watched the entirety of “True Blood” season 3 on a friend’s laptop), my incredulity at what increasingly counts as television is growing. Take “One Born Every Minute”, for instance. I recently watched an episode of this Lifetime network show, which is filmed on an obstetrics ward in a very busy birthing hospital. That’s right: a reality show about babies being delivered, blood and shit included.