Blooming Broccoli

Sitting on a table in my living room is a paper plate that holds a stalk of broccoli wrapped in a bright red bow. It was joke gift to my daughter for her 18th birthday. It still sits there weeks after the party ended the decorations put away and the final leftovers eaten or thrown away.

I have left it there on the round accent table, where it sits under the leaves of a house plant on the tier above, waiting patiently for my now "grown" daughter to take responsibility for her gifts. But there it still sits even after all the thank you notes have been sent. It's not as if she had any intention of eating the broccoli. It was the impetus for a good hearty laugh amongst her and a few friends, and perhaps a good story later. But now it sits alone as the deep green slowly fades.

My only experience with broccoli that has remained in my home beyond its prime has been in the refrigerator. Too often the once yummy vegetable has sat in the back of the vegetable drawer inside a plastic bag that slowly fills with condensation. Then very light brown spots begin to appear and I imagine that the texture of the stalk develops a slimy texture. I don't bother to reach inside the plastic bag to test my slime theory. When it is time to clear out inedible foods, I take a hold of the corner of the bag and toss it into the trash.

Outside of its normal storage habitat, a stalk of broccoli reacts very differently as it begins its descent from healthy food to compost ready material. It first begins to fade something like tanned skin fading as the sunlight becomes scarce in winter. The fade brings out the yellow. There is no withdrawal of anything much beyond the color; nothing seems to be shriveling the way I would expect. There is a little shrinkage but nothing dramatic. It is aging gracefully. There is no foul smell. In fact I only notice its slow decline when I cross the room on my way into the kitchen, not because the air is fouled by the slow rot I would expect.

The real surprise has been the small and vital yellow flowers that are blooming from within the head. The head of the broccoli is often referred to as the flower, but it would appear that there are more traditional flowers trapped within the topmost portion of the stalk. The chlorophyll seems to have withdrawn inside itself to serve as food for these new flowers, with their tiny paper-fine petals and their white centers.

The red ribbon tied to the stalk has taken on the look of an accent for a bouquet of flowers. The silly gift has transformed itself into something more; it has reinvented itself, almost as if it is attempting to match its surroundings, to become a member of the various home accents.

I'm sure that an internet search or flip through the pages of my plant book would offer a simple and logical explanation for this phenomenon. I don't bother, however. I am enjoying my place as an observer in this happening. I don't feel a need to understand the death of the broccoli. I'm willing to accept that the process is predictable and there is no need to arm myself with knowledge; I can simply allow it to continue undisturbed and enjoy the tiny gifts that it shares before it exhausts it resources.

Anger

For lots of reason, including genetic and childhood exposure, I have a temper. In years past it was something I had great difficulty controlling. In general conversation my kids conveniently gloss over the fact that I had a pretty mean mouth on me when they were younger. I worked very, very, very hard to control my tongue and avoid saying anything I might regret. I did this in large part because I didn't want my kids to think that it was okay for anyone to talk to them in any way that was less that respectful. They are great kids; why should I allow my baggage to hurt them.

There are times even now, however, when I get pretty doggone pissed. Usually I can keep the irrational part of myself in control. I take a certain amount of pride in being able to argue a position or make a point while keeping calm on the outside and attacking the situation diplomatically, however much that may sound like an oxymoron. I am very fortunate to have a supervisor at job #1 who is really, really good about talking me out of a tree when I begin to react negatively towards a situation that has annoyed or angered me at work. I do vent my anger when in a safe location, with trusted friends or family. I have a pretty sharp tongue, and try to direct it away from loved ones. The thing I really don't like about being angry is the loss of control, of myself or what is happening to me.

Then there is the anger at things outside of myself that I have no control of whatsoever.

Take the automatic appeal of convicted killer, Richard Allen Davis, as an example. In the fall of 1993 this man brazenly kidnapped a young girl, Polly Klaas, from her home. He tied up her friends, threatened to kill her mother and sister if she protested, and whisked her off into the night. Within a span of a few hours he sexually assaulted her, strangled her and left her body to rot under a piece of plywood on a spot less than two hours from her home.

In 1996 Davis was convicted of murder with special circumstances and sentenced to die by lethal injection in San Quentin prison. (From research I have done separately, death row inmates are given a choice between lethal injection and the still functional electric chair in San Quentin. Since the re-instatment of the death penalty in California in 1974, all have chosen lethal injection.) He was imprisoned immediately and sat in solitary confinement while his lawyers planned his appeal. That "automatic" appeal process was twelve years in the making.
They pleaded his case before the California Supreme Court of Appeals on Tuesday, March 3, 2009.

His request carried a couple of options. One was removing the death penalty. Another was throwing out the conviction altogether. This is a man with a laundry list of arrests and convictions. He is the reason for the "3 strikes" law. At the end of a trial that was moved to Santa Clara County in response to the tremendous public outcry, When Davis heard the jury's verdict, his reaction was to turn to the cameras and flip a double bird. When he read a statement to the judge just before sentencing, he claimed that just prior to strangling Polly she asked, "Just don’t do me like my dad."

Before this case, I sat firmly on the fence about the death penalty. The compassion I could fell for both the victims and the convicted made a clear, well-informed and well-formed position impossible. Even for someone who has no personal involvement in this crime, it is nearly impossible to feel neutral about the case. And I can't claim to have to no personal involvement. I met Polly once. She was the best friend of the woman I consider my adopted sister. Polly's house was less than 8 blocks from my own. My son was terrified and worried about Polly up until we learned she was dead.

I am pissed. I angry. I am frustrated. And I know that nothing I can do or say will make me feel better. I don't believe that someone is inherently evil; I don't believe that human-kind is destined for sin and evil deeds. I do believe that there are occasional individuals who make choices in their lives, who consciously take on the mantle of victim and use it as a badge of honor to justify their actions. Those people are evil. Richard Allen Davis is an evil man. This is not a glib statement. I don't write it without cringing. But I do believe it.

The anger is directed not only at the man, but at the system that the man has gleefully manipulated since he was young. Back in 1952 in Santa Rosa, California, a prominent businessman murdered his wife while 5 of his 6 children were watching. He was sitting in the electric chair in 1954 just over two years after his conviction. I'm not saying that we need to return to old west justice and the complete disregard of basic human rights. I do believe that prison reform is imperative. I don't believe that a confessed and convicted killer should be set free on a technicality.

This is the kind of anger that feels hopeless and full of sadness. The complete opposite of empowering.

What do I do with this kind of anger? For now there isn't much I can do except post a comment on another writer's blog or vent my anger here. I set up an email update with the California Supreme Court website. I'm a firm believer in positive thoughts, and in the power of negative thinking. Do what you will with that.