Showing posts with label Maiasaurus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Maiasaurus. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 09, 2014

NEW THINKING ABOUT PEDOPHILIA

Kinds of capture

Pedophilia has turned into a big monster blob on both sides: the victim and the perp.  We need to do a lot of sorting.  Imposing destructive sexual practices on people who are still developing (which takes us up to the early twenty-year-old) is probably the result of different motives and opportunities.

Human developmental phases

It’s fairly well accepted that childhood is divided into developmental phases, that they are not the same from person to person, from culture to culture, and so on and that even a child with deficits can compensate (esp. with help) and function happily.

Why do these girls have only hairdos as age indicators?

Prenatal:  growth and development in the womb, responding to the mother’s body as its environment.

Birth to walking: includes the acquisition of beginning language.

Walking and talking to maybe six years old: basic motor skills.

Forming identity that is self-aware:  six to nine or ten when adrenarche ends long bone growth and begins puberty.

Puberty from first signs of secondary sex characteristics to full reproductive capacity.

Full reproductive capacity to full ability to manage physical and emotional life.

From demi-adulthood to true maturity at maybe 25 or later.

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For purposes of sorting what our culture calls pedophilia, I think of three categories:  1) babies and infants; 2) adrenarche children; 3) adolescents.  We do not criminalize the sexual abuse of young adults, either male or female, short of rape.  (If we did, we would have to criminalize the military.)

The most convincing possible explanation for attempting sexual relations of any kind with babies and toddlers might indeed be the cross-firing of adjacent neuron matrixes: the confusion of nurturing with sex.  Kissing and caressing an infant is continuous with cleaning and feeding (nursing) but it can get too intense.  On the other hand, lack of proper care is a form of physical abuse.  Babies who fail to respond with pleasure, who fail to settle and be comforted after distress, or who cannot perform as expected, can trigger abuse, even from a loving mother.  

Abuse of animals is closely related to abuse of children.

This is not the same as the sexual use of babies.  There exists a sexual cruelty that gets focused on this age group and on their sexual organs.  This seems to me to be very like the abuse of some animals, esp. pets that are small and “child-like” or “baby-like”.  Puppies and kittens.  Chicks.  It’s as though the impulse to nurture and cuddle can be cross-wired with destruction and suffering.  I've seen toddlers go back and forth over this threshold, seeming to cradle a small pet or toy but suddenly throwing or squeezing it.

Screenwriters and novelists seem to think of pedophilia as mostly addressing children from six to twelve -- elementary school children for whom the technical term, as I understand it, is “adrenarche” because it is ended by the adrenal glands maturing enough to trigger puberty.  This is the age of many storybook heroes from the Little Prince, to Christopher Robin, to Pippi Long Stocking, but in reality we actually know least about these age groups.  They’re cute, they’re verbal, they’re individuals, but they change daily and no one seems to study them as a formal category.  They are marginally old enough to manage themselves and maybe to be babysitters. With inadequate parents, they can become surrogates.

A bloody sock that was a clue.

It seems as though these kids are often sexually abused for the satisfaction of their awareness of danger, their vulnerability, their total terror response, and the soft tenderness we associate with females.  They might be able to bargain, to argue, to respond in ways that can be overcome, with the “overcoming” providing satisfaction to the abuser.  Also, they are useful for labor-based domination, ag work, carpet-making.  They can learn basic skills, including sexual ones.  Everything can become “normal” to them, so therefore the potential for distortion of personality and development is high.

The vulnerability of adolescents is in part their belief that they know what they’re doing, that they are adult, that they are “complete” and can’t be changed, and therefore that they are up for adventure.  Their physical bodies are close to complete but their emotional component is unformed and vulnerable.  Their thinking is confined to the world they know, which may be very confined, particularly when it comes to their sense of self.  They are low-hanging fruit for flattering predators.
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With this very sketchy sorting of victims, let’s add what scientific knowledge has recently suggested about the person with sexual desire for contact with them.  I doubt that any of the predators moves outside one of the specific categories above, which suggests that the abuse of toddlers is quite different from the abuse of teenagers.  I suspect that the ones who abuse infants are the hardest to understand.  

Adolescents are in some circles sexually active.

Abuse of adolescents is nearly a mainstream cultural norm, esp. in high poverty, low education, drug-dependent, relatively isolated circles.  My suggested evidence is that persons whose offenses are against this age group are often ignored by police and courts, esp. in minority contexts -- even if the laws are on the books, which means secrecy to avoid public outcry or embarrassing powerful people.  English upper class boarding schools are notorious but have in the past been exempted from criticism or intervention.


Scientific research into what drives pedophilia is very dangerous -- not to children, but to innocent people who fit imaginary criteria suggested by incomplete studies.  The tendency to want to prevent abuse can mean prosecution without evidence of crime and then an impulse to extinguish, to punish, to sequester, and so on until pretty soon we’ve got concentration camps for fancied pedophiles.  We’re close to that now, except that the maintenance of lists and monitored reports doesn’t function.  Abusing pedophiles is just more abuse, creating more victims.  It doesn’t help offenders and doesn’t prevent abuse.  The only ones who benefit are those who enable child abuse as a money-making privilege, since their commodity will be more precious.

Dr. James Cantor

Dr. James Cantor has been researching the accessible and measurable particulars of the brains of what we call “pedophiles” for fifteen years.  The studies I’ve read about so far do not define the ages of the children involved.  My own suspicion is that some offenses, esp at the infant level -- as suggested by research -- may be organic disturbances in the brain, wiring mistakes at the deep levels of instinct, maybe even pre-mammal.  I’m not sophisticated enough to suggest which brain structures, but Dr. Cantor’s research has recently noted the difference that is in the amount of white matter of the brain, which is composed of the connections among neuron bodies (white because they are insulated with fat).  The connectome is faulty or at least different.  

We know that some people have conditions that cause them to see numbers as colors or sounds, metaphors made palpable.  This is thought to be because the parts of the brain that keeps track of such things are so close to each other that they have cross-wired.  The electro-chemical reports of color leak over onto numbers and become blended.  Cantor’s suggestion is that something like this might happen in a person who responds inappropriately to a baby.


Not far from here on the East Slope of the Rockies where once there were many lagoons of an inland sea, one can discover the nests of the maiasaurus, the “good mother” dinosaur, long before mammals.  Nevertheless, her brain instructed her to mate, to give birth (via eggs), to bring food to her hatched babies, to defend them possessively, to eat and defecate for herself, to clean the nest.  These instincts are still embedded in the human brain, at the deep center where they are close together.

At the mammal level there are impulses to destroy babies.  Mink are notorious for killing their kits if things are noisy or otherwise scary.  The defense mechanism crosses over to kit murder.  Ordinary house cats will eat kittens who die, recycling nutrition, cleaning the nest.  I’m saying that the deeply unconscious coded instructions and the triggers for such mechanisms might have some part in the formation of an abuser.  They aren’t moral deficits but mechanism malfunctions.  Not that they shouldn’t be prevented vigilantly, addressed vigorously, and compensated for in terms of damage.  But that it’s a different kind of problem than one handled by moral means.

Cross-wiring can work both ways.

In fact, another recent development is that of the “virtuous pedophile,” which is someone who has the impulse to act out inappropriately but who is also acutely aware that it is wrong and has the moral capacity to prevent any kind of harm to a child.  Offering themselves for study is so helpful that one must call them a “God send.”  These people prove that we are not dinosaurs after all.




Friday, June 13, 2014

MARION KATHRYN TREXLER BRANDVOLD (1912-2014)

Ear Mountain between Bynum and Choteau, the anchor for all the Guthrie books

Yesterday I drove to Choteau for the funeral of Marion Trexler Brandvold, born in 1912 and a lifelong resident of Bynum, Montana.  She was from the remnant 19th century, the same as Bob Scriver, born in Browning in 1914.  This is the song she specifically requested for her funeral, first I print the lyrics and then give the url for a YouTube performance.

There once lived an Indian maid,
A shy little prairie maid,
Who sang all day a love song gay,
As on the plains she'd while away the day.
She loved a warrior bold,
This shy little maid of old,
But brave and gay he rode one day
To battle far away.
Now the moon shines tonight on pretty Red Wing,
The breeze is sighing, the night bird's crying,
For afar 'neath his star her brave is sleeping,
While Red Wing's weeping her heart away.



Her girlhood was in those sentimental Edwardian years.  Forces of life were simpler, but maybe consequences were more drastic.  Marion grew up on a ranch about six miles west of Bynum  where the “school bus” was a spring wagon that looked like a buckboard except for having leaf springs on the undercarriage, a necessity for terrain like the East Slope.  In winter the wheels of a spring wagon could be replaced with runners for snow.  

Marion looked and acted like a young girl all her life.

Marion did well in school, but when she was a teen, her mother took her back East to the ancestral home in Cincinnati to learn to be a “lady.”  The school there would not accept her credits from the Bynum and Choteau systems, so her “workaround” was qualifying as a telegrapher, the internet of the time.  Her idea of a “lady” was rather influenced by the music hall.  She became a dancer and shared the stage with Fred Astaire, Buddy Ebson, Gene Kelly and Valentino.  Her stage name (and rodeo name when she did trick riding) was “Delores Montana.”  When one went into her shop, it was Delores Montana who took your hands in yours, looked into your face, and made you want to buy something.

I first met her in the early Sixties, a dicey time for her after her first husband, Trexler, had died and trouble back east had detained John Brandvold who became her second husband.  One of the key features of her summer shop in Choteau was a complete skeleton found on the prairie with an arrow stuck in his bones.  Needing money, she advertised it for sale, and Bob was thinking of buying it.  (We ended up with a plastic version from a biology supply company.)
  

We went down after work, and talked by twilight, earlier than tourist season, in the cold unlit anteroom of her home in Bynum among buckets of stones, no doubt including the famous dino baby bones, still in eggs, that led to nests and the realization that Maiasaurus fed her babies as a bird would, bringing them berries.  David, who became a paleontologist and now runs the Two Medicine Dinosaur Center, was a boy of seven or so, standing in the shadows with a bummer lamb.  Bob and Trexler had had one of those rooster rival relationships, each a grandiose narcissist in today’s jargon, making a living along the traces of the Old North Trail that ran down the east side of the Rockies.  

Marion and Trex shared a great love of horses and combined that with rambling the hills in search of semi-precious stones.  The shop was my main source for “iniskum,” the baculite fossils segmented into little pieces that look something like buffalo, so became a mainstay of Blackfeet Bundle iconography.

Geodes, stones with crystal hearts

When I set out for Choteau this time, I had forgotten major reconstruction is underway on Highway 89, originally used by spring wagon traffic and now being prepared to handle major industrial loads in case of an oil strike, which may well turn out to be a fantasy.  Sometimes called the National Park Highway, U.S. 89 links seven national parks across the Mountain West. In addition, fourteen other national park areas are also reachable from this backbone of the Rockies.  It’s a feeder for the Al-Can highway that provided overland access to Alaska and made the Scriver Taxidermy Studio a practicality since so many hunters traveled it. 

89 looks deceptively easy on a map.  A sign at the junction with highway 44, which runs through Valier, advises motorcyclists to find another route.  Nevertheless I was met by a band of full-leather warriors wearing WWII helmets, heading north but lagging a bit behind the pilot car over the tricky combination of gumbo and gravel.  
The infrastructure of the terrain is completely rebuilt and for me seeing that compensated for the slow going, because of what I had learned about such things while at the City of Portland.  One place had been so treacherous -- very sharp turn at the top of a steep descent that curved back on itself -- that it was marked by a flashing light.  Over the years when traveling in bad weather It nearly took me off the road several times.  Now that whole entire hill/coulee is flattened, drained by huge ditches filled with sharp-edged white boulders unlikely to roll.  Such major landscape change, as drastic as the topping of mountains back east in coal country, disturbs no towns nor many fields -- just miles of rolling pasture leading up into the East Slope Rockies.  No trees, few ranch houses.
The original corridor was constructed in the 1930's and is being redone now to meet current requirements or possibly certain future traffic. Work began on the north end, because road conditions are worse there.  The reconstruction includes: realignment, gravel, asphalt, bridges, guardrails and recoverable slopes. MDT officials say "recoverable slopes"  (the euphemism for the place with the flashing light) are a key component to preventing accidents.  Crews from Scarsella Brothers of Kent, Washington, won the assignment to flatten and widen that steep and twisting section of roadway snaking through the Rocky Mountain foothills.  They are using Blackfeet flaggers trained at BCC.  The major engineering components of this $6.8 million project have been completed, but crews still need to pave and seal the roadway.

Prairie can glow like a geode.
It will take the whole summer to stabilize the surface and pave it.  Then the RV vacationers from Iowa will be less terrorized.  In the meantime, I was rather grateful for the flagger wait, because the whole scene was swept with the kind of glowing jewel colors of grass and sky where sunlight seemed to be coming up through the land instead of spilling across it.  
Bynum, Montana

Very little defeated Marion and her small tribe in Bynum, though making a living was always tough, the weather could be paralyzing, and occasional struggles over things like water rights could throw the future into question.  But Marion was wily and resourceful as a cow-cutting horse, a rodeo event at which she excelled.  She coped with the inflation of Bynum from fifty to several hundred people, and then it’s deflation to the little crossroads it is now, fighting to keep its post office.  A potluck picnic in the town park this Sunday will no doubt be the occasion for many stories, but I’m betting that the real skinny will be divulged at Katy’s Wildlife Saloon across the highway.  With a little liquid help, someone might even sing “Red Wing.” 
Katy's is now J.D.'s.

 Marion married at fifteen, returned with Trex to Bynum, and never wanted to be anyplace else.  It was a humble life on one hand and on the other as grandiose as anyone could want, contributing to the world-wide scientific grasp of life on the planet, and yet the days were ordinary, arguing with the Peebles folks about which side of the fence a stone bone was originally nestled in the tall grass.  Then suing major universities over more fossils.  (She won.)

The present Rock Shop

In later years she was plagued by a bad hip, but I enjoy the idea of her reaching the Pearly Gates, tap-dancing up that flight of stairs to St. Peter and holding out both hands to engage him in a few Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers twirls up and down the steps -- almost as much as I enjoy remembering standing in the cold twilight of the shop among the buckets of fossils, resting a hand on the head of her dog while she and Bob gossiped about the Thirties when the first version of Highway 89 was just being improvised along the traces of the Old North Trail, not as old as Maiasaurus, not even as old as the drag marks of travois, but only a little younger than the ruts made by spring wagons.

The fossil bed on Egg Mountain