In the mid-nineteenth century a man who became known as “Jerome” was found on the shores of Sandy Cove, Nova Scotia, mute and missing [...]]]>

one of the few photos that exist of Jerome

While the world has been memorializing the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic, I’ve been thinking about a quieter, yet equally mysterious passing that happened on the same day.

In the mid-nineteenth century a man who became known as “Jerome” was found on the shores of Sandy Cove, Nova Scotia, mute and missing both legs. He lived for over forty years with a local family. Many attempts were made to locate his relatives, with hopefuls rumoured to have travelled from as far away as Alabama and Milan, but when he died on April 15, 1912, the mystery of his background was still unsolved. No one knew who he was or where he had come from, and Jerome took the secret of his identity to his grave.

When Ken Schwartz, artistic director of Two Planks and a Passion Theatre Company came to me with the idea of setting the story of Jerome for his off-the-grid outdoor stage, I immediately said yes. In 2008, Jerome : The Historical Spectacle premiered at The Ross Creek Centre for the Arts.

What I loved most about Jerome’s story (or “stories” to be more precise) is that he led me to explore questions of humanity and intention…how do we measure the worth of an individual’s life? what compels us to abandonment? to action? to compassion? When lives intersect, who can say if we are curses or gifts to one another? Is it happenstance, fate, magic, or divine intervention?

Some people thought Jerome was a pirate, others guessed he was a lost soldier from the American Civil War, still others believed he’d suffered a terrible logging accident and had been cast off by people who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) properly care for him. The longer this varied collection of historical facts and stories about Jerome stewed in my thoughts, the more I found I needed to step away from historical records and create my own kind of tale – one that reflected what Jerome had come to mean to me. I would soon discover that what had begun as an exercise in historical research was about to turn into a journey of unexpected twists and turns.

Melodies and lyrics came to me in my sleep…

a broadsheet of "Jerome's Lament" from Jerome: The Historical Spectacle. Designed and printed by Gaspereau Press.

An old newspaper article sparked my imagination…

“JEROME” TO BE EXHIBITED

Jerome, the unfortunate individual whose name has appeared in every Canadian and American newspaper at various times for many years, will shortly visit Yarmouth. Eleazer Comeau, representing the C. M. B. A., has been to Cheticamp to arrange the matter with Dedie Comeau, who has the custody of Jerome. On his arrival he will be placed on exhibition in McLaughlin’s hall and will undoubtedly attract a large number of people. He is expected in July. A short time ago a lady who resides in New York claimed him as a brother, saying to people in Digby county that when twelve years old he left his home. The lady says further that her family is of Irish descent. It would not be surprising if Jerome, who is a charge of the Nova Scotia government, finds his way to the United States and once there would make a fortune in the various dime museums throughout the country.

- From The Yarmouth Times – June 19, 1899

Uncovering this bit of Jerome’s history haunted me from the start, taking me on a journey from the world of Acadian folklore to the world of sideshows and Victorian circus performers.  In the end, I chose to give Jerome a family he never had, and an ending to a story where he was the star. I hoped that somehow my attempt to tell his tale, with all its wild, varied facts and fictions, might bring forth the ghosts of his truth.

Jerome's Victorian sideshow family come to life. (Photo by Rene Pierre Allain)

Long after the performances of the play were over, Jerome continued to stay on in my imagination. In many ways, it made perfect sense. The time period for the play and my novel The Virgin Cure are essentially the same. The research for one project bled into the other, as well as certain themes and ideas and even a character or two. If you read The Virgin Cure closely, you’ll find that Jerome makes a special appearance…leaving quite an impression on the young protagonist, Moth.

So here’s to Jerome, one hundred years after his passing. Dear, silent muse, may you never be forgotten.

Jerome at home in Nova Scotia.

This past March Break, I had the privilege of teaching a creative writing workshop for tweens and teens at the Ross Creek Centre for the Arts. [...]]]>

“The worst thing I can do when I’m stuck is to start thinking and stop moving my hands.” – Lynda Barry, author of Picture This: The Near-Sighted Monkey Book

This past March Break, I had the privilege of teaching a creative writing workshop for tweens and teens at the Ross Creek Centre for the Arts. The place was buzzing when I arrived – students and staff ready to dive into a day of creativity and art. My group was filled with keen, young writers bursting with energy and ideas. They happily spent much of their time scribbling character sketches, flash fiction, and ghost stories. After lunch, they broke off into pairs to “interview” each other’s characters. Every student then shared a reading or two of their work with the entire group, to cheers, applause, and well-thought feedback.

As the end of the day approached, I realized that we had a thirty minute block of time that had been allotted for “clean up.” They’d been a tidy group (even during our epic round of hot-potato word association) and we hadn’t made anywhere close to thirty minutes of mess to clear away. What to do?

My husband, Ian was downstairs teaching a “how to make your own art bot” class. (Yes, I know…my husband is amazingly cool.) During our lunch break, I’d noticed that he’d stretched out several long pieces of paper from a roll of newsprint on to the studio floor. This was so his students could let their bots roam across the paper, leaving behind a trail of art.

Two students setting their art bots free...

In a panic to fill my last chunk of time, I sent my trusty camp staffer, Rebecca down to Ian’s studio to ask for enough paper to stretch across the conference table my students were using.Rebecca soon returned, paper in hand, and we spread it down the length of the table. My idea was that the students would write a story together, each one contributing a few sentences along the way. (While this exercise is as old as the hills, I’d never tried having students write a collaborative story on a single, large sheet of paper.)

After handing the first student a picture to use as a writing prompt, I waited (along with the rest of the group) for her to write the first three sentences of the tale. It was then I felt I’d made a terrible mistake. A voice in my head scolded, “What were you thinking? What do you expect the other students to DO while they wait? This is like watching paint dry.”

Although I was sure I’d botched things up, I decided there wasn’t enough time to try anything else. I’d have to stick with it. Then, after the first student read her sentences to the group, something pretty darned magical happened. In addition to the punchy, hilarious, end-of-the-day phrases and ideas that came bubbling forth…there were pictures forming as well, right there on the paper. The students had, to a one, started doodling – filling in the gaps of their imagination and their story with art.

words, doodles and goofy faces...one way to find your story.

By the time I figured out the importance of what had just happened, it was time to go home. (Thanks to Chris O’Neill for snapping the above picture that captured part of the process.) How I wish I’d taken close-up pictures of what they created in that short amount of time, but I didn’t. (Some of the students even asked if they could tear their doodles and words from the sheet and take them home.)

I wish I’d realized what this exercise could become long before I tried it. I wish I’d given them all the things I keep in a basket next to my writing desk…coloured markers and pencils; old magazines, scissors and glue sticks; a box or two of watercolour paints. Because when I stop and think about it, I know I couldn’t write without them.

“Doodling has a profound impact on the way we can process information and the way we can solve problems.” – Sunni Brown from her TED talk: Doodlers, unite!

If you’ve never seen Sunni Brown’s 5 minute and 51 second talk on the value of doodling, you really should watch it. (If you’ve already seen it, well, maybe watch it again.

This is how I write.

People, places and cool stuff mentioned in this post: The Ross Creek Centre for the Arts, Mr. Ian McKay’s amazing Art Bots, the incredible Lynda Barry, and the wise Sunni Brown.

For me, the start of a new project means writing page after page of thoughts, ideas, scenes, dialogue etc., just so I can get to something good. I circle around the tale — [...]]]>

The Creeklings' Motto (designed by the wonderful Mr. Ian McKay)

Lately I’ve been chasing after the bliss that comes from unfettered art making. That, I’ve learned, is where the “good stuff” lives.

For me, the start of a new project means writing page after page of thoughts, ideas, scenes, dialogue etc., just so I can get to something good. I circle around the tale — searching, looking for one shining sentence that will grab hold of my imagination and cause me to say, “this is where the story begins.”

The process reminds me a lot of being a voice student in university. One teacher I studied with, the amazing Dr. Peggy Balensuela, knew just how to help me find my way to my best voice. One of the most helpful (and wonderful) things she used to do during my lessons was to ask, “how did that feel?” What she wanted me to do, especially when everything was working well, was to take note of what was happening in the moment. “Remember what that feels like,” she’d say with a smile.

Singing with the whole of your voice/self feels different from anything else you’ll ever do. Like the waves that a chickadee cuts through the air as it flies, each voice has its own sweet spots, its own lilt. Writing just to see where words will take you can conjure that same sense of grace.

#3. Process is more important than outcome. When the outcome drives the process we will only ever go to where we’ve already been. If process drives outcome we may not know where we’re going, but we will know we want to be there.

#32. Break it, stretch it, bend it, crush it, crack it, fold it.

- From Bruce Mau’s Incomplete Manifesto for Growth

I think most of us could benefit from spending less time beating up on ourselves and more time fostering our creative selves. There are few things we do on a daily basis where we abandon our self- awareness and “let ‘er rip.” Maybe we’d get to the bottom of our troubles, find solutions to our problems faster, better easier, more often, if we took a little time each day to dance, sing, paint, write, laugh, love, with honesty and bliss…and like we didn’t give a $h&t who was watching.

8. Write a song a day.

15. Learn people better.

33. Wake up and fight.

-  from Woodie Guthrie’s New Year’s Resolutions 1942

The image at the top of this post is one my husband made for me and my students (The Creeklings) while I was teaching the Teen Writing Academy at the Ross Creek Centre for the Arts. It’s a riff on the Blitz-era’s “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster that’s been making the rounds again the last few years, as well as a variation on Matt Jones’ motto,”Get Excited and Make Things.” I keep a copy of it on the wall in my writing studio and another on my desktop. It reminds me how it feels to “write like nobody’s watching.” It reminds me that for all the judgement I heap on myself for not writing well enough or fast enough or  whatever enough, that the words I write, pen to page, are, at least in the moment, wild and shining and mine.

I used to think that writing was an escape. Now I find that honesty with self = strength on the page. – from my writing journal February 20, 2012.

By the way, I’ll be hanging out at the Ross Creek Centre for the Arts during March break (Wednesday, March 14th, 2012) teaching a creative writing workshop for students ages 11-16. I’ll also be heading up the Teen Writing Academy again this summer. For details, please visit The Ross Creek Centre for the Arts.

Other people and places mentioned in this post:

Bruce Mau’s Incomplete Manifesto for Growth

Woody Gutherie’s New Year’s Resolutions 1942

Matt Jones

Yes, it’s true. The fabulously talented Erin Morgenstern (author of The Night Circus) “accosted” me at the Toronto Public Library Foundation’s Book Lover’s Ball. And, of course,  I loved every minute of it. In truth, we were mostly bonding over our love of [...]]]>

The lobby of the Fairmont Royal York in Toronto

Here are a few highlights from my recent trip to Toronto.

Yes, it’s true. The fabulously talented Erin Morgenstern (author of The Night Circus) “accosted” me at the Toronto Public Library Foundation’s Book Lover’s Ball. And, of course,  I loved every minute of it. In truth, we were mostly bonding over our love of sparkly things…me, adoring the stars in Erin’s hair; Erin, loving the vintage gown I was wearing. It was a magical night to be sure, with loads of literati sightings (Linden MacIntyre, Margaret Atwood, Lawrence Hill, etc.) and conversations with facebook author friends I hadn’t met face-to-face until that night (Eva Stachniak, Lilian Nattel, Alison Pick, Linwood Barclay, Kathleen Winter, to name but a few.) Best of all, it was for a wonderful cause, the Toronto Public Library System.

Hanging out at the Book Lover's Ball with my Canada Reads buddy, Terry Fallis (author of The Best Laid Plans)

While I was in the Big Smoke, I also had the privilege of speaking at a Writers’ Trust of Canada Salon. It was a delightful evening of storytelling and lively conversation, all made possible by the hospitality of my hosts and the wonderful people who keep the Writers’ Trust going. We’re so fortunate to have such a fine organization in this country to support and encourage Canadian writers.

Erin Morgenstern and me at Random House Canada

On Saturday, I met up with Erin again and we joined Paula McLain (The Paris Wife) for the Random House Canada Blogger Fest. We were the three “super secret surprise” authors for the day, and what a fun day it was! The energy in the room was, in a word, squee-rific. It was great to have the chance to sit and chat with so many book bloggers. We dished about everything from women’s history to cupcakes, from literary inspiration to our favourite Etsy finds. Oh, and just for kicks, I read my first blog post ( from March 2003) to the group. In the post, I was just about to finish the first (extremely rough) draft of what would become The Birth House. My how time flies. Here are a couple of lines from it. (I’ve chosen not to include the first and only comment the post ever got from the ever prolific “how to increase your sperm volume.”)

March 26, 2003

picked up Dorothea Brande’s Becoming a Writer at the Odd Book used book store. Written in the 1930′s, it’s an incredibly useful tome of information.

getting closer to the end of the novel. I can’t believe that within a month I may be finished with the first draft. The ending is still forming, mixing…all yeasty and warm in my brain. It’s a good place to be. I’m not panicking…

reading my first blog post at #RHBlogfest (photo courtesy of SassyMonkeyReads)

Sunday saw my last event of the trip, a lovely luncheon put on by the Globe and Mail and hosted by Sarah Hampson. Paula was at this event as well as Eva Stachniak (The Winter Palace,) and the three of us took turns talking about the inspiration behind our novels. I loved hearing the behind-the-scenes stories of Paula’s and Eva’s books. Sarah added insightful observations and questions to the mix during the Q&A, so I headed home feeling inspired and eager to write!

the view from inside my car at the Halifax Airport parking lot...yup, that's ICE!

Home…(almost.)

I knew there’d been freezing rain and snow the night before I arrived in Nova Scotia, but I had no idea that my car, parked in the airport parking lot (rather than the garage) would be completely covered in ice. After I was unable to get my key into the lock of the driver’s side door, I managed to coax it into the lock on the passenger side. Lock turned, I jiggled the handle until it popped up. So far so good.

When I tried to pull the door open though, it wouldn’t budge. I ran my key along the perimeter where the door meets the body of the car, and got rid of some of the ice that was keeping the door shut, but when I pulled at the handle again, it opened just enough for the interior light to go on and nothing more. (At least now I had a bit of a gap to work with…about half an inch.)

I hip checked the door several times over and said more than a few choice words. (Did I mention it was really cold and windy?) I pounded at the door with my fist, then hiked up the skirt of my dress (I hadn’t changed after the luncheon) and kicked the crap out of the door with my mighty Fluevogs. The door was still stuck. The interior light mocked me every time I tried the handle…blink, blink, blink.

What did I have in my bags that I could use as a lever? I thought. It needed to be strong, but slim. Opening my suitcase, I took out my curling iron. It’s been threatening to fall apart for ages, so I decided to try wedging the thin part of the metal clamp between the door and car.

The curve of it was too deep, it wouldn’t fit.

Meanwhile, my husband is texting me with welcome home messages and updates on the current episode of Downton Abbey I was missing. I texted back my parking lot woes, a few more colourful words, and told him I hoped to get home before dawn.

Pacing to keep warm, I tried once more to think of what I could use to get into the car. In desperation, I started digging through the swag bag they’d given me at the Globe and Mail event. Chocolate and Books. The chocolate would come in handy if I had to wait at the airport for a ride…

“OK book,” I said, as I pulled it from the bag. “Don’t fail me now.” Flipping the font cover of it open, I slid the edge of the hardcover into the gap and began to pry at the door. Working my way around the door, I finally heard a blessed “pop” and I was in! I made it home by 1am.

There truly is nothing like a book.

"after the ball is over..."

A few of the people and places mentioned in this post:

Erin Morgenstern, The Book Lover’s Ball, The Writers’ Trust of Canada, Sassy Monkey Reads,  and my mighty Fluevogs.

There is no frigate like a book

To take us lands away,

Nor any coursers like a page

Of prancing poetry.

- Emily Dickinson

Libraries hold a special place in my heart. The public library in my hometown of Lebanon, Indiana was the place I spent most Saturday mornings as a child. My mom [...]]]>  

The Carnegie Library in Lebanon, Indiana

There is no frigate like a book

To take us lands away,

Nor any coursers like a page

Of prancing poetry.

- Emily Dickinson

Libraries hold a special place in my heart. The public library in my hometown of Lebanon, Indiana was the place I spent most Saturday mornings as a child. My mom would drop me off on her way to do her grocery shopping, and by the time she returned, I’d have a stack of books piled high on the librarian’s desk, ready to bring home.

The children’s section, with its giant, 1970′s coloured floor pillows was where I first discovered the power of words. Sinking into the orange corduroy softness of my favourite pillow, I’d soon be transported to another place and time – a secret garden, the land of Oz, a boat race in Central Park (where I’d cheer with every page turn for a spunky mouse named Stuart.) Reading was nothing short of magic.

(And yes, it’s true…another kind of magic happened there for me as well. I had my first kiss in the reference section of the Lebanon Public Library at the tender age of twelve.) Just thinking of the Dewey Decimal classes still makes me blush.

In the last few years, I’ve had the pleasure of visiting libraries near and far, sometimes as a guest speaker, but more often as a writer who can’t seem to stop chasing after stories from the past. While writing The Birth House I read through countless historical volumes and documents at libraries and archives throughout Nova Scotia. Then, while writing The Virgin Cure I took several trips to New York where I’d spend entire days at the New-York Historical Society Library, lost between the pages of 1870′s newspapers and guidebooks.

Now that 2012 has arrived, I find I’m chasing after a new tale that’s already got me rushing back to the stacks and to my desk. For the time being, my Canadian book tour is finished, and I’m happily falling back into the world of words. A million thanks in advance to all the librarians I’ll be asking for help as I chase this story down, one call number at a time.

Have you thanked a librarian lately?

little me...about the time I started making Saturday trips to the library.

Here’s a window into my world of libraries, research, and family ties, that might be of interest.

I was recently featured on CBC Radio’s The Next Chapter with the wonderful Shelagh Rogers. It was lovely to chat with her and discuss the history and the research process behind The Virgin Cure. The interview is now online and includes big shout outs to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum and the New-York Historical Society Library! If you missed it on air, you can read more about my chat with Shelagh, and listen to the interview at CBC Radio.

 “I like to think that she was a rebel. She cared very deeply about the social problems of the time, she cared about the huge gap that existed between the wealthy and the poor…She made a choice to go in a direction that by and large most women wouldn’t have even thought of taking on.” - Ami McKay on Dr. Sarah Fonda Mackintosh, her great-great grandmother (and the inspiration behind The Virgin Cure.)

I’m sorry.

Your husband put me up to it.

He said it was for your own good.

Please forgive me.

During the first part of December, I made several appearances at bookstores and malls in Nova Scotia. My last obligation of the season took me to the Chapters store in Dartmouth, where I [...]]]>

Dear Cookie, I'm sorry...

Dear Cookie,

I’m sorry.

Your husband put me up to it.

He said it was for your own good.

Please forgive me.

During the first part of December, I made several appearances at bookstores and malls in Nova Scotia. My last obligation of the season took me to the Chapters store in Dartmouth, where I sat for a couple of hours at a table – stacks of my new novel artfully placed to my left and right; and a helpful staff waiting in the wings to see to my every need.

On the whole it was a pleasant affair. I met some wonderful readers for the first time. I also caught up with a few dear friends. Stephens Gerard Malone (author of Big Town) even stopped by – on his birthday, no less!

During my conversation with Stephens, a man stopped by the table, picked up a copy of The Virgin Cure and then stealthily slid it across the table towards me. He looked all around before he spoke, and then whispered, “Make it out to Cookie, and please make it quick. I don’t know how long I’ve got before she catches up to me.”

I scrawled my best wishes to Cookie, signed my name and then handed the man the book.

“Thanks,” he said, still whispering. “It’s her Christmas gift and I want it to be a surprise.”

I nodded at him and smiled. Stephens smiled too.

“Oh, and you’ll help me out, won’t you?” the man added. “She’s sure to come over here at some point to say hello and get a book. My wife’s a BIG fan. Tell her something to keep her from buying it, please. I really want to surprise her with it.”

“I’ll do my best,” I answered, while thinking to myself…
’cause that’s what authors do best, right? We tell people whatever we have to, to keep them from buying our books.

Ten minutes later…

Stephens and I were commiserating about the best way to consume the over-sized sugary delight that is the Cherry Blossom, when the man returned, Cookie at his side. She picked up a copy of the book and clutched it to her chest. Giving me a shy smile, she said, “hi.”

What have I gotten myself into? I wondered. How could I possibly turn away this lovely young woman?

Luckily, her husband played a bit of the heavy to get me started. Taking the book from Cookie, and flipping to the back jacket flap, he shook his head at the price and grumbled, “When does the paperback come out?”

Jumping on his lead, I pretended to give Cookie the inside scoop. “No later than a year from now, but possibly as early as late summer.” Making a desperate attempt to sound helpful I added, “Not too long a wait if your bank account is stretched during the holidays.”

She sighed as her husband put the book back on the table. He gave me a sly wink.

Afraid I might give her husband’s secret away if I conversed with her any longer, I turned to Stephens and did my best to ignore Cookie and resume our talk of Cherry Blossoms. “I nibble away at the bottom edge first, all the way around, until it comes off, like a lid. The cherry and liquid centre are left in a chocolate shell like a little cup…”

Out of the corner of my sight, I saw Cookie walk away. Although I took joy in knowing I’d helped her husband pull of his grand Christmas scheme, I still felt like a bit of a jerk. I wanted to chase after the woman and say, “Cookie, Wait! I’m really a nice person. I swear…” (But then she’d say, “How’d you know my name?” and the whole thing would go to sh$&, and, well, you get the picture.)

And so it’s January 4th, 2012 and we’re at the start of a new year, a time when most of us are making pledges and resolutions that will hopefully turn us into better human beings. Sure, I want to be stronger, put less crap in my pie hole, be a better mother, wife, sister, friend, and writer…but I also want, so desperately, to get this message to Cookie.

To the beautiful, kind soul who stood in front of me at the Chapters in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia,

I’m sorry.

I hope you found your book waiting under the Christmas tree and that despite this author’s bad behaviour, you enjoyed reading it. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day so we can have a real conversation about books and words and life.

Yours truly,

Ami McKay

Under the mentorship of sister physicians Drs. Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell, my great-great [...]]]>

One square of the AIDS quilt at Kiehl's on Pear Tree Corner - in support of the Youth AIDS Health Initiative.

In 1870, there were over thirty thousand children living on the streets of New York and many more who wandered in and out of cellars and tenements as their familes struggled to scrape together enough income to put food on the table.

Under the mentorship of sister physicians Drs. Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell, my great-great grandmother (Dr. Sarah F. Mackintosh) and her classmates worked tirelessly to care for such children. They faced fierce opposition from the medical establishment as well as from society. Riots formed outside the doors of the infirmary, and funding was difficult to obtain. It was their mission to give health care to all women and children, no matter what their station or income might be. As the population of the city rose at an unprecedented rate, the ravages of disease were felt most keenly on the Lower East Side. Outbreaks of typhoid, diphtheria, and small pox rose alongside the continuous spread of tuberculosis and STDs such as gonorrhea and syphilis. As the “lady doctors” of the infirmary worked to increase awareness of the plight of the city’s poor, the young boys of the tenements were shoved out the door to find work, and little girls became a commodity.

Sold into prostitution at a young age, many girls from poor families were brokered by madams, (or even their own parents) as “fresh maids.” Men paid the highest price for those girls who had been “certified” as virgins.

At this same time in New York, syphilis was an overwhelming, widespread puzzle of a disease and it was this taboo topic that my great-great grandmother chose for the subject of her graduation thesis. In her day, there continued to be much argument over how the disease was spread and there were many unsuccessful (and sometimes destructive) forms of treatment. Worst of all, along with the human wreckage of a disease with no remedy, was an even greater tragedy, a horrible myth that preyed upon young girls.

The myth of “the virgin cure “ (the belief that a man with syphilis could “cleanse his blood” by deflowering a virgin) was without social borders and was acted out in every socio-economic class in some form or another. In fact, the more money a man had, the easier it would have been for him to procure a young girl for this unthinkable act.

As one physician of the time, Dr. James Devon stated, “I have been surprised at discovering the existence of this belief (the virgin cure) in people generally well informed as well as among the comparatively illiterate. I have tried to find evidence for the theory that it is a belief traceable to certain districts but I have discovered it among people of different places and of different occupations – so different that now I should scarcely be surprised to come across it anywhere.”

“It is a ghastly, deadly business, this untrammeled oppression of women in so many countries on the planet.” - Stephen Lewis, former Special Envoy to the UN on HIV/AIDS

In my research for writing The Virgin Cure, I found many parallels between the lives of girls on the streets of 19^th Century New York and the lives of girls in the developing countries and even the world’s major cities of today. The challenges they face are all too similar – lack of equal rights, lack of education, lack of heath care, lack of employment with fair pay, poor working conditions, as well as the constant threat of sexual abuse and of being sold into a life of prostitution.

My great-great grandmother, (“Dr. Sadie” as her patients called her) and the other women who first practiced medicine at the New York Infirmary for Women and Children were devoted not only to healing the sick, but to bringing the lives of the women and girls they treated into the light of society as a whole. They became a part of the community, establishing trust and friendship along the way. At a time of great social and economic strife, the infirmary became a haven as well as a force for change, bringing health care to all, even if their patients couldn’t afford to pay for it. Sadly, our world is not immune to their struggles.

Today, the United States is in the middle of a health care crisis. The number of people (most notably children) living without health insurance grows every day. Many senior citizens have to choose between buying food to put on their table and paying for their prescription drugs. From a global perspective, more than 10 million people around the world are still waiting for treatment for HIV/AIDS. Not unlike the critical mass the Blackwell sisters were faced with in nineteenth century New York, we have reached a breaking point and things will undoubtedly change, hopefully for the better, in the next decade and into the future.

Much like Dr. Sadie and other doctors of her time longed to find a cure for syphilis – scientists, doctors and researchers today are desperately trying to find a cure for AIDS. Sadly, “the virgin cure” of the 19^th century is still being acted out in parts of the world today, (in sub-Saharan Africa, India andThailand, to name but a few places)  with an alarming number of child rapes occurring in the last few years, because of a growing belief in the myth. I feel it is important for us in Western society to remember that the tragedy of the myth of the virgin cure is part of our history as well. In an era when those who are on the front lines of fighting the AIDS crisis are saying the pubic seems to be “burnt out on AIDS,” perhaps a page from our own history will bring us back to the conversation – fostering a sense of global community and the desire to take action.

“The virgin cure myth is thus no mere artefact of an ignorant past, but a very real and present problem. A taboo within a taboo, it is difficult to discuss and more difficult to prevent. Merely entertaining the possibility that some people might believe the virgin cure possible, much less attempt it, is so unpleasant that many people take refuge in denial, or blame it on the ignorant, on the poor, and on parents too incompetent or wicked to protect their children from such a fate. Such claims hold up no better now than they did in the nineteenth century. The virgin cure may, these days, be more a pressing concern in black townships in South Africa than in predominantly white communities in the United States or northern Europe, but this is no excuse for smugness…or false security. As the historical record shows, when desperate situations make it seem reasonable to think about doing desperate things, interest in the virgin cure knows no ethnic or cultural bounds.” From Virgin, The Untouched History by Hanne Blank (Bloomsbury 2007)

Please join me TUESDAY, November 29th at 7:30 pm in the Al Whittle Theatre for an evening of storytelling, reading, Q&A-ing and book signing! Tickets are $2 and can be purchased in advance [...]]]>

An umbrella? Seriously, what was she thinking?

Due to a SNOWFALL WARNING for the Annapolis Valley and other parts of Nova Scotia, my event in Wolfville has been RESCHEDULED.

Please join me TUESDAY, November 29th at 7:30 pm in the Al Whittle Theatre for an evening of storytelling, reading, Q&A-ing and book signing! Tickets are $2 and can be purchased in advance at Box of Delights Books with all proceeds going to Because I am a Girl Canada.

I’ll also be signing books (no reading) at Box of Delights books this Saturday, Novemeber 26th from 11am-1pm. Stop by if you like, or attend both events if you can! I’d love to see you.

Questions? call Box of Delights at 902-542-9511

Don’t forget to put your shovel on the porch, and I’ll see you soon!

New-York historical Society photo of the 1888 NYC Blizzard. (let's hope this storm isn't that bad!)