Mary Novaria

John and I had the strangest experience in a Eureka Springs coffee house. As with most caffeine purveyors, there was a lengthy menu of offerings from the "Daily Brew" at the top of the chalkboard to the frothy, flavored frappe fixes. "What's the 'daily brew?' " John asked. "Coffee," replied the long-bearded guy behind the counter. I hesitate to call him a barista because, in my world, baristas are usually friendly, even jokey. Honestly, I thought he was droll. Turns out he wasn't. I mean, isn't the "daily brew" something that changes? Daily? Columbian yesterday... Guatemalan today... Sumatran tomorrow?" "Is it dark...? Or medium...?" John was trying to help out the guy. "All our coffee is medium roast," kibitzed an impatient coworker. She clearly was anxious for us to get coffee and get out. She was really put out that John wanted cream because it meant crossing a portion of the just-mopped stone floo...

There’s a lot of buzz about Meryl Streep’s new movie The Iron Lady and her intimate portrayal of Lady Margaret Thatcher’s dementia. Although folks seem to agree Streep’s performance is spot on (she just won a Golden Globe), there’s a lot of debate about whether the film is appropriate. The former Prime Minister is still alive, after all, and dementia flatters no one. The film got me thinking about the cruel stigma of illnesses that affect the mind and whether, as one reviewer said, The Iron Lady is despicable and voyeuristic. There is no dignity in dementia. Remember when people used to whisper the news that someone had cancer? “You know Aunt Millie?” they’d ask secretively, looking around to make sure no one was listening. “She has… (voice lowers, hand comes up to hide lips, the word is barely audible) cancer…” As if it were Aunt Millie’s own, shameful fault she had cancer. As if somehow she were dumb enough or careless enough to catch it. Even now, cancers that affect certain...

Anyone who’s been to Haiti will tell you they’ve seen some awful things. Even when we steel ourselves for encounters with extreme poverty, we can’t help being overwhelmed by trash piled on trash piled on in the streets… by a woman with no legs, begging, shaking her tin cup as you approach… by another, lying in the middle of a dirt road dead, or drunk, or halfway to one or the other. We return with a case of Barbancourt Rum, show pictures to our families, and tell stories to our friends in hopes of shining light into the darkness. Some tales are so bleak, we don’t want to tell them. Besides, how do we give voice to unspeakable despair? I saw—actually heard—two really horrible things when I was in Haiti last summer. Besides my traveling companions, I haven't said very much about these things. Until now, I have thought of them, shed tears over them, ached for them so many times, but I simply could not repeat them. Usually we groan about the roosters that rudely awaken us, coc...