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University of Northern Iowa Why We See What We See Author(s): Richard Jackson Source: The North American Review, Vol. 268, No. 3 (Sep., 1983), p. 57 Published by: University of Northern Iowa Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124434 . Accessed: 10/06/2014 21:55 Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at . http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp . JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected]. . University of Northern Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The North American Review. http://www.jstor.org This content downloaded from 193.105.154.63 on Tue, 10 Jun 2014 21:55:34 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions

Why We See What We See

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Page 1: Why We See What We See

University of Northern Iowa

Why We See What We SeeAuthor(s): Richard JacksonSource: The North American Review, Vol. 268, No. 3 (Sep., 1983), p. 57Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124434 .

Accessed: 10/06/2014 21:55

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp

.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].

.

University of Northern Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The NorthAmerican Review.

http://www.jstor.org

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Page 2: Why We See What We See

maunder on about the life she had led on military bases around the world,

the bridge parties and sewing circles; but eventually her eyes would begin to water and her teeth to chatter and

she would launch into the history of her abduction by the aliens.

"They're not at all like devils," she insisted, "but more like angels,

with translucent skin that glows almost as if there were lights inside their bodies." And their ship bore no resemblance to saucers, she claimed.

It was more like a diamond as large as a house, all the colors of the rainbow

streaming through the facets. The

angelic creatures stopped her in the

parking lot during one of her stargaz ing walks, spoke gentle English inside her head, took her on board their craft and put her to sleep. When she awoke she was lying naked, sur

rounded by a ring of princely aliens, and the landscape visible through the diamond walls of the ship was the

vague purple of wisteria blossoms.

"They weren't the least bit crude or

nasty," she said, the words coming so

fast they were jamming together in her throat, "no, no, they examined

me like the most polite of doctors, because all they wanted was to save

us from destroying ourselves, you

see, and in order to do that, first they had to understand our anatomy, and

that's why they had chosen me, don't

you see, they had singled me out to teach them about our species," she

insisted, touching her throat, "and to

give me the secret of our salvation, me of all people, you see, me."

My sister had the good sense to

keep mum about our babysitter's sto

ries, but I was so razzled by hopes of

meeting with these aliens and learn

ing their world-saving secrets that I

blabbed about the possibility to my mother, who quickly wormed the entire chronicle from me. We never

visited Mrs. K. again, but often we

would see her vacuuming the lawn in front of her house. "Utterly crazy,"

my mother declared.

Mrs. K. was not alone in her

lunacy. Every year or so one of the

career soldiers, having stared too long into the muzzle of his own gun,

would go berserk or break down

weeping. A guard began shooting deer from his jeep and leaving the carcasses in heaps on the roads. A

janitor poured muriatic acid into the

swimming pool and then down his own throat. One Christmas time, the

lieutenant colonel who played Santa Claus started raving at the annual

RICHARD JACKSON

WHY WE SEE WHAT WE SEE

for Gary Margolis

In another room my daughter is holding a steel globe, and thinks the world

isn't so big. Maybe she's right. Do you remember how, when we sat

one evening reading to each other,

the clouds gathered, darkened, and we joked to imagine the power our words might hold?

Whatever we said, the wind said

again, south of there, where horizons

were visible and important. South of there is

here, where you asked about the bird

that sang: "don't you see?" "don't you see?"

We didn't, but my daughter says she can

see the other side of the world.

In the sound of that bird, we should've seen

another time or place. You asked its name?

the Rufous-Sided Towhee, who nests

and scratches on the ground or low bushes,

and doesn't see much more than we do.

My daughter says we live in a place

larger than the world, if we could only see it.

I don't know, finally, what isn't invisible.

There's no time anywhere we can touch

which is exactly what the wind had to say.

gift-giving and terrified the expectant children out of their wits. It took five fathers to muscle him down and

make him quit heaving presents from his bag of gewgaws. To this day I cannot see Santa's white beard and

red suit without flinching. Life on

military reservations had also crazed

many of the army wives, who turned

to drink and drugs. Now and again an ambulance would purr into the Circle and cart one of them away for ther

apy. When at home, they usually kept hidden, stewing in bedrooms, their children grown and gone or off to school or buried in toys. Outside,

with faces cracked like the leather of old purses, loaded up with consoling chemicals, the crazed women tee

tered carefully down the sidewalk, as if down a tightrope over an abyss.

The Arsenal fed on war and the rumors of war. When the Pentagon's

budget was fat, the Arsenal's econ

omy prospered. We could tell how

good or bad the times were by read

ing our fathers' faces, or by counting the pickup trucks in the parking lots.

The folks who lived just outside the chain-link fence in trailers and tar

paper shacks did poorly in the slow

spells, but did just fine whenever an outbreak of Red Scare swept through

Congress. In the lulls between wars,

the men used to scan the headlines

looking for omens of strife, the way farmers would scan the horizon for

promises of rain. In 1957, when the Arsenal was in the doldrums and par ents were bickering across the dinner

table, one October afternoon

between innings of a softball game somebody read aloud the news about the launching of Sputnik. The moth ers clucked their tongues and the fathers groaned; but soon the wise

heads among them gloated, for they knew this Russian feat would set the loadlines humming, and it did.

Our model rocketeering took on a new cast. It occurred to us that any

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