There’s a lot happening in this paragraph from Shuko Tamao’s “Picturing the Institution of Social Death: Visual Rhetorics of Postwar Asylum Exposé Photography.” The observation about women and Black Americans being portrayed as anonymous others is spot on, as is the description of their “social dead” status, but the idea that the asylum system shouldn’t have be reformed and should have instead abolished actually had merit, as did the “visual rhetoric of unfreedom” that post-war journalism in the United States gave rise to, despite that not being their goal. People should never be out of sight, out of mind, and many folks are advocating for an end to forced treatment, no matter how humane it looks on the surface.
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Despite well-intentioned goals, these exposé photographs had the unintended effect of portraying asylum residents—especially women and African Americans—as unsettling, anonymous others whose long-term institutionalization was an additional exclusion from the body of the citizenry, signifying their socially dead status. For example, journalist Albert Deutsch frequently mentioned how attendants gathered naked asylum residents together, treating them as if they were animals (1948, 42). His writing was meant to sell a sensationalistic narrative, ultimately aiming to win the public’s approval for improving asylum-based care. He hoped that a series of reforms would transform asylums into hospitals. Thus, he meant to use the photographs of restrained women with no treatment, therapy, or recreation to argue that they deserved medical care so that they could eventually live outside as productive members of American society (Rose 2017). However, these photographs of asylum residents in physical restraints communicated what I call a “visual rhetoric of unfreedom” that elicited a powerful emotional reaction in readers, forcing them to question the validity of the asylum system itself.
As with the much larger corpus of Civil War photographs, which as Keith Davis asserts, become endlessly “new” in a continuing process of rediscovery and interpretation, this subset of medical images too seemingly becomes endlessly new. As we will show through analysis of selected but representative examples from the archival collections of the successor to the Army Medical Museum, Civil War medical photographs became medical research materials; evidentiary documents to support disability and pension claims; a commodity to be sold or traded for personal, commercial or institutional gain; occasional worthless scraps; historical artifacts; and fine art images. Along this path of varied uses many social issues such as race and gender, personal privacy and patient anonymity, sexuality, memory and identity, nationalism, warfare and death are encountered. This exploration thus raises many emotive and perplexing issues that the images’ creators and original guardians could not have foreseen. Or did they? As we will argue, it seems an inescapable conclusion that, at times, the photographers and their subjects knew that they were participating in more than a simple, objective visual recording of a biomedical condition or injury.
I want to understand the origins of the universe, but right now understanding the origins of hate is more pressing.
I want to write a poem about this, but I have so many windows open on my computer that I have a practical universe of knowledge crowding my screen or maybe crowning my screen, trying to break free.
If I don’t close these windows, my computer is going to crash. Typing has already slowed to a crawl, like time does when we’re in danger and every second counts.
I don’t have time to wrap my head around a birth inside a massive black hole that itself was situated inside a larger parent universe than the one we know, barely know, want to know, can never know.
How much more, I think, could go wrong inside an even larger universe? While physicists try to rewrite the laws of physics, I don’t even have time to write a poem because that’s not what I’m doing today. I’m closing windows. I’m reading things later or never. I’m skimming poems on various pages and either being born again inside them or throwing up my hands and yelling, I don’t like this poem at all before clicking the little x at the top of the page.
What is born from collapse can never not know collapse, can never not return to collapse, I want to say to the nearest physicist while wagging my finger. We had one here in Toquerville three years ago. A particle physicist. She lived in the house next to ours. She and her husband, an assistant attorney general here in Utah, made a killing off the house during the pandemic, bought low and sold high, then left all us Southern Utah townies drought dry.
I tried to tell her wild birds were going to die because she’d placed her feeder in the kill range, which is between 3 and 30 feet of her home’s windows. She asked my husband what he did for a living but not me, all while making sure we both asked her daughter what she liked to do so girls wouldn’t be left out of conversations about how people pass their time.
Later, I watched a Ted Talk the physicist gave in which she said she was discriminated against in science because she was a woman. She never did move her feeder. I trilled when she and her husband sold their place. She made fun of my husband for not understanding her joke about the Large Hadron Collider. It was a bad joke. She erased me in her conversation about girls, women, and erasure. Jon and I were like lower-dimensional objects being absorbed and dissolved by a higher-dimenstional one. That’s a thing, apparently, that physicists have observed. Or believe they’ve observed. Or theorized. Or hypothesized. Or something. Ask our no-longer neighbor.
I want the physicist to see this post. I want her to know how she othered Jon and me even as she spoke publicly about being othered. She and her faculty appointment. She and her dull humor. She and her dark matter.
Not all collapse ends with a singularity, I gather as I glance at the window that contains the story I’m trying not to read or understand. Sometimes, there’s a rebound and expansion occurs. In this model, the force is gravity. Purely gravity. No speculative forces or particles needed. No dark energy or dark matter. Imagine wasting your whole professional life on something that may not even be there at all. I think that’s what it’s like to be a poet, too. To create anything. Hell, just to exist.
If expansion is our future, so be it. Let this all begin again. I hope in that future, whatever me-like energy exists has the guts to be a stronger force than that of a physicist who weaponizes casual conversations so she can feel exponentially larger than those around her.
Oh, look. I feel something like hatred. Let me understand that, universe. Let me explore that energy until I can release it or until we are all released from this, whatever this is, this thing we barely know, want to know, can never know.
By the way, physicist. I’m a writer. I write about folks like you. That’s what I do.
Disability researcher Shuko Tamao on using photos of patients in an attempt to bring about reform in postwar asylums in the United States:
Devoid of any opportunity to communicate their personal experiences, these asylum residents became illustrations on popular magazines and on the front pages of newspapers, serving as vehicles for eliciting the pity of readers. Because the reformers elicited pity for their cause while simultaneously inciting a morbid fascination in their readership, these photographs had the effect of giving their subjects the status of socially dead other, whether that meant a mad other or a racial other.
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I don’t know that I agree with the conclusions this researcher draws, but she makes important points. I think the way we receive and perceive visual information is contextual and socially constructed, so it’s fluid and can change over time. The point about not allowing patients to tell their own stories is important, as is the way these patients were used to sell magazines and newspapers, which is another form of dehumanization and objectification. Still, I see value in these images, and I feel each person’s humanity when I look at them. But their use and reception in 2025 is different from the way they were initially used and received in the 1940s.
This article includes a photo taken in the back ward at Central State Hospital in Norman, Oklahoma, where my mother began working a few years later.
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From “Picturing the Institution of Social Death: Visual Rhetorics of Potwar Asylum Expose Photography,” published in Journal of the Medical Humanities, September 30, 2021. Link in comments.
Written while hospitalized in KU Medical Center’s psychiatric unit in June 2015. It’s nothing super interesting, but it’s part of my life and my experience. It’s pretty cogent, all things considered. I left out all the parts where I said my father was the devil.
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A psychopath is simply one who structures the world in such a way that control and containment and order and binaries and easy answers prevail. An empath is simply one who for whom prevailing universal ideas of love dominate.
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Use words people understand.
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Explosive and dysfunctional families are the ones in which tension and brilliance come together in such a way that empaths can be created.
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Take breaks. Hydrate. Move slowly.
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Names and faces are hard to remember.
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Every iteration is true but distinct as a dual-state metaphor. Examples: Love is love. Is = Is = Is. People who talk in tongues are actually the ones waking up between these two states.
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Empaths are everywhere. They get activated in situations by other empaths but also by psychopaths.
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Use plain language during activated periods.
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Knowing how to meet someone on their own level is how to keep them safe.
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Are you infinite? Still, the same journey.
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Take whatever you can in the process of becoming and you will get what you need. Ask for what you need and you will get something different.
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Waves of empaths = people get charged up all at once while things are moving in the right direction in the world.
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False prophets in poetry are not empaths.
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All speech is code. The erratic voice is the always-seeking voice iterating over a larger sense.
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You can be an empath and do great harm. Both the empaths who harm and the ones who are harmed are bringing about change.
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Call-out / call-in culture. Bring all voices in.
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True speech parts seas.
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Know your empath legacy.
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Strife. There will always be lots of it. Talk through it. Write through it. Trust when to stop engaging and when to reengage.
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Avoid people who call themselves healer or shaman.
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Poems and where they go are a test of the testimony.
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You will confuse any traditional workplace.
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Hate is the false avatar of love.
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In other cultures, to be means to emerge.
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A word is a word when a word is needed.
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The difficulties, all of them, are important to the journey.
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Do before thinking everything you need to do to get where you are going.
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What encourages a crisis is part of the path presented.
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Strong times of need require strong signals.
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What words emerge from journey, crisis, sojourn?
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Revelations close to death
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A condition by any other name is still a condition.
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Withhold
Crisis of God / of whole
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We become the core crisis of our family, the tension that wants to resolve.
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The book of poems is the breath.
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People will say definitely do something.
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Pain is necessary for our suffering parts to come into alignment.
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What leads to love: hard work, dedication, and sacrifice, but also support, forgiveness, and acceptance of impermanence.
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Even those who harm deserve forgiveness because we all harm each other and heal each other in the same moment. I love Jon even though he harmed me some of the time and healed me other times. I love Jon especially because he loved me through the ways I harmed him. Neither of us wanted to stand beyond good and evil, but we do. I stand at the lips of my maker and breathe and wish him the best in this life and the next. Holy. Holy. I love you, Jon.
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The world is five times our size.
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Every life is equal. Everyone, even your greatest enemy, is also an angel. I have already met my enemy and can call him my best friend. I thank him for showing me the beauty of the world. Sacrifices are worth it. I love everyone now equally. I would love to spend the second half of my life inside this love, with the friends I have never known as well as I know them today.
Oh, wait. The devolution. Yeah. The devolution will totally be televised. The devolution willl be all over the socials. The devolution will be on your phones and watches and all up in your earbuds.
There will be pictures of ICE cubes knocking down your fellow humans on a seven-second loop.
There will be stories of brain-dead women carrying their babies to term in respected hospitals.
There will be slow-mos of fists pumping the air, of Confederate flags entering the U.S. Capitol.
There will be queerfolk being stripped of their humanity daily, hourly, by the minute, by the second, by the millisecond, by the microsecond, by the nanosecond, by the picosecond, by the femtosecond, by the attosecond.
There will be rooms packed with people nobody wants to see as people. Also hospitals. Also boats, planes, trucks, camps, tents, cages, jails, places of torture, places of death, places of death, places of death.
Money will flow up and up like single-use plastic bags carried by a strong wind. You’ll think they’re birds. They aren’t birds. They’re bills, and they’re yours, and there goes another one, into the sky, into the white, white sky that somehow has white hands, that somehow has white eyes and a white mouth and a white mind.
Brother, the revolution has already been televised and streamed and downloaded and bootlegged and AI’d and exported and framed and staged and played and played all the way out. It went down like a sport, a sport that required sacrifice.
Brother, it started long ago. In our home state. In our hometown. In our family. In our ancestry. In our lack of reckoning. In the balls of time click-clacking away on the desk while we’re in another room pretending today is yesterday and tomorrow will be another yesterday.
Brother, the devolution was live. You missed it. We’re already living inside it.
Brother, the devolution was live. We are already the living dead.
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In homage to Gil Scott-Heron, who wrote the song “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.”
3 a.m. Migraine. I can’t wait to see what Facebook tries to sell me in this compromised, throbbing, barely awake state. Also: asthma, brought to you by weeks of wildfire smoke. At least I’ll survive it, unlike some of our wildlife and some of our trees and whatever else suffocates, which is both an act (dying) and an acting upon (causing to die). Maybe this is why Facebook shows me jiggly boobs. Maybe it’s tyring to help me out of what suffocates and what is suffocated, out of my own sentences, out of Midnight Dana and her (is her pronoun her, I wonder for real) pounding worldview.
Me: Midnight Dana, what are your pronouns?
Midnight Dana: I only know fear and pain. What is this place, this world a pox, a terror? Leave me here in the dark with the things that hide under the bed. Monsters got nothing on humans, on family. Where’s my mommy?
Me: So, like she or they or …
Midnight Dana: My pronoun is her. I am of her. I am hers. Where is she? You look like her, but you’re not her. I want Smurfs. I want a bird who sings to me. I want something shiny to carry in my left hand, something only I know I have. I want her, but she’s not mine.
Me: OK. Midnight Dana. Let’s see how Facebook markets to that. I mean to you. Let’s try to find you an inhaler. I’m going with she/her for your pronouns.
There are some things you can’t show, things you can’t share once you’ve seen them, so you turn them into a poem, and you can barely do that. Because they happened in the state you’re from. Because they happened in the state mental hospital where your mother worked. Because they happened while everyone looked away. Because we were not much better here in the United States than the Nazis were where those sent to mental hospitals were concerned.
Because in a day room in Taft, Oklahoma, we let a little boy sit wet with his own excrement or urine or blood or all three, a strip of white cloth cinching his arms to his neck. Because he’s not the only boy or the only man in the photo. Because this is what we did to human beings in the 1940s but also now or again or now and again with a new face, a new flavor, a new reason, from a new hatred, a new greed, a new form of consciouslessness.
What did I leave out? That the boy was Black. Everyone in the photo was Black. This was at the State Hospital for the Negro Insane. That’s what they called it. Are you sick yet? Do you want to turn away? You already have, from all of us, as the cages are built in Florida, as we find new reasons to cage. Will PETA come to the rescue? People are animals, too, and being treated worse than animals.
People who cage people are animals in a different sense of the word. They should start an organization called People for the Obliteration of People. POP for short. It has a ring to it. It’s weaponized.
Here, drink from this metal cup. Here, sit on this wooden bench. Here, look through this barred window for the rest of your life. Here, here. Here, here.
The photos I’m looking at include one of the back ward at the hospital where my mother worked in Norman, Oklahoma. These are not easy images to see, but this history matters. What’s been happening to people like me has been happening to people like me for a long time. This country could learn a lot from this history as its pinfeathers break our democracy’s skin.
On the desegregation of American psychiatric institutions and structural racism in American psychiatry. Link in comments.
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Oklahoma,1964: Taft State Hospital was an all-Black facility, with an all-Black staff, located in an all-Black town. In 1940, its 738 patients were cared for by three psychiatrists (including the superintendent), three nurses, and an unknown number of direct care staff, who apparently all lived in one room. In 1949, Oklahoma consolidated the state hospital with the Institute for Colored Blind, Deaf, and Orphans and the Training School for Negro Girls, creating one large facility for Blacks with all manner of clinical needs. Oklahoma desegregated its public facilities in 1964. Rather than admit white patients to its state hospital for Black patients, as most of the other states would do, Oklahoma transferred the Black patients to its two other (all white) state hospitals. Taft was closed in 1970 and converted into a correctional facility, thus confounding in the public’s mind people with mental illness and criminals. (Some state hospitals have converted some of their units into correctional facilities, leading some people to think that psychiatric patients are being held behind multi-layered, barbed wire, razor-topped fences.)
Something incredible happened today, and the only person I want to tell is my mother, who died twenty-one years ago.
The poems are too good today. I can’t take any more. I’m going to listen to devastating music now and stare into a sky heavy with wildfire smoke where things are taken and given, but they’re never the right things, only sometimes they are, which is the scrap we cling to, isn’t it, because we’re here and have nothing else. I’m sorry to break it to you. Your talon is just a hand. The scrap is what’s left of your baby blanket. It will never reweave itself. You will never fly. You are impossible. And yet.
Poems are in it. They aren’t above it, below it, beside it, behind it. They are in it.
I put water out for the wild critters who congregate in my yard.
In the drought-stricken West, fire is the four-letter word we wear like dead skin on our lips.
I looked up and saw twelve Gambel’s quail, two white-tailed antelope ground squirrels, a rock squirrel, a juvenile western fence lizard, and a butterfly on my back patio. They were either hiding from a predator or digging the shade from the pergola. Or maybe the animal uprising has begun.
Pantoums are like that weird sex thing you try once because you’re curious, but after that one time, you’re like, Naw, I’m good. I’m gonna stick with regular stuff.
I will swallow Earth whole before I write another pantoum.
I carry my father’s war in my body.
A poem can’t just be a counterpoint sung above a nonexistent plainsong. I mean, it can be, but why.
Poets, may I rise from the beautiful destruction of your work. May I live another life, another day, through your poems. Grant me the strength to be burned clean and fly like that fierce mythical bird or even to outlive ten phoenixes like one of the Nymphs—all because of your writing. May we rise through and because of each other. May that be our eternity.
He was also like rain.
We need to dispel once and for all the myth that the federal land footprint cannot be changed. — Utah Senator Mike Lee
We need to dispel once and for all the myth that federal lands are like disposable body parts that can be amputated, bagged, and sold to the highest bidder on the black market that the federal economy has become. — Dana Henry Martin
Most of what’s not in the DSM-V is what’s most pathological in our country. Those with pathologies wrote the DSM in the first place, each ever-proliferating version of it. Power and control wrote it. Normalization wrote it. Coercion. Scapegoating. Blaming. Gaslighting. It will be rediscovered in the distant future and seen as the cultural artifact it is: a testament to colonization and the endurance of colonized mindsets and systems, and as evidence of one of the myriad human-directed harms of colonization. That’s assuming the future isn’t characterized by colonization and therefore unable to see this document for what it is. The DSM says more about those who created it than those it attempts to characterize, treat, and control.
My friend Jeff said this about my work, and I love it so much:
But I think one of the great strengths of your poetry is that it does exactly that, stare the reader right in the face, in a way that is so freeing for some and so frightening for others, haha. For me, maybe only like 25% frightening.
I stole all my husband’s guitar picks because they’re colorful and sparkly. I’m officially (not) a crow (or any type of corvid because apparently their reputation for liking new and shiny things is based on myths, not science).
It’s almost light. I can almost make out my bookcase, its white shoulders, its white doors. Within, its inks are blood. Its papers are bodies. But its heart is formless, a force, an energy, the static from a balloon. Here, my eager hands. Here, my eager mind. Here, my own heart, battery-like, waiting to be charged. The birds are singing. They’re singing for my bookcase, for me, for you if you happen to be a book, for the whole damned world.
Sleep didn’t go as planned. I had a nightmare about not being able to reach the books on the bottom row of my new bookcase because my knees hurt too much to crouch or bend over. When I woke up, I couldn’t stop thinking about my new bookcase, namely the smell of it, that light, woody scent combined with hints of paper, ink, and time. My heart started racing. I’m still trilling inside. I told myself not to get out a flashlight and go look at the bookcase in the dark. I told myself to wait until it’s light out to look at the bookcase. I kind of want to go back to sleep, but I also want to watch the sun rise with my new bookcase. This is its first day in the world, the world that is on fire.
You have a mouth the shape of joy. I have a mouth the shape of despair. It’s the same mouth.
The world is our corpse flower.
I’ve never come out, but I continually come in: in to who I am and am becoming, in to my truth, in to my experience, in to my personal and family history, in to my communities, in to my survival, in to my resilience, in to my heart, in to my mind, in to my body, in to my creativity, in to my rhythms, and in to my language. Yes, in to my language.
Sell our lands, sell our soul.
Don’t thank me for helping you grow if you grew at my expense.
I don’t know what’s out there, but there are currently nine Gambel’s quail, a juvenile Western fence lizard, and a desert kangaroo rat hiding in my rock wall. Hawk is my guess. Could be cat, but I think it’s hawk. I’m glad my yard is a safe space for them.
I have all the flowering native plants, which means that, as of this morning, I have all the screaming fledglings. My blossoms bring the floofy babies to the yard.
One thing I know: The desert doesn’t need lawnmowers, but here they are in the desert.
Kitty still here.
I’m not here to be the person with trauma and mental-health issues whom folks accept without that acceptance leading to a larger investigation on their part about the ways in which they may be biased against others who live with similar issues. Accepting me needs to go beyond accepting me. I’m not here to be a token. I’m not here to be an exception because I’m not an exception. Accepting me—or engaging in what passes for acceptance, which is often self-righteous tolerance with a side of derision—doesn’t mean someone’s addressed their discriminatory thoughts, attitudes, and behaviors. I’m not a one-and-done. I’m not a shortcut. I’m not proof that someone who accepts me is -ism free. I’m not interested in such psychological loitering. Folks need to do the work, all the work, not just scribble my name in a column and call it good.
Sanism and ableism make a person weaker, not stronger. They keep folks from thinking and feeling and instead allow them to slap a label on people and situations, usually while mired in hate and its correlates: anger, defensiveness, dehumanization, and even cruelty. These forms of discrimintation are accepted and even encouraged, yet they do untold harm. Hate in any form has no home on my page, not in response to my work, not in response to me, and not in response to others.
In the United States, a diagnosis is a label that, when applied, results in exorbitant medical charges.
Apparently, John Donne’s work is often analyzed through the lens of queer literary theory. (AI said so, which means it must be true.) It makes sense now, the way I was so hot for him for two years. I actually wrote a paper decades ago about his work that explored his challenges to dualities around sex and gender, but I didn’t know what I was doing at the time. I was living in Oklahoma and had never heard of queer theory or queer literary theory. Queer was still a word that lived in my dead father’s mouth.
A fly lives with us now. His name is Jeff. Jeff just bit me on the calf. That’s his way of saying good morning.
Everything is fucking diagnosable.
Lesser goldfinches gather out front to eat and spread desert marigold seeds. They’re rewilding my yard, the flowers and the birds together. Who am I to stop them? I never unwilded myself. Now the goldfinches are calling, their sound the shape of a slide. Tee-oow. Tee-oow. They move into the distance. My eyes settle on the old farmhouse across the creek. It’s yellow like the birds, only less vibrant, the way they are outside of mating season. What’s here is going, is gone, cannot be gotten. Claws. Carpels. Cladding. All going, all gone.
I dreamed I was a double-basin sink in a frat house. The frat members kept shoving their fists in my drains. I didn’t have a garbage disposal in either drain, so I couldn’t stop them. I tried to scream, but my mouth was full of water. All I could do was gurgle as they queued up for their turn. When they left, it was worse than when they were there because I knew they’d be back. My baffles couldn’t relax. I just wanted to be left alone so I could be a sink and experience being a sink.
I’ve been ill the past couple of days and sleeping most of the time. All my dreams have been disturbing. The others involve my father, who I haven’t dreamed about since right after his death forty years ago, other family members, neighbors, the home I grew up in, and neighbors’ homes. Themes include abandonment, isolation, and fear bordering on terror. But the sink dream was the worst of them all.
The longer we live, the longer we live in the past.
I dreamed I invented sardines sold in jars. Their brand name was Jardine.* Dolly Parton did the jingle to the tune Jolene. She substituted the product name Jardine for Joline. It was brilliant.
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* I decided the brand name should be Jardine, so I’m changing it to that right now, even though I dreamed it as Jarline.
A baby-sized cyst wins the prize for the strangest health news I read today. From MedPage Today: A fitness trainer from Tennessee who avoided doctors for 7 years despite unusual symptoms ended up with a baby-sized cyst extending from the left upper quadrant to the floor of the pelvis.
My husband thinks Robert Plant is the most interesting member of Led Zeppelin. I think it’s Jimmy Page. I am right. Jon is wrong.
I take my water without ICE.
IKEA is having technical issues today, so I don’t recommend ordering anything from them unless you want to find yourself rage-chugging a couple of zero sugar Cherry Cokes before 8 a.m. while talking to one of their chatbots about all the snagglefuckery.
I call him Jeff, the chatbot. Jeff says he’s a human being. Isn’t that what all the bots would have us believe? Jeff doesn’t appear to be able to read screenshots or remember what he’s already said or track with a simple conversation. Maybe Jeff *is* human.
I just misread The 10 Best Sandals as The 10 Best Anals, so that’s how my morning is going.
This country.
I’m a lot of things, but quiet queer isn’t one of them.
My dog saw a white-tailed antelope squirrel when she went outside to potty. She darted at the squirrel, who in turn jumped in the air, did a big flip, and scurried into a hole in our rock wall. Now, another white-tailed antelope squirrel who witnessed the whole thing is screaming incessantly from a nearby basalt boulder.
Yesterday, a dear friend read a poem by Charles Bukowski that moved him. He sent me the poem so I could see it. I’m touched that those I love think of me when a poem means something to them, and that we can connect across distance and time through that poem, both with the work and with each other. Such a gift, such proof that love abounds.
My job right now is to hold my silence while it screams.
Stripped of my emptiness, yet I remain empty.
This desert rain, desperate. This desert heart, wanting.
Love, like grief, can blossom.
Kris Kristofferson is my spirit animal.
“The ‘Man-Eater’ Screwworm Is Coming” is one of the best titles for a scientific feature I’ve read in a while. I feel like the man-eater screwworm is coming for all of us.
Managing my to-do list consists of moving everything to the next day.
Here in the land of erosion, time is down, not back.
The bird makes my mind bird.
It’s alarming what the very few can do to the very many.
I wish someone would steal Wax Dana and take her somewhere nice.
Dana Henry Martin 