Burning Man
Fri Oct 28, 2005 at 05:43:32 PM PDT
Valerie Plame wasn't outed. She was burned when the body politic decided to play with matches. Rove called her "fair game" and Novak, like a threadbare circuit in an old house sparked the fire that changed her life forever. Even now, sitting tick-like in the bowels of the White House, I imagine Rove quietly savoring the
freeper cries, the moral equivalent of pointing and laughing at the burned man.
"If the special prosecutor were honorable, he would be trying to nail Wilson and Plame and others for their scheme to bring down a wartime president through fraud ... that is, treason. ~ Coloradan
When you get a third degree burn, the skin chars or turns white. The burn itself is visible in moments but it takes time, sometimes days, to determine the severity. According to the
WaPo, Plame knew her right away.
After her cover was blown by syndicated columnist Robert Novak in July 2003, Plame had no chance of working again in her chosen field, her friends say, and the strain of remaining at the agency has taken its toll.
.
Even then, I'm not so sure she understood how bad it would be. How could she? I doubt she realized the acute pain of the initial article would be nothing to the ongoing trauma of being shunned in the halls, having people treat you "like a leper." Wondering if you were on an Al Qaeda hit list. And your contacts. And your children. Being accused of treason by people who don't know anything about you.
While the area around the edges of a severe burn cause pain, you can't generally feel a third degree burn because the nerves have been so damaged. There isn't any swelling. Wilson still goes to work everyday, just like she has for 20 years straight out of college. She's eligible for retirement now but will not qualify for full benefits unless she sticks it out until she's 50. Third-degree burns are so deep that only the edges will heal and scars will eventually cover the rest of the burned area if skin grafting is not done.
Have you seen a burned man? Face melted and indistinct, lips created out of nothing, a stub of a nose, agile but incomplete hands, buds where ears should be? Have you sat down and spoken with a burned man? Or waved? Or done anything but pretend he was not there? Have you sighed with relief when he chose another lane at the grocery store, or busied yourself not looking? Thinking anything but `there for the grace of God,' because even that is too frightening?
Ten years ago, when they were in second grade, one of my daughter's best friends was burned in a fire. As I remember, it started at the Christmas tree. I know it consumed the house, her mother and her stepfather, a high school classmate of mine. It took John almost a week to die of the burns he received rescuing his little girl. Chloe was immediately whisked away to Houston where she slowly recovered and rehabilitated to the point of continuing with school four months later. That summer, her family briefly brought her back to Tulsa for a birthday party. I think it was a concession to her desire to be normal again. Chloe wore compression bandages on her legs and arms. She had lost most of her fingers. She wore a wig. She was eight.
The party was an orgy of Barbies and Polly Pockets and clothes, filled with overanxious aunts and grandparents. The hovering made me feel a bit claustrophobic. My daughter stayed quiet and close, but was happy to leave after the cake and games.
Two days later, she asked permission to call Houston and I watched her carefully dial the phone before leaving the room. I listened as she counseled her friend, the erstwhile third leg of her triumvirate, sharer of secrets and recess chum. At first it was rather impractical advice about not caring if people stared at her missing fingers, a lull of halting second grade telephone babble. Then something caught my attention. "It's not your fault," my daughter said. "I would have hidden, too. A big fire would have scared me, too."
And I realized that this child who had been so strong and brave for her grandmothers and aunts, this tiny damaged creature was carrying a burden so heavy she could only share it over the phone with another little girl who remembered her without pity and without remorse. And it wasn't her fault. And it was scary. And she shouldn't have to pay the price of one or a dozen contracture scars, the permanent tightening of skin that may affect the muscles and tendons and can limit mobility.
She shouldn't have to suffer degradation of her gross and fine motor skills. She shouldn't have to suffer from an inability to regulate her body temperature. To lose her mother. To lose her friends. Her beauty. For Chloe was beautiful. The victim of a moment in time, the poor choice of Christmas tinsel or a string of lights hung too near a handcrafted ornament.
I think about Chloe from time to time. About her life and her future. About the price she continues to pay for something she did not do.
Valerie Plame wasn't outed. She was burned.
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