With(out) Predicates
If I have to read one more sentence by a white scholar who claims that x character in a “black text” is not “explicitly racialized,” I will [censored].
What is this presumption that black authors are bound to “racial,” which means recognizable to white critics, conventions of description?
Dissertation grumble #29998930982479024874
Gary Kamiya asks about the meaning of Memorial Day. Given, as he says, that not all wars are equal, some are imperial whereas others are liberating, should we still honor all fallen soldiers? It is a provocative question.
He answers,
I believe we have to honor all of the fallen equally, those who fell in necessary wars and those who died for a politician’s folly. The distinction is between historical judgment and shared humanity. From the historical point of view, it’s undeniable that we experience something different when we remember those who died in World War II than we do when we remember those who died in Vietnam. In both cases, the fallen men and women gave their lives for us. But — tragically — only those in the first group actually saved us. They beat Hitler; they saved the world. Those in the second group died because American officials in thrall to the domino theory decided that we had to stop communism from spreading through Southeast Asia. We feel deep gratitude and sorrow for both groups. But for the first, our gratitude is of a different nature, because it is a gratitude not only for the sacrifice made but for the actual achievement.
Elaborating,
Reverence and reflection know no politics. . . . In the end it is our common humanity that calls us, war supporter or war opponent, hawk or dove, to remember those who died. We honor the dead, whether they fell on our side or that of our adversary, because of our shared humanity.
In detaching “reverence and reflection” from “politics,” Kamiya cleverly attempts to veil the meaning of Memorial Day: in his writing, it is less a national holiday and more an opportunity to remember the fallen dead. The circumstances of their deaths—engaged in a national(ist) project—are less important than the fact of their deaths.
His most stunning—and unsurprising—move, however, is to translate American national sentiment into a sense of “common humanity.” Throughout his essay, he moves from the interpellating pronouns of “us” and “we,” often, though not always, identified as American, to the abstraction of “common” and “shared” humanity. A skeptical reader is then taught that “common humanity” should be synonymous with feeling for American soldiers or, in short, feeling American. Yet another abstraction.
That “humanity” should emanate from America (“we give the most money out; we are the world’s biggest humanitarians”) is unsurprising. But that is too easy a target.
Throughout the current endeavor, Americans have been asked to mobilize behind the troops, to “support our troops,” even as those troops are abstracted past their labor and duties. As Glenn Greenwald points out, “support our troops” has become a way to discipline politicians who might be allowed to disapprove of the war but must always “support our troops.”
It is a rallying cry that has the power to sever affect from action. One can feel for the “boys” as they fight a “terrible” enemy, a construction that emphasizes youth and innocence against the mysterious, inhuman shadows. Alternatively, one can feel for the “brave men and women,” a construction that sets up the sexually mixed military as a metonym for the national home, always understood as heterosexual. Such feeling can be, and implicitly, should be, detached from what the troops do. As we know, they simply “follow orders,” which is “necessary” in a time of war.
Rituals of remembering are part of every nation’s history. But we learn nothing from history when we detach such remembering from the material conditions of war. We learn nothing if “reverence” and “respect” cannot also be accompanied by critique: of nationalism, of imperialism, of our own complicity.
Kamiya knows this lesson, as his final paragraph points out. Writing to an anonymous soldier (racialized and nationalized as Smith), he promises,
So this Memorial Day is for you, Sergeant Smith. You died in a pointless war, but we here highly resolve that you shall not have died in vain. In your name, we vow that our nation shall have a new birth of freedom. We pledge that we, the people, will reclaim our country. And we swear that we will never again send our brothers off to fight unjustifiable wars.
And here we learn the real lesson of Memorial Day: not to avoid conflict, but to make sure that conflict is justifiable. One hears, in this declaration, “you shall shall not have died in vain,” the engine that continues to propel war. In Kamiya’s article, Memorial Day reminds us that nationalism is sustained by war. It is less that we learn about our shared humanity. Instead, we learn the meaning of nationalism: grounded in, secured by, and washed in blood.
You can get 4 Master’s degrees in the time it takes to get 1 Ph.D., given that the average time to receive a Ph.D. in the humanities is about 8 years.
If rumors have any merit, Bill Frist is in the running for Paul Wolfowitz’s job.
Do we really want the World Bank under a doctor who looked at a video of a brain dead woman and proclaimed her alive?
The possible economic absurdities strain the imagination.
My mother used to beat up boys during her primary school days. She would draw a line in the soil, spit on her hand, and challenge opponents to cross the line. She has never told me the outcome of these ongoing battles.
*
At a certain age, I knew girls like my mother, and I approached them with a mix of fear and awe. All the boys did, because these girls challenged our nascent ideas about masculine superiority. We could only attack them in groups. They smelled, we said, like “marashi.” If I remember correctly, it means they smelled “perfumed.”
*
From the 1920s through the 1950s, male Gikuyu elders complained that women who went to urban locations came back dressed in clothing. Such clothing suggested they had something to hide. “Marashi.” V.D. (Derek Peterson)
*
Even though missionary health workers tried to instill a sense of shame in African patients who had venereal diseases, the endeavor failed. Patients would line up for their shots and announce their conditions with glee. (Megan Vaughan)
*
Told that same-sex intimacy is sickness, John Chavafambira laughs at this inter-national mapping of sexuality. If you look at the cities, he says, you will see this same thing happening everywhere. Widespread practice displaces sexual pathology. The two forms of knowledge are not congruent. (Black Hamlet)
*
The Negro is a real “man-stallion”, and nothing can give a better idea (both as to colour and size) of the organ of the Negro, when erect, than the tool of a little African donkey. (Dr. Jacobus X)
The size of the genital parts in the male corresponds to the huge dimensions of the vagina in the Negresses. Falkenstein remarked that the Negroes of Loango had huge members, and that their wives reproached our men with having such small yards. (Paolo Mantegazza)
*
The free Negro is neither a sodomite nor a pederast. He even masturbates very little. (Jacobus X)
*
Under the cover of anonymity one attains a god-like power: the ability to foster paranoia.
I want you to be real, you say,
to avoid dissolving into language,
even as you admit my words make you
love me
To distinguish between an erection and
a perfectly positioned preposition
I wanted the familiarity of language,
food with a baby-like consistency, the
pleasure of tactility. But desire
can be antiseptic, refusing the
intimacy of shared infections
Ũhoro ũyũ ũkĩario na njĩra ngũhĩ, mũndũ o wothe no atũĩke mũĩra atĩ mĩhĩrĩga yaarĩ ya Andũ-anja nĩ ũndũ ona ũmũthĩ ũyũ tũtũire twĩtanagĩrio na marĩtwa mao.
Ona gũtuĩka andũ-anja hingo ya gũtunywo wathani nĩ arũme nĩ kũhotwo maahotirwo na waara ona mbaara, andũ-anja nĩ mabataire nĩ kũmenyaga atĩ gĩtĩo kĩao nĩ kĩnene o nginya rĩu tondũ nĩ maatũtirithĩirie mĩhĩrĩga ĩno ihinda rĩa wathani wao. O rĩngĩ marĩ na ngatho cia ũciari wao tondũ nĩo manyina ma mĩhĩrĩga yothe kenda-mũiyũru ya Gĩkũyũ, Embu, Meru ona Ikamba guothe, na marĩtwa mao matirĩ hingo makariganĩra rĩ o rĩ.
Rũgano rwa ũrĩa andũ-anja maatunyirwo wathani nĩ arũme nĩ rũheanagwo rũgĩtiganaga icunjĩ imwe na imwe, tondũ wa ũria mĩheanĩre na irĩra ĩrĩ mĩingĩ. No atĩ rũgano rũrũ nĩ rũonanagia atĩ no rũmwe tondũ mũthia waruo kuonekaga atĩ nĩ kwagĩire na mbaara nene mũno gatagatĩinĩ ka arũme na andũ-anja. Andu-anja tene nĩo maatũire mathaga arũme. Ũgũo nĩ ta kũga mũndũ mũrũme nĩwe wathĩaga gũtũũra mũcĩĩ kwa a-mũirĩtu, agathagwo na akahũragwo ona akarutithagio mawĩra ma hinya na mangĩ ma andũ-anja ta kũgwata ciana na gũtaha maaĩ. Irio ciarugagwo nĩ atumia ota mũtugo. Ikeno ciothe iria arũme mangĩendire kuma kũrĩ andũ-anja macionaga na hinya ona kwĩnyihia kũnene na kaingĩ nĩ gũthimĩrwo maathimagĩrwo kũringana na ũrĩa andũ-anja mangĩendire. Arũme matiarĩ kamũgambo ona kanini hingo ĩyo tũndo ona nyĩmbo-inĩ matiarĩ rũtha kũina. Wĩra wao waarĩ o wa kũgwata ciana na kwĩrorera andũ-anja rĩrĩa mekũina.
Hĩndĩ ĩmwe arũme nĩ macokanirie ndundu tondũ wa kũng’athia nĩ watho ũcio maathagwo nagũo nĩ atumia, magĩciiria ũrĩa mangĩgeria na waara kuona kamweke ga kũinaga rwĩmbo na nĩ getha mangĩtĩkĩrio mathiĩ na mbere magĩcaragia ũrĩa mangĩgatoria atumia, mehererwo nĩ mathĩna macĩo maarũmagio. Ũndũ wa mbere wakĩrĩ ũcio wa gũcaria mweke wa kũinaga rwĩmbo. Nĩ magĩtaaranire atĩ hingo ĩrĩa rwĩmbo rũngĩkinya kũinwo nĩ magathiĩ kwĩrorera na rwĩmbo rwaĩnangwo, or rĩrĩ rwagacĩra mathekerere andũ-anja. Andũ-anja mangĩkamoria gĩtũmi kĩa mamathekerere nĩ makamacokeria atĩ nĩ kũona mona makĩrigwo nĩ kũina wega na ningĩ atĩ nyondo ciao nĩ cĩarũgarũgaga, na atĩ mangĩmetĩkĩria no mamonie kũina wega.
Mũthenya wa rwĩmbo wakĩnya atumia nĩ mambĩrĩirie kũina ota ũrĩa mamenyerete gwĩkaga nao arũme makĩmathekerera mũno. Rĩrĩa atumia moririe arũme gĩtũmi kĩa mamathekerere ũguo, arũme nĩ mamacokeirie ota ũrĩa maarĩkanĩrĩte. Nĩ maacokire makĩmoria mametĩkĩrie maine rwĩmbo o rũu atĩ nĩguo mamonie kũina wega. Atumia nĩ mametĩkĩririe na tondũ ũcio atumia magĩkĩoya ciana merorere rwĩmbo rwa arũme. Arũme nĩ mainire wega mũno tondũ wa gwĩkĩra ngĩnĩiya nyingĩ, kũrurumĩria ona gũthamara wega ningĩ makahota kwĩgarũra ona kũrũũga wega tondũ nĩ ahũthũ mĩĩrĩ. Atumia nĩ monire arũme maina wega na makĩmagathĩrĩria no matigana kũmahe rũthe rwa kũinaga rwĩmbo hingo ciothe, tiga no rwĩmbo rwerirwo nĩ rwararĩrio na oke. Oke ũcio wakinya arũme nĩ maathire rwĩmbo-inĩ na nĩ moigire nĩ mekwenda kũina no makĩgirio na hinya mũno, na makĩrwo mangĩgacoka kwaria ndeto ta icio rĩngĩ nĩ makahũrwo mũno. Tondũ ũcĩo magĩĩkirĩra.
Matukũ maingĩ mathira arũme nĩ macokanirie ndundu hingo ya kerĩ makĩaria na marakara maingĩ mũno tondũ wa ũrĩa maagithĩtio hinya ni andũ-anja na thutha wa kwaria na gwĩciria mũno ũrĩa mangĩhoota andũ-anja, nĩ maiguithanĩirie atĩ no mũhaka macarie njĩra cĩa kũũgita andũ-anja nĩgũo marũe mbaara nao. Ũgũo nĩ matuire marĩ na ngoro ĩmwe atĩ nĩ mekũrũa na maahotwo metĩkĩre gũtũũra mathagwo nĩ andũ-anja ngĩnya tene, no atĩ mangĩgĩa na mũnyaka mahote andũ-anja, na mamatunye wathani wothe na matũũre mamathaga na hinya mũno nginya tene na tene. Ũndũ wa mbere, arũme othe nĩ matuire atĩ no mũhaka mambe marĩe kĩrugũ nĩguo magĩe na hinya. Hingo ĩrĩa marĩaga kĩrugũ nĩ mongereire meciria mao tondũ ona harĩa meharagĩria kũrũa na andũ-anja acio no maakoragwo na guoya mũingĩ tondũ wa ũrĩa maahũragwo mbere-inĩ ĩyo nĩ atumia maarĩ na hĩnya mũno na mooĩ mbaara. Tondũ ũcĩo nĩ meciririe no nginya matũmĩre njĩra cĩa ũgĩ nĩguo magĩe na ũhotani mũrũmu. Ĩtuĩro-inĩ rĩa meciria mao nĩ marĩkanĩire atĩ atumia arĩa othe njamba-njamba matuĩranio nao nĩguo atĩ rĩrĩa othe makagĩa na nda nene hingo ĩyo mogitwo na nĩguo mahũrwo hĩndĩ ĩyo matarĩ na mekinyĩra.
Kĩrugũ gĩathira arũme makĩinũka mĩciĩ na maikaranga mĩeri mĩnini atumia arĩa maarĩ njamba na anene othe makĩoneka marĩ aritũ. Hingo ĩyo arũme mangĩcemania rĩngĩ na hitho magĩkĩĩrana atĩrĩ:—
“Rĩu nĩ hingo tũkũrarĩria rwĩmbo na tũmere atĩ ona ithuĩ nĩ tũkaina. Ningĩ tondũ atumia marĩ thoni, tũkamera atĩ rwĩmbo rũria rũkainwo andũ othe no mũhaka makaruta nguo ciothe maine marĩ ndũũrũ. Atumia mangĩkarega kũruta nguo kana magerie kuga tũtikũina hau nĩho tũkambĩrrĩria mbaara.”
Maacoka mũciĩ nĩ merire atumia na waara mararĩrie rwĩmbo nao atumia magĩtĩkĩra makĩrarĩria rwĩmbo na oke. Oke ũgĩgakinya arũme nĩ meharĩirie na indo cia mbara ta thanjũ na ndotono ĩndĩ gũtiarĩ mbaara ya kũrũwo na hĩũ kana matimũ.
Mũthenya wa rwĩmbo wakinya andũ othe arũme na andũ-anja nĩ maatũnganire kĩharo-inĩ kĩa rwĩmbo na rĩrĩa maakinyire othe, o rĩrĩ atumia meharĩria mambĩrĩrie rwĩmbo mũthamaki wa arũme akĩrũgama kĩharo gatagatĩ akiuga na mũgambo mũnene na wa ũcamba mũingĩ atĩrĩ:—
“Ũmũthĩ rwĩmbo rũkũinwo andũ marĩ njaga! Na rũkũinwo nĩ andũ othe arũme ona atumia.” Hingo ĩyo atumia makĩnegena makĩũragia arũme ũrĩa ũmahete rũtha kana hinya wa gwatha rwĩmbo. Nao arũme makoiga na hĩnya atĩ ũgũo moiga, nĩgũo gũgwĩkwo. Arũme nĩ maregire kũgwata ciana na tondũ ũcio atumia arĩa maarĩ na ciana magĩikara o nacio. Atumia nao nĩ maregire kũruta ngũo na makiuga ona arũme matikũina rwĩmbo. Hingo ĩyo mĩena yerĩ ĩgĩthenganĩrĩra na inegene rĩingĩ mũno na hau-hau mbaara ĩkĩambanĩrĩrio nayo. Ikĩgambanio nĩ tuthu, nĩ tuthu! Atumia nĩ marũire na hinya mũno nĩ ũndũ wa kũgitĩra ũthamakĩ wao, no tondũ wa ũrĩa mateharĩirie na indo cia mbaara na ningĩ tondũ wa ũrĩa maakĩrĩ aritũ, nĩ maremirwo nĩ kũrũa mũno nĩ ũndũ wa kũhũma narũa. Nĩ maakĩhũrirwo, makĩingatwo o nginya mĩcii-inĩ kwao na gũtigana gũtigĩrĩrwo ona ũmwe atetĩkĩrĩte atĩ nĩ mahotwo, nayo mbaara ĩgĩthira.
Gakaara Wanjaũ, Mihiriga Ya Agikuyu, 1960
*
It was many, many years ago. Then women ruled the land of the Agikuyu. Men had no property, they were only there to serve the whims and needs of the women. Those were hard years. So they waited for women to go to war, they plotted a revolt, taking an oath of secrecy to keep them bound each to each in the common pursuit of freedom. They would sleep with all the women at once, for didn’t they know the heroines would return hungry for love and relaxation? Fate did the rest; women were pregnant; the takeover met with little resistance.
But that was not the end of a woman as a power in the land. Years later a woman became a leader and ruled over a large section of Muranga. She was beautiful. At dances, she swung her round hips this way, that way; her plaited hair rose and fell behind her in rhythm with her steps. This together with a flash of her milk-white teeth made men smack their lips and roll their tongues with desire. Young and old, they shamelessly hung around her court, and hoped. Wangu Makeri chose for herself young warriors who became the targets of the jealousy and envy of others less favored. Still more men paid homage to her; they never missed a dance in which she was to appear, many desperately longed to glimpse at her thighs. Came a night when, no doubt goaded by the admiration she aroused, or maybe wanting to gratify their longing, Wangu Makeri overreached herself. Removing all her clothes, she danced naked in the moonlight. For a moment, men were moved by the power of a woman’s naked body. The moon played on her: an ecstasy, a mixture of agony and joy hovered on the woman’s face. Perhaps she, too, knew this was the end: a woman never walked or danced naked in public. Wangu Makeri, the last of the great Gikuyu women, was removed from the throne. (11-12)
Ngugi wa Thiong’o, A Grain of Wheat,1967
*
It is said that while holding superior position in the community, the women became domineering and ruthless fighters. They also practised polyandry. And through sexual jealousy, many men were put to death for committing adultery or other minor offences. Besides the capital punishment, the men were subjected to all kinds of humiliation and injustice.
Men were indignant at the way in which the women treated them, and in their indignation they planned to revolt against the ruthless women’s administration of justice. But as the women were physically stronger than the men of that time, and also better fighters, it was decided that the best time for a successful revolt would be during the time when the majority of the women, especially their leaders, were in pregnancy.
The decision was hailed by the men who were very anxious to overthrow the rule of the opposite sex. At once the men held a secret meeting in which they arranged a suitable date to execute their plan. On the day appointed to carry out the initial stage of the revolt, the men started to act enthusiastically. They embarked on a campaign to induce the women leaders and a majority of their brave followers to have sexual intercourse with them. The men were unfortunately deceived by the flattery of the men, and blindly agreed to their inducements without knowing the wicked plan the men had made to overthrow the women’s rule.
The men, after completing the first act, quietly waited for the result. After six moons had elapsed the men then saw clearly that their plan had materialized. At once they organised into groups and finally carried out the revolt without much resistance. For the brave women were also paralysed by the condition in which they were. The men triumphed, took over the leadership in the community and became the heads of their families instead of the women. Immediately steps were taken to abolish the system of polyandry and to establish the system of polygamy.
The men also decided to change the original name of the tribe as well as the names of clans which were given under the matriarchal system, to new ones under the patriarchal system. They succeeded in changing the name of the tribe from Rorere rwa Mbari ya Moombi to Rorere rwa Gikuyu (i.e. Gikuyu nation or the Children of Gikuyu). But when it came to the changing of the clan names, the women were very infuriated and strongly decided against the change which they looked upon as a sign of ingratitude on the part of the men. The women frankly told the men that if they dared to eliminate the names which stood as a recognition that women were the original founders of the clan system the women would refuse to bear any more children. And to start with, they would kill all the male children who were born as a result of the treacherous plan of the revolt. (8-9)
Jomo Kenyatta, Facing Mount Kenya, 1938
We threw Moi out of power, but we did not purge his style of politics from our pysche.
—Lucy Oriang’
Generational change can be a dangerous fiction. Nothing quite approaches hubris as much as the strategic amnesia of those who claim to surpass their predecessors. Yet, we cannot deny the very real psychic and ideological changes that occur over time. To take only one example, Ngugi wa Thiong’o has written eloquently about the trauma of coming to English. For him, I suspect, it will always be associated with a certain loss. In contrast, we who grew up bi- and tri-lingual have a much different relationship to English. I may sympathize with Thiong’o’s narrative, but I do not share it.
In his biography of Frantz Fanon, David Macey warns against the “post-colonial” Fanon who “worries about identity politics, and often about his own sexual identity” (28). Against this defanged figure, Macey wants an “angry Fanon”:
If there is a truly Fanonian emotion, it is anger. His anger was a response to his experience of a black man in a world defined as white, but not to the ‘fact’ of his blackness. It was a response to the condition and situation of those he called the wretched of the earth. The wretched of the earth are still there, but not in the seminar rooms where the talk is of post-colonial theory . . . Had he lived, Fanon would still be angry. His readers should be angry too. (28)
While Macey’s point about the wretched of the earth is well taken, I am more than a little discomfited by his desire for the black Fanon to be angry. It is, I admit, a petty point, but I am always more than a little uncomfortable when white individuals celebrate black anger. In Black Skin, White Masks, Fanon describes white heterosexual women and white homosexual men who desire their black partners be angry. I would erase the mapping of sexual identity and re-read Fanon as articulating white desire for black anger. However, since Macey dismisses the “sexual” Fanon, he need not implicate himself in this reading of white desire. But, as I said, this is a petty reading on my part.
I am more interested in the opposition between the nationalist-era Fanon and the post-colonial Fanon, one who was engaged in action and the other the topic of intellectuals in “seminar rooms.” How might we use this paradigm to understand the coming changes in Kenyan politics? What possible changes might occur as we transition, over the next two decades, from nationalist-era politicians to post-colonial or, post-independence politicians? How might our political rhetoric change? How may our frames of reference change?
No doubt, some brilliant academic has very smart answers. I can only speculate in rather fragmentary ways.
*
…
After several attempts at speculation, many of them marked with phrases such as “deepening schisms,” “success of global capital,” “increasingly cosmopolitan and indifferent middle-class,” I have opted to let the future unfold as it will.
The Chronicle Of Higher Education (subscription required) carries a nice, fluff piece on Binyavanga Wainaina.
Somehow, the writer manages to make him sound like a cosmopolitan native.
*
Slate’s Jon Cohen reviews a new book by AIDS researcher Helen Epstein.
Opening paragraph:
In 10 countries in sub-Saharan Africa, HIV has infected 10 percent or more of adults. No other region of the world has a country with a prevalence rate in the double digits; in North America and Europe, HIV infection has never even reached 1 percent—anywhere. To tease out the reasons for the difference, epidemiologists have journeyed deep into one of sub-Saharan Africa’s thickest and dankest jungles: human sexual behavior. AIDS researchers over the past two decades have dissected when Africans start having sex, how many partners they have, how frequently they do it, their marital status and condom use, whether sex involves the exchange of money or a gift, the ability to refuse, exotic ritual practices, and orifice preferences. Uganda has received particularly close scrutiny, and is at the hub of Helen Epstein’s new book, The Invisible Cure: AIDS in Africa.
Edgar Rice Burroughs would be proud.
*
I double-dip.
Salon’s G. Pascal Zachary reviews the same book.
Epstein is especially good on the two questions that have bedeviled others who have grappled with the topic. Why did AIDS begin in Africa? And why has the disease hit eastern and southern Africa so much harder than virtually everywhere else in the world? ………………………………………………..
Her answer to the first question is succinct: HIV/AIDS jumped from chimpanzees to hunters in central and eastern Africa, as the latest research proves.
*
“How to Write about Africa” is still available online. I do wish Slate and Salon writers paid more attention.
I continue to think tagging is something one does to domestic animals, suspect cancer cells, and fat children (I was humiliated *several* times). I respond because of my deep respect for Rombo and M.
1. When I was 10, I got lost at the Nairobi ASK show. Our friendly Kenyan police were extremely helpful. Since then, I constantly ask the police for all sorts of things: directions, escorts home, documentation, and shelter.
2. I read very slowly.
3. My new favorite fruit: pomegranates.
4. Kitchen essential-indulgence: a mandoline.
5. I am quite baffled by the taste for “Kenyan tea.” In no particular order, I drink: Lady Grey, Irish Breakfast, Jasmine, Russian Caravan, English Breakfast, and Earl Grey. I have no taste for green or white tea. To my initial dismay and eventual delight, I love fruit teas.
6. In bible school, Eschatology was my favorite subject. Nowadays, I spend less time gazing at the skies and marveling at our inability to learn the consistent lesson of all other ages: no one knows the day or the time. Every other age was as convinced as ours that the signs were in order. Mostly, I blame CNN (a metonym for 24 hour, sensational news).
7. Academia, while pleasurable, consists of constant, crippling anxiety.
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