The Electronic Bulldog - March 22, 1995
©1995 Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and
Telecommunication
Stories for March 22, 1995
Chaplains likely to see, hear anything in busy
downtown hospital
(Click here for full photo and caption.)
*By Lorrie Cohen *
Michael Ted Bracewell's left hand trembled as
he stroked the dying infant's thick black hair. His
right hand firmly grasped the grieving mother's limp
fingers.
As tears formed in his eyes, Bracewell began
the baptismal ceremony in a soft-spoken voice. His
job was to prepare the infant - who was struggling to
breathe - for heaven.
He took holy water from a container, poured it
into a seashell and sprinkled it over the baby girl's
head. The mother, an Apache from northeastern
Arizona, took her daughter's long, perfectly formed
fingers into her own and caressed them.
"Thank you," she told Bracewell. "I just hope
and pray she gets strong."
Bracewell, 51, a theologian, frequently deals
with grieving mothers in his job as a lay chaplain. He
is not an ordained priest, minister or rabbi. He is one
of a few men and women who spend their weekends
and other times on call at Good Samaritan Hospital, a
640-bed facility in downtown Phoenix. It is among
the Valley's busiest medical facilities.
The chaplains likely will see and hear anything.
Dying children, gang members with bullet holes in
them, wounded police officers, homeless people who
have been beaten, victims of car wrecks.
Anything is possible at "Good Sam."
Being a teaching hospital, Good Samaritan
offers a C.P.E. (clinical pastoral education) certificate.
Since 1977 an average of 30 students enroll in the
program each year. Hospital chaplains do not need to
be ordained, but they should have the certificate.
Roger Johnson, who has a doctorate in clinical
psychology, is the director of the Department of
Religion and Pastoral Care at Good Samaritan. He has
trained about 600 people from all over the world.
Hospitals in Yuma and Tucson also offer
courses. Students take classes in grieving, healing
and denial by studying actual cases. They learn to
deal not only with the sick, but also with their
families.
Such classes are needed when dealing with
people like the Apache baby's mother.
A better life?
Bracewell held the mother's hand and told her
the baby would be moving on to a better life. He said
it seemed much more humane than telling her the
infant would die from a massive brain trauma
suffered during a breach delivery.
"I could not take her (the mother) away from
her denial," he said.
After Bracewell was finished, the lid of the
incubator was closed and the little girl was left alone
in her small sterile world.
"It was so moving I cried," Bracewell said when
the baptism was over. "I was overwhelmed by the
awesomeness of this. I was given this position to
speak for God. I mean, who am I?"
Most people have a misconception of what a
chaplain really is and what the chaplain's purpose is
in a hospital, said Bracewell, who has worked as a
counselor, a missionary and at hospices.
"The main purpose of being a chaplain is just to
be there and to help them deal with their emotional
pain," he said. "They ask God to take away their pain.
That is the wrong question. The right one should be,
'Please God, give me the courage to deal with the
pain.'"
Father Patrick Adkins, an ordained priest and
the hospital's only full-time chaplain, calls it a
ministry of presence.
"We are just there to hold their hands and
maybe say a little blessing," Adkins said. "Sometimes
you don't even have to say anything. Just our
presence calms people down."
Chaplains are allowed to go anywhere in the
hospital. Their suggestions usually are obeyed - even
by police officers.
Just before Bracewell left for the baptism, his
pager sounded.
A Phoenix policeman had been shot in the
lower leg in a gang-related incident.
As Bracewell hurried to the trauma room,
reporters congregated outside the hospital doors.
Doctors called for extra security to hold them back.
The doctors in Trauma Room A told Bracewell
they would need help controlling and removing
fellow police officers who were expected to barge
into the trauma room to be with their comrade.
Nurses and surgeons rushed the injured
policeman into the room. His leg, smashed by a
bullet, was partially covered by a white hospital
sheet.
Seconds later, about a dozen policemen stormed
the trauma room.
"You gentlemen need to leave, please. This is a
restricted area," Bracewell yelled. They didn't move.
Bracewell took his hands out of his navy blue
Dockers and pushed a big metal button on the wall
that opened the swinging security doors. He pulled
the curtain out of the way and pointed his
outstretched arm to the door.
"Get the hell out now," he shouted.
This time the police officers, all of whom
towered over the 5-foot-8 Bracewell, reluctantly
shuffled out of the room.
"I don't blame them," Bracewell said later.
"That's their buddy in there, but they just couldn't
stay there. I guess the presence of a chaplain can be
pretty strong. I can't believe they listened to me."
The common denominator
Chaplains come in both sexes and of all
religious denominations, but they do have one
similarity, Johnson said.
"The common denominator is a deep empathy
with the underdogs who have been wounded," he
said. "This is who he or she identifies with, being a
healer and wanting to assist in that process.
"The reality is we are all going to sometime or
later be sadly ill, with some illness, and we want to
be treated honorably."
A chaplain is on call at Good Samaritan 24
hours a day, seven days a week. A pager is passed
from chaplain to chaplain at the beginning and end of
each shift.
At 3:45 p.m., Barbara Roback's pager sounded.
The 64-year-old chaplain was being called from a
trauma unit where a patient was arriving by
ambulance.
A 20-year-old man was drunk and had fallen
off the hood of a truck. He had been joy-riding with
his friends. The skin from one side of his face was
scraped away. Blood dripped to the floor from the
top of the gurney.
"He was just goofing around," a Phoenix police
officer said.
A fireman added, "He was just being stupid."
Roback assessed the situation. It was not life-
threatening. There were no family members with
whom to interact.
Roback left. She was needed elsewhere.
After taking a short break in the cafeteria, she
went to check on a stomach cancer patient who had
surgery a few days earlier.
At 5:45 p.m. Roback's pager sounded again.
This time, the call came from the intensive care
unit. A man, detoxing from a drug overdose, was
screaming for the chaplain. His nurse said the man
had been awake four days and was having fits of
paranoia and panic.
"I believe in Jesus. I've been on trial, but Jesus
still loves me and he will take me to heaven," the
man said.
"I want you to pray," he told Roback.
She moved her thin, 5-foot frame closer to the
man. Slowly and carefully she took his hand, and
they prayed together. She used a soft, calm, gentle
voice.
"I was not dealing with my problems. People
were against me," the man told Roback.
She stroked his large brow. The man slept.
'It was so tragic'
"My prayers and reactions are often
spontaneous," Roback said after leaving the man's
room.
She recalled an episode where a mother
arrived at the hospital to learn that her 14-month-
old son had drowned in the family pool.
"She just sat there, rocking and singing lullabies
to him," Roback said. "It was so tragic, and I was just
sick about it and I was the one who had to convince
the mother to hand over her baby to me. Her main
concern was leaving her dead baby alone."
Roback said she just sat and listened. After
three hours, the mother and father took a lock of the
baby's hair and handed him over for burial
preparations.
Roback said that just being with the person
helps, even if he or she does not want to talk.
"Sometimes you don't say a thing. You just
listen," she said.
Roback attended an all-girls Roman Catholic
school and was married at a young age.
She had three children before going back to
school to become a cosmetology teacher.
"My students at that school said I was more of
a nun than a teacher," Roback said.
"I saw so much of life working with street kids
that I got out of my protected shell," she added.
At 11:50 p.m. Roback was summoned to
Trauma Room A.
The emergency room team of doctors, nurses
and technicians was expecting several trauma
victims within a few minutes.
A 44-year-old man was wheeled in on a blood-
soaked gurney. He had slashed his own throat from
ear to ear.
Roback slipped between doctors, nurses and
technicians. She saw the man was conscious.
"Is there someone I can call for you?" she
asked the patient. "Is there someone you want to be
here with you?"
"Yes," the man whimpered. "Call my ex-wife
and my best friend and my two kids, but don't tell
them I tried to kill myself. Don't tell them how I got
here."
To most chaplains, the hardest part of their job
is calling the family and telling them a loved one is
hurt without giving out information on the patient's
condition.
Within seconds, another patient was wheeled
in.
"This is an assault, no weapon," the police
officer yelled as he entered the room. "He got into a
fight. This guy got the living hell kicked out of him."
After midnight, a 20-year-old man, who was
struck repeatedly in the head with a baseball bat,
was carried in.
Two minutes later, a 22-year-old stabbing
victim was brought in, screaming.
Roback slipped in, identified herself and asked
for numbers for next of kin. The stabbing victim
immediately calmed down and gave the names and
numbers of his family.
The man who slit his own throat called out for
the chaplain.
He had lost a lot of blood, and doctors did not
know if he would live.
"Will you say a prayer for me?" he whispered,
his neck thick with gauze.
Roback put on a pair of surgical gloves and held
the man's hand, which was covered in dried blood.
She asked him if he wanted to tell her why he did
this.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I did this," he said. "I just
gave up."
The man was wheeled off for surgery.
'It's the seven minutes'
"It's quite amazing," Roback said. "They get
them in and out as fast as they can. It's the seven
minutes."
The trauma room staff allows itself seven
minutes to find out what is wrong with the victim, to
assess the situation and prepare for the next person.
The trauma team was then told the AirEvac, or
helicopter transport unit, had landed with another
victim.
If things quiet down during the night, the
chaplain will have time to eat or rest.
Some, like Bracewell, prefer to rest in the to the
pastoral sleeping room on the 10th floor. The room
resembles a regular hospital room, but it has a couch
instead of a bed.
Roback said she prefers to nap on a old plaid
loveseat in the sacristy room, a small room with
religious items, a broken TV, a beige telephone and a
coffee maker. A plain-faced clock hangs in the
middle of the white wall.
"This is how I sleep when I get a chance to,"
Roback said. "I don't know where I get the patience
for talking to parents or people who are dying."
A chaplain working weekends has little time to
visit patients. One of the clinical requirements for the
C.P.E. is making rounds.
One C.P.E. student making rounds was Sister
Colombiere Crowley, a gray-haired woman who said
she prefers that people not know she is a nun.
"People are supposed to see us a non-
denominational," Crowley said. Her thick Irish accent
belied her 20 years in the United States.
Crowley encountered a variety of patients.
One lay in a fetal position, his eyes eaten away
by a form of advanced cancer.
"These poor souls," Crowley said. "I'll just leave
my card to let them know I was praying for them."
Crowley said some patients are angry and do
not want to see her or any chaplain.
A woman in her 20s was back in the hospital
for breast cancer. After telling Crowley not to bother
to pray for her, she yanked her IV cord out of the
wall and yelled to the nurses in the hallway: "I'm
going to the bathroom, and I've unhooked myself."
Each chaplain has a unique technique of
praying with patients.
Crowley does not hold the patients' hands.
When she prays with a patient, she holds her hand
about one inch from their bodies.
She moves her hand up and down and prays
for their body and soul to heal.
"It's important to heal the mind and soul as
well as the body," she said.
At 1:50 a.m., Bracewell answered his page and
called the operator, who instructed him to go to the
rehabilitation room immediately.
An elderly woman was given too much
morphine and had gone into cardiac arrest.
Bracewell was breathless after running down
long basement corridors to get to the service elevator
that took him to the patient.
He squeezed into the crowded corner room,
which was packed with doctors, nurses and
technicians. A young doctor carrying the mechanical
device that sends electric shocks to jump-start a
heart left the room.
"It's OK now," said one nurse, perspiration
running down her face. "She's stable. She just
couldn't take the amount of morphine we gave her."
As Bracewell looked in, he saw nurses and
doctors poking the woman's gray, withered body
with needles. She looked like a crumpled lunch bag.
"I hope next time a family member decides not
to resuscitate," he said. "They should let her die."
Bracewell was referring to an option that
several families use. If the letters DNR are on the
patient's chart, the patient is allowed to die naturally.
DNR means "do not resuscitate."
"Many times I have walked in when doctors
are resuscitating a patient," Bracewell added. "I point
out the 'do not resuscitate' sign on the beds.
"They have to stop, no matter what at that
point, but doctors and nurses sometimes don't notice
it (the sign) because they are too busy."
Bracewell, Crowley and Roback said they are
not in favor of euthanasia, but they said they believe
patients have a choice about dying.
"I don't believe we - or anyone else - has a
right to decide who shall live and who shall die. Only
God has that right," Bracewell said. "And I don't care
if you believe in God or gods. I am here to help them
feel. That's how I approach it."
The boy was brain-dead
Roback recalled an incident in which a 17-
year-old athlete was brought in from a car wreck.
"This boy was hooked up to every machine
possible," she said. "He had at least 10 family
members in his room at a time. Everyone prayed and
prayed. Every time a finger or eyelid quivered the
mother would say, 'Look, my baby is getting better.'"
The comatose boy was brain dead.
"It was my responsibility to prepare the
parents that he may not get better," she said.
Roback said the family was in denial and would
not unhook the life-support system.
She said that only when they were ready to
face the horror and reality of what happened were
they able to unplug the machines and donate the
boy's organs to someone else who had a chance.
Bracewell said a good part of his work is
helping patients rewrite the stories of their lives.
"People go through life with a planned story or
scenario. When tragedy hits, it's my job to help them
rewrite their story," he said.
Bracewell's beeper sounded again.
This time there had been a car accident
involving a pregnant woman, her husband and their
3-year-old daughter.
"I need just a few minutes to meditate before I
go through this again," Bracewell said.
Each chaplain has his or her own way of
meditating. Bracewell likes to go into a bathroom -
any bathroom - to be alone, to mentally prepare
himself and pray.
"This was the only place when I was a kid I
could get any peace and quiet," he said.
Upon entering the trauma room, Bracewell
found a 22-year-old mother in hysterics.
"We were wearing a seatbelt and I got stuck
and I couldn't reach my baby," the mother cried out,
her body still shaking from shock. She rubbed her
bulging stomach.
"Why am I shaking so much? God, I hope my
baby doesn't die. "
The doctor informed the mother that she would
have to be quiet and still so X-rays could be taken of
her and the 4-month-old fetus.
Bracewell assured her that her husband and
daughter were fine and that she was being kept in
the hospital for observation only. His words calmed
her.
A hospital technician put lubrication and an
ultrasound device on top of the mother's belly. In a
few moments an underwater-thumping sound was
heard loud and clear.
"Thank God my baby will live," she said to
Bracewell as he firmly gripped her hand and gently
stroked her hair. "And thank you."
Return to Contents List
For some people, evil spirits are realities within
themselves
(Click here for full photo and caption.)
*By Angela Mull *
Inside the West Phoenix house, something
came out of 9-year-old Becky Oliphant. Something
small and wearing an evil grin. Laughing in a child's
voice, it ran toward her bedroom closet.
When the demon was in her, Becky wanted to
claw her older sister, Ruth. The vicious urge did not
leave Becky until her sister held her down and
prayed, rebuking Satan in Jesus' name.
Now 21 and married to Cody Steele, Becky
Steele said this 1982 occurrence was one of many
strange childhood incidents she had involving
demons. Steele, who lives in Chandler with her 3-
year-old daughter, Taylor, said the demons, or evil
spirits, followed her from house to house. She said it
was probably because of her family's charismatic
Christian beliefs.
Gretchen Grant, a Phoenix woman who uses
incense and herbs to rid people's homes of demons,
said evil spirits will attach themselves to a specific
person or place for different reasons.
"Sometimes they aren't ready to go," she said.
"Sometimes they are very fond of a place, person,
time or era."
Michael Tucker, senior minister at Tempe's
Bethany Community Church, said there is biblical
support for the existence of demons.
"Evil spirits meet with people to entice them to
do evil and to try to influence their behavior for
wicked reasons," he said.
However, he added that it is a mistake to
assume that all evil actions are demon-related.
"I would be very cautious about saying that
every evil someone does is inspired by demons, or
that all human behavior can be attributed to demons
or wicked spirits," Tucker said. "Probably, it's
something else."
Making the demons go away
When people tell Tucker they have a demon, he
said he explores other avenues first. He examines the
person's personality, desires, upbringing, heredity,
experiences and environment. He also checks to see if
the demon could be in their imagination or just a
coincidence.
"Ninety-nine percent of the time, we can find
out what the struggle is and help them and make
them more of a whole, healed person," Taylor said.
"Suddenly, the demons go away."
The Rev. Marcel Salinas, of Mesa's St. Timothy's
Catholic Community Center, said he, too, would look
at the person's lifestyle. He said a lifestyle that is not
morally clean could be the cause of demonic
experiences.
"People are allowing so much evil into their
minds," Salinas said. "I would recommend giving the
person a way of cleansing his or her mind."
Another method of eliminating demons is
exorcism, which Salinas said is not performed as
often as it once was.
According to the Catholic Diocese of Phoenix's
"Rite of Exorcism Policy and Procedures," exorcism is
"the act of driving out or warding off demons or evil
spirits from persons, places or things believed to be
possessed or infested by them or liable to become
victims or instruments of their malice."
However, according to the diocese policy, the
process of obtaining an exorcism involves a thorough
investigation. If the investigation proves the claim is
legitimate, the bishop appoints a priest to perform
the exorcism.
Grant said although exorcisms can work,
Catholics have come to her for help. She said one
reason is because the required investigation takes
too long.
"If somebody's living there and they feel
something, it needs to be dealt with," Grant said. "It
doesn't need to go before a whole damn board of
people to determine if it's real or not. If it's real for
them, that's as real as it needs to be because it's
affecting their lives."
Grant said she can instantly tell if there is a
presence in someone's house.
"It's something that has always been natural
for me," she said. "I've always known. I find it
strange to meet people who can't tell."
In addition to eliminating demons, Grant also
promotes positive energy in people's homes and
reads their cards. However, she said she is not a
fortune teller. Instead, she said she receives growth-
oriented information about what blocks people from
achieving their goals.
"That's more what it's about than, 'Oh, you're
going to meet a tall, dark stranger,' and things like
that," she said. "That's a crock."
Grant, who reads books on the occult,
parapsychology and how the mind works, said 20
percent of the presences she deals with can be
attributed to something greater than humans. She
said the names for these presences include demons,
devils, entities, goblins and ghosts.
"I just know it as a feeling," she said. "It feels
bad, it feels funky and it feels harmful."
When Grant feels such a presence in someone's
home, she uses a process she said she adapted from
the Native Americans. This process, "smudging,"
means "to fill with smoke."
First, Grant chooses incense or herbs,
depending on the vibration she feels. A type of
dragon's blood resin, for example, is used for
protection.
Next, Grant uses a pestle to grind and mash the
mixture in a mortar. The contents are then placed in
a smudge pot, or mini-cauldron, and burned on a
charcoal briquette.
Finally, she uses a feather or makes sweeping
movements with the pot to fill the room with the
smoke. If necessary, she chants. Grant compared this
chanting to what some religions call "speaking in
tongues."
'I'm compelled to chant'
"Sometimes, if a very strong presence is
hesitant to leave, I'm compelled to chant," Grant said.
"It's usually in a language that I don't even
understand myself."
Steele said it was she, not the demons, who
finally left her family's house. She said her strange
experiences stopped only after she moved out of her
family's West Phoenix home at age 17.
However, she said that during the years she
lived in the house, demons were not the only
presences she encountered. She said she also saw
angels, whom she believes protected her family.
"I think that God really watched over us," she
said.
Steele is not the only Arizonan who had an
uninvited guest in her home.
Pamela Labedz, a 45-year-old accounts-
payable clerk at Safeway, said she had a trapped
ghost in her new two-story Mesa home. However, she
said she did not feel anything more than a blessing
was necessary to rid her home of the ghost.
"I didn't feel I was in physical danger," she
said. "I wasn't frightened."
Labedz said things began happening the day
she moved into her house on Sept. 26, 1993. The first
day, she said her 44-year-old husband, Michael,
heard footsteps going up the stairs when nobody was
home and heard a woman's voice calling, "Claire."
Labedz said she, too, heard the voice a few
days later.
During the first month, Labedz's 12-year-old
son, Daniel, broke his finger. In the second month, he
broke his knee, and their cat, Lucky, was sick twice
and almost died. In February, Michael Labedz was
laid off from his Allied Signal job.
Labedz added that appliances turned
themselves on and off, and nail clippers, scissors and
combs disappeared permanently, as if into another
dimension.
Also, one day when Labedz sat in her kitchen,
she said the empty swing in her backyard swung
itself violently from side to side.
"Finally, I went out there and I went like this,"
she said, sweeping an arm through empty space as if
to see if anything was there.
She said she wanted to believe what was
happening, but it seemed too unreal.
"These are things you read about or see on
television," she said. "These are not things that
happen to you."
Labedz said the only non-family member to
witness the strange occurrences was Jake Austin, a
19-year-old Mesa Community College student.
Objects flew through the hallway
Austin was visiting Labedz's 21-year-old son,
Aaron, a part-time MCC student. The two were
upstairs and Labedz was downstairs when she said
Daniel Labedz's baseball-card picture frame flew out
of his room.
"I heard it fly down the hallway end over end
over end like that," she said, her hands racing one
over the other on the table, thudding as they went.
Aaron Labedz's bedroom is set at about a 45-
degree angle to the hallway, and his brother's room
is set at a 90-degree angle to his room. Therefore, the
frame had to turn a corner to go down the hallway.
"That had to be thrown, literally thrown,"
Labedz said.
Labedz thought Austin and her son were
responsible, but both men denied it.
"I thought Jake threw it at me," Aaron Labedz
said.
Steele said she also saw an object move by
itself.
At age 10, she awoke in the middle of the night
and said a toaster she often played with was floating
above her bed. As soon as she saw it, she made a
startled noise and it dropped. Afraid she was
dreaming, she ripped a piece of paper.
"The next morning, it was still ripped," Steele
said.
However, Arnold Thaw, clinical psychologist
and member of the Gestalt Institute of Phoenix, had
another explanation. He said Steele could have ripped
the paper in her sleep.
Thaw said he presupposes that patients who
claim to have demons are really facing realities
within themselves. He said these realities may be so
frightening and threatening, people project their
problems onto other things or people.
"When we find that there's something about
our own lives that we imagine can in some way
destroy us, the first line of defense is to put it out
there somewhere away from us," Thaw said.
He added that this is a way people disassociate
or disown themselves from it.
However, Thaw said he would not rule out that
people really do have experiences with evil spirits.
"I certainly would not say it's impossible," he
said. "I just don't have that kind of all-knowing
wisdom."
To help patients with these problems, Thaw
said he mobilizes them to explore and discover the
experience and examine their own perceptions of the
world. He does not try to tell the patient "what's
really happening" or "what's really true."
"The truth is there's no way that I can be a
greater authority on your life experience than you
are," he said.
"Where I can be useful to you is to help you
mobilize your own ability to know what is real."
Labedz said she knows what happened in her
home was real because she found physical proof in
her bedroom.
One night while in bed, she heard a scratching,
squeaking noise. The culprit was a bobby pin Labedz
said was strategically placed between the wall and
headboard. Its shape resembled a smooth-humped
"m."
"I couldn't twist it like that," she said, trying to
bend a normal bobby pin into the same shape.
"You cannot bend a bobby pin like that."
Grant said it would make sense that a level of
heat was created and applied to the bobby pin.
She added that whoever touched the bobby pin
somehow broke through the "veil" or "barrier"
between the physical and spiritual world.
"It's one thing to throw something, because
anybody can do that with their mind, and spirits can
do it without even thinking," Grant said. "But to
actually take a thing and bend it, you would have to
have your hands on it. It would have to have been
bent and then placed and wedged in between there."
Although Labedz said she was not frightened
by these experiences, she asked Salinas to bless her
home. However, she told Salinas it was simply a
blessing for a new home.
'Things have turned around'
"I felt it was just a nuisance more than
anything," she said. "I figured, 'What have I got to
lose? I'm a practicing Catholic.'"
In April, Salinas used holy water and blessed
the doorways, and Labedz said nothing more
happened.
"Things have really turned around for us,"
Labedz said. "My guardian angel was looking out for
me."
When told what his blessing had really been
for, Salinas was surprised.
"Wow, I didn't know I had so much power," he
said, laughing. "That makes me happy."
Although the Labedz's ghost was not
frightening, Steele said what she encountered at age
11 was.
She said she awoke in the darkness one night,
breathing hard. As she looked towards the only
window in the room, she said it grew darker and a
grayish blur came towards her bed.
Steele said her hair stood on end and goose
bumps covered her flesh as a form, a sort of shadow
in the darkness, approached her. She said she was
terrified because she thought it was Satan.
Steele said she dreamed she was married to
Satan several times.
"One time in the dream he was saying
something about coming to meet me and having open
arms to him," Steele said. "After the dream,
throughout the day, I would be going, 'Gosh, I can't
wait to go to sleep again so I can have another
dream.'"
However, Steele said she realized the dreams
blasphemed God.
"My conscience or the Holy Spirit or something
was telling me that this was not right," she said.
Steele said she thought she was selling her soul.
She added that after she rebuked the devil, the form
went away.
Steele said she has forgotten other experiences.
"There's a lot that I've blocked out that I don't
want to remember," she added.
Grant said she is not surprised.
"Denial's a wonderful state to live in," Grant
said. "I'd love to still live there myself."
However, Kelly Williams will not deny what she
heard in a Chandler house in the fifth grade.
"I was not sleeping and I was not dreaming,"
she said emphatically of the 1984 occurrence.
Williams, a 21-year-old part-time MCC student,
said she spent the night with her friend, Shannon,
whom she had not seen in three years. After they
played games, they read stories before turning the
lights out. Williams said she was awake when she
heard the music.
"It was like someone was playing the organ,"
Williams said. "It was really eerie sounding."
She said Shannon and her parents did not hear
it. However, Shannon tried to help Williams by
talking to her.
"When she would talk to me, it would fade
away," Williams said. "And then she stopped talking
and it started up again.
"I felt really weird. It was a feeling like you're
shivering. I'd never felt this way before."
Unable to ignore the music, Williams said she
decided to call her mother and ask for a ride home.
She added that although she did not know where the
phone was, she ran down the dark hallway.
"I wasn't even afraid to do that because I was
so freaked out," she said, laughing.
However, when Shannon cried and asked her
not to go, Williams decided to stay.
"I did not go to sleep until morning," she said.
"The whole time, the music would fade in and out. I
felt like there was something in there with me."
Williams said she thinks it was a demonic
presence trying to scare her away.
"I think it was mad that I was there," she said.
"It knew I was a Christian, and I don't think it
wanted me there.
"Demons don't want Christians who have Jesus
in their hearts. They don't want to look at anything
that has to do with Jesus. They want their own little
cubbyhole."
Tucker said although he finds it irregular that
no one else heard the music, Williams could have
encountered a real demon.
Using brain's right side
Thaw also said it is possible that Williams'
experience was real. However, he added that the
right hemisphere of her brain could have been trying
to communicate with her.
Thaw said people are not skilled at using this
part of the brain because there are not many courses
in schools that teach them how. He said the result is
that people repress and tend to push aside the things
they do not understand.
"There are many things in our lives that can't
communicate in the analytical, two-plus-two-equals-
four manner, which is what the left hemisphere
does," Thaw said. "A lot of the most important things
in our lives are communicated using our right
hemisphere."
He said the right hemisphere will communicate
with a person through dreams because the left
hemisphere is off duty. He added that a dream is a
real experience.
"We think of it as not being real because we're
used to thinking that real things are things that you
can feel," Thaw said.
In Williams' case, Thaw said he would try to
find out what the organ music was communicating to
her.
"Experiences like these come to people who
don't know how to deal with them," he said. "The
result is that they're likely to think in terms of
demons."
Although Steele, Williams and the Labedz
family believe in God, Tucker and Grant said demons
also come to people who don't believe in a higher
being.
Tucker said, "I don't think the content of what
a person believes or the faith that a person has in
any kind of deity has much to do with whether or
not that person is influenced or attacked by evil
spirits."
Grant said she believes demons can enter
anybody's house.
"The atheists and agnostics have scientific
explanations for it," she said. "Religious people are
more open to accept it as an experience that you
can't put an explanation upon."
Grant said she also does not try to explain
every entity she meets.
"I would drive myself crazy," she said. "I would
be a complete lunatic. All I need to know is that it's
not human."
Although her experiences may sound far-fetched,
Becky Steele said she did not imagine them.
"I don't think I'm that creative," she said. "If
you've never experienced anything like that, it's hard
to understand."
Her parents still live in the same house, but
Steele said she does not visit often. When she does,
she said she feels anxious and nervous.
"It's like something's going to happen," she said.
"That bedroom is still creepy."
Return to Contents List
Or a navel or nipple
(Click here for full photo and caption.)
*By Tim Baxter *
"First they give you a little Listerine, and you
swish that in your mouth awhile. Then they spray
your mouth with a numbing solution. Your whole
entire mouth is numb."
Colleen Gorman, an English senior at ASU, was
describing her tongue piercing.
"They tell you to stick out your tongue and
they hold your tongue with tongs, kind of like what
you pick up corn on the cob with, but smaller. They
hold your tongue out and they stick a razor-sharp
needle right through it, and then they put the
jewelry in.
"Some people bleed a lot, but mine didn't."
Gorman also has her nose pierced, and she has
five rings through each ear. She said she was not
trying to make a statement with her body piercing, it
was just something she wanted to do.
"It's just like getting your ears pierced," she
said. "It's just body adornment. If I'm feeling feisty, I
say it (the tongue) is for kissing boys."
Gorman is just one of thousands of students
nationwide who are getting holes in their flesh.
Noses, navels, tongues, nipples and genitalia
commonly are pierced. The really adventurous will
pierce themselves virtually anywhere.
Steve Haworth, owner of HTC, a chain of body
piercing shops in Arizona and California, said there
were three primary reasons people became pierced -
physical adornment, sexual enhancement and shock
value.
Whatever the motive behind the piercing,
proper sterilization procedures are the most
important thing to look for in a piercer, Haworth said.
All instruments and needles should be sterilized, and
the needles should be used only once.
"Look for on-premises sterilization, and make
sure they don't re-use needles," he said. "Ask to see
the biohazard (needle) bucket."
Haworth said potential customers should
alsoÊask how many piercings the piercer has done.
A piercing typically costs from $35 to $50,
including starter jewelry, while upgraded jewelry
can cost anywhere from $20 to $120, Haworth said.
"If people are charging less, they're cutting
corners," he added.
The body location of the piercing does not
usually raise costs, but the type of jewelry does.
Haworth stressed the importance of
appropriate jewelry. HTC is the largest manufacturer
of body jewelry in the world, supplying nearly 400
piercers and stores, he said.
Proper body jewelry should be thicker than
earrings and made from certain high-quality metals,
Haworth said. Thicker rings provide more surface
area, so the strain is lessened on the skin, he added.
"Thin wire, like on earrings, can pull through
the skin like a cheese slicer," he said. "All the jewelry
we install is 316L surgical stainless, the same grade
stainless that is implanted into the human body."
Only about one person in 2,000 experiences an
allergic reaction from surgical stainlessÊsteel,
Haworth said.
"There's also gold and niobium, but we
generally don't recommend them for a fresh piercing
because they can cause a reaction," he added.
Dr. Theodore Blackwelder, an ASU Student
Health physician, said when problems do result, they
generally come from inappropriate metals being used
in the jewelry, resulting in allergic reactions or
infection.
"Surgical steel would be OK. Gold and silver
would also be OK," he said. "Anything that has any
nickel in it really tends to get you."
Blackwelder said 50 percent of the problems he
had seen were in navel piercings.
To avoid problems, he recommended picking a
piercer carefully, making sure that he or she
properly sterilizes equipment and does not re-use
needles.
The doctor added that caring for the piercing
while it heals is very important.
"You need to make sure you keep the area dry
and clean," Blackwelder said. "You should wipe it off
with alcohol and rotate the metal."
Navel, ears and nose
ASU bookstore employee Jill Bartelt has her
navel, ears and nose pierced. She agreed appropriate
jewelry was important.
"When I had my bellybutton done, I got a
hematite ring, and I was allergic to it," she said. It
became badly infected and the hematite ring had to
be replaced, Bartelt added.
She said people who are considering being
pierced should ask themselves why they are doing it.
"Don't do it because it's popular," she said. "Do it
for yourself. I don't wear short shirts so people can
see my bellybutton. My piercings are for me."
Brandi Young, a 23-year-old psychology major,
got her belly button pierced over a year ago, and she
has had problems with infection ever since.
"Right now it's infected," Young said. "On and
off it just gets infected and it hurts.
"When I got it done, they said it would take
four to six months to heal, and that's correct."
She described the procedure. "They had a
looped needle and they took a clamp device and
pulled the skin as tight as they could. They rubbed
the skin with some anesthetic and just did it.
"Later on I was in great pain. I had trouble
sleeping, and wearing pants was difficult."
Kim Baker, a 21-year-old urban geography
major, also had difficulties with her navel piercing.
"They take what looks like a really wide nail
and they clamp the skin and stab this nail through,"
Baker said.
"It hurts a lot, and there's a good chance of
infection. It takes a long time to heal and you have
to take care of it.
"I almost passed out."
Baker said her piercing was a spur-of-the
moment decision. "I just think it's kind of sexy," she
said.
Haworth said no piercings are inherently
painful or prone to infections, but because of the long
healing time and the tendency for people to touch
the rings, navels often get infected.
'I was drooling a lot'
Gorman said her tongue piercing didn't hurt at
all.
"But I couldn't talk, and I was drooling a lot,"
she said.
Rob Whittemore, a 28-year-old bartender at
Se–or Phrogg's in Tempe, said his tongue piercing
improved his sex life. "Every girl I've been with since
I got my tongue done thoroughly enjoyed it."
Whittemore also has pierced both nipples, his
nose twice, his tongue and, most recently, his penis.
"I get a lot of girls who come up to me at work,
and they see my tongue and want to kiss me, or we
talk about piercings and they ask me to pull my
member out.
"There's been a pretty positive reaction from
women."
He said he was first pierced 14 years ago in an
act of rebellion. "It was just for the hell of it, because
people think you're not supposed to," he said.
The nipples were the most painful piercings,
but the preparation for the penis hurt, too,
Whittemore said.
"They had to take a Q-tip with Novocaine on it
and stick it down the urethra," he said. "That hurt
like hell."
Whittemore's penis piercing is called a "Prince
Albert," which is one of the most common piercings
for men's genitalia. A Prince Albert consists of a hoop
that goes down through the urethra and comes out
on the underside of the penis.
Other common piercings involve a bar going
through the head of the penis either vertically or
horizontally.
Whittemore said people are surprised by his
piercings because he doesn't look like a pierced
person.
"I don't look like a biker or a punk, so people
trip out," he said. He said he has had no negative
experiences with his piercings, and he advised those
thinking about being pierced, "Just do it. If you don't
like it, take it out."
Primarily a catharsis
Sharon Tang, a 44-year-old apprentice piercer
in Phoenix, said piercing was primarily a catharsis
for her.
"When I had a lot of them done, the pain of the
piercing took away from some of the pain I was
going through," she said.
Tang has pierced her lip twice, nose twice, pinkie
finger twice, both nipples and her outer labia.
Her ears have been "cored," which involves
putting successively thicker hoops into an ear ring
hole until eventually a hollow plug, or core can be
inserted. Sometimes rings are worn through the
core.
"I get a lot of mixed reaction," Tang said.
"Younger people are like 'Oh, you're cool, I can't
believe this older person has her body pierced.'"
Tang said piercing heightened her sexual
sensitivity.
"I would advise it for anyone who doesn't have
a lot of sensation, especially in the breast area," she
said.
Tang had her clitoris pierced, but removed it
because the area "was too sensitive."
Bianca Baker, 17, also said she saw her
piercings as having a stabilizing effect. Baker's
bellybutton, both nipples, eyebrow, septum, lip and
nose are pierced. She said she would like to get a
"Madison," a piercing on the fleshy skin at the base of
the neck in front of the windpipe.
She said the nose piercing was the only one
that hurt, and she did all of them herself except her
lip, which was professionally done.
Not for children
Most reputable shops refuse to pierce anyone
under 18 and require photo identification to verify
age. They also will refuse piercings that are
impractical or unhealthy. Haworth said there have
been requests at HTC for piercings through the wrist
or hand that were denied.
Dan Babcock, 19, began amateur piercing three
years ago after having one of his nipples done
professionally.
"They did a bad job, and I thought I could do
better myself," Babcock said.
"I got hold of an 18-gauge piercing needle, and
I went to a shop and got an 18-gauge hoop," he said.
"Then I just started piercing."
He now has both nipples and both ears pierced.
One ear is pierced five times. He said he has pierced
dozens of other people.
Babcock stressed the importance of sanitary
practices.
"Use exam gloves, and make sure the area is
cleaned real well," he said. "I make sure all the stuff
is soaked in alcohol for awhile."
Babcock said any complaints he has had were
from people who did not take proper care of their
piercings. He said he first developed an interest in
piercing because he wanted to experience something
different.
"It may sound crazy, but I just wanted to know
what the pain felt like," he added. "It's a different
experience."
Haworth said amateur piercers may have some
of the necessary equipment, but they won't have the
training or experience a professional has.
"All of my apprentices complete a six- to eight-
month training period, and they must write a two-
page essay on why they want to be a piercer," he
said.
"Above all, a piercer should have ethics and
compassion. There are far too many out there
without these qualities."
Brook Love, an 18-year-old NAU
photojournalism major, said she is disappointed with
how trendy piercing has become.
"I've had mine for a couple of years. I liked it
before it became a big fashion thing," Love said.
"What really makes me mad is when people who
made fun of me years ago are getting pierced now."
Love has her bellybutton, eyebrow, nose,
tongue and ears pierced.
"I wanted my nose pierced for so long, but I
didn't do it, because my mom wouldn't let me, so I
did my bellybutton," she said. "She's gotten used to it
now, because I do it so much. I just do it because it
looks pretty."
Love said her ear had been pierced twice, but
one got ripped out. "I was at a show, and I guess it
got caught on someone, so there's a scar on my ear
now."
Beth Friedel, a 19-year-old ASU psychology
sophomore with silver rings in her navel, nose and
eyebrow, said despite the recent popularity of
piercing people who are pierced are often thought of
as "the dregs of society. You're automatically grouped
with drug abusers, masochists and thieves.
'It's very addictive'
"I didn't do it to make my dad angry. I didn't do it to
make my anyone angry. I did it because I liked it.
It's very addictive."
Friedel said she had an "avid fear of needles,"
and she refused to go to a shop that used piercing
guns.
"Guns hurt," she said.
Haworth said he dislikes guns for health
reasons. "They are made from plastic, which can't be
effectively sterilized," he said. "And they are
typically cleaned with alcohol swabs, which will not
kill AIDS and definitely won't kill hepatitis."
Gorman got her nose pierced with a gun, but
said she wouldn't be pierced like that again. She said
she has been thinking about getting her eyebrow
pierced, but she's not sure she wants to.
"I don't think it's really attractive when people
get a lot of things pierced all over their face," she
said.
Gorman said she is also concerned with her
family's opinions.
"My mom, when she found out I was pierced,
said 'I hear that's what prostitutes do.'"
"They come from a different era. My mom
comes from an era where women were cheap if they
had their ears pierced. Just because someone has
something pierced, it doesn't automatically peg them
as a loser."
Return to Contents List
Security useless when moshing and headwalking
begin
(Click here for full photo and caption.)
*By Robert Hendricks *
The crowd was restless, waiting for the main
band to hit the stage at Veterans Memorial Coliseum
in Phoenix.
Nine Inch Nails was about to assault the
predominantly young crowd with its wall of noise.
The group's latest album, titled The Downward Spiral,
with songs about sex, violence, drugs, suicide and
despair, has sold more than one million copies
nationwide.
Alternative, grunge and heavy metal concerts
are not your "traditional concerts." The high school-
and college-age fans at the Coliseum were not about
to sit back calmly and watch a band perform. It was
about to be a night of "moshing" and "body surfing"
or "headwalking," occasionally violent activities
condoned by the crowd and more or less tolerated by
venues and concert security.
The trend is growing, and it has spread
throughout the Valley and country.
"It would be foolish for us to say it's not going
to be allowed here," said Brenda Gravatt, booking and
events supervisor for Mesa Amphitheater.
"We don't endorse moshing, headwalking, body
surfing, but we understand it," said Glenn Rea,
president of Showtime Services, a private security
firm in Phoenix. "We hold [the crowd] responsible."
Rea, who has 11 years experience in concert
security, said his company handles more than 100
concerts a year in Arizona with few problems.
Will Hirschhorn, general manager of Showtime
Services, said his firm throws out few people for
participating in these activities.
"You can't stop these activities, so you just have
to deal with them," he said. "Basically, we are the
referee out there."
At the Coliseum concert, about 1,600 of the
8,100 fans in attendance wore wristbands and
crowded into one-third of the floor space. The floor
was clear except for the equipment used by the
band's sound technician.
They were sealed off from the rest of the floor
by a 3-foot-high double-sided steel wall with two 5-
foot openings at opposite ends of the floor through
which security guards could walk.
The 6,500 other fans were scattered around the
stadium in the bolted seats or folding chairs, which
were available on a first-come, first-serve basis.
Envious of the crowd on the floor, they
repeatedly tried to get into the secured area without
a wristband. They were denied access by the T-
shirted security members of Showtime Services and
forced back to the seats.
Surging crowds can kill
General admission concerts such as this one
have been banned in other states because of fans
being crushed by a surging crowd when the concert
starts, but they are still being played on a regular
basis at Mesa Amphitheater and Veterans Memorial
Coliseum.
Dana Mule, vice president and general
manager of Event Management Inc., which performs
security operations for more than 75 concerts a year,
said there always is a potential for a fatal crowd
control situation.
"If 20,000 people decide they want to do
something or go somewhere, they are going to do it,"
he said. "There is nothing you can do to stop that.
"We have been really lucky here that nothing
like [people getting crushed to death] has gone on."
At 8:45 p.m., the Coliseum lights went out.
In a second, the roaring crowd was on its feet.
Thousands of fans jumped over their seats, clumsily
trying to get to the floor. Folding chairs soon become
twisted piles of metal obstacles.
They were not enough to deter the stampeding
fans.
Fans began pouring onto the floor from all
sections of the arena. They slammed against the
barricade. Desperate security guards interlocked
their arms and formed a human chain in front of the
openings, but the fans continued to push toward the
stage.
People began to fall. "Stop pushing!" a fan
shouted as he held himself up against the wall. "I'm
stepping on people."
Wave after wave crashed against the wall and
soon began to pile up behind it.
"I am the voice inside your head and I control
you," Trent Reznor, front man and lead singer for
Nine Inch Nails, screamed during the first song "Mr.
Self Destruct."
The fans persisted in their attempt to get closer
to the stage. Bodies began twisting and pounding to
the pulse of the deafening drums.
"Let 'em go!" yelled a burly security guard
standing behind the barricade watching the mob.
The security broke away and fans flooded
through the barricade.
"We were totally aware and prepared for that
to happen," said Rea, who organized the security at
the Nine Inch Nails concert.
He said he put his most experienced and
strongest security guards in the positions where the
crowd would rush towards the stage.
Rea said he told the promoter and venue that
the fans were going to rush the floor. "It would be
foolish for us to try and say , 'Hey, under no
circumstances do people come down here,'" he added.
"One of the biggest things we stand for is
laissez faire. Hands off. Let the people have fun.
People were running so fast that they started to get
trampled."
Debbie Grubaugh, 22, an ASU student, who
hasn't been to many concerts of this type, said she
saw someone getting trampled at Nine Inch Nails.
"Some girl fell down and there was a crowd of
people walking all over her," Grubaugh said.
Kevin Prijatel, 23, another ASU student, said
security should allow free access to the floor even
before the concert begins.
"The security staff knows what's going to
come," said Prijatel, who goes to several concerts a
year. "They know there's going to be a mob. Why
stop it?"
Grubaugh agreed. "They are not going to stay
in their seats," she said about the crowd. "They are
going to go on the floor because they want to take
advantage of the empty space."
Patti Dupuis, administrative assistant of special
events at the Coliseum, said the number of people
allowed on the floor before the concert is determined
by input from Coliseum management, the fire
marshal and the crowd control specialist for the
concert.
Each concert is different
Dupuis said the crowd control specialist is a
member of the Coliseum security and the T-shirt-
wearing concert security. She said each concert is
evaluated individually.
Mike Reichling, deputy state fire marshal, said
that the number of people allowed on the floor at the
ColiseumÐ1,600Ðis determined by the square footage
available divided by seven.
"What we are mainly concerned about is
obstruction for exiting," Reichling said.
He said that he recognizes not everyone stays
in their seats at concerts but dividing by seven is a
large enough number to allow for excess people on
the floor.
"It's really not a problem," he said. "It has
been calculated for wall-to-wall, shoulder-to-
shoulder people."
He said the number of people allowed on the
floor is restricted for the crowd's personal safety and
comfort. Reichling said that in the event of an
emergency the Coliseum could be safely evacuated if
the floor were full of people.
Rea said he kept people off the floor because of
orders from the fire marshal. He added that it is a
lost cause to try to restrict the amount of people on
the floor.
"They say if you can't control the floor you
can't have the concert," he said. "This is why there
are not too many general admission concerts
anymore, which I think is a crying shame."
Rea said telling people they are not allowed on
the floor without a wristband is like a sales pitch.
"If you don't say anything or you don't try or
show a force, then you do have a disaster on your
hands," he said. "You have to hope for the best and
prepare for the worst."
The mosh pit
The heavy metal band Danzig was playing in
front of 4,500 fans at Mesa Amphitheater. The sold-
out concert was expected by security to be one of the
rowdiest of the year.
"It's going to be vicious," said Rea, who brought
in 75 of his employeesÐmore than usualÐfor the
concert.
Even lead singer Glenn Danzig acknowledged
his fans violent tendencies, although not at first.
"Well, not everybody is violent, only the people up
front," he said while signing autographs for his fans
at a local record store.
"Well no, that's not true.um.It's like a
release," he quickly added.
Mesa Amphitheater is an outdoor venue that is
an open space filled with grass and terraced at
different levels. Bands such as Primus, Pearl Jam,
Soundgarden and Rollins Band, the heaviest of hitters
in this kind of music, have played there.
Danzig began playing its breed of music about 9
p.m.
Danzig, who looks like he could be a
professional body builder, began slicing through the
chill of the night with his wailing baritone voice on
songs such as "Am I Demon" and "When the Gods
Kill."
Shortly after Danzig began, some fans started a
small fire on the grass. Fans ran and pranced around
the fire in a circle like cavemen.
Security people quickly extinguished the fire
and the circle collapsed, but the smoke lingered like
a cloud.
"It's like having 200 pounds of pressure on you
the whole time," said Brett Anderson, who emerged
from the front of the crowd during the concert. His
clothes were stuck to his body like shrink wrap and
his hair was soaked with sweat.
"They just keep pushing," he said.
Fans began slamming their bodies into each
other as the music quickened. People formed a
circle. A mosh pit surfaced.
Almost like a ceremonial dance of an ancient
tribe, the crowd watched as the moshers prowled
around the circle's edges as the music slowed.
The tempo increased and the moshers stopped
their structured parade and begin slamming, pushing
and shoving each other. Fans around them pushed
them back into the fray.
"It's more or less controlled chaos," said
Prijatel, the ASU student who also attended this
concert.
Prijatel said there are unwritten rules to
moshing that most people follow. "If someone falls in
a mosh pit, you pick them up," he said. "If someone
looks like they are going to pass out, you get them
out."
Steve Sullivan, quality control manager at
Showtime Services, said that while mosh pits have
become bigger, they also have become calmer. He
said people are not there to hurt each other.
However, he warned that not everybody
follows the rules. "Every once in while you find a few
guys that think that's what it's all about," he said.
Robert Hicks, 16, a student at North Canyon
High School, said he has attended all the rough shows
this year in Phoenix. He has seen heavy metal bands
such as Pantera, Sepultura and Danzig.
"It's an opportunity to kick someone's ass for
free," he said during the Mesa Amphitheater concert.
Rea said security usually allows moshing as
long as the moshers involved are not trying to inflict
pain on people.
"Unless they are hurting somebody or trying to
hurt somebody, we let them go," he said. "We think
it's a great exercise."
Making a ruckus
Green Day, an alternative band that some
people say sound like The Sex Pistols of the late
1970s British punk movement, toured on the highly
successful Lollapalooza and performed at Woodstock
'94.
Their album Dookie has gone double platinum,
selling more than two million copies. Green Day
played at Veterans Memorial Coliseum during the
Arizona State Fair.
In front of the Coliseum fans began lining up
around 2 p.m. for the general admission concert that
was scheduled to start at 7 p.m. Anyone could
attend the show free with their $5 fair admission.
The doors opened about 5 p.m. and the
Coliseum quickly began to fill.
The floor area was set up the same way as at
Nine Inch Nails. The front section between the
barricade and the stage was full by 5:45 p.m. The
stadium was filled with between 10,000 to 11,000
people by 6:30 p.m.
Most of the fans in attendance were teenagers.
About 6:30 p.m. the exuberant crowd in the
arena's seats began throwing anything and
everything they could get their hands on at each
other.
Full containers of soda were hurled at security,
showering the fans in between. Paper towels were
lit on fire and thrown on the floor. A piece of the
stadium, a wooden slab possibly from an arena seat,
was lifted out by the fans and given to security.
A yellow smoke bomb was lobbed in front of
security. Rebellious fans began chanting for the band
and stamping their feet.
The band would not begin playing until 7 p.m.
Mule, whose firm, EMI, handled security at all
the fair concerts, said he would have preferred
opening the doors one hour early instead of two
hours early.
"You know the people are already there," said
Mule, who has been doing concert security for seven
years. "You know they are going to get in quick. It
gives them a lot less time to sit in there and make a
ruckus."
"What a bunch of crazy mother f_____!" yelled
Billie Joe, 22, oldest member and lead singer for the
punk rock trio, as his band took the stage.
Fans began being boosted up on top of the sea
of people. They were passed horizontally around the
floor aimlessly by the crowd. Their direction was
determined by the hands on which they rode.
The bodysurfers ended their journeys when
either he were swallowed by the crowd or surfed
over the barricade in front of the stage.
Mule said when the surfers come over the
barricade, security tries to catch them to make sure
they don't hit themselves on the stage or the ground.
The surfers are then returned back into the crowd
from the sides of the stage.
"Some shows you're a little less tolerant," he
added. "Some shows it's no big deal.
"As long as they are not trying to hurt anybody
you can let them come over the barricade as many
times as they want. They are paying to have a good
time."
Dangerous behavior
Mosh pits are acknowledged as dangerous.
Gravatt, who books events for Mesa
Amphitheater, said, "There is a potential (for injury),
absolutely," she said. "That's why the promoter
books an ambulance to every show."
Charlie Smith, director of field operations for
Southwest Ambulance, said anytime a concert has a
mosh pit it presents a real problem.
"I think they are stupid," Smith said.
He said the majority of people attending mosh
pit shows are children under the age of 17, usually
unaccompanied by an adult. Smith said when a child
gets injured the paramedics have trouble finding
identification on the patient to notify his or her
parents. He said they then have to transport the
patient to a hospital.
Smith said typically injuries at mosh pit
concerts include head injuries, broken ribs, broken
arms, broken legs and heat exhaustion.
At the Green Day concert paramedics treated
37 patients and transported five to a local hospital.
"My recommendation is to have the parents go
to these shows to see the types of activities that go
on before they allow their children to attend," Smith
said.
Rea said the majority of kids are not there to
hurt each other but "unfortunately there are injuries.
It is a dangerous behavior."
Mule said there has been a violent trend in
concerts dating back to punk movement of the late
1970s.
"There's always that certain element, kids full
of testosterone. That want to run around and beat
people up," he said. "It's fun.
"There's always going to be that trend in music.
There's always going to be that segment of the
population that wants to do that."
Rea said there is little anyone can do to solve
the problems at general admission concerts.
"The problem is the bands have gotten a little
more volatile," he said. "The crowds have gotten a
little more excitable.
"There's not much you can do about it."
Return to Contents List
ASU nursing students offer hope to Arizona's
poor women, families
(Click here for full photo and caption.)
* By Alpha Sanchez *
Aracely Calderon sat on a metal folding
chair, waiting quietly for an ASU nursing student
to wrap an inflatable cuff around her arm to
check her blood pressure.
"Como esta. Hablas Ingles?" the student
asked.
Calderon, wearing a flowered shirt and
blue jeans, smiled and shook her head no. She
did not speak English.
The nursing student checked her blood
pressure, then sent her on her way to a free
medical exam sponsored by Maricopa County
Health Department; Companeros en la Salud
(Partners in the Health), an ASU Hispanic health
advocate group; and ASU's nursing program.
For Calderon, it was a rare occasion in her
29 years. Like most poor Hispanic immigrants,
she rarely seeks health care.
"They (Hispanic immigrants) have low
incomes," said Santos Vega, director of the
Community Documentation Program for the
Hispanic Research Center at ASU.
"They hesitate to go to the health facilities
because it is going to incur the expenditure of
money."
Felipe Castro, an associate professor of
psychology at ASU and director for the Hispanic
Research Center, said that the annual income for
Hispanic families is not much above the poverty
line.
"The average income for a Mexican-
American family is $21,000," he said. "It is not
much above the the poverty line of $15,000 for a
full family of four.
"The uninsured have no recourse at all. If
they get sick, they have to pay for medical
treatment with their own money. The money
needed to pay for health care will compromise
what they have to live on."
Turning to ASU
Some of these people ultimately turn to
Companeros en la Salud and the nursing program
at ASU.
Companeros is funded by a grant by the
National Cancer Institute. It works with ASU's
nursing school to coordinate and provide health
services to low-income families.
The program helps the families, while the
ASU students get experience working in a
multicultural setting.
On one recent Saturday at St. Martin de
Porres Church in south Phoenix, Companeros
gave free eye and hearing exams, free
immunizations and low cost flu shots.
Heriberto and Rosa Gonzales, a middle-
aged couple from south Phoenix with four
children, went to the health fair to get their
hearing checked.
Speaking through an interpreter,
Heriberto said his family doesn't have medical
insurance and can't afford to go to the doctor
because it is too expensive.
Heriberto, 43, an upholsterer, said his job
does not offer him any kind of insurance
coverage.
Families have no insurance
Jose Canales, a 37-year-old car painter,
said through an interpreter that he came to the
health fair to get his family's hearing checked.
He said he hopes his new job will provide him
and his family the insurance they need.
He added that the only way his son can get
medical treatment is through school health
checkups.
Castro said 35 percent of the Hispanic
population is uninsured. Calderon, speaking
through an interpreter, said she attended the
clinic because she did not have enough money to
go to health clinics and she was uninsured.
She is typical. Dura Jones, a 58-year-old
single woman, said that she has seen a doctor
twice in her 15 years of living in the United
States.
Trying to explain in English, she said she
has no income and no insurance.
Jones, a native of Bolivia, said she is poor,
but has too many personal belongings to be
considered poor by the government.
Migrant workers fare worse.
Santos said that farm workers that migrate
to Arizona "are paid by the piece (picking
produce). They might work all day and make
only $30. Some work is seasonal. Then they have
to go to California to follow the crops. It's a hard
life."
Arizona's version of Medicaid, the Arizona
Health Care Cost Containment System (AHCCCS),
the state government health agency for the
needy, often cannot help.
In the past, AHCCCS did provide health
care for the immigrants, but Gov. Fife Symington
last year requested that the agency cut its costs.
As a result, the Arizona Legislature told
AHCCCS to tighten its belt and its requirements.
AHCCCS now requires an immigrant family
to be documented and have an annual income of
$3,200 to be eligible for health care.
For the undocumented workers, the
requirements hit harder.
"The states do not want to pay for
undocumented aliens," Castro said. "There is a
backlash."
He was referring to the growing sentiment
that American people and the government do
not feel obligated to pay for basic medical
coverage for Hispanic immigrants.
"The sentiment is that immigrants are
taking up the resources entitled to the members
of the regular population," Castro said. "This
immigrant bashing involves people thinking that
immigrants are freeloading off the state."
In the California midterm elections in
November, voters approved Proposition 187, a
mandate to prohibit illegal aliens from getting a
public education and public health care.
The provision also requires public officials
to report the illegal immigrants to immigration
authorities.
"Que malo (It's bad)," Jones said angrily
about Proposition 187, which is still to be tested
in the courts.
"It is undemocratic, and the government is
frustrated so they go for the undocumented. This
is an immigrant country."
A cultural barrier
Money is not the only issue. A cultural
barrier also stands between health care and
Hispanics.
"When they come in they feel anxious,"
said Dr. Michael Loebell, chief oncologist for
Maricopa County Hospital. "Sometimes they don't
come because they are afraid."
Going for health checkups can be a
frightening experience for many Hispanic
patients.
"When they visit the health facilities, it
becomes a traumatic experience because it is not
an ongoing thing in their lives," said Santos.
"They feel it is difficult to see the doctors."
Kathryn Coe, director for Companeros en la
Salud, said she was seeing some cases where 50-
to 60-year-old women would come in for a
medical exam for the first time in their lives.
Language barriers also play a role in the
neglect of health care.
Murray Rosenthal, a nursing student from
ASU who worked at one of the clinics, said,
"Think of the frustration it is for the people to
communicate with us. A person can try to
communicate he or she has stomach pains, but in
reality, it could be something else."
Castro said that the lower-income, Spanish-
speaking person, particularly a woman, might
not even know the importance of a medical
checkup.
"On average, we see immigrant women less
knowledgeable about the importance of health
checkups," he said.
Hispanics also shun health care for fear of
drawing attention to themselves, particularly if
they are undocumented.
The alternatives
Calderon stepped into a lobby of Marcos De
Niza Community Center in south Phoenix.
Inside the room, three tables were set up
with information on cervical breast cancer, diet
tips and breast exams.
Adjoining the room were three separate
examining rooms for medical checkups for the
women.
Calderon was greeted by a translator and a
nurse.
On this day, Compa–eros gave a cancer
clinic for the needy Hispanic women.
"One thing interesting about the Hispanic
community is when cancer is detected, it is too
late," Coe said. "It is different because other
people have access to health care."
"The problem with Latina women is that
when detection occurs, the cancer is spread to a
more deadly stage," said Castro. "When the
cancer is spread, the prognosis is poorer."
Aside from cases of cervical and breast
cancer, other ailments surface.
"When we are getting the pap smears back,
we are finding a lot of problems," said Coe.
She said that in 40 percent of the cases,
nurses found heart murmurs, sexually
transmitted diseases and tuberculosis.
In this session, ASU student nurses, with
the assistance of translators, provided a physical
exam, which included:
- Thyroid check
- Lungs and heart check
- Breast check
- Pap smear
- Documentation of female history
After their examination in the clinics,
Castro said that the women usually don't follow
up on their medical exam.
"There is a concern that the low-income
women would be less compliant about following
up on checkups from the diseases," he said.
"Most of the lower acculturated Hispanic women
feel that cancer is a fatal and incurable disease."
Even though it is a new experience for
some of the Hispanic women, they get used to
the procedures.
"Hispanic women feel a little nervous," said
Lois Henderson, a graduate student in nursing.
"But they are more cooperative and real
appreciative.
"In general they are more modest."
Besides the medical checkups, the clinic
tries to preach the importance of health care
and prevention.
Around one of the tables labeled
"Realidads Acorca Del Cancer Cervial (realities of
cervical cancer)," six women sat in chairs in a
semi-circle and listened to a volunteer lecture
about cervical cancer.
They all listened intently as the health
lecturer flipped through diagrams and factoids
on what to look for and the facts and fallacies of
the disease.
In another table, a few women were
running their hands over models of a female
breast to learn the intricacies of self-breast
examinations.
"Seventy-eight percent of the breast cancer
are found by the women examining themselves
without the use of mammograms," Coe said. "We
teach them the special technique."
Although empty, a table was set up to
teach women the importance of a healthy diet.
"We have classes that show them how to
fry foods without the lard," said Coe.
One of the doors opened and Calderon
steeped out with one of the nurses and
translator.
She was urged to sit in on the cervical
cancer seminar and she did so shyly.
Eventually, she was listening intently.
Around Calderon, other Hispanic women
were sitting quietly, looking at the diagrams and
charts concerning cervical cancer.
Her eyes squinted as the lecturer passed
on information that could possibly save her life.
Soon her time at the clinic had finished and
a new group of Hispanic women walked in the
door. With a help of a translator, Calderon said it
is important to have more health fairs. She said
she has learned much about her health.
Return to Contents List
A veteran, poet and Wildflower
(Click here for full photo and caption.)
*By Kennes Bolig *
There is no typical day in the lives of
Tempe transients. They wake up, take leave of
their "squat" and maybe "dumpster dive" in
search of meal. After that, their day is a blank
slate.
No two transients are the same. They left
home for a variety of reasons. Some chose to
leave. Others were thrown or forced out.
Transients are neither faceless nor
nameless, and each has a story to tell.
Leo: 'always at home'
Leo, a thin man in a T-shirt and shorts,
casually sat at the Coffee Plantation on Mill
Avenue, his backpack containing his beaded
artworks perched on the table.
Leo said he is 182 in "dog years." He said
he has been on and off the streets for about six
years.
Leo said that, as a transient, he would like
to redefine the word as viewed by the majority
of society.
"Houseless and homeless are different," he
said. "A 'homeless' transient living on the same
strip of beach for years is more a part of the
community than the just-moved-in yuppies
telling the police to get rid of him. If you are
part of a community, you are always at home."
Leo also said he sees everyone as a
transient.
"You could say my soul is a transient in my
body, " he added. He went on to say that if
someone does not buy into what is considered
standard behavior, then he is seen as a reject of
society even though the United States was
founded by people who adefied what were not
considered standard.
"It is nice to know this country was
founded by people who left the comforts of
Europe to come to a new world," he said.
"America was based on the transientÐthe
traveler. Now, people get trapped and oppressed
by a system of having to get a job, having to do
this, having to do that, but as soon as we decide
not to feed into the system, we become an
outcast."
Keith: the poet
Keith is a 25-year-old and is a transient
who sometimes lives in the Tempe area. He can
often be found sitting at the Coffee Plantation,
drinking coffee and either reading a book or
scribbling down poetry on a pad of paper. He is
clean-cut and studious, but he sleeps under an
abandoned mattress propped against an
apartment building.
"I joked that I was a college student for
Halloween," Keith laughed, looking through his
wire-rimmed glasses.
Keith spent his childhood in Santa Anna,
Calif., with his adopted family. His first trip
stretched from there to West Palm Beach, Fla. He
had decided to visit his biological mother. His
second trip took him to Harlington, Texas, where
he and his biological father, who he had not seen
in more than 18 years, ordered pizza, drank beer
and "smoked out." From there, he began his life
as a transient.
"After seeing my father, I wanted to go to
Salem, Mass., because I heard that if you fall in
love with a witch, she does not let you fall in
love with anyone else," Keith said. "I never made
it. I kind of got sidetracked by a Grateful Dead
concert."
Keith said he has covered more than
90,000 miles and been to every state, excluding
Alaska. He has traveled to Canada, Mexico and
even Jamaica. He said he got there after
allegedly trading two sheets of LSD for passage
on a ship.
Keith's great love is poetry. He said he
trades his poetic works for things such as coffee,
cigarettes and, "once in awhile," money.
"I take pride in myself for being able to do
what everyone else does, only without a home,"
he said.
Keith is easy-going and calm. Everything
he does, down to riding his bicycle, is a reflection
of his life. One day, he was riding his bike with a
companion, who is not homeless. As they
approached a traffic light, the companion raced
up to the intersection and sat impatiently,
waiting for the light to change.
Keith pedaled slowly behind her, taking his
time by weaving back and forth. When he finally
reached the light, it turned green. He just
laughed and said to his companion, "I don't like
my feet to touch the ground."
Sia: 'It's all about love'
Sia said he has been on the road for about
five months and has learned more in that time
than in the previous 18 years of his life.
Sia, like Leo, wants to change society's
view of the transient.
"It is not about being a bum and smoking
all the pot you can," he said. "If you see someone
on the streets and you want to make his day,
just smile at him. It's all about love and
kindness."
Sia said that he has gained many surviving
skills from being on the streets.
"If I lost all my money today, I would
know how to survive," he said. "You don't know
how much you have until you have nothing."
Tom: the veteran
A toothbrush was hidden in a front shirt
pocket under the tattered Army jacket of Tom, a
52-year-old U.S. Army veteran with long gray
hair and a course beard. A briefcase sat at his
side.
As he spoke, he slowly rotated a dull bullet
between his strong fingers.
Tom said he has been on the road since he
left the Army at age 20.
"I never considered having a roof over my
head," he said.
In the midst of a conversation about lost
loves and religious disputes, Tom described
transients as "guys who do not live with their
mothers and who think it is idiotic that bullets
are legal and marijuana is not."
Richard: 'shut out of the system'
Richard, 24, has been on the streets for two
years. Unlike many of his fellow transients, he
said he did not choose to live a life on the road.
"I was shut out of the system," Richard
said. "I was alienated from getting any credit
because I owed a lot of money from my partying
days. I was unable to get an apartment."
Richard added that for every "two steps
forward" he moves "three steps back."
"I used to spend my days where I knew I
could find food," he said. "Your self-esteem gets
less and less from asking people for things."
Richard, however, has not given up.
"I have two jobs right now," he said. "My
goal is to one day buy a house."
Wildflower and Margret: homeless women
As she sat rolling her cigarette, her blond
dreadlocks falling in her face, Wildflower fondly
talked about life on the road. She is 22 and lives
in Mother, her van. She hit the road when some
people she met on a march turned her onto the
lifestyle. She said she "fell right into it."
"You get an extreme sense of love, almost a
constant surrounding," she added. "You also get
a sense of self-worth. You feel really good about
yourself."
A newcomer to Tempe is Margret. The 19-
year-old from Wisconsin said she left college
after two years to avoid falling into the "trap" of
the routine life of "high school, college, graduate
school and, finally, a family."
With her violin case at her side, Margret
looks like a college student spending her lunch
break with some friends on Mill Avenue, but she
said she is actually "searching for a community
where" she "could find love."
Margret, like Richard, said she plans on
returning to "normal" society one day and going
back to school.
"I plan on taking the lessons I have
learned back into society with me," she said.
Free from the "constraints of society,"
Margret said she has learned a great deal from
living as a transient. Before jaunting off to play
her violin with some just-made friends, Margret
said she found the life-style to be " very
empowering as a woman."
"Many women do not know who they are
as women," she said. " When I was young, I was
a tomboy. I would hide everything feminine
about myself. I am slowly realizing that it is
good to be a woman. It is beautiful."
Sunshine: out since 12
Sunshine first left home when she was 12.
That was six years ago.
She looked no older than 13 in a sweater
and a thin, ankle length skirt, her head crowned
by her blond hair. She was barefoot.
Sunshine happily explained why she wants
to be on the road. "I just do not want to fill my
life with things I am not interested in."
Her playful stories were reminders of her
age.
"The other day I ran into these two girls
who I knew in high school," she said. "They had
known I had been on the streets and always
talked about me. When they saw me, they were
shocked. I just ran up to them and gave them
huge hugs and told them how glad I was to see
them. They didn't know what to say. I know
they were just thinking, 'Oh, she is so dirty.'"
Sunshine laughed.
Her attention was diverted to a man who
asked her how her friend, who had been sick,
was doing. Sunshine stopped laughing.
"Not good," she said.
Return to Contents List
Six in-depth articles written by ASU journalism
students are featured in today's edition of The
Bulldog, which will be published periodically by
the Cronkite School of Journalism and
Telecommunication and ASU's Student Publications.
The goal of the The Bulldog is to serve as
an outlet for journalism students who always are
looking for places to publish.
Today's newspaper was produced electronically
by journalism students. Special thanks go to designer
Jodi Goldblatt, photographer Samantha Feldman, copy
editor Jason Owsley and Vicki Carroll, who created
The Electronic Bulldog.
We hope you enjoy The Bulldog. Look for
us again later in the semester.
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