Oh...
.
This just breaks my heart. St. Louis was once stuffed to the brim with architecture that was beautiful, inspired, and complete. As an example, the first apartment I remember living in was a 2 family building. The typical brick 2 family on the South Side. It had stained glass windows, wooden floors, a cast iron soaker bath tub, and best of all; 11 ft. tall pocket doors separating the living room from the bedroom. -A bedroom that was big enough to sleep my entire family, hold 2 complete bedroom sets, and still give us kids plenty of play space.
To see bits and pieces of this architecture for sale on ebay makes me sad. Stained glass, doorknobs, terra cotta, even the precious iron stars that held our brick homes together, are offered to the highest bidder. Each of these pieces made my neighborhood a little nicer. The streets were dangerous, but the architecture made it all better. I don't have words to describe how good it felt to come home from school and open a front door with a knob like this. (buy it now for $75!)
I never minded polishing all the brass in that home. I never minded washing windows that were so tall I needed a step ladder to clean the upper pane. I loved that the glass was so old, that it was thicker at the bottom than at the top; proving that glass is indeed a liquid.
I loved that the place had seen continual use for 100 years and was still both beautiful and functional.
On a side note, I love my 1960 ranch home too. The only thing I want to change are the doors. Hollow core doors are not doors if you grew up with solid wood. I want sturdy, real doors inside my home. Doors I can cover with a patina of time and love, rather than a coat of paint.
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Jason's Gift
.
Many years ago, during one of my darkest days; a magical thing happened. Someone cared right when I needed it.
I believe I've told at least part of this story before; but I skipped the last part because it was hanging over my soul and I just didn't want to recall it.
We were living in a small college town, in winter, in a trailer with a big hole under the bathtub. We showered at a friend's house. And we were perpetually short on food.
Earlier that month, I had taken my son to work with me and begged a meal from my boss because my son was hungry and we had no food. I don't mean there was nothing tasty to eat. I mean the cupboards were bare. There was no food. (My boss gave him a giant 5 egg omelette stuffed with ham and veggies and cheese. My friends knew I was worried about paying for it, so they passed the hat for me. When they gave my boss their pile of change, he presented me with a giant cheeseburger smothered in grilled mushrooms too. I ate the whole thing, and never told my husband about that guilty cheeseburger - But I did bring him the rest of the omelette)
The next time I had a day off, I was mentally making a list of what I could pack in a friend's car. I hadn't quite made up my mind to leave, but I knew I had to in order for my son and the baby I was carrying in my womb to survive. I had already visited every charity in town and discovered that if I left my husband, I could get all kinds of assistance. But as long as I stayed with him, they couldn't help me. I still find that outrageous and offensive.
Anyway, there I was, mentally planning my escape; torn apart inside; when there was a knock at the door.
It was our friend Jason. He had 3 bags of groceries for us. He had been living in a homeless shelter for the past 18 months, and he'd finally gotten a real job. He cashed his first paycheck and bought food. For my family.
That's usually where the story ends, because by now I'm crying into my keyboard. But there's more.
Jason didn't know why he had to shop for us, he just knew that it was imperative. He unloaded can after can of veggies and chili and stew while we stood there speechless.
Then he hugged me, and he wouldn't let me go until he felt that I'd accepted his gift. THEN he made me look in his eyes while he said, "I have been where you are. You can see the light at the end of the tunnel. That last bit of getting there is the worst."
And he was right. Winter was nearly over. My hubby might, just maybe, have a job offer in St. Louis. And I couldn't see a way to survive those last few weeks.
He told me that someday, I would be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel; and someone would need me. And I would be there.
He was right again. Every good deed I've done, I've measured against Jason's gift. And every one has fallen short. Until two days ago; when red flags went off in my head, and I needed to act. Someone needed food and candles and a neat wicker basket... And most importantly, a knock at their door.
I didn't consider my bank balance. I didn't think, "What can we spare?" I just did it. My hubby came home to a half-packed basket, and started adding things to it. I didn't need to tell him a dramatic story. I just said "X needs us." And he began adding to the basket. My next door neighbor saw me carrying the basket to the truck, and picked a bunch of vegetables from his garden. He didn't know who it was going to. He didn't care. He just saw a basket that could use some peppers, lettuce, cucumbers and jalapenos. He hoped my friend was "better soon".
There are people who touch you. Not with their sob stories, or their sad lives, but because of who they are deep down. It is not the hardness of their path nor their mighty perseverance, nor even their willingness to help when they are down themselves. It is something beyond mere actions through life. I am blessed to know so many of those people. X is one of them. Jason's gift has come full circle. I understand his gift. Jason knocked on my door because my family touched him.
It's startling. It's a thing of wonder, like looking at a sunset or a butterfly, or the stars. You can't keep it, you can only let it be what it is. It's not about karma or looking good, it's about doing. Just doing. No congratulatory back-patting, no compliments. (although I got both, along with a lot of thank-you's) It's not even about telling the story. You just do it because it's perfect. And like everything perfect, it's here and gone. Holding onto it mars the perfection.
Jason touched me. I will never forget him. Even without his timely gift of love, I would have remembered him. He did things with chain mail that you would not believe.
.
Many years ago, during one of my darkest days; a magical thing happened. Someone cared right when I needed it.
I believe I've told at least part of this story before; but I skipped the last part because it was hanging over my soul and I just didn't want to recall it.
We were living in a small college town, in winter, in a trailer with a big hole under the bathtub. We showered at a friend's house. And we were perpetually short on food.
Earlier that month, I had taken my son to work with me and begged a meal from my boss because my son was hungry and we had no food. I don't mean there was nothing tasty to eat. I mean the cupboards were bare. There was no food. (My boss gave him a giant 5 egg omelette stuffed with ham and veggies and cheese. My friends knew I was worried about paying for it, so they passed the hat for me. When they gave my boss their pile of change, he presented me with a giant cheeseburger smothered in grilled mushrooms too. I ate the whole thing, and never told my husband about that guilty cheeseburger - But I did bring him the rest of the omelette)
The next time I had a day off, I was mentally making a list of what I could pack in a friend's car. I hadn't quite made up my mind to leave, but I knew I had to in order for my son and the baby I was carrying in my womb to survive. I had already visited every charity in town and discovered that if I left my husband, I could get all kinds of assistance. But as long as I stayed with him, they couldn't help me. I still find that outrageous and offensive.
Anyway, there I was, mentally planning my escape; torn apart inside; when there was a knock at the door.
It was our friend Jason. He had 3 bags of groceries for us. He had been living in a homeless shelter for the past 18 months, and he'd finally gotten a real job. He cashed his first paycheck and bought food. For my family.
That's usually where the story ends, because by now I'm crying into my keyboard. But there's more.
Jason didn't know why he had to shop for us, he just knew that it was imperative. He unloaded can after can of veggies and chili and stew while we stood there speechless.
Then he hugged me, and he wouldn't let me go until he felt that I'd accepted his gift. THEN he made me look in his eyes while he said, "I have been where you are. You can see the light at the end of the tunnel. That last bit of getting there is the worst."
And he was right. Winter was nearly over. My hubby might, just maybe, have a job offer in St. Louis. And I couldn't see a way to survive those last few weeks.
He told me that someday, I would be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel; and someone would need me. And I would be there.
He was right again. Every good deed I've done, I've measured against Jason's gift. And every one has fallen short. Until two days ago; when red flags went off in my head, and I needed to act. Someone needed food and candles and a neat wicker basket... And most importantly, a knock at their door.
I didn't consider my bank balance. I didn't think, "What can we spare?" I just did it. My hubby came home to a half-packed basket, and started adding things to it. I didn't need to tell him a dramatic story. I just said "X needs us." And he began adding to the basket. My next door neighbor saw me carrying the basket to the truck, and picked a bunch of vegetables from his garden. He didn't know who it was going to. He didn't care. He just saw a basket that could use some peppers, lettuce, cucumbers and jalapenos. He hoped my friend was "better soon".
There are people who touch you. Not with their sob stories, or their sad lives, but because of who they are deep down. It is not the hardness of their path nor their mighty perseverance, nor even their willingness to help when they are down themselves. It is something beyond mere actions through life. I am blessed to know so many of those people. X is one of them. Jason's gift has come full circle. I understand his gift. Jason knocked on my door because my family touched him.
It's startling. It's a thing of wonder, like looking at a sunset or a butterfly, or the stars. You can't keep it, you can only let it be what it is. It's not about karma or looking good, it's about doing. Just doing. No congratulatory back-patting, no compliments. (although I got both, along with a lot of thank-you's) It's not even about telling the story. You just do it because it's perfect. And like everything perfect, it's here and gone. Holding onto it mars the perfection.
Jason touched me. I will never forget him. Even without his timely gift of love, I would have remembered him. He did things with chain mail that you would not believe.
Friday, April 30, 2004
In the interest of posterity
I was re-reading the "so much to say, so little space!" entry, and realized my family history isn't yet recorded here. Thus, in the interest of posterity (if not in the interest of my readers); here is a bit of family history.
Great Grandma Laura went to the 1904 World's Fair with her friend, and was miffed that her mother would not let her see the Hoochie-Coochie girls dance. Her mom said she was too young. (note: call mom and get birthdate info) She was around 10-12 years old, and I suppose in 1904 that was indeed too young to see real live belly dancers, with real bare bellies. I don't know if great grandma resisted the mores of society before the Fair, but photographic evidence says she certainly resisted it afterward. We have a photo of her wearing trousers, for gosh sakes! And yes, Laura was a suffragette. She made signs and protested and passed out petitions, and St. Louis City took very little notice of the whole thing.
Great Aunt Mary learned to play the saxophone, and she and her friends started a band. They wore skimpy clothes and sang dirty songs in smoke filled bars. They were "The M&M Girls", they were lesbians, and they made no secret of it. Mom took me to see Great Aunt Mary play once. We rode a bus to the downtown bar where they were playing, and I got to hear their "dirty" songs. Mom sang along with them. Her favorite song was the "oh I wish I was..." song (as mom called it)
It went like this:
Oh, I wish I was a little bitty girl, and I had a whole lot of money
Then I would marry a carpenter, 'cause he's as good as any.
And he could nail, and I could nail, and we could nail together
and wouldn't we have one hell of a time
a nailing one another....
The verses were endless. The crowd could shout out an occupation, and the M&M Girls would come up with a suitable phrase. Each of the 3 girls had a verse that they sang all alone. Great Aunt Mary sang the verse about marrying a saxophone player (of course) ...and he could blow, and I could blow, and we could blow together... The piano player (play together), and the crowd favorite -the drummer "...and wouldn't we have one hell of a time a bangin' one another"
Grandma was pretty tame, compared to the rest of the family. All she did was get married and have a baby "early". And then she had 7 more. Of course, nobody had pre-marital relations in 1945. So I won't even hint at that being the reason my mother was born 2 months early, but was still almost 7 lbs. at birth.
The Sicilian immigrant with whom grandma was doing nothing improper at all, asked for her hand in marriage. He was a tailor. He made suits for a specific group of Sicilian men, but we don't talk about that. "Mafia" is never, ever mentioned at family gatherings.
Mom followed the long-standing tradition of proving your fertility before saying your marriage vows, but her guy did not offer to marry her. So Grandpa threw her out of the house. She spent the last two months of her pregnancy in a home for unwed mothers. Grandpa would not speak to her, and forbade the rest of the family to talk about her in his presence. He forgave her when Grandma forced him to go see his granddaughter, (my sister) who Mom had named Josephine. How could he refuse his first grandchild, especially when she was named after him?
So, when you put it all in perspective; me giving up a child or two for adoption is nothing special. You could say I'm just keeping the family tradition of being unique. Someday I'll write about all my Aunts and Uncles. I'm proud of them. They are each their own person, in unique and fascinating ways.
I was re-reading the "so much to say, so little space!" entry, and realized my family history isn't yet recorded here. Thus, in the interest of posterity (if not in the interest of my readers); here is a bit of family history.
Great Grandma Laura went to the 1904 World's Fair with her friend, and was miffed that her mother would not let her see the Hoochie-Coochie girls dance. Her mom said she was too young. (note: call mom and get birthdate info) She was around 10-12 years old, and I suppose in 1904 that was indeed too young to see real live belly dancers, with real bare bellies. I don't know if great grandma resisted the mores of society before the Fair, but photographic evidence says she certainly resisted it afterward. We have a photo of her wearing trousers, for gosh sakes! And yes, Laura was a suffragette. She made signs and protested and passed out petitions, and St. Louis City took very little notice of the whole thing.
Great Aunt Mary learned to play the saxophone, and she and her friends started a band. They wore skimpy clothes and sang dirty songs in smoke filled bars. They were "The M&M Girls", they were lesbians, and they made no secret of it. Mom took me to see Great Aunt Mary play once. We rode a bus to the downtown bar where they were playing, and I got to hear their "dirty" songs. Mom sang along with them. Her favorite song was the "oh I wish I was..." song (as mom called it)
It went like this:
Oh, I wish I was a little bitty girl, and I had a whole lot of money
Then I would marry a carpenter, 'cause he's as good as any.
And he could nail, and I could nail, and we could nail together
and wouldn't we have one hell of a time
a nailing one another....
The verses were endless. The crowd could shout out an occupation, and the M&M Girls would come up with a suitable phrase. Each of the 3 girls had a verse that they sang all alone. Great Aunt Mary sang the verse about marrying a saxophone player (of course) ...and he could blow, and I could blow, and we could blow together... The piano player (play together), and the crowd favorite -the drummer "...and wouldn't we have one hell of a time a bangin' one another"
Grandma was pretty tame, compared to the rest of the family. All she did was get married and have a baby "early". And then she had 7 more. Of course, nobody had pre-marital relations in 1945. So I won't even hint at that being the reason my mother was born 2 months early, but was still almost 7 lbs. at birth.
The Sicilian immigrant with whom grandma was doing nothing improper at all, asked for her hand in marriage. He was a tailor. He made suits for a specific group of Sicilian men, but we don't talk about that. "Mafia" is never, ever mentioned at family gatherings.
Mom followed the long-standing tradition of proving your fertility before saying your marriage vows, but her guy did not offer to marry her. So Grandpa threw her out of the house. She spent the last two months of her pregnancy in a home for unwed mothers. Grandpa would not speak to her, and forbade the rest of the family to talk about her in his presence. He forgave her when Grandma forced him to go see his granddaughter, (my sister) who Mom had named Josephine. How could he refuse his first grandchild, especially when she was named after him?
So, when you put it all in perspective; me giving up a child or two for adoption is nothing special. You could say I'm just keeping the family tradition of being unique. Someday I'll write about all my Aunts and Uncles. I'm proud of them. They are each their own person, in unique and fascinating ways.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
A discussion of slavery
Every morning, as I drive my son to school, we talk about stuff. Between pithy comments about other drivers, L and I teach each other. It usually begins with a question such as, "Hey mom, remember that time we did that thing...?" Today's driving lesson began thus: "What's the difference between centrifugal and centripetal force?"
How does this get around to slavery, you're wondering? Bear with me, I'm getting to that.
When I went to school, the force that makes things go away from the center of spin was called centrifugal force. That's why the machine that separates blood by spinning it is called a centrifuge. Somewhen between my education and L's, the powers that be came up with a more exact term. Spinning now induces centripetal force. Go figure.
I'm glad textbooks change, though... because when I was in school, my history class taught just one instance of slavery. It got me thinking -way back in the 7th grade- about omissions in textbooks. (I believe I wrote here about my dad beating my ass, because I once apologized to a black girl for my race keeping slaves. anyway...)
So it got me thinking. Part of my ancestry is Native American. There is a strong chance that those ancestors either had slaves, or were slaves themselves. Hm! But that's not all. Part of my ancestry is Sicilian. Sicily was part of the Roman Empire. Again, there's a strong chance of either side of slavery in my lineage. And there's more! I'm 1/2 Welsh. History says slavery!
I fell silent, lost in my thoughts, tracing my lineage and wondering. L was silent too. Perhaps he was enjoying a (for once) quite ride to school, or maybe... just maybe, he was thinking.
Every morning, as I drive my son to school, we talk about stuff. Between pithy comments about other drivers, L and I teach each other. It usually begins with a question such as, "Hey mom, remember that time we did that thing...?" Today's driving lesson began thus: "What's the difference between centrifugal and centripetal force?"
How does this get around to slavery, you're wondering? Bear with me, I'm getting to that.
When I went to school, the force that makes things go away from the center of spin was called centrifugal force. That's why the machine that separates blood by spinning it is called a centrifuge. Somewhen between my education and L's, the powers that be came up with a more exact term. Spinning now induces centripetal force. Go figure.
I'm glad textbooks change, though... because when I was in school, my history class taught just one instance of slavery. It got me thinking -way back in the 7th grade- about omissions in textbooks. (I believe I wrote here about my dad beating my ass, because I once apologized to a black girl for my race keeping slaves. anyway...)
So it got me thinking. Part of my ancestry is Native American. There is a strong chance that those ancestors either had slaves, or were slaves themselves. Hm! But that's not all. Part of my ancestry is Sicilian. Sicily was part of the Roman Empire. Again, there's a strong chance of either side of slavery in my lineage. And there's more! I'm 1/2 Welsh. History says slavery!
I fell silent, lost in my thoughts, tracing my lineage and wondering. L was silent too. Perhaps he was enjoying a (for once) quite ride to school, or maybe... just maybe, he was thinking.
Friday, February 06, 2004
Writing
Tonight, while the Hubby-Man was making dinner, he gave me a little blast from the past. And I quote:
"If you don't want your baby, then we'll try to find a home for it."
I don't remember what brought it up, because that phrase always triggers rant-mode with me. You see, it's what was said by the first adoption agency I called, when I was trying to find the right parents for my son. Yeah, that's a great way to get people to give up their kids. When I rant about Christianity, that incident is a big part of it. There is a place of hatred deep in my heart for the woman who said those words. It lessens me as a person, it limits my spiritual growth, and it remains. I just can't stop making her wrong. And secretly, I don't want to.
I did not work with that agency, I chose another. You can read all about it on Random Redhead. You won't read about the birth (9 lbs 15 oz), or the resultant stitches. You won't read about the teddy bear I bought, so my arms wouldn't be empty on the flight home; or how I leaked breast milk all down my shirt because of the pressure change on the plane. You won't even read about how very, very hard it was to leave my son at the hospital. How I said, "Please... Can I hold him one more time?" and the nurse said, "He's already gone." (Nope, you get to read that here!)
You also won't be reading what it's like to sign the adoption papers.
The story is too big for me to type my way through in one sitting. The rest will have to wait for another day.
It's a really good read anyway, so read it and enjoy. Not everything I write into RR is dark and depressing. Giving up my son was actually a very uplifting experience.
Tonight, while the Hubby-Man was making dinner, he gave me a little blast from the past. And I quote:
"If you don't want your baby, then we'll try to find a home for it."
I don't remember what brought it up, because that phrase always triggers rant-mode with me. You see, it's what was said by the first adoption agency I called, when I was trying to find the right parents for my son. Yeah, that's a great way to get people to give up their kids. When I rant about Christianity, that incident is a big part of it. There is a place of hatred deep in my heart for the woman who said those words. It lessens me as a person, it limits my spiritual growth, and it remains. I just can't stop making her wrong. And secretly, I don't want to.
I did not work with that agency, I chose another. You can read all about it on Random Redhead. You won't read about the birth (9 lbs 15 oz), or the resultant stitches. You won't read about the teddy bear I bought, so my arms wouldn't be empty on the flight home; or how I leaked breast milk all down my shirt because of the pressure change on the plane. You won't even read about how very, very hard it was to leave my son at the hospital. How I said, "Please... Can I hold him one more time?" and the nurse said, "He's already gone." (Nope, you get to read that here!)
You also won't be reading what it's like to sign the adoption papers.
The story is too big for me to type my way through in one sitting. The rest will have to wait for another day.
It's a really good read anyway, so read it and enjoy. Not everything I write into RR is dark and depressing. Giving up my son was actually a very uplifting experience.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Just One Teacher
You all know the story... Dirt poor kid, city schools and one magical teacher who turns their life around. Well, here's my story.
Mr. Forest did not turn my life around, but he did leave a lasting impression. I was attending Central Visual and Performing Arts High School, if you want to call hanging out in the bathroom all day "attending". At the beginning of the school year, I'd gone to all my classes to decide which ones would be worth my time. Acting class sucked that year, so I usually skipped it. French class I could take or leave. Math was amusing for about a minute, then I got tired of watching my classmates throw their worksheets out the window and shoot spitballs at the teacher. Then there was History. My first day in History class, Mr. Forest gave a speech. It went something like this, "I teach History in this class. I teach it because I love it, and I'd like you to love it too. If you plan on goofing off, you might as well leave now."
Here he paused. A few kids got up and left, the rest of us stayed glued to our seats. He had basically dared us to behave. His demeanor suggested that we were only marginally worth his time, but he'd give us a chance to prove ourselves. After the troublemakers had left, taking their teen angst and authority-bucking with them, Mr. Forest continued.
"Good. I show a lot of movies in this class. You will not sleep. You will not bother the students who want to learn something. Troublemakers will be ejected, and you will not return... Now then, I promise you will learn everything I can teach you. All you have to do is show up and pay attention... I understand, sometimes things happen. You can always talk to me."
That's the gist of what he said. Many teachers before him have said the same things, but Mr. Forest said it with feeling. He didn't make threats, he didn't stand there powerless, pleading with us to behave. He was panning for gold in that classroom. He knew we were worth his time, and suddenly, we knew it too.
Barring the days I cut school entirely, I always attended Mr. Forest's History class. I even did my homework. Then the bad thing happened. I cut school and got raped. In the weeks after the rape, I skipped school entirely. I spent my days wandering the streets, or hiding in the house. I could not face Mr. Forest. I had done a stupid thing and paid for it mightily, and even though Mr. Forest said we could talk to him, I couldn't set foot in his class again.
When I finally went back to school, I avoided History class. One day Mr. Forest spotted me in the hallway. He looked down his nose at me and said, "You haven't been in class recently." I had nothing to say to that. I wanted to ask him if I could come back, if I were somehow worth a second chance, but I was afraid of the answer.
The next time I passed Mr. Forest in the hall, he acted like he didn't know me. That stung. I was no longer one of his students. His magical world of History, and the safe haven of his classroom, was closed to me. I think of Mr. Forest often. He taught more than History. He taught me about the world. There are people who will share everything with you, but they won't always give you second chances. Mr. Forest taught me to use my first chance wisely. Maturity taught me to speak up, no matter how ugly that speaking up may be; because you have to ask for a second chance.
You all know the story... Dirt poor kid, city schools and one magical teacher who turns their life around. Well, here's my story.
Mr. Forest did not turn my life around, but he did leave a lasting impression. I was attending Central Visual and Performing Arts High School, if you want to call hanging out in the bathroom all day "attending". At the beginning of the school year, I'd gone to all my classes to decide which ones would be worth my time. Acting class sucked that year, so I usually skipped it. French class I could take or leave. Math was amusing for about a minute, then I got tired of watching my classmates throw their worksheets out the window and shoot spitballs at the teacher. Then there was History. My first day in History class, Mr. Forest gave a speech. It went something like this, "I teach History in this class. I teach it because I love it, and I'd like you to love it too. If you plan on goofing off, you might as well leave now."
Here he paused. A few kids got up and left, the rest of us stayed glued to our seats. He had basically dared us to behave. His demeanor suggested that we were only marginally worth his time, but he'd give us a chance to prove ourselves. After the troublemakers had left, taking their teen angst and authority-bucking with them, Mr. Forest continued.
"Good. I show a lot of movies in this class. You will not sleep. You will not bother the students who want to learn something. Troublemakers will be ejected, and you will not return... Now then, I promise you will learn everything I can teach you. All you have to do is show up and pay attention... I understand, sometimes things happen. You can always talk to me."
That's the gist of what he said. Many teachers before him have said the same things, but Mr. Forest said it with feeling. He didn't make threats, he didn't stand there powerless, pleading with us to behave. He was panning for gold in that classroom. He knew we were worth his time, and suddenly, we knew it too.
Barring the days I cut school entirely, I always attended Mr. Forest's History class. I even did my homework. Then the bad thing happened. I cut school and got raped. In the weeks after the rape, I skipped school entirely. I spent my days wandering the streets, or hiding in the house. I could not face Mr. Forest. I had done a stupid thing and paid for it mightily, and even though Mr. Forest said we could talk to him, I couldn't set foot in his class again.
When I finally went back to school, I avoided History class. One day Mr. Forest spotted me in the hallway. He looked down his nose at me and said, "You haven't been in class recently." I had nothing to say to that. I wanted to ask him if I could come back, if I were somehow worth a second chance, but I was afraid of the answer.
The next time I passed Mr. Forest in the hall, he acted like he didn't know me. That stung. I was no longer one of his students. His magical world of History, and the safe haven of his classroom, was closed to me. I think of Mr. Forest often. He taught more than History. He taught me about the world. There are people who will share everything with you, but they won't always give you second chances. Mr. Forest taught me to use my first chance wisely. Maturity taught me to speak up, no matter how ugly that speaking up may be; because you have to ask for a second chance.
Monday, January 19, 2004
Disquiet on the Home Front or The Grandma Situation
Mom called tonight. She wanted to know my plans for tomorrow. She and Aunt #2 are looking at a care facility tomorrow for Grandma. A week or so from now, Grandma will be turning 86. She has been living in senior housing for a decade. She is lucid and in reasonable health. However, Grandma doesn't eat or drink enough. A few weeks ago, she passed out in the grocery store -because she was severely dehydrated.
The housing co-op called Aunt #2 and told her this wasn't the first time. Mom sat with her at Barnes Hospital's ER. Grandma waited 8 hours to be seen. I guess passing out when you're 85 isn't an emergency. While they were waiting, calls went out to the entire extended family; and mom tried to set up a care and visitation schedule. Nobody has decided which days they want, so mom and Aunt #2 are looking at moving her to a different facility.
They haven't asked Grandma's opinion yet. Maybe she doesn't want to move. Maybe her apartment gives her a sense of freedom. Maybe she wants to keep the possessions she has left, and doesn't want them parted out to the family... And maybe she does. I don't know, and I think she should have some say in it.
The new facility sounds great to me, but I'm not the one going there. It's right next door to a Catholic Church, so Grandma can go every day again. She is a very devout Catholic, and has missed church a lot in the past few years. She wouldn't have to cook anymore, because they provide all meals. Grandma has told me often enough how hard it is to cook for one, when she's used to cooking for 10. That's why she doesn't eat enough. Most days she can't be bothered to cook. When she gets hungry enough, she'll re-warm yesterday's leftovers. Meals-On-Wheels visits her 3 times a week. I think that's what she lives on. It's sad, and I'm dumping all my sadness here, so forgive me.
Mom tried to brighten the mood today, by telling me Great Grandma's table would probably not go with Grandma. Well, that's just great. I really do want that old Queen Anne card table. It's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma. I remember playing with the decorative drawer pull before I could see over the table. I remember taking out Great Grandma's canasta cards, after she passed away. I remember how no one would touch the table, much less use it, unless Great Grandma said they could. Gods, how I love that table! It's been chewed on by puppies, scratched by cats and played with by 6 grand children. and I want that table when Grandma is ready to give it to me, not when Grandma is forced to give it up. If it's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma, then it's also the only tangible piece of her mother. When it is passed down to me, should I pick up Grandma, help her climb into my truck and drive her to look at her mother's table? What an impossible thought! (Clearly, I haven't used up my melodrama quotient in this life)
I don't know what to say, or what to think. I want to wave a magic wand and keep things the same, and I don't even know if moving Grandma would be a bad idea!
I remember Great Grandma, living in the nursing home she once worked at. I remember how the sun lit up her hair and made it into a halo, the last time I visited her. I remember Aunt #2 telling me I would have to say something because Great Grandma couldn't see me. She was blind now. I remember the adults talking over my head as if I weren't there, talking about how death would be a mercy to her. And worst of all, I remember the looks from the other people in the home, as this huge loving family came to visit. I got in trouble for wandering off several times. We would be sitting in Great Grandma's room, and I could feel need elsewhere. Twice, mom found me in someone else's room, listening to their stories and looking at pictures of their grand children.
I don't want to have the same kinds of memories about Grandma. Life doesn't stagnate. Life moves forward, whether you want it to or not. I know age happens, and I should be thankful that Grandma is lucid and mobile. But oh, how I resist this change of scenery.
Mom called tonight. She wanted to know my plans for tomorrow. She and Aunt #2 are looking at a care facility tomorrow for Grandma. A week or so from now, Grandma will be turning 86. She has been living in senior housing for a decade. She is lucid and in reasonable health. However, Grandma doesn't eat or drink enough. A few weeks ago, she passed out in the grocery store -because she was severely dehydrated.
The housing co-op called Aunt #2 and told her this wasn't the first time. Mom sat with her at Barnes Hospital's ER. Grandma waited 8 hours to be seen. I guess passing out when you're 85 isn't an emergency. While they were waiting, calls went out to the entire extended family; and mom tried to set up a care and visitation schedule. Nobody has decided which days they want, so mom and Aunt #2 are looking at moving her to a different facility.
They haven't asked Grandma's opinion yet. Maybe she doesn't want to move. Maybe her apartment gives her a sense of freedom. Maybe she wants to keep the possessions she has left, and doesn't want them parted out to the family... And maybe she does. I don't know, and I think she should have some say in it.
The new facility sounds great to me, but I'm not the one going there. It's right next door to a Catholic Church, so Grandma can go every day again. She is a very devout Catholic, and has missed church a lot in the past few years. She wouldn't have to cook anymore, because they provide all meals. Grandma has told me often enough how hard it is to cook for one, when she's used to cooking for 10. That's why she doesn't eat enough. Most days she can't be bothered to cook. When she gets hungry enough, she'll re-warm yesterday's leftovers. Meals-On-Wheels visits her 3 times a week. I think that's what she lives on. It's sad, and I'm dumping all my sadness here, so forgive me.
Mom tried to brighten the mood today, by telling me Great Grandma's table would probably not go with Grandma. Well, that's just great. I really do want that old Queen Anne card table. It's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma. I remember playing with the decorative drawer pull before I could see over the table. I remember taking out Great Grandma's canasta cards, after she passed away. I remember how no one would touch the table, much less use it, unless Great Grandma said they could. Gods, how I love that table! It's been chewed on by puppies, scratched by cats and played with by 6 grand children. and I want that table when Grandma is ready to give it to me, not when Grandma is forced to give it up. If it's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma, then it's also the only tangible piece of her mother. When it is passed down to me, should I pick up Grandma, help her climb into my truck and drive her to look at her mother's table? What an impossible thought! (Clearly, I haven't used up my melodrama quotient in this life)
I don't know what to say, or what to think. I want to wave a magic wand and keep things the same, and I don't even know if moving Grandma would be a bad idea!
I remember Great Grandma, living in the nursing home she once worked at. I remember how the sun lit up her hair and made it into a halo, the last time I visited her. I remember Aunt #2 telling me I would have to say something because Great Grandma couldn't see me. She was blind now. I remember the adults talking over my head as if I weren't there, talking about how death would be a mercy to her. And worst of all, I remember the looks from the other people in the home, as this huge loving family came to visit. I got in trouble for wandering off several times. We would be sitting in Great Grandma's room, and I could feel need elsewhere. Twice, mom found me in someone else's room, listening to their stories and looking at pictures of their grand children.
I don't want to have the same kinds of memories about Grandma. Life doesn't stagnate. Life moves forward, whether you want it to or not. I know age happens, and I should be thankful that Grandma is lucid and mobile. But oh, how I resist this change of scenery.
Friday, January 16, 2004
a nature of magic
When I was a child, I believed in magic. I believed in fairy tales, and happily-ever-afters. I believed that good things happen to good people.
And I wished like crazy for some magic to happen to me.
I had proof of magic, like all children do. I got coins from the tooth fairy and presents from Santa, and a book with a dragon in it -that I swore breathed smoke and winked at me when no one was looking. I didn't think I was special (or insane), I thought it was just like a dragon to hide in a book and wink at small children. I also thought dragons swiped princesses to teach them how to work. It would serve two purposes. The dragon gets it's scales cleaned, and the princess learns the value of work, growing up to be a good queen.
I could look at clouds and see herds of buffalo thundering across the sky. It lifted my spirits to know that the buffalo lived on, even though the cowboys killed them all. (that's kid logic for you) Mom would take me to the park and teach me to listen to the world. She never treated it like a lesson. She thought you should listen to the world because you could. She taught me that the planet, and every living thing on it speaks. I knew something she didn't know. Non-living things speak too. I would pick up rocks and ask her to listen to them, and she would say, "But it's just a rock. Rocks can't talk." And I would say, "Trees can talk. Grass talks. The wind talks. Why can't rocks talk?" She always said, "Well, because they're not alive."
As a very small child, I believed her. I told myself that I only imagined that rocks talk, just like I imagined dragons winking in books. It hurt to think that. So every year I grew a little more, and brought mom rocks; insisting that she listen better. Every year, she insisted rocks don't talk. I never gave up. A few years ago, when I really got into jewelery making, I brought her an assortment of rough gems. I put them in her hand, one by one, and told her to really listen this time. (yeah, I know. Shame on me for making my 50 year old mom listen to a bunch of dirty old rocks)
She said, "I don't know what I'm listening for."
So I taught her, the same way she taught me to listen to the trees, grass and sky.
She had forgotten how to listen with her spirit. I reminded her, with her own words. And when she remembered, she heard.
We sat with our heads bowed over this pile of rough gems, and she told me the nature of each stone she held. It was a magical moment. I love my mom.
When I was a child, I believed in magic. I believed in fairy tales, and happily-ever-afters. I believed that good things happen to good people.
And I wished like crazy for some magic to happen to me.
I had proof of magic, like all children do. I got coins from the tooth fairy and presents from Santa, and a book with a dragon in it -that I swore breathed smoke and winked at me when no one was looking. I didn't think I was special (or insane), I thought it was just like a dragon to hide in a book and wink at small children. I also thought dragons swiped princesses to teach them how to work. It would serve two purposes. The dragon gets it's scales cleaned, and the princess learns the value of work, growing up to be a good queen.
I could look at clouds and see herds of buffalo thundering across the sky. It lifted my spirits to know that the buffalo lived on, even though the cowboys killed them all. (that's kid logic for you) Mom would take me to the park and teach me to listen to the world. She never treated it like a lesson. She thought you should listen to the world because you could. She taught me that the planet, and every living thing on it speaks. I knew something she didn't know. Non-living things speak too. I would pick up rocks and ask her to listen to them, and she would say, "But it's just a rock. Rocks can't talk." And I would say, "Trees can talk. Grass talks. The wind talks. Why can't rocks talk?" She always said, "Well, because they're not alive."
As a very small child, I believed her. I told myself that I only imagined that rocks talk, just like I imagined dragons winking in books. It hurt to think that. So every year I grew a little more, and brought mom rocks; insisting that she listen better. Every year, she insisted rocks don't talk. I never gave up. A few years ago, when I really got into jewelery making, I brought her an assortment of rough gems. I put them in her hand, one by one, and told her to really listen this time. (yeah, I know. Shame on me for making my 50 year old mom listen to a bunch of dirty old rocks)
She said, "I don't know what I'm listening for."
So I taught her, the same way she taught me to listen to the trees, grass and sky.
She had forgotten how to listen with her spirit. I reminded her, with her own words. And when she remembered, she heard.
We sat with our heads bowed over this pile of rough gems, and she told me the nature of each stone she held. It was a magical moment. I love my mom.
Saturday, January 03, 2004
The Keychain
I've been thinking a lot about a keychain I once owned. That dirty white heart declaring, "My Life Is A Soap Opera!" will pop into my head at the oddest times. Mom bought it for me back in the early 80's. I kept it on my key ring until it fell apart. I kept it even when I didn't believe my life was a soap opera. I'd catch it's message while opening the door and think, "I'm trying to be special."
Now I'm doing it again. :)
RR began as an attempt to tell some amusing stories. It grew into a novel (or series of essays long enough to be a novel), and developed a purpose. To show the middle class what urban life can look like. I've hit a point that I don't really want to write about. I don't want to write about growing up. I don't want to share about discovering witchcraft, and my teen years were all about witchcraft. Not writing that feels like I'm only telling half the story, and keeping the juiciest bits to myself to boot. Adding witchcraft to the novel completely changes the direction and purpose of my tales. It drifts into the world of subjective fantasy. I would loose my audience.
Oh, I have a few stories about my teen years that would fit. I can (and will) write about sneaking out, lighting peoples butts on fire, stupid drinking incidents and ways I broadened my horizons with Rocky Horror, or meeting the male prostitutes who worked Tower Grove Park.
I find that now that I'm nearing the end of the book, I don't want to give it up. I don't want to stop writing, and I certainly don't want to put my baby in the hands of an editor. (sigh)
That's why I haven't been blogging recently. I've been busy procrastinating.
I've been thinking a lot about a keychain I once owned. That dirty white heart declaring, "My Life Is A Soap Opera!" will pop into my head at the oddest times. Mom bought it for me back in the early 80's. I kept it on my key ring until it fell apart. I kept it even when I didn't believe my life was a soap opera. I'd catch it's message while opening the door and think, "I'm trying to be special."
Now I'm doing it again. :)
RR began as an attempt to tell some amusing stories. It grew into a novel (or series of essays long enough to be a novel), and developed a purpose. To show the middle class what urban life can look like. I've hit a point that I don't really want to write about. I don't want to write about growing up. I don't want to share about discovering witchcraft, and my teen years were all about witchcraft. Not writing that feels like I'm only telling half the story, and keeping the juiciest bits to myself to boot. Adding witchcraft to the novel completely changes the direction and purpose of my tales. It drifts into the world of subjective fantasy. I would loose my audience.
Oh, I have a few stories about my teen years that would fit. I can (and will) write about sneaking out, lighting peoples butts on fire, stupid drinking incidents and ways I broadened my horizons with Rocky Horror, or meeting the male prostitutes who worked Tower Grove Park.
I find that now that I'm nearing the end of the book, I don't want to give it up. I don't want to stop writing, and I certainly don't want to put my baby in the hands of an editor. (sigh)
That's why I haven't been blogging recently. I've been busy procrastinating.
Friday, December 26, 2003
Things Mothers Should Tell Their Daughters
My friends and I have been having a discussion (for a couple of weeks now) about things mothers should tell their daughters. Things our own mothers never bothered to tell us, and should have. This is my top 5 list:
5. Puberty is wonderful and you should talk about it.
4. Masturbation is healthy.
3. No one can smell your period or see your maxi pad
2. Your insides are moist for a reason.
1. All vaginas have a fragrance. It's normal. No one can smell it but you, and you wouldn't smell it either if you weren't worried someone else might smell it.
My mom described menstruation, ovulation and hair growth in intricate detail to me and my sister. She thought she had covered all the bases. She even drew pictures. I still stressed over the top 4.
My friends and I have been having a discussion (for a couple of weeks now) about things mothers should tell their daughters. Things our own mothers never bothered to tell us, and should have. This is my top 5 list:
5. Puberty is wonderful and you should talk about it.
4. Masturbation is healthy.
3. No one can smell your period or see your maxi pad
2. Your insides are moist for a reason.
1. All vaginas have a fragrance. It's normal. No one can smell it but you, and you wouldn't smell it either if you weren't worried someone else might smell it.
My mom described menstruation, ovulation and hair growth in intricate detail to me and my sister. She thought she had covered all the bases. She even drew pictures. I still stressed over the top 4.
Post Christmas Clean up
Christmas day was spent with friends, and it was wonderful. The Madman and Persephone put out a spread to die for. Turkey and pork loin, stuffing, home made mashed potatoes, spaghetti squash with sauteed portobello mushrooms, fresh baked bread, green beans(bleah), real cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie, tarts, spiced wine with little almond slivers, and more. I don't know how they did it. They didn't look like they'd been up all night baking. I barely had time to make gingerbread. I bow down to their superior cooking and time management!
This morning, Hubby-man picked up all the wrapping paper that had been strewn about the floor. Poor Friday, no more wrapping paper to play in. For a wonder, the rest of the house is pretty clean. It's usually trashed the day after Christmas.
I hope everyone else had as much fun as I did this year. :)
Christmas day was spent with friends, and it was wonderful. The Madman and Persephone put out a spread to die for. Turkey and pork loin, stuffing, home made mashed potatoes, spaghetti squash with sauteed portobello mushrooms, fresh baked bread, green beans(bleah), real cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie, tarts, spiced wine with little almond slivers, and more. I don't know how they did it. They didn't look like they'd been up all night baking. I barely had time to make gingerbread. I bow down to their superior cooking and time management!
This morning, Hubby-man picked up all the wrapping paper that had been strewn about the floor. Poor Friday, no more wrapping paper to play in. For a wonder, the rest of the house is pretty clean. It's usually trashed the day after Christmas.
I hope everyone else had as much fun as I did this year. :)
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Santa Stories
I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.
He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.
Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.
Christmas rolled around and Mom, sister and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone.
I'm going to break here to comment on the decline of the Holy Catholic Church in America. As a kid, we would enter church and dip our fingers in a marble basin full of water, and dab a bit on our forehead, chest and shoulders -making the sign of the cross. The water practically glowed with good energy. The whole back of the church was filled with the energy coming out of the bowls. At some point, the water was replaced with a damp sponge. Why? Did they become afraid people would steal the water? It makes no sense. Every Catholic Church has a tank full of Holy Water, free for the taking. It's not like Holy Water is expensive, either. Tap water and a pinch of salt, combined with a priest drawing down God is all it takes. Why did they replace such a beautiful conductor of energy with a sponge? Should I refer to it as a Holy Sponge? Maybe I should ask a priest. Ok, back to the story.
We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.
After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.
I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got cool gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.
I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "Cousins One and Two will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."
Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.
The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.
I rarely got what I wanted from Santa, but I always got something I liked. The last year I truly believed that Santa was a man in a sleigh, making improbable deliveries to Christian children worldwide, was the year my dad left.
He left us while we were at summer camp, and that Christmas I asked Santa for my dad and a house. I actually wrote a letter addressed to the north pole, and mailed it. I wrote about how I thought I'd been good, even with that time my sister and I threw rocks at some other kids in the alley. I wrote how there was no place to play in the room my family lived in at Grandma's house, and I really wanted somewhere to play.
And, of course; I wanted my dad to come back if it would be good for us.
Santa was kind of like God to me, you could ask for anything, but you would only get what was good for you.
Christmas rolled around and Mom, sister and I walked to Midnight Mass. It was one of my favorite parts of Christmas, because we got to stay up late and we got to open one present when we came home. Midnight Mass is a high mass. You get 2 priests and 6 altar boys. One priest swings the censer, filling the church with pungent grey smoke. The other priest would sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water from what looked like a silver microphone.
I'm going to break here to comment on the decline of the Holy Catholic Church in America. As a kid, we would enter church and dip our fingers in a marble basin full of water, and dab a bit on our forehead, chest and shoulders -making the sign of the cross. The water practically glowed with good energy. The whole back of the church was filled with the energy coming out of the bowls. At some point, the water was replaced with a damp sponge. Why? Did they become afraid people would steal the water? It makes no sense. Every Catholic Church has a tank full of Holy Water, free for the taking. It's not like Holy Water is expensive, either. Tap water and a pinch of salt, combined with a priest drawing down God is all it takes. Why did they replace such a beautiful conductor of energy with a sponge? Should I refer to it as a Holy Sponge? Maybe I should ask a priest. Ok, back to the story.
We got to chant in Latin while getting high on incense fumes. By the end of Mass, you could barely see the exit. Mom always translated the Latin. I wonder now, how many people she pissed off with her running monologue. I wonder how many she educated, too.
After Mass, we walked the 2 blocks to Grandma's house. There was a point where the houses receded from the sidewalk, and you could see Grandma's front yard. Sitting in Grandma's yard that Christmas was a house.
I thought it might be an incense induced vision. I thought maybe I was dreaming. I thought it was definitely not for me. I squashed my excitement with that thought. Of course it wasn't for me. It was for one of my cousins or something. They always got cool gifts. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal. I tried really hard to be happy for my cousins. It was Christmas, after all; a time of joy and giving. I could afford to give happiness to someone else.
I had myself pretty convinced by the time we reached the steps up to the yard. Then one of my Uncles came outside and said, "You missed it! Santa came by and left this for a pair of good little girls." I thought, "Cousins One and Two will be very happy." and summoned up a smile. My uncle said, "There's a tag. Let's see who it's for."
Lo and behold, it was for my sister and I. It was the most beautiful house I'd ever seen. I was made of cardboard, with a working door and cut out windows. It had a pointy roof and everything. In that moment, I believed in Santa with all my heart.
The end of the story
I didn't get my dad for Christmas. In fact, I never got my dad. I don't particularly want him anymore. We did eventually get an apartment, and I had room to play again. What I really got that Christmas was a message. Two, actually.
The house, (a collaborative effort of all 5 uncles) was a message that my dad would not be coming back, and it was ok because I would have a home without him. I loved that house.
The other message, I was given on Christmas morning. Amongst the pile of presents for everyone in the family were 3 paper bags. They had mine, my sister's and mom's names on them. I got a nice doll. Mom got work clothes.
The bags were put together by the ladies at Church for the "unfortunate". I knew because I'd helped mom and grandma make bags like that every Christmas and Easter for as long as I can remember. That was when I realized we were poor.
I hated those bags from the moment I saw them.
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Wow
I was checking out Riverbend's recipies page, and was amazed at the similarities to my grandma's cooking. For those of you who don't know, my grandma made traditional Sicilian meals every other day. She and my grandpa had reached an agreement, you see. Sundays was spaghetti (except it was vermicelli), and the rest of the week alternated between Sicilian food for grandpa and American food for grandma.
You could convert nearly any of Riverbend's recipies into Sicilian recipies by trading the curry for oregano, and the cumin for basil. Amazing.
I knew the countries were geographically close, but I didn't know how close.
I was checking out Riverbend's recipies page, and was amazed at the similarities to my grandma's cooking. For those of you who don't know, my grandma made traditional Sicilian meals every other day. She and my grandpa had reached an agreement, you see. Sundays was spaghetti (except it was vermicelli), and the rest of the week alternated between Sicilian food for grandpa and American food for grandma.
You could convert nearly any of Riverbend's recipies into Sicilian recipies by trading the curry for oregano, and the cumin for basil. Amazing.
I knew the countries were geographically close, but I didn't know how close.
Saturday, December 13, 2003
Sometimes I Wonder
Sometimes I have moments (or days or weeks) of self doubt. I suppose it's human. I suppose it's normal, and usually I laugh about it later. My most recent doubt is about the book I'm writing. I have so many questions in my head about it. Will I actually finish it, or will I toss it aside like so many other projects? How much will I have to dump during the editing process? I already have enough material for 4 books. Is my writing too wordy for this modern, instant-gratification based world? Will potential publishers put my stories -my life- in the recycle bin as too tedious?
And then I find, quite by accident, sites like Guardian Unlimited Books. I had typed my URL into Google, and clicked on "sites similar to this". It's usually pretty amusing. I have no idea what criteria Google uses, but it's normal to find sites completely unlike my own.
Anyway, there on the list was Guardian Unlimited Books. I thought, "Hey. This could be a good chance to see what is being published that's like my memoirs." It was worth a shot, at least. So I clicked the link and found myself on an excerpts page.
The first paragraph had me staring slack jawed at the computer screen. The book is titled: "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers
Long title, but "Memoirs from a South Side Neighborhood" (my working title) is pretty long too. The first paragraph reads: "Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the trees calligraphic. Exhaust from the dryer billows clumsily out from the house and up, breaking apart while tumbling into the white sky. "
I find the imagery difficult.
I realize Guardian is in the UK, and perhaps the British prefer difficult imagery in books. Perhaps not... look at any of the Harry Potter books. They are also filled with lengthy verbal imagery, but in J.K. Rowlings' work things flow.
I'm not writing to put down the author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. He's published, I'm not. I'm just commenting on how I don't have to be J.K. Rowling to get a book contract. Yay!
So anyway, if you'd like to read some stories about growing up in a rough urban neighborhood, hop on over to My rough draft blog then drop me a line. I really enjoy the feedback, even if the feedback is "you suck". :)
Sometimes I have moments (or days or weeks) of self doubt. I suppose it's human. I suppose it's normal, and usually I laugh about it later. My most recent doubt is about the book I'm writing. I have so many questions in my head about it. Will I actually finish it, or will I toss it aside like so many other projects? How much will I have to dump during the editing process? I already have enough material for 4 books. Is my writing too wordy for this modern, instant-gratification based world? Will potential publishers put my stories -my life- in the recycle bin as too tedious?
And then I find, quite by accident, sites like Guardian Unlimited Books. I had typed my URL into Google, and clicked on "sites similar to this". It's usually pretty amusing. I have no idea what criteria Google uses, but it's normal to find sites completely unlike my own.
Anyway, there on the list was Guardian Unlimited Books. I thought, "Hey. This could be a good chance to see what is being published that's like my memoirs." It was worth a shot, at least. So I clicked the link and found myself on an excerpts page.
The first paragraph had me staring slack jawed at the computer screen. The book is titled: "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" by Dave Eggers
Long title, but "Memoirs from a South Side Neighborhood" (my working title) is pretty long too. The first paragraph reads: "Through the small tall bathroom window the December yard is gray and scratchy, the trees calligraphic. Exhaust from the dryer billows clumsily out from the house and up, breaking apart while tumbling into the white sky. "
I find the imagery difficult.
I realize Guardian is in the UK, and perhaps the British prefer difficult imagery in books. Perhaps not... look at any of the Harry Potter books. They are also filled with lengthy verbal imagery, but in J.K. Rowlings' work things flow.
I'm not writing to put down the author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. He's published, I'm not. I'm just commenting on how I don't have to be J.K. Rowling to get a book contract. Yay!
So anyway, if you'd like to read some stories about growing up in a rough urban neighborhood, hop on over to My rough draft blog then drop me a line. I really enjoy the feedback, even if the feedback is "you suck". :)
Monday, December 08, 2003
My friend has a good ear and a kind heart
And I thank her for that. I got to rant about my parents today. You'd think I was 16 again. :) Highlights of the rant follow:
The last time I saw my dad in person, I was 9 years old. He drove my sister and I to camp and left home the next day. I did see him again on television. I saw him on the Jerry Springer show maybe 8 years ago? Chasmyn asked me if I had ever tried to contact my dad, and years of repressed stuff started spewing out of me. I don't want to find my dad until I can talk to him without making him wrong. Anyway, talk turned to my mom. Heh.
My arthritis acts up every year around my birthday. Today Chasmyn helped me figure out why. The pain is a manifestation of my repressed emotions. It hurts around my B-Day because of the crap I've heard from my mom every year since I was 10. I get to hear how dad chose to name me after the valley in Wales that his grandparents came from. Except he made it all up. I get to hear how boys will want to date my sister because she's fun, and they'll want to date me for my body. As an adult, she instead tells me how great it is that I found a man who loves me for my brain and my body.
Mom still tells the story of how I was called "butterball" so often that I used it as a name in kindergarten. And she tells it with me standing right next to her, as if I wasn't there. She tells lots of stories about me. They're rarely flattering. I find that I'm a bit resentful.
Somehow I survived this (and so much more) with a reasonable level of sanity and a passion for life.
Oh, and today I made 2 batches of cookies, wrapped some presents and found room in the closet for a dozen or so sweaters. I'm proud of me.
P.S. Just read Abbreviated Abstractions. Roberta has given me all kinds of great things to think about. Fortunately, I've got the domesticity thing covered. The couch is plenty big enough for snuggling, and we own a massage table.
Tonight L took the snuggle spot, and we got to cuddle for almost 2 hours while watching Battlestar Galactica. What other mom gets to snuggle with their 12 year old? I'm so lucky!
And I thank her for that. I got to rant about my parents today. You'd think I was 16 again. :) Highlights of the rant follow:
The last time I saw my dad in person, I was 9 years old. He drove my sister and I to camp and left home the next day. I did see him again on television. I saw him on the Jerry Springer show maybe 8 years ago? Chasmyn asked me if I had ever tried to contact my dad, and years of repressed stuff started spewing out of me. I don't want to find my dad until I can talk to him without making him wrong. Anyway, talk turned to my mom. Heh.
My arthritis acts up every year around my birthday. Today Chasmyn helped me figure out why. The pain is a manifestation of my repressed emotions. It hurts around my B-Day because of the crap I've heard from my mom every year since I was 10. I get to hear how dad chose to name me after the valley in Wales that his grandparents came from. Except he made it all up. I get to hear how boys will want to date my sister because she's fun, and they'll want to date me for my body. As an adult, she instead tells me how great it is that I found a man who loves me for my brain and my body.
Mom still tells the story of how I was called "butterball" so often that I used it as a name in kindergarten. And she tells it with me standing right next to her, as if I wasn't there. She tells lots of stories about me. They're rarely flattering. I find that I'm a bit resentful.
Somehow I survived this (and so much more) with a reasonable level of sanity and a passion for life.
Oh, and today I made 2 batches of cookies, wrapped some presents and found room in the closet for a dozen or so sweaters. I'm proud of me.
P.S. Just read Abbreviated Abstractions. Roberta has given me all kinds of great things to think about. Fortunately, I've got the domesticity thing covered. The couch is plenty big enough for snuggling, and we own a massage table.
Tonight L took the snuggle spot, and we got to cuddle for almost 2 hours while watching Battlestar Galactica. What other mom gets to snuggle with their 12 year old? I'm so lucky!
Monday, October 20, 2003
Proof that a high IQ doesn't mean you can think of everything
I can't believe I didn't think of this ever. I mean really! I checked out a blog titled The Smallest Minority, thinking in my vain way that it would be about redheads. I was wrong, but no matter. The author is all for gun rights. The side blog says, "INVITATION: If you have never shot a firearm, regardless of your position on the right to arms, and if you live near or visit the Tucson, AZ metropolitan area, I invite you to go shooting for a day. I will provide the arms, ammunition, targets, safety equipment, range fees and instruction.
All you have to do is show up.
2 Takers To Date"
This catches my interest, so I read on...
There's a nice rant about Democrats being just as fundamentalist as Republicans. He's quoting others, and now I'm quoting him. I'm part of a cycle! Anyway, within the post is a bit about affirmative action. Before I quote his quoting, I'm going to rant myself. I think affirmative action is a bad idea. I think it perpetuates a bad situation. Growing up in a poor white trash neighborhood taught me nothing about "other races". It only taught me the neighborhood-standard way to treat "them" in public. It's not pretty, and I'm not proud of it. Way back when Roots was on TV, I apologized to a black girl that I'd been playing with. I told her I was sorry for what my ancestors had done to her ancestors. My dad pulled me out of the pool and spanked me so hard I hurt for days. No exaggeration. I don't remember the pain as well as I remember him yelling, "We never apologize to black people!" each time he hit me. He made me repeat it back to him until I could say it without crying.
I'm a Taurus, and a redhead. I'm very stubborn, but I'm not stupid. I repeated his words, and each time I said them I hated him more. I silently vowed I'd find that girl the next time we went to the pool and become her best friend, just to spite him. I'd apologize as often as I wanted to. I'd just make sure he wasn't around to hear me.
Of course, dad took off before I could find her again, so the idea was moot. Probably a good thing. Even an 8 year old shouldn't make "friends" for revenge.
OK, got way off subject there. I meant to say I learned a lot from sesame street. That most awesome of PBS shows was filled with children playing together. Children in wondrous variety. Sesame Street did not segregate, and only began discussing race after I was too old to watch. They never mentioned differences in "race" I never saw 3 white kids and one black kid when they sang "One of These Things Is Not Like The Others". There was no distinction.
Hence, I see no distinction. I have my prejudices. Damn right I do! I pre-judge people who walk in the middle of the street, like the sidewalk is not good enough for them. I pre-judge people who dress like a stereotypical anything. From gang-bangers to Madonna wannabes, I mentally belittle them all. Once again, I'm not proud of it.
And, in affirmative action I see prejudice. Plain and simple. To me, affirmative action says "white people can't help but be prejudiced, and non-white people can't help but be victims". It pisses me off! How dare our government treat anyone like helpless victims!
Affirmative action is not right action. And it's what we've got right now. I don't think things should go back to where they were 50 years ago, but I do think that if we're going to take 50 years to "fix" something, there's a better way. Affirmative action builds resentment, creates division and suppresses free thought.
You can take away my soapbox, I won't be needing it for a bit. If you've read this far, here's what started the whole thing. I can't believe I never thought of this... "(Democrats believe)...Blacks and Hispanics, no matter how well off, simply can't keep up with white students; they need help. Note that the logical alternative-- basing affirmative action on poverty-- is scoffed at."
Beautiful!
I can't believe I didn't think of this ever. I mean really! I checked out a blog titled The Smallest Minority, thinking in my vain way that it would be about redheads. I was wrong, but no matter. The author is all for gun rights. The side blog says, "INVITATION: If you have never shot a firearm, regardless of your position on the right to arms, and if you live near or visit the Tucson, AZ metropolitan area, I invite you to go shooting for a day. I will provide the arms, ammunition, targets, safety equipment, range fees and instruction.
All you have to do is show up.
2 Takers To Date"
This catches my interest, so I read on...
There's a nice rant about Democrats being just as fundamentalist as Republicans. He's quoting others, and now I'm quoting him. I'm part of a cycle! Anyway, within the post is a bit about affirmative action. Before I quote his quoting, I'm going to rant myself. I think affirmative action is a bad idea. I think it perpetuates a bad situation. Growing up in a poor white trash neighborhood taught me nothing about "other races". It only taught me the neighborhood-standard way to treat "them" in public. It's not pretty, and I'm not proud of it. Way back when Roots was on TV, I apologized to a black girl that I'd been playing with. I told her I was sorry for what my ancestors had done to her ancestors. My dad pulled me out of the pool and spanked me so hard I hurt for days. No exaggeration. I don't remember the pain as well as I remember him yelling, "We never apologize to black people!" each time he hit me. He made me repeat it back to him until I could say it without crying.
I'm a Taurus, and a redhead. I'm very stubborn, but I'm not stupid. I repeated his words, and each time I said them I hated him more. I silently vowed I'd find that girl the next time we went to the pool and become her best friend, just to spite him. I'd apologize as often as I wanted to. I'd just make sure he wasn't around to hear me.
Of course, dad took off before I could find her again, so the idea was moot. Probably a good thing. Even an 8 year old shouldn't make "friends" for revenge.
OK, got way off subject there. I meant to say I learned a lot from sesame street. That most awesome of PBS shows was filled with children playing together. Children in wondrous variety. Sesame Street did not segregate, and only began discussing race after I was too old to watch. They never mentioned differences in "race" I never saw 3 white kids and one black kid when they sang "One of These Things Is Not Like The Others". There was no distinction.
Hence, I see no distinction. I have my prejudices. Damn right I do! I pre-judge people who walk in the middle of the street, like the sidewalk is not good enough for them. I pre-judge people who dress like a stereotypical anything. From gang-bangers to Madonna wannabes, I mentally belittle them all. Once again, I'm not proud of it.
And, in affirmative action I see prejudice. Plain and simple. To me, affirmative action says "white people can't help but be prejudiced, and non-white people can't help but be victims". It pisses me off! How dare our government treat anyone like helpless victims!
Affirmative action is not right action. And it's what we've got right now. I don't think things should go back to where they were 50 years ago, but I do think that if we're going to take 50 years to "fix" something, there's a better way. Affirmative action builds resentment, creates division and suppresses free thought.
You can take away my soapbox, I won't be needing it for a bit. If you've read this far, here's what started the whole thing. I can't believe I never thought of this... "(Democrats believe)...Blacks and Hispanics, no matter how well off, simply can't keep up with white students; they need help. Note that the logical alternative-- basing affirmative action on poverty-- is scoffed at."
Beautiful!
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Why I hate Spaghetti
Every Sunday, we had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa was born in Sicily, at the turn of the last Century. "Old Fashioned" doesn't even begin to describe him. He served in both World Wars, and was married twice. His first wife died in childbirth. Their son was stillborn. Grandma took cooking lessons from an old Sicilian woman, so she could prepare foods from his homeland. Every other day, she served Italian food, and Sunday was always spaghetti day. I ate spaghetti once a week for 13 years. I will never eat it again.
She would vary the meat to go with the spaghetti. One week we'd cut up 3-5 whole chickens, the next she'd make meatballs. When I was small, I shredded lettuce for the salad. As I grew, I progressed to cutting veggies, skinning tomatoes, and finally, butchering chickens. I'll never forget the day I cut up my first chicken. Grandpa had passed away by this time, so we were only disecting 4 birds. Aunt Petrina told Grandma I was old enough to help cut. They had a little argument, and then Petrina put a nice sharp butcher knife in my 9 year old hands.
I was delighted, but frightened at the same time. I'd seen how cleanly the knife sliced through the chicken. I'd seen how easily it went through the joint between the leg and thigh. And I'd seen numerous Aunts say, "Damn!" and rush off to bandage their hand, because the knife had slipped.
Petrina broke the shoulders of a chicken carcass and showed me where to start. I carefully cut out the wishbone, trying so hard not to crack it prematurely. I succeeded, only to break it as I tried to dislodge it from the breastbone. Petrina told me not to worry. It wasn't my fault. It was a "weak chicken". She said I'd probably need help with the legs too.
Doing the breasts and back were easy. The butcher knife slid right through the rib and back bones. It was easier than cutting cold butter. The legs, however, were a different matter. By the time I had gotten to that point, all the other chickens were done, and all 5 of my uncles were crowded in the doorway to the kitchen, silently watching. I bent the "knee" of the bird over the knife blade, gave a good tug upwards and pop!, I had separated a leg from a thigh. Filled with triumph, I sliced off the other leg and went after the thigh.
If you've never cut up a chicken, let me tell you, there's a trick to removing the thighs. A trick which I didn't know at 9 years of age. You have to break the joint first. The knife wouldn't separate the joint. It slipped to one side, or slid to the other, and would not cut where it was supposed to. So, I sat at the kitchen table stubbornly sawing through the thigh bone. This stupid bird was not going to defeat me! I was totally engrossed in my work, and I didn't hear the smothered giggles of my Uncles at first. Aunt Petrina heard them, however; and she came to my rescue.
She said, "There's a faster way, honey." and picked up the chicken by the thighs. She held it up and gave a quick jerk with both hands, cleanly dislocating the joints. Well, dislocating the joint I hadn't been sawing away at, anyway. What was left of the other one wouldn't pop. I had mutiliated it too badly. She taught me how to wedge the knife between the joints properly, and press down to cut through it. About this time, Mom and J finished the salad and came to see what everyone was looking at. She screamed when she saw her "baby" had a butcher knife, and totally missed seeing me cut the last of the chicken. I triumphantly added the thigh to the pile on the table, just as Mom laid into Petrina for letting me grow up a bit.
That night, someone made sure I got the sorry, mutilated thigh for dinner.
Every Sunday, we had dinner with Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa was born in Sicily, at the turn of the last Century. "Old Fashioned" doesn't even begin to describe him. He served in both World Wars, and was married twice. His first wife died in childbirth. Their son was stillborn. Grandma took cooking lessons from an old Sicilian woman, so she could prepare foods from his homeland. Every other day, she served Italian food, and Sunday was always spaghetti day. I ate spaghetti once a week for 13 years. I will never eat it again.
She would vary the meat to go with the spaghetti. One week we'd cut up 3-5 whole chickens, the next she'd make meatballs. When I was small, I shredded lettuce for the salad. As I grew, I progressed to cutting veggies, skinning tomatoes, and finally, butchering chickens. I'll never forget the day I cut up my first chicken. Grandpa had passed away by this time, so we were only disecting 4 birds. Aunt Petrina told Grandma I was old enough to help cut. They had a little argument, and then Petrina put a nice sharp butcher knife in my 9 year old hands.
I was delighted, but frightened at the same time. I'd seen how cleanly the knife sliced through the chicken. I'd seen how easily it went through the joint between the leg and thigh. And I'd seen numerous Aunts say, "Damn!" and rush off to bandage their hand, because the knife had slipped.
Petrina broke the shoulders of a chicken carcass and showed me where to start. I carefully cut out the wishbone, trying so hard not to crack it prematurely. I succeeded, only to break it as I tried to dislodge it from the breastbone. Petrina told me not to worry. It wasn't my fault. It was a "weak chicken". She said I'd probably need help with the legs too.
Doing the breasts and back were easy. The butcher knife slid right through the rib and back bones. It was easier than cutting cold butter. The legs, however, were a different matter. By the time I had gotten to that point, all the other chickens were done, and all 5 of my uncles were crowded in the doorway to the kitchen, silently watching. I bent the "knee" of the bird over the knife blade, gave a good tug upwards and pop!, I had separated a leg from a thigh. Filled with triumph, I sliced off the other leg and went after the thigh.
If you've never cut up a chicken, let me tell you, there's a trick to removing the thighs. A trick which I didn't know at 9 years of age. You have to break the joint first. The knife wouldn't separate the joint. It slipped to one side, or slid to the other, and would not cut where it was supposed to. So, I sat at the kitchen table stubbornly sawing through the thigh bone. This stupid bird was not going to defeat me! I was totally engrossed in my work, and I didn't hear the smothered giggles of my Uncles at first. Aunt Petrina heard them, however; and she came to my rescue.
She said, "There's a faster way, honey." and picked up the chicken by the thighs. She held it up and gave a quick jerk with both hands, cleanly dislocating the joints. Well, dislocating the joint I hadn't been sawing away at, anyway. What was left of the other one wouldn't pop. I had mutiliated it too badly. She taught me how to wedge the knife between the joints properly, and press down to cut through it. About this time, Mom and J finished the salad and came to see what everyone was looking at. She screamed when she saw her "baby" had a butcher knife, and totally missed seeing me cut the last of the chicken. I triumphantly added the thigh to the pile on the table, just as Mom laid into Petrina for letting me grow up a bit.
That night, someone made sure I got the sorry, mutilated thigh for dinner.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Lest we forget:
It's 8:46 CST. Two years and a few minutes ago I was staring open mouthed at the television. I had a phone pressed to my ear, talking to Chasmyn and waiting for my mom to call back with news of my in-laws in New York. I had already called L's school, and was told they would not be releasing the children early.
News anchors were just beginning to report that a plane or helicopter had crashed into the Pentagon. They couldn't say whether the crash at the Pentagon was related to the crashes at the World Trade Center. United Airlines flight 93 had been in the air for over an hour, and two f-15 fighters were heading from Falmouth Mass. to New York City. 2 more f-15's were scrambled, but no one was willing to speculate as to whether they'd have to shoot down a commercial airplane full of civilians. Nobody mentioned the fighters at all after that.
Our President was somewhere up in the sky on Air Force One. No one knew where he was. The Vice-President was hiding in a bunker in Washington. It was hours before we heard from the President. I'm sure he was busy and all, but we really needed to hear him say something about all this.
My husband and I watched the first building crumble. It was horrible, it was beautiful, it was right and fitting. (not the deaths of the people, the death of the structure) It was eerie seeing only one building where two had been moments before. I was hoping the second tower would survive. I was hoping they had evacuated most of the people. The damage at the Pentagon was practically ignored. There was a brief report that a plane had crashed in Pennsylvania. That it may have also been hijacked, and that something might have gone wrong.
At 9:28 (my time) the second building collapsed, and still very little was said about the Pentagon.
Elections were postponed, our borders were closed, all on military flights were grounded, no stocks were sold. Our country sent warships to protect the East coast, and make the ports less of a target. The President was still flying around in an empty sky, and average people dug through rubble looking for survivors, and looking for hope.
It's 8:46 CST. Two years and a few minutes ago I was staring open mouthed at the television. I had a phone pressed to my ear, talking to Chasmyn and waiting for my mom to call back with news of my in-laws in New York. I had already called L's school, and was told they would not be releasing the children early.
News anchors were just beginning to report that a plane or helicopter had crashed into the Pentagon. They couldn't say whether the crash at the Pentagon was related to the crashes at the World Trade Center. United Airlines flight 93 had been in the air for over an hour, and two f-15 fighters were heading from Falmouth Mass. to New York City. 2 more f-15's were scrambled, but no one was willing to speculate as to whether they'd have to shoot down a commercial airplane full of civilians. Nobody mentioned the fighters at all after that.
Our President was somewhere up in the sky on Air Force One. No one knew where he was. The Vice-President was hiding in a bunker in Washington. It was hours before we heard from the President. I'm sure he was busy and all, but we really needed to hear him say something about all this.
My husband and I watched the first building crumble. It was horrible, it was beautiful, it was right and fitting. (not the deaths of the people, the death of the structure) It was eerie seeing only one building where two had been moments before. I was hoping the second tower would survive. I was hoping they had evacuated most of the people. The damage at the Pentagon was practically ignored. There was a brief report that a plane had crashed in Pennsylvania. That it may have also been hijacked, and that something might have gone wrong.
At 9:28 (my time) the second building collapsed, and still very little was said about the Pentagon.
Elections were postponed, our borders were closed, all on military flights were grounded, no stocks were sold. Our country sent warships to protect the East coast, and make the ports less of a target. The President was still flying around in an empty sky, and average people dug through rubble looking for survivors, and looking for hope.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Books to borrow from the library:
Red Scarf Girl similarities: vivid atrocities, personal growth, no judgements differences: China 1960's vs. St. Louis 1980's
Somehow Form a Family sims: "remarkable access to his inner life", nostalgia factor diffs: covers longer time frame, deep south area
Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter sims: abuse and poverty, and how you grow up anyway diffs: southern setting 1960's
An interesting note: Most of these authors write about how they became writers. How the desire lived inside of them and finally blossomed into the book they hope you'll hold in your hands and enjoy. I only infrequently imagined being an author. Writing is an art. Artists starve. Better to work a blue collar job and write as a hobby, was my thought. I never had the financial security to just write my stories down on paper. I never had the confidence to leave lasting evidence of my creativity. In my neighborhood women only had value as mothers, everything else was men's work.
Red Scarf Girl similarities: vivid atrocities, personal growth, no judgements differences: China 1960's vs. St. Louis 1980's
Somehow Form a Family sims: "remarkable access to his inner life", nostalgia factor diffs: covers longer time frame, deep south area
Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter sims: abuse and poverty, and how you grow up anyway diffs: southern setting 1960's
An interesting note: Most of these authors write about how they became writers. How the desire lived inside of them and finally blossomed into the book they hope you'll hold in your hands and enjoy. I only infrequently imagined being an author. Writing is an art. Artists starve. Better to work a blue collar job and write as a hobby, was my thought. I never had the financial security to just write my stories down on paper. I never had the confidence to leave lasting evidence of my creativity. In my neighborhood women only had value as mothers, everything else was men's work.
Monday, September 08, 2003
Whelp. I finally went and did it. I wrote out the story of my rape on random redhead. (ouch)
The only problem with writing my past in story format, is that I'm a decent story teller. I remember these things so clearly, and they're just things. Most of them occur to me as humorous, probably because I know I came out fine on the other side. Yet, when I write these stories for other people, I find that I want so desperately to share the complete experience, that I do share the complete experience. The ugliness and the emotional pain... all those times where I didn't know where I fit in because I saw the world through different eyes...
I sit and type out my life, and cry like a baby when I check for spelling errors. My favorite story of all time, "...And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!" makes me numb with horror when I read it now. At the time, it was just an occurence I witnessed that would make a great story someday. And now I'm a grown up, and a mother of my own child, and I read what I've written and cry for all the children still living in that world.
Yes, it made us strong. Yes, it made us survivors. And I wouldn't give any of it up. I just don't want anyone else to live through it.
Heh. So what do I do? I write it all out so people can live through it. Ironic, isn't it?
Here it is in all it's gory glory, my favorite story to retell around a campfire:
"And I'm keeping your stick, too."
1985. My sister and I were hanging out with friends on their front steps, when some guy who was fairly new to the neighborhood came running up to the cast iron fence. We had been watching the lesbians enter and exit the Kit Kat Club. Yes, another bar. We had three in a two block radius. I don't remember this guy's name, but I'll never forget his face. He was skinny, with thinning hair, and wire rimmed glasses. He didn't look like he could harm a flea. Skinny guy grabbed the front gate and shouted, "You've got to help me! He's trying to kill me!" I remember this part so clearly. His pupils were dilated and he had blood on the knuckles of his right hand. He was wearing tight blue jeans and a white striped button down shirt.
The eldest in our group ran for the phone to call 911. The rest of us saw T, a good friend and really upstanding guy, come running around the corner. He was in a rage, and he was moving fast. We could feel the anger radiating off of him like a fire. T ran up and popped Skinny upside the head with a broken baseball bat. The force of the blow spun him halfway around, spraying little droplets of blood across the sidewalk and out into the street. My eyes tracked his glasses as they flew off his face, tumbled twice, then skittered across the pavement. I remember thinking, "God, I hope a car doesn't come by and drive over those."
T kicked skinny guy into the street and started thrashing him with the bat, his fists, whatever was closest to the guy's skin. Even with drunken bar fights, I had never seen violence like this. There came a point where T paused for breath; the skinny guy crawling around at his feet, crying and pleading, "Please don't kill me, man. Please God, don't kill me." We thought T probably would. He pulled himself up on the bumper of a car and had almost made it to his feet, when T ran over and cracked that half a bat across the guy's back, knocking him to the ground again. He twitched, trying to get up, and vomited down the front of his shirt. T stood over him, chest heaving and covered in sweat. He hit Skinny guy in the head a few more times and then said, "There!...and I'm keeping your stick, too!" Then he walked away, leaving a mess of a human being lying unconscious in the steet. We thought he was dead, and didn't know what to do... but then he moved. We all crowded up to the gate and someone called out, "Hey, man! Are you o.k?"
None of us had the guts to cross the barrier of the 3 ft high cast iron fence. We were safe on this side. Crossing the barrier would make us participants. None of us wanted to get any closer to the brutality we had just witnessed. He staggered around for a while, then said, "Hey man, you seen my glasses?" I quietly pointed them out to him. One of the lenses was cracked. He put the glasses back on his face and started feeling around in his mouth. I guess he was counting his teeth. He sat down in the street and began sobbing softly. We knew that grown men don't cry, yet there he was; sobbing and feeling his teeth. We didn't know what to do. It was uncomfortable watching him sway back and forth, unable to get up - refusing to lay down.
The eldest called the cops again, and not too long after that an ambulance showed up and took the guy away. we discussed what had happened for a long time, trying to bring some measure of security back to our world. We were pretty shaken. Once we had talked ourselves out, my sister and I headed for home. We almost jumped out of our shoes when we heard "Psst!" from a shadow-filled gangway. T was hiding there, terrified. He asked, "Are the cops gone?" We assured him they were. He came out of the shadows and asked if we knew what had happened. When we told him we had been sitting right there, he looked like he was going to throw up. He said, "Geez, guys, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for you to see that. You're just kids!"
I asked if he still had the stick. He said, "What?" I said, "The stick...'And I'm keeping your stick too'???" And he said, "Oh. You know my sister's pregnant, right? Well he's her boyfriend, and tonight I caught him beating her with this baseball bat."
He had taken it away from skinny guy, and paid him back in spades. It completely changed how we felt about the situation. 5 minutes before, we were ready to hear him out and then tell the cops where he was hiding. Now we were willing to take it to our graves. He had come to the rescue of his sister. He had (violently) righted a wrong. We were safe again and everything was right with the world.
The only problem with writing my past in story format, is that I'm a decent story teller. I remember these things so clearly, and they're just things. Most of them occur to me as humorous, probably because I know I came out fine on the other side. Yet, when I write these stories for other people, I find that I want so desperately to share the complete experience, that I do share the complete experience. The ugliness and the emotional pain... all those times where I didn't know where I fit in because I saw the world through different eyes...
I sit and type out my life, and cry like a baby when I check for spelling errors. My favorite story of all time, "...And I'm Keeping Your Stick, Too!" makes me numb with horror when I read it now. At the time, it was just an occurence I witnessed that would make a great story someday. And now I'm a grown up, and a mother of my own child, and I read what I've written and cry for all the children still living in that world.
Yes, it made us strong. Yes, it made us survivors. And I wouldn't give any of it up. I just don't want anyone else to live through it.
Heh. So what do I do? I write it all out so people can live through it. Ironic, isn't it?
Here it is in all it's gory glory, my favorite story to retell around a campfire:
"And I'm keeping your stick, too."
1985. My sister and I were hanging out with friends on their front steps, when some guy who was fairly new to the neighborhood came running up to the cast iron fence. We had been watching the lesbians enter and exit the Kit Kat Club. Yes, another bar. We had three in a two block radius. I don't remember this guy's name, but I'll never forget his face. He was skinny, with thinning hair, and wire rimmed glasses. He didn't look like he could harm a flea. Skinny guy grabbed the front gate and shouted, "You've got to help me! He's trying to kill me!" I remember this part so clearly. His pupils were dilated and he had blood on the knuckles of his right hand. He was wearing tight blue jeans and a white striped button down shirt.
The eldest in our group ran for the phone to call 911. The rest of us saw T, a good friend and really upstanding guy, come running around the corner. He was in a rage, and he was moving fast. We could feel the anger radiating off of him like a fire. T ran up and popped Skinny upside the head with a broken baseball bat. The force of the blow spun him halfway around, spraying little droplets of blood across the sidewalk and out into the street. My eyes tracked his glasses as they flew off his face, tumbled twice, then skittered across the pavement. I remember thinking, "God, I hope a car doesn't come by and drive over those."
T kicked skinny guy into the street and started thrashing him with the bat, his fists, whatever was closest to the guy's skin. Even with drunken bar fights, I had never seen violence like this. There came a point where T paused for breath; the skinny guy crawling around at his feet, crying and pleading, "Please don't kill me, man. Please God, don't kill me." We thought T probably would. He pulled himself up on the bumper of a car and had almost made it to his feet, when T ran over and cracked that half a bat across the guy's back, knocking him to the ground again. He twitched, trying to get up, and vomited down the front of his shirt. T stood over him, chest heaving and covered in sweat. He hit Skinny guy in the head a few more times and then said, "There!...and I'm keeping your stick, too!" Then he walked away, leaving a mess of a human being lying unconscious in the steet. We thought he was dead, and didn't know what to do... but then he moved. We all crowded up to the gate and someone called out, "Hey, man! Are you o.k?"
None of us had the guts to cross the barrier of the 3 ft high cast iron fence. We were safe on this side. Crossing the barrier would make us participants. None of us wanted to get any closer to the brutality we had just witnessed. He staggered around for a while, then said, "Hey man, you seen my glasses?" I quietly pointed them out to him. One of the lenses was cracked. He put the glasses back on his face and started feeling around in his mouth. I guess he was counting his teeth. He sat down in the street and began sobbing softly. We knew that grown men don't cry, yet there he was; sobbing and feeling his teeth. We didn't know what to do. It was uncomfortable watching him sway back and forth, unable to get up - refusing to lay down.
The eldest called the cops again, and not too long after that an ambulance showed up and took the guy away. we discussed what had happened for a long time, trying to bring some measure of security back to our world. We were pretty shaken. Once we had talked ourselves out, my sister and I headed for home. We almost jumped out of our shoes when we heard "Psst!" from a shadow-filled gangway. T was hiding there, terrified. He asked, "Are the cops gone?" We assured him they were. He came out of the shadows and asked if we knew what had happened. When we told him we had been sitting right there, he looked like he was going to throw up. He said, "Geez, guys, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for you to see that. You're just kids!"
I asked if he still had the stick. He said, "What?" I said, "The stick...'And I'm keeping your stick too'???" And he said, "Oh. You know my sister's pregnant, right? Well he's her boyfriend, and tonight I caught him beating her with this baseball bat."
He had taken it away from skinny guy, and paid him back in spades. It completely changed how we felt about the situation. 5 minutes before, we were ready to hear him out and then tell the cops where he was hiding. Now we were willing to take it to our graves. He had come to the rescue of his sister. He had (violently) righted a wrong. We were safe again and everything was right with the world.
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