On... Me.

The one and only Monica Geglio nominated for the Sunshine award. That means I have to answer eight questions. It also means anybody listed on my What Cathleen Reads  page needs to answer them, too. Please. You all bring me tons of sunshine!

Here are my answers:

What is your favorite Holiday movie?

It’s a Wonderful Life is a close, close second, but my all-time favorite is any version of Little Women. It’s also one of my most favorite books, because Jo March is one the best characters ever written.  

What is your favorite flower?

That’s tough. My mom is a fabulous gardener and I have been lucky enough to grow up around lots of gorgeous flowers. Recently I have said daffodils are my favorite, but I love purple lilacs, too.

What is your favorite nonalcoholic beverage?

Apple cider, so I’m obviously pretty pumped about fall!

What is your passion?

I’m a pretty passionate girl, so it is hard to pick just one. Anything I enjoy, I enjoy thoroughly and anything I dislike, I dislike intensely. I hope that loved ones would say that I work hard to be an attentive and compassionate family-member and friend; that really matters to me most.

What is your favorite time of day?

I am most productive in the early morning and love to have fun at night. The only time of day I hate is from four to seven PM.

What is your favorite physical activity?

Swimming is my favorite way to exercise, by far.

What is your favorite vacation?

I have been on so many great ones. I love to see new places! I took an unforgettable trip to LA with my cousins, mom and aunt when I was 14. I am really partial to cities.

On the Bodies that Trap Us

A conversation I had with a friend recently inspired me to research whether or not there is any correlation between physical disability and eating disorders or what psychologists call "eating-disordered thought-processes." Eating-disordered thought-processes are the, often illogical chains of thoughts that people who consider or begin  starving,binge-eating and purging, or binge-eating OR purging, have concerning food. One can have these without engaging in behaviors typical of bulimia or anorexia.  Because of my minor in psychology, I have started a lot of papers that I could not complete because there wasn't enough scholarly research on which to write six to ten pages. This definitely would have been one of those papers , had even two pages been the length requirement. It seems virtually no official  studies have been done regarding the likelihood of someone with a physical disability developing an eating disorder or having eating-disordered inclinations, other than the obvious. We are more prone to obesity,which is an eating disorder, because of our sedentary lifestyles .

This really surprises me. I have spent most of my teenage and adult life as part of the blogosphere. Many of the blogs/online diaries/community posting have been written by disabled people; almost all of those writers (myself surely included) have discussed hatred of their own body or appearance at least once.The closest I came to legitimate research  on this was a sentence in a scientific journal that said "Most people living with ongoing physical challenges report feeling trapped in their own bodies." Then I realized  scientists don't peruse online-communities looking for topics to study... duh. Maybe we're such a small minority that society does not believe we could be a significant fraction of another minority, those with eating disorders.

Beyond that,  maybe individuals with disabilities and body-images issues have a hard time acknowledging that one has anything to with the other. We are constantly told by loved ones not to let our challenges affect things they don't have to.  Who we see in the mirror definitely falls under that umbrella. Maybe, it's really scary to think that we don't hate our bodies because they're ugly, we don't hate our bodies because they're too big, and we don't hate our bodies because we wish we were thinner. Maybe, we hate our bodies because they limit us, and at times that hatred manifests itself outwardly .  I started the last several sentences with the word "maybe" because as I said, I have nothing except my own inklings to support those statements. I wish some extremely educated person would research and publish about this  It would help a lot of people who are struggling to understand why they cannot see the beautiful girl her friends see. To all of my disabled readers: You're not alone in occasionally detesting the body that traps you . 

On Speaking for an Entire Community... Or Not

Because it is easy and natural for me to write about novels, I used one I had to read for an African American Lit course two years ago (I’ll never understand why these gifted writers aren’t included in other American literature classes, but that’s another post), to make what I believe to be an essential point about writers and their audiences. If you have not read Their Eyes were Watching God, you should, but I also think that my position will still be evident.

Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes were Watching God, though critically acclaimed, was originally was on the receiving end of a lot of harsh criticism. A fellow African American author, Richard Wright, went as far as to call it a menstrual show for white folks. Wright made this comment when race was an even more sensitive issue than it was in the 1960’s or is today. The fear of and dislike for black people who pandered to white people is more than understandable. As reader of the novel today, however, I find that not many insults could be further from the truth.

Their Eyes were Watching God depicted very nicely the life of African American’s in the 1930’s. What it did more than that, however, is tell the universal and timeless story of woman who really, really wanted to find powerful love and to live a life full of it. She goes through three husbands, lots of abuse, and spiritual journey trying to find it.    By the end, she learns  that the only things she can do is live for herself and hope that whatever higher power is out there will occasionally show her a little mercy.  This plot has been written and rewritten by men and women of all creeds and colors and cannot really be seen as unique to any group of people. I do not mean to say that aren’t pieces of the story that directly address the African American community, because there certainly are.  Maybe, despite what readers expect, however that was not Hurston goal. Maybe her objective was simply to tell a story about real life, real people and real feelings. After all, all sorts of women go through the trials and tribulations that her main character, Janie Crawford did. All sorts of men have the controlling nature that Janie’s first husband does and the wandering eye and insecurities of her second. Maybe, the fault lies with individuals like Wright, who expect every African American voice to speak for their entire race.

As I writer, I make no claim that this blog speaks for all disabled woman, all English majors or all 23 year olds. I speak for me.  

The gravest disservice we can do to any writer is to assume that we know their point of view.  Race is manmade and difficult to discuss. The same can be said about any difference one can name.  Wright’s insulting Hurston for the way she deals with it only further divides humankind. At the time, the greatest thing Hurston could do for her community was to illustrate that they struggle with the same issues as Caucasians and that those issues deserve to solved for them also.  She was not pandering to whites; she was simply trying to compose a story to which a large audience could relate. She did it! Why is she faulted for that when it is what society asks of every white male writer? 

I think even today we don’t look too closely at that question because the answer makes us ashamed of ourselves. Their Eyes Were Watching God tells exactly the story it intends to tell.

On Finding Sparkle in Weakness

In Kindergarten I received the “Mother Goose” award at the end of the year. It was an award they probably created for me. I was always looking out for other kids. I made sure they zipped up their coats, and comforted them when they cried; I even tried to end whatever fights broke out between my classmates. This is a facet of my personality for which I have been teased. They say I care too much or that I’m nosy, and for a long time I agreed that it was a weakness.

Years later, in high school I spent one period every year doing my homework in a resource room. I was there while most students were in gym, swimming and other classes from which I was exempt due to my disability.  Because of my limited mobility, I couldn’t “play safely” with the others.  The majority of the other kids in the resource room were there because of learning disabilities and cognitive impairments.  I have always believed they have it harder than me, like it was easier for me to defend myself against bullies. My handicap was visible and all onlookers knew when I was being picked on.  Other teenagers underestimated these kids so much that they assumed they didn’t know when they were being ridiculed, but they knew. They knew as quickly as you or I would.

A lot of people might have hated being in class with people labeled as intellectually beneath them, I loved them. They were always smiling and never said a negative word about anybody.  All of us could learn a great deal from the way they view the world.   The hour I spent with these students was the most fun I had all day. Because of these experiences I know that I want spend my career helping cognitively impaired individuals and their families.  For this I am incredibly grateful.  I’m not going to talk about the severely disabled students in my class. I’ll just discuss two boys who learned differently than others and had very little patience for school. We’ve all sat next them in class: the students who don’t take the time to spell properly, and never fully complete their homework but can tell you everything there is to know about basketball or hunting. Cody and T.J. would waste the entire study hall blabbing about whatever sport was in season and then complain about their grades when teachers warned them that they might fail.  

Their academic achievement did not reflect their intellectual capabilities, but I wouldn’t call them lazy. They worked hard when they weren’t stuck at a desk; school wasn’t organized with them in mind, and they didn’t seem to have families who were very concerned about it, either.  Once, our teacher walked out of the room crying because Cody’s mom was so unwilling to help him succeed in school.  His very cynical mother thought because academia was not his forte, it was not worth his time.  I had never been exposed to this way of thinking before, and it made me incredibly sad for Cody. It became apparent that it wasn’t just the other teenagers who underestimated him. I cried.  About a week later my teacher told me in a moment of frustration that most days TJ parents didn’t care if woke up early enough to start the day. After that I started to try to assist TJ and Cody in any way I could. I lost sleep thinking of nice words for them. They grew very fond of me and we became friends. “The boys”, as our teacher called them, confided in me and listened to my advice. We laughed together, and they trusted me to know about their after school partying and their flawed home-lives. I listened to them complain about girls, helped them understand Romeo and Juliet   and convinced them not to clobber other boys who irritated them.

 I didn’t realize how much I affected them until I saw them smoking one day after school.  When I approached them, they immediately hid their cigarettes behind their backs.  We had an awkward conversation and as I walked away, I saw TJ toss his pack of Marlboros into the trash.  The next day, I told TJ that I wouldn’t have said anything about his smoking. He told me he knew that; he said he felt guilty because he knew I would be concerned about his health. I don’t know that TJ quit forever, but I do know he tried to change his life because he knew he mattered to me.

This was a triumphant occurrence in my life. It was the moment when I realized that caring is not a weakness, that my nosiness can change lives.  That day, I learned that my mother-goose ways and I could make a difference. I may not be the best student, or the prettiest girl, I may not even be the most attentive friend, or the easiest daughter to raise. I am however, capable of seeing potential in those who have been written off, by their loved ones and by themselves.  

Since then, I have been many different therapists who have tried to teach me (among other more significant and personal lessons) to let go of other people’s issues. I finally found one who says that I will never do so. I am always going to be a mother-goose. I have to learn to do it in a healthy manner—and make a life out of it.

I hope that anybody reading this that has been told that have a weakness, finds the sparkle in it; and experiences the joy that I have.   

Book Reviews

I have read a lot of books this summer. I figured, for a post on the lighter side I could review them for you. Because you may actually decide to read these novels, I will stay away from spoilers.

John Grisham, Calico Joe: The go-to author for a great legal thriller writes a book about a young boy’s admiration for a baseball-player and more importantly, the confusion caused by a damaged father –son relationship. I liked it, read it quickly and underlined a couple of sentences that were particularly well written. Was it Grisham’s best? Not by a long shot, I won’t think of it again after I write this. A Painted House (another deviation from his usual genera) is better; that may be his best. You’ll enjoy Calico Joe, though, it’d be hard not to.

John Grisham, The Litigators: Doing what he typically does, Grisham writes a legal-thriller, and makes it easy to turn pages. It’s fast-paced, entertaining, and has you rooting passionately for the little guy. This a fun book to read, he holds your attention and even adds a little humor. If you have read a lot Grisham though, it is a little predictable by the end.

Chris Cleave, Incendiary: This is the story of an incredibly imperfect, but likable woman who loses her husband and young son when Al Qaeda blows up a soccer stadium in London. She writes an honest, angry letter to the guy she thinks is responsible for her tragedy: Osama Bin Laddin. I was not a huge fan of this one. It was fine; it certainly was better than most could do. However, the plot was so horrific and yet so possible, that this novel really had the chance to resonate with readers, and it did not. At least it did not resonate with me. All the characters were very easy to empathize with, but I just didn’t feel emotionally invested.

Vanessa Diffenbaugh, The Language of Flowers: I absolutely loved this novel about an 18 year-old aging-out of her past, and the US  foster-care system. I was compelled to finish it in two days and posted on both Facebook and Twitter that my friends should read it, and I think you should, too.

Jaime Ford, The Hotel on the On the Corner of Bitter and Sweet: A cute, Romeo Juliet-esque story  set during a time when Japanese-Americans were being “relocated” to internment camps. The romance aspect of the novel is fabulously developed. If you’re a love-story person, pick this book up. However, if you’re a history-buff who is knowledgeable about what really went on in Internment camps, you will probably find there is too much sweet and that the plot lacks an appropriate amount of bitter. I liked it well enough. 

E. Annie Proulx, The Shipping News: Proulx won the Pulitzer Prize for this novel, in which she uses a slightly below average, out-of-work but kind-hearted guy, forced to move to the home of his ancestors to write about the human experience. She earned it. It’s not an upper and it’s not a quick read, but it’s worth it. Just beautiful.

Anna Quindlind, Every Last One: I loved it:  I cried. I laughed. I worried. I was distraught. I brought up the book in unrelated conversation. I understand that this novel about a mother dealing with her worst nightmare, is probably either too shocking or not shocking enough for many readers, but I definitely recommend it. 

Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl : This is a very trendy book right now. Recently, many trendy books have been written for second graders, aside from sex. This isn't. It is a dark novel that leaves you wondering who the protagonist and the antagonists are until the last few pages. The author is not a wordsmith, but she can tell a story.   Read it, if thriller mysteries are your thing. 

None of these books are a waste of time, that’s why I chose them to review. The important thing is that everybody read, so regardless of what I said, read whatever sounds good to you. 

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On Explaining and Fear

Did any of you ever read the Babysitters Club Series? I did. I read several of the books and even tried to start my own club with a couple of my friends.  In every book in this collection that I am assuming is made up of hundreds of  novels targeting preteens, there is a paragraph explaining what diabetes is because one of the members of the club, Stacy, who, by the way was mine and my sister's favorite character, had diabetes. These books were obviously not great works of literature, but this part made sense. The explanation  was identical in every installment, and written in first person, as if Stacy were repeating it for the umpteenth time in a social situation.    To this day, whenever I tell people where I am from, or explain what Cerebral Palsy is. I picture Ann M. Martin's choppy paragraph on old wrinkled on elementary-school library pages that reek  of Elmer's glue.

"Romeo... it's about an hour north of Detroit."  "I have Cerebral Palsy.... It's caused by lack of oxygen to the brain at birth. Mine mostly affected my balance center and made my legs a little spastic. Everyone you meet is different.... I'm very lucky." 

I do not mind explaining where my parents live. Every small-town girl has to do it, and though I thought it was in middle and high school, Romeo's  not a bad place to have roots. We grew up around many, many people who rallied around us, and still would. I don't even mind a explaining the CP anymore. I typically spit out the aforementioned sentences before I realize I've done it. I get it change it up for little kids ("I just walk a little differently than you do... No, my legs don't hurt.") and the vast majority of people respond politely. I think I have even perfected the tone of voice and I always break the tension, by cracking a joke at the end. These are simply parts of my unsophisticated story.

What I fear, is having to add more "clarity paragraphs" if you will, as I age. I really dislike the idea of that. What if one of them is to if one is to my friend "Beth comes to clean on Tuesday, and Jessica, is the one who makes dinner." Or to lovely, hard-working, home-health aids, "The wipes are the cabinet under the sink on the left side, you can't miss them."   Or what if God forbid, I am talking to my mother "I would love to get married but, for the tenth time, but it's hard to  a man find that will accept woman with multiple emotional and physical issues." 

I do not want lonely to become mundane for me. I do not want to picture that worn paperback book, while my independence and self-worth wither away.  It'd just be too much.  And sadly, I think it is my worst fear. I would hate to smell Elmer's glue on my death bed.  

On Mortality

I love my father. He would do anything for anybody. He is smart, has a very easy time making others laugh, and he treats my mom  like royalty. He even calls her "the duchess", though usually in jest . He also has a booming voice, a ridiculous temper, hates (or does a good job pretending to hate) socializing, is often grouchy and has issues communicating. Dad did not have a stress-free experience parenting two daughters, and the stress showed.    So, imagine my surprise when on a cold February Friday, dad woke his wife and daughters up told us we were going to have a "Really fun weekend!"  

We did. I was thirteen at the time, and ten years later I still remember as one of the best weekends I have the ability to remember. We went to down-town Detroit and to the Detroit Institute of Arts, to see a mummy exhibition.  Our family got in for free because  the lady working the front desk was so impressed with my mom's knowledge. Then, we dropped  in on a Motown tribute concert that just happened to be going on , after which a  seemingly homeless street-musician serenaded  my sister and I with Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely" because we talked dad into giving him a couple bucks.  The next day we saw Fame at the Detroit Opera House . My mom, sister and I inherited a slight obsession with musical theater from my maternal grandparents, so he knew he'd hit a home run with that one.  Are you wondering what  motivated daddy to create this memory , like I was?  He had cancer again and he thought he was dying...soon.

My father is very much alive; I would guess he doesn't regret that weekend. All four of us still tell stories about it.

Any of us could pass way within the hour. Why does a doctor always have to remind us of that? We should all be doing what we love with whomever we love right now. I am not saying who should grab your families and spend money on them , immediately. Everything we did other than the hotel and the play, that weekend, was free. Tickets to the D.I.A .  range from five to twenty dollars, unless you are as intelligent as my mother.   I am saying never forget that you're mortal.  When my sister and I reminisce about that time-- we mostly discuss, how spontaneous it was and how much we  all smiled.

It's never a bad choice to make a memory; there is always a chance it could be your last.