NDwrites

Culture Adjustment

2012-01-26T19:48:00.000-08:00

It has been a disorienting couple weeks in Omaha. I’m still adjusting to the ways things are done here, the implicit signs and symbols of what is and isn’t allowed. And once again, I had to be told to be a good little lemming. I was feeling like a scolded child. So yesterday when UPS left a package slip in my door, I had a funny sensation. I felt like I had just found Wilson (remember Tom Hanks crying over his pet volleyball?).

When I went out to California for the winter break, I had rummaged through my storage unit looking for warm things—my heavy coat, sweatshirts, long-sleeves—anything. The temperature while I was out there on break was in the high 60’s, and sunny every day. I was reminded of when I packed up these warm things in the middle of August. I had stuffed them in a crate that became a sturdy shelf for stacks of boxes. I wasn’t thinking about anything cold.

Finally, after messing up my balanced columns, I was able to get to what I wanted. But what I really wanted to do was close the metal door, and spend the night with my stuff. Yet, the contract I signed states, in big explicit print, that storage units are not places to sleep. It’s not allowed.

Because I couldn’t fit my old sweatshirts in my suitcase, I had them packed into another box, and had it mailed to Omaha. And weeks later, I held a dulled knife, and gingerly cut through the packing tape until I saw my pink sweatshirt and my green Antioch University sweatshirt. Tossing the knife, I picked up my warm clothes, and pressed them to my face. They smelled of California. I put on the pink one, and all during the evening I would bury my nose in my sleeve, and breathe in the scent while wishing it would never fade away.

adVENTure

2011-09-16T09:53:00.000-07:00

So far in my adventure, physics has become my gigantic boulder—a big red blood cell rolling down the hill (think of me as the stick figure, with stick figure arms pointing straight up running from that energized boulder). I hear the word physics every day.

I’m thinking physics is a subject like English grammar. Who cares if it’s potential energy or kinetic energy, just as who cares if it’s restrictive or nonrestrictive? It only matters in English when someone who is in hyper-grading mode gets perturbed about comma usage, and wants to use his or her new red pen to mark up papers. Kick ass content? No, that is not as important as whether or not the comma is there. His 12-year-old son John was hit by a car. Oh My God! There needs to be a comma after son and after John!

This is how I am feeling about physics. The vessel with a bulge from an aortic aneurysm is ready to blow. Oh my God! Is that potential energy or kinetic energy?

When an Adventure Earns its Name

2011-08-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

Weather. Nebraska has some stormy nights. They aren’t dark though. The lightning is so bright, and so often, one could do the smallest of needle work at 3 am. The storms are anything but quiet. Rain drops turn into gigantic balls of hail. In California, a sound on a roof could be a squirrel or raccoon romping across; but, in Nebraska it is like a million squirrel and raccoon feet are pounding the rooftops in a meth induced frenzy.

These storms would wipe out California because the lightning strikes would set the whole state on fire in two seconds, which is my frame of reference having always lived there. At 3 am, my brain goes into fear mode until I am wide awake, wide-eyed, wondering how soon before we all go up in smoke. Then I laugh at myself. In Nebraska it isn’t the smoke and flames that will destroy, it’s the flying glass and hail that will rip you apart. So watching the storm by standing at the window is one very stupid thing to do. It’s better to find a corner clutching a change of clothes in case I would need to evacuate. I’m so much a California girl. Give me an earthquake any day.

And then after an hour or so, the storm is gone. The air is quiet, the skies are clear, the driveways are dried up. One would think it was all a very bad nightmare if it wasn’t for the tell-tale tree branches, and loosened stones scattered on the ground.

It’s trippy. I kind of would like to return to Cali about now; but, not yet. The adventure has only just officially started.

Road Trip

2011-08-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

I had room in my car for my son. I figured he would ask where he could put his suitcase. He agreed to ride with me from California to Nebraska; so the least I could do was find a place for his tiny amount of stuff. I couldn’t see well enough out the back window with everything in my car. I bit my nails knowing I had to make one more drop off at the storage unit before leaving town.

The trip was uneventful in the dramatic sense. We didn’t have any car trouble, no one thought to break into my car, we ate well, the weather was clear. The event for me was being with my son and having a good time. He never complained. His only request was that when we arrived in Laramie, Wyoming, we go to Pizza Hut.

We were going to stop there for the night, but eating our pizza, we decided to keep driving. The town was desolate and depressed. The only color among the monochrome of tan dirt was an anachronism: a cowboy riding his horse on the sidewalks. He wasn’t going to find any saloons though, only a Pizza Hut with kind waitresses, and a family or two enjoying their meal.

Transplanting

2011-08-06T13:31:00.000-07:00

I accumulated too much stuff in the 10 years I lived in one place. So my wonderful life-long friend drove up from her town to help me sort, pack, and move. What an ordeal. But, we dug in and filled many trash bags, boxes for donation, and boxes for storage. By the time I was ready to turn in my apartment keys, and be on the road, I had only a car load of stuff. Still, it seemed like too much.

Now, I will have 2 years to live without many of my things. So far, it’s going okay. I hated that I had to buy hangers because I forgot to pack any, and I had many. But oh well. In any case, I know one thing, I will never accumulate stuff as I did these past 10 years. It really is cathartic.

Change

2011-07-18T22:00:00.001-07:00

Last fall, I knew my life needed to change. I had come to an end in my interpreting career. Budget cuts at the community college were the big exit signs on the freeway. I couldn’t ignore those flashing arrows. So I began taking some preparatory classes, and I started my search for a program in a new career field: cardiovascular diagnostic sonography. After application processes, I was accepted into a school in the Midwest.

When I tell people what I will be learning how to do, they wonder why I have to go all the way to Omaha to learn “stenography.” A nurse who gave me a few of my vaccinations wondered why the “stenography” school required the same immunizations as nursing students. I have started to say “ultra sound.” Everyone understands me when I say “ultra sound school.” It almost sounds like the school is incredibly grounded. Now that is another sign along the way that tells me: it’s all a new adventure, and relish all it will offer.

This summer isn’t really one I want to do again. I am finishing up the pre-requisite classes while packing up my things to shove into a storage unit, and saying good-bye to a place I have called home for many years. I will have a couple of boxes of clothes, kitchen things, and my plants in my car on the way out to the Midwest. One car load of stuff will be all I can take with me at this point in the adventure. It’s already interesting.

My Kid Friended me on FaceBook

2011-01-01T21:43:00.000-08:00

Friend is now a verb. For a long time, I carried a quarter in my wallet in case I needed to make a phone call from a pay phone. Now it’s all about signal bars and 4G networks. As fast as technology changes, the farther apart the generations it seems.

But there is one place where we have met: FaceBook. I always hear the kid’s point of view on this topic. How embarrassing it is when a parent comments on their child’s status update regarding the really bad ending of a party the night before. Ack.

We know this side of the story. But what about the parent’s side? I’m not as unworldly as my child wants me to be. After all I was a teen when there were key parties (just in case my child comes across this blog, I want to be clear: I never attended one). Along with the nonsense, there still are many things I don’t want to tell him.

I love all this social networking. In my childhood, letter writing was the only way to communicate. I wrote letters, but hardly anyone took time to write back. When email and status updates came along, I always got instant replies. I loved it from the very start—from the time when I was stuck in the house potty training that child who learned to read until now. Now we cringe in unison over our status updates.

The both of us are in a similar position. We might not appreciate certain aspects of the generations meeting on common ground. I censor my own status updates. Would I want my kid to know that I spent any amount of time with one of his friend's fathers (a divorced or widowed one of course)? Do I want him to see that his teenage years are making me a nervous wreck? These are only scenarios because I won’t dare tell him what I really did on New Year’s Eve. Not that he doesn’t know—I am his predictable mother in spite of everything.

I would never want my child to unfriend me—how embarrassing would that be? In any case, it’s time to begin a list about FB Etiquette for Teens who Have Friended Parents.

1) Always post a flawless Photoshopped picture of your mom with George Clooney.

2)Never tell your parent in a comment that it has been the worst year of your life all because of you.

3) Never ask your parent in a comment if they are stalking your status updates. They are so get over yourself.

4) Once in a while write a brief I love you in a comment. It makes your parents very cool among their friends.

Well, it’s a start anyway.

Comfort Zone

2010-10-19T20:20:00.000-07:00

Dressing up in leathers, as they are called, and being in an atmosphere of steel, figuratively and literally, I’m experiencing a new thing. I want to be incredibly girlie. I want to wear a diaphanous dress made of baby blue chiffon. I yearn to let my hair flow delicately behind me as I run barefoot through a field of wildflowers. In this image I include purple, yellow, and blue butterflies fluttering overhead.

Ridiculous.

I know, cheesy picture but too fun to pass up.

Description Play

2010-10-12T20:41:00.000-07:00

Fall is flirting with these early mornings—cool and crisp.

This early morning, a cool breeze fans the machine shop. Floating through the air, remnants of former sparks land on my jacket and chaps as lightly as snowflakes. When I catch one in my hand, it doesn’t melt into water, instead it smudges like charcoal.

Blue-flamed torches send a waterfall of yellow sparks pouring towards the concrete floor. Some sparkle and then turn to black dust before they hit the ground; others hit the cement and die out completely. The sparks are unpredictable. They have been known to wiggle inside a glove causing blistery burns.

The torches burn so intensely it’s like staring at the sun. Different shades of dark lenses, depending on eye color, are supposed to prevent blindness.

By nine am fall has retreated. The sun burns away any coolness, the wind blows warm and dry. The seasons start later now.

Idenity Twist

2010-10-09T20:18:00.000-07:00

Luckily I wasn’t the one who had sprayed my hair until it could walk on its own. But my silk blend blouse gave the men in the shop a stroke. Sparks. All it would take was one wayward spark to make its sneaky way towards us and set us on fire. Who would have thought?

So to be one of the interpreters in this program, I must wear a formless leather jacket, a cap, safety glasses, leather gloves, clunky steel-toed work boots, and worst of all, leather chaps. None of these pieces of fashion are made for women. Women do not need chaps to have a baggy codpiece in the front. There is a bonus though: there is a double guarantee that sparks will not ignite around anyone.

Sure does take the fun out of a day.

Every morning I spend an hour getting ready for work—hair dryer, curling iron, eyeliner, mascara—that kind of thing. And when I arrive, I change into my get-up tucking my hair into my cap, and stuffing my feet into those silly boots. When my turn is up and I pass the baton to the next interpreter, my hair style is ruined, flattened against my scalp. I do have my priorities straight.

Fashion isn’t the issue. It’s really being in this predominately all alpha male world. The other day, I wondered why these alpha males were giving me such attitude when I was dressed to look like them. Apparently, I wasn’t playing the part well enough.

My coworker told me my communication style is like I’m asking these alphas to join my kumbaya circle. She has cracked the alpha male code. She said if you speak to these alphas as a reporter, then their invading feather receptors will return to normal. I tried it. I clomped up to the alpha males, and reported the facts of the day.

I learned the proper response. Nodding. Not just any nodding, but one nod, no smile. In alpha male language that is being agreeable. Yawn. Makes me understand why men fall asleep so easily.

This is going to be a very long year.

Happy Birthday

2010-09-28T17:21:00.000-07:00

I had one of those significant birthdays this month. My long time friend got an idea that I would love to spend it on the town drinking sweetened apple martinis and dancing in the strobe lights—colorful strobes, of course.

She’s known me for how long? I reminded her of this: wine, cheese, grapes, and then popcorn, fuzzy slippers, and a couple of rented movies. It’s all about HD nowadays; movies look great at home now. No way, she said. You are going to have fun. She sat in my dining room chair facing me, checking the clock—finally, it’s 8:30, let’s go.

I knew 8:30 was a little early to start this whole clubbing activity; but, the fewer the crowds, the better, kind of like arriving at the gate into Disneyland before it opens. I don’t know much about this whole clubbing thing nowadays. The last time I did the whole clubbing thing was, well, Prom, if that counts. And when I say Prom, I mean the time when boyfriends wore baby blue tuxes with white ruffled shirts.

Needless to say, I was going to disappoint my best friend forever as thoroughly as losing my son’s passport right before his trip to Mexico (luckily, two minutes before the last car transporting the kids down there took off, I found it in the trash where I accidentally tossed it with the banana peeling). This time, I figured I wouldn’t be able to redeem myself.

When we arrived to the row of bars—I mean clubs—they were empty. Too early. So we walked. She had on her sparkly, strappy high heels, but walked in them like they were Air Jordans. I wore my flat-thong sandals but fantasized about my fuzzy slippers.

We passed by a young girl wearing short-short cut offs with a white t-back tank top, and sports socks white, with a red stripe, pulled up to just below her knees. Her eyes were drooping, and she couldn’t stand up without help. We approached a couple who had spiked hair, spiked bracelets, chains, strategic holes ripped in their black clothing. The girlfriend said, “You can make it to the trash can this time.” And the boyfriend obliged. He threw up neatly.

I looked at my friend, “Isn’t this fun?” She said yes it was. Okay. I heard some pounding music, saw some strobes and pulled her into the bar. On the dance floor were three college boys doing some kind of shivering movements. On the edge of the floor were some gangsters and their girlfriends. One of the girls looked pregnant and I wondered about the drink she held in her hand. My bff insisted she was just fat. I glanced at this girl’s belly off and on while I sipped my sweetened upon sweetened apple martini and still, it never looked like fat to me. “Fun. Remember?” my friend said.

When the college boys bought rounds of beers and had their chug-a-lug contests, and more gangsters with girlfriends sauntered in, I finished my drink, and walked out. This time my friend followed me, past the Lolita drunken girl, past the full trash can, past the newly formed line in front of the bar that was starting 80’s night, into the car, and home.

My friend said I lasted a lot longer than she thought I would. She said by the next birthday, she knows she will succeed in getting me to have fun. This must be why we have been friends for most of our lives. Our definitions are different, but, we each know, one day, through diligence, we will convince the other the real way to have a blast on our next significant birthdays.

Why I’m an Interpreter

2010-07-20T21:41:00.001-07:00

Over the years, many have asked me if the reason I became an interpreter was because I had deaf family members. My grandmother was deaf in one ear, but I just had to make sure I talked into her hearing ear. So the answer is no, deafness in my family isn’t the reason.

In high school, I was in my own little world most of the time. I didn’t belong to any groups. I would sit in my calligraphy class and listen to the popular girls discuss their lives. I didn’t yearn for popularity. I thought, if that is how one must be to be popular, I’ll pass.

I needed one more class, an elective, to graduate. I had to quickly decide as registration was ending. I saw a class that said, “Sign Language.” Having no frame of reference for American Sign Language, I did, however, have a frame of reference for billboards. I thought it was a class on the special language of gigantic freeway signs, and we would be doing a lot of letter design and painting, an easy A.

When I walked into the classroom, deaf students were talking to each other with their hands, and checking out the new hearing class members. Oh. I liked the teacher right away. I felt at home for some reason and settled into my seat.

The community college down the road had a new interpreter training program. The working interpreters there wore smocks with front side pockets. I thought, that wasn’t too stylish, but I liked the idea of being identified as an interpreter (luckily smocks have gone far, far away into the land of make believe).

My idea was to learn how to interpret, get my AA degree, and then work as a way to continue on to the University to finish my degree in English with an emphasis in teaching special education. Being an interpreter, I had about two or three years in mind. Turns out, I’ve been one a lot longer than that.

They say burn-out in the field can be at five years. So now I would say, I’m a little bit on the crispy side. Truthfully, I still like to interpret when a class is an hour, or if longer, I have a team. But I have put in my time, and my direction has changed. Yet, I’m still in for awhile.

Life has a way of taking the best of plans and scribbling all over them. In high school, I was on somewhat of a utility road with my nibs and ink pots. High school wasn’t the place where I learned too much. But it helped steer me into a life I would have not known, and I am delighted with that concept. I have things to write about now.

Grays & Yellows

2010-07-15T21:05:00.000-07:00

Recently, the building complex owners decided to take down a tree. A couple years ago, they chopped down a tree that gave me shade in the summer and beautiful pink blossoms for a brief few weeks in the spring. The mess from falling blossoms didn’t bother me. I liked vacuuming up pink flowers from the carpet after trekking them inside.

The light is different now. The grays of shade are replaced by the white-yellows of glaring sunlight. The ground can no longer hide its gopher holes, and no longer do those spotted mushrooms grow. Right now it is as if the light is too bright for anything else to want to poke out and start to flourish.

The squirrels run down the trunk of another tree and run to the phantom trunk of the chopped down tree. The stump isn’t even there. The squirrels stop short. They look. They dart to the side; they quickly lick their paws; they turn around. They look at me with one eye as if to say, I knew there was a tree here, really there was.

They lost their storage places and maybe even a nest or two. They lost their rivals for territory, the squawking crows and blue jays. Maybe the squirrels don’t miss them so much, maybe they do. Their tails flicker and they dart off across the road.

The sunlight is supposed to encourage growth, but it was in the shade, within the darkness of the leaves, where life was free to be. Adjusting to all this light illuminating the absence will take some time.

2010-02-08T19:46:00.001-08:00

What does an interpreter do? She uses both cognitive and physical processes to transfer a spoken language into a visual language. While an interpreter simultaneously translates, she is using, according to research, over 300 processes in the brain. Wow. No wonder after an hour, her wrists and shoulders ache and she’s mentally fatigued in need of a break before the next hour.

An interpreter has a lot to do. She is not only working for the deaf person, she is also working for the hearing person. It is the hearing person who doesn’t have the visual language; yet, this gets lost somewhere.

At an assignment I introduce myself to both the deaf and the hearing speakers and receivers. In talking with each person, I quickly evaluate their language. The hearing person: Speaking pace, does he mumble, vocabulary choices, tone—is he sarcastic? Is he jolly? The deaf person: Does he use many idioms, his sign style, his speed, his sentence structuring to name a few. It can be knee-knocking time when walking into a situation cold.

My experiences are many. In one assignment, after introductions, I began interpreting. The hearing person didn’t appreciate the distraction and asked me to sit in the back. The deaf person explained the reasoning why sitting in the back or even outside the room, as the hearing person would have preferred, wasn’t feasible. As the deaf person signed and I put their visual language into spoken language, the hearing person walked up to me and asked: “You talk? Why are you talking?” Working conditions can be exasperating.

American Sign Language is different from spoken language in specific ways. Spoken language is linear—one sound can be made or received at a time. Visual language shows a whole scene at one time. ASL is about handshape, palm orientation, location, movement, non-manual expressions, classifiers, inflection. It has a topic-comment syntax structure. A mistake in any of these can mean the difference between Japan and vagina. Imagine the deaf person wondering why the hearing person has asked him if has toured the vagina.

Can you also see why a deaf person would stand back some when an unfamiliar interpreter walks into his meeting with his tax auditor? It isn’t only the interpreter who wants this profession to matter; it is also the deaf person who has to negotiate this whacky profession.

An Interpreter? Part 1

2010-02-07T21:18:00.000-08:00

What is wrong with the interpreting for the deaf profession? Plenty. An interpreter—educated, experienced, ethical—has a fight for validation and integrity in her hands. The profession suffers from quality: quality interpreters and quality, life sustaining jobs.

I have been in the profession for decades—I have still to find that job which gives me a standard of living I can count on to sustain me, health benefits, vacation, sick time and retirement. I went through an accredited interpreter training program; I have attended workshops and conventions lead by the top researchers in the field. I study ASL. I have a BA in literature and an M.F.A. because a message cannot be rendered correctly without English and critical thinking skills. I have a plethora of experience. Yet where is the recognition?

There is a standardized Code of Professional Conduct I follow: Confidentiality, turning down an assignment above my skill level to name a few examples. Qualified interpreters know about this ethical document.

The issues are external and internal to the profession. Why is it an interpreter can work for three years in an office and no one knows her name? She is definitely not considered part of the team. Why do companies and agencies balk at paying an interpreter for their work?

The interpreting profession itself has shoddy requirements. There is a professional organization called R.I.D. which has a certification system in place. However, it is full of holes and some wonder if it’s all a scam. There are no minimum requirements. One can be a high school drop- out. I have seen many learn some signs, interview for an interpreter position and given the job. These people, the ones who hire in this slapdash manner, and the ones who get hired keep the profession in the —this is a joke—category.

To belong to R.I.D. without certification costs $90 a year. The dues gives the member a magazine: “Interpreting Views.” Anyone can join. The certification testing is expensive and out-of-pocket. The pass rate is about 50%, and then the interpreter must pay a fee to retake it. Once she is certified, her dues increases; she has to attend expensive workshops to keep earning credits to be able to keep certification.

But what does certification give an interpreter? An educational interpreter without certification can make $23 an hour whereas one with certification can make $25 an hour. Those hours are not guaranteed and benefits do not come with it more often than not.

My point is that an interpreter who has training, skill, education and ethics is lumped in with the ones who have no idea what being an interpreter really entails. She not only has to face being discounted among coworkers, but also has to bear responsibility for the messes unqualified interpreters who work among them always make.

Often the interpreter is seen as an annoyance, as a wasted expense, as peculiar, as someone who isn’t held in any esteem. The odds of getting respect are next to zero. So why am I an interpreter?

Blaming

2009-11-15T19:20:00.000-08:00

“is the act of censuring, holding responsible, making negative statements about an individual or group that their action or actions are socially or morally irresponsible.” Wikipedia

Dear Ms. Teddy Bear,

I need to apologize. I have always been right in feeling wronged by you. Yet I have only hurt myself by blaming you. You wanted me to cheer up, be happy and love with healthy abandon. You promised safety, care and devotion. But then abruptly you betrayed me and left. You didn’t explain. You left it up to my imagination. And since my imagination is so rich, I broke into a million pieces. Why would you do that? I have asked you, but you answer with silent indifference.

So the answer came in the pieces I picked up and sorted to repuzzle my puzzle. You needed to go away. And it has turned out you were right. I made a plethora of mistakes—I steeped myself like a tea bag in negative thoughts, resentments, anger and victimhood. I chose always to stay in the chipped mug treading in sadness and despair. When you stepped into that you knew you were in the wrong cup.

I made a giant faux pas when I wanted what you should not have given. I had to be the one who would cheer me up, be happy and love with healthy abandon. You were where I wanted to be—warm, fuzzy, sweet and pretty. But I had to identify the things that made me unhappy, cold and ugly and figure out how to change them. You swiped my power, but gave it back, tattered as it was, on your way out.

It was your fault I wasn’t faultless anymore. But it was my choice to see it as freedom from the restraints that kept me and everyone in my teacup sad. Now I hug my imperfections. I slip back into old ways sometimes. It’s okay though. I love my loosened hair and wide open arms embracing the right ones who love with healthy abandon.

I let them love me now and accept their help when I should have it, not when I shouldn’t. You saw my treasures and you turned your back on them because you recognized they were mine and never yours.

So please forgive me as I imperfectly learn how to forgive.

Truly,
Me.

This is It

2009-10-27T21:29:00.001-07:00

When I was a teenager, my favorite book was Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. The secret mountain hideaway where the world’s greatest innovators and industrialists disappeared fascinated me to no end.

I couldn’t help but wonder if such a place could exist in our exposure happy society. Rumors that Elvis is still alive made me think of a secret place where people can hide. Ruminations that maybe Jim Morrison didn’t really overdose made my ears wiggle. And now Michael Jackson has a new song. His swan song.

I envision the three of them together now in a secret mountain hideaway. All with their death by drug overdose in common as if that story is just recycled due to lack of imagination or laziness. They could be sipping virgin Pina Coladas in absolute comfort in a place where weather surpasses L.A.’s. What does it matter to them if the story isn’t original?

Of course this is a Rand fantasy. I know that the new song of Michael’s that is sneaking around the internet was recorded and named, “This is It” before his demise. I know that the icons Elvis, Jim and Michael have become are constructs of the entertainment industry. They were rewarded though. They were spoiled, pampered and enabled. It would be hard to imagine the three of them sitting there in their ergonomic chaise lounges discussing health care or the latest version of Halo.

But then again it could happen. I met Michael Jackson once when he was on the cusp of becoming extraordinary. It was chicken that briefly brought us together. He came into the fast food restaurant where I worked. It was closing time.

This was the Michael Jackson right before his album Off the Wall when he still toured with his brothers. This was just a member of a well-known family who lived right around the corner and up the hill. No King of Pop nonsense, no glassy eyed stares and high-pitched voice, no sequined glove. His face was as it should have been, golden brown skin, curly hair, a few inches taller than my 5’7”, regular clothes. He was handsome in an average way, his dark eyes his best feature. His voice was soft, his presence calm, he wasn’t looking for fans to bestow adulation.

Our conversation went something like this:
“I would like the chicken cooked up fresh,” he said.
“It will be 15 minutes or more. We have to reheat the oil vats.”
“I’ll wait,” he said in a way that showed he had patience or maybe he had nothing else to do that night. “And I would like my corn from the back.”
“This is fresher.”
“From the back please.”

The world didn’t collapse when these three left. There’s no doubt they are gone. But a secret utopia does sound nice doesn't it?

Bluebird

2009-07-18T21:02:00.000-07:00

A cool, windless summer morning, as the hot air balloon lifted off the ground, I wondered why I didn’t have any fear. I detest heights. I get dizzy and pull my loved ones away from railings and windows. They could fall through the sky. Yet my father, his wife, my son, the pilot and I floated higher into the arms of the quiet winds’ decisions.

Our ride wasn’t all for pleasure. We had a purpose. I cradled a box inside a blue velvet drawstring bag. My sister Gere’ (Jer-ray) had died unexpectedly from a seizure. She had suffered from them most of her life. An MRI revealed calcified lesions from old brain damage caused by seizing, new lesions showed her current struggle.

My sister’s life was one of great tragedy. Failures from many people sent her on one collision course after another—state hospitals, group homes, street life, behavioral health lock ups. But she always managed a smile and a hug like the maltreated doggie who keeps on loving.

She spent her life hindered by forces beyond her control. So as I looked up at the fire from the propane tank keeping the air hot, the colors of the balloon—blue, red, yellow, violet, green and black, I thought of the rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by Ray Charles and Johnny Mathis.

I handed the box to my father, my arms abruptly as light as the balloon. And we watched tiny wild turkeys run around the countryside below while we floated peacefully preparing ourselves for release, for the sense of freedom and letting her go. And in my mind’s sounds Ray and Johnny sang for Gere’: “Where troubles melt like lemon drops/Away above the chimney tops/

That's where you'll find me.”

Somewhere way up high.

Pits

2009-06-27T18:39:00.000-07:00

The thing about pitbulls is that they really do bite, cliché’ it seems, like Stephen King’s morphed Cujo. This I experienced firsthand recently. While many insist pits are misunderstood, the reasons why an unprovoked pit will bite and a lab in the same situation just wags its tail is too disturbing for an easy answer.

I don’t ask for drama. I don’t welcome traumatic events. I don’t relish anything about victimhood. Yet, there I was. A UPS man had delivered a package to the wrong address and instead of calling the company and going through all of that, I decided to drop it off on my way home. It was sunny and warm, a typical shorts wearing day. It was late afternoon and this neighborhood, with all manicured lawns, was very quiet.

Grasping the package and starting up the driveway, a yellow lab appeared from the house next door. Friendly lab, no big deal. But the silence caught my attention and out from behind one of the trucks parked next door, a brindle, stout male pitbull, tail straight up, stood in a crouch. He was going to jump me. As instinct, I turned to protect my throat. The pit attacked my left calf. He bit down, punctured it, chewed. I thought that was how I was going to die, torn apart, closed casket guaranteed. And then for some unknown reason he let go. He retreated to his place on his porch, and I to my car.

Trying to prevent even more blood from dripping onto the carpet while dialing the police, I kept saying to myself, “He bit me. A pitbull bit me.” Why? The lab didn’t need lunch. It could have been worse. Stitches wouldn’t be required. A pitbull bit me.

I know about dogs with bad reputations. I used to have a Doberman pinscher. When walking him, people would make an arch to avoid him. I loved that dog. Did I think he would bite unprovoked? So I’m not unsympathetic. But pitbull owners have a responsibility to deal with this issue. Yet does this world need even the possibility of intact male pitbulls escaping from their yards? Pits are misunderstood? I can’t reconcile this.

Especially with what happened next. A friend of the owner arrived, argued with me until I showed him my bloody leg. He called the owner and then proceeded to unload fishing poles from his truck with the dog following him, off leash, with a ball in his mouth. I waited in my car for animal control and the owner to appear, in the heat, my windows rolled down just enough for air but not enough for an irrational pitbull to jump through. I hate being a victim. It ruins a perfectly fine day.

Animal control took the dog for a 10 day mandatory quarantine. The owner couldn’t believe his pit would bite. And I, sigh, had to go to yet another doctor at least 3 times so far, for a tetanus shot, wound cleaning, antibiotics, an injection of an antibiotic and more antibiotics. I am feeling uncertain about going out looking from side to side for something to appear. It’s the look you get when faced with an experience where all control has vanished: the jeep driver who thinks he can blow a stop sign, the restaurant that allows their food to sit out too long to grow bacteria and then serve it, the ones who think it can all be undone with a little doggie treat.

Snake Oil

2009-04-26T22:52:00.001-07:00

Layered with years of exhaust from the adjacent freeway, the Holiday Inn stood like a symbol of another time. A time when the hotel was fancier before other more modern and pricier hotels took up space. Now it was old, but still a place where a nice enough conference room could be procured at a cheaper rate. It looked exactly like the recession we are experiencing.

A tall, slender woman, a former runway model whose face had been re-sculpted a few times guarded the hall’s door. Her fake blonde hair hung stylishly, but thinly over her shoulders. Her practiced, automated role of greeter further entrenched her as an aging Barbie doll.

What was I doing there? Why didn’t I leave? I registered and found a seat in the second row. The audience members spoke to each other quietly, or sat there waiting. There were probably a hundred people.

The announcer introduced the day’s speaker as someone with fantastic teaching skills. He told us how fortunate we were to have him lead the workshop. I guess not all audiences are so privileged. I was expecting to learn how to become a more informed investor so I was encouraged. Not that I had much to invest. But knowledge could only help which was the reason I decided to give this whole thing a chance.

This teacher looked as if he wore a hair piece. He had the man-in-his-50’s paunch. He took off his suit jacket sweating profusely after only five minutes. When he turned to walk away, I could see the cellulite through his pants’ material. He spoke rapidly about candle sticks, blue and red lines, and making money. He wanted us to think of him as our “daddy.” Huh?

He introduced his wife, the aging Barbie doll, who strolled down the aisle and onto the stage, smiling, thrilled to turn her feet just so to show off her black boots. She wanted to instruct the “ladies” about how to have the shallowest relationship as possible. She told us to know what’s in all his accounts, keep him thinking the new outfit was old, make him feel that she will be the beneficiary of all his assets when she divorces him or he dies—whatever comes first. But most importantly, take control of the finances by learning the stock market. It was if she was having her own mini Norma Rae moment. She threw her shoulders back, head up, obviously proud of how inspirational she was. She nodded in triumph and marched off the stage.

The teaching, a review of stock market trends, the current downturn, the optimism that things will turn around started to fade into an infomercial. When Mr. Daddy told us the techniques that initially were shown to us to convince us to come to the workshop were not of much use, everything became clear.

When he showed us a tricky technique instead, he didn’t want anyone to ask any questions. But someone really wanted to know if it was legal. Mr. Daddy could not give a definitive answer. This type of scheme was a micrometer shy of a scam. And I had a thought—maybe the recession we’re in now is because such manipulations and street-fair magician illusions are one big reason everyone has lost so much of their 401ks.

Towards the end, husband and wife gave us the price list for their training course--$24,000. They wanted to make clear that the course was on sale.

I put away my notebook, told the registrars to erase my name from their lists and left. I had to think long and hard about why I was that desperate to get as far as I did and waste a Saturday on such nonsense. Luckily it was a rainy day.

Lessons from the Past

2009-04-05T16:51:00.000-07:00

Fall 1978

I recall a moment the afternoon before the evening an aunt of mine died of colon cancer. I had spent the previous couple of weeks visiting her while trying to come to a decision about a boyfriend of mine. Every day I woke up and greeted her. She was always wide awake, her colorful scarf around her head, her fingers working as fast as possible. She wanted to finish as many granny squares as possible for an afghan she wanted to leave for her son.

I wanted to open the windows, even though it was November. She wanted them closed along with the curtains. I searched around for that neurotic kitten that would ping pong off of the walls and land up on the curtain rod waiting until the perfect moment to leap onto anyone who sat in the chair next to the couch.

The odor that permeated the apartment was like a dense, stagnant swamp. When her skin, once so creamy, turned to a dried, dark mustard tone, she agreed to put down her crochet hook and check into the hospital. She did this for our comfort mainly.

That afternoon, I had to make my seven hour drive home; I had to return to my job and her immediate family needed to have her to themselves. On the way out of town, I stopped by the hospital.

Gingerly, I sat on the side of her bed trying to help her brush her teeth. I couldn’t figure out why having a clean mouth mattered any longer. I was 18. I was in a worry over a boyfriend.

My aunt saw me wince and move to help her in a helpless kind of way when she moaned in pain. She held my hand.
“Do you have any questions?” she asked.
“The questions I have, you can’t answer yet.”
She smiled. Her bones were about all that were left of her body.

When there wasn’t anything else that could possibly be said, I stood up to leave, shoulders back, strong for her. I had always said to people, “See you later.” But I gently squeezed her hand, set it down beside her and said, “Good-bye” hating the sound of it. I made it down the corridor, down the elevator, but as soon as I entered the restroom off the lobby, my tears released uncontrollably.

I always wondered if she would have been here longer if she would have insisted on telling her doctors of her symptoms or if the doctors knew what questions to ask a soft-spoken woman who cared so deeply for her family, but was too shy and embarrassed to speak of her body.

By the time she did speak up, it was too late.

Interlude

2009-02-21T16:30:00.000-08:00

Interlude

This is a commercial interruption. I can’t stop shaking my head over this weird octuplets case. I don’t watch TV very often, but lately when I turn it on, this story blasts in my face. There are many things amiss in this as we know. The very first one is the media’s frenzy over it: all the entertainment shows, all the morning shows, and that bothersome man Dr. Phil who I heard is very tall. Then there is the mother, Nadya Suleman. She is the epitome of how this celebrity culture has degraded into delusion. What a zoo.

Reality is as follows:
A) This mother of 14 children does not look at all like Angelina Jolie. She looks like Nadya Suleman distorted.

B) Nadya Suleman has a mother who is so desperate to get these people out of her house, she tells the world that although she has been taking care of the 6 children, she resents every single minute of it and wants them out.

C) So far these children have not experienced any model parenting which explains a lot about why Nadya is as she is.

D) Nadya Suleman’s doctor, Michael Kamrava, probably suffers from stress, which according to medicine as it has been presented to me, explains everything. How could he implant 8 embryos and smile about this upsetting outcome? Stress.

E) Gloria Allred has teamed up with an organization called Angels in Waiting who is offering a very sweet deal. But it would require the paparazzi to chase someone else and Ms. Suleman’s lips to deflate while she changes diapers and perhaps learns skills her mother never bothered to teach her.

F) These 14 children need care: diapers, milk, love, therapy, more love. They need to feel as if they matter more than being a mere opportunity for their mother to have her picture taken and showered with riches.

G) If all proceeds went straight to the children and their care, this world would be a good place for them. But so far this is about the media profiting on a story of a delusional woman who has stepped into her celebrity magazines and is walking around in them with her new pair of sunglasses.

H) That’s all I will say about it. From here on out, if the story is not an in-depth piece about how these children have received care, about how they are the focus and are thriving, I will not watch, read or talk about it. Sorry Dr. Phil and Ms. Allred.

Stretching Exercises

2008-12-29T12:08:00.000-08:00

I am enjoying my time off from work. It’s giving me back my time, my exercise time and more importantly, my writing time. Right now, it is a little difficult to concentrate.

A little girl across the way screeches at her father and the two men he is talking with on the porch. She roars and slams the door. They continue talking, so she opens the door yells something unintelligible, roars some more and slams the door. Now she holds a pink, balloon animal and roars. That did it. Her father tells her to stay inside and he closes the door. Let’s see if this works.

There are other noises, of course. The siren from busy fire truck, the traffic rushing by are a few. But the worst one is coming from my wall clock. The pendulum is in a spasm and makes a high-pitched squeak. To take the clock down and try to soothe it will have to be my next task. I really want to write though. I’m a little rusty.

I have to ease my way back into this blogging thing and make it a habit. I love reading blogs. I’m compelled to create sound arguments for my opinions and they force me to deal with the issues that plague my writing, such as comma use. I know how to use commas, but when I write my first drafts, my comma use takes a back seat. I get too excited. Maybe that is what’s up with the pendulum—maybe it’s just dancing.

The little girl runs out the front door and hugs the two men before her father can lift her up and carry her back inside and close the door. Yeah, he has his hands full.

A Take on the Ideal Marriage

2008-01-26T17:02:00.000-08:00

When transferring old files to my new computer, I found the following discussion and thought it would work for a blog posting with my real world comments in ( ). Remember when blogs didn’t exist? Whatever did we do?

I don’t believe an ideal marriage exists. If people are flawed, and people make marriages, then marriages are inherently flawed (This logic could be applied to just about anything, such as blogs—if people are flawed, and people make blogs, then blogs are inherently flawed). With that stated, I now will go into a world of make-believe.

My ideal man is intelligent, conscientious, hard working, loyal, centered, an exquisite kisser, healthy and clean (cleanliness cannot be overemphasized. I don’t know about you, but smelly feet are well, smelly). He cannot be addicted to any substance, but he must enjoy sharing a perfectly aged bottle of Red Zinfandel (or white or even something from Trader Joe’s. Getting older can make one very flexible). His conversation should be exciting, profound and informative (I like to be entertained as television can’t quite keep me tuned in). He should revel in a long recap of his day, complete with feelings felt and exquisite detail with just the right mix of gossipy news (I know, I know).

When he is home (which would be ideal if he liked to come home), he would be an equal partner. However, if he hates to cook, at least he should do the dishes and entertain the kids leaving me to play.(Idyllically though, he must cook and the kids would be living happily ever after somewhere).

His willingness and assumption of sharing childcare duties would never be in question in the middle of the night, because he would take one night and I would take the other (However, this whole thing can be avoided with aged ovaries—okay, okay, kind of gross so just think of the concept as a good wine).

He should be industrious and self-motivating. If he sees dirty laundry then he should wash clothes, fold them and put them away without any questions on where they belong (he should have hanger preferences, plastic or wire, don’t you think?).

Sharing and compromising would flow throughout the house; for example, although he loves to watch boxing on TV (Isn’t boxing the stupidest sport ever?), he would gladly give it up to attend an opera with me (I’ve never been to an opera and I’m not sure it would be as appealing to me either. But if we sit in the back and sneak out after the first act and find some really great gelato…).

Moreover, as we decide on which movies to see, he and I would choose the ones with lots of talking, beautiful photography and not one car chase or gratuitous, but ever-so-loving prostitute. After the movie, he would revel in a discussion of all the nuances and meanings of what we watched, cozied-up in our bed under the fresh smelling sheets he had changed second thing that morning (Yep that’s exactly what I mean).

Yet, he would never give up his masculinity for anything pink and fluffy (unless he really, really liked pink and couldn’t live without it).

Seriously, (Can I be?) I suppose the ideal marriage is one that allows us to be ourselves. Although our first priority would always be each other and the family we create, we should be free to pursue our individual dreams (And agree to hire a housekeeper).

Musings on Whitman's Ideals

2008-01-20T17:10:00.000-08:00

In 1881 Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself” was firmly titled. The epic poem addresses the issue of democracy. The Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary defines democracy as “the acceptance and practice of the principle of equality of rights, opportunity, and treatment; lack of snobbery; as, there is real ‘democracy’ in this school.” Whitman, in Song of Myself, writes of this democracy.

Whitman points out that equality is essential in Americans. He states, “And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man”(line 427). He seems to say that gender should not dictate superiority, “And that all men ever born are also my brothers… and the/women my sisters and lovers”(line 85-6). He means that everyone has a commonality of experience on the earth. The sights, sounds and workings of nature are there for everyone despite social status, intelligence or economic status.

Although there are laws, Whitman feels it is essential to allow humane treatment to override obeying certain policies. For example, The Fugitive Slave Act required that northerners recapture runaway slaves; however, Whitman overlooks this law in favor of what is humane. He assists a fugitive slave, gives him food, shelter and medical care before sending him on his way. “He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and passed north”(line 189). He refuses to compromise his principles of American freedom.

As it follows, Whitman speaks of taking his place in this world. He disagrees with having contempt for people of lower status. He states how satisfying it is that an illiterate person could think less of a learned person who lacks standards. He believes in stepping aside and sharing the earth with his fellow Americans, “And am not stuck up, and am in my place”(line 349). In so doing, everyone and everything becomes something better.

Whitman wants unity, democracy, a true American spirit.

Poking Results

2007-07-14T21:16:00.000-07:00

I have had two acupuncture treatments so far and I’m taking a high-potency proteaseS Serrapeptase supplement—a mouthful title which means plant fiber.

The first couple of days after the first treatment were a little rough, the acupuncturist said it’s rare but some people re-experience the trauma of when an injury first occurred. Yeah, I buy that since the roller coaster ride for me was up there on the traumatizing scale. Why are those things fun?

Anyway, I digress, PTSD is a subject for another blog. Five minutes after the second treatment I had this feeling of relief. And then yesterday, I had the best day since the stupid roller coaster ride decision. I was in complete happiness shock--that is the kind of shock I would gladly welcome retriggering. However, I over did it some with my day-long Snoopy dancing, but I had no idea if it was a fluke so I couldn’t contain myself in taking full advantage of a pain-free day. It has been soooo long. Today wasn’t quite as good, but I’m beginning to seriously entertain the belief this injury may heal. And by being a human pin cushion no less.

I must admit, I was skeptical that needles in my ankles would produce any results, after all, I am a Westerner, but my experience with American medicine has forced me to enter the realm of alternative, as in sane avenues, of treatments. My thinking is forever expanded.

Poking Fun

2007-07-09T19:55:00.000-07:00

Two different things happened this week.

One: My son the notoriously fussy eater ate fish. He said when camping he will eat the fish he catches and then some if offered. At home, he will not touch the stuff so don’t even try. I almost had to pull the car over when he told me because this kid doesn’t put anything in his mouth other than pizza, macaroni and cheese and candy.

Two: He gave me a new name, “Porcupine.”

I had acupuncture for the first time and he had the same reaction as I did about him eating fish, “You did what???”

It all started last August when I rode a roller coaster trying to prove that I was some kind of cool mom or something which was a ridiculous consideration in the first place. I’m kind of a dork. And isn’t it a little more to our advantage as parents of teens to have them exasperated with us rather than think we’re cool? And since all my life I have hated roller coasters why did I ever get this idea to ride one? My collarbone area has not been the same. I have given up on how to describe the discomfort, let’s just say it can get very distracting. Then the type of work I do compounded the problem as well as the car accident I had, and apparently as I age, I don’t heal as fast anymore even if I eat blueberries by the bushels, drink green tea, and take Advil.

Doctors have had no clue what to do. They gave me an EKG. They said my heart’s fine. Really? They said take Advil and don’t get stressed out even after charging me over $3000.00 for their medical expertise in this diagnosis.

So acupuncture was my next adventure in healing. I had needles in my ears, calves, ankles, and a magnet on my finger which in my opinion made me feel much cooler than any roller coaster riding mama. Will it work? If my son ate fish, then there is nothing but optimism in my mind.

I’ll let you know.

Fun with my Teenager?

2007-06-28T18:47:00.000-07:00

Last week, I had the opportunity to be the good mom and provide some fun for my son and his friend. So? I realized how long it had been since we spent a day steeped in enjoyment. We had absolutely no conflict. How can this be for a mom and her teenager? Let me say, it’s the closest to heaven one can get. Okay, maybe I exaggerate, but then maybe not.

The peace really began in the car on the 80 mile drive down to this fun. We shared a hearty laugh over an incredibly slow driver we were stuck behind on the two lane highway. When I could, I tried to take a side street to get ahead of him, but signals and traffic wouldn’t allow this maneuver to succeed. We were together in this failed goal, laughing when we ended up right back where we started, behind him turtling along.

Later when I took a wrong turn, my son had a blast telling his friend some amazing statistics on how I have such a tendency. Could there be a metaphor here? In any case, we found our way and when my son bounced with joy when seeing the slides at the waterpark, I couldn’t help but remember his pre-pubescent days of harmonious agreement. Yes, I admit it—a blatantly exaggerated statement.

My point is that the whole experience was a reminder of how much we need to incorporate more such days into our lives so when we look back, we can say the teenage years were not always about the struggle for autonomy.

We can officially say we were in agreement about at least one thing—our definition of a great day.