I like very much to make sense out of things. Particularly things that are messy. Ideally, I like to find a reasonable explanation for things before I go to bed. Which, I guess, is why I'm a habitual insomniac; some things never make sense.
For almost three months (which, in the grand scheme of things I realize is a short amount of time), I felt my "Jesusy" relationship with Jim fall apart. I felt this as definitively as whether or not I wear socks when my feet are cold in the winter, but I was too lazy to get up and find a pair. Especially since it was summer. I hated the feeling. Jim was, I thought, the one. He was it. So this whole need-for-socks feeling was very bad. Like I was sleeping next to an imposter, except I couldn't really sleep because my feet were cold and nothing made sense.
I can see now, why people stay in abusive relationships, and why drug addicts remain drug addicts until they overdose. At some point in life, we all make a decision that yields some type of euphoric sensation. For drug addicts, I suppose, it's the first high. For others it's the inexplicable intoxication of falling in love. I remember when it first happened with Jim. It was when I told him that I was broken and a complete mess, and he didn't run away with his hands over his head screaming. Brokenness can really only be attended to once it's acknowledged, and even then, it's really just shared and never quite fixed. Still, though, it felt nice to finally breathe properly; to share my insecurities and vulnerabilities - my internal mess - with someone else.
All at once (too quickly really), my inside broken bits were tenderly acknowledged and held and loved exactly as they were, and not how I wanted them to be. I felt like I was free-falling from 18,000 feet above ground, and Jim dropped out of nowhere, handed me a parachute and said, "Hey, this could be fun, can I come along?" To this day, I don't think there's anything as exhilirating or frightening as letting someone really know who you are - especially the messy parts. And this is why I forced myself to "work things out" when imposter-Jim started hanging around more often. I was completely incapable of reconciling the Jim that knew and loved me, with the Jim who moved in with me. I prayed, I wrote, I swam and I cornerned him into biweekly "are we okay"-type conversations. As his answer was an ostensible "yes", I started to think I was going nuts. At the very least I was delusional, and the whole thing scared me even more than my initial descent of 18,000 feet, because suddenly there was no one there with a parachute.
Imposter-Jim was much less sensitive than his long-distance counterpart who I'd started my relationship with; we'd visited monthly and talk on the phone for hours at a time. Once he moved here, though, he watched a lot of television, drank a lot of beer and wanted to go camping all the time. I stopped feeling delusional and reexamined my previously-acknowledged broken-bits. I decided to gather them up and build a wall between me and the Imposter. He didn't seem to notice, he was too busy reading espn.com. I thought maybe he was turning into a goat - something completely lacking in human characteristics, that likes to consume garbage and is incapable of conversation. He started to talk on the phone outside of the apartment, camp more often, and drink even more beer. He stopped making eye contact. Everything seemed forced, and when I'd mention this I was chronically assured that everything was fine. I decided to turn my wall into a fortress with the new broken pieces I accumulated, and started to assemble a few weapons of mass destruction (just in case). The thing is, even with my fortress and weapons, I was still convinced that diplomacy would work and the Imposter/goat would leave, and my fortress would be peacefully disassembled.
It was right around then that I got nuked.
Even before I found out he was cheating on me, my fortress, weapons and all, were systematically annihilated. Imposter-Jim imitated the way I walk.
It was just the two of us in the apartment. We didn't have a couch or anything, so he had the entire living room for his performance; I, his sole audience, was awestruck. It was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen. It was like watching a Discovery Channel special on liposuction when I can't find the remote in time to change the channel. Even then, I usually turn away - not merely because the sight of someone else's fat in a tube grosses me out, but because my own judgment of someone else's vulnerability makes me feel like a nauseous version of Beezlebub. The bile in the back of my throat was more a function of my own judgment than someone else's disgusting fat in a tube, and this meant I was not a good person. At the very least I had a lot of work to do.
When I watched Jim walk across the room like me, there was no remote to change him with. Besides, he was imitating me, and no battery operated anything was en route to curing a neurological disease. So I watched, as the person I loved leaned too far forward, lifted his right leg too high, and grabbed onto my shaky Ikea desk for balance. It was so accurate and so disgusting. My boyfriend was much worse than a goat. I refused to show him how hurt I was. I refused to suggest that my own horrific judgment of liposuction patients was analogous to the fourteen steps he made across our apartment, but I was aghast. Aghast that he saw me like that. Aghast that my inside broken-bits were no longer tenderly held and loved, but regarded as ugly Discovery Channel-type entertainment. Aghast that he didn't realize any of this or feel a semblance of guilt.
I don't remember what I said to him afterwards. I doubt it matters anyway. I just remember the familiar taste of bile that rose to the back of my throat, and the definitive realization that this would take much more than a self-initiated talk to recover from. My vocal chords were too tangled to speak anyway.
Jim and I were not, and never will be "okay." That's a fact I've started to digest by now, but still doesn't make any sense. The bigger question is, will I?
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Monday, August 08, 2005
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Why I'm (sort of) Starting to Like Baseball
One week remained in my first year of teaching at Baltimore City College High School. Unlike my gullible 6th graders at Morrell Park, my sophomores knew that my gradebook was closed, so planning a structured and scintillating lesson on the United States Government was about as lucrative as the crunches I once thought would give me washboard abs. Instead of agonizing over lesson ideas, or grading work that I had no intention of recording, I threw a few student-written current event summaries into the recycling bin and drove to Frederick, MD with Jim for the weekend. We originally planned to camp, but opted for the Travel Lodge instead, and substituted a Friday night canoe trip for a minor league baseball game. If my memory serves correctly, the Frederick Keys (Baltimore's minor league team) were playing the Nationals. By the fifth inning, the score was still 0 to 0 and my attention started to wane. That's the problem with baseball: there are too many innings and not enough action. I like hockey or lacrosse games and (even though I'm biased) a good fast-moving track meet. Baseball is only one small step above picking the lint out of my dryer vent, so I don't buy season tickets.
On this particular evening, though, I went to a game. I also, for whatever reason, went with a moderate level of enthusiasm (which had something to do with Jim). I drank an overpriced beer and watched the people around me. I tried to concentrate on the first few innings of the game and learned that the letters KKK stand for more than a white supremacist organization founded in 1865, they also represent strike-outs (I was relieved to learn this, but still confused about the absence of African Americans in Frederick, Maryland). Then I lost my focus again and had to pee.
Jim was engrossed in the game and I had my wheelchair, so I wheeled away without discussion. I got about three feet from the bathroom when I passed a girl and her mother. As the girl was approximately six years-old (and thus at eye level), I smiled - I like to convince small children that people in wheelchairs are normal and nice. In this particular instance, it must have worked; rather than gape or walk by me (her mother was literally dragging her back to their seats), she stopped, pulled her mother to a halt, and looked me straight in the eye.
"Hi." I addressed her as non-threateningly as possible so as to avoid having my wheelchair tires slashed by her mother. The girl had thick glasses and stringy blonde hair all attached to a beautiful rosy-cheeked face.
She was literally pulling against her mother at this point, but I could tell she wanted to talk.
"Umm, why do you use that, that wheelchair?" She sort of pointed at my chair and then put the majority of her left hand into her mouth.
Like I said, she was six, right - she obviously had no concept of nerves or myelin or autoimmune diseases that compromise a person's functionality, so I rejected even a cursory explanation of multiple sclerosis, and summed it up like this:
"Do you ever get colds?" (She nodded) "Well when I was 19 years old, I got a cold in my legs. Only my cold won't go away. And just like your nose doesn't work really well when you have a cold, my legs haven't really worked well since. So my wheelchair helps me get places..."
Her mom stopped pulling her and let her listen, and right as I finished my blatantly inaccurate explanation of my neurological disease, the little girl put her hand on my shoulder:
"That happened to you?" (Now I nodded while her eyes got very serious.) "Well I'm really sorry to hear about that."
Then she walked away. I went to the bathroom and started crying. This little girl still makes me cry, in fact, and I don't even know her name. For whatever reason, when she spoke I felt every disdainful look I've ever received in grocery stores/parking lots/malls/restaurants/churches/pretty much everywhere I've ever tried to go, all come back at once. I remembered bouncers turning me away from bars because they assumed I was drunk, the note I found on the floor of my classroom that referred to me as a "crippled bitch", and Darryl, a kid on the track team that I'd coached, who'd imitated my walk. All at once, I felt the memories of eight years worth of shame and preemptive explanations or apologies on behalf of a disease I never asked for, all land straight on my sternum in the form of 18 cinderblocks. So I couldn't breathe evenly for a few minutes (cinderblocks are heavy) and I started to question why it is that small children are so real and honest and pure, while adults are awkward and scared and meek. I started imagining the past eight years of my life if people just asked me what was wrong, said it sucked and moved on, instead of whispering things and treating me like a three-armed circus freak that earns averted looks, blatant stares or pity. I decided the 18 cinderblocks would have felt far less heavy.
So I cried.
Jim thought I'd injured myself in the bathroom (which is, sadly, highly possible). But I don't cry when I'm hurt, or even when I'm sad. I cry when someone acknowledges that concrete blocks are heavy, and that MS (or a "cold" in my legs) does suck. I cried then because a six-year-old, with genuine concern, and innocent inquiry, validated two things: what I felt on behalf of a debilitating disease, and what I want from the people around me. Neither of which I know how to get, and both of which I think I need.
The Keys won that night, but I don't remember the score. I do know, though, that if baseball were more interesting than dryer lint, I never would have gone to the bathroom in the middle of an(other non-scoring) inning. I would have spent one more day with the cinderblocks that I try to forget about, instead of remembering, and receiving, what I need.
On this particular evening, though, I went to a game. I also, for whatever reason, went with a moderate level of enthusiasm (which had something to do with Jim). I drank an overpriced beer and watched the people around me. I tried to concentrate on the first few innings of the game and learned that the letters KKK stand for more than a white supremacist organization founded in 1865, they also represent strike-outs (I was relieved to learn this, but still confused about the absence of African Americans in Frederick, Maryland). Then I lost my focus again and had to pee.
Jim was engrossed in the game and I had my wheelchair, so I wheeled away without discussion. I got about three feet from the bathroom when I passed a girl and her mother. As the girl was approximately six years-old (and thus at eye level), I smiled - I like to convince small children that people in wheelchairs are normal and nice. In this particular instance, it must have worked; rather than gape or walk by me (her mother was literally dragging her back to their seats), she stopped, pulled her mother to a halt, and looked me straight in the eye.
"Hi." I addressed her as non-threateningly as possible so as to avoid having my wheelchair tires slashed by her mother. The girl had thick glasses and stringy blonde hair all attached to a beautiful rosy-cheeked face.
She was literally pulling against her mother at this point, but I could tell she wanted to talk.
"Umm, why do you use that, that wheelchair?" She sort of pointed at my chair and then put the majority of her left hand into her mouth.
Like I said, she was six, right - she obviously had no concept of nerves or myelin or autoimmune diseases that compromise a person's functionality, so I rejected even a cursory explanation of multiple sclerosis, and summed it up like this:
"Do you ever get colds?" (She nodded) "Well when I was 19 years old, I got a cold in my legs. Only my cold won't go away. And just like your nose doesn't work really well when you have a cold, my legs haven't really worked well since. So my wheelchair helps me get places..."
Her mom stopped pulling her and let her listen, and right as I finished my blatantly inaccurate explanation of my neurological disease, the little girl put her hand on my shoulder:
"That happened to you?" (Now I nodded while her eyes got very serious.) "Well I'm really sorry to hear about that."
Then she walked away. I went to the bathroom and started crying. This little girl still makes me cry, in fact, and I don't even know her name. For whatever reason, when she spoke I felt every disdainful look I've ever received in grocery stores/parking lots/malls/restaurants/churches/pretty much everywhere I've ever tried to go, all come back at once. I remembered bouncers turning me away from bars because they assumed I was drunk, the note I found on the floor of my classroom that referred to me as a "crippled bitch", and Darryl, a kid on the track team that I'd coached, who'd imitated my walk. All at once, I felt the memories of eight years worth of shame and preemptive explanations or apologies on behalf of a disease I never asked for, all land straight on my sternum in the form of 18 cinderblocks. So I couldn't breathe evenly for a few minutes (cinderblocks are heavy) and I started to question why it is that small children are so real and honest and pure, while adults are awkward and scared and meek. I started imagining the past eight years of my life if people just asked me what was wrong, said it sucked and moved on, instead of whispering things and treating me like a three-armed circus freak that earns averted looks, blatant stares or pity. I decided the 18 cinderblocks would have felt far less heavy.
So I cried.
Jim thought I'd injured myself in the bathroom (which is, sadly, highly possible). But I don't cry when I'm hurt, or even when I'm sad. I cry when someone acknowledges that concrete blocks are heavy, and that MS (or a "cold" in my legs) does suck. I cried then because a six-year-old, with genuine concern, and innocent inquiry, validated two things: what I felt on behalf of a debilitating disease, and what I want from the people around me. Neither of which I know how to get, and both of which I think I need.
The Keys won that night, but I don't remember the score. I do know, though, that if baseball were more interesting than dryer lint, I never would have gone to the bathroom in the middle of an(other non-scoring) inning. I would have spent one more day with the cinderblocks that I try to forget about, instead of remembering, and receiving, what I need.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Jesusy?
Last summer I planned to go to Scotland. Sarah, my roommate from my Junior year abroad was working in Edinburgh, and compared to the 27 hour flight from Baltimore to Australia, I could travel to Britain in a mere 9. Without much thought, I booked a ticket on Orbitz, and briefly rejoiced in my impulsive, carefree attitude. I was empowered. I was an independent teacher who'd saved her money wisely, and planned to spend it in style. I would travel intercontinentally alone, with a neurological disease, and it was going to be fabulous.
But that's not exactly how things worked out. First I discovered that Sarah was still, after several months in Edinburgh, living in an un-MS-friendly hostel (she'd assured me she'd be living in a proper "flat" by the summer). Then I had a relapse. To complicate things further, somewhere in between, I'd convinced my co-teacher/favorite friend in Baltimore to travel with me. To clarify: I purchased plane tickets in March, convinced Amy to purchase plane tickets shortly thereafter, found out that the aforementioned "flat" was nonexistent in April, and had a relapse in May.
Relapses vary when it comes to MS, and certain people bounce back without sustaining permanent-types of disability. I, however, didn't. I got a sunburn that turned my skin tone from relatively normal to that of a fetal pig in formaldehyde, presumably melted some precious nerve myelin in the heat, and was suddenly rendered just a little more disabled than I was before. My symptoms were bad enough that I started using my wheelchair in the grocery store, at the gym, when I went to get my hair cut, on trips out to dinner, etc. My legs and coordination deteriorated to the point that I managed to slip in a handicapped bathroom while I was at a hotel for my brother's college graduation, and was forced to use a walker for the majority of May. The relapse was serious enough that the trip to Edinburgh no longer seemed practical. I started to envision my wheelchair wheels stuck between historic British cobblestones, and my friend Amy hauling my wheelchair up stairs while I climbed, a la Spiderwoman, to wherever our destination might be. I saw myself in bars with cute Scottish men and my walker, and concluded, thus, that I needed to cancel the trip I'd already planned. I needed to leave Amy alone with intercontinental travel plans to see my best friend, and spend the summer home, with my family, in Ithaca.
I didn't deal very well with any of these conclusions. Especially when Orbitz refused to refund my tickets, and the various hostels I'd booked throughout Scotland were ostensibly impossible to reach. $2000 poorer, and one geriatric walker later, the school year ended, Amy left for Scotland without me, and I went home to my parents'.
I planned to write a lot, but the keyboard was stiff, and my fingers were MSey and uncooperative. Instead I worked really hard on two things: not taking my anger out on God, and swimming. I begrudgingly had hand controls installed in my car (wince!), and bought "life-changing" jeans for far too much money (no, there is no correlate). Then, though, just as I reached the pinnacle of my pity party, I met Jim.
Jim had been roommates with my closest friend from high school, Meli. The two of them had lived in Seattle for three years, initially building houses for Habitat for Humanity, then living together while Meli continued with carpentry and Jim worked with incarcerated youth. At the end of their three years together, they drove from Seattle to Ithaca; Meli prepared for law school the upcoming fall at Cornell, and Jim prepared to move back to South Florida, where his family lived. When the two of them arrived in Ithaca, I was supposed to be in Scotland. Jim, according to my unwarranted expectations, was supposed to be annoying.
He wasn't.
We spent four days together, Meli, Jim and I, and when he left I felt a little different about things. I didn't think about MS as much. I signed up to swim across the lake. I started writing more. I remembered how to laugh. I thought at first it was the jeans, but after some not-so-challenging introspection, I realized it might have something to do with Jim.
After a decidedly ineloquent email where I attempted to express these sentiments to Jim, we slowly started talking. Then I visited him in Florida where he sat with me on the ground after I'd tripped, and asked me what it felt like to walk. A question that no one had ever asked me before...
A year later I'm still not in Edinburgh. Amy had fun without me and Sarah moved back to Australia. I still use a wheelchair to grocery shop, and I've gotten much, much better at balancing the bags on my lap (a skill I'd never hoped to acquire). I swam across the lake and wrote a book. I found a job teaching that I actually enjoy, and, more importantly I fell in love.
Jim lives in Baltimore now. He drives me absolutely crazy and just dropped a hamburger on my new couch. His feet smell and he's the most self-righteously stubborn person I've ever met. He's passive aggressive and independent, yet undoubtedly the most unconditionally loving and perceptive person I've ever met. No one has ever had this much capacity to break my heart, and the whole thing makes me want to bury myself in a bag of mulch - I'm vulnerable and scared and can so clearly remember the days when just my disease and myself governed my mood... But Jim, and the circumstances that brought him into my life, are what I would characterize as Jesusy.
So far.
So I guess I'm glad, in retrospect, that in spite of a new walker and a $2000 loss, I didn't take my anger out on God. I'll take a grease-stained couch over a summer in Edinburgh any day.
But that's not exactly how things worked out. First I discovered that Sarah was still, after several months in Edinburgh, living in an un-MS-friendly hostel (she'd assured me she'd be living in a proper "flat" by the summer). Then I had a relapse. To complicate things further, somewhere in between, I'd convinced my co-teacher/favorite friend in Baltimore to travel with me. To clarify: I purchased plane tickets in March, convinced Amy to purchase plane tickets shortly thereafter, found out that the aforementioned "flat" was nonexistent in April, and had a relapse in May.
Relapses vary when it comes to MS, and certain people bounce back without sustaining permanent-types of disability. I, however, didn't. I got a sunburn that turned my skin tone from relatively normal to that of a fetal pig in formaldehyde, presumably melted some precious nerve myelin in the heat, and was suddenly rendered just a little more disabled than I was before. My symptoms were bad enough that I started using my wheelchair in the grocery store, at the gym, when I went to get my hair cut, on trips out to dinner, etc. My legs and coordination deteriorated to the point that I managed to slip in a handicapped bathroom while I was at a hotel for my brother's college graduation, and was forced to use a walker for the majority of May. The relapse was serious enough that the trip to Edinburgh no longer seemed practical. I started to envision my wheelchair wheels stuck between historic British cobblestones, and my friend Amy hauling my wheelchair up stairs while I climbed, a la Spiderwoman, to wherever our destination might be. I saw myself in bars with cute Scottish men and my walker, and concluded, thus, that I needed to cancel the trip I'd already planned. I needed to leave Amy alone with intercontinental travel plans to see my best friend, and spend the summer home, with my family, in Ithaca.
I didn't deal very well with any of these conclusions. Especially when Orbitz refused to refund my tickets, and the various hostels I'd booked throughout Scotland were ostensibly impossible to reach. $2000 poorer, and one geriatric walker later, the school year ended, Amy left for Scotland without me, and I went home to my parents'.
I planned to write a lot, but the keyboard was stiff, and my fingers were MSey and uncooperative. Instead I worked really hard on two things: not taking my anger out on God, and swimming. I begrudgingly had hand controls installed in my car (wince!), and bought "life-changing" jeans for far too much money (no, there is no correlate). Then, though, just as I reached the pinnacle of my pity party, I met Jim.
Jim had been roommates with my closest friend from high school, Meli. The two of them had lived in Seattle for three years, initially building houses for Habitat for Humanity, then living together while Meli continued with carpentry and Jim worked with incarcerated youth. At the end of their three years together, they drove from Seattle to Ithaca; Meli prepared for law school the upcoming fall at Cornell, and Jim prepared to move back to South Florida, where his family lived. When the two of them arrived in Ithaca, I was supposed to be in Scotland. Jim, according to my unwarranted expectations, was supposed to be annoying.
He wasn't.
We spent four days together, Meli, Jim and I, and when he left I felt a little different about things. I didn't think about MS as much. I signed up to swim across the lake. I started writing more. I remembered how to laugh. I thought at first it was the jeans, but after some not-so-challenging introspection, I realized it might have something to do with Jim.
After a decidedly ineloquent email where I attempted to express these sentiments to Jim, we slowly started talking. Then I visited him in Florida where he sat with me on the ground after I'd tripped, and asked me what it felt like to walk. A question that no one had ever asked me before...
A year later I'm still not in Edinburgh. Amy had fun without me and Sarah moved back to Australia. I still use a wheelchair to grocery shop, and I've gotten much, much better at balancing the bags on my lap (a skill I'd never hoped to acquire). I swam across the lake and wrote a book. I found a job teaching that I actually enjoy, and, more importantly I fell in love.
Jim lives in Baltimore now. He drives me absolutely crazy and just dropped a hamburger on my new couch. His feet smell and he's the most self-righteously stubborn person I've ever met. He's passive aggressive and independent, yet undoubtedly the most unconditionally loving and perceptive person I've ever met. No one has ever had this much capacity to break my heart, and the whole thing makes me want to bury myself in a bag of mulch - I'm vulnerable and scared and can so clearly remember the days when just my disease and myself governed my mood... But Jim, and the circumstances that brought him into my life, are what I would characterize as Jesusy.
So far.
So I guess I'm glad, in retrospect, that in spite of a new walker and a $2000 loss, I didn't take my anger out on God. I'll take a grease-stained couch over a summer in Edinburgh any day.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Scars
How scary is it to love someone? To reach the realization that another person has the unique ability to make you feel as close to nirvana as is humanly possible, yet simultaneously can scramble up your insides as effectively as your roommate shakes the boggle letters around the game's plastic case.
In loving someone, and allowing myself the potential to be hurt, I am positive that God or the universe is trying to teach me something. It is in this certainty, that I find myself fighting between the things I know and the things I want to believe. I know I am more scared of any type of emotional pain that has the potential to take place than I am of getting my blood drawn at the hospital. I think I'm more scared, in fact, of an unguarded heart than I am of my neurological disease. I know that I have a combative amount of self-respect, and it isn't conducive to the word "surrender". I know that I am threatened and challenged and much, much weaker than I'm supposed to be, and that I should probably run (or wheel) in a foreign direction as quickly as possible with armor and weapons, and, if necessary, enter a convent on the way.
This is where it gets tricky, though, because the things I know and the things I believe weigh equally on my faith-filled heart, and this is what I believe: that God won't let my inside bits get too scrambled without His assistance; that love is just a tiny bit esoteric and doesn't always yield self-respect, and this loss, sometimes is okay (because we're not supposed to have that much pride anyway). I believe that scars accumulate sometimes, and that while they're always painful at inception, they don't always compromise the beauty of a person, a heart, or even a relationship. I believe that wheeling or running away is just a little counter-productive, and maybe just a little weaker than even I purport to be.
I believe I am stuck.
In loving someone, and allowing myself the potential to be hurt, I am positive that God or the universe is trying to teach me something. It is in this certainty, that I find myself fighting between the things I know and the things I want to believe. I know I am more scared of any type of emotional pain that has the potential to take place than I am of getting my blood drawn at the hospital. I think I'm more scared, in fact, of an unguarded heart than I am of my neurological disease. I know that I have a combative amount of self-respect, and it isn't conducive to the word "surrender". I know that I am threatened and challenged and much, much weaker than I'm supposed to be, and that I should probably run (or wheel) in a foreign direction as quickly as possible with armor and weapons, and, if necessary, enter a convent on the way.
This is where it gets tricky, though, because the things I know and the things I believe weigh equally on my faith-filled heart, and this is what I believe: that God won't let my inside bits get too scrambled without His assistance; that love is just a tiny bit esoteric and doesn't always yield self-respect, and this loss, sometimes is okay (because we're not supposed to have that much pride anyway). I believe that scars accumulate sometimes, and that while they're always painful at inception, they don't always compromise the beauty of a person, a heart, or even a relationship. I believe that wheeling or running away is just a little counter-productive, and maybe just a little weaker than even I purport to be.
I believe I am stuck.
Monday, December 27, 2004
Power Struggles
I took two sick days within one week. One had nothing to do with illness, the other one did. Regardless of the reason, I spent more time without 11-13 year-olds within a work week than I’d become sadly accustomed to. Sometimes all you need is a little space from a situation to recognize its beauty – distance makes the heart grow fonder? College cafeterias make your mom’s meatloaf taste exceptional. Regardless, I was hopeful that a day in bed with a fever would catalyze some sort of epiphany concerning my job: specifically that I’d return to work refreshed, rejuvenated and ready to teach.
The next morning I slept through my alarm. Skip breakfast? Forgo making lunch? Let my chlorine damaged hair dry on its own? Nah – I resolved to drive fast. But then the ditto machine didn’t work (teachers were not allowed to use a modern-day copy machine), the sub hadn’t erased the boards and the kids were early. I convinced myself, with a marginal amount of strain, though, to stay calm, I was an invincible, super-human teacher for America. I would recover from my morning’s frustrations, and reach all of my students in an effort to maintain the program’s creed: “One day all children will have the opportunity to attain an excellent education.” But then, in between second and third period, while there was momentary silence, I briefly reflected on the searing absence of any fever-induced career-related epiphany, and tugged at the end of my dried-out hair – yes, I was awake. This wasn’t a nightmare.
The eighth grade class entered my room resembling a herd of undomesticated, temperamental beasts. Kenny, bigger than his peers, wearing baggy jeans and untied boots, came in last and destroyed the small amount of hope I’d had in his absence. Within the first ten minutes of class, rather than give my students the “excellent education” I was there to provide; rather than observe my twenty-seven eighth graders diligently working on the “drill”, I listened to Kenny offend approximately 90% of the glass. He told Lauren to eat another donut, threw Argent’s hat across the room, made fun of Amanda’s thong, and told me – the teacher – that my head resembled a mop. I contemplated, for a moment, which battle to pick, and opted for the least offensive:
“Kenny, do your drill. Take your hat off – school policy.”
Kenny responded immediately, “Don’t tell me what to do, woman. You look like a pilgrim with those shoes on.”
This, naturally, made me think about my shoes. What type of shoes did pilgrims wear, anyway? One of the 896 reasons why I shouldn’t teach – aside from being apparently paranoid about my shoes - was my inability to avoid power struggles with adolescents. I needed to take solace in the victory of the grade book – Kenny would, inevitably, fail my class and should – based on his academic prowess, fail the entire eighth grade. Even this, however, didn’t appease my need for decisive victory,
“I will tell you what to do, Kenny, because six months into the school year you still can’t figure it out on your own. And next time I want your opinion on my outfit I’ll give it to you.” My eyes bore into Kenny’s and I tried to sound very mean and very threatening. Really, though, the retort sucked; I merely ensured that this issue (starting with my pilgrim shoes and my mop-like hair) would not be dropped. Twenty-seven anxious pairs of eyes turned to Kenny, anxious to see where the confrontation would lead. I attempted to ignore him, to go over the drill, and to redirect everyone’s attention to the board and my sure-to-be scintillating lesson.
Kenny, surprisingly, wouldn’t let it go. I decided to send him to the office. I calmly asked him to pack up his things (I failed to notice that he was still wearing his backpack), and scoured the area for referrals (I was out of them). I found an index card, wrote a hasty note to the disciplinarian documenting Kenny’s lack of respect, and enjoyed a few seconds of silence while the other students watched me furiously write. Just as I finished my scathing index card, I looked up. Kenny was looking at me with a cold, calculating stare. He cleared his throat to ensure that everyone’s attention was directed to him and said:
“Are you done with that yet? Why don’t you walk it over here?”
I rolled my stinging eyes nonchalantly and said, “Because, Kenny, I don’t want to waste my energy on you.”
I knew though – just as the rest of the class did and just as Kenny did – that he had won.
The next morning I slept through my alarm. Skip breakfast? Forgo making lunch? Let my chlorine damaged hair dry on its own? Nah – I resolved to drive fast. But then the ditto machine didn’t work (teachers were not allowed to use a modern-day copy machine), the sub hadn’t erased the boards and the kids were early. I convinced myself, with a marginal amount of strain, though, to stay calm, I was an invincible, super-human teacher for America. I would recover from my morning’s frustrations, and reach all of my students in an effort to maintain the program’s creed: “One day all children will have the opportunity to attain an excellent education.” But then, in between second and third period, while there was momentary silence, I briefly reflected on the searing absence of any fever-induced career-related epiphany, and tugged at the end of my dried-out hair – yes, I was awake. This wasn’t a nightmare.
The eighth grade class entered my room resembling a herd of undomesticated, temperamental beasts. Kenny, bigger than his peers, wearing baggy jeans and untied boots, came in last and destroyed the small amount of hope I’d had in his absence. Within the first ten minutes of class, rather than give my students the “excellent education” I was there to provide; rather than observe my twenty-seven eighth graders diligently working on the “drill”, I listened to Kenny offend approximately 90% of the glass. He told Lauren to eat another donut, threw Argent’s hat across the room, made fun of Amanda’s thong, and told me – the teacher – that my head resembled a mop. I contemplated, for a moment, which battle to pick, and opted for the least offensive:
“Kenny, do your drill. Take your hat off – school policy.”
Kenny responded immediately, “Don’t tell me what to do, woman. You look like a pilgrim with those shoes on.”
This, naturally, made me think about my shoes. What type of shoes did pilgrims wear, anyway? One of the 896 reasons why I shouldn’t teach – aside from being apparently paranoid about my shoes - was my inability to avoid power struggles with adolescents. I needed to take solace in the victory of the grade book – Kenny would, inevitably, fail my class and should – based on his academic prowess, fail the entire eighth grade. Even this, however, didn’t appease my need for decisive victory,
“I will tell you what to do, Kenny, because six months into the school year you still can’t figure it out on your own. And next time I want your opinion on my outfit I’ll give it to you.” My eyes bore into Kenny’s and I tried to sound very mean and very threatening. Really, though, the retort sucked; I merely ensured that this issue (starting with my pilgrim shoes and my mop-like hair) would not be dropped. Twenty-seven anxious pairs of eyes turned to Kenny, anxious to see where the confrontation would lead. I attempted to ignore him, to go over the drill, and to redirect everyone’s attention to the board and my sure-to-be scintillating lesson.
Kenny, surprisingly, wouldn’t let it go. I decided to send him to the office. I calmly asked him to pack up his things (I failed to notice that he was still wearing his backpack), and scoured the area for referrals (I was out of them). I found an index card, wrote a hasty note to the disciplinarian documenting Kenny’s lack of respect, and enjoyed a few seconds of silence while the other students watched me furiously write. Just as I finished my scathing index card, I looked up. Kenny was looking at me with a cold, calculating stare. He cleared his throat to ensure that everyone’s attention was directed to him and said:
“Are you done with that yet? Why don’t you walk it over here?”
I rolled my stinging eyes nonchalantly and said, “Because, Kenny, I don’t want to waste my energy on you.”
I knew though – just as the rest of the class did and just as Kenny did – that he had won.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Peggy
My mom told me once that when I deny people the opportunity to help me, I deny them the chance to be a blessing. I found her words absurd – absurd and inconceivable. I relied on people far too often. I ask my roommates to clean the floors and carry my laundry from the drier to my room, I solicit strangers outside of shoe stores to walk me to my car or women in parking lots to cover me with umbrellas while I assemble my wheelchair in the rain. I’ve always imagined that if I find myself annoying, others would feel the same way.
It was late spring of my third year at Morrell Park Elementary/Middle School, and my students were convinced it was already summer. There were four days of school remaining (not that I was counting), and rather than spend the last hour of the school day listening to my own voice while thirty sixth graders attempted to secretly pass notes and play cards under their desks, I made an impromptu decision to save my own sanity: I took my kids outside.
For the last hour of the school day, I sat on the playground in a chair that one of my students had stolen from the second grade classroom and watched a few of my boys violently hurl a four square ball back and forth. My girls were clustered around my feet talking while other students ran mindlessly in circles. I participated in conversation with the girls while silently praying that none of my kids would climb the chain link fence, inflict pain upon themselves or others, or disturb the high stakes learning that was surely taking place within the nearby portable classrooms. Meanwhile, I got hot.
Since I was sitting, my body temperature didn’t matter much. I didn’t plan on going anywhere until 2:30. That left me 45 minutes to either spontaneously cool down or come up with an ingenious way to get myself from the playground, up the stairs and back to my classroom in time for dismissal. I pushed these thoughts to the back of my head and listened to Peggy and Kari discuss their summer plans. I watched Andrew bounce the four square ball directly into Michael’s face, and I glanced in the general direction of Jessica as she paced back and forth along the edge of the blacktop engrossed in conversation with what appeared to be a twig. All the while, my nerves were getting hotter and hotter and I felt my face flush from the heat. At one point I actually felt my entire nervous system come to a halt on account of the heat. By the time 2:30 rolled around I couldn’t get out of the chair. I felt like three mysterious hippos had descended upon my shoulders.
I didn’t have a whistle to use to get my classes’ attention (and, even if I had, they likely would have ignored it), so I yelled. Approximately 27 of my thirty students eventually gathered around me, and I told them my legs weren’t working on account of heat-induced MS issues and that they’d have to dismiss themselves (this was a risky request).
“Okay guys, you are going to get to the classroom much faster than I am. You need to get your stuff, put up your chairs, straighten the desks and proceed slowly and carefully to the busses. If I find my room in disarray, or hear about you knocking any small children over en route to your busses, we will never, ever go outside again.”
With that they happily scampered up the stairs, to my classroom and, eventually, home. Since I didn’t find anyone subsequently flattened in the hallway, and my room was relatively organized when I finally arrived, I was impressed. For once my homeroom listened to my directions.
Peggy, though, didn’t scramble up the stairs. She and Kari waited for me.
“What are you gonna do, Miss Hooks?” Peggy asked the obvious question just as I was strategizing how to properly crawl up the stairs without ripping my stockings.
I tried to pretend I was someone else – someone without pride issues; someone who had no problem physically relying on twelve-year olds. “Do you two feel like helping me?”
The girls nodded in unison and Peggy answered quickly, “Yeah, what do you want us to do?”
Collectively we decided that Kari would return the chair to the second grade classroom, and that Peggy would help me get up the stairs. She offered me her shoulder while I grasped the chain link fence that led to the building and the two of us began a long trek up the stairs. I mumbled a few words about MS and the heat, and distinctly remember communicating how sorry I was that she needed to worry about how her teacher would get back into the building.
I put more of my weight on Peggy’s left shoulder than any child should have to support, and she literally dragged me – step by school lunch infested step – up the stairs and towards my surprisingly organized and empty classroom. I probably apologized on each step because that’s what I do. There are moments when my guilt is as oppressive as the hippos that had perched on my shoulders that afternoon.
“I’m so sorry about this, kiddo. I guess we can’t go outside when it’s this hot. You shouldn’t have to worry about me…”
Peggy stopped hauling me up the stairs and looked at me very sternly. She was suddenly as serious as I try to look when I’m threatening someone with detention and she with equal gravity,
“I feel good when I can help you, Miss Hooks. I want to help you. I think we all do.”
I didn’t say anything. I just kept holding onto her, and moving my feet, slowly, up the stairs. Safely back in my classroom, Peggy went home and I sat at my desk until I had the energy to erase and wash my boards. All the while, Peggy’s words repeated themselves in my head: I want to help. I feel good when I can help you. I want to help...
So I suppose, when it comes to sixth graders, my mom was right.
It was late spring of my third year at Morrell Park Elementary/Middle School, and my students were convinced it was already summer. There were four days of school remaining (not that I was counting), and rather than spend the last hour of the school day listening to my own voice while thirty sixth graders attempted to secretly pass notes and play cards under their desks, I made an impromptu decision to save my own sanity: I took my kids outside.
For the last hour of the school day, I sat on the playground in a chair that one of my students had stolen from the second grade classroom and watched a few of my boys violently hurl a four square ball back and forth. My girls were clustered around my feet talking while other students ran mindlessly in circles. I participated in conversation with the girls while silently praying that none of my kids would climb the chain link fence, inflict pain upon themselves or others, or disturb the high stakes learning that was surely taking place within the nearby portable classrooms. Meanwhile, I got hot.
Since I was sitting, my body temperature didn’t matter much. I didn’t plan on going anywhere until 2:30. That left me 45 minutes to either spontaneously cool down or come up with an ingenious way to get myself from the playground, up the stairs and back to my classroom in time for dismissal. I pushed these thoughts to the back of my head and listened to Peggy and Kari discuss their summer plans. I watched Andrew bounce the four square ball directly into Michael’s face, and I glanced in the general direction of Jessica as she paced back and forth along the edge of the blacktop engrossed in conversation with what appeared to be a twig. All the while, my nerves were getting hotter and hotter and I felt my face flush from the heat. At one point I actually felt my entire nervous system come to a halt on account of the heat. By the time 2:30 rolled around I couldn’t get out of the chair. I felt like three mysterious hippos had descended upon my shoulders.
I didn’t have a whistle to use to get my classes’ attention (and, even if I had, they likely would have ignored it), so I yelled. Approximately 27 of my thirty students eventually gathered around me, and I told them my legs weren’t working on account of heat-induced MS issues and that they’d have to dismiss themselves (this was a risky request).
“Okay guys, you are going to get to the classroom much faster than I am. You need to get your stuff, put up your chairs, straighten the desks and proceed slowly and carefully to the busses. If I find my room in disarray, or hear about you knocking any small children over en route to your busses, we will never, ever go outside again.”
With that they happily scampered up the stairs, to my classroom and, eventually, home. Since I didn’t find anyone subsequently flattened in the hallway, and my room was relatively organized when I finally arrived, I was impressed. For once my homeroom listened to my directions.
Peggy, though, didn’t scramble up the stairs. She and Kari waited for me.
“What are you gonna do, Miss Hooks?” Peggy asked the obvious question just as I was strategizing how to properly crawl up the stairs without ripping my stockings.
I tried to pretend I was someone else – someone without pride issues; someone who had no problem physically relying on twelve-year olds. “Do you two feel like helping me?”
The girls nodded in unison and Peggy answered quickly, “Yeah, what do you want us to do?”
Collectively we decided that Kari would return the chair to the second grade classroom, and that Peggy would help me get up the stairs. She offered me her shoulder while I grasped the chain link fence that led to the building and the two of us began a long trek up the stairs. I mumbled a few words about MS and the heat, and distinctly remember communicating how sorry I was that she needed to worry about how her teacher would get back into the building.
I put more of my weight on Peggy’s left shoulder than any child should have to support, and she literally dragged me – step by school lunch infested step – up the stairs and towards my surprisingly organized and empty classroom. I probably apologized on each step because that’s what I do. There are moments when my guilt is as oppressive as the hippos that had perched on my shoulders that afternoon.
“I’m so sorry about this, kiddo. I guess we can’t go outside when it’s this hot. You shouldn’t have to worry about me…”
Peggy stopped hauling me up the stairs and looked at me very sternly. She was suddenly as serious as I try to look when I’m threatening someone with detention and she with equal gravity,
“I feel good when I can help you, Miss Hooks. I want to help you. I think we all do.”
I didn’t say anything. I just kept holding onto her, and moving my feet, slowly, up the stairs. Safely back in my classroom, Peggy went home and I sat at my desk until I had the energy to erase and wash my boards. All the while, Peggy’s words repeated themselves in my head: I want to help. I feel good when I can help you. I want to help...
So I suppose, when it comes to sixth graders, my mom was right.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Learning to Teach
In Houston, Texas, the summer after I graduated from Colgate, I learned how to “teach.” I endured five-weeks of Teach for America boot camp and, for the lack of sleep, dining hall food, foot-long roaches, puke yellow-colored, urine smelling Moody Towers dorm carpet, 98% humidity, housing dramas, pedagogical guidebook sessions and Attucks summer school-related chaos, it was an enriching experience. Somehow I left Houston, Texas, with my nerves still moderately functional and the realization that my body works when other people need it to. It held up that summer. My autoimmune disease put up with stress, repeated nights of far too little sleep, and stifling heat and led me to the conclusion that Teaching for America was the right decision. (Even though I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.)
After a week’s insufficient preparation, three other idealistic college graduates and I were turned loose in a classroom of Houston Public School middle schoolers. I taught eighth grade social studies with another prospective teacher for America named John, and two other aspiring teachers taught Language Arts. Our students had failed their eighth grade year, and their promotion to high school was contingent upon passing summer school, and the TAAS. (Texas’ standardized test that gauged whether or not these students were ready for the next grade.)
From 12:00 to 1:00 the four of us taught small group literacy enrichment blocks. This was my favorite part of the day – I didn’t have to worry about engaging a classroom of 20 students with varying needs and interests, I just focused on reading and writing skills with a small group of four students. Two of the students in my group were the biggest trouble-makers in the class – Roderick and Carl the III. Carl, shorter, and rounder than Roderick, enjoyed completely socially unacceptable behaviors – he called people “gay” and shoved desks at girls. He gave my collaborative group a reason to drink profusely every Friday night. Behavior set aside, though, his warm, brown eyes matched his skin, flashed about inattentively, and yearned – silently - for a good night’s sleep. The white part of his eyes wasn’t completely white rather glossy and speckled with broken blood vessels; his pupils were never still. Carl III was prone to fits of rage at inane catalysts, was fourteen years old and stuck in Attucks Middle School, and knew, on a very personal level, of sadness. Roderick was different. He was wiry and tall, with equally soft eyes. He constantly reminded me that physical presence doesn’t constitute attendance. He knew the intricacies of the classroom ceiling better than the alphabet. Occasionally he started dancing in his seat, leave class on his own volition or stare for minutes on end at objects that didn’t move. In my opinion, Roderick and Carl III were the most endearing students in the class.
During our first literacy session, I gave the two of them a newspaper and let them choose an article to read. Carl refused on account of his “sore eyes.” Roderick just couldn’t read. He stumbled over words like “angry”, and couldn’t make sense of a whole sentence after he finally decoded the words. He never gave up, though. The size of our group mitigated his shame; he persisted and read on and never fully understood the content of the paragraphs he struggled through. I still have no idea how Roderick made it to the eighth grade, but I could tell that he genuinely wanted to learn. Over the next four weeks, Roderick’s literacy became my mission, and Carl III became my friend.
I gave up with the newspaper, bought The House on Mango Street, and worked on basic literacy strategies – strategies that I either invented on my own or learned about in afternoon classes. I worked to ingrain two things into Roderick’s amazingly receptive brain – 1. Slow down and re-read anything you don’t remember, and 2. Believe in yourself – these were the only two things I knew at that point. Two weeks later, after ten hours of reading and re-reading, and writing and re-writing, Roderick chose a story out of our book to read out loud. He asked me what I thought it was about, and I told him, briefly, my thoughts. With dead honesty, he looked at me and said,
“No, Miss Hooks, you didn’t get it.”
Roderick decided, for my sake, to re-read the story, and to stop along the way to point out my misinterpretation. He was entirely right – I had missed the point, solely because I was so distracted by his reading ability to actually listen. Roderick didn’t stumble over one syllable. When I commented on his sudden emergence into literary prowess, even Carl III agreed:
“When’d you learn to read, man?”
Roderick just shrugged, mentioned that he wanted to become a famous author, and – two weeks later – passed the standardized test (and my social studies class) for the first time in his middle school career.
Carl the III was different. Carl III, and his identical twin, Carl IV, were the only two students I organized a parent-principal conference with. My three co-“teachers” and I crowded into the summer school director’s cramped office, determined to communicate the severity of Carl III’s impulsive anger, and Carl IV’s tendency to swear at girls, to their tired mother. I knew though – that while I reluctantly concurred with each testament to their inappropriate behaviors – I wanted the identical twins around. Maybe I was intrigued by the fact that they were both on a first name basis with the Attuck’s school police officer, maybe I liked them because they were two hardened 14 year olds with piercingly soft, brown eyes. The boys were simultaneously too resilient to turn their anger inward, and too young to channel it constructively into something else. Regardless, as I listened to my collaborative members lament their occasionally atrocious behaviors, I felt the space around my heart tighten.
Carl III was not kicked out of summer school. He also – despite the fact that he read a lot more fluently than Roderick – did not pass the standardized test at the end of the summer. In his failure, though, he proved that a multiple-choice test does not accurately gauge someone’s brilliance. Carl III described diamonds as “reflecting sunshine like a new car’s bumper” and my own eyes as “deeper than the ocean.” We were reading one afternoon, and he asked me if there was a cure for multiple sclerosis. I told him there wasn’t. He glared at me, simultaneously angry and confused:
“You mean the doctors don’t know how to fix it?”
I was amused at his irritation and responded, “Nope. Not yet.” I smiled convincingly, as if to say, it’s fine, Carl, I don’t mind grabbing onto desks to preclude myself from falling over.
Carl was quiet for a second. Roderick’s eyes just darted back and forth between the two of us. Suddenly, Carl smacked the desk resoundingly. His voice elevated to a level that caused other literacy groups to stop their readings and stare:
“Don’t say that Miss Hooks. Don’t say there’s no cure…”
Still moderately entertained, I put my right hand on top of his chubby fingers, “Carl, there isn’t a cure, though. MS is just something I’ll deal with for a while – just like you’re dealing with summer school and people you don’t like that you’re stuck in class with.”
Carl jerked his hand out from beneath mine. His voice got even louder: “There IS a cure for MS, Miss Hooks! There IS! It’s the Lord Jesus, Miss Hooks. The Lord Jesus will cure you, but you gotta believe. You’ve really gotta believe. I know it!”
My first inclination was to laugh. I looked at his face, focused on the slight tremble in his voice, and suddenly took him very seriously:
“Carl, I pray you’re right. I really do.”
Carl III, whom my co-“teachers” dubbed an “angry little asshole”, was one of the brightest, most faith-filled, and most compassionate people I’d ever met. When he was upset in the lunchroom a few days later, I sat down with him and listened while he spun soggy spaghetti noodles around his spork.
“No one relates to me, Miss Hooks.”
Was I surprised that a 14 year-old eighth grader who passionately asserted that his teacher could be cured by Jesus didn’t have close friends at his lunch table? Not really. Did his insatiable loneliness make it harder for me to breathe? Absolutely.
I swallowed another breath of thin, school lunch-scented air, “It’s tough to find, Carl. It’s really tough to find someone to relate to. It’s especially hard when you’re young.”
He pushed his plastic tray across the table and left his spork intertwined with another pile of tasteless noodles.
“I relate to you, though.”
And that mattered more than anything I’d heard in a long, long time.
After a week’s insufficient preparation, three other idealistic college graduates and I were turned loose in a classroom of Houston Public School middle schoolers. I taught eighth grade social studies with another prospective teacher for America named John, and two other aspiring teachers taught Language Arts. Our students had failed their eighth grade year, and their promotion to high school was contingent upon passing summer school, and the TAAS. (Texas’ standardized test that gauged whether or not these students were ready for the next grade.)
From 12:00 to 1:00 the four of us taught small group literacy enrichment blocks. This was my favorite part of the day – I didn’t have to worry about engaging a classroom of 20 students with varying needs and interests, I just focused on reading and writing skills with a small group of four students. Two of the students in my group were the biggest trouble-makers in the class – Roderick and Carl the III. Carl, shorter, and rounder than Roderick, enjoyed completely socially unacceptable behaviors – he called people “gay” and shoved desks at girls. He gave my collaborative group a reason to drink profusely every Friday night. Behavior set aside, though, his warm, brown eyes matched his skin, flashed about inattentively, and yearned – silently - for a good night’s sleep. The white part of his eyes wasn’t completely white rather glossy and speckled with broken blood vessels; his pupils were never still. Carl III was prone to fits of rage at inane catalysts, was fourteen years old and stuck in Attucks Middle School, and knew, on a very personal level, of sadness. Roderick was different. He was wiry and tall, with equally soft eyes. He constantly reminded me that physical presence doesn’t constitute attendance. He knew the intricacies of the classroom ceiling better than the alphabet. Occasionally he started dancing in his seat, leave class on his own volition or stare for minutes on end at objects that didn’t move. In my opinion, Roderick and Carl III were the most endearing students in the class.
During our first literacy session, I gave the two of them a newspaper and let them choose an article to read. Carl refused on account of his “sore eyes.” Roderick just couldn’t read. He stumbled over words like “angry”, and couldn’t make sense of a whole sentence after he finally decoded the words. He never gave up, though. The size of our group mitigated his shame; he persisted and read on and never fully understood the content of the paragraphs he struggled through. I still have no idea how Roderick made it to the eighth grade, but I could tell that he genuinely wanted to learn. Over the next four weeks, Roderick’s literacy became my mission, and Carl III became my friend.
I gave up with the newspaper, bought The House on Mango Street, and worked on basic literacy strategies – strategies that I either invented on my own or learned about in afternoon classes. I worked to ingrain two things into Roderick’s amazingly receptive brain – 1. Slow down and re-read anything you don’t remember, and 2. Believe in yourself – these were the only two things I knew at that point. Two weeks later, after ten hours of reading and re-reading, and writing and re-writing, Roderick chose a story out of our book to read out loud. He asked me what I thought it was about, and I told him, briefly, my thoughts. With dead honesty, he looked at me and said,
“No, Miss Hooks, you didn’t get it.”
Roderick decided, for my sake, to re-read the story, and to stop along the way to point out my misinterpretation. He was entirely right – I had missed the point, solely because I was so distracted by his reading ability to actually listen. Roderick didn’t stumble over one syllable. When I commented on his sudden emergence into literary prowess, even Carl III agreed:
“When’d you learn to read, man?”
Roderick just shrugged, mentioned that he wanted to become a famous author, and – two weeks later – passed the standardized test (and my social studies class) for the first time in his middle school career.
Carl the III was different. Carl III, and his identical twin, Carl IV, were the only two students I organized a parent-principal conference with. My three co-“teachers” and I crowded into the summer school director’s cramped office, determined to communicate the severity of Carl III’s impulsive anger, and Carl IV’s tendency to swear at girls, to their tired mother. I knew though – that while I reluctantly concurred with each testament to their inappropriate behaviors – I wanted the identical twins around. Maybe I was intrigued by the fact that they were both on a first name basis with the Attuck’s school police officer, maybe I liked them because they were two hardened 14 year olds with piercingly soft, brown eyes. The boys were simultaneously too resilient to turn their anger inward, and too young to channel it constructively into something else. Regardless, as I listened to my collaborative members lament their occasionally atrocious behaviors, I felt the space around my heart tighten.
Carl III was not kicked out of summer school. He also – despite the fact that he read a lot more fluently than Roderick – did not pass the standardized test at the end of the summer. In his failure, though, he proved that a multiple-choice test does not accurately gauge someone’s brilliance. Carl III described diamonds as “reflecting sunshine like a new car’s bumper” and my own eyes as “deeper than the ocean.” We were reading one afternoon, and he asked me if there was a cure for multiple sclerosis. I told him there wasn’t. He glared at me, simultaneously angry and confused:
“You mean the doctors don’t know how to fix it?”
I was amused at his irritation and responded, “Nope. Not yet.” I smiled convincingly, as if to say, it’s fine, Carl, I don’t mind grabbing onto desks to preclude myself from falling over.
Carl was quiet for a second. Roderick’s eyes just darted back and forth between the two of us. Suddenly, Carl smacked the desk resoundingly. His voice elevated to a level that caused other literacy groups to stop their readings and stare:
“Don’t say that Miss Hooks. Don’t say there’s no cure…”
Still moderately entertained, I put my right hand on top of his chubby fingers, “Carl, there isn’t a cure, though. MS is just something I’ll deal with for a while – just like you’re dealing with summer school and people you don’t like that you’re stuck in class with.”
Carl jerked his hand out from beneath mine. His voice got even louder: “There IS a cure for MS, Miss Hooks! There IS! It’s the Lord Jesus, Miss Hooks. The Lord Jesus will cure you, but you gotta believe. You’ve really gotta believe. I know it!”
My first inclination was to laugh. I looked at his face, focused on the slight tremble in his voice, and suddenly took him very seriously:
“Carl, I pray you’re right. I really do.”
Carl III, whom my co-“teachers” dubbed an “angry little asshole”, was one of the brightest, most faith-filled, and most compassionate people I’d ever met. When he was upset in the lunchroom a few days later, I sat down with him and listened while he spun soggy spaghetti noodles around his spork.
“No one relates to me, Miss Hooks.”
Was I surprised that a 14 year-old eighth grader who passionately asserted that his teacher could be cured by Jesus didn’t have close friends at his lunch table? Not really. Did his insatiable loneliness make it harder for me to breathe? Absolutely.
I swallowed another breath of thin, school lunch-scented air, “It’s tough to find, Carl. It’s really tough to find someone to relate to. It’s especially hard when you’re young.”
He pushed his plastic tray across the table and left his spork intertwined with another pile of tasteless noodles.
“I relate to you, though.”
And that mattered more than anything I’d heard in a long, long time.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
The Art Museum
Make your problems the smallest part of who you are.
- Jack Gantos
- Jack Gantos
My second year teaching I decided that the only thing potentially scarier than a day in the confines of the school building with my students was a day outside of my classroom. Despite the fact that my second year was, in retrospect, my best, I continued to avoid field trips as strategically as the earthworms I'd carefully step around in the rain. I masked worm-related paranoia beneath worm-related concern, just as I avoided potentially harrowing field trips with the selfless phrase, “No, I insist, you chaperone, the trip sounds like so much fun!” Secretly though, I knew that if my classroom management was tenuous within the confines of my classroom, it would be disasterous if my thirty sixth graders were suddenly (shudder) free. I avoided the Science Center excursion with ease – there were extra chaperones and my principal needed a warm body in a second grade classroom. The trip to Towson University was under control without me, and in all other situations I feigned valiance and offered to teach the extra sixth graders (or in some cases, even the class of second graders). I preferred a classroom filled with nose picking, illiterate seven year-olds to a day on a yellow school bus with the potential for sixth grade chaos.
When I least expected it though, it happened. The art teacher organized a trip to the Walters Art Gallery, and Brenda Payne, my sixth grade team teacher, was sick. The art teacher, who used approximately no foresight in planning the excursion, accosted me while I was diligently making my morning copies and singing Jack Johnson just loudly enough to irritate my principal.
She appeared next to me right before I hit the refrain: “Miss Hooks, I need another chaperone for our trip today. Mrs. Payne isn’t feeling well, and we need at least three adults.”
My response: “Hmm… who’s the third adult?”
“I don’t know. Sonny said his mom might come.”
Thought – isn’t this something that one should know before the day of the trip? I tried not to wince, her breath was rancid.
“If you need me, I’ll come, but I’ll need a wheelchair at the museum and someone to watch the extra sixth graders.”
She mumbled something about calling the art museum regarding the wheelchair, and told me that the bus would arrive by 10:00. Silently I thought, “You’re welcome” and I finished my copies.
The morning passed quickly and shortly before 10:00 I sauntered over to the art room. There, the field trip organizer was eating something garlic-ridden and organizing cans of paint. She didn’t look up.
I cleared my throat loudly. I didn’t want to startle her lest she drop the paint, “Are we going? Did you get confirmation from Sonny’s mother?”
She looked at her watch, stuffed more food into her mouth, and muttered something about the bus. I nodded and then opted for plan B: find my students and ask them what was going on. I left the art room and crossed the hall to Brenda Payne’s room. There, without adult supervision, thirty students were running in circles intermittently smacking each other and standing on Brenda’s no longer organized plastic, orange-colored chairs. Brenda was nowhere to be found, and I was dubious that I’d find a clear answer in her room:
I made my most threatening teacher-look and yelled, “Small children! You are acting in manner of wild beasts. You have three seconds to act civilized, or the trip is cancelled!” (They didn’t know that the bus was already waiting in the parking lot.)
Moderate silence ensued; enough silence to allow me to locate Sophie amidst the pandemonium. Sophie was my curly haired, rational, brilliant and mature favorite. I quietly asked her when we were leaving and why twenty-nine of her peers were currently unsupervised (while the art teacher organized her glazes alphabetically). Sophie, as usual, knew all the answers. Mrs. Payne was looking for me, Sonny’s mom was outside with the bus, and the art teacher had already reserved me a wheelchair. Mrs. Payne – though sick – had agreed to watch the remaining sixth graders for the rest of the day.
Grateful for Sophie, I militantly herded the small children from Mrs. Payne’s increasingly disorganized room, and lined them up in the hallway. I was very proud of Chad – he only leapt through the air to hit the emergency exit sign once en route to the bus. Their excitement level was even higher than usual. John made fun of someone’s butt, Chad (after landing firmly on his feet post-leap) hit, poked and otherwise irritated his obvious crush, and Nikki and Tiffany formed a staunch art teacher opposition. (Never mind the fact that as we approached the bus the poor woman was directly behind us.) There, outside of the school, standing in Baltimore’s 85 degree heat and smothering humidity, the art teacher finally attempted to organize the trip.
“Okay, we’re going to see some Asian art at the Walters Art Gallery today. I need three groups of ten students with each adult: one group with Miss Hooks, one group with Sonny’s mom and one group with me.” Before she even finished her statement, ten boys ran towards Sonny’s mom, and the remaining twenty girls formed a suffocating circle around me. As the art teacher patiently attempted to ameliorate the obvious discrepancy between my group of twenty and her own group of zero, Tiffany called her a witch. Tiffany’s peers apparently agreed. The art teacher, in vintage art teacher form, exuded no discernable emotion, rather instructed the "ungrateful" girls to return to the classroom. I stepped in between the scowling sixth graders and the art teacher, glared at Tiffany and followers, and slowly mouthed the word, “Apologize.” Then, after my wordless pleading and a series of muffled apologies from the eventually regrouped girls, thirty-three of us piled into the bus. We were a mere forty-five minutes late.
A brief bus ride later, I had sufficiently impressed my students by knowing all of the lyrics to rap songs on the radio, and I started to wonder why we were about to see Asian art anyway. Sarah, another freckle-faced favorite, asked me a question:
“Miss Hooks, can I push you in the wheelchair today?”
And before I could respond, a fight ensued:
“No, I’m pushing her! I’ve never pushed a wheelchair before and she already said I could!” (I had?)
Then Tiffany chimed in, “But I helped her get to her car the other day when her legs weren’t working!”
And so on.
The fight ended when I promised they could all push me, but they’d have to take turns. Two hours later, the trip culminated with minor horror on behalf of their respective pushing skills (Nikki smashed my leg into the door of the elevator and Tiffany almost knocked over a statue of Buddha). More importantly, though, there were a few revelations:
1. My students correctly answered the museum guide’s questions about Buddhism – they actually retained things I taught them.
2. My students eventually mastered the turning radius of a wheelchair, figured out how to back me safely into the elevator, and realized that, much to their collective dismay, the plush carpeted museum rooms weren't wheelchair friendly. They were equally appalled by the “pull-only” doors.
3. And I realized that field trips, even with garlic-ridden “witch-like” chaperones, poor organization and rented wheelchairs, were nothing to avoid.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
The Wheelie
My third year as a sixth grade teacher was my last. The decision wasn’t a defeat to multiple sclerosis necessarily; it was a defeat to sixth graders and to an incompetent administration. I made my decision in October and enjoyed another eight months of school-related chaos and student-inspired disease revelations. My third year was my first year using my wheelchair semi-regularly. I set up my classroom accordingly, and used the chair mainly to get from my classroom to the distant bathroom, or to pick up my students from their resource classes. Occasionally I used it to monitor student progress during cooperative learning activities, but with coats and backpacks and notebooks and handouts strewn about, negotiating the chair through the close-quartered classroom was difficult. My students loved my wheelchair. Usually, in fact, if I didn’t guard it closely, one of my kids would steal it from behind my desk and wheel around my room at mach six before I could reach the chalk and scribble threateningly on the detention board.
One winter afternoon, I wheeled to the cafeteria to retrieve my second group of sixth graders from lunch. I had used my thirty-minute lunch break not to eat, rather to push myself to and from the main office making copies. I kicked myself through the door to the lunchroom right as 6-02 was lining up along the wall next to my classroom. I was practically sweating from my effort to cram 78 things into a half-an-hour, and my kids were waiting for me impatiently. A few of them were playfully fighting each other, and others appeared to have angry ants in their pants. They were moving around so much I was convinced that some type of stimulant had mysteriously slipped into the school lunch. I gave my thirty sixth graders the sternest face I could muster, and demanded that they stop writhing around and prepare for an afternoon of serious learning.
They listened to my request. Mostly. Except for Stevie. Stevie stood at the line’s center with his best friend, Brandon. Stevie loved my wheelchair. Actually, he was the one who initially removed it, piece by piece, from the trunk of my blue Nissan and constructed it in my classroom. He had studied the chair for a few minutes, furrowed his twelve-year-old brow, and then pulled the cord in the back. The seat bent upwards and Stevie slid the wheels on effortlessly, all the while he explained exactly what he was doing with more patience and clarity than I ever used while describing the five-step writing process. Stevie was difficult to teach because he had the uncanny ability to see the other, less popular, sixth graders surreptitiously picking their noses. Then he’d quietly point at the nose-picker, and learning would cease until his twenty-nine peers would stop giggling and gaping. Stevie also back flipped off of a table in my classroom before dismissal one afternoon. He landed the flip like a gymnast, but I was appalled with myself – that a third year teacher failed to notice a small child climb a table was another testament to my year end’s requisite career move.
In the cafeteria, Stevie innocently asked if I knew how to “pop a wheelie” with my wheelchair. I told him I didn’t, repeated how important it was that learning commence, and continued towards my room. Stevie didn’t move though, and neither did his classmates. Stevie’s question quickly commanded the attention of the rest of the class. Brandon spoke next,
“Try one, Miss Hooks – they’re fun.”
This comment was followed by numerous words of encouragement from the rest of the class, and culminated with my authoritative answer:
“We have important things to do, and I don’t know how to do one anyway.”
In retrospect, my response was completely ineffectual at redirecting the attention of my students away from the wheelchair and towards the all-important lesson on Ancient Egypt.
Stevie left the line and grabbed the back of my chair. “You just push yourself forward and then pull back hard, like this.”
(He did it, I tried neither to laugh nor shriek.)
I was secretly amused at their interest in this, and, rather than prioritize Egypt, I agreed – per Stevie and Brandon’s request – to attempt my first wheelie. The class (minus Stevie) was in a neat line, and by this point they’d stopped fidgeting, writhing and fighting with each other; they were focused entirely on me. Using Stevie’s words of encouragement and direction, I pushed myself forward and then pulled back quickly. Then, rather than lifting the front wheels gracefully off the ground while appearing cool and lithe in my green wheelchair, I flipped over backwards and landed directly on my head.
Luckily I wasn’t wearing a skirt.
Not so luckily, the next group of children had already entered the lunch room (at exactly the same time I landed strategically on my head). My students were motionless and silent. They were convinced I was dead. Before I could prove them otherwise, I heard Brandon whisper:
“Stevie, we killed Miss Hooks.”
Then, still upside down, I erupted into laughter and managed to yell (while laughing), “I TOLD YOU I COULDN’T DO A WHEELIE! GET ME UP!”
Steven and Brandon offered me their hands, and the line changed from a relatively straight and orderly formation into a circle of gaping and appalled (although certainly amused) sixth graders. Even Roxanne, the secretary in charge of lunch duty that day, noticed me on the floor. She grabbed the microphone from the stage (the lunch room doubled as an auditorium) and drew every child’s attention to the mess that was myself on the cafeteria floor:
“Hooks, what on earth are you doing on the floor?”
I have no idea what I taught that day. I’m sure my students don’t know either. I do, however, remember the girls in my class that gathered around my head to ask if I was okay, and the firm grasp of Brandon and Stevie's hands that pulled me off the ground.
My pride was slightly damaged – for obvious reasons. But teaching in a wheelchair wasn’t necessarily all bad. I knew I loved my students. Had I not ended up on the floor of the cafeteria with thirty concerned kids trying to get me up, I might not have learned that they loved me back.
One winter afternoon, I wheeled to the cafeteria to retrieve my second group of sixth graders from lunch. I had used my thirty-minute lunch break not to eat, rather to push myself to and from the main office making copies. I kicked myself through the door to the lunchroom right as 6-02 was lining up along the wall next to my classroom. I was practically sweating from my effort to cram 78 things into a half-an-hour, and my kids were waiting for me impatiently. A few of them were playfully fighting each other, and others appeared to have angry ants in their pants. They were moving around so much I was convinced that some type of stimulant had mysteriously slipped into the school lunch. I gave my thirty sixth graders the sternest face I could muster, and demanded that they stop writhing around and prepare for an afternoon of serious learning.
They listened to my request. Mostly. Except for Stevie. Stevie stood at the line’s center with his best friend, Brandon. Stevie loved my wheelchair. Actually, he was the one who initially removed it, piece by piece, from the trunk of my blue Nissan and constructed it in my classroom. He had studied the chair for a few minutes, furrowed his twelve-year-old brow, and then pulled the cord in the back. The seat bent upwards and Stevie slid the wheels on effortlessly, all the while he explained exactly what he was doing with more patience and clarity than I ever used while describing the five-step writing process. Stevie was difficult to teach because he had the uncanny ability to see the other, less popular, sixth graders surreptitiously picking their noses. Then he’d quietly point at the nose-picker, and learning would cease until his twenty-nine peers would stop giggling and gaping. Stevie also back flipped off of a table in my classroom before dismissal one afternoon. He landed the flip like a gymnast, but I was appalled with myself – that a third year teacher failed to notice a small child climb a table was another testament to my year end’s requisite career move.
In the cafeteria, Stevie innocently asked if I knew how to “pop a wheelie” with my wheelchair. I told him I didn’t, repeated how important it was that learning commence, and continued towards my room. Stevie didn’t move though, and neither did his classmates. Stevie’s question quickly commanded the attention of the rest of the class. Brandon spoke next,
“Try one, Miss Hooks – they’re fun.”
This comment was followed by numerous words of encouragement from the rest of the class, and culminated with my authoritative answer:
“We have important things to do, and I don’t know how to do one anyway.”
In retrospect, my response was completely ineffectual at redirecting the attention of my students away from the wheelchair and towards the all-important lesson on Ancient Egypt.
Stevie left the line and grabbed the back of my chair. “You just push yourself forward and then pull back hard, like this.”
(He did it, I tried neither to laugh nor shriek.)
I was secretly amused at their interest in this, and, rather than prioritize Egypt, I agreed – per Stevie and Brandon’s request – to attempt my first wheelie. The class (minus Stevie) was in a neat line, and by this point they’d stopped fidgeting, writhing and fighting with each other; they were focused entirely on me. Using Stevie’s words of encouragement and direction, I pushed myself forward and then pulled back quickly. Then, rather than lifting the front wheels gracefully off the ground while appearing cool and lithe in my green wheelchair, I flipped over backwards and landed directly on my head.
Luckily I wasn’t wearing a skirt.
Not so luckily, the next group of children had already entered the lunch room (at exactly the same time I landed strategically on my head). My students were motionless and silent. They were convinced I was dead. Before I could prove them otherwise, I heard Brandon whisper:
“Stevie, we killed Miss Hooks.”
Then, still upside down, I erupted into laughter and managed to yell (while laughing), “I TOLD YOU I COULDN’T DO A WHEELIE! GET ME UP!”
Steven and Brandon offered me their hands, and the line changed from a relatively straight and orderly formation into a circle of gaping and appalled (although certainly amused) sixth graders. Even Roxanne, the secretary in charge of lunch duty that day, noticed me on the floor. She grabbed the microphone from the stage (the lunch room doubled as an auditorium) and drew every child’s attention to the mess that was myself on the cafeteria floor:
“Hooks, what on earth are you doing on the floor?”
I have no idea what I taught that day. I’m sure my students don’t know either. I do, however, remember the girls in my class that gathered around my head to ask if I was okay, and the firm grasp of Brandon and Stevie's hands that pulled me off the ground.
My pride was slightly damaged – for obvious reasons. But teaching in a wheelchair wasn’t necessarily all bad. I knew I loved my students. Had I not ended up on the floor of the cafeteria with thirty concerned kids trying to get me up, I might not have learned that they loved me back.
A "Real" Teacher
During my first year as a "Teacher for America" in Baltimore, there were rare moments when I didn’t leave my trailer-turned-classroom thinking: this is the single most miserable experience of my life. Sadly, this realization rarely had anything to do with the actual teaching process. In fact, it rarely had anything to do with my own students. Which led me to the disheartening conclusion that I should seriously consider quitting my job… but MS is expensive and I needed the health insurance.
Sometime in March, I literally stumbled out of my portable classroom and began the short, though laborious, hike to the main building. Actually, there was nothing laborious about the hike except for my inability to successfully navigate (or dodge) the swarm of crazed first graders who were outside for recess. There must have been some type of magnetic field surrounding my body, because no matter how hard I attempted to project irritation, I still had to pluck at least six grubby children from my legs before reaching the sacred door that symbolized my hour of freedom. This particular day was no exception.
A small blonde haired child with dark brown roots, whose head was far too large for his body, attached himself to my (slightly too short) navy skirt: “Excuse me. Excuse me, are you a teacher?” He sounded like a high-pitched alien when he spoke.
And suddenly he had several friends with him. The one who spoke next still had saved the majority of his lunch on his face for later: “Yeah! Are you a real teacher?”
This made me laugh (amidst thoughts of: why is your lunch still on your face? Please don’t touch me), and then I replied, “Of course I’m a real teacher, silly, what else would I be?”
Suddenly another child appeared, he was very chubby. He might have stored his lunch in his cheeks: “You fell over once, though.”
And his high-pitched friends all echoed his point: “Yeah, yeah! We saw you!”
The saddest thing about my resultant thought process was that I couldn’t isolate which time they were referring to. Suddenly I took them very seriously. I thought at first that they doubted my status as a “real” teacher because of my short skirt, or maybe because they'd heard the previous racket that resonated from my classroom. And, coupled with the fact that one of my eighth grade students was recently escorted from my classroom by the school disciplinarian for wielding a lit match during my class, I honestly had to hesitate before affirming my own status as a “real” teacher. That they thought I wasn't real because I fell over, though? That was absurd.
I squatted down to first grade eye-level: “You mean in the computer room the other day?”
Four pairs of big eyes nodded in unison.
“Well why can’t teachers fall over every once in a while? Don’t you fall over sometimes?”
Their heads continued to nod (this might have been a result of ADD, not agreement). And the big-headed child, with two-toned hair stepped forward:
“Well, were you okay? Are you hurt?”
And this question instantly dissipated my concern for their collective absurdity. Because amidst the atmosphere of general hostility and complete self-involved ignorance which characterized many of my experiences at that school, there was a moment of genuine compassion.
Sometime in March, I literally stumbled out of my portable classroom and began the short, though laborious, hike to the main building. Actually, there was nothing laborious about the hike except for my inability to successfully navigate (or dodge) the swarm of crazed first graders who were outside for recess. There must have been some type of magnetic field surrounding my body, because no matter how hard I attempted to project irritation, I still had to pluck at least six grubby children from my legs before reaching the sacred door that symbolized my hour of freedom. This particular day was no exception.
A small blonde haired child with dark brown roots, whose head was far too large for his body, attached himself to my (slightly too short) navy skirt: “Excuse me. Excuse me, are you a teacher?” He sounded like a high-pitched alien when he spoke.
And suddenly he had several friends with him. The one who spoke next still had saved the majority of his lunch on his face for later: “Yeah! Are you a real teacher?”
This made me laugh (amidst thoughts of: why is your lunch still on your face? Please don’t touch me), and then I replied, “Of course I’m a real teacher, silly, what else would I be?”
Suddenly another child appeared, he was very chubby. He might have stored his lunch in his cheeks: “You fell over once, though.”
And his high-pitched friends all echoed his point: “Yeah, yeah! We saw you!”
The saddest thing about my resultant thought process was that I couldn’t isolate which time they were referring to. Suddenly I took them very seriously. I thought at first that they doubted my status as a “real” teacher because of my short skirt, or maybe because they'd heard the previous racket that resonated from my classroom. And, coupled with the fact that one of my eighth grade students was recently escorted from my classroom by the school disciplinarian for wielding a lit match during my class, I honestly had to hesitate before affirming my own status as a “real” teacher. That they thought I wasn't real because I fell over, though? That was absurd.
I squatted down to first grade eye-level: “You mean in the computer room the other day?”
Four pairs of big eyes nodded in unison.
“Well why can’t teachers fall over every once in a while? Don’t you fall over sometimes?”
Their heads continued to nod (this might have been a result of ADD, not agreement). And the big-headed child, with two-toned hair stepped forward:
“Well, were you okay? Are you hurt?”
And this question instantly dissipated my concern for their collective absurdity. Because amidst the atmosphere of general hostility and complete self-involved ignorance which characterized many of my experiences at that school, there was a moment of genuine compassion.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
A Silent Minority
The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) is a Federal civil rights law that prohibits discrimination against people with disabilities in everyday activities, such as buying an item at the store, going to the movies, enjoying a meal at a local restaurant, exercising at the health club, or having the car serviced at a local garage.
My mom recently asked a friend why, if the ADA has existed since 1992, things are still so inaccessible. The friend’s answer was succinct: “People with disabilities comprise a silent minority.”
When my mom relayed the story to me I scoffed at the word “silent.” I’m the opposite of silent. My roommate needs ear plugs to study while I talk on the phone, and my laugh is so cacophonous that entire restaurants filled with people have stopped chewing to turn and gape at me. I’m decidedly extroverted, yet increasingly disabled. Loud + Disabled = A Silent Minority? I don’t think so. Plus, I’m as open about my disability as possible. Short of tattooing “I have multiple sclerosis” across my forehead, I do everything I can to assure that strangers understand why I fall over in public, why I use a wheelchair to grocery shop, and why I need someone else’s barstool in a bar.
Clearly I have no problem discussing my disability with anyone who asks (or happens to be in the way). But when it comes to advocacy my mom’s friend was correct: I am silent. Not only am I silent, I’m apologetic. I’m riddled with guilt whenever someone stands in the rain for an extra few minutes to open a door for me, or when someone in Safeway reaches an item off of the top shelf for me. I genuinely don’t want to ask someone for their seat in a bar, and I feel horrible asking friends to take me to the bathroom in restaurants. At this moment, I’m the only 26 year-old I know who genuinely needs assistance getting from point A to point B to ensure that I don’t wobble into a stranger, lose my balance and fall over or, most horrifying yet, injure myself in a bathroom and rely upon an ambulance to extract me from a hotel room (it’s happened). Often I use my wheelchair and get myself stuck between doors, or find myself asking for help when something remains just out of my reach. Invariably, whether I’m grabbing onto a stranger’s head for balance, or asking someone to open the door a little wider so I can dislodge myself from an entrance, the action or request is always followed by an overt expression of guilt that boils down to a repetitive, “I’m so sorry.” Then I smile as sweetly as possible, internally remind myself that I didn’t choose to knock the guy’s toupee off, and continue on my way.
One of my teacher friends refuses to let his students use the words “I’m sorry.” He says there are enough “sorry” people in the world, and if you’re truly contrite it is better expressed through the words “I apologize.” When he told me this I laughed, but didn’t necessarily agree. It made me think, though. It also made me increasingly cognizant of how often I use the phrase “I’m sorry.”
Sorry, according to Roget’s Thesaurus, connotes both regret and remorse. It’s also synonymous with sadness. In all cases, the word fits my circumstance: I truly am sorry that my friends have to help me get to the bathroom, I regret my efforts to get through heavy doors with my wheelchair, I’m remorseful that I’m not able-bodied, and when I want to purchase a gift at an inaccessible store, my frustration yields a certain level of sadness. Having multiple sclerosis makes me mourn things I never used to appreciate: shoveling snow, vacuuming, shaving my legs without sitting on the floor of the tub, or even cleaning the toilet without fatigue. I watch my roommates take the garbage out and get ready to go out without constant concern about whether they’ll be able to stand later that evening. They’re able to clean the house, work out, help with my laundry and shower – all without falling over. This, to me, after a mere seven years with MS, is remarkable. At the same time, though, I clearly remember my disdain for such tasks: no one enjoys cleaning the toilet, fatigue or not. Which is why I feel so sorry – partially for myself (because the only thing worse than cleaning a toilet is wishing you could) but mainly for the friends and family members I impose myself upon constantly.
It’s interesting to me how guilty I feel; even when others love me unconditionally. I know my mom will still love me after she goes up and down the stairs for the fifteenth time collecting imperative things that I’ve forgotten from my room, but I still feel awful. Consequently, I apologize. My resultant overuse of the word “sorry” once caused my roommate to unintentionally fling me on the floor of a restaurant because she moved abruptly to admonish my sixth consecutive utterance of the phrase, “I’m sorry” (I kept stepping on her heels). Her sudden movement caused me to lose my balance entirely (which was placed, in my opinion, burdensomely, on her shoulders) and I ended up underneath the bar, across the room. I feel even worse when I startle strangers – when people who don’t love me unconditionally have to get the Ben and Jerry’s out of the freezer for me in the grocery store, or when strange life guards at the YMCA have to scrape me off the slimy pool deck because my legs won’t support me and my feet refuse to work on slippery surfaces. People have held their umbrellas over me while I struggle with my slippery metal wheelchair in the rain, have pushed me out of puddles when I’m stuck, and have pulled and pushed me up stairwells. I feel like these poor people will suffer at least some level of emotional trauma as a result of my occasionally tear stained face, or that their lives will forever be tainted by the strange girl who lost her balance and grabbed onto them in the Gap.
Someone wrote once that as a person with a disability, you “have to be the kind of person that others want to help.” For me that translates to openness about my disease, to constant apologies regarding my needs, and to an overly active sense of humor – all of which I use to compensate for my self-acclaimed burdensome nature.
I thought about these things a lot: whether I do, in fact, represent part of a “silent minority,” why I feel so guilty, and why my ex-boyfriend told me I “apologize too much.” And after thinking about it and talking about it and even praying about it some, I decided that my definition of the word “silent” was limited and that my mom’s friend, on some level, was right. I view the word silent as exclusively synonymous with the word “quiet” (which I’m not). But silent also means “unvoiced” and “unspoken,” which, when it comes to things I need, is true. I am far more likely to apologetically ask for help, than liable to demand that restaurants/stores/gas stations/bars etc. are made accessible. My roommate summed it up concisely when she suggested, “You make up a population of silent people because you already feel too damn guilty about asking for help.”
I wonder, if the ADA’s objective were achieved (it was, after all, passed twelve years ago), would I need to be “the kind of person others want to help”? Would I need to constantly apologize, or make sure to be open and funny and warm if I could achieve my objective without assistance? I doubt it. I’d be able to reach things in grocery stores, get jeans off the shelf in the mall, and get myself through doors at the gym. I could save my overuse of the word “sorry” for my roommates, continue to mourn my usefulness in the kitchen, and help myself in public. I do comprise a silent minority right now – I am careful with my energy and I’m particular about the battles I choose to pick. I wonder, though, when this will change; when the ADA will offer more than lip service and will provide an entire population of people with disabilities the chance to stop feeling guilty all the time and accomplish things on their own. In the meantime, maybe it’s time that I wean myself away from the phrase “I’m so sorry” and speak up about the things that really need to be said.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Impatience and Hope
I started my last journal with a T.S. Eliot quote: "I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing."
Apparently when I started the journal, I found the quote applicable. The words make sense – especially since, as strange as it seems, my journal is actually a written compilation of letters to God rather than the deep inner working of my mind written to no one in particular. T.S. Eliot is right, I do often hope for (and pray for) the “wrong” things. Plus I'm edgy and impatient and occasionally hostile when my prayers don't yield what I want them to. I wonder, though, what life would be like if I were able to enter some meditative-type/acquiescent stage of my life and just wait around contently for things to play out the "right" way.
I juxtaposed T.S. Eliot’s quote with an entry that asks God for the strength and guidance to:
1. Complete my book, write and mail query letters and proposals and find an ideal-type agent and publisher.
2. Find a job that capitalizes on my strengths and allows me to give of myself to others.
3. Learn to be more proactive rather than reactive when faced with challenging situations (i.e. anticipate such challenges and learn to deal with them in an effective and reasonable fashion rather than throwing temper tantrums etc.).
4. Heal physically.
5. Write, give, reflect and spread love.
6. Love at least one person more than I do now. Learn to accept and appreciate love in return.
7. Cultivate grace, willpower, and improved character.
All seven of those prayer requests necessitate a certain amount of hope, right? They also require patience and faith and, in some respects, self-motivation. Maybe T.S. Eliot was right, and we should just sit back and wait for the things we need, but I’m worried about what I’d do in the interim. I despise apathy.
Plus, I'm willing to admit that sometimes I hope for the wrong things: my ex will not fall magically in love with me, I most likely will not wake up tomorrow morning without MS, and unless I make a few phone calls and continue to write, I will likely never find my dream job. But something pushes me to embrace life in spite of loneliness, a neurological disease and a nonexistent publishing contract. For me it's hope. It’s the fundamental belief that, as the unknown author purports, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it is not okay, it is not the end.”
In the meantime, I’ll most likely wait with hope, a moderate amount of predictable impatience and the acknowledgement that, until my limbs refuse to cooperate at all, I will not “be still.”
Apparently when I started the journal, I found the quote applicable. The words make sense – especially since, as strange as it seems, my journal is actually a written compilation of letters to God rather than the deep inner working of my mind written to no one in particular. T.S. Eliot is right, I do often hope for (and pray for) the “wrong” things. Plus I'm edgy and impatient and occasionally hostile when my prayers don't yield what I want them to. I wonder, though, what life would be like if I were able to enter some meditative-type/acquiescent stage of my life and just wait around contently for things to play out the "right" way.
I juxtaposed T.S. Eliot’s quote with an entry that asks God for the strength and guidance to:
1. Complete my book, write and mail query letters and proposals and find an ideal-type agent and publisher.
2. Find a job that capitalizes on my strengths and allows me to give of myself to others.
3. Learn to be more proactive rather than reactive when faced with challenging situations (i.e. anticipate such challenges and learn to deal with them in an effective and reasonable fashion rather than throwing temper tantrums etc.).
4. Heal physically.
5. Write, give, reflect and spread love.
6. Love at least one person more than I do now. Learn to accept and appreciate love in return.
7. Cultivate grace, willpower, and improved character.
All seven of those prayer requests necessitate a certain amount of hope, right? They also require patience and faith and, in some respects, self-motivation. Maybe T.S. Eliot was right, and we should just sit back and wait for the things we need, but I’m worried about what I’d do in the interim. I despise apathy.
Plus, I'm willing to admit that sometimes I hope for the wrong things: my ex will not fall magically in love with me, I most likely will not wake up tomorrow morning without MS, and unless I make a few phone calls and continue to write, I will likely never find my dream job. But something pushes me to embrace life in spite of loneliness, a neurological disease and a nonexistent publishing contract. For me it's hope. It’s the fundamental belief that, as the unknown author purports, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it is not okay, it is not the end.”
In the meantime, I’ll most likely wait with hope, a moderate amount of predictable impatience and the acknowledgement that, until my limbs refuse to cooperate at all, I will not “be still.”
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Warm Towels and Cold Showers
I was listening to Maroon 5 in my car last week, and one of the songs includes a line that says: How does it feel to know you'll never have to be alone? Post-song I arrived at the pool. Then, for an entire mile and a half back and forth through the 50 yd pool, I had the same line stuck compulsively in my head: how does it feel to know you'll never have to be alone? Over and over and over again...
Which got old after about the third lap.
When I got home that night though, I asked my roommate, Anique, what that feels like - to never have to be alone. She's recently engaged and has been involved in this amazingly blissful and drama-free relationship for two and a half years. When I asked the question she was on her way out the door, and I was itchy from the overly-chlorinated pool, so we went our separate ways - Anique to her fiancee's house, and myself to the shower. I asked her for a proper analogy by the weekend.
The next day, though, I changed CDs in my car, and forgot about the question entirely. Anique, thankfully, didn't.
On Saturday night, after a full day of wedding-related shoe shopping, the two of us sat down for Mexican food and margaritas at a local restaurant. She turned to me and said, "Do you remember the question you asked me? The one about what it feels like to never have to be alone? Well I have an answer..."
She then launched into the following: she talked about taking a shower in the middle of the winter, and running out of warm water towards the very end. She talked about how it feels to rinse the conditioner out of your hair, start to get goose bumps, and quickly reach out of the shower to grab your towel (which, you discover, is missing). Right when you're about to start screaming for your roommate, or the mysterious God of shower-remedies to bring you a towel, and you're most definitely nearing hypothermia, the door opens and your fiancee enters. Before you even begin your towel-related tirade, he hands you one. One that he just removed from the drier. He, with no prompting, hands you a big towel that's warm and fluffy and smells like Bounce drier sheets.
That, she said, is what it feels like to never have to be alone. It's security. It's inevitable warmth when you think you're likely to freeze to death, and it's knowing that someone out there is thinking about you even when you're too absent minded to think about yourself.
She might have said more, but at that point I was too busy making a public spectacle of myself crying hysterically to listen properly. I'm not predisposed to public crying fits, honestly. I embrace my independence. I love my freedom and my friends and my own schedule etc. I have a strong faith and a beautiful family and friends that love me unconditionally... but I can't think of too many things that compare to a warm towel after a cold shower. I really can't.
Which got old after about the third lap.
When I got home that night though, I asked my roommate, Anique, what that feels like - to never have to be alone. She's recently engaged and has been involved in this amazingly blissful and drama-free relationship for two and a half years. When I asked the question she was on her way out the door, and I was itchy from the overly-chlorinated pool, so we went our separate ways - Anique to her fiancee's house, and myself to the shower. I asked her for a proper analogy by the weekend.
The next day, though, I changed CDs in my car, and forgot about the question entirely. Anique, thankfully, didn't.
On Saturday night, after a full day of wedding-related shoe shopping, the two of us sat down for Mexican food and margaritas at a local restaurant. She turned to me and said, "Do you remember the question you asked me? The one about what it feels like to never have to be alone? Well I have an answer..."
She then launched into the following: she talked about taking a shower in the middle of the winter, and running out of warm water towards the very end. She talked about how it feels to rinse the conditioner out of your hair, start to get goose bumps, and quickly reach out of the shower to grab your towel (which, you discover, is missing). Right when you're about to start screaming for your roommate, or the mysterious God of shower-remedies to bring you a towel, and you're most definitely nearing hypothermia, the door opens and your fiancee enters. Before you even begin your towel-related tirade, he hands you one. One that he just removed from the drier. He, with no prompting, hands you a big towel that's warm and fluffy and smells like Bounce drier sheets.
That, she said, is what it feels like to never have to be alone. It's security. It's inevitable warmth when you think you're likely to freeze to death, and it's knowing that someone out there is thinking about you even when you're too absent minded to think about yourself.
She might have said more, but at that point I was too busy making a public spectacle of myself crying hysterically to listen properly. I'm not predisposed to public crying fits, honestly. I embrace my independence. I love my freedom and my friends and my own schedule etc. I have a strong faith and a beautiful family and friends that love me unconditionally... but I can't think of too many things that compare to a warm towel after a cold shower. I really can't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)