This poem came from a prompt from louderarts.com, and the prompt was written by Marty McConnell--a spoken word artist I really admire.
Here is the prompt:
stanza one: what was the creator thinking when making your hands?
stanza two: something you ate once and never will again
stanza three: something one of your siblings told you once
stanza four: how have your hands changed?
stanza five: the last, best thing you made to eat
stanza six: something your grandmother once told you
stanza seven: what animal or vegetable you would like your hands eventually to become
I stuck to it pretty much. I dare you to try it. It's hard! I dare you to share what you write...I would love to see what other people come up with. :) Stanza 4 is a little off...it's not really about change I guess, and stanza 7 is a plant, not an animal or a vegetable. I think I'm okay with that, though. ;)
Hands
When the creator made my hands,
I am certain that first,
she paused.
Hands are supposed to match
the size of the heart,
so service can match
desire to serve
but to match
the size of my heart, she realized
I would need eight hands, and
knowing I could only be human, she
stopped in thought.
Perhaps she wondered
what life would be like
for a person with a too big heart and
too few hands,
but she decided to send me to earth, and I was
not quite a mistake but more of
an experiment to see
just what I would make of myself.
With not enough hands
I learned to give and give and give
because my heart aches with fullness
wanting to be given and
aches with the
pain of the world.
I have too few hands to protect, to
push away, to stave off the invaders of the spirit,
so I slowly learned
to feed my soul untruths and
nourish myself with lies
I cannot rid my body of and
can only hope
I never have to eat
again.
“When I grow up,” my baby sister said,
“I want to be you.”
We held our hands together
comparing the sizes
she, astonished that my finger tips could
bend over hers,
and then we folded them together
so hers became nearly invisible
under mine
fitting neatly like they wanted
that protection, like maybe that is why
my hands were made.
I hope the creator gave her
stronger hands than mine:
her spirit needs protection against
those falsehoods
I ingested.
These hands were meant to
topple patriarchy, to
build houses, to
wipe away the tears of babies
and grandmas, to
hold puppies and encyclopedias, to
nourish a strong
survivor of a soul
to do the job of 8 hands in
10 fingers
so instead, they
play music in the isolation
drawing melodies from simple strings of the
harp or heart variety, it
doesn’t matter
the difference is only
two small letters,
really.
I watched my hands as I
cut the broccoli
having not eaten the entire day
my hands were shaky as I
sliced the thick, green, crunchy stalk
sending tiny florets skating
across the counter.
I cooked it quickly,
“pan-roasted” as the recipe’s name implied,
on the stove top
with salt and pepper
and a bit of butter
it tasted like
health and
vitality
and nourishment without shame.
It had been so long, I almost
forgot what that tasted like.
“You’re an old soul, Laura,”
my grandmother said.
I was 8 at the time
so I nodded
hoping this was a good thing.
I wonder what my hands were like
on my first trip around the sun.
When I die, again,
returning
to the Earth as nothing more than a bit of dirt
a soft place in the ground
giving a worm a small, fertile plot or a
leaf a comfortable place to land,
when I die and fall into
forgotten nothingness
from the place where my hands are laid will spring
two, purple flowers
the only thing left
of the energy I was.
Autodidact: (n) a self-taught person. Poet: (n) a person who writes poetry. Autodidactpoet: (n) A blog full of thoughts from a self-taught writer.
Monday, November 8, 2010
I wear myself differently now
“Pretty is as pretty does,”
my grandmother said,
and I learned
to be the girl who does pretty
and was pretty
and did pretty
well
in everything, and knew that to
be pretty
do pretty and
make pretty
good friends, you have to
be pretty good and
make your parents
pretty proud and
have nice fingernails because
pretty girls have nice fingernails,
my grandmother told me.
“Actions speak louder than words,”
was another adage repeated
so I learned
to be the girl who acted loudly and
spoke softly and
knew what to do
and how to do it in actions but
couldn’t form the words or find the voice because
the actions were what counted and
the voice behind could be silent,
humble, and
unassuming. Just
leave the rest for those who
have something to say, I thought, because
I’m the girl who
does pretty
good things and has pretty
fingernails, you see. The
action of compassion
was the only thing that mattered
and stories didn’t get told because I believed
actions were louder
than voice.
But the layered
truths of my life
spread themselves thicker and thicker
moving me from pretty
good stories to pretty
strong thoughts to,
well,
pretty much just
“what the fuck?”
and I can’t get to the center
of my stomach
where the layers lie
covering the truth that cannot be told
where the pretty
brutal fact that
life isn’t always pretty
lives. It’s the pit where you know
friends can betray you and where
having pretty actions,
pretty words, and a pretty face
can lead you to a pretty
horrible evening, where the
loudness of your actions
is ignored, the
loudness of your words means
nothing at all,
and you spend the next
two
four
six
seven months
biting your nails, wondering
if you’ll ever be a
pretty girl
again.
Pretty used to glow
like an innocence on my skin
and my actions served as vehicles
curating my soul
exposing the hidden beauty
of a pretty confident woman
with words that whispered of amazement
revealing my faith in the people of my world.
I wear myself differently now
casting off the prettiness
holding the confidence
with bated breath
hiding the strength of my voice
where the prettiness used to be
immobilizing my actions
in the fear
named Aftermath
hoping one day I’ll wear myself
as something undeniably
beautiful.
my grandmother said,
and I learned
to be the girl who does pretty
and was pretty
and did pretty
well
in everything, and knew that to
be pretty
do pretty and
make pretty
good friends, you have to
be pretty good and
make your parents
pretty proud and
have nice fingernails because
pretty girls have nice fingernails,
my grandmother told me.
“Actions speak louder than words,”
was another adage repeated
so I learned
to be the girl who acted loudly and
spoke softly and
knew what to do
and how to do it in actions but
couldn’t form the words or find the voice because
the actions were what counted and
the voice behind could be silent,
humble, and
unassuming. Just
leave the rest for those who
have something to say, I thought, because
I’m the girl who
does pretty
good things and has pretty
fingernails, you see. The
action of compassion
was the only thing that mattered
and stories didn’t get told because I believed
actions were louder
than voice.
But the layered
truths of my life
spread themselves thicker and thicker
moving me from pretty
good stories to pretty
strong thoughts to,
well,
pretty much just
“what the fuck?”
and I can’t get to the center
of my stomach
where the layers lie
covering the truth that cannot be told
where the pretty
brutal fact that
life isn’t always pretty
lives. It’s the pit where you know
friends can betray you and where
having pretty actions,
pretty words, and a pretty face
can lead you to a pretty
horrible evening, where the
loudness of your actions
is ignored, the
loudness of your words means
nothing at all,
and you spend the next
two
four
six
seven months
biting your nails, wondering
if you’ll ever be a
pretty girl
again.
Pretty used to glow
like an innocence on my skin
and my actions served as vehicles
curating my soul
exposing the hidden beauty
of a pretty confident woman
with words that whispered of amazement
revealing my faith in the people of my world.
I wear myself differently now
casting off the prettiness
holding the confidence
with bated breath
hiding the strength of my voice
where the prettiness used to be
immobilizing my actions
in the fear
named Aftermath
hoping one day I’ll wear myself
as something undeniably
beautiful.
Friday, October 8, 2010
We ain't from around those parts
I recently found this saved on my computer. I wrote it last December--it made me laugh, so I figured it was worth sharing.
We (my mom, dad, sisters and I) went to Chestertown for a few days; sort of a wedding anniversary trip for my parents...with the 3 kids along as a bonus present. I know they found it incredibly romantic. "What are we doing next?" "Where are we going now?" "I'm cold." "I'm hot." "My feet are cold." "Get your feet off of me! God!" "Where are we going now?" "Do you have any lotion?" "I'm thirsty." "Does anyone have a mint?" "I need to go to the bathroom again." "Where are we?" Yes, the 3 kids ARE all over 16. And yes, we (meaning my two younger sisters, not me of course), still sound like that.
Oh, you've never heard of Chestertown? How about Betterton? No? Umm...does Still Pond ring a bell? Rock Hall? No? That's okay, too. I saw a t-shirt once that read "Where the hell is Betterton?" on the front. On the back it said "It's 12 miles from Still Pond." That's a knee slapper.
Ever seen the movie "Runaway Bride"? You know the town in that movie? That's about half an hour away from Chestertown. Don't worry, it's not like the town in the movie. It's smaller. We used to go there a lot because my grandparents had a condo in Betterton. It's fun in the summer: deserted beaches, swimming in the Chesapeake Bay, swimming in deserted swimming pools, hunting for sea glass, long walks around a tiny little town while whistling the theme song from Andy Griffith...those were the days. In the winter, however, it's a little different. Or rather, it's the same, which is the problem. Deserted beaches, walking along the Chesapeake Bay, looking at deserted swimming pools, hunting for sea glass, long walks around a little town while whistling the theme song from Andy Griffith...all while it's 30 degrees and windy and damp and occasionally raining.
My Grandfather doesn't have the condo anymore, so we were staying in a Holiday Inn with all the duck hunters that come down 'round those parts this time of year. They started the continental breakfast at 4 AM so those men could get out early and shoot them some nice mallards. I've never seen so many men in camo, and I've never heard anybody so loud, either. Some of the duck killers must have stayed above us, because around 4 AM, we heard them tramping back and forth across the floor. They must have walked back and forth at least 20 times in their mud boots, probably banging the butt of their gun along the floor as they walked. It's always nice to get in an elevator with 2 men in camoflauge holding rifles that come to their waist. Kind of makes you want to either a) wait for the next elevator or b)flatten yourself against the opposite wall of the elevator. As the men were friendly and I didn't want to appear rude, I opted for the latter. I thought I was doing pretty well in hiding my anxiety: I didn't stare at the guns and I managed to smile, I just also had myself flattened to the wall. My mom gave it away when she said, "We'll ride with you so long as you're careful not to shoot us." With 4 women flattened to the opposite wall and falling over one another to get as far away from them as possible, I bet they had no idea we were a little nervous.
The best time, however, was when we went into the country store/liquor store/restaurant. There aren't many places left where you can buy a six pack of beer, a cheeseburger, a piece of coconut cake, handpainted oyster shell Santa Clause ornaments, and greeting cards all in the same place. We didn't initially go there for lunch, we went to go to the bathroom. See, we had already stopped at the country store in Betterton--the one with the green ham slabs sitting out, but they didn't have a bathroom. So my mom asked "Is there anyplace you know of that we can use a bathroom between here and Rock Hall?"
"Between here and Rock Hall?" the woman thought, clearly puzzled. "Here...and Rock...Hall...you know, I don't think there is. There's really not much between here and there, and I don't think there's any place that would have a public restroom. No...no...I'm pretty sure there isn't anything between here and Rock Hall. Sorry girls!" she said cheerily. "It's too bad the corn's been cut, you could've just used a corn field. That's what I have my grandkids do."
*Please keep in mind that all of this is true. I kid you not. This actually happened. Go ask the lady in Betterton; she probably remembers us.*
So we started driving to Rock Hall, and about half way, we ran into this country store place and decided it was worth a shot. Whatever possessed my dad to send 4 women into the country store during hunting season by themselves, I have no idea. We were greeted by about 12 pairs of elevator eyes dressed in full camouflage. They took one look at us--and I mean ALL of us, and you could tell they knew we weren't from 'round those parts. My mom asked if there was a bathroom, and there was, around back behind the kitchen, through a door on one hinge, up a slight incline and tilted to the left, with a toilet that shifted to the right when you sat down. There was no toilet paper or paper towels, but there was a nice prayer you could read as you went to the bathroom, and another to read as you washed your hands. Strangely, they had nothing to do with asking God to prevent you from chapping.
We ended up getting lunch from there because, well, you never know when you're going to come up on a place like THAT again, and no one died of salmonella or ptomaine poisoning. It was actually a pretty good tuna fish sandwich, I have to say (but of course it was good...it was Betty and Joe, and they've been there since they were kids and their parents owned the store, or something like that).
It really was a nice vacation, all in all. We all even managed to get along most of the time. At least, everyone still has all the body parts they left with. A change of scenery does everyone good. It was freezing cold and windy and wet, but my mom loves looking for seaglass, so we did. For hours. On three different beaches. And then we went in an antique store and my mom shopped. For hours. Talked to the man who owned the store about Ironstone somethingorother plates forever. Then we had dinner, came back to our hotel room around 7, and my mom flipped channels on the TV for about 3 hours until we went to bed, only to be woken up at 4 by the hunters upstairs. I guess they were saving their soft walking and stalking skills for the birds.
One night, we were all hungry at 9:15, so we went out to get something to eat. Mind you, for my family, this is HUGE. We just...don't go out at night. Ever. Even at home. Period. That's something you just don't do. So we were excited. Bouncing off the walls sort of excited. We were suddenly entering uncharted territory. Who KNEW what would happen? Well...upon asking the hotel clerk where we could go, we learned that everything was pretty much shut down by 9, but Daphne's was probably still open. Daphne's was literally across the street, but we drove, because it was dark and cold, and we didn't want TOO much of an adventure. Remember: hunters with elevator eyes, potential ptomaine poisoning, and frostbite on the beach are okay...going out after 8 is still the unknown. So we drove to Daphne's and ordered cheeseburgers and milkshakes and soda and stuff and then we drove back, with my mother in a foul mood, and my sister angry about one thing or another. It was 9:30. I guess you have to start small. I ended up with just a soda, because Daphne's didn't understand the meaning of the word vegetarian, so out of Our Big Adventure, I got a small Sprite. We had dried pineapple rings in our hotel room from home, and I tried to tell myself it was exotic, but it didn't really work; I was still in a hotel room in the middle of nowhere drinking Sprite and eating dried fruit while watching a made-for-TV Disney movie about a boy who decides he wants to do double-dutch instead of boxing.
In a strange way, of course, I really did enjoy it, in spite of my sarcasm, because this is just what my family does. We go to tiny places no one has heard of in the off-season for places that don't even have an in-season, we walk in the cold, shop in the cold, eat in sketchy places, and watch Disney movies. We ride around in the car and look at birds, bring home a boat load of beach finds, go "in for the night" at around 7, and never listen to music in the car because my mom says she can't hear and see at the same time. It's what we do best. How can I not love it?
We (my mom, dad, sisters and I) went to Chestertown for a few days; sort of a wedding anniversary trip for my parents...with the 3 kids along as a bonus present. I know they found it incredibly romantic. "What are we doing next?" "Where are we going now?" "I'm cold." "I'm hot." "My feet are cold." "Get your feet off of me! God!" "Where are we going now?" "Do you have any lotion?" "I'm thirsty." "Does anyone have a mint?" "I need to go to the bathroom again." "Where are we?" Yes, the 3 kids ARE all over 16. And yes, we (meaning my two younger sisters, not me of course), still sound like that.
Oh, you've never heard of Chestertown? How about Betterton? No? Umm...does Still Pond ring a bell? Rock Hall? No? That's okay, too. I saw a t-shirt once that read "Where the hell is Betterton?" on the front. On the back it said "It's 12 miles from Still Pond." That's a knee slapper.
Ever seen the movie "Runaway Bride"? You know the town in that movie? That's about half an hour away from Chestertown. Don't worry, it's not like the town in the movie. It's smaller. We used to go there a lot because my grandparents had a condo in Betterton. It's fun in the summer: deserted beaches, swimming in the Chesapeake Bay, swimming in deserted swimming pools, hunting for sea glass, long walks around a tiny little town while whistling the theme song from Andy Griffith...those were the days. In the winter, however, it's a little different. Or rather, it's the same, which is the problem. Deserted beaches, walking along the Chesapeake Bay, looking at deserted swimming pools, hunting for sea glass, long walks around a little town while whistling the theme song from Andy Griffith...all while it's 30 degrees and windy and damp and occasionally raining.
My Grandfather doesn't have the condo anymore, so we were staying in a Holiday Inn with all the duck hunters that come down 'round those parts this time of year. They started the continental breakfast at 4 AM so those men could get out early and shoot them some nice mallards. I've never seen so many men in camo, and I've never heard anybody so loud, either. Some of the duck killers must have stayed above us, because around 4 AM, we heard them tramping back and forth across the floor. They must have walked back and forth at least 20 times in their mud boots, probably banging the butt of their gun along the floor as they walked. It's always nice to get in an elevator with 2 men in camoflauge holding rifles that come to their waist. Kind of makes you want to either a) wait for the next elevator or b)flatten yourself against the opposite wall of the elevator. As the men were friendly and I didn't want to appear rude, I opted for the latter. I thought I was doing pretty well in hiding my anxiety: I didn't stare at the guns and I managed to smile, I just also had myself flattened to the wall. My mom gave it away when she said, "We'll ride with you so long as you're careful not to shoot us." With 4 women flattened to the opposite wall and falling over one another to get as far away from them as possible, I bet they had no idea we were a little nervous.
The best time, however, was when we went into the country store/liquor store/restaurant. There aren't many places left where you can buy a six pack of beer, a cheeseburger, a piece of coconut cake, handpainted oyster shell Santa Clause ornaments, and greeting cards all in the same place. We didn't initially go there for lunch, we went to go to the bathroom. See, we had already stopped at the country store in Betterton--the one with the green ham slabs sitting out, but they didn't have a bathroom. So my mom asked "Is there anyplace you know of that we can use a bathroom between here and Rock Hall?"
"Between here and Rock Hall?" the woman thought, clearly puzzled. "Here...and Rock...Hall...you know, I don't think there is. There's really not much between here and there, and I don't think there's any place that would have a public restroom. No...no...I'm pretty sure there isn't anything between here and Rock Hall. Sorry girls!" she said cheerily. "It's too bad the corn's been cut, you could've just used a corn field. That's what I have my grandkids do."
*Please keep in mind that all of this is true. I kid you not. This actually happened. Go ask the lady in Betterton; she probably remembers us.*
So we started driving to Rock Hall, and about half way, we ran into this country store place and decided it was worth a shot. Whatever possessed my dad to send 4 women into the country store during hunting season by themselves, I have no idea. We were greeted by about 12 pairs of elevator eyes dressed in full camouflage. They took one look at us--and I mean ALL of us, and you could tell they knew we weren't from 'round those parts. My mom asked if there was a bathroom, and there was, around back behind the kitchen, through a door on one hinge, up a slight incline and tilted to the left, with a toilet that shifted to the right when you sat down. There was no toilet paper or paper towels, but there was a nice prayer you could read as you went to the bathroom, and another to read as you washed your hands. Strangely, they had nothing to do with asking God to prevent you from chapping.
We ended up getting lunch from there because, well, you never know when you're going to come up on a place like THAT again, and no one died of salmonella or ptomaine poisoning. It was actually a pretty good tuna fish sandwich, I have to say (but of course it was good...it was Betty and Joe, and they've been there since they were kids and their parents owned the store, or something like that).
It really was a nice vacation, all in all. We all even managed to get along most of the time. At least, everyone still has all the body parts they left with. A change of scenery does everyone good. It was freezing cold and windy and wet, but my mom loves looking for seaglass, so we did. For hours. On three different beaches. And then we went in an antique store and my mom shopped. For hours. Talked to the man who owned the store about Ironstone somethingorother plates forever. Then we had dinner, came back to our hotel room around 7, and my mom flipped channels on the TV for about 3 hours until we went to bed, only to be woken up at 4 by the hunters upstairs. I guess they were saving their soft walking and stalking skills for the birds.
One night, we were all hungry at 9:15, so we went out to get something to eat. Mind you, for my family, this is HUGE. We just...don't go out at night. Ever. Even at home. Period. That's something you just don't do. So we were excited. Bouncing off the walls sort of excited. We were suddenly entering uncharted territory. Who KNEW what would happen? Well...upon asking the hotel clerk where we could go, we learned that everything was pretty much shut down by 9, but Daphne's was probably still open. Daphne's was literally across the street, but we drove, because it was dark and cold, and we didn't want TOO much of an adventure. Remember: hunters with elevator eyes, potential ptomaine poisoning, and frostbite on the beach are okay...going out after 8 is still the unknown. So we drove to Daphne's and ordered cheeseburgers and milkshakes and soda and stuff and then we drove back, with my mother in a foul mood, and my sister angry about one thing or another. It was 9:30. I guess you have to start small. I ended up with just a soda, because Daphne's didn't understand the meaning of the word vegetarian, so out of Our Big Adventure, I got a small Sprite. We had dried pineapple rings in our hotel room from home, and I tried to tell myself it was exotic, but it didn't really work; I was still in a hotel room in the middle of nowhere drinking Sprite and eating dried fruit while watching a made-for-TV Disney movie about a boy who decides he wants to do double-dutch instead of boxing.
In a strange way, of course, I really did enjoy it, in spite of my sarcasm, because this is just what my family does. We go to tiny places no one has heard of in the off-season for places that don't even have an in-season, we walk in the cold, shop in the cold, eat in sketchy places, and watch Disney movies. We ride around in the car and look at birds, bring home a boat load of beach finds, go "in for the night" at around 7, and never listen to music in the car because my mom says she can't hear and see at the same time. It's what we do best. How can I not love it?
Saturday, September 25, 2010
On being "okay"
I think a lot, talk a lot, and write a lot about connection, about words, about language, and the spaces between the connections, words, and language that cannot be filled. I think those spaces are necessary. Kahlil Gibran writes:
"…your inner soul is surrounded with solitude and seclusion. Were it not for this solitude and seclusion, you would not be you and I would not be I. Were it not for that solitude and seclusion, I would, if I heard your voice, think myself to be speaking; yet, if I saw your face, I would imagine that I were looking into a mirror."
Being unknown and being unknowable is what draws us together, and what keeps us apart. I think much of life is spent trying to fill those spaces between, to find what lies there, and to find ways of lessening the spaces between us.
Yet, it is so easy to get wrapped up in the mundane nature of the day to day, in the common interactions, that we miss the fact that each interaction is what Rollo May refers to as an “encounter.” We encounter one another’s souls each time we connect, whether we want to or not. Whether we try to, or not. Whether we honor that, or not. “Autopilot” kicks in, and we exchange greetings, sometimes entire conversations, without truly seeing or connecting or being with. I do it all the time—both in giving and in receiving.
How many of you have told someone you’re “okay” when you’re not? *Watches, nodding, as everyone raises their hand.*
How many of you do this regularly? *Watches, nodding, as everybody raises their hands again.*
Yep, I thought so. We all do. Sometimes, it’s just the little stuff that’s got us down: we woke up to the neighbor blaring music, walked into the kitchen to find that the dog had gotten into the garbage can, and trip over the pair of shoes we left in the living room, only to go out to the car and find the engine won’t start. Yeah, that pretty much sucks, no way around it; but when you see somebody and they ask “how are you,” if you’re like me, you’re going to say, “I’m okay.” There may be a sigh, or a grin that says “Oh dear lord, if you only knew…,” but, again, if you’re like me, you’re probably not going to elaborate too much.
But what about when life really sucks? You know, those times beyond the little things like the car not starting. The times when it’s just hard some mornings to drag your butt out of bed. The times when you know in your heart that you’ve hit upon something that is unsayable, when you know you are sitting on a story that is untellable, and when you feel in your gut that you need to say everything is okay, purely because you need someone to believe that it is, even if you can’t. Perhaps it’s all just autopilot then, for a while, or maybe it’s a conscious choice—but I bet, even then, you still told most people, “I’m fine.” “I’m okay.” “I’m hanging in there,” “moving along,” “rolling with the punches,” “doing all right.” My grandmother used to say, “I’m fair to middlin’.”
Sure, I can go through life telling everyone I’m fair to middlin’, and some days, I really am fair to middlin’, whatever that means. Sometimes, these days, though, “I’m okay” is more like a secret code that even I can't discern. Some days, “I’m okay” really means, “I can’t really say what’s going on right now because what I’m thinking is part of my semi-untellable experience, and I know you don’t really want to know.” Sometimes it means, “I don’t know if I’m okay or not.” Some days it says, “nope, not okay, but I don’t want you to know that.”
The past few months, more often than not, there has been this angry part of me that hears me telling everyone “I’m okay” and “I’m fine” when really, I’m just longing to fill that empty space between us that feels miles and miles wide. This angry part of me wants to say “hell no! I’m not ‘okay.’ I’m not ‘fine.’” But then I stop and realize that, yes, in this moment, quite possibly, I am. It’s like this confusing place of “okay” where your entire world is changing as you know it. A place where people are no longer what they were, you are no longer who you were, the world is no longer what it was, and you have no way of understanding this—nor do you want to.
It’s a place of this indefinable change that can’t be described, but can also be “okay” somehow, even while you grieve the change and what you lost. The idea that we can house such dichotomies within ourselves amazes me. The ability to hold so much internally fascinates, encourages, bewilders, and concerns me. Sometimes, this comes out in tears that say, “I am okay, and I am angry, and I am sad, and readjusting, and all of this can only be said through affect.” Sometimes, there is just this confusing state of “I am okay, and I am moving forward and making sense of this new world I find myself in, and I am angry at everything and nothing in particular, and I am sad, and I am confused and shaken and changing in ways I don’t understand and can’t name…and I am also in a place where I can sometimes find peace.”
So what is this “new place?” Am I “okay” or am I “not okay?” I am okay. But I am also not okay because I have to live in a world where really shitty things happen to women. I have to live in a world in which I am scared to leave my apartment at night, a world where I am scared to take walks by myself in broad daylight, a world in which I am now always wondering whether I’m safe or not. I’m not okay because I need to live in a world that makes women question whether what happened to them was “bad enough” to be considered “bad,” a world in which women can be harassed and touched and groped and abused verbally and left with bruises both visible and invisible and be told that they should “be grateful” that “nothing bad happened.”
I’m not okay because I need to live in a world where people can tell women it was their fault, and when they try to get help, they will be questioned as to how they initiated, encouraged, asked for, or did not stop the violence, and will be told that there was nothing that can be done to help them. I need to live in a world where the people women turn to for help become uncomfortable, and these women can be told that if they aren’t standing up to the harassment in a way that will end it, if they don’t speak up, fight back, in just the right way, then they must want it, somehow, subconsciously, and would it be okay if they explored that? This is a world where women are taught for their entire lives to be quiet, and gentle, to not fight back, to not take up space, to not call attention to themselves, and then the second something happens, they are blamed for following all those rules they have been taught.
I live in a world where the victim is blamed over and over and over again. I’m not okay because I need to live with the knowledge that, simply because I am a woman, I am not safe, my body can be seen as public property, and I will be seen as less of a woman—by both men and women—for not acquiescing to what a man wants, when he wants it, whether I know him or not. I’m not okay because there is so often no way for women to fight back to what was done to them, what was taken from them. I’m not okay because I realize that women are not the crazy ones, not the broken ones, not the ones with the problem, and yet they have been made repeatedly to feel crazy and broken and problem-laden when it is actually society that is broken in so many ways. In what way is THAT “okay?” In what way can that, even remotely, be construed as “okay?”
I’m okay. The world is not. And yet, we need to live in it. As a woman, there are few ways to express this anger so it can be heard. As a woman, there are few ways my anger about this issue can be heard. And yet—the anger is what feeds me, is what keeps me going, and keeps me remembering that it’s not me that’s broken.
"…your inner soul is surrounded with solitude and seclusion. Were it not for this solitude and seclusion, you would not be you and I would not be I. Were it not for that solitude and seclusion, I would, if I heard your voice, think myself to be speaking; yet, if I saw your face, I would imagine that I were looking into a mirror."
Being unknown and being unknowable is what draws us together, and what keeps us apart. I think much of life is spent trying to fill those spaces between, to find what lies there, and to find ways of lessening the spaces between us.
Yet, it is so easy to get wrapped up in the mundane nature of the day to day, in the common interactions, that we miss the fact that each interaction is what Rollo May refers to as an “encounter.” We encounter one another’s souls each time we connect, whether we want to or not. Whether we try to, or not. Whether we honor that, or not. “Autopilot” kicks in, and we exchange greetings, sometimes entire conversations, without truly seeing or connecting or being with. I do it all the time—both in giving and in receiving.
How many of you have told someone you’re “okay” when you’re not? *Watches, nodding, as everyone raises their hand.*
How many of you do this regularly? *Watches, nodding, as everybody raises their hands again.*
Yep, I thought so. We all do. Sometimes, it’s just the little stuff that’s got us down: we woke up to the neighbor blaring music, walked into the kitchen to find that the dog had gotten into the garbage can, and trip over the pair of shoes we left in the living room, only to go out to the car and find the engine won’t start. Yeah, that pretty much sucks, no way around it; but when you see somebody and they ask “how are you,” if you’re like me, you’re going to say, “I’m okay.” There may be a sigh, or a grin that says “Oh dear lord, if you only knew…,” but, again, if you’re like me, you’re probably not going to elaborate too much.
But what about when life really sucks? You know, those times beyond the little things like the car not starting. The times when it’s just hard some mornings to drag your butt out of bed. The times when you know in your heart that you’ve hit upon something that is unsayable, when you know you are sitting on a story that is untellable, and when you feel in your gut that you need to say everything is okay, purely because you need someone to believe that it is, even if you can’t. Perhaps it’s all just autopilot then, for a while, or maybe it’s a conscious choice—but I bet, even then, you still told most people, “I’m fine.” “I’m okay.” “I’m hanging in there,” “moving along,” “rolling with the punches,” “doing all right.” My grandmother used to say, “I’m fair to middlin’.”
Sure, I can go through life telling everyone I’m fair to middlin’, and some days, I really am fair to middlin’, whatever that means. Sometimes, these days, though, “I’m okay” is more like a secret code that even I can't discern. Some days, “I’m okay” really means, “I can’t really say what’s going on right now because what I’m thinking is part of my semi-untellable experience, and I know you don’t really want to know.” Sometimes it means, “I don’t know if I’m okay or not.” Some days it says, “nope, not okay, but I don’t want you to know that.”
The past few months, more often than not, there has been this angry part of me that hears me telling everyone “I’m okay” and “I’m fine” when really, I’m just longing to fill that empty space between us that feels miles and miles wide. This angry part of me wants to say “hell no! I’m not ‘okay.’ I’m not ‘fine.’” But then I stop and realize that, yes, in this moment, quite possibly, I am. It’s like this confusing place of “okay” where your entire world is changing as you know it. A place where people are no longer what they were, you are no longer who you were, the world is no longer what it was, and you have no way of understanding this—nor do you want to.
It’s a place of this indefinable change that can’t be described, but can also be “okay” somehow, even while you grieve the change and what you lost. The idea that we can house such dichotomies within ourselves amazes me. The ability to hold so much internally fascinates, encourages, bewilders, and concerns me. Sometimes, this comes out in tears that say, “I am okay, and I am angry, and I am sad, and readjusting, and all of this can only be said through affect.” Sometimes, there is just this confusing state of “I am okay, and I am moving forward and making sense of this new world I find myself in, and I am angry at everything and nothing in particular, and I am sad, and I am confused and shaken and changing in ways I don’t understand and can’t name…and I am also in a place where I can sometimes find peace.”
So what is this “new place?” Am I “okay” or am I “not okay?” I am okay. But I am also not okay because I have to live in a world where really shitty things happen to women. I have to live in a world in which I am scared to leave my apartment at night, a world where I am scared to take walks by myself in broad daylight, a world in which I am now always wondering whether I’m safe or not. I’m not okay because I need to live in a world that makes women question whether what happened to them was “bad enough” to be considered “bad,” a world in which women can be harassed and touched and groped and abused verbally and left with bruises both visible and invisible and be told that they should “be grateful” that “nothing bad happened.”
I’m not okay because I need to live in a world where people can tell women it was their fault, and when they try to get help, they will be questioned as to how they initiated, encouraged, asked for, or did not stop the violence, and will be told that there was nothing that can be done to help them. I need to live in a world where the people women turn to for help become uncomfortable, and these women can be told that if they aren’t standing up to the harassment in a way that will end it, if they don’t speak up, fight back, in just the right way, then they must want it, somehow, subconsciously, and would it be okay if they explored that? This is a world where women are taught for their entire lives to be quiet, and gentle, to not fight back, to not take up space, to not call attention to themselves, and then the second something happens, they are blamed for following all those rules they have been taught.
I live in a world where the victim is blamed over and over and over again. I’m not okay because I need to live with the knowledge that, simply because I am a woman, I am not safe, my body can be seen as public property, and I will be seen as less of a woman—by both men and women—for not acquiescing to what a man wants, when he wants it, whether I know him or not. I’m not okay because there is so often no way for women to fight back to what was done to them, what was taken from them. I’m not okay because I realize that women are not the crazy ones, not the broken ones, not the ones with the problem, and yet they have been made repeatedly to feel crazy and broken and problem-laden when it is actually society that is broken in so many ways. In what way is THAT “okay?” In what way can that, even remotely, be construed as “okay?”
I’m okay. The world is not. And yet, we need to live in it. As a woman, there are few ways to express this anger so it can be heard. As a woman, there are few ways my anger about this issue can be heard. And yet—the anger is what feeds me, is what keeps me going, and keeps me remembering that it’s not me that’s broken.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The psychology and me dilemma
I find that I keep coming up against a dilemma: do I fit in psychology? Do I want to fit in psychology? If so, where do I fit? I will think I have solved it and then I keep revisiting it again and again and again. I know what I want: it sounds so simplistic, and I feel like it’s not professional, or not important or valid or looked kindly upon, or SOMETHING. But what I want to do, really, truly, in the deepest part of my soul, is I want to love. Sometimes I find that I just have so much emotion and feeling that my chest and my heart actually ache and feel as though there is this huge pressure as it tries to get out.
I am quiet. I’m shy. I hate confrontation. I’m not brilliant. I mess up. A lot. Most days, I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t write treatment plans. I take too long to write reports and stink at case conceptualization. I’m too emotional, feel too much, and can’t “compartmentalize” or whatever it is that they teach us to do. But I can feel and I can love and I have no choice but to share that. That is why I’m here. I know that. I denied it for a while and thought, “oh yes, I can be a cognitive-behavioral therapist.” Pffft. That thought has long since been abandoned. There’s nothing wrong with cognitive-behavioral therapy. There’s nothing wrong with any of it. It’s just not me.
But, all that stuff that “isn’t me” is what is valued. I mean, seriously, supervision would NOT go well if I said “oh, ya know, I loved the client today.” My intervention on my Individualized Service Plan is not “love.” However, that’s what is behind it all and I’m not competent or confident enough yet to put it into acceptable clinical terms. I want to see my client and come out to write my report saying:
“He’s lost, confused and in pain. At 6 years old, he hates his family, hates the world, feels violated, and knows he will continue to be hurt. He hates himself for hating his family, for wanting what he can’t have, for not being able to meet his own needs and needing to rely on others. He feels incompetent and he’s angry that he’s incompetent and he can’t figure out how to reconcile all those feelings in a little 6 year old body, with a 6 year old vocabulary, and a 6 year old brain. So he explodes.”
Instead, however, I write about his Verbal IQ versus his Performance IQ, his receptive versus expressive language ability, and the themes from the Childhood Apperception Test he hung off his chair and bounced around the room while answering. I tell my supervisor he is hyperactive when I really mean he’s unable to find a center where he feels calm and safe. I say he’s impulsive when I mean that he grabs everything in sight before it disappears from his constantly shaky world. I say that he feels conflicted over his parents’ divorce and feels a torn alliance between his mother and father. What I really mean, however, is that the kid ripped my heart out and stamped on it a few times as he told me that “when a Mommy has a baby in her tummy, that baby should be just hers and she should get to love it and keep it, even if the Daddy loves the baby more.” I say that this client has touched me when what I really mean is that this little boy is so incredibly strong and resilient he brings tears to my eyes. I really mean I find this child an incredible human being, and it has been an honor sharing the room with him. What I really mean is that I have a deep love and respect for this child. But I don’t say that. Instead, I finish the report with a label that is supposed to describe him to the rest of the world in 5 words or less: “Conduct Disorder” or “Oppositional Defiant Disorder” or “Parent-Child Relational Problems” or both or all three or something else. Then, having labeled his broken parts, I send him on his way.
So why can’t I say what I want to say? I don’t know. It’s frightening. Because if I were to say what I said above, it would admit that I’m human. It would admit that there’s something wrong with me that I can’t think in terms of normal psychology. It’s not only putting my client “out there,” it is putting me out there as well. I worry that I’ll be seen as “too emotional,” because I know I probably am. I worry they’ll think I miss the point. I worry I’ll be seen as naïve or incompetent, or unable to handle the emotions, or too attached, or a whole host of other things that run through my head endlessly. I worry that I don’t understand what therapy really is because I don’t really do anything; I just love, and feel their pain and sit with them in it, and reflect to them their strengths.
I do feel VERY deeply. I am still discovering the depths of my emotion, and how to close myself off enough that I do not allow the emotion to completely penetrate my core. I’m still discovering whether I want to close myself off. I am learning how to let go. I’m learning how to shake off the emotions that do not belong to me and find those that are my own. I’m learning that it is okay to feel this deeply. I’m learning that this weird way I feel and live in this world can still be a blessing. I’m learning not to see it as a curse, and this is hard. People don’t understand that feeling and being and existing so deeply can feel like you’re rubbing a bruise. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes, it feels like my whole body is bruised and beat up purely from the weight of being and living in the world. At worst, it can feel like I’m walking through a world of broken glass. Everyone seems to think that feeling is good, and loving is good, and being is good; I don’t know how to explain that sometimes it is more like a burden that makes the pain of the world feel as though it is resting on your shoulders.
But every day, I get up knowing that there will be moments when I can see people so beautiful I will be in awe. Every day, I get out of bed knowing that there will be a moment when I feel so intensely alive, I can feel the pulse of everything that is holy and beautiful running through me and another person. I know every single day that I and every single other person holds that amazing strength and beauty within us. Every single day I fight to see it—to see it in myself, to see it in others, and to help others see it in themselves. I also know that every single day there are going to be moments when I am going to be full of nothing. When I am going to see others who have nothing in them, and I know I will feel empty. I know that every day I will see people who are filled with death, and anger and hatred and so, so, so much pain. I know that I will feel dead inside, and I will be angry, and I will hate, and I will hurt. I can ignore the emotions. I can push aside the feelings. I can pretend I don’t think and feel and hurt and love; but then I’m exhausted from pretending and from living without my soul and I realize it’s easier just to feel.
But does that fit in psychology? I don’t know. Where does it fit, if not psychology? I don’t know that, either. Perhaps it is like this for everyone, and I just have this strange need to express it. Or perhaps it really is just a “me” thing. At this point, I think naming it, describing it, feeling it, is a wonderful, beautiful thing. Figuring out how to navigate the world with it; however, is another story—a story for which I hope to, one day, write a beautiful and loving conclusion.
I am quiet. I’m shy. I hate confrontation. I’m not brilliant. I mess up. A lot. Most days, I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t write treatment plans. I take too long to write reports and stink at case conceptualization. I’m too emotional, feel too much, and can’t “compartmentalize” or whatever it is that they teach us to do. But I can feel and I can love and I have no choice but to share that. That is why I’m here. I know that. I denied it for a while and thought, “oh yes, I can be a cognitive-behavioral therapist.” Pffft. That thought has long since been abandoned. There’s nothing wrong with cognitive-behavioral therapy. There’s nothing wrong with any of it. It’s just not me.
But, all that stuff that “isn’t me” is what is valued. I mean, seriously, supervision would NOT go well if I said “oh, ya know, I loved the client today.” My intervention on my Individualized Service Plan is not “love.” However, that’s what is behind it all and I’m not competent or confident enough yet to put it into acceptable clinical terms. I want to see my client and come out to write my report saying:
“He’s lost, confused and in pain. At 6 years old, he hates his family, hates the world, feels violated, and knows he will continue to be hurt. He hates himself for hating his family, for wanting what he can’t have, for not being able to meet his own needs and needing to rely on others. He feels incompetent and he’s angry that he’s incompetent and he can’t figure out how to reconcile all those feelings in a little 6 year old body, with a 6 year old vocabulary, and a 6 year old brain. So he explodes.”
Instead, however, I write about his Verbal IQ versus his Performance IQ, his receptive versus expressive language ability, and the themes from the Childhood Apperception Test he hung off his chair and bounced around the room while answering. I tell my supervisor he is hyperactive when I really mean he’s unable to find a center where he feels calm and safe. I say he’s impulsive when I mean that he grabs everything in sight before it disappears from his constantly shaky world. I say that he feels conflicted over his parents’ divorce and feels a torn alliance between his mother and father. What I really mean, however, is that the kid ripped my heart out and stamped on it a few times as he told me that “when a Mommy has a baby in her tummy, that baby should be just hers and she should get to love it and keep it, even if the Daddy loves the baby more.” I say that this client has touched me when what I really mean is that this little boy is so incredibly strong and resilient he brings tears to my eyes. I really mean I find this child an incredible human being, and it has been an honor sharing the room with him. What I really mean is that I have a deep love and respect for this child. But I don’t say that. Instead, I finish the report with a label that is supposed to describe him to the rest of the world in 5 words or less: “Conduct Disorder” or “Oppositional Defiant Disorder” or “Parent-Child Relational Problems” or both or all three or something else. Then, having labeled his broken parts, I send him on his way.
So why can’t I say what I want to say? I don’t know. It’s frightening. Because if I were to say what I said above, it would admit that I’m human. It would admit that there’s something wrong with me that I can’t think in terms of normal psychology. It’s not only putting my client “out there,” it is putting me out there as well. I worry that I’ll be seen as “too emotional,” because I know I probably am. I worry they’ll think I miss the point. I worry I’ll be seen as naïve or incompetent, or unable to handle the emotions, or too attached, or a whole host of other things that run through my head endlessly. I worry that I don’t understand what therapy really is because I don’t really do anything; I just love, and feel their pain and sit with them in it, and reflect to them their strengths.
I do feel VERY deeply. I am still discovering the depths of my emotion, and how to close myself off enough that I do not allow the emotion to completely penetrate my core. I’m still discovering whether I want to close myself off. I am learning how to let go. I’m learning how to shake off the emotions that do not belong to me and find those that are my own. I’m learning that it is okay to feel this deeply. I’m learning that this weird way I feel and live in this world can still be a blessing. I’m learning not to see it as a curse, and this is hard. People don’t understand that feeling and being and existing so deeply can feel like you’re rubbing a bruise. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes, it feels like my whole body is bruised and beat up purely from the weight of being and living in the world. At worst, it can feel like I’m walking through a world of broken glass. Everyone seems to think that feeling is good, and loving is good, and being is good; I don’t know how to explain that sometimes it is more like a burden that makes the pain of the world feel as though it is resting on your shoulders.
But every day, I get up knowing that there will be moments when I can see people so beautiful I will be in awe. Every day, I get out of bed knowing that there will be a moment when I feel so intensely alive, I can feel the pulse of everything that is holy and beautiful running through me and another person. I know every single day that I and every single other person holds that amazing strength and beauty within us. Every single day I fight to see it—to see it in myself, to see it in others, and to help others see it in themselves. I also know that every single day there are going to be moments when I am going to be full of nothing. When I am going to see others who have nothing in them, and I know I will feel empty. I know that every day I will see people who are filled with death, and anger and hatred and so, so, so much pain. I know that I will feel dead inside, and I will be angry, and I will hate, and I will hurt. I can ignore the emotions. I can push aside the feelings. I can pretend I don’t think and feel and hurt and love; but then I’m exhausted from pretending and from living without my soul and I realize it’s easier just to feel.
But does that fit in psychology? I don’t know. Where does it fit, if not psychology? I don’t know that, either. Perhaps it is like this for everyone, and I just have this strange need to express it. Or perhaps it really is just a “me” thing. At this point, I think naming it, describing it, feeling it, is a wonderful, beautiful thing. Figuring out how to navigate the world with it; however, is another story—a story for which I hope to, one day, write a beautiful and loving conclusion.
"Cool" at last?
So, I was asked by one of my readers to discuss how I came up with the name for my blog.
I just read that statement again. Did I almost fool you into thinking I was a real official blogging person with readers and something to say and everything? Yeah, I thought so, too. I felt pretty official.
Anyway, there’s not much of a story, because it just kinda came to me. Just like that. And the rest, as they say, is a mystery. At least, I think that’s how the saying goes.
I guess the name really has two parts:
1.) Autodidact. I love the word autodidact. I think I first came across the word in my education class in undergrad and had this moment of “hey, I guess I’m an autodidact!” It’s one of those big words that makes me seem smarter than I am. Plus, the meaning of the word itself makes the whole thing better: I’m a self-taught person, and I can use big words to describe myself! Yeah, that definitely makes me cool.
2.) Poet. Poetry is a love of mine and always has been. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a “poet,” but I like writing poetry, so maybe that puts me in the running to one day own that title. For me, poetry just seems to bypass all the unnecessary words and move into the core, such that it can move gently into the thought, touch it, and back away without all the fuss and commotion of a book or an essay. When you read a poem, you feel a change in you in the same way that you feel a change when music moves through you: it leaves a residue behind that lets you know something has changed you, even if you can’t say exactly how.
I started writing poems at age 4. My mom has it written down somewhere, I swear. It has something to do with spring and includes the words “hip hip hooray.” I have never been so bold as to include those words in a poem again. My writing debut, I guess you could say, occurred when I was published in Byline Magazine when I was still in public school in second grade. It was an issue on Martin Luther King, Jr, and my paragraph was…well…I guess, in a word…uh…profound. So profound, in fact, that I must have felt I was about level with Dr. King himself as my essay started, “I have a dream like Martin.” Yep, as a second grader, Martin and I were tight.
My first real, serious writing endeavors started when I was about 12 with my story entitled “Sam’s Chanukah.” Sam was a hippo who lived with his mother, father, and sister, Maxine, on Neighborly Lane (with a neighbor who wasn’t very neighborly). Sam had several adventures and became the protagonist of a series of stories, complete with illustrations. “Sam’s Chanukah” was the first, followed by “Sam Becomes Homeschooled,” “Sam’s Ballet Class,” “Sam Becomes Vegetarian,” and lastly “Sam Becomes Unitarian Universalist.” I kid you not. Sam went through a series of mishaps in each of these stories—some of which were true to my life and some of which I have no idea where they came from. I was a sarcastic little thing, and that really came through in my Sam stories. To be honest, they still make me laugh. I’m forever grateful to Sam, who taught me how to write dialogue, and taught me about character development. My mom still holds out hope that Sam will become a children’s book series someday. I’m not so sure; whatever muse channeled Sam to me at age 12 has long since moved on to other 12 year olds writing series of stories about Josh the orangutan who takes up meditation, or maybe Rosie the rhino’s visit to a mosque. Or maybe not, and I was just a really strange child, which is more likely the case.
In all of this writing that was going on, though, I never remember anyone ever “teaching” me to write (hence the claiming of the title “autodidact”). Being homeschooled, my education was pretty much me teaching myself a lot anyway. However, I started taking classes at the community college when I was 14, and took my first creative writing class when I was 15. This was a college level course, with a bunch of college age students, and one older woman (Joan). Joan was also in my art class and, seeing as we both stuck out and we had two classes together, she thought we could be friends, and we could have been. Except for the fact that we couldn’t because Joan was, in a word, annoying.
At 15, my goal in life was to blend in. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t do that very well when my mom and sisters had to sit down the hall because I couldn’t drive yet, and the college insisted my mother stay on campus while I was in class. Then, in one class, we could get extra credit if we voted, and everybody looked at me funny because I was the only one who couldn’t get extra credit because I wasn’t old enough to vote. My teacher made a big deal of this, and stated repeatedly that I would just have to study harder than everyone else as he wouldn’t offer any other extra credit (which I didn’t need anyway…so there Dr. Kerr). I also looked very much 15, and very much not 18 or 19. I was shy, I turned beet red insanely easily (some things don’t change), I was still really pretty awkward, and I just wanted to go to class and get out as unobtrusively as possible. And then along came Joan. Joan sat behind me in creative writing, and her pencil seemed to be permanently lodged in my back.
“Does anyone want to share what they wrote?” Ms. Noel would ask. Jab. Joan’s pencil would stick into my back, right between my shoulder blades, causing me to jerk, which in turn, caused my face to turn red. I would, of course, say nothing. Sharing what I wrote was the last thing I ever wanted to do. “No one?” Ms. Noel would push. Jab would go Joan’s pencil until, finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and she would say, “Laura has something to share. I think she wants to share hers.” I swear everybody would roll their eyes as I read. If I wasn’t cool already, my writing made me totally cool, let me tell you. It fit right in. Everyone else wrote sex-crazed poetry and short stories about…well…one guy (yes, guy), wrote a short story about tampons (yes, tampons), while I wrote poems about the leaves changing colors and a story about a young woman who turns out to be an angel. I hated that creative writing class. I learned nothing from it other than how to provide writing feedback to 19 year olds who had worse spelling than my little sister, and how to lose older women who want to be your friend which, I guess, were skills I needed to learn.
How did I achieve this latter goal, you ask? Easy. Joan and I were standing outside of the classroom, and she asked me what church I went to. I told her I was Unitarian Universalist and was met with the typical blinking of eyes as people attempt to understand or interpret that.
“Ohhhh,” she said, blinking and pausing. “So you mean you’re not Christian?”
“No,” I said. Keep in mind that I really didn’t like Joan, and was getting the sense that I could turn her away pretty easily if I kept going in this vein. So I did. “No, my mom was Christian, but now she’s Buddhist, and my dad is Jewish, and we’ve been going to the UU fellowship in town for a couple years.” This is all true. I didn’t lie. I just provided more information than was probably necessary.
“Ohhh,” she said, blinking some more, and trying to sound like all of that actually made sense to her. “So you’re NOT a Christian. Huh. And you’re such a NICE girl!” Her voice evidenced true surprise.
As I said, I was a sarcastic little thing, so my response was something along the lines of, “yeah, funny how that works.” Joan’s pencil never touched my back again.
So, I finished my creative writing class a skeptical, ever popular 15-year-old, and vowed never to take another one. I did try again when I was actually in college for real, and it was a better experience due to the lack of Joan-type people, but I still didn’t enjoy it much. And now I just write. I rather like this whole blogging thing—there’s nobody sticking pencils in my back; I’m not required to provide feedback on anyone’s stories about tampons or otherwise; and I can write about the leaves changing colors, and anyone who may roll their eyes can do so in the privacy of their home. Plus, I have readers who do things like ask questions they want answered, and that makes me feel—in a word—"cool."
I just read that statement again. Did I almost fool you into thinking I was a real official blogging person with readers and something to say and everything? Yeah, I thought so, too. I felt pretty official.
Anyway, there’s not much of a story, because it just kinda came to me. Just like that. And the rest, as they say, is a mystery. At least, I think that’s how the saying goes.
I guess the name really has two parts:
1.) Autodidact. I love the word autodidact. I think I first came across the word in my education class in undergrad and had this moment of “hey, I guess I’m an autodidact!” It’s one of those big words that makes me seem smarter than I am. Plus, the meaning of the word itself makes the whole thing better: I’m a self-taught person, and I can use big words to describe myself! Yeah, that definitely makes me cool.
2.) Poet. Poetry is a love of mine and always has been. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a “poet,” but I like writing poetry, so maybe that puts me in the running to one day own that title. For me, poetry just seems to bypass all the unnecessary words and move into the core, such that it can move gently into the thought, touch it, and back away without all the fuss and commotion of a book or an essay. When you read a poem, you feel a change in you in the same way that you feel a change when music moves through you: it leaves a residue behind that lets you know something has changed you, even if you can’t say exactly how.
I started writing poems at age 4. My mom has it written down somewhere, I swear. It has something to do with spring and includes the words “hip hip hooray.” I have never been so bold as to include those words in a poem again. My writing debut, I guess you could say, occurred when I was published in Byline Magazine when I was still in public school in second grade. It was an issue on Martin Luther King, Jr, and my paragraph was…well…I guess, in a word…uh…profound. So profound, in fact, that I must have felt I was about level with Dr. King himself as my essay started, “I have a dream like Martin.” Yep, as a second grader, Martin and I were tight.
My first real, serious writing endeavors started when I was about 12 with my story entitled “Sam’s Chanukah.” Sam was a hippo who lived with his mother, father, and sister, Maxine, on Neighborly Lane (with a neighbor who wasn’t very neighborly). Sam had several adventures and became the protagonist of a series of stories, complete with illustrations. “Sam’s Chanukah” was the first, followed by “Sam Becomes Homeschooled,” “Sam’s Ballet Class,” “Sam Becomes Vegetarian,” and lastly “Sam Becomes Unitarian Universalist.” I kid you not. Sam went through a series of mishaps in each of these stories—some of which were true to my life and some of which I have no idea where they came from. I was a sarcastic little thing, and that really came through in my Sam stories. To be honest, they still make me laugh. I’m forever grateful to Sam, who taught me how to write dialogue, and taught me about character development. My mom still holds out hope that Sam will become a children’s book series someday. I’m not so sure; whatever muse channeled Sam to me at age 12 has long since moved on to other 12 year olds writing series of stories about Josh the orangutan who takes up meditation, or maybe Rosie the rhino’s visit to a mosque. Or maybe not, and I was just a really strange child, which is more likely the case.
In all of this writing that was going on, though, I never remember anyone ever “teaching” me to write (hence the claiming of the title “autodidact”). Being homeschooled, my education was pretty much me teaching myself a lot anyway. However, I started taking classes at the community college when I was 14, and took my first creative writing class when I was 15. This was a college level course, with a bunch of college age students, and one older woman (Joan). Joan was also in my art class and, seeing as we both stuck out and we had two classes together, she thought we could be friends, and we could have been. Except for the fact that we couldn’t because Joan was, in a word, annoying.
At 15, my goal in life was to blend in. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t do that very well when my mom and sisters had to sit down the hall because I couldn’t drive yet, and the college insisted my mother stay on campus while I was in class. Then, in one class, we could get extra credit if we voted, and everybody looked at me funny because I was the only one who couldn’t get extra credit because I wasn’t old enough to vote. My teacher made a big deal of this, and stated repeatedly that I would just have to study harder than everyone else as he wouldn’t offer any other extra credit (which I didn’t need anyway…so there Dr. Kerr). I also looked very much 15, and very much not 18 or 19. I was shy, I turned beet red insanely easily (some things don’t change), I was still really pretty awkward, and I just wanted to go to class and get out as unobtrusively as possible. And then along came Joan. Joan sat behind me in creative writing, and her pencil seemed to be permanently lodged in my back.
“Does anyone want to share what they wrote?” Ms. Noel would ask. Jab. Joan’s pencil would stick into my back, right between my shoulder blades, causing me to jerk, which in turn, caused my face to turn red. I would, of course, say nothing. Sharing what I wrote was the last thing I ever wanted to do. “No one?” Ms. Noel would push. Jab would go Joan’s pencil until, finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and she would say, “Laura has something to share. I think she wants to share hers.” I swear everybody would roll their eyes as I read. If I wasn’t cool already, my writing made me totally cool, let me tell you. It fit right in. Everyone else wrote sex-crazed poetry and short stories about…well…one guy (yes, guy), wrote a short story about tampons (yes, tampons), while I wrote poems about the leaves changing colors and a story about a young woman who turns out to be an angel. I hated that creative writing class. I learned nothing from it other than how to provide writing feedback to 19 year olds who had worse spelling than my little sister, and how to lose older women who want to be your friend which, I guess, were skills I needed to learn.
How did I achieve this latter goal, you ask? Easy. Joan and I were standing outside of the classroom, and she asked me what church I went to. I told her I was Unitarian Universalist and was met with the typical blinking of eyes as people attempt to understand or interpret that.
“Ohhhh,” she said, blinking and pausing. “So you mean you’re not Christian?”
“No,” I said. Keep in mind that I really didn’t like Joan, and was getting the sense that I could turn her away pretty easily if I kept going in this vein. So I did. “No, my mom was Christian, but now she’s Buddhist, and my dad is Jewish, and we’ve been going to the UU fellowship in town for a couple years.” This is all true. I didn’t lie. I just provided more information than was probably necessary.
“Ohhh,” she said, blinking some more, and trying to sound like all of that actually made sense to her. “So you’re NOT a Christian. Huh. And you’re such a NICE girl!” Her voice evidenced true surprise.
As I said, I was a sarcastic little thing, so my response was something along the lines of, “yeah, funny how that works.” Joan’s pencil never touched my back again.
So, I finished my creative writing class a skeptical, ever popular 15-year-old, and vowed never to take another one. I did try again when I was actually in college for real, and it was a better experience due to the lack of Joan-type people, but I still didn’t enjoy it much. And now I just write. I rather like this whole blogging thing—there’s nobody sticking pencils in my back; I’m not required to provide feedback on anyone’s stories about tampons or otherwise; and I can write about the leaves changing colors, and anyone who may roll their eyes can do so in the privacy of their home. Plus, I have readers who do things like ask questions they want answered, and that makes me feel—in a word—"cool."
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Poem: Healing
I have all these words in my head right now that I can’t write. All these thoughts and stories and images that are just unable to be said. I hate when that happens.
And then there are the words and phrases that just pop into my head, that get written suddenly on scraps of paper only to be lost in my purse, or stuck between notes for neuropsychology, or engulfed in the 643 pages of the qualitative research manual. Sometimes, entire poems just fall onto the page. Like this one from a few days ago—I was taking a walk, and by the time I got home it was almost entirely composed in my head. I sat down, typed it out, changed a word or two a few days later. It’s one of those poems that doesn’t make 100% sense to me, but the feeling is right, so it was written. It’s not a masterpiece, but I’m not looking to write masterpieces, and honestly, it comes as close as I can to where I’m at right now. As close as I can to putting a voice to the thoughts in my head.
Healing
Beer bottle smashed
in hundreds of pieces
glistening in the sunlight.
Thrown against the bricks
trashed
by some drunk guy
high
on the power of drunken entitlement
and poor decisions.
Too broken to consider fixing
too sharp to consider cleaning
no ocean to wear down the jagged, cutting edges,
he unknowingly left
a broken, non-reflective mirror on the pavement,
shimmering,
like it could be
something beautiful.
Perhaps this
is what healing
looks like.
And then there are the words and phrases that just pop into my head, that get written suddenly on scraps of paper only to be lost in my purse, or stuck between notes for neuropsychology, or engulfed in the 643 pages of the qualitative research manual. Sometimes, entire poems just fall onto the page. Like this one from a few days ago—I was taking a walk, and by the time I got home it was almost entirely composed in my head. I sat down, typed it out, changed a word or two a few days later. It’s one of those poems that doesn’t make 100% sense to me, but the feeling is right, so it was written. It’s not a masterpiece, but I’m not looking to write masterpieces, and honestly, it comes as close as I can to where I’m at right now. As close as I can to putting a voice to the thoughts in my head.
Healing
Beer bottle smashed
in hundreds of pieces
glistening in the sunlight.
Thrown against the bricks
trashed
by some drunk guy
high
on the power of drunken entitlement
and poor decisions.
Too broken to consider fixing
too sharp to consider cleaning
no ocean to wear down the jagged, cutting edges,
he unknowingly left
a broken, non-reflective mirror on the pavement,
shimmering,
like it could be
something beautiful.
Perhaps this
is what healing
looks like.
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