Tired, Need A Snooze

Oh, man.

I'm tired.

I just finished teaching the 8th and last class of the Summer School Series, Behaviour was first, Sexuality was second. Both classes were wonderful in terms of students. They were all there keen and willing to learn. Questions were well thought out and showed real interest. I looked forward to the classes and was amazed how quickly the days flew by.

Occasionally I wonder if these classes really make a difference. On my way up today to teach the last class I took a call from an Executive Director who had a student in my Behaviour Classes. She was talking to that student and asking about the class he had taken. He excited explained that he was able to be a resource to others in his agency when discussing a situation because he understood some important concepts and was able to explain them. He said it was wonderful to be able to put the learning into use right away.

I chatted a little more with the ED who was very positive about the training and the effect on her staff. I didn't tell her, and I should have, that her call meant the world to me. I really want to make a difference, both through my work directly and through my training generally. It was my hope that summer school would be a time of renewal and reflection for the students. And, I guess, it was.

So we're done for another year. Poor Joe had to drive home in silence because I sat beside him, quietly snoring, as he drove. I woke up even more tired than before the nap. Bed calls.

But I thought about that call and the student involved. It matters that it matters. I am so privileged to be able to teach these classes and to have the opportunity to effect change without being in the room.

Awesome.

I apologize for what may seem like totally self serving and self involved post. But hey, I'm human, I'm tired and, above all I'm pleased.

Here's to next year, the 9th annual Summer School.

May it be so.

An Ode to Peter Parker

"I'm just so quirky."

"I'm just so off beat."

"I'm just so wildly unique."

Many people love the idea that they are completely and amazingly different from others. I had a friend once who went to a psychologist with a concern, he was told that it was 'entirely normal'. He said that he left not feeling comforted but almost insulted. As if the mere idea that what he thought was idiosyncratic was just plain common had brought him down not up.

"I'm just like everyone else."

"We're all the same."

"Cut me, do I not bleed?"

Then there are those who are truly different, who want to be seen as simply normal. That they are, under the skin, the same as everyone else. That the difference they experience does not make them different as people.

I had another friend who summed up this dilemma for herself by saying, "When people focus on my disability, it pisses me off. When people refuse to note my disability, it pisses me off. I live in a constant state of being pissed off."

Am I different?

Am I the same?

Perhaps, then, its normal to be different. Maybe that's where all this intersects. All this so far is me trying to sum up my reaction when people use the term 'differently abled'. It's a term that makes me squirm. I really don't like it. I like the intent but not the outcome. What on earth does 'differently abled' mean anyways and what's wrong with the word 'disabled'. I'm totally OK with being a disabled guy. I don't even much like 'person first' language in every situation. I don't like hearing 'down syndrome kid' or 'that cerebral palsy guy'. But when it comes to the word disability it seems different. Like it's OK to followed 'disabled' with 'person'. We don't use 'person first' language constantly with anyone else. I've never heard someone say, of me, that 'he's a person who is gay'. I've never heard 'a person who is a woman.' It seems labourious. It also seems to suggest that 'personhood' needs to be attached to disability because it is just not readily apparent.

But, that's not what I want to write about. 'Differently abled,' rankles me. I read it on a blog recently that I visit in secret. It's written by someone who scares me because of the level of anger she expresses. She holds others to a standard that, I believe, she does not herself bother to maintain. No, I won't tell you. She used this term recently and I sat there wanting to make a comment but knowing I would be stalked and attacked. So I didn't. Ha Ha, I have my own blog and can say what I want. Ha Ha, I have readers that will discuss with me and who are not afraid to challenge me, but do not often bloody me.

I think what gets me about 'differently abled' is 'different from what' or 'different from whom'. The term assumes a norm and then gives that norm power. It isn't 'normal' to live without disabilities, it isn't a 'desired state' to which all aspire. I think one of the biggest problems is that the majority thinks that it's the norm. It ain't normal to be white, it's normal to have a skin tone. To think that 'whiteness' is normal is to make everything else in comparison to it, everything else valuing itself in relation to 'whiteness'. It makes 'whiteness' superior. To refer to someone as 'differently skin toned' would be, I believe insulting.

Too, my abilities are never much different than anyone else's abilities. They are just abilities. I may get to where I'm going in a different bus but when I get there I do what everyone else does. In my own way, in my own time but it's pretty much the same. I think Spider Man is 'differently abled'. I don't think I am. My abilities are pretty much in the 'normal' range no matter how much I like to think otherwise sometimes.

So here's me. Wanting to be different while living an ordinary life. Just like everyone else. I'm uniquely me while being pretty much the same as my neighbours. I guess I'm just ordinarily different. But what ever I am, I'm just not 'differently abled'. I don't think anyone else is either.

Except, of course, Spider Man.

Dog School

Riding on the WheelTrans system I get to meet a lot of different people. Well, maybe meet is a little strong as most people are closed in on themselves like transit riders all over the world. Some chat but most say hello and then look out the window. I understand that, I feel unsociable sometimes too. I happen to be a morning person though and would much rather chat then, on the way in, than out, on the way home. But besides people, I get to meet service dogs. Lots of them. They are amazing creatures. Wonderful loving and helping beings.

One of the transit riders really needs assistance from her dog. He does all sorts of things for her. He is constantly on alert should she want something. He opens the door for her to come out to the bus, when she parks on the bus, before being strapped in he gets her notebook out of her bag, sometimes on the trip she drops things and he will either give them back to her or put them back in her bag. I'm always nervous that the dog moves around in a moving vehicle, but he's very sure footed and never seems to be surprised when the vehicle brakes.

On the last trip after she got off, he waited for her. She then headed for the door of the building she had arrived at. She called for him to come. He looked at her, stopped, then turned around and sat down. He had his back to her. She called again and he did nothing. You could see him mentally taking out a sippy cup and having a coffee break. His companion broke into a grin and said, 'You deserve a break today!' We all laughed. A few seconds later he got up and went happily over to her.

I thought about that a lot. About the importance to take a break from care providing. To just have a moment or two for yourself. Forget the family, forget the dishes, forget the kids, just sit down and take a break. A moment for yourself. A moment where nothing is required but breathing. A moment that refreshes on one hand and re-establishes independence on the other. I'm your mom, I'm your care provider, but for this moment, this moment right here, I'm just me having a coffee.

I think one of most important skills that adults need to learn is when to just stop. Turn your back on demands and take a breath. The demands will wait for you, the needs will still be there, your hole in the world will not be filled by another. It's just nice to clear your mind, to free your heart and be completely unburdened.

I want to hire the dog for staff training.

Blog Announcement

This announcement is separate from today's post which follows. Several weeks ago I removed the need for word verification as many readers were having difficulty with it. In the last two days there have been an increasing number of spam comments on the blog. I remove them as soon as they appear. These are the only comments I ever remove. Those which are critical of me, my ideas or my writing, stay. They are valid comments and I would never remove them. Those which are selling things or are obviously 'placed' on the blog without respect to content, I remove. I do not wish to go back to work verification but might have to again for a short while. I apologize for that inconvenience but don't know other ways to keep spammers away. If others have better solutions, please let me know. Thanks.

God's Gifts: Sometimes Mistakes Are Made

She walked with confidence, as if she'd passed this way before. She looked dressed for a date in what would have to be called, 'a little black dress.' She set it off with pearls and a white cane. I don't know if the coincidence was planned or incidental but I hope it was the former. I like people who approach the world with confidence and grace. I've managed confidence, never mastered grace. She had both.

Most who saw her coming took a second look. First they noticed the cane, either hearing it's faint tap, or seeing it brush the air in front of her. Then they noticed her. She looked a bit like Madonna, blond hair, lean shoulders, strong stride, with wrap around sunglasses. I'm sure I heard the 'three blind mice' cheering as she passed by.

We saw it coming but were too startled to call out. A fellow, so important in the world that he couldn't but be connected constantly. A fellow, so important to himself that he needed to be encased in music. A fellow tapping messages into a cell phone, while listening to the screech of music through white plugs in his ear. He was walking rapidly. A man of importance. A man of action. A man with places to go. A man, on whom the fact that it's called TWIT-ter, would be lost. He was on a direct course with the woman walking, casually but at full alert, with the cane.

The crash was inevitable.

So, it happened.

He looked up after smashing into her. He saw her cane and said, stupidly, 'Sorry, I didn't see you.' Her voice was dry, 'Oh, you're blind too?' He quickly said, not catching her sarcasm, 'No, sorry, I was texting.' She, 'And God gave you eyes, what the hell was he thinking?'

I applauded. Actually clapped my hands together. She couldn't see me, I wanted her to hear me. Good on you sister! I'm glad you're on my team.

Comments

I do try to write a responsible blog. I apologize when I make an error. I do try to be sensitive with my language. Yesterday's post took me a lot of time. I considered almost every word. Many posts are published very little unchanged from the first draft. Yesterday's post, when finally published, looked markedly different from it's first incarnation. I considered, deeply, what I wanted to say.

When it was finally published the first comment was negative. Ouch. It asked if the word 'schizophrenic' was the one I wanted to use. Well, I thought, yes. I first heard the word 'schizophrenic' in relationship to 'living a lie' and the mental strain that came from the forced suppression of real lives and real feelings and presenting false lives and false faces to the world, it was used by a priest in a sermon. He, the priest, had done a lot of work with gay men with mental health issues. Since then, it made so much sense to me as a descriptor of a way of life that is ultimately harmful.

So, in writing the post I looked the word up and found two definitions, one about a diagnosis and the other about a situation: Schizophrenia: a situation or condition that results from the coexistence of disparate or antagonistic qualities, identities, or activities: the national schizophrenia that results from carrying out an unpopular war. The word seemed to mean what I wanted it to mean.

But I don't work much in Mental Health circles, so I did another search. I wanted to assure myself that there wasn't a campaign against the use of the word and I found no such campaign or really anything much written about the use of the word in literature or language. Then, I called a friend who works in Mental Health and read her the piece and asked for her advice. She felt the word was used both respectfully and correctly.

I used the word.

Because I took so much care in writing the piece and thought I had said something important, I was stung that the first feedback was about expression, not content. Further that the author of the comment did not identify themselves. Further still that the author did not comment on the content or context of the word. Finally that the author did not tell me what the issue was, why it was an issue or where I could find out more information.

For a while I thought about changing the wording. Then I thought that I'd write this post instead. I'd already written today's post but bumped it to tomorrow. I wanted to ask if the word was misused, OK, I'm ready to learn. Tell me how or why it was misused in the context. Let me learn.

Rolling Around in My Head is meant to be a discussion about disability and family and life. It tries to be, though my hands, careful when being provocative. I fail sometimes, but give me credit for trying. I am an old friend of apology but I will not apologize for apologies sake.

I always try to remember my responsibilities as a blog author, please remember your responsibilities as a comment maker. Go ahead and disagree, even tell me off, I'm really OK with that. But don't leave me scratching my head wondering what you meant. Tell me.

The Terrifying Result of Silence

Sometimes I mourn the family I would like to have been part of. Joe and I, when we got together at 16, didn't know what to do with our relationship. It certainly couldn't be public, so it became very, very private. We built a life with walls. We built a life in secret. We built a life of truth, together, and of lies in the world. There was no 'gay pride', there was no 'tolerance' or 'acceptance'. People used harsh words like 'gearbox' and 'pansy' and 'fruit' and ... well, the list is endless.

We both wanted to be part of our families but didn't know how to be. We anticipated rejection, maybe unfairly, maybe with reason. Everyone thought we were the best of friends, and we were. Everyone thought we were a couple of poor university students sharing apartments, and rides, and groceries - they just didn't know we were also sharing a bed. Our silence caused, within us, a deep resentment. I watched my brother marry publicly, I watched the celebration, I watched society sanction, I watched the church, that I attended and he did not, bless. And I felt so alone in my cone of silence, it was hard, really hard, not to hate.

Our lives were schizophrenic. A public face, a private life. Everyone lives like that, I know, but the degree of difference between those faces usually isn't so dramatic. We lived a life with friends, we dived into the gay lifestyle with abandon, we created a family around us. A family that loved us back, all the while calling home to 'mom' and talking about work, about a life that must have sounded dull and lonely. Never being asked about Joe, always being asked about Joan - a dear friend from University. My heart breaking when hearing the faint hope that one day I'd talk about love and marriage to one of the fairer sex slowly die in that voice on the other end of the phone.

Slowly silence took over, chat became empty sound, spending time but investing nothing. Difference never spoken about is difference not accepted. Pretend normalcy smothers natural diversity. In the end, nothing lives but shame. And, of course, silence.

"I never speak to my son about his Down Syndrome."

"To me my daughter is normal, I do not see or acknowledge a disability."

I am sorry but I think though 'pride' and 'acceptance' are the message, neither are the source of this kind of statement. Shame is. Shame leads to silence and pretense. Shame believes that difference, that disability is wrong, and needs to pretend it away. And slowly lives diverge. Slowly relationships become about maintaining pretence rather than building bonds. People live in the same house with wildly different lives. People share space but never meaning. People see each other as needing protection more than love. So, love, dies.

Having Down Syndrome means something. Having Cerebral Palsy means something. Rolling not walking means something. Learning slowly not quickly means something. It doesn't mean what all fear, and what it does mean is as often cool as it is frightening. Loving someone, as is, out loud, is powerful. Loving out loud is defiant. Loving out loud is, perhaps, the most potent political statement that can be made. A statement with historical precedence. "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased." Even God needed to proclaim, out loud, love.

Every gay pride parade I am in or I watch, I cry. When I see 'I love my gay son.' 'I love my lesbian sister.' I cry. Love out loud. Love out of the closet. Love without reservation, without the need of pretense, without a longing for normalcy. Listen carefully and hear the death rattle in the throat of shame. Listen carefully and you can hear the distinct sounds of joy. These parents, these siblings, these families, NEED to proclaim their love. They were taught in different times to feel different things, but they are here now. And they will be seen, they will be heard, they will be identified. They say to the world, 'I claim my child,' they say to the child, 'I claim YOU.'

"I love my daughter with Down Syndrome."

Funny how many parents say that publicly on blogs.

"I love my son with Cerebral Palsy."

Funny how many parents say that to neighbours and friends.

"I love you, you my kid with disabilities, my kid with differences, my kid with extra chromosomes, my kid with his ass stuck in a wheelchair."

Funny how often that is not, quite, what is said.

Silence.

There is a terrifying result of silence.

Driving Home

On our ride home from the Sexuality Summer School up in Peterborough we realized that something special was going on. As we got closer to the city the overpasses on the 401 were filled with more and more people. Canadian flags flew by the hundreds. One some overpasses each of the provincial and territorial flags hung with somber reverence. We realized that just a few minute behind us the military procession carrying home the body of another Canadian soldier was making it's way along what's now been dubbed the 'Highway of Heroes'.

As a sign of silent respect, Joe turned off the music we were listening to in the car and travelled quietly along the route. We were both moved that thousands of people had come to salute the soldier who had given his life in service to our country and in service to our freedom.

We, remembered, as we always should, that the country that we love, quietly, and the freedom that we love, without notice, was purchased at a very high price. I can't imagine the sorrow of the family who's son was taken from them. I can't imagine the loss that his company feels as they go on with their business without a faithful comrade. I can't imagine what this country and my life would be without those who serve valiantly, those who serve and are only noticed when they take their final ride on the 'Highway of Heroes'.

We shared the road with a hero.

It's an honour we were not prepared for, but one we truly, truly, respect.