It was a small gesture, one he probably doesn't even remember. Joe and I were nearing the end of our shopping day. My power chair was laden down with bags and packages. If you squinted, I would have looked like Santa on his sleigh. The elevator door opened and Joe quickly scooted on. As there was no one on the elevator and no one waiting for it, I took the time to turn around and back on. I prefer to do this. I don't when others are around because it takes a few seconds more. You wouldn't believe the hostility that those few seconds can bring forth in others.
Joe, inside and out of sight, was holding the 'door open' button. I was backing carefully on when I noticed a young man rushing over to the elevator. I thought he was rushing to get on. Instead, he put his hand inside and over the door, holding it so that it wouldn't close. I glanced at him and he said, smiling, 'These things can close so quickly.'
After I was on he let go and I said, 'Thanks.' He nodded and smiled as he continued on his way.
'That was nice,' I said to Joe who didn't respond because he, too, was reeling in shock.
We'd had a nice day shopping and chattering with each other. But the day was full of petty annoyances. I know that this is true for everyone shopping at this time of the year. But a wheelchair does make a difference. I need the ramps, most others like the ramps. I had difficulty getting on a ramp every time I needed to use one. Floods of people flowed over them. Joe would have to go to the top and stop people, who often became nearly abusive towards him. I'd be at the bottom asking people to wait for a second for the ramp to clear so I could use it.
Lineups were often very narrow making it difficult for me to get around. Patience was thin on the ground and I got the 'get out of the freaking way' look well more than once. I'd come away feeling cumbersome and lumpy. I fought annoyance and chose to concentrate instead on the fun side of the manic shopping day.
At the end of the day we'd decided to pick up something we'd seen first off. Thus we were at an elevator waiting to ride up.
It was then, into our day, a kind hand held open an elevator door.
Small gestures of courtesy and civility can have huge impact. It didn't matter that I didn't need the door held open. It didn't matter at all. What mattered was that, in the midst of confusion and chaos, there was someone in the world who had the time and the inclination to just do something nice.
POW!! Magically the day brightened. Instantaneously the annoyances dropped away.
Most of us forget, as we talk about the changes needed in society, that we can be that change. Mostly I forget, how powerful simple acts of kindness are.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Three Wishes
Adaptions. Considerations. Respect.
These things, to me, are the hallmarks of a good employer. Every single employee needs adaptions ... that's cause they all come with various strengths and inevitable weaknesses. All workers need consideration ... that's cause they all come from the real world with real relationships. All who draw a paycheck need respect ... that's because no job is just about the money. We, each of us, want to feel that we are valued as both an employee and a person. Simply put, it matters that we matter.
For that reason I'm going to give a 'shout out' to Vita Community Living Services today. I have been accused in the past about 'promoting' Vita too much on this blog. Maybe I do, but I think its natural for a writer who writes about his life to, um, write about his life. And as so much 'life' is lived at work, how can that not be grist for the mill. Criticism aside, I'm writing this not to promote Vita but to demonstrate what flexible employment looks like. It's not so hard a thing to understand but it seems to boggle the minds of those who only think from 9 to 5.
A few days ago I was approached at work and it was explained to me that the elevator at the office needs to be replaced. In fact, it has to be ripped out and then a new one brought in and installed. Yikes. As my office is up a flight of stairs, the elevator for me is mandatory. Here's what was done:
1) Vita's head office is closed between Christmas and New Years. Work still happens, of course, but through alternate means. So they've arranged that the bulk of the work be done when I wouldn't be in the office anyways.
2) I was given enough notice so that I could schedule the three days that I was planning to be in differently such that I was either able to work at home or have meetings elsewhere.
3) My home computer and the work computer can talk to each other so that I can log on at home to the computer at work. I can respond as if I'm actually sitting there on the second floor.
So, though I won't be at work, physically, my presence will still be there. It's only three days so the disruption is minimal.
What was noteworthy was the fact that my needs as an employee was considered in the decision making, scheduling was done to minimize the impact on my work life as an employee, my value to the organization was communicated to me by the process followed.
Everyone wins here. I feel valued by the organization so my loyalty increases. The organization benefits because my commitment to it and its values becomes firmer. It's a relationship of mutual benefit that comes from mutual respect. An easy equation. I wonder how many organizations would benefit from just a wee drop off what we all need.
Adaptions. Considerations. Respect.
These things, to me, are the hallmarks of a good employer. Every single employee needs adaptions ... that's cause they all come with various strengths and inevitable weaknesses. All workers need consideration ... that's cause they all come from the real world with real relationships. All who draw a paycheck need respect ... that's because no job is just about the money. We, each of us, want to feel that we are valued as both an employee and a person. Simply put, it matters that we matter.
For that reason I'm going to give a 'shout out' to Vita Community Living Services today. I have been accused in the past about 'promoting' Vita too much on this blog. Maybe I do, but I think its natural for a writer who writes about his life to, um, write about his life. And as so much 'life' is lived at work, how can that not be grist for the mill. Criticism aside, I'm writing this not to promote Vita but to demonstrate what flexible employment looks like. It's not so hard a thing to understand but it seems to boggle the minds of those who only think from 9 to 5.
A few days ago I was approached at work and it was explained to me that the elevator at the office needs to be replaced. In fact, it has to be ripped out and then a new one brought in and installed. Yikes. As my office is up a flight of stairs, the elevator for me is mandatory. Here's what was done:
1) Vita's head office is closed between Christmas and New Years. Work still happens, of course, but through alternate means. So they've arranged that the bulk of the work be done when I wouldn't be in the office anyways.
2) I was given enough notice so that I could schedule the three days that I was planning to be in differently such that I was either able to work at home or have meetings elsewhere.
3) My home computer and the work computer can talk to each other so that I can log on at home to the computer at work. I can respond as if I'm actually sitting there on the second floor.
So, though I won't be at work, physically, my presence will still be there. It's only three days so the disruption is minimal.
What was noteworthy was the fact that my needs as an employee was considered in the decision making, scheduling was done to minimize the impact on my work life as an employee, my value to the organization was communicated to me by the process followed.
Everyone wins here. I feel valued by the organization so my loyalty increases. The organization benefits because my commitment to it and its values becomes firmer. It's a relationship of mutual benefit that comes from mutual respect. An easy equation. I wonder how many organizations would benefit from just a wee drop off what we all need.
Adaptions. Considerations. Respect.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Long Nights: Disability Blog Carnival
Darkness
Light
We’ve all had long dark nights. We’ve all learned, to greater and lesser degrees how to survive them. This Disability Blog Carnival comes on the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. One can forget that in another part of the world, it is the day with most light. There is always balance. The submissions to the Carnival speak of strategies rather than solutions, realizations rather than remedies. I think that’s what makes them so compelling. I wrote my post the other day and realized how deep and how difficult it was to write about darkness. I applaud all who submitted and thank them for the many times I was moved, to tears, to thought and, perhaps even, to action.
The Disability Blog Carnival:
At 'Ballastexistenz' an idea of how to deal with the realities of life, the fear that invades us is compellingly presented. Submission as victory is a wonderful new concept to consider. 'Dark Angel' tells of what she learned during a dark time. She discovered what would become a passion. Many travel difficult paths only to finally find direction. Dark Angel is an example of this fact. Over at 'life of the differently abled' a long night leads eventually to healing.
Sometimes just surviving darkness is the goal. 'Oh, And One More Thing' writes of a journey that started in darkness and fear and grief that ends … well I don’t want to spoil the suspense. She writes of the role of faith and the support she found in others. 'The Seated View talks about sidestepping limitations and discovering happiness. Learning that life is enough is a lesson from dark times that carries on through days, sometimes filled with pain. Imagine being a new mom and researching to find pictures of kids with the same disability as your child. Imagine seeing their pictures with a black bar across their eyes. Imagine managing to see a smile on censored faces. 'The River of Jordan' takes us through very long nights and into days lit by a child’s eyes.
The power of love, even love newly discovered, is a powerful thing. 'Butterfly Dreams' also takes readers on a journey and demonstrates the power of reaching out and the magic that can happen. Sometimes love comes unexpectedly when one risks. Loneliness can turn into community. At 'After Gadget' the mere fact of writing the blog post helped with realization. Little things become wildly important in dark nights. Big Gadgets and little gadgets matter … you’ll have to read the post to understand what that means!
'My Shiny Moments' writes about garlands, lights and drag queens! A post about Christmas that’s full of the spirit … lights in dark places can be coloured! 'Abnormal Diversity' finds that in darkness comes dreams and from dreams come ideas. Sleep is a slippery thing but dreams are more solid than one might, at first, think. 'My Little Stinkerie' writes a post called ‘get it in writing’ and there’s nothing I can say that wouldn’t give away too much and spoil the surprise. You’ll just have to read the post to find out how the title fits the post.
Real change is just one of the themes of 'Screw Bronze' with a post that will leave you thinking, feeling and reacting. It takes courage to speak of the unspeakable, 'Screw Bronze' is always up for that challenge. At 'Miss Invisible'we are reminded of the importance of family. Of those who remain steadfast during difficult and dark times. Many of us are inspired by the courage of others, at 'Whatever He Says' one man’s journey, one man’s attitude inspires readers to look at life and at struggles differently. Courage, facing reality and call to change.
It seems that every time I host the carnival I miss at least one. I did again this year Finding My Way was accidently left out. Pop over and visit, read some hints for surviving depression, add more in the comments there.
We end this carnival ride with a post from 'Half Soled Boots' which takes us on a literal journey. Death is encountered and experienced and all the while seasons turn. And that, dear readers, takes us through this dark night and hopefully into dawn.
Thanks again to all who participated, either by writing or by reading. And thanks to Mike for his evocative photos.
Next month the Disability Blog Carnival will be hosted over at 'Butterfly Dreams' and the topic is ... Let Your Freak Flag Fly.
Light
We’ve all had long dark nights. We’ve all learned, to greater and lesser degrees how to survive them. This Disability Blog Carnival comes on the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. One can forget that in another part of the world, it is the day with most light. There is always balance. The submissions to the Carnival speak of strategies rather than solutions, realizations rather than remedies. I think that’s what makes them so compelling. I wrote my post the other day and realized how deep and how difficult it was to write about darkness. I applaud all who submitted and thank them for the many times I was moved, to tears, to thought and, perhaps even, to action.
The Disability Blog Carnival:
At 'Ballastexistenz' an idea of how to deal with the realities of life, the fear that invades us is compellingly presented. Submission as victory is a wonderful new concept to consider. 'Dark Angel' tells of what she learned during a dark time. She discovered what would become a passion. Many travel difficult paths only to finally find direction. Dark Angel is an example of this fact. Over at 'life of the differently abled' a long night leads eventually to healing.
Sometimes just surviving darkness is the goal. 'Oh, And One More Thing' writes of a journey that started in darkness and fear and grief that ends … well I don’t want to spoil the suspense. She writes of the role of faith and the support she found in others. 'The Seated View talks about sidestepping limitations and discovering happiness. Learning that life is enough is a lesson from dark times that carries on through days, sometimes filled with pain. Imagine being a new mom and researching to find pictures of kids with the same disability as your child. Imagine seeing their pictures with a black bar across their eyes. Imagine managing to see a smile on censored faces. 'The River of Jordan' takes us through very long nights and into days lit by a child’s eyes.
The power of love, even love newly discovered, is a powerful thing. 'Butterfly Dreams' also takes readers on a journey and demonstrates the power of reaching out and the magic that can happen. Sometimes love comes unexpectedly when one risks. Loneliness can turn into community. At 'After Gadget' the mere fact of writing the blog post helped with realization. Little things become wildly important in dark nights. Big Gadgets and little gadgets matter … you’ll have to read the post to understand what that means!
'My Shiny Moments' writes about garlands, lights and drag queens! A post about Christmas that’s full of the spirit … lights in dark places can be coloured! 'Abnormal Diversity' finds that in darkness comes dreams and from dreams come ideas. Sleep is a slippery thing but dreams are more solid than one might, at first, think. 'My Little Stinkerie' writes a post called ‘get it in writing’ and there’s nothing I can say that wouldn’t give away too much and spoil the surprise. You’ll just have to read the post to find out how the title fits the post.
Real change is just one of the themes of 'Screw Bronze' with a post that will leave you thinking, feeling and reacting. It takes courage to speak of the unspeakable, 'Screw Bronze' is always up for that challenge. At 'Miss Invisible'we are reminded of the importance of family. Of those who remain steadfast during difficult and dark times. Many of us are inspired by the courage of others, at 'Whatever He Says' one man’s journey, one man’s attitude inspires readers to look at life and at struggles differently. Courage, facing reality and call to change.
It seems that every time I host the carnival I miss at least one. I did again this year Finding My Way was accidently left out. Pop over and visit, read some hints for surviving depression, add more in the comments there.
We end this carnival ride with a post from 'Half Soled Boots' which takes us on a literal journey. Death is encountered and experienced and all the while seasons turn. And that, dear readers, takes us through this dark night and hopefully into dawn.
Thanks again to all who participated, either by writing or by reading. And thanks to Mike for his evocative photos.
Next month the Disability Blog Carnival will be hosted over at 'Butterfly Dreams' and the topic is ... Let Your Freak Flag Fly.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Bear Faith
My mind is full of long nights of the soul. I've been working on the Disability Blog Carnival which will appear tomorrow and thus reading the posts submitted and thinking through the issues they raise. Joe was getting impatient as the time to leave in order to be on time for the movie was fast approaching and I was still at the computer. I pulled myself away from one screen to head out towards another.
As tradition has it, once outside, I scoot off and Joe and I meet in the theatre. It's a longer distance for me as I have to go to the front of the building to hit the accessible entrance. I don't mind the time riding up there, it's one of the few times that I can open up my chair unencumbered. As I near the corner, I see a man, bundled up in a ratty sleeping bag, tucked in a little alcove made on one side of shrub, on the other of brick. He is sleeping. Pressed up against his face is an old and worn teddy bear. The fur is either rubbed off or ratty. The bear stares out at the world through one remaining eye. There is stuffing coming out where one arm used to be. I can see that some kind of tape has been placed over the wound in an ineffectual attempt to stem the bleeding of cotton wool.
Even though he is asleep, I can feel the desperation with which he holds on to that bear. I can feel the comfort it gives him, it's one eye no longer looks blank, it looks, somehow, warily protective. I'm glad he has the bear. I'm glad the bear has him. It seems a perfect relationship.
Continuing on towards the theatre, I think more about him and that bear. I wonder if he knows that the power that the bear has to comfort him is the power that he gives it. I wonder if he knows that he is more able than he could ever imagine. We are never, truly, comforted by others. We allow ourselves to be comforted.
Once.
I am with a woman when her husband dies. We've been waiting for this to come. The news still is shocking. The expected has become unexpected. I find that there is nothing to say. Words are meaningless. Touch is intrusive. I am struck silent. I am immobilized by her grief. I don't know what to do but I know I'm supposed to do something. I dig deep to find something to say. I stumble through. She smiles at me gratefully.
Later, much later, we talk about that moment, I admit to finding myself inadequate. She says that I said just the right thing. I look confused. She said, cryptically, 'It isn't what you said that mattered, it's what I heard'. I know what she means. In loss, I am comforted not by what people say to me but by the fact that they are speaking at all. I am comforted because in their words I hear what I need to hear. 'Time will heal' may come off the tongue but 'I am here and I love you' is what goes in my ear. I have the power to pull comfort out of meaningless phrases. I have the ability to find comfort in sound.
I can.
So can he, the man who sleeps on the street.
He can hold on to a bear and find what he needs there. He can find it because he put it there. He knows where kindness is buried because he marked the spot. It may look like a shabby dependency but it's not. He holds on to what he needs of himself. The bear, it just keeps what he gave it safe, just for awhile.
And then, when he sleeps, the bear gently gives it back.
As tradition has it, once outside, I scoot off and Joe and I meet in the theatre. It's a longer distance for me as I have to go to the front of the building to hit the accessible entrance. I don't mind the time riding up there, it's one of the few times that I can open up my chair unencumbered. As I near the corner, I see a man, bundled up in a ratty sleeping bag, tucked in a little alcove made on one side of shrub, on the other of brick. He is sleeping. Pressed up against his face is an old and worn teddy bear. The fur is either rubbed off or ratty. The bear stares out at the world through one remaining eye. There is stuffing coming out where one arm used to be. I can see that some kind of tape has been placed over the wound in an ineffectual attempt to stem the bleeding of cotton wool.
Even though he is asleep, I can feel the desperation with which he holds on to that bear. I can feel the comfort it gives him, it's one eye no longer looks blank, it looks, somehow, warily protective. I'm glad he has the bear. I'm glad the bear has him. It seems a perfect relationship.
Continuing on towards the theatre, I think more about him and that bear. I wonder if he knows that the power that the bear has to comfort him is the power that he gives it. I wonder if he knows that he is more able than he could ever imagine. We are never, truly, comforted by others. We allow ourselves to be comforted.
Once.
I am with a woman when her husband dies. We've been waiting for this to come. The news still is shocking. The expected has become unexpected. I find that there is nothing to say. Words are meaningless. Touch is intrusive. I am struck silent. I am immobilized by her grief. I don't know what to do but I know I'm supposed to do something. I dig deep to find something to say. I stumble through. She smiles at me gratefully.
Later, much later, we talk about that moment, I admit to finding myself inadequate. She says that I said just the right thing. I look confused. She said, cryptically, 'It isn't what you said that mattered, it's what I heard'. I know what she means. In loss, I am comforted not by what people say to me but by the fact that they are speaking at all. I am comforted because in their words I hear what I need to hear. 'Time will heal' may come off the tongue but 'I am here and I love you' is what goes in my ear. I have the power to pull comfort out of meaningless phrases. I have the ability to find comfort in sound.
I can.
So can he, the man who sleeps on the street.
He can hold on to a bear and find what he needs there. He can find it because he put it there. He knows where kindness is buried because he marked the spot. It may look like a shabby dependency but it's not. He holds on to what he needs of himself. The bear, it just keeps what he gave it safe, just for awhile.
And then, when he sleeps, the bear gently gives it back.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Why, In My Day
We were in line.
Joe looked behind me and greeted someone, I heard a voice saying, 'It's nice to see you.' I tried to turn around to see who it was but couldn't - the line up of Christmas shoppers was long and closely packed. Turning would have been dangerous to the toes of others. When she noticed that I couldn't see her, she came round to where we were standing.
I recognized her immediately as someone who used to live in the same building where we live. She'd moved out a few months before and she was telling us about her life, now, in a seniors building. She asked where we parked the van in the downtown core. I answered that we hadn't driven down to the Eaton Center that we had 'walked' down. I didn't bother to correct her on the idea that we drive a van, it was an inconsequential point and I've let go of the need to correct things that need not be corrected. Those who bring red pencils to conversations are always tedious.
She didn't understand our answer so she asked again where we had found parking. Again I explained that we'd come down 'on foot'. She touched the arm of my wheelchair and asked if I'd come down 'in this'. I said I had indeed, that it wasn't far.
She blinked.
And blinked again.
It was like this whole new idea was having difficulty entering her mind. The mental picture wasn't coming so she asked, 'So he,' pointing to Joe, 'walks beside you as you ride along in your wheelchair?' Ah, she had it and I confirmed it.
'My,' she said.
'My, oh my,' she continued.
She shook her head as the new idea took hold. 'In my day,' she said, 'people in wheelchairs just never went out.'
'Times have changed,' I said smiling.
She nodded, 'Yes, thankfully.'
We were next to pay so we said our goodbyes. As we continued on with our shopping I thought about her surprise at my freedom. It was good to meet her. It was good to be reminded that my 'freedom' is not something to be taken for granted. That not even a generation ago people 'like me' didn't live lives 'like me' at all. Locked away. Living indoors. Life proscribed.
I live with freedom unknown years ago.
Thankfully.
Joe looked behind me and greeted someone, I heard a voice saying, 'It's nice to see you.' I tried to turn around to see who it was but couldn't - the line up of Christmas shoppers was long and closely packed. Turning would have been dangerous to the toes of others. When she noticed that I couldn't see her, she came round to where we were standing.
I recognized her immediately as someone who used to live in the same building where we live. She'd moved out a few months before and she was telling us about her life, now, in a seniors building. She asked where we parked the van in the downtown core. I answered that we hadn't driven down to the Eaton Center that we had 'walked' down. I didn't bother to correct her on the idea that we drive a van, it was an inconsequential point and I've let go of the need to correct things that need not be corrected. Those who bring red pencils to conversations are always tedious.
She didn't understand our answer so she asked again where we had found parking. Again I explained that we'd come down 'on foot'. She touched the arm of my wheelchair and asked if I'd come down 'in this'. I said I had indeed, that it wasn't far.
She blinked.
And blinked again.
It was like this whole new idea was having difficulty entering her mind. The mental picture wasn't coming so she asked, 'So he,' pointing to Joe, 'walks beside you as you ride along in your wheelchair?' Ah, she had it and I confirmed it.
'My,' she said.
'My, oh my,' she continued.
She shook her head as the new idea took hold. 'In my day,' she said, 'people in wheelchairs just never went out.'
'Times have changed,' I said smiling.
She nodded, 'Yes, thankfully.'
We were next to pay so we said our goodbyes. As we continued on with our shopping I thought about her surprise at my freedom. It was good to meet her. It was good to be reminded that my 'freedom' is not something to be taken for granted. That not even a generation ago people 'like me' didn't live lives 'like me' at all. Locked away. Living indoors. Life proscribed.
I live with freedom unknown years ago.
Thankfully.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Dark Nights, Dave's Choices
Happiness is an act of will. This is particularly true when one is ‘different’. We live in a society that loves individuality but hates individuals. Everyone wants to be different but in exactly the same way that everyone else is different. Any one person, any ‘individual’ who actually does stand out from the crowd because of a physical or intellectual difference is noticed. Not as a welcome relief from routine, but as a target. Words land hard against the defenses we build to protect ourselves. Attitudes chip away at carefully constructed self esteem. One strains for self acceptance while battling tendencies towards bitterness. It would be easy to give way and simply be angry all the time.
I was sitting waiting for the car to be brought around, I was surrounded by bagsful of presents. Santa in a wheelchair. A woman approaches and I greet her dog who was wearing, literally, ruby slippers. She asks to me, out of the blue, ‘Why are you in a wheelchair?’ … I was taken aback but in a very good mood and I gave her a very quick and very brief explanation. Then she said, astoundingly, ‘We’ve got to get some weight off you, how are we going to do that?’ I said, ‘I think it’s rude to talk to a stranger about personal things.’ She said, ‘That’s OK, I’m a nurse.’ I said, ‘This conversation is over.’ She continued. Joe came in at this point and she was still trying to continue the conversation even has he was getting the bags. I kept saying, resolutely, 'This conversation is over.' Finally she shut up. I had been sitting there waiting, about to go celebrate a family Christmas. I sat in the car for about 5 minutes after Joe blew off steam about what he’d heard. Then I said, ‘OK, this is a happy day from now on.’ The decision was made. It is up to me how my day will go, not her. I had a terrific day. My happiness is an act of will.
Happiness is an act of defiance. This is particularly true when the world wishes you to be what it perceives you – an object of pity. ‘I’d rather be dead than disabled’ is a clear statement of hate; ‘But for the grace of God, there go I’ is a veiled statement of loathing; ‘I killed her because she suffered from disability’ is an acceptable and understandable statement for a father to make of a murdered daughter. To be ‘out’ and to be ‘happy’ is something that defies all reason, it’s something that ‘they’ have to struggle to explain. Our humour, our laughter isn't real to many, it's a 'mask for pain' (and it may be some times) or it's a defense against the harsh realities of life (isn't it that for everyone?) or it's simply, just, incomprehensible.
Joe and I were in the apartment building waiting for an elevator. We have one of those television screens above the elevator that brings headlines and local weather. It’s supposed to ‘inform’ but instead it reduces the opportunity for social contact. One of the headlines talked about a man being repeatedly shot in the thigh. As we got on to the elevator a fellow tenant, a woman of maybe 22, also got on. I joked with Joe about the headline. ‘They should have mentioned that the gunslinger was a guy in a wheelchair,’ then I held out my ‘gun hand’ finger extended and pretended to shoot repeatedly in the thigh. Joe laughed. So did she. Then she said to Joe, like I wasn’t there, ‘It’s good that he still has a sense of humour.’ Defiance, happiness is an act of defiance.
Happiness is an act of forgiveness. This is particularly true when your past holds dark times and dark memories. This is particularly true when you suffered through the rages and violence of another. This is particularly true when your childhood, or indeed any part of your life, was stolen from you by those more powerful, those in the grip of evil. I struggle every day to live in the ‘now’ even though my emotions, immature children that they are, forever wish to live amongst the ruins of the ‘dark times,' the rubble of childhood 'innocence'. I struggle every day to forgive myself for my past – only those who have been victimized know what that statement means.
I was having coffee with friends. A scent wafted by. A scent in the present that pulled me to the past. That pulled me to a vivid, ugly memory. That pulled me to a moment so quickly that my shock almost cause me to cry out. I see that moment in my mind now, I will not describe it. I will not spend time there. I will reach into my soul and grab hold of my mind’s shirt collar and pull myself back from then to here. I will hold my self gently and say, ‘it’s OK, it wasn’t your fault’ and then, I will sip my tea. Freshly forgiven. And move on. Happiness is an act of forgiveness.
Dark times. Long nights.
An aside: I wake up sweating. Confused. I know something is very wrong. I feel panic in my chest. I sit in the dark. Time slows. My mind fights to figure out the danger. There must be danger. I feel fear. I feel it deeply. Sweat begins to run down my back. I consider waking Joe. I need him. I need someone. But instead I rise and walk, unsteadily from the bedroom. I know I know what to do. I know there is something to do. I don't remember what it is. After visiting the bathroom and returning to sit on the side of the bed, I feel a 'knowing' growing. A realization. I have diabetes. Sometimes I have very low blood sugar. Low sugar makes me confused, fearful, forgetful. I rummage around to find the tester. I'm low. I know what to do.
To return: In the midst of dark nights of the soul, long dark nights filled with despair. I become forgetful. I become confused. I know, just know, that the fears I have are real, and they most often are. Yet there is more. Much more. Then a slow sense of knowing. A realization. I have a power. An amazing power. One I forget in the midst of emotional chaos. Even in the midst of real crisis. I have the power to choose how I will experience my life. I have the power to be the sole pilot of my soul.
No more and never again will I give that power over to another. Anyone. Not even to any 'thing' not to fear, not to self pity not to anger. “My mind is my own. My heart is my own. My body is my own.” This is part of the ‘Pledge of Personal Power’. It is not simply a mantra, it is a prayer to self, it is an acknowledgement of something incredibly important. I am who I decide I am. And with this power I will to happiness. And with this power I defy all prejudices. And with this power I forgive … myself … for the wrongs I’ve done and the wrongs I’ve suffered … and with forgiveness, begin anew.
Happiness will not cure cancer. Happiness will not put money in an empty bank account. Happiness will not ensure that love comes or that love lasts. Happiness is only it's own reward. And it is reward enough. Yes, I will to happiness.
I do so because, simply, I can.
I was sitting waiting for the car to be brought around, I was surrounded by bagsful of presents. Santa in a wheelchair. A woman approaches and I greet her dog who was wearing, literally, ruby slippers. She asks to me, out of the blue, ‘Why are you in a wheelchair?’ … I was taken aback but in a very good mood and I gave her a very quick and very brief explanation. Then she said, astoundingly, ‘We’ve got to get some weight off you, how are we going to do that?’ I said, ‘I think it’s rude to talk to a stranger about personal things.’ She said, ‘That’s OK, I’m a nurse.’ I said, ‘This conversation is over.’ She continued. Joe came in at this point and she was still trying to continue the conversation even has he was getting the bags. I kept saying, resolutely, 'This conversation is over.' Finally she shut up. I had been sitting there waiting, about to go celebrate a family Christmas. I sat in the car for about 5 minutes after Joe blew off steam about what he’d heard. Then I said, ‘OK, this is a happy day from now on.’ The decision was made. It is up to me how my day will go, not her. I had a terrific day. My happiness is an act of will.
Happiness is an act of defiance. This is particularly true when the world wishes you to be what it perceives you – an object of pity. ‘I’d rather be dead than disabled’ is a clear statement of hate; ‘But for the grace of God, there go I’ is a veiled statement of loathing; ‘I killed her because she suffered from disability’ is an acceptable and understandable statement for a father to make of a murdered daughter. To be ‘out’ and to be ‘happy’ is something that defies all reason, it’s something that ‘they’ have to struggle to explain. Our humour, our laughter isn't real to many, it's a 'mask for pain' (and it may be some times) or it's a defense against the harsh realities of life (isn't it that for everyone?) or it's simply, just, incomprehensible.
Joe and I were in the apartment building waiting for an elevator. We have one of those television screens above the elevator that brings headlines and local weather. It’s supposed to ‘inform’ but instead it reduces the opportunity for social contact. One of the headlines talked about a man being repeatedly shot in the thigh. As we got on to the elevator a fellow tenant, a woman of maybe 22, also got on. I joked with Joe about the headline. ‘They should have mentioned that the gunslinger was a guy in a wheelchair,’ then I held out my ‘gun hand’ finger extended and pretended to shoot repeatedly in the thigh. Joe laughed. So did she. Then she said to Joe, like I wasn’t there, ‘It’s good that he still has a sense of humour.’ Defiance, happiness is an act of defiance.
Happiness is an act of forgiveness. This is particularly true when your past holds dark times and dark memories. This is particularly true when you suffered through the rages and violence of another. This is particularly true when your childhood, or indeed any part of your life, was stolen from you by those more powerful, those in the grip of evil. I struggle every day to live in the ‘now’ even though my emotions, immature children that they are, forever wish to live amongst the ruins of the ‘dark times,' the rubble of childhood 'innocence'. I struggle every day to forgive myself for my past – only those who have been victimized know what that statement means.
I was having coffee with friends. A scent wafted by. A scent in the present that pulled me to the past. That pulled me to a vivid, ugly memory. That pulled me to a moment so quickly that my shock almost cause me to cry out. I see that moment in my mind now, I will not describe it. I will not spend time there. I will reach into my soul and grab hold of my mind’s shirt collar and pull myself back from then to here. I will hold my self gently and say, ‘it’s OK, it wasn’t your fault’ and then, I will sip my tea. Freshly forgiven. And move on. Happiness is an act of forgiveness.
Dark times. Long nights.
An aside: I wake up sweating. Confused. I know something is very wrong. I feel panic in my chest. I sit in the dark. Time slows. My mind fights to figure out the danger. There must be danger. I feel fear. I feel it deeply. Sweat begins to run down my back. I consider waking Joe. I need him. I need someone. But instead I rise and walk, unsteadily from the bedroom. I know I know what to do. I know there is something to do. I don't remember what it is. After visiting the bathroom and returning to sit on the side of the bed, I feel a 'knowing' growing. A realization. I have diabetes. Sometimes I have very low blood sugar. Low sugar makes me confused, fearful, forgetful. I rummage around to find the tester. I'm low. I know what to do.
To return: In the midst of dark nights of the soul, long dark nights filled with despair. I become forgetful. I become confused. I know, just know, that the fears I have are real, and they most often are. Yet there is more. Much more. Then a slow sense of knowing. A realization. I have a power. An amazing power. One I forget in the midst of emotional chaos. Even in the midst of real crisis. I have the power to choose how I will experience my life. I have the power to be the sole pilot of my soul.
No more and never again will I give that power over to another. Anyone. Not even to any 'thing' not to fear, not to self pity not to anger. “My mind is my own. My heart is my own. My body is my own.” This is part of the ‘Pledge of Personal Power’. It is not simply a mantra, it is a prayer to self, it is an acknowledgement of something incredibly important. I am who I decide I am. And with this power I will to happiness. And with this power I defy all prejudices. And with this power I forgive … myself … for the wrongs I’ve done and the wrongs I’ve suffered … and with forgiveness, begin anew.
Happiness will not cure cancer. Happiness will not put money in an empty bank account. Happiness will not ensure that love comes or that love lasts. Happiness is only it's own reward. And it is reward enough. Yes, I will to happiness.
I do so because, simply, I can.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Blog Carnival Deadline Extended
ANNOUNCEMENT
I am extending until tomorrow morning, 9 AM Eastern time, the deadline for submissions for the Blog Carnival. The theme, as you all will know, is 'dark nights and getting through them'. My post on the topic will appear tomorrow. It's been hard to write and I'm not really satisfied with it but it's done.
So send your link to daveandjoe@hotmail.com or just put it in the comment section. We now have a goodly bunch and I'm excited about the process of putting the carnival together.
Today's post follows:
I am extending until tomorrow morning, 9 AM Eastern time, the deadline for submissions for the Blog Carnival. The theme, as you all will know, is 'dark nights and getting through them'. My post on the topic will appear tomorrow. It's been hard to write and I'm not really satisfied with it but it's done.
So send your link to daveandjoe@hotmail.com or just put it in the comment section. We now have a goodly bunch and I'm excited about the process of putting the carnival together.
Today's post follows:
'Why Are You Crying Davey?'
"Why do people stare at you so much?"
Ruby was sitting on my lap, she'd finished her food court treat and we were chatting about Christmas. She caught someone gawking from a distance and I said, 'You mean like that woman over there.' She said, quickly, 'Not just her lots of people stare. Why do they stare at you so much?'
I was stuck.
'I don't like it when people stare and me and I don't like it when people stare at you.'
I was still stuck. I looked at her face. She was looking at me earnestly, with absolute trust. I had thought I'd say, 'They are staring at me because they can't believe how lucky I am to know a lovely little girl like you.' But that's not true. I suddenly felt the weight of the question and I felt like Ruby was depending on me to take her question seriously, to take her seriously.
'Because I'm different than other people.'
'No you're not,' she said quickly, 'you're just Davey.'
I gave her a hug trying to keep tears out of my eyes. 'Yes, I'm just Davey to you, but they don't know my name. They don't know me like you do. They see me as being bigger than them and they see me in my wheelchair.'
I felt like I'd struggled through those words.
'That's what I already said, silly,' she said patting my shoulder with her hand, 'You're just Davey.'
I am that.
I'm just Dave.
How I pray one day that what Ruby knows the entire world and everyone that lives in it one day will understand.
Ruby was sitting on my lap, she'd finished her food court treat and we were chatting about Christmas. She caught someone gawking from a distance and I said, 'You mean like that woman over there.' She said, quickly, 'Not just her lots of people stare. Why do they stare at you so much?'
I was stuck.
'I don't like it when people stare and me and I don't like it when people stare at you.'
I was still stuck. I looked at her face. She was looking at me earnestly, with absolute trust. I had thought I'd say, 'They are staring at me because they can't believe how lucky I am to know a lovely little girl like you.' But that's not true. I suddenly felt the weight of the question and I felt like Ruby was depending on me to take her question seriously, to take her seriously.
'Because I'm different than other people.'
'No you're not,' she said quickly, 'you're just Davey.'
I gave her a hug trying to keep tears out of my eyes. 'Yes, I'm just Davey to you, but they don't know my name. They don't know me like you do. They see me as being bigger than them and they see me in my wheelchair.'
I felt like I'd struggled through those words.
'That's what I already said, silly,' she said patting my shoulder with her hand, 'You're just Davey.'
I am that.
I'm just Dave.
How I pray one day that what Ruby knows the entire world and everyone that lives in it one day will understand.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
A Moment Today
I had an odd experience today.
We had parked outside the office where I was going to be consulting. I was seated comfortably in a parked car. Even though it was still warm from the drive up, it was cooling quickly in the sub-zero temperature. Joe was outside, checking the area beside the car to see if it was slippery or dangerous for me to stand on. Satisfied that all was well, he opened the trunk.
Across from me is a picture window that looks in on a fitness center. In the morning sun it has become more of a mirror than a window. I see Joe behind getting things out of the trunk. Then I see him pull the wheelchair out and set it on the cold sidewalk. I saw my chair sitting there and it felt, oddly, like much more than a chair. I smiled looking at it. I felt that smile to be the same one I use when greeting old friends, or seeing happy dogs, or looking at pictures of fond moments. It played on my lips, telling me something.
It told me that my wheelchair was now so much a part of my life that I think of it less like an impersonal 'thing' and more like a personal friend. This 'thing' that people are so afraid of ... isn't an object of terror ... this life that I've been given ... isn't so bad after all. I realized, in seeing my chair, my old friend, that I am full habilitated as a disabled person. I'm fully comfortable with my role in life and my roll through life. Really OK.
When I got out of the car, I said to Joe, 'I think I'll hold on to your shoulder and walk over to the building instead of riding.'
Joe took the brakes off the chair and asked, 'Why, it's slippery?'
I said, 'I thought I'd give my chair just a few minutes off duty today.'
After a pause Joe said, 'You know what's weird? I know what you mean.'
We had parked outside the office where I was going to be consulting. I was seated comfortably in a parked car. Even though it was still warm from the drive up, it was cooling quickly in the sub-zero temperature. Joe was outside, checking the area beside the car to see if it was slippery or dangerous for me to stand on. Satisfied that all was well, he opened the trunk.
Across from me is a picture window that looks in on a fitness center. In the morning sun it has become more of a mirror than a window. I see Joe behind getting things out of the trunk. Then I see him pull the wheelchair out and set it on the cold sidewalk. I saw my chair sitting there and it felt, oddly, like much more than a chair. I smiled looking at it. I felt that smile to be the same one I use when greeting old friends, or seeing happy dogs, or looking at pictures of fond moments. It played on my lips, telling me something.
It told me that my wheelchair was now so much a part of my life that I think of it less like an impersonal 'thing' and more like a personal friend. This 'thing' that people are so afraid of ... isn't an object of terror ... this life that I've been given ... isn't so bad after all. I realized, in seeing my chair, my old friend, that I am full habilitated as a disabled person. I'm fully comfortable with my role in life and my roll through life. Really OK.
When I got out of the car, I said to Joe, 'I think I'll hold on to your shoulder and walk over to the building instead of riding.'
Joe took the brakes off the chair and asked, 'Why, it's slippery?'
I said, 'I thought I'd give my chair just a few minutes off duty today.'
After a pause Joe said, 'You know what's weird? I know what you mean.'
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Your Two What?
All I want for Christmas is my two cents worth.
I have a voice. OK. Step one to becoming an equal and participating citizen. Now I need a voice that's HEARD. That's one hell of a big step along the process isn't it? Sometimes I just get so frustrated that I want to yell and swear. I don't. But the urge can be overwhelming.
Joe and I went over for lunch to the mall across the way. It was a bitterly cold day and I was bundled up in hat and scarf and thick sweater. My hands were patriotically covered in the red Canada gloves that are the hit of the season here in Toronto. In the mall, at the food court, I took off my scarf and my sweater and my hat and my gloves. 'You'll lose the benefit of that coat' I hear a parental voice echoing down a corridor nearly 60 years in the making. I follow this commandment without question. After all I didn't listen to the 'don't date boys' edict, I gotta give a little ground.
On our way out I rode up a short elevator ride to the small vestibule just inside the door. This is at one of the city's big intersections and the wind whips through there something terrible. I'm in my shirtsleeves and reaching back to grab my winter stuff out of my bag behind me. A fellow coming in sees me and immediately runs over to where we are, reaches in front of me, and pushes the wheelchair door button. The door swings wide open and the wind whips in. My skin begins to freeze.
'It's OK, I've got to put my coat on.'
'I don't mind,' he says holding the door open.
'No, really, I've got to get my coat on,' I'm struggling to get dressed quickly, not well, cause I'm freaking freezing. He's standing there grinning at me, or at the fact that he's being helpful.
'I've got all the time in the world,' he says still smiling.
Is he high on Christmas cookies?
My sweater is on now Joe is digging around in the bag for my gloves, hat and scarf. I yell now, 'Please, shut the damn door, I'm freezing here.'
He frowns and grumbles something, but he closes the door. I know I should explain to him that I didn't need help just then, that his help was intrusive, that it was winter, it was cold and I needed to put my coat on. But I didn't.
He headed away and I felt bad so I said, 'Thanks anyway!'
He turned, all was well with the world and called out, 'Anytime!'
Yeah, all I want for Christmas is my two cents worth. I'd even pay someone a penny to listen to my thoughts.
All afternoon I've been humming, 'Baby it's cold outside ...'
I have a voice. OK. Step one to becoming an equal and participating citizen. Now I need a voice that's HEARD. That's one hell of a big step along the process isn't it? Sometimes I just get so frustrated that I want to yell and swear. I don't. But the urge can be overwhelming.
Joe and I went over for lunch to the mall across the way. It was a bitterly cold day and I was bundled up in hat and scarf and thick sweater. My hands were patriotically covered in the red Canada gloves that are the hit of the season here in Toronto. In the mall, at the food court, I took off my scarf and my sweater and my hat and my gloves. 'You'll lose the benefit of that coat' I hear a parental voice echoing down a corridor nearly 60 years in the making. I follow this commandment without question. After all I didn't listen to the 'don't date boys' edict, I gotta give a little ground.
On our way out I rode up a short elevator ride to the small vestibule just inside the door. This is at one of the city's big intersections and the wind whips through there something terrible. I'm in my shirtsleeves and reaching back to grab my winter stuff out of my bag behind me. A fellow coming in sees me and immediately runs over to where we are, reaches in front of me, and pushes the wheelchair door button. The door swings wide open and the wind whips in. My skin begins to freeze.
'It's OK, I've got to put my coat on.'
'I don't mind,' he says holding the door open.
'No, really, I've got to get my coat on,' I'm struggling to get dressed quickly, not well, cause I'm freaking freezing. He's standing there grinning at me, or at the fact that he's being helpful.
'I've got all the time in the world,' he says still smiling.
Is he high on Christmas cookies?
My sweater is on now Joe is digging around in the bag for my gloves, hat and scarf. I yell now, 'Please, shut the damn door, I'm freezing here.'
He frowns and grumbles something, but he closes the door. I know I should explain to him that I didn't need help just then, that his help was intrusive, that it was winter, it was cold and I needed to put my coat on. But I didn't.
He headed away and I felt bad so I said, 'Thanks anyway!'
He turned, all was well with the world and called out, 'Anytime!'
Yeah, all I want for Christmas is my two cents worth. I'd even pay someone a penny to listen to my thoughts.
All afternoon I've been humming, 'Baby it's cold outside ...'
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Fingers Not Hitting The Right Keys
I request your patience today. I tried writing todays post, I know what I want to say but I found that I was way short of ability to get it down right. When I finished, I just wasn't satisfied. Thing is, I could post it but then I have to be done with it and move on. I want to take a little more time and try to get it right. So, I'll be back tomorrow with the finished one ... or if I can't get it ... with something new.
Thanks for understanding ...
Thanks for understanding ...
Monday, December 13, 2010
Slippers
Today is my father's birthday. It's early yet but I'll call him later. We don't talk much, we never did. But we'll stumble through a conversation. He won't say much, I won't press him - that will be my primary gift to him. He's not a talker, my Dad, and my chatter irritated him when I was a child. I remember once him saying to my mother, 'How does his stomach stay warm when his mouth is never shut.' I was stunned by what he'd said. I thought it truly funny but what astonished me was that my Dad could say so many words, all in a row.
As I get ready to make the call. I remember a moment from my childhood. A moment I did not understand for many, many years. It was Christmas. I had bought my father slippers. What a unique gift for a child to give his Pa! Anyways, I watched in anticipation for him to put the slippers on. I worried if they would fit. I was a child constantly consumed by worry - a habit that I have never broken. I was pleased that they did.
He wore them all day. I was pleased that he did. As we were cleaning up to get ready for bed, I took his new slippers to put them proudly under the tree. I felt something inside the toe and when I reached in the slipper I found that there was some paper stuffing inside. I was astonished. I gave way to some cruelty and made fun of my Dad for wearing the slippers with stuffing inside. He simply smiled at me.
It's the smile that bothers me.
I remembered this for no reason a few years ago. And, of course, seeing the situation anew, years later, as an adult, I understood it so much better. It's a pity that many choose to remember their parents as they understood them as children. Adults know the world in ways that children do not. Adults understand the world in ways that children never can. I have tried to visit my childhood, not for replaying childhood memories, but as an adult tourist visiting a familiar landscape.
The adult me wants to spank the child me. I did not understand that this man of few words was a father wanting his son to be happy. I did not understand that he made himself uncomfortable for a whole day, walking with wadded up toes against wadded up paper, just so I would not know that the slippers did not fit. He wanted to protect me from disappointment. And for this he got an ungrateful son with the insight of a toad. Although that may be unfair to toads.
My father is a kind man.
I wish to be my father's son.
I'd like to tell him that today but I won't. I'm going to put tight slippers on my need to express myself and give my father what he wants. A short conversation about not very much. A conversation that will say, 'I get it'.
A gift that I know will fit.
As I get ready to make the call. I remember a moment from my childhood. A moment I did not understand for many, many years. It was Christmas. I had bought my father slippers. What a unique gift for a child to give his Pa! Anyways, I watched in anticipation for him to put the slippers on. I worried if they would fit. I was a child constantly consumed by worry - a habit that I have never broken. I was pleased that they did.
He wore them all day. I was pleased that he did. As we were cleaning up to get ready for bed, I took his new slippers to put them proudly under the tree. I felt something inside the toe and when I reached in the slipper I found that there was some paper stuffing inside. I was astonished. I gave way to some cruelty and made fun of my Dad for wearing the slippers with stuffing inside. He simply smiled at me.
It's the smile that bothers me.
I remembered this for no reason a few years ago. And, of course, seeing the situation anew, years later, as an adult, I understood it so much better. It's a pity that many choose to remember their parents as they understood them as children. Adults know the world in ways that children do not. Adults understand the world in ways that children never can. I have tried to visit my childhood, not for replaying childhood memories, but as an adult tourist visiting a familiar landscape.
The adult me wants to spank the child me. I did not understand that this man of few words was a father wanting his son to be happy. I did not understand that he made himself uncomfortable for a whole day, walking with wadded up toes against wadded up paper, just so I would not know that the slippers did not fit. He wanted to protect me from disappointment. And for this he got an ungrateful son with the insight of a toad. Although that may be unfair to toads.
My father is a kind man.
I wish to be my father's son.
I'd like to tell him that today but I won't. I'm going to put tight slippers on my need to express myself and give my father what he wants. A short conversation about not very much. A conversation that will say, 'I get it'.
A gift that I know will fit.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Blog Announcement
It's almost time for Rolling Around in My Head to host it's second official Disability Blog Carnival. I've been getting a few submissions and I thank those who have responded. The theme is 'dark nights of the soul and what gets you through them' ... I'd like stories and posts about how you've surivived those times when it was 'darkest before the dawn'. We all have amazing inner resources, these are stores we need to share.
The blog will be posted on December 21st, the shortest day, the longest night, of the year. I'd dearly like to hear from you so we can have a robust Carnival. This is the season of 'feasting' ... I'd like there to be lots of food for thought to take us through the season. So write something, post it and then submit the link. Or if you've written about 'that time' send me the link.
Email me with submissions by December 15th at daveandjoe@hotmail.com .
Today's post follows.
TAODBAU
scooterhate from thehatstuff on Vimeo.
Transcript:
New rule: If horror zombies really want to scare me, they have to walk faster. I don't even have to run from zombies. I can saunter, amble, stroll, promenade, stop for coffee at Pete's. Zombies, you may be a disgusting, barely ambulatory member of the undead, but so is this guy-[picture of a fat man riding a power chair]-and he can (or can't - impossible to distinguish) catch me.
Open Letter to Mr. Bill Maher,
I'm sure you don't remember me, Mr. Maher, but I have written to you before. I didn't hear back. Surprise. I had written to you regarding your use of the word 'r@tard' in one of your commentaries. At the time I was shocked because I didn't think you were that kind of guy. Turns out, I was wrong. You are 'that guy'. You are who you appear to be. A bigot who loves to take shots at the disabled community.
I'm glad you take delight in the fact that you 'can saunter, amble, stroll, promenade' your way through life. I can't. Nor can many others who have disabilities. I need a mobility devise. I need the world to be slightly adapted to my needs. Yeah, I know, big inconvenience you to you and yours.
As a proud member of TAODBAU The Association Of Disgusting, Barely Ambulatory Undead as you have dubbed me, I'd like to first remind you that you wishing me dead is not the same as me actually being 'undead'. I imagine that you figure that those of us, members of TAODBAU, simply cannot feel. What with being zombie-like and all, it's simply fun to smash us about. Smash us, slash us, stab us, set us on fire - yep, go ahead - it's funny. It may surprise you that I can give you names of people with disabilities that all these things have happened to ... many names actually. Others agree with you, laugh with you ... we can't feel, so crimes against us, crimes of physical violence, crimes of social violence, crimes of verbal violence don't matter much. We can't feel so who the hell cares.
Words hurt, Mr. Maher. Not that you much care. A four year old would know that taking a picture of a fellow human being and then holding it up to ridicule is cruel. I don't believe you will ever read this letter, that if you did you would care about it's content, or that you would ever have the ability to commit to personal change. But I write this anyways.
I write this, to you but not for you. I write this to alert the disability community to who you are, to warn them of your prejudices, to signal others of the presence in our midst of toxic attitudes and corrosive words.
You hurt us, Mr. Maher, purposely and without care.
I may be disgusting. I may be barely ambulatory. But I have the wonderful capacity to be able to give thanks that I sit here, comfortably in my wheelchair rather than where ever you are, in your skin.
Dave Hingsburger
Saturday, December 11, 2010
OK
Heaven knows that I, amongst men, should believe in fairy dust.
Amid stress, anxiety and worry, we were calling to set up a Christmas get together with Mike, Marissa and the kids. We're doing something a little different, a little special this year, and it takes some organization. Joe, growing a little tired of my being distracted by roiling inner waters, said, 'Why not call Mike or Marissa and see if you can get all the planning done.'
I did what he said a little annoyed that he was asking me to do something while I was in the mud bath of self loathing, I picked up the phone. I chatted with Mike and we got a date. Step one, tick. Then I outlined the plan and contingency, all agreed. Step two, tick. I heard Ruby in the background and asked if she'd come to talk. She eagerly agreed. She loves chatting on the phone.
She came on the phone full of her day at school. They had had a gift fair in the gymnasium and all gifts were 50 cents. She bought a gift for her mommy and daddy and Sadie. She wouldn't tell me what the gifts were because everyone could hear her and the secret would be out. OK, I got that.
Talking with Mike later he made reference to Ruby's great day at school and her coming home with gifts that had been wrapped by the teachers.
A howl went up in the living room. It was Ruby raising her voice in protest. I could hear her all the way from her apartment in Ottawa to our car in Toronto.
'Dad! The teachers did not wrap the presents!!!!'
Mike turned from the phone and I heard him ask her, 'Who wrapped the presents then.'
A firm little voice said, 'Elves.'
I had wanted to cry all afternoon. And I did, I laughed so hard that the tears that had begun their journey in sadness now made rainbows in my eyes.
I live in a world populated by Elves.
All is OK.
Amid stress, anxiety and worry, we were calling to set up a Christmas get together with Mike, Marissa and the kids. We're doing something a little different, a little special this year, and it takes some organization. Joe, growing a little tired of my being distracted by roiling inner waters, said, 'Why not call Mike or Marissa and see if you can get all the planning done.'
I did what he said a little annoyed that he was asking me to do something while I was in the mud bath of self loathing, I picked up the phone. I chatted with Mike and we got a date. Step one, tick. Then I outlined the plan and contingency, all agreed. Step two, tick. I heard Ruby in the background and asked if she'd come to talk. She eagerly agreed. She loves chatting on the phone.
She came on the phone full of her day at school. They had had a gift fair in the gymnasium and all gifts were 50 cents. She bought a gift for her mommy and daddy and Sadie. She wouldn't tell me what the gifts were because everyone could hear her and the secret would be out. OK, I got that.
Talking with Mike later he made reference to Ruby's great day at school and her coming home with gifts that had been wrapped by the teachers.
A howl went up in the living room. It was Ruby raising her voice in protest. I could hear her all the way from her apartment in Ottawa to our car in Toronto.
'Dad! The teachers did not wrap the presents!!!!'
Mike turned from the phone and I heard him ask her, 'Who wrapped the presents then.'
A firm little voice said, 'Elves.'
I had wanted to cry all afternoon. And I did, I laughed so hard that the tears that had begun their journey in sadness now made rainbows in my eyes.
I live in a world populated by Elves.
All is OK.
Friday, December 10, 2010
courage
She stops traffic. Literally. People see her and hit the brakes. It’s as if their minds cannot take all of her in and desperately seeks more time. Stares follow her every step. Every. Single. Step. Her feet can only move her a few inches at a time. She moves slowly towards the bus. Joe and I are sitting on a packed bus on our way out for an evening. She finally reaches the ramp and the bus tilts when she steps on it. She is winded at the top and has to stop, catch her breath and then move towards her seat.
There is a stillness on the bus as she settles herself. The driver has difficulty in putting on the seat belt, she is using an extender so the issue isn’t a physical fit but the physical touch that is necessary for securing the belt. She is strapped in. As we drive at every stop, people glance in the bus and when they see her they stop. Actually stop. And stare. Their faces set as hard as their stare.
She is hugely fat. I am a very, very, very big man and I feel small in comparison. Her clothes fit tightly, straining against her body, holding her in, stitches desperately holding on. Everything about her is gray. Her clothes, her hair, her manner. Nothing sticks out. Nothing calls attention to the person who is sitting quietly on the bus. Looking only forward.
Faces.
Faces.
Faces.
Stare at her. Point at her. Laugh at her. Call out to her. Kids, young teens mostly, try to get her attention. They don’t see me. Huge in my chair. They don’t see the man in front of me sitting in a chair designed by NASA. They don’t see the woman on the other side of the bus, quietly petting her guide dog as they travel together. They don’t see Joe, tucked away at the back of the bus. No. The bus is empty of all except her. Her difference makes us all invisible.
One kid screams something hideous. I don’t need to report it here. She looks straight ahead. We all hear the words tossed at the bus. We all feel them batter the side of the bus as they land, hard, against the window.
No one knows what to do.
Least of all, I.
Those words, those hateful, hurtful words. They are reserved for me. I had thought. But no. I am not the target here. She is. Her face is passive. I know that face. I have practiced that face. It is a face that is meant to communicate ‘you can’t reach me in here’ but now I see that it doesn’t say that, it says something much different, ‘I have fled from you, I live in terror of you, I have vacated my eyes in fear of the hatred I see in yours.’
Even when she got onto the bus, already full of the different. Her eyes glanced around, first identifying a seat, then looking in panic at us, knowing we could all see her, knowing that she had to be present for a few moments as she walked the stage in front of us. Would she find rejection here, even amongst those used to rejection?
For the briefest of seconds, when she got to her seat, before turning around to sit, our eyes met. I saw in her eyes something else. Something beyond panic. I saw courage. Raw, unadulterated courage. She was out in the world when it would have been safer to stay in. She may hide within but she will live without. In that moment I admired her. Truly. Deeply.
SMASH
Another hateful word slams the side of the bus. It begins a torrent of words. They rain down on her, she must hear them, she must. But she stays still. Carved of soft stone. I’m biting the inside of my cheek, like I do when I’m under great stress. I can’t think of what to do.
Then.
The man in the chair by NASA turned to her, using the breath that he used to steer the chair, took control, he said, ‘Where are you off to on this cold evening?’
She turned to him, grateful to be spoken to, included, ‘I’m just going home.’
Then, as a sea of vitriol engulfed the bus, as the light turned green, we all began to talk. Of normal things. Of work. Of home. Of weekends. Of dogs. The bus suddenly seemed like sanctuary. They were out there. We were in here. There wasn’t anything we could do in the moment about them, but there was something we could do for her.
In a world that uses hate as a weapon of exclusion, we could use inclusion as our best defense. We had the power to change the world around us, and we did. We had the power to make the space around us welcoming, and we did. We had the power to use gentle voices to silence hateful voices, and we did.
When she got off, she turned to all of us, still with journey’s ahead of us and said, ‘I am so often alone, for a few minutes I felt what it must be like to have a family who loves you when you need to be loved.’
She cried as she walked along towards the door of her apartment. One slow step after another.
But no one teased her in those steps.
Some kids saw her get off the bus. They stared. But they were silent.
I’m not sure why
There is a stillness on the bus as she settles herself. The driver has difficulty in putting on the seat belt, she is using an extender so the issue isn’t a physical fit but the physical touch that is necessary for securing the belt. She is strapped in. As we drive at every stop, people glance in the bus and when they see her they stop. Actually stop. And stare. Their faces set as hard as their stare.
She is hugely fat. I am a very, very, very big man and I feel small in comparison. Her clothes fit tightly, straining against her body, holding her in, stitches desperately holding on. Everything about her is gray. Her clothes, her hair, her manner. Nothing sticks out. Nothing calls attention to the person who is sitting quietly on the bus. Looking only forward.
Faces.
Faces.
Faces.
Stare at her. Point at her. Laugh at her. Call out to her. Kids, young teens mostly, try to get her attention. They don’t see me. Huge in my chair. They don’t see the man in front of me sitting in a chair designed by NASA. They don’t see the woman on the other side of the bus, quietly petting her guide dog as they travel together. They don’t see Joe, tucked away at the back of the bus. No. The bus is empty of all except her. Her difference makes us all invisible.
One kid screams something hideous. I don’t need to report it here. She looks straight ahead. We all hear the words tossed at the bus. We all feel them batter the side of the bus as they land, hard, against the window.
No one knows what to do.
Least of all, I.
Those words, those hateful, hurtful words. They are reserved for me. I had thought. But no. I am not the target here. She is. Her face is passive. I know that face. I have practiced that face. It is a face that is meant to communicate ‘you can’t reach me in here’ but now I see that it doesn’t say that, it says something much different, ‘I have fled from you, I live in terror of you, I have vacated my eyes in fear of the hatred I see in yours.’
Even when she got onto the bus, already full of the different. Her eyes glanced around, first identifying a seat, then looking in panic at us, knowing we could all see her, knowing that she had to be present for a few moments as she walked the stage in front of us. Would she find rejection here, even amongst those used to rejection?
For the briefest of seconds, when she got to her seat, before turning around to sit, our eyes met. I saw in her eyes something else. Something beyond panic. I saw courage. Raw, unadulterated courage. She was out in the world when it would have been safer to stay in. She may hide within but she will live without. In that moment I admired her. Truly. Deeply.
SMASH
Another hateful word slams the side of the bus. It begins a torrent of words. They rain down on her, she must hear them, she must. But she stays still. Carved of soft stone. I’m biting the inside of my cheek, like I do when I’m under great stress. I can’t think of what to do.
Then.
The man in the chair by NASA turned to her, using the breath that he used to steer the chair, took control, he said, ‘Where are you off to on this cold evening?’
She turned to him, grateful to be spoken to, included, ‘I’m just going home.’
Then, as a sea of vitriol engulfed the bus, as the light turned green, we all began to talk. Of normal things. Of work. Of home. Of weekends. Of dogs. The bus suddenly seemed like sanctuary. They were out there. We were in here. There wasn’t anything we could do in the moment about them, but there was something we could do for her.
In a world that uses hate as a weapon of exclusion, we could use inclusion as our best defense. We had the power to change the world around us, and we did. We had the power to make the space around us welcoming, and we did. We had the power to use gentle voices to silence hateful voices, and we did.
When she got off, she turned to all of us, still with journey’s ahead of us and said, ‘I am so often alone, for a few minutes I felt what it must be like to have a family who loves you when you need to be loved.’
She cried as she walked along towards the door of her apartment. One slow step after another.
But no one teased her in those steps.
Some kids saw her get off the bus. They stared. But they were silent.
I’m not sure why
Thursday, December 09, 2010
The Epistle of Paul (O'Grady)
I fell in love with Paul O'Grady during our trips to the UK. I've always thought of him as both funny and wildly intelligent. He's the kind of guy I'd love to have a quick cup of tea with. My respect for him grew when I visited, upon the recommendation of one of my readers (I don't know if she'd want to be publicly identified), a website The Broken of Britain and read some of the posts. There is a lesson here for all of us, government cutbacks always cut the backs of those who have the least amount of power and the least understood voice. Paul O'Grady calls for revolution ... I agree. I don't know how we as an international community can support each other. Anyone have ideas? I'm sure you do. First watch Paul and then leave a comment with suggestions as to how we can become a community whose voice is, if not understood, respected.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Blogging tired
Here's a rare thing: this post is going straight from being written to being posted. Normally I write something during the day and then set it to post automatically. However, I've gotten home just now from a harrowing road trip. We left Boston and headed along I 90 and ran into very heavy snowfall around Syracuse. Electronic signs informed us that the Interstate was closed down due to heavy snow and an accident resulting thereby. So we had to head way north on 81 and cross into Canada and then continue on to Toronto.
We stopped at a duty free to pick up beer and pee. The snow lay heavy on the ground and I got out with that kind of urgency that 50 plus men have when there is a bathroom nearby. But I was immediately stuck. I couldn't go anywhere, my wheels just spun on the snow and ice and I sat there, frustrated watching snow land on my shoulders like piles of cold dandruff.
Joe came round and it was a struggle for him to but together we made it, him pushing, me cheering him on. Sometimes it really does take two.
Winter.
My gosh.
I'm going to have to get winter tires.
We stopped at a duty free to pick up beer and pee. The snow lay heavy on the ground and I got out with that kind of urgency that 50 plus men have when there is a bathroom nearby. But I was immediately stuck. I couldn't go anywhere, my wheels just spun on the snow and ice and I sat there, frustrated watching snow land on my shoulders like piles of cold dandruff.
Joe came round and it was a struggle for him to but together we made it, him pushing, me cheering him on. Sometimes it really does take two.
Winter.
My gosh.
I'm going to have to get winter tires.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Now
"You are in a wheelchair now."
I hadn't seen him for a long while and he was startled to see the set of wheels that I travel with. We caught up with what was going on in his life. I told him what was going on in mine. He really wanted to know that I was OK that the wheelchair wasn't an indicator of ill health but that it was just how I moved now. I assured him.
Then he moved into something a little more serious and I sat and listened, interested. I waited until he was finished and then asked him a question or two more to clarify my understanding. He paused and then continued to fill me in. When done, he waited for me to speak. I took my time to think, some big things were presented to me. I had seen real growth in how he sees himself and the world he lives in. For the first time I heard concepts come out of him that were fully formed and mature, responsibility, personal choices, just consequences. Wow.
Finally I spoke up and he listened careful to what I was thinking. It was a unique kind of consultation because it was so reciprocal. It ended with him thanking me for my time, me thanking him for his.
He shook my hand and said, "You are so different now."
Without saying, I knew the 'now' meant, now that I had a disability.
I said, 'How am I different.'
He paused and said, "You listen more slowly."
I think that's the biggest compliment I've ever gotten. And if it took a wheelchair to slow my ears down, it's well worth it. Really. Well worth it.
I hadn't seen him for a long while and he was startled to see the set of wheels that I travel with. We caught up with what was going on in his life. I told him what was going on in mine. He really wanted to know that I was OK that the wheelchair wasn't an indicator of ill health but that it was just how I moved now. I assured him.
Then he moved into something a little more serious and I sat and listened, interested. I waited until he was finished and then asked him a question or two more to clarify my understanding. He paused and then continued to fill me in. When done, he waited for me to speak. I took my time to think, some big things were presented to me. I had seen real growth in how he sees himself and the world he lives in. For the first time I heard concepts come out of him that were fully formed and mature, responsibility, personal choices, just consequences. Wow.
Finally I spoke up and he listened careful to what I was thinking. It was a unique kind of consultation because it was so reciprocal. It ended with him thanking me for my time, me thanking him for his.
He shook my hand and said, "You are so different now."
Without saying, I knew the 'now' meant, now that I had a disability.
I said, 'How am I different.'
He paused and said, "You listen more slowly."
I think that's the biggest compliment I've ever gotten. And if it took a wheelchair to slow my ears down, it's well worth it. Really. Well worth it.
Monday, December 06, 2010
A Dark and (not so) Stormy Night
I got on the WheelTrans bus late in the evening. It isn't often I'm out after dark anymore. Typically I am in bed fairly early in the evening. But this was nearly 10 at night. Man it gets dark out. We had attended Vita's Christmas, oops sorry, Holiday, gathering. We'd had a huge meal. You know what they say about Italian food, after a good meal and three days later you are hungry again. Well it was that kind of spread. I chucked it in and decided not to think about carbs and calories for an evening and ate everything including this wild dessert.
So I got on the bus worried about the weight bearing capacity of the ramp. But we were on with no incident. There were two young guys on the bus. One was in a power chair, the other was a non disabled kid. They would have been in their very early 20's. They were coming from a wheelchair hockey game and were full of the game. They talked excitedly about the players. The guy in the wheelchair, a big blustery friendly guy, introduced himself and his friend to us. He said that his friend was his 'manager' cause he's one of the best players on the league. That sent his friend off on an good natured riff about the errors made during the game.
During the ride their cell phones, both of them went off at regular intervals. They were planning a get together at a PizzaPizza joint and, between jibes at each other, were getting things organized. There was such an easiness in their friendship that I sat in absolute wonder at it. It was clear they valued each other. It was clear they enjoyed doing things with each other.
Think about it, this non-disabled guy went with his friend to watch him play wheelchair hockey, ride to and from the event in a wheelchair bus, and had done it often enough to know all the names of the players and to be able to weigh out their strengths and weaknesses.
Then there was the disabled guy who knew that his friend liked pizza more than Chinese food, what movies he liked to go to, what girl he found 'hot' right now. He took as much interest in his friends life as his friend took interest in his.
Terrific.
There was a time in our history, our very recent history, where these two guys would never have met and never have become friends. A time where the two worlds never overlapped and one watched the other from behind the window of a segregated bus.
The ease that these two guys have with each other is great to see. But its more than that. At least it was more than that to me on a dark, Friday, December night. It was 'testimony' to the huge social crime committed against people with disabilities, generation after generation of people with disabilities. Who lived lives alone and separate ...
When they could have been riding with friends to a pizza joint after a game of hockey.
So I got on the bus worried about the weight bearing capacity of the ramp. But we were on with no incident. There were two young guys on the bus. One was in a power chair, the other was a non disabled kid. They would have been in their very early 20's. They were coming from a wheelchair hockey game and were full of the game. They talked excitedly about the players. The guy in the wheelchair, a big blustery friendly guy, introduced himself and his friend to us. He said that his friend was his 'manager' cause he's one of the best players on the league. That sent his friend off on an good natured riff about the errors made during the game.
During the ride their cell phones, both of them went off at regular intervals. They were planning a get together at a PizzaPizza joint and, between jibes at each other, were getting things organized. There was such an easiness in their friendship that I sat in absolute wonder at it. It was clear they valued each other. It was clear they enjoyed doing things with each other.
Think about it, this non-disabled guy went with his friend to watch him play wheelchair hockey, ride to and from the event in a wheelchair bus, and had done it often enough to know all the names of the players and to be able to weigh out their strengths and weaknesses.
Then there was the disabled guy who knew that his friend liked pizza more than Chinese food, what movies he liked to go to, what girl he found 'hot' right now. He took as much interest in his friends life as his friend took interest in his.
Terrific.
There was a time in our history, our very recent history, where these two guys would never have met and never have become friends. A time where the two worlds never overlapped and one watched the other from behind the window of a segregated bus.
The ease that these two guys have with each other is great to see. But its more than that. At least it was more than that to me on a dark, Friday, December night. It was 'testimony' to the huge social crime committed against people with disabilities, generation after generation of people with disabilities. Who lived lives alone and separate ...
When they could have been riding with friends to a pizza joint after a game of hockey.
Sunday, December 05, 2010
Men's Legs
Psalm 147:10
His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse, nor his delight in the legs of a man
OK, that's what I wanted to say.
I've never been really good at quoting scripture. I've read the Bible, more than once. I know pretty much what's in there and do pretty well at Biblical categories on Jeopardy. But when push comes to shove, I have to dig around to find what I want. Before Phyllis died, I'd just call her and she was able to point me in the right direction. Of course there's Belinda and Susan who are only a phone call away. They each have pretty much immediate recall of scripture. Or I can, as in this case, simply Google it. Try it, just put in the search bar these words: psalms, God, men's legs ... and 147 will come right up at the top.
But when I'm in need of it in conversation or debate, my mind goes first vague and then blank. It can be frustrating because I sound like a spiritual illiterate. And as a person with a disability, trust me you need to know your Bible. People keep wanting to pray for me, figuring I'm disabled because of sinfulness. Others figure that God is just waiting for someone to ring the doorbell and ask for my healing. So, routinely, I get approached.
Actually, that's not quite true.
Here in Canada it happens rarely. In some States, though, it happens a lot. So I was taken aback when asked innocently by someone, here in Toronto, yesterday if they could chat with me for a second. She looked like decent folk, and she probably was, but I was startled when the woman asked if she could lay hands on me. Given my, um, proclivities, this is not an experience I've had often in my life. I looked startled and she explained that she had a 'gift'.
Uh Huh.
Gift.
Yeah, right.
I began to slowly back up in my chair thinking, 'Don't look her in the eye ... Don't look her in the eye.' I stammered an answer saying, essentially but not as clearly, 'No, thanks, I'm fine.'
Remember and sing along, 'I'm OK with being me'.
Or, if you don't remember that one maybe, 'Jesus loves me, this I know ...'.
She started to talk about God's love and I interrupted saying, 'God's not into men's legs.' Now she looked startled and started to back up.
A few seconds later with me babbling on about legs ... she was gone.
I don't think I'm saveable.
Except, perhaps, that maybe I already am.
His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse, nor his delight in the legs of a man
OK, that's what I wanted to say.
I've never been really good at quoting scripture. I've read the Bible, more than once. I know pretty much what's in there and do pretty well at Biblical categories on Jeopardy. But when push comes to shove, I have to dig around to find what I want. Before Phyllis died, I'd just call her and she was able to point me in the right direction. Of course there's Belinda and Susan who are only a phone call away. They each have pretty much immediate recall of scripture. Or I can, as in this case, simply Google it. Try it, just put in the search bar these words: psalms, God, men's legs ... and 147 will come right up at the top.
But when I'm in need of it in conversation or debate, my mind goes first vague and then blank. It can be frustrating because I sound like a spiritual illiterate. And as a person with a disability, trust me you need to know your Bible. People keep wanting to pray for me, figuring I'm disabled because of sinfulness. Others figure that God is just waiting for someone to ring the doorbell and ask for my healing. So, routinely, I get approached.
Actually, that's not quite true.
Here in Canada it happens rarely. In some States, though, it happens a lot. So I was taken aback when asked innocently by someone, here in Toronto, yesterday if they could chat with me for a second. She looked like decent folk, and she probably was, but I was startled when the woman asked if she could lay hands on me. Given my, um, proclivities, this is not an experience I've had often in my life. I looked startled and she explained that she had a 'gift'.
Uh Huh.
Gift.
Yeah, right.
I began to slowly back up in my chair thinking, 'Don't look her in the eye ... Don't look her in the eye.' I stammered an answer saying, essentially but not as clearly, 'No, thanks, I'm fine.'
Remember and sing along, 'I'm OK with being me'.
Or, if you don't remember that one maybe, 'Jesus loves me, this I know ...'.
She started to talk about God's love and I interrupted saying, 'God's not into men's legs.' Now she looked startled and started to back up.
A few seconds later with me babbling on about legs ... she was gone.
I don't think I'm saveable.
Except, perhaps, that maybe I already am.
Saturday, December 04, 2010
The F Bomb, over and over and over again
Sometimes I think that the most important social skill you develop is to not tell someone, who really needs telling, to fuck right off.
Seriously.
I watch children tantrum, I watch them throw their whole body into the expression of their anger, I envy their ability to be outrageously outraged. I get it. Really get it.
Seriously.
Cause sometimes things just piss me right off. Sometimes things seem to conspire together to irk me. And irk me to the nth degree. And man, I was some big time irked, just moments ago. But I didn't do it. I didn't let loose. I didn't stamp my feet. I didn't say, when it needed to be said, 'fuck right off'.
Seriously.
I didn't.
And the reason I didn't may seem odd to you, you might even have trouble believing it too. You see, I've discovered that when you are in a wheelchair and really, really mad, and when you let that anger go, even justified anger that everyone understands, it's kind of 'cute'. It certainly isn't serious. It certainly isn't threatening. Sometimes people even get that same 'I'm being patient' look they get when they watch kids lose control. Few people ever think that maybe that kid is throwing a tantrum for purely rational reasons. That maybe the 'big world' isn't fair and maybe the big people in it are misusing their power. No, they just think it's a kid out of control, poor little dear.
Well, it's the same with me, when I sit in my chair and give vent to my wrath, I get that 'oh my poor you' smile. I get that 'settle down dear' voice. I get that 'you'll do harm to yourself' concern. Or even worse, they develop, in front of me, that attitude that you know, just know, that they think that I am upset because I'm in a wheelchair and not because they are a dickhead. All this in response to a well placed and well needed 'fuck right off'.
Seriously.
So today I didn't say, 'Fuck right off.' And I realize that it's probably completely gone from my vocabulary now. I'll probably never say it to someone, other than another driver, again. Even someone who desperately desperately needs to hear it. Cause now I've got to learn how to be mighty in a wheelchair. I need to learn how to let my anger grow me up to eye level, I need to learn to let my temper give a power to my words that I simply don't have as a cripple.
But I'm working on it.
Cause there is someone needing to hear a message from me.
It'll be a version of Fuck Right Off.
But it will be in 'cripple' ... so it will sound different, but trust me, the intent will be the same.
Seriously.
Seriously.
I watch children tantrum, I watch them throw their whole body into the expression of their anger, I envy their ability to be outrageously outraged. I get it. Really get it.
Seriously.
Cause sometimes things just piss me right off. Sometimes things seem to conspire together to irk me. And irk me to the nth degree. And man, I was some big time irked, just moments ago. But I didn't do it. I didn't let loose. I didn't stamp my feet. I didn't say, when it needed to be said, 'fuck right off'.
Seriously.
I didn't.
And the reason I didn't may seem odd to you, you might even have trouble believing it too. You see, I've discovered that when you are in a wheelchair and really, really mad, and when you let that anger go, even justified anger that everyone understands, it's kind of 'cute'. It certainly isn't serious. It certainly isn't threatening. Sometimes people even get that same 'I'm being patient' look they get when they watch kids lose control. Few people ever think that maybe that kid is throwing a tantrum for purely rational reasons. That maybe the 'big world' isn't fair and maybe the big people in it are misusing their power. No, they just think it's a kid out of control, poor little dear.
Well, it's the same with me, when I sit in my chair and give vent to my wrath, I get that 'oh my poor you' smile. I get that 'settle down dear' voice. I get that 'you'll do harm to yourself' concern. Or even worse, they develop, in front of me, that attitude that you know, just know, that they think that I am upset because I'm in a wheelchair and not because they are a dickhead. All this in response to a well placed and well needed 'fuck right off'.
Seriously.
So today I didn't say, 'Fuck right off.' And I realize that it's probably completely gone from my vocabulary now. I'll probably never say it to someone, other than another driver, again. Even someone who desperately desperately needs to hear it. Cause now I've got to learn how to be mighty in a wheelchair. I need to learn how to let my anger grow me up to eye level, I need to learn to let my temper give a power to my words that I simply don't have as a cripple.
But I'm working on it.
Cause there is someone needing to hear a message from me.
It'll be a version of Fuck Right Off.
But it will be in 'cripple' ... so it will sound different, but trust me, the intent will be the same.
Seriously.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Laying Claim (in celebration of the International Day of Disabled Persons)
I think it was on a day in January when I saw her, standing bundled against the cold. The wind whipped by and her hair, held securely under her touque, peaked out only to be buffeted about. Her hand, without thinking, reached up and tucked her hair back under the protection of the wool cap. She was waiting for the bus. Alone. It came and she boarded quietly along with everyone else. I saw her flash her pass to the driver. He looked up and saw her, his face registered shock. I think he came from a time and place where people with Down Syndrome do not go out, alone, into the world.
I think it was on a day in February when I heard him. His voice was laboured, he was working to speak. At a table next to us the waitress stood, silently, her pencil poised above her pad, waiting for him to finish. He’d obviously been there before. She had obviously learned to simply wait for him to finish. When he did she asked, ‘Will that be all.’ He said, 'Yes'. She was gone. All he had done, seemingly, was to order lunch. What he had really done is create a space of welcome for himself and others. He had integrated the space around him. It’s a huge accomplishment. I was honoured to see it.
I think it was on a day in March when I read her blog. She wrote about her life with pain and in pain. She wrote with poetry and soul. She wrote with great talent. She was able to put into words her experience so that others could live for a time in her world. While no one could ever walk in her shoes, and why should they, she can’t, she made it possible to understand her world. She ramped concepts with words, made those whose minds would be closed to her experience able to move beyond empathy and into a genuine appreciation for who she was and a respect for the talent that forms words into images and images into understanding.
I think it was on a day in April when I met her. Walking along the street near my home using a walker. A stray stone, a remarkable thing to see on a city street, became wedged under the wheel of her walker. She tried moving the walker, this way and that, but the stone stayed stuck. It was determined to block her way. She was determined not to be blocked. She fought it as if her life depended on it. I began to move towards her thinking I could help. But suddenly she turned around, sat down on the walker and started to laugh. When I got to her she said, ‘I just realized how long it’s been since I was stoned immobile.’
I think it was on a day in May when I noticed the touch. A simple, simple touch. I was riding on the bus to work and I looked down and saw a mother sitting on a bench beside her daughter. The wheelchair had been decorated up so that it befit a princess. The little girl within was sleeping. One of those kinds of sleeps that adults the world over, weary with worry, worn with work, look at with envy. The sleep of a child in a world that is safe. Her mother gently reached over and touched her daughter’s hair. A gentle touch. A touch to reassure her that this treasure was hers. A touch that didn’t believe the reality of the love she felt and the love she received. A mother’s touch.
I think it was on a day in June when I experienced the joy of pushing through the two doors all on my own. My manual chair is a wee bit too wide for one door and both need to be opened. I always had to wait for someone, anyone, to come. No. I had to wait for someone, anyone who was approachable enough to ask, to help me. But that day I thought I could do it. But that day I realized I was beginning to relax into dependency. So that day, I pushed through the door, on my own. I had the strength. I just hadn’t had the will that comes from belief in self.
I think it was on a day in July when I marched with others with disabilities, intellectual disabilities, physical disabilities. I marched with gay people and straight people. I marched with family and with strangers. I marched with pride and with purpose. The feeling of belonging overwhelmed me. The feeling of togetherness was astounding. We marched, in diversity, in celebration of difference. We marched in 3 D: Diversity, Difference and Disability. A proud day for pride day.
I think it was on a day in August when I answered the phone and spoke with a father, desperately concerned about his son. Desperately needing some advice about what to do and where to go. We talked and facts tumbled out of him, jumbled, without order, his meaning was clear. ‘I love this kid, help me help him.’ He became calmer as we spoke, he listened with urgency, he waited with anticipation, he spoke out of pure, unbridled pride. This was a Dad involved. This was a Dad in love. It meant so much to me to know that a son, born with imperfections, fit perfectly into his fathers heart.
I think it was on a day in September when I talked with a fellow rider on the WheelTrans bus. He’s many years my senior and has lived with disability since birth. We chatted easily. When he learned that I was new to the disability experience, he looked at me carefully, sizing me up. He then talked to me as a grandfather talks to a grandchild. Without patronization but with great care and concern. He wanted me to be careful of the many psychological traps set for people with disabilities. ‘Never be grateful for what should be a given,’ he said, something that has stayed with me ever since. Something that changed how I thought. Yes, I think it was a day in September.
I think it was on a day in October when I felt a breeze and looked up from my book and my tea to notice her speeding by in her power chair. It was an unusually warm day for early fall. The sun shone powerfully, as if it had decided to protest the coming of winter. The sky was winter blue, the sun summer yellow, the leaves however were coloured with fall. She seemed encouraged by the rebelliousness of the sun and wore a tight halter top, a short skirt, shimmery nylons and high, high, high heels. She was a woman in celebration of her femininity. She was a woman set to remind the world that in that chair was a flesh and blood, to the bone, woman.
I think it was on a day in November when I listened to a man with a disability on the radio. He was talking politics and the growing power of the ‘disability vote’. He was smart. He was erudite. He was quick. His wit cut through the silliness of the questions being asked. He managed to find meaningful ways to respond to the ignorance that lay behind the interviewers understanding of the issues. I knew he was a wheelchair user, cause he mentioned it a time or two. That makes it OK for me to have thought of him as a powerful roll model.
I think it is today, a day in December that we celebrate the International Day of Disabled Persons. I admit to knowing nothing of the origin of the day. I admit that I’ve not even looked it up on the computer. I will, of course, because I’m curious by nature. I decided to write this before I discovered what others thought about the day or why others created the day. I just wanted to be sure to say: society may give us a day, but we, the disabled, have snuck through the door and past pity and preconceptions, the twin prejudices that guard access … and have taken the year. All of it. Every day. We claim our lives as lives to be lived, fully and freely. We claim our right to independence and our natural state of interdependence. We want nothing more that what others expect. Daily.
Every. Single. Day.
I think it was on a day in February when I heard him. His voice was laboured, he was working to speak. At a table next to us the waitress stood, silently, her pencil poised above her pad, waiting for him to finish. He’d obviously been there before. She had obviously learned to simply wait for him to finish. When he did she asked, ‘Will that be all.’ He said, 'Yes'. She was gone. All he had done, seemingly, was to order lunch. What he had really done is create a space of welcome for himself and others. He had integrated the space around him. It’s a huge accomplishment. I was honoured to see it.
I think it was on a day in March when I read her blog. She wrote about her life with pain and in pain. She wrote with poetry and soul. She wrote with great talent. She was able to put into words her experience so that others could live for a time in her world. While no one could ever walk in her shoes, and why should they, she can’t, she made it possible to understand her world. She ramped concepts with words, made those whose minds would be closed to her experience able to move beyond empathy and into a genuine appreciation for who she was and a respect for the talent that forms words into images and images into understanding.
I think it was on a day in April when I met her. Walking along the street near my home using a walker. A stray stone, a remarkable thing to see on a city street, became wedged under the wheel of her walker. She tried moving the walker, this way and that, but the stone stayed stuck. It was determined to block her way. She was determined not to be blocked. She fought it as if her life depended on it. I began to move towards her thinking I could help. But suddenly she turned around, sat down on the walker and started to laugh. When I got to her she said, ‘I just realized how long it’s been since I was stoned immobile.’
I think it was on a day in May when I noticed the touch. A simple, simple touch. I was riding on the bus to work and I looked down and saw a mother sitting on a bench beside her daughter. The wheelchair had been decorated up so that it befit a princess. The little girl within was sleeping. One of those kinds of sleeps that adults the world over, weary with worry, worn with work, look at with envy. The sleep of a child in a world that is safe. Her mother gently reached over and touched her daughter’s hair. A gentle touch. A touch to reassure her that this treasure was hers. A touch that didn’t believe the reality of the love she felt and the love she received. A mother’s touch.
I think it was on a day in June when I experienced the joy of pushing through the two doors all on my own. My manual chair is a wee bit too wide for one door and both need to be opened. I always had to wait for someone, anyone, to come. No. I had to wait for someone, anyone who was approachable enough to ask, to help me. But that day I thought I could do it. But that day I realized I was beginning to relax into dependency. So that day, I pushed through the door, on my own. I had the strength. I just hadn’t had the will that comes from belief in self.
I think it was on a day in July when I marched with others with disabilities, intellectual disabilities, physical disabilities. I marched with gay people and straight people. I marched with family and with strangers. I marched with pride and with purpose. The feeling of belonging overwhelmed me. The feeling of togetherness was astounding. We marched, in diversity, in celebration of difference. We marched in 3 D: Diversity, Difference and Disability. A proud day for pride day.
I think it was on a day in August when I answered the phone and spoke with a father, desperately concerned about his son. Desperately needing some advice about what to do and where to go. We talked and facts tumbled out of him, jumbled, without order, his meaning was clear. ‘I love this kid, help me help him.’ He became calmer as we spoke, he listened with urgency, he waited with anticipation, he spoke out of pure, unbridled pride. This was a Dad involved. This was a Dad in love. It meant so much to me to know that a son, born with imperfections, fit perfectly into his fathers heart.
I think it was on a day in September when I talked with a fellow rider on the WheelTrans bus. He’s many years my senior and has lived with disability since birth. We chatted easily. When he learned that I was new to the disability experience, he looked at me carefully, sizing me up. He then talked to me as a grandfather talks to a grandchild. Without patronization but with great care and concern. He wanted me to be careful of the many psychological traps set for people with disabilities. ‘Never be grateful for what should be a given,’ he said, something that has stayed with me ever since. Something that changed how I thought. Yes, I think it was a day in September.
I think it was on a day in October when I felt a breeze and looked up from my book and my tea to notice her speeding by in her power chair. It was an unusually warm day for early fall. The sun shone powerfully, as if it had decided to protest the coming of winter. The sky was winter blue, the sun summer yellow, the leaves however were coloured with fall. She seemed encouraged by the rebelliousness of the sun and wore a tight halter top, a short skirt, shimmery nylons and high, high, high heels. She was a woman in celebration of her femininity. She was a woman set to remind the world that in that chair was a flesh and blood, to the bone, woman.
I think it was on a day in November when I listened to a man with a disability on the radio. He was talking politics and the growing power of the ‘disability vote’. He was smart. He was erudite. He was quick. His wit cut through the silliness of the questions being asked. He managed to find meaningful ways to respond to the ignorance that lay behind the interviewers understanding of the issues. I knew he was a wheelchair user, cause he mentioned it a time or two. That makes it OK for me to have thought of him as a powerful roll model.
I think it is today, a day in December that we celebrate the International Day of Disabled Persons. I admit to knowing nothing of the origin of the day. I admit that I’ve not even looked it up on the computer. I will, of course, because I’m curious by nature. I decided to write this before I discovered what others thought about the day or why others created the day. I just wanted to be sure to say: society may give us a day, but we, the disabled, have snuck through the door and past pity and preconceptions, the twin prejudices that guard access … and have taken the year. All of it. Every day. We claim our lives as lives to be lived, fully and freely. We claim our right to independence and our natural state of interdependence. We want nothing more that what others expect. Daily.
Every. Single. Day.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
ITAS(CP)D
The elevator was down. A woman leaned against the wall, bitching. An old woman looked mortified. A fellow, also in a power chair came in and we told him, in unison, that the elevator was broken down. Joe had gone down the stairs to check to see if it was simply stuck. He came up saying that it wasn't just stuck, it was broken. The fellow who'd come in said to Joe, as if Joe worked for him, 'You need to go upstairs and tell them at the desk that the elevator is broken down.'
I was taken aback at the fact that he felt that Joe was there to be ordered about. Joe just nodded and headed up the stairs, when he got to the top, the fellow boomed out 'And that they need to open the door to the alternate entrance', Joe turned and nodded. I then called out 'Please.'
The fellow looked at me perturbed by my intrusion. He had come in later and didn't realize that Joe was with me but that wasn't the issue. Even if he had known, people don't need to be ordered about, manners are manners and everyone needs to be treated respectfully. He started to say something in protest and I just raised my finger, no not that one, to indicate that if he continued this was going to become an issue. I'm good at the finger raising thing, I learned from the best growing up.
He sputtered and then muttered, 'OK, please ... hope that makes you happy.'
I didn't say anything but it did.
Years ago a mother said to me about the folks who worked at caring for her daughter, 'They don't get much in pay so they should get lots in thanks.'
Which reminds me ... today is International Thank A Staff (Care Provider) Day!
So do that would you please.
I was taken aback at the fact that he felt that Joe was there to be ordered about. Joe just nodded and headed up the stairs, when he got to the top, the fellow boomed out 'And that they need to open the door to the alternate entrance', Joe turned and nodded. I then called out 'Please.'
The fellow looked at me perturbed by my intrusion. He had come in later and didn't realize that Joe was with me but that wasn't the issue. Even if he had known, people don't need to be ordered about, manners are manners and everyone needs to be treated respectfully. He started to say something in protest and I just raised my finger, no not that one, to indicate that if he continued this was going to become an issue. I'm good at the finger raising thing, I learned from the best growing up.
He sputtered and then muttered, 'OK, please ... hope that makes you happy.'
I didn't say anything but it did.
Years ago a mother said to me about the folks who worked at caring for her daughter, 'They don't get much in pay so they should get lots in thanks.'
Which reminds me ... today is International Thank A Staff (Care Provider) Day!
So do that would you please.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
A Day To Remember
I have no where to put flowers.
No where to commemorate the loss.
Name after name is written on the walls of my heart. Face after face appears in my mind. Voice after voice whispers in my ear. My memory fills with places and spaces now empty, people gone. Loss doesn't result in emptiness. Not at all.
Not at all.
Today is World AIDS Day. To me, this is always a deep and personal 'remembrance day'. Remembrance of lives lost, too young, lives left, too early. There are those who have died that live still in my heart and my mind. There are those who I still visit in quiet moments of memory. In my memory, they've grown older with me. I don't remember them as they were. I, and I suppose this is weird, remember them as if I'd seen them yesterday. They are growing old with me.
The other day we drove by Woody's, a bar in the heart of Toronto's gay community. A bar where we all used to get together for drinks in the evening or on weekends. A bar where we saw the group get smaller, and smaller and smaller. It seemed, then, that we talked of death a lot. We were in a bar with music pumping, pictures of hot guys on the wall, talking about funerals and about health. If, like with the magic of television, the background changed to a senior's home, the conversation wouldn't have changed. Except, perhaps, we'd all be ogling the cute male nurse.
As we drove by Joe said, simply, 'Do you remember?'
I replied simply, 'I do.'
We rode home in silence. Together, alone, remembering.
As Joe got the wheelchair out of the back of the car, I answered again, quietly, 'I do.'
And today, World AIDS Day, that answer is vividly true. I'll be at work, sure. I have meetings that call for my full attention, true. But part of me, the part of me that lay buried in hearts that no longer beat - will be mourning. Their names will be said, quietly, in my mind. Like I'm whispering them awake, another day older, another day lived here in my heart ... I know that's not heaven, but it's all I have to offer.
And now I realize.
And realization dries my eyes.
I don't need to lay flowers anywhere.
Because friends live as long as friends live.
No where to commemorate the loss.
Name after name is written on the walls of my heart. Face after face appears in my mind. Voice after voice whispers in my ear. My memory fills with places and spaces now empty, people gone. Loss doesn't result in emptiness. Not at all.
Not at all.
Today is World AIDS Day. To me, this is always a deep and personal 'remembrance day'. Remembrance of lives lost, too young, lives left, too early. There are those who have died that live still in my heart and my mind. There are those who I still visit in quiet moments of memory. In my memory, they've grown older with me. I don't remember them as they were. I, and I suppose this is weird, remember them as if I'd seen them yesterday. They are growing old with me.
The other day we drove by Woody's, a bar in the heart of Toronto's gay community. A bar where we all used to get together for drinks in the evening or on weekends. A bar where we saw the group get smaller, and smaller and smaller. It seemed, then, that we talked of death a lot. We were in a bar with music pumping, pictures of hot guys on the wall, talking about funerals and about health. If, like with the magic of television, the background changed to a senior's home, the conversation wouldn't have changed. Except, perhaps, we'd all be ogling the cute male nurse.
As we drove by Joe said, simply, 'Do you remember?'
I replied simply, 'I do.'
We rode home in silence. Together, alone, remembering.
As Joe got the wheelchair out of the back of the car, I answered again, quietly, 'I do.'
And today, World AIDS Day, that answer is vividly true. I'll be at work, sure. I have meetings that call for my full attention, true. But part of me, the part of me that lay buried in hearts that no longer beat - will be mourning. Their names will be said, quietly, in my mind. Like I'm whispering them awake, another day older, another day lived here in my heart ... I know that's not heaven, but it's all I have to offer.
And now I realize.
And realization dries my eyes.
I don't need to lay flowers anywhere.
Because friends live as long as friends live.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Quick Announcement
Rolling Around In My Head has made it to the finals in two of the upcoming Canadian Weblog Awards. The blog is up for the Health and Wellness Award and the Social Justice Award. This award is different in that it is a juried award and therefore not decided by popular vote. I am very honoured to have been nominated and thrilled to make it to the final five. Will wait with anticipation to see the results.
I'd like to congratulate the other blogs nominated in these two categories and all the others as well. Blogging is clearly alive and well in Canada. I'd like to mention particularly Belinda nominated in the Faith category for her blog, Whatever He Says and Shannon nominated for the Crafting category.
So, here we go again!
I'd like to congratulate the other blogs nominated in these two categories and all the others as well. Blogging is clearly alive and well in Canada. I'd like to mention particularly Belinda nominated in the Faith category for her blog, Whatever He Says and Shannon nominated for the Crafting category.
So, here we go again!
A Tale of Two Citizens
I could see she was annoyed as soon as we came in the door. The elevator was not working and she was simply standing there leaning up against a window, bitching. In front of her was an elderly woman in a manual wheelchair. Seems the young woman leaning against the window, bitching, was her assistant. Seems the young woman, bitching, didn't want to go to the Bay, didn't want to go out into the cold, didn't want to go shopping and here they were stuck because the elevator was broken down. The young, ahem, lady, bitching, was speaking loudly - letting everyone know what a burden it was to be PAID TO provide care for this elderly disabled woman. The woman sat in her chair mortified. Upset the elevator was broken down and upset that her young assistant was constantly bitching about everything. She wasn't having a good day.
The same day, an hour later ...
I couldn't get by. He, too, was in a manual wheelchair and the young woman assisting him was bent over in a position that looked uncomfortable. She was holding his wallet open. He was taking bills out, one at at time, as if they were heavy, and placing them on the counter. Done with bills, she unzipped the change pocket on the wallet and he slowly pulled out coins. The line up grew. I was simply not inconvenienced, I'm old enough to know that there truly is enough time for me to quietly let another person live in dignity. Some further back were growing restless. The woman helping him, looked up, saw the line, then said to him, loud enough for all of us to hear, 'Don't worry about the people behind you, they all understand that one day they'll need more time too.' She said it calmly but firmly. The restlessness settled down immediately.
A reflection ...
I'm often asked how we 'make community' for people with disabilities. I used to be very puzzled by this question, not knowing quite how to answer. But more recently I've been answering this question in a way that surprised even me the first time it came out of my mouth. 'We make community every time we go into the community.' Every time a care provider leaves a group home, a nursing home, a person's home, they act as models for how others should react to and with people with disabilities. I notice that people notice staff behaviour. I notice that those who are a bit thrown by someone's disability often look to the care provider for guidance and reassurance that they are doing it right.
We need to do it right.
Most agencies in Canada have, within their name, the word 'community'. This should mean something. It means that they understand that thousands upon thousands of times each day as someone is supported to access their neighbourhoods, 'community' is being taught. Each and every staff needs to understand that their role is twofold. First, and primarily, they are there to provide assistance and support. Second, and equally importantly, they are there to demonstrate what respectful interaction looks like.
Let's be honest, disability throws some people into a panic. They don't know what to say, how to say it and they are so concerned about offending that they become, and this is either odd or ironic (Shannon please help), offensive. Good staff will know how to intervene in ways that instruct without seeming instructive, support without seeming controlling. It's a tough balancing act but its important to talk about, to think about.
Those two women, while working, taught.
One taught that disability was a burden.
One taught that disability was a natural part of the human condition.
One taught exclusion and superiority.
One taught inclusion and humility.
One needed firing.
One needed hiring ... to teach ... all of us about the importance of the work. That the legacy left behind is more than a good memory of a fine time out, it's also a community that knows better ... next time round.
The same day, an hour later ...
I couldn't get by. He, too, was in a manual wheelchair and the young woman assisting him was bent over in a position that looked uncomfortable. She was holding his wallet open. He was taking bills out, one at at time, as if they were heavy, and placing them on the counter. Done with bills, she unzipped the change pocket on the wallet and he slowly pulled out coins. The line up grew. I was simply not inconvenienced, I'm old enough to know that there truly is enough time for me to quietly let another person live in dignity. Some further back were growing restless. The woman helping him, looked up, saw the line, then said to him, loud enough for all of us to hear, 'Don't worry about the people behind you, they all understand that one day they'll need more time too.' She said it calmly but firmly. The restlessness settled down immediately.
A reflection ...
I'm often asked how we 'make community' for people with disabilities. I used to be very puzzled by this question, not knowing quite how to answer. But more recently I've been answering this question in a way that surprised even me the first time it came out of my mouth. 'We make community every time we go into the community.' Every time a care provider leaves a group home, a nursing home, a person's home, they act as models for how others should react to and with people with disabilities. I notice that people notice staff behaviour. I notice that those who are a bit thrown by someone's disability often look to the care provider for guidance and reassurance that they are doing it right.
We need to do it right.
Most agencies in Canada have, within their name, the word 'community'. This should mean something. It means that they understand that thousands upon thousands of times each day as someone is supported to access their neighbourhoods, 'community' is being taught. Each and every staff needs to understand that their role is twofold. First, and primarily, they are there to provide assistance and support. Second, and equally importantly, they are there to demonstrate what respectful interaction looks like.
Let's be honest, disability throws some people into a panic. They don't know what to say, how to say it and they are so concerned about offending that they become, and this is either odd or ironic (Shannon please help), offensive. Good staff will know how to intervene in ways that instruct without seeming instructive, support without seeming controlling. It's a tough balancing act but its important to talk about, to think about.
Those two women, while working, taught.
One taught that disability was a burden.
One taught that disability was a natural part of the human condition.
One taught exclusion and superiority.
One taught inclusion and humility.
One needed firing.
One needed hiring ... to teach ... all of us about the importance of the work. That the legacy left behind is more than a good memory of a fine time out, it's also a community that knows better ... next time round.
Monday, November 29, 2010
love now
Love.
Songs.
Ugh.
I was sitting in the theatre, we'd arrived way too early, waiting for Joe to come back with hot tea. The ride down had been very, very cold and we both wanted something hot. The theatre doesn't sell tea but they allow it to be brought in. There is a Starbucks close by and Joe had headed off to get some for us. I relaxed in the dimness of the theatre and listened to the music they piped in. Most of it was pop, most of the songs were about l'amore. The lyrics, as I listened to them out of sheer boredom, were really crappy. Well, maybe, creepy is a better word. There were songs about wanting to stay up all night to watch someone breathe. Another about wanting to lie with someone forever in bed. It seemed people weren't in love but clinically obsessed.
I know it's not romantic but I thought, 'Don't these people have jobs?'
It's just that I'm older I guess, and maybe when you are older love means different things. I sat there in the theatre and I thought of love now.
Love is when you begin a flicker of a smile because you know exactly, without possibility of error, what someone else is going to say before they even start.
Love is when you both play the same practical joke on each other for year after year and find it gets funnier and funnier each time.
Love is when you lose your last name in context of your other relationships, mine, for years has been andjoe.
Love is when looking through the crowd you spot someone, not by their clothes or their hair or their face but simply by how they move in the world.
Love is when you decide that there is only one person in the world that you want to tell about something good that happened that day.
Love is when you can sit at the computer while someone does a crossword puzzle and be quiet for a long time but feel like a conversation happened.
Love is when you both see the same thing at the same time and just have to glance at each other to communicate everything that needs to be said.
Love is when you see kids tongue kissing and realize that the only public display of affection you need is in how you look at and speak with each other.
Love is when you sit alone in the theatre waiting for a cup of tea to arrive and when it gets there you know it will be exactly what you want, even though you never said.
I leave the creepy night watching, every breath you take stalkerdom, to the song writers. I'll keep the kind of love that started with heavy breathing entered the phase of heavy lifting and finally got to heavenly partnership. When Joe arrived with the hot tea, I noticed again how handsome he looked in his new coat - I considered staying up later ... but not to watch him breathe.
Songs.
Ugh.
I was sitting in the theatre, we'd arrived way too early, waiting for Joe to come back with hot tea. The ride down had been very, very cold and we both wanted something hot. The theatre doesn't sell tea but they allow it to be brought in. There is a Starbucks close by and Joe had headed off to get some for us. I relaxed in the dimness of the theatre and listened to the music they piped in. Most of it was pop, most of the songs were about l'amore. The lyrics, as I listened to them out of sheer boredom, were really crappy. Well, maybe, creepy is a better word. There were songs about wanting to stay up all night to watch someone breathe. Another about wanting to lie with someone forever in bed. It seemed people weren't in love but clinically obsessed.
I know it's not romantic but I thought, 'Don't these people have jobs?'
It's just that I'm older I guess, and maybe when you are older love means different things. I sat there in the theatre and I thought of love now.
Love is when you begin a flicker of a smile because you know exactly, without possibility of error, what someone else is going to say before they even start.
Love is when you both play the same practical joke on each other for year after year and find it gets funnier and funnier each time.
Love is when you lose your last name in context of your other relationships, mine, for years has been andjoe.
Love is when looking through the crowd you spot someone, not by their clothes or their hair or their face but simply by how they move in the world.
Love is when you decide that there is only one person in the world that you want to tell about something good that happened that day.
Love is when you can sit at the computer while someone does a crossword puzzle and be quiet for a long time but feel like a conversation happened.
Love is when you both see the same thing at the same time and just have to glance at each other to communicate everything that needs to be said.
Love is when you see kids tongue kissing and realize that the only public display of affection you need is in how you look at and speak with each other.
Love is when you sit alone in the theatre waiting for a cup of tea to arrive and when it gets there you know it will be exactly what you want, even though you never said.
I leave the creepy night watching, every breath you take stalkerdom, to the song writers. I'll keep the kind of love that started with heavy breathing entered the phase of heavy lifting and finally got to heavenly partnership. When Joe arrived with the hot tea, I noticed again how handsome he looked in his new coat - I considered staying up later ... but not to watch him breathe.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Hi, I've decided to publish an email that I sent to staff at Vita yesterday, after getting permission to do so of course. As a preface, Vita has an annual fundraiser, a cook off, to raise money for United Way. In this fundraiser, people bid to be judges or to be sous chefs ... the bids go surprisingly high as people all over the agency throw their hat in the ring and then people bid to see them in the role. This year something very cool happened and I wanted to reflect on it with the staff. After having done so, I felt that I'd like to share it here with you all. The 'Rights Group' refered to is the self advocate group within Vita. So now the preliminaries are done and with only slight modifications ...
To All Vita Staff and Members
Sometimes I feel very much the ‘old man’ at events within Vita. Such was my feeling when at the cook off yesterday. I looked around at all the staff members there and, of course, at the competitor’s table, and saw such young faces. As Carole and I were pulling out fruits as diverse as pineapple and kiwi and vegetables ranging from snap peas to red cabbage, as we tried to figure out what to do with the orange, I tried to focus on the task at hand. And I did. But even so, I was having to process something entirely different – a process that has taken me until now to both understand and to appreciate. Once I understood, I had to get out of a warm bed to write it down immediately.
When I began working in this field the term ‘community living’ had never been used in reference to people with disabilities. There were few community options, the primary and preferred option was institutionalization. It was during my first job at Glendale, a small facility in Victoria, that I first heard staff talking about community group homes and community day programmes. They had a mocking tone, the idea insulted them. They saw people with disabilities not as people to be included but as a kind of sub-human species that needed to be kept separate from the larger community. No one feared the eventual closure of facilities back then, all were secure in the fact that the community would come to its right mind and those few that lived freely would one day walk the land of the long corridor.
During those days the gulf between the lives lived by people with disabilities and the lives lived by their care providers was enormous. The hierarchy in place was one wherein everyone knew their place in the scheme of things. We, the staff were valued and valuable – they the members were valueless and vulnerable. The interactions were interesting, our contact was one of giving instructions, giving commands, giving criticism, giving opinion. It was in no way reciprocal.
A few years later, finally working in a community setting, things had not much changed. Oh, the setting had changed. Now our service was offered in a neighbourhood not in a facility, but that was a cosmetic change. It was like the ward was picked up, transformed in shape and then set down randomly in cities and towns – it looked different, but the relationship between individuals with disabilities and their staff had not really changed. The gulf was huge. Immense.
Over the years my career grew and changed and suddenly I was working and consulting in agencies all over the North American continent. What I saw, I didn’t really even question, staff were staff, clients were clients (the term ‘member’ would never have been used then). Until one day. I was speaking at a conference in San Francisco. One afternoon Joe and I slipped away and were in Golden Gate park strolling around and chatting. I saw a group of people with disabilities tied together – one wrist tied to another’s wrist – and walking through the park, following along behind two staff. At one point the staff tied the first in the group to a water fountain and left the group standing like cattle, staring vacantly making themselves absent from the world and the experience of degradation. The staff, unaware of the horror of what they were doing, went and sat on a bench and had a smoke. I approached them and asked what was going on. They explained, proudly, that they were staff who worked with people with disabilities (that’s not the term they used but I will not write here the term they did use) and that they were on their break.
My understanding of hierarchy that day changed.
Hierarchy damages people.
It damages those at the bottom.
It damages those at the top.
Everyone gets hurt.
Years later I was asked to do a review of an agency. I had to rummage around through old and dusty files to find the report I wrote, but I have it. Here’s what I wrote: ‘The only true measure that an organization is growing is in the relationship between people with disabilities and the staff who provide them service. It should be that every year the power difference, the respect difference, the valuing difference between the two groups should diminish. Our contact with ‘people’ who have disabilities should change us, it should bring us closer to the understanding of the commonalities that exist despite differences. We should be changed by our experience, that change begins with a rejection of the hierarchy imposed on us by a society that does not value difference, a rejection of the power dynamics thrust upon us by roles created within systems, we should begin to see ourselves as those who support, not those who control. The hierarchy will never cease to exist but it can cease to influence our actions, we can do things that actively challenge the expectations we have of each other and of ourselves. If, at the end of every year, there is not a shift toward equality away from inequality, the organization has ceased to grow.’
The report wasn’t accepted by the agency, and though they paid me for the work, they were angered by that summation. Even so, I didn’t change it because I believe it. I believe that we in human services are in a field of endeavor where our own personal growth is part of the process, that we all need to be constantly changing and being changed by our interactions with each others and with those in our care. It is one of the hidden benefits of the ‘helping profession’ … the byproduct of ‘helping’ is, of course, ‘being helped’.
I believe that our Rights Group has had profound effect on us here at Vita. By asking us to change our language, from client to member they were asking for more than a semantic change, they were asking for real change. They chose a word of ‘belonging’ a word of ‘togetherness’ … they could have chosen from a thousand of other words, but they chose a word of inclusion, not a word of exclusion. In that single word they expressed a desire for us all to belong to an organization wherein respect was expected and inclusion wasn’t extraordinary. It was a lot to ask for. It was a lot to hope for. It was a change in language that asked for a change in attitude. The hierarchy within Vita was shaken the day that Manuela and the board accepted the request. An act of defiance from member to staff member to board member was undertaken, defiance against how all of human service is structured. I knew then, that we would all be different as a result of the fact that people with disabilities within our organization, our members, now, formally, had both voice and influence.
Then there we were at the cook off. I did not know until being there that one of the sous chefs and one of the judges that had won seats through an intense bidding war was a person with a disability, was a person in care, was a member. I did not know until that day that this year the cook off was different than last year. Our members didn’t sit and watch, our members participated equally in both judging and in cooking. Our members did this because of, and only because of, the action of Vita staff. Vita staff had supported them, voted for them – with money, in becoming full participants. You all are too young to really understand what a profound act, not of kindness but of revolution, the inclusion of members in a formerly ‘staff activity’ was. It was something simply done, not planned out, not manufactured. It was something that only occurs because of growth and change.
It was something that if described to me during my first employment at Glendale would have seemed like science fiction.
It was something that if described to me during my first work in a group home would have seemed like a pipe dream.
It was something that I thought I’d never see.
But I did.
Yesterday.
I have always been proud to work here at Vita, but I left the cook off having lost the competition but having won something of incredible value. I take away with me, as I consult to other organizations an understanding that deep and profound change can happen. That organizations that choose to can grow and grow and grow. That the ‘idea’ of respect can take human form. That the ‘idea’ of equality can be demonstrated in spontaneous action. That the ‘idea’ of inclusion can be a matter of course.
So, as I peeled beets and chopped eggs, as I sliced peppers and shelled peas, I also allowed myself to experience what it's like to be in a world where difference is acknowledged and celebrated. It was an incredible feeling for me.
So … the ultimate point of this email …
thank you all from a tired old man.
To All Vita Staff and Members
Sometimes I feel very much the ‘old man’ at events within Vita. Such was my feeling when at the cook off yesterday. I looked around at all the staff members there and, of course, at the competitor’s table, and saw such young faces. As Carole and I were pulling out fruits as diverse as pineapple and kiwi and vegetables ranging from snap peas to red cabbage, as we tried to figure out what to do with the orange, I tried to focus on the task at hand. And I did. But even so, I was having to process something entirely different – a process that has taken me until now to both understand and to appreciate. Once I understood, I had to get out of a warm bed to write it down immediately.
When I began working in this field the term ‘community living’ had never been used in reference to people with disabilities. There were few community options, the primary and preferred option was institutionalization. It was during my first job at Glendale, a small facility in Victoria, that I first heard staff talking about community group homes and community day programmes. They had a mocking tone, the idea insulted them. They saw people with disabilities not as people to be included but as a kind of sub-human species that needed to be kept separate from the larger community. No one feared the eventual closure of facilities back then, all were secure in the fact that the community would come to its right mind and those few that lived freely would one day walk the land of the long corridor.
During those days the gulf between the lives lived by people with disabilities and the lives lived by their care providers was enormous. The hierarchy in place was one wherein everyone knew their place in the scheme of things. We, the staff were valued and valuable – they the members were valueless and vulnerable. The interactions were interesting, our contact was one of giving instructions, giving commands, giving criticism, giving opinion. It was in no way reciprocal.
A few years later, finally working in a community setting, things had not much changed. Oh, the setting had changed. Now our service was offered in a neighbourhood not in a facility, but that was a cosmetic change. It was like the ward was picked up, transformed in shape and then set down randomly in cities and towns – it looked different, but the relationship between individuals with disabilities and their staff had not really changed. The gulf was huge. Immense.
Over the years my career grew and changed and suddenly I was working and consulting in agencies all over the North American continent. What I saw, I didn’t really even question, staff were staff, clients were clients (the term ‘member’ would never have been used then). Until one day. I was speaking at a conference in San Francisco. One afternoon Joe and I slipped away and were in Golden Gate park strolling around and chatting. I saw a group of people with disabilities tied together – one wrist tied to another’s wrist – and walking through the park, following along behind two staff. At one point the staff tied the first in the group to a water fountain and left the group standing like cattle, staring vacantly making themselves absent from the world and the experience of degradation. The staff, unaware of the horror of what they were doing, went and sat on a bench and had a smoke. I approached them and asked what was going on. They explained, proudly, that they were staff who worked with people with disabilities (that’s not the term they used but I will not write here the term they did use) and that they were on their break.
My understanding of hierarchy that day changed.
Hierarchy damages people.
It damages those at the bottom.
It damages those at the top.
Everyone gets hurt.
Years later I was asked to do a review of an agency. I had to rummage around through old and dusty files to find the report I wrote, but I have it. Here’s what I wrote: ‘The only true measure that an organization is growing is in the relationship between people with disabilities and the staff who provide them service. It should be that every year the power difference, the respect difference, the valuing difference between the two groups should diminish. Our contact with ‘people’ who have disabilities should change us, it should bring us closer to the understanding of the commonalities that exist despite differences. We should be changed by our experience, that change begins with a rejection of the hierarchy imposed on us by a society that does not value difference, a rejection of the power dynamics thrust upon us by roles created within systems, we should begin to see ourselves as those who support, not those who control. The hierarchy will never cease to exist but it can cease to influence our actions, we can do things that actively challenge the expectations we have of each other and of ourselves. If, at the end of every year, there is not a shift toward equality away from inequality, the organization has ceased to grow.’
The report wasn’t accepted by the agency, and though they paid me for the work, they were angered by that summation. Even so, I didn’t change it because I believe it. I believe that we in human services are in a field of endeavor where our own personal growth is part of the process, that we all need to be constantly changing and being changed by our interactions with each others and with those in our care. It is one of the hidden benefits of the ‘helping profession’ … the byproduct of ‘helping’ is, of course, ‘being helped’.
I believe that our Rights Group has had profound effect on us here at Vita. By asking us to change our language, from client to member they were asking for more than a semantic change, they were asking for real change. They chose a word of ‘belonging’ a word of ‘togetherness’ … they could have chosen from a thousand of other words, but they chose a word of inclusion, not a word of exclusion. In that single word they expressed a desire for us all to belong to an organization wherein respect was expected and inclusion wasn’t extraordinary. It was a lot to ask for. It was a lot to hope for. It was a change in language that asked for a change in attitude. The hierarchy within Vita was shaken the day that Manuela and the board accepted the request. An act of defiance from member to staff member to board member was undertaken, defiance against how all of human service is structured. I knew then, that we would all be different as a result of the fact that people with disabilities within our organization, our members, now, formally, had both voice and influence.
Then there we were at the cook off. I did not know until being there that one of the sous chefs and one of the judges that had won seats through an intense bidding war was a person with a disability, was a person in care, was a member. I did not know until that day that this year the cook off was different than last year. Our members didn’t sit and watch, our members participated equally in both judging and in cooking. Our members did this because of, and only because of, the action of Vita staff. Vita staff had supported them, voted for them – with money, in becoming full participants. You all are too young to really understand what a profound act, not of kindness but of revolution, the inclusion of members in a formerly ‘staff activity’ was. It was something simply done, not planned out, not manufactured. It was something that only occurs because of growth and change.
It was something that if described to me during my first employment at Glendale would have seemed like science fiction.
It was something that if described to me during my first work in a group home would have seemed like a pipe dream.
It was something that I thought I’d never see.
But I did.
Yesterday.
I have always been proud to work here at Vita, but I left the cook off having lost the competition but having won something of incredible value. I take away with me, as I consult to other organizations an understanding that deep and profound change can happen. That organizations that choose to can grow and grow and grow. That the ‘idea’ of respect can take human form. That the ‘idea’ of equality can be demonstrated in spontaneous action. That the ‘idea’ of inclusion can be a matter of course.
So, as I peeled beets and chopped eggs, as I sliced peppers and shelled peas, I also allowed myself to experience what it's like to be in a world where difference is acknowledged and celebrated. It was an incredible feeling for me.
So … the ultimate point of this email …
thank you all from a tired old man.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Black Friday
A tough way to start the day.
Angry at the whole human race.
We were a bit late getting out the door this morning as we were headed to a Vita fundraiser where I was competing against Domenic (another Vita employee) for the title 'Vita Chef 2010'. We'd had to get some spices, some pots and pans, and get ourselves out the door. We got to the elevator to find that one of the elevators, the big one, is down. That meant that by the time it got to us it was always full. Completely full. Of people, all of whom can walk. All of whom can fit in spaces where standing people can fit but sitting people can't.
Every elevator had room for us if we were both 'standees' but there was no room for 'sittees'. Everyone saw us, everyone looked through us, all pretended that it was completely natural to let elevator after elevator after elevator go by leaving a guy in a wheelchair with no options sitting just waiting. Finally Joe had to ride down get the superintended to shut down and elevator to come and get me. It was unneccessary. In a world where people cared about people, someone would have stepped off and gone the last few flights down the stairs or waited for the next elevator. They came regularly, they just came too full for a wheelchair.
So by the time I got to the competition, I was in foul temper. You shouldn't cook in a foul temper. As people arrived, staff and members of Vita, good cheer filled the room. I began working to cook an appetizer, a main course and a dessert in a couple of hours. Carole was my sous chef and Joe was allowed to assist with mobility stuff, going and getting things. Soon we were all chatting and having fun. Soon the warmth of caring people doing fun stuff together began to fill the room and pry open the door in my heart that I'd nailed shut in the morning. Suddenly, I found myself laughing.
I felt so much better on my way home, even though I was tired, even though I lost, even though all I wanted to do was curl up on the couch and drink hot chocolate, I felt so much better. It was nice to be reminded that people are simply people. Some are thoughtless, some are thoughtful, some know what to do when they see someone with a disability in need, some want to do something but don't know what ... people. And in fact, I like people.
So today Vita raised a money for United Way, had fun and cheered up a grumpy gus who was determined to have black friday stay black all day.
Angry at the whole human race.
We were a bit late getting out the door this morning as we were headed to a Vita fundraiser where I was competing against Domenic (another Vita employee) for the title 'Vita Chef 2010'. We'd had to get some spices, some pots and pans, and get ourselves out the door. We got to the elevator to find that one of the elevators, the big one, is down. That meant that by the time it got to us it was always full. Completely full. Of people, all of whom can walk. All of whom can fit in spaces where standing people can fit but sitting people can't.
Every elevator had room for us if we were both 'standees' but there was no room for 'sittees'. Everyone saw us, everyone looked through us, all pretended that it was completely natural to let elevator after elevator after elevator go by leaving a guy in a wheelchair with no options sitting just waiting. Finally Joe had to ride down get the superintended to shut down and elevator to come and get me. It was unneccessary. In a world where people cared about people, someone would have stepped off and gone the last few flights down the stairs or waited for the next elevator. They came regularly, they just came too full for a wheelchair.
So by the time I got to the competition, I was in foul temper. You shouldn't cook in a foul temper. As people arrived, staff and members of Vita, good cheer filled the room. I began working to cook an appetizer, a main course and a dessert in a couple of hours. Carole was my sous chef and Joe was allowed to assist with mobility stuff, going and getting things. Soon we were all chatting and having fun. Soon the warmth of caring people doing fun stuff together began to fill the room and pry open the door in my heart that I'd nailed shut in the morning. Suddenly, I found myself laughing.
I felt so much better on my way home, even though I was tired, even though I lost, even though all I wanted to do was curl up on the couch and drink hot chocolate, I felt so much better. It was nice to be reminded that people are simply people. Some are thoughtless, some are thoughtful, some know what to do when they see someone with a disability in need, some want to do something but don't know what ... people. And in fact, I like people.
So today Vita raised a money for United Way, had fun and cheered up a grumpy gus who was determined to have black friday stay black all day.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Being Me
"I'm not like you, you know."
Her voice takes me by surprise. I'm sitting on the bus going to work. We had stopped about fifteen minutes before to pick up an orange haired woman riding in a black manual chair. A chair not unlike my own. She sat comfortably in her chair as she was pushed up the ramp. The chair was secured, she was strapped in, and we were on our way, all very efficient.
It had been pleasant enough. I said, 'good morning'. She said, 'good morning'. The driver said, 'good morning'. It was very ... very ... Waltons. Then we were off again. I was pleased because the door had been left open while she was being secured into place and the bus had become cold. Once we were driving again, the heater began pouring heat down on us in the back. It was a cosy feeling.
The driver and I had chatted in a lively manner on the way to pick up the next passenger but he and I were both talked out and content to ride in quiet to the next stop. I was looking out the window, thinking about the day to come, the weekend to come, the holidays to come. All that stuff.
Then she spoke. 'I'm not like you, you know.'
I turned to her. She had one of those faces that looked like it would be soft to the touch. She smiled in that way you expect Grandmothers to smile while offering you cake. I didn't know what to say, 'so you aren't a fat and balding gay man? seemed somehow inappropriate.
I've been to school.
I studied psychology.
I learned, at great cost to my parents, how to say, in an interested fashion, 'oh?'
It's a skill.
A very useful skill.
Encouraged, without knowing that she had just fallen prey to hours of study and practice, she said, 'I just broke my foot.' She pointed down to her foot that was in one of those plastic contraptions that they use now instead of casts. I called it a cast but she informed me, pleased with the knowledge, that it was called a 'boot'. I looked at her confused. What was she saying, I said, 'Oh.'
Encouraged, I told you I was good at this, she said, 'I'll be up and walking again as soon as it's mended. I'm not like you.'
I didn't know what to say, 'good for you' seemed oddly wrong. Or, 'lucky you' seemed counter to what I believe. Or, 'I don't give a flying fuck' which was closer to the truth, seemed unduly harsh to a woman with an 'I'm giving you cake' smile.
So I said, wait for it, 'Oh.'
That seemed to satisfy her.
She's not like me.
Surprisingly, really, really surprisingly, I'm totally OK with that.
Her voice takes me by surprise. I'm sitting on the bus going to work. We had stopped about fifteen minutes before to pick up an orange haired woman riding in a black manual chair. A chair not unlike my own. She sat comfortably in her chair as she was pushed up the ramp. The chair was secured, she was strapped in, and we were on our way, all very efficient.
It had been pleasant enough. I said, 'good morning'. She said, 'good morning'. The driver said, 'good morning'. It was very ... very ... Waltons. Then we were off again. I was pleased because the door had been left open while she was being secured into place and the bus had become cold. Once we were driving again, the heater began pouring heat down on us in the back. It was a cosy feeling.
The driver and I had chatted in a lively manner on the way to pick up the next passenger but he and I were both talked out and content to ride in quiet to the next stop. I was looking out the window, thinking about the day to come, the weekend to come, the holidays to come. All that stuff.
Then she spoke. 'I'm not like you, you know.'
I turned to her. She had one of those faces that looked like it would be soft to the touch. She smiled in that way you expect Grandmothers to smile while offering you cake. I didn't know what to say, 'so you aren't a fat and balding gay man? seemed somehow inappropriate.
I've been to school.
I studied psychology.
I learned, at great cost to my parents, how to say, in an interested fashion, 'oh?'
It's a skill.
A very useful skill.
Encouraged, without knowing that she had just fallen prey to hours of study and practice, she said, 'I just broke my foot.' She pointed down to her foot that was in one of those plastic contraptions that they use now instead of casts. I called it a cast but she informed me, pleased with the knowledge, that it was called a 'boot'. I looked at her confused. What was she saying, I said, 'Oh.'
Encouraged, I told you I was good at this, she said, 'I'll be up and walking again as soon as it's mended. I'm not like you.'
I didn't know what to say, 'good for you' seemed oddly wrong. Or, 'lucky you' seemed counter to what I believe. Or, 'I don't give a flying fuck' which was closer to the truth, seemed unduly harsh to a woman with an 'I'm giving you cake' smile.
So I said, wait for it, 'Oh.'
That seemed to satisfy her.
She's not like me.
Surprisingly, really, really surprisingly, I'm totally OK with that.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Eggs Benediction
It happened because of eggs.
Well, because of eggs and because they have redesigned the store where I typically shop. On arrival home, Joe asked if I'd hop in the power chair and head over to the grocery store to pick up bread, eggs and milk. He had several trips up from the car to the apartment with luggage. If we timed it right, we'd both be done and in our housecoats around the same time. I eagerly agreed to go to the store. Using the power chair after almost a month of wheeling manually seemed such a luxury. My thumbs are calloused from the miles pushed and, now, occasionally I get arthritic twinges in the bones of my hand. It would be nice to be carried along easily. Too, I wanted to see all the Christmas preparations in the area.
I went out of my way over to Yonge Street and headed north. I was enjoying the fresh air after over eight hours cooped up in an airplane. It was nice to feel completely, utterly free. The stores didn't disappoint. Clever decorations were everywhere. Even the kinda funky, kinda sleazy sex shoppe around the corner had hung wreaths and mistletoe in interesting places. I was having fun.
Once in the store I headed over to get the eggs last, of course, as they needed to be on top of the bag. I'd also picked up several tins of beans as our traditional 'we're home' meal is beans on toast! It's as homey a meal as you will ever have. I went over to the eggs and then remembered that they had been moved with the store renovations. I went in search of them and found that they were now in a cooler. I'd have to open the door and reach down and back. I couldn't get my chair positioned properly.
I was going to have to ask for help. I looked around but there were no staff in the area. I pondered for a second and then noticed a woman as she walked past me. I called out, 'Excuse me ...' she turned speaking, which surprised me, 'No, really, I'm alright,' she said. I saw that she had been crying. She had a handkerchief in her hand crumpled and wet.
'Oh, no,' I said, immediately embarrassed that I had entered into her upset, 'I was just going to ask you to help me get some eggs.' She saw the situation and said quickly, 'Of course.'
She came over and picked up a dozen eggs, she opened the carton and looked in. One was cracked. She got another carton and these were all fine. She handed them to me. I started to thank her, she stopped me by gently putting her hand on my shoulder, 'I needed to be needed just then. You'll never know how grateful I will be to you.' Tears filled her eyes again and she was gone.
I felt like a really big moment had happened. A moment that I would never understand. Like I was a tool used by an unseen hand in a garden too huge to see close up. Odd how when I set out to help, I often don't and yet other times are ... well, other times.
Sometimes I don't know how to feel about asking for help.
Sometimes I do.
Well, because of eggs and because they have redesigned the store where I typically shop. On arrival home, Joe asked if I'd hop in the power chair and head over to the grocery store to pick up bread, eggs and milk. He had several trips up from the car to the apartment with luggage. If we timed it right, we'd both be done and in our housecoats around the same time. I eagerly agreed to go to the store. Using the power chair after almost a month of wheeling manually seemed such a luxury. My thumbs are calloused from the miles pushed and, now, occasionally I get arthritic twinges in the bones of my hand. It would be nice to be carried along easily. Too, I wanted to see all the Christmas preparations in the area.
I went out of my way over to Yonge Street and headed north. I was enjoying the fresh air after over eight hours cooped up in an airplane. It was nice to feel completely, utterly free. The stores didn't disappoint. Clever decorations were everywhere. Even the kinda funky, kinda sleazy sex shoppe around the corner had hung wreaths and mistletoe in interesting places. I was having fun.
Once in the store I headed over to get the eggs last, of course, as they needed to be on top of the bag. I'd also picked up several tins of beans as our traditional 'we're home' meal is beans on toast! It's as homey a meal as you will ever have. I went over to the eggs and then remembered that they had been moved with the store renovations. I went in search of them and found that they were now in a cooler. I'd have to open the door and reach down and back. I couldn't get my chair positioned properly.
I was going to have to ask for help. I looked around but there were no staff in the area. I pondered for a second and then noticed a woman as she walked past me. I called out, 'Excuse me ...' she turned speaking, which surprised me, 'No, really, I'm alright,' she said. I saw that she had been crying. She had a handkerchief in her hand crumpled and wet.
'Oh, no,' I said, immediately embarrassed that I had entered into her upset, 'I was just going to ask you to help me get some eggs.' She saw the situation and said quickly, 'Of course.'
She came over and picked up a dozen eggs, she opened the carton and looked in. One was cracked. She got another carton and these were all fine. She handed them to me. I started to thank her, she stopped me by gently putting her hand on my shoulder, 'I needed to be needed just then. You'll never know how grateful I will be to you.' Tears filled her eyes again and she was gone.
I felt like a really big moment had happened. A moment that I would never understand. Like I was a tool used by an unseen hand in a garden too huge to see close up. Odd how when I set out to help, I often don't and yet other times are ... well, other times.
Sometimes I don't know how to feel about asking for help.
Sometimes I do.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The Other Lunch
Our last day in London we went to Tesco for a bit of shopping and to have lunch. We sat right at the window and watched as people were streaming in and out of the store. Empty carts going in, laden carts going out. Anxious faces going in. Relieved faces coming out. The season was evident as brightly decorated rolls of Christmas paper peaked out of many baskets. It seemed that they were fighting a losing battle on the side of 'cheer'.
I heard a 'Whoop' that was loud enough to make it through the glass so I turned to see a mom pushing a cart with a little boy in it. He was riding in the cart as if it were some kind of cool skate board. He turned to grin at his mother and I saw that on the left side of his face he had serious scarring, the kind that happens from a severe burn of some kind. He wore his face carelessly in that moment because he grinned up as his mother, urging her to go faster. She grinned back, seeing both sides of his face but only one boy - sometimes parents move me to tears.
She began to run with the cart. There were signs all over the place urging parents not to let their children ride in carts, but these two paid them no mind. She was a trim fit woman, looked like the kind that ran marathons between working out at the gym and morning sit ups. She could really run. The cart hit a stone and veered off and the two of them screamed as she fought to right the cart and he used his body, clearly he was a skateboarder, to assist her in the struggle to get it right.
Disaster averted, the two of them laughed. He turned, impulsively and threw himself in her arms. It was a lovely moment.
To me.
But behind me an elderly couple was also watching.
They must have seen something different.
He said to her, 'It looks like he was caught in a fire.'
She said to him, 'That face will never be made normal.'
He said to her, 'Poor woman.'
She said to him, 'She will have to grieve every day for the rest of her life, if he'd have died, she'd probably be over it in a year or two.'
I looked again out the window as they were on their way. Her freshly hugged. Him urging her to run again.
The couple had gone back to their meals. They were busy feeding their bodies. They'd had an opportunity to feed their souls, but turned it down. It was wrong of me, I know, but I openly pitied them.
I heard a 'Whoop' that was loud enough to make it through the glass so I turned to see a mom pushing a cart with a little boy in it. He was riding in the cart as if it were some kind of cool skate board. He turned to grin at his mother and I saw that on the left side of his face he had serious scarring, the kind that happens from a severe burn of some kind. He wore his face carelessly in that moment because he grinned up as his mother, urging her to go faster. She grinned back, seeing both sides of his face but only one boy - sometimes parents move me to tears.
She began to run with the cart. There were signs all over the place urging parents not to let their children ride in carts, but these two paid them no mind. She was a trim fit woman, looked like the kind that ran marathons between working out at the gym and morning sit ups. She could really run. The cart hit a stone and veered off and the two of them screamed as she fought to right the cart and he used his body, clearly he was a skateboarder, to assist her in the struggle to get it right.
Disaster averted, the two of them laughed. He turned, impulsively and threw himself in her arms. It was a lovely moment.
To me.
But behind me an elderly couple was also watching.
They must have seen something different.
He said to her, 'It looks like he was caught in a fire.'
She said to him, 'That face will never be made normal.'
He said to her, 'Poor woman.'
She said to him, 'She will have to grieve every day for the rest of her life, if he'd have died, she'd probably be over it in a year or two.'
I looked again out the window as they were on their way. Her freshly hugged. Him urging her to run again.
The couple had gone back to their meals. They were busy feeding their bodies. They'd had an opportunity to feed their souls, but turned it down. It was wrong of me, I know, but I openly pitied them.
Monday, November 22, 2010
H.O.M.E.
Right now ...
Exactly now ...
Typically on travels like this I write several blogs and stack them up, then there is no panic if the day doesn't allow writing time. This has happened often on this trip because the 'stacked up' are now 'used up' and what good timing it is because tomorrow we go home. So right now I'm in a hotel on a Sunday afternoon relaxing while Joe is reading trying to finish one novel so that he can start another on the plane tomorrow.
This has been a hugely busy trip. We never made it to a Marks and Spenser, a Waitrose or even an ASDA's. We never made it to a museum or any local landmarks. Two Saturdays were spent working and two Sundays were spent travelling. There's been little time for the usual stuff. But, that's OK - the trip flew by and now it's time to fly ourselves.
Much has happened on this trip.
I have been changed by some of the experiences.
I have learned about 'community' and have much I want to do in my home agency, Vita, and in my blogging world as a result of that learning.
But there is time for all of that ...
later.
What with time changes and some immediate work that has to be done when I get home, I'm taking the next two days off from the blog.
I'll be back to you on Wednesday, maybe Thursday.
Thanks for coming along on the trip with me. Hope you enjoyed some of the experiences I had as we travelled.
If you think of me, wave towards the sky - I might just be winging over head.
Exactly now ...
Typically on travels like this I write several blogs and stack them up, then there is no panic if the day doesn't allow writing time. This has happened often on this trip because the 'stacked up' are now 'used up' and what good timing it is because tomorrow we go home. So right now I'm in a hotel on a Sunday afternoon relaxing while Joe is reading trying to finish one novel so that he can start another on the plane tomorrow.
This has been a hugely busy trip. We never made it to a Marks and Spenser, a Waitrose or even an ASDA's. We never made it to a museum or any local landmarks. Two Saturdays were spent working and two Sundays were spent travelling. There's been little time for the usual stuff. But, that's OK - the trip flew by and now it's time to fly ourselves.
Much has happened on this trip.
I have been changed by some of the experiences.
I have learned about 'community' and have much I want to do in my home agency, Vita, and in my blogging world as a result of that learning.
But there is time for all of that ...
later.
What with time changes and some immediate work that has to be done when I get home, I'm taking the next two days off from the blog.
I'll be back to you on Wednesday, maybe Thursday.
Thanks for coming along on the trip with me. Hope you enjoyed some of the experiences I had as we travelled.
If you think of me, wave towards the sky - I might just be winging over head.
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