Day 13: Personal Resources

I am participating in the American Cancer Society’s challenge to write for thirty minutes each day in May. I do a lot of writing and I can meet this challenge. I plan to make a blog entry each day with what I’ve written.

I wanted to participate in memory of loved ones who fought cancer bravely but succumbed:

My brother-in-law Jeff

My sister-in-law Ann

My dear friend Kay

My Uncle Bob

My Uncle John

I also wanted to help raise money to support research and a cure for those currently fighting this vicious disease.

My Facebook to the fundraiser is here. 

 

 "Write about something that you always have with you."

Wherever I go, I carry the book I’m reading. Sometimes I have two books with me, leaving one in the car. That’s my “in case” book, the one I’ll need if I happen to finish the one I’ve got under my arm.

I started this practice back in junior high. Often, I was finished with a class assignment before everyone else. I grew tired of feeling bored waiting for everyone to finish so I always made sure I had my library book with me. Other students who also finished early but didn’t have a book fidgeted. I had plenty of patience. I could read all day if I could.

I can’t tell you how annoyed I was when I took the PSAT and SAT in high school and wasn’t allowed to read while I waited for time to be up. What did they think I was doing, cheating? We weren’t allowed to read or doodle. Finger drumming and pencil tapping weren’t permitted either. What was there to do but look out the window at … nothing going on.

Reading in the car or on the bus didn’t make me carsick. When I was tired of looking out the window, I would pull out my book and read. It made a six-hour drive from Baltimore to Long Island pass quickly. My brother would stare glumly out the window. He didn’t care much for reading.

While we lived in Baltimore, we didn’t really need a car much. I took two city buses to get to high school and frequently rode other bus lines to get where I needed to go. I would pull out a book to read while I stood waiting for the bus to arrive. The wait didn’t seem so long, and my feet didn’t seem to hurt so much standing in place. The book would come out again as soon as I sat down on the bus.

Having a book with me has helped me endure long waits in the doctor’s office. Even when a tech finally brings you back to a room, there is still another long wait for the doctor to make an appearance. I have even pulled out a book to read while waiting in a long line at the bank or at a store.

Some years back, Ted convinced me to try a Kindle. I must admit I was intrigued by the idea. It’s become harder to hold a big book. The weight of one of the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon was enough to make my wrists and hands ache. Being able to read such a long story on a little bitty Kindle seemed miraculous.

I couldn’t do it.

I tried; I really did. It just wasn’t the same. My Kindle didn’t have the heft of a “real” book. There wasn’t a physical sensation on my fingers in turning the pages. There wasn’t a new page scent.

I am on my third Kindle. I think I’ve used it a handful of times since Ted got it for me as a Christmas gift two years ago. I still download free eBooks to it. I just haven’t read any of them. I don’t know if it’s because I’m old school or because some folks, old or young, just must have the “feel” of a hardback or paperback book.

I’m breezing through my latest book, Small Mercies. It’s written by one of my favorite authors, Dennis Lehane. Some writers just have a way with words that pull me into their stories. Dennis Lehane, Wally Lamb, John Irving, Stephen King, James Clavell, Amy Tan, and Diana Gabaldon are on that list. I would also include Betty Smith, a favorite from my teen years. She wrote A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Joy in the Morning.

I find new favorites every time I walk into the library.

I am at the point in my life where carrying a book with me wherever I go has become second nature. I’m never at a loss for something to pass the time pleasantly, no matter where I am waiting.

 

 

Day 12: Mother's Day

I am participating in the American Cancer Society’s challenge to write for thirty minutes each day in May. I do a lot of writing and I can meet this challenge. I plan to make a blog entry each day with what I’ve written.

I wanted to participate in memory of loved ones who fought cancer bravely but succumbed:

My brother-in-law Jeff

My sister-in-law Ann

My dear friend Kay

My Uncle Bob

My Uncle John

I also wanted to help raise money to support research and a cure for those currently fighting this vicious disease.

My Facebook to the fundraiser is here. 

 

I am looking forward to celebrating Mother's Day with my family on Sunday. We’re meeting up at one of our favorite parks in Hamilton. My favorite gift is the company of all of us together, Ted, Bill, Heidi, Kristin, Tomas, and me. This year, one of Heidi’s friends will be joining us so she doesn’t have to spend the day alone, and I’m happy to have her along.

 Veterans Parks has lots of lovely trails to explore. In addition to that, they are having an Azalea Festival. I just love azaleas!

 Mother’s Day wasn’t always a happy, celebratory day.

My mom didn’t learn good mothering skills from my grandma. That’s weird because Grandma became my role model for what a mother and grandmother should be. I believe Mom didn’t develop the skills because she didn’t spend enough time with her mom. My mom and aunt were both born Deaf in 1930 and 1928, respectively.

In their school years, education for the Deaf was much different than it is today. In my mom’s and aunt’s cases, they were sent to Lexington School for the Deaf in New York City. The philosophy for most schools for the Deaf during those years was to forbid the use of sign language, the natural and native language of Deaf people. Instead, my mom and my aunt were subjected to hours of lipreading classes. They lagged in written English, reading, math, and all the other skills because of this focus on lipreading.

My mom and my aunt lived in Lexington almost year-round. They came home for Christmas and for the summer. This was true of most Deaf schools. The children’s role models became the teachers and dorm supervisors, who didn’t necessarily mother their students. The students learned to depend on each other, but they were all children.

Because signing in public was forbidden, the kids learned to communicate secretly. A popular place to sign with each other was in the restrooms. Bold students might try signing under the table in the dining room or under their desks in the classroom.

When my mom and aunt went home on vacation, they felt isolated. My grandparents and their brothers, my uncles, had all been instructed not to use any kind of signing, not even gestures. Conversations around the dinner table were impossible for the girls to follow. They couldn’t tell who was speaking when.

 Because they were away at school for most of the year, they didn’t have much opportunity to see mothering modeled by Grandma.

So, what was the result of this?

Mom was ambivalent about mothering not only because she didn’t know how but also because she had an undiagnosed mental illness. She would try to engage with my brother and me but often would become enraged. It scared us. Sometimes she hurt us. Dad worked full-time and some days he’d come home to find Mom in a state of hysterics so he would take my brother and me someplace, like the beach, to give Mom a chance to collect herself.

When I was ten, Dad got laid off and got a job six hours away in Baltimore, MD. He hoped this would be temporary and that he would return to our home on Long Island. Mom got through six months and couldn’t take it anymore. We moved to Baltimore too to be with Dad.

There they discovered a club for the Deaf. They began going there every weekend night, enjoying the fellowship of other Deaf adults. They also discovered the bar. Mom self-medicated and, if anything, her violent episodes became worse. My brother and I never knew what would set her off and tried to make ourselves invisible.

With the drinking came the fighting between my parents. That led to episodes of domestic violence between them.  Growing up wasn’t much fun. Holidays weren’t much fun either because those were a good excuse to drink.

When I had children, I was so afraid I would be like her that I began attending 12-step meetings to learn how to deal with my trauma and how to learn good parenting. I used my Grandma as my role model. She was always happy to see me and loved me unconditionally. She didn’t ever say that she never wanted children, as Mom said to me.

I don’t hate my mother. I am sorry about her separation from her parents, and I’m sorry about whatever was troubling her mind. When I think of Mother’s Day, I always think of my Grandma. She was my surrogate mom. Then I think of myself. I do think of Mom, but not first.