Feline Friday

 In my ongoing attempt to avoid the increasingly nasty news this season, I continue to turn my thoughts to more pleasant memories and delusions.

And here we have two different personalities practicing kindness and togetherness.

Thanks for the nice pillow, Bootsie!

Our feline family members love to help us write a blog update, pay a bill, tweet or send an email.

Thanks, guys!

But mostly, on Fridays--especially rainy yucky days, they engage in their favorite activity:

Best wishes for a super happy Fri-Yay!

My favorite holiday song of the day isn't especially a holiday song but I love it anyway. When we are troubled, don't we all really want a Mom figure?

https://youtu.be/x9uYu4R2nk8

Didn't Nobody Give A Shit What Happened To Carlotta

When I walked into the library to pick up books I had requested, this book was front and center on a table display as I walked in. The title caught my attention, so I walked over and picked it up to see what it was about. I skimmed quickly and learned enough that I wanted to read the book.

The story takes place in Brooklyn, New York, a borough of the City. My family lived about an hour’s drive east of Brooklyn, on Long Island. I remembered being to Coney Island and we always drove through Brooklyn when we had come up from Maryland to visit our relatives. I started reading with a nostalgic feeling.

I loved the book.

There was a surprise twist in the beginning that threw me a little, but I was engaged. I found myself liking Carlotta very much. In one of those wrong place-wrong time situations, she was at the scene of an armed robbery and assault. She was not involved with the assailant and happened to be at that store to purchase something for her best friend’s birthday. Still, she was hauled away with the assailant and charged as an accomplice.

Why didn’t the police listen to her pleas of innocence? Could it have been the color of her skin or the fact that she was also armed to protect herself against street violence? Whatever the reason, she was tried, found guilty and sent upstate to serve her time in prison. Over twenty-four years, Carlotta suffered all forms of brutal abuse and bullying. On her fifth attempt at parole, she learned that she would be released conditionally.

Joyfully, she took a bus back to Brooklyn. She looked forward to reuniting with her son, whom she had not seen since he was 5 years old. She also looked forward to seeing her parents, brothers, and sister again. She especially looked forward to reuniting with her grandmother.

There were two voices in the story. One was the narrator, who remained unnamed. The narrator spoke in grammatically correct English. That was okay, but I preferred Carlotta’s voice. She spoke in the dialect of her neighborhood. I could hear her speaking in my head.

I felt for Carlotta too. Despite her rough language, she was a sensitive soul. She experienced rejection and misunderstanding most of her life. Instead of being greeted warmly, everyone ignored or slighted her. Only her grandmother welcomed her with open arms. The very next day, a well-meaning parole officer began harassing her about avoiding alcohol and other ex-convicts.

On July 4^th weekend, she found she had to escape her house because of the wild drinking and partying by visitors and family. She met up with her best friend, Doodle, and they had some funny adventures together. These were the places I laughed aloud but this was not what I would consider a funny book.

It was sad much of the time. Carlotta suffered a lot. Her own son could not accept who she really was and sought to convert her through religion. Other family members just refused to deal with her at all. I do not want to give anything away and would rather whoever reads this review learn on their own about the social injustices covered in this book.

It is not for everyone. It does have a lot of rough language and when Carlotta tells Doodle about her prison experience, it can be exceedingly difficult to read, very upsetting. But if you are up for it, this is a great read. I had not heard of the author before, but I will look for his other books.

 

 

December 13, 1972

 

December 13, 1972

It was Friday the 13^th, and it crossed my mind that I should avoid ladders, black cats, and cracks. I laughed to myself. Friday the 13^th was just another day. I was in a great mood: I was 17, soon to be 18, Christmas was coming, and I was a senior. I was privileged. Seniors got to eat in a special café section for lunch and the back seats of the bus were for us, not the underclassmen. Now I could sing out:

We are the seniors

The mighty mighty seniors

Everywhere we go

People should know

Who we are

So, we tell them

We are the seniors (repeat endlessly)

My first class of the day was Psychology. It was a subject reserved only for seniors, and I was really into it.  Because our last names were so close, I was seated next to my best friend. That morning, however, she wasn’t there. She was upstairs helping the music teacher. Class hadn’t started yet and so I opened Exodus and continued reading.

Suddenly there were loud screams. All of us went to the windows. We could see into the quad (where we were allowed to smoke or just goof off during free time) and students were pouring out of the cafeteria doors, screaming “He’s got a knife!”

We began calling out, “What happened?” and “What’s going on?” and “Who’s got a knife?”

Some of the students stumbled over to answer us.  The maintenance man suddenly pulled out a huge knife (later learned it was a machete) and began terrorizing the students. No one knew why but one guessed it was because one of the students had been calling the man names.

Our classroom was just around the corner from a long hall leading to either the cafeteria or upstairs to the music room.  We could hear more pounding feet coming from the hall and more screams. I thought of my best friend and wondered if she would be in danger.  I got up and started to go to the door, thinking I would go warn her. Fortunately for me, other classmates yelled at me and convinced me to stay where I was.

Our teacher rushed in and locked both doors. As she was doing so, I heard the vice principal’s voice over the intercom, sounding panicky. “Teachers, lock all doors! This is an emergency!” She repeated those words two or three times.

What the hell was going on? We were all buzzing and Ms. Colgan tried to calm us down. Her voice was soothing, comforting. We all took our seats.

There was another loud scream from that hallway. “No, no, let me go!”

We could hear a door slam hard. The custodian’s office was around the corner, and we shared a wall.

“Let me go, let me go!”

“Shut up, shut up or I’m going to kill you!” The man sounded like he meant it.

Shocked, I thought I never thought this would happen here.

There were acts of violence everywhere, but I always thought of my school as a safe place.

I felt the student’s terror. Now she was crying out: “Get the knife off my neck!”  I shuddered. As a child, I learned to detach from my feelings. At home, it was mostly not to feel the fear, anger and worry when my parents fought with violence.  I did it now to stay calm. Some of the students around me were crying, and I didn’t want to do that. I had to stay in control of myself.

The police and media arrived at the same time.  I remember the reporter came to our windows, wanting to talk to us.  We yelled: “Go away!” My feeling was that the reporter was a vulture, circling around a great story. Ms. Colgan went to the window and told him he could not interview us, and she had no comment to give while the hostage situation was going on.

The reporter was shooed away by a cop wearing what looked like battle gear.  He spoke to Ms. Colgan, and we could hear their conversation. He wanted us all to lie down on the floor in case there were flying bullets.

We all got down on the floor.  We were on the first floor and on a slab. It was cold that day and so was the floor. When the thought crossed my mind that I could be shot accidentally, I had to shove it back and put it in a drawer of my brain’s “Don’t Think About This” dresser. I opened my book again and continued to read. I was learning all about the Holocaust and the cruel, inhuman treatment of Jewish people. I was at the part where defiant prisoners of a ghetto in Warsaw, Poland began to fight back against Nazi’s attempts to starve and deport them to concentration camps. I rooted for those brave Jews.

Distantly, I heard Ms. Colgan comforting crying students and those who were praying. I heard her say to the class that since we could hear what was going on, the custodian would also be able to hear us. We should stay as still as possible so that we didn’t somehow make the custodian angrier.

The student cried out: “Oh God, please get this knife off my neck!”

The custodian’s answer: “There IS no God and I’m going to kill you!”

The student continued to call out to God.

I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling her terror. Then I opened my eyes and noted that my fingernails and fingers had turned blue.  The floor was so cold. I was dressed warmly but was so cold now. I began trembling as the girl continued to call to God to save her. The trembling began in my toes, moved up my calves to my thighs, to my upper body and then arms. I dropped the book because my hands were shaking. The trembling stopped for a moment and then began again.

I don’t know how long it went on. I was having trouble controlling my thoughts now. What would happen to the girl? Would the custodian really kill her? Where was my best friend? Was she safe?

It was quiet now. We could hear the girl and custodian speaking but couldn’t make out the words.

And then there were noises from the office. Some of us sat up and looked out our back door. We saw paramedics rush by with a stretcher. We couldn’t see who was on it, but I thought: thank God, it’s the student and she’s safe! Other classmates came to the same conclusion, and we got up. It was over.

I could feel pent up energy draining away. Some of my classmates began to laugh in relief.

Then there was a loud gunshot and we all dived for the floor again.  I only heard that one blast but learned later that there were eleven. I thought he’s dead. We stayed on that floor for a long time while the SWAT team finished doing whatever they had to do.

Finally, the vice principal came on the PA again, announcing the crisis was over and we could continue with our schedule. Anyone who wanted to leave early and go home would be excused.

I was confused, wondering what period we were in now. The bells had been silenced during the crisis. Should I stay, or should I go home? Could I continue to pretend everything was fine? Or should I go so that I could cry in my bedroom?

Ms. Colgan was speaking now, and her words registered. Take the weekend to try and relax. Talk about what happened with your family. Write it down. We’ll talk about this again on Monday. 

Students were filling the hallway. My classmates filed out. I got my stuff and went out the back door, unsure what to do.

My best friend appeared, and we were overjoyed to see each other. I asked about her experience.

She’d been assisting the music teacher when they heard the commotion in the cafeteria right below them. When the screaming and running began, the music teacher and my best friend took refuge in her little office. She locked the door. Moments later, they heard the doorknob being rattled and heavy breathing. And then whoever was at the door left. They stayed in the office until the vice principal announced we could move on or go home.

She asked if I was OK. I lied. I told her I was fine and gave a short version of my experience. Then we parted as she was unaffected and was on her way to the next class.

I was not okay. The full measure of what happened hit me hard. I decided to go home. My Psychology classmates all decided to go home too.

So many feelings were swirling around me, yet I still felt very numb. I almost felt like I was watching myself go through the motions of catching the #10 bus, which took me to downtown Baltimore. I transferred to the #8 bus which would bring me to my neighborhood. I had a short walk to get home.

As I was nearing my house, I saw my brother coming toward me from the other side of the street. He saw me and began running toward me. He went to a different high school and was in the cafeteria having lunch. A friend of his was playing a transistor radio and the program was interrupted to break the news about my school. He got up and walked out of his school. His plan was to see if I was safe at home and, if not, he was going to take buses to my school.

The dam broke and I burst into tears. I told him everything.

The story was covered on the news that night. That’s when I learned how many bullets had been fired. The reporter explained how the girl, a 15-year-old sophomore, had gotten free. The custodian began saying that he was sick, and she offered to go with him to the emergency room. He was surprised and asked if she meant it. She answered yes, and he let her go.  Once the girl was whisked away, the SWAT team told the custodian to put the machete down and come out. But the custodian rushed them, raising the machete. So, they shot and killed him.

Over dinner, I told my parents what had happened. It was slow going because we still relied on lipreading and some fingerspelling.  Friday was their bowling night in a Deaf league. I wanted them to stay home because I felt scared. They showed some sympathy for the story but their attitude about staying home was that I was being silly. I was safe at home and there was no reason to be scared. My dad advised me to just forget about it.

After they left, my brother asked me if I wanted him to stay home. I knew Fridays were party nights for his gang and appreciated the sacrifice he wanted to make, but I said no, I’d be fine. He looked relieved and I understood why.  I knew he loved me, but we’d grown apart as we went through the teenage years. He was going with a gang now, smoking, drinking and who knows what else. He didn’t know how to respond to my upset.

After my brother went out to join his friends, I went to my room and cuddled with my panther cat, Pepper. I got out my journal and filled pages, pouring out what happened and the feelings that had hit me after the crisis was over.

The following Monday, Ms. Colgan asked us to take the time to write down everything we remembered. Once again, I opened up and poured out my feelings about what had happened. After we were all done, Ms. Colgan said the best thing we could do to get through the experience was to talk about it to people who would listen and to keep writing about it. She explained reactions that later would be called Post Traumatic Syndrome.

I was diagnosed with PTSD when I was in my 50s, a reaction not only to what happened that day but also because of growing up with domestic violence.

This happened 50 years ago. Each December 13, the memories return. I will write about what happened that day. Then I check to see if my fingernails are blue because I feel cold.

"How Can They Dance If They Can't Hear the Music?"

 

How Can They Dance If They Can’t Hear The Music?

This was one of the few “How Can They” questions I didn’t get growing up.  After I got my wedding (first marriage, 1985) proofs, I proudly showed them around. Some people who knew my parents were Deaf but weren’t really close with me would see the picture of my father and me dancing to “Daddy’s Little Girl” and ask, “How can they dance if they can’t hear the music?”

When I was a koda (kid of Deaf Adults), I would inwardly roll my eyes. Dumb question. As an adult, though, I realized the question wasn’t dumb, but the asker was ignorant about being Deaf. Here was an opportunity to provide useful information.

Some Deaf people, like my mother, can’t hear a thing. They “hear” music with vibrations, either using their hands on a stereo or musical instrument, or through their feet when a loud band is playing.  Deaf people have rhythm too and can pick up the beat through the vibrations and dance. My mom was never a fan of music if she had to “hear” it through hand touch on a stereo player. She did love to dance with my dad when a band was playing.

My dad had some residual hearing. He wasn’t profoundly Deaf; his was a severe loss. He could detect a call for him if the name “Pete” or “Peter” was sung out loudly. He could hear a few words over the phone: yes, no, and OK. A conversation might go like this:

Dad: Did you get home safely?

Me: Yes

Dad: Good. How is the cat?

Me: OK

Dad: Ok, bye

Me: OK

Dad could hear music when the sound was turned up. As a teenager, I was the only one listening to 60s-70s rock whose parent would encourage “Turn it up, turn it up!” I remember that Dad especially enjoyed the Scott McKenzie song, “San Francisco”.  He asked if I could write the words for him, and I wrote the lyrics out as best as I could understand them. I knew the song was about hippies, Haight-Asbury, a concert there and wondered what he’d think of that, but he never commented on it.

We had a radio in the living room, and he’d turn on the station I listened to and wait for the song. Many times, I would walk by because I heard the song playing, and I would see him sitting on a chair with his hand cupping one ear and the other hand holding the paper so he could read the lyrics.  I bought a 45 of the song because I knew it wouldn’t play on the radio forever and gave it to him so he could play it whenever he wanted.

I remember one Christmas, my brother wanted a drum set.  He wanted to learn to play the drum solo from the song “Wipe Out”.  He nearly tumbled down the stairs Christmas morning after spotting the drum set. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t get one. He got right on it and began this slow practice, tap tap with one hand and then tap tap with the other.

“That doesn’t sound like ‘Wipeout’,” I teased him.

“You have to learn how to do it first,” he explained.

The following day, I heard the drums going and they sounded awesome considering how slow my brother had been the day before. So, I came downstairs to complement him and nearly rolled down myself. My father was sitting there, playing the drums. I was totally amazed.

“You play drums?”

My father laughed at the expression on my face. “Yes, I play in high school,” he told me. He added he played in the band! Not the drums, though, he played the French horn.

And I found myself asking the dumb question. “But how?”

“I can hear little,” he explained. He added the band teacher acted as a sort of metronome for the band members, showing the beat and when the sound was supposed to be louder or faster.  Most of the band members had some residual hearing so they were able to enjoy making music. How cool, I thought. Dad also went on to explain how it was that Deaf people enjoyed dancing.

As he aged, Dad lost most of his residual hearing. He couldn’t hear us on the phone anymore but, by then, we all had TDDs (telecommunication devices for the Deaf) and could have nice long conversations with each other. He never lost his appreciation for music and had a few noise complaint visits from the police because he’d turned the music up so loud.

I think he’s got normal hearing in Heaven. Either that, or there’s a vast Deaf community of angels up there playing electrified loud harps.