Today I got an anonymous Valentine's gram from a student. It came in the form of a sweet note thanking me for being so nice and a red, beaded necklace with a good-sized, plastic heart pendant hanging at its end. This is not an ordinary, lifeless heart pendant. No. This pendant lights up. At three different speeds. When you first push the button, it blinks fast--a heart-racing, terrified-rabbit beat. Upon second push, the blinking slows to a regular rhythm, like a steady drum. After the third push, the light remains on, unbeating, like E.T.'s tiny heart glowing red through his chest. And, of course, there is a fourth option: no light at all.
I made a joke about this necklace to my students today. I talked about how much easier it would be if we all wore these pendants and used them as signs of our affections towards others. Our own hope-giving albatrosses tied around our necks.
If we like someone, we could show them by only pushing the button once. Allowing the little plastic heart to mirror what our actual impossible-to-see heart is doing--racing with the excitement and possibility of new love. Allowing it to speak for us when we are too afraid to admit how we feel.
If we only wanted to be friends with someone who is interested in more, we could push our plastic buttons three times. You know, let our non-flashing heart beat break the heart that we're unable to break with our words.
And, of course, if we just weren't interested or had fallen out of love, we could turn our heart lighthouses off, so as not to draw any more attention. Our heart's own little Closed sign.
Damn it if my mom wasn't right when she told me there was truth behind all jokes.
Although I said this to my students as a funny intro to wishing them a happy Valentine's Day, there's a huge part of me that wishes it were true. That I had had this little harbinger around my neck to speak my truth for me. And there's another part of me that wonders how different my life would be if I had.
It might not be obvious here on this blog where I seem to spew the most intimate details of my life, but I've never really worn my heart on my sleeve--or around my neck or whatever is the current fashion. Especially when it comes to love. I have always feared the non-blinking, or, worse, the darkened-heart response. And so my feelings have, for the most part, stayed locked in my chest or deep in the recesses of my gut. Protected from harm. But also protected from that leap of faith. From risk. From true love. Somehow I have fooled myself into thinking that if I hold onto the love, keep it nestled deep inside, then it can't be rejected.
I picture my insides like the branches of a tree, tiny cocoons of potential love, containing caterpillars awaiting transformation into butterflies, kissed upon them. Some so old that they are no longer pushing to escape. The love-that-could-have-been mummified but still sticking to the branches in faint remembrances. Others are fresher. Inside them, half-caterpillar-half-butterflies nudge. Words and feelings yearn to be set free.
As I've become more in-touch and in-like with my feelings, these words push more. Newly-found confidence eggs them on.
And on this day of celebrating love I wonder if it's worth the risk. If it's worth wearing my heart around my neck and letting it be seen. Letting it speak my message whether or not the other person's heart pitter-pats in return.
Perhaps we all would be better off if our hearts, our feelings--fears, hopes, needs--were out in the open. Easy to see. Then we could stop the guessing game and get on with living our truths. And we would realize that we, as humans, all share the same fears--rejection, loss, separation--and the same needs--to be loved, to belong, to be recognized.
In all honesty, I don't think I'll be picking up the phone to confess my love tonight. But perhaps I will marinate in the idea. And nudge at my own pride to see if it will unravel so that, perhaps, my heart will fly.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Friday, February 1, 2013
This Green(ish)-Eyed Monster
My eye color is somewhat unique. From a distance, it looks your standard brown, but when you get closer, you will see a good-sized smattering of green--a little like a baby's diaper after he's eaten green beans, perhaps. Although I've always identified myself as a "Brown-Eyed Girl" (Thank you, Van Morrison, for putting us on the map), this week I'm working to come to terms with that part of me that is green-eyed. More specifically, the Green-Eyed Monster of Envy that lurks just below my almost-perfect exterior.
This monster exists in all of us.
This week, for me, it's time she and I had an honest heart-to-heart.
Yes, I admit it (finally). I am a jealous person.
Envy is, of course, part of this human condition of ours, but for those of us who are disabled, I might argue that envy runs a bit deeper. Its claws a bit sharper. On a daily basis, I look at the able-bodied around me and I wish that I could trade places. Not that I wish for them a life with a disabled, stubborn, and defiant body, but just that I want their seemingly perfect one. One that allows them the freedom to do so much that I can only dream about.
For example.
The crouch. When my friends crouch, bent-kneed and butt inches from the ground, to pick something up or soothe their toddler-aged children and then unfold themselves, like some real-life Transformers, back to standing position, I am filled with such intense envy, I practically drool. Being in the body that I am, I just don't understand how any body can do this. How the quads could spring back to life after mere seconds of dormancy. In this body of mine, if I squatted into this position, I would be stuck there. In fact, I think I would probably just topple backwards and be left wondering how to get back up. Oh, I do dream about this. In these dreams, my legs, too, are made of springs and, like some Russian dancer, I vacillate from squat to stand and stand to squat. Oh the joy of this seemingly small freedom. And so, there's envy number one.
Envy number two: The marathon (or half-marathon or 15K or 5K or whatever version is being run at the moment). For some reason (which I don't quite understand but I'm sure someday will), I am surrounded by runners. Everyday, my friends are posting on Facebook about their daily miles logged; they're signing up for half-marathons and Lulu-Lemoning themselves (like, legitimately wearing the clothes because they are athletes not because they want to wear them as a badge) around town. In the words of Holden Caulfield: It kills me. I am champion at putting on the brave, I'm-so-proud-of-you face. While inside, there's a tiny part of me that's dying. A tiny part of my perfectionistic pride that feels like it, too, should be able to partake in this odds-defying feat. That it, too, should experience the endorphins only running can release and burn the calories that only running can burn. Oh, how I seethe. How I wish that I could be them and they could be me, just to have the tiny morsel of understanding of what I'm missing out on. Me to have a taste of It and them to have a taste of the lacking. So that we can be simpatico.
Certainly I cannot be the first disabled person (or non-disabled person) to feel this shameful jealousy.
The chair/couch access, a strange-sounding envy number three. I've mentioned in an earlier post that whenever I enter a room for the first time, I assess the seating situation. If a seat is too low or armless or too light for me to put all of my weight on to stand back up, I will not sit there. My pride (still after all of this self-work) too great to say screw-it-they'll-have-to-see-me-haul-myself-off-of-that-impossibly-low-seat. This hauling myself up not an option because it feels so ugly to watch. "Normal" people never think about this. They never walk into a room and have to assess it's accessibility. But I do. And there are people who have to assess it even more intensely than I. I get this. I know that I am "lucky" and "it could be worse", but that does not discredit the fact that right now, in this body, there are struggles that must be faced. There are truths that must be spoken.
Envy four: the toilet/bathroom situation. So, read the above. The same goes for toilets. Especially those stalls/bathrooms that close with some sort of barrel-lock. Sometimes my hands aren't strong enough to let myself back out. The first time I ever got stuck I was about five. My sister and I had been Brave Little Girls and gone to the bathroom by ourselves. That door was so heavy. So heavy that we couldn't get out. Thankfully, our dutiful mom came in after us and set us free. The second time I got stuck I didn't have youth to blame...I was in my early twenties and had flown to Chicago to visit an old college friend of mine. We went to a bar called The Liquid Kitty. It was a cool joint that showed old movies and served a mean Cosmopolitan. Its only flaw was that the bathroom was a single-room-barrel-locking number in which I got stuck. Oh what a panic. For this, I will blame the vodka. Ever since then, I test the lock before I fully close the door. Still. Twelve years later.
Envy five--and perhaps the most painful envy of all: swinging a toddler onto one's hip. I am lucky to have so many children in my life. Their mothers are my closest friends and confidants who are constantly squatting to talk to their tiny people. Besides my being in awe of their ability to squat (and mother so beautifully), I am also in awe of their ability to spring back to standing position, all the while swinging that thirty-pound person onto their hips. Their ability to pull that toddler in, cradle it, and soothe it with a whole-body sway. This, I could not do. The baby is too heavy. And it hurts to watch. Not because I wish any different for my beloved friends but because I wish different for myself.
I am not ashamed to admit it...well, maybe a little.
Yes, I know that when there's a will, there's a way (How do you think I've thrived these past thirty-eight years?), but that doesn't mean that I don't often wish that I could be the one taking the easier route and not always the one who is forced to adjust. And, so, I vulnerably share with you my areas of envy so that perhaps the next time you do something with ease, you might take a pause to say thank you for the body that you do have. And I will do the same. For, although my body is far from perfect, it is mine. And it serves me as well as it is able.
And for that, I am grateful.
So, maybe tomorrow I'll look in the mirror and the green in my irises will be gone, replaced with content-with-life brown. On second thought, it's the green that makes them beautiful because it is the green that makes them unique, makes them human. The green I hope never goes away.
This monster exists in all of us.
This week, for me, it's time she and I had an honest heart-to-heart.
Yes, I admit it (finally). I am a jealous person.
Envy is, of course, part of this human condition of ours, but for those of us who are disabled, I might argue that envy runs a bit deeper. Its claws a bit sharper. On a daily basis, I look at the able-bodied around me and I wish that I could trade places. Not that I wish for them a life with a disabled, stubborn, and defiant body, but just that I want their seemingly perfect one. One that allows them the freedom to do so much that I can only dream about.
For example.
The crouch. When my friends crouch, bent-kneed and butt inches from the ground, to pick something up or soothe their toddler-aged children and then unfold themselves, like some real-life Transformers, back to standing position, I am filled with such intense envy, I practically drool. Being in the body that I am, I just don't understand how any body can do this. How the quads could spring back to life after mere seconds of dormancy. In this body of mine, if I squatted into this position, I would be stuck there. In fact, I think I would probably just topple backwards and be left wondering how to get back up. Oh, I do dream about this. In these dreams, my legs, too, are made of springs and, like some Russian dancer, I vacillate from squat to stand and stand to squat. Oh the joy of this seemingly small freedom. And so, there's envy number one.
Envy number two: The marathon (or half-marathon or 15K or 5K or whatever version is being run at the moment). For some reason (which I don't quite understand but I'm sure someday will), I am surrounded by runners. Everyday, my friends are posting on Facebook about their daily miles logged; they're signing up for half-marathons and Lulu-Lemoning themselves (like, legitimately wearing the clothes because they are athletes not because they want to wear them as a badge) around town. In the words of Holden Caulfield: It kills me. I am champion at putting on the brave, I'm-so-proud-of-you face. While inside, there's a tiny part of me that's dying. A tiny part of my perfectionistic pride that feels like it, too, should be able to partake in this odds-defying feat. That it, too, should experience the endorphins only running can release and burn the calories that only running can burn. Oh, how I seethe. How I wish that I could be them and they could be me, just to have the tiny morsel of understanding of what I'm missing out on. Me to have a taste of It and them to have a taste of the lacking. So that we can be simpatico.
Certainly I cannot be the first disabled person (or non-disabled person) to feel this shameful jealousy.
The chair/couch access, a strange-sounding envy number three. I've mentioned in an earlier post that whenever I enter a room for the first time, I assess the seating situation. If a seat is too low or armless or too light for me to put all of my weight on to stand back up, I will not sit there. My pride (still after all of this self-work) too great to say screw-it-they'll-have-to-see-me-haul-myself-off-of-that-impossibly-low-seat. This hauling myself up not an option because it feels so ugly to watch. "Normal" people never think about this. They never walk into a room and have to assess it's accessibility. But I do. And there are people who have to assess it even more intensely than I. I get this. I know that I am "lucky" and "it could be worse", but that does not discredit the fact that right now, in this body, there are struggles that must be faced. There are truths that must be spoken.
Envy four: the toilet/bathroom situation. So, read the above. The same goes for toilets. Especially those stalls/bathrooms that close with some sort of barrel-lock. Sometimes my hands aren't strong enough to let myself back out. The first time I ever got stuck I was about five. My sister and I had been Brave Little Girls and gone to the bathroom by ourselves. That door was so heavy. So heavy that we couldn't get out. Thankfully, our dutiful mom came in after us and set us free. The second time I got stuck I didn't have youth to blame...I was in my early twenties and had flown to Chicago to visit an old college friend of mine. We went to a bar called The Liquid Kitty. It was a cool joint that showed old movies and served a mean Cosmopolitan. Its only flaw was that the bathroom was a single-room-barrel-locking number in which I got stuck. Oh what a panic. For this, I will blame the vodka. Ever since then, I test the lock before I fully close the door. Still. Twelve years later.
Envy five--and perhaps the most painful envy of all: swinging a toddler onto one's hip. I am lucky to have so many children in my life. Their mothers are my closest friends and confidants who are constantly squatting to talk to their tiny people. Besides my being in awe of their ability to squat (and mother so beautifully), I am also in awe of their ability to spring back to standing position, all the while swinging that thirty-pound person onto their hips. Their ability to pull that toddler in, cradle it, and soothe it with a whole-body sway. This, I could not do. The baby is too heavy. And it hurts to watch. Not because I wish any different for my beloved friends but because I wish different for myself.
I am not ashamed to admit it...well, maybe a little.
Yes, I know that when there's a will, there's a way (How do you think I've thrived these past thirty-eight years?), but that doesn't mean that I don't often wish that I could be the one taking the easier route and not always the one who is forced to adjust. And, so, I vulnerably share with you my areas of envy so that perhaps the next time you do something with ease, you might take a pause to say thank you for the body that you do have. And I will do the same. For, although my body is far from perfect, it is mine. And it serves me as well as it is able.
And for that, I am grateful.
So, maybe tomorrow I'll look in the mirror and the green in my irises will be gone, replaced with content-with-life brown. On second thought, it's the green that makes them beautiful because it is the green that makes them unique, makes them human. The green I hope never goes away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)