Thursday, March 29, 2012

A Bright Future Right At Home


A baby girl prematurely pushed her way into the world.  It wasn't easy, considering that her mother had been given belladonna as most women were at the time.  She spoke far earlier than she walked.  "Take the baby to the park," she would say, referring to herself in the third person.

Her mother, an immigrant woman who had descended from a long line of rabbis, reluctantly gave her little girl bacon.  It would give her strength, the doctor advised.  Her husband, who saw an opportunity for a ham sandwich, had his requests sharply turned down.  If he wanted ham, he would have to go to the diner for it.

The little girl's parents took in her father's brothers and their families, so their apartment always seemed full.
Some would stay but a few days, others a few weeks and some others would stay for months at a time.  Between that and running a millinery store, the little girl's mother got worn out.  Later on she would learn that
her mother had had a nervous breakdown. While her mother recuperated, the little girl went to school in a one room schoolhouse in Michigan.

Two years later, the little girl woke up with a sore throat, a scarlet tongue and a fever  She had scarlet fever, and was very sick. She was bedridden for a long, long time.  Since they lived above the millinery store, her mother was able to take time to give her lunch and play the piano to cheer her up.  When the little girl recovered, she had to learn to walk all over again.  She never really relearned how to walk like an eight or nine year-old girl would.  Many years later she would explain to her own daughter that physical therapy was only available for the wealthy, and that is why she never recovered her gait.

Her cousins wanted her to go some place with them. The girl called up her father to ask for permission. Much to her consternation, she was unable to hear him. It was only  then that she realized that scarlet fever had left her deaf in one ear.  That did not hinder her ability to learn languages.  She never learned to lipread. She adapted by learning how to position herself so that no one was ever speaking into her bad ear.  Few people ever knew.

"Sis, " her father asked her, "will you open the store tomorrow morning?"

"Yes," she murmured.

What her father didn't realize was that his teenaged daughter was sound asleep.

The following morning the store didn't open on time.  Her father slapped her face.  It's the only time
he ever did.

One day her father took her to the campus of Northwestern University.  "You will go here one day," he said.
Then he took her to the campus of the University of  Chicago.  "Some day you will go here, too."  She attended both universities, but not before spending a year and a half  at the Sorbonne.

The young woman stood on the deck of the SS Normandie.  While she was disappointed that she had to cut short her studies at the Sorbonne, she realized the dangers that Hitler's invading armies posed to her safety. No doubt her aunt and uncle would have to do something drastic  to survive  the war.  She wondered, too, when she would next hear from them.  She figured that they would somehow be OK.

As she gazed out over the Atlantic, the young woman wondered when she would hear from the
person who was supposed to contact her once she got back home. She was to hand over the
silver fox stole she had agreed to smuggle into the States on behalf of this family.  She had a hunch that there were things sewn into the stole's lining.

The young woman pushed all of that out of her mind. Her thoughts shifted to the life she had left behind in Chicago.  Soon she would be reunited with her mother, father, and kid brother.  While she would miss her friends at the Sorbonne,  she looked forward to once again working in her folks' millinery store.  She was excited about enrolling at Northwestern in the fall. She would miss Paris, City of Light,  but she felt certain she had a bright future right at home.
 
  

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Moments Between a Little Girl and Her Mother


One warm day a little girl and her mother were walking down the street.  The little girl wanted to run across the lawn and ring the bells in the church bell tower.  Her mother didn't know why her little girl wanted to run. Just that she wanted to.  She held on to the little girl's hand really tight.  At first the little girl strained against her mother's grasp but then she stopped.
*********************
The little girl stood on the stairs and watched her mom sweep the steps.  "What is your name," her mom asked.

"Debbie Mouyay," the little girl replied.

"What's your name," her mom persisted, trying to get the little girl to say Miller.

"Debbie Mouyay," the little girl said loudly.

"What's your name," her mom asked yet again.

"Debbie Mouyay," the girl said in an exasperated tone.
*******************
The little girl watched her mom do the laundry.  "I want to be a mommy when I grow up."   That was already the little girl's second career decision.  Her first was that she wanted to be a clown, which she had announced one morning at the breakfast table.  This announcement pleased her mother more.
********************
One summer day her mother promised her ice cream.  The little girl never got her ice cream that day.

"But you promised," the little girl cried.

Her mother never gave a reason for the broken promise.  The little girl never believed promises ever again.
***********************
The little girl held onto her mother's hand as they crossed the street to talk to the neighbor ladies.  The little girl felt shy and a little bored.  She went underneath her mother's dress.  She looked up and saw her mother's legs and her mother's panties. After a moment she came out from there.
************************
The little girl came down the stairs one day and asked her mom, "what am I?"

Her mom looked up from the piano and said, 'You are a Jew," guessing correctly that the little girl was not asking about whether she was a boy or a girl.

The answer pleased the little girl, and filled her with pride.
*******************
The little girl had tears in her eyes as she ran home from the neighbor's house. She had just been accused of killing "Our Lord," and sought her mother out for comfort.

"What's a Christian," she finally asked her mother.

"A Christian is someone who follows in the footsteps of Christ," her mother explained.

The little girl imagined people walking from giant footprint to giant footprint..  She was still unsure what a Christian was, but she kept it to herself.
**************************
The little girl was being unusually rambunctious.  She was running around and around the dining room table.  Her mother,  playing hand after hand of solitaire, was uncharacteristically taciturn.  "You wouldn't be behaving that way if you knew your grandpa had died." The little girl stopped playing.
**************************
The little girl's mother used to read to her from Arabian Nights and other stories.  She would kiss the little girl on the cheek and say, "See you in the morning, Mirtsishem.  (God willing.)
**************************
The little girl was teased at school.  Her mother would say, "They are jealous of you because you are
smart."  "They are jealous of you because you are pretty."  "They are jealous of you because you are pretty and smart."

The little girl never really believed that, but she knew her mother was doing her best to console her.
***********************
One night the neighbor ladies came over for a coffee klatch.  The little girl watched from the stairs and listened to the women greeted one another.  After they left the little girl went up to her mother.  "They don't really like each other, do they?"

"No," her mother replied.
***********************
The little girl's mother taught her that if you put the leaf of an African violet in water, a root would eventually grow and you could start a new plant.
*********************
The little girl used to watch her mother weed the lawn.
**********************
The little girl sat in the window and watched the snow fall.  She was happy when her mom came home. That was the beginning of the blizzard.

The little girl and her dog played in the snow.  Later on her mother made her hot chocolate.
**********************
The little girl went with her mother to the polling place in the church.  She watched her mother flip the lever for the entire Democratic ticket and then flip up the ones she did not want.  When her mother was done voting, the curtain to the voting booth opened up and they went home.
***********************
One evening the little girl and her mother took their dog on a long walk.  She wanted to show the little girl where her dad was taking classes in night school so that he could teach data processing.
**********************
When the little girl's dad started teaching, he wouldn't come home until well past her bedtime.  The little girl asked her mother to wake her up so she could spend time with him.   Her mom would do that.  The little girl would stay up about a half an hour with her dad and then go back to bed.
*********************
The night the little girl and her mom and dad were moving, the little girl's dad had to teach.  The little girl and her mom sat in the parking lot along with the rest of their things.  They went to a nearby diner and carried dinner back to the car.  The little girl  read comic books out loud to her mother.  They laughed.
************************
The little girl's mother would tell her, "I love you.  Don't forget."  The little girl grew up.  She never forgot.










Monday, January 23, 2012

Billy Bob Bear Comes Home

Billy Bob Bear was birthed in the back of a bar one chilly night. Months later, his mother dressed him up in a purple tie, a fuchsia vest and a tall striped hat and tearfully nudged him past the pool tables to the front of the bar. "I hope," she said with a quivering voice, "someone kind will give you the home I cannot provide."

The bartender looked up at Billy Bob Bear's mother. "And just what do you expect me to do with him?"

"This is no place for a young cub to be raised," Billy Bob's mother said sadly.

"I will find someone to take him home before the night is out," the bartender said in a gravelly, cigar stained voice.

"Thank you," Billy Bob's mother said meekly. She kissed her little boy bear on the cheek and said, "Now you go and be a good boy bear."

"I will Momma," he promised. Billy Bob Bear waved goodbye to his mother, but she had already gone. He wiped away tears with his pudgy paw.

"Sit over there," the bartender said, indicating a place on the shelf between beer bottles.

Billy Bob Bear sat very, very still for what seemed like a very long time. Suddenly he saw a blonde middle aged woman sit down. She seemed a little preoccupied. Maybe she will take me home, he hoped. After a while, the bartender approached the woman. "You want a bear," he asked, pointing to Billy Bob.

"No, not really," the woman replied.

"You're Bev, right? You come here every so often," the bartender persisted, "and you seem like you're not such a bad dame."

"Thank you," she stammered.

"This is Billy Bob Bear. His mother left him here with me," the bartender continued. "I told her I'd help him find a good home."

The woman looked up at the bear. He smiled shyly down at her. Bev's heart melted. "Oh, I cannot leave him here all alone."

The woman fed Billy Bob Bear a good dinner of fish sticks and berries. He ate until he was good and stuffed. The woman looked at the bear. "I cannot keep you," she murmured. "We don't have a lot of room, and you need a family that will appreciate you. But you can stay here for the time being."

Billy Bob Bear barely slept. He tossed and turned. He was scared. The woman seemed kind enough, but if she didn't have room where would he go? He loved the room he was in. It was so cozy. He knew he'd find none better. "Perhaps if I danced or sang," he thought, "maybe then Bev would change her mind."

In another room, Bev, sat up watching late night TV. Billy Bob Bear was so sweet. He needed a good home. She had been arguing again with the cousin who owned the house she and her family lived in. She knew it was only a matter of time until she and her family would be forced to move. The cousin wanted to raise their rent well beyond what they could afford. She sighed wearily. Poor little bear. She couldn't tell her problems to him, and she knew he was badly wanted to stay with them.

Bev thought about the people she knew and wondered who would want to take Billy Bob Bear in. She thought about the woman down the street who had the little crippled girl. Every other day she saw the woman pushing the stroller to the el to take her child to some appointment or other. The woman was shunned by the neighbors. Why, Bev could not understand. Every time she saw Bev and Bev's mother, she lit up. Probably the only conversations the woman had. Bev decided that this woman needed something cheery in her life. Surely this woman would give Billy Bob Bear a home.

Early the following morning, Bev knelt down by Billy Bob. She gave him a bowl of oatmeal. As the bear ate, she spoke to him. "I am not sure, but I think this woman down the street will take you in. She has a little girl who is crippled," she explained, "and I bet
you would brighten things up for them." The bear frowned. "What does crippled mean," he asked. "It means that the girl cannot use her arms or legs very well." The bear wiped his chin. He wasn't sure about being with a girl who couldn't walk or put her arms around him. "The little girl's mom seems very nice," she continued. "I bet she will love you and the little girl will, too."

"Why can't I just stay with you," he asked. Bev sighed. "I wish you could," she said, "but we cannot keep you here." Billy Bob Bear tried not to cry. "Please," he pleaded. "You seem so nice." "I am sorry," the woman replied. "I know you will be well treated by the neighbor lady."

If she wants me, the bear thought, dejectedly. What, he wondered, would become of him if the woman said no? If she had a crippled girl to take care of, she might not want him. And then what? He was certain Bev wouldn't kick him out, but he also knew he couldn't stay indefinitely. The oatmeal felt like lead. He fell into a fitful sleep.

Billy Bob awakened to voices. Sounded like someone outside. He moved stiffly towards the window and peered outside. He saw a middle aged woman pushing a skinny little girl in a stroller. That must be the crippled girl, he thought. The girl caught his eye. She looked up and smiled at him. Then she giggled. Right then he knew he wanted to stay with her. He listened intently. "I'll be back for the bear in a few minutes," the woman announced, as she strollered the little girl back to their apartment. Billy Bob Bear could hardly believe it. He was going to have a place he could call home. He also knew that he and the girl would have a lot of fun together.

Bev lowered the bear down to the woman's awaiting arms. The woman looked down at the big white bear with his huge hat. He was much larger than her Kid O. She thought of him as more of a guardian than as a playmate. The woman smiled at him as she carried him up the stairs to their second floor apartment. He wasn't sure yet about her, but he couldn't help but smile back. "My little Kid O will just love you," she said. Billy Bob Bear knew Kid O already did love him. And he knew he loved her, too. He settled in near Kid O's crib. As Billy Bob Bear dozed off, he smiled to himself. He knew he had come home.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Dickens Knew There'd Be Days Like These

A year ago, I wrote Kid O Is CPed, or How Crippling Language and Sentimentality Dehumanizes Disabled Children and Adults in response to a Twitter conversation and blog post by Ira Socol about Dickens's portrayal of Tiny Tim. When Tiny Tim says to his father that he hopes people will notice him in church, he does not wish to be seen as a pitiful cripple. Instead he wants people to remember how wonderful and loving God is.

Back when I was in my twenties, I applied for jobs with various non-profits. At one point, I sent my resume to a blind ad. I received a call from Muscular Dystrophy Association telling me I could interview with them I turned down the opportunity because I did not want to be affiliated with an organization that both sentimentalized and exploited children. Even though they no longer have Jerry Lewis as their pitchman, I doubt their emotionally manipulative fundraising tactics have changed.

After having Kid O, those feelings intensified. I feel that special needs and disabled children are often treated as lesser beings. They are either seen as objects of pity or derision or as beatific or magical beings. Parents of special needs kids are either venerated as saints or branded as criminals, with little in between.

When parents are seen as saints, we are often offered help we do not ask for. As I recounted Kid O, Comedic Queen, Traveling in Style :

Subway steps are tricky enough without someone unexpectedly lifting up the bottom half of Kid O's stroller. Without a word, a hand would dart out, followed by a second hand and then a torso would appear. All followed by the friendly face of some well meaning human being. And, all too frequently, I'd have to tell that friendly, well meaning person to let go. Many would let go right away, but others would only respond to me harshly insisting. All too often a look of hurt would register on their faces. They were presuming to offer help that I never requested and were throwing me off my rhythm. One false move and I could have tumbled down the stairs. And Kid O with me.

I never intended to hurt anyone's feelings. It is awkward to decline help, even as tactfully as possible, from people who have good intentions. I don't want to be an ingrate. I simply want to decide for myself what assistance I want and need. If people want to offer help, it would be great if they were to ask what I need or want. Or tell me what they have available or can do and then I can choose.

Recently Kid O came home with a brand new backpack filled with school supplies. I called up the high school to see if she had gotten this by mistake, and was informed that all of the low incidence kids received the same backpack loaded with the same supplies. Given that a large percentage of the school population are kids from low income families, I would think that it would be better if this donation were schoolwide. Instead these Special Ed kids are singled out for what seems to me to be the dubious achievement of being in the low incidence program.

If I were to point out to service organizations and these companies that they mainly do this to alleviate guilt, they would be taken aback and perhaps even angered by what they would perceive, and, rightly so, as cynicism on my part. But the fact is that this type of charity is demeaning as it perpetuates the stereotypical thinking of "poor little crippled kid" or "poor little special needs kid." I do not doubt there are good intentions, but, first and foremost, this is more about the donors feeling good about themselves than it is about whether or not the donations are what is wanted or needed by the individual, or, by extension, their families.

The justifications for this kind of charity has the danger of allowing generally reasonable people to conclude that, paradoxically, sheltered workshops are a perfectly fine destination for special needs children. I would ask such people if that outcome would be acceptable to them for their ablebodied and/or "normal" children. More likely they hope their children will have a good education and earn a decent living doing work they enjoy. When a segment of the population is treated like lesser beings, even in the name of charity, then it is easy to segue from that to exploitation. Furthermore when I feel like an ingrate after receiving gifts or donations neither wanted nor needed, that indicates to me that something is awry.

One year before Thanksgiving Kid O came home with a laundry basket full of food, including a turkey. While it was true that my husband was unemployed at the time, I felt shame and anger. We had already bought food for Thanksgiving, and so there we were with two turkeys as well as food suited to our tastes and food that was not. I was mortified that anyone would think we were a charity case. I never said anything to anyone at the school, because I knew that everyone meant well. They presumed they were helping us feed our family when in fact a lot of what they did was actually wasteful. We ate both turkeys, but I still wonder why no one bothered to ask us what we wanted since they were doing this with our family in mind.

There is no dignity in receiving this kind of a gift. There is no way for recipients to save face. And, when a laundry basket full of food comes on the wheelchair lift the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, there is certainly no way to refuse it. No way to say "please give this to someone else." I am certain that members of that service organization who donated that Thanksgiving dinner felt really good about what they had done. To me, however, that act of charity felt thoughtless and exceedingly inconsiderate. I did not feel grateful.

Rabbi Moses ben Maimon, better known as Maimonides, established Eight Principles of Giving or Tzedakah. According to the Wikipedia article on tzedakah the eighth principle of giving is:

8. Giving "in sadness" - it is thought that Maimonides was referring to giving because of the sad feelings one might have in seeing people in need (as opposed to giving because it is a religious obligation; giving out of pity).

which is the most objectionable reason to give to anyone. That is precisely why I would ask members of a service organization to question the purity of their motives. When a person is given to out of pity, it reduces the person to an object rather than as a person who has feelings, hopes and aspirations. In this instance both the giver and the recipient are diminished by this action.

Maimonides' first principle of giving as mentioned in the same Wiki article is:

1. Giving an interest-free loan to a person in need; forming a partnership with a person in need; giving a grant to a person in need; finding a job for a person in need; so long as that loan, grant, partnership, or job results in the person no longer living by relying upon others.

Or,if you prefer, from Honorable Ways to Give Charity

1. The highest form of charity is to help sustain a person before they become impoverished by offering a substantial gift in a dignified manner, or by extending a suitable loan, or by helping them find employment or establish themselves in business so as to make it unnecessary for them to become dependent on others.

This way of giving is the most honorable because this allows the special needs kid to become a functioning member of the community and keeps dignity and self-worth intact for them and for their families. The only reason to not consider wants and needs of a special needs individual is because you presume they have lesser mental abilities and will either not know the difference or will be grateful for whatever they get. That is precisely why I feel resentment when I am the recipient, directly or indirectly, of such charity.

Members of service organizations would not want to be considered charity cases any more than I do. If service organizations want to make donations then those receiving the donations should have some say as to what they wish to receive. Ideally there would be a sense of collaboration. Members of service organizations ought to be willing to donate (within reason) things an individual or families need rather than what they think they need.

A week or two ago, our yoga instructor called me about an email she had received about a non-profit receiving a lightly used Hoyer Lift. This email came from the woman who ran the non-profit. This woman's family had their own Hoyer Lift for their daughter who, like Kid O, has severe cerebral palsy. I called the woman and we made arrangements for my husband to go and pick the lift up. That was something that we have needed for quite some time. I am truly grateful for this lift. Because this was done in a collaborative manner, there was no sense of inequality. No sense of being beholden to or subordinate to anybody.

What Moses Maimonides is essentially talking about is the basis for the gift economy. If a special needs child is given equipment or technology that will better ensure their independence, then instead of becoming a burden on society they have the potential to benefit society themselves. By giving my husband and I the opportunity of getting a Hoyer Lift, we can feel more at ease at hiring respite care. We are now less worried about someone getting injured when having to lift Kid O for instance. And I will not always have to ask my husband to help me.

Kid O cannot use school supplies because her hands are too spastic, and her fingers are not sufficiently differentiated.. Had I been consulted about this donation, I could have been in the position of suggesting that this company give this to someone who could use it.
Instead I have to figure out what we are going to do with these things. Kid Q has plenty of pencils, markers, etc, and so I do not feel comfortable keeping these. Perhaps when school resumes after winter break I will talk to Kid O's teacher and see if we can regift these
to the classroom. The thing is I shouldn't have to be in this position to begin with. I didn't express a need for this.

Had anyone bothered to ask me, I would have thought of all kinds of things that I could have used or that Kid O could have used. A communication device, for example, that doesn't require staff, would make it possible for Kid O to gain at least a modicum of independence and provide her with a way to take her place within the community That's the kind of assistance I'd be grateful for, and for which I'd echo Tiny Tim's sentiments, "God bless us, every one!."

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Mister, I Come Weaponless

Mister, I come weaponless.
No coy mistress am I.
I pick pearls from your beautiful pink heart.
I place them in a pristine basket.

How can I tell you, mister,
you have no reason to fear.
How can I tell you mister,
You have no reason to doubt.
How can I tell you, mister,
I am who I say I am.
No more. No less.

I tell you, mister,
I am your haven.
I am your harbor.
I am your inlet.
I am your every port.

I am shatterproof.
Even so I am filled with shards
and other sharpnesses.
Sharp tongue, soft heart.

I embrace a multitude of shimmering yous.
Mathematically you are awe's sum.
I have no language, mister,
to explain that particular equation.

Monday, November 28, 2011

June Cleaver Cleaves Herself

JuneMargaretDonnaHarriet Cleaver frets over starched white collars.
She wipes the dish clean, clean, clean, clean, clean.
So clean the pattern is impressed upon her palm.
Blood and Palmolive. Intermixed. Interspersed. Intermingled.
Her husband is a busy man wiling away hours in his study, den, office.
Her daughters, Princess and Kitten, and sons, Wally, Bud and...
The Beaver. What was his name again? She slaps her forehead. Oh, yes, Theodore.
A sweet gift. A swell kid. An afterthought

JuneHarrietMargaretDonna stirs the batter for cookies.
She thinks about a woman whose story
got buried in the back of the newspaper.
A mad, sad, isolated housewife
cleans the house from top to bottom, top to bottom, top to bottom, top to bottom.
She can see her funhouse reflection in every piece of silver.
She retires to the recesses of the attic and...

JuneDonnaHarrietMargaret smiles smugly.
Her life, she reasons, needs a theme song. Something hummable.
Ward, her husband, or is it Jim, her mind wanders, knows best.
With pipe in hand, he sets her straight.
She doesn't remember much about the moment.
She is dutiful. He is perfunctory.
She is pleasant and docile and always makes his favorite meal.
Even when company shows up unannounced.
"I am sorry, honey. I forgot to tell you."
She smiles tightly. "The rib roast is in the oven."

JuneDonnaMargaretHarriet goes to the kitchen where she vigorously mashes potatoes.
She will make WardJimOzzieAlex look good.
She will smile even if her mouth cracks.
She picks up the cleaver. She picks up the carving knife.
She stabs and jabs blindly at
The wooden cutting board.
She vanishes all murderous thoughts from her pretty little head
and cheerfully, resolutely serves dinner.
She looks outside her dark kitchen window.
She wonders about what life is like on the outside.
What would it be like to have one, a life that is.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Oshmina, Ellis Island Remembers You

Oshmina, Ellis Island remembers you.
Remembers my grandpa.
Remembers his brothers.
Remembers my mother's cousin
who went from town to town
asking for a Jew so he could sell his wares.

Oshmina, Ellis Island remembers you
Remembers their names.
Remembers their countries of origin.
Remembers a mass grave at the edge of town
Remembers my great aunt.
Who remains there.

Oshmina, Ellis Island remembers you.
Remembers a teenaged girl who hid from hungry soldiers.
Remembers her guilt of leaving behind her starving father.
Remembers her mother who died much too young,
After bearing eight children. Perhaps more.
Who worked herself to death in the factory.

Oshmina, Ellis Island remembers you.
Those who remained, their names buried but not forgotten.
Those who left traded in old names for new names.
Names and ages a jumble on passenger lists.
A confusion of huddled masses.
Breathing free with new identities.
Breathing free with new lives.
Breathing free with new homes.
Never entirely forgetting old countries.
Never forgetting mother tongues.

Oshmina. Ellis Island remembers you.
Fragments of lullabies sung by their mothers.
Sung to their daughters. Sung to their granddaughters.
"The road is long," Yes, the road is long.
The journey has become a patchwork quilt.
Stories half told. Half forgotten.
Details altered. Sifted through fine sands of time
unearthing bright gems of wistful remembrance.