Disabilities

To those who question disabled people about their disability so you can understand. It is not our job or responsibility to educate you. Don’t expect us to answer your insensitive questions. All your questions are insensitive. We don’t need to justify our disabilities to you. It is challenging to live with a disability. It is also challenging for us to understand. We figure it out day by day, learning to accept our challenges and limits and celebrate successes. If you want to be helpful, accept that we know what we need. Accept that we know our abilities and limitations. Do not question us until you understand why we may refuse an invitation. There are books, magazines, and websites you can access to get basic knowledge of our disabilities. You will not become an authority. You will not learn as much as we know. You will not know all about our disabilities. And lastly, we are all individuals. So, even if we may share the same condition, our challenges are very different.

Summer

My summer was amazing! For the first time in 14 years, I was not depressed. A result of a brain injury is depression. I have also been in indescribable pain between headaches (not migraines) and my knee. Add to that the loss of my career ,which was much of my identity, losing my house, and so much more. I lost me. I was an indigo blue. This summer so much changed. I settled into a comfortable routine. Up in the morning. Feed my dogs then myself. (Yes in that order.) Next curled up in bed and read for about an hour. Dressed, walked the dogs by the river where we greet the river people. Ran any errands. For lunch I’d walk to the senior center for a tasty meal that I didn’t have to cook. The dogs and I took a nice nap. While they continued to sleep, I’d read and do crafts. That was my day. One loss for me was reading. I was always a ferocious reader. In high school I complained about reading assignments because they interfered with what I was reading. The books I read were far superior to the assigned books. With my brain injury concentration was difficult and I forgot what I was reading as soon as I read it. When I closed the book it was gone as well as the title. Frustrated, I gave up. This summer I had a wonderful visit with my artist friend in Sequim. She loaned me I Am Your Man. Leonard Cohen’s biography. The book sat on a shelf for a couple weeks before I anxiously picked it up. I wanted to know about Cohen’s life but worried about forgetting each page as I read it. Once I started reading I couldn’t put it down. I read like the old Nancy, lost in a world I’ve never seen. Just another page. I’ll just finish this chapter. Nancy, you have to go to sleep. Put the book down. I remembered most of what I’d read! Next I read Jim Hanson’s biography, Gil Scott-Heron, and Zelda Fitzgerald. I am in heaven. Walking by the river with Gina and Charlie was a highlight of the day. We’d see the same people everyday and even the same dogs. Of course there were new people out for lunch or taking a slow walk in the sunshine. We greet each other with a soft smile and a hello. Once in a while we’d talk for a few minutes, mostly about Gina and Charlie. Small children ran from the playground to pet them. Their smiles were always so bright and real. This summer I was almost me and I felt great.

Finally

At long last I finished all the crafts for the craft shows. Of course I would have finished a couple months ago if I hadn’t procrastinated so much. Seven tubs are packed in the closet with 20 different crafts. Now that I am not working on five or six projects at once, I can clean off the tables, shelves, and counters. My next project is making felt dolls. This doesn’t take up a lot of room. Doll making is my first love. This should be fun!

Sipping once. Sipping twice. Sipping chicken soup with rice.

A Life of Black Hair

I have been aware of my hair all my life. As a child, each morning I sat on the floor between my mother’s knees as she calmly oiled and plaited my hair until I learned to do the ancient skill myself. In junior high school I wore my hair tightly pulled back into a short pony tail. During humid days the pony tail was a puff. In high school, during the age of Aquarius and Black Power, my father would not allow me to wear an Afro. He never gave a reason. After graduation I wore my Afro large and proud. As a teenager with “good hair,” I wasn’t allowed to use the hot comb on my hair as my older sisters did. I would sit in the kitchen watching the hot comb sizzle through their hair as they laughed and talked. As an adult I went to the hairdresser to have a burning lye mixture applied to straighten my hair. My father raved about the results. My mother’s face was fixed in a scorn. I was confused. During my second visit to the hairdresser my scalp was burned so badly I developed weeping sores. I had to cut my hair off. My mother lectured me about using chemicals on my hair as she put healing ointment on my scalp each day. I returned to my afro. During the Disco years I cut my hair to half an inch in length. The sweat and smoke from dancing every night meant my hair needed to be washed daily. This was too difficult with longer hair. I continued to wear my hair short for most of my life despite feeling guilty as a black woman about cutting it. During the times I let my hair grow out I relaxed it myself. I didn’t trust a hairdresser to do it after my earlier experience. I also didn’t want all the blackness taken out of my hair. Straightening my hair made me feel uncomfortable, as if I am trying to not be black. I thought I should keep it natural. I believed then as I do now that when I become comfortable with my choice for my hair, I would be at peace with myself as a black woman. Now I am growing my hair out because it is so thin in places. If I cut it short I look like an almost bald headed old man. I grow it out to hide the baldness. When brushing my hair I remember sitting with my mother as she brushed my hair. It’s a lovely memory.

Old Age Life

Am one of the younger residents at this senior housing building. Lately I’ve been watching some of the other residents. Some sit in the common area talking most of the day. Others sit outside smoking when weather permits. They seem to stay here all day with no company other than the other residents. What happened to making plans, studying, going somewhere? What happened to dreaming? Is this what old age is for them, just waiting to die? When I reach my 80’s I’ll still have a long list of living to do. I’m going out of here kicking and screaming. There is too much yet to accomplish and experience. Every step of life is for living and I plan to live it until the last second.

Women's wear and children's hair

I fail to understand the attacks on the burqini. It is acceptable for men and women to go to the beaches almost naked but there is a problem for women who want to cover up. Explain this to me. While you are at it, explain why men are concerned with women’s clothing. What do they have to do with what women wear? I would prefer to wear the burqini, though not for religious reasons. I don’t want to walk around with everything showing. Men need to mind their own business. This brings up another issue. Why are Black school children being attacked about their hair? Schools are coming up with the most ridiculous rules about how they may and may not wear their hair. It is an attack on blackness. I read a post on facebook about a boy being told he has to get his hair cut before going to school despite the fact that he wore it the same way last year. His hair is very nicely and modestly styled, I don’t see a problem. What are people so worked up about? What happened to acceptance of all cultures? I tried to figure it but got a headache. It’s all too stupid.

Buddhism

I chant Nam myoho renge kayo to bring out my highest potential and to become happy regardless of the circumstances I am in. Mary Nelson

Me

I was born like this I had no choice I was born with the gift Of a golden voice. Leonard Cohen

Night Passions

We spent the day together drinking sodas, going for walks, and listening to favorite songs on records. We had not touched even though I wanted to run my fingers across her bare shoulders. But I did not know how to touch a woman. As a refreshing breeze rustled the trees around the porch, she took me in her arms, pressing her body against mine. The rules I learned about love crumbled around me. While resting in her arms I declared if a woman loving a woman was wrong, I would be wrong all my life. With my hand resting lightly in her’s, I followed her into the bedroom. Even though I had been loved by men, I was like a virgin, frightened, excited, and trusting. I was a flower blooming, unfolding each petal with care as her hands explored my body. The softness of her touch frees my mind from fear, allowing me to enjoy being with her. I marveled at the smallness of her body and the smoothness of her dark brown skin. Her body was smaller than mine and our height almost equal. Her lips on mine was a shared soft touch. Her small firm breasts were exciting to caress. We slept in each other’s arms, waking before dawn to explore, caress, and love again. I didn’t want to think of the morning hour that would separate us. The love society taught was wrong became right on that hot August night. I had loved and been loved by a woman. The memory of her touch would come to many years causing my heart to soften as my body trembles.

The River

There is a new person by the river. Near the start of my walk with my dogs, Gina and Charlie, is a black woman sitting on the same bench each morning. She looks out at the water. She doesn’t notice us until I step on a dry brown leaf. Her face spreads with a beautiful smile as we say hello. At first I think she is one of the homeless people who sleep on the concrete benches along the river’s edge. Then I look more closely. She is nicely put together. She carries an open large fabric bag that appears to hold clothes. She has no bedding as the other homeless people do. Her black hair is neatly swept up in the back and her clothes are clean and neat. On our way back the woman is gone.

Children Sing

Children sing. They sing songs they learn and ones they make up. They sing while holding a parent’s hand. They sing in public restrooms and at bus stops. They sing anytime, anywhere. Children sing until their embarrassed parent says to stop. Or until they no longer have a pretty voice or told they sing off key. Only a few of them sing as they grow older and then only in private or camouflaged in a choir. Children dance. They dance and twirl and wave bright colored scarves. Boys dance and girls dance in backyards and shopping malls, smiling and laughing. They dance beautifully. They dance with grace. Until they are made to feel self-conscious or foolish or both. Until boys are told that only girls and sissies dance. Girls become awkward and clumsy. Both become too shy. Then there are only the dances that are practiced with a friend in front of a mirror. Dancing is done at dances; boys with girls and girls with boys. There are no bright colored scarves. Children are artists. They create endless masterpieces with acrylic paint and crayons. They sculpt with serious faces using playdough. Their art graces doors of refrigerators, walls, and at mom’s and dad’s offices. Children are artists until, in school, none of their pictures are ever chosen to be posted on the board, framed with bright colored paper. Children are artists until the chimney of their cutout houses are glued on by the teacher to make sure it is straight. And everyone knows kittens are not pink. Only a few remain artists, splashing the world with grace and colors. Children are poets. They make up silly rhymes that make no sense, but they giggle anyway. Children are poets until poems have x number of lines and they only rhyme on the third and fifth lines. They must make sense. All the spelling must be correct. So a crimson sun becomes a red sun. The feeling is gone but red is easier to spell. Still it is not chosen by the teacher to be read out loud to the class. Very few children become poets, even in private. Everyday people try not to stare at the woman singing in the street. People laugh to themselves or to the person walking beside them. Smiling she sings joyfully off key. The next week she is not there. She is dressed in white in a white room with white walls and white sheets on the bed and a handful of white pills. She does not sing anymore and wears no smile. He thinks he will sell these canvases splashed with colors that form no picture. Week after week people laugh to themselves as they pass by. Happily he paints his house with purples and day glow orange. People laugh to themselves as they walk by. He paints his driveway bright blue and rose red trimmed with yellow. People walk quickly past him. They took him away. Now the man of colors wears white in a white building with white walls and white sheets on the bed and a handful of white pills. They give him no paints, just paper and crayons. He does not draw or color anymore. On it goes until there is no music, dance, colors, or rhymes. And smiles are few.

Ageing

As a young woman I diligently did exercises promising to prevent a sagging when I was old. Since the exercises did not work, I am now wondering who came up with this idea that made me and other women hopeful. Was it someone old who had successfully done the exercises? Or was it someone who was young and just assumed this would work? In the mirror I examine myself for signs of aging. Why should I worry about graying hair, a drooping neck, or wrinkles? Women are taught to fear our bodies aging; something that will happen if we are fortunate enough to live long. Cosmetic companies offer tiny bottles of cream for a ridiculous price to fight aging after creating the war. And women rush to buy them. Talk about fighting a losing battle. My face has changed. My body has changed. I will continue to age. I intend to live and enjoy the rest of my life.

Reading

It’s almost 14 years since I was knocked out. Fourteen years since I lost my career, my job, my house, my home and my mind. Another thing my injury took from me was reading. I loved to read from a very young age. Through books I’ve lived hundreds of lives in hundreds of places. Just one more page. I’ll stop at the end of this chapter. The book closes in 15 more minutes. It’s three in the morning. I have to get up in three hours. Okay, I’m going to sleep now…as soon as I finish this paragraph. Following my injury I’d forget the story as I read it. Once the book was closed I couldn’t remember what the story was about or even the title. I was heartbroken. Reading was limited to short magazine articles. Losing reading hurt. Last month a friend handed me a book on the life of Leonard Cohen. I let it sit on the self. What was the sense in reading something I’d forget before I reached the end? At last I couldn’t resist. Wanting to learn about Cohen’s life over powered me and I picked up the book. I quickly realized reading was back. I remembered what I’d read. I became lost in the pages. Just one more page. I’ll stop at the end of this chapter. The book closes in 15 more minutes. It’s three in the morning. I have to get up in three hours. Okay, I’m going to sleep now…as soon as I finish this paragraph. Now I am reading a book about the life of Jim Henson. I stopped reading long enough to post this. Back to the book.

Down By the River

Down By the River My dogs and I walk along the river every day. The river is a wonderful place to walk. Trees line the walkway. The grass is a thick rich green. Wild plants grow along the bank including a blackberry bush I can’t reach. The people I run into, all ages and walks of life, smile and say hello. One day I had a lovely conversation with a bitty little girl who told me about her dog and two cats. The river is a place to walk when you are tense or upset. The fast moving water is soothing. The river is a place to walk when happy. Its waters sparkle with laughter. Each day, in the same place, we pass an elderly white man sitting straight backed in a wheelchair. His face is weathered. His long hair must have been confused when it was time for it to turn grey. Instead it turned a sun yellow. We say hello every day as he rolls cigarettes. Beside him are drinks and snacks and a small brown paper bag that I believed held his lunch. Sometimes people sit and visit with him. One is a younger man with a guitar who I’ve decided is his son or grandson. One day he isn’t there. I keep walking. The next day he still isn’t there. I become concerned and pray for his safety and health. The third day when he isn’t there I worry. I also realize if anything happens to him I will never know. There wouldn’t be a note left for me by the fountain or a person waiting to tell me. He would just disappear. The fourth day he is sitting in his spot rolling a cigarette. I say hello as the dogs and I walk by.

Today

At the river a father was teaching his son to fish. As they walked in the river the father instructed his son on how to cast and where. This is was life is about - a father teaching his son to fish on a sunny Sunday morning.