What's in a name?

Today, I started instructing another writing class in partnership with Badgerdog Literary Publishing. I'm no longer with my Alzheimer's group in Westlake. Instead, I'm working on the East side at a Housing Authority complex, with a group of older adults. They're a completely different demographic: low-income, low education level and facing mental/physical challenges.

I only had two people in this first workshop. Amazing the ability of two strangers to humble me.

The two women I taught today reminded me so much of the Women's Adult Literacy Class I taught while in Ghana. The same bashfulness, the same eagerness, the same pride at picking up a pen and writing.

I was reminded today of how guilty I am (we all are) of judging people. Had I seen these two women at a bus stop or grocery store, I would have thought they were less than me. That's the truth.

But everyone has a story and no one is more important than the other. I was also reminded of that today.

We read My Name by Sandra Cisneros. We also read this poem by Eartha, a previous workshop participant:

My name looks like a globe.
My name is the world.
There is so much in it--
the flowers, the trees, the birds,
the fragrance,
the beauty that's within it.
The cry of a newborn baby,
the sound of my mother's voice.
My name smells like clay or dirt.
Soil, sod. It feels squishy and cool.
It's grainy and gritty.
My name smells like my Aunt Dora's house--
the smell of flowers and leaves and trees.
My name tastes like honeysuckle
and watermelon and fresh peaches.
My name is the color of red brown
dirt of West Texas.
My name means terra.

After reading this, Rosemary told me about how she could remember the smell of West Texas dirt. She and her twin sister were separated as infants; every six years, Rosemary would trek out to West Texas with her family to visit her. I never would have guessed....

Let me also mention that the woman who wrote that piece is completely blind. How often have I seen people walking with white canes and burdened them with my pity? When inside, they are carrying their own poetry, songs, ideas, experience, talents, life, love.

I have so much to learn.

The magic of Three.

Some things are so disheartening, so awfully frightening, you just have to laugh– Alzheimer's disease, global warfare, reality television, Ann Coulter.

But the reality is, more than 5 million Americans suffer from Alzheimer's disease today. 14% of all people over the age of 71 have some form of dementia. Alzheimer's could steal the minds of 1 out of 8 baby boomers, and by 2050, 959,000 people could be diagnosed each year.

Still laughing?

But things like Alzheimer's, MCI, and dementia inspire me. They inspire in me a sense of urgency, an immediate need to take down people's stories, before the memories disappear with time. I've always been a storyteller, and there is no greater joy for me...a well told story transports us, challenges us, and stirs our soul.

Last week, we talked about nostalgia. Mostly, I just sat and listened to the random memories but I also heard from participants that life was simpler years ago:

There were 3 makes of car. Ford, Chevy, Buick.
There were 3 television stations. ABC, CBS, NBC.
There were 3 churches in town. Methodist, Baptist, Church of Christ.

Before television, people sat on the porch and talked to each other. Or kids listened to the radio and used their imagination. You could try and pull pranks in the neighborhood, but someone would always say, "Eugene Smith, I'll tell your father so you better think twice!"

Today, I learned that my mother cannot whistle. I was astonished. Not because she can't do it, but because I had no idea. What else do I not know about this lovely, complex person with whom I shared a body for nine months? Who cut my sandwiches into triangles?

Here's a challenge: get with someone dear to you (phone, email, or face-to-face) and ask them to tell you something most people wouldn't know about them. Or ask them what their morning routine is. How do they take their coffee? Ask them anything. The important thing is to write it down. And do it over and over again with other people.

There is disappointingly little resources for this sort of thing (I smell a personal project in the air!) but here are a couple sites to get you started:
Bicentennial Family History Project
Grub Street Memoir Project
GaGa Sisterhood
StoryCorps

Because if we don't tell each others stories, who will?

Ship in a bottle.

Sometimes, these guys just make me laugh. After the success of our mother/father prompt, we continued with mothers, grandmothers or other important women. One of our participants was sure to let us know that "Men are complicated. Women are incomprehensible." Fair play.

Carl told us about his grandmother:

She was a devoted, rigid Mennonite who never touched a drink in her life. She made homemade dandelion wine for medicinal purposes only. Grandma only drank it when she was sick. She seemed to have a cold year-round.

Gene told us about his mother, who traveled alone across the Atlantic Ocean at the age of 12. I believe she was coming from Lithuania. She wore a card around her neck with all of her information, in case of accident.

I hear about Gene's mother and I wonder about our own voyage. I wonder about the journeys of this group around me. What happens when our mind sails off? Are the waters uncharted? How do we navigate a ship we once knew so well, that seems intent on betraying us?

When we struggle to remember names, faces, if we took our morning pills, what then? Who do we become? Are we the ship in the bottle, isolated, trapped, alone, solitary? Or are we out in the open, tossed among the waves? Is there a lighthouse to guide us home?

I have heard before that caring for someone with Alzheimer's is a dual-death. First, the person you knew dies as their brain function and memory fail. At some point, comes the death of the body. It is agonizing.

I also choose to believe it is hopeful. Because some day my mind and body will also die. Maybe suddenly, maybe not. But when the time is right –the winds strong and waters calm– my mighty sails will billow up. And while there will be many people mourning on the shore tearfully saying, "There she goes" as I sail away, somewhere on the other side –on a distant shore– there will be others saying, "Oh! Here she comes."

Hewwo Muddah, Hewwo Faddah

As we continue working with those battling Alzheimer's and MCI, recalling past memories has proven a jackpot of words. Last week, we started with a simple prompt of, "I remember my mother...I remember my father..."

If you don't read much Sandra Cisneros (one of many great Texas writers), you should. Her writing is not always beautiful but it's unfailingly wonderful and real. When I read her work, for some reason I feel she does very little self-editing. She just says it:

Papa Who Wakes Up Tired in the Dark

Your abuelito is dead, Papa says early one morning in my room. Esta muerto, and then as if he just heard the news himself, crumples like a coat and cries, my brave Papa cries. I have never seen my Papa cry and don't know what to do.

I know he will have to go away, that he will take a plane to Mexico, all the uncles and aunts will be there, and they will have a black-and-white photo taken in front of the tomb with flowers shaped like spears in a white vase because this is how they send the dead away in that country.

Because I am the oldest, my father has told me first, and now it is my turn to tell the others, I will have to explain why we can't play. I will have to tell them to be quiet today.

My Papa, his thick hands and thick shoes, who wakes up tired in the dark, who combs his hair with water, drinks his coffee, and is gone before we wake, today is sitting on my bed.

And I think if my own Papa died what would I do. I hold my Papa in my arms. I hold and hold and hold him.

Carl wrote about his father:

I remember my father as a strong and powerful man.

He was strong in his opinions and support. He knew that the French were the cause of all the German people’s problems, if not the cause of all the world’s problems. He also defended me from abusive authority figures, high school principles, or bullies. He taught me how to defend myself. Yet, he always had a soft, large heart.

My father was powerful physically. He could work hard in his garden all day and still have energy for a full night as a punch press operator. I love my father.

Something about hearing those last four words from Carl struck me. Maybe it was his dignified voice that boomed like the walls of a canyon. Maybe it was his long, white beard. I'm not sure. But it reminded me that no matter how old we get, we are always someone's child. What a simple thing to forget. Like it or not, those who brought us here can never be un-parented.

I think Oscar Wilde said it best:

Children begin by loving their parents. As they grow older they judge them. Sometimes, they forgive them.

I remember my dad was always the best at getting splinters out from the soles of my feet. He took the task very seriously: narrowed eyes looking through glasses at the bottom of his nose. By his furrowed brow, you'd think his internal dialogue was something like, "Clip the red wire. Only the red wire...or was it the green wire?" Even now, I am amazed at how such a large man could be so ginger in handling my little be-splintered footsies. Like water balloons that might otherwise burst in the wrong hands.

I remember folding laundry with my mom. This was something passed down from her own mother– folding laundry together was a time to chat and catch up. Mom would dump the clean clothing onto the sofa and we would set to folding it all for placement in the basket. Sometimes there would be something on TV, sometimes not. But she would sit there –back perfectly erect in that posture particular to ballet troupes and my humble mother– and her expert hands would send the smell of warm cotton up and into the room. The best part was always putting clean linens on mom and dad's bed, when she would hold on to two corners, before letting the flat sheet fly. My little sister and I would dash underneath as the sheet billowed down on us. I thought that must be what it felt like to fall from the sky, parachute all around.

I like that Carl said, "I love my father." Present tense. That love will always be present tense.

I may not ever have a booming voice, but someday I too will be very old. I will have long, white hair. And still I will say, "I love my father. I love my mother."

Oranges, and ice cream, and snow skis, and time.

Usually, I don't post an entire poem if it's especially long, but this one (from our workshop last week) is too good. Besides, it's dead without all the moving pieces:

Oranges
By Gary Soto

The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted–
Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickel in my pocket.
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickel from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.

Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
in mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, for some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.

We started with the prompt, "I remember..." pretty simple, but effective. We asked what this poem reminded them of. A group with memory/cognitive challenges means we frequently go completely off the tracks, but that's ok–

Carl remembered the prestige of having a nickel in your pocket -all the candy you could buy- and an old ice cream maker on a summer day (like I said, we get off track). For those of you who have no idea what such a thing looks like, please see photo above. Some of my fondest childhood memories are churning ice cream. Only ours was kind of wonky, so one of the younger children (read: me or my baby sister, Clare) had to sit on top of the churn while it was being cranked. We'd fold up a swim towel so our butt cheeks wouldn't freeze. This story made Carl laugh. He has a good laugh, like a story book.

Lee told us about a time he was skiing in Switzerland and got lost. He ended up crossing the border into Italy. I've spent a significant time living in places where I plainly do not belong, speak the language, or know how to count the currency. My first trip to Amsterdam, I wandered into the Red Light District where I was offered cocaine and a chance to prostitute myself. I think maybe snow skiing into the Italian Alps would have been nicer.

I'm listening to these stories and wondering if it's just me, or are some of the participants looking older? I swear Vic is suddenly aging, but still I hope it's just me. I want these people to be timeless, to go nowhere. Because they may not always stay on task, but what they remember is golden to me. Golden because it reminds me that sometimes life isn't about sticking to the path. It's about getting lost and figuring it out. And if we didn't get lost, would our paths ever cross?

It's about sharing the story. It's about ice cream churns. It's about all those lovely, simple things that tie us together. The memories that maybe have nothing to do with anything, or nothing to do with each other but –across generations– make us laugh nonetheless. It's about oranges, and ice cream, and snow skis, and time.

That is what it's about.

Color me pretty.

As a kid, I entered the 5th grade science fair. My experiment was a foray into psychology. I titled my project, "What Color is Your Mind?" and set out to study color associations in the human brain. I took several large pieces of colored paper and would asks subjects to say the first word that came to mind with each color. I wanted to see if any trends emerged. For a ten-year-old, I felt pretty darn ahead of the curve. Innovative even. But I didn't win. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was beat by some asshole whose parents made an erupting volcano with baking soda and vinegar.

Last Thursday, we talked about color in our workshop. Here is an excerpt from the poem, Colors Passing Through Us, by Marge Piercy:

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing
song of all the things you make
me think of, here is oblique
praise for the height and depth
of you and the width too.
Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

Green as mint jelly, green
as a frog on a lily pad twanging,
the green of cos lettuce upright
about to bolt into opulent towers,
green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear
glass, green as wine bottles.

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,
bachelors' buttons. Blue as Roquefort,
blue as Saga. Blue as still water.
Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.
Blue as shadows on a new snow, as a spring
azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

Cobalt as the midnight sky
when day has gone without a trace
and we lie in each other's arms
eyes shut and fingers open
and all the colors of the world
pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

We wrote about colors and emotions. Wayne chose red:
"Oh, to be red! Burning bright with excitement for yesterday, today, tomorrow...striking out for adventure. Red."

I hope we all have a little bit of Red in us. I think back to my science experiment so many years ago and realize that I also narrowly lost the 5th grade spelling bee. Everyday that year, I would read and memorize one page from the spelling bee book. Every single day. I loved words, I loved spelling, and I really wanted to win. I got into the top five. I'll never remember what word struck me out (although I'm pretty sure it had at least eleven syllables and a couple silent Xs) but the kid after me stayed in thanks to the word "crutch." I couldn't believe it. Crutch. What a jerk.

So sure, maybe my life has had more than a few near-wins –or complete failures– as most would say. But you learn to keep on. You learn to continue burning bright with excitement for yesterday, today, tomorrow. To keep striking out for adventure.

You learn to be Red.

The Dancing Queen and my 7-year-old Self.

Last week was all about dreams. Why do we need them? Where do they take us? What happens to dreams unfulfilled?

As I wrote with our participants, I thought about my own dreams when I was little. What did I want to be when I grew up? I remember always desperately wanting to be a writer, often a veterinarian and –for a brief period– an actress (though hopefully one without a Vicodin addiction or sex tape). How wise my 7-year-old Self was. She knew exactly what she ought to be doing. But somewhere, the very grown-up curse of self-doubt took hold and for a few years, I put my 7-year-old-self (along with the rest of me) into a box. While I busily attended to "being realistic" and "building security" that little yellow-haired dreamer story teller sat quietly in the corner. She knew the truth. She knew that to say she "enjoys writing" is tantamount to someone saying they enjoy having arms and legs. Without words I am crippled, an amputee.

But perhaps if I hadn't spent the past several years trying to be something else, I wouldn't have had all the adventures I did. Finally, I have started taking seriously the desire of my 7-year-old Self and I can't help but thank her for her patience.

I wondered then, what the 7-year-old selves of my workshop participants might look like. Were they still in there, quietly waiting? We read a poem, by Langston Hughes:

As I Grew Older

It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun–
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky–
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!


Nadine shared with us her desire to be a dancer. She seems to have come from a family that thought very little of her, and has spent many decades in a marriage that extends that tradition of belittlement. She always wanted to take dance lessons, but everyone told her that she couldn't so she didn't. And then she said this:

"I will take dance lessons. I don't know how I'll afford them, but I will. I will get the money and I will learn how to dance. I will practice and practice and then I'll be on stage. One day, we will clap our hands and cry together. I will not give up, no matter how old I get."


During the break between workshops, a woman started talking to me at the coffee table. She was some sort of volunteer with the church [where the workshop is held]. She asked if I had ever worked with children. I replied that yes, I also work with 4th graders. She laughed and said, "they [my beloved older people] aren't very different from children, are they?"

I wanted to punch that bitch in the face.

But all I could muster was, "I disagree." before I walked away. Sure, I know we all regress and that someday (God willing and the creek don't rise) I too will need taking care of. But no, it's not the same. Old is not the same as infantile. Even if we are just children inside aging bodies, no it's not the same.

More than anything, I hope Nadine knows it's never too late to become what you might have been. It's never too late for the 7-year-old-self.

Note: photo comes from inside cover of Tuesdays with Morrie, by Mitch Albom. Everyone should own a copy. Or three.

Love is a many-splendored thing.

There is something funny about being the youngest person in a room full of people talking about love, but that's exactly how I spent yesterday morning. In honor of Valentine's Day (really, will Hallmark just go ahead and trademark the stupid thing?) Neena brought exercises involving that great, ever-moving target called Love.

We looked at the underbelly of Love with Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath (poor Miss Plath lived quite squarely in the underbelly...I mean, she put her head in an oven for crying out loud) but also the quirky, sweet, irresistible side with Love Poem by John Frederick Nims (incidentally, Mister Nims never put his head in an oven).

After reading and discussing the poem, Carl said, "if it's normal, I don't want it!" We asked him to elaborate:

"One of the things I love most about my wife is that she's wack-o. She is colorful and unusual. Never boring. That makes her more beautiful."

I learned many things that morning, encouragement and caution alike: I learned to never marry someone whom you want to change, you have to just marry the person as they are. I learned you do -contrary to popular opinion- have to say you're sorry a lot. I learned that after the initial infatuation, reality will set in, but from that you can create an exciting, fulfilling grown-up sort of love. I learned that sometimes, your partner can be a real pain. Sometimes, they might drive you crazy. But after I listened to Carl and then watched as Vic's wife slowly made her way over and gently put in his hearing aid (which he refuses to turn up, for the record) and he sent her off with a kiss and genuine "thank you, my darling" I also learned that sometimes -if we're willing- we can't live without each other.

Love Poem
John Frederick Nims

My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing

Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door
You make at home; deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his undulant floor.

Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror,
Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime
Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars-
Misfit in an space. And never on time.

A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only
With words and people and love you move at ease;
In traffic of wit expertly maneuver
And keep us, all devotion, at your knees.

Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel,
Your lipstick grinning on our coat,
So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven
Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float.

Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses-
I will study wry music for your sake.
For should your hands drop white and empty
All the toys of the world would break.

Thursday, Favorite Day.

Well, it's official: I'm in love with the participants of my Thursday workshop. That means Thursday is my new favorite day of the week. You can pretty much anticipate a weekly update relating to this group...

Per the usual both classes had me laughing out loud. The nice thing about them is that they're too old to give a f**k about what they say. I admire this. It's honest. It's endearing. Often it's funny. Sometimes it's sad.

In one exercise, everyone chose a random (blank) postcard and wrote the message that it inspired. Carl bemoaned the bad food in England where "they have a hundred religions and only one sauce." Vic, who is in another group, is tenacious, outspoken, and likes to question everything. EVERYTHING. Por ejemplo:

Me: "My name is Phyllis. We'll be doing some creative writing today."
Vic: "Why?"
"Pardon? Why what?"
"Why is your name Phyllis? Who named you that?"
"Umm. My parents named me Phyllis. After a friend..."
"Oh, well that's very nice. Now what exactly do you mean by 'creative'? And why writing?"

and on and on and on we go. Anyway, we read a poem by Charles Bukowski, Bluebird. The exercise was to write what was in their own hearts. A lot of the responses were funny (a rascal) some poetic (a herron) but I really loved Vic's because it surprised me:

He said: I have joy in my heart. Because I am 80 years old and that is older than my mother and father lived to be. I could live to be 100. I feel good.

Bluebird
Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Old timer's.

I'm departing from the norm today. I'm not writing about the two little urchins. And I'm not being funny (am I ever? nevermind, don't answer that). But I do want to share something new I started today: assisting in a weekly writing workshop for adults in the early phases of Alzheimer's, via the organization Badgerdog Literary Publishing.

In a couple weeks, I will also be assisting a weekly writing workshop for under-privileged fourth graders, with the Austin Bat Cave. I can't stand people being told they have nothing to say. That they're just kids. Or they're poor. Or they're old. We start to tell people this, and then we start to believe it, and then -before you know it- we have fallen prey to what Nigerian author Chimamanda Adichie so eloquently calls the danger of the single story.

I, for one, believe reading and writing are transformative acts. Often, listening can be as well. Here is a list of the people I met today:

• Eugene: currently working toward his black belt in Tae Kwan Do. A photographer. His name means "royal one" in Hebrew. He suffers from mild cognitive impairment
• Nadine: with her husband, opened a school in Louisiana for mentally disabled children, and later, a school for girls
• Terry: a retired archaeology professor
• Vic: a retired psychology professor
• Mona: a self-deprecating songwriter
• Carol: a 30-year 5th grade teaching veteran, whose students still sometimes call her on the phone
• Mickey: an artist in colored pencils, she dreams of having a Siamese cat
• Bill: retired geologist, who at 82 years old says he's, "not gonna get any better, and not gonna get any worse" his wife still calls the shots
  
• Carl: retired Russian Orthodox priest, who grew up Jewish, in a very German community in 1938.
• Ruth: retired high school english teacher, she has published a book and now struggles to hold a pen

Carl shared with me today that he loves reading. And because he loves reading, he wants to try his hand at writing. I was amazed that although I had to repeat the date several times, he was able to recall with perfect clarity that as a child, his mother would read The Little Red Hen to him every day. Finally in the third grade, his family could afford to buy him glasses. From that day on, he could read to himself. He never stopped. I laughed out loud with this group of people today, but Carl nearly brought me to tears when he said, "I can't do a lot of things anymore. But I can still read."

Today, I also came across a quote from Howard Thurman:
Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

...I wonder, in fifty years, what some young writer might say about me? What would my life be in one sentence? I hope they will say that I was a reader. That I was a writer. And that in this life, I came alive.