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Very Funny 50…Nice Try but I don’t think so

Another long weekend has come and gone and alleluia it was event free. You see, on Labour Day Weekend I decided visiting the emerge was the best course of action because I didn’t feel right. The space between my shoulders hurt like hell and when it wrapped around to my chest and it was painful to breathe I wasn’t interested in waiting around to see what was going to happen next.

Hubby Tom drove me and we were happy to walk right into triage and check in with no traffic. I had an ECG right away which turned out to be normal, blood pressure normal (which was nice as I had a bout with high blood pressure about 3 years ago when I was dealing with the autistic teenager in full blown puberty stink) and all vitals looked fine. Then the waiting game began and it was about two hours before I saw the doctor who was female, thank God. Nothing against men, but when I started into perimenopause I was having a hard time getting my male practitioners to listen, hear and understand me. To be fair, how could they? Last year I made a conscious effort to put my care into the hands of women.  Vagina owners understand where other vagina owners are coming from. Far be it from me to understand what it is like to have a penis or prostate, and for me the solution was to make sure my doctor, my dentist, massage therapist and chiropractor are all women. No hard feelings guys, I do love men (Christ, I have three of my own whom I adore) I just need to feel that I can relate to the people who take care of my health and they can relate to me. Fast forward to the problem that brought me into the ER – turned out it was musculoskeletal and the doctor recommended I see my chiropractor. The chiropractor told me I had put my ribs out of place and the pain I was feeling was from the muscles being stretched and held in a way they weren’t supposed to be. They were working overtime to keep my misaligned bones in place. How did I put everything out of sorts?  I re-arranged our kitchen. Yep… nothing fancy, no cool or dramatic story. It was house work.  And while the bending and the re-arranging didn’t seem strenuous, by the time I got to sweeping and mopping I must have done something, twisted just a little too much one way and by the time morning came, what I thought was just tiredness had me believing I was having a freaking heart attack.

Over the years, my body has indicated that there can be too much of a good thing. I have always been active and I love my sports and my dance but the wear and tear started to show I’d say around age 44 – about the same time I got my first pair of glasses. I think I can truly say something hurts everyday. I have sciatica which I have learned to keep at bay but it’s there every day and I think it’s been hanging around for about 4 years.  When I was 41, I left powdery Alberta to arrive in grainy, icy Ontario and I dislocated my elbow and broke off the head of my radius snowboarding which resulted in hardware that created a functional bionic elbow but a lot of arthritis too which I had cleaned out I think 2 years ago. I have had bouts of patella tendinitis from tennis and running but I figure if I can stand and get out of bed and move, I’m going to keep going.  I don’t run very often and I have not had the time to play tennis this year but I do still get out there whenever I can. A couple of fingers on my right hand hurt when I play golf but so far it has not affected my game.

 

Age fifty seems to like to wrap all these painful jabs into one big ball and throw it right at me every day as a joke and I catch it but I don’t think it’s funny. But according to that silly little bracelet I bought on a whim at American Eagle 11 years ago that says “Live your Life” with a little red heart beside it – that’s what I do – that’s what I’m always going to do. I remember I would wake up on those mornings after an exhausting “autistic Adam” night and I would see that little red heart and read those three simple words and I would swing my legs off the bed, make my feet hit the floor and start another day – again – in spite of wanting to just curl up in a ball and hide beneath the covers and wish my current life away. Now, the autism woes are less so.  He is not the easiest person in the world to live with but life with him is easier than when puberty started…seems like it is slowly ending, (thank the Lord above) but the woes of my body have taken over and at 50 you are more in touch with your mortality. A pain, a lump or a bump can spell disaster or maybe the older we are, the more informed we are and perhaps the more paranoid we become. It’s hard to know what your body is usually capable of and accept that you don’t do things quite as easily or fantastically as you once did. I’m not saying you can’t be really good at what you do – what I am saying is there are subtle differences and sometimes blatant differences that lets you know the machine is older and a little more worn.

Since I don’t find the 50 joke very funny, I’ve formulated a plan.  I’m making a point of eating even better than we already do (while still finding moments to indulge lol), I’m going to keep making a point of exercising 6 times a week (varying it up to defeat boredom) and I’m gonna just keep getting up and getting out of bed no matter how achy and tired I feel some days and I’m gonna “Live my Life”. So try again 50!  To you and your joke of aches, pain and discomfort, I flip the proverbial bird in spite of the arthritis forming in that finger.

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Fighting for My Ghost: My Letter to the Editor Trinidad & Tobago Guardian Re: Article ‘Former Pioneers Wary of Govt Plan TTT Model Can’t Be Recreated Now. Sunday, August 27, 2017.’

Re: Article by Rhondor Dowlat – Former Pioneers Wary of Govt Plan TTT Model Can’t Be Recreated Now. Sunday, August 27, 2017-

 

The Editor and On line Editor – Trinidad & Tobago Guardian,

I read Rhondor Dowlat’s article, ‘Former Pioneers Wary of Gov’t Plan — TTT Model Can’t Be Recreated Now’, which was published in your newspaper on Sunday, August 27, 2017.   While I agree with Mr. Parasram’s point of view regarding the resurrection of TTT, his failure to acknowledge my late father’s contribution as a significant pioneer of Trinidad & Tobago Television struck me as strange. Any omission of John Barsotti’s name when discussing television history in Trinidad and Tobago is inaccurate at best and disrespectful at worst. ‘Uncle Jai, as we used to call him as children, worked for my father when he was Programme Director and then General Manager of TTT and acknowledged this fact himself in a blog post entitled ‘TTT Pioneer John Barsotti Passes Away in Canada’, in which he said, “His career began in 1964 in the Promotions and Commercial Production Department of Trinidad &Tobago Television. In 1970 he was promoted to the position of Commercial Production Director and in 1974 to Assistant Programme Director. In 1976 he left TTT […] in 1978, John was invited to rejoin TTT as Programme Director and accepted the position which he held for about 41/2 years before being promoted to General Manager in 1983.”

John Barsotti (Oct. 24th, 1937- Oct. 24th 2008.) John Worked at TTT from 1964 to 1976. He returned in 1978 and was Program Director until 1983. He served as General Manager of the station from 1983 to 1986.

These facts are in direct conflict to the timeline that Mr. Parasram gave your reporter, and I would like to clarify this for your readers.
My father started at TTT (also known as Television House) when he was 25 years old. In 1964, he worked under Barry Gordon, who encouraged my eager father to learn every aspect of the television industry. Dad knew how to work a camera, run audio, light a set, write copy, put together a news item, sell advertising and run traffic department logs. He did work under Farrouk Muhammad, like Mr. Parasram said, as Assistant Program Director until Mr. Muhammed left the country to live in Toronto. Dad became Program Director until about 1983, and was General Manager of the station until 1986.
That same year, Mr. Parasram left for Canada and did in fact work with the CBC, as mentioned in the article. Meanwhile, the National Alliance for Reconstruction (NAR) had just been elected as the new government of Trinidad and Tobago; political interference would go on to deal my father the biggest blow to his life’s work. While it was par for the course for whatever administration was in power to try and dictate programming content, TTT’s new board of directors wasted no time in presenting my father with a list of 12 or so employee names, all supporters of the former government. The directive was for my father to fire these people or be fired himself. Perhaps they thought that the timing would work in their favour to strong arm him, since I was just about to begin my studies abroad.
But my father was a principled man and told the board he was not going to fire anyone because of their political affiliation. Two days later, he was fired from TTT and the media splashed the headline ‘Barsotti Fired’ in red capital letters on their front pages. The next day, I drove him to TTT to return the company car and gather his things; tearful staff lined up from the stairs to the carport to say their goodbyes. I still went off to university (I paid for it myself),but my father had to start from scratch in another country, all for doing the right thing — and despite my dad playing the part of the sacrificial lamb, the 12 people on that list were still let go.
 
To forget John Barsotti is to forget a significant piece of our nation’s broadcast history and to erase so many other players who were there from the start. Some may think this doesn’t matter — that these pioneers are all ghosts — but this one is my ghost and I love and admire my dad’s quiet dignity and everything he stood for. Had he still been here and read the article in question, he would no doubt have told me, “Don’t bother with this, Danie. The people who know me, know the truth and that is what matters.”  But getting history right also matters.

Daddy circa 1965 Operating the old film camera

John Barsotti – third from the left, top row. 

I know how Sylvia Hunt’s dishes tasted. I know the smell of the room where they stored the film canisters and the feel of the wood shavings at the back of the building where Patrick Moore would build the sets. I was there when TTT switched from film to video and when — after a long battle with the government — Dad bought and installed our country’s first satellite dish. I remember how stressed he was as the cranes placed it in the yard of the station and I watched the first broadcast via satellite. No longer would Trinbagonians have to listen to the Olympics audio over a still of TTT’s logo. We were able to see the Olympics and many other worldwide events LIVE, clearly and without an expensive feed from the major US networks; we finally felt connected to the world. It was historic. My father was very much a pioneer and it is worrying that he was excluded from Rhondor Dowlat’s article. I would like it to be corrected.
Sincerely,
Daniella Barsotti.
Here is the article that needs remedying  – hopefully they will.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Power of She

~To my Trini She’s as we settle into phase 50 ~

 

 

She turned 50 and She is glorious! She is remarkable. She is unflappable. She has a strong sense of self. She has never felt so much power. Power which built up inside her over the years. Power She can use to fuel good. Power She can use to ignite change. She is educated and experienced. She works hard and She works well. She has an eye for detail. She is efficient. She is creative. She doesn’t stand for nonsense, knows what to take seriously and what to ignore. She is a rock. She can be relied upon. She will boost you. She will put you in your place.  She will can get you back on track. She has learned from the best and She has learned from her mistakes. She will share your joy and your sorrow. She will not forget or abandon you. She will have your back. She will give you her word. She will respect herself and if you show her respect, She will respect you. She is a teacher, doctor, chef, lawyer, financier, photographer. She is in pharmaceuticals, insurance, is an artist, environmentalist, author, journalist, nurse, activist, entrepreneur, traveler, explorer and a great many things too numerous to list. She knows when to be outspoken. She knows when to be reserved. She still works full-time. She works part-time. She has gone back to work. She has embarked upon her second career and She is retired. She still has school age kids while just up the street, She is an empty-nester. She lives where we all call home. She lives abroad and so does She. She feels like She has lived out of a suitcase as She moved all over her adopted country. Meanwhile, She has lived all over the world. She speaks 2 languages. She speaks 3. She went away for a while and came back to where we all call home. She goes back and forth all the time. One She left too soon but is remembered fondly and her spirit lives on.  A few She’s have battled illness and survived. She married young. She married older. She chose not to marry. She married once, then married better. She ain’t marrying nobody again. She’s begun a new relationship. She is a single mother and her children are just fine. She has forgiven. She has been forgiven. She has a lover. She has a wife. She has a husband. She has an ex-husband. Some She’s have late boyfriends and husbands far too soon. She is a mother, a nurturer, healer, counselor, nutritionist, chauffeur and peacemaker – all par for the course when you are trying to put good people on the planet . She is an aunt. She is a sister, a daughter, a mentor, a friend. She is a grandmother. She is a great aunt. She is not a parent but she is parenting her own parents now. She laid her parents to rest. She, just her dad. She, only her mom. She, her brother. She, her sister. She, her child. She has a “sweet hand” and could cook so well everybody get real vex when their belly full and they can’t help themselves to more. She prays. She loves her church. She loves God. She is spiritual. She is less so. She likes to play mas. She ain’t playing mas no more but loves her Carnival still. She is a winner. She is a champion. She has an official title. She has overcome adversity. So has She. And She has as well. She is aware of her mortality. She is an advocate for her child and there are at least 3 other She’s just like her. She has been afraid but She is no coward. She’s been embarrassed. She has experienced redemption. She loves having her genuine friends around her. She is a genuine friend and is (along with a couple other She’s) the reason we have all come together. She can be counted on to make sure She is always available to get together and lime when She comes home for a visit. She will stand up over and over again for what she believes in and what is right. She has faced injustice, pain and heartbreak but She is still here. She has been worried more times than She would have liked but She survived it. She too is still here as is She, after riding that wave of euphoria only to have it crash on top of her and wash her up on the beach. She is no stranger to picking up the pieces, dusting her self off, fixing her hair and starting over. She is proud of herself and She is proud of her family. She is proud to call Her friend. She likes to feel love from everybody and seeks only the truth. She can’t hear music with out moving her hips. She really laughs – like all out genuine from the bottom of her gut laughter. She gets angry. She cries. She re-groups and moves forward. And after being the backbone, the engine, the one who stands up for her family and friends and what She believes in,  She has made a difference and She will continue to make a difference. She has arrived at 50 in style and more than ever She is a force of nature. Today we have She’s touching walls in the pool first in her field. We have She’s back in school further expanding their minds. She’s We have She’s continuing to belt out songs that touch people’s souls. We have She’s athletic as ever and transforming their bodies and are fitter now than they were in their youth.  She senses the body betrayal now and again as her eyesight isn’t as sharp as it used to be and She feels a little wear and tear now and the bones crack louder than ever sometimes but…She is still moving and doing her thing, living life to the fullest and learning new things. She is still playing guitar and piano. Some She’s are still on stage performing. She is still drawing and painting. Some She’s are still playing golf and tennis. She is running marathons and She is like a contortionist with all the yoga while She is still slipping on dance shoes, She is still zipling, She is still hiking and She is still doing tours. She is still swimming, still playing hockey, still doing because She knows “Time don’t stop, nah!” Life is short. Life is for living and She knows She has entered a new phase that frankly is better than the ones before. We have She’s growing locks, chopping off locks, left, right and centre, embracing the grey and their natural curls. She is feeling more sexy and beautiful than ever because She has lived a whole lot of life and has been there, done that and is comfortable in her own skin and She loves how easy being her lovely self can be.She knows natural is better and that natural is beautiful.  She still likes “nice ting” but has less time or desire for frou frou. And hear nuh, the hair might be grey but the skin still tight, tight, tight and not one She looking much different than when She strolled the halls of SJC. Seriously though, None of She really need to wear the reunion name tag because time lookin’ like it stop!  She could show the world that age is just a number. Fifty is re-birth. Fifty is strength and confidence with no shit-talk-let’s-get-down-to-brass-tacks-and-call-a-spade-a-spade. She only has time for what is real. She has buried the hatchet with some. She has buried the past and ended relationships with others. She is particular about whom she calls friend. She is savvy. She is open minded. She will love you, not just with her heart but with her head.  She is brazen and the scars She got over the years have made her stronger. Who knew when She was eleven and twelve and She entered our school for the first time that She would have amounted to so much…that the path that She took, the cards that She was dealt, the calling She had and the circumstances She faced when tallied together would yield so much strength and power. We turned 50. We are fabulous. We are free. We are beautiful and We are all the power of She.

~Cheers to being a part of all of our 50th’s. Thanks for being a part of mine. Here’s to our connection to each other and to witnessing many more birthdays~ Love you all – Danie

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There is No Colour : Learning to Un-Learn

 

There Is No Perception of Colour in an Autistic Person’s World

 

Throughout his life, my autistic son who is brilliant has been perceived as being less so. The people that matter in his life, know the truth about him and I have never wasted any time trying to prove his worth to anyone not intelligent enough or anyone who is too self absorbed or frivolous to understand. Over the years of rejoicing through the great times and wading through the murky, thick mud of the heartbreaking times, I have come to know that the truth about both my children is beautiful.  In a time of chaos brewed by racism, terrorism and hatred I feel their father and I have managed to put a sliver of hope for better on this planet.

Two days ago sitting in a cloud of misery borne out of merely watching a half hour newscast, I heard Adam in the other room in full *echolalia going on happily about something that was happening in the Big Bang Theory which is the latest show he likes to binge watch.  His *scripting had something to do with the character Raj and I thought I would do a little test.  I called him into the living room and asked him what was going on in the episode he was watching and he proceeded to tell me how funny it was and that it was because Raj was saying silly things.  Feigning ignorance, I asked him which character was Raj.  He turned to go get his tablet in his room so that he could show me when I stopped him and asked him to describe Raj. What you have to understand is that Adam hates being pushed into descriptive language but it is something we are working on and I wanted to see what he would say.  He twisted his mouth, scrunched his nose and then he said,

“He is the tall one,”  to which I responded,

“So Leonard is …”

“Leonard is short. Raj is a guy,” he offered.

“A guy like Leonard and Sheldon and Howard?”

“Yes. Howard is short,” he replied.

“But I still can’t place Raj. Which one is he?” I pressed on.

Adam proceeded to say adjectives like tall, skinny, silly, funny, jokey…he never said that Raj was brown. Not that he does not know his colours –  I remember vividly when he was 5 and he was  learning colours he certainly realized that mummy was brown but that was it. It was an observation when he was 5 and to this day, Adam has never used colour to describe anyone because he has never associated a person with their colour – ever. I have however had to un-teach some of the derogatory words he has heard in school over the years. Words that sometimes were directed towards him when misinformed or rather poorly-informed kids saw that I was his mother. He would say the words completely out of context and I would have to spend weeks purging them from his vocabulary by teaching him in the most basic of terms that some words are just so very bad.  I hope I never have to un-teach him words such as those again but I shan’t be naive because this world is getting worse.

People who don’t know Adam or those who know him and have labelled him, will never see beneath the surface the way those who know him do.  He may have to struggle through some days sometimes because of his autism, he may have to do things differently to get by and he may have some days when having to adjust things to suit him or to keep him successful is a real pain in the ass for whomever has to make the adjustments but one thing is certain –  Adam sees people.  He sees their soul, he sees their personality and he sees their beauty because even with perfect vision my son cannot see their colour. There is a purity about him that I attribute to his autism that I wish every human had.  He knows what pretty is but he never calls anything ugly although he understand’s the meaning of the word. He does not place any emphasis on riches but he certainly understands that he has to help someone who may be poor. He is paid in self satisfaction, happiness and pride for every job he does and he works harder than most from beginning to end.  Hmm…autistic with a work ethic. Chew on that for a while.

I shake my head and laugh so many times when I think of the resolute therapists who incessantly repeated the importance of integrating Adam into the world by working on reducing or stopping his “inappropriate” behaviors and quirky actions so that in essence he could be more like other people in society.  I think it should be the other way around because I have seen what my boy sees.  I have laid beside him in that little playroom as I waited on him to meet me halfway; doing what he did, stretching out our hands to the light streaming through that tiny basement window, watching the little specs of dust dance between our fingers. I remember feeling a glorious release when we would roll down the hill at the playground near our house when he and his brother were little.  I remember the giggles and the all out raucous laughter, the smell of the grass and the feel of the dirt on my body. I’d forgotten the abandon of childhood and I am eternally grateful to my children for re-introducing me back then to just how much fun and how freeing life can be. I remember laying on our backs in that playroom staring at the ceiling, humming and becoming so relaxed that my body sank into the carpet as I was lulled to sleep by my little boy’s sweet voice.  We met each other halfway in that playroom – he, discovering the wonders of the world as I presented it to him; me, recognizing just how over stimulating and bombarding the world actually was. In that playroom where I taught my son everything he knows, I learned from him how to let the noise go, how to hear what was within me and how to tap into moments of peace.  Adam knows how to get back to his soul.  Even when it is most difficult for him he knows how to tap into that place of goodness, knows how to let go of all that has him tangled and twisted up emotionally in order to restore himself and dwell in a place of peace and love. Shouldn’t we all figure out how to do that? Think about how much less pain we all could cause if we are able to release anger and horrible, hateful or violent thoughts from our minds and hearts and return to a place of peace and love and restore ourselves and each other. Yeah, right…integrate my son into society as it is, my ass.  We should be so lucky to be more like him.

 

 

Learning to Unlearn

 

It is no secret that to me, my second son Logan, is one of the best people I know. My aunt Meiling would call someone like Logan “too mannish” because he is far too young to be this miniature man of integrity and depth.  He has a sensibility that I have not seen in anyone so young.  His ability to discern bullshit from truth is something I did not have mastered by the time I was a teenager and to quote my husband “Watch for our son because anyone who ends up involved with him will be beyond fortunate because of  the human he is,”

I have tried very hard to raise Logan to not see race, creed or colour.  It was easier with Adam being autistic but by the time Logan got to grade 2 he learned what colour was unfortunately.  Looking back on my own childhood, I would say I was lucky to have grown up in a multicultural, multiracial society and be raised by parents who had friends from all walks of life, all colours and religions but like Logan, when I was 5, even sweet T&T way back then had it’s structure and divisions that were somewhat subtle at times blatant at others.  I remember what living with that was like – bouncing in and out of acceptance, hearing derogatory racial slurs in conversations, in traffic, putting up with disgusting comments from idle limers as my mother and I walked by them. My childhood was a good one but there are things I learned about the world that I was determined to do something about.  I knew there was no way to protect my children from these lesser things but I could teach them to be better and also be better than me and those before them. It may be naive of me but I like to think if I could just put two decent and good humans on the planet, I could make significant change.

So with Logan, I also did a little test.  I was in the living room when his friend came to the door.  He had just come from work on the reserve and he made a crack about delivering watery gas to our door.  The boys bantered back and forth with little jabs about each other’s ethnicity and then went out to grab a couple lemonades from the store.  When he got back, Logan joined us to watch the unfolding of events in Charlottesville and he was, like we were, disappointed in what we were witnessing.  Pausing the broadcast, I told him that I had something I needed him to do for me moving forward in light of all the hate and racism in the world.  I asked him to stop the light jabs among his friends that had racist tendencies.  He assured me they were all best buddies and no one took anything personally but I counteracted his point by pointing to the television.

“It can start with simple jesting and it can evolve into this,” I told him. “We say stuff among our friends and no one is really offended so we accept it and then it gets a little more pronounced and we accept that too and then we have a difference of opinion and someone says something in anger and even though things may cool down and you are still buddies, it was blurted out and there is a dividing line in the friendship.  We cannot accept racism and lighthearted racist ribbing is not to be done anymore. It is not accepted and if you end it, it will end in your circle of friends.  The same way you do not tolerate the use of the word retarded to describe mentally challenged people, you must not participate in or tolerate racist jokes or jabs at all,”

My boy looked me in the eye and told me he understood and he would change it. Two days later when the friends were at the door, I was in the kitchen and one of them greeted the other with another native joke and my boy said,

“So, here’s the thing.  We can’t do that anymore, okay? My mom spoke to me about it and I agree with her.  She wasn’t mad or anything but she’s right. We are friends and we don’t want to get into talking like this so no more racist jabs. We cool?”

I heard the pseudo-manly voices echo in agreement and just like that they went down the street in front of one of their houses and started shooting hoops.  I didn’t tell him I heard them that night and in the car yesterday, Logan told me that he spoke to his buddies and they all agreed not to make anymore dumb jabs about race.  He said they actually agreed they didn’t really know why they were doing it.  They didn’t think it was funny and they didn’t really like it. I know Logan has struggled with the answer to the occasional question “So what are you? “from some idiot after they realize I am his mother.  Today he answers quite simply, “Human….a guy… a person,” and if they persist he suggests they “might want to do some travelling…read a book…get exposed, eh?”

There is so much going on now in the world. Our time is as filled with turmoil as it is with bliss – sometimes it is so overrun with turmoil that we have to do all we can to find bliss so that we can hang on to a shred of decency and sanity.  I am in the middle of my life and one day it will draw to an end but my children’s lives are just beginning and I can see that so many young people are trying hard to hold on what is real, to what is pure and what is true. It is an uphill battle and I understand why so many of our youth have difficulty coping with life as it is. They have so much more to deal with than we did and everyday they try to separate what is good about living in their time of technology from what is heinous and all I can do in my middle age is try and stay abreast of it all and not criticize them or compare their time to mine but truly support them however I can.

If there is one thing marriage and parenting have taught me is the importance of communication. In all my years of raising my boys I have never talked and listened more than I do now.  Every week there is something I learn that was not a part of my vocabulary.  Forget learning French, German, Cantonese, Spanish or what have you, I have had to master “youth speak” in ways I never imagined and as un-cool as I know I am, my husband and I are the first stop when my boys’ world come crashing down around them.  Their father and I won’t be there for them every time it happens and one day we will not be here at all and I hope their coping skills continue to be strong.  It’s like my husband says, “Parenting is 50/50. We can only hope that they hold on to that fifty percent of what we instilled in them the question mark is what they do with the other fifty and we can only hope they have the strength of character to navigate it in the right direction,”

In Logan’s lifetime he is going to learn and experience many things.  Some will be great and some will not and he will have to choose between doing the right thing or the easy thing, the right thing or the popular thing and the right thing or the wrong thing. He will soar and he will crash and he will soar again and his life will roller coster on just like any other life. My hope for his generation is that they can learn from the mistakes of past generations as well as their own and that they can release or un-learn some of the things we may have carelessly and mindlessly taught them. I hope they are better than we are and better than their grandparents.  I hope they put humanity first and that they operate from a place of love. I hope their generation sees an end to terror and most of all I hope they un-learn racism and bigotry and learn acceptance.  Who knows, maybe…just maybe theirs is the generation to turn the world around and propel us upward from the downward spiral we seem to be on.

 

*Echolalia is the repetition of words or phrases with sometimes no meaning or function attached to them. … Sometimes this behavior is termed “scripting” because the words and phrases the person is repeating comes from tv or movie scripts.

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I’m Watching You.

Decided I’m ready to post some of the stuff I dabble in from time to time.

 

This was an interesting experiment. Got a little artsy and wrote it as it popped into my head. I just wrote it down as I “heard” myself think it.  It didn’t win or place in the contest and I did not expect it to but I did have fun going in a different direction this time. (I’ve won that contest before anyway) I write fiction sometimes but none of what I write is 100 percent made up in my head. The shit I know….the things I remember..well, they inspire me and make me trying new things. This essay is creepy and it’s not sweet or girlie or uplifting.  It is about two people, the demise of a relationship and the level we can sink to as human beings who at one time actually were able to love.  So yeah, entering it in a women’s writing contest probably was a surefire way not to win or place but hey, I can post it on my blog now. It’s mine and I enjoyed writing it. I left the breaks inserted so it would read easier…a little less confusing …can’t expect you to be in my head to hear it lol.

 

I’m Watching You

     I’m watching you. You’re coming down the driveway more slowly than usual in your shiny new silver Lexus – a gift to yourself with your first big pay cheque. Don’t see the kids in the car. They must be at your parents’ – again. I wonder if you’ve assumed I’m coming with you on your little work jaunt?  A jaunt you only decided to tell me about last night, Emma? And you wonder why I get angry.  You deliberately tell me about these things at the last minute knowing I won’t be able to join you. You get to go off on your own and do whatever you want with whomever you please and when you come home, it’s the same bull shit story about how I would have been bored anyway because you were tied up in meetings all weekend long. You’ve been lying for years, but for the last two, I’ve known your secret.

      I’m watching you. Sitting in the car, running your hands through your hair, sighing. You seem stressed. Stressed because I’m onto you and everything’s unraveling. The kids aren’t respectful, your work’s slipping; friendships are falling apart and you’re telling anyone who’ll listen, it’s my fault.

     I’m watching you. You look haggard, my dear.  You’re beauty has faded because inside you’re selfish and ugly.  All your lies are catching up to you and everyone is realizing the truth about you. I’m tired of the cheating and the lies and I’m sick of fighting. And those men? They can have you but before they do, I will watch you walk through a maze of misery.  I will watch you taste a fraction of the bitterness you fed me before you watch me go.

***

     “Hayden?  …  You here? … You coming?  Hayden, I’m heading out!”     God,I hate coming home.  Who am I kidding? This hasn’t been a home in years. It’s a prison … a hell hole.  Whatever we thought we had is dead. That’s why I cheat on you darlin…to feel alive…to feel something. And now, I have to deal with you. 

“Hayden!”  Hmm…Not here. Good.  I’ll get my bag and head out. “Oh shit!”

***

         Did I scare you, Em?  Didn’t expect to walk into our bedroom to the sudden blare of our wedding song, huh?  I’m watching you prop yourself against the door, gasping. Startled, honey? Well be prepared to be scared.

***

     What…Is that…is that glass ? “No…NO, NO, NO! Hayden!”

***

     Follow the broken glass, Emma. Watch your step.

***

     “Oh, my God!”

***

     Oh, it’s blood, just not mine. Oh, the convenience of living in the country.

***

     “Hayden! Answer me!”

***

     You’re following the path perfectly. I am watching you run to the stable.  You’ve haven’t taken care or ridden those horses in years. Don’t worry, they’re fine. Careful rushing in there. Might want to look up.

***

     “Hayden, no!”   What? Wait…What the hell is this?  Why did he do this?  “Hayden! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?… HAYDEN!”

***

     Were you concerned it was me hanging from the rafters? Don’t worry. Just a couple oat bags. I’d never hurt myself , Emma.  I just want to hurt you.

***

     “Hayden! Asshole!  I HATE you!  Where are you?  WHERE ARE YOU?”

 ***

     I am watching you.  You’re running across the field towards me.  I can hear the snap of the twigs under your feet. Your knees buckle and you stumble. Your too short white skirt is torn; your hands and knees smeared with blood and dirt.  I can hear you breathing, panting, sobbing.  I can hear and see your fear. Your face is ghostly white. I slowly rise up from my lair in the long, wild grass, my fingers slowly brushing up the long blades as I rise to my feet, grasping you tightly. You’re screaming hysterically. Your eyes wild, lips quivering, body trembling. Our eyes meet and I recognize the second you understand what I’ve done to you. Your frail body goes limp in my arms and I lay you on the ground.  You sink deep into the long grass and as you look up at me in disbelief with your sunken eyes and drawn cheeks, I notice how tiny you are and how easily I could end you.  But I won’t in spite of all you’ve done to me, to us and our family. In this moment, I am not angry but euphoric.

“Why?” you manage to whisper.

“Because it’s my turn to hurt you,”

“You were watching me all this time?”

“Yes,”

“You’re a sick bastard,”

“So are you.  Enjoy your trip.  Goodbye, Emma,”

You are sobbing. I turn and walk away. I feel you watching me.  It’s over between us, now. I have closure and I’m ready to start living again.

 

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The Meaning of the Word “Special” in the Special Olympic Games

“The genesis of Special Olympics was a summer day camp that Sargent and Eunice Shriver started in the backyard of their Maryland home. In July 1968, the world witnessed the first International Special Olympics Games at Soldier Field in Chicago.” (Special Olympics Website)

red-ftr-logo special o logo

When my son’s speed skating coach put our son in his first Special Olympics event he was just 8 years old.  She told me she saw that he was capable of learning how to race and in time he could become a great competitor.  What I heard was that he was good enough to compete with people with special needs and that he would race in an easier category of games.  Dealing with Adam’s diagnosis was the biggest blow to my husband and me as parents, hearing that he was good enough to compete in the Special Olympics was not as heavy a blow but it was confirmation that he was different and that there was a place for different.  I would be lying if I said it didn’t bother us a little. What I couldn’t see at the time was that having a place for different was very good thing. What I did learn, was that different, over time, could learn to perfect a skill and that natural talent could be turned into something fulfilling, something to be proud of and something remarkable that amazes us every time. Thankfully, in spite of ourselves and those initial unfounded feelings  we decided to take a shot at having him join the Special Olympic Program and compete in the games.

His first race day came and we suited him up, explained over and over again what was going to happen and what he had to do.  We told him that his grandparents and little brother and we were there to cheer him on and all he had to do was skate.  He started to fuss and cry and instantly my husband, being the caring and protective father that he has always been was ready to pull him out and take him home.

first race

“He’s not ready, ” he said.

“He has to get ready sometime.  We have to at least try one race,”  I urged.  My husband shrugged and unwillingly joined his parents and our younger boy in the stands.

“Adam, are you scared?  Are you a little nervous?” I asked him.  He stopped fussing and looked at me with his glassy, big, brown eyes and gave me a slight nod.

“How about you wear your bike helmet instead of the racing helmet they gave you?  Would that feel better?”  Another slight nod.

I swapped the helmets and kissed him on the cheek.  “Now listen.  You are fine.  This is the ice you skate on every week. Just skate and keep going until someone tells you to stop, ok?”

He didn’t nod or say anything but I could tell he was more comfortable.  I remember that first race like it was yesterday and it still makes me smile.  It was the birth of the chants “Go Adam Go!”  “Keep going buddy!” and “Skate hard, skate fast Ad!”  Our little autistic boy skated right to the finish line and crossed in first place in his first race.  His coach ran up to us beaming and said “He did it! And he’s only 8!”  Race after race that day, Adam crossed the finish line in the top three and got the taste for competition and fun.  It was on that day that our family learned the meaning of the word special in Special Olympics and the warm feeling it created inside me and it was a feeling that has stayed with me for 9 years and will stay with me forever.

“Emanating from the mission, the ultimate goal of Special Olympics is to help persons with intellectual disabilities participate as productive and respected members of society at large, by offering them a fair opportunity to develop and demonstrate their skills and talents through sports training and competition, and by increasing the public’s awareness of their capabilities and needs.  The Founding Principles support this goal by emphasizing that people with intellectual disabilities can enjoy, learn and benefit from participation in individual and team sports, underpinned by consistent training and by competition opportunities for all levels of ability.    According to the Principles, Special Olympics must transcend all boundaries of race, gender, religion, national origin, geography, and political philosophy.  They also state that every person with an intellectual disability should have the opportunity to participate and be challenged to achieve their full potential, with the focus at community level to reach the greatest number of athletes, strengthen their families and create an environment of equality, respect and acceptance.” (Special Olympics Website)

The Special Olympics events are not about competing with a disability or a challenge.  It is about competing in spite of them.  It’s not about competing at an easier level but about competing at your highest level and over the years I have seen athletes in division 4 persist and find themselves competing at a division 3 level the following season, each season inching closer to a more challenging division because when athletes with challenges are encouraged to achieve their personal best, the sky is their limit. The Special Olympics Program is about inclusion, expectations, goals and the freedom to participate at one’s best in a sport (or sports) one loves.  It is about achievement, pride, sportsmanship, freedom and most importantly it is about fun.  The Special Olympics is about teaching anyone willing to learn that given enough patience and time, everyone can achieve greatness and everything is possible when an opportunity is given, when words of encouragement are spoken and when there is enough support. It reminds parents and coaches and volunteers that there is so much good and so much talent and joy in each of these athletes and it makes us dig deeper within ourselves to do right by them by finding the energy  and time and love to give them the training and support they crave.

Our son Adam found his freedom in sport.  It is a release valve for him from all the pressure he must feel when he has to cope with the daily goings-on in his world. It has allowed him to be a part of not only the Special Olympics team but a part of his speed skating club and high school track team. The inclusion and sense of purpose Adam gets from his sports have given him so many positives to draw on in his life. Before he joined the Special Olympics program, I did not know if Adam would find his niche in the world. We never thought he would find his passion and because he plunged into a deeply private, puzzling and exclusive world his father and I didn’t think we would be able to find a life line strong enough to draw him back to us.  Now here we are, proudly watching a young man who used to be such a lost little boy cross numerous finish lines, with incredible times and speed, breaking records and standing on podiums proudly wearing his hard earned medals. What a long, winding road it has been! What a great journey that is going to keep going way past our lifetime as parents.

The Special Olympics has given him the opportunity to make friends, to travel independently of us and the opportunity to perform at his very best.

 

Our boy is FAST and now that he is older, his ability means something to him and I believe he is very proud of himself.  He is okay if he doesn’t win (well, sometimes he’s a little frustrated with himself when he loses) but he certainly understands and appreciates participation as much as he appreciates being on the podium. Adam has represented his club, region, and province in speed skating and for the first time he represented his province in track and field.

These games are a pleasure to watch.  They are as competitive, fast and exciting as any competitive games that exist and the athletes are well trained and possess the physical attributes to compete.  It is fulfilling to watch people of all ages, sizes, shapes and challenges come together in the spirit of friendship and competition.  There are smiles before, during and after each event as they race before their friends and families who cheer loudly and proudly.  Expectations are high and every effort is applauded.  I have never been to an event more encouraging than a Special Olympics event. I am so grateful for these games for what it has given to my son, his fellow athletes and families like ours. Adam is going to compete for years to come and he is going to experience that joy and accomplishment every time in both the summer and winter games.

 

blog 10     provincials with dad

To me, the word “special” in Special Olympics does not mean disadvantaged in any way.  It is more of a description of the feeling you get when you attend these games.  There is a warmth and feeling of goodness at the venue and there is an aura of happiness because win or lose, these athletes know they have worked hard, have overcome many challenges and have given their best effort to get to the games and their sense of pride and confidence is so high it creates an infectious feeling of goodness.  I encourage everyone to visit the games when they are in your area and see for yourself why it is so important to keep these games alive year after year. See what the games can do for you.

http://www.specialolympics.org/RegionsPages/content.aspx?id=40725

Go watch. Go cheer.  Go be amazed at the Special Olympics.

I’m not the only parent that feels this way. Read more about the effect the Special Olympics has had on the lives of athletes and families worldwide.

http://www.specialolympics.org/SimpleStories/SimpleStory.aspx?id=42527

See what the games can do for athletes with Intellectual challenges all over the world.

http://www.specialolympics.org/RegionsPages/content.aspx?id=39851

http://www.specialolympics.org/Responsive/Ashley-Setting_Goals.aspx?src=homestorylist

http://www.specialolympics.org/Responsive/Revolution_for_Unity.aspx?src=HomeStoryList

As parents and care givers we have fear.  Can a person we know with an intellectual challenge learn a sport?  Will they have difficult behaviors borne out of frustration during the learning process? Are they coach-able?  There can be so many questions and technically they all originate in fear – our fear.   Then there are parents and caregivers who have given up and honestly, that is understandable. Raising and caring for someone with special needs is exhausting and complicated but wouldn’t it be better for everyone concerned if the person with the challenges has an outlet…has something to look forward to…has something new to learn with goals to set and achieve?  Wouldn’t it be great if they were able to leave the house and travel with their team for a few days?  Wouldn’t it be rewarding for everyone involved to see the person soar?  The answer to all those questions is YES.

Don’t be afraid. Here’s how to get someone with intellectual challenges involved in the Special Olympics.

http://www.specialolympics.org/Common/Special_Olympics_A_to_Z.aspx?aspxerrorpath=/Sections/Who_We_Are/Our_Athletes_2.aspx

Thank you Sargent and Eunice Shriver.  You have changed the lives of countless intellectually challenged persons and their families for the better over the years and for years to come. As Adam’s mother, I am thankful you did.

ribbons2adam recentribbons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Don’t Look Me up and Down: Look Me in the Eye – a Fit Woman’s Opinion on Non-Verbal Body Shaming

For some time now, we have been witness to wonderful campaigns directed towards the acceptance of all body types, especially, if not solely, the various body types of women. The Dove campaign is to be applauded for giving every woman a chance to champion themselves and identify with an image much like their own on television, the internet, billboards and in magazines.  In a world where you have to look deep beyond the surface to find what is real, it is important for people to see a reflection of themselves in advertising.

On social media the acceptance of self was such a hit that there were even spin off topics borne by the politically correct righteous that made me hold my tongue until now.  Let me elaborate.  As a woman, I feel strongly that every person (men included) should feel good about themselves.  I believe that everyone must have as many (if not more) attributes that they love about themselves than ones they dislike.  I, and some who share my belief, feel that people must have a sense of self worth that allows them to veer away from behaving and or dressing inappropriately to prove to themselves and possibly others, that they are cool, young, sexy, hot, in control or whatever tier of esteem they are trying to attain.  There is something about showing less to ever so coolly reveal that there is so much more to who you are.  There is something to be said for elegance and grace and quiet confidence at every age, size and shape.  But whenever anyone implores others to really reach for something more substantial within themselves, they are criticized by the politically correct others who feel we are “shaming”.  These people like to say if a person (and let’s use women in this example), a woman in her 40’s feels to dress like her 14 year old daughter, who are we to judge her?  If she wants to let her butt cheeks hang out of her shorts or she wants to wear a tight crop-top with leggings, we should applaud her courage. What then do we say about a scantily clad  teen girl at a dance not walking away from a group of boys until each one of them upon her request, makes out with her and her friends?  Is this group of young teen women empowered? Are they controlling their sexuality?  Dictating to the opposite what they want done, when and how?  Is she empowered when she takes to social media and posts revealing photos of herself?  The “selfie” takes on new meaning then, doesn’t it?

Okay. Sure. Maybe I’m a prude. Maybe I am guilty of “shaming” other women but looking in from the outside, I can’t help but wonder what there is to gain when children disassociate themselves from their mother’s attire or demeanour in embarrassment?  What is there to gain when the persona that accompanies the outfit draws the people who want to be a part of the show for a moment, who then walk away speak insults under their breath?   Why do my sons have to be privy to your exposed self in a public place that is not a beach?  Congratulations, Mom for looking “hawt” and sexy at a Minor Level Sporting event.

In the spirit of championing oneself I am going to take my turn to lash back in defence of women like me – active women whose bodies are perfectly imperfect.  We have muscles and are generally strong and in good health.  We are the women who like our sports, our dance, our yoga and whatnot and we play because it’s fun and relaxing and we are okay with a little sweat and okay with our post partum bellies that could, in the right light look like a deflated beach ball.  We are the women who LOVE to eat but stop when we are full.  We eat junk sometimes only without the excuses and we own the consequences and do something about them. We never criticize anyone’s appearance yet so many people have no problem telling us how we are lucky we are to be skinny (when clearly we are not) and have no problem calling us names in jest (in jest my ass) because you are dissatisfied with yourself. We are the women who don’t dress to flaunt, don’t triple coat our faces with makeup yet look beautiful, comfortably wearing what we love and being who we are. So for those of you who talk to us but deep down dislike us, do us a favour – stop trying to shame us with your quick head to toe glances of jealousy.  I have been exposed to that since I was 6 years old.  I have noticed grown-ass adults  – family friends, 4 specific high school teachers of mine and worse, a couple relatives who would stand right in front of me, talking to me doing the head to toe scan sometimes even telling me what they did not like about me or what I was wearing in the poor guise of a joke. And again, I was a child at the time.  It was evident they were not listening to a word I was saying. I knew it at age 6 and I have always known it.  They did not hear one iota of the conversation because they were busy scrutinizing (or like we say in Trinidad, macoing) every aspect of my body , my face, my clothes, my shoes and my hair.  Hating ALL of what they saw because they truly LOVED what they saw and just could not have it, or develop it because it was MINE.

I remember telling my mother I noticed when some people had conversations with others, myself included, they tended to look not at the face when they spoke to you but did what seemed to be several critical, quick glances at a person’s clothing and body and did so quite frequently as they spoke. I asked her why this happened and my champion mother simply said, “Jealousy, baby”.

But, I was a child and I had nothing.  Nothing at all except my childhood, my imagination and myself.  I had what everyone had and in the case of adults, you could say I had even less so why would they be jealous?  Then my mother said to me ever so calmly, “I am sorry people look at you like that.  I know how it feels because I have had that happen to me too. – I think it is really rude.  Perhaps they don’t realize they are doing it, but I think deep down they do know.  I think they did it once, then twice and then it became a rude habit.  That is their problem, not yours.  In your whole life there will be many people who glance at you up and down repeatedly because their parents did it and they unfortunately learned to do it too. They may be smaller than you, bigger than you, older or younger or the same age, They may be wealthier, poorer or of the same income. They may be a different colour or religion than you; they may not. These  people may never look at you in your eyes when they talk to you.  It is an attempt maybe to make you feel self  conscious. In those moments I want you to feel self assured that you are perfectly fine. Just remember that is their jealousy, their lack of confidence and therefore their problem, not yours, ever. You must always draw confidence from those people and never let their glances get you down. Be your comfortable self.”

My mother may not have gone to a fancy university or held a position of power in the world but she has always been powerful to me.  My mother knew her role as a mother.  There was a friendliness about her without her trying to be our friend.  Lines were never crossed by her or us and she injected into us the power to be quietly confident and when we needed to, be boldly so.  Because of my mother, my sister and I have been able to give our children the confidence they need in what is a tougher, more bullied society and dare I say, I think the confidence she gave to us and indirectly to her grandchildren can be considered life saving.  We all hear the stories of the kids who tragically end their lives because they just couldn’t “shake it off” or “get over it” as some people like to say.  There are so many people who just love to dig and dig at you until you start to doubt yourself.  They are annoying and they make life uncomfortable and the best thing you can do is turn it right around and show them that you are not the problem. They are the problem.  They are the ones spending time trying to figure out how to bring you down and in reality it stems from their self dissatisfaction. They say things to make you feel insecure because they are insecure.  They reject your knowledge because they are ignorant. They scoff at your attempt to lead because they are born followers. They mock your talent because they wish they possessed a fraction of it.  They pick on those who have disabilities because the determination and accomplishments of the disabled scare the shit out of them because they have no courage.  They criticize your clothes because they dare not dress like you because they can’t buy your personal cool.  They like to bare it all when they should be covering it up because to wear something decent is to admit they have shortcomings, I suppose.

So while I agree we should all be happy with ourselves, our varied skin tones and shapes and sizes I do not for a moment think that people who have been made to feel shunned and bullied are not guilty of bullying.  They are often adults who have taken the bitterness of the pain they felt and instead of using it for something positive in their lives, they ever so subtly twist it into other people who have done nothing to them personally…except of course showed up looking healthy or tastefully dressed.   I had yet another one of those up and down glances happen to me today, way before I had my morning coffee. I decided right then and there that I was going to write about it once and for all.  I am going to champion myself because I don’t look anyone up and down and scrutinize them and I am tired of having it done to me.  In fact, I have spent many years teaching my boys, especially my autistic son, to look people in the face when they are speaking to them, yet so many people don’t do that to me.  I remember Adam telling me that looking into people’s eyes is too much. Too much information so he looks away so he can focus on what is being said to him yet he has learned to glance at a face in order to illustrate he is engaged with a person.  That is so much work for him, yet he tries so hard to do it because he has figured the value in it and he knows he needs to embrace some of these traits to function in this world.  Meanwhile, people with no sensory processing disorders, people who don’t have to organize anything at all in order to have a conversation give me the up and down scan when they are speaking with me?  To hell with you and your rudeness.  Here’s a news flash on behalf of women and all people who are fit and healthy who try to take care of themselves.  We have reaped what we have sown and if you don’t like it, or have that little zing of envy or hate when you see us because you feel we don’t understand what it is like to be you with your issues – too bad. Champion who you are and own it. This is called life and everybody’s got something…some shit that grabs us by the gut and we have to deal with it.  God knows I was dealt a hand and a frigging half in my life.  Would you up and down scanners preferred if I looked haggard and worn because my life has not been easy?  Would that have made you feel better?  Would you have looked me in the eye then? Perhaps you would have pitied me.  I have never needed pity thanks to my upbringing and I am glad my retaliation to adversity was strength and wellness – of mind, spirit, soul and body.

If you ever had a conversation with me and you’ve looked me up and down (and you damn well know if you do it because you have control of your eyes) please don’t talk to me again if you are going to do that. It’s rude and you are wasting my time and you are making me waste precious breaths and words. Don’t talk to me if you aren’t going to engage or listen.  I’m really okay with that. I’d rather sit quietly alone with my thoughts  for company because I am comfortable with myself. I was taught and I teach my children to look people in the face when speaking to them and I expect the same from others. So all you head to toe scanners out there, know this – the group of us you love to hate in your head because we chose to work at taking the steps to fell healthy and well – we make no apologies for the way we are so enough with looking us up and down and look us in the eye.  What you are doing is distracting, rude and disrespectful and when you do it to me, it only reveals how insecure and vulnerable you are.  Worry less about me and work more on you because you are just as bad as the cretin bully who spat out hurtful words to you.

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Like His Brother the Man-Child, the Almost-Man Is Ready to Take Flight and Soar.

Two days out of the Victoria Day long weekend were gloomy, rainy and chilly – the perfect atmosphere for a Tom and Daniella Netflix marathon.  On Friday night, Logan, our 14 year old, had just finished watching the series 13 Reasons Why and he said he found it well done, accurate (give or take a few unrealistic things) and intense and suggested we give it a try.  I had seen the press on it and planned to watch it anyway and it did not disappoint with regards to it being gripping.

I think 13 Reasons Why is somewhat today’s teen’s version of what the movie Desperate Lives was to those of us who are in our late 40’s and early 50’s.  The important thing to remember here is the two shows are similar with regards to certain content and are similar in impact but like today’s teen, cannot be compared to our generation’s teen experience.

In spite of the fact that puberty and its side effects have been around since  Homo Erectus strolled the planet, it’s effect on each generation has always been dependent on the world’s environment at the time. So, what I’m saying is, hormones have been raging and clashing for centuries – sometimes against the walls of caves, sometimes in a log cabin in the middle of a forest.  At times they were being harnessed in tightly by waistcoats, corsets  and chastity belts and another time they exploded out of bell bottomed jeans, floral tops and naked bodies at Woodstock.

In my time they bounced off video screens in nightclubs, bounced around on sandy beaches, on beds in house parties and in the back row of movie theaters. Now those hormones are flying through cyberspace, popping up on  and    every single second of every single day.

The speed at which this generation of teens receives and sends information, is so rapid that their hand eye coordination is so much more advanced than ours.  I feel that we should sit back and applaud them once in a while because of how tech savvy they are.  We admire it in babies and in the occasional old person but sometimes we criticize the same abilities in teens. Rather than criticize what we think are the shortcomings of teen use of technology today, we need to try and understand it, embrace it and talk about it with our children so that they use it in a safe and responsible way.  It is the hardest part of parenting, I think, keeping up with the times and technology – knowing what to say and when to be quiet…knowing when to step in and take action and when to be patient and wait for them to come to us.  It is a precarious balance of knowing when to take that next step to the end of the tight rope of adolescence and when to hold your position, be still and let the whirling wind subside.   We struggle not to get left behind so that we can help them (or in some crazy cases, spy on them) navigate their way through this tumultuous yet wondrous time so that we can birth well adjusted, multi-dimensional, independent, respectful, generous, kind and happy adults.

I hear all the time that teens today are oddly quiet, lack focus, secretive, lack respect and are entitled. Weren’t we from time to time? I hear that they lack people skills because there is a lack of human contact because of their phones.  While there is some merit to these observations or criticisms, I have two things for you to ponder –  1) You can have a real problem with inappropriate photos, cyber bullying and luring and it is imperative to speak to them about safety on line but in their casual chats with each other … well, they can’t get anybody pregnant on  or   …you still have to physically hook up for that.

2) I remember therapists saying I had to help Adam work hard to socially interact with his peers. Well one day at a speed skating meet Adam was bouncing a rubber ball and I told him to go and be with his teammates and try talking with them to which he responded “Why? They are all texting and  their moms are texting,”   Touché Adam.  We are all becoming like you.  The whole world is already connected by devices and soon, the spoken word; meaningful verbal utterance will be no more and your “autistic lifestyle” as it were will be globally adopted.

Any adolescent will tell you their phone is vital to them like air is to all life and without it they are stranded, disconnected and basically screwed.  Their phone (which they rarely use to speak into unless they are talking to Siri) is like the telephone with the long, long, long cord we had in our room that we would put under our covers late at night so we could talk repetitive chatter (what is to me now at 50, repetitive bull shit).  Their phone is how they talk to each other, get creative, do homework, create problems, solve problems, check their schedules, chat with their teachers, take photos, listen to music, make music, say “I love you”, say “I hate you”, make mischief and sometimes wreak havoc and pain.  But, as a mother of two very different teens, I will tell you, even though it took me some time to open up to it, I do praise technology and the era we live in and all the things that we can do better, faster and more effectively. I applaud it and I allow it because I worked through understanding it, figured out how to control the use of it and how to release that control to them over time because we have made our children understand that at any time we have a right to check their phones and we have the right to have open discussions with them about proper used of their technology. They understand having a device is a privilege and by no means a right.

Today’s teen. Yes, their spelling without spell check is utter shit at times.  Sentence and paragraph construction, disastrous; handwriting, illegible. But consider this – do we speak ye olde Shakespearean English anymore? Do we use slide rules? When was the last time you saw a T-square sticking out of a kids back pack? Don’t many of us use computers and tablets instead of notebooks? We send e mails in lieu of letters by mail. We can take a photo of a cheque with our phone and deposit it into our account. Times change as they should.  Pretty soon we may not need our pinky fingers…we’re all thumbs now, really. I guess what I am trying to say is, while I agree we need to continue to hone in on teaching them the value of trust, self respect and respect for others, work ethic, punctuality, responsibility, empathy and all the attributes needed to make great human beings, we need to find a comfortable functional balance between parenting and friendliness and between guidance and control and vigilance and trust.

13 Reasons Why not only opened my eyes to today’s teen experience, it opened my eyes as to how they must perceive us as parents.  We can play it too cool, we can be too strict and not strict enough. We can be stupidly unreasonable, we can be unavailable, distracted, too trusting, too naive and too friendly.  We can also be too chatty, too intrusive and too controlling. 13 Reasons Why made me review my parenting skills regarding my own teens, which I think we should all do from time to time. You know, examine what works, what doesn’t. what to keep and what to change. Reflect on what the communication is like in the home between them and us and how can we keep them talking to us no matter what.

I know parents who are super strict.  They love their children as deeply as anyone and they use rules and control and have no problem dropping the discipline hammer when they have to. Some are strict because of their own shortcomings and mistakes in their own teenage years. The old do as I say but don’t ever do as I did. Others try to be friends with their children.  They even the playing field and blur the lines between parent and child and run the danger of losing the ability to guide their kids, give them consequences and maintain respect as a parent.  Kids want parents to be parents. They don’t need  or want you to get them whatever they want but they will sure take it if you do. They want their own friends and want you to get friends your own age.  They want you to be happy, especially if you are raising them on your own but they don’t want to come in second to your boyfriend or girlfriend. They will grow up and move on soon enough… too quickly actually, and they really do want you to be present for them.

On the other hand, I’ve known parents who place too much faith in their teens and are absent from their lives even during the moments when they are in the same room together.  Heck, sometimes they don’t know if their kids are at home.  Remember when you were a teen?  You loved to hate your folks and you hated to admit how much you loved them, wanted them and needed them.  Teens are adults in the making but they are also adults slowly gaining the independence to leave their childhood behind. I think moving from your teens into adulthood is like slowly taking off a sticky bandage. Sometimes it feels okay and sometimes the pain is maddening but bearable and other times it’s just frigging harsh and the pain can bring you to tears. At times teens think they are ready for everything but truly can only cope with a few things and they want parents to be interested in them, want parents to hassle them, want the consequences, the life lessons, they want love and they want parents to care  about all that they do even if it makes us angry.  They want us to always step up and parent, no matter what comes out of their mouths. It is the craziest love-hate relationship sometimes but it’s how they learn to be grown ups. They need us to lead by example, hold them accountable and remind them of the consequences of their choices.

Right now, I am in a band aid ripping situation with my second teenager.  I miss who he was … a lot! I guess I miss the kid because I am afraid to acknowledge the man that is emerging. He continues to have all the wonderful attributes that have always made us proud and has even become more confident (which is great) but he has changed  a whole lot in a short space of time and I have to get over myself and the emotions I am having over his change.  We are, I’d still like to think, quite close. He talks to me and includes me in what goes on with him and he really is a good son.

Last year was rough in his world as he had to navigate around some unfair hiccups that concerned the thing he is most passionate about. He was angry and hurt but took my (and his father’s) support and advice and worked on himself rather than focus on how he was wronged in the past and what he could not control. Add to that, he was transitioning into high school, hoping it would be better than elementary school, not really knowing what to expect. During the past year, his life was a roller coaster of weird events. Just when things looked up sometimes, plans changed and he was disappointed yet again but he continued working hard towards his goals and improving himself; continued to follow his path and when things finally looked up again, he broke his arm.  But, the Almost-man as I sometimes refer to him, took it as part of his journey and just as we were getting close to the end of a trying year for him, he had one of those “just not your day” days and in reflecting upon it with me, he, in a very emotional conversation he told me about the areas where he no longer needed us.

Shooing his father back up the stairs, I listened to and watched this long, lanky Almost-man who used to be this robust, solid little sumo type creature with his big head upon which a bright blond bowl cut sat for years.

My cherub was telling me to back off in the best and most decent way he could, in a moment of frustration with himself and with us.  I sat there and knew instantly how my parents would have reacted if I had even tried to say what he was saying. My parents were of the “we are your parents and we alone know what is best for you” era where being young meant you were basically foolish and inexperienced and anything you had to say was solely driven by infatuation or some other adolescent induced emotion. Their reaction to something like what my son was telling me would have been expected and I suppose justified considering the era when they were parenting teens but I don’t want to be shitty to him at a time when he is upset over something that is important to him, I donèt want to be a know-it-all, who would raise my voice over my child’s and dismiss him with a hand brush. I make an effort to be careful not to say or do anything like my parents would have have done because I am parenting in a different time and I don’t understand everything but I do know how it feels to be passionate about something and how defeating it can be when in spite of all your hard work, it beats you up from time to time before you reap the good stuff it yields. I also refuse to tell them that I didn’t understand what could be so bad after all we give yo them and definitely would not tell him that “teenage years is really stupidness, oui!”  I hate lessening the importance of something to someone just because I don’t understand what they get out of it.  I hate telling someone they have no reason to get angry, or cry. I hate reminding people that they have it so much better than others when all they really want to do and need to do is be upset in that moment and I don’t like flaunting the ego charged “I am your mother and it is my way or the high way” over teenagers.  For Adam (the Man-child) because of his autism and his struggle to understand consequence sometimes, we have had to remind him that he needs to respect us and that he does not run the house but I know and believe it is important to respect his feelings, his likes and dislikes and that it is not up to us to make him do everything our way. Plus, with autistic people, you can try to make them fit your mold but it ain’t gonna work!

While listening to the Almost-man, I was able to also pick out the drama and I knew in time he would learn to diminish this drama used to embellish a story and learn to focus on the problems at hand and solve them rationally.

Most of the time, I get it wrong with my sons in moments like these when they are bent out of shape over something that to me, on the surface, seems to be blown way out of proportion.  I get it wrong because I am fifty and not there anymore but if I try hard there are times when I do understand or remember how it feels to be awkward, oversensitive and confused.  But as I sat with him, the realization that his wings were beginning to spread and he was on track to using said broad wings to fly away from me, hurt a little. But why shouldn’t he?  After all, that’s what we taught him to do, right? My husband and I always wanted to put two happy independent people on the planet. His older brother, the Man-child, was ready to fly away at 6 and I suppose his personality even back then prepared me for helping him get ready for independence in spite of the obstacles of autism.  He was not taking any form of smothering or helicopter parenting at all and that is why raising him has been so challenging. He is the kind of hero who wants to show everyone he can do it all without giving us the opportunity to teach him just how to do all these independent things.  However, in spite of himself, he has and still is learning and is on his way to the independence he craved since he was 6 years old. The Almost-man on the other hand was the child I could have a conversation with.  He is a loving and affectionate person and wanted to be a part of everything we did beyond the age of 6, unlike his brother and now that he is ready to sever ties somewhat, I am proud as I am pained. But…that is my problem. Not his.

In his emotional conversation with me that night, the Almost-man was letting me know in the best way he could that he was ready to handle some of his issues on his own.  He was letting me know that he did not need our opinion on everything and that sometimes when he did what we told him to do, it didn’t feel right to him and things did not work out any better.  He told me that sometimes he wanted to feel shitty and mad and wanted to get over it on his own without us…without me …always trying to make it better.  He told me that he has listened to us his whole life and he understands everything we have taught him and that we have to trust that he is going to make safe and smart decisions and that he will still keep us informed about where he is and how he is getting there and will respect our opinion with regards to how long he is out and where he is not allowed to go and will keep in mind all the rules and guidelines we have set.  He also assured me that he knew that having Adam has affected the way I feel about him and he basically outed me with regards to why I am so protective of him even though I do work very hard to give him his space.  He said he knew having a special kid was tough and that he understood that he is our only “normal experience” with a kid but now he needs and wants his space. I was given examples of when our ideas and opinions secretly infuriated him. There was a not-too-long list of annoyances but it was a list nonetheless that took me by surprise but he had a point.  We were hovering in some ways without realizing it and it was making him feel like he was caught in vines fighting to break free.  Then came the sentence to end the night like only a mature man could,

“I know all that you do is because you love me.  Let me use all this love and upbringing to see what I can do on my own,”

Mic drop!  Bravo!  And yes, absolutely, my wonderful, intelligent, intuitive Almost-man.

If I were to take a snapshot of our home and our lives, it would look pretty much like many people’s at the stage of life we are in.  Yes, I lose my cool when I am given disrespect or the occasional attitude. Yes, rooms look like pigsties and smell not-so-great at times.  I lose my mind when a wet towel is left on the floor and I don’t like it when they put off doing their chores.  There are arguments and closed doors behind which they dwell for hours on the days they are actually home, coming out only for food and to use the washroom.  There is occasionally a parade of missing dishes that come from a room across the hall or from a room in the basement that they do eventually wash while giving me an impish grin.  My husband and I feel like we are suddenly living with roommates we don’t remember signing up for. Roommates who aren’t always as clean and orderly and as helpful as we would like.  Roommates who take way too long showers, monopolize our Netflix and our WiFi and data who look at you with blank stares when you complain. They are like frustrating roommates who eat everything in sight with an opinion on everything and there are days when imagining retirement without them is like imagining living in a perfect peaceful paradise. Then there are the days when we talk about school and friendships and the goings-on in the lives of their peers.  There are days when we watch a show together or share a snack in the kitchen while I am reassured that they are coping with their lives just fine in spite of puberty and adolescence. When we talk openly, I am elated and relieved and more educated about their world.  I think our unlikely roommates are both going to be okay but I am always going to worry about them I suspect and like the lyrics of Helen Reddy’s Candle on the Water suggest, I hope they remember I’ll be their candle on the water and that my love for them will always burn. And while I miss singing that song and dancing with them holding their chubby little infant bodies close to my heart, I know I have to let them go.

So, I will say this to you my boys… Man-child, I understand you; I always have.  I accept your headstrong ways and your quest for freedom and independence and we have set you up for just that. Almost -man, I know you well and I have faith in you but I am going need some time to get over missing the little boy you were while being proud of the man you are becoming. Your futures are bright my boys and I am proud of you both (even when you frustrate me and Dad) and I can’t wait to turn and read the next pages in the chapters of your unique and admirable lives.

 

 

 

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Does United Airlines Want People to Fly with Them?

Airlines really have us by the balls. Airfares have increased significantly over the years and because it is the only way to get to many places, we accept the abuse, we pay and we fly and we get very little service for the cost of our airline ticket.

But if you are going to gouge the public, at least treat them with some decency.  We know we no longer deserve anything more than peanuts or cookies on a flight or a quarter glass of pop or juice: we know we have to pay for what was once a meal included in the price of out ticket and oh, we pay for our luggage as well.  Let’s face it, we have come to accept that airlines rip us off but we have to get to work, we have to get home and we have to get to our families so we suck it up and take our lumps. What I don’t understand is why does it seem that United Airlines just does not welcome passengers onto it’s aircrafts?

United Airlines have had a great reputation for hating it’s passengers.  They just don’t give a crap about paying patrons.  Looking back at the last two  years, United has kicked an autistic girl and her family off their flight when simple understanding and accommodation would have sufficed.  They kicked off Walk of the Earth singer Sara Blackwood when she was 7 months pregnant along with her then 1 year old toddler of the flight because he had a crying spell. Now they had a full flight, needed paying passengers to give up their seats for an in-transit flight crew and when no one did, they picked a random passenger – a doctor, literally pulled him off the flight kicking and screaming.  They pulled off a man who paid for his seat on that plane; a man who had to get back to his patients who deserved to be on that flight…they pulled him off like he was a criminal.  My goodness, if someone really did something wrong on one of their flights, what would they do? Kill them?  How does this airline not know that what they do is wrong…time and time again. They have terrible customer relations.

 

 Dr Donna Beegle (center) and daughter being escorted out by police from United Airlines flight while being completely cooperative

 

Dr. David Dao gruffly pulled off a flight from a seat he paid for.  United was looking to free up seats so that they could transport one of their crews to the destination. When no on volunteered to leave their seats, United decided to extract passengers.

 

Look at these photos.  This looks really bad on United doesn’t it?  So my question is simple.  Does United Airlines want passengers on board their planes  The simple answer in my mind is certainly not! I think since we have an autistic person in our family, I am of mixed race descent and well, because we are civilized human beings, maybe we will use another airline for our travel.