You're Special Because I Deem It So

Not long ago I realized that I was perpetually unhappy with where I was, and that sort of sucks. Regardless that I was teeming with ideas each day, and excited about the future, I had an overwhelming sense that I was supposed to be doing something more. Only I couldn't figure out what it was.

I have been told several times - usually by strangers - that I was here to do great things.  These encounters with kind strangers happened rather frequently, which made me take it very seriously.

Once, I was out shopping at the mall with girlfriends in college and was approached by someone in earnest who seemed intent on delivering an inspirational message that emphasized my being special;  sent here to do good works, use my unique talents and gifts.  I think under normal circumstances, each of us would be in awe of hearing a prophetic-laden message.  But generally, we'd all prefer to hear such things by someone we value as wise, close to us, and in our best interest.  This person, as several others, was a  total stranger in the Milcreek Mall.  Perhaps that bears even more import to an outsider, but as a recipient, you take pause.

At times, things got really uncomfortable when these messages were sealed with a kiss on the cheek...I grimace when I say that horrifically and tragically...the occasional Glinda the Good forehead kiss was bestowed, too.  It was always startling.  I would freeze, a bit motionless and wide-eyed.  My girlfriends would stand there slack-jawed, their bangle jewelry and bubble gum silent for the first time all night.  

"What the hell was that?"  they would ask.

Trying to gain composure, mentally crawling back from every Shriner's Zem-Zem Clown moment gone wrong, I'd muster the strength to face their appalled expressions.

Exasperated, they would press on, "No, really. What the hell was that?  Do you, like...know them?"

No.  I did not know them.  And no.  Malls do not have beer kiosks. Which they should.

The effects of taking these messages too seriously happened gradually.  I began to realize that each time I accomplished something that was fun, satisfying, and creative for myself,  I immediately red-stamped it as Not Good Enough.  I had still somehow missed the brass ring which I had inadvertently trained myself to be expected to grasp.  Frankly, this became a bad habit that tended to kick Happy's ass.

I began to hone the overwhelming sense of obligation into a mission to change the global face of people with disabilities.  What else could I do with this odd information?  It had to have a category, and I was compelled to make It make sense.  

The problem with giving something a definition, or reason for being is that the moment you do, your personal power is transferred, and things take on a life of their own.  Our natural, internal mechanisms that originally tell us to be happy and enjoy this ride through life, strongly disagrees with the confinement of a label.  All of my  worst-case scenarios were being played out and directed by Me.  The messages from well-intended people, their response to me and disability, forced me to think in terms of disability.  Something I was never raised to do.  Something I never wanted to do.  To me, I was just me.

I identified myself as this bubbly, happy, spiritual being that was centered, spicy, connected, and lit up with being alive. A tiny farm girl who was terrified of worms, but could crawl and play happily among the towering legs of dairy cattle and not think twice.  I was addicted to my playhouse, dolls, and barn cats.  I could fall asleep anywhere - perfectly relaxed and at ease.  That's who I was.  I was willing to try anything, go anywhere; a toe-headed, tan, bright, curious, stubborn, non-stop talker. 

Around fourth grade, when kids naturally tend to begin to see differences among one another, I realized there were discrepancies. But I didn't take them to be a negative or bad thing.  However, the more it was pointed out by random others that I ought to be doing something great did I ever began to give crutches, Spina Bifida, height, or any otherwise defining factor a second thought as being different.  In fact,  I never thought I was falling short of anyone's expectations.

It was precisely at that moment...that slice of thinking twice...that I began to build into myself a layer of unhappiness fueled by unrealistic expectations, which I'd accepted from others.  It wasn't debilitating  externally...it was quiet, constant, and directive, internally.

I realized I'd stopped living for myself in a more clarified manner when I became a mother.  I had begun living rather intensely for my daughter.  She didn't like that any more than I did.  I thought I had to do things better than other moms in order to hurdle both the Disabled Mom and Adopted Child stigma.  I fought hard to never allow either of those attributes be part of the mommy-dialog. When those factors actually cropped up through the syruped language of Momzillas, I responded by working harder on both myself and my daughter...rather than hand the other mommy's their broomsticks back in a most unceremonious manner.

I learned the painful way that all women are people first, and should be treated as such - especially over parenting.

Additionally, I began to try to fit into the Southern culture I'd relocated to.  Something I am clearly not wholly part of, but do understand and appreciate.  I began to grow unnaturally quiet. I am from the North - a proud Pennsylvania girl - we're not quiet by nature.  When I began being polite to people who deserved to be ignored or shredded by basic human standards; when I began to automatically, benignly smile tightly at insults thinly disguised by "Bless your heart,." I knew I was in trouble.  These were not typical reactions for anyone to revert to, under any circumstances or cultural differences.  Bless Your Heart does not begin to cover as an excuse for tearing down another mom, no matter where she's from or how she became a mother.

Eventually I put myself second in the competitive workforce, because I thought I was being ethical.  And I kept accepting "No" for an answer from people who were perfectly content to tell me "No." It obviously made their job, their day, and ultimately their intentions much easier to obtain. Again, this was not how I would normally respond, and I was becoming more acutely aware of it, daily.

Karen Karbo, author of How to Hepburn said, "The sad truth is that being nice and accommodating rarely results in praise for those qualities; rather they are a signal to the not-nice and unaccommodating that you won't give them any trouble."  

I decided to find out if I was missing something, if I was absolutely off my mark by miles, if something was wrong with me. I decided to ask around.  Really, there is only one place to go with these sort of questions regarding self.  Immediate family. Especially siblings.  

This is not an easy task.  It sounds like a logical plan...but when you actually get to the core of approaching the clan that brought you up whether they think you're on track or not...gumption is required.  Generally speaking, these are the only ones in the world that will not lie to you about such things.  Trust me.  But I did it.  I brought myself to life one morning with Starbucks Espresso blend, and I picked up the phone.

It was transformative and liberating.

The word fighter came up more than once in the conversation, so apparently I must acknowledge it. Fine. Yes, I am always more than happy and willing to step into the proverbial ring, tape on the pink boxing gloves anytime, anywhere, with no tag-team.  I mop floors with whatever life hands me, and walk away from the carnage satisfied and smarter, no matter how long it takes. That is not a Raspberry thing...that's just good life management for everyone, in my opinion.

Beyond the initial sigh and search for the right words, after the brotherly or sisterly sarcasm, I found the answers that they gave to be revealing, liberating, and educational.  

Their Universal Answer:  Live your life for yourself...you have to do what makes you happy. The hell with what everyone else thinks.  You can't live for others, it's wrong. And no one cares you have a disability.  So neither should you.  Now shut up.

Sweet Relief.  

I felt the shift, I felt the perspective.  In a glimmer of a sparkling moment, I was washed over with a return sense of that toe-headed little girl playing for hours in the sun with cats, dolls, and tea cups.  That girl breathed an effervescent sigh of relief and stepped forward to resume her position at the core of who I am, always have been, and always will be.

For anyone hammering away at pleasing others, trying to be the perfect parent, taking the criticism of other misguided people, and surviving Momzillas - take heart, it can and will get better the moment you garner the power to scream at yourself the most excellent four-letter word next to the F-bomb:  STOP.

I believe my greatest mistake was wrongly believing that being "blessed" (as others have put it) with a disability meant that I had to do more than my peers just to be able to be counted among them - which is bullshit. There are a lot of disabilities out there, and none of them should be defining or spiritually confining.  That's just too high of a price to pay, don't you think?

My "Aha! Moment," taught me that I should resume flying my freak flag high, buying shoes, devouring Vogue magazine, teaching my university classes with fun fiery energy.  I should enjoy fabulous wine and conversation, kiss my extraordinary husband and then kiss him some more...meditate...luxuriate in simplicity, cook with fresh herbs, drink raw milk, savor freshness, laugh at myself, and let it go.  

Just Say No to Spandex and Other Bad Behaviors

Today was the first day of school for our county.  The morning developed without a hitch, thanks to a brain overload of planning the night before.  Everyone made their "First Day of School Lunch-Box Requests" after the kitchen was closed and the chef (me) had already enjoyed half a glass of Mad Housewife Sauvignon (it has espresso and chocolate threaded through it...and I think that about explains and justifies it).  

In the glowing, mystical light of the first day of school, my middle schooler caught the bus on time.  This was somewhat easier than last year now that Bus Driver has decided to stop in front of our house, not five doors down.  Lunches were packed, book bags checked, and the cell phone confiscated: Experience has taught us that the schools go rather crazy during the first week if they see or hear a cell phone...not to mention the un-godly minutes and number of texts that appeared on our bill last week.

We enjoy the first week of school - especially the first day, because it flows so uncharacteristically smooth.  No one oversleeps, the chef (that's still me) doesn't ferociously slap together a lunch, but rather lovingly packs it the night before. Clothes are picked out from the closet - not the hamper - the night before.  And,  I might add with a snarky raised eyebrow, the actual ironing of clothes has been known to happen during those first five days.

Unique to the first day of school this year, is our foreign exchange student from Germany...Julia.  She is wonderful, sweet, and a joy to have in our home.  Today was her first day of school here in the States,  which meant I would drive her to the high school in order to take care of last minute AYUSA paperwork, get her fully registered, and have an academic schedule built for her.  From this point on she will take the school bus, hit or miss which driveway it screeches to a halt in.

Now let's get down to the knitty-gritty of this Blog, because we both know you are too curious why Spandex is in the title...which leads me to say...I didn't think there was much out there that could shock me anymore.  I may avoid reading the newspaper cover-to-cover because it finds the most grim tales of our existence and magnifies them.  But I am aware.  I teach university and I have a middle school child - so current thinking and attitudes aren't too boggling to me.  So, given those statistics, let there be no further delay in telling you:

I was shocked and appalled, today. I was actually embarrassed for others, and grateful to all good things that I am who I am: Raspberry, wheelie, short, full of life, and with wits.  I now know there are worse disabilities than I have ever faced.  This after observing the parents at school registration - one part very bad fashion, and one part very bad attitude.  

I can easily get past piercings, tats, and shaved heads - particularly with my college students.  Attitudes?  That's a whole other ballgame.  Be bald with loads of hardware...get in my face for no reason and be absurd?  I don't think so.  Wagging your head at me behind haute couture?  No-no...putting a pretty dress on ugly just makes it one hot mess.

In retrospect, the only cause-effect "thing" that I can come up with to explain my observations this morning is that clearly, daily life has the tendency to mess with our minds...  How else do we explain the reason to possibly forget we're aging [gracefully] and to dress accordingly?  If you are approaching or are over the age of 25, you must stop dressing like a pop-princess. You're not doing your child any favors at school showing up glaring at everyone in a half t-shirt, cut-off jeans that are several sizes too small for you, and scrubby flip-flops that have seen hell.

And, if you think Spandex covers, I'm here to tell you it only reveals.  And when you're as short as I am, sweetie...it is revealing all the brick-a-brack no one wants to see...particularly me.  Unbelievably, some manage to heighten the experience by making the Spandex scream, leaving behind tiny rivulets of broken thread or runs.  Hot pink does not make it better. It is shocking to the general public. 

 Equally shocking is barely getting dressed at all - everyone knows you slept in that thing all night, and probably longer.  Which begs the question, when did people stop dressing?  

Blogger's Recommendations: Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Elle, In-Style, Redbook, Women's Day, Ladies Home Journal....you pick.

While bad fashion can be forgiven; what is unforgivable are grown-ups completely forgetting they are the grown-ups.  Yes, I know that when most people hear the term grown-ups, they think of dull, responsible, sensible, conservative pods without a sense of humor. In less than one percent of cases, that is very true - but doesn't that serve as further proof that all things in balance is as close to divine as we can get? 

Back to registration: The front office was overflowing with parents and students. Life is complicated, and this was obvious in the number of parents trying to take care of school requirements at more than one school while trying to get to their jobs on time.  Life is very complicated, and this was obvious in the handful of parents trying to register their child while in the middle of a custody battle, a change of custody...most with lack of proof of either.  

In the several hours that I was there, I observed only one set of parents that remained polite and collaborative - a very elderly couple apparently now raising a high school aged grandson. I might note here that they were dressed.  Not high fashion - and who the hell cares - but they were clean, well-kept, and covered.  

All of the other adults were impatient, aggressive, reactive, and angry with the staff.  Some complained loudly at other parents for being rude to the receptionist, even though they were in turn as bad or worse.  I sat and watched grown-ups raising their voices at other grown-ups, and more than one bad-mouthed the counselors and the school to their child, rendering the school powerless or inferior in their mind. The students generally postured and adopted disrespectful attitudes towards the receptionist and guidance workers almost immediately.  

I was sitting across the room from our student Julia, who is quiet-spoken, and I wondered if this was shocking to her.  Particularly when one father required an officer become involved conversationally.  They took the conversation to the hallway.  Julia made a great deal of placid eye contact with me during that exchange, and I held gaze with her and smiled reassuringly, though inside I felt tense and uncomfortable.  She smiled back.

I may get a bit spicy when it comes to insulting the fashion sense of others, railing against Spandex, all in jest...However, I am serious about the connectivity between the visual and vocal.  The angrier the parent, the sloppier they seemed to be.  The more vulgar the language, the closer to pajamas and not showered they were.  .

I teach this stuff.  And yes, I used the word stuff, because that is what life is made of.   No one cares what your style is, but they care that you at least have style: with your Words, Actions, and Togetherness.  Simple, intelligent questions, versus arguing and sulking in your messy pajamas at your child's high school rates much higher on the attractiveness scale.  Don't you think?

It makes no difference whether you are rich or poor.  Heidi Klum could look fabulous in a burlap bag - give that girl a flour sack and she will make it couture simply by the way she speaks and carries herself.  Have you ever met an extremely articulate bum?  I have.  It was in Washington D.C., summer 2008, and she was fascinating.  Moreover she was pleasant to be around in our brief encounter.

What we say and do matters - primarily in how we say it, and how we do it.  

The kiddos are watching and listening. 

So, while we may be enjoying the balmy calm and well-oiled machinery of the first week of school, I am acutely aware that by next Monday, things may not be so crisp and starched.  Bus Driver may catapult five doors down and the girls might be running after the yellow caterpillar gripping cream cheese bagels in one hand, unzipped backpacks in the other...but by no means will they be in pajamas, screaming Spandex, or leaving the house with a foul attitude and disrespect for the schools.