Sunday, November 14, 2004
A week in the life of
Thursday.
Eyvonne and I went to my Clanmother’s house to help replace a leaking roof on an addition. We figured the job would take four or five hours. It took seven. We were exhausted when we finally got home. Because it was a warm day for mid November I’d left a note telling the kids to let the fire in the stove go out so I could clean the chimney.
When we finally got home it was dark and turning colder. Owl had worked overtime and just arrived himself. Sarah, who’d only been living with us a month or so, had no idea what to do. She’d been trying to work up the courage to start a fire because the house was getting cold. Eyvonne and I gathered up brushes and took the stovepipe apart as Owl started supper. We were pathetically grateful to smell food cooking.
Friday.
el and I were developing a project for a client. We swapped off every hour or so to check each other’s work. We’re both dyslexic. Neither of us can even spell that word. Have you ever tried to look up a word you can’t spell? At a local flea market I was attracted by a sign that read “Equana.” It was a moth-eaten taxidermied Iguana. It sat next to a stuffed armadillo. There was no sign for that. I wasn’t sure if the spelling of armadillo totally defeated them or if they just didn’t know what it was.
I wanted to buy it for Thunder for Christmas but Eyvonne came as close to throwing a fit in public as any of us Qs had ever seen, much to the amusement of the vendors. I backed off but when I told Thunder about it he groaned. It would have been a boon for his dorm room.
Anyway, I thank the geek deities for spellcheckers. Without one I too might be led as far astray as Equana. When we taught creative writing seminars for sixth graders their classroom teachers wouldn’t allow them to use spellcheckers. I argued about it with them. I’d gone through school getting those big red ‘Ds’ on my paper. I figured teaching a kid to use a tool to avoid that kind of humiliation was pretty empowering.
“If your students were learning to dig ditches would you hand them a shovel when you could teach them to run a backhoe?” I argued.
“It’s not the same,” the teachers. “Anyway those kids are just lazy.”
I had to control an urge to commit mayhem. These were professional people with big time college degrees. Kids were supposed to be their vocational call but they didn’t understand basic stuff about how the brain works. If they confused dyslexia with lack of effort they shouldn’t be teaching.
“These kids have real problems. I know, I’m dyslexic,” I said.
“They’re hopeless. They know something one day and the next it’s all new to them,” the reading specialist complained.
Alarm bells sounded in my head. That pattern was ‘way too familiar. It’s one of the drawbacks of being multiple. Sometimes information just doesn’t get shared efficiently.
Once while teaching a creative writing series at an elementary school I’d opened my eyes knowing I had just lost time. It wasn’t long. The kids were still focused on me but with quizzical expressions. I had no idea what we were presenting. Neither did el or Lillie. Baby was quietly amusing herself inside. I covered my confusion with just enough honesty to be believable.
I grinned sheepishly and said, “Uhh, middle age rots. Anybody wanna tell me what I just said?”
Even the other teachers laughed. It took a minute to get my stride but the kids didn’t care. Losing your place is human. Students enjoyed our classes. We encouraged them be themselves. Most worked hard. Some were really talented. With effort some could become writers. The ones with lots of talent already knew it. It was the quiet ones and the ones who acted out who intrigued us. A little praise at the right time might convince them they had something important to say.
The first time Sam wrote a full page I was ecstatic. That’s a big risk for a sixth grader still reversing a third of his letters. Sam’s teacher pegged him as a kid with an attitude problem. Competent one day, the next he refused to even try. I suspected his attitude hid a battered self-esteem. He seemed dissociative. But how was I to prompt help from a group of adults entrenched in prejudice?
I told my boss I suspected Sam had serious problems.
“Yeah he’s got problems, he’s brilliant but unmotivated. He knew this stuff yesterday. What the hell happened overnight?” he said.
Maybe Sam was molested. Maybe his dad hit him or beat up his mom, I thought. But saying that aloud risked revealing my own pain. It was a risk I wasn’t ready to take back then.
“People like him shouldn’t be teachers,” I shouted inside.
“He’s burned out,” Lillie said.
“Then he should quit!”
I was angry with the adults in Sams life, including myself. But I was also angry with all the teachers, ministers and other adults who’d made similar judgements sealing my childhood fate. Looking at Sam was like looking in a mirror. I was very bright but mostly disinterested in school. Sometimes I got so bored I walked out. I flashed a square of white paper at any teacher who raised an eyebrow. It was my ticket to our salvation. I walked out of the school into the fields beyond where I stripped off offending dresses and revealing jeans and T-shirts hidden beneath. I stole precious days in sunlit fields and woods. Cradled in the roots of trees we read Mitchner, Walt Whitman, Shelley, and Masefield, their words soothing our collective soul. We never once got caught. I was adept at forging our father’s signature on excuse notes and report cards.
Columbine assured skipping school was almost impossible for my students.
Some of my students were so conditioned to being labeled “bad” they didn’t how to handle our casual acceptance. Their unruly behavior dissipated when I met their gaze, making sure I spoke directly to them.
“Hey it’s uncool to do that,” I’d say, and then go right on teaching. I never got angry with them. I always insisted on nothing but their best. Every one of my students wrote something, even those labeled learning disabled or behavioral problems. At the end of class they gave us gifts, tears in their eyes. Years later they still slip into easy conversation when we meet.
“At least we’ve maybe helped a little,” I said to Eyvonne.
But I feel like it’s not enough when I know there are children being raped right now. This minute. Totally disconnecting from what is happening to them. It makes me want to scream. I weep instead. Eyvonne holds me close and lets me cry. I hate crying. It feels like the ultimate defeat.
“It’s time to tell our story. For all the Sams,” I whisper.
“And for us,” el agreed.
Still Friday.
Our closest friend stopped to drop his dog off for us to puppy sit. Undergoing chemo in an attempt to force Hepatitis C into remission he was on his way to a liver care clinic in Pittsburgh the next morning.
“You look really tired,” I said. “Want me to go along?”
“I’ll be all right. I’ll drive till I can’t anymore and then get a motel room.”
Eyvonne and I exchanged glances.
“You sure you don’t want company?” I said.
“Nah….” But I could see he was wavering.
“It would take me like two minutes to grab my backpack and be ready.”
“OK, I guess so.”
Friday night was about driving. It was windy and after a certain point the road was unfamiliar. el and I kept swapping off driving. We found a motel a half hour from the city and crashed for the night. Our friend sleeps with the TV on. When I woke up at 3 a.m. Stargate was on. I watched it. I looked at him curled up in the other bed. He wasn’t even snoring.
Saturday.
We made it to the hospital a half hour early. We needn’t have bothered. His doctor, who flew in from Chicago once a month to run this experimental clinic, was already two hours behind. We went outside walked around the city, sat in a park soaking up sun, called Eyvonne to see how the dogs were getting along and split a fish sandwich at locally famous Armond’s. When he finally saw his doctor it was good news, his blood levels were great. If things continued to go well he might be a transplant candidate. It was a happy ride home.
Sunday.
We tried catching up on this book. We are perpetually behind our self-mandated word count production goal. In other words I was freaking out because I really want to finish this on deadline with at least 50,0000 words. Part of freaking out involved tons of ice cream and coffee.
Monday.
Eyvonne and I finished a complex project for a client and then had lunch with my former counselor at a new restaurant nearby. The three of us spent two hours laughing before we realized the day was slipping away. I still needed to drive an hour to Williamsport to pick up printer cartridges to complete a different project for another client. Eyvonne went to work. She has a 3-hour-a-day cleaning job at a nursing home nearby.
Tuesday.
Eyvonne and I dropped the complex project off at the printer’s over an hour away. I love rural life. Everything is at least an hour away. We stopped for groceries on the way home. Lillie took ops for grocery shopping. If I do it we end up with junk food. If el does it we get stuff like apples and carrots. Since Eyvonne thinks chocolate is a food group she’s a wild card. Lillie figures the best strategy is for her to take charge. We end up driving across town for Feta cheese salad dressing to satisfy Eyvonne’s latest craving.
“It’s almost as good as chocolate,” she says.
“Yeah it is,” Lillie agrees. “Make sure our little ones don’t get mesmerized by the lobster tank OK?”
Eyvonne nods. “Sure.”
Sometimes even with the best planning shopping is still Q-hazardous. Young alters are attracted to the sights and sounds. Just like outside kids they plead for things like cookies and candy. “Can’t we have this?”
“No,” Lillie says. “We’ve already got ice cream for a treat.”
“But we want Twix bars too.” They line up all cute and bat their eyes. They also know I love Twix bars and may be persuaded to throw in with them.
“No,” Lillie says firmly glaring at me to defy her.
“Awww,” I start. “Look how cute they are Lil.”
“Shel, you’re blocking progress.”
Shopping can take us a long time. But even so we don’t hold a candle to Eyvonne. She’s legendary. She can spend fifteen minutes comparing bath soaps.
Wednesday.
None of us remembers Wednesday. No one. Not one single blessed solitary minute. At least they’re not talking about it if they do. Maybe documenting an entire week wasn’t such a great idea.
“Shit, what’s up now?” I groan.
“Whatever it is we’ll deal with it,” Lillie says.
el nods but he has little worry lines next to his eyes.
The lost day could mean someone is hiding something. It could mean we have a new alter who stole a day. It could just mean the day was so unremarkable no one remembers it. But I have this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
Eyvonne and I went to my Clanmother’s house to help replace a leaking roof on an addition. We figured the job would take four or five hours. It took seven. We were exhausted when we finally got home. Because it was a warm day for mid November I’d left a note telling the kids to let the fire in the stove go out so I could clean the chimney.
When we finally got home it was dark and turning colder. Owl had worked overtime and just arrived himself. Sarah, who’d only been living with us a month or so, had no idea what to do. She’d been trying to work up the courage to start a fire because the house was getting cold. Eyvonne and I gathered up brushes and took the stovepipe apart as Owl started supper. We were pathetically grateful to smell food cooking.
Friday.
el and I were developing a project for a client. We swapped off every hour or so to check each other’s work. We’re both dyslexic. Neither of us can even spell that word. Have you ever tried to look up a word you can’t spell? At a local flea market I was attracted by a sign that read “Equana.” It was a moth-eaten taxidermied Iguana. It sat next to a stuffed armadillo. There was no sign for that. I wasn’t sure if the spelling of armadillo totally defeated them or if they just didn’t know what it was.
I wanted to buy it for Thunder for Christmas but Eyvonne came as close to throwing a fit in public as any of us Qs had ever seen, much to the amusement of the vendors. I backed off but when I told Thunder about it he groaned. It would have been a boon for his dorm room.
Anyway, I thank the geek deities for spellcheckers. Without one I too might be led as far astray as Equana. When we taught creative writing seminars for sixth graders their classroom teachers wouldn’t allow them to use spellcheckers. I argued about it with them. I’d gone through school getting those big red ‘Ds’ on my paper. I figured teaching a kid to use a tool to avoid that kind of humiliation was pretty empowering.
“If your students were learning to dig ditches would you hand them a shovel when you could teach them to run a backhoe?” I argued.
“It’s not the same,” the teachers. “Anyway those kids are just lazy.”
I had to control an urge to commit mayhem. These were professional people with big time college degrees. Kids were supposed to be their vocational call but they didn’t understand basic stuff about how the brain works. If they confused dyslexia with lack of effort they shouldn’t be teaching.
“These kids have real problems. I know, I’m dyslexic,” I said.
“They’re hopeless. They know something one day and the next it’s all new to them,” the reading specialist complained.
Alarm bells sounded in my head. That pattern was ‘way too familiar. It’s one of the drawbacks of being multiple. Sometimes information just doesn’t get shared efficiently.
Once while teaching a creative writing series at an elementary school I’d opened my eyes knowing I had just lost time. It wasn’t long. The kids were still focused on me but with quizzical expressions. I had no idea what we were presenting. Neither did el or Lillie. Baby was quietly amusing herself inside. I covered my confusion with just enough honesty to be believable.
I grinned sheepishly and said, “Uhh, middle age rots. Anybody wanna tell me what I just said?”
Even the other teachers laughed. It took a minute to get my stride but the kids didn’t care. Losing your place is human. Students enjoyed our classes. We encouraged them be themselves. Most worked hard. Some were really talented. With effort some could become writers. The ones with lots of talent already knew it. It was the quiet ones and the ones who acted out who intrigued us. A little praise at the right time might convince them they had something important to say.
The first time Sam wrote a full page I was ecstatic. That’s a big risk for a sixth grader still reversing a third of his letters. Sam’s teacher pegged him as a kid with an attitude problem. Competent one day, the next he refused to even try. I suspected his attitude hid a battered self-esteem. He seemed dissociative. But how was I to prompt help from a group of adults entrenched in prejudice?
I told my boss I suspected Sam had serious problems.
“Yeah he’s got problems, he’s brilliant but unmotivated. He knew this stuff yesterday. What the hell happened overnight?” he said.
Maybe Sam was molested. Maybe his dad hit him or beat up his mom, I thought. But saying that aloud risked revealing my own pain. It was a risk I wasn’t ready to take back then.
“People like him shouldn’t be teachers,” I shouted inside.
“He’s burned out,” Lillie said.
“Then he should quit!”
I was angry with the adults in Sams life, including myself. But I was also angry with all the teachers, ministers and other adults who’d made similar judgements sealing my childhood fate. Looking at Sam was like looking in a mirror. I was very bright but mostly disinterested in school. Sometimes I got so bored I walked out. I flashed a square of white paper at any teacher who raised an eyebrow. It was my ticket to our salvation. I walked out of the school into the fields beyond where I stripped off offending dresses and revealing jeans and T-shirts hidden beneath. I stole precious days in sunlit fields and woods. Cradled in the roots of trees we read Mitchner, Walt Whitman, Shelley, and Masefield, their words soothing our collective soul. We never once got caught. I was adept at forging our father’s signature on excuse notes and report cards.
Columbine assured skipping school was almost impossible for my students.
Some of my students were so conditioned to being labeled “bad” they didn’t how to handle our casual acceptance. Their unruly behavior dissipated when I met their gaze, making sure I spoke directly to them.
“Hey it’s uncool to do that,” I’d say, and then go right on teaching. I never got angry with them. I always insisted on nothing but their best. Every one of my students wrote something, even those labeled learning disabled or behavioral problems. At the end of class they gave us gifts, tears in their eyes. Years later they still slip into easy conversation when we meet.
“At least we’ve maybe helped a little,” I said to Eyvonne.
But I feel like it’s not enough when I know there are children being raped right now. This minute. Totally disconnecting from what is happening to them. It makes me want to scream. I weep instead. Eyvonne holds me close and lets me cry. I hate crying. It feels like the ultimate defeat.
“It’s time to tell our story. For all the Sams,” I whisper.
“And for us,” el agreed.
Still Friday.
Our closest friend stopped to drop his dog off for us to puppy sit. Undergoing chemo in an attempt to force Hepatitis C into remission he was on his way to a liver care clinic in Pittsburgh the next morning.
“You look really tired,” I said. “Want me to go along?”
“I’ll be all right. I’ll drive till I can’t anymore and then get a motel room.”
Eyvonne and I exchanged glances.
“You sure you don’t want company?” I said.
“Nah….” But I could see he was wavering.
“It would take me like two minutes to grab my backpack and be ready.”
“OK, I guess so.”
Friday night was about driving. It was windy and after a certain point the road was unfamiliar. el and I kept swapping off driving. We found a motel a half hour from the city and crashed for the night. Our friend sleeps with the TV on. When I woke up at 3 a.m. Stargate was on. I watched it. I looked at him curled up in the other bed. He wasn’t even snoring.
Saturday.
We made it to the hospital a half hour early. We needn’t have bothered. His doctor, who flew in from Chicago once a month to run this experimental clinic, was already two hours behind. We went outside walked around the city, sat in a park soaking up sun, called Eyvonne to see how the dogs were getting along and split a fish sandwich at locally famous Armond’s. When he finally saw his doctor it was good news, his blood levels were great. If things continued to go well he might be a transplant candidate. It was a happy ride home.
Sunday.
We tried catching up on this book. We are perpetually behind our self-mandated word count production goal. In other words I was freaking out because I really want to finish this on deadline with at least 50,0000 words. Part of freaking out involved tons of ice cream and coffee.
Monday.
Eyvonne and I finished a complex project for a client and then had lunch with my former counselor at a new restaurant nearby. The three of us spent two hours laughing before we realized the day was slipping away. I still needed to drive an hour to Williamsport to pick up printer cartridges to complete a different project for another client. Eyvonne went to work. She has a 3-hour-a-day cleaning job at a nursing home nearby.
Tuesday.
Eyvonne and I dropped the complex project off at the printer’s over an hour away. I love rural life. Everything is at least an hour away. We stopped for groceries on the way home. Lillie took ops for grocery shopping. If I do it we end up with junk food. If el does it we get stuff like apples and carrots. Since Eyvonne thinks chocolate is a food group she’s a wild card. Lillie figures the best strategy is for her to take charge. We end up driving across town for Feta cheese salad dressing to satisfy Eyvonne’s latest craving.
“It’s almost as good as chocolate,” she says.
“Yeah it is,” Lillie agrees. “Make sure our little ones don’t get mesmerized by the lobster tank OK?”
Eyvonne nods. “Sure.”
Sometimes even with the best planning shopping is still Q-hazardous. Young alters are attracted to the sights and sounds. Just like outside kids they plead for things like cookies and candy. “Can’t we have this?”
“No,” Lillie says. “We’ve already got ice cream for a treat.”
“But we want Twix bars too.” They line up all cute and bat their eyes. They also know I love Twix bars and may be persuaded to throw in with them.
“No,” Lillie says firmly glaring at me to defy her.
“Awww,” I start. “Look how cute they are Lil.”
“Shel, you’re blocking progress.”
Shopping can take us a long time. But even so we don’t hold a candle to Eyvonne. She’s legendary. She can spend fifteen minutes comparing bath soaps.
Wednesday.
None of us remembers Wednesday. No one. Not one single blessed solitary minute. At least they’re not talking about it if they do. Maybe documenting an entire week wasn’t such a great idea.
“Shit, what’s up now?” I groan.
“Whatever it is we’ll deal with it,” Lillie says.
el nods but he has little worry lines next to his eyes.
The lost day could mean someone is hiding something. It could mean we have a new alter who stole a day. It could just mean the day was so unremarkable no one remembers it. But I have this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
© 2004 M. S. Eliot
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: January 6, 2007 at 2:14 AM
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