Month: February 2013

“Try not to associate bodily defect with mental, my good friend, except for a solid reason.”
— from David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens

Disclaimer: This is a real work in progress.  I can’t seem to fix it so it doesn’t come across as a lecture, and that’s not my intent.  Please keep in mind that the “you” here is the general “you,” and is not meant to refer to what you personally might have done or said or thought.  Please also feel free to tell me to get over myself in the comments.

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I’m bailing on today’s prompt – my very first kiss was entirely forgettable and nothing to write home about (but if you want to know about a first kiss, you can click here – this is one of my favorites, despite the ending).  Instead, I want to touch on something that’s come up in a few comments lately but is by no means a new “problem” for me.

My hearing loss doesn’t make me special, you guys.  Here’s what I mean:

Toward the end of my third year of law school, a classmate I only knew in passing randomly came up to me and told me earnestly that she was “so impressed” that I’d managed to get through three years of law school despite not being able to hear.  This was clearly meant to be taken as a compliment.  And this happens a fair amount; in fact, it happened just yesterday in the comments section.

The other way it comes up is, “That sure must have been hard, but look how strong it made you.”  I call that the Magic Cripple.  This also just happened, on someone else’s site.

Let me be clear: I know there’s no condescension intended in these statements, that the people who say these things mean well.  I get that, and I appreciate it.  But the only thing statements like that do is reinforce the idea that I shouldn’t have been able to come through a thing like losing my hearing overnight, that I shouldn’t have been able to succeed at law school (or anything else) because I can’t hear normally anymore.

Having a disability and being successful are not mutually exclusive, and to imply that they are (even if you don’t realize you’re doing it) is harmful.  It perpetuates the stereotype that people with disabilities are less than and can prevent them from even being offered the opportunity to show what they are capable of.  It happened to me.  When I was finally ready to try to find a new job after losing my hearing (and my old job), I sent out hundreds of resumes (which stated that I needed to be contacted via relay) and called so many places (via relay) and was offered . . . three interviews.  And even each of those three places more or less openly doubted that I could do the job once they learned of my hearing impairment, even after meeting me.

The way I see it, there’s no magic in “overcoming” a disability.  It doesn’t make you brave or inspirational or strong.  You were either already brave and inspirational and strong before (or, at least, had it in you to be) or you weren’t.  What I mean is, some people will succeed after, say, losing their hearing or the use of their legs, and some won’t.  What determines that is who you were before, not the fact that a terrible thing happened to you.  I’ve talked about this before:

Sometimes people say, “You’re so brave,” or “I don’t think I could have handled it as well as you have.” I rarely think of myself as courageous, and people only see me that way because they think what happened to me is unbelievable.  They ask, “How did you ever get through it?” I say, “You do what you have to do. You get up every day, even when it’s hard, and you take it hour by hour – minute by minute if you have to: Get out of bed now; go to the gym now; eat lunch now; read this book now. Then you go to bed and do it again tomorrow.” Eventually, it isn’t so hard to get out of bed, and one day you realize that life can still be good and that you want to be a part of it.

You can’t imagine it happening to you, and if you tried, you’d assume that you wouldn’t be able to survive, let alone succeed.  God knows that’s how I felt when it happened to me.  But the truth, for almost everyone, is that you would.

Please don’t misunderstand me: I appreciate where you’re coming from, and I know you mean well.  I’m just asking you to think about the way you see me, and other people like me.  All I’m saying is, what I’m capable of with a hearing impairment is generally not more remarkable than what I would be capable of with normal hearing.  I’m different, but I’m not special.

Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence
— Alanis Morissette, Thank You

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Gratitude. Write a thank you note you’ve never sent, can’t send or can’t express.

Dear Dr. Ditto,

I don’t know if you remember me.  I came to you nearly 11 years ago only a few days after the worst day of my life.  I was 25 and terrified.  My world was upside down and I desperately wanted you to tell me it could be set right side up again.  You didn’t, of course; you couldn’t.  There’s no cure for the thing – there’s still no name, no one knows what happened – that stole into my room that night while I slept.  I don’t remember your exact words, but the bottom line was: “You might get a little better but, for the most part, this is permanent. I’m sorry.”  Ten months later, I got even worse, and your office was the first place I went, terrified again.  You told me the truth of just how much worse I was and, again, you said, “I’m sorry.”

I want to thank you.  For your expertise, certainly, but mostly for your kindness and your patience.  My parents and I were so scared and had so many questions, and I often spent large amounts of my time in your exam room in tears.  You told me I’d never get better in the gentlest way possible, but also made sure I knew that you and your staff – Kim was my angel, you know – would help me navigate my new life.  You made sure I knew that this wasn’t the end, even if I was sure it was.  When we wanted second and third opinions, you pointed us to the best places – UVA and Johns Hopkins – and called ahead for us.  When I decided to go ahead with my surgery, you gave me your blessing and a recommendation for one of the best implant centers in the country.  You gave me the map, but you let me chart my own course.  And I always knew you were rooting for me.

I should actually send this letter, or a less flowery version of it.  I think you’d be so pleased to see where I am now.  Nearly 36 and so different from the sad, broken girl in your office all those years ago.  I finished law school, you know.  You helped; you wrote the letter that made them get the best accommodations for me, that made it possible for me not just to attend, but to kind of kick ass, too.  Thanks for having my back.

I Googled you just now.  You’re still practicing, and I’m glad.  I think the world’s a better place for it.  I hope you’re well.

Sincerely,

Melanie

We can’t all be heroes.  Someone has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by.
— Will Rogers

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Support:  Write about a time you’ve been on the sidelines cheering for somebody else, literally or figuratively.

When I was in middle school, there was literally nothing I wanted more than to be a cheerleader.  In my mind, cheerleaders were IT: cute, smart, popular, beloved by everyone.  I tried out every year and never made it.  The spots all went to the girls who’d done gymnastics their whole lives and could tumble.

When it came time to try out for the Junior Varsity squad – for 9th and 10th graders – at the end of my 8th grade year, I signed up, of course.  We had a week of practice at the high school, learning a cheer and refining our jumps.  I was so, so nervous.  You had to be “on” from the time you ran into the gym before the judges until the time you cleared the doors on the way out.  As I was running out of the gym, something in me knew I hadn’t been good enough, and all of a sudden something possessed me and I did a running roundoff, startling my try-out mate.  She was all, “Uh, I did not know you were going to do that.”

I remember very clearly a few days later, sitting in 8th grade Spanish class at the end of the day when the afternoon announcements came on.  They announced who’d been selected for the JV squad, alphabetically.  My last name was at the end of alphabet, and my stomach was in knots, just waiting.  In a turn no one could have seen coming, the principal’s assistant called my name.  My face turned bright red, my classmates laughed, my teacher congratulated me.  I’d done it.  I was one of the chosen ones, and I’d beaten out several rising 10th graders who’d been cheering their whole lives.

It wasn’t until summer practices that I learned that there was a rule: the squad had to be made up of 7 10th graders and 7 9th graders – and only 7 of us had tried out.  I’d won by default, not talent.  Never mind.  They couldn’t take it away from me, even if they thought I didn’t deserve it, so long as I worked hard.  And I did.  I never missed a summer practice, I followed all the rules, and I never earned any demerits.  The first time I got to wear my uniform at school on a JV football game day was, I thought, the most exciting day of my life.  It was also pretty cool that I got to cheer for my brother, the starting center for the JV team.

In late September of that year, I fell off some bleachers (in a noncheering-related incident) and tore all the ligaments in my right ankle.  I had to wear a walking cast for, I think, 6 weeks, which meant no cheering.  I was devastated.  I’d finally gotten the one thing I’d wanted so badly and then couldn’t participate.  They still let me wear my uniform on game days, and I still went to the games, but I had to sit in the bleachers.  I still remember, to this day, when a classmate came up to me in the bleachers, saw my uniform, and said, “Are you like an alternate or something?”  I was crushed.  An alternate?  Bitch, please.  After that, I basically insisted that they let me be down on the field, cast be damned.  I wouldn’t jump, I promised.  (I totally jumped.  Didn’t hurt in the least, but it freaked people the fuck out.  One guy came up to me after a pep rally and told me I was a bad-ass.)

After basketball season, there was no cheering left to do, so I played softball in the spring.  I tried out for cheerleading again for my sophomore year, but they’d changed the rules and the next year’s squad only had two 10th graders, neither of which was me.  So I played tennis, then basketball, then the lead in the spring musical.

Then it was time to try out for the Varsity squad.  I was chosen second alternate.  That meant I had to come to all the practices in the summer, learn all the cheers and dances, and be prepared in case someone dropped out, but I didn’t get a uniform (or pom-poms – and only the Varsity girls got pom-poms, so I totally missed out), and wouldn’t get to dress on game days.  One girl quit pretty quickly  after the squad was announced, which meant I was bumped to first alternate.  I never missed a practice that summer, and lots of other girls did, but before a certain date, you couldn’t get demerits for missing, so those girls got to stay on the squad.  My dad, who never really wanted me to be a cheerleader to begin with, was really pissed on my behalf about that.  Something about demonstrating commitment and all that.  No one else ever quit, and I never got to cheer under the Friday night lights.

At the end of my junior year, sign ups went out for fall sports tryouts, including cheering.  My dad had already planned his sabbatical from his job as a college professor to do research in Spain from August to January, and my mom and I would have to go with him (well, my mom wanted to; I had to).  That meant no cheering tryouts for me.  I remember the coach, my sophomore English teacher, stopped me in the hall during sign-ups to ask why my name wasn’t on the list.  I told her I wouldn’t be there in the fall.  She seemed disappointed, and told me she knew how much cheering meant to me and had always appreciated my dedication and determination.  I guess that’s something.

When it comes up that I used to be a cheerleader, people are always shocked.  Maybe now it’s my because of my weight, but it used to be because, they said, I don’t seem like the cheerleader “type.”  And I guess maybe that’s true – I’m not especially peppy, and my hair has never had that trademark cheerleader ponytail bounce (see Lyla Garrity for reference), and I don’t particularly care to wear the same thing as 13 other girls once a week.  But I loved, wholeheartedly and unreservedly, the season I spent as a cheerleader.

A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
— from A Room of One’s Own, by Virginia Woolf

Today’s Writing Group prompt: Write about your ideal writing space. Where would it be? How would you furnish it? What would you surround yourself with?

When I think of the “ideal” writing space, in my mind’s eye, I see a cozy cabin in the woods, with a window overlooking a lake.  I see a window seat with comfy pillows and curtains you could pull for privacy.  I see nearly every one of these nooks I’ve pinned on Pinterest.

The truth is, though, that it is uncomfortable for me to write in spaces like that.  I need a desk and a good chair; I don’t buy for a second that Carrie Bradshaw wrote all those columns splayed out on her belly in bed.  Think of the back pain!

My current set up is pretty good, if unfinished.  Our office has a brick fireplace and french doors that look out to the yard,  and there’s no TV in here.  I like my desk well enough, and the bookshelf to my right puts my quote books within arm’s reach.  I’ve got ambient lighting so I don’t have to depend on overhead light, which I hate.  I still need to hang art and pictures on the main walls and quotes for inspiration on the wall between the shelves of my desk, just for me, but it’s coming along.  The only thing I really need to fix is my chair.  It was fine when I bought it – a relatively inexpensive rolling chair from Ikea – and it’s held up well, but I have come to realize that it’s not quite right.  So I’m on the lookout for something more comfortable.

It’s funny to me that I seem to think with exactly the right pieces in place, I’ll be able to write regularly, magically.  As if I couldn’t do that now if it were truly imperative to me to write.

Hmf. I suppose you’ll take up flying next, like that fellow in Metropolis.
— Alfred, in Batman: Year One, by Frank Miller.

Dear Person Who Found My Blog by Searching “I don’t know how to Photoshop Batman,”

Me neither, Robin.

Love,

Mel