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The Journey Began Here

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Me when I was in First Grade


The television set was first introduced into homes in the ’50s. Every day, someone on our block was getting their brand new TV delivered. I can still see the delivery men carrying the monster box into our house and setting up the new black and white TV in our living room. Day after day we watched Mickey Mouse and the Mouseketeers at four o’clock in the afternoon. And that’s when I learned to harbor beliefs in the power of dreams …...

I blame Walt Disney. And my parents as well. I grew up thinking that if you wished upon a star, anything you dreamed would come true. My parents never set me straight, but they were probably dreaming their own dreams. They didn’t know how to talk to a child, so I grew up, naive, willing to believe in fairy tales, in a dreamy world of fantasy where nothing bad would ever happen to me. Ever…

Then in 1986, something bad happened. It wasn’t supposed to, but it did. The doctors told me my four-year-old daughter was profoundly retarded and

I finally stopped believing in fairy tales.

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September 16, 2021 admin Comments Off on The Lie

The Lie

 

I lift the faded black and white class photo out of the box and turn it over. There’s a date on the bottom: 1958. The girl with the headband and ringlets, sitting in the third row of desks, is my best friend, Lori. Everyone used to say she looked exactly like the Shirley Temple doll, popular when we were kids. I’m the tall girl standing next to the teacher. Lori and I were second graders at Henry Flagler Elementary.

The school’s still there, off Flagler Street; although they’ve added so many classrooms and additions, it’s hard to recognize the place. It’s been fifty years since I thought about Lori or the second grade. That was the year our parents mapped out a route and allowed us to walk home by ourselves, and for months, Lori and I followed the same routine: stop at the corner store; purchase snacks, then head for our fifteen-minute walk home.

On one particular afternoon, the shop owner greeted us as we entered the tiny, darkened space. The place reminded me of a dungeon, but Lori and I loved the reprieve from the heat. A light breeze blew through the shop. Fans kept the air moving while the windows and doors remained open. The aroma of candy mixed with the fragrance of dank wood floors. We took our time picking out snacks. My favorite was the Mars bar. I could purchase it for twenty-five cents. Lori’s favorite was Juicy Fruit gum. I never told her I wished she’d pick something else. I was not fond of the overly sweet fragrance, but she was my friend, so I didn’t complain. But that day, Lori picked a Mars bar. She knew I didn’t have any money. At recess, I’d lost my quarter, cried about it, and because we were best friends, she promised she’d share.

After we left the shop, we walked another two blocks and that’s when I spotted him. The tall, lanky kid stood at the end of the street. He held a metal bucket and rocked it back and forth, his gaze bored and a little mean. We were close enough to hear the dull thud the bucket made against his shin. The sound sent shivers down my back, though Lori didn’t seem to notice. She prattled on about how her parents refused to give her extra money that morning, and that was the reason she didn’t have enough to buy the gum and the chocolate bar. I put one hand on her arm to get her attention and pointed with the other. “Hey, isn’t that Tom?”

Tom was one of the sixth graders I avoided. Sometimes he and his friends would hoot at me or grab at the back of my pants. I’d never encountered him outside of school.

“Lori, maybe you should walk to my house. Why’s he standing there? He’s blocking your way.”

But Lori had said she knew Tom; he was her neighbor, and their parents were friends, so I stayed quiet about my uneasy feelings.

Tom’s tousled brown hair flopped over his eyes; he held the handle of the bucket too tightly as it swung from side to side. I said nothing as Lori and I approached the spot where we stopped and bade our goodbyes. I said nothing as I eyed the turnoff, the path which cut between the houses, where the trees shared space with the narrow grey sidewalk, and where the trail was just wide enough for two people to pass. Instead of warning her to keep clear of Tom, I told Lori I had to run home, I had to pee. But the truth was, I was terrified. I didn’t want to know what was in that bucket.

“If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.”

 

 ― Mark Twain

Lori waved me away. A minute later, I heard her. She screamed my name, begging me to come back. I glanced over my shoulder, then watched in horror as Tom lifted a creature out of the bucket. For a second, I considered running back, but I couldn’t move. The turtle’s webbed claws scratched the air. It craned its neck and snapped as Tom lunged toward Lori.

Then I turned and ran down the path. My legs shook as I listened to her screams, but I ran until I couldn’t hear her anymore.

I was breathless when I raced into my house and slammed the door. Fear and shame swirled in my belly. What if Lori were hurt? A half-hour later, the phone rang.

“Didn’t you hear me screaming? Why didn’t you come back? Tom’s so mean. He kept laughing as he chased me with that turtle.”

I could have told the truth, but I didn’t. Tom with his turtle, me with my terror. It was too incomprehensible to explain. I half expected her to point out that a good friend would have come back, that it was our job to protect each other on that walk home. She knew the truth, and yet she let it dance between us like sheets flapping on a clothesline.

The next day, I pleaded with my mother to pick me up after school. I made up a story, said I didn’t want to run into the creepy man who stood between the bushes on that sliver of sidewalk that cut between the houses. I knew that was all I had to say. I didn’t tell her about Tom, the turtle, or how I didn’t help Lori. For a month, I cried myself to sleep.

The lie, my cowardice, both left me paralyzed. I’d always been an introvert, so no one suspected how deeply this affected me. When I had to speak in front of the class or answer the teacher when she posed a question, I’d burst into tears. I stopped speaking to Lori and never told her why I didn’t run back. Because of that, our friendship couldn’t bear the weight of my secret—at least for me.

We never walked home again. I avoided Lori whenever I saw her in school. My mother continued to pick me up. At first, when she asked if Lori needed a ride, I’d tell her no. After a while, she stopped asking.

Before placing the faded photo back in the box, I study the image of my younger self, the gawky girl in the photograph standing shoulder to shoulder with the teacher. Perhaps what happened back then influenced me to become a teacher.

But all that remains from this childhood memory is a burden of regret, entombed between the cracks of a gray sidewalk.

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My Glow Girl Softens the Rejections

This is a photo of Jessica at the prom, and it serves to remind me what’s most important in my quest to publish my book. In the last two days, I’ve opened up three emailed rejections from small presses. I was a little upset when I read the first one from a small press in Virginia. But I told myself they haven’t published one book yet. The email was several paragraphs long, complimenting me on my writing style, and other elements of my book. But the bottom line was no.

The second rejection was just as disappointing. Another no from another small press. No explanation.

Meanwhile, I push ahead, am determined to get the story published, and have come up with the following strategy: I am hiring a writing coach who is also an author who published a book about the difficult topic of losing a child.

Since the early October, I’ve been working hard on those revisions. In one month, I’ve tackled 148 pages. 100 more to go! Meanwhile, I’ve seen one of my writer friends have a book launch for her newly published book, and another writer friend with an offer to publish with a small press. My natural inclination is to feel envious, but I’m happy for them. Then the doubt arrives. It’s sneaky, it seeps in before I even realize it’s there. I fight back with my stubborn determination. This is a story that needs to be shared! I’m just as talented as those friends. I will prevail. I hope, once I finish these major revisions I can join my friends in that exclusive club.

If only I was sure about my title. Right now it’s The OTHER SIDE OF NORMAL but I’m wondering if it should be GLOW GIRL. This title refers to a chapter when my religious cousin visits and shares a story. He described my child as an angel, that her light shined from within.  Jessica does kind of glow, doesn’t she?

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TWO JELLYFISH

Write City Magazine

Write City published my story today and I’m beyond thrilled because although it took me two tries, it was accepted. This is an excerpt from the first email I received: 

“We appreciate you letting us take a look at this story for possible publication in The Write City Magazine.  Usually we’ve got a straight up YES or a straight-up NO, but in the case of your story, it’s mixed.  We’d be open to seeing a revised version that addresses some of the editors’ concerns as follows: 

  1. One editor was not clear about the reference to “moon-shaped face” and would like you to be more specific about the child’s disability
  2. Another wanted a few more, deeper descriptions
  3. Perhaps the differences between the husbands could either be introduced earlier on, delved into more, or downplayed altogether, because the introduction of the husband’s different reactions felt a bit tacked on to the ending
  4. Something about the ending needs changed.  It didn’t hit us with the punch that the rest of the story did.  Perhaps you could develop it a bit more, reach some additional conclusions as to why this encounter was important compared to others the protagonist experienced and why it lingered so vividly. 

Like I said, if you want to consider our feedback, and resubmit, we’d love to take another look…”

I love a challenge so I revised, edited it another five times and showed it to my oldest daughter, Alia, who also stands in as my editor.  This is the first time I will be paid for something I wrote. I am so grateful! If you’d like to read the story, you can find the link under “Publications” in this website. 

There’s an important lesson here. I refuse to give up as I learn to do new things. I imagine it’s like learning how to juggle. Hard!

https://chicagowrites.org/write_city_magazine/766

writercommunity  memoir  disabilities parenting

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CELEBRATE! I wrote my first proposal for my book!

I think I am going to get my book published. This hasn’t been something I believed up until now. But I’m inching closer.

Last week, there was a writer’s pitch fest on Twitter. The objective of the event is for writers to ‘pitch’ their story in 280 characters or less. Don’t forget the hashtags. That’s very important in the posting. The next thing that writers hope will happen or expect to have happened is an agent tweets a heart. That means they liked your pitch and want you to send a query letter or a proposal or both. The first two times I participated in PitMad, it was not fun.

It’s a lot of pressure on a person to work hard at writing one sentence about their whole book, and then hoping, waiting for an agent to like it. It didn’t happen for me the first two times, which greatly upset me.

So I wasn’t going to do it last week but at the last minute, I hauled out an old pitch and posted it. An hour or so later, I pitched another one.

I got an instant heart from an agent. Not some jerk who didn’t follow the rules of PitMad. Lots of times you get a heart from random people. Don’t they realize they’re messing with your head when they do this?

But I got a heart. And wrote that proposal I’ve been putting off doing for two years.

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Searching for a Literary Agent

I am making progress! I’ve gotten a few more short stories published and an agent requested my full manuscript! I believe in my book because it shines a light on the challenges parents of children with disabilities face. The next step in my process is seeking a literary agent to represent my book & which involves marketing. What I’ve learned so far is I must market myself, and gain a following before I can even land an agent to represent my book. I’m on Twitter at Catshields1. I’ve got the author’s website up now. I am learning how to do Instagram posts.

I’m studying what else I need to do. All ideas are welcome!

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I DID IT!

I’m proud of myself. Today I took a giant leap and entered the Pitch Wars contest, a mentoring program where published/agented authors, editors, or industry interns choose one writer each, read their entire manuscript, and offer suggestions on how to make the manuscript shine for an agent showcase.

So I believe I have a chance. I worked on my query. Many thanks to the Facebook group, Binders Seeking Literary Agents as well as my daughter, Alia the Librarian, who researched queries and synopsis examples. If I am chosen as a mentee, she is one of the people I will thank.

#writing #memoir #publishing

UPDATE: I didn’t make it as a Pitch Wars Mentee. I learned over 4000 people applied for a spot, and I had a  1.7% chance of becoming a mentee. Back to revisions! More later!

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Why Don’t I Celebrate This?

I recently submitted a short story I wrote. I’m rather new at this, so I sent it out to twenty-four magazines, believing my little story would be published in a widely circulated magazine. For two or three months, I waited hoping for that magical moment when I read “Congratulations,” but the only thing I received was twenty-four rejection letters. In my mind the story about a young woman and her challenging mother was a universal one, one that other readers would relate to and connect with. Disappointed, I wanted to prove to myself I could write, so I revised the story, changed it to fit magazines that called for stories about toxic relationships, and reimagined it with music as a theme. I rewrote different parts of it, made it longer and changed the title. I resubmitted to every free submission on Submittable and since I had already submitted to well-known magazines, I began to submit to the lesser-known ones. I sent my story anywhere I hadn’t sent it before. My list of submissions grew from twenty-four to sixty. I searched the internet for every open submission. Yesterday, after five months of rejections, I received an acceptance letter. This sounds like wonderful news, but I didn’t react as I expected I would. 

Yes, I should have been ecstatic, knowing some random editors liked my story so much, they wanted to publish it but I felt deflated, like a balloon that’s lost all of its air. The effort I’d put into writing this story was a monumental task. I worked so hard for this moment, the moment when I opened my email and instead of reading the dreaded opening line of “Thank you for submitting…,” I read, “Congratulations.” If this was what I was waiting for why was I disappointed?

Here’s the reason; it wasn’t an acceptance from the New Yorker, any of the well-known literary journals, or even one of the magazines that paid for stories. No, those opportunities disappeared in the two rounds of rejections. I could practically hear the frosty tone Marnie uses whenever I mention the names of journals I’ve been published in. “Oh I’ve never heard of that one,” she says. The pinched expression on her face always reminds me of my lowly position in the publishing world. 

I spent the next two hours untangling my emotions although I didn’t understand the reasons for my angst. I felt distraught that after all that effort, only one magazine liked my story! To make matters worse, I had to withdraw my story from the other fourteen places I submitted and some of those places were well-known. But the rules are the rules. Simultaneous submissions are allowed but the writer must withdraw the piece if it is accepted elsewhere.

I called my best friend, the one who helped me come up with this fantastic little title, the one who urged me to edit and revise this story to make it work, to make my characters more likable, to change the focus of the story so it connected to the reader. As we talked about my reaction to the news I had longed to hear, she helped me see it wasn’t about being published in a magazine. It was about how most of us are never being satisfied with what we get. The universal experience we all should practice is learning how to be grateful. I’m learning.

So whenever I need a break from the angst of submitting and torturing myself with rejections, my husband and I go bike riding. Today we drove down to the Everglades, to the abandoned Aerojet site. (Lots of history about that place if you want to look it up!) I snapped this photo of a graffiti-covered wall with the artist’s message.

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Staying the F Home

My brave grownup kid..


Over a month ago, I flew home from a visit with my daughter, with tentative plans to meet her and her family in South Dakota this summer. We’d visit Mount Rushmore! I was imagining what it would be like when everything changed a few days after I got home.

A month has now passed since we started the self-isolation due to the pandemic. Although Chip says he likes staying home, and he likes being alone, I struggle with not seeing my friends, or going to my writing class, or seeing my grandchildren. For the first few weeks of Stay the F home, I experienced fear, anger, and depression. Any suggestions from well-meaning friends to write about our world pandemic crisis caused further annoyance and gave me a sense of helplessness. So I wrote other stuff instead.

I’m grateful that right before everything shut down, I celebrated my daughter’s fortieth birthday. It was also my granddaughter’s birthday. Year after year, ever since my oldest child moved up north, I haven’t missed a birthday celebration. I’m afraid that might change.

When I flew home at the beginning of March, Jessica wanted to see me. I’d been gone for a week, and she insisted I come get her. I brought her home for the weekend. That was before the world changed.

Each day, the cases of coronavirus grew more widespread.  Schools closed, then the parks, then small businesses. Toilet paper was one of the first things to fly off the shelves. Chip and I ran to the grocery store and stocked up on everything we could think of, expecting we would shelter in place for a few weeks. We had to make a decision about whether to return Jessica to the group home or keep her with us. This created more issues that could’ve impacted her services. I couldn’t lose all I had worked to achieve.

Questions abounded. What would happen if either Chip or I got sick and had to be hospitalized for coronavirus? When I flew home on the plane, I sat near someone with a bad cough. No one wore a mask at that point, so I didn’t wear one, but what if that man infected me? What if I were infected but didn’t have symptoms? What would we do with Jessica if one of us had to go to the hospital? She WOULD be better off in the group home, but how long would she have to stay there?

Sarah yelled at me. “Mom, take her back, I don’t know what you were thinking.”

I thought of the weekend when Chip had his stroke when I frantically drove him to the hospital because he wouldn’t allow me to call 911. Jessica sat in the back seat, bewildered. Luckily, I called Sarah on the way to the hospital. She met us at the emergency room and retrieved Jessica as I flew through the entrance with Chip moaning in the wheelchair. I debated what to do with Jessica and pictured that scene over and over again. I pictured one of us rushing to the hospital, sick with this deadly virus. What if we infected Jessica? Who would take care of her?

I called the director of the group home. She told me no one would be allowed to come and visit. Jessica would have to stay there for the remainder of the outbreak. I reluctantly agreed. It was almost as hard as moving her there in the first place. How would she survive? How would she manage if she had to stay there for months?

Today marks one month since we’ve seen anyone up close. We’ve video chatted with friends and family. I asked the group home to install WhatsApp on Jessica’s phone and occasionally, she is able to successfully video chat. With the proverbial sigh of relief, I can relax, knowing Jessica is doing just fine. It gives me a sense of peace to know when I die, she will be okay.

My ninety-seven-year-old mother’s nursing home stopped allowing visitors and families. I saw my mom right before I flew up to Philadelphia, but she wasn’t exactly coherent. A week later, I received a call she had pneumonia. It looked bad. I told my brother he couldn’t fly down if we had a funeral. He was astounded by my suggestion, but I told him, it wouldn’t be safe. Then my mom recovered. If anyone can beat the odds, it’s her. We often laugh about how tough Mom is, how her maiden name, Brick, represents just how hard she is. She’ll probably outlive the pandemic.

But each one of these things has weighed heavily. I needed a distraction. I started drinking wine. Every night. Cooked. Ate cookies. Drank more wine. Every night. Ate more cookies. Every night. I turned my attention to writing. Not writing about coronavirus or the editor who dumped me. No, I focused my attention on my memoir. I contacted new editors. I studied my manuscript, found plot holes, wrote more revisions, joined more writing groups on Facebook, took a free class in revising my novel in a month. Thank you, Martha Alderson!

Today I finished the second round of revisions on my thirtieth chapter. Three chapters left. I already have a few beta readers lined up.

Over the years, I’ve had to deal with enough challenges to fill a lifetime, but I am not going to be a victim, I won’t allow fear or doubt to stop me. This coronavirus has given me a chance to listen to my inner muse. I will do PitMad and research agents. I’ve already started to explore what’s next. Some good has come from this experience.

Coronavirus Nightmare

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FORGET ABOUT IT!

 
I DON”T NEED NO JOB!

A few months ago, Jessica said she wanted a job. Rene, her support coordinator, began the process for her. He contacted Vocational Rehab, and after a bunch of mishaps, we got the paperwork completed and started the process. Today, after numerous trips to Voc Rehab, I picked up Jessica at her group home and took her to a scheduled interview at Goodwill Industries. This was supposed to be the 1st of many visits before she could be placed in any sort of job. I decided I would help her since she wanted it. Husband didn’t think it would go very far. I said, “I’m alright with that. After all, I’m retired. I can take the time off to do it & if this is something she wants, I’ll help her. “ We went to the 2-hour interview. When we got there, the job placement specialist, V.S., appeared annoyed when Jessica wandered around and became distracted. She insisted if Jessica WERE placed in a job, she’d have to conform. V.S. had the nerve to tell me Jessica would be better suited to Goodwill’s “Work Activities Center,” a different department, separate from Goodwill and one which required a separate application process altogether. Really? I’m patient but not this patient. She’s a job coach? She pissed me off. I told her about the plan to have Jessica placed in “Phase 2” (which Rene said would be our ultimate goal) The plan- to work with a job coach at the WOW center. Lady dismissed this possibility and argued with me, so I didn’t pursue it. During the 2 hours “interview,” V.S. explained all applicants are required to submit to a drug test. “Goodwill applicants must submit to a drug test within 24 hours of receiving this order.” I asked,” What if I do it another time?” “ Answer? “You will start the process all over again.’ Seriously? We went straight to the lab instead of the WOW center. At the drug testing lab, we waited for 30 minutes to be seen. Jessica did not produce enough urine in the cup (probably because she didn’t know how to pee into the container and was unable to fill it with urine.) and I wasn’t allowed to assist her. We tried a second time. This time she drank tons of water, I gave her a soda,& we waited another 45 minutes before the technician allowed us to try again. Again, she was unable to fill the container. At this point, I was told to “come back and try tomorrow, ” I was so distraught, frustrated, and upset, I started to cry. On the way out, I turned on a clueless Jessica, I swear I could’ve screamed bloody murder, I couldn’t believe how thwarted I felt. The whole process appeared to be a waste of time Jessica’s reply? “Forget it. I don’t need no job.” It ended there in the parking lot, but I thought it shouldn’t be this hard to help a disabled person. I understand Jessica has enormous limitations but this was a terrible experience. The hardest part? It emphasized and stood as a reminder of everything Jessica cannot do or will never do, including peeing in a cup! The support coordinator asked me to tell him what happened – so I emailed him a rehash of the entire thing. At least I got someone’s attention. He called as soon as he read it.

 

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