Tag Archives: Disability

Expo Pens

21 Apr

Mary's bathroom mirror

I reached for the faucet, looked up, and saw red lines covering the reflection of my face in the mirror. Maybe I should be concerned that my first thought was that I was obviously bleeding severely from my face, but maybe blood means more to the heart than red Expo pen on glass and what art isn’t painted with blood anyways? I’m glad my instincts are still in tact.

I wonder if we began to write more once we invented washable markers. I wonder if we became more eager to create once we had pencils with erasers. Without the threat of permanence, I wonder if we began to take advantage of our freedom to express ourselves without the fear of contributing to cultural posterity. It seems more likely, however, that we did nothing but provoke our perfectionist tendencies. There’s too much pressure that comes with creating art that can be erased. We feel the need to wipe away mistakes until perfection is achieved instead of simply accepting the work produced on the first try. When using a permanent marker, letters are different sizes, circles don’t come out round, but humans aren’t perfect. Even God didn’t get creation right on the first try and, unlike sinners, even a flood won’t wash away a Sharpie’s mistakes. With such permanence comes a sense of relief. A Sharpie shouts, “You better love me as I am!” while an Expo pen yawns and tells you to do better.

The problem with our reliance upon erasers is that our lives are not like the whiteboards we hang above our beds, in our kitchens, reminding us of appointments and needed groceries. Society imposes a great deal of pressure on us to not only be the best we can be today, but the best we could have been yesterday. It’s as though we’ve been building the cities of our histories with cement when we had thought it to be sand. Our need to rewrite the past leaves us spending more time scrubbing at our mistakes than laying bubble wrap for the future. We find that our efforts are in vain, attempts to erase past situations proving as successful as removing stains with spit. What’s done is done and our actions claim more than ourselves. We are not only writing our lives in Sharpie, but with a pen whose permanence influences the ink of those around us. When we go back to change the lines, we see that someone else has already finished the picture. Even with Expo pens in our hands and infinite amounts of time, we probably would never get a perfect circle, but when we all draw together, we can get pretty close.

Looking at Mary’s mirror, I wished the message of love had been written in Sharpie so that we couldn’t erase it and forget. Of course, I was naïve to assume that the words don’t reach beyond the bathroom into the past, present, and future. Those words are made permanent every time hellos are said in the mornings, tables are set for celebrations, smiles are shared over jokes. Those words are engrained into a life and every life that encounters that life and other lives in turn. They are made eternal by scars that are never formed, by wounds made unnecessary, by goodness. They become our daily chants as we redefine disability. They live on forever in every hug that reassures us that we were all penned perfectly the first time.

Decorating my room!

Fireworks

15 Apr

Last night I realized that not only can I hear the Disneyland fireworks from my room, I can see them too. If I stand on top of my night stand, push my head against the wall, and look through the glare of the window, I get a pretty nice view. Luckily, I’ve seen it before from the bowels of that magical place, but I don’t exactly remember how the story goes. Some evil queen tries to take the magic from the park, pirates blow cannons over the castle, the audience is reminded that dreams really do come true. The castle turns colors, music is set in time with the explosions, Tinkerbell appears at all the right moments.

Watching a Disneyland fireworks show from your window is the urban version of stargazing and seeing a plane fly by. You can’t help but wonder who is on the plane, why a handful of seemingly random people all need to go to the same place, from the same place, at the same time. There’s a story there. Maybe it doesn’t involve evil queens and fairy dust, but it’s a story nonetheless. Even if it is only a story about peanuts and Sky Mall, to some it is the most fantastic story ever told. Leaving home, returning home, family reuniting, new jobs, new houses, vacations, adventures, questions. How much human potential and anticipation can fit in such a little box?

The same can be asked of Disneyland. Lines are long and restaurants are crowded, but that congestion is created by people. People don’t simply surround us with stuff, with the insides of vacuums, but remnants of stories and reminders of life. When humans mark their territories, nothing is insignificant. A candy wrapper left on Main Street belongs to someone who chose that specific item because of a third aunt’s cousin’s grandfather’s preference for it. A line for a roller coaster is the temporary home of a kid that wore his Superman shirt for a reason. Your blue Prius is parked in the Daffy Duck section of the parking lot next to a Suburban that was born in Massachusetts, lost a mirror with a teenager in Nebraska, chipped its paint with road trippers in Central America, blew a headlight with a mom in Tennessee, and is now owned by two grandparents from Beverly Hills that can’t believe that Disneyland is open that late. Find the story there.

They always say to be nice to others because you don’t know what stories they are telling in their footsteps. I say to be nice to people regardless, but know that the holes in their sweatshirts and the scars on their knees are not a result of accident. We would never be bored if we started to trace the threads of our blankets or wonder why there are scuffs on the floor. Collect all of the stories held inside passing planes and you will never need works of fiction. Real life is exciting enough.

Wrong Turns

31 Mar

One of our wrong turns led to an afternoon in this used book shop

I turned the wrong way driving Terry to Target. What with the stoplights and crosswalks, the mistake cost us another ten minutes of our afternoon. I wasn’t complaining. It is rare to have time with others, time in which there is nothing else to do but just be and exist. No lunches to make, no bathrooms to clean, and no tables to prepare for dinner. Terry and I listened to the radio and talked about what it must be like on the other side of the world. We watched people cross the street and talked about how lucky we were to have food and houses and Easter egg hunts. In a different world, I can see Ford inventing the car simply out of a need for time, telling his wife to put down her knitting for God’s sake and spend an afternoon enjoying the scenery.

When you have a disability, life begins with what society would call a wrong turn. A great deal of time is spent trying to get back to Normal Street, therapies and surgeries and medicines trying to make it right.  Forgotten are the parks, restaurants, and opportunities you pass on this new road, a road you didn’t realize you’ve been on since the first clicks of the seatbelts. It is how we go on walks, assuming we are lost, until Cathy exclaims in mock surprise that we just happen to wind up at IHOP.

Maybe the map of life for people with disabilities has a few detours, a significant number of closed roundabouts, but I am learning to make sure I don’t already know where I are going before I stop to ask for directions. We are a dysfunctional family, at times being led by a soccer mom that only realizes upon reaching the game that none of the kids play soccer. We are wearing high heels instead of cleats, the grass is muddy, but there’s no doubt there’s a good coffee shop down the street. More often than not, hot chocolate was what we were looking for in the first place. It’s true that sometimes the GPS will take the scenic route without permission and sometimes a disability will be a reminder that turn signals are only suggestions. I guess no one ever found the ocean by driving straight. Terry and I made it to Target eventually, but who cares about Target anyway?

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