Category: Real Life

You’ve had it with the rain and I can see why.
Its puddles sloosh to your belly
its drops plop on your nose
I’ve got my coat and a hood to put up when I’m not listening to traffic
and you’ve been given no such care.
I’ve made my peace with the rain, sort of;
if I want to live here, I must, but you
Ridgefield girl
Washington raised
you still aren’t convinced this is our place.
So you slink with your head down
behind my heels, glued to my side
You’d stop walking altogether if I didn’t insist
pulling you forward, up and over treeroots
around hairpin turns
across streets of cars
whose drivers aren’t focused enough on not splashing our legs in gusts of tire water
YOU pull hard for every door we pass, wanting inside, wanting the ceaseless wet to cease
Your walk becomes a trudge, a drudgery, masochism only because you love me
I wish I could tell you
that what you don’t understand, darling,
is that the only way forward is through
the only shelter lies beyond the cold rain
and even then, even when you reach your solace, your warmth, your reprieve, your dry blankets …
most likely it’ll still be raining
when it’s time to go out again.

I finished my semester just in time to start a temp job with a commute to Redmond. Redmond is very sad and corporate. I am way out of my nonprofit bubble.

Still. Do you ever just stop and think how wonderful it is to be part of something? Certainly, I am part of my grad program, part of my friendships and relationships, part of many communities. But to be part of something as seemingly simple and mundane as a team in a massive company, to maybe be doing something that will do some good for people somewhere down the line, even if I won’t necessarily see it immediately, is a good, rejuvenating feeling.

It’s all well and good to sit in my apartment critiquing and revising and essentially moving words around on a screen. Writing gets to the soul of me and I often tell people that I need to write to be ok. That’s as true as ever. But it’s also true that I feel inspired by being out in the world, and work gives me an excuse for that. I also, sometimes, feel grumpy about being out in the world, but I write about that too, and then things feel better.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m striving for balance. I cannot live only to work a job with long hours and a long commute, with no time for writing. I struggle to live in a solitary bubble where all I do is write. I am more or less certain that I should strive for both.

In the spirit of being part of something, of sharing, of community, I want to share with you the simplest of all things: a recipe for “stuff on toast” that I’ve been eating like clockwork these past few weeks. The cold and rain that is, apparently, Seattle in December and the fact that I have little energy for dinner makes this so easy and that much more comforting. It’s not even really a recipe, but it is filling and good if you don’t feel like dealing with a recipe.

First, get some good bread; it doesn’t matter so much what, as long as it’s sturdy and has a chewy, “crusty” texture. I like sourdough loaves or seed loaves or lavain. Toast however many slices you want and rub them with the cut side of a clove of peeled garlic. While your bread is toasting, you can prepare your veggies. I can’t imagine much that wouldn’t work here, but I’ve had the most success with mushrooms of all types and crucifers like cabbage, brussels sprouts, kale, and cauliflower. Chop or tear or otherwise get your veggies into manageable bite-sized pieces, then heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet and saute them quickly over moderately high heat. I like crispy bits and edges, but really, it’s a matter of your taste. Season the veggies with salt.

Now, the fun part. You can do all kinds of things with your toast and veggies. Add herbs and spices: thyme, rosemary, herbes de provence, parsley, dill. Add some sour: tiny squeezes of lemon or drops of balsamic vinegar or wine. Give the veggies some body: little cubes of butter, lashes of cream. Pile the veggies on the toast and sprinkle with Parmesan or gruyere. Or, spread some creamy cheese like Brie or chevre on the toast before piling on the veggies. Or, just eat as is with no additions. It’ll still be great.

The only thing this post needs to put it in cheesy food blog territory is a picture. Sadly, you’ll just have to use your imagination; and anyway, it probably doesn’t look nearly as good as it tastes.

I hope you are all eating well and keeping warm. And that we can all take joy in being part of something.

Marathon

This morning, on my way to brunch, I ran a marathon. Or, ran with a marathon. Well, actually, walked. Ok, spent a lot of time standing on the shoulder of the sidewalk, in the mucky grass, listening to the marathon chug past me, all thundering feet and labored gasps. I labored just listening.

 

Google tells me that the marathon was an Amica Ensurance 10 K. As I walked the blocks around Seattle Center, I had no idea what had possessed these people to run, and I didn’t fully realize what was happening until I was caught up in a wave of them on Mercer and 6th Avenue. The tide of bodies swept me up and carried me along with it, up the hill and around the corner, where Metallica blasted from some speakers unseen. I was only walking, and felt totally undeserving of that “off to never never land” song.

 

Still, with runners on all sides, I found myself moving faster, with Kiva pulling and wagging her tail, eager for the race. At first I resisted. It was suddenly clear to me that I knew nothing of marathon etiquette. Was I supposed to find an alternate route so as to not be in the way? Was it okay to just waltz into the middle of the pack? I kept waiting for some official marathon person to tell me I was being a jerk, but everyone on the sidelines ignored me in favor of cheering on their runners, which suited me fine.

 

But, it didn’t stop one marathoner from gasping as she passed me, “Beautiful dog” and another, “Your purse is open.” By “purse” she meant BrailleNote, and it was open because I was using my GPS, but anyway. The point is, people are still people, even when running en masse.

 

Something else happened, too, as I tripped along with the surge of runners. For just a minute, I stopped thinking and just let myself be carried. I wasn’t considering where to go, how I’d get there, how I looked, or who was looking. Spending most of my life on alert, or pushing and pulling against societal ideals, or fighting for shreds of things I can control, I felt intense relief and peace to just be held up and supported, for a few blocks, for minutes that felt light and shimmery.

 

I needn’t heed traffic lights, because the streets were blocked. I needn’t think about where Kiva was going, because she went where the runners did, happily, freely. I felt out of my head, for just a while. Which was good. It was getting loud and stuffy and boring in there.

 

And then I went to brunch, because honestly, who can watch that many people running for their lives and not want to eat a whole pastry case?

 

But who knows, maybe someday I’ll run a marathon, to get that feeling of pack mentality again, for just a little while.

 

The Compliment

On Friday night, I attended a meet-up of new friends at a coffee shop. There was live acoustic folk music and molasses cookies, and it was raining outside and cozy inside. We’d parked a gazillion blocks from the cafe, and at the end of the evening, Arlie offered to go for the car while I waited in the warmth. I’ve always been slightly afraid of melting in downpours, Wicked Witch of the West style, so I agreed to his suggestion.

This meant that half the group stayed with me to wait, which was very considerate of them. The bad part was that I was running out of things to say. We’d spent the majority of the night between tunes, (and sometimes during for the excitable among us), tripping our way through getting-to-know-you questions and answers in awkward fits of extroversion. This ranged from the banal and overworked, “So, what do you do?” to the even more bland, “So, what are your hobbies?”

Only one person had managed to ask me how much I could see, and how I got blind. I like to play a little game with myself when I’m in a group of new people, to see which ones I think will be the first to comment on my lack of sight. In my experience, it’s usually an older guy, sixties on up, who has a penchant for saying particularly awkward things.

Lucky me, there was one such guy in attendance that night, and I’d had him pegged from the beginning; he was the one who blurted out to everyone during a song break that he’d happily get naked in this very coffee shop if it were socially and lawfully acceptable. Thankfully, on both counts, it wasn’t. Not to knock nudity on a basic level, I, for one, just happened to be grateful to not have to witness his, blind or not.

Anyway, shortly after the nudity comment, this guy innocuously asked me how long I’d been in Seattle, how I liked it, and oh also, how much could I see and how did I become blind. Aha, I thought, I nailed this guy. I was so right. Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta, including self-congratulating on something completely stupid.

Anyway, after Arlie left for the car, and I settled in for a good half hour of small-talk and waiting, the blind topic came up again. Someone wanted to know what color Arlie’s car was, so they could watch for it.

“Is it red?”

“Huh. You know, I’m not actually sure, I guess I should find that out.”

“Oh, hahaha, I forgot. You can’t SEE his car. Isn’t that funny? I just didn’t remember you were blind. You should take that as a compliment.”

Should I?

Thing is, that compliment thing is a phrase I hear a lot. I’m so, what? Normal? Talkative? Observant? Engaged? I’m so something that people “forget” I’m blind and ask me questions like what color someone’s car is, or what someone looks like. And then, apparently, when they remember that it’s likely I don’t know, it’s suddenly a huge compliment to me that my blindness just completely slipped their mind. Because, I can only assume, sighted is better than blind.

Being blind is NOT a compliment. When a sighted person can’t find something, like a restroom or an exit, and must enlist the help of another sighted person whom they perceive might be disgusted at their sight lapse, they say, “Sorry, I’m blind.” “Blind” is for self-deprecation; it’s to admit weakness, dare I say, even stupidity. It is not to empower or embolden, it is to embarrass. The other person laughs and says, “It’s ok.” Implying, whether they consciously mean to or not, that it’s ok to be oblivious if it’s laughed off with blindness. What more would they expect from a blind person?

Certainly, you might think I’m overreacting. But, the things we say, the language we use, is relevant and complicit in disparaging disadvantaged people. And I think most people know that; I’ve had people say the “Sorry, I’m blind” thing in front of me, then realize I’m there and quickly add, “No offense.” Because they know better, even if their knowing is an afterthought.

Also, I am complicit. Because I am afraid of being “that angry blind chick”, I didn’t say what I should have said that night, which was, “Actually, I’d consider it a bigger compliment if you respected me while remembering full well that I’m blind.” Certainly, it’s ok, and even healthy, to not fixate on my blindness, or even to forget it. But don’t assume I’ll be flattered by the “compliment” of being perceived as a sighted person. I want to be perceived as me, and, among many other things, I’m blind.

Sometimes it’s so hard to leave my house and I just know it’s going to be hell out there. My own special battlefield.

“Are you blind?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a seeing eye dog?”

“Yes.”

“Can I pet him?”

“No.”

“I’m so sorry you’re blind. How did you go blind?”

“Born that way.”

“I’m so sorry. So you can’t even see flowers. … Can you see flowers?”

“No.”

“Damn it all to hell, son of a bitch; you can’t even see the flowers.”

Son of a bitch, where is the goddamn bus?

“You can’t even see the purples and the reds and the yellows. I’m so sorry for you.”

Thanks, now I feel like crying. Not because of the things I can’t see, but because of your awful, stifling pity. Also, the alcohol breath. It’s stifling too.

“My name’s Damon, by the way.”

You don’t get to have my name. Names are power and I’ll keep mine.

“I couldn’t imagine what you go through, it’s a pain in the ass huh?”

“Especially right now.”

“What? … I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight. … If my girlfriend was blind, you’d better believe she’d be taken care of. … One time, I had an ulcer and I couldn’t talk. That’s almost like being blind.”

I am feeling overwhelmed, like I can’t quite breathe enough. These are times when I’m scared of my own violence, when I think that if he touches me or gets any closer I will completely lose it and in my mind I hear the cracking sound of his fingers as I bend them back and the sound of my screaming at him to get away from me.

“There’s gotta be a way for you to get your sight back. You need someone to back you. I’m an engineer, there’s a fix for everything.”

Sometimes I picture my strength and energy as a force field around my body. No one can get through it. I am stone and statue.

“We should go out for dinner sometime.”

“No we should not.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Doesn’t matter. You are making me very uncomfortable and I’m done talking to you now.”

“Bitch. I was just trying to be friendly.”

I consider then that I am not talking to a person, but to a disease and an addiction. That makes me want to cry more.

The bus is here. Thank you thank you thank you bus gods. Even better, the guy doesn’t have a transfer or cash, and the driver won’t let him on. I am weak and shaky with relief. I bury myself several rows in, surrounded by as many people as possible.

I have a fever and a head cold, and it’s been about a week since I bragged to someone, (I can’t remember who), that since moving to Seattle, I hadn’t been sick much. Don’t get happy, Lauren.

This morning I woke up with what I thought was a doughnut hangover, (there has been a glut of doughnuts around here the last few days), but quickly realized that the nausea was more a side effect of my head full of snot. (This post should probably come with a trigger warning, both for whining and gross bodily fluids.)

So, I’ve been in the beanbag chair in my sweatpants, alternately under a blanket and kicking it off, depending on whether the fever or chills want to be front and center, in and out of schoolwork and sleep, Kiva pressed in the hollow of my elbow, her head tucked towards her tail. I’ve been drinking lots of tea and shivering and sniffling. Things seem much more tedious when you’re sick.

It’s funny how we view sickness of children versus that of adults. When I was a kid, sick days were the best. Not to oversell, I WAS sick, but I could lie on the couch and watch The Sound of Music and Mary Poppins and Aladdin for the whole day. My mom made me toast and soup in a cup and brought me Saltines and Sprite. I was luxuriously, unconditionally taken care of.

Now, as an adult, the idea seems to be, just don’t get sick. You don’t have time. Keep going. Go to work anyway. Get out of bed. Stop being a baby. The sicker you are and the more you keep moving anyway, the more you suck it up and never slow down, the better stronger more commendable you are. I’ve got a new mantra, and you’re reading it here first: martyrdom is not sexy.

Certainly, the intense work culture we have in the United States only reinforces our refusal to take care of ourselves. You have a deadline, no one else can do it but you, this can’t wait, it’s urgent. Admittedly, I get so annoyed with people who come to work sick. Why? It seems so inconsiderate, but maybe I’m just crabby. I can’t help it, I’m sick.

As sucky and inconvenient as being sick is, it’s also a time to be cared for, whether you do it for yourself or there is someone who can do it for you. Mary Poppins and being read to and tucked in with all your blankets shouldn’t be just a kid thing. That’s why I’m sleeping and drinking tea and trying to convince myself to walk down the hill for pho. Self-care is a good thing.