Asides

I actually had this thought while drinking my Americano this morning: “This coffee feels like a warm, reassuring, uplifting hug.” Yes, these are the innermost secrets of my brain. It’s good that it can substitute for a hug, because I doubt I’ll be getting a real one today.

I get on my second bus and the driver says, “Where ya going?” Where AM I going? I can’t remember. I mean, I know I’ll KNOW it when I get there, when I hear it called out, I’ll say, yes, yes, that’s where I want to be, that’s my place. But still, I’m shuffling and stammering and what is that stop again? Finally I say it: “Overlake. Overlake!” I laugh awkwardly, feeling stupid. He’s already moved on to someone else, which is just as well.

I’m feeling overwhelmed. It’s work and my way-too-long commute and wondering if I’ll ever have a job without a way-too-long commute and writing my thesis and feeling inarticulate and unfunny and unsmart and there’s another class I’m taking, too, which hasn’t gotten the thought and attention it deserves. It’s my relationships and trying to keep in touch and feeling like I am forever failing and not knowing how to communicate “it’s not you, it’s me”, which is absolutely true and absolutely cliche, so no wonder no one believes me. It’s that I can’t sleep because my mind is racing and when I do sleep I have weird dreams about strange men breaking into my apartment at night with knives and frying pans and loneliness, because I just read While the City Slept by Eli Sanders, and I can’t believe something so inexplicable, so undeserved, could happen in my city, in the place that I am growing to love. It’s that things like that happen in every city, in every place someone loves, and that may be the most overwhelming thing of all.

Feeling overwhelmed makes me feel ashamed, because I know that I am privileged beyond reason, that I am loved somewhere, that I only have to look after myself and my dog. That everyone is overwhelmed. I’m trying to tell myself that just because everyone else feels something, that I’m going through something millions, billions, go through, it’s still valid. It doesn’t make it illegitimate. My telling isn’t helping much.

So I sit on the bus going where I’m going, feeling overwhelmed. I play with my dog’s ears, rolling up their floppy softness like a tortilla, and she leans her head on my knee like it’s the best pet she’s ever had. I’m pretty sure it’s not, that she’s merely tolerating my ear-curling, because she somehow knows it’s making me feel a little less anxious. I give her extra head scritches, trying to make it up to her. I am intensely grateful for her tolerance. It’s almost as good as a hug.

I’m about to do something totally unbecoming. I’m warning you so that you can skip ahead, or stop reading entirely.
I know it’s awful to be all braggadocio about your weather, especially when you are from the Midwest, and the weather in the Midwest in February is the last thing anyone has ever bragged about. The thing is, though, that I’ve questioned my move to Seattle enough times, publicly and privately, that I need to set the record straight.
Yesterday, it was 55 degrees and the sun settled on everything: warm, intimate, embracing. Kiva all but pranced. I think I did prance. On the bus, the windows were open and there was a breeze and I was reading a book that didn’t, as my classmate Cynthia says, “feel like reading sandpaper.” This is why I moved here, for days like this, slivers of February that feel like April. I know the rain will be back, but right now, and for the next few days, we have sun and warm-ish breeze.
After getting home last night, and in celebration of the sun, I made marmalade. I have to confess I’m becoming kind of giddy about making jam. It’s strange because I prefer my toast only with butter, if even that, and find most store-bought jam too sweet. Yet, there’s something nourishing to me about a cupboard full of squat glass jars, each holding some preserved essence of a particular time and place. I started buying farmers’ market and small-batch jams to get that cupboard-full feeling, and found them to be a bit less sweet and a bit thinner than supermarket ones, which lends well to stirring into oatmeal or yogurt and granola, the hippie breakfast of champions. But, of course, because I am over the top, I bought way too many jams that I wasn’t eating. So many flavors that I’d never heard of, I had to try them all. Except they just sat in the cupboard, because I also liked just looking at them there, picturing their vibrant colors and textures behind the glass.
Now, I make jam. I am not allowed to buy jam that I think I can make at home. And citrus marmalade, which I love for its bitter and its sweet, seemed fitting for a warm day in February.

I decided to use Meyer lemons, which I’m guessing you can get in the Midwest somewhere, but which seem to be everywhere here since we’re so close to California. I just discovered them this year and I adore them. Their skins are thin, their juice is almost sweet, and they smell floral and almost unreal. I’ve been keeping a bowl on the counter so that I can smell them every time I’m on my way through the kitchen. Breathing them in, I picture living in a house with a Meyer lemon tree outside my bedroom window. And people accuse me of not being romantic!
Anyway, the marmalade splattered wildly and gave me a blistery burn on my knuckles. Not romantic at all. It started out a gloopy mess of water and sugar and rind and seeds tied in a bundle that I thought would never, ever reach its set point. Jam-making is like baking bread in that way. When I first started playing with dough, and even sometimes now, several years later, I can’t believe my first few minutes of kneading will produce anything resembling bread. The dough is too dry, too sticky, too craggy, sometimes, somehow, all of the above. Then, things somehow start working, despite or in spite of my uncertainty. Same with jam. I stare at the pot of fruit bits suspended in syrup. I stir it. It is wet and sticky and unappetizing. It does nothing for twenty minutes. I’m worried my jam will need to be renamed: “fruit bits in syrup.” And then, somehow, without much input from me, it sets up. It clings to the sides of the pot like it’s supposed to. It sustains its temperature, even after I stir it down. I can hardly pat myself on the back, because all I did was worry it wouldn’t come out right.
So it was with the marmalade, and yet, it gelled nicely, after about 45 tedious minutes. It remained wickedly bitter and retained its texture, which I like. And now, I have two pints of marmalade to tuck away for a rainy day, when toast and tea and a sunny yellow preserve is in order. I’m certain there will still be many of those before spring.

I was recently doing some “research for my thesis” about Daniel Kish, the blind guy who uses echolocation to get around instead of a cane or guide dog. I say “research” in quotes mainly because it makes me feel pretentious and academic in a way that it has become clear I am not and am not likely to be. “Research for my thesis” implies that my thesis has a formal research component, when what it actually means is that I spend lots of hours Googling stuff I’m not even sure I’ll use, and skittering down various information rabbit holes. And my thesis is no more defined than it was last month or last year. But I digress.

So, spoiler alert, I find Daniel Kish and his echolocation perplexing at best and annoying at worst, but that’s not the point here. The point is that as I was reading about and listening to interviews with him, he mentioned that he had gone to elementary school with another blind kid. Unlike Daniel, the other blind kid (TOBK) was more or less helpless: he ran into walls, people carried his books for him, and he sat out in gym class. Daniel didn’t run into walls, carried his own books, and killed it in gym class. Or at least, climbed a bunch of trees and rode his bike around the neighborhood.

Despite their differences, Daniel said, eventually people started lumping them together. They were “the blind kids.” They got called each other’s names and eventually got the same treatment, which defaulted to over-helping, because, well, they were the blind kids. And as annoyed as I was by some of Daniel’s opinions, I was completely on board with this situation being absolutely infuriating.

I haven’t been around many blind people for large parts of my life, because I was “mainstreamed” from preschool and was the only blind kid in my class. But I have noticed that every time I’m around other blind people, we become an indecipherable blob of white canes and guide dogs and robotic screenreaders.

This has become clear to me most recently working with other blind people. I worked with people with varying assistance requirements. Some needed a person to sit with them the whole time they were operating a computer. Some needed an escort to the bus stop. It’s not really my place to judge whether they “should” have been able to do these things without assistance, but it did start to irritate me when my sighted coworkers defaulted to trying to help me do the same things as some of the others. It’s like they forgot we were all individuals, and assumed we all needed as much help as the most helpless.

I admit to being someone who stubbornly refuses help, at times to my own detriment. My stock response to this acknowledgement is: “I’m working on it”, which I am, kind of. I bristle at the thought of having someone looking over my shoulder while I’m doing anything on my computer. If I have someone walk me to the bus stop, my goal is to pay rabid attention so I can do it myself next time. I mostly just want to be left alone, and if I need help, I’ll ask.

But the assumption that blind people need help all the time is pervasive. A few months ago, I was crossing a busy street in Downtown Seattle. In the middle of the street, while I’m concentrating on not getting run over, a woman who was also crossing says out of the blue, “Do you need help?” I had made it to the middle of the street without help. I was walking upright, in a straight line, presumably not giving off an air of desperation. But she asked anyway. I said, “No, I don’t.” She said, “Ok, well, I’m getting my degree in care-giving, so I have to ask.” To which all I can say is: no. No you don’t.

Sure, ask if the situation seems dire. Ask if someone is walking around in circles, looking super lost. Ask, if you can, out of a sense of genuine compassion, not to feed your ego or give you the opportunity to talk about your education. I’d be willing to bet most people in the middle of the street really don’t care about that, and would much rather just get to the other side in peace.

My “writing spirit” is sad this week. I know that sounds gaggy and way more woo-woo than anyone wants, but it’s true. I am cranky and full of grump.

When I started working last month, it happened to be right before both the holidays and my grad program’s residency. The program holds classes on Whidbey Island the first ten days of the semester, and the rest of the semester online. Because I was gone for two weeks for the holidays, I felt I had to make the “adult decision” to skip residency to bring in as much income as possible, since this job is only temporary. Making the “adult decision” didn’t make me feel any more adult or any more happy.

I’ve realized, this past week, as my grad schoolmates have been at residency and I have not, how much I’ve come to rely on residency. How much the support of other people who write feels essential to my own writing. And how much I want to give that back, too.

My first residency, I felt completely intimidated by grad school and genres and workshops and the constant, “Have you read this?” and “Do you like Writer Such-and-Such?” I hadn’t read anything and I knew nothing. I had the biggest, brightest case of imposter syndrome.

Somehow, by second residency, it all clicked. I hadn’t read Writer Such-and-Such, maybe, but at least I knew someone I had read and loved. Or several someones. Or, at least I felt confident enough in my own writer-person skin to say, “No, I have no idea who that is. Tell me why you love them”, and eagerly anticipate the answer. Everything was there in those ten days: writing and reading, peace, belonging, liveliness, friendship and support.
I missed that this time around and I am very sad about that. I felt cranky all this past week, wanting my residency fix and the feeling of being taken seriously by other people who need to write as much as I do. I’ve felt annoyed and bitter, wanting to be in a thousand places other than on a bus every day at 6 AM.

My writer-friend Kate sent me an email yesterday with the subject line, “You better come next residency.” And with the closing, “Know you’re loved.” I haven’t felt the magnitude and sincerity of words like that in quite a while. Somehow, with hers, I felt them and I knew.

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.

Shortly after my last post, my friend Arlie sent me a link to this kickstarter. Funnily enough, the previous evening we’d been bantering about how there should be a suite of apps under the heading of: “Where the fuck’s my…” and the app could help you find objects with audio feedback, like keys, a garbage can for an ill-timed doggie bathroom break, a particular bus stop, etc. The Kickstarter is to improve an existing app, Blind Tool, which has some of that “where the fuck’s my…” capability.
It’s pretty cool! Check it out if you feel so moved:

P.S. My apologies to anyone reading this who is offended by the word “fuck.” Like, I dunno, my grandma. Though, knowing her, I bet she’s not offended.

Several times in the last few months there have been situations where I’ve been dealing with inaccessible technology. One such situation cost me a job I had gotten as a transcriber. The transcription interface turned out to be inaccessible without the use of a mouse. When I mentioned this tiny but major issue, the company who hired me said, “Well, we outsource the maintenance of that site, so we can’t do anything.” Basically, “Sorry, but not our problem. And if you can’t do this one thing, no job for you.”

That was the most extreme and the most frustrating. But other situations have come up where a site has been inaccessible: whether it’s content not being spoken by my screenreader, a required signature that can only be achieved by “drawing” with a mouse, or a a “submit” button that doesn’t respond to keyboard commands. In every instance, I try to find someone to report the situation to. I send emails. I speak to my colleagues. And in almost every situation, the answer comes back: “Well, we outsource this, so there’s not much we can do to fix it.” Also known as: “So not our problem, and we’re busy people with a lot more pressing problems to deal with.”

No one has actually said that. People have tried to be helpful, I suppose. People have suggested I send feedback to the web administrator, which may or may not get read, or wait for sighted assistance, which may or may not be remembered by the sighted person. These solutions are fine, but ultimately, I want a solution that I feel like will fix the problem and not just be a waste of time.

I think what it comes down to is: I don’t understand social irresponsibility. Maybe this comes from my work in nonprofits, or more specifically, the nonprofits I served where people have gone totally beyond necessity to help me, to help others, or at least to make a concerted effort to find the person who knows what must be done to help. And these aren’t people who are bored and have nothing better to do. These are people who are as exceedingly busy as everyone else claims to be.

It’s not that I’m a martyr, or a saint. I’m not even that good of a person a lot of the time. And yet, I also feel a kinship with and a responsibility to others, and if I had a company who outsourced an inaccessible web site, or rented an inaccessible building, or was somehow paying companies that were complicating the life of someone, I would be going to those companies to see how we could fix it, and I would consider it a priority. Totally my problem. Certainly not solely mine, but mine enough to work diligently for a solution.

What frustrates me the most about the “not my problem” attitude when faced with inaccessible technology is that so many people are content to let the issue rest there. And if it rests, it doesn’t make its way to the people who can fix it. It stays with the people who are too busy, too harassed, too maxed out to push it forward. I can’t help but think that so many of these issues are simple coding flaws, and that they could be fixed reasonably quickly. But if they never make it to the proper person because someone decides it’s not their problem, the code is left to continue tripping people up.

I don’t mean to blame the entire tech industry, but I would like to see a lot more social responsibility and way more collaboration on this. And it starts as easily as acknowledging our responsibility to one another as people.

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.

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.