Too Much Thought

Grocery List

Ground beef (spaghetti for dinner tomorrow?)

Ground turkey (Is anyone on a diet this week?)

Chicken breasts (check the freezer.  Do we have any?)

Bacon (Kevran wrote this entry.  Indulge him if it’s on sale)

Cheese (for Kerry, so stronger flavor is preferred.  Swiss, maybe?)

Lunch meat (for Kylie’s snacks, she likes bologna)

Butter (real butter for candy making)

Butter flavored spread (check to see if we need raspberry jelly for Amy)

Fruit snacks (make sure Miriam has some in her purse)

Crackers (Everyone likes Four Cheese Cheez-Its—get these)

Milk (Marcus doesn’t drink much now that he’s not growing.  Only 2 gallons)

Sour cream (we have potatoes we can bake on Sunday)

(Is anyone eating yogurt anymore?  Kerry’s mother ate it before she died)

Flour

Sugar

Gelatin

(check pumpkin pie recipe, and see if the pumpkins have grown big enough yet)

Baby carrots (the dogs love these)

Cucumbers (that’s for me, but get extra in case someone else wants one)

Apples (gala and Granny Smith—sweet and sour)

Fresh oregano and basil (Marcus asked for these.  He’s trying a new recipe.  Yay!)

Dishsoap (remember Miriam can’t use Dawn)

Clorox Wipes (did anything ever get clean before these were invented?)

Diet Coke!

Imagine

Imagine being blind.  Imagine being born blind, never seeing colors or shapes.  Perhaps you can see differences between light and dark.  Perhaps you can see large shapes or movement.  Or maybe you have no vision, and never have.  You have no concept of what anything looks like, because you have never seen anything, ever.  If someone says the sky is particularly blue today, you have no idea what that means.  Maybe you can smell the air, cleaner than some days.  Maybe you feel the warmth of the sun.  Maybe you hear birds singing more loudly than usual.  But “blue” is utterly meaningless, and no one can explain to you what it means.  You have no frame of reference to even begin to understand.

Get this idea clearly set in your mind, really put yourself in this position.  Go ahead.  I will wait for you.

Now imagine going to school on your very first day ever.  Your family has told you all about the interesting things you will do and learn in school.  You feel excited to learn about the great music of Mozart, the literature of Dr. Seuss, math and geometry and history and all the rest.  Hooray!  The grand educational adventure begins today!

But something goes wrong.  When you get to school you do not hear anything.  No one is speaking.  Someone keeps putting their moving hands under your hands, but you have no idea why.  You put your hands behind your back, but someone drags them out, making you feel the moving hands again.  Maybe those moving hands mean something.  Is this a way to talk?  How are you ever going to figure out what all that motion means, and why won’t anyone speak out loud?

Well, little one, you have been put into a school that only uses a signed language.  It is easiest to understand if you can see it, but since you cannot see, you will have to make do with a different sense, touch, to figure out this new language.  You only have two hands, so you can only understand one person at a time, and even if you become proficient at this new language, you will not know what all the kids around you are saying—you will rely on the teacher to give you all the information about all class discussions.  Until you learn this language, you will not learn math or history or music or literature.  You must understand “blue” before you can really begin the educational adventure.

This seems a little silly, bordering on ridiculous, does it not?  Why would any thinking person force a blind child to read hands rather than simply teaching him in his native, oral, language?  How can this child be expected to learn under these circumstances?

But this is exactly what we are asking Deaf children to do every day.  Not only must they learn a new language, but they must learn it using a different sense.  Hearing is the easiest way to learn English, but we expect them to learn it by sight alone.  They are not allowed to learn literacy and numeracy until they learn this new language using a sense not meant for the language. 

Ridiculous!  These kids think visually, they see pictures in their heads, and have a finely developed spatial sense, honed by years of practice seeing special relations.  Imagine the engineers and architects they could become, understanding space and dimensions in a way less visual thinkers never will.  Think of the art they could produce, the roads they could design, the new maths they could invent, if only we gave them the information they need in a language they truly understand, without wasting prime brain growth stages of life on learning spoken English and lipreading. 

Deaf children should be taught in the sign language of their country.  English should be taught as a second language, but not at the expense of all the other fields of study that should be available to everyone.

Tiger Pets: Ridiculous, or Brilliant?

           When I was a kid, maybe seven or eight, I had a plan.  I found my mother and announced, “When I am sixteen, I will have a tiger for a pet.”  I thought sixteen was as grown-up as I was ever likely to be, and I certainly did not imagine my mother would still have anything to say about how I lived my life, let alone that I might still be living in her house.  My mother barely glanced at me and responded, “Leslie, no you won’t.  You know that’s ridiculous.”  I did not pursue the subject, but I certainly did not know it was ridiculous.  I just figured that I would do whatever I wanted when I finally reached the extremely grown-up age of sixteen.

            I did finally turn sixteen, and I had not forgotten my dream.  But by then I realized how little control I really had over my life.  My mother would certainly not allow a tiger in the house—she would not even allow a kitten.  I still thought tigers were elegant, exotic animals, and I thought I could still become a tiger trainer and spend my time on stage with several pet tigers when I finished growing up.

            Well, I grew up.  I got my own apartment (one that did allow pets, incidentally), but did not get a tiger.  Instead, I got kittens.  I began to understand how much work a tiger would take, how expensive, and how dangerous it would be in the house.  Kittens were hard enough on the furniture and my skin.  Now that I have my own house, I own a chihuahua.  He weights eight pounds, and sleeps on the back of the sofa where he can watch safely away from people feet.  He is all the time, energy, and money I am willing to expend on a pet.  I no longer wish for a tiger, in fact, I think a tiger is a ridiculous pet.

            It makes me wonder, though.  As I learn and grow, my opinions change.  New information becomes part of my schema, and my view of the world changes.  I have been disillusioned many times.  I have recognized my ill-informed views on many things.  I wonder what I know to be true and rational today, that will prove itself false and ridiculous tomorrow?

Happy Feet

Happy Feet

            I move through the world on four inch spike heels.  There is power in looking a person straight in the eye, instead of up.  Lean, tightened muscles of calves and thighs when I am balanced on the balls of my feet show my physical self in its best light.  I can portray or pretend confidence with a firm click of a shoe on a hard floor.  The sensual sway of my skirt created by a high-heeled gait brings to mind other pleasures of the flesh.  I like looking at my closet shelves, lined floor to ceiling with shoes in every color and style and attitude.  I believe in old friends and new shoes.

            It is true that taller people are presumed to have more authority and intelligence.  Children learn to respect adults, all of whom are taller, and this lesson carries into adulthood as part of our psyche.  In the business world, employees and clients take me more seriously if I can look them straight in the eye, or even down at them a little.  I learned to wear shoes that put my eyes higher than theirs, giving me an advantage as a manager and as a salesman.

            Dancers stand en pointe to give their bodies a long, graceful line from fingertips high above the head to toe tips barely touching the ground.  Their bodies appear to float above the floor, as if gravity pulls less forcefully on them than mere mortals.  High heeled shoes create the illusion of length, grace and beauty.  A woman in high heels appears ethereal and out of reach, making her (ME!) forbidden fruit and more desirable.  I am not available, but every woman likes to know she is beautiful.

            High heels make a distinctive click across hard floors, announcing the arrival or departure of a woman.  A timid, soft tap-tap follows a self-effacing, shy woman unwilling to draw attention to herself.  Loud, uneven, stumbling thunks are the mark of a woman unused to high heels or uncomfortable in her own body.  Firm, even clicking is the sound of a woman with confidence and maturity, sure of herself and the world around her.  Simply hearing this pleasant sound under my own feet brings out my own confidence.  The world is my oyster.

            Little girls twirl around in full dresses, watching their skirts lift around them and feeling delighted with themselves.  Wearing high heels is the grown-up version of this twirling.  Posture is thrown off and balance changes, causing my hips to sway in a sensual and subtly sexual movement, calling to mind other physical pleasures: the taste of good chocolate, the scent of lilacs grown in great clusters, and the feel of a child’s hand tucked firmly into my own. 

            There are a hundred pairs of shoes in rows along my closet shelves.  I choose tall boots with stacked heels to show a tough exterior or to hide a weeping heart.  I choose sparkling platform pumps to show a girlie femininity and daintiness.  Lace-up oxfords portray a professional and competent mien.  Strappy sandals, wedges, shoeties, even my snow boots have high heels, each perfectly suiting a different attitude.  I can choose a shoe to match the mood I’m in, or to create the mood I want.

            I am not a flat, one dimensional woman.  I play many roles and perform all sorts of different tasks.  Some days I can do anything, some days I want to crawl into a hole.  On the days I feel alone and scared in the world, I grab an old friend and go shopping for a brand new pair of really fabulous shoes.  When my feet are happy, I can conquer the universe, capture a heart, and dream impossible dreams.  My shoes and I can do anything. 

Every Single Week

     

Every Week

            My sister and I share a room, a violin teacher, and a shoe size.  We are together much of the time, and too much togetherness creates friction, so we fight.  We fight about whose turn it is to vacuum the carpet and who left the dishes on the dresser and who gets to use the bathroom mirror first this morning.  We fight a lot about who gets to wear the favorite shoes to church.

            “You wore them last week.  You have to let me wear them,” she says, sliding her feet into one of the shoes.

            I did not wear them last week.  I wore the ugly sandals.  If she didn’t take her turn to wear the shoes, that’s not my fault at all.  She missed her turn, and now it’s my turn.  “It’s my turn,” I say as I grab the shoe off her foot, almost yanking her off the bed.  “These go with my dress, you wear something else.”

            “All the other shoes are gross.  I’m not wearing them,” she insists.

            I yell.  She cries.  Mom threatens to take the shoes away if we can’t work it out this very minute with no more meanness.  I am bigger, taller, heavier and meaner, so I get to wear the shoes that day.  There’s no fun in wearing the shoes when my sister is so upset.  This will be the last time I wear these shoes.  Those sandals aren’t so bad, really.

Doggy Pile

            The clicking keyboard disturbed the otherwise quiet room.  Squeaky toys littered the floor, someone’s stereo played in the back bedroom, I dozed on the couch listening to my husband write a speech.

 “What do you think about this paragraph?” he asked, and read aloud for several minutes. 

I only half listened, but managed to wake up long enough to say, “It’s wonderful, Dear,” before I dozed off again. 

It was a perfect way to spend a Saturday afternoon, and I planned to take full advantage of the opportunity.  The dogs were taking advantage of the quiet, too, sleeping in a funny pile on my feet.  I was always too cold from the air conditioner, so they were welcome on my bare toes.

Suddenly the neighbor roared into the driveway on his big Harley, and the dogs leaped to their feet, barking and snarling to protect the house from the vicious motorcycle.  Then the squeaky toys looked fascinating again, and the ball had to be thrown, and everybody wanted to go outside.  Damn.  There went my afternoon nap.

Magic Carpet

I remember first seeing that little, blue Schwinn bike.  It was sitting in the living room on my fifth birthday.  I was excited—and terrified.  Flying around on only two wheels was a scary thought.  How can you balance on that narrow base?  Only a tiny bit of the bike actually touches the ground; that can’t be safe.  Still, I went bravely out with my dad to try it.  And promptly gave up.  I fell on the gravel road in front of our house, I didn’t like the bumpy ride over the giant rocks (okay, gravel isn’t giant, but it looked really big from the top of that bike), and the bike obviously didn’t want me to ride it. 

My dad put training wheels on the bike, and I happily rode on four wheels for two years.  When I was almost seven, the training wheels came off over my protests and against my better judgment.  The bike certainly hadn’t gotten safer in those two years.  If anything, it was worse since I was taller and had further to fall.  My dad didn’t believe that the bike wanted to hurt me, and those training wheels came off anyway.  I was too scared to sit on the seat to ride.  I sat on the crossbar between the seat and handlebars and coasted along, unable to reach the pedals from that awkward angle, but safe sitting only a foot off the ground. 

One day I decided to sit on the seat and coast.  I was tall enough for my feet to easily reach the ground on both sides, so I figured I probably wouldn’t die up there.  Before I knew it, I was riding, feet on the pedals, flying over the street.  I’d never been so fast in my life.  I rode a magic carpet on two wheels, a thoroughbred racehorse with thundering hooves, a space craft capable of escaping the pull of gravity and flying to the moon.  It was magical, freeing, FAST.  I ran inside to make my parents come see my newfound talent.  They stood in awe of my magical self and my superb bike (probably greatly relieved that I’d finally stopped being scared of that little blue bike). 

After years of alternately trying out her bike and avoiding her bike, my granddaughter learned the magic trick of flying on two wheels.  Her proud grin, splitting her face in two, showed her own delight in knowing how to ride a racehorse and a space ship.  Proud grandparents applauded her mastery of her fabulous bicycle, feeling awed and amazed (and not a little relieved that she overcame her fear of that little pink bike). 

I relived my own discovery of freedom while she discovered hers.  I dragged out my bike—big and black, now—and sped around the neighborhood.  It’s still magical and fun and fast.  Go out and borrow a bike from one of the taller kids in your neighborhood.  Try it out.  Rediscover the wonder of racing in the Kentucky Derby, flying to the moon, and swooping over distant lands on your own magic carpet.  Wear a helmet, and have fun!