Random thoughts from an animal-loving French prof / mom of three on things she finds beautiful, funny, sad, or strange.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Where are you from?

It's been a while since I've posted, and in a sense, you still have to wait, for the words of this post are not my own. Then again, can we really say that words belong to anyone? It seems to me they somehow belong at once to no one and to everyone. Anyway. I say these words aren't mine because this short but evocative piece comes from another writer, Isabelle Flükiger of Switzerland. I loved it so much that I've been wanting to share it, but many of my readers and social media followers don't speak French. So... I translated it. If you want to read it in the original French, however, please do by following the link below the photo. The original is always better!

The Place You're From

The place you're from is like your family. You didn't choose it. You might sometimes be ashamed of it, but it's like your mother: only you can criticize. It's where you learned your first lessons, when to speak and when to remain silent, when to laugh and what to do. It shaped your customs: Coca cola and apple pie, states' rights and the Electoral College.* You might not always agree, but it's ingrained in you. You carry this baggage with you in the world. It's your point of reference, how you make sense of things. The country you're from is like your family: you start out being part of it; it ends up being part of you.

*Here the French text makes reference to very specifically Swiss foods and institutions. It was fun thinking of equivalents in American English! Also, I know "pays" literally means "country," but it just didn't feel right to me here...

Monday, February 20, 2017

Please don't yell at me

I mean it.

Don't yell at me.

Don't tell me I don't care enough.

Don't tell me I care too much.

Don't tell me that I don't know or don't understand. It's true that I don't always understand, but at least I'm trying to know.

I know that children are the victims of policies they didn't create and cannot begin to understand. I know because my own daughters, already cleared for immigration, were held at the the border (briefly, thank God) when they were 6 and 3. Six. And. Three.

I also know that other people are scared. There were more Islamist extremist attacks in France in the 1990s than there are today. I know all too well that feeling of hypervigilance, that jumping at every unexpected sight and sound. I was there.

I know that we blow apart mountains and poison streams and leave miners to cope with incurable disease, all in the name of prosperity. After all, I live in Appalachia.

I also know how it looks when those in power leave a place to die, take away the only high-paying jobs, put nothing in their place. Remember, I live in Appalachia.

I'm trying to get it, truly I am. It's just that yelling at me doesn't help. It's not driving me further to the left or further to the right. It's not even driving me to the center. It's driving me out of the conversation altogether, and I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.

"Fine," the angry ones might say, "Go."

"Fine," I want to say back, "I will."

There's just one problem: if there is no place for us here, then where?

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Black cat has a double life

A new post for this blog is in the works. However, as some of you may remember, I've accepted a second blogging gig as well. So if you're wondering what's going on, visit me at ATN:  http://blog.attachmenttraumanetwork.org/unanswerable-questions/ where you can read all about what happened when I read Saroo Brierly's A Long Way Home. Never heard of it? It's the basis for the new film, Lion, which I'm going to see today.

Meanwhile, happy reading. The black cat will before you know it. Promise.

Friday, January 13, 2017

The other woman at the table

The first time they sat down together was not a happy one. Yes, they were seated at the sturdy old table that had made its way from her grandparents' kitchen to her own, the table that knew generations of joy and love. Of course it had seen its fair share of tears and hurts as well, and on that chilly afternoon, it had to absorb a whole lot more. This was not, I repeat, a happy occasion.

Maybe if she'd been less frightened, she would have been able to see the other woman clearly. But she was frightened, the kind of fear that feels like certain soul death. In that state, how was she supposed to see anything other than another one of them, the ones who seemed bent on destroying families? Talk about intolerable pain. Talk about an enemy.

Nearly a decade later, the two women sat down again, this time at the other woman's table. It was a frigid day, colder even than the first, but this time warmed, both by plates of hot lasagna and the spark of recognition that ignites when two people truly meet. Their words traveled from their childhoods to France, then on into the mountains, raising children and building houses along the way. Both could pass on Coke, but coffee? They'd rather die than live without it, just as long as it's black. They're both daddy's girls who find themselves alternately amused, chagrined, and flattered that they now sound exactly like their moms. Their grandmothers were the best bakers in the world, and both women have spent hours days trying to recreate those treats. Each has been forced to lead when she'd rather be hiding backstage, and life has dealt them both hands that sometimes, honestly, they'd rather not have to play. Yet here they are, playing those hands anyway, because, well, that's just what they do.

What changed, you ask? Simply this: one moved beyond her fear and learned to play with, not against, the other.

Monday, December 26, 2016

Work in progress

The semester is over, my annual respiratory infection is gone, and I'm now in New York getting some much needed R & R and holiday cheer. With any luck, the black cat will be back soon.

Meanwhile, I'm (finally) getting started on my other gig, blogging with the Attachment & Trauma Network. It's a cause I really believe in, so I encourage all my readers to click the link and enjoy.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Searching for a starfish

You probably know some version of Loren Eiseley's story, the one where a child is throwing starfish into the ocean one by one, only to have an adult chide him for wasting his time. After all, he will never save them all, right? The child, however, has the last word, that his efforts do matter to each starfish he saves. 

It's a good story, albeit beaten to death by motivational speakers slightly overused, and it's not a bad response to November 2016, a month I generally think of as follows:

I am not just talking about THAT day. I might have been able to withstand that. Doubtful, sure, but it's what I'd like to believe. 

No, my fracture came a few days later when Vesbo, subject of Why are they always orange?, crossed the Rainbow Bridge. "I just really needed to save him," I sobbed on the phone to my parents. "And I failed."

Eventually, I cried (most) of the tears I had to cry. In their place, nothing. Yes, I had my friends, my family, my students, and they all held me together more than they will ever know. But deep down inside? That's where that big dark space was born.

Then I opened yesterday’s mail. One of the envelopes, larger than the others, bore the return address Open Arms India. I eagerly opened it, and there I saw her. Our sponsored child, holding a picture of… I looked closer…us. There we were, my family grasped in the hands of a child with a phenomenal smile. 

Something in me started to spark, a piece of my inner power grid coming back on line. I looked at that smile and thought maybe, just maybe, we were playing some small part in making that light shine. For the first time in weeks, I felt something like belief. 

I don't know what the future holds, and that thought scares me half to death. So does the fact that no matter what I want or what I try, I won't be able to save every cat or every child. 
But maybe, every once in a while, one of them will be my starfish. 

Friday, November 4, 2016

On (not) being a writer

I don't know when I first thought I wanted to be a writer.

Scratch that.

I don't know when I started writing.

Scratch that too.

I am not a writer. I don't even know if I want to be one. I just write. Always have, always will.

Ahhhh... Now we're on to something. Not that the nature of this "something" is especially clear, of course. After all, it's not as if I've never seen my name in print. As an academic, I have published a fair number of articles and book chapters over the years. That counts, right? Then there is this blog, whose posts do not appear magically out of cyber-thin air. Quite the contrary– much like academic writing, channeling these thoughts through pen onto paper actually requires fairly serious butt-in-chair time (yes, I am that odd creature who writes most of her blog posts longhand).

Okay then. Perhaps I am in fact a writer. Cool. Well, cool except for one little problem. I haven't yet written the thing I want to write. I am possessed by a pretty huge, mostly true story that's just dying to get out. I'm talking wakes me up in the middle of the night just to remind me it's still here. In case, you know, my memory was wiped by space aliens or I somehow otherwise managed to forget. As if. Anyway, it's here, it's real, and I bet at least a few people would read it if I could just coax it out. Yep. Coax. As badly as it wants out in the dead of night, it is awfully shy when it sees my open notebook. Go figure.

This push-and-pull has been going on for a while now. As in years. And it's time for it to end. This story is going to get the attention it deserves, and not just "when I have the time" (as if that were a thing!). To make that happen, I've done two things. One, I found a writing group. Well, it found me. Point is, I now have a safe and structured writing home where my story and I will be accountable to each other. And two, I've decided to nurture other people's stories by writing for and managing the ATN blog. ATN stands for The Attachment & Trauma Network, an organization of not-so-ordinary angels who have thrown many a lifeline to families just like mine.

So... stay tuned. It's going to happen. I will wrestle my story into a book or die trying. Meanwhile, please, check us out at ATN. It's an amazing place.