My Home in the World

In her stunning memoir, In Other Words, Jhumpa Lahiri describes what was for her the painful duality of growing up between lands (India and the United States), languages (Bengali and English), and loves (family and writing). As her reflections unfold, she shows us that a third way, a way out of that pain, is possible. For her, that path is Italian, a language that opens up heretofore unknown, untried parts of her mind, body, and soul. Through Italian, she charts a way forward, one in which duality could become a good, desirable thing: "It's not possible to become another writer, but it might be possible to become two."

I cannot say enough how much I loved this book. I love it like I love Jane Austen, like I love that first morning cup of coffee, like I love those rare shining moments when my pen translates my thoughts on the very first try. Her writing is finely wrought, worthy of a life richly lived. It also helped give new shape to my response when, for approximately the 1000th time, someone asked me a version of the tired question, "how did you end up here?"

On the one hand, I can kind of see their point. I'm a Yankee born and bred; unlike many Americans, I am multilingual by choice, and I've lived in nearly a dozen different places from small-town America to Houston to Versailles (yes, yes, that Versailles). Given that, I guess I can kind of see why some might wonder that I am so happy to call this corner of Appalachia home.

On the other hand, I don't get it at all. Yes, I've called 3 countries, 5 states, 11 cities "home." I've left...and, more importantly, found...a piece of my soul in every single place. Why, then, should I only lay claim to one? There is a version of my best self basking on the terrasse of a Mediterranean café, another so ensconced in a book that I found myself unexpectedly snowed in (true story!). I can suit up and speak at the Université Sorbonne Nouvelle, or I can throw on jeans, boots, and flannel to share my musings with a herd of Hereford cows.

I am all these selves and more. They come from a lot of different places and taken together, sometimes those selves and places don't make a lot of sense. Do yours? I didn't think so. And yet. They're yours, right? Your places helped create you, just as Lahiri's form part of her and mine are shaping me. They morph and meld, grow and change, yet ultimately, remain ours. Ours to carry wherever we go. Ours to keep within our hearts, the true home where all our best selves live.

Great-Aunt Jean and Grandma Ruth

my great-aunt Jean

My great-aunt Jean died this week. It's a loss for all of us, including my mom. She had a special connection with Jean, and not just because Jean brightened and warmed the world for everyone she met. And it's not that my mom didn't have a great mom of her own –she did–, but Jean gave her something too, something no one else could, or did. This post is in honor of all the Jeans, the women who, perhaps unbeknownst to them, helped our moms raise the rest of us up into the men and women we are today.

For me, one of those women is my father's mom, Grandma Ruth. For a long time, she was "just" Grandma to me, but as our family got more complicated, the addition of her first name made it easier to keep everyone straight. I often worry that Grandma died without knowing the influence she had on my life, partly because I hadn't yet lived enough of that life to understand it myself. I didn't realize that all the things that make me, well, me, they have to come from someone, and one of those someones is her. She's been on my mind a lot lately, and Mother's Day seems a good time to give credit where credit is due.

Me with the women who made me: Grandma Ruth, Mom, and Grandma Florence
(more about Grandma Florence in a future post...) 

Here are three of Grandma Ruth's gifts to me:

1) She showed me I can be my own person. Be a Democrat in a red Republican sea. Cheer on the Red Sox when just about everyone else is wearing Yankee blue. Camp in an Argosy when other travelers are towing an Airstream. If you're more a writer than a farmer's wife, so be it. She actually got to live the dream of seeing her name in print.

2) Music, reading, writing, art. She loved all these things, and judging by a girlhood diary, she loved them her whole life through. We even loved and loathed some of the same things. We found ourselves baffled by modern art, transported by soaring arias. Little Women is the book that defined our lives. We cried when Beth died, admired Marmie's and Meg's steadfast motherly devotion, frowned at Amy's frivolity, and most all, wanted not-so-secretly to be Jo. I, like Jo, like my grandmother, have filled diary after diary and now, however tentatively, I too am trying to make my way in the writerly world.

Grandma Ruth with three of her boys, my uncle Doug, my uncle Steve, and my dad

3) I never thought that families had to look or be any one particular way. Her father left their family in a time when such things weren't really done. I imagine that led to a different, harder life than the one she once dreamed of and deserved. Yet she grew her family all the same, through birth, foster care, and adoption. She wanted to be Jo March so much that she literally filled her house with boys. I parted ways with her there, certain I had at least one daughter out there in the world (turns out I have two!), but I kept the idea that families can be born not just of blood, but also shared experiences, lives built in community, and above all, love. I may not have grasped it at the time, but my desire to expand my own family through adoption surely had its roots in her example.

I could talk about so many other things I shared with Grandma Ruth. Shared loathings: migraines, fear of heights, how computer solitaire won't let you cheat. Shared loves: key lime pie, coffee, black labs and white-faced cows. And yet, we used to butt heads so bad. Sooooo bad. I was young and foolish and so let myself be impatient, selfish, even unkind, sure she could never understand the person I was and wanted to become. It's hard to admit that, much less put it into words, yet here I am, following her lead to do just that. I don't know if they read blogs in heaven, but if they do, Grandma Ruth, this one's for you.

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.

The Attachment & Trauma Network

Finding a voice

I want to give a voice to people whose problems our culture would rather ignore: the mentally ill, especially children, and women, especially those victimized by male aggression. Some days, that's what the Black Cat talks about.

Yet there are many days that I don't know what the Black Cat is supposed to say or how to say it. I have a voice, and apparently it's a decent one, at least on its best days. Yet how do I know when those days will strike? And how do I keep that voice true to itself and all the things I want need to say?

Hard questions.

As my blog description says, I want to write the beautiful, funny, sad, and strange. Yet if I face facts, I tend to be on a soapbox when people read me most. Is that then my true voice? The one on the soapbox? Soapboxes are all well and good, and Lord knows I love to prance around on mine. But is that all there is?

What about the rest? Can the voice declaiming from the soapbox also translate the extraordinary world that surrounds her on every side? Can she convey the beauty in the strange and the strangeness of the beautiful? Can she claim in writing the sometimes biting, sometimes silly humor that gets her through the day?

Or is the soapbox on behalf of the silent and the silenced her truest home?

More hard questions, questions to which I have no answer. If you do, please tell me. And if you don't, well, please just keep on reading. Maybe we can find my voice together.

The story I want to read

Maybe you've heard the statistic: 80% of couples parenting a special needs child end up divorced.

Then again, maybe you haven't. I hadn't until I heard it repeated like a mantra as my own marriage fell apart. I think people were trying to reassure me, to let me know that with those kinds of odds, I was in no way alone. Perhaps it helped. Could it be that in a weird way I was comforted by being in the majority for once? Maybe. I don't know, though. That doesn't really sound like me.

Besides, I was alone. 80 percent is meaningless when you're the one curled up on the front porch with your insomnia, watching the stars, wondering how on earth you are going to raise three humans to adulthood. Heck, there are days when you don't know if you can manage pants!

One such sleepless night, I decided to research that number. Although 80% is almost certainly inflated, the threat to marriages is real, with sources suggesting special needs families have divorce rates at least 5-10% higher than those of the general population. For me, though, well, the cracks in my marriage had been there for a long time. The extra stress of a child's illness just turned them into chasms.

At any rate, the exact number is beside the point. Statistics have their place, but stories aren't made of numbers. They're made of people. And what I want to know is this: where are the stories about people like us? families like mine? women like me? Where are our novels, our plays, our films? Where is our epic love story? I've mostly found two versions: a) shattering tragedy full of heartache, estrangement, institutions, and death, or b) preposterous Disneyfication featuring an improbable cure and/or a white knight sweeping in to save the day. What ever happened to the truth being in the middle?

I hear you. If it's truth I want, I should read a memoir. Better yet, write one. Guess what? I am. There are parts of our story I want need to tell. But it's not enough. Much as I love memoir, fiction is where I go to fall in love. Nothing beats the intoxication of other worlds, other lives. I just wish sometimes those other worlds were a little more like ours, those fictional characters a little more like us.

Soul food

At this time last weekend, I was sitting in an armchair, studying the intricate architecture of a tree as I listened to three Kentucky poets share their work. It was definitely one of my favorite parts of a much-needed weekend away from the daily grind. Of course conferences are part and parcel of an academic's work; they just happen to be one I enjoy. Here are five reasons why:

1. Hotel rooms.
Hyatt Place Bowling Green

I bet you didn't see that one coming. After all, academia and poetry exist on a much higher plane, right? Yet we all have times in our lives when we ask nothing more than a clean, quiet space that we don't have to clean ourselves (BTW: tip the hotel housekeeper. She's the reason you get this break!). After all the hectic preparation it takes to get to a conference, coupled with the socializing that takes place once I've arrived, I LOVE coming into the hush of a dimly lit room, turning on the coffee maker, and flopping down on the crisp, white bed. That this room provided the option of a sofa was icing on the cake.

2. The conferences I attend are entirely about words, language, and literature. I have been doing this for more than 20 years and I still feel like I have won the career lottery. If I had known as a child that there was a whole line of work where you could do nothing but talk books with people who share that love, I wouldn't have worried so much about that age-old question, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"

3. I'm good at it. I'm a pretty decent reader, occasionally even insightful. Plus I have the blessing of being able to read in three languages (and the accompanying curse of wishing it were closer to six). I like to talk books, and there are people in the world who actually want to hear what I have to say. The group I was with this weekend was gracious enough to let me have the floor twice, once as a presenter and once as president of the association. Again, I'm pretty sure I won the jackpot when I fell into this line of work!

KPA members and supporters at Lost River Cave

4. Socializing with people who get me. Yes, I am an introvert who gets burned out by too much interaction. At conferences, though, it takes a lot longer before I'm looking for the sanctuary of that quiet hotel. It is refreshing spend time with people who "get" me. We don't think alike -we are, thankfully, way too idiosyncratic for that- but we all share common ground.

5. Conferences feed my wanderlust. Truth be told, I often choose them more by place than by theme. They have taken me from Chattanooga to Chicago, from Frankfort (Kentucky) to Paris (France). I love that the KPA belongs to such a beautiful, diverse state and that I am blessed to call this state home. This time, the aventure du jour was Lost River Cave, an experience that pushed me ever so slightly out of my comfort zone. The ceiling was a little close to the boat for a few seconds, and I'm not a huge fan of tight, dark spaces. Yet much like a book that might get off to a slow or disconcerting start, it was worth it. After all, it's a privilege to travel to strange and beautiful new places, both in the real world and our minds.

Lost River Cave - Entrance

Not brave, maybe never will be...and I'm good with that

Last weekend I attended the Kentucky Women Writers Conference for the second time, and for the second time, I came away inspired. This year, I got to workshop with LA Times columnist and author Meghan Daum. Among her many successes, she counts "Difference Maker," published just a year ago in the New Yorker. (Yes, you read that right- little ol' me, I worked with someone who's been in the New Yorker! Insert fan-girl scream here!). I had signed up for the workshop before I read that piece, but that, well, it sealed the deal. I knew that while we might not be members of the exact same tribe, we were awfully close kin. I was excited to meet her and let me tell you, it was worth every second of anticipation.

I learned a lot of things in that workshop, among them that I need not only to write the scary part of my book, I need to make it the opening. Oh, and I probably need to think of it in essays rather than narrative. Some people might find that discouraging, but apparently I am not one of those people. I'm champing at the bit, wishing desperately for real life to leave me alone so I can just sit and write.

Even more importantly, I learned that I am not brave. In fact, no one in that room is brave. Why not, you ask? The answer is simple: by telling our stories, we are doing what we are supposed to do. There is nothing inherently brave about doing our job, any more than it is brave for the dishwasher to pick up the sponge or the seamstress to sew a seam.

That's not to say we are never brave. The women changing careers midstream? Brave. The one who was a breast cancer survivor before her 25th birthday? Brave. The professional fake violinist? Brave (not to mention fascinating). The woman cast off by her parents as a teen who made it anyway? Definitely brave. But telling our stories? Well, that's more about listening to our muse and doing what she says.

I don't know about you, but I find this remarkably freeing. As a therapist I know used to say, we've already done the hard part. We know how the story ends, because here we are. We survived. Now it's up to us to tell the tale.

The Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning

(my home away from home for one weekend every September... wish it were more!)

How to Write a Book Review

ATTENTION: these steps should not be taken until your deadline looms large. As a general rule, they are most effective in the final 48-72 hours.

1) Procure copy of book. The more difficult the text, the better. If the publisher offers only e-copies and you prefer paper, perfect.

2) Ensconce self on couch to read, preferably with afghan or quilt. This should produce one or more feline companions. (NOTE: if you do not yet have feline companions, head to your nearest animal shelter ASAP.)

3) If you get too hot, gently encourage kitty to move. If gentle prods fail, try cat treats.

4) While you're at it, get human treats. You may need to clean the toaster, coffeemaker, and hot air popper first.  This is best done within 48 hours of your deadline.

5) Resume position on couch. Acquire more cats.

6) Eventually, you will finish reading. Now it is time to go over your notes. Cats are useful in this step as well.

7) Compose your review. This may be typed on a computer directly, or, if you are old-fashioned like me, drafted by hand. Cats may serve –at their discretion– as affectionate, furry paperweights.

8) Type up your final draft. Ideally you will do this no more than 24 hours before your deadline. You will be at your most productive, and your cats will be at their most helpful, usually as guardians of the laptop, barriers to the screen (this prevents eye strain), or again, as paperweights. If they are feeling peckish, they may also help you diet by purloining some of your snacks.

9) Submit review. 

10) Revise as needed. Otherwise, accept editor's praise. 

You are done! You and your cats can take a well-earned nap.

Why the black cat?

Some of you are probably asking, "what black cat?"

Others probably figured it was the black cat in the blog's photo. (You're on the right track.)

Still others are probably just now realizing this blog even has a cat in the title, black or otherwise. After all, I promised the blog would be in English... and promptly decided to keep its original French title.

Anyway.  The black cat.  Le chat noir.  The one having all the deep thoughts, a.k.a. les pensées.

The black cat of the title reflects two of my great lifelong affections: all things French, especially Paris, and cats. Well, I actually love all animals and can truly claim to be both a dog person and a cat person (not to mention a horse person, a wolf person, a cow person, a lemur person... pretty much anything but a snake person). Cats, however, seem to take up a large chunk of my life both physically and emotionally.

This particular black cat, the one in the title, is actually an amalgam of two black cats. One is the stylized feline of elongated whiskers and eyelashes in the Tournée du chat noir poster that can be found on pretty much every souvenir stand in Paris. It might be ubiquitous to the point of cliché, but I can't say as I care.  I like what I like, and a huge copy of that poster graces my living room.

Opposite it, infinitely more precious to me, is a needlework replica lovingly stitched by none other than my incredibly creative and talented mother. If only I had her skill and patience!

And next to this, you'll find the black cat's friend and soulmate, a spectacular blue cat I found in New Orleans.

There are other cats too, some in posters and some whom I have loved and who live on in photos and in my heart.  One of those is the title's other black cat, my handsome short fellow in a tux. His name is Lucky and he is the one in the blog's cover photo.  He is the first pet I owned as an adult. Although he was by no means the first animal to own me, it was the first time I'd experienced owning only and above all each other, there being no one else around to force either of us to share.  In fact, when we first met, I briefly considered naming him Napoleon for the way he marched into my apartment and appropriated my favorite wing chair for his own personal use. But a friend suggested the more prosaic name of Lucky, which stuck, though I was just as likely to use the nickname "Boof," which accompanied him like an invisible cloud. Anyway.  He was, still is, even all these years after crossing the Rainbow Bridge, my Lucky, a piece of good fortune covered in silky fur.

Return of the black cat

I started, then stopped, this blog in 2009.  I started because I love to write and sometimes it seems like people enjoy reading what I have to say.  I stopped because I felt like I was creating a virtual persona and because I caught myself writing for revenge, which is never a very good reason to do much of anything, especially write (I have since deleted those posts).

So why am I back?

Good question. Mostly, it's because I still love to write and I think I'm getting better at it.  I'm even taking classes, attending workshops, attempting a memoir.  I'm also back because I'm currently on the outs with Facebook and have never been interested in other social media except for a brief flirtation with Tumblr.  At the same time, part of me loves the sense of worldwide community and connection the Internet can provide (on its good days, anyway). I'm thinking, perhaps wishfully, that this blog can help me plug into that.

Things are going to be different this time around, though. I originally started the blog to talk about children with trauma histories. I'll still write about that sometimes because it matters and because we don't talk about it enough. But there are some people out there already doing that, and often doing it better than I ever could.

More than that, however, is a realization that life is about so much more than mental illness. We live in a wonderful and strange world full of its own unique joys and sorrows. That's what I want to write about, from here in my little corner of the Kentucky mountains.