Black cat down a paw

The black cat has ideas. Lots of them. Thanks to a fantastic break from my usual routine, my brain now somewhat resembles that of an actual feline chasing a laser pointer. I might still be looking for my voice, and yeah, I'm wondering if this might be how it feels to have ADHD, but man, I have a lot to say!

Unfortunately, I can't say it all just yet, not just because of the whole where's-Waldo game I'm playing with my voice, but also and mostly because I have a torn tendon in my left shoulder, which happens to be on the same side as my writing hand. If I don't get it surgically repaired soon, well, I prefer not to follow that particular train of thought. So if you're reading this, please send thoughts, prayers, positive energy, whatever it is you normally send.

Meanwhile, here is a preview of possible coming attractions:

5 Things I Learned Grading AP French (that I might write about more later)

1. We need to put ourselves and others in situations where we can all be our best possible selves.
2. Some episodes in our lives put us both wholly in and wholly out of our comfort zones. That can be an energizing place to be.
3. Even introverts are not meant to be wholly solitary. One of my new friends put it perfectly... I'm an introvert learning to be an extravert. Glad to know I'm not alone!
4. Our culture needs to start valuing labor in human terms. Our work should serve people, not the almighty dollar.
5. In spite of the scary state of the world, there are places where people of many backgrounds come together to do good work. I believe this spirit of collaboration and community is meant to grow and spread.

Finally, to conclude, a pair of unrelated bonus thoughts that the black cat may chase down later, when she gets her left paw back:

1. Thoreau wasn't wrong. We should all go back to the woods at least once in a while. And turn off your #$%^ cell phone when you do!
2. It gets harder and harder to leave my personal empire state of mind, aka Upstate New York. I don't know what to do with that just yet, but I know it's there.

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.

Some things are NEVER okay

Let's take a little quiz.

When is it okay for a man to hit or sexually harass a woman?

A) never
B) when she "asks for it"
C) never
D) when he's "joking around"
E) when he's being attacked by a female assassin in hand-to-hand combat
F) both A and C (and maybe E)

Although I got a little silly with "E," this is no laughing matter. One would think that in 2016, when women can be chosen for positions of power, when Katniss Everdeen has ruled bestseller lists and box office alike, when Nadia Bolz-Weber and Krista Tippett are among those addressing religion in an old-new way, this barbaric behavior would be a thing of the past.

One would be wrong.

Start with this news story:

French Lawmaker's Fall Over Harassment Claims May Hold Lesson for Men

And before you dismiss that as, "oh, those nasty French," click here:

Men Read Horrifying Sexist Tweets

That's not even close to as bad as it gets. Do you know that this is going on in our schools? That girls not old enough to drive are getting smacked around and called names too awful for me to type? That many college orientations now include freshwoman "how-to-avoid-rape" sessions? That worst of all, girls are so used to it that they believe this is how it's supposed to be?! I'm not just talking about girls with low self-esteem here. I'm talking about all girls, even strong, confident, intelligent girls. 

It defies understanding.

It breaks my heart. 

And it makes me really, really mad. 

There are a lot of beautiful and wonderful things in this world, and usually those are the things I try to write. But this terrible darkness exists as well, and unless we shine some light on it, it will remain.

------

PS Sorry this post is sans photo. Couldn't get the image of blinding white fury to show up on the page.

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.

Why I'm Here

It happened again today. I was chatting, just random small talk, and someone asked "how did you end up here?"

This comes up more than you might think. Fifteen years in, I still hear some variation of "y'all ain't from here, are ya..." at least once a month. If not that, then it's some version of the above, as if there is something wrong with me, or "here," or both.

Of course it could also be seen as a reasonable question. I've been all over the world, and I'm somewhere between hundreds and thousands of miles from the two places that have always felt most like home: Upstate New York, and France. My perspective on things is often so far from the supposed norm that I am often reminded that culture shock can occur within one's own borders.

Yet I'm not sure any of that matters. Well, the hundreds of miles do– my parents are entirely too far away, and I miss them terribly. But I can read, play music, ride horses, write, teach, as easily here as anywhere. Besides, my New York isn't all that different from Kentucky and in fact, lies just outside the northern edge of Appalachia. If you don't believe me, look at these four photos and take a quiz: New York or Kentucky? (answers below)

1)2)

4)3)

So... if I can be myself anywhere, and if people are people wherever you go, then why me, here, now? Because. Because I have this conviction that this is where I'm supposed to be. Call it faith, call it coincidence, I don't care. It's what I believe. Would it be easier to live where I'm not the one with the accent, where religion is more diverse than a profusion of Baptist churches, where Democrats could conceivably win elections? Maybe Probably Almost certainly. But would it be better? Would it be right?

I don't think it would. If I weren't here, some people would never get to meet a tree-hugging, left-leaning, outspoken, feminist Yankee with an attitude. Worse, I would never have met them. My perspective would be limited, my ability to think through complex problems constrained. Everyone would still be safely ensconced in their comfort zones, and what's the good of that? After all, we are called to meet the stranger, wherever and whoever he or she may be.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in my work as a professor at a faith-based liberal arts college. On the surface, I imagine it looks about like the proverbial square peg and round hole, particularly as I'm not about to round off my sharp edges. Yet in spite, or perhaps because of that, I believe I am exactly where I need to be. If life is all about making room for others, then I can live my faith here as in few other places. Above all, I can show my students that there is nothing to fear in being the unique, intelligent, inspired beings we humans were created to be.


Could I do this anywhere, at any time? Probably. But that's not the point. The point is that I am here now, and that's the way it's supposed to be.











1) New York (my parents' house)  2) Kentucky (view from my front porch)  3) New York (just off I-86)  4) Kentucky (on bridge looking toward Cincinnati)

"How to be a poet"

I know it's been a while since I've written much on here myself. It's in the works and will be posted in the next few days. For now, enjoy my last poetry month post. I wanted to celebrate both the craft of poetry and the incredible talent of Kentucky poets, and who better to do that than the great Wendell Berry. May these words speak to you as they do to me.

How to Be a Poet
(to remind myself)

i.

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill–more of each
than you have–inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

ii.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

iii.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

"Purple Rain"

Normally I would let the black cat share her thoughts before doing another poetry post, but sometimes life has other plans. Or, in this case, the loss of a life changed my plans. I hesitated a long time before deciding which Prince lyrics to post, but in the end chose these. In them, I find all the reasons I love poetry:

• the hypnotic power of that mystical image, purple rain

• the way the song fits into the soundtrack of my life

• the raw beauty of words brought to life 

Enjoy.

"Purple Rain"

I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted to one time see you laughing
I only wanted to see you 
Laughing in the purple rain

Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
I only wanted to see you 
Bathing in the purple rain

I never wanted to be your weekend lover
I only wanted to be some kind of friend
Baby, I could never steal you from another
It's such a shame our friendship had to end

Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
I only wanted to see you
Underneath the purple rain

Honey, I know, I know
I know times are changing
It's time we all reach out
For something new, that means you too

You say you want a leader
But you can't seem to make up your mind
I think you better close it
And let me guide you to the purple rain

Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
If you know what I'm singing about up here
C'mon, raise your hand

Purple rain, purple rain
I only want to see you 
Only want to see you
In the purple rain