Summer #22: Last week, Seattle celebrated all things fast and loud that cause traffic jams at the annual Seafair festival. The first weekend, there was a downtown run and a "torch-light" parade featuring clown-like pirates. This weekend, the more offensive weekend, boats raced in Lake Washington, and the Blue Angels, the navy's performance jets, danced and roared overhead. The pilots practiced Thursday and Friday and performed Saturday and Sunday. The planes come very close to our home. One pilot with dark hair and a mustache was picking his nose. Really.
Since we live in the area, these practice flights make us feel like we're like living in a war zone. The house shakes, and the roar as the planes pass stops any conversation. I wonder what this might feel like for those refugees and veterans who have lived in war. I know the dogs don't like it. For a few years, we followed the "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," philosophy and watched the planes in their intricate formations from a nearby park. Impressive, but too much a reminder of how many of our resources we commit to war instead of to social services and education.
I am a Seafair curmudgeon. A Seafair Scrooge. A Seafair Grinch.
Ann and I went to Paradise on Mount Rainier to escape the onslaught and to see the stunning displays of pink and white heather, snow-white avalanche lillies, majenta Indian paintbrush, and purple Lupine gracing the mountainsides that lead to the towering Mount Rainier. Thursday and Friday were beautifully sunny, but then the weather gods must have thought my siblings were there, so the rain and mist moved in on Saturday. No hail, though, as there was the summer my sister visited.
The trails at Paradise are paved and mostly free of snow by now, so I can hike there with Ann's help. She took a morning walk for about an hour Friday morning, and then we did basically the same walk together. Our walk together took four hours. I'm not fast, but I did walk four hours, so that's progress. I remember the days before brain surgery when I eschewed these trails because they were too easy and too crowded. No longer. Now I embrace them.
There's both a local and an international crowd on that mountain. We met people along the way from our neighborhood, Alabama, China, and West Africa. I took a picture for three guys hiking together, one from China and the other two from West Africa. I summoned my college French and counted, "Un, deux, trois...." One of the guys said to another, "Was she speaking French?" and then to me, "Merci." I summoned the last of my French, "De rien." I doubt I would have had such a deep international conversation at Seafair. In all of our accents, those of us on the trail said to one another, "Isn't this beautiful!"
Driving home, Ann and I listened to the Indigo Girls' album Indians, Nomads, Saints. When they sang, "Everywhere I turn all the beauty just keeps shaking me," I knew exactly what they meant.
Mary
A Photograph of me without me in it
A photograph of me without me in it
Showing posts with label pirate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pirate. Show all posts
Monday, August 9, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
NL #8: How to piss off a pirate
NL #8: Two years ago, when I was wearing an eye-patch fulltime, I visited a school whose mascot was the pirate. My role there was to observe teachers and students, but all I could think about was what an enthusiastic visitor, dressed like the mascot and all, I must have seemed. I even happened to be wearing my Vans (shoes) that day with a skull and cross bone and spider design. I felt relieved that no one made fun of me. I thought of plenty of cracks in my own mind: “Nice to meet you. How ARRRGH you?” and such.
In the three years since my surgery, students in schools have made fun of me only once, when a struggling student yelled "crip" at me as I walked down the hall by his classroom. Other than recognizing that the voice was male, I had no idea who it was. A few days later, I went to talk with the class about the experience and told them why I walked with a cane. I asked what they thought about how I should respond to "Crip!" The consensus seemed to be that anyone who would yell out so obnoxiously wasn't worth my time. But honestly, teenagers are always worth my time. A few weeks later a student I didn't recognize approached me in the hall with a most gracious apology. I have gotten to know him somewhat in a class that I'm now working with. I know that he struggles and he knows, in an interesting twist, that I am an advocate for him.
Even the students I don’t know are kind. Before my disabilities, I thought teenagers in public spaces didn’t notice me because I was always dodging them and their stuff. Now I know that they saw me; they just ignored me. For these past three years, teens in school halls have moved themselves and their friends out of my way; they’ve gone out of their way to open doors for me; they’ve helped me around obstacles like their backpacks.
One afternoon, walking downtown wearing my patch and carrying my cane, I walked past a group of teenage skateboarders. A couple of boys got into yelling “Arrgghh” at me. I wanted to flip them off, but I was afraid I’d fall, so I didn’t. I tried to think of what a pirate might do, but I blanked. I’m sure those teenagers would have found me cool if they’d noticed my theme-appropriate Vans.
Another time, riding the Metro bus home (in a front seat with other people with disabilities), a well-dressed man in his fifties boarded with three plastic bags from Rite Aid, talking away on his cell phone. He dropped his bags in the middle of the aisle and people with disabilities had trouble getting by. A woman with disabilities needed a seat and asked him to move his bags and to give up a seat for her. He interrupted his cell phone conversation to say, “You’re evil. That’s why you are the way you are.” I can still see him jiggling his penny-loafered foot as he continued his phone conversation. I really think it was one of the meanest things I’ve ever seen.
Because I know of persons with disabilities who can’t ride the bus because they can’t be guaranteed a seat, I wrote Metro to ask that they require drivers to require riders who are not disabled to move from “priority seating.” The current rule seems to be that drivers must ask but need not insist. The driver on my bus did neither. The response I received from Metro is that the situation does not require a revision of the rules. I still think it does.
Once, after a WNBA Storm game, a woman my age was rude. We were in a line for the one stall in the downstairs restroom when some people she knew got in line behind me. She went on with them about a party that was a great party even though she broke her ankle and tore "all the tendons and ligaments and had to get screws put in." I think she was high--probably both times. Even though she was quite loud, I mostly tuned her out. At some point she made some comment about "the blind leading the blind" and apologized to me, but she was too into herself for a real apology. I hate being singled out, especially for disabilities. She kept apologizing as she peed and finally said, "I think I should just stop talking." To her partner, I noted that this might be a good idea in general. As they left, they argued about whether her apology was adequate. It wasn't.
The only other times I have been treated rudely, even dangerously, have been at Town Hall and the symphony hall with large numbers of well-dressed elderly people. My theory is that they are so focused on getting themselves around that they don’t notice anyone with disabilities around them. Give me a crowded hall of teenagers any day over that.
I’m a nice pirate. Be nice to me. Arrgghh. Mary
In the three years since my surgery, students in schools have made fun of me only once, when a struggling student yelled "crip" at me as I walked down the hall by his classroom. Other than recognizing that the voice was male, I had no idea who it was. A few days later, I went to talk with the class about the experience and told them why I walked with a cane. I asked what they thought about how I should respond to "Crip!" The consensus seemed to be that anyone who would yell out so obnoxiously wasn't worth my time. But honestly, teenagers are always worth my time. A few weeks later a student I didn't recognize approached me in the hall with a most gracious apology. I have gotten to know him somewhat in a class that I'm now working with. I know that he struggles and he knows, in an interesting twist, that I am an advocate for him.
Even the students I don’t know are kind. Before my disabilities, I thought teenagers in public spaces didn’t notice me because I was always dodging them and their stuff. Now I know that they saw me; they just ignored me. For these past three years, teens in school halls have moved themselves and their friends out of my way; they’ve gone out of their way to open doors for me; they’ve helped me around obstacles like their backpacks.
One afternoon, walking downtown wearing my patch and carrying my cane, I walked past a group of teenage skateboarders. A couple of boys got into yelling “Arrgghh” at me. I wanted to flip them off, but I was afraid I’d fall, so I didn’t. I tried to think of what a pirate might do, but I blanked. I’m sure those teenagers would have found me cool if they’d noticed my theme-appropriate Vans.
Another time, riding the Metro bus home (in a front seat with other people with disabilities), a well-dressed man in his fifties boarded with three plastic bags from Rite Aid, talking away on his cell phone. He dropped his bags in the middle of the aisle and people with disabilities had trouble getting by. A woman with disabilities needed a seat and asked him to move his bags and to give up a seat for her. He interrupted his cell phone conversation to say, “You’re evil. That’s why you are the way you are.” I can still see him jiggling his penny-loafered foot as he continued his phone conversation. I really think it was one of the meanest things I’ve ever seen.
Because I know of persons with disabilities who can’t ride the bus because they can’t be guaranteed a seat, I wrote Metro to ask that they require drivers to require riders who are not disabled to move from “priority seating.” The current rule seems to be that drivers must ask but need not insist. The driver on my bus did neither. The response I received from Metro is that the situation does not require a revision of the rules. I still think it does.
Once, after a WNBA Storm game, a woman my age was rude. We were in a line for the one stall in the downstairs restroom when some people she knew got in line behind me. She went on with them about a party that was a great party even though she broke her ankle and tore "all the tendons and ligaments and had to get screws put in." I think she was high--probably both times. Even though she was quite loud, I mostly tuned her out. At some point she made some comment about "the blind leading the blind" and apologized to me, but she was too into herself for a real apology. I hate being singled out, especially for disabilities. She kept apologizing as she peed and finally said, "I think I should just stop talking." To her partner, I noted that this might be a good idea in general. As they left, they argued about whether her apology was adequate. It wasn't.
The only other times I have been treated rudely, even dangerously, have been at Town Hall and the symphony hall with large numbers of well-dressed elderly people. My theory is that they are so focused on getting themselves around that they don’t notice anyone with disabilities around them. Give me a crowded hall of teenagers any day over that.
I’m a nice pirate. Be nice to me. Arrgghh. Mary
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
DAR #25 Aarrrrhh
DAR #25: About a decade ago at a teachers’ lunch table, a proper Language Arts teacher for whom I have a lot of respect said, “I believe that the only people who curse are those without the vocabulary to express themselves more eloquently.” I told her that I used to think that, “but now I think that’s bullsh$t.” I actually think we’re often most creative with language when we curse, perhaps especially when we try to keep it G-rated.
"The Lord called the donkey a fool." My grandmother M. used to say this in response to something someone said or did that she thought was foolish. We still wonder what it means. I think it was her Southern Baptist lady way of calling someone an ass.
When my friend Declan’s first child was just beginning to babble, Declan was driving him around in the car. Another driver swerved and Declan exclaimed, “Oh, sh$t!” His son echoed, “Oh, sh$t Oh, sh$t Oh, sh$t…” and Declan, not wanting to upset his wife, had to drive to the end of the gas tank to get the child to repeat a different sound. Quality father-son bonding, I’m sure. I hope Declan’s told his wife about that.
One of my favorite expressions from teenagers that means, “Darn!” the last few years has been, “Aw snap” or “Snaps!” When I was working with students who struggled in reading, one in particular would say, “Snaps!” every time he got frustrated. I didn’t want him to get frustrated, but I did love that.
A previous student, more suburban, says, “Gosh!” When she was in college, I asked her what career she was considering, “Gosh, Miss Mary, there are so many things in the world I could work on. I just have to choose one I guess.” I loved her use of “Gosh” and her enthusiasm—especially since she’s gone into teaching secondary Language Arts.
My Uncle Tommy T. says, “Well, golly.” Golly has five syllables. Four are on the “gol” part. That “o” just keeps going. It's an expression of delight. In another version of that, Ann last night said, “Golly Pete.” I can’t remember what it was about. Must have been serious to elicit such a dramatic response, though. Ann's version, in conract to Uncle Tommy T's, is one of frustration.
Growing up, I knew when Mom had really had it: “Fiddlesticks!” she’d gasp. This was Mom's f-bomb. Lately I’ve been wondering, what exactly are fiddlesticks?
Back in the day before brain surgery (BITD BBS), I would say, “Dadgum” or “Blast.” When I started wearing an eye patch and small children mistook me for a pirate, I started saying “Arrhhh.” Very satisfying.
The Lord called the donkey a fool. Mary
"The Lord called the donkey a fool." My grandmother M. used to say this in response to something someone said or did that she thought was foolish. We still wonder what it means. I think it was her Southern Baptist lady way of calling someone an ass.
When my friend Declan’s first child was just beginning to babble, Declan was driving him around in the car. Another driver swerved and Declan exclaimed, “Oh, sh$t!” His son echoed, “Oh, sh$t Oh, sh$t Oh, sh$t…” and Declan, not wanting to upset his wife, had to drive to the end of the gas tank to get the child to repeat a different sound. Quality father-son bonding, I’m sure. I hope Declan’s told his wife about that.
One of my favorite expressions from teenagers that means, “Darn!” the last few years has been, “Aw snap” or “Snaps!” When I was working with students who struggled in reading, one in particular would say, “Snaps!” every time he got frustrated. I didn’t want him to get frustrated, but I did love that.
A previous student, more suburban, says, “Gosh!” When she was in college, I asked her what career she was considering, “Gosh, Miss Mary, there are so many things in the world I could work on. I just have to choose one I guess.” I loved her use of “Gosh” and her enthusiasm—especially since she’s gone into teaching secondary Language Arts.
My Uncle Tommy T. says, “Well, golly.” Golly has five syllables. Four are on the “gol” part. That “o” just keeps going. It's an expression of delight. In another version of that, Ann last night said, “Golly Pete.” I can’t remember what it was about. Must have been serious to elicit such a dramatic response, though. Ann's version, in conract to Uncle Tommy T's, is one of frustration.
Growing up, I knew when Mom had really had it: “Fiddlesticks!” she’d gasp. This was Mom's f-bomb. Lately I’ve been wondering, what exactly are fiddlesticks?
Back in the day before brain surgery (BITD BBS), I would say, “Dadgum” or “Blast.” When I started wearing an eye patch and small children mistook me for a pirate, I started saying “Arrhhh.” Very satisfying.
The Lord called the donkey a fool. Mary
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