politically incorrect

I'm shocked, incensed, and disappointed. Last week I ordered a custom designed debit card from my banking institution. I spent a good ten minutes of my valuable time browsing through my photo library to find just the right pic, and I knew it was a stroke of genius when I came to this...

You may remember this was a photo taken last year at Joey and Heidi's Birthday Karaoke Throwdown. I uploaded with excitement and placed the order with dreams of shocked and confused store clerks everywhere, asking "credit or debit?"

"Debit, please, with a side of stereotype-flipped-upside-down-crazy-confetti-party." I was going to spread the word, one plastic transaction at a time.

And then...I got rejected. Several days later I received a letter in the mail from said banking institution, denying my request on the grounds that it did not meet their guidelines for debit card art. What?! I felt a little silly as I skimmed the guidelines, realizing that my photo did potentially fall under several categories for dismissal. It could be considered 'shocking' and 'offensive,' even, I had to admit with embarrassment, 'sexual in nature.'

But that was the point! That's why the photo is so great. It embodies everything I want to say about disability–that it's interesting and edgy and challenges the status quo. It is sexy, darn it, and I'm bringing it back. I don't even care about custom debit cards; I only did it because they lured me in with a free offer. And now I've been censored. I'm just like Alice Paul, dragged off to jail to stop her protesting for women's suffrage in front of the White House. Well, at least a little like.

I feel like I got slapped on the wrist and put in a time out for even attempting something so 'outrageous.' And this isn't the first time. I can't tell you how many times I've told a joke about my arm to the reaction of an uncomfortable grimace and "Oh, no, you can't say that." Let me repeat: I'm telling a joke about my own arm. But that is not allowed. Those are the rules. They're meant to protect me, but it turns out, I'm the most offensive one.

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I went out for a beer with Beto on Sunday evening. He's been depressed lately because he never went to college and, now in his 40s, feels like he hasn't done anything with his life. I tell him that some of my favorite people have not been formally educated. 

"I love their fresh perspectives," I say, "They don't have a filter. School is supposed to open minds, but it teaches certain acceptable ways of thinking, making sure everyone comes out politically corrected. It's like they're all..."

Beto at work

"Brain-washed," Beto finishes. I nod sadly.

Beto should know about brainwashing. He was 'inducted' into a notorious gang in the late '70s. He pulls up the Gangland episode from YouTube on his iPhone to show me his old neighborhood. I can hardly contain a bemused smile at this.

He got out of the gang in the mid '80s, but under the tattoos, he still bears emotional scars. 

"I should be in jail," he admits. But he spends every chance he gets with his ten-year-old son. Otherwise he's at the gym or the restaurant where he works, unmistakable at 6'2'' in 50's style, always ready with a hug and a cheerful greeting between bussing tables. "I always tell people, I'm not what I do," he says, "This isn't me." 

"I tried to dress mainstream for a while," Beto says, "it just wasn't me." Respect for individuality seems important; he gets excited when he talks about defending people who get picked on and bullied. 

"You're a mentor," I conclude.

"What?! Me a mentor?," he laughs, shocked at the suggestion.

Beto is getting ready to go to a Rockabilly convention in Las Vegas. "So, what exactly happens at a Rockabilly convention?," I ask, "Is everyone wearing poodle skirts and singing 'Greased Lightning'?" Beto rolls his eyes under a perfect pompadour. Apparently poodle skirts are a stereotype. But I had to ask. How else will I learn?

Stereotypes have to be poked, squeezed, and up-ended to get to the people underneath. That's what humor is for.

Politically correct me if I'm wrong, but how else will we learn?

OneArmGirl 

 

reunited

I have some very good news. At long last, Ferb the hook-arm-rabbit, has been reunited with his partner, hook-arm-rabbit #2.

As you may recall, these two prosthetic-wearing bunnies were unearthed about a year ago in the process of clearing out my grandparents' house, where they'd spent my childhood as ready objects of play for fifteen grandchildren. Although, if my memory serves me correctly, we never actually played with them because, to be honest, they were creepy. I'm sorry, Grandma, but they were. In fact, they still are. But how on earth my grandmother discovered

Ferb (left) and his lady (right)

these enigmas in the pre-internet days of the early 80's remains a mystery.

 

Ferb came to live with me last summer, with what I imagined to be his twin brother remaining back east at my parents' place. But while rummaging through their closets recently, I discovered Ferb #2, who, aside from a disturbingly similar handicap, is not only not an exact twin, but seems, most obviously to me, to be a female rabbit.

Well, it just seemed cruel to keep them apart, so female Ferb was tucked away in my already overly stuffed luggage and secreted west. After all, I thought, what's funnier than a hook-arm-stuffed-rabbit? Two hook-arm-stuffed-rabbits, of course. That they both have a carrot velcroed to their hook arm is just the icing on the cake. And for you speakers of 'proper' English, that's cuddly toys. I'm thinking 'stuffed rabbit' may have gotten you off on the wrong track.

And so, after nearly a year of separation, the two handicapped bunnies are back together again. And for inanimate objects, they both seem much happier. It's nice to see love flourishing around here, since my own love life, or romantic antics, of late have failed to bloom, sprouting instead into flowerless stems that eventually get pruned. Hey, it was a good Spring analogy.

But in some strange, no doubt delusional way, those hook-arm rabbits are making me believe that sometimes, when it's right, things work out, and you find your handicapped soulmate.

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When I'd taken Ferb on an outing to the farm last fall, I noticed his hook arm was sadly detaching at the seam; and when I left, Kristy insisted that I leave him in her care so that she could sow him back together. I was doubtful, but agreed.

Weeks went by without his return and one day before I left for the winter, fearing his forever disappearance into her bedroom, I insisted that Kristy bring him to my car. But when she returned, it was not Ferb she was carrying, but this...

Impostor rabbit

...which, though wearing rabbit ears, is definitely not a rabbit.

"Here," she said happily, "he can keep you company till I fix Ferb."

Won over by the hilarious outcome of my pathetic pleading, I acquiesced––but only because the aptly named Care Bear was wearing bunny ears. And to my amazement, three months later, Ferb was returned, carefully stitched back together, as promised.

And not a minute too soon for the re-furbished Ferb to hook his arm under his gal's and hop off into the sunset; or sit in the narrow strip of grass between the street and my apartment. Whatever.

But I've had a firm talk with these two. The last thing we need around here is a bunch of little hook-arm rabbits.

Is it just me, or does he have a mischievous smile?

OneArmGirl


PS. Help! Mrs. Ferb needs a name... 

slump

The transition back to my life in the USA has been surprisingly easy. I found my beloved apartment mostly like we left it, aside from a light covering of dust. And yesterday, I went out to the farm, where I was welcomed back with open arms by everyone...aside

Horse hug

from the horses who, if they remembered that I’d been gone for nearly four months, didn’t let on. But then, they also don’t have arms. 

So, maybe it’s post-India blues, but since I got back, I’ve been just...slumped. Sometimes I’m sad, but mostly I just feel uninterested and unmotivated. There are more than enough exciting options I could pour myself into right now, but I’m lacking
the desire.

Needless to say, I was drawing a blank for this week’s post. So while I wait for what writer Julia Cameron calls ‘marching orders,’ I’ve decided to post a fitting essay I wrote at another slumpy juncture...  

Where do we go from here? 

I turned 28 last month, which means, according to plan, I should be a) Just returning from a three year ex-patriot adventure in India, b) Falling in love with a sexy Latin man who believes dancing is just an everyday activity, and c) Have everything about life pretty much figured out so I don’t waste any more time with the circular philosophical questions that plague me constantly.

Things aren’t looking good. I never imagined that somewhere in my mid 20s, suddenly and out of nowhere, I’d spend about a year (OK, maybe two or three) in an existential crisis, and then get plopped down not far from where I left off, but feeling completely lost,

In transit

without a clue what to do next. A year or so into my crisis, I met my friend Colleen at Wendy’s for a salad. I was telling her my tale of woe and lostness between bites of lettuce, turkey, and bacon bits when she said this: “I don’t think anyone our age really knows what they want to do.” I sat there sullenly. “But I did know,” I wanted to tell her. “I had it all figured out and now it’s all gone.”

But not only have I not accomplished the goals I dreamed up six years ago, I think my goals are actually changing (pause for shocked gasp). Disturbingly, in the past three years, not all at once, but slowly I’ve been changing my mind about things. I’m starting to understand some things that I didn’t know in my early 20s, like that rest and health are the foundation of anything that might follow; that sometimes your life’s passion is right under your nose and you don’t even know it; and that travel is way overrated. I’ve also been thinking more about getting married and having babies, which scares me so badly, sometimes I have to go sit in a closet and breathe slow, deep breaths until I settle down. I also have to promise myself that if I have babies, they will be miniature clones of Antonio Banderas.

The thing is, instead of dreaming about backpacking through Europe, I’m starting to feel more and more like wanting to contribute something important, right where I am. I feel a need to create, to produce something that might outlive me. I’m hoping it’s not just my

Laundry out to dry in Greece

biological clock ticking.

But lately, I’ve been lying in bed, unable to fall asleep, just thinking and thinking about what I want to do with my life. Thinking really isn’t the correct term; obsessing is more accurate. Just after repeating to myself the long list of helpful things I’ve learned about life in the past few years, like how true satisfaction comes from simply appreciating things like a great cup of coffee on a cool morning, something inside immediately begins to cry out, “But, but, I never got to live with orphans in Guatemala or traverse the Sahara on a camel.” What will I tell my children for heaven’s sake, that Mommy was going to live

A favorite pastime

abroad for a while, maybe start a school for blind Russians or learn to speak Italian while drinking cappuccinos in outdoor cafes . . . but then, she changed her mind and decided to stay home?

When my cousin Lynell stopped wanting to play Barbies with me, I told her reproachfully, “I will never stop playing with Barbies.” I just can’t let go of some dreams. Like my dog, Chi Chi, who used to lock her jaws onto a sock and refuse to let go even when we’d lift the sock so high, she’d dangle in the air. I’m passionate and driven, and when I want something, I have a hard time letting go. I’m willing to risk everything; I want it so bad, it seems impossible to start un-wanting it.

But now, nearing 30, the barbies are packed away in a box in storage (I don’t have the heart to get rid of them) and I have to acknowledge that people do change and some desires will eventually wane and change into new, different desires. I guess I just wish the change was less painful, less drawn out, and a little more clear cut. I’ve told God several times that if he just came down in all his shining splendor and told me what I should do with my life, I could go any direction, no problem, no questions asked. But then I have to

Morning chai in India

remind myself that I always have questions. I would throw out some hypotheticals. I would want God to really consider all my options.

But there seems a fine line between shooting for the stars and jumping into a black hole. I’m starting to accept that having it all figured out, at 28 or any other age, is not a realistic goal: that asking, “Where do we go from here?” may be a monthly, if not weekly or daily question. 

And sometimes it’s a question that just has to get lost for a while.

OneArmGirl

the claw

While at my parents’ house, I took the opportunity to reacquaint myself with an old friend.

I’ve been telling people for years now that my fake arm lives in a closet at my parents’ home…and there I found it, somewhere near the back, in a bag, where I’d left it since they moved into that house five years ago.

Calling my prosthetic arm a ‘friend’ is somewhat of a stretch. It’s heavy and hot to wear, and it requires a rubber strap to go over my chest, under my arm, and snap in the back, to stay in place. I basically have to bathe my small arm and left shoulder in baby powder to deal with the humidity inside. At best, it’s overrated; at worst, it’s a beast.

Here’s some likely useless information to tuck away: innovation in prosthetic arms is not so great in comparison to legs because, overall, more people need legs than arms. The market just isn’t there. And strangely, more funding comes in for NASA.

My very first prosthetic arm was archaic, if not scary, but we’re talking early 80s here. The ‘hand’ was what you might call ‘utilitarian'—though what one is expected to accomplish with a small cleated rubber claw is still a mystery to me. My parents took me to special classes to learn what I could do with it, like pick up small blocks or…honestly, I can’t think of what else it did. Obviously, I wasn’t being groomed for beauty pageants: “Please welcome to the stage, Little Miss Reptile Arm, who will be sharing with us an audition monologue for Alien 2.”  

The original claw

When I first got my current arm, maybe ten years ago, it was state-of-the-art as fake arms go; custom designed for me by a very kind, very patient man called Jon. I was no easy client. I’d been down that road of tears and slurpies too many times to harbor any Luke Skywalker fantasies. I came to Jon from the throngs of the post-prosthetically disillusioned.

But Jon was, as I mentioned, patient. He was big and tall and soft-spoken with a deep voice. He wrapped the cool, damp plaster casting around my small arm slowly, his huge hands deliberately smoothing out any bumps or roughness as he went…

Break. I’m not sure that was headed in the direction I intended when I decided to write about prosthetic arms. Maybe I’ve just been wrapped in one too many plaster castes; but that’s a story for another time.

Anyhew…Jon really listened to me and made some key adjustments that greatly enhanced my prosthetic-arm-wearing-experience. We even flew to Texas where I modeled for a lovely blond woman who spray-painted the rubber ‘skin’ to match my own skin tone, freckles included. I remember how she used almost every primary color to create my personal hue, slightly tanned white girl. And I only had a small decision-making crisis when I had to choose the length of the nails that would remain the same for the rest of all time; I decided against the can’t-type-on-this-keyboard-but-I-don’t-care-cause-my-nails-are-fabulous look, and went with something more conservative.

So considering the tightrope we were walking between aesthetics and functionality, the end result looked good, really the best it could. Finneas could operate the hand with a rocker switch from inside the hollowed out arm, like a tiny man behind the curtain. Unfortunately the forearm was still the size of a male lumberjack’s because it had to hold the motor inside.

Would have been perfect for Jon.

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Considering I’ve spent most my life learning to do things without it, I have considerable difficulty delegating tasks to my prosthetic arm. Currently, it is proficient in crushing soda cans, styrofoam cups, and most other temporary liquid holders which you would rather not smash whilst holding said liquid in its mechanized fingers. It is also perfect at scaring the bajeebers out of people while lying inanimate on my bed, or being carried around the office, peaking disembodied around corners and tapping unsuspecting victims on the shoulder, as Joey once proved. And I imagine it might serve as an effective weapon should I find myself in a position requiring hand to hand combat. Sorry.

I’ve worn the arm regularly by times—I have to admit, primarily so that I could make use of the long-sleeved section of my wardrobe. Consistency is the key: I once wore it every day to a class in college, then one day went without. No one said anything, but I could see their confused eyebrows reviewing the laws of nature as I took my seat. 

Pimped out arm

But considering the hassle, I’m pressed to decide if prosthetic limbs are an asset or an additional handicap. I know the more I get comfortable in my own skin, the less patience I have for the arm.

There are new developments, of course. The legs they have for runners are pretty kick ass; and I once saw a prototype for an arm with a mechanized elbow that could allegedly throw a baseball—helpful if you’re a pitcher, I guess, but I’d just like to be able to pick up a plate of food. And what happens when your mechanical elbow goes on the fritz and you find yourself in the middle of an involuntary prosthetic seizure? That can’t be good in a business meeting.

I recently saw a news story on a scheme to connect electrodes from the prosthetic arm to your muscles, allowing your brain to dictate movement. I still have my doubts. No electrical wiring is gonna keep up with the speed of a brain. What happens when you forget what you were gonna do with it by the time your arm gets there. It’s amazing the ingenuity it takes to come nowhere close to the original design.

And who needs arms anyway? I think my artificial appendage will remain in the closet, aside from the occasional show-and-tell or practical joke engagement. It’s perfectly capable of living a meaningful existence detached from my person.

Plus, another arm isn’t good for my job security. 

OneArmGirl

see you

This blogging business ain't easy, I tell you.

I just got off an airplane yesterday, where I existed in limbo for fifteen hours of a threatening headache, prior to which I'd already travelled by plane, a bus, and a taxi, after a teary morning meltdown and Carnival paint smeared on my arm, forehead, and left boob a la Tony; as if I don't smear enough things on that boob by myself.

Dinha's crew on my last day. Joe couldn't even fire me.

And today, I have to write a post. Thursdays can be so demanding, though I imagine much of my international audience is now reading this on Friday. But I promised you a weekly post. I think it might be the biggest commitment I've ever made, actually. It's been a joyous, terrifying, wonderfully strange journey, but I really wouldn't have it any other way; though my obsession with consistent timely posting often leaves my friends looking confused at my dedication to something that pays nothing. Welcome to being a writer.

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So, let me prop my jet-lagged eyes open because the show must go on...


Leaving India was hard. I feel so loved and happy in Benaulim, I'm tempted to cut my losses, accept Tony's marriage proposal(s), and go native. But nearing the Newark airport, Springsteen's American buttocks album seemed like a fitting way to welcome myself back. And I really did start feeling happy to have been "born in the USA." Writing "American" under nationality on the customs form and stepping to the end of the line for citizens, I felt a growing giddy sense of identity. I'm no staunch patriot, but the familiarity feels good, reminds me who I am and will continue to be no matter what part of the world I traverse. Home is home, and I love being an American. It's nice to be reminded once in a while.

Then I passed a couple taxi drivers looking to negotiate fares in the Jersey airport and wondered if I had actually brought India home with me. Sandy jeans and colorfully packaged teas are reminders scattered across the wood floor of my old bedroom. I'm trying to reclaim sleep I've missed for several weeks while steady rain patters on the rooftop. Listening to one of Pascal's favorite Indian mystic CDs, I feel happy and quiet. Experience has a way of organizing itself in memories over time. The next thing can wait.

Farewell flower petals left outside my door.

And the flying carpet? I don't think any explanation, even if there was one, could rival whatever you can imagine.


Now back to sleep. Sweet dreams.


OneArmGirl      

now we take over

"Normality is the Great Neurosis of civilization."

 from Even Cowgirls Get the Blues 

I’m an even greater curiosity in India. Regardless of averted eyes or speed of step, I’m greeted every day walking to the village center by stares of shopkeepers, taxi drivers, bicycle vendors and pedestrians; when I’m passed, I feel their eyes on my back. 

Indians stare without shame. Sometimes six, ten eyes wide, faces blank, necks twisting, arms and legs suddenly in slow motion. Waiting for Little Gen to squeeze the scooter into a parking slot at the market, I take three watchers on, attempting to outstare them, to limited avail. This is a place where you should never be surprised to see anything: twenty people in a rickshaw, someone peeing in the street, an establishment called Baby Jesus Coffee Shop; and I’m a freak. 

Anonymity is simply not an option here for a blondish curly-haired white girl, without mentioning the miniature left arm. The bubble gum pink nail polish and single-handed bicycle riding nearly bumps me up to circus performer status.

I’m not certain why I currently wear a hot pink bathing suit. Though I've been familiar with pool attention since I was wearing floaties, the left one bobbing helplessly on the surface of the water like a buoyed dingy. I might drown, but that arm wasn't getting anywhere near the water.

Now striding round the pool, I pray nothing trips me before I can get in the water. I’m more comfortable after submerged, but I’m still on stage. I can almost hear a collective intake of breath as I push away from the edge and disappear under the water. The eyes of three portly men on reclining chairs travel back and forth with me from pool end to end. I pretend not to notice, feigning the indifference of an astronaut at space camp, but I wonder what they’re thinking.

After two months, the abundance of onlookers is making me feel far more important than I’m sure is healthy. I’m exhausted. Self-importance can be so tiring. The novelty is wearing thin.

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An older woman watches me poolside as I give the froggy breast stroke my best shot.

But her gaze is different. More knowing than curious, she holds an unabashed smile on her lips. She seems to revel in my swim. It’s disconcerting. This is the second day I’ve noticed her watching me, and when I meet her eye from a neighboring pool chair, she walks over to me and looks down warmly.

“I have to tell you, I just think you’re wonderful,” she beams. She tells me she has a grandson who was born with only one ear. She says the other kids at school are doing their part to confirm his abnormality.

“I know I’m his grandmother, but he is really very smart and very handsome,” she continues, regaling several scholastic and athletic accolades.

I picture fortune-cookie-colored skin and dark eyes from an Egyptian mother and English father, and smile, agreeing that he must be very special. And I know he is. But I can feel her burden. I want to give her something more to give him, to relieve his pain, to let him know that what seems loss is likely gain. A serum for immunity to conformity, now that’s the kind of vaccination I could get behind.

I recognize this woman’s story, but I’m suddenly humbled, because it’s not about me. When I can muster the generosity to meet stares with a wave of my tiny arm, it’s like a magic wand, turning blank faces into smiles. Works every time.

I was told this week of two blind men who used to visit this village. During a soccer match at a local sports bar, a power outage suddenly cut the television and the lights. 

Out of the silent darkness, one of the men said with conviction, “Now we take over!” 

OneArmGirl

creature of comfort

Scratch the elephant and scooter, I just want to go to the spa.

In celebration of my slowly returning health, Little Gen and I decided to splurge and have both a manicure and pedicure, something unheard of in my usual existence. So we motored down to the newly opened Ocean salon, which had an oddly Japanese feel inside. Apparently, even Asian décor in other parts of Asia means Zen gardens. Finneas got the whole treatment and seemed to enjoy himself thoroughly; though I’ve decided Barbie doll pink may not be his color. 

Why two colors, you ask? Because I can. But now I’m hooked...I want the facial, deep hair conditioning, head massage, and whatever else I can fit into the next week. Some come to the third world to experience poverty; I come for the bikini wax. Actually, in that particular department, I find the gain not worth the pain. I’m really not a spa junkie, but highlights for $20 ain’t bad. I might even go for the ‘Body Souffle with Green Clay’ because if you add ‘souffle’ to any title, it must be good. They should never have let me take the menu home. 

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Alas, my stay in India is coming to an end, which, of course, leaves me contemplating the meaning and purpose of my visit in the greater context of my life’s journey. So far, I got nothing. I’ve worked a little for no wage, become ill in every way possible, and barely managed to post to this blog once a week. I haven’t even rested successfully.

I have spent a great deal of time absorbing information and thinking too much, as per my usual routine; and, as per usual, have not arrived at any conclusions except that I should spend less time thinking. In fact, my time would be better spent learning the rules of cricket, so I can hold my own in current World Cup conversations. PS, call me American, but I still think baseball is better; our pitchers don’t need a running start.

In the two months that I’ve been here, I’ve hardly been out of the village. I’ve seen a lot of backpackers coming and going, little Benaulim but a tiny dot on their mapped pilgrimage, but all I need is an iced coffee at Dinha’s to convince me to stay. Here are a few other reasons:

Accessibility to this, my toilet, where I know I will not be disturbed and there will always be toilet paper. Next to the ceiling fan, this is my lifeblood.

And...

Sharing my hair with Mikey Man.

OneArmGirl