Willijean

Thump, thump, thump, Willijean Clemens held the rails while she maneuvered her leg braces one in front of the other so she could get down the stairs without falling.  When they had moved into this six bedroom house after the birth of her last brother, Mom and Dad had offered to fix a bedroom downstairs, but Willijean refused.  “No, she said, I don’t want to sleep alone.  I like sharing with my sisters.  I promise I’ll be careful.”  So, her parents agreed.  They did ask her to have someone watching just in case, which the ten-year-old agreed to do.  And she did for the first few days of living in the large house. 

At three AM, Willijean awakened with a smile as she did each night.  She looked around her.  Mom had insisted that Dad install night lights in her bedroom and in the hallway, so the girl had no trouble seeing even at night.  She heard her younger sister Pat stir in her sleep.  Pat’s bed lay across from the bunk that Willijean shared with her twin sister, Kathy.  A snoring sound akin to a buzz saw came from the top bunk.  Willijean chuckled.  Her sister insisted that “no way, no how”, did she snore at night in spite of the constant complaints of her two roommates.  “I have allergies, so maybe my nose is a little stuffy.  That’s all.”  Her sisters would snort upon hearing that.

Willijean slipped out of bed holding on carefully to the rail on the side of her bottom bunk.  Mom had insisted on this rail in spite of Willijean’s protests.  “Mom, can’t you just let me be normal?  None of the others have to have rails on bottom bunks. “ 

Willijean hated to be treated differently just because she had a disability.  To her, normal meant being independent; not ever needing help.  She always tried to act as “normally” as possible struggling not to appear less capable than the others.  Even so, sometimes she really did need assistance.  “I’m glad they put this rail here,” she admitted to herself.  “It’s hard to get up on my own.”  Willijean struggled to fasten her leg braces which she kept on a chair by the side of her bed.  Then, as quietly as possible, she left the bedroom and descended the stairs. 

Thump, thump, thump!  How she wished she could sneak about soundlessly.  She could never be like the fictional detectives.  Her awkward gait always signaled her presence.  Mom would comfort her, “Honey, you will have many opportunities for success in life.  Please don’t dwell on your limitations.”  But Mom had ten children to look after.    She didn’t have time to fix all the hurts. 

 The anguish that knotted her stomach made Willijean cross with everyone.  Her sisters complained to Mom.  “Make Willijean stop being mean to us,” they whined.  Mom usually let her children settle their differences without interfering.   

“Talk to her when she’s mean.  Tell her how it makes you feel,” was the only interference Mom offered.  The sisters would listen to their mother before hurling insults at their surly sister.

People outside the family tried to be polite to Willijean, but they often stared and whispered while pointing at her.  Did they think she didn’t notice?  Worse than the rude people were those who tried to be helpful out of pity.  “Oh honey, you shouldn’t be doing that.  Here, let me do it for you.” 

Well intentioned people annoyed her no end.  Often Willijean replied with rancor that embarrassed the rest of her family.  “I am quite capable, thank you,” she might say in a curt tone.

Thump, thump, thump.  Willijean reached the bottom of the stairs at last.  She unclasped her hands which had clenched the rails and breathed a sigh of relief.  “Whew!  I made it again without falling!”

A long counter separated the farm style kitchen from the large family dining room.  The space quickly became the center of household activities.   A banquet sized table stood in the middle of this room.  It easily seated the family of twelve.  Dad said when he built the table that if the family grew much larger they might need to invent a bunk table system.  There would be a ladder to get to the top table, and there would be benches attached to the table.  Thinking of this, Willijean snorted.  “Guess who would always have to eat on the bottom?” she thought with just a touch of rancor.  “Well, anyway, we don’t have a bunk table.  Maybe Mom won’t have any more kids.  She’s getting kind of old anyway.  A forty year old woman shouldn’t keep on having kids!”

The table served as the family gathering spot.  The school aged kids did their homework there while Mom worked in the kitchen.  The family always ate breakfast and dinner at the table as well.  The walls of this room absorbed the voices of her family.  Willijean could almost hear them in this room even while they slept upstairs.  In this room the constant chatter of children and adults was omnipresent.

Chests of white drawers lined the walls.  Ten of the drawers had a brightly colored letter painted in the middle.   The letters stood for the ten siblings.  Each had a drawer in which they kept special toys, books, and other personal items that they used in this room.  In the drawers of the baby and the two-year-old brother there were also diapers, wipes and rash cream.

Willijean walked over to the drawer with the “W”, her drawer.  She opened it and smiled when she pulled out a large drawing pad and her drawing pencils.  Then she walked carefully to the table so as not to drop anything.  Thump, thump, thump.  Thank goodness that sound didn’t waken anybody!

One of the chairs at the table had arm rests and rollers.  That chair belonged to Willijean.  With the rollers, she could easily pull herself to the table or push away with her hands.  She used the arm rests to push herself up or ease down.  By pulling the chair against her legs, the child avoided losing her balance.  She placed her drawing materials on the table and began the arduous process of easing herself into the chair holding it tightly so that it didn’t roll away from her and make her fall.  If she fell, Willijean could not get up by herself.  She would have to call for help, something that would surely get her in trouble.  Her face tightened as she imagined the uproar that would follow.   Mom and Dad must never find out about her night time excursions.  Sliding onto the seat using the contracted muscles of her arms made Willijean sweat.  Finally secure in the chair, she pulled herself to the table and took a deep breath.

“Hmm, what should I draw tonight?”  She decided to create an underwater scene with mermaids and fish.  Willijean selected blues, greens, yellows and pinks for the scene she imagined.  She began by drawing a scaly blue fish tail.

Princess Lucia, the mer-king’s daughter used her tail to propel herself through the water.  She loved making loop de loops around her sisters much to their irritation.   The young princess prided herself in being the most agile girl in the entire kingdom. 

The older mer-sisters busied themselves preening and fussing. They prepared for the grand sea ball.  They arranged pearls and shells throughout their long yellow hair and stared into to mirrors to admire the results.  All the important sea folks would be arriving shortly for the social event of the year.  Children were not invited.

Lucia thumped her tail near her older sister’s head causing  her hair to float upward with the small current.  Some of the shells floated out.  “Get away from me, pest!” 

Lucia’s father had told the young princess that she would attend many balls in her two hundred year lifetime, but not this one.  The young mer-children would long be asleep before the ball began.  “That’s not fair!” complained Lucia.  “I want to go!”

That night Lucia, barely able to contain her yawns, snuck into the grand ball room.  From behind the curtain, she heard the musicians playing waltzes on stringed shells as elegant mer-people, decked out in pearls and shells, floated and whirled about the dance floor.  As she watched, Lucia grew sleepy.  The next morning a servant found her behind the curtain and brought her to bed. 

Willijean found her own eyes growing droopy and weary.  “I’d better get back upstairs before I fall asleep.”  Carefully, very carefully she grabbed the side handles of her chair and began the process of pulling herself up.  With her feet finally planted on the floor, Willijean lifted the art supplies from the table and put them away in her drawer.  Then she returned to the stairs to begin the ascent.  She strained her arms to pull her weight upward.  Thump, thump, thump.  That sound was her signature.  Willijean opened the door to her room, sat on the chair and removed her braces.  Then, using her arm muscles once more, she pulled herself into bed and went to sleep.  Inside her head mer- people floated about the dance floor accompanied by the buzz-saw percussion of Kathy’s snores.

 

The Sand Painting

See the sand painting.

Experience its beauty,

Wind blows it away.

The Heroine

I never considered myself a hero.  I am not super woman who flies about the planet looking for victims to save.  I simply passed the pond every morning on my exercise walk.  The morning in question marked the beginning of what promised to be a cold transition into a Northwest autumn.  The temperature dropped to below 32 degrees.  Frost whitened lawns and made the sidewalks slippery.  I definitely didn’t set out to be a hero that morning.  I only wanted to get some exercise while avoiding slippage and broken bones.

I approached the pond while a gust of wind pushed me backward with icy force.  I remember hugging my body for extra warmth when a high pitched sound pierced my consciousness.  At first I dismissed it as merely the wind and wrapped my arms even tighter about my shivering body.

I don’t recall what caused me to glance at the pond since my head at that moment pointed downward to avoid the wind, but for some reason I looked in that direction.  Two small arms waved frantically above the water.

I guess instinct took over.  The details remain forever foggy.  All I know is that I ran to the pond, dove in, and pulled out a small trembling child.  He was thin and frail.  His bluish face and fingers gave him an unearthly appearance.  I opened my wet jacket and flannel shirt to allow him access to my body heat after which I wrapped him tightly with my arms and clothing.

I am not exactly sure what thoughts went through my head; if I tried to use my  damaged cell phone or  just ran to the nearest house.   I do remember pounding at the door of an unknown house screaming for help.

You can read the rest of the story in the paper.  “Local Heroine Saves Boy from Drowning” said the headlines.  Those simple words have ruined my life.

Afterwards, folks began to follow me every everywhere, and they scrutinized all my actions.  What thoughts went through their heads?  “This is how a hero drinks coffee.  Here is where the hero shops for food.  This is what she eats.”   

"Good grief", I thought, "leave me alone!"  I felt like a paranoid maniac; only it wasn't my imagination.  People really did follow me and watch me all the time.

The worst part of all of this; people hovered expecting to witness the next heroic act.  Didn’t they understand serendipity?  I just happened upon the situation. 

Fueled by the anticipation of my entire town, I felt the pressure to continue saving my fellow man.  Not motivated by altruism but rather pressure to meet expectations, I volunteered at a local women’s shelter.  I also sponsored a food drive and participated in a human rights group. I wrote letters to the editors of the local paper supporting humanitarian causes.  What have you done to me little boy?  I am forever compelled to help the less fortunate whether I want to or not, and I feel like a fraud!

“Look at me,” I long to shout out loud (but don’t).  “Look deeply.  I am as flawed as you.  Don’t idolize me anymore.  Stop writing about me!  Leave me alone and let me return to the self indulgent life I used to live.  I miss that life!”

I heard some film maker wanted to make a TV movie about me.  He called to ask for an interview.  He also asked to shadow me.  Would this attention ever end?  I wondered.  I could have refused the interview, but my new alter ego felt compelled to satisfy her public.  I felt like Clark Kent in reverse.  The real me, the ordinary everyday unexciting woman, lay hidden beneath the Super Woman suit.

This tale goes even further.  Local politicians both liberal and conservative begged me to run for office on their tickets.  I could be anything from dog catcher to state senator.  I had my pick, and according to local wisdom, I would undoubtedly win.

At some point I decided that perhaps I should run for office, but not for the reasons other people thought.   Maybe, I reasoned, the hero worship would end at last.  No one respects politicians these days.  Finally, I gave in and agreed to run for state congress.  I had to quit my job and live off my savings while I campaigned.  Money poured in for my election; more money than I had ever seen before.  People had to be hired to handle my life.  No one cared about my private self with good reason.  I had no more privacy!    
Everyone wanted to support the heroic candidate.  Photographers posed me with the child from the pond as well as babies I’ve never seen before.  Everywhere I went; people wanted to shake my hand, touch me.  I became so exhausted.  I wanted to sleep rather than do all this, but the momentum swept me forward.  I granted more interviews, made speeches written by other people, and amazingly, got elected.  It was as if I had become the victim drowning in a pond of other people’s expectations.   

Again, the details of what happened hung like a fog in my brain.  My life seemed to be propelled by a force that came from outside my will.

How foolish of me to think that I could stop being a hero once I sat in the state Senate!  Then the whole state pressured me to fight for humanitarian causes with an even louder voice.  Reluctantly I complied.  Don’t get me wrong.  I believe in these things, but I had to deal with lobbyists and my constituents whose agendas often conflicted.  Somehow, I had to make everyone happy which often forced me to stretch the truth.  Oh the guilt of telling political lies!  My working days began at 6:00 AM and ended at 2:00 AM most days.  I talked, talked, talked, traveled, studied reports; it never ended.  I so wanted to sleep with the covers pulled over my head; bury myself where the public could never find me, but I suspected even then that somehow, they’d turn up to drag me back.  I realized I might never have a private life again.

I began to hear rumors that some folks wanted me to run for national office.  The Congressman from our district retired due to some sort of scandal.  The party needed someone with a positive image to replace him.  Guess who filled the bill?  Before I knew it, I made the national talk circuit.  My face smiled from every major news publication and even the tabloids.  Makeup artists and personal dressers transformed my image.  I still don’t recognize this person.  She dresses in designer clothing and has a perpetual smile on her face.  Her flawless hair and skin look like the “Cookie Dolls” that are so popular with little girls.  Who is this person?

Today on the Jason Bronson talk show, he asked for the most important message I could give to the American public.   I wanted to say, “If you ever pass a pond where someone is drowning, keep walking.”  Of course, I didn’t say that!

Las Gitanitas de Sacromonte

Childish faces with ancient eyes

Laughing as their bodies dance in the sunlight

Infants, stealing hearts and consuming them like candy

Behold them all, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Sway to the music your grandfathers sang

While rocking their gypsy children.

Crooning in the shadows of their cave homes

Such wild children, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Laugh and play for me small roguish ones.

Let me swirl and dance with you.

Take my soul, but keep it safe.

Small laughing girls, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Butterfly Dreams

                “Audition today!”  She set the book on the coffee table and mocked up the will to enter the real world of noise and motion.  One step, two; she turned her head for a last glance at the cozy living room.  The blanket on the couch retained the impression of her body.  She felt its call.  “Come back to me.” “Let me caress you once again.”           

                “No,” she bellowed and then looked around to see if anyone had heard the outburst.  The siren call tempted her, but resolve pushed her on.  One two; move the shoe.  Three four; shut the door.  Free!  Well, maybe.                 

                Once inside the elevator she sighed both in relief and panic.  For a week, she had only vacated the sofa to collect food and use the toilet.  Even when she forced herself to shower and dress this morning, she didn’t know if she would actually go.  Ever since he left that pathetic farewell text message; “Need space-moving on”, she had burrowed into the cocoon.    He didn’t even care enough to use proper punctuation.  “I deserve good grammar and punctuation!”                                                               

                The elevator door groaned as if reluctant to release its passenger to the streets of Manhattan.   She stepped into the lobby and nearly walked into the remnants of someone’s upset stomach.  She held her breath to avoid taking in the lingering stench.  “Ah yes, the real world!  Now why is this preferable to my cocoon?”

                Even before she reached the lobby door, city sounds assaulted her; a cacophony of horns, sirens and shouts.   Still, she moved on reaching for the door.  She opened it while a sense of triumph over apathy energized her cells.  Then, she merged into the aggressive world of New York streets. 

                Every New Yorker knows how to push through crowds instinctively maneuvering through the spaces at near marathon pace.  One could spot the tourists and new comers.  They identified themselves by their slow lumbering steps and soft expressions.  Residents acquired hardened ruthless “get out of my way” faces or returned to their safe little homes elsewhere.  Our heroine gave an obscene gesture to a taxi driver who nearly ran her down; never mind that he had the right-of-way; this was New York.  The right-of-way belonged to the daring.  He gestured back and screamed something she didn’t hear as she descended into the street cave that housed a metro station.

                She thought about the audition.  A jilted angry young woman; perfect.  She could nail this one.  She lived the part.  She would play it subtly feeling the anger but only letting it reflect in her eyes while she calmly voiced the words.  She cloaked herself in anticipated victory as she approached the casting agency.  This part belonged to her.  The universe owed it to her.  It would serve as the catharsis she needed to move on.  She approached the door and unconsciously arranged her hair with one hand as the other reached out for the doorknob.  The door opened with a squeak.  “Don’t any doors in this city open quietly?  But then, New York isn’t about quiet after all.  Is it?”

                Other young women with similar features and coloring looked up at her before reburying their faces into the scripts that each clutched with clenched fingers.  Some murmured their lines while others merely looked downward lost in their private thoughts.  The young woman announced herself to the receptionist.  Then she took a seat with the others.  She didn’t glance at the script that lay inside her handbag; no need to.  It was her life printed on the pages; her tragedy.  She looked around and smiled at the pinched worried faces that surrounded her.  Finally she heard her name.

                She stood confidently before the directors and entered into the anger she felt after her own rejection.  She breathed fury into her character.  Then she executed the lines with understated passion.

                “Thank you; next!”

                “What?  Just thank you, next?”

                “Yes.  Please leave.  Next!”

                She walked into a bakery.  Sweet seduction filled her nostrils and activated a flow of saliva.  She chose an array of gooey chocolate confections.  The expressionless sales girl filled a pink bakery box with the baked goods which she traded for cash.  Perhaps she dreamt of flying out of her own cocoon.  “Don’t do it!” the twice rejected woman wanted to tell her, but of course, didn’t.  She carried the box into the subway, up her street, into her lobby, sidestepped the vomit, and finally, collapsed back onto her sofa.  After she opened the box of cakes, she reached for her book on the coffee table.  She wrapped the blanket about her body while burrowing into the overstuffed sofa cushions.  Outside, the city shouted, pushed and cursed; a world now far beyond her sensibilities.

               

We say "Pan". What do you Say?

            “Now that you’re half way through third grade, there’s no more ‘catchies’ in handball.”  The class groaned.  Jorge Molina raised his hand and complained that then they’d always get out.  Mrs. Jimenez smiled.  “That’s the idea, Jorge.  You hit the ball so the others will miss and get out.  You all need to learn strategies for hitting whatever comes.  We’ll practice during PE”.  The boys and girls looked at each other and groaned again.

            Pratima Patell raised her hand.  “But not Hana right?  She can still catch the ball first, can’t she?”  The teacher nodded.  She saw a shy smile spread on Hana’s face.  Of course she would allow Hana to catch the ball first.  Cecilia Perez patted her friend’s back softly.

            Late October Hana Park walked into Mrs. Jimenez’s classroom third grade ESL class clutching a Korean/English Dictionary in her left hand.  She held her right hand behind her back.  “Class, please welcome Hana Park.  “The children all said, “Hello, Hana.”  The small girl held her head down, and her cheeks turned bright red.  Mrs. Jimenez found an empty seat for Hana, and gave the girl a collection of books and supplies.  When she looked about her new classroom, Hanna found the Korean word for welcome, 환영, among many other words under a photo of multi-ethnic children holding hands. On the colorful walls the she saw international flags and other artifacts filled all spaces not covered with children’s work.   The environment felt welcoming, yet at first, Hana kept to herself on the playground and ate alone always hiding her deformed hand which resembled a claw.  The other children tried to encourage her to play, but Hanna politely declined.

            A few weeks later, Cecelia entered the class and sat in the empty seat next to Hanna.  That first day, Cecelia put her head on the desk and cried.  Hana looked at her desk mate.  She drew something on paper and handed it to Cecilia.  It was a drawing of a blue flower and a red heart.  Cecilia took the drawing and smiled.   She looked up a word in her Spanish/English dictionary.  Then she pointed to Hana’s hand.  “What?” she wrote on the same paper.

            Hana covered her hand, lowered her eyes, cleared her throat, and said in a hoarse voice, “Born”.  When Cecilia saw the tears roll down Hana’s face, she looked for another word in her dictionary.  Cecilia wrote “friends” on the paper and pointed to herself and Hana.  After that, she hugged Hanna. 

            The girls became inseparable.  They used their dictionaries to help each other with English and soon began giggling together over shared jokes.  Mrs. Jimenez sometimes had to remind them to work quietly.

            At first, Cecilia offered to help Hana with difficult tasks, but Hana actually demonstrated a great deal of proficiency in using her afflicted appendage once she felt more comfortable exposing her hand to others.  She could do almost anything that the other children did.  She could pass papers, hold a pencil and even play handball if allowed to catch the ball first.  Before long Hana and Cecilia joined their classmates at play but always remained special friends.  No one ever mentioned Hana’s hand, but when some playground bully made fun of her, Hana’s classmates screamed, “Get out of here!”

            Sometimes the two friends stayed in at recess always whispering and writing in notebooks.  They seemed to be engaged in a secret project.  Overcome with curiosity, Mrs.  Jimenez asked what the girls spent so much time doing.  “You will see,” smiled Cecelia.

            Finally, after several weeks, Hana shyly handed some stapled pieces of paper to the teacher saying only, “You read?”  On the pages in carefully crafted English, the girls had written story of their growing friendship called, “We Say Pan.  What do You Say?  It began, “My friend and I come from different places in the world.  In America, We learn English, but we also speak our mother languages.  We teach each other our languages while we help ourselves learn English….”  The story went on to speak about how sharing their home cultures with each other made them feel less sad about having left family and friends behind. 

            Mrs.  Jimenez read the story.  She smiled at the two friends.   “In a few weeks, our school will celebrate “International Day.”  Would you girls like to read your story at the assembly?” 

            Three weeks later, Hana and Cecilia walked up to the stage of the school auditorium holding hands.  They alternated reading from the paper they held together.  Hana didn’t hide her hand.  They finished reading their story to thunderous applause.  In the audience, one beaming teacher whispered, “Welcome to America.”

           

           

To an Unseen Enemy on the Battlefields of War

Don’t let me hear your voice

Telling me of loves’ sweet follies

The cherished memories that leave you wistful even now

And the burden of your daily labors 

Or how you meant to tell him sorry

But now it’s much too late

I mustn’t hear how much you miss your son or need your wife

Or know that you are frightened just like me

Please, don’t let me hear your voice.

Don’t let me see your face

To know your smiles frowns and tears

To see in you a part of me and melt the hardness in my soul

Don’t let me see your face.

Don’t let me watch you dance

I need to turn my head so I don’t feel the joy in you

So much like mine when music calls me

And I feel the need to dance

You cannot be like me

I need you faceless, voiceless, void of soul

Or how can I shoot you in the field

And walk away untouched       

Don’t reveal your joy or pain

Don’t let me hear your voice!