Never Walked In High Heels

Last night I became engrossed in a debate with a fellow American about whether or not it was appropriate for us to bow when meeting the Queen of England… should we ever do so. Her argument was that it is British custom bow and “when in Rome…” The problem is, there is a difference between following cultural custom because you are a guest and completing an act of submission, which is what the bow symbolized originally.

I’m not going to talk about the point of the American Revolution and the preamble of the Constitution ensuring that Americans bow to no one. Such an argument is quickly, even if irrationally, dismissed in a postmodern world. But I do want to challenge the argument that people give: Americans should bow to the Queen as a sign of respect?.

Respect for what exactly?

If it’s respect for the culture, this is a shaky argument to say the least. I’ve never walked down Tottenham Court Road and seen one man bow to another. Unlike the Japanese, Brits are not normally the bowing type these days contrary to what you may read in fairy tales. That’s why businessmen bow when they are over in the Tokyo office. This is not a bow I have a problem with.

So then, why do British people bow to the Queen? Simply put, because she is their queen. They do not bow to their prime minister or any other member of their government. They bow to no other foreign regent but their own; British people don’t bow to the king of Saudi Arabia because he is not their sovereign. And likewise, Queen Elizabeth is not ours.

You will now no doubt say, “you should respect a world leader.” I will never disagree with this. But since when does showing respect to people mean bowing to them simply because they wear a crown on their heads. For that matter, what makes her a world leader? She was born into a regal position, this is very true, and so were many world leaders. One might even very well argue the same about a wealthy man born into his privileged position. But by being a leader it is inherent the one leads. According to most of my friends here in the UK, the only leadership activity she undertakes is putting on the crown.

I bow to no one except to God. The American Constitution and my own faith are far too engrained in me to even consider doing otherwise. Some might call it fanaticism, others can call it arrogance. But I personally think no one should be obliged to bow down to another person, ever. If we are all made of the same stuff, if we are all equal as people and as cultures, why should a title be acknowledged at all, let alone with an act which historically signifies acquiescence. You are still fearfully and wonderfully made, even in a place as sophisticated as Rome.

When I decided to trek through the mud in order to throw my acorn branch into the fire, I was also agreeing to make both my wheelchair and my ankle length coat saturated with grey mud. So through the three inch deep muck I went, all in the name of increasing my cultural awareness. The tradition goes that if you throw the branch of an oak tree into a bonfire on Twelfth Night, you will be blessed all year. It was more than superstition. The elders would approach the flames tenuously, trying to keep their footing, throw their branches in and cross themselves while muttering a prayer.

This is when I have to admit that I wasn’t going through this just for my own cultural edification. It’s a good cover, but deep down there was a part of me that was hoping that good luck would come as a result.

What is it in us that still believes that if we do X, avoid Y, and call upon Z good things will be bestowed upon us? Are we waiting for someone else to make our life brighter by not acknowledging that we ourselves only have the power to propel us towards our dreams? Or perhaps we know that some things are out of our control and these are the attempts to nudge things in the directions we think they ought to go. And although most of us know deep down that these attempts are feeble, we do them anyway… even in the rain and mud.

I forget its source, but somewhere I heard that psychics get asked questions which mainly fall into three categories: love, money, and health. When I was younger I somehow thought that these concerns were silly. I don’t know why I couldn’t wrap my head around the notion that everyone would be concerned about these three issues, but now that I’m older I can see them popping into my worries. And after a few frustrating but predicted years, I found myself taking somewhat extreme measures to ensure that this year would go, if anything, more smoothly.

Deep down, I think we are all willing to take extreme measures to ensure things go our way. Some of the most horrific events in history can be attributed to this. If luck and blessings won’t serve us, then we will do it ourselves and all of a sudden a muddy coat looks like child’s play in front of what we are willing to destroy or deny so we can have what we want.

Its been just over a month since Twelfth Night, and I’m just flaking the last bit of mud off my coat. I remember throwing my branch in and being almost surprised at what I found myself wishing for and the long lasting dreams I suddenly forgot. Perhaps I am fooled as to what the desires of my heart actually are.

Several people have enquired about my mud caked coat over the past month. They all get excited when I tell them about a bonfire next to a mystical church that’s in the middle of nowhere. The mud and rain adds to the story’s appeal. And I realize that after barely a month, it’s already been a great year.

Reprinted with permission from A Jar Full of Fireflies, by Ashley Brown.

Dave is teaching high-schoolers in Virginia. Charles is finishing up his first year of medical school. Carter and Will are married almost a year now and talking a language I don’t understand. Lucy joined an artist co-op and is painting in her own studio now. Laurie is waiting tables in the North Davidson District.
Some of my friends chose to stay. To Teach. Work. Drink. Commit themselves to graduate school or the World Cup. Some of my friends chose to go away. To Travel. Relearn languages. Ride in trains. I sporadically read their postings about protests in Dublin and humanitarian aid in South Africa.
I measure my life by these people.
I am turning twenty something. Deferring my college loans. Learning to cook. Refusing to live at home. Paying bills by myself. Planting a garden. Finding unfamiliar communities and new friends. Julie calls and tells me she got a job working at Bank of America. I call Laurie and tell her it’s not really about the boyfriends or the benjamins. This backfires because I, as it turns out, am not humorous or entitled to this joke, and because it has everything to do with both. I am writing new songs and spending time in a newfound, bohemian coffeehouse. I’m wondering if I lost weight since last year and about the new changes my parents made to the house.
Strange, scattered feeling when you realize your home is made of people. Vulnerable feeling… and that these particular people, come and visit, but that they are visiting. Awkwardly asking where the bathroom is instead of stealing your leftovers.
This realization makes your home smaller. Because maps full of pen marks and scotch tape still fit in your pocket. (You shouldn’t have to use these kind of things to find your home.) And it makes your home bigger. This too. You stretch out your index finger and point in the direction you last saw them go. (But they’ve gone farther than your borderline fingertips or vanishing point, primary school perspective.)
“Learn how to use a compass,” I tell myself, “and hope map keys lie about all that distance in-between and make the decision to believe that, maybe, the latitude line mathematics and geological dots we call home will turn into people soon, and we will hold each other by unfolding our maps.”

The water flows over a body

Regardless of what the plans were

With the stubborn humility of glass

And so they waited

Watching what they had

And wondering if they lost it all

Would Lady Dignity too soon pass

In the darkness, she sang of treasures

Which were placed somewhere else

Cradling her own head when no one held her

She told the others

Of times of courage and pain

The loss of a loved son

Never quite known

And the times of startling joy which came again

If someone told you the water brought destruction

What would you thirst for then

And if they told you it brought redemption,

Could you help yourself dive in

As the water rose past the walls,

Man made and cold in every way,

A life known but quickly forgotten

Began to restlessly wash away

And the muddied water was to rebuild her

Where imperfections astounded men

And when they told her not to come closer

She had to take off her fears again

The lies of tomorrow seduce what could be

Into a thing small, tepid, and tame

We look on the horizon for Forever

She holds fast with the watchmen
Waiting for the night to be reclaimed

A god who sometimes can’t be found

Will wipe our tears away

Yet she no longer questioned his survival

While standing in waters waist high

The sacrifice of strength through submission

Comes with the submergence in grace

And the pain that is only useful after it becomes familiar

This week I’ve been reading about an old friend and her family history. In recent months this author has become a substitute grandmother, filling me in with all sorts of wisdom, platitudes, and calming truths that I was never given. She tells in her books about her own family, how her great grandmother was the daughter of the ambassador to Spain, and grew up in the Spanish courts. How her parents were reporters, following news stories wherever they could in the days of WWI. They were citizens, soldiers, and those who enlisted bravely. Women who knew how to use a sword and run a house at the same time.

And then there’s my family. We’re from mid-America, poor, and relatively suburban. Well, not really suburban I suppose, though it seems particularly uneventful to me. I’m pretty sure that a member of the family or two had a run in with the law. We have no heirlooms that I know of. My grandparent’s basement is legendary for holding things but nothing really of any value. And they know that most people when they grow up and become independent adults, they choose to become close to their family. They leave for a while and then return, settling down and starting a family of their own. But doing that was never really in my mind when I embarked on adulthood.

They say that a family is equal to your roots and that having such people in your life will guide you as well as make you grow tall and strong. But, what if the roots you come from don’t run particularly deep? Or you don’t necessarily want to go in the direction that they’re going? What then? To what extent is blood thicker than water? And does this really mean anything? Are you necessarily bound to any family just because your genetic code is similar in some way?

In college, I was the only girl in my dormitory who didn’t come from what could easily be termed as “old money.” Lots of girls had monograms engraved on their tote bags or jackets with family shields pinned on them; their emblems and symbols, histories and romances ran deep. So deep that it was nearly legendary. And then there was me. It wasn’t uncomfortable so much as it was surprising that people even existed who treasured their bloodline so much. All of this (…?), the weight of standing on your ancestor’s shoulders seemed to be the only way to get anywhere in a new southern society.

For those of us who lack an ancient family tree that’s knotted and crooked in some places, although strong and formidable, if we don’t have such roots, do we stand alone? My family can be considered small and when I am away from them in the United Kingdom, holidays can be rough. It is during this time that everyone goes to their family. But, after several years I have learned that a family is made, created almost, rather than genetically passed down. I find myself in the UK with people who are closer to me than cousins and young women who have become my sisters within the past several years. Because like any transplant, we go down, digging our own roots and holding on to whatever we possibly can. Once we’re a little bit stable, we reach out and make our own new family.

I’ve always been a big-picture thinker. I don’t care about what’s going on down the street, but rather what’s going on in the rest of the world. Once I actually ended a relationship with someone who tried to make me only see the small and local problem. He would say, “You can’t change the world, you can only change yourself.” That wasn’t my style at all. So I’ve surprised myself this New Year by making a resolution to watch the news less. Actually the resolution is to not watch the news at all, but given the ubiquity of it, I don’t think avoiding the news altogether is entirely possible.

In today’s world, keeping up with current events seems to be a sort of status symbol. If you don’t watch the news you’re considered by many to be non-educated. At every school I’ve applied for they repeatedly begged their prospective students to stay up to date with what is going on in the world. And in truth I am a news-aholic. Politics is the only full-contact sport that my family shares. I was raised listening not to music but talk radio approximately eight hours a day and have been known to get little done while listening intently to news broadcasts. I surprised myself with this resolution when I set it.

Recently watching the news makes me feel in less control of the world. Actually more specifically it makes me feel a combination of despondence and high blood pressure. Every network shapes the opinions of others by superfluous things. I trust that reporter because of how he looks people in the eye, or I don’t trust that one because of what he said last week regarding a completely separate issue. And this is how the journalism industry works, trying to win people over in an intense form of competition, via shaping the news however they can.

Turns out, I argue with friends about politics more than I do to take any action about the subject. “People should…” I begin my argument. Never acting in the way I recommend myself. For that matter, few of us do. So we just talk about the problem rather than actually doing something about it, assuming that the politicians or someone else will fix it for us. And then we can talk about them.

But, the problem goes deeper than that. Not only do I question whether watching the news can lead to some sort of inactivity, I’ve begun to wonder if we even watch the same news. One channel says one thing and the other says the complete opposite. This is truly the strength of the broadcast industry, using journalism to create a crisis, not only in their own reports, but also in the fact that they directly contradict each other, throwing the public into a situation where we have nothing but superfluous things to figure out who to trust. If everything was fine in the world, or stable, journalists would have little to do.

I am a big picture thinker. But the biggest thing I can do at this point in time to affect the world is to act boldly where I am placed. It’s not Washington DC, and it’s not even the Parliament in London. It’s on her little quiet street on the Thames that overlooks Canary Wharf but yet is surrounded by neighbors who have their own needs and problems and crises to attend to. From them, this year, I attend to learn as much as I can and be as active among them as much as I can, because there is something to be said for the idea that we are all made for such a time and a place as this. We are all made to bring forth change for such a time and a place as this.

Athena  is taking a much deserved break. She’ll be back Jan 4, 2010.

I’ve recently discovered that there are some situations in which public transportation is completely inappropriate. I’m not speaking about situations where vehicles are inaccessible, or difficult for me to use, rather, just the opposite. I’m not having unsaid difficulty. But someone else is in a situation on public transport that is absolutely bizarre.

Today I was on the bus going home. The bus was shockingly empty, until about halfway through, at which point twenty people entered the bus at once. Being preoccupied with my work, I continued reading the book I was currently using as a resource for my occupation. The bus traveled on a little way and I noticed two things: the first thing was how exceptionally quiet this particular bus ride was. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, and of course children were still at school, babies were home for naps, and the businessmen were still in their cubicles, causing an absolute dead silence on the bus, unique for London Transport. In this city, you don’t talk to strangers. Ironically back home, the reason you don’t talk to strangers is that they might be weird, whereas here, the strangers will probably think you are weird for talking to them. And so, we all listened to our  iPods, read our books, and faced forwards in silence.

The second thing I noticed was that I could swear I suddenly smelled fresh water fish. Strange smells are unfortunately a common enough occurrence on public transportation, particularly on a bus, and so I dismissed the smell assuming it to be on account of someone’s poor hygiene.

As I was reading, out of the corner of my left eye, I saw what looked like a bit of trash. Again, a very mundane thing. And then I noticed that the trash wasn’t obeying the laws of physics. When the bus would slam on the breaks, this object would go towards the back of the bus, not towards the front, as the rules of inertia dictated. I took a closer look…

My first reaction was that someone had let a frog loose on the bus. Perhaps a school kid wanting to cause trouble, or simply losing his pet. And then I noticed that this object was not only alive, but crawling with eight legs. Frogs, to the best of my knowledge, don’t typically crawl (or for that matter have eight legs), and so my mind went into desert mode. Immediately I thought it’s a tarantula. And then, as I examined the creature underneath the seats of the bus (fortunately on the opposite side of me), I began to wonder where on earth anyone would have the resources to get a tarantula in London, given how much they guard the selling of lockable knives and chewing tobacco, I was amazed that someone not only was able to get a hold of a tarantula, but also had the boldness of releasing it on a bus. Boldness or stupidity…you choose. But, my reasoning further deduced, arachnids are typically hairy. And this looked slimy. I watched it a little more and realized it was a crab. Over 5 inches in diameter, it was a crab. There was a crab loose on a public bus in London.

Now, this immediately put me into a very unique position, because being on public transport, if I am to say anything to a stranger, such as “Hey there’s a giant fresh water crab on that seat and it’s really scary,” they would immediately assume me to be one of the crazy people. It’s part of the territory when you have a disability. You get to be the victim of everyone’s stereotypes about disability. And they would smile and nod, claiming that they didn’t understand. I know because I’ve relived this situation over and over. I was not about to do it again. So, I closed my book, sat back, and tried to watch the scene unfold.

Within seconds a woman in full African dress goes from being seated to jumping with both feet on the seat and screaming (how on earth she was able to do this in an ankle length skirt, I don’t know). And then, the small Chinese woman from the front of the bus runs to the back, picks up the crab, runs back to her seat, and places it into a blue plastic grocery bag, which is also full of, well, crabs. While doing this act, she crosses from the front of the bus to the back apologizing to every person along the way, as in, looking at each of us and saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And I sat there in utter disbelief of the entire absurdity and, might I add, multicultural diversity of the situation. The rest of the bus ride was silent.

The entire thing felt like something out of Annie Hall, which made me immediately wonder, did Annie and Alvy take live lobsters on the subway with them in order to get them back to Annie’s kitchen? What do you do in a society that is dependent on public transportation if you need to transport something really absurd such as sea life or crustaceans? For a public transport system that attempts to meet everyone’s needs, there are some things even the folks at TFL can never even dream up.

The Asian woman waited until 5 stops later to get off, securely holding her two grocery bags of live creatures. I can only assume that somebody had some very fresh crabs for dinner that night.

It was ten minutes to 8 o’ clock in the morning, and I was going to one of my favorite businesses in London that I often frequent in the wee morning hours. This particular place is like a second home to me, full of young women who to me feel as though they are my sisters rather than a client-professional relationship. That being said, the lever of professionalism and expertise in this particular establishment is stunning. That being said, driving up to the door there was a gigantic water heater about 5 feet tall and 3 feet in diameter, which not only did not belong there, but also had nothing to do with the store itself.

“What in the world…!” I yelled inside, opening the door as best I could while moving around the obstruction. Two employees came out and, although laughing hysterically at the situation, told me that the obstacle had nothing to do with the store. At that moment a maintenance man got out of his van and walked past.

“Is this yours?” One of the employees asked. She’s barely five feet tall and has pixie-cut blonde-white hair. She’s one of my favorites because she not only looks as if she can cause mischief (which she often does) but also has been put forward for several awards in her industry at an alarmingly young age.

“Yeah,” said the man. A single word spoke volumes of subtext such as, “and I’m having a really bad day, so don’t you dare bother me.”

“Well, we’re going to have to move it to get her inside,” she said rather directly.

“Fine, fine, fine!” And at that moment the maintenance man kicked over the metal cylinder at full power.

“I’m all alone here today, I can’t do everything,” he said, continuously kicking the water heater. At this moment, the pixie became fierce.

“Well there’s no need for that kind of behavior now, is there?”

I began to speak up, feeling as I often do in such situations, that it is somehow my fault. Logically, I realize that this is not the case, but there is always that emotional tweak inside me that cunningly says, “You should have never gone out of the house in the first place. Look at what you’ve done.” And so I opened my mouth to defend everyone possible in the situation.

At that moment, the owner of the establishment, Karine, came out. She is a model entrepreneur in every sense of the word, someone I lovingly respect as well as professionally admire. Her Australian accent and blonde hair always makes me feel like there is the grace of Nicole Kidman nearby.

“What is going on here?” she demanded. And the pixie and I immediately began talking at once. The pixie to Karine, myself to the antagonist.

“Get inside, both of you, get inside right now,” she demanded, opening the door further and guiding my wheelchair in.

“Karine, I’m so sorry-” I began, wanting to apologize for the entire situation.

“You’re my customer. Get inside and go get yourself something to drink.”

I turned around to say something to the man. “I said, get inside, you’re my customer.” And with that, I was inside the door.

Sometimes, it is, unfortunately, refreshing to have someone do the right thing without being told to do so. And when you don’t even realize that their action is the right thing to do until they do it, it takes your breath away even more. Someone decisively blocked my entrance to Karine’s business. As a paying customer, it wasn’t my job to fix it. It wasn’t my job to apologize for someone else’s idiocy, or even attempt to be diplomatic. It’s rare in this city that a business person has such capitalistic foresight to realize that for all their customers to be equal, and to want to spend money at their establishment, they have to do some human rights work themselves. I don’t know why I found Karine’s behavior so shocking, because of course, I chose to spend my money there as a vote of confidence in her establishment, as recognition of value, when I discovered that hers was one of the few places in London that voluntarily put in a stairlift between their upstairs and downstairs, and as a statement of satisfaction when I knew that her employees would treat me as professionally as anyone else, and do whatever it took for the effects of my disability to disappear within the walls of her business.

People often say that human relations and business can never go together. They are opposing poles that will never meet. I don’t believe that. From what I see, the businesswoman I respect in Karine doesn’t believe that either. In order to be worth your payment, you must be willing to see the human being, what she needs, and take it upon yourself to provide a service of value. That’s why, even if there is a water heater in the way sometimes, I walk to Karine’s with the full knowledge that my money will be well spent.

It’s 5 o’ clock at night and the same monster that has been facing me all day, is still staring at me from my desk. I’ve gotten up, gone to Starbucks, blown my nose half a dozen times, surfed the internet, and the monster is still there. Not roaring loud at all, just staring at me in that annoying way that only such a monster can accomplish. I am, once again, looking at a blank page on my computer screen.

Anne Lamott calls them “shitty first drafts” and says that they are absolutely vital to the writing process. Even as an adult, I am skeptical of this conclusion. I survived my entire high school and college education, and a masters degree, not doing first drafts of any paper. I would sit down, write, run it through grammatical checks and spell checks, maybe find a few errors in logic here or there, but on the whole the final draft would be done by the first time I wrote the paper. For earlier levels of education that would require you to attach former drafts as evidence of your own individual work,  I would then take the finished product and fabricate drafts behind it, switching paragraphs around, taking out thesis statements, and introductory sentences, making it look as if a seed germinated into a full-fledged paper.

Part of this is a combination of too smart for my own good, as well as extremely lazy to do anything properly. And the other half of my reasons in working in this manner is because of my disability. Being able to type an alarmingly slow rate meant I didn’t have time for third and fourth drafts. By the time I got the first draft done, it had to be turned in the next morning. And so I survived every level of education thus far, handing in first drafts of everything, which meant I never had the permission to write shitty first drafts.

When you’re working really creatively, you have to be able to do that. You have to give yourself the freedom to write loose-ends and dangling participles, unformed ideas that might not go anywhere and entire pages that will probably be thrown out. This is something that even without a deadline, I still cannot afford myself.

Did Tolstoy write shitty first drafts? Or Shakespeare? How about King David? Did he sit in his palace and say, “I know this is supposed to be divinely inspired, but it looks like crap to me.” All of a sudden I can’t help but wonder if this is what drove Hemmingway to the bottle, and Lewis Carroll to opiates. Overall, we don’t normally think of E. M. Forester having teenage acne and Oscar Wilde muttering obscenities when his pen ran out of ink. Did they allow themselves to make bad jokes that the rest of us have never seen? Did they wake up late and run out the door with mismatched socks to a meeting that they completely forgot about? Did Jane Austen ever have menstrual cramps?

I remember once I was sitting backstage at a Royal Shakespeare Company performance of Two Gentlemen of Verona. It was one of my first times backstage at a professional production, and I would look over to the other side of the wings to see actors goofing off right before they were supposed to go onstage. Behind the curtain it wasn’t serious. It was however, human, and miscalled cues, silly spoofs, and mislaid props were all just part and parcel of the experience. I pointed it out to an actress, saying, “It’s not all magical. In fact, being backstage is pretty mundane, as entertaining as it is.

“Yes, but doesn’t that humanity make the magic of the art all the more powerful?”

The beauty of any piece of work is not the success of that piece, however perfect it may seem to be. Rather it is the artist’s willingness to fail, however invisible it may seem in the final product, that makes the project so much more remarkable.

As a creative person, I haven’t been able to consistently master the ability to risk more and fail harder, as Beckett put it.  Maybe someday I will, and perhaps when I can consistently do that, I can see that a blank page is not a monster, but yet, an opportunity for so many possibilities.