In My Own Words

I started a writing class recently and last night we wrote about finding our voice and I decided to share here what I wrote for class. While preparing for the class I realized that using my voice, especially my written voice, was something I learned long ago…

I’ve learned many things from my mother. She is who I modeled my heart after, and she is where my drive to fix everyone in front of me comes from. But, I couldn’t learn her sweetness, and she is not who taught me to use my voice. My voice came from my dad. “You have to fight and scream no matter what they say, because if someone gets a hold of you they’re gonna kill you anyway, so you have to fight.” That fatherly advice came after a news story, sometime in elementary school, around the age of eight. It stuck with me my whole life. You have to fight.

Sometimes, like when the Adam Jepsons of the world hit you on the school bus, you have to fight with your hands, but sometimes you have to fight with your words. He taught me about fighting with words when I was a kid. Words he’d type out on his powder blue typwriter. Words that formed one clever op-ed article after another for the local paper. Words he’d throw like darts during family “debates” in his parents living room on weekend visits. Words can be mighty and forceful, and you have to be able to stratigically use them. My dad taught me that.

I write, in a lot of ways, because of my dad. I started with poetry and op-eds like he did, and I express my opinions with forceful conviction because of him. My thoughts on religion. My thoughts on love and guns and police and drugs and addiction. Even my thoughts on womanhood, personhood, sisterhood, I can speak of because of my dad. More often than not,, those thoughts are far different from his own.

Even though our opinions on most things deemed important in life are more varied than a box of unusuall crayons – Mine, an eclectic collection of purple and grey. His, stark shades of black and white – I have the voice to speak to those opinions because of my dad. Even though he is the person I no longer argue my opinions with, I use my voice because of my dad, and I know, deep down, his daughter’s voice makes him proud.

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So, it finally happened. We went out into the world and brought home Covid. I was in denial for the first 24 hours or so, but Rich’s fever spiked over 102, and I had to give into the idea that we needed to test. After the torture that is the covid test, it took less than two minutes for the dreaded red lines to appear. Even a faint line should be considered a positive result, the instructions said, but there wasn’t anything faint about it. Nothing to question. We had covid.

I know there’s lots of talk about it being nothing but a cold, but this shit is not like any cold I’ve ever had. I can’t stay awake but I can’t sleep because I don’t feel good. My whole body aches, my head hurts, and my chest is heavy. I’m coughing a lot and I can’t breathe. The one thing no one warned me about though is the fact that I am ornery. I’m so ornery I’m tired of myself! At this point, I’m putting mysefl in a timeout and I’m not trying to do anything at all until I feel like myself again.

Wow…It’s almost March already in this year 2023, and my non-resolution resolution obviously didn’t stick. I”m to blame, but I have excuses. I mean, I’m a writer, I think we always have excuses! I’ve been trying to work on new stuff, trying not to rewrite old stuff that seems to be in a perpetual stage of being written instead of being finished, and dealing with…well, life. Life has had a lot of ups and downs these past few months, but I am trying to regain my balance. With my balance will come more posts.

The fog was rolling in when I took the girls out for their morning yard inspection and, by chance, I had my phone. This might be one of my favorite shots from my yard since we’ve been here.

I’m not a big new year’s resolution kind of person, but this year I said the one thing I was going to do was get back to this blog and keep it up. I had every intention of starting it off last week and have no good excuse for being late, but I’m going to keep trying to keep at it.

For today, I’m putting this here because I love these two goofs so much even though some days they make me question why.

As a kid, The Little Mermaid was not my jam. The movie came out when I was a bit older and I don’t think I’ve seen it more than once or twice since its Disney release. The most recent backlash regarding casting was impossible to avoid though, even without being a fan. I mean, Melissa McCarthy as Ursula? She’s not even purple and her hair is definitely the wrong color! How could they?!?

I know, I know. I’m making light, but in reality the idea that Ariel must look as drawn by a 90’s Disney artist forever going forward is silly. It’s as silly of an idea as all Tolkien elves needing to only ever be played on screen by white actors. Or Death, as created by Neil Gaiman, only being a fair-skinned woman for anything that appears on screen from The Sandman series. The last one was especially ridiculous for “fans” to throw fits about because Mr. Gaiman himself was involved in the casting of Death and Lucifer – another role people flipped their lids over.

It really is a rough spot to be in as a writer. I think most of us have those fantasies of our work going from page to screen, be it the small screen or the silver screen. I’ve made several casting lists of my own with current actors playing the characters I write. There is a particular actress I’m fond of that I use all the time in my head for my lead. She has the right look, the right mannerisms, the right skill set. I also know I would not be devastated if my dreams came true, my project was picked up and put on film, but she wasn’t cast in the role.

Why wouldn’t I be devastated? Because, as a writer, I would be too far over the moon just knowing someone was going to bring my character to life! This is a death trap for writers. The excitement of seeing something put into that live action medium can be quickly deflated by screaming fans upset that what appears didn’t match what was in their heads. Authors are forced to pick a side and defend a casting agent and film maker, or side with fans unable or unwilling to look beyond what they created. That boils down to tank your own film project or lose part of your fan base.

During a review of the first draft of my novel a friend noted that I didn’t put a lot of physical detail into the characters. I provided enough for them to create a person in their mind without explaining every wrinkle and nose shape, and each of them created someone slightly different. One reader even said the lead was a blonde even though she was described several times as a brunette! Some people approved of my method, some said they missed the details, but by the end of the conversation I’d made them at least consider my way could be right. I thought I was being clever but looking back on it, maybe I was being afraid.

Around the same time as my first draft read, Idris Elba – one of my favorite humans – set fans in a tizzy as Heimdall in Thor. Lucy Liu as Watson on the small screen had people screaming. Then casting for The Hunger Games was announced and a young, black actress named Amandla Stenberg was set to play the part of Rue. People lost their damn minds! I was sent into instant confusion because I was sure that the character had been described in the book as being a young, black girl. I had to go back to my copy and double check. I was right, and that’s when it became clear; no matter how you describe your characters, readers are going to see them how they want to see them, even changing ethnicities to match what they’re comfortable with. This is the writer’s conundrum.

We shouldn’t be afraid to create. The idea that you can’t take something out of a fantasy world, like Mermaids!, and interpret them in different colors, different ethnicities, or even different genders puts a box around creativity. The idea that I can’t write a character with one physical attribute and a casting agent can’t use who they think embodies that same character with different eyes or different skin, unless it’s white skin, limits creativity. It limits the spaces creativity can thrive. That there can’t be spaces in art and movies and literature for a variety of types of people limits us all.

I have this image framed on my writing desk. While my writing style is nothing like Mr. Gaiman’s, he’s one of my favorite authors and I count him as my imaginary mentor after taking his Master Class.

We brought home a new puppy over this past weekend. I went back and forth as to whether or not it would be a good idea. We’d talked for a long time about getting a friend for our four year old Goldendoodle, Astrid, but then she had her accident and lost her back leg. Wasn’t sure if a Doodle puppy would be something she would be able to deal with.

The first 24 hours was iffy, but the two of them are thick as thieves already. Now it’s me wondering if a Doodle puppy is something I’m going to be able to deal with! They’re lucky they’re so damn cute.

It only takes one trip through the Salt Lake valley to see how fond the founders were of keeping things in order. It’s the streets. It took a year of driving the winding roads in the Puget Sound to really notice how straight streets in Salt Lake are. Learning to drive and not having a natural sense of direction like some people, I appreciated the shit out of the street system at one point. It’s like a sheet of grid paper was laid over the city plans, increasing and decreasing the roads numerically in order. Businesses, schools, houses, and of course churches, all fit into their own little box of space throughout the valley, keeping everything and everyone in line.

When you’re talking about streets, keeping everything straight and in order makes sense. When you try to apply the same principles to people it becomes more complicated. Some of us are meant to wind and twist. We need to express ourselves – who we really are inside – to the outside world. But that type of self-expression is not encouraged in a place like Utah. What is encouraged is fitting in, being happy for happy’s sake, and knowing who is in church with you on Sunday. That last part is most important. The people in church on Sunday were the safe ones. They were the worthy ones. They were your community. The people not in church on Sunday were the trouble or troubled. They were lacking. They were to be avoided. I know this form of judgement can be attached to a lot of religious communities but there is a unique difference in Utah created by the dominating population of church members.

As a kid in the eighties and nineties I had a hard time not being myself. That’s not a brag – in most places I still would have been considered a “goody goody.” I didn’t get in trouble much as a kid, and when I did my mom would ground this homebody from my bedroom. As a teenager I didn’t sneak out or party. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink alcohol. None of that normal teenage stuff. I was a huge fan of Pepsi back in the day though, and that alone marked me as a rebel to some. I had a few piercings in my ears which someone else’s grandmother told me would land me in hell. I wore hats, which caused a friend to plead with me not to wear them to her house because her mom thought I dressed like an “easy girl.” We were still in elementary school. Lucky for me, that mom didn’t know that besides my Debbie Gibson inspired hats, I’d also let most our class know I didn’t believe in god.

It was a revelation made in self-defense, really. God is always watching Jenny told me. Jenny who also told me about her dad drowning their kittens in the canal behind our neighborhood like it was something everyone’s dad did. Jenny who licked glue off her hand in class on a dare but then kept going. That Jenny was the first one to leave the sting of judgement that I’d eventually try to get used to. We were lined up for lunch on a Monday and Jenny was talking about whatever it was that happened in Sunday School and pointed out that I wasn’t there. Honestly, I usually wasn’t there. I couldn’t even tell you why she singled me out that day, but she did, and it wasn’t the last time for me. I told Jenny we weren’t in church the day before because we went to visit my grandparents and if that upset god then he wasn’t for me. It was the first time I’d been brave enough to say what had always been my thoughts. It also scared the hell out of me after I said it out loud, but no lightning struck that day.

Growing up, I always wanted things to be fair. Not just fair for me, but fair for everyone. It didn’t seem fair to me, even as a kid, that I couldn’t be myself because it was different than what was accepted. It seemed silly that so much of my worth could be tied to something as fantastical as church attendance. Whether or not I was a good person, an honest person, a person worthy of respect, was all tied to where I was on Sundays, regardless of how I lived the other six days of the week. The older I got the more obvious that point became. It is hard to comprehend how overwhelming and lonely the lack of community can be for those of us who aren’t good at fitting in the box. It’s an unfair pressure to put yourself through as a kid. And if you haven’t been there, it’s hard to understand how harmful it is for those who keep themselves locked in those boxes, disappearing like a melting snowflake, to avoid being shut out.

It’s a different kind of isolation you experience as the Non-religious person in an overly religious space, like Utah. They pride themselves at being nice. They smile big and they’ll sometimes be polite, but they’ll shut you out all the same. In some ways it’s subtle – talking to you at school but not playing together after school. Inviting some friends for sleepovers, but only who they saw during Sunday School. Other times it’s more direct, and oddly those usually hurt less. I was gifted copies of the Book of Mormon. I was invited to concerts at the ward house when the music group The Jets were gaining popularity. I was invited to Young Women’s nights, and get togethers, but when my church attendance didn’t also follow their missionary endeavors, those friends broke away. If I wasn’t going to give in they couldn’t play.

There were more extreme versions of the same as I got older, especially during my year away at college, and throughout my unwed pregnancy a year after that. I was unknown by the church members in my parents neighborhood until I sent a letter requesting to be removed as a member. Suddenly, relief society women I had never met were leaving me cards and stopping by the house unannounced and uninvited to see how they could help. And by help I mean help me in my “crisis of faith” not with anything I, as a single mom, would have actually found helpful. And they definitely were not there as friends, which I really could have used. They didn’t know me. We had never met even though my parents had lived in the house for a decade. But the bishop gave the relief society an assignment, and that assignment was me.

When I pushed forward with officially being removed as a member there were no more visits. No more waves from the other young mom on the corner who had dropped off a Ziplock bag of hard cinnamon bears when it was her turn to bring me back. If I wasn’t going to go to church the offers of friendship were rescinded. That’s they way it works for non-Mormons in Utah. If you talk to a devout member of the church about what I’ve written here most will brush it off. People like me always think it’s bad, right? But it is that bad for so many young people living outside of the church but inside of the state, and their options are so limited. I got lucky because my family – some members religious, some not – were always accepting of me.

I didn’t have the pressure at home that many face just to stay connected to the first group of friends we ever make. Family. This pressure isn’t limited to Utah Mormons though, and we’re seeing a push to make this version of righteous discrimination a national standard. Every court ruling and state mandate that is put into play on the basis of “protecting” Christian freedoms is a line dug deeper in the sand between the Evangelical minority and the rest of us just trying to find a place in our communities. Putting on a smile and faking it, even at the cost of your own self, is often the only option kids are left with.

This pressure causes so much pain, anxiety and confusion that they are forced to hide their truth away. They go along with things like praying on football fields and separating out the non-believers to avoid being shut out themselves. Keeping it all neat and tidy while their real self is melting away inside of a box. That type of self-destruction is a hard thing to recover from and our country is on the road to put that pressure on entire generations for the sake of maintaining the power of a few. In my forties, some of those old jabs still sting, and my heart breaks for the kids who will endure the next round.

Out of the blue a few weeks ago, I found myself looking up the lyrics for a lullaby in the middle of the night. I was singing it to myself as I was trying to fall asleep and realized I couldn’t remember all the words. I also realized I was hearing it in my grandma’s voice. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. I knew that night I needed to write about my grandma. I knew that her health was fading faster, but I didn’t know how soon we’d say goodbye.

It has been hard to think about putting into words what life with Ilene was like. She could be a whirlwind. But for us grandkids, she was pure magic. If that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. Singing the only lines I could remember, I was back on the living room floor in that small brick house, on a hot summer night with the others. The main door pushed wide open to let the breeze through the screen door. I swear she didn’t sleep when we were there, she just watched over us with the quiet lull of traffic on 700 East in the background.

Ilene was a lot of things. Daughter. Sister. Wife. Mother. Friend. Beehive hair stylist for the neighborhood girls. Wedding cake maker. Babysitter. But, I dare say, she loved her role as grandma most. If there’s anything I can share with you about her, it’s that. We crafted, we laughed, we baked, we learned important life lessons. I mean, everyone knows why we don’t put fingers in stand mixers. And if you don’t, I’ll tell you all about it later.

I don’t think she liked anything more than having her house full of grandkids. Except, maybe, letting us break the rules. She always joked I was her favorite, but I know she couldn’t say no to any of us. That was the same for the younger set of grandkids, and the great grands that eventually came along. Everyone was the favorite when you were with her.

Ilene knew she was fallible, and she allowed us kids to be as well when we were around her. Perfect wasn’t necessary, you could be yourself. I wanted to be a little grownup, and she encouraged that in me. Kendall and David wanted to be their version of rebels, with gully runs and tadpoles, and she encouraged that too.

She never wanted to fit you into a box like a perfect crayon. You could be messy and wild, steal frosting from the fridge, and run through the neighborhood without your shoes on, and she’d love every minute of it. And at the end of the night, she’d make you up a makeshift bed, and if you were lucky, she’d whisper-sing a few lullabies while you fell asleep.