Sweet or Sour

Sweet or Sour


Walking down Bosworth Street to the BART(subway) two young children were turned around in the back seat of their parents’ car, waving wildly, trying to see who would wave back. "Sweet or Sour” was the game my children played and I played before them.
Who will wave back? I smiled, a big, broad smile and waved at them as if they were my long lost cousins. For a minute they were taken aback, the car stopped at a stop sign, but then, even through the window glass I could see big smiles spread across their faces. I was a stranger, after all. I had entered their evolving psyches as “sweet” and maybe because of that, they could believe, the world was, in fact, a sweet world.

A few hours later, at City College where I teach, I was standing outside of the bookstore. Usually the people who congregate there are occasional faculty members and students, ranging in age from 18 to 40 years old. However, that sweet and sour day, there were a few middle-schoolers about to walk across the street to the bus stop. For whatever reason, I don’t know, but they turned to me and waved and then giggled, turning into themselves like snails climbing back into their encasements. Again I waved, a big friendly wave(trying not to look like a complete idiot on the sidewalk but ever cognizant of my potential role as they tested the water of this life) and as they ran across the street when the light turned green, I heard them say "She waved back! She waved back!!!"

My parents were burned in an explosion when I was four—and I grew up during the silent fifties—the era of pop tarts, toaster ovens, Maytag washer/dryers and frozen dinners--when little was talked about since so many were coming home from war and America wanted to forget the pain. In a poem I wrote, I called America a “kiss it and make it better country—and the children wanted band aids on everything even the slightest scratch—band aids with stars and stripes.” We all wanted to cover our pain. We watched Lassie and Father Knows Best. We all loved happy endings.

Over the past few weeks I’ve visited book clubs, been interviewed in a wonderful on-line magazine(Style/Substance/Soul)—link below to the interview—and I’ve been amazed at the range of questions I’ve been asked about my memoir(Burned). I’ve also exposed myself in a way that I don’t usually do. Many people have asked how it feels to talk so openly about “the accident”. As a veteran from many years of therapy—I’ve probably “overshared” at times—all as a way of combating silence. But I can still get tired with the onslaught of these tidbits of memory that course through me.


So when I hear from people that knew me through elementary school and had no idea of the enormity of what my parents and my sister and I went though(I didn’t start that school until 3rd grade—about the time my mother’s operations on her face ended) I’m struck by how little we all know of each other. Of course if we’re in a therapy group, or in a relationship, or attend AA our deepest feelings and thoughts spill out into the world. We find people to hug, to cry with—people who know about our childhoods. But even in families, so much is held in, protected.

So doing these interviews is not only a way of getting my story out into the world but also a way of saying it’s okay to do that. I haven’t withered, melted into a puddle like the Wicked Witch of the West—I haven’t severed relationships with anyone through the telling of this story—

But these interviews help me to hone in on what is important: that many families triumph over terrible and tragic events. That I love to write. That children who have gone through trauma need early intervention. That parents need help as well. That we all have stories to tell. In the words of James Baldwin “Because the tale of how we suffer, how we are delighted and how we may triumph is never new, it must always be heard. There isn’t any other tale to tell, it’s the only light we’ve got in all this darkness.”

Memoir details night of horrific Wellfleet cottage fire | CapeCodOnline.com

Memoir details night of horrific Wellfleet cottage fire | CapeCodOnline.com

Author Louise Nayer returns to Wellfleet, the scene of a family tragedy that insprired her new book, 'Burned' - Cape Cod, MA - Wicked Local - Cape Cod

Author Louise Nayer returns to Wellfleet, the scene of a family tragedy that insprired her new book, 'Burned' - Cape Cod, MA - Wicked Local - Cape Cod

Memoir details night of horrific Wellfleet cottage fire | CapeCodOnline.com

Memoir details night of horrific Wellfleet cottage fire | CapeCodOnline.com

Riding Trains

Riding the trains

Leaving Washington D.C.—barbed wire and graffiti outside, small red bricks, “glassful equals joyful” on the billboard, “Capital Self-storage” mixed with Burger King signs—“No blood for oil” splashed across a building and now I see trees before a dark tunnel and more trees. It’s almost summertime. We’ve ridden trains from the beginning of the trip—the subway of my childhood in NYC—the stops I know so well—turn right to 14th Street with the smells of cotton candy, and popcorn—Then the train to Philadelphia. I hardly every rode that train as a child—and then up to Swarthmore to visit friends and do readings of m memoir, Burned. When I was 16 I rode the train to Swarthmore by myself to an interview for college. So different than now where parents take children by the hand to visit schools.

In Philadelphia we waited in the large area with hundreds of others—for the track to appear and then the madhouse rush, a rush my husband hates but reminds me of the crowds of my childhood, people going to and fro—a purposeful group of humanity. From Philadelphia we rode the train to Washington D.C. where I slept and read—luxurious stolen moments after the crunch of grading papers. And now we’re going to New Haven, Ct. leaving the Capitol—leaving the museums where we saw Calder mobiles turning in circles, metal sculptures, the horrors of the holocaust and the brave lists of people who stood up and helped—the train is now moving into the trees by small houses out of the city and its searing heat.

At 12 years old I rode by myself on Amtrak to visit a camp friend, Christina Anderson(Pooky we called her then). She lived outside of Boston and I was tired on the train and wanted to sleep but was terrified I’d miss my stop. I was going to go skiing for the first time. I remember my legs crossing on the small slope, my fingers almost slipping on the rope lift. Pooky had been skiing since she was young and exercised a lot of patience with me as I navigated skis, poles and lifts. When I took the train home, the last stop was Grand Central. I don’t remember if my parents met me. I probably took the subway home since I was on them since 10 years old. So much independence then.

Now we’re on our way to Conn. A few remnants of graffiti are left but mostly all I see are trees and telephone lines now—some scattered clouds—almost empty station platforms early morning on Monday. Only workers in orange shirts gather around a large truck—my neighbors on the train sleep across from me. It’s great to give over everything to others—the conductors, the train, the tracks. To sleep, to write, to dream.

The Big Button

I was giving a reading in the afternoon at the Penn Bookstore and wandered the campus with my husband. Years before he took Sarah(then four) to go to my step-daughter’s graduation from Penn while I stayed home with Laura. It was a big adventure for Sarah—seeing her sister graduate, traveling to Buffalo where my husband was raised and being in the midst of a thunder and lightening storm, quite scary to a San Francisco child. Laura and I had some quiet moments as I strolled her(then two years old) down Clement Street and stopped for ice cream. Sarah and Jim called often and Sarah usually said, “Put Laura on” and they babbled in some kind of sibling language I could hardly decipher.
Now they are 23 and 25 and I’m sitting on the Big Button where I only imagined my four year old so far from home so many years ago. A young woman runner suddenly stops in front of Jim and me. “Can I take your picture?” she says—such a generous offer for a runner who has stopped mid-day. It turns out she is about to take her medical boards and has felt out of touch with California(her home) and out of synch with life as it can be at its very best: taking a moment to give to strangers-to make contact with the world in a different way. The Big Button—obviously a place where young and old have sat for years in front of the Penn library, now becomes a new place again—an old memory of a place I never saw and now a magnet for something new. We watch Sam, our new friend, jog away—who later emails me-- interested in reading my book Burned and happy that she stopped for those few precious moments. The button with its magic has changed her day as well.

Burn Survivors

As I was doing research on my memoir (Burned: A Memoir--published this April)about an accident which severely burned my parents when I was four-- a burn survivor--who was physically scarred-- said to me, "Everyone in the family is now considered a burn survivor." My skin(except when I have eczema around my chin) is free of scars, unlike my mother's scarred face--so I had never considered myself "burned." However, what this man said to me was freeing--and brings up the difference between now and the 1950's when the accident occurred.

In the 1950's in America, perhaps as a result of World War II--there was a tremendous desire to be "fine", to assimilate, to not"air your dirty laundry" and families were exclusive constellations--orbiting mainly around themselves. Therapeutic intervention was a luxury for the wealthy and many considered getting help outside the family as a indicator of great weakness.

Times have changed--at least in many places in America. When traumatic events happen--and unfortunately they happen quite often--counselors are immediately sent in--families are brought together to talk--and the code of silence--which seemed so "dignified" in the 50's has now been broken. Stories are being told. Men can weep. Children can articulate their fears. Women can say what they feel.

We all know that services that help families are severely underfunded; however, there is hope. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers of those who are physically burned, can now be brought into a community to talk about what has happened to their loved ones.
This fall I will talk to a group of professionals who work with burn patients--and I know that I will have a tremendous amount to add to the discussion. When my parents were burned in the cellar in Cape Cod while my sister and I slept upstairs, we all became burn survivors, united by this terrible tragedy and united by love.

Ceremonies with my community college students

I haven’t been blogging lately(what a great 21st century verb—blogging) because I’m in the throes of the last part of my semester as an English Professor at a community college—quite large classes and of course mounds of compositions to grade. I feel like a waitress in the rush time lately—every day marking, getting back papers—in-putting grades into the computer—keeping track of odds and ends—talking with students who had deaths, or illnesses and still are trying to stick it out—to move to the next level—to transfer to a four year institution despite challenges I never faced when I was their age. My parents paid for my college expenses and I sat with friends in The Rathskeller at the University of Wisconsin—either doing homework or “angsting” about boyfriends—the Vietnam War—the next concert--I had the luxury of time.

But it is the ceremonies that amazed me at my Trauma and the Arts Class that were an ending to a very long day of teaching—the ceremonies that my students presented after reading Silko’s Ceremony. First we were fed by one student—and he made sure to have brightly colored plates and napkins and talked about a Danish film—where a drab personal and geographical landscape was suddenly lit up by color as food was introduced.

Then one student, who had been in prison, told his story—candles framing the table where he sat—with regrets and hope. Another student who played a CD with “alpha waves” got the whole class to relax our bellies and our jaws—quite a feat for this particular class. We were all transported. Another student, who works with women choosing to have an abortion talked about the importance of ritual in helping women navigate the wide range of emotions that often come up around abortion.

There were other “ceremonies”—each different—all about how we can connect better with each other and with ourselves. The book I co-authored, How to Bury a Goldfish—deals with a lot of these same issues—but seeing my students bravely walk up to the front of the room and infuse the rituals with their stories of loss and love—was profoundly moving. I admire each one of them and will never forget this night—the candles, the voices, the rounds of applause as each student stepped down—the food—and the bright colors of the napkins surrounding our special meal. I left with a bouquet of flowers—now ceremoniously brightening up my home.

Book Tour

Giving readings of Burned: A Memoir across the country: first at Bird and Beckett Bookstore, my local San Francisco Glen Park haunt—filled to the brim with friends, colleagues, students. In Conn. at R.J. Julia Bookstore, I was introduced by the director of an organization that deals with childhood trauma(Clifford Beers). The room was filled with friends of my step-daughter's—therapists—family—an old high school friend. In NYC at Borders Park Ave.—a big sign in the window with the picture of my book(a matchbook) and a display case. My editor, agent, publisher all sat in the audience—my sister(who lived the story with me) in the front row. Sat. night at Book Passage in Marin, the day after Isabel Allende read there. What do I feel? That instead of worrying about how the book is doing—looking at the amazon stats go up and down—that I can finally take in this honor—to have gotten to this place—to walk out of Book Passage with a box of thank you notes embossed with my name(a gift to all the authors). That I can savor the get-togethers before the readings—the drinks afterward—the fact that my husband has faithfully come to all the readings even though I am reading the exact same passage and keep asking, “How was it? How can I make it better next time?”
This Thursday I go to Kepler’s in Menlo Park—welcoming places where the years of labor have landed me—This story that has been unraveling for so many years can now fit in my purse—the perfect size paperback. Burned: A Memoir is out in the world.

San Francisco Morning

Morning in San Francisco

When I walked my dog this morning up Congo Street, I saw a man driving a car. On his lap, almost near the steering wheel, was a small black dog. He saw me and my furry white dog and clutched his dog closer to him and smiled. Though it probably was not safe, having his dog so close to the steering wheel, he looked so completely happy as if his skin and the dog’s fur were the same.
My dog, Penny, made her way with me up the street and back down. As we walked down the street I saw a huge truck with fried eggs painted all over it. The truck moved up O’Shaunassey Street. Later, going to get my daughter a copy of her birth certificate, I got off at Civic Center. Homeless men and women congregated near a stone with a quote from Rachel Carson—about preserving the earth—our natural resources. I smelled urine—saw so many unemployed and distressed. Another few steps and there was a sign over a bar that “Love solves everything.”

Spring and my mother's final face

As I think of Spring and my memoir coming out in April, I think of my mother walking down the long, winding road of Peter Cooper Village where we lived in New York City—and my face pressed to the windowpane on the second floor of the apartment building. I wanted to see her final face from the window and hoped that she would finally look like all the other mothers.

My parents were burned in a gas explosion in the basement of a rental cottage(while my sister and I slept upstairs). My mother would endure 37 operations, mostly on her face and hands. She was promised that she would look “presentable.” So after every operation, when her face still looked disfigured and strange, we believed, as she did for a time, that the next operation would finally fix her, maybe even make her look like a movie star.

It was in late Spring, I believe, though sometimes the timeline of operations is a blur, that I looked for her in her red coat. Many of the mothers wore red coats then—and I thought, that she would look like all the other mothers, though even more pretty and of course special because she was my mother.
But that wasn’t the reality and it was never to be the reality. She had been terribly damaged and walking down the road she was also terribly brave. And I held in my tears when she asked me, “How do you like my face?” It was Springtime then—the beginning of new life and my mother’s new and final face.

Creating a Room of One's Own

I’ve been teaching Woolf’s famous work over the last month. I teach at an enormous urban community college—I’m trying to relate the book to my mostly working-class non-white(first generation college students). All but one has heard of Jane Austen or Oxford College. Most don’t have the luxury of a separate room to dream in and no one has a stipend that rains down like mana from heaven. They have trouble with the language(I also have a lot of international students). Most try and take a full-time load at school and work often thirty hours a week at fast-food places, Safeway grocery stores and other places around San Francisco.

But right now I’m with my students in a computer lab. My friend, James, a librarian is helping them find sources for their paper on women and work(flex time, sexual harassment, etc). He has a master computer and changes all their screens, so I don’t need to monitor as well. I have been a grading machine for the past week as papers have flooded in. I’m craving some writing time. So I take it. Right here in the lab with all my students.

None of my students has privy to the fact that I am “blogging” now, creating a private space amidst a room where 27 students learn about data bases and MLA citations. Perhaps this is what I can teach them—to take the time when you can to do what you love.

I am fortunate now—since my children have grown--to have a room in my house where I can close the door and write. When my children were very young, Monday nights were “Mom’s writing night?" I wrote in my bedroom. I took no phone calls—My husband walked them to the nearest video store where they got a movie(a clever distraction from wanting to knock on my door) and slowly, my Monday night writing night took hold—allowed me that private space—I often went to sleep for an hr. before I woke up to the “creative zone.” I began my memoir there that is finally being published this April. I wrote poems. Sometimes I cried when I wrote—and then emerged to say goodnight to the children—and then back to my writing.

So I ask my students how many of them feel they don’t have enough time to dream. All hands shoot up. I tell them that even though most don’t have a private room—or a stipend, that they can take time to do what they love, sometimes at the most unusual times—like I did today in the computer lab at City College of San Francisco in the middle of 27 computers.

110% 24/7--Is this the world we want?

I Give 110% 24/7


I was in Starbucks in the West Portal district of San Francisco the other day, grading papers and saw a woman with a very cute little boy(of about four or five) come into the café. He was a bit shy, pulling on his mother’s hand and asking if he could have some chocolate milk. She let him get it. He then dropped the milk box and then quickly picked it up and turned around. When he did, I saw his t-shirt. It said, “I give 110%” and had a picture of a football. The football picture was fading, but the words glared from the small boy’s chest.

110%? The thought of it made me want to curl up in my bed and sleep for a long time.((I was particularly tired that day anyway). And he’s only four years old? Wouldn’t the energy of 110% suck away the life from his small body?

I then thought about the 24/7 lives that have been thrust on us(or some have chosen to live) and couldn’t help but combine the two phrases. Sundays are no longer boring days of rest where teenagers complain about nothing being open and families and friends gather for a weekend meal together. I remember that time when stores were closed in NYC. Those days have a sweet luminescence in my memory now.

Also, why do we always have to give so much—110%-- to try and be the best, the greatest, the top of the game? Determination, yes, motivation, yes, but having had two daughters who played soccer-- many times the intensity of the game when they were still small seems so far away from the races, ping pong games and jacks that we used to play in Playground # 2 in Peter Cooper Village. No uniforms or referees.

Maybe I’m overreacting? My kids loved their soccer teams. Determination is a good quality as is motivation. But the constant pressure—I don’t think that’s good. If you feel like giving 20% one day—that’s okay. I remember a teacher one of my daughters had who said the pressure is too great. “We’re human beings not human doings.” I remember that phrase when I see a small boy with a t-shirt that says, “I give 110%.” It’s okay to take a day off and rest.

The Solidity of Rocks

The Solidity of Rocks—Some Musings

In Yosemite visiting my younger daughter and I wonder what the rocks remember? They are not preserved in special mylar-like material(my daughter works as a historical archivist up here). The rocks, whether they tumble across the road, change color from weather are just there—solid and immutable. They do not panic at the sight of a bear or a mountain lion but neither do they feel the soft pads of an animal’s feet, feet which leap lightly over their granite backs.

Though the rock is solid and does not cringe at the sound of lightening, it is also not human. We humans sigh, love, laugh-- are born and die.

When panic has gripped me in the past, closed over me like the concrete inside of an elevator stopped between floors, I want that panic to stop. But I don’t want to be armored, 21st century, against pain.

When panic stirs in me again, I will imagine a waterfall, the cool sweet water that cuts through rock: Yosemite Falls, Vernal Falls, Horse Tail Falls, flowing tufts of white emerging triumphant from the granite cliffs.

Healing baths

Driving back to the Yosemite Bug Hostel to our “barn” house in the driving sleet. I’m not driving but alert—aware of the windows alternately fogging up, my husband’s hands steady on the wheel, aware of the water rushing across the road, the Merced River flowing to the right under the grand rocks. But we have low visibility—found out later that one of our front lights was out, made this driving home so much harder.

I think of a warm bath, my solace, my obsession during the period when I had panic attacks and even now(though I’m more aware of the water waste) and try to fill the tub “half way.”

Baths: I think of the Russian Jewish women on the Lower East Side, my sister I and going together—the fleshy bodies of the older women like the body of the Jewish grandmother I never knew who died suddenly when my older sister was in my mother’s womb, my sister’s cells multiplying towards life while Lena Zevin’s cells slowly died out like Tinker Bell’s light from Peter Pan—here and then gone.

Baths: cradling, amniotic floating baths. “Mommy’s taking a bath,” the children would say sometimes 2 X a day. Sometimes we would bathe together when they were little and make “ice cream bubble bath sodas” passed down from childhood with my sister.

Ah baths. We’ve made it through the sleet by the side of the river up the driveway and in to the barn.

I turn on the water and soak. My husband turns up the thermostat, pours himself a glass of Sake. Outside the rain pours, and the river swirls.

Unpredictable

I’m looking at an abstract painting in my writing room(I’m so lucky to have a space to write). The painting, a deep pink with midnight blue stripes, some dots and a brush of deep red through the middle, reminds me that there are so many things we don’t know. That life is mysterious. I don’t know what exactly lives inside the middle of that painting, or what has lived in the mind of the nun, Sister Mary Corita, who painted it. I know she wanted world peace. I know she loved poetry. In my class today when we talked about “round” characters, the first phrase in the text we use by my friend, Abdul Jabbar, is that round characters are unpredictable.

I’ve been thinking about my book coming out and what will be the “unpredictable” nature of the experience. And that, I can’t predict. Refreshing, mysterious, annoying, out of my control and ultimately delectable.

Getting closer to publication--My book and the Bhudda

It's now the end of February, and I'm getting closer to cradling the final copy of my book in my hands. Sometimes, in the rush of trying to get readings, podcasting, doing blogs, etc. etc. I lose sight of the incredibly long journey that has taken me to this very place. Of course it's a memoir, so I can thank my family for being the "characters"--which is why the adjective"long" for the journey is apt--delving into the past, reshaping it.

At the end of my hallway is a beautiful wood and steel table my older daughter made in High School. There is a wooden Bhudda sitting there. Lately, I have put the book(galley copy!) behind the Bhudda to help me take the "product" part out of the book and remember the years of writing/searching/feeling that got me to that very place.

A couple of times I've removed the book from behind the Bhudda and then the Bhudda looked lonely, so I've put the book back like a candle behind a statue of a great person. An analogy: my book is like a candle? A bit overdone as a thought, but maybe not. So as I will check amazon numbers in the future, wonder about "sales" put my podcast out to try and get an audience, I will take a deep breath knowing my book is behind the Bhudda and somehow they are intertwined.

Before Publication--Making "cold" calls.

With my publication date looming, I'm trying to do something everyday to work toward "promotion." I have a publicist I've hired part time and a publicist at my press who are both great. But I still do something every day myself.

My book is about my parents, severely burned in a gas explosion, and how the whole family coped. So Friday I took the plunge and called a Burn organization. The woman who answered from the development office, believes I have a unique perspective as the child of burn survivors. I have learned lately that the whole family is now called "burn survivors," actually a great comfort to me in understanding the pyschology of my young and now much older life.



She'd love to have me speak in September. Just like that. Of course she wants more information as I was just a disembodied voice on the phone. But she is already thinking, wheels spinning--who to invite, and this was a "cold call"--a group I found on the web. It is my first foray into the world of Burn survivors--My book will move from the "literary" work that I have honed for numerous years--changing words, point of view, making the "characters" who are my own family more complex, working on transitions. These words might move into bigger worlds, touch more people, perhaps even help someone. After all, my mother, completely facially disfigured, went back to work as an editor for the American Journal of Nursing and lived until 91. The point of this blog: when trying to get your book out into the world, make the calls--and you never know who will pick up on the other line.

Monday I'll make some more calls .

A Poem--Dream of the Uninterrupted Moss

I've been looking at some of my old poems--so wanted to post this one today--the resilience of people despite unbearable hardship.


I remember holding on to words
spoken in cafes now closed to us.

The words live inside my blue delft breakfast plate
along the river Ijissle
in the white chrysanthemums

in the peculiar innocence
of chaos.

In a little tin are my last cookies.

Next door a boy is born
and lives in a drawer.

My paper supplies dwindle,
but I could give up words.

The sky is always ours
even though we are crowded together.

Someday, I will walk across the world.

For Anne Frank and Etty Hillesum
Published by Blue Light Press(The Houses are Covered in Sound)

Waiting for my book to appear

I can only say that the waiting is like a birth(in some ways) because each time I’ve put a book out into the world I have dreams of birth—-- tiny babies lost, disappeared, or crying out of toothless mouths. A few weeks ago, I dreamt of a baby that was complete, soft fuzz for hair, bright eyes and sitting up in a crib. My manuscript that I’ve carried in my mind for my whole life and worked on for many more years that I want to admit—is finally going to appear. It sits up in a crib and looks out through the wooden bars. But it is no longer a prisoner. Who will hold it?

But of course giving birth to my children was purely physical-- nothing like the mental energy that can be expended waiting and at times worrying about how those letters of the alphabet turned words, turned sentences turned paragraphs will be read.. And perhaps that is the key: to remember the creation—each book a different DNA—each voice a different writer—-never, ever to be done in the same way again.

The New Year 2010

Visiting friends in Watsonville, CA. The sky is darkening, shades of orange and gray streaming across the sky. 2010(found out it’s pronounced twenty-ten from the grammar police). Their dog, Sparky, and my husband are going out to the deck to sit among the redwoods and just gaze at the open space. Sparky keeps wanting everyone to throw his saliva-infested ball back and forth, again and again, a happy myth of Sisyphus.

My daughter, Laura, was ice-skating last night in Yosemite Valley. I imagined her gliding across the ice, El Capitan framing her circular dance. She’ll live there for four months(an Americorps job)—live with the winter chill. My sister, Anne, and niece, Lily, swim in the Caribbean sea, buoyed by salt water. The earth still holds us up—whether water or ice.

As a child, I loved to ice skate. I remembered my parents lifting me between them on the ice. I was probably only three and I flew in the air. Summers we swam on Long Island, and I tasted salt on my lips.

Even after the accident that burned my parents, the world continued and continues to spew out happy memories. Even though the book I wrote is about childhood trauma, a searing, devastating trauma, I remember ice skating, swimming, Sparky approaching me with his wet ball, eyes pleading for me to throw his ball and I do. Small glimpses of happiness as the sky darkens.