Sunday, May 30, 2010

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.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

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.

Monday, May 3, 2010

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.