Monday, March 19, 2018

Who Did This To My Son

My son watched "Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri" and said, "It's amazing how they got you to like the main character by the end."

Mildred's daughter has been killed, and she rents three billboards to challenge the chief of police to seek justice, as the case has stalled. The billboards are seen as insensitive--the chief has cancer--and the town rebels in ways that are aggressive (Mildred is confronted in the gift shop where she works), passive aggressive (the chief suggests he'll keep her too busy to work and therefore be unable to pay future rent on the signs) and stupid (high school kids throw cans at her car).

Mildred, in turn, is also stupid (she kicks the high school students in their groins, even the girl). The billboards themselves, in their stark black lettering against a red background, are a passive aggressive act (RAPED WHILE DYING / AND STILL NO ARRESTS? / HOW COME, CHIEF WILLOUGHBY?). And she is aggressive in the face of danger; when the dentist mentions the signs and lunges with his drill to remove a tooth he's barely examined, Mildred closes her mouth and uses his force and momentum to drill something other than her tooth.

Throughout the film you are held in the tension between empathy for a mother who lost her daughter, and thinking, "Couldn't she have drilled through only part of his thumbnail?" Mostly, there's empathy and respect. She's fierce and she seeks revenge because she's been hurt. Mildred is not without heart; she turns on a dime when the chief, in the middle of taunting her, coughs up blood; she calls him "baby."

But she wants to know who did this to her daughter, and no man will stop her.

My son saw only a vengeful woman. "I mean, she didn't need to hurt the dentist like that."

Who did this to my son?

Why would my my son sympathize first with aggressive and passive aggressive men over a fierce, wounded woman? This is a smart, sensitive kid. This is a kid I ask to proof my professional writing because he sees deeper layers. He's in touch with his emotions, though he's young.

Who did this?

We have many talks. We clearly needed another one.

I talked him through the dentist scene.

"You saw that he didn't really look at her tooth, right? You heard him mention the billboards? We got the sense that he was angry and also irresponsible. She was in danger, though he hadn't made a move yet. She had to act or she'd be hurt."

"You need to understand that men have power over women--even small men, and even strong women."

The other day I was taking off a jacket, and he had said, "Man, Mom, look at your arms. You could totally mess someone up." I told him that I probably couldn't, for all my muscle, nor would I want to. He's got this idea that I'm strong and tough, and I'm good with that. But he needed to know that most men are stronger.

I told him that I've been in situations where I knew I was in danger because a man was angry. I told him about the chiropractor who raged at me before taking my neck in his hands for treatment, and how I knew to wait it out rather than run. And then there was the much bigger x-ray technician who told me to take off my pants in front of him, and how I demanded a woman be brought into the room while I looked around for something to swing.

I told my son that I've been in a variety of situations and have had to act differently each time, as Mildred did. I told him that I've had a knife to my face but I knew the young kid had no intention to use it, so I played dumb and was let go.

And I told him that one of the toughest female boxers of all time, Christy Martin, who hit like a man, was beaten and shot by her then husband, and left to die. She didn't have a fighting chance.

Strong is good in a woman, my son, but it won't get you very far. He would have hurt her. And did you notice how the men used different ways to verbally abuse her? She handled each man differently. Her ex-husband choked her and she had to let that go. Did she think she deserved to be choked because she had just made a snarky comment about his teenage girlfriend?

Do you think she deserved to be choked because she made a snarky comment?

I didn't tell my son that I spent ten years thinking I deserved to be hit.

His father and I had been arguing; he was walking around the bedroom while I reclined in bed. I don't remember what was said, only that he raised his hand as if to hit me and then slammed the headboard next to my face instead. Later, he would apologize, saying that he regretted the moment, and adding, "but the way you rolled your eyes."

The incident never bothered me. He'd apologize every few months in the same manner, and I'd think, Hey, it's over. Nothing happened. I forgot about it, eventually.

And then I got together with my current husband, and I remembered. Being with Joe makes me feels safe, which in turn has made me more afraid. Or, rather, more aware: it's as if I can finally see the danger around me now that I've relaxed into safe arms.

And when I relaxed, it hit me: for ten years I believed that because I rolled my eyes, I deserved a hand to my face. I was spared what I deserved. I didn't require an apology.

I didn't tell my son, but he knew. In the worst way, he knew.

Recently, I told his father that I'd write about this event someday as a way to heal and understand. When I brought it up, he didn't protest or look surprised; instead, he said, "I don't remember that." And then he added, "What do you mean I tried to hit you. I missed?"

My son, I will find a way to tell you that this is not how real men act. This is not how to treat a woman--even strong women. Even women who drill through fingernails. No woman deserves to have power lorded over them in actions or words. I will tell you it's not your fault that you saw only what you knew. That I'm sorry you weren't raised in a way that would have helped you see this more clearly. It's taken me years, too, to see the tall black lettering calling out for justice.


Monday, May 22, 2017

What Meatheads Want You To Know

You're thinking one of two things, we know.

We're all thick necks, us lifters, with no conversation topics at hand other than the circumference of our biceps... in proportion to our heads.

Or you might believe that each of us secretly wants to be you: lithe, flexible, able to scratch our own backs without help from the nearest door jamb.

That would be nice, admittedly.

Probably won't happen any time soon, though.

So let's talk about why our mantra is "pick up heavy things and put them down," and how lifting is our meditation. Pumping iron is, to us, a lot like what yoga--or maybe running, church or talk therapy--is to you: a mindfulness practice. Since the 6th century, when Milo of Croton built his body carrying a growing calf up a hill, we've been grunting our way to Nirvana the only way we know how.


Check in with your body.

Yoga class starts with that, right? Or maybe "meet yourself where you are today?"

We check in, too. Some of us have little tests to see if we're up to lifting, if our nervous system can handle it that day. One-minute arm hang, maybe, or checking our temp and resting heart rate when we wake up. Or just looking at the weight: seem heavier than usual? A true meathead knows there's something that can be done today if the dumbbells gained pounds or if he has an injury. He respects that.


Set an intention.

Most of the time our intention might be phrased as "get it," but that counts: we're dedicating our time and efforts to improving ourselves in some way.

And it's not always about the pump. Strongwoman competitor Elizabeth Carpenter dedicated her recent training to a powerlifting friend and coach named Jules who had passed away in February. Missing this special person reminded Elizabeth of who she was because of him, and honoring Jules's memory doing what he loved makes sure he lives on.

"Jules inspired people to be better than they were the day before, in ways far beyond lifting," Elizabeth says. "He helped me understand how to minister to others by being strong."

Some lifters choose to spend an entire session on mobility or form, knowing that practice, even at light weights, makes perfect. Which reminds me...


Practice mindfulness.

Yogis have got this one down, we admit. What with the hypnotic music, a prayer pose and focus on the exhale, yoga's hard to top when it comes to integrating mind and body. However, us meatheads stand flexed and ready to explain why Slipknot, a lifter's wedge and the valsalva maneuver can turn our attention inward, and not just toward the mirror.

Tyler Santiago is a bodybuilder from Grand Rapids, Michigan, who holds a purple belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. He's the guy you notice in the gym, and not just for his backpiece tatts and symmetrical lats; he's also pretty noisy. Not the dropping weights kind of noise, though he's won the honor of having set off the Lunk Alarm in the Judgement Free Zone known as Planet Fitness. Think self-talk: Tyler calls out body parts like they're his next opponent.

"Rear delts only," he'll say out loud. "C'mon!"

Tyler takes less anxiety meds now that he's active, and that's not uncommon; exercise is a proven solution to a range of problems. But here's where it gets tricky: when someone's got anxiety or something like PTSD, standard advice tells them to relax. The logic is there--calm down all those ramped up feelings with gentle exercise, like yoga--but, truth is, it doesn't always work.

"A significant percentage of PTSD clients may become more anxious from relaxation training," writes psychotherapist Babette Rothschild in The Body Remembers: The Psychophysiology of Trauma and Trauma Treatment. "In such cases, building or maintaining muscle tension is preferable to relaxation."

Rothschild says that being tense has gotten a bad rap, and that the positive outcomes of muscle tension are all but ignored by those outside of the gym. Building muscle can, for some, contain those strong emotions and manage them.

Here's Rothschild on how to do it:

For this kind of muscle building to be effective, it must be done with body awareness--with attention to body sensations generally and to the muscles being exercised specifically.

And here's Tyler on how he does it:

I'm actually engaged in the lift; I'm not just moving the weight. There's the mind-muscle connection. I lift to center myself.

You go, lats.

The day I got married, I weighed 120 pounds and wore a size 7.  On the day of my divorce twenty-three years later, I was 160 and a size 10. The difference on the scale was mostly muscle, and this was no coincidence. After decades spent knowing no one had my back, I had a strong desire to grow my own.

Bodybuilding forums filled with users named "BigSwole" and "SmeelMyBut" don't help the meathead cause. But we're here to say that what we do is just as mindful and therapeutic as any yoga practice.

Not that we diss you yogis. Here's Sabrina Schutter, who holds a 1443 powerlifting total (that's total pounds moved, by the way, in the squat+bench+deadlift) in the 198 weight class:

As a powerlifter and busy gym owner, I have always struggled to find motivation to do cardio. Yoga has not only given me a way to get my heart rate up but also has given me a mental escape where I don't stress or worry for whatever amount of time I spend on my mat.

Yoga as cardio. Lifting as mindfulness practice. We all do what we need to do. In a true judgment-free zone, you'd see dumbbells heavier than 80 pounds, and downward dog instruction somewhere between the tanning beds and HydroMassage chairs.

To each his own.

Namaste.




Sunday, April 16, 2017

He is not here

A jury of peers interrogated Captain Sully after he saved the lives of an entire plane.

Save five weeks in 1959, God left Mother Teresa for the duration of her fifty-year ministry. ...the silence and the emptiness is so great, that I look and do not see,--Listen and do not hear--the tongue moves [in prayer] but does not speak ...


Trump became president. Prince is gone.

Abraham Lincoln was shot, Martin Luther King, Jr, was shot, the BBC's Mary Watson, a skilled former agent, was taken down by a bitter old hag.


The pattern is there since the start of time and yet it is only now, in my 47th year, I have seen and understood that things that shouldn't happen do.

I had spent much energy fighting this reality, which is curious because I have a Guest House approach to most of life: allow things to happen, let visitors and new experiences penetrate and meld you, don't think you have more control than you do. Yes, I work in the fitness field and make sure my clients know they will get stronger and feel better under my care and through their own agency, and yet anyone who hires me knows I am intuitive and not pushy. I accomplish what I can within the natural ebb and flow of a body's natural rhythms. I do not promise the world, but often hand a chunk of it over.

And yet I found myself shattered last week at Lincoln's tomb. I am like a child--or a fundamentalist or a innocent, a sociopath or a scientist, in that I expect that a certain A equals a certain B. That having a thinking, witty man in the White House crying over the war ensures he will stay the course.

Lincoln shouldn't have been shot. But Lincoln is dead.

Prince shouldn't have overdosed on fentanyl. Prince is dead. He is not here.

An autistic man I met was burdened after Prince's death; he had come to process and endure each day's sensory onslaught only through the star's music. Prince had died. Unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the large purple symbol on a chain, he told me there would be no more new songs from Prince. The permanence of this reality rendered him vulnerable, and exposed.

There was a period of time following my divorce when every conversation I had with my kids sounded as if we were on a lifeboat in the high seas, ready to sink. It started with Trump: I needed them to know that women aren't objects to be grabbed. And then their father was caught with his married assistant--caught, warned, caught, fired--and I couldn't rest until I knew these two teenaged boys understood that married women are off limits, that positions of power are not to be underestimated, and that above all, if one is capable a high level of deception, something deep inside has broken. Catch that radar early if you ever fear it's off, I told them.

I had to make sure they were equipped to have healthy relationships of their own. 

I had to provide that mirror therapists talk about, to help them see what they were seeing.

I had to tread carefully, to maintain a distance between the act and the actor. I chose my words with care and precision. Addressed the issues and not the agent, and only at intervals. Mirrored what I needed to mirror because this, this was everything that would shape their future and their outlook and their beliefs. I couldn't not talk about it.

There were so many had to's. I was so weary of this.

As I kicked against the goads, I grew hoarse with the sound of my own voice. 

Finally, a new disrespect arrived, one I had to swallow, not mirror, in order to protect them from knowing. Sully saved everybody and was treated like a criminal, and now, I couldn't breathe. My shoulders came forward to protect the breast that had lost its air. Right then, I stopped fighting the reality that is the Buddha's first noble truth: Life is suffering. I acknowledged the trauma that was surfacing in my body, presenting itself as flashbacks and not flight or fight, but freeze.

Later that day I gave my last captain's call. 

I need you to know that I will never avoid any opportunity to prepare you to be adults on your own. And I need you to know that I believe your dad is a good dad. 

With that, I grew quiet. They looked at me, searching for that woman who, with passion, helps them process their world. She must be somewhere behind that new, vacant stare. And she was--is--but she's tired.

Because there are battles I can't ever win. Things that shouldn't happen do.

Without the fighting I feel more vulnerable. If I don't fight, won't injustice always win? Or Lincoln dies no matter if he had sent away his bodyguard or not?

I saw the tomb: Lincoln is dead. As is my grandmother, who had prayed for me every day of my life. I had expected, I suppose, that once she was closer to the source my blessings would grow, but I have felt a growing coldness, instead. She is not there. He is not here.

Nobody's praying for me now and I'm not safe, I told a coworker on a rough day, through tears. She said, very gently, that I could do it, I could pray for myself.

What I didn't say is Mother Teresa is dead, and He is not here.











Sunday, January 15, 2017

Books Read in 2016

Twenty-one books! This is the lowest record yet, and I'll just go ahead and chalk it up to a divorce year, where time was spent reading court orders and custody guidelines and not as many New York Times bestsellers.

Instead of dividing the books into random, invented categories, as I usually do, let's stick with two this year: titles--actual wording of titles--I could apply to my year of divorce, and the others I couldn't. The latter category is smaller than the former, which is why this experiment is so interesting. I mean, come on; I finished "When Things Fall Apart"! By coincidence! Nicholas Sparks could not have planned this better.


Titles I Read That Coincidentally Could Easily Be Applied To Said Divorce, and Require Some Use Of Your Imagination
• When Things Fall Apart, Pema Chodron
• Promise Land, Jessica Lamb-Shapiro
• The Woman Who Walked In Sunshine, Alexander McCall Smith
• The Red Parts, Maggie Nelson
• Bluets, Maggie Nelson
• Between The World And Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates
• Not That Kind of Girl, Lena Dunham
• The Last Days of Judas Iscariot, Stephen Adly Gurgis
• Tribe, Sebastian Junger
• The Door, Magda Szabo
• All At Sea, Decca Aitkenhead
• The Magic Finger, Roald Dahl
• How To Be Here, Rob Bell
• Amazing, Fantastic, Incredible, Stan Lee
• Home, Marilyn Robinson

Titles I Can't Readily Stretch Into The "This Relates To My Divorce And Everything That Followed" Category
• Jesus Hopped the 'A' Train, Stephen Adly Gurgis
• The Pharos Gate, Nick Bantock
• Esio Trot, Roald Dahl
• My Name Is Lucy Barton, Elizabeth Strout
• Negroland a memoir, Margo Jefferson
• Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls, David Sedaris


In My Name Is Lucy Barton, Elizabeth Strout writes, "You will have only one story. You'll write your one story many ways. Don't ever worry about story. You have only one." After 2016, I did try to write my story, and at the same time found myself in the words of others, which is entirely the purpose and beauty of the art and craft of writing.









Saturday, November 19, 2016

2016, the year I went to prison

I have to wonder what he ordered at Applebee’s the morning of my grandmother’s funeral. Was it the Fiesta Lime Chicken, whose name invokes a celebratory tone appropriate for the $364.25 purchase of new shoes? Or the Three-Cheese Chicken Cavatappi, with Crunchy Onion Rings to start: heavy, dense comfort food to soothe and bury any guilt that may come with the use of someone else’s credit card, right before she awakened in another time zone and dressed in black.

Wondering. Standing witness at events I can't control. Sadness, grief, humor; you can see my year reflected in that story of fraud, which, by the way, happened twice in 2016--on a card that was difficult to get, thanks to my new financial status.


The year began with all the things breaking.


Smoke filled the January morning I was to start a new job. My older son, having offered to start my tea, chose to place the electric teapot on the stove. I descended the staircase to a cloudy room. Have you seen my open floor plan with the high ceilings? I couldn't, for the smoke. That same stove would decide to flash sparks through the air, just a day after the light fixture fell from the ceiling below. And the sinks refused to drain, and the pipes wanted to drip, and the toilet demanded to be replaced. I chose the "comfort-height" model, upon learning that comfort was something you could buy.


The new job would end in the emergency room. Maybe it was an Aston Martin the man decided to run beneath our employee break room, and maybe he was polishing its sleek curves when he forgot to flip the ventilation switch to ON. The new job would end with me standing mid-store, attempting to cross the room but unable to figure out how to use my legs. Carbon monoxide poisoning, if it doesn't kill you, is a funny thing: I was somewhere deep inside that standing person, knowing that by all appearances I looked ridiculous but was unable to explain myself. Or move. Once I could maneuver my legs and make it to my destination, I cried and held my head in my hands. So carbon monoxide poisoning, I now see, is a lot like divorce, which also happened this year.


Do not have a knife in your purse when visiting the courthouse to file divorce papers. Security looks at you, a seemingly sane middle-aged woman, quizzically, and you give them that look in return, because you've forgotten about the knife. And then they pull you out of line and say, "You can have this back when you leave."


The divorce became legal in the same ten-day period as my root canal. Never had I required as much dental work as I did during that time, including a week or so before. I had scheduled all of these appointments to occur before the court date, to make full use of my soon-to-end insurance benefits, but then was accidentally taken off of the policy by someone who thought the divorce was final, only to face some very large bills.

And then there were the two months when I had no health insurance. I didn't talk about this.

And the month when I thought I would exercise at home, having left my gym, community and job, all one package, right when the man of the house moved out, just before the turn of the year. But then came the purchase of a day pass to The Salvation Army Kroc Center. Next a day pass punch card. And then a membership, which was soon unnecessary because the day I saw, though the glass walls of a studio, a group of senior citizens running relays and smiling, I had to compliment the teacher, who turned out to be the fitness manager looking for personal trainers. He offered me a job.

But before that, I went to prison. Not for the knife, but because of a book I wrote--you can read here about my visit to the Life Change Book Club, right when my own was getting an overhaul. An inmate sent me a poem a week later, through an outside contact, and you can see that here.

(Other events, both lower and higher on the dramatic scale, were notable this year, but personal, too. This post can be considered a list of the more outrageous moments, which sometimes felt as if they grew in absurdity as their count increased.)

Throughout the tumult, The Kroc Center has been just that for me: a place where I feel centered. The senior citizens continue to impress me. Their high level of fitness is proof of what can be achieved when you refuse to accept what you've been told is your ceiling. When the person next to you is not someone who has given up, but who keeps trying new avenues; you then know that's possible for you. These same lessons have gotten me through 2016. I have been surrounded by people who tell me to keep going, who pass the baton and cheer me on. Who push me to use the parts of myself that have been buried for too long. Have they always been there, and had I needed this kind of year to learn to accept such a strong undercurrent of support? There is a freedom of movement now, a newness, a new name; but even this is continually under threat of smothering, like a thick cream sauce being spooned over more and more of the cavatappi. And yet I am not broken.

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

What I Read in 2015

Thirty-two books in 2015, the year I took notes so I wouldn't forget what they were about. Also, the year I turned 45. These events are related.

The First Book I Made Notes On, When I Realized That Already My Memory Was Failing Me
Silence, Thich Nhat Hanh
This book, by a Buddhist monk, made me see Jesus's death in a completely new light. Comparing the crucifixion to self-immolation, he says this: "I shared with Dr. King my understanding that when Jesus died on the cross, he made the choice to die for the benefit of others--not out of despair but out of hope and love, using his body in order to bring change to a desperate situation."

Books I Talked About On My Job Interview At A Bookstore
The types that work at bookstores are very different people who nevertheless fit squarely into these categories: reader and introvert at heart. And yet I wonder if maybe I was the first one to pull out my book journal on the interview and read aloud the mini-reviews I had written for... myself. Like this one:

Station Eleven, Emily St. John Mandel
She did not create a new world, but simply the absence of the old one. But how do people live? Think differently? Why did it take them twenty, thirty years to get electricity working again, when many had encountered it before? The plot points wrap up by the end in an interesting way, but it was a long, tedious route getting there, and I'm not sure why I stuck it out. I'm confused as to why this book has become popular; apparently another of her books, Last Night In Montreal, is worth the time.

My Iceland Kick
My Iceland Kick began when I discovered that most of the biggest, strongest men in the world came from there, so I needed to know what was in the water. Then I picked up some of their fiction.
Butterflies in November, Audur Ava Olafsdottir
The Greenhouse, Audur Ava Olafsdottir

The Extent Of My Young Adult Kick
Two words: Rainbow Rowell. A 13-year-old client of mine got me started on her, thankfully. Some of her novels are adult fiction, but to me, they all fell into the same category: great.
eleanor & park, Rainbow Rowell
Attachments, Rainbow Rowell
Fan Girl, Rainbow Rowell
Landline, Rainbow Rowell

Alexander McCall Smith, Naturally
Doesn't matter what happens in his books; what matters is that the books happened. Only one this year, and I'm currently finishing another.
The Novel Habits of Happiness, Alexander McCall Smith

Books By People Trying To Be Alexander McCall Smith
The Taliban Cricket Club, Timeri Murari

Books I Was Meant To Read
Some books are not to be read until certain phases of our lives. I've bought books only to crack them open years later, at what appeared to be the right time. Here are some books I was meant to read this past year, not necessarily because a plot mirrored my life's circumstances or a character reminded me of someone I know, but because they touched a place I couldn't articulate before I found them.
Lila, Marilynne Robinson
Slow Emergencies, Nancy Huston
Sick In The Head, Judd Apatow

An Assortment of Nonfiction
Grace Unfolding, Johanson and Kurtz
Discovering Your Soul Signature, Panache Desai
Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, Roz Chast
What We See When We Read, Peter Mendelsund
Girl In A Band, Kim Gordon
Ties That Bind: Stories of Love and Gratitude from the first 10 years of StoryCorps, Dave Isay
Do No Harm, Henry Marsh
Creativity: The Perfect Crime, Philippe Petit

Books That Were Enjoyable But Not Literary Masterpieces
Midnight In Austenland, Shannon Hale
The Storied Life of AJ Fikry, Gabrielle Zevin

Books That Were Literary-ish And I Liked Them
Bark, Lorrie Moore
Faith, Jennifer Haigh
Mislaid, Nell Zink
The Book of Strange New Things, Michael Faber

Books That Were Literary And I Could Have Done Without Them
The Gathering, Anne Enright

Books I Don't Really Remember and Hadn't Taken Notes On
Moods, Yoel Hoffman
Funny Girl, Nick Hornby

Books With The Words "Things," "Fall" and "Apart" in the Title
Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe
When Things Fall Apart, Pema Chodron
Disclaimer: I did not actually finish Chodron's book until early 2016, and I look forward to telling you about it next year. But for a long time in October, these books sat together on my end table, consoling each other in their brokenness.

Saturday, January 30, 2016

This Poem From An Inmate Blew Me Away

My last post recounted a trip to Handlon Correctional Facility, where I met with 14 prisoners who had read my book, FRAMES: a picture of death, drugs, and forgiveness.

The discussion was rich but some of them were quiet, so I suggested at the end that anyone who wanted to write down their thoughts about the book should do so.

I never expected this.

The following is a poem one of the men sent to me through the people who run the book club I visited. Even if you haven't read FRAMES, I think you'll catch that the sheer number of details he includes is astounding. The moments that spoke to him appear throughout, and he wraps up with what I know from our discussion had hit him the hardest: that Kevin was told he had done a good job. Everyone needs to hear that, he said, and when they do, they can move on.

Mr. Williams: You, too, have done a good job. One that blows me away.



Catch a recent radio interview with Amy here. Purchase FRAMES here. Visit our facebook page here.