Roller Coaster: A Year in My Life

“She had a mastectomy last week.”

“We’re getting married in April.”

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night, but my mom passed away.”

“Would you like to teach over at Urban Circle?”

“I broke up with him.”

“He doesn’t need another hip replacement!”

“Don’t rush me.”

“Do you want to listen to our new song?”

“I guess I didn’t get the job.”

“They checked me out and my heart is fine.”

“I need to sit down.”

“It’s a boy!”

“I realized I’m a girl.”

“I’ll go to the funeral with you so you don’t have to go alone.”

“Try the hot tub.”

“Will you shave my head?”

“Have a good day dear. See you tonight.”

“Love you mom.”

“Cancer free!”

“We found these kittens in the ditch.”

“Can we have our party at your place?”

“He’s disappeared again.”

“Thanks for helping me with this. I really appreciate it.”

I scream down. I climb back up. Life is a ride.

An Oath to Children

To the children in my care:

·      I will honour you and your family, respecting the love and deep understanding you share.

·      I will welcome you into our beautiful play space and be joyful with you as we experience the peace of nature.

·      I will treat you with integrity, as you grow alongside others. Fairness and honesty will help us to solve problems together.

·      I will celebrate your courage as you learn how to say good-bye and how to say hello.

·      I will remember with humility that you know what you need. My safe arms, kind words and open heart will always be yours.

·      I am your Early Childhood Educator.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Speak No Evil

The third monkey.

Valued

When her mouth is shut.

Muzzled

Mute

Screeching

Within.

She sees evil.

She hears evil.

She aches with sadness.

Quietly.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Girls

I love the show “Girls”. I wait for the new season of dysfunctional friendships and unhealthy relationships.

Marnie, Shoshanna

Jessa and Hannah

Anxious, unemployed

Messed up and obsessed.

But I look around me, and the girls I know are not like those television characters.

A sixteen year old German flew to Canada, missed her connecting flight in Toronto, figured out new arrangements, and made it to our home in rural Manitoba. She climbed onto the bus the next day and began attending the local high school, knowing no one. She joined the cross-country team, then she joined indoor track. She aced all her classes. And now she’s learning to shovel snow.

“Do you need help, Conni? I can do that!”

A twenty-one year old was born in a boy’s body. So she found the resources and raised the funds and got herself to Montreal for the surgery she needed.

To have the body that matched her soul.

A twenty-three year old had her ceiling collapse. When she realized that her landlord was not going to fix it properly, she gave her notice, found a new apartment, hired movers, and got herself relocated within a month.  And then built her own Ikea couch.

All by herself.

A twenty-nine year old was busy raising her son. When her niece needed care, she took her in, rescuing the child from addicted parents. A year later, an infant nephew became her charge, too. So she clips coupons and lives carefully and fights the system and does whatever she can to protect those little ones.

To give them a real family.

The fifty year old friends started to lose partners, fight cancer, miss their kids, look for new jobs, move out of their homes, mourn parents. So they drank coffee and complained, or ranted and cried, or laughed good big belly laughs. And sometimes they shopped. Or baked.

Or did nothing at all, with each other.

The support group of eighty year olds cried together as they tried to cope with aging and abuse and partners’ confusions. And they laughed  till they cried again, talking about how ridiculous life could be.

They were the toughest old girls I ever met.

So the TV show is just a TV show.

Entertainment.

In real life

The girls are all right.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2014

Transition

I didn’t understand. I didn’t think I could “get” it. How could someone be born in a boy’s body, but not be a boy. It made no sense to me. But I knew it happened.

So I tried really hard to remember back to my childhood.

How did I feel when I was a little girl?

I clearly recalled thinking how happy I was to be a girl. Many boys I saw were loud and obnoxious. They were supposed to be that way. They were expected to not care about privacy. Locker rooms were a free for all. It disgusted me. I was so happy that I could just be myself, playing with the toys I liked, chatting with my friends, using private stalls in clean washrooms. No towel slapping. No wedgies. No wrestling or roughhousing.  I was so relieved that I was a girl.

Now, a twenty-one year old I know is transitioning. As we sat up late talking, I shared my thoughts with them. And they said, imagine feeling the way I did, but not having a girl’s body. Imagine telling people that you weren’t comfortable with the expectations placed on you, but being told, “you were born with boy parts so you should act like a boy.” No matter how awkward you felt.

And it started to dawn on me…I would have been horrified if someone had expected me to act like a boy. I would not have been able to do it. But I was lucky enough to have the body and the heart of a girl, so different demands were not placed on me.

And my transgender friend then told me about the loneliness of growing up outside of society’s norms. Childhood was sad and adolescence, heartbreaking.  

There was a quiet retreat in to screens and fantasy.

No interactions so no expectations.

Solace in solitude.

Twenty-one years was too long to live this way. Twenty-one years of being misunderstood and ridiculed and hurt and shamed. Twenty-one years of isolation.

Their transition is now complete. As their body heals, it begins to match the soul.  The load is lightened. Life can be crazy and fun and happy and shared! Twenty-one years have past. They are over. 

And my strong friend deserves EVERYTHING.

Twenty-one years is too long.

I think I understand now.

(For Alison, with love and admiration.)


©Conni Cartlidge, 2013

                                                                

Celebrate!

The Girl and her Aunt Part 2

Several years ago, I wrote a story about my Auntie Anna. You can read it here:

http://conni-smallboxes.blogspot.ca/2010/07/girl-and-her-aunt.html

A second story needs to be added now.

This past summer, as I helped my parents sort and organize the stuff in their home, in preparation for a move to a seniors apartment, we found a wonderful little treasure. It was a hand-written poem by my aunt, scratched on to a piece of scrap paper.

The original.

The Crimson Tree

It grew in my sister's front yard,

Grew well, glowed amber red.

We played, under and around it

Yesterday.

With Mary, dear little child.

We made a leaf house from it,

And its green and golden neighbours.

Mary laughed and threw leaves

With her Mormor - and me

In the autumn air

By the crimson tree.

I was so happy to have this small note and planned to give it to my daughter, Mary, in the future. But now, a new keepsake has been found. As my parents continued to settle into their suite, a photograph surfaced - a photo of my aunt and my daughter and the crimson tree in 1992.

A memory of her loving playfulness.

A picture of her poem.

Mary McDonald and Anna Paton  1992

Four Thirteen

A three year old girl arrives at this place

With a mom and a dad and two big sisters

A dog and a cat

And three bedrooms to share.

She feels lucky.

Shiny hardwood floors to slip and dance on

And a beige rug that holds the sunlight and shadows

From the picture window

On magical afternoons.

At 413.

Arborite  kitchen shelves to climb up

To watch her mom make brownie cake and fried chicken.

A hidden cutting board that slides out of the countertop

Just the right height when she sits on the red metal stool

To make a cup of cocoa with her dad.

She feels lucky.

A great big basement with a swing

And open stairs to dangle a fishing line from.

Who knew what her sister might tie to the end of it!

Wooden orange crates on the ping pong table are a Barbie doll village.

And the corner in the back, a private spot for shining sunday school shoes.

At 413.

A ten year old girl grows up in this place

With friends on the street

Classmates at school

And far-away cousins that visit sometimes.

She feels lucky.

Skipping double-dutch in the driveway

Hopscotch on the sidewalk

Naughty games of knock-on-ginger before she’s called in

By her dad’s black whistle

Blown three times.

At 413.

  

She climbs into her bed

With the heart-shaped wicker headboard

And admires the yellow flowered wallpaper

The door open just a crack so the hallway light

Will give her some connection with her family

Still up watching tv.

She feels lucky.

A teenage girl rebels in this place

When phone calls need to be long and private

She can stretch the cord into the broom closet

And almost close the door.

Lucky.

When she is crying and heartbroken

She can slam and storm

And tear up pictures

Blast the stereo with the maddest songs she can find

Her sisters stay cool

And her parents do too

Even when she screams

I HATE YOU

413 stays stable

Solid.

Lucky.

A grown-up girl leaves this place

But

When she wants to return

To escape

Or mourn

To celebrate

Or to help her old mom and dad

She finds the house standing firm

Waiting patiently for her.

She feels lucky.

Now

With her parents moved away

She sits quietly

Alone

In the empty bungalow

With her final farewell thoughts

She knows how lucky she was

To grow up in the bungalow

In the middle of the block

At four thirteen.

Lucky 413.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2013