Home from Spain

I have been away from this blog for too long! A month...how could it be? After finishing a busy spring quarter and teaching a quick summer session I was off to Spain to present at a conference. It was an incredible trip. In addition to meeting people from other universities and programs I had the opportunity to spend time in Madrid and Alicante. Both were fantastic. Where can I begin? The beauty, the music, the food, and the rhythm of life in Espana! It took a few days to settle into the late lunches and even later dinners. It took awhile to slow down in the afternoons and early evenings before going out to join the families and friends that meet and talk and eat and drink, sitting at the tables in the pedestrian streets, beside fountains and in the plazas. But soon it became ever so pleasant. A different pace than life in Seattle. So much to learn from this country of close families and friends, deep faith and a community spirit that is apparent as one walks the streets and alleys, providing a brief time to peek into another countries' lives. More to come!

Sorrow of the Classroom

Recently I "tested" a man to determine his reading, writing, math and cognitive abilities. I don't do this often anymore but when I do I am always deeply touched. Never more so than the recent testing of "Almondo". This 30-something year old man from an inner city in a very large state, from the slums, poverty and crime, can't read. Or write. Yet he is of at least average intelligence. He was identified in 3rd grade as having learning disabilities but his head-of-household-mom couldn't "afford to pay" for him to attend a school that could provide him services. Well, that is what he and his mom understood anyway. Of course this was not legal even 20 plus years ago but for a mom that doesn't speak English and a dirt poor 8-year old that is the way it was. This man was "moved on" (his words) from grade to grade without ever learning to read. Special education IEPs followed him but to no avail. He dropped out at age 14, got himself a fake ID that said he was 18, and went to work packing hamburger for the next 6 years. Finally got himself a "good job" running a lift truck in a state up north of his birth city and state. Part of the job was pulling garbage and cleaning up after everyone else. He severely tore his bicep, along with a shoulder injury and various other major bodily injuries. He was afraid to tell anyone because he thought he would lose his job for getting hurt. Now he can't use his left and dominate arm and... he still can't read or write. He has waited two years for the local community center to find a volunteer to teach him to read. He had a tutor for a week but she quit just when he was learning his vowels. He cried (with embarrassment and apologies) when he told me his daughter also has learning disabilities and can hardly read and he can't help her...because he can't read anything. He didn't know how to get the schools to help her. I wanted to cry myself. Teachers do tremendous work and I teach men and women in graduate programs that have done everything but taken a vow to not leave any students behind. What happened with Almondo? Who didn't notice? Why do over half of our children with learning disabilities drop out of high school? How can we stop this cycle? Almondo can't read. Almondo has lived on the teetering edge of poverty for years and now with an injury that prevents him from doing physical labor he has fallen deep into the pit. His children had so many difficulties in school. His son dropped out. His daughter barely finished but only because she didn't "cause trouble" but she still can't read well enough to get a job that provides a quality of life that we all want for our children. Almondo tried to hide his tears....as did I.

Tangled and lovely webs

It has been quiet on the blog front for both Linea and me. It is the end of the quarter (as well as the school year) and always an incredibly busy time. I think we are both overloaded with work and projects and deadlines. I will let Linea tell you about her overloads if she wants to...I am just trying to remember that sacred space within me that I need to keep open and not let fill with the trivia of everyday life. In addition to teaching we have presented at a conference in Seattle and once again we were touched by someone that attended. "Don't forget to remind people that substance abuse is often a symptom of mental health conditions in adolescents and not something for which they should be punished." This passionate plea came from a mother who had lost her son to suicide a very short time ago. I am continuously reminded that every person is connected somehow to mental health conditions.

So here is a story of our closeness to each other. I see us all connected through a web of vines like those blossoming on my garage. I will try to write this in the least complicated way possible. My mom is an artist and has painted for many years. A woman bought a painting from my mom sometime in the late 1960's while she and my dad were living in another city from where they now live. This woman ended up living in the same city (40 some miles from where my parents now live) as my sister's sister in-law. Yes, it is tangled! I think it would make it easier if I assigned a pretend name to the woman-that-bought-the-painting. Grace. Let's call her Grace. It will soon fit the story. So Sister's sister-in-law somehow let Grace know that the artist of the unsigned painting was in fact living close and well within reach. Grace always wanted the painting signed and contacted Mom to see if she would do so. My parents were actually out of town with us, while Linea and I presented at the conference in Honolulu. Finally Mom returns Grace's message and it is decided that Grace will come to my parents' home with the painting and have it signed. Grace is thrilled as she has always loved the painting. My mom is a little worried because she doesn't remember the painting and hopes it won't be something she doesn't like after all these years. Grace shows up, Mom is okay with the painting and signs it. Even though this is a strange enough coincidence, as they talk a connection is made beyond the painting. As they discuss Mom's trip to Hawaii she shares that Linea and I presented about bipolar disorder at the conference. Grace revealed that she has close family members with bipolar disorder. The two woman have a conversation that I would imagine doesn't just happen when two people meet for the first time. They share their stories and common experiences. Mom shares our website. Both of their worlds have expanded a little bit. They talk some more and Mom finds out that one of Grace's loved ones will be in Spain this summer the same time that I will be there. It wouldn't surprise me if we meet on the train travelling out of Madrid and end up in the same hotel on the Mediterranean! We are truly all connected.

Mental Health and You

My daughter Linea and I just presented at the International Pacific Rim Conference on Disabilities in Honolulu, Hawaii. Yes, I know. Someone has to do it! Although it was certainly different weather from what we experienced at the Wisconsin State conference in January (!) when we presented there was a well-recognized familiarity in our exchange with the audience and our contacts after presenting. NAMI (National Institute on Mental Illness) tells us that one in every four families deals with mental illness and one in seventeen people live with a serious illness including bipolar disorder and schizophrenia.

So it isn't surprising when we hear from people in our audience about their own struggles with mental illness. These people are almost always professionals, psychologists, social workers, teachers, and counselors. Yet they share their fears of divulging their stories, let alone their needs, to their colleagues and employers. They send emails and notes telling us that they are so glad we are brave enough to talk about "it". They tell us they have kept silent for years for fear of misunderstanding or rejection because of their illness. If our audience of professionals that work in the field of education and mental health are afraid to share their story how much more difficult is it for someone that may not understand their own illness or have people around them that don't even know what a diagnosis or treatment plan might mean? It is heartbreaking to hear the stories of fear and hopeless- and helpless-ness. We have a long way to go, don't we?



Invisible City (Jordan Swain)

The Crying Cup

This beautiful cup is known as the "crying cup" in my family. It was given to me many years ago as a gift from my sister. I kept it in its original box, wrapped away in delicate pink tissue paper. It stayed there for a number of years until Jordan came home from school one day with a flurry of hurt feelings and tears. She may have been in the first or second grade. I was making tea so I pulled out the beautiful bone china cup and served Jordan from it. She was so very careful and felt so important sipping from this special cup. Jordan and then Linea anointed it with their tears over the next twenty years. Slowly the cup was awarded the distinction as the crying cup. It was used to soothe hurt feelings, broken hearts, missed opportunities and lost pets. Yet is mostly remembered for the closeness of mother and daughters, the eventual smiles, laughs and giggles, and the ceremony of bringing out the crying cup.

Blackbird

It has been almost three years since my youngest daughter was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder. It may have been stealthily moving closer over the previous few years but none of us recognized it as bipolar, that crazy-making illness with phases of depression and mania and symptoms of which I was not yet aware. The mind boggling severity of the depression was a major piece of the puzzle in the diagnosis. The mania took a little more time before it became

something mean enough to also cause hospitalizations. As Linea and I have shared her story and mine, we have been moved to tears by the people that have told us that they, too, have similar struggles and fears, tragedies and hopefulness. I am particularly touched by the mothers. We are a club of sisters that know the bone-shaking, middle of the night terror, constant alertness and worry of having a child on the edge of an unknown precipice. As my mom says, "Sometimes all you can do is make it through one more minute, not just one more hour or one more day."

Sometimes the movement forward is a single minute at a time. Three years past the terror of an unknown illness taking over my daughter's life and changing all that we thought we knew...life is better. Life is stable as Linea stays within the parameters of a healthy life, sometimes up, sometimes down and sometimes bobbing on the edges but she is managing and in control of her own life. It would be easier to try and forget those years of anguish and worry and pain. But I think it is important to never forget. Never forget the closeness and the love of family as we held on to each other, we five (Linea, Linea's mom, dad, sister and brother-in-law), her grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. Things were clearly in perspective from most important to least important when life was falling apart. Little things mattered. A sunny day on the lawn of Harborview Medical Center. The quiet sanctuary at St. James Cathedral. The song Blackbird played to me in a psych unit on Mother's Day. And finally, a day on the beach in Mazatlan. I don't want to forget. I am thankful.

As part of my trip to Nicaragua we were asked to write a reflection paper. I will confess to my grad students that I put it off until the day before it was due. Bad idea but like many of my students, I managed to get it done. Here is a snippet of what I wrote.....

Thank you for providing the opportunity to participate in a trip and an experience far beyond what I ever expected when I arrived at this university. It was a life-changing occasion and one that I strongly believe will continue to reverberate in my soul for years to come. I was humbled by all that I saw, heard, tasted, touched and smelled. I write this with Carlos Mejia Godoy’s folk mass, Misa Campesina Nicaraguense, blasting throughout my house. I ate rice and beans for breakfast this morning with a cup of coffee purchased from CECOCFEN, a coffee co-op of peasant farmers. This with the hope of bringing back memories of time in Nicaragua and turn my feelings and thoughts into words. Yet it is extremely difficult to write a “reflection” … me, of many words, both spoken and written.

I hold joy and pain for the people of Nicaragua simultaneously in my heart. I see the face of the tiny child playing with a plastic hanger in the center of Managua with no adults nearby to care for him but I also hear his laughter as he and his brother chase each other around the center courtyard. I remember the young girl sipping coffee at the farm while her mother and her friends talked to us about their union work. She looks wise beyond her age. She, too, will lead.

What can I do to assist in the efforts of the Nicaraguan people? For each person I pray for health, family to love and support, food to sustain, education, and meaningful work. How can I help? I do not know but I have learned a little something about aid to other countries and provided to people at the local level. I heard a woman say, “When aid comes with strings it takes away some of our soul.” How can I help? I am percolating. I do know that my life has been vastly changed by this experience. It has affected my teaching, my relationship with my colleagues and with my family and friends. Yet I still cannot talk about the “trip” with any sense of clarity.

I ramble. My mind rambles. I waited too long to write this because I did not know what to say, likely for the first time in my life. Words are my business. My faith in man and woman-kind has deepened. As I wrote previously, I am humbled.