The Words We Hear

Today a friend complimented me on my dress, to which the woman sitting next to her added, "I feel like people could mistake you for an eight year old." I tried not to show how much that stung, but instead replied, "Oh, they do," plastering on what I hoped was a winning smile.

         I don’t think people realize how much their words can sting. How much they can cut to the quick even when they don’t mean for them to be hurtful. I try to do the owners of these words the honor of allowing them their ignorance, of giving them the benefit of the doubt, of recognizing they’re only human, of cutting them some slack and not letting their words breed grief in my heart, because maybe they never intended that. I try to give them the freedom to say the broken things they think without letting them affect me. I want to give everyone the opportunity to be human and unwittingly insensitive without letting it change my mood. No one is perfect. No one should be expected to watch their language 24/7 and know how their words will resound in another person’s soul. No one can know that. I don’t expect that of anyone.

         But some days… Some days I wake up and feel raw. I feel more vulnerable. I feel less steeled against the barrage of hurt that people hurl at each other as they themselves try to make sense of their own vulnerability and helplessness. Today was one of those days. Today the fact that someone callously invalidated my adulthood and then recommended I enjoy it while I could sent me reeling for longer than usual. Today I heard someone tell me that I should enjoy the baby face that wins me no respect, the short legs that earn me no recognition among my peers, the soft voice that gives me no advantage in the din of this world, and the genuine lack of guile that many take for childishness, not heeding my words when my intuition could make their lives easier or when my care could soothe their wounds.

         That is not what she said. That is not what she meant. But ears hear words through the rawness of the day, through the imperceptible vulnerability of the moment, through the complex filter of directed prejudice echoing from the past and present, reverberating amongst the cavernous ventricles of the heart. So that’s what my ears heard.

         It’s at moments like these that I’m so grateful that the God of the universe loves all of us more than we can comprehend with our finite minds. It’s at moments like these that I’m awestruck by His unfailing, infinite, unerring kindness.

3 Words: Life. Is. Beautiful.

Special Needs and Human Identity

So, a little bird told me about a moment in which a few humans engaged in an interaction. And I found myself inspired to write this very soon after. It poses rhetorical questions. Though it violates the rules of rhetoric, feel free to answer them:

What's wrong with being special needs? Why does the fact that you have special needs make you subhuman or inferior in the eyes of those around you? Why do people become diminutive if their bodily condition gives them more challenges to overcome? Just because someone needs different help and attention than the “average” person in this world, or has to expend more energy and fight to function as is expected or "normal,” doesn't make them incapable or characteristically incapacitated. Nor does it mean that they need to be coddled or always attended to. That sort of patronization is just as bad as derogatory words and gestures. It’s just a nicer face to the beast at the root.

That beast is superiority. That beast is hubris. That beast is condescension. That beast is hateful because that beast is disrespect. And that beast needs to die.

There is nothing fundamentally different between human beings. Not one person on this planet lacks a soul or spirit. Not one lacks love. God creates every person in His image and loves each unabashedly. Every. Last. One.

The Man Who Made My Day

There are moments in this life that make me so happy to be a human being. There are moments when I make some sort of connection that may not have been open to someone else, or taken by someone else. The privilege of one these moments was given to me. Just me. 

Yesterday it was beautiful outside so I sat in the sun between my classes. Colorado is always good for sun. A well-groomed, but ill-kept man came up to me, neatly dressed in a maroon windbreaker. It was filthy and worn but not from wonted neglect. His dark, peppered hair was combed neatly, and when he spoke, I noticed he lacked the essential dental care most people with means adhere to. He walked up to me, and with a thick accent asked me the time in broken English. So I told him and I showed him my phone screen. 12:18 pm. And he thanked me. He smiled. We stayed there a moment at a respectful distance in each other’s company until he broke the silence. He asked me if I was a student. I replied in the affirmative, he smiled. I returned the question. He was not. He suddenly extended his hand and introduced himself as Daniel and retreated to a safe distance, leaving the warmth of his baby-butt soft hand in mine. He looked like he hadn’t had a soft day since he stepped foot on the planet, and the arid climate of Colorado couldn’t have contributed any moisture to his palms. They were a testimony to the pains he took to keep himself dapper in the apparent face of hard luck. I asked him what he was doing and he told me (in what forms of communication people employ when they lack all of the necessary language) that he was about to go get some coffee at Starbucks. Then he offered to share the cigarette he was smoking with me. I gratefully declined to which he responded, “That’s better. Best.” So he complimented me on my pants. And I thanked him. And he turned on his heels abruptly and walked away. And in the midst of all of the things I could believe about Daniel, all of the easy things to believe about Daniel, all of the jaded or cynical things I could believe about Daniel, I believe that Daniel just needed the time and a moment to feel human again.  And in that moment, Daniel made my day.

In Which Kailey Begins to Blog Again

Remember that one time I kept a blog? And I loved it? Yeah, I remember that too. When I went to London there was a demand from my friends and family that I keep one. People cared to share in the excitement of my life. But then I got home, and, at a particularly low time, I figured, “Why should I keep this going? No one cares. And blogging about your life is too self-focused.” Aside from the fact that I distinctly remember a couple of my friends from my church in London talking about how they wanted to keep up with my blog when I arrived safely in the US of A, the point of this blog was never for me to talk entirely about me. It was to share beautiful things that I experienced with beautiful people. And maybe start a conversation. This blog was made to connect with people. So without further ado, here I go again.

It occurs to me at this moment that given the fact that I seem to have dropped off the face of blogger.com about twelve-thirteen months ago, and given the fact that a thirteen month gap can change a person’s outlook on life, I will back up for context. This is what I learned in thirteen months of life. Incidentally, babies learn physical mobility and language in the same timespan. My question is, “Did I make that much progress?”

January 2014

Before I begin the rest of the months’ overviews, which I do hope will be summarized in fewer words than those of January of 2014 (ain’t nobody got time for this), I think it’s important to fully communicate the state of affairs at the beginning of this timespan. In the beginning, I experienced a combination of irrational sadness, lethargy, despondency, hopelessness, anger and apathy. This conglomerate of complementary feelings is often referred to as depression. The term depression doesn’t do the feeling (or lack thereof on some days) justice, because it’s hard to explain to a depressed-little-someone-who-feels-slightly-down-on-their-luck-today that you didn’t make it to class because you actually, factually, literally (not remotely figuratively) COULD NOT lift your head up off of your pillow to stop staring at the wall and cover your lower body with pants. The disparity between the two uses for such a word means people generally think of depression as a feeling attached to tangible phenomena in a person’s life and actually they should “just go for a walk in the fresh air and cheer up.” While well intentioned, this perspective is very often offensively wrong, and as a result I’m going to use the acronym, LADASH (Lethargy Apathy Despondency Anger Sadness Hopelessness) to describe what the term depression, stigmatized and trivialized, fails to communicate.

February 2014

The LADASH was strong with this one. But although this was a common state of being for me as a youngster, I started to be more open to the thought that maybe I didn’t have to live with LADASH. Maybe there was help.

March 2014

I finally went to get relief for my LADASH. I walked in hoping for anti-LADASH medication and walked out with not only that, but my very own label. Just for me! My label whipped out and punched me in the gut the first time it saw me in that psychiatrist’s office.  It straight-up broke my solar plexus for a couple of weeks while I fought for air and tried to realize that I am not dangerous, I am not inherently wrong, I am not a monster. I am a human made by someone who makes humans the way He needs them. In one moment my label made me feel like another statistic, stigmatized by years of beliefs that imbrute valuable members of society. When indoctrination comes to fruition, but you’re on the wrong side of us vs. them, it’s hard to remember your humanity. I spent March learning feel human again.

My very own liver-killing, anti-LADASH medication that came with my label. They help.

April 2014

If the eyes are the windows to your soul, my anti-LADASH medications  and the effort I exerted to learn how to carry my label were like glass cleaner. My eyes started to clear up and I saw that the world was bright and beautiful. And it was okay to let my guard down. To let people see my soul. The more I carried my label, the stronger I got, and the less I had to fight it.  My label got lighter and less awkward. It took less energy to lug around. The diminishing exertion of label-bearing meant I had more energy to look into the eyes of others. I saw that the world isn’t out to get me. I began to learn that people have beautiful souls.

May 2014

I got a job as a lifeguard at Englewood Recreation center. I found out my dog had cancer. I totaled my parent’s car. I lost my childhood dog, Peeto. The latter three happened in that order in the same day. Funny how one day can dominate a month in a person’s mind. May 9, 2014 my mother showed up to the scene of my car wreck and said, “This has probably been the worst day of your life.” My dog died hours later. Peeto had always been there when the going was tough. I bought him with my own money when I was (almost) seven-years-old. Now my life was tough, but it was tough without Peeto.

He was always a sucker for sunshine.

There's nothing quite like handing the body of your best friend over to a stranger in a cardboard box to be burned.

Oh yeah, and I decided to transfer to University of Colorado Denver from the University of Denver to study Singer/Songwriting instead of Piano Performance. I just couldn’t handle the way the culture of classical music killed the spirit of the music and battered the souls of musicians anymore.

June 2014

Swimming lessons. Lifeguarding. School Application Processes. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. The rest is a blur.

Did you know old people wake up and swim at ungodly hours in the morning? And some people have to guard pools while they do so. Thus the unholy amounts of caffeine.

July 2014

I turned 21. I had a tonsillectomy. I house sat for my friends. They have a zoo. But actually. Let me list the animals for you. They have since gotten more animals: Three dogs, one of whom was pregnant with twelve puppies; two cats, three kittens, a slew of rabbits, a slew of chickens, about six fish, five reptiles, three horses, and a llama named Mayflower. 
We also got a new puppy this month and named her Posie. 

Back Row Left to Right: Craig, Mariah, Thomas, Kailey, Monet, Elfreda; Front Row Left to Right: Wesley, Michael, Trystan

Our family came to visit. They're pretty cool. Thomas (the blasian in the back) is my grandfather's sister's son, but when her husband and one of her twins died in guerrilla crossfire, the remaining family lived with my grandparents for a while. He's sort of like an uncle because he's sort of like a brother to my mother. We call him Cousin-uncle Thomas. Which means his kids are like first cousins. Family relationships get complicated in the best ways sometimes.

This is the best we could do. We're all...just us. So if a picture is not blurry and includes part of all of our faces, we have succeeded. 

I cannot take Mayflower seriously. Also she projectile vomited on my head the first time I met her. It smelled horrendous.

This is Posie.

August 2014

I ran the color run with my cousin, this one guy, a friend from high school, and her friend.

This one guy is cool.

My family put down our thirteen-year-old leonberger, Teala. You know Nanny from Peter Pan? Teala was just like her. Trystan and I had curled up in the soft protection of her mastiff frame for most of our childhood. But now we are young adults, and Teala has gone to the place her Creator saw fit. I hope she’s with God.

He knew she was leaving.

Our last morning to cuddle with Teala

I got to hold her head.

SCHOOL! UCD was a good choice. It was a healthy choice. I was suddenly around regular people who had regular lives in a friendly world that was not isolated from the rest of the population. I no longer felt like I was trapped in a beautiful prison cell on the corner of Iliff and University. I could breathe. I was incredibly happy. I quit lifeguarding on a regular schedule.

September 2014

I got a job at the front desk of Englewood Recreation Center. School was amazing. I was hella lonely. Life was good. 

Wearing uniform and doing homework. Can there be a better representation of the above paragraph?

October 2014

Yay work! Yay school! Still loneliness. I ended up making one really good friend of one really cool person from high school.

I made this kick drum guys.

November 2014

Thanksgiving! Work! School! I have this thing where I’m afraid to try new things with new people. Like really afraid. My label doesn’t help that fear either. And one of the two friends I had made at UCD kept inviting me to activities with this group I had never heard of called Intervarsity Christian Fellowship. And my fear stayed me in the comfortable safety of crippling loneliness. UCD Friend #1 said that there were soccer pick up games on Wednesdays. And I meant to go five weeks in a row. And five weeks in a row, my fear made me otherwise occupied. Week six rolled around and I decided that come hell or high water I would force myself to show up for soccer and I would stay for one hour. And I did. I stayed the whole time. I was glad I did because I made friends.

My cool-friend-from-high-school's birthday was the same day as Thanksgiving. So I made him a birthday cake. It actually tasted amazing.

Forts with children. This makes life beautiful.

UCD Friend #1 AKA Gwen

December 2014

I was not lonely. I was happy. It turns out that no one wants to work over the holidays for some reason. I took a bunch of extra shifts and worked like a fiend. I hung out with friends. My audition to the Singer/Songwriter program at UCD was reviewed, and I was accepted. And all of this felt really good.

These guys practice their selfie magic far too often.

People celebrate Christmas. 

My gift made her this happy. Just saying.

January 2015

My grandfather died. My mother told me that of everyone in our family, it probably ached most for my Nonnie, and my cousin Wesley, and me. Of all of his descendants, I was his favorite and Wesley was runner-up for the most favorite grandchild position. My mother said that she loved watching my relationship with Papa because when he was with me, she could watch him at his best. She could see the colors of his most beautiful qualities. He was unlike anyone you’ll ever meet, and he wore his imperfections on his sleeve. But he was ours, and we always knew he loved us. My mother told me the other day that he still loves me. He’s just home now. I still love him. But I’m still here.

I love him. 

Death brings families together in the same place. While we were missing one very important member, it was incredibly nice to be altogether for the first time in years. 

Notice: Not blurry. All faces in photo. Success. 

 

I hadn't seen my cousin, Devin, in four years. We missed each other. I love him. Would you believe that we're both 25% black? No? Ignorance. We are the gingeroons. 

And this is the state of affairs.