Tag Archives: family

Happy Holidays?!

by Ann Millett-Gallant

Ah, Christmas.  ‘Tis the season, deck the halls, joy to the world, and all that stuff.

Christmas Tree, 2013

Christmas Tree, 2013

Christmas is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, and yet, celebrations often come with obligations and complications.  Christmas, for those of us that partake in it, has multiple, and sometimes conflicting meanings.  For some, Christmas is a religious observance.  Although I respect the Christian origins of the holiday, I don’t follow any particular religion, have been to church only a handful of times, and associate Christmas more with elves than I do wise men.  Christmas is primarily a commercial event for many people, and although I do enjoy giving and receiving, I appreciate the thought put into a gift more so than the dollar amount.  Finally, Christmas, for many, surrounds family traditions.  For me, the term “family” is as diverse as the specific activities that I enjoy with different family members. “Families” can be groups you are born or adopted into, ones your divorced parents marry you into, ones you yourself marry into, and ones that accumulate throughout your life from circles of friends and colleagues.  I enjoy spending time with all these individuals, but I value more personal time with smaller groups than large gatherings where I exchange small talk with a variety of people. I also appreciate private time during the holidays, in which I have more time to paint, write, read, and watch movies. I believe the notion of “celebrating” should not be limited to one set of activities on one specific day.  My rituals aren’t always traditional, but they are genuine and specific to me. So far this season, my mom has come to NC from Ohio to visit me, and we did a lot of Christmas shopping.  I gave her one of my watercolor paintings, and she showered me and my husband with gifts.  Giving to her children and grandchildren throughout the year and especially at Christmas is a great joy to her.  And I certainly benefit and appreciate that joy!  It was fun shopping with her for me, as well as for other members of the family.

Ann with Shark

Ann with the Shark

Here is a photograph of me at the mall, holding a giant, stuffed shark she bought for her grandson (my nephew).  I smiled as I traveled through the mall carrying the shark and people smiled back at me.  I wish I had thought to photo-bomb the Christmas Santa, but it gives me a new activity for next year. The week before Christmas, I went to a matinee of American Hustle with friends who also had free time.  My friend Jay picked me up, and my friend Julie drove me home and helped my dye my hair a festive red.  In appreciation, I made a small painting for her of her favorite flower, the hibiscus.  These kinds of activities may not directly relate to Christmas, but they contribute to my seasonal cheer.

Hibiscus

Hibiscus, 2013

My husband and I have a non-traditional Christmas palm tree he usually puts up, but this year, I wanted to contribute more, so I made a collage of a tree with acrylic paint and images from magazines.  For me, it represents how we design our own, unique Christmas rituals.  I bought him a smoker as an early Christmas present, so he could smoke us a Thanksgiving turkey.  It was delicious, and I am looking forward to the Christmas turkey!  He enjoys cooking, and I enjoy eating everything he prepares, according to my tastes.  It makes him happy when I am happy.  On Dec. 25, as he prepares our meal, I will wear my Christmas-themed pajamas, binge-watch Modern Family on DVD, and indulge in an afternoon glass of wine.

After Christmas day, my dad and step-mom will come from Ohio to Durham to visit me, my step-sister, and our families.  There will be dinners, movies, and possible cookie decorating with my 5 year old niece, as we try not to wake up her 6 month old brother.  Every year, my dad jokes about how I used to behave during Christmas as a child.  When I was young, Christmas was primarily about the presents, although I reveled in all the Christmas activities: making and decorating cookies; hanging all the ornaments, garland, and lights, inside and outside the house; sitting on Santa’s lap; and caroling.  My dad chuckles as he recalls how I would be awake almost all night on Christmas Eve in anticipation.  I loved opening presents and then throughout the day, despite my sleep deprivation, playing with new toys with my cousins from out of town, or playing board games with my grandparents.  I also adored eating a Christmas dinner that I “helped” my mom prepare and falling asleep early in front of the Christmas tree.  Then in a few days, after New Year’s was over, the tree came down, I went back to school, and I crashed.  Teachers would call my parents to express concern about my melancholy.  I attribute this now somewhat with it being winter in Ohio, but I know it was largely due to just letdown and exhaustion.  I would cheer up over time.

These activities may be familiar some of my readers and foreign to others, raising the question: What is the true meaning of Christmas? I think there are many answers.  Perhaps the more important question to ask is how to take the elements of joy we feel at Christmas and spread them throughout the year.  I would say to everyone, regardless of the season: bake, if you enjoy it; sing if you feel compelled; decorate your surroundings with color; relish time with loved ones; be generous and thoughtful; and have a piece of red velvet cake with ice cream and savor every bite.

Luminaries on UNCG Campus

Holiday Luminaries on UNCG Campus

What’s In a Visit?

by Deborah Seabrooke

Thanksgiving is around the corner and Christmas isn’t far behind. Some of us don’t relish going home.

I never wanted to go home when I was in college. Things are different now. The trend is for your parents to best your best friends. I’ll bet most of my students can’t wait to get home.

Deborah Seabrooke and her daughter in D.C.

Deborah Seabrooke and her daughter in D.C.

My parents were not my friends. That’s a foreign concept to me. I have a married daughter in her 30s who says I am her best friend. I’m glad she likes me so much, but I feel squirmy. I should be elated, but something’s out of whack.

My father is 92. He is not my friend, he’s my father. My mother died three years ago at 89. She wasn’t my friend either. They moved to Greensboro when my children were in preschool to be near them, at least they said so at first. But the night before they arrived, my mother phoned me and very seriously told me to make no mistake—she and my father were not moving to Greensboro so that they would be available as babysitters whenever I needed them. They had lives of their own to lead.

I admit that I was taken aback that she called just to make that clear. But it took me only seconds to recover and answer, “Sure, Mom. I understand.”

My mother was right. She was drawing her boundaries, even though there was no reason that they were moving to Greensboro other than to be near me and the kids. They weren’t coming for the weather. They had already pre-retired to Florida. But fences make good neighbors when we’re talking about family. At least my family. Maybe not yours. Maybe you are reading this in horror.

I found myself remembering the boundaries my mother drew when my daughter recently asked me if I would take care of her child while she was at work. This was purely theoretical because I also work –in Greensboro—and she lives six hours away and there is no grandchild in sight yet. So I said, “Uhhh…”

“What do you mean, Uhhh?”

“Well…”

We eventually talked reasonably about it. I told her I would of course baby sit now and then. For sure if she ever felt like she was going to kill the kid.

I did not say that her question made me feel in the grip of a python. Actually, I probably felt just like my own mother felt the night before she and my father moved to Greensboro.

I am in late middle age, like my mother was when she and my father moved to here. I want to hold onto who I am for a while longer. Who I am is the person I see in the mirror, smile back at, put mascara on, and take a walk with. Early in the morning when I walk, I like the long-legged singular shadow I make on the bike trail.

Photo11181330(edit)I want to hold onto myself just as hard as my 92 year old father grips his own life. We go slowly as I walk beside him. He creaks along the halls of his retirement home holding onto his walker. When the elevator comes, he touches my back guiding me to enter first as if this were the 1940s.

We ride the elevator in golden silence. It’s OK not to talk if one doesn’t have anything important to say. Check back with me when I am 92, but what sounds bad is constant chatter, music coming from hidden speakers, the chimes of a cell phone going off in my pocketbook.

When I was home alone with small children it was, to put it nicely, a mixed blessing. I was truly under siege. Ears ringing when they screamed as I wiped up blood. Going for walks with little hands in mine, such talky walks. Helping with (doing) their school projects.

And now that my kids are grown up and have homes of their own, I am alone most of the day. My husband is at work while I type this. I think I will make a cup of tea. This is heaven.

Which brings me now to the real conclusion. It may seem wildly contrary to what I have just said. Cherish your visit home to your parents and your family. Love them and all their flaws and sit close to the crumbling bodies of the old ones. Talk with everyone.

Because you know what? You can walk out their door in a few days. You can be by yourself thinking about what people said, how they looked. You can feel all the things family makes you feel: a sense of belonging, joy, and yes, despair. If you can be alone in the car on the ride back to your apartment, you’ve lucked out. But if you can’t be by yourself until hours later when you finally shut the door of your own room, just breathe. You’ll get there. It’s important to find the place where you can love your family, but hold onto yourself.

—–

Deborah Seabrooke teaches BLS 326 “Telling Stories: The Art of the Memoir” and BLS 323 “Contemporary Short Stories.” She has taught with the BLS program and the Master of Arts in Liberal Studies program since 2005, and at UNCG since 1978. She earned her MFA in creative writing from UNCG in 1975.

Re-Membering

by Ann Millett-Gallant

Re-Membering coverI began teaching for the BLS Program in Spring 2007.  I taught my “Photography: Contexts and Illusions” class and was developing another BLS course, “The Art of Life,” as well as an Introduction to Art class.  I was supposed to begin teaching full time the next Fall, but life interfered.  While traveling with a friend in San Francisco in May, I had an accident and suffered from traumatic brain injury.  I did teach Photography again Fall of 2007, but it would be another year before I could resume all my teaching.

Bob Hansen was kind enough to cover my “Art of Life” course for me until the Fall of 2008.  When I first began teaching it, it was all new to me, because my accident had caused significant memory loss.  I did not recall how the class was conceived or why I chose the specific examples and readings for it.  However, I felt an eerie sense of fate or destiny teaching a course based on the idea that art emerges from everyday life, and that specifically art may be considered, ultimately, as an accident.  Much of the subject matter of the course surrounds how accidents can lead to insight and inspiration, and I began teaching it while I was still struggling with the physical and psychological effects of my accident.  One of the writing assignments my students had to complete was an essay on the theme of loss and discovery, which resonated with a lot of what I was going through – dealing with my own losses (of identity, memory, time, etc.), as well as discovering new aspects of myself.  I felt inspired to write a response to my own assignment about my accident and its effects on my life, both its consequential losses as well as its discoveries.  This is the essay I now post each semester that I teach the course:

For most of 2007, my existence may best be characterized as lost.  I had lost weight, lost hair, lost part of my skull, lost much muscular movement and fluidity, and lost my mobility.  I had lost my memory, my history, my sense of security, and my identity.  I had lost my mind.

Backing up…In May of 2007, I was vacationing in San Francisco with my friend, Anna.  We were exiting a café and for some unknown reason, I shot ahead on my travel scooter and fell off the high curb of the sidewalk into the street.  According to Anna, I was not drunk, sick, excessively tired, or otherwise impaired before this.  It was unexplainable.  I hit my head, began to bleed, and an ambulance was called.

This was all told to me later, as I have no recollection of the accident, any of the trip, or even planning it.  I have blocked the whole experience out.  I have blocked a lot of experiences out.  Even as my memory congeals, much of my life takes place in stories and photographs, but not in the sensations of being there.  I don’t have any flashes of being in the San Francisco hospital for 6 weeks, much of the time in a coma, and I recall very little of my time spent in a rehab hospital in Columbus, OH (where I grew up and my family lives).  I only remember grueling therapy sessions there and one kind nurse, who let me have the whole container of chocolate pudding that was used to help me swallow medications.  I moved in with my mother at the end of the summer, in a place she had rented, but that I thought was her home I didn’t remember.  Slowly, my strength and endurance came back.  I exercised, read, wrote in a journal, and began to re-member – to put mind and body back together.  Yet, I was content to rarely leave my sanctuary.

"Self-Portrait with Hemicraniectomy," 2011

“Self-Portrait with Hemicraniectomy,” 2011

In a couple months, I had surgery on my skull to reconstruct the amputation, after which, I had been told, I would improve drastically.  Unfortunately, I had to endure a week in the hospital before I had the surgery, after an anesthesiologist punctured my lungs trying to put an IV in my chest.  But I digress.  I did feel better after my skull was intact, and in just a few weeks, I began teaching an online class, one of which I was supposed to be teaching full time that Fall.  My knowledge of art history, the humanities, and how to teach came right back and, likely, got stronger.  I was able to concentrate and exert authority, more and more over time.  I soon moved back to my home in North Carolina and to my boyfriend, whose name I could now remember.  As 2008 progressed, so did I, and I was determined to no longer put anything off.  I proposed to the man I love and got married, taught full time, and began to write scholarly articles and to paint again.  But I was still lost.

Backing up further…I have been physically disabled since birth, and I have incorporated disability studies as a discipline, as well as my identity as a disabled woman, into my teaching and writing.  I know how to teach myself to do things and how to adapt to do anything I want to do.  I am (was?) independent.  I have traveled internationally, lived in 3 cities, and gotten my PhD.  I was, for better or worse, fearless.  Now I feel anxious taking my scooter to the grocery store.  But the anxiety about injury lessens over time.  The anxiety over being lost is still, and may always be, unbearable.  I can’t sleep through the night, my moods oscillate from high to low without warning, and I can’t remember people, places, and personal things.  I sometimes have to laugh, as, for example, I realize that not everyone looks oddly familiar because I have forgotten them, but that people just look alike.  I can laugh at my loss, at times, while at other times I am consumed by feelings of emptiness and the desire to know what happened, and why.

I have learned many, countless things from my accident, about myself and the world I live in.  But the main thing I have learned is that “lost” and “found” are not absolutes.  They are states of being, always in flux.  They collide, overlap, and intertwine.  Sometimes, they make it a chore to get up in the morning.  And sometimes, they produce accidental masterpieces.

Art Therapy Collage, 2010

Art Therapy Collage, 2010

The responses of the students to my essay were ones of admiration, respect, and identification.  Many shared with me similar experiences of their own or of others they knew.  I believe students also felt more open with me and shared more of themselves with me and with fellow students in their writing.  They also encouraged me to write more.  I did.  Over the next few years, I drafted four more essays or chapters about my experiences in hospitals and with multiple channels of recovery, including physical, craniosacral, and art therapies.  Eventually, I had a book – a memoir that incorporated research as well as personal narrative.  The structure and range of subjects in the book, I felt, echoed how my brain works; in it, I switch between various subjects of interest to me and forms of writing, I go off on tangents, and often I compose text from fragments of information and memory.

Once I felt the book was nearly completed, I submitted proposals to publishers and got many respectful and complimentary rejections, as I was repeatedly told that they simply did not publish memoirs.  I wanted to see my work assembled and distributed, to complete the project so that I could share my story with others, and to perhaps provide them with hope.  I chose to self-publish with CreateSpace through Amazon.com.

Here is a link to its listing.

I did all the formatting of the manuscript myself, which was, admittedly, a pain; I hired my sister who was a journalist to edit; and I paid a professional to design a cover.  I am proud of the project and hope readers of this blog will be interested in it.  It really epitomizes the intersections between art and life, as well as the various intersections between life and online education.

Ann Millett-Gallant at her computer

Dr. Millett-Gallant at her computer

Adventures at Camp Dad

by Matt McKinnon

Image 1Against the advice of my wife (a licensed educator), I am attempting to keep my three sons—ages four, six, and fifteen—home with me this summer.  (I use the present progressive tense along with the verb “to attempt” because, while the action is ongoing, it may not be ongoing for long, as my wife keeps threatening to close “Camp Dad” for the season.)

This really shouldn’t be a problem, or so my thinking goes.  After all, I work from home and, owing to my wife’s hectic work schedule, do much of the kid-watching during the school year, taking them to and from school and shuttling them to various soccer practices and games throughout central Illinois.

“Why should we spend the money,” I argued, “When I can take care of them here at home for free?”

Why indeed?

Why oh why?!

Image 2We are only three weeks in to the official “Camp Dad: Summer 2013” season and already I have lost two of the kids, though for only a brief period of time.  The first, my four-year-old, I feared had chased after the dog who had escaped into the woods behind our house.  Once I had corralled the mutt (the dog, not my son) with the help of a neighbor, I noticed that the littlest was missing.

As I ran through the neighborhood frantically calling his name, gathering neighbors for an impromptu search party, I heard the car alarm going off and knew immediately where he was: locked in the SUV and trying to open the door with the alarm set.

Image 3

And there he was, safe and sound, and had been—playing a stupid video game, oblivious to the cries of his father—sitting peacefully and calmly while I was screaming my head off, calling his name, and making a spectacle of myself to the neighbors.

And casting real suspicion over this whole “Camp Dad” idea.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, I lost the middle son the next week.  Though again, only for a brief period of time.

Image 4

 We were all going to the local “Safety Town,” inappropriately named it would seem, where kids can ride their bikes and parents can sit in the shade and watch.  Since my two oldest are proficient at bike-riding and my youngest is not, my fifteen-year-old rode ahead along the trail with my six-year-old.  They would go on to the park while my four-year-old and I walked.

The oldest had his phone.  He is marginally reliable.  What could go wrong?

What could go wrong indeed.

They arrived at the park and my oldest son called: all was well.

Image 5My youngest and I arrived by foot some ten minutes later, and I took my place under the shade of a tree, eyes peeled for my six-year-old in his new bike helmet, conspicuous enough with a red plastic Mohawk down the center.

There were a lot of kids, so the first five minutes of not being able to locate him seemed normal.  But five became ten and so I asked my oldest where he was.

Ten became fifteen as my oldest son rode around the park looking for him and I, once again, resorted to the parenting tool I know best and use most often: screaming his name at the top of my lungs.

Image 6

But to no avail.  No relieving sounds of a car alarm to signal where he was.  Nothing.  Just a park full of kids on bikes, but none of them my now-missing six-year-old.

As my eldest continued his futile search of the park on bike, I grabbed by youngest and bolted out the back towards the trail—the Rock Island trail to be exact, a 26-mile rail-to-trail project that runs from Peoria to Only-God-Knows-Where, Illinois.  If he was on that trail, he could be half way to Rock Island for all I knew.

And then my cell phone rang.  There was a lady on the other end.  “We have Lucas” she said calmly and sweetly.

“Oh thank you!” I exclaimed, not even contemplating that she could have meant something more sinister by her words, something out of Liam Neeson’s “Taken” perhaps.  A rather sweet ransom call.

Image 7Luckily, she was no Albanian gangster, but rather a mother out for a walk with her own mother and her seven-year-old son, who was now comforting my lost child.

Evidently, not seeing his older brother, my son decided to ride back to find us, going out the back of the park as we were coming in.  Needless to say, this was not in the itinerary for Camp Dad.

We soon reunited and all was well again.

BUT THIS WAS ONLY WEEK TWO!

I shudder to think what can, or rather will happen next at Camp Dad, where our official motto has become: “Has Anyone Seen My Kids?”

And yet I am steadfast in my resolve, determined that Camp Dad will go on.

My wife, on the other hand, threatens that Camp Dad is about to close, pending legal action.