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From: Steve Brown
Date: 19 Mar 2001
Time: 11:12:18
Remote Name: spider-tj052.proxy.aol.com
BEST OF ENABLED WRITER: AN ANTHOLOGY OF PROSE AND POETRY by NEW MEXICANS WITH DISABILITIES
Edited by Steven E. Brown and Deborah Mashibini
Copyright © 2001 by VSA New Mexico All Rights Reserved PO Box 7784 Albuquerque, NM 87194
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except brief quotes for reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.
INTRODUCTION
VSA NM (formerly Very Special Arts, New Mexico) introduced THE ENABLED WRITER in 1997. The idea was to take some of the best writing around the state of New Mexico and include it in an anthology. The book was so popular that within three years, six more books were completed and distributed. Writers from outside of the borders of New Mexico began submitting works for the anthology. Jurors as renowned as Rudolfo Anaya and Norman Zollinger were among the many volunteers who sifted through works by a wide variety of writers and chose selections for each of the previous six editions. In 2000, VSA NM and the Institute on Disability Culture, in Las Cruces, NM, collaborated on a project resulting from a grant from the New Mexico Endowment for the Humanities (NMEH Grant # 2008-1122-1617) called “Opening Doors: Uncovering and Discovering Disability Culture.” The project included workshops; forums; an exhibit of photography and writing; and an online website conversation. The grant from the New Mexico Endowment for the Humanities also called for the publication in print, if possible, and on line, definitely, of THE BEST OF THE ENABLED WRITER. Project Co-Directors Deborah Mashibini and Steven E. Brown sifted through each of the previous six anthologies to cull what we considered the best of those editions. We are proud to present those selections to you in the chronological order in which they were first published. We hope to facilitate the development of an all-new edition in the near future. In the meantime, we gladly share these moving writings from writers with disabilities, primarily from the state of New Mexico.
Steven E. Brown Deborah Mashibini
ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS
She comes with a bowl of raspberries and heavy cream like love a small bowl held in hands, close to lips by a woman who knows she is sick.
You stand wait with your blanket of love arms stretched taut like a kid saying this much this much I love you.
You wait.
Quickly she devours ¾ of the raspberries and what’s left reckons with terror before it touches your tongue.
she fears your arms so far apart won’t grasp the small bowl.
Your blanket demands too much curdles cream with its heat suffocates one with less time and less to give.
Paper covers rock scissors cut paper rock smashes scissors with blanket wrapped around shoulders your taut owl wings welcome her in.
She kisses you forever with her mouth full of raspberries and cream.
Julia Youngblood Volume 1, pp. 7-8.
I am the summer mainly, I am the smell of sweet summer flowers on the sweet summer breeze. I am a tour bus stopping along the road taking many people to look at flowers. I am a stream feeding water to various plants and flowers and trees. I am a folding chair that can be carried around from place to place. I am the end of a nice summer day with a sunset like the end of my first poem.
Sandy Ward Volume 1, p. 12
I am breath I am just like the wind Sometimes I am good sometimes and I am sometimes quiet and sometimes I am very loud. When you can feel me when I get too close or when someone is close and I am next to someone so close to me they can feel me on their neck Can you see me No you can’t No one knows when I came from I am in a person’s body.
Marc Frye Volume 1, p. 13
DEAR SELF,
I would like you to know that I have done some things that are not right. I know I do not know my own name and I do not understand I do not know that I used to speak words for myself I wish I were smarter and I wish that I could recognize my own mother I wish I could just forget all the things that people say I wish that I did not have to be in a wheelchair. And I wish that I had a conscience And if they found out in the autopsy I wish I was a real person so I would not have to be killed. I know I am probably a real person in my own way And I am sure I have every right to live. I know I am talking nonsense and you are calling me a vegetable even if you found out that I was a vegetable I want you to know that in my own way I was a real person and that God did not love me enough but he did love me. In my opinion and others I do not respond to anything. I know that you guys are going to miss me. But you’ll probably be happy that I am gone after a while you’ll go back to your normal lives. PS I am a real person and I am beautiful in my own way Love, Nicole
Nicole McCormick Volume 2, pp. 2-3
LEAP OF FAITH
Laura You are a blonde butterfly, Glitter-dancing in the morning sun, Spiraling, while drawing cursive letters of indecision, Between my outstretched fingertips And the gleaming glass doors of a church. KEEP your blazing star of David, But listen to your whispering heart, And don’t let it close Like the petals of a dying rose. Just let me be your earth angel. I won’t promise you the moon, All wrapped in gold and silver paper And topped with a feathery bow, But, just open your delicate wings, As think as the pages of the Bible, And light on my fingertip, To be the everlasting twinkle In my eye.
Allen Maynard Volume 2, p. 6
BETWEEN BLUE MOONS
Things that almost never happen are happening.
If you gamble tonight you will beat the odds. If you make a wish possible energy will answer you. Everything you ever feared is reversing itself.
Time expands.
Breathing deeply of the rare air. It is as if you have found a sanctuary, Walked into an indigo grotto That sparkles even where there are no stars. You are washed clean through with the luminous moon glow. Spilled ink shadows are cast away from your path. It is safe for you to acquaint yourself With the strength beneath your longing Because it will never betray you—
Not even when this rare night has passed, Not even on the dark and ordinary nights Between Blue Moons.
Thelma A. Giomi Volume 2, pp. 18-19
BIRDS
The birds are flying probably to the south Usually they go in mating time some will go to their home
Their wings are up Their wings are down Their wings are forward and backward Usually they go south
Their bodies are black and white I imagine their bodies feel like light from the sun and light in weight too as light as a feather.
They might be quiet even though they’re all there. I imagine flying to be quiet
Instead of one there are many The many are quiet together.
When I was alone I wished I was a bird. They’re always together.
Christine Caraveo Volume 2, p. 11.
THE PHOENIX BIRD AND I
The Phoenix bird and I have flown up together out of the ashes of a thousand western suns. We both view the idyllic playground of slender torsoed, tannish women, they, the thin ones, leap and frolic in luxurious pools outlined by blue cement. Local boys hover like lesser birds over those women with ideal builds, the Phoenix bird and I take to the blackened sky on so many incandescent winged ribbons No one can see our largeness now, for the light we shine is that of a distant hologram, or the farthest star.
Robie Rodriguez Volume 3, p. 1
CATS
Cats, Meow, Purr! dusty furry, dirty soft, furry cute, soft funny whiskers tickle.
Aurelia Arnold Volume 3, p. 15
POW WOW
Difference dancers People watching Wind blowing Drums beating Thumbolling Laughter Silliness but Seriousness too Meeting together Cheering for joy.
Cobert Todacheenie Volume 3, p. 19
COBERT SAID TODAY FELT LIKE RED
Red feels like love a sunset – like on a cartoon when someone is in love and all the hearts come out— a booming sound. Red smells sweet and pretty, like caramel apples and like a red rose the color of a flower red tulips costumes, the flag, and fireworks. A stocking, Christmas, canaries and fingernail polish – It smells like cinnamon on a toothpick and apple pie.
Red hots, brachs, a fireball – Red can be sour like candy apple and sour balls The color of a ball.
Did you ever see that movie about the red balloon?
Red is for emergency a scary sound loud – fire engines. Blood is red tense, anxious, red feels like anger cold. The color of a bullet on the Bond movies – Dracula Like the devil Looks like fire Stop sign Loud.
Cobert Todacheenie, Nicole McCormick, Chris Travis, Eddie Valley, Joseph Tenorio and Joaquin Garcia Volume 3, pp. 3-4
THE HELI-CHAIR
Yesterday, in Santa Fe, Mr. Joaquin Garcia showed off his new invention, the amazing Heli-Chair.
Mr. Garcia created the idea out of his own head to get around transportation problems. This new helicopter wheelchair runs on electricity and has a propeller which sounds like the bionic man, and lots of pipes.
Said Mr. Garcia, “I can hear the birds sing…ahh…Jets flying, but I’m faster! People look little, down on the ground. Stores like little toys. I can see the people looking out of the windows of the plane. They think it’s weird…’Who is this person in a wheelchair?’ they ask…surprise and puzzlement on their faces. Feel like a bird…I’m feeling excited ‘cos I created something that no one has ever seen before.
Scared and nervous about crashing. But at least I can get around the way I want to.
I’ve built my machine to be comfortable. It has double seatbelts to keep me safe.
I can go as high as a space rocket. I can even get to other planets. Tomorrow I’ll borrow a space suit from the space program.
I’m flying in my heli-chair with my hand on the controls.
I have a couple of bologna sandwiches in my backpack, and some kool-aid that tastes sour.
It’s pretty cold and windy, so I’m thinking about landing down there on the dirt.
Keep the wheels moving so I can get to where I’m going.”
Joaquin Garcia Volume 4, pp. 8-9
NO
No means don’t do that No is not too hard on the brain No means don’t do that It also means I won’t or I can’t or I don’t want to marry you. No is not too hard on the brain (not too much pressure).
I don’t know – what is true and what is not true.
No – there are many different meanings means I don’t want to. means don’t do that I don’t have to. I cannot hear no.
Nicole McCormick Volume 4, p. 11
THE FOOT
It drops, it scrapes upon the ground the foot that slides is sometimes found in carpet or in snags of rug it’s heavy and it’s hard to lug And when it drops and slowly moves I’m caught off guard in sidewalk grooves.
Barbara Goodmiller Volume 4, p. 14
ON BEACH
Pretty sea once I wish beach I do swimming I do walk beach I wish Boston Mass I 4 I pick shell I feel push water I have coke drink I have eat lobster We going to house grandpa At big going house My house I touch sand Shells in bag or boy beach I looked starfish I see people way walk My sister and brother fun beach.
Helene Valdez Volume 4, p. 21
SOUNDS FAST
Car the fast wheel fast Car the peal out street Look car black Look car leather touch feel hot smooth car smell metal touch feel hard bumpy wheel look pretty cool.
Helene Valdez Volume 4, p. 23
LEAVING STORMS
Sixty miles away Santa Fe has sun Here, face to face with the Sandia mountains, rain Falls on the bosque, on dirt, on plants which will Dry up, uproot, and roll across the terrain as tumbleweed. Now The satin underbelly of silver cloud-cover cracks with lightning Positive ions chasing down strands of negative ones Blue gashes too quick for the camera
run
This is a strong storm, one I won’t forget for awhile Like the storms I try to forget and can’t A divorce or two, a job lost unfairly, an only child Dying of a rare disease Running away, running this time From a crime committed, a crime of passion—the desperate lie Told in lightning-time, directed with deadly precision. Lies get out of hand. Look for a new life somewhere else, get off the island Go east to the mainland, find mountains, I was told By the moon and the stars one night.
run
The storm brings wind that pushes rain into a horizontal slant Pushes rain under my door, into my life Tomorrow I will pack. This storm will dissolve itself And I will slip away Sixty miles to Santa Fe The further and further, running A long trail of storms behind me.
Dara McLaughlin Volume 5, pp. 3-4
THINKING ABOUT GROWING OLDER
We were all happy in high school— going from class to class. Had a teacher for each class… walking going from place to place. We had lots of friends, being nice to them My favorite was boys— lots of them… and then there was one special one. Going for walks taking a trip to visit. We used to talk. Hanging out. A whole group of us.
Now we’re grown school time’s gone. We’re still learning— hurt sometimes. Things are more complicated, more to think about. We still pack a lunch box, but have to think about calcium, vitamin C and B12 and going to the doctor. I stand up and think about standing and try to keep standing, and see the doctor about my hips.
Do you ever think about the friends? Even though we’re growing… and keeping in contact. Most of us haven’t, but did one time. Sometimes wishing we were still in high school. Changing what we did or staying the same. Getting older is the end of youth. But staying young inside. Grandpa died. Working and making some art, Feeling happy and proud, Dancing feels happy, especially with the kids.
Helene Valdez, Sharla Balestri, Eddie Valley, Terri Judd,Dolores Waters and Christine Caraveo Volume 5, pp. 5-6
THE BUS RIDE
I sit on the bus on Central.
Some call it Route 66.
I call it road of no end.
Lost are the Cowboys with no horses
Lost are the Indians with no bison.
Lost are the Women with no hope.
All hold paper-bagged bottles.
They should be indoors warming heart and hands over cocoa and friends.
Not walking the road of no end, wondering why the west was lost.
Victoria E. Davis Volume 5, p. 7
NEW YEAR’S EVE
This has not been the year of my resolutions. It has been, in fact a season of government cheese of sleeping in my car of book burnings for warmth. Still, and I can not tell you why I have lit poetry, only prose. I have seared Shakespeare, Hardy much modern romance but never June Jordan, her poetry that pomegranate of revolution She is one fruit, one vitamin, one ounce of nutrition that can’t be dug from the food box at St. Mary’s.
Rose Louise Volume 5, p. 10
GOD HAS RETIRED TO THE GULF COAST
My grandfather calls to me at night from where he’s buried in Texas whispering gumbo and shrimp and what is the deal with the price of okra these days?
He’s found no proof of the devil in the dirt of his graveyard. He’s grown partial to god in a strange sort of way. Gone is the one of his fears or even his hopes.
This god is a different sort altogether, it has no beard sometimes even wears a skirt. His god is no angel but it surely can cook. It adds coffee to the gravy, tansy to the toast and sometimes, on Sundays makes jam from the kumquats just like Aunt Pearl.
This god is not a lazy god. It gets up early on weekends to garden with Adam. They quarrel about compost and worms, then throw food to the seagulls Neither brushes the dirt off their feet before they come inside. King Solomon is much tidier.
Sometimes this god listens to Eve. They steal bikes, go riding down the sea wall in Galveston. They walk the beach. She gathers shark’s teeth. God and Eve wet their toes in the early morning surf. There is no saltwater up in heaven.
Rose Louise Volume 5, p. 11
PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST WITH R.S.D.*
for Turtle
When Marcella watercolors her stretch marks purple and gray scars become purple and green fish.
The newer, hot pink ones grow spots and leaves until completely impossible vining petunias
have intertwined with jasmine, hibiscus and a quieter, more muted form of four o’clock.
A hummingbird stops in for a drink at her nipple sipping the honey sweetened milk
pain pills have tricked her body into producing. She paints another one
its wing caught underneath her left breast the beak sinking low across her belly
then falls asleep her medicine still waiting at the bedside table.
*Reflexive Sympathetic Dystrophy Rose Louise Volume 5, p. 12
I’M SLIPPING THRU
The cracks of inaccessibility living my life with all the dignity I can muster up on 300 a month in a trailer screams TRASH almost thirty can’t seem to let go of the me E.I. and ableism took away i’m holding bitter but i’m here assessing what I have left to try and find my proud fierce my joy sex and my strong urgent lust for justice surviving.
Erin Ambrose Volume 5, p. 13
CAROLYN SONG
Though I am deaf and cannot tell either what death or love is well yet, I heard in deaf ears they both bare darts and aim at human hearts and then again I have been told love wounds with heat as death with cold so that I fear they do but bring extremes to touch and mean one thing As in love we call one thing to be blown or fall or to our end like way, may by flash or lighting or a wave, so love fires the venture to fight the frost out of the grave.
Chris Selleck Volume 5, p. 14
Slender steel cut crescent of an ivory moon bespeaks of the tears of the Hydra upon you. South of Venus in intermittent gloom the lizards claim refuge from a dimming sun.
Robie Rodriguez Volume 5, p. 21
LETTER TO MY MOTHER
My heart beat speeds up, when I think of you as a friend, and not my mother.
We could play cards together, you could sing me the songs from your German childhood,
and I would listen, and ask you to tell me your life story.
We could go to plays and lecturamas together, we could have dinner at your house or mine,
I would bring you to poetry readings and say to acquaintances:
I’d like you to meet my friend Ellen— this is the woman who used to be my mother.
They will look at you, and notice how clear your eyes are
when you look at me as though we had a secret between us.
the loaded gun that rocked between us has turned into a pile of harmless, gray stones.
Dear friend, ex-mother Ellen, it’s spring in New Mexico; come visit me
and we’ll go to the movies whenever we want, and we’ll hold hands in the dark.
Mary McGinnis Volume 6, p. 1
HER DAY OFF
Thursdays, June stays in peels potatoes, plants petunias waltzes with God in her pajamas until seven p.m.
He’s a likable partner as these things go a little flashy, perhaps jitterbugging’s his style.
Juan bangs on the ceiling demands they quiet down and they do, oh they do after twirling til dawn.
Rose Louise Volume 6, p. 2
I AM LIKE A BROKEN SHELL NOT PERFECT
I am like a broken shell Not perfect. I came up from a sea no one wants me. Except one lady, that picked me up at sea. I stand out alone by myself with a broken piece from the sea. I hear the waves as they come and go. I have a new friend that picked me up at sea. Cause I am like a broken shell Not perfect
Carlan Gettman Volume 6, p. 8
TANGLED IN ISOLATION
I’m so sick from my paranoia it has devastated me it has ruled me twisted me into a desolate spectral a desperate ghost all the paths that lead into the dark and delirium a derelict of pain and psychic suffering ever with the dread in the tomb of ice swarmed by unreason by scars and tears that are of sacrifice emotion that is of despair and as I tear and feel the dying sun as everything comes undone tangled in isolation blood pouring in desecration of the health the profusion of impurities and misfortune the morbid insanity in my eyes
Alan Andrews Volume 6, pp. 8-9
SLOW LEARNER
Thrum Thrum Umm m m Thrum Thrum I’ve always misread the signs hurling myself pell mell from one squish squish to another like a compulsive spender with ten new credit cards I grabbed each new prize and in the end I paid I paid I paid
Thrum Thrum Umm m m Thrum Thrum The growl of the clay molded, caressed, formed aboriginal in desire ah! The tingle between my thighs misread again pell mell to hell and in the end I paid I paid I paid
Thrum Thrum Umm m m Thrum Thrum The salt flats thirst to discover the beat pushes me careening down another mistaken avenue flayed flesh exposed and in the end I paid I paid I paid
Thrum Thrum Umm m m Thrum Thrum The deafening roar of identity cannot be mistaken the exterior picked buzzard clean now the thrill; of me stands free and in the end I rejoice I rejoice I rejoice
Caroline Barr Volume 6, pp. 11-12
CANCERS
Melting snow--days old, virgin white still-- lingers like drooping rabbit ears on our limp cacti, bombarded this winter by freezing, Arctic air strafing the desert.
Paralyzing cold reminds our bodies of a promised seasonal hibernation that, like New Year's resolutions, become often vowed unkept pledges.
Tightly hidden like our desert's summer furnace sun soul secrets that fear unlocking.
Childhood walls, barricading tears bear well their decades-old foundation.
Reasons, in any form, to forget my friend, mountainous and larger-than-life, struggles to survive.
This body I carry, porous bones anemic energy, my friend once dreamed he'd haul into emergency rooms.
This body, I sustain, debilitated to outside eyes, looks to outlast my friend.
Seeking tears, I find irony.
The walls need knocking still.
for Stephen M. Gens, 1951-2000) Steven E. Brown Volume 6, pp. 13-14
BEAR GIRL
When she was born she was eaten gulped down into the belly of the great bear beast to live out her youth cocoon style until she emerged like some scat on a trail looking wholly like a young girl unscathed by the confines of her distorted infancy.
When she spoke her past betrayed her she had no voice only a great bear growl
She whirled and danced in womanhood and at each turn her smile looking like a growl scattered her longed for companions
Alone now what once was pain is now a comfort worn like a cloak of many colors
The girl reached down and below down into the well of herself where she found an ember and her breath brought it to flame
The stench of the bear was as powerful and pervasive as gunpowder on a battlefield she turned the fire of infinite self she turned again and the bear was gone
Caroline Barr Volume 6, pp. 15-16
MY DREAM
I dream like dance My life now dance My life then I like a mother My dream thing My dream to have wings bring
Helene Valdez Volume 6, p. 19
UNTITLED
Sky blue sad soft flowers Trees swaying while fine clouds run free. Nicole McCormick Volume 6, p. 25
ONE-LEGGED WOMAN
I saw the leg And it was fine Then I saw the crutch And it was too much.
That one-legged woman Got a hold on me And made me see Ecstasy.
I saw the shoulder And it was fine Then I saw the crutch And it was too much.
That one-legged woman Got a hold on me And made me see Fantasy.
I saw the back And it was fine Then I saw the crutch And it was too much.
That one-legged woman Got a hold on me And made me see Reality.
I saw the hair And it was fine Then I saw the crutch And it was too much.
That one-legged woman Got a hold on me And made me see Musically.
I saw the face And it was fine Then I saw the crutch And it was too much.
That one-legged woman Got a hold on me And made me see Anniversaries.
Steven E. Brown Volume 6, pp. 27-28
IF
If all the chiles were one chile, What a great chile that would be. And if all the seeds in that chile would be one seed, What a great seed that would be. And if all the tortillas would be one tortilla, What a great tortilla that would be. And if all the people were one person, What a great person that would be. And if that great person would take That great tortilla and wrap the great chile with The great seed in it And eat it? What a HOT time that would be.
Helen Antoinette Sanchez-Brodeur Volume 6, p. 31
GERT AT 103
Mildred shimmies and shakes she dances down my street. I step out, too. We palsy toward the Paladium for darts, a few bottles of beer. The moon is out tonight so are the toads. We’re a musical bunch to be this close to death but the crickets are chirping overtime and we can not disappoint.
Rose Louise Volume 6, p. 31