Last night I see the moon, it’s big and bright. Beautiful. I have put the babies to bed and finished cleaning up. I’m relaxing on the couch, reading and writing in my journal. Now I am sitting at my desk writing. It’s been two days since I wrote the first sentence. Since then I’ve been in a world wind of politics and the rights of children who are deaf and hard of hearing. I’ve gone through and am going through so many emotions. Fiona has the right to learn and use sign language regardless of what the standardized tests say. See how that just jumped right out there. I am so mad, I just want to rebel against standardization! Nothings even happened yet except some conversations with representatives of the San Rafael School District and I’ve visited both public programs. I’ve had the recommendation to mainstream Fiona and to only do oral and no sign. This upsets me; when Fiona was born, and we found out she had a moderate hearing loss we were presented with a packet of information about deafness in children. (I will refer to people with any degree of hearing loss as deaf, that is what I’ve noticed in many of the books I’ve read) Anyhow in this group of information I was presented, the first question to answer is, “What mode of communication is best for your family?” I answer “Total Communication” right off the bat. That is using sign, speech, visual, the right environment, amplification, everything. I had to convince Alan though, he thought she was fine, that she could hear well enough, that she could rely on the hearing aids and didn’t need to learn sign. It took a long time for me to convince him it was important for our family to become fluent in sign. But today he gets it. I feel like the school district downplaying Fiona’s need to learn sign, both SEE and ASL, is stripping her of part of her identity. She’s also being put in a hearing world and expected to perform like a hearing child, at three years old. To deny her of a program that is designed for children exactly like her, her best chance at success going forward in the Public-School System, seems unjust. I am in the heart of politics, real life politics. I feel ashamed, I never read the Deaf and Hard of Hearing Bill of Rights until this weekend. And if they are trying to cut costs that’s really not fair, we pay over $14,000 in taxes to the San Rafael School district, we have paid over $80,000 in taxes in our lives together before we had any kids in the system. They’ve gotten enough money from us to send Fiona to an appropriate preschool for two years. I get it now. I understand what we’re fighting for.
Category: Difficult times
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Afternoon. Monday the 30th of December. Studio. Painting. Just wrote a piece about how I’m “Feeling”, politically. Can’t publish it. I’m scared. Scared of a police state. Loop in my mind. Back to the same thing here, again. Nothing we can do to stop them. Except something I’m afraid to write publicly. I don’t feel safe anymore. My computer doesn’t feel safe. Maybe it’s best if I don’t write anything about politics. Every time I think about what’s happening now in our government I start thinking the worst. I don’t feel like the politicians we have on our side are tough enough to stand up to the Trumps and Bannons of the world. I need to stop thinking. Breath. Worked in my studio today. Made some nice marks, once I let go of my literal mind. I can only do that. Make art and let go of my literal mind. I am completely totally open. Even in my pessimism I am a walking talking fully engaged smiling person. I love people. Sometimes I hate people too, but mostly my heart is filled with love.
Saturday, we went to Limatour Beach. The weather was perfect, sunny, fine sand. Jack and Fiona ran their hands through the sand and watched it fall to the ground. My husband, brother, and I drank wine and ate roast beef sandwiches. I felt like I needed to celebrate the last days of life as I’ve known it. I felt things shifting, my brother told me not to worry, that the courts can prevent a lot of what Trump is doing. It was a great day at the beach, and every day is a great day for me. I work in my studio, I write, I take care of my family and my dog, and I enjoy life. I’m one of the lucky ones.
I have one hour left. I feel the toll the stress I’ve gone through over what’s happening has taken on me. My back is tight and I’m tired. I got in trouble by my friends on Facebook this morning for sounding pessimistic about our resistance against the Trump presidency. I apologized, I don’t want to sound discouraging. I feel right now that my body and mind are fried. I am frightened about the fate of our world. I am disturbed about what’s going on. I say I shouldn’t write about politics anymore and here I am again. Maybe I’m panicking?
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Process of Grief. “I feel so depressed” I say to myself. “I’m so tired” I say as I yawn a big mouth yawn. Trying to exercise, to eat, to stay up past 7:30pm, to not snap at my children. Take a deep breath. In the nose, out the mouth. “Why am I saying these things to myself, about myself?” It’s not normal? Is it just PMS? Is it just not having enough free time to myself? Or am I this way? Is the world the way I think it is? What’s true? What’s not? What matters? What doesn’t? I find myself several times picking up my phone to check Facebook , to see if anyone posted anything, to read about what horrors are going on in America and around the world. To be reminded of scum or told to just forget about it, don’t think about it. I forget that I deleted my Facebook account. And then I feel relieved I am not part of that right now. My heart is starting to beat fast, this was supposed to be a time of relaxation. Jack and Fiona are taking their nap; the house is quiet. I’ve worked in my studio, taken a shower, and here my mind goes again, in the loop. I think, “I should be happy.” Why am I so down? The election has taken a real toll on me, the Trump presidency and the Bannon appointment. I feel like I’m panicking. I could try to make myself believe I’ll be fine so I shouldn’t worry so much. I don’t want to put my head in the sand like an ostrich. I don’t want to become a medicated zombie. I don’t want to go crazy. Where is there balance? I remember growing up and hearing my mom and her boyfriend talk about Carter and Reagan. They said Reagan was bad. I didn’t know what that meant, I just Knew our house didn’t like Reagan. When I became old enough to vote my mom had stopped voting. “Why mom? How can you not vote?” I asked her. She told me it didn’t matter anymore, that everyone was corrupt. Around this same time she told me she “Hated white people”. I wonder what my mom would say if she were alive today. Maybe she wouldn’t be as surprised as me. I was naïve. I thought things were getting better, but they were festering. Now I’m festering, trying to keep a grip. I am in the midst of raising twins in the heart of a dramatic developmental stage. During the breaking apart of mother and baby, I still want Jack and Fiona to be my little babies, they still want me to baby them. But they are getting bigger and finding their own independence and individuality. I am also changing, some by choice, some not. I must be more stern now, Jack and Fiona are heavy, strong, loud. They need direction and supervision almost all the time. The only time it’s easier now is at the park. I can sit and eat my lunch while they run off and play on the structures. It’s relaxing. There’s just a dark cloud hanging over my heart and mind. I feel like my mom died all over again, that type of shock. I feel like crying.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 