WHAT IF?

Photo credit Cher Universe

I have been trying to write this post for a week. The idea seemed like a cool one when I thought of it. A conversation between two women who, in my opinion, worked for many of the same goals. To fight injustice and to fight for equality for all people.

Was I being too presumptuous?  Frida Kahlo died on  July 13, 1954. I was not born until 1957. I have never visited  Mexico. How could I possibly write a conversation between Cher and Frida Kahlo?  What if I screwed up? 

 I decided to write what I felt and imagined the conversation between them would have been I hope my imaginings do both women justice. 

Their meeting takes place in the garden of La Casa Azul  (The Blue House.) Frida Kahlo's home. 

 https://www.tripsavvy.com/inside-la-casa-azul-

1589080  

Cher: Thank you for accepting my request to meet with you. I was inspired to record a song in Spanish after seeing the movie, Frida. The scene where the man was singing touched me deeply. So much pain in his voice. I wanted to sing in Spanish with the same passion and pain.

Frida Kahlo: I have heard your version of the song Chiquitita. It is beautiful. You did well.

Cher; The two of us have much in common. You share my love of animals. Your exotic birds and the monkeys in this garden are amazing. 

Frida Kahlo: My parrots are my friends. My monkeys represent the children that I was never able to have. My monkeys have been in several of my self-portraits.

Cher: I campaigned for four years to have Kaavan, a lonely elephant living, in chains in a zoo, in Istanbul freed  I am happy to tell you that earlier this year Kaavan was sent to an elephant sanctuary. The news that he had been freed was one of the great joys of my life.

Frida Kahlo: I would have done the same thing. Animals are living beings. They should not be caged or mistreated.

Cher: I  obtained special permission to come to Mexico to visit you amid the COVID-19 Pandemic. The flight crew on the plane that brought me here, was covered from head to toe in protective gear. We are sitting here wearing masks and gloves, six feet apart. Our world has become one giant science fiction movie.

The murder of an innocent man, George Floyd, by police has sparked riots and protests. Some have been peaceful, some have not. I think to myself,  It's the twenty-first century, 2020. This can't be happening, but it is. It did. We need leaders who believe that all the people in the world are equal.

Frida Kahlo: The pandemic is far from over. It is a thief that has stolen too many lives. Those in power did not heed the warnings soon enough. Now restrictions are being lifted. People are eager to return to their activities. I understand this, but they should be cautious. I fear the predictions of a second wave of the virus may be true. Safety is the most important thing. Wearing protective gear is a small price to pay to be protected. 

.

Both of us know that all people deserve equality in all aspects of their lives. Mr. Floyd's death was a senseless, abuse of power by the police. More education is needed. Until the people of the world realize we are all equal. No one is better than anyone. It is everyone's responsibility to help one another. It is everyone's responsibility to strive for a peaceful world. I believe it can and will happen. It must. Otherwise, there's no hope. There must always be hope.

Cher  The media refers to me as an icon. I do know about you, but I hate that word. I am no one special. I knew that would be famous. I began perfecting my autograph when I was eleven years old. I hope I bring joy to people through my work. I do what I can to help those in need, but I am no one special.

Frida Kahlo; I do not like labels. I am not special because I paint. I taught myself to paint after the bus accident. I was in a body cast for months. Learning to paint was my refuge. If someone relates to something in one of my paintings. I am happy. If someone hears me speak about equality for all and joins in my fight I am overjoyed.

Cher; Thank you so much  You have a beautiful home. I enjoyed meeting and talking with you.  

Frida Kahlo; It was my pleasure. Safe travels.

For more information:

Frida Kahlo: ttps://www.fridakahlo.org/frida-kahlo-paintings.jsp

Cher: https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000333/bio

WORK FOR PEACE

My school was predominantly made up of black students. None of us ever thought about the color of our skin. We were just kids with disabilities. No one was better than the other.

In high school, when the white girls in my class called me names the black girls in my class accepted me. I was a nerd and a geek. not boy crazy, but starstruck. I devoured every movie magazine I could get my hands on. They didn't care about my geekiness. We were friends. The fact that I was white and they were black did not matter.

Kids don't care. They just want someone cool to be friends with. Why is it so difficult for adults? Just stop. 

Our country is being destroyed/ Both figuratively and literally. I get the protests, but not the violence and destruction.  How long will it take people to rebuild what they have lost? Is this the image of America we want the rest of the world to see? If a positive change does not happen soon I fear the principles this country was founded on will no longer exist.

I was pleased to see photos of Joe Biden speaking with some of the protesters. I was also pleased to see police marching alongside protesters in solidarity. 

George Floyd's murder was a heinous act.  Carried out by people who are supposed to protect us.

I see the images online. I read the stories. I want to do something. Writing is all I can do.

Please stop. Please unite. Please work for peace.

 

I HAVE NO WORDS

I have no words, but I had to write something. 

A man begged for his life, but they didn't care. Onlookers tried to intervene. They were threatened with pepper spray. Those with power did it because they could.

No amount of jail time will make up for this senseless act.

Hate is learned. Children learn by example. Adults have free will.

This was a crime against humanity. 

George Floyd was murdered for no reason. Say his name.

I wish Obama was still our president.

He cares. 

 

ENTRY 6

A REBEL ON WHEELS

Juanita  Randall. The only person  I had ever known who'd traveled the world. She had even ridden a camel in Egypt. I was impressed.  I could not wait to be in high school. I could have her as a teacher. (Well, there was another reason. A high school girl was always given the role of  Mary in my school's  Christmas play. By the time I got to high school, the nativity scene had been removed from the play. I am not bitter or anything.)

Miss Randal was a no-nonsense teacher. Her curriculum was like any other high school. Her students learned Spanish and read Charles Dickens and Shakespeare.  A requirement for graduation was that all seniors submit a term paper. If a student's paper did not meet her standards the student did not graduate. That never happened. it motivated students to do their best. 

My school began accepting students at all different levels of cognitive development. Miss Randall  did not adapt to the school changes. One day she walked out.

Adios Español.  So long, term papers. Cheerio Shakespeare. When Miss Randall walked out those courses left with her. I was crushed

Enter Penny. Penny was a hip, kind of kooky young woman who was our teacher but wanted to be our friend. "Call me Penny," she told us. It took us a while. Scratch that. It took me a while to get over the disrespectful feeling I got every time I called her by her first name.

Because of the cognitively diverse group of students we now were, I knew that I wasn't learning what I needed for college. I'd had enough. "You're not teaching us anything!" I yelled at Penny What happened to the journalism class? Our heated conversation was the talk of the school for a day or two. Nothing changed. I realized that Penny was doing the best she could under the circumstances.

I wanted Miss Randall to speak at my graduation.  I was not alone in wanting her as our speaker. One of the teachers assured me that she would not accept the invitation. None of the teachers had heard from her since she'd walked out. Miss Randall and I spoke on the phone occasionally. She would accept my invitation if I told her how much it would mean to our class.  I refused to back down. My class threatened to go on strike. I was told if we didn't drop the issue none of us would graduate. I dropped the issue. The former principal was our graduation speaker.

Thank you, Miss Randall. wherever you are, I hope you know that the semester I had you as a teacher left a big impression on me. You were the best teacher Elias Michael ever had. You believed we would succeed, and you prepared us to do so. You were not as tough as you wanted us to think you were. You were completely different outside of your classroom. You were relaxed, not tough as nails. You were cool.

That was the first time I rebelled against the norm. Against authority/ I shocked everyone. A kid with a disability in the 1970s wasn't supposed to have opinions.  Hmm, How do you think I'd look in a black leather jacket?

ENTRY 5

OH XMAS TREE, DARN XMAS TREE

When I started elementary school, drawing, painting, and being creative in any way, shape, or form,  was a big deal. I  went to a public school for children with physical disabilities. I was struggling with learning to print my name on the blackboard. Draw? No way. There weren't any Special Ed. classes for teachers in the sixties.  My first-grade teacher was clueless.

Gone were my carefree days of preschool. (It was called nursery school in the sixties.)  UCP's nursery school was held in Cardinal Glennon Children's  Hospital. I went three mornings a week from age three to age six. My teachers did not care how my finger-painted picture looked. They did not care if I simply rolled the cool modeling clay around in my hands without trying to make anything. And, blowing soap bubbles was about who could make their glasses overflow with bubbles first.  It was fun with a dose of learning mixed in. 

I was too little to realize that one of my nursery school teachers also had cerebral palsy. She could not use one of her arms very well. She walked with a limp. She was a role in us whether we knew it or not I have fond memories of both teachers. I stayed an extra year. The extra year allowed me to go from nursery school right into first grade. 

I don't remember much about my attempt to paint a picture that day in first grade.   All  I remember are the colors blue, and green, and a big glob of light pink running down the page. My teacher was not happy with my effort.  

Learning to use an electric typewriter changed my life. I didn't have to be ashamed of my chicken scratch printing anymore. I could do my assignments. I could keep up with my classmates. All was right in my world. Until...

I was told to draw a Christmas tree using my typewriter. UGH. Would it ever end?  A high school girl, who was at least ten years older than I was, could not use her hands, but she was able to type using a headpiece with a pencil turned upside sticking out of the end of it.  Her typed drawings were featured in the school's newspaper. If she could draw, then so could I.

My typed drawing was the front of a Christmas card for my parents.

X backspace X  Oops. How did that X get out of line?  Oops. that X is out of line too. Start over. A fresh piece of paper  I am ready. I turn on my typewriter. It begins to hum. X backspace X

X backspace, Backspace X. Oops.  It was no use.No matter what I did my drawing was full of mistakes.  My teacher affixed my mistake-riddled tree to red and green construction paper. It was a card only parents could love.

Each year, when my mom got her Christmas cards out, I'd see the card I had made. She'd kept it. Cheesy red and green construction paper boasting a crooked tree made with Xs.  My mom kept it because I had done the best I could. That's all that mattered to her

 

ENTRY 4

WONDER WOMAN

Teenage girls with disabilities always stick together. They always have each other's backs. They would never be catty or mean to one another. Gag me. Teen girls with disabilities, in the seventies, were just as catty, selfish, and mean as their non-disabled peers.

Mary was two years older than I was. She also had CP. It was difficult for her to talk. She'd throw her head back. take a deep breath and struggle to get her words out. It was painful to watch. I can only imagine how painful it was for Mary. In high school, she was given a communication board. Mary refused to use it. My guess is that even though talking was difficult for her using d a communication board made her feel weird. She probably did not want to appear more disabled than she already was.

Mary's mom pushed for us to be friends. Mary and I had little in common except for our shared diagnosis of cerebral palsy. Mary hated school/I knew from an early age that I wanted to go to college. Mary faked being sick as much as she could. (I tried it once. My mom was no dummy. She knew I wasn't sick. She let me stay home but made it clear I was never to try it again)  Marty told me no one was going to make her do anything she did not want to do. No one ever did.

When I was still able to push myself in a manual wheelchair our moms took us to the mall. Mary held on to my chair while I pulled her along. She got a free ride. I got blisters. Mary knew how to get what she wanted that's for sure.

In the eighth grade through high school, I was teased and called names (Virgin Ears, was a favorite.) The kids in my class thought it was hilarious when they dropped heavy books on the to watch me startle.

I brought my lunch from home. If I had chips in my lunch   Mary would grab them, hold them out of my reach, then smash them into potato chip dust while the kids who saw what she was doing laughed their heads off.

This went on for a while until the day I had had enough. I do not know what possessed me. I had never fought back or lashed out at my classmates before What happened after lunch makes me sound like a terrible person, but I was thirteen. and fed up. I had to stand up for myself. I did. I started scratching her. I drew a little blood. My teacher stopped me.

Mary never touched my lunch again The other kids eased up on me a bit too

My mom lectured me on how lucky I would be if none of the scratches got infected. That was the end of it.  Mary was fine.

I am both embarrassed and proud of my actions that day in 1970.

Would you believe her mom still tried to get us to be friends?

THE CURE FOR THE QUARANTINE BLUES

Image is from the Prays to God Facebook Page

This quarantine thing sucks
I have the blues.
What?
You do too?
Compassion is the cure.

Cursing won't cure them.
Yelling won't cure them./.
Name-calling makes them worse
Compassion is the cure.

People are hurting.
Frustrated
Lonely.
Start a conversation.
Listen.
Learn.
Compassion is the cure.

.
The SC at Jaywood went out of her way to make sure I had all the foods that I love on my birthday.
I will never be able to repay her for all things she has done for me.
She does then anyway.
Compassion is the cure.

Happy Hour at NHC is still going strong.
During quarantine, if a resident can't make it to Happy Hour, the Booze Caboose will come to them.
I have seen the videos.
They made me smile.
Compassion is the cure.

To all the essential workers a million thank you's are not enough to show appreciation for your service.
Compassion is the cure.

To the Jaywood staff who is caring for me and keeping me safe.
You're doing an amazing job.
You've put your lives on hold.
Moved in.
Thank you.
That is the ultimate example of compassion.

Compassion. The perfect cure for your quarantine blues./.