The Possibilities of Rug Hooking

Yesterday, for the first time in more than twenty years, I got out my mother’s rug hooking supplies. There were two boxes. The smaller box contained some tools— an industrial-looking needle; two hooks, one still marked 99 cents; and a little machine to clamp onto the edge of a table for cutting wool into strips. Below the tools were three bundles of rolled-up burlap. The last one made me gasp. It was a little rug, partially finished, lovely work, I thought, as I inhaled the grassy scent of burlap and ran my fingers over the multi-colored nubs of wool. 

In the larger box I found the stretching frame and a treasure trove of wool in various stages of preparation, a time warp of the tweeds, plaids, and subdued neutrals of my Connecticut girlhood. Some was even bundled into loose skeins of narrow strips, the result of many hours of work.

When we’d cleaned out my mother’s house, I couldn’t get rid of these boxes and have held onto them ever since. They were from the time of my parents’ divorce, when my mother busied herself with repainting the living room, making fresh slipcovers, and learning new crafts. She and our neighbor were like Lucy and Ethel tackling a great adventure.

We kids joined in as apprentices to help my mother with her first hooking project: a circular chair pad. She was going to make a set. I loved the colors of the fabric, the subtleties of the shades of wool, and how they set each other off. Yes, she would carry on and begin anew, her four kids by her side. My mother, not yet even forty, was pretty and optimistic—at least, she was trying.

I don’t know when she started to drink. The times I couldn’t awaken her in the evenings frightened me, but everything seemed okay in the morning, except for her daily sessions gagging in the bathroom.

I learned denial. I wanted to protect her. But things did not end well for my mother. And now, looking back at these beautiful new beginnings of hooked rugs, I can only wish she hadn’t abandoned them.

(Not the original but possibly the next)

The Way We Treat Them

I’ve been thinking a lot about a book I read recently by J. A. Crowe, an educator with years of experience with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD) populations. His analysis of school shooters in The Fatal Link is anecdotal, but I found it compelling. What he concludes is that the overwhelming majority of school shooters fit the profile for fetal alcohol brain damage.

It’s true, people with FASD lack executive functioning--the ability to tell right from wrong, understanding of consequences, and impulse control. But having FASD does not make a person a killer. In fact, I believe their problems are exacerbated by the way we treat them, especially the majority who are undiagnosed. Those affected are often frustrated and angry, after years of blame and shame for failing to meet normal expectations.

When Sandy was growing up, no one knew people could have the brain damage of fetal alcohol exposure without the external physical signs. No one knew evidence of the condition could be revealed in behavior. But Sandy, like most with FASD, acted haphazardly. She had terrible judgment and never looked before she leapt. Her motivation was always a version of, “because I wanted to.” Eventually she gravitated toward the disaffected. “I try to be bad,” she said. She had come to believe it was the only thing she could be good at. When caught in the moment, she was at the mercy of her impulses. I still wonder whether, as she took her own life, she truly understood what she was doing.

FASD does not cause people to shoot others, but our societal reaction to this disability can make a huge difference for better or for worse. Focusing on prevention, identification, and early, continuing intervention for FASD is vital not only for those affected, but because FASD affects us all.

Sandy My Name

“August, 1987: Sandy is learning the way we do things at our house. She ate her last bite of dinner so she could have ice cream. She takes naps but sometimes doesn’t want to and has a fit. She loves to play with Sam and Molly. Sandy likes books and puzzles and dollies and going places. Sometimes she says ‘no’ when she really means ‘yes.’”

When the kids were growing up, we were a very well documented family, maintaining a series of scrapbooks with stories and glued-in memorabilia of all kinds, from graphs of scarlet runner bean growth to valentines from Great Aunt Mary typed in Selectric script. Of course, when Sandy came, we reported in on her, too.

Above is an entry from when Sandy had been with us less than a month. We were confident and optimistic. For a two-and-a half-year-old who had been through trauma, her behavior was very appropriate. We thoroughly expected her to improve. I love this image of Sam and Sandy, as we first learned about and adapted to each other. It was the start of a long process. It was the start of our education about FASD.

As a culture we are as yet unaware of the widespread impact of fetal alcohol brain damage--in our schools, on the streets, in connection to mental illness. But this one contributor to the ills of our society is entirely preventable, and there is much hope for improving its outcomes. 

We were too late in recognizing Sandy's invisible disability, but for others there is still a chance. In SANDY MY NAME I tell her story, for the awareness and action that still need to come.

Awesome FASD Webcast!

This recent webcast on FASD is loaded with information!

Hero Awards

Yesterday I gave my fourth graders hero awards. They were on day four out of nine of annual standardized testing. The previous day had been particularly grueling, with six different reading selections and questions. The students in my group, some of whom fit the profile for FASD, were overwhelmed.

I'd tried to encourage them as they slumped down in their seats. One finally motioned me over. “This just doesn’t make sense!” She pointed to a metaphorical line of poetry. In our reading group we’d talked about how words can have different meanings. I’d led them through the verse book LOVE THAT DOG. They’d responded to the rhythm and rhyme and gleefully wrote poems of their own. But faced with this stressful testing situation, their pride, their enjoyment, and everything they knew flew out the window.

I lay awake last night, knowing how damaging the test was to their feelings of worth, trying to find ways to turn it into something positive. That’s when I decided on hero medals. These students would face enormous challenges in their lives. I decided to tell them stories of people who’d dealt with obstacles and let them know that they could be heroes, too. The secret was to always do their best. 

The next day, despite tears from an interpersonal drama that unfolded in the hall before the test, a feeling of camaraderie enveloped the room. I told them the tests were made to challenge even the top students in their class, not to worry if some of the questions seemed too hard. They should find the ones that were at their level, concentrate on those, and do the best they could with the others. They put on their hero medals and set to work.  “I love my award,” said the girl who’d initially thrown hers on the floor. “I can show my mom.” On the back I wrote, "She tried hard and never gave up. 2013 Testing."

These students are heroes. Every day they face work that’s beyond their grasp. They think concretely, not abstractly. They don’t remember. School expects them to measure up to standards they can never achieve. The students are aware of the gap. Our job should be to find ways to make their school experience positive and helpful. Their lives hang in the balance.

So much depends

Upon the state test.

So variably approached,

So ruthlessly applied.

The Courage of Birth Mothers

This is a beautiful film. I have so much respect for these brave mothers.