A collection of photos by a man who took one picture every day for 18 years, documenting his life until he died of cancer in 1997
http://photooftheday.hughcrawford.com/1997.htm#1997/1
http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/15131
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Lobster
The man turned to me and demanded I show him the backs of my hands. Oh boy. Jewelry store employee or no, if you’re a girl that usually only means one thing.
“What!!!? No RING!!?? Are you running from love?” Well thank you. And will you be sharing your intimate personal details with me as well?
“Well sir, I’m still kind of….little.”
“Little?? Love has NOTHING to do with stature!”
“I mean….you know, I’m still pretty young”
He had a small fit when I told him my real age (and I was tempted to shave a few years off). I know, it’s the lipstick. It does tricky things to my youthful appearance.
“While you’re young (I’m glad we’d finally ditched the idea that I was a romantically failed middle aged woman) – run off and go places! Have adventures! Go off to Colorado Friday night and come back Sunday, that’s what my sister did with her friends. Then she got strapped into a toboggan and sent off down hill before she knew what had happened. Or – go to Cozumel!
"I was in Cozumel – have you heard of the wine squirters there? They wrap a towel around your shoulders and squirt wine in your mouth from fresh goat skins. We were there, watching all that, it was so crowded in there you couldn’t breathe – they were having to help people out into taxis.
I was saying something about being sunburned and the guy next to me threw his pants off, jumped up on the table wearing only his Speedo, and he was lobster. Lobster red!"
--------------------
It's not exactly wine squirting in Cozumel, but this looks way funner: a full on wine soaking involving whole villages....
“What!!!? No RING!!?? Are you running from love?” Well thank you. And will you be sharing your intimate personal details with me as well?
“Well sir, I’m still kind of….little.”
“Little?? Love has NOTHING to do with stature!”
“I mean….you know, I’m still pretty young”
He had a small fit when I told him my real age (and I was tempted to shave a few years off). I know, it’s the lipstick. It does tricky things to my youthful appearance.
“While you’re young (I’m glad we’d finally ditched the idea that I was a romantically failed middle aged woman) – run off and go places! Have adventures! Go off to Colorado Friday night and come back Sunday, that’s what my sister did with her friends. Then she got strapped into a toboggan and sent off down hill before she knew what had happened. Or – go to Cozumel!
"I was in Cozumel – have you heard of the wine squirters there? They wrap a towel around your shoulders and squirt wine in your mouth from fresh goat skins. We were there, watching all that, it was so crowded in there you couldn’t breathe – they were having to help people out into taxis.
I was saying something about being sunburned and the guy next to me threw his pants off, jumped up on the table wearing only his Speedo, and he was lobster. Lobster red!"
--------------------
It's not exactly wine squirting in Cozumel, but this looks way funner: a full on wine soaking involving whole villages....
Friday, July 9, 2010
She stood on the sidewalk in front of the glass outside the showroom, smoking while she waited for her ring to be cleaned and polished. She had snow white hair in huge curls, and she was wearing a cap that said Marines. Later on in our exchange I didn’t doubt that she was in the Marines, and I half wished I could’ve seen her in action. Her piercing dark eyes scrutinized me from behind her humongous…..well, granny glasses. She came into the store after her cigarette, the smell of tobacco mixing with her peppermint scent. Still waiting on her ring.
She handed me a pen from a tailor shop and told me that if I needed a tailor, to go to him. “He’s Greek, and he speaks Greek too. I don’t suppose you’re Catholic? No? Well I am, Latin Catholic, the oldest Catholics, and the Greek he speaks has a lot to do with the Latin services at my church.”
She leaned forward and stared at me, not blinking. “You have to listen to what I’m saying to get the real meaning of what I’m trying to tell you.” ( I had absolutely no idea what she was getting at….unless she thought I was really a Latin Catholic in disguise and there was some secret message being imparted to me…)
“Well anyway, this tailor makes my long broomstick skirts, and he fits them to me too.” (Now I have to wonder how a broomstick skirt could be tailor fit whatsoever) “He’s good, this tailor, so I pass his pens around and advertise for him by word of mouth, cause you can’t trust the newspapers.
“So if your jeweler gets me some pens of his, I’ll spread them around too.” She went on to tell me about young people today, who slide in to work at the last moment, leave the minute their time’s up, and are only concerned with how long of a break they get for lunch.
Then she got quite worked up about the picture of Jesus that hangs in the store, which she knew to have been drawn by a blind man. (I told you a lot of people notice it!) Her reaction was very strong, and she kept going back and forth between annoyance and incredulousness because he was blind, and extreme enthusiasm at the likeness, which must have come straight from God since he was blind from birth and was never influenced by other popular renditions of Christ.
“He saw it – IN HIS MIND!!!!!!” She shrieked, almost poking a hole in her own head. She is one of many, many customers to comment on the picture.
I am not Catholic, as she correctly assumed, but I was praying quite fervently that her ring would appear instantly…..
A BROOMSTICK SKIRT
She handed me a pen from a tailor shop and told me that if I needed a tailor, to go to him. “He’s Greek, and he speaks Greek too. I don’t suppose you’re Catholic? No? Well I am, Latin Catholic, the oldest Catholics, and the Greek he speaks has a lot to do with the Latin services at my church.”
She leaned forward and stared at me, not blinking. “You have to listen to what I’m saying to get the real meaning of what I’m trying to tell you.” ( I had absolutely no idea what she was getting at….unless she thought I was really a Latin Catholic in disguise and there was some secret message being imparted to me…)
“Well anyway, this tailor makes my long broomstick skirts, and he fits them to me too.” (Now I have to wonder how a broomstick skirt could be tailor fit whatsoever) “He’s good, this tailor, so I pass his pens around and advertise for him by word of mouth, cause you can’t trust the newspapers.
“So if your jeweler gets me some pens of his, I’ll spread them around too.” She went on to tell me about young people today, who slide in to work at the last moment, leave the minute their time’s up, and are only concerned with how long of a break they get for lunch.
Then she got quite worked up about the picture of Jesus that hangs in the store, which she knew to have been drawn by a blind man. (I told you a lot of people notice it!) Her reaction was very strong, and she kept going back and forth between annoyance and incredulousness because he was blind, and extreme enthusiasm at the likeness, which must have come straight from God since he was blind from birth and was never influenced by other popular renditions of Christ.
“He saw it – IN HIS MIND!!!!!!” She shrieked, almost poking a hole in her own head. She is one of many, many customers to comment on the picture.
I am not Catholic, as she correctly assumed, but I was praying quite fervently that her ring would appear instantly…..
A BROOMSTICK SKIRT
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The jeweler sat across the table in the showroom from his returning customer, the two as comfortable together as brothers. They had long ago left the topic of whatever jewelry-related business had brought the man in, and had turned to the subject of antiques.
The man was talking about a garden fountain an antique dealer had sold for $15,000, and unbelievable price for me to comprehend, from the adjacent desk where I was listening in. The lady who bought the fountain had it completely revamped - drilled, repaired, caulked - months later in defeat, she decided it was best as a plant holder.
"I can never believe the things some people will buy," the customer said, describing some imported dish board. "It's a BOARD!! But it's an antique, and it's what they want.
"And take the dress prices those girls pay for - what is it? Debutante? Cotillion?" (We'd apparently switched from antiques to their polar opposites - 16 year old girls) "God, it's just a white nightgown. Put some beads on it, that's all it is....."
The man was talking about a garden fountain an antique dealer had sold for $15,000, and unbelievable price for me to comprehend, from the adjacent desk where I was listening in. The lady who bought the fountain had it completely revamped - drilled, repaired, caulked - months later in defeat, she decided it was best as a plant holder.
"I can never believe the things some people will buy," the customer said, describing some imported dish board. "It's a BOARD!! But it's an antique, and it's what they want.
"And take the dress prices those girls pay for - what is it? Debutante? Cotillion?" (We'd apparently switched from antiques to their polar opposites - 16 year old girls) "God, it's just a white nightgown. Put some beads on it, that's all it is....."
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I am always fascinated to observe the varied personalities that come into the store, and to listen to the colorful stories they tell of the people in their own lives.
Two lovely women were in our store today, one newly married at 55. She met her second husband at her children's school - they shared classes with his children. Since he came into her life he has been an antidote for her loneliness and a good influence on her boys, who were growing up without a dad.
It was her best friend who first introduced them - she was married to the single dad's best friend. That worked out well for EVERYBODY!
From their calm demeanor they could have just as easily been talking about the best methods for fertilizing petunias, as dropping little nuggets of wisdom in the shop as they discussed lessons they'd learned about marriage over the years.
When you're old, you concentrate more on being nice to each other. You've learned the importance of unselfishness and working for the good of the other person.
"Things that were important when we were 20, they aren't important anymore. You're going to have to get over all those annoying habits they have eventually, why get mad?"
The long divorced mom met her new husband five months before they began dating - her best friend laughingly relates how they stared at each other during school baseball games. When his sister had surgery, she stayed in the hospital room with him for days as he sat by his sister's bedside.
A short five months after they started dating, they were married.
"You just know what you want by the time you're my age."
Her friend knew her husband for 30 years before they finally got married - a far cry from a short 10 months. He hated dogs, had since being bitten as a child. But over the years as he got to know her and her dogs, he fell in love with her, and with them. Now the two rescue animals together.
"You learn things like, revenge isn't important. And that your words DO affect your husband and your relationship, and if the other person is upset by your negative words or your attitude, it IS your problem."
Two lovely women were in our store today, one newly married at 55. She met her second husband at her children's school - they shared classes with his children. Since he came into her life he has been an antidote for her loneliness and a good influence on her boys, who were growing up without a dad.
It was her best friend who first introduced them - she was married to the single dad's best friend. That worked out well for EVERYBODY!
From their calm demeanor they could have just as easily been talking about the best methods for fertilizing petunias, as dropping little nuggets of wisdom in the shop as they discussed lessons they'd learned about marriage over the years.
When you're old, you concentrate more on being nice to each other. You've learned the importance of unselfishness and working for the good of the other person.
"Things that were important when we were 20, they aren't important anymore. You're going to have to get over all those annoying habits they have eventually, why get mad?"
The long divorced mom met her new husband five months before they began dating - her best friend laughingly relates how they stared at each other during school baseball games. When his sister had surgery, she stayed in the hospital room with him for days as he sat by his sister's bedside.
A short five months after they started dating, they were married.
"You just know what you want by the time you're my age."
Her friend knew her husband for 30 years before they finally got married - a far cry from a short 10 months. He hated dogs, had since being bitten as a child. But over the years as he got to know her and her dogs, he fell in love with her, and with them. Now the two rescue animals together.
"You learn things like, revenge isn't important. And that your words DO affect your husband and your relationship, and if the other person is upset by your negative words or your attitude, it IS your problem."
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Let's Make These Drugs Look Beautiful
The dull brass box slammed down onto the table in the showroom. It was about as big as a box of matches, and it had made its appearance in the hands of a very old friend of the jeweler's. The box contained ten pills, one day's supply of MS and diabetes medication that cost more than $40 a day, and he had come to have a duplicate created in solid gold.
He told about joking with his wife several years before about going to jail for possession of illegal drugs if a policeman ever pulled him over. "Eh, lock him up!" was his wife's playful reply.
Back to the box. The man wanted it engraved with his initials, and the jeweler pulled out a bracelet he'd engraved that morning as an example of depth and font. The jeweler mentioned that the bracelet belonged to the late wife of an old friend and customer, and was being given to the man's teenage niece.
The man was interested, and began to list off the jewelry his daughter-in-law inherited when his own wife died. "She was lying in her hospital bed a few days before she died and she asked me 'What are you going to do with my jewelry, Jerry'? I told her 'Baby, I'll do whatever you want with it'. It was such a tender memory, it was almost uncomfortable to witness.
Again, business with the pill box;
Getting the initials right - J.R. for Jack the Ripper;
Complaining about the pills the box held, in the voice of someone who has dealt with their chronic condition for a long time and has learned to deal with it in cantankerous good humor;
Pills, $6,000 worth, ruined when the fridge door was left open;
Doctors' impossible orders not to get hot or stressed -
The unavoidable heat, which reminds him of his years in the deserts of New Mexico.
"I knew a guy who was drafted into the Service when he was 45 years old. They gave him the dummy test and and told him 'We're putting you in nuclear' - he was that smart. He was from a real small town in Southeast Oklahoma, and they gave him a bus ticket home; 'We'll let you know when we need you'.
"Sixty days and he'd heard nothing. So he went to the post office in the next town - and there was no bus ticket waiting for him. So he says 'Can I use your phone'? He called up the government and they said 'You just wait. We'll send you your bus ticket when we're ready for you'.
"Thirty days later he got his bus ticket to California. He stayed there for 34 days, did just what they told him and nothing else. After that he was bussed to New Mexico in a bus with the windows tinted black. They unloaded him straight into the barracks and he worked in nuclear until he was 80. He saw his best friends die of radiation poisoning, and you never heard a word about it. Having kids was never even a possibility.
"He tested the first atomic bomb at the White Sands Missile Range in '45. After it went off, he stood up and walked away, saying 'Well, the blankety-blank thing worked after all'. "
After the man left with his old brass pill box, the jeweler told me more about the man. He had been with him shortly after his MS diagnosis, when he was still struggling to keep the tears from his eyes. The jeweler remembers one thing from that conversation - "Money can't buy happiness."
Some people never learn to face their illnesses. The jeweler said his friend was never the same, but he was never a coward either. He faces MS with courage every day - and has the reputation to prove it.
-------------
Testing the Atomic Bomb:
http://www.cddc.vt.edu/host/atomic/trinity/index.html
http://www.takemytrip.com/06newmex/06_15a.htm
http://www.kilroywashere.org/004-Pages/Trinity/Trinity.html
Multiple Sclerosis (MS):
http://www.nationalmssociety.org/index.aspx
http://www.webmd.com/multiple-sclerosis/guide/multiple-sclerosis-faq
He told about joking with his wife several years before about going to jail for possession of illegal drugs if a policeman ever pulled him over. "Eh, lock him up!" was his wife's playful reply.
Back to the box. The man wanted it engraved with his initials, and the jeweler pulled out a bracelet he'd engraved that morning as an example of depth and font. The jeweler mentioned that the bracelet belonged to the late wife of an old friend and customer, and was being given to the man's teenage niece.
The man was interested, and began to list off the jewelry his daughter-in-law inherited when his own wife died. "She was lying in her hospital bed a few days before she died and she asked me 'What are you going to do with my jewelry, Jerry'? I told her 'Baby, I'll do whatever you want with it'. It was such a tender memory, it was almost uncomfortable to witness.
Again, business with the pill box;
Getting the initials right - J.R. for Jack the Ripper;
Complaining about the pills the box held, in the voice of someone who has dealt with their chronic condition for a long time and has learned to deal with it in cantankerous good humor;
Pills, $6,000 worth, ruined when the fridge door was left open;
Doctors' impossible orders not to get hot or stressed -
The unavoidable heat, which reminds him of his years in the deserts of New Mexico.
"I knew a guy who was drafted into the Service when he was 45 years old. They gave him the dummy test and and told him 'We're putting you in nuclear' - he was that smart. He was from a real small town in Southeast Oklahoma, and they gave him a bus ticket home; 'We'll let you know when we need you'.
"Sixty days and he'd heard nothing. So he went to the post office in the next town - and there was no bus ticket waiting for him. So he says 'Can I use your phone'? He called up the government and they said 'You just wait. We'll send you your bus ticket when we're ready for you'.
"Thirty days later he got his bus ticket to California. He stayed there for 34 days, did just what they told him and nothing else. After that he was bussed to New Mexico in a bus with the windows tinted black. They unloaded him straight into the barracks and he worked in nuclear until he was 80. He saw his best friends die of radiation poisoning, and you never heard a word about it. Having kids was never even a possibility.
"He tested the first atomic bomb at the White Sands Missile Range in '45. After it went off, he stood up and walked away, saying 'Well, the blankety-blank thing worked after all'. "
After the man left with his old brass pill box, the jeweler told me more about the man. He had been with him shortly after his MS diagnosis, when he was still struggling to keep the tears from his eyes. The jeweler remembers one thing from that conversation - "Money can't buy happiness."
Some people never learn to face their illnesses. The jeweler said his friend was never the same, but he was never a coward either. He faces MS with courage every day - and has the reputation to prove it.
-------------
Testing the Atomic Bomb:
http://www.cddc.vt.edu/host/atomic/trinity/index.html
http://www.takemytrip.com/06newmex/06_15a.htm
http://www.kilroywashere.org/004-Pages/Trinity/Trinity.html
Multiple Sclerosis (MS):
http://www.nationalmssociety.org/index.aspx
http://www.webmd.com/multiple-sclerosis/guide/multiple-sclerosis-faq
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Suspicion and Dislike
**see footnotes
A lady visited the store today; She had the diamond from her mother's engagement ring, and wanted a necklace custom designed using the diamond. She was worried though, and wanted us to promise to use the exact same diamond in the necklace that she was giving us in the velvet bag.
It seemed like an odd fear to me....or if it was a legitimate fear, what a crappy jeweler to swipe somebody's diamond and exchange it for a cheaper one! We handed her a loupe and showed her how to recognize her own diamond and ensure she got the right one back. She left, a bit less suspicious and a bit more jewelry savvy.
----------
Our most frequent customers are other retail jewelry stores in town, who have limited repair abilities beyond cleaning and polishing. We do everything for them, from soldering engagement rings and wedding bands together, to resizing, replacing stones, straightening prongs, repairing settings, everything.
The owner of one of these stores came in today and practically pitched a bulky envelope at me in her haste to be rid of it. The rest is just touchy enough for me to claim qualified privilege and quote the remainder of the story --
"So there's this customer, this big black man named Eli. He has no taste and spends the majority of his time in jail. Now this is silver" (gestures at the offending ring) "and its ugly - just awful - but it's what he wants so we have no choice. Just...well....replace the missing stone and see if you can polish it up" *doubtful glance at the stained ring* "He just likes the gleam, you know?" (I feel like the word she was looking for was BLING...)
"We moved locations five years ago and we thought we'd lost him. We were sick - just sick to discover him waiting on our doorstep. Heaven only knows how he found us again. And the WORST part is - we have to hear about his jail time! Listen - I don't want to hear about it! If you were stupid enough to get there, just keep it to yourself...."
It was a colossal hunk of solid silver, weighed about a pound, and the head, studded with sketchy looking sparkly stones, was almost the size of a golfball. I was excited for Eli's evident pawnshop snag, and I sincerely hope he is pleased with the new shiny version when we clean it all up.
---------------
loupe - pronounced "loop," this handy tool is a magnifying glass designed specifically for looking at fine jewelry. Obviously, in basic form, it makes visible aberrations you can't see with the naked eye.
http://jewelry.about.com/od/jewelryappraisal/ss/loupe.htm
solder, soldering - pronounced "Sotter, sottering," the soldering torch is an open flame that burns at 1700 degrees F. Pyro!
http://www.instructables.com/id/How-to-solder-for-Jewelry-purposes/
envelope - every piece of jewelry that enters the store gets a special envelope with a number stamped on it. Please don't lose your claim check with the job number on it. And please know that we record your contact information on this envelope, which is subject to remain in our less-than-exemplary filing system till the end of eternity.
qualified privilege - ie.....don't sue me ;-)
http://www.duhaime.org/legaldictionary/Q/QualifiedPrivilege.aspx
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
I may have forgotten how to blog....but I have full confidence in my ability to remember how this is done with the greatest of speed. Your indulgence, please, as I rediscover my inner blogger.
As a prequel, future posts are likely to revolve around my adventures at work, and the people I am lucky enough to meet there.
My current place of employment is a small jewelry store, owned by a wise, gentle, honest, thoughtful, and very talented man whom I am very thankful for. Business is slow, but life goes on.
Very, very rarely is more than one person in the store at a time, but every now and then, they all synchronize their errand schedules and rush in at the same moment. At which point I quickly become useless as my employer is the only one who can answer most questions about the jewelry, and I glide around trying, and failing, to make graceful small talk with the other people invading the show room.
The aforementioned scenario of crowdedness happened yesterday, actually. A wiry old man, perhaps 70 years old, was waiting with a very small green and silver clock. So I say to him, "Why, this is a wonderful clock. How cute!" Like I said, I fail at graceful small talk.
"CUTE! CUTE? This is not a word I frequently use!!! Why would I use a girl word like that?" I thought he was angry at me, but he went on.
"These GIRL WORDS include lovely -- wonderful -- cherish -- adore!!" With every new word offensive to his masculinity, he parodied a different exaggerated pose of a lady batting her eyelashes.
The UPS guy is watching from behind. He's doing a good job of keeping a straight face, too, but his mouth is twitching and I expect him to laugh out loud.
The gentleman then moved on from "girl words" to rap his knuckles on a display case with jarring resonance.
"Oh! Well, now, don't mind me. It's the Army in me, just tapping out morse code here...." I decided not to ask what encoded message was being sent, or to whom, and just changed the subject.....
Thankfully, the jeweler saved me by coming over to attend to the man, saying "Ok, sir, let's see that watch." Technically, it was a "clock," and the man instantly pounced on this fact. "WATCH! WATCH? You can't wear this on your wrist!! You could wear it on your foot, I guess, if you had good balance --"
At this point he's got the clock balanced on one foot and he's balancing on the other foot, hopping around on one leg.....I wanted to throw up my hands and call a hip surgeon that very moment, I expected imminent doom.
He didn't break a hip, actually, and the UPS guy got a bit of entertainment out of it too.
Thankfully, the jeweler saved me by coming over to attend to the man, saying "Ok, sir, let's see that watch." Technically, it was a "clock," and the man instantly pounced on this fact. "WATCH! WATCH? You can't wear this on your wrist!! You could wear it on your foot, I guess, if you had good balance --"
At this point he's got the clock balanced on one foot and he's balancing on the other foot, hopping around on one leg.....I wanted to throw up my hands and call a hip surgeon that very moment, I expected imminent doom.
He didn't break a hip, actually, and the UPS guy got a bit of entertainment out of it too.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
English is the most widely spoken language in the world. For most Americans, it is the only language that exists. It frames our thoughts, our understanding, our relationships, our careers. It is the way we connect to the world around us – the English speaking world – and provides the fundamentals for our very lives.
But sitting across the table from an olive-skinned teenager in a gray school uniform whose eye contact alone suddenly defines the communication between you and him, your English-speaking world has suddenly been turned upside down.
Mexico, Centros Cristianos para Sordomudos, or MCCS for short, is home to 23 hearing-impaired children from the poorest streets of Mexico. They come from Rio Bravo, Reynosa, wherever they can be found, to find new life and a new reality. They discover education, structured sign language, community and friendship, most for the first time.
Some live at the school during the week and visit home on the weekends and holidays, others come only during the day for classes and return to their homes each night. All are cared for by full-time teachers who are employed by the International Christian Centers for the Deaf, the parent organization of MCCS. ICCD is a Christian organization based in Virginia whose mission is to “reach the deaf in the world with the gospel of Christ.”
The MCCS complex is found 25 miles south of the Texas border on a sprawling piece of land, where the wind moves easily through enormous fields of tall grass and not another building is seen for miles around. Dogs romp around barking wildly, chasing the small car that is driven by the director of the school from the administrative buildings down to the cafeteria, where the live-in residents wait impatiently for dinner.
Efraín Escorza’s presence in the room immediately commands attention, and the children crowd around to greet him, forming his “sign name” and competing with each other to catch his eye. It is easy to see how well he is loved by the children, with whom he eats dinner every night. His enormous smile is for each child, and he quickly quiets the children and raises his hands to sign the blessing for the food.
Escorza became Center Coordinator for MCCS in February of 2007. He pastored a Methodist church in Rio Bravo for 20 years before the pollution drove him out into the country.
“When I came here and visit this place, I was shock because it was very hard for me to see their deep struggle with their handicap. And when the Lord pushed me several ways to come here, I know that the Lord call me to come here.”
Escorza was given the coordinator position to serve primarily as administrator over the classes and director of the school’s small staff. He was told that learning sign language would be unnecessary, as he would not be teaching the children or involved in the classrooms. After his arrival he found it impossible to not communicate with the children, so Escorza continues to learn sign language and spend as much time as possible with them.
He and his wife, Lety, provide counseling to the children, who come to the school with histories of poverty, prostitution, drugs, alcohol and abuse. “For the deaf to receive attention, it’s so wonderful, because for most of them, they have suffered a lot of rejection,” he says. “I am amazed because when they are finished with counseling time, you can see them so proud, so quiet, and I can see that they need a lot of support, and this is the reason why I am learning sign language.”
Escorza says that sometimes he will visit the homes of the students to see how they are doing. “I am amazed because in the school he is so smiling and so happy, but when they arrive at the family, they are sad because this place has been a lonely place for them. And I say wow, what is happening here. And yes, most of the families, they ignored them, and they know what is their place in the family: Out of the family…They have the family signs, but for the heart signs they have none.”
Alberto is 24 years old and began taking classes at MCCS one week ago. He can hear, with the assistance of hearing aids, and speak, but he never learned sign language. He is a junior in college, studying psychology, and has come to MCCS to learn to sign so that he will be able to help the deaf community.
“The children who cannot hear, they do not receive help,” he says. “They need counseling, that is why I go to the university.”
Even Alberto’s mission to learn to sign presents problems, as there are so many different versions of sign languages used by the hearing impaired, region to region. In border towns from Laredo to Matamoros, there are as many as eight different sign languages used. LSM, short for Lengua de Señas Mexicana, or Mexican Sign Language, is the official sign language of Mexico, though that doesn’t stop the disputes between states and even cities over whose sign is “right.”
MCCS teaches both LSM and American Sign Language, or ASL.
Helen Keller once said “Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.” Overcoming suffering is just what the missionaries at MCCS are accomplishing, barrier by barrier, child by child. Success with the hearing impaired children of Mexico isn’t just about conquering language barriers –
Love is universal.
For more information about ICCD and MCCS, please visit:
http://www.iccd.net
But sitting across the table from an olive-skinned teenager in a gray school uniform whose eye contact alone suddenly defines the communication between you and him, your English-speaking world has suddenly been turned upside down.
Mexico, Centros Cristianos para Sordomudos, or MCCS for short, is home to 23 hearing-impaired children from the poorest streets of Mexico. They come from Rio Bravo, Reynosa, wherever they can be found, to find new life and a new reality. They discover education, structured sign language, community and friendship, most for the first time.
Some live at the school during the week and visit home on the weekends and holidays, others come only during the day for classes and return to their homes each night. All are cared for by full-time teachers who are employed by the International Christian Centers for the Deaf, the parent organization of MCCS. ICCD is a Christian organization based in Virginia whose mission is to “reach the deaf in the world with the gospel of Christ.”
The MCCS complex is found 25 miles south of the Texas border on a sprawling piece of land, where the wind moves easily through enormous fields of tall grass and not another building is seen for miles around. Dogs romp around barking wildly, chasing the small car that is driven by the director of the school from the administrative buildings down to the cafeteria, where the live-in residents wait impatiently for dinner.
Efraín Escorza’s presence in the room immediately commands attention, and the children crowd around to greet him, forming his “sign name” and competing with each other to catch his eye. It is easy to see how well he is loved by the children, with whom he eats dinner every night. His enormous smile is for each child, and he quickly quiets the children and raises his hands to sign the blessing for the food.
Escorza became Center Coordinator for MCCS in February of 2007. He pastored a Methodist church in Rio Bravo for 20 years before the pollution drove him out into the country.
“When I came here and visit this place, I was shock because it was very hard for me to see their deep struggle with their handicap. And when the Lord pushed me several ways to come here, I know that the Lord call me to come here.”
Escorza was given the coordinator position to serve primarily as administrator over the classes and director of the school’s small staff. He was told that learning sign language would be unnecessary, as he would not be teaching the children or involved in the classrooms. After his arrival he found it impossible to not communicate with the children, so Escorza continues to learn sign language and spend as much time as possible with them.
He and his wife, Lety, provide counseling to the children, who come to the school with histories of poverty, prostitution, drugs, alcohol and abuse. “For the deaf to receive attention, it’s so wonderful, because for most of them, they have suffered a lot of rejection,” he says. “I am amazed because when they are finished with counseling time, you can see them so proud, so quiet, and I can see that they need a lot of support, and this is the reason why I am learning sign language.”
Escorza says that sometimes he will visit the homes of the students to see how they are doing. “I am amazed because in the school he is so smiling and so happy, but when they arrive at the family, they are sad because this place has been a lonely place for them. And I say wow, what is happening here. And yes, most of the families, they ignored them, and they know what is their place in the family: Out of the family…They have the family signs, but for the heart signs they have none.”
Alberto is 24 years old and began taking classes at MCCS one week ago. He can hear, with the assistance of hearing aids, and speak, but he never learned sign language. He is a junior in college, studying psychology, and has come to MCCS to learn to sign so that he will be able to help the deaf community.
“The children who cannot hear, they do not receive help,” he says. “They need counseling, that is why I go to the university.”
Even Alberto’s mission to learn to sign presents problems, as there are so many different versions of sign languages used by the hearing impaired, region to region. In border towns from Laredo to Matamoros, there are as many as eight different sign languages used. LSM, short for Lengua de Señas Mexicana, or Mexican Sign Language, is the official sign language of Mexico, though that doesn’t stop the disputes between states and even cities over whose sign is “right.”
MCCS teaches both LSM and American Sign Language, or ASL.
Helen Keller once said “Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it.” Overcoming suffering is just what the missionaries at MCCS are accomplishing, barrier by barrier, child by child. Success with the hearing impaired children of Mexico isn’t just about conquering language barriers –
Love is universal.
For more information about ICCD and MCCS, please visit:
http://www.iccd.net
Thursday, March 25, 2010
De Qué Color Es México
Red is the color
of the scrapes on my bare arms
from the first morning
of carting cinder blocks
Yellow is the color
that is caked on my face
from the stucco mixed with my sunscreen.
When I reach above my head
to stucco the concrete
on the top of the wall just under the gables,
the stucco falls in chunks on my face
Gray is the color
of the uniform pants
that the children take off
when they get home from school
and replace with play clothes they snatch
from the clotheslines that run between the houses
Blue is the color
of the clear sky when I stand
on top of the roof pounding nails
now far above the tiny houses --
a sky I hadn't bothered to notice
for all the poor houses around me
Green are the luscious fields
that open up just past the barrio
and provide work for the families within
Black is the color
of the flaky ash falling from the sky
from a nearby house
where the neighbors are burning trash
of the scrapes on my bare arms
from the first morning
of carting cinder blocks
Yellow is the color
that is caked on my face
from the stucco mixed with my sunscreen.
When I reach above my head
to stucco the concrete
on the top of the wall just under the gables,
the stucco falls in chunks on my face
Gray is the color
of the uniform pants
that the children take off
when they get home from school
and replace with play clothes they snatch
from the clotheslines that run between the houses
Blue is the color
of the clear sky when I stand
on top of the roof pounding nails
now far above the tiny houses --
a sky I hadn't bothered to notice
for all the poor houses around me
Green are the luscious fields
that open up just past the barrio
and provide work for the families within
Black is the color
of the flaky ash falling from the sky
from a nearby house
where the neighbors are burning trash
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Dear Dr. Z
Singing Sooners rehearsal was a disaster today
About it I have nothing good to say
You left us alone with the graduate guy
Who cannot be faulted for not giving it a try
But his past experience is probably slim
And what we did today was not the job for him
He flung us at sightreading which was very sad
We can't sightread squat and today was particularly bad
Mendelssohn would have been horrified
And if he wasn't already dead, of a heart attack he'd of died
We mumbled through choruses without a clue
And nothing but murder to my ears did ensue
I fell like we didn't accomplish a thing
And that's sad when the funnest thing in the world is to sing.
Singing Sooners rehearsal was a disaster today
About it I have nothing good to say
You left us alone with the graduate guy
Who cannot be faulted for not giving it a try
But his past experience is probably slim
And what we did today was not the job for him
He flung us at sightreading which was very sad
We can't sightread squat and today was particularly bad
Mendelssohn would have been horrified
And if he wasn't already dead, of a heart attack he'd of died
We mumbled through choruses without a clue
And nothing but murder to my ears did ensue
I fell like we didn't accomplish a thing
And that's sad when the funnest thing in the world is to sing.
Monday, February 15, 2010
I am left doing homework for some undetermined amount of time. My homework is to spend hours and hours looking at three news websites for diverse peoples. Read the articles, know the layout...and ultimately commit every obscure detail of these websites to memory so I can be tested on them Thursday and further prove my media un-literacy, as it is turning out to be.
You start messing around on these websites, and somewhere in the midst of this "studying" you start forgetting you're doing homework / should be paying attention. At this point you either give up and go to bed because clearly forgetting what you are doing means you're not learning anything, or you congratulate yourself for picking a major that has homework similar to your chosen form of procrastination (the Internet) and keep it up.
To veg or not to veg, that is the question.
You start messing around on these websites, and somewhere in the midst of this "studying" you start forgetting you're doing homework / should be paying attention. At this point you either give up and go to bed because clearly forgetting what you are doing means you're not learning anything, or you congratulate yourself for picking a major that has homework similar to your chosen form of procrastination (the Internet) and keep it up.
To veg or not to veg, that is the question.
It was a very long day. I started out productively, accomplished all sorts of good things. 2/3 classes were released early, thank heaven for predictable slack. Wish I would have some slack cut into my Tuesday/Thursday schedule, which is so unmanageable that it still ranks close to the top of my list of Greatest Fears.
After Leadership Training at Chi Alpha I headed to the music building for tonight's random concert. Maybe I just don't pay enough attention in choir, but it was one of those deals where I discovered this concert during announcements last week and showed up to dress rehearsal asking people what we would be singing.
With THAT record-breaking start, the night only gets better.
I'm definitely NOT on the concert seating chart. They've done this mumble-jumble thing to mix up all the choirs and voice parts, and mumble-jumbled me right out of it. In my own vain view, this makes me quite special.
Special "ED!" Close enough for a cigar to the reader who was already thinking that....I went to la-la land in warm-ups and the folder dropped right out of my arms where it was unthinkingly balanced. Awesome. No one saw....well, yeah they did. My formally unplaced self was plunked right in the front row.
Now we're done with warm-ups, that's a relief. We're squished into this hallway indefinitely, with nothing good to do at all. I'm listening to the music majors around me talk and quickly coming to the conclusion that Music Major + Fraternity - Jesus = Really Big Douche.
As if to reinforce this general hypothesis, some Amazon lady with white blond hair protruding in all directions struts up to interject into this conversation the douches are having. She sets a pick delante de mí. Exactly four inches in front of my nose. Hello, Back-of-Amazon-Woman's-Dress. I wanted to meet you too. Mucho gusto.
Chica over here pipes up in my defense. "Dude, you're completely invading her personal bubble!" Ahhh! The world of Music Majors is not devoid of human beings. The response: "Does it look like it matters what her personal bubble is?" *continues previous conversation with douches*
A rare species indeed.
The second half of the concert was lovely. The first half is forever lost in time as I missed that due to other time-consuming activities including my introduction to Back-Of-Amazon-Woman's-Dress. First half was not even rehearsed at our dress rehearsal. Too bad. The grapevine says the flute soloist was wonderful.
Now we are onstage and I am delightfully surprised to discover we will be gracing the audience with Verdi's Va Pensiero. Excellent! Ha, I kid you. At this point I had known what we would be singing for a whole 24 hours. I was prepared.
In my wide awake, not even thinking about dozing off state (facetiousness), I realize as we stand to sing that I'm gonna get to meet somebody else's back end. Mr. Bass Violin's elbow now lives, you guessed it, exactly four inches in front of my nose. Perfect, one leaning crescendo for emphasis and we take out half the orchestra. As the piece begins, he whispers to me "Am I in your way?"
Not sure if he was seeing the humor in the situation that I was, as I swiftly calculated the possible responses.....
Incidentally, I happened to recognize the nice fellow (recognized him by the back of his elbow, too, aren't I good?). We went to OSAI together. Win. He has, since that time, acquired a beard and misplaced his recollection of me.
I found out that I didn't know the Italian text as well as I thought I did, when presented with greater-than-usual difficulties in looking at the words, namely the violinist's arm slash instrument. I settled for a fixation on the dry cleaning label stapled to the inside of the conductor's tuxedo jacket. Me fascina.
After Leadership Training at Chi Alpha I headed to the music building for tonight's random concert. Maybe I just don't pay enough attention in choir, but it was one of those deals where I discovered this concert during announcements last week and showed up to dress rehearsal asking people what we would be singing.
With THAT record-breaking start, the night only gets better.
I'm definitely NOT on the concert seating chart. They've done this mumble-jumble thing to mix up all the choirs and voice parts, and mumble-jumbled me right out of it. In my own vain view, this makes me quite special.
Special "ED!" Close enough for a cigar to the reader who was already thinking that....I went to la-la land in warm-ups and the folder dropped right out of my arms where it was unthinkingly balanced. Awesome. No one saw....well, yeah they did. My formally unplaced self was plunked right in the front row.
Now we're done with warm-ups, that's a relief. We're squished into this hallway indefinitely, with nothing good to do at all. I'm listening to the music majors around me talk and quickly coming to the conclusion that Music Major + Fraternity - Jesus = Really Big Douche.
As if to reinforce this general hypothesis, some Amazon lady with white blond hair protruding in all directions struts up to interject into this conversation the douches are having. She sets a pick delante de mí. Exactly four inches in front of my nose. Hello, Back-of-Amazon-Woman's-Dress. I wanted to meet you too. Mucho gusto.
Chica over here pipes up in my defense. "Dude, you're completely invading her personal bubble!" Ahhh! The world of Music Majors is not devoid of human beings. The response: "Does it look like it matters what her personal bubble is?" *continues previous conversation with douches*
A rare species indeed.
The second half of the concert was lovely. The first half is forever lost in time as I missed that due to other time-consuming activities including my introduction to Back-Of-Amazon-Woman's-Dress. First half was not even rehearsed at our dress rehearsal. Too bad. The grapevine says the flute soloist was wonderful.
Now we are onstage and I am delightfully surprised to discover we will be gracing the audience with Verdi's Va Pensiero. Excellent! Ha, I kid you. At this point I had known what we would be singing for a whole 24 hours. I was prepared.
In my wide awake, not even thinking about dozing off state (facetiousness), I realize as we stand to sing that I'm gonna get to meet somebody else's back end. Mr. Bass Violin's elbow now lives, you guessed it, exactly four inches in front of my nose. Perfect, one leaning crescendo for emphasis and we take out half the orchestra. As the piece begins, he whispers to me "Am I in your way?"
Not sure if he was seeing the humor in the situation that I was, as I swiftly calculated the possible responses.....
Incidentally, I happened to recognize the nice fellow (recognized him by the back of his elbow, too, aren't I good?). We went to OSAI together. Win. He has, since that time, acquired a beard and misplaced his recollection of me.
I found out that I didn't know the Italian text as well as I thought I did, when presented with greater-than-usual difficulties in looking at the words, namely the violinist's arm slash instrument. I settled for a fixation on the dry cleaning label stapled to the inside of the conductor's tuxedo jacket. Me fascina.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Who are Gypsies?
Are you getting mental images from the Hunchback of Notre Dame? I am!
Are you getting mental images from the Hunchback of Notre Dame? I am!
This whole business about Gypsies came from my writing handbook, actually. Put me in a mass media course and blogs about Gypsies is what you get out! It never even occurred to me that you couldn’t use the word “gyp” because it would be offensive to gypsies.
Do we even have gypsies in Oklahoma? How do you even write about that – do you capitalize it? Upon consultation of my handy dandy AP Stylebook…yep, has to be capitalized. I like that Gypsies are in the AP stylebook!
Merriam Webster and The Oxford English Dictionary both list gyp as a legit verb. The Oxford includes additional literature references that use gipped and gyped and gypped. Discrepancy! Guess which one is approved by the Facebook spell check? “Gypped.” I dunno who made THAT executive decision.
I am sad to admit that I don’t even know if Gypsy refers to a race slash ethnic group, as one would use Latino, or if it’s more of a lifestyle and can be used to describe nomadic tribes that come from anywhere circa Asia or northeastern Africa….preferably th
ose that come dressed in brightly colored scarves with bells attached.
Stereotypes are horrible, horrible things.
Do we even have gypsies in Oklahoma? How do you even write about that – do you capitalize it? Upon consultation of my handy dandy AP Stylebook…yep, has to be capitalized. I like that Gypsies are in the AP stylebook!
Merriam Webster and The Oxford English Dictionary both list gyp as a legit verb. The Oxford includes additional literature references that use gipped and gyped and gypped. Discrepancy! Guess which one is approved by the Facebook spell check? “Gypped.” I dunno who made THAT executive decision.
I am sad to admit that I don’t even know if Gypsy refers to a race slash ethnic group, as one would use Latino, or if it’s more of a lifestyle and can be used to describe nomadic tribes that come from anywhere circa Asia or northeastern Africa….preferably th
ose that come dressed in brightly colored scarves with bells attached.Stereotypes are horrible, horrible things.
I wonder what you would get if you took a few hundred college students and asked them what a Gypsy was? A Google search for “gypsy” gives you a lot of random information. Such as….the word Gypsy is supposed to have been derived from the word Egyptian, but now we don’t really think they came from Egypt? Kinda sketchy.
I asked my roommate and she told me they were persecuted by the Nazis during WWII and actually called Roma.
You get that exact information on the third search result. Good job Elizabeth! That made it a little higher up than Hunchback of Notre Dame. You win this time!
Friday, January 8, 2010
James "Rhio" O'Connor Memorial Scholarship Essay Contest
I know how it feels to want something really bad that you are told you will never have.
My junior year of high school, our choir director announced that we would be taking a two week tour to Washington D.C. at the end of the year. It would be the culmination of everything we had learned in the choral program, a chance to show off everything we had learned in performances and a regional competition, and the chance of a lifetime to tour the nation’s capitol and the surrounding states with our closest friends. The thought of actually standing before the Lincoln Memorial, a monument to one of my most cherished heroes, the words upon which I knew by heart, was enough to make my heart skip a beat. The problem? It would cost thirteen hundred dollars, an unheard of amount of money for my family. Somehow I convinced my parents that I could earn the money, and we signed the commitment form.
I spent the next seven months doing everything in my power to collect those thirteen hundred precious dollars. I fried tacos at fairs and festivals, I delivered flowers all over town, I saved babysitting money, and begged my relatives for Christmas money to add to the savings.
On April 28, 2008 I stood before the Lincoln Memorial. As I looked out across the reflecting pool to the Washington Monument, I was able to remember every moment of frustration throughout those seven months, and I knew then that every grease burn from the taco stand had been worth it.
Though I was very proud of myself for earning the money to achieve my goal of going on the choir tour, there are bigger battles in life. I made the choice to take on the task of earning thirteen hundred dollars, but there are people who find themselves facing a fight they never asked for or agreed to, fights in which more than a school trip is involved.
Mesothelioma is a rare cancer found in the mesothelium, the membrane that lines the body’s organs. Pleural mesothelioma is the most common form of this disease, found in the tissue that lines the lungs. It can also be found in the chest cavity, the abdomen, and the heart. Mesothelioma is caused by exposure to asbestos, a malignant mineral formerly found in everything from filtered cigarettes to brake pads to pipe and ceiling insulation. When inhaled it can be fatal, though symptoms might not occur for several decades, and even then it is often not diagnosed right away. By then it is likely that the cancer has progressed to its final stages, and options are few and unpromising. Radiation, chemotherapy, and surgery are the most common forms of treatment. People who have been diagnosed with mesothelioma are usually given a year or less to live, depending on their overall physical health, length of asbestos exposure, and the treatment plan.
Rhio O’Connor was diagnosed with mesothelioma in 2001 at the age of sixty one. Doctors told him that surgery was not possible due to the location of the tumor, and that his choices were to enjoy his last months of life before resigning himself to hospice care or to undergo chemotherapy treatment, an extremely painful and expensive option.
Rhio chose neither option.
He refused to accept that his life would end in the way all knowledgeable medical professionals told him it would. Instead he set out to discover what was really going on in his body and find out for himself if there were alternative options available.
Rhio researched his cancer intensively, and joined with clinicians to create his own treatment plan. Using his newfound knowledge, he combined mind-body medicine, a new diet which included vitamins and other supplements, and the power of optimism. Rhio did not reject medicine and doctors completely, in fact he sought out the science behind his new diet and supplements. He continued this regimen, and enjoyed seven years of life before his eventual death in July of 2009.
It is hard for me to imagine standing in his shoes to receive the diagnosis no one wants to hear, realizing that life as I knew it had ended, and disregarding accepted medical treatment and men and women with years of medical training to place my own life solely in my ability to overcome cancer by my own discipline. Most college students have enough trouble disciplining themselves to stay out of trouble and keep up with coursework, much less have the courage to fight the unfightable, and win.
I often find myself stubbornly refusing to write that detested English paper, or read that last assignment for class. Procrastination is easy when you can justify to yourself sliding through a general education class with a low B. I would like to imagine that if reading could save my life, I would be able to find a source of motivation I had never had in my years of schooling.
As a would-be cancer survivor, I would need to start reading books and websites on the recommended forms of treatment to learn exactly what would be done to me and the effects that would be left on my body. I would need to learn about these processes in my own words, not the words of the doctors who had such a different view of my chances for survival.
Anyone who looks at a list of the side effects of this treatment will find it hard to swallow. The easiest part of Rhio’s story for me to identify with personally is the unwillingness to subject your body, sick as it is, to the devastating effects of the chemicals. It is easy to reject a torturous chemical regimen as an option, but more difficult to decide where to go from there.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, I would imagine that a single first person account from someone who has been through treatment would be worth a thousand articles on the effects of chemotherapy or radiation. My newly acquired knowledge would give me the ability to have informed conversations with cancer patients, but their stories of treatments would be the living proof of what I had read.
Rhio found a treatment plan that worked for him. He said no to chemotherapy, no to cancer.
Corrie ten Boom once said “Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow; it empties today of its strength.” An ordinary man chose not to while away his last few months of life in worry and pain and successfully fought mesothelioma for seven years.
The power you already have inside of you can beat death. I may return to Washington D.C., not as a tourist, but as a congressman or an ambassador, to change the world, even find a cure for cancer. I have no bounds.
My junior year of high school, our choir director announced that we would be taking a two week tour to Washington D.C. at the end of the year. It would be the culmination of everything we had learned in the choral program, a chance to show off everything we had learned in performances and a regional competition, and the chance of a lifetime to tour the nation’s capitol and the surrounding states with our closest friends. The thought of actually standing before the Lincoln Memorial, a monument to one of my most cherished heroes, the words upon which I knew by heart, was enough to make my heart skip a beat. The problem? It would cost thirteen hundred dollars, an unheard of amount of money for my family. Somehow I convinced my parents that I could earn the money, and we signed the commitment form.
I spent the next seven months doing everything in my power to collect those thirteen hundred precious dollars. I fried tacos at fairs and festivals, I delivered flowers all over town, I saved babysitting money, and begged my relatives for Christmas money to add to the savings.
On April 28, 2008 I stood before the Lincoln Memorial. As I looked out across the reflecting pool to the Washington Monument, I was able to remember every moment of frustration throughout those seven months, and I knew then that every grease burn from the taco stand had been worth it.
Though I was very proud of myself for earning the money to achieve my goal of going on the choir tour, there are bigger battles in life. I made the choice to take on the task of earning thirteen hundred dollars, but there are people who find themselves facing a fight they never asked for or agreed to, fights in which more than a school trip is involved.
Mesothelioma is a rare cancer found in the mesothelium, the membrane that lines the body’s organs. Pleural mesothelioma is the most common form of this disease, found in the tissue that lines the lungs. It can also be found in the chest cavity, the abdomen, and the heart. Mesothelioma is caused by exposure to asbestos, a malignant mineral formerly found in everything from filtered cigarettes to brake pads to pipe and ceiling insulation. When inhaled it can be fatal, though symptoms might not occur for several decades, and even then it is often not diagnosed right away. By then it is likely that the cancer has progressed to its final stages, and options are few and unpromising. Radiation, chemotherapy, and surgery are the most common forms of treatment. People who have been diagnosed with mesothelioma are usually given a year or less to live, depending on their overall physical health, length of asbestos exposure, and the treatment plan.
Rhio O’Connor was diagnosed with mesothelioma in 2001 at the age of sixty one. Doctors told him that surgery was not possible due to the location of the tumor, and that his choices were to enjoy his last months of life before resigning himself to hospice care or to undergo chemotherapy treatment, an extremely painful and expensive option.
Rhio chose neither option.
He refused to accept that his life would end in the way all knowledgeable medical professionals told him it would. Instead he set out to discover what was really going on in his body and find out for himself if there were alternative options available.
Rhio researched his cancer intensively, and joined with clinicians to create his own treatment plan. Using his newfound knowledge, he combined mind-body medicine, a new diet which included vitamins and other supplements, and the power of optimism. Rhio did not reject medicine and doctors completely, in fact he sought out the science behind his new diet and supplements. He continued this regimen, and enjoyed seven years of life before his eventual death in July of 2009.
It is hard for me to imagine standing in his shoes to receive the diagnosis no one wants to hear, realizing that life as I knew it had ended, and disregarding accepted medical treatment and men and women with years of medical training to place my own life solely in my ability to overcome cancer by my own discipline. Most college students have enough trouble disciplining themselves to stay out of trouble and keep up with coursework, much less have the courage to fight the unfightable, and win.
I often find myself stubbornly refusing to write that detested English paper, or read that last assignment for class. Procrastination is easy when you can justify to yourself sliding through a general education class with a low B. I would like to imagine that if reading could save my life, I would be able to find a source of motivation I had never had in my years of schooling.
As a would-be cancer survivor, I would need to start reading books and websites on the recommended forms of treatment to learn exactly what would be done to me and the effects that would be left on my body. I would need to learn about these processes in my own words, not the words of the doctors who had such a different view of my chances for survival.
Anyone who looks at a list of the side effects of this treatment will find it hard to swallow. The easiest part of Rhio’s story for me to identify with personally is the unwillingness to subject your body, sick as it is, to the devastating effects of the chemicals. It is easy to reject a torturous chemical regimen as an option, but more difficult to decide where to go from there.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, I would imagine that a single first person account from someone who has been through treatment would be worth a thousand articles on the effects of chemotherapy or radiation. My newly acquired knowledge would give me the ability to have informed conversations with cancer patients, but their stories of treatments would be the living proof of what I had read.
Rhio found a treatment plan that worked for him. He said no to chemotherapy, no to cancer.
Corrie ten Boom once said “Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow; it empties today of its strength.” An ordinary man chose not to while away his last few months of life in worry and pain and successfully fought mesothelioma for seven years.
The power you already have inside of you can beat death. I may return to Washington D.C., not as a tourist, but as a congressman or an ambassador, to change the world, even find a cure for cancer. I have no bounds.
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