St. Patrick’s Day Adventure, Part 2

So I told you about my drive into downtown Lexington last time. I forgot to tell you about the Power Ranger couple walking past our car down the street. It was pretty typical: the Pink Ranger and the Green Ranger arm in arm. For those who don’t know, those two were a romantic couple in the series. Yes, I know, I’m a little old to know that (36), but my mother watched little kids to help with the money situation. They loved the Power Rangers. So, I knew the names of the first two or three groups of Power Rangers. But I digress: as it turns out, there were original cast members from the show there. Not bad, Lexington. My St. Patrick’s Day adventure did not end on Saturday, though: we celebrated on Monday, too – and not by getting stupid drunk on green swill, either. We simply had Corned Beef and Potatoes, Carrots and Cabbage, with Irish Soda Bread (made by me) and eating it with my nephew. I know it’s not the traditional Irish St. Patrick’s Day meal in Ireland-that would be lamb, I think-but it is here in the USA. I guess the Irish and the Jewish got together and shared the Corned Beef, and it became Irish-American eating. (I think that’s what Alton Brown said.) Of course, if I were to drink beer, on St. Patrick’s Day, it would be something genuinely Irish, like a Guinness. Of course, I could drink Irish whiskey, too. But then again, wouldn’t that be getting stupid drunk? Hopefully, I would have some self-control. I don’t drink that often, as in maybe once or twice a year, but I try to make it a pleasant, tasteful experience-as opposed to trashy and stupid. Of course, if I were by myself, I would probably blast U2 and the Cranberries for music. My mother can’t quite get into the more intense music of U2, so I decided to forego that. At least we had fun on St. Pat’s Day.

My Day 3/15/2014

So, my mom and I were itching to go outside…maybe it was just me. The sun was shining, the day was warm, and it felt good just to walk. We decided to get in our car and go to downtown Lexington’s St. Patrick’s Day festivities this afternoon. We’re driving along, and we get to see some people in green and blue. Most of them were sitting in Irish bars, drinking green beer. I’m pretty down with most traditions, especially if it’s celebrating a certain group of people among us, but green beer is where I draw the line. How many real Irishmen drink green beer anyway? I guess very few, since it’s swill with green food coloring in it. I could make an Irish drink without the alcohol by putting green food coloring in my lime soda, if that’s all it took. I think real Irishmen are more likely to drink a Guinness. Now that’s how I’m sure you grab a pint in Ireland. Of course there are competing brands of beer, but they are all better than green beer. Of course the parade was over by the time we got there. I would have liked to see some of this, instead of drinking. I mean, unlike many others, I like to remember what I did on a certain holiday. If getting drunk was all you needed to do to celebrate a holiday, why not just get drunk at Christmas? There’s got to be more than just drinking alcohol until you black out to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. So, we decided to come home and have some Asian salad (generic enough name for ya?) with chicken. That was pretty good, anyway. I then decided to have a veggie burger and oven fries for dinner, which strangely tasted like chicken. I’m serious. Then I decided to bake brownies and cranberry orange bread. All in all, it was a good day.

Bring on the Cholula!

I like spicy flavors! You’ll have to forgive me; I have a tendency toward strong flavors. I know that others on the spectrum are disposed to milder flavors, but I am disposed to stronger ones. My particular taste is ultra spicy. I have had to forgo some of it in cooking because my mothers has GERD. She needs milder flavors. We, however, have figured out she can take a milder form. Whenever we see Rachael Ray cooking, I always try to see if I can take the flavor to a milder form for my mother, and add spice later in my own way. It hurts me to see my mother in near-physical pain when she watches the spicier foods made. I am not the type of person to bring harm on anyone or anything. I could even go vegan in the future for this – it makes me wonder if I should. I digress. I think it all relates to what foods we were raised on, and where. My mother used to be just as much of a spice eater as me. See, my mother was raised in Kentucky, Florida and southern California, in the 1950s and 1960s. My grandmother’s cooking was generally flavorful, and she had a lot of cultural influences. I also had a lot of cultural awakening, considering I was raised in Orange County, California, in the 1980s. Of course, in the 1980s, a mild taco was exotic food. Now you have to go all the way to Southeast Asia, the Middle East or a World Market to find something European Americans consider “exotic.” The world dining room is getting smaller-but slowly. In my opinion, the world table can’t get smaller fast enough. I’d like to taste durian; I heard it stinks, but it has also been called the King of Fruits. I’d like to try it just even once. I’m adventurous.

Limits

“You are special Shelby. There are limits to what you can do.” -M’Lynn, Steel Magnolias

My mother was never M’Lynn from Steel Magnolias. That was the world talking to me. The world always wanted to put me in a box: “You must do this, or you’re not good enough, smart enough, autistic enough…” Yeah, even autistic enough. Why do they expect me to act like Rain Man all the time? I’m no math whiz. I need a calculator. That is not who I am. 

My mother was always told, “Don’t put that label on her!” by the teachers and school administrators who did not get me. What would a label do? They thought it would limit my potential. Or did they not really believe I had autism? What limits were supposed to be on me? That I couldn’t talk? Sure, I talk fine, but sometimes for me talking is like trying to paint the Mona Lisa with finger paints and no brush. I do better in writing, I guess, and on social media. Of course, I’ve had my pratfalls, too many to count. Then again, these days most people like what I have to say, especially my friends. Making friends for me is just as hard as talking, but nobody sees that. There are more things I have found out to be true, contributed from autism. For instance, I thought I was the only one who came up with prepared scripts in my head for social situations. I do this very well. Perhaps this is why nobody sees my autism now. They are very ignorant. I run into this ignorance all the time on the net. “But he doesn’t look autistic!” (What does autism look like anyway?) And what do they say about me? “Genetically defective,” “retarded,” “But you (insert social thing here). You couldn’t do that if you were really autistic.” Always things to lessen someone as a person. Always things to set a limit. Well, I am here to say there are no real limits to a person’s potential. Yes, I know about Temple Grandin. Did you know she is also a rock star in the livestock industry? She has invented handling systems used all over the world for humane treatment. I mean, she is an expert on autism as well, but with these limits people place on us, she is not really autistic-but she is. The doctors who diagnosed her said so. And she has a career. What does that say about limits? They are arbitrary, and made to be pushed past. Who is with me?

The Maple Bush -Archive Post-

Let me tell you a story of recovery. Recovery is not cure, or making an illness or disability go away. I must admit my mother has trouble with the word recovery, because it implies these things to her. I have autism, as I have said before, and know it will not go away, but I never let it hinder me for the most part. There were setbacks, and there were times I had to give things up, this tree is a good metaphor for anyone who is in recovery from anything that strikes them.

 

There was a young maple sapling near my home; in fact, it was near the mailbox I use. It was growing, tall and strong, but not as much as its elder relatives across the street. It would get there in time. However, a winter ice storm struck the area, and the weight of the ice stripped the tree down to a stump. It was no longer a “maple tree” in the traditional sense. Why did the garden tenders not pull out the stump? Nobody knows-I guessed it was a lack of money, but the stump stayed. The next spring, little branches grew out of the stump. The tree did not look like a tree in the traditional sense, yet it was growing. The maple tree resembled a bush. So, I called it the Maple Bush. In the summer, the Maple Bush’s branches had grown green leaves. In the fall, the leaves changed color and fell. In the winter, there was snow; the branches did not break. In the spring, more branches and leaves began to grow. In the summer, the leaves grew to a lovely green. In the fall, the leaves changed color and fell. In the winter, the bush rested. In spring, leaves and branches grew. Now it is late spring again. The Maple Bush is actually a tree, but it has not formed a traditional trunk as of yet. In time, the trunk will come back if left to grow.

 

That is the way with recovering from something that could be tragic. You could let go of the potential and dig out the stump, or you could try to grow again. I can tell you this, because I have been in “recovery” since age 3. I give the Lord and my mother the most credit, since the Lord gave my mother the insight to know what to do in growing my branches. I also give credit to friends I have made over the years. I did not mean to treat you harshly, or arrogantly, when I did. I am sorry. Whatever is making your life hard, whatever had cut you down to the stump, you can outgrow it.

Let It Go

““To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.” -Lewis B. Smedes

Of all the things I have struggled with, it’s being wronged I get the most trouble with. I have a tendency to dwell on things – and a way that information floods in at me when I think of one possible concept, like being hurt. Sometimes, I think of a wrong somebody did to me, and all the pain and hurt of every wrong comes to me, to torment me. It’s like a literal tsunami, only with information, instead of water. It even hurts at times, especially when someone wrongs me. So, in this vein, I can only turn to one thing: forgiveness. Forgiveness is certainly not easy, since the consequences of that wrong can stay with you for a lifetime, but it certainly does not excuse the injustice. I am forgiving those who have wronged me, slowly, and surely, so all this grief work is taking up a lot of my mental time and focus. There is a lot of work going into forgiveness, since it involves setting anger aside, saying goodbye to it, grieving out the pain, and then accepting the results. I will go into it with this considering my own experiences.

I held a grudge against the people who bullied me a long time ago. It’s been almost twenty years! I was bullied, right up into my senior year of high school. It seems now that they don’t affect me at all. In fact, many of them have come to apologize. It helps to forgive, to not let the pain of the past come into your present. Of course, bullying has its consequences. I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder later in my life. That’s ironic, you say. How can you forgive when they literally drove you crazy? That has been one of my larger challenges. The nightmares remind me of the wrong they committed, while forgiveness lets me know I do not have to dwell on it. At least I can figure out how to get away from them in the daylight. There are also ways to get away from them in the nighttime, but I still need to learn those. I admit, I am not perfect. I am trying, though. I don’t want the bitterness and resentment that has taken so much of my life away take any more. I am tired of being alone. I am tired of having no real friends. I am tired of having too much to complain about, and no real solutions. Most of all, if I am ever to go back to southern California, I want to know there is a fresh, clean slate to go back home to. I need forgiveness to get me back there.