Thanks to social media many people have sent me good, kind wishes. This is one reason I will stay on all the platforms, in spite of their owners being greedy capitalists, homo and trans phobic misogynists.
Really this post, and others to come, are about lives where very little happens. It is not 100 days of an achievement (push ups, cleaning, saying yes! to sex). I already draw and paint every day.
Rather, I’m curious as to how many of us have little change over weeks and years. Is it only me?
I have an ongoing series I began in 2023 about making a visual record of extreme loss of life. There are twelve so far, and two in process. They look like this:
And this:
They are my passion project and I think they’re ‘good’, ‘important’. I would like to exhibit them. I have sent three queries to curators so far. I received one automatic reply that essentially said DO NOT DO THIS. WE DON’T KNOW YOU. Another went into a black hole with no reply, even with a name drop and recommendation from a curator/friend. The third replied and said we could meet in May or June. I will send another today to another curator.
I also make small drawings, mostly in ink, because I love to draw. I listen to music and audio books, which allow me to work and think but also enrich my soul, keep me connected to humanity, educate me, and inspire me. I am thankful to have gallery representation in NYC, at McKenzie Fine Art. I do not take this lightly.
Method & Intuition.
Method & Intuition: Detail.
I live in Rhode Island, which calls itself The Arts State. It isn’t.
So, I feel invisible, anxious and have turned to Death Cleaning as my favorite way to relax, along with crocheting a blanket. For Christmas I received these books, from my dear friend S.
I walk my 17 year old dog.
Mr. Sweetie
I smoke (though am slowly cutting back.
I’ve all but given up on the idea, the dream of an art CAREER. Still, I work every day, and will work today. I will send out queries to curators, and applications for residencies. That is what I do. I will write about what does, or most likely doesn’t happen.
My mom chose this life for me. She believed it would keep me from being bored and lonely into my old age.
My husband and I were not natural or gifted parents.
I was youngest of three, and had had a few miserable experiences with baby sitting. My husband is a man, so, also did not have much experience with babies. Still, we decided to go for it.
It took a while – we were a bit older, but I got pregnant and then, after the normal interval, had the child. We thought she was a boy, and named her Noah.
5 months.
I was deliriously happy, even when I was sleep deprived and miserable. I had whatever is the opposite of post partum depression.
Time passed.
Around 3.
We often called our child The Boo.
The Boo was a happy, extroverted, sweet, and smart child.
When the Boo was fairly young, 13 or 14, we all knew he would ‘come out’, and he did.
My husband and I were busy. He had a full time job, some late nights, lots of deadlines. I was working at flexible minimum wage jobs (bookstore, library) and doing the things parents do – taking the Boo to play dates, parent teacher conferences, doctor appointments, and visits to family. Later there was tap dancing, theater rehearsals (never sports), braces.
The Boo went to public school from K through middle school. There were bullies, but there were also friends who were lookouts and angel defenders. In high school the Boo went to La Salle Academy, a rigorous Catholic prep school. My young, gay, Jewish Boo was going to learn biology, English, and the love of Jesus Christ our savior. There was a decent (not as decent as we had hoped) theater program. It’s all kind of a blur.
There were the inevitable braces, learning to drive, both automatic and shift, first love, psat’s, college applications.
The Boo had always felt a kinship, or more, with girls and women. She mentioned, when she was only 3 or so, that she would prefer to be a girl, thankyouverymuch. We heard the Boo, but somehow ignored her too. My dad got very sick and eventually died. My mom lost her mind, first from shock and then from dementia. My husband’s dad died. Work was a game of juggling and worrying about money. I was trying to be an artist during every spare minute. So, we ignored those little suggestions and hints all through childhood because we were kind of oblivious. Well, more than kind of.
The Boo went to college, N.Y.U. I’ll get back to that.
Somewhere between the class of 18 graduation and post grad life the Boo told us she was trans. Finally, we heard her. She had dabbled with hormone treatments, on and off, and then on.
After college.
Was it an adjustment?
In a way. The biggest adjustment was calling her she and using her new name, Lyra. We make mistakes and call her Noah, still refer to her sometimes as he, Noee, the Boo. Mostly, we call her The Child, because it is easy. We love her more than I can express.
Recently a nasty person on twitter, when it was still twitter, said “you will never normalize this”, among other things. I’ve thought about that comment a lot, having imaginary conversations with people who hate the very idea of being trans, and what we call “plain old gay”. People who think it is abnormal, who think it has anything at all to do with them.
There was no effort to indoctrinate, among her elementary school teachers, her classmates, or from her Jesus loving educators. As parents, who had time to indoctrinate? Her reading during her K through 12 life was pretty much the same as all of her friends; Winnie the Pooh, Dr. Seuss, Harry Potter (oh, irony), various school assigned classics and boring novels. She helped us during my mother’s long period of decline, helped my husband when I had to go away for treatment, and is still pals with her old circle of friends.
Do I have regrets? Yup, as does any parent.
I wish I had somehow figured out a way to get her piano lessons. I wish my husband and I had been more alert to the A.D.H. D. issues which blossomed during her college years, so that we could have helped her navigate all the doctors and meds she needed. I kind of wish I’d made her watch old Mr. Rogers episodes, instead of letting her see Power Puff girls and Dexter’s Lab. But as I child, I hated The Mr. Rogers show. I liked Batman. I wish I had gone with her to a nutritionist so both of us could have learned together to eat well. I wish I had cooked with her, made cookies with her, taken her to more live music.
As for her now being a woman, we shop. She is beautiful, tall, lanky, graceful. We loan each other clothes, she gives me make up and curly hair advice. We talk about tv and movies and politics. It makes me laugh to think any parent believes they hold control over their child. And if we did, what would be the joy in that? My husband and I had a child. She was a great child, and now, a wonderful adult. She will never mow down anyone with an assault weapon. She will not ban books. She is a friend to many, including us. She has a cat named Jackson.
This is what I understand to be the right wing ideal of being a good woman and parent.
You must, when you are older but not very old, have babies. Ideally they will be white babies. You will be a woman who loves men (eventually one man), who only loves women. Every woman should love men and have babies. Even women who are not white. But white babies are best, as long as they are easily born and require no assistance for anything ever, from anyone except their parents. Single women should not ever have sex or babies but they should also never use birth control or try to stop a baby being born no matter what. That baby needs to be born, but not require any assistance from anyone except the mom. The baby will not have a disease or disability or anything that might mean the baby and mom need financial help. This baby must not ever think she is a girl if she is born a boy, and visa versa. The baby becomes a child and will learn to read but only certain books. Most of the books should be by white people and not ever mention any bad thing white people might have done to people who are not white, even if the child and his/her parent(s) are not white. But eventually they are allowed to learn about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as long as they don’t go very deep into it. When the child hits puberty they must only be interested in people their age of the opposite sex. If they ever veer from this plan, at a young age or later, the parent(s) must ignore their wishes and desires for conversation about these things and hope the child snaps out of it. No parent can talk to their child about sex or love, except between a man and a woman, or help them in any way medically even though it is much easier and less expensive to accept the child as they wish to be when they are children. You must ignore everything your own child tells you and all their pleas for help. They must never be allowed to read any book that explains or describes or is written by someone who has answers, in case they like the book so much that it will penetrate their brains and make them want to be who they are even more, or worse, ask a question. You must never explain anything about slavery or poverty or climate change or attempts to rid the world of indigenous people or Jews or Armenians or about McCarthyism in case they find it depressing and wish for medicine which you should never allow them to have. You must hope they become bankers who revere farmers but not vegetarians or vegan because that could hurt big agriculture. Or maybe they can be a pilot. They can only be he and she. They must be protected from indoctrination at all costs by only calling them their given name and a he and a she because to call them anything else is child abuse, worse than hitting a child or raping a child, screaming at a child, or neglect. They must care about homeless people but not explore reasons for why people are homeless. It’s best if they like guns. It’s best if they never read Dr. Seuss or Maurice Sendak or Toni Morrison or about Harry Potter even though J.K.Rowling is a she woman who only believes a person can be born a she. Still no Harry Potter. Too dangerous. No books about two mommies or two dads because the very idea will make them wish for two moms or two dads which should never happen even if it does. Even if this is what their friend’s families look like. I think that’s the gist. I am a mom born as a she married to a man born as a he. I was on the PTA and our child went to public school until (s)he went to a Catholic school (supposedly good theater program) even though we are Jewish. My child was born a he and is now she and all of us are fine and we love each other. She did read Harry Potter and Dr. Seuss, and Maurice Sendak. But so did all her friends. Her friends are shes and hes and theys. Probably they care about each other and the world and accept each other as they are because I indoctrinated all of them when I was on the PTA. Blame it on mom, the all powerful indoctrinator. I’m okay with that.
For months I have written, considered, edited, deleted. It’s frustrating. My imaginary blogs are excellent, then, when I make them real, not so excellent.
I draw. I see my therapist. I putter about.
I am working on a series of drawings almost no one has seen. They aren’t ‘pretty’. The working title is Tally Drawings. It started like this; I read a long article in the New Yorker about Babi Yar, a ravine in Kiev where one of the most effective, efficient erasures in terms of time, and amount of people murdered, took place near he start of WW11. 33,753 (approx.) in two days by two handfuls of soldiers. I had never heard of it. That led me to a book called Art After the War, which led me to an installation commission in Rome at a small ‘prison’ where mostly Jews were detained, tortured, killed. The artwork, in the 1970’s, was by Mel Bochner, an icon of conceptual work. One of his creations was a drawing of tally marks, in chalk. I was so moved, so overwhelmed by the simplicity, grace, and power of these marks and started to sketch my own tally marks onto paper.
Mostly, I draw, and listen to audio books as I draw. Just now I am almost finished with Companion Piece by Ali Smith. I wish I could write like her. Before this I listened to The Years by Annie Ernaux. I also wish I could write like her, and Tolstoy (why not dream big?).
Tally #2
The tally’s, one of the oldest and most widely understood ways of counting, represent everyone, every species killed, destroyed, obliterated by humans, and sometimes natural disasters. I have no idea if these strange drawings will find a place in the world. I hope they do.
I still make work like this:
White Space
And this:
Anger Turned Inward
I still walk my dog, weed, jog. I think I still have an eating disorder. I smoke.
This summer a tree limb fell into our yard but did not destroy anything.
Fallen limb.
I had eyelid surgery.
Paris. 🧡
I applied to the McDowell Colony, and was rejected. It perplexed me. My work is exponentially better than it was in 1999, when they accepted me. I lost confidence (did I ever have confidence?), especially in my writing. I do love making my Tally drawings.
I either heard or read, or both heard and read, a true story about a person who wrote to a man in prison over many many years and each changed each other’s life. Possibly I also read or heard a story about how much people in the army (always men for some reason), love to get letters even from strangers.
Being a somewhat inconsistent activist, sometimes protesting, sometimes donating, sometimes making signs, but often not doing any of those things, I thought. . . “I can write letters to a stranger and help to make their life better”.
I began the search for the someone. Unfortunately all the links to men in the army turned out to be men looking for romance once they were out of the army. So, on the suggestion of my child I went to Black & Pink which has a list of incarcerated people from the LGBTQ community.
After sifting a long time through prisoners who were mostly hoping someone would write sexy and romantic letters, I found my prisoner who seemed interested in getting mail from anyone. When you sign the form of Black & Pink it clearly tells you this is an obligation and that you need to be willing to give your real address. Also, you should prepare to correspond at least once a month.
My prisoner is Running Wolf (given name Charlie), a trans women in prison in Texas, for arson. We started writing to each other in 2012. In my imagination I would write beautiful eloquent notes on lovely cards describing my rich inner life and she would crave knowledge and education and want to read novels I suggested. In reality I learned that you can’t send lovely cards to this prison. You have to write on white paper and mail the white paper in a white envelope.
Running Wolf had already been in prison for two decades and said she had at least 7 years more to serve. She is in her mid or late 40’s. She has a mother, estranged and a dead father. She has no teeth. No close relatives. She did not want to read rich and complex novels. She instructed me to send romance or historical fiction grab bags from I Mail to Prison, an accepted organization by this and many prisons. The grab bags are filled with used paperbacks and cost around $40.00 each. No matter how often I sent them she seemed always running out of things to read.
She wanted other things. She wanted some Penthouse zines ($10.00 per), tons of information on The Three Stooges (where was Shemp buried, how old were they when they died, where do/did they live). She hates Trump but wanted to know why Biden spoke poorly, why we were supporting Ukraine, if Biden really won. She wanted to know about my sexual preferences re: positions, how often I shave my legs, my bra size, nipple info, if my husband was the jealous type.
She sent me pages of country songs and I was to send the full lyrics.
Country songs.
She seems kind and worried about me when I went for eating disorder treatment, called me her big Sis, sent me coloring book Mother’s Day cards. Often, she wanted things. When she learned from me that I have a trans daughter she had even more questions. Which hormone drugs to take, how to calm pube itch after shaving, and other personal things I was to ask my child. I did ask my child some of these questions but I got sort of tired of it. Still, I did the best I could to make her life feel less lonesome and to be a supportive presence.
Then, recently, she was released to a halfway house, after I’d sent money to her prison account for shoes, ciggies, whatever. In order to be allowed to send money I had to give my phone number so I provided my land line.
I did not know she was released until my husband and I came home from a week long trip to visit family and there were around seven messages on the answering machine. Finally, she reached me. And called around seven more times over the course of two days. “Could I buy her a phone?” No. “Could I send stamps and paper and pens?” Yes. She called a lot over the following few days and I said I did not much like the phone and also, it was too much.
She is not out as trans in the halfway house. She had her pal, Clyde call me one day saying Charlie went out and bought a phone and some clothes and would I send $70.00 in cash right away. I said no. When Running Wolf called again I said she needed to respect some boundaries, like not calling me multiple times a day and expecting me to send cash upon request.
Then, for days, weeks, I heard nothing. I was worried that I had upset her (and also relieved) but got a rushed letter saying she had lost my phone number. Meanwhile, I mailed a package with a notepad, a page of stamps, some pens, and a letter.
This is tricky territory. Black & Pink doesn’t make clear what your responsibility is when your pen pal is out of prison. I will send her my phone number. In my letter I said I would send her good books, now that I can send them from home, or no books.
I am not sorry I did this. It did not change my life and I am not sure it has changed hers, but I am not sorry. Still, if you think you might want to try this, and I support doing it, it will not necessarily become a heartwarming story on the radio or in the newspaper. It can be hard to say no to requests so think about what you are willing and able to do. Let me know how it works out.
I have struggled with what I want to say – in a blog post, on social media, to my therapist, to friends, with my art. I decided to look back at my decades of diaries. There are many.
23 completed diaries.
Mostly they contain writing.
My major in college was enameling.
Some diaries have the occasional drawing.
Cow. Cow?January 9, 2007.
You get the gist. Since 2009 or so I write about my art and politics too. Each year the political stakes seem more dire, more unbalanced, more frightful.
Today.
What to do with all these words, recipes, doodles, gossip, thoughts?
Right now the diaries take up 3 drawers in a cabinet. One is in a collection in Miami, Florida. The RISD Museum doesn’t want them – I asked. For now I’ll keep them. They are for me. For now.
I don’t know why I saved my report cards from elementary school but I’m glad I did. They’re pretty.
I went to this Episcopalian school from kindergarten through 5th grade. I don’t remember much except that I wanted to attend Ramaz, where my best friend was in 1st grade and was more fitting as I am Jewish and Ramaz was only a few blocks from our apartment. My mom had an epic fight with the head rabbi and her final words to him were “I’ll show you”. Thus it was that I took a city bus across town and another uptown and learned to love Jesus.
We went to chapel every day. Our Jesus was painted by nuns from the school. He was large, and overwhelmingly beautiful. We curtsied before him.
My most solid memory was the time a group of 1st grade boys ‘selected’ girls one at a time with a shoulder tap at recess. It took a while for me to be tapped. We were told to show up after school at the playground fence, where we were commanded to pull down our underpants and lift our uniform to reveal ourselves. At last, a girl named Rosalind told her mom who told the school. Scandal.
Each girl from class, participant or not, was called in to see Reverend Mother, who scared me more than anyone or anything. She was probably 4’5” and looked like an old potato. She gave all of us a stern talking to, and made me feel ashamed. My usually fiery mother was nonchalant about the entire incident, the fact that no boy was summoned (I remember you Jeremy). She said Reverend Mother had to scare the girls because we could get pregnant. At the time I was 6 years old.
There were nice times, like services at St. John the Devine Cathedral. But for the most part it was an intimidating place for this little Jewish child.
A collage from my saintly days in NYC.
My best friends were Susan Patterson and Jean Ring. Jean left for Africa because her dad was a diplomat. Susan and I stayed friends until college.
For a little while I wanted to be a nun. My mom said they would chop off my hair and I would have to give away all my earthly possessions, which were mostly stuffed animals, so that was that.
I’m sure the place has changed a lot. Especially the tuition, which is now close to 60k a year. It was K through 12th grade when I attended. Now I think it stops at 8th grade. It was difficult for me. We learned French. We played with sticks and rods (what were they aside from beautiful?). Most teachers were nuns. One I remember who wasn’t was Mr. Lipton. I liked him but I think he was fired. Now he is probably dead. I had a classmate named Tina who had cystic fibrosis and knew she wouldn’t have a long life. She was like a cool teenager by 6th grade, smoking ciggies and hanging out with high school boys. I’m sure she is dead. Missie knew how to hike her uniform to be sexier. We wore Buster Brown oxfords. I was the only Jessica. We put on Macbeth in 5th grade. That teacher, Mrs. Harrison, was not a nun. Missie was cast as Lady Macbeth. I had one sentence, as a witch.
I did attend summer school. I ended up learning to hook rugs.
So, those were my formative years. I got mostly B’s in art until my final year there. I barely remember art. What I remember is standing by that fence. I remember Rosalind. She was brave. It was my first time feeling shame, I think. It was the first time I felt unprotected by my mother. I’m quite sure Reverend Mother Ruth is dead. As is mom. And that is that.
Say what you wanna say And let the words fall out From Brave by Sara Bareilles
One day there was a man interviewed on NPR – I don’t know his name, who wrote a book – I don’t remember the title, interviewed about his book on abuse of power. He believed that at every level, from a Starbucks to Congress, the overseers need to be overseen. I agree.
A recent thread I saw. It feels pertinent.
On September 24, 2015, I almost lost my job at the library. I’d been there ten years.
William Hall Free Library – photo by Jessica Rosner
I started work at the William Hall Free Library with two shifts. As time passed I took as many shifts as were allowed. The pay was low, under $8.00 an hour for years. I loved working there. I loved my supervisor and the branch librarian and the branch librarian who took over when he retired. I loved some of my co-workers and liked all of them. I liked working at the desk. I loved shelving and helping to choose new books for the collection. I liked to recommend books to patrons. I liked to organize and tidy the shelves. I took it all too seriously though we laughed a lot and had fun.
David M. was director of the five branches, a genteel man. When he retired, Ed Garcia became director and soon after Julie Holden became the assistant director. Things changed quickly.
E. G. & J. H. started to enforce overlooked and ignored rules immediately. They wanted to unify and standardize the five branches. Employees had to answer the phones in exactly the same way, changing only the name of the branch. I used to say “hi. Hall Library…”. Now it was “Cranston Public Library William Hall how can I help you?”. I live three blocks from William Hall and knew many of our patrons were annoyed that according to the rules they could no longer pick up books for spouses, parents, friends. Still, rules were rules.
We were tested on our ability to use the computer. We were told the test was not punitive. It was a gauge to see where we might need help. No one who needed help got help. The test made for a lot of stress and worry. After we took it in a room, one at a time, it was never mentioned again.
The air conditioner broke during the summer. Our branch librarian wanted reference materials moved to storage one flight up. Most books looked like the following photo.
I liked doing it. But it was hot dirty work.
The elevators broke.
I was admittedly cocky. After ten years I felt so comfortable there that I thought I could complain and everyone would know how much I loved the place, the people, the work. I did not like the rules raining down on us.
Also, I felt our libraries should give long term part time staff some small benefits. A paid day off, a fund for loss of work due to illness. Other companies and libraries in our state have some benefits for part time staff. I talked about it. I wanted to follow proper procedure. I wanted to talk to the union (NAGE) and to E.G.. I asked how to go about it. In return I got word salad, which means an answer with no actual information.
During the fall, after the computer test, the rules, the heat, we were still being fed new protocols. I was still making $9.00 + an hour. One day we had some new system we were told to learn. It was complex and unlikely to be useful in my job. I didn’t want to learn it. I snapped when a full time co-worker said she’d show me. I threw up my hands and told her to go away. Six of us were behind the circulation desk looking at three different computers. No one saw our exchange.
I felt guilty for snapping at my colleague but also irritated. I knew I should apologize. I didn’t.
A few days later I was called into the small office, “for a quick minute”. The branch librarian and J H, were sitting down. I sat across from them. J.H. said “are you aware of an incident that happened on Sept. 21?” An incident? I was truly puzzled, and frightened. I was accused of physical harassment for placing my hands on a body. I was told there was a witness. I wasn’t allowed to talk to the co-worker or to my supervisor. J.H told me I could be terminated immediately. Then she asked me if I wanted to quit. I didn’t. I was 57. Where would I start again? She asked me three times. I asked my branch librarian, who had been quiet, if she wanted me to quit. She said no. I said no three times.
J.H. handed me what I refer to as the Shit Paper, a list of my evils including physical harassment, insubordination, riling the staff. I had to sign it or be fired. I asked if I could express myself. “No”. I signed that paper so quickly you’d have thought there was a bare bulb and the gestapo waiting to pull out my teeth. I was given a copy of our staff handbook, the section on physical harassment highlighted. J.H. told me to read it, that it was “really well written”.
My shift that day was noon to eight, with a one hour break from 4 to 5, which is when I needed to grab a bite and walk the dog. The ‘meeting’ started at 3:20. It was about time for my break and good girl that I am I told them I had to leave but would be back. In my mind it was to take my break. They thought differently.
I took the Shit Paper and the handbook, went to the ladies room to rinse my face, went down to my car and drove the three blocks home. I cried. I went into my house to get my dog and her leash and went out into the most beautiful fall day. I tried to call my husband but he didn’t pick up. I called a close friend who asked me if I wanted him to do unnameable terrible things to J.H. which made me laugh in between tears. I tried my husband again and got him at work. I told him what happened and I kept apologizing because I believed I would be fired. I told him I didn’t know how I’d make it through my shift.
Shit Paper
I made it by popping a Xanax and drinking some tequila. On my dog walk a patron spotted me from her car. She drove over to blather about something and I snapped into library clerk mode, smiling and chatting. I took the dog home and walked back to the library, leaving the Shit Paper and policy book in my car. When I walked in, the day shift were getting ready to leave, including my accuser. J.H. and the branch librarian were standing side by side. J.H. said “where did you go?” I said “I took my break”. They said they weren’t finished. I was ushered back into the room. The door was shut and locked. J.H. asked me for the Shit Paper. When I said I left it at home she made a new copy for me to sign. She said I was not to discuss any of this with ANYONE at or outside of work. If I did, I would be terminated immediately. She said that if I retaliated I would be terminated. I was to be on probation for six months. The Shit Paper would remain in my personnel file f o r e v e r. I said fine. I wanted out of that fucking room. I had to train a new staff member that night. I had to smile and teach and banter. Inside, I fell apart.
View from the circ desk
I did tell people. I called a lawyer. I called ex board members. What J.H. did wasn’t ethical, nor did it follow their own protocol. I should have been warned, in the presence of my supervisor. She was left out of everything. She was, is my friend. If they’d fired me because I tried to unionize the part time staff I might have had a case but burden of proof would rest with me. I would literally have had to fight City Hall. Our Mayor was pals with Ed. What they did is legal. I could have been fired for NO reason, also legal in 48 states. I think they wanted to shut me up. I learned who the witness was when I retired. She didn’t witness anything. She heard the story second hand, from my accuser. She handed Ed and Julie what they wanted.
The first time I saw J. H.,and E. G. after that day was at a city council meeting. They were voting on whether to raise minimum wage. E. G., J,H., and the mayor were against it. I’d fallen and broken my shoulder in January of 2016. It cost $350.00 in emergency fees and of course, loss of wages. I went back to work a week later, typing in data and overseeing a ping pong program, just to bring in money. I was in extreme pain. I had a studio sale and earned the amount I would have made by selling a lot of art at low prices. I spoke in front of the council, praising the library for allowing the flexibility I needed to tend to my child while my husband was at work. I’d heard that some members of the council believed that part time workers should work full time if they wanted more money and benefits, as if full time library jobs without an M.L.S. were abundant. I was polite. I told them about my broken shoulder, my other jobs as a parent and an artist. I thanked everyone for listening and went back to my seat right behind Ed and Julie. A few days later E. G. was at our branch and told me I spoke eloquently. My heart thumped wildly anytime I saw him, still believing I could, would be fired at any moment.
Cranston Herald
I created a series of drawings trying to work out my grief. They started as images but then including coded words telling my story.
Detail of Grief.
The story, in code.
The code.
Then a full time position came along. My husband’s days at the Providence Journal were numbered as their parent company was laying off staff in droves. We would need health insurance and more income. While not believing I had a chance because of the Shit Paper I went for it. I was the most qualified candidate by miles. They dragged out the hiring process for months. It can take as little as a week, or even a day. By this time I was close again to our branch librarian, A.G. I learned as much as I could about the job. I learned about the quirks of our beautiful old building, and who to call to fix what needed fixing.
I bought a dress for my interview. The people interviewing me were the head of circulation, A.G., and J H. For my last question J. H. asked me what my favorite book was and to give a 15 minute plot summary so good she’d want to read it. My favorite book is Anna Karenina. I doubt she has read it.
I got the job. I’d been so anxious about the would I or wouldn’t I that I took up running, hardly eating anything at all. A quarter mile, then a half, one, three, five, 7 miles a day.
I’d seen a therapist on and off during this time. He knew me from years before. He was worried about my loss of weight, my obsession with running and found me a therapist who specializes in eating disorders. I was in denial, disbelief though I’d lost lost around 20 or more pounds. My new position required me to work every other Saturday. I drove to Brooklyn, NY every month to visit my mom, who had worsening dementia. It was a hard time for our family.
When I got the full time position my close friends and my husband felt I was vindicated, which bothered me. I deserved the job. The Shit Paper was still in my file. I felt deeply ashamed that I confessed to something I hadn’t done.
Once in the union I asked them to consider giving benefits to part time staff. To my dismay, disgust really, they had no interest in doing so. They said it would be an “accounting nightmare”. It wouldn’t have been. I had no support.
My anorexia and my mother’s health worsened. I was shut down emotionally. Once every other week I was required to work at our main branch, Central. I called it The Mothership. The premise was that full time staff would feel part of a bigger whole. Julie’s office door opened into our computer stations. Cameras had been installed at every branch, supposedly to catch patrons doing anything from drinking to flashing. The cameras at Central face the employees. Anytime two or more of us were chatting, usually about books or family, Julie would open the door to give us assignments if circ was quiet. She made us a handy list of things we could do behind the desk, “to look busy”. Nothing on the list suggested we read literary journals or reviews.
Busy work.
In 2017 I was sent to residential treatment for my eating disorder (ED). I was away for a month, to be fed among other things. I didn’t get better. I should have stayed longer but I wasn’t able to take more time from work. I kept it secret. I felt embarrassed. I needed to see my mother. I went back to work two days after treatment ended.
One day E. G. sent me an e mail to tell me he’d shredded the Shit Paper. I regret that I thanked him. I think he did it thanks to multiple requests from A.G.
In 2018 my mother died.
Many long time part and full time staff left because of the micro managing style of E.G. and J.H. Most disappeared without so much as a thank you card.
The Library has done good things for the city of Cranston under the stewardship of Ed and Julie. Community outreach, diversity training, eradication of late fees to name but a few. They also had everyone take a virtual anti harassment class. This brings me back to power. There is no oversight of the overseers. There are a board of directors but they are concerned mostly with building renovations, upkeep expenses, and grant money. They have given E.G. & J.H. complete authority to hire, fire, and run the day to day operation as they see fit.
I retired at the end of May in 2019, volunteering to extend my date twice, from early April, because of COVID, which was in its early days. We were the last branch to close, on March 14th, 2019. I spent my last month working mostly alone in the building. I loved every minute. I put every single book in the right place. I cleaned every cd that could be cleaned. I got rid of those that were beyond repair. I put our messy book sale room in order, got rid of junk, moldy items and boxes. I replaced cd and book old covers with new ones as I listened to music. I was able to fulfill my dream of making it perfect for my successor. There were no retirement parties. Ed & Julie did not stop in to say good-bye. They sent me an e-mail. I worked one day short of 15 years.
My last chalkboard post. The new branch librarian, Robin N, refused to allow me to continue to do this. Ed and Julie did not support me. William Hall Library certainly changed me.
I’ve been back a few times. The book sale room is cluttered and piled with boxes again. I don’t feel welcome there. Still, it’s my public library. I am the witness.
For two months I was in a mansion being housed and fed.
The mansion houses women with eating disorders.
Packing clothes for an amount of time I didn’t know, for a change of season, for an expanding body, didn’t help me accept what I was doing. I was in disbelief on the drive with my husband, when I rolled my suitcase to the door, when I rang the bell.
It’s another world, a world most people will never know. Eating disorders come in every size and shape and age. I am 63 – older than all the clients and all but one of the staff. I am there to rewire my brain, which wants me to starve.
I’ll live with 5 clients and numerous staff. I will never be alone. No one there is.
The first 72 hours: no contact with ‘the outside’. I am under observations, obs to those of us who know this world. Bathroom door ajar. I’m not allowed outside except to smoke after each meal. The clients range in age from 18 to 32. They have never heard of Charlton Heston or Stephen Sondheim or of Richard Rogers who I later learned had a home just a hop away. They like Tik Tok.
The beautiful bathroom downstairs.
I hadn’t cried for years. I didn’t cry at first. I made up for that as days and weeks passed.
I have roommates. We share a bathroom.
6:00 a.m.: Awakened. Shower. Vitals. Downstairs at 7:00 a.m. 7:30 a.m.: breakfast. Walkers at level 2 walk after those of us who smoke, smoke. Group therapy at 9a.m. Snack. Smoke. Group. Lunch. Smoke. Group. Individual therapy. Snack. Smoke. More therapy. Yoga three times a week. Dinner. Smoke. Vitals. Tv. Phones for those allowed phones. Snack. Smoke. 9:39 p.m.: bed.
My bed. They’re all the same. Plastic, bottom sheet, top sheet, quilt.
I am exhausted. We are all always exhausted.
At meals we play games to try to distract us from the mountain of food we have to eat during a specified amount of time. The game Target, where one person thinks of a Target item & everyone asks questions to narrow it down till someone guesses correctly. Other games are Essence, which I hate, and Wrench or Rabbit which I like. I am a little deaf so I often miss clues.
My chair for meals. We have comforting objects on our table. Most people have family and pet photos. I like to have weeds & debris from outside.
There is no prearranged amount of time for a stay. You stay until your vital organs work again (hopefully), till your treatment team decides you are ready. You can leave earlier. But to leave before their recommendation is to face a strong possibility of relapse. Or you can be sent to hospital. Most of us have relapsed more than once.
We try to become a family but we are adult strangers. We bond over each others pets. Ada, Sasha, Bacon, Jada, Pickles, Shadow. My dog is Mr. Sweetie. All of us miss our animals and love to ask our counselors about theirs. When we get our phones we share photos of our fur family.
We have to write our autobiography and read it to our group, our therapist, other therapists. It takes me weeks to write mine, since I am 63. There are so many heart breaking stories, they make us weep. We listen to Taylor Swift who I’d never listened to in my life.
I thought I could draw. There is almost no time to draw and very little light for the sort of artwork I like to make when there is time. The director helped me get an extra table and lamp to have a sort of desk. I do what I can, when I have a little time & energy.
My cluttered tiny desk.
My therapist is from Ukraine and is one of the only people there who nearly always knows the books I know. I trust her immediately. She is deep and intuitive. She seems to remember everything I say. She helps me to process the recently learned fact of my mom being drunk and depressed when I was born. She helps me to cry, to navigate two young women who have decided to make me the target of their anger. To work out confusion from a nasty incident at the library. She helps me in every way.
Eventually my belly grows, my vitals are happy and I begin to really let all the redundant work about healthy coping skills, rewiring of our brains, how to ask for what I need, sink in. The dietician helps me to learn what a normal portion of food looks like. She helps me shop when I need larger pants.
We do art therapy which I call therapy art.
I made friends, which is unusual. People in treatment bond through the experience but often leave it all, including connections, behind.
When I moved up the levels, there are four, I was able to be outside more.
I liked to make rock formations around a tree in our beautiful back yard.
People have fidget toys for meals and therapy. I used my crochet needle and yarn. I only know how to make a straight line.
I made a circle from my crochet line.
I was there for two months. I gained weight and learned a lot. I never want to do this again. Most people with eating disorders have to do this sort of treatment more than once. For me it has been twice. Some people go many times more. It is a brave and scary thing to do. You have to surrender everything. Your family, pets, school, life. No razors, mirrors, autonomy, privacy. You are watched.
If you know someone in treatment read up some on what it means to have an eating disorder. It is complicated, life threatening. Send mail and gifts: fidget toys, soft stuffed animals, cozy socks, books, lotions, nail polish – anything. Text a hello. Clients often don’t have time to call or be in touch so just a hello, I am thinking of you.
I was there from September 1 to November 3, 2021. Many clients go to step down treatments after residential. I came home. I want to draw and write and be with my family. Right after treatment is a tricky time. Relapse is common. I am still fighting against this illness. I am so glad to be home.
Thank you to the friends who wrote to me. It means a lot. 💕 And to friends who texted & e mailed.
Thank you to the staff. They are angels. Thank you to my husband, who was there for me and is here for me. Thank you.
Lonely artist. 