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Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

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Freelance Writer

So-so ‘Sniper’

sn1I could have called this post Shoddy ‘Sniper’ but didn’t out of respect for the fact that this Clint Eastwood film is about a real person, Navy SEAL Chris Kyle’s, life and death. I’m going to go out on a limb here and risk being in the minority (particularly in the South) and say it. I absolutely did not care for American Sniper. And that’s politics aside. Really.

The way I see it, this movie breaks too many rules of writing (i.e. storytelling, which is what film is). First, the characters (and here I’m referring largely to the main character played by Bradley Cooper) fail to change, grow or otherwise learn squat. There is virtually no character arc. What little depth of character we get is infused by Cooper’s inarguably fine performance. I have no idea if the real-life Kyle was this simplistic. I didn’t know him or read the book. I might point out that the villain of the story and arch nemesis of Kyle is a Syrian sniper who is wholly sinister and similarly one-dimensional right down to his black scarf.

Second, and this is a big one to me, the audience should feel something. Now I consider myself a compassionate, sensitive person. I avoid most news programing because I’ll just get too upset. I cried in Toy Story 3 for God’s sake when all the toys joined hands in the incinerator, prepared to meet their death. And yet, I couldn’t have cared less when this movie reached its tragic (and rather abrupt) ending.

Also, I like it when literature or filmmaking manages to impart some message. But what is American Sniper about? Post-traumatic stress disorder? The horrors of war? Patriotism? The celebrating of a war hero? I, for one, have no idea. The movie manages to bring up all these topics while never quite saying … well, anything. It’s like Clint invited the girl to the prom and then refused to dance with her.

And finally, there’s the problem I struggle with in my own writing. How to tell the story without the audience in mind. I read (in Vanity Fair’s January 2015 edition) that Chris Kyle’s father said to Eastwood and Cooper, “disrespect my son and I’ll unleash hell on you.” Now, how true a character portrayal are we supposed to get after a threat like that? But that’s assuming ‘Sniper’ set out to give us one anyway, which it clearly did not. That’s why it’s safer to invent fiction than to tell a story based on true events. Do I worry about familial reaction to my book? Sure I do. But my writing coach insists I should tell my truth. As I see it. This is the artist’s challenge. Eastwood obviously didn’t choose to accept it.

I’m not saying you should skip ‘Sniper’, although I toyed with that title, too. The storyteller and movie buff in me thinks any Best Picture nominee is at least worth checking out. If you do see it, make sure to look for the laughable fake robotic baby scene. You can’t miss it. Besides, two and a quarter hours (even if it does feel more like three) spent watching Bradley Cooper – how bad can that be?

 

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3

Yogi in the Mirror

y1I’ve been getting into something lately. I should say back into something, because certain things never really leave you. It’s yoga. I’ve had an on again, off again relationship with it for decades, but when I first became disabled it took a definite backseat position in my life. After all, many of the poses were simply not an option for me anymore.

Enter Brooks Adaptive Sports and Recreation Program once again.yogacl4 In this class of non-ambulatory participants, led by instructor Anna Dennis, we get out of our wheelchairs and onto big, thick mats. Volunteers assist us in moving into poses that stretch our tightened limbs. For many of us, it’s the only time of day we’ll leave the cramped confines of our chairs and assume any other position.ycl5 Shortened hamstrings and hip flexors are lengthened, spines are twisted, rib cages and hearts opened. It’s downright delicious. I’ve written about the Brooks programs before and told you about some new sport I’ve tried (like rock climbing!), but this is different. This is less a “what the hell, I’ll try it” kind of thing and more like coming home.

I think I discovered yoga back in college, at the gym, before even step aerobics was popular. Back then, I liked how pretty the poses looked in the mirror and was encouraged to learn I was naturally flexible. It’s fun to find something you’re good at when you’re not even trying. Yoga’s not supposed to be competitive, but others were impressed. It fed my ego. I went on to become a certified yoga teacher in 2001 and toyed with the idea of instructing others — until I remembered during my first teaching experience that I hate being in front of a class. I was so nervous, both before and during the class, that I could barely remember my sequence of poses, let alone correct anyone on how they were being done. I was in high school all over again with an overdue presentation. I left shaking, and aside from subbing a few classes, that, as they say, was that. I went back to being a student and saving for the latest cute yoga outfit.

Then in 2006, I had the brain hemorrhage. Luckily, my time as a yogi and a massage therapist had impressed upon me the importance of keeping limber and the dangers of prolonged sitting. As soon as I was strong enough to get in and out of the wheelchair, I took to the floor to see what I could still do, what was left of my practice.

Yoga then, was something to be done in the privacy of my own home where I was free to be not so pretty about it. These weren’t perfectly balanced trees or eagles that looked good in the mirror, this was sliding out of my wheelchair like so much dirty laundry to land in an ungraceful heap on the floor.

Yoga on the malecon!
Yoga on the malecon!

Over the years, I’ve kept at it — even trying some standing postures in the pool where it’s okay to fall. And passions have a way of bubbling up. I even found yoga during my month in Mexico, just blocks from where I was staying.

Now that I’m back to enjoying yoga in a group setting, I dare say I might have an advantage over some able-bodied yogis. I think real yoga is about the breath. About learning to look inward and settle your gaze there. My hemorrhage took my ego further out of the equation for me. It cured me of any desire to look in the mirror and compare myself and my abilities to those of the rest of my classmates. I turn inward more easily. My breath is different now. The inhales no longer match the exhales, but there is a deeper sense of gratitude for having the breath at all. And a greater compassion for and sense of oneness with my fellow yogis. And isn’t that what yoga is all about?yogacl2

5

The New You

You can be anything you want to be. These must have been words I heard often growing up because, back then, the possibilities seemed endless. And it still comes as a shock that physically I can’t do anything I want. I have to remind myself that I can’t compete on The Amazing Race or be America’s Next Top Model. Not only is America not ready for lots of 45-year-old exposed flesh, but I’m thinking I might have a little trouble with the catwalk. Fortunately, I settled on writing. It’s one of the few things I can actually still do with any measure of competence. Some people might call that lucky. I call it meant to be.

So, once again the new year is upon us. As many of you know, I love this holiday. I have my list of resolutions ready to go well before the first champagne bottle pops. And I’m not talking about some last minute thing. These resolutions aren’t done mentally as the ball begins to drop. They are carefully considered, written-down plans for the future me. A new me. Me, only better.

Sure, a lot of resolutions have been listed a time or two before. There are the usual about eating right and exercising. I really do want to meditate daily. (And no, the ten minutes spent zoning out on the couch thinking, “I really should get up” don’t count.) Plus, there’s weight to lose. Gee, where have you heard that before?

But hey! At least I’m putting it out there! I’m making myself accountable to my blog readers. I mean, how many times can I write about losing weight before someone comments, “Oh for chrissakes, just do it already!” I mean, enough is enough. It’s embarrassing.

This year, I’m finally taking my writing teacher’s advice and checking out future me.org . It’s right up my alley. Want to be held accountable more often than once a year? Write yourself any number of letters that you’ll never see again until the date you’ve chosen. These letters are great reminders of the things you wanted for yourself back when you were feeling motivated at the beginning of the year, i.e. now. Plus, as I’ve preached before — there is power in writing these things down. Really. Don’t knock it until you try it. One of my planned letters, due to come back to me in February, will simply say, Are you writing every day? Because I really should be. And meditating. And exercising. And eating right. I realize that’s an awful lot of shoulds. I should probably work on that, too.

The point is, it’s never too late to reinvent yourself. And don’t worry if your list looks like mine, with lots of repeats. I’m all about the try try again, clean slates and do-overs. I think that’s why the holiday appeals to me so much. Besides, even if you don’t get it right the first time, you really will make progress. Take my sweet tooth, for example. I’ve fallen off the wagon plenty of times, but this year I dusted myself off and climbed back on a lot quicker. I was just sick of eating holiday junk. I usually give myself until the beginning of January. But look, it’s December 28th and I’m writing this with carrots and hummus at my desk. Progress. Celebrate the small victories. Maybe in a few more years, I’ll be one of those people that sneak kale chips into the movie theater instead of buying overpriced, greasy snacks. For now at least, I order my popcorn without the butter. I’m getting there.

As you’re thinking about the new you, remember — some old dreams are better left unvisited. Or revisited for amusement’s sake only. But some could be important. Particularly, if they keep coming back up. Is there something you wanted to be that you’re not? Is there some way you can incorporate this into the current version of yourself? It doesn’t have to be huge, just some small way. And you know, it’s okay if you don’t succeed on the first go around. After all, you’re a work in progress.

Why are the 80s so much fun to poke fun of?
Why are the 80s so much fun to poke fun of?

 

 

 

8

Sprouting Wings

b3“What the hell is that?” I said to no one in particular. This was last summer, and though I had been swimming that day with my mom, she’d gone inside. I returned to the pool after visiting the kitchen, reached across my face for the doorknob and was struck dumb by the offending sight. When you’re in a wheelchair, you’re in the unique position to notice these things. I had just discovered my bat wings.

These droopy bits  of arm flesh begin to drip off most women of a certain age and I was proving to be no exception. They were baby bat wings to be sure, new in their formation, but bat wings nonetheless.

When my mother came outside to join me, I was still there, poking at the doughy tissue with my finger and waving my arm about to see if it would jiggle. I held my arm up to my mother to demand an explanation. “What the hell?” I repeated.

My mother shrugged. “It just seems to happen.”

This response wasn’t even remotely reassuring. I’m reminded of the line from the movie, This is 40, where the old woman, by way of a birthday greeting says, “One day you’ll blink, and you’ll be ninety.” Is this how it happens? Signs of age just magically appear?

“At least it’s not too late for you. There’s still time,” my mom said, unwrapping her towel to display herself in nothing but her undies. This was clearly a woman for whom time had run out. She didn’t trouble herself with tricep exercises. But there was still hope for me. I put down the box of cookies I had brought out with me.

Mom had long ago dispensed with the formality and hassle of a bathing suit top. One of the last times she wore a top in the pool at all, she had come to me for help. I had turned her on to one of those comfortable, over-the-head, pull on bras with no wires or clasps. A perfect swim top. I started swimming in one of these bras and my underwear when I realized how much time could be saved by simply stripping down and getting in. I didn’t realize how much flexibility and dexterity were also required to get into one — until she came to me, bare-chested, raised arms encased like sausage in the fabric. “Can you pull this damn thing down?” she asked, giving me her back, her voice muffled by the material that covered her head like a ski mask. The sight was a cross between a bungled burglary and a striptease gone wrong.

Now she just runs around our very private backyard like some kind of ancient tribeswoman of the bush. Only instead of a basket on her head, she wears a wide-brimmed straw gardener’s hat with a drawstring cord fastened under her chin. I live in fear the actual gardener or pool guy will stop by unannounced and find us in these varied stages of undress, but Mom says I worry too much.

And before any of you start feeling defensive on behalf of my poor, written-about mother, please know she has a sense of humor as self-deprecating as mine. We don’t mind making fun of ourselves for the sake of a good laugh. Well, I guess I’m the only one making fun. But I’m exercising my first-amendment rights. I’m against censorship.

Needless to say, age and aging have been foremost on my mind as I approach my 45th birthday. And you’ll be happy to know I’ve decided to make the best of it. After all, I know people that would love to be 45 again. And you know what they say, you’re as young as you’ll ever be and what’s the alternative? When I’m 70, I’ll look back longingly and lovingly at this 45-year-old’s body and these miniature bat wings.

I’m especially pleased about all the new material. Aging is like having a lifetime supply of funny things to write about, a humorist writer’s gold mine. I’m thinking Nora Ephron and Erma Bombeck. I don’t feel bad about my neck yet, so just think what I have to look forward to!

And I can already sense it happening, this coming into my own. As you get older, you really do care less what people think and more about feeling comfortable in your own skin. My guess is you won’t want to be poolside when I’m 60 and Mom’s almost 90. We figure we’ll both be cantankerous and wearing mismatched socks. And I’m excited about all the elastic waistbands. I think middle age is the time to really think about what makes you happy. And you know what? You should be doing whatever it is that makes you happy. It’s good for the world. So yes, some parts of me are getting softer. But along with my bat wings I’m also sprouting wings of authenticity. Aging may be like going back to caterpillars on the outside, but we become butterflies again on the inside.b2

 

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El Dia de los Muertos

imagesEl Dia de los Muertos. (Sorry, I haven’t figured out how to do those little accents on my keyboard and I’m not sure about the capitalization of Spanish words.) And now with those little disclaimers out of the way, let’s get on with the post. El Dia de los Muertos. The Day of the Dead. It coincides with our Halloween and children get treats, but other than that it’s not even close to the same thing.

I’m not a “dark” kind of person. I don’t like crime-dramas, horror movies or scary skeletons. As a kid, I was much more likely to carve a goofy, grinning pumpkin than a ghoulish one. And I don’t like anything jumping out at me. All that said, The Day of the Dead is a holiday I could really get into.Unknownth

I grew up with skeletons representing haunted houses and scary stuff like zombies, fright nights and chainsaw massacres. In Mexico, and other Spanish-speaking cultures around the world, th3skeletons become brightly colored works of art. The holiday is spiritual, not scary. Not to rain on your trick-or-treating parade, but it really means something. It focuses on gatherings of friends and family to remember loved ones who have died.

th2I think it’s a beautiful tradition. We have our funerals, but then we’re left alone to sadly mark the passage of time — birthdays, anniversaries and holidays without our loved ones. Imagine coming together with family and friends every year to celebrate the memory of those we have lost. To feast and make music! At gravesites even! th9Consider the beauty of this celebration (click here) in Merida, Yucantan, just an hour outside of the small fishing town where I stayed. Next time, I’ll better coordinate my trip to see this in person.

And next time, Neydi says she’ll cook the Yucatan’s special dish for the festivities: pibi. It all seems to vary a little by region but from what I understand (yes, another disclaimer) The Day of the Dead actually lasts three days, with each state’s speciality meal being served on the second day, November 1st. Pibi is a kind of cake made of dough and chicken or pork and baked chicken and so is called pibipollo (for chicken). When I explained I don’t eat meat, Neydi assured me, “No carne. Pollo.” I felt like John Corbett in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when the aunt yells, “YOU DON’T EAT NO MEAT?!” and then says, “That’s okay, I make lamb.”

November 2nd, the party usually moves to the cemeteries, where families clean and decorate graves with flowers like the orange Mexican marigolds,

Mexican_marigoldcalled cempasuchil. Ofrendas, or altars, in the home may include food such as candied pumpkin, pan de muerto (bread of dead), and candied sugar skulls.th7

 

Don’t get me wrong — I still plan on passing out candy and I’ve already purchased an infant T-shirt for Frankie with a Mexican flag on it. I’m just saying, if you’re not doing anything but nursing a toothache those first few days of November, it might be a good time to think fondly on those not with us. After all, Mexico’s doing it. And I think they might be onto something.el-gato-dia-de-los-muertos-cat-pristine-cartera-turkus

7

First World Problems

blg1We are rich. Make no mistake about it. We are.

By “we,” I mean you and me. And by “you,” I mean most of my readers. We live in Northern America, most of us in the United States. A very developed, First World kind of place. We’re very wealthy here. I don’t care if you’re “middle class,” live paycheck to paycheck, or are even currently unemployed. Most of us know where our next meal is coming from, be it the grocery store or take-out. And I’m willing to bet most of us have seen the inside of a Starbucks before.

I think what I’m experiencing now that I’m home is a bit of culture shock. Where I stayed was lovely. But right outside the walled perimeter of the property, people were living in poverty. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I got used to seeing run down houses, graffiti covered walls and small, beat-up cars.

blg3blg4blg2

 

When I entered my home that first night, my immediate comment was, “Has it always looked this nice?” The next day driving to Publix, I marveled at everything. All the lawns were so green and manicured! All the buildings so neat and clean! And all the cars so big and shiny! We have money here to spend on pretty pictures to hang on our walls. Art. It doesn’t do anything. You can’t eat it. It serves no purpose whatsoever except our enjoyment. Imagine that. How strange.

And the grocery store! What a plethora of choices! In one aisle alone there are at least 15 types of crackers. And everything is clean and refrigerated and in plastic. Meat is virtually undistinguishable from the animal it came from. Contrast that to this open air market outside of Celestun, Yucatan. It’s not hard to figure out what kind of meat is for sale here!mar3

I was reminded of my comparative wealth all the time. Neydi and Lidia, the two women with whom I spent most of my time, lived a few blocks from where I was staying. On one of my first days there, Neydi found a packet of crackers I’d thrown away, unopened, crushed by airline bag handlers. She wagged her finger at me. “This no garbage.” I didn’t throw out unopened food again. I gave them all my uneaten groceries when I left, but I was embarrassed by how much there was. How often do we buy more than we can eat? I used to throw away food I’d let spoil all the time. I’ll be more aware of it now.

sb1An hour away, in the city of Merida, I gave Neydi and her daughter, Sarahi, their first introduction to Starbucks. “Starbucks only for rich people,” Neydi said. For once, I knew my way around someplace they did not. I explained we had to order at the counter and then sit. How many Starbucks have you been in? For crying out loud, there’s one on every corner!

I think it’s important to get this kind of perspective and only travel can give it to you. And I’m not talking about the kind of filtered experience you get looking at the world through tour bus windows either. Cruise ships came to the town where I was staying, but those were the days I preferred to stay at the pool. And not a five star hotel pool either. On cruise days, the prices went up and the English music came on. And there is something profoundly wrong with listening to Michael Bolton on the streets of Mexico.

I was in search of an authentic experience and I think I got one. These are the experiences that make you grateful for what you have, simply because you were fortunate enough to be born into a First World country and not a Third World one. So consider that the next time you sit down to pay the bills and lament your money troubles. And consider venturing out to see how the rest of the world lives. You just might gain some perspective.

~~~

P.S. Enjoy the rest of the market photos. I’m including them for those of you that missed them on Facebook and because they’re just so darn pretty and interesting.

blg7mex1mar4blg6mex5mar2mex6mex4mex3mex7mex8mex9mar1Photos by Carol O’Dell and Laura Havice

3

Fantastica!

Well, so much has happened, I have some catching up to do. For those that haven’t seen the multitude of pictures on Facebook, here’s where I’m staying. wpid-20140922_123245.jpg I miss Bella and Frankie (and you too, Mom), but there are plenty of cats to keep me company, even if they are a little stand-offish. wpid-img_20140922_084224.jpgWriter pals Carol and Laura stayed with me the first week. We saw Merida, the capital of the Yucatan. We saw Mayan ruins, mangrove forests, and traditional markets. All things I may (or may not) post about. Those two proved to be superb and skilled travel partners. Here’s a picture of the three of us. wpid-wp-1411995993647.jpegBut they’ve gone home now and I’m by myself. Yesterday, I managed to get down to the shore with my new friend, Nadine (in Spanish, it’s Neydi.) This is the Gulf of Mexico and the Malecon (or boardwalk) just outside my door. These pretty shots were taken by Laura earlier.wpid-wp-1411996237600.jpegwpid-wp-1411995777718.jpegwpid-wp-1411995906354.jpegA strong Mexican man wheeled me through the soft sand, no problem, but once there I had to employ the old scooting technique. As a result, my body’s a little banged up. I’m sore enough that I’ve decided today is pool and ceviche day (there’s a great local place that delivers). Here’s me in the Gulf.wpid-img_20140928_181313.jpgWe had a little scare when I dropped my $300 prescription sunglasses in the surf. After looking in the not very clear water for about ten minutes and drifting about a block from where my wheelchair waited onshore, would you believe Nadine came up with them? I squealed at the top of my lungs and kept shouting in English that I couldn’t believe it. That’s when I learned the important Spanish exclamation – fantastica! The day was capped off by laying in the sand listening to the sounds of a Mariachi band drift from a restaurant across the street. And trying a local meringue sweet sold by the vendors walking up and down the beach. Here are some not-so-pretty shots of Nadine’s, but I share it in the spirit of capturing a moment of a trip fantastica!wpid-20140928_152101.jpgwpid-20140928_152052.jpg

3

Mexican Moment

For those of you that don’t know – I’m in Mexico. It’s a little surreal because once I became disabled, I thought I’d never travel internationally again. A long flight and the inability to get up and walk to the airplane lavatory conspired to clip my wings and limit my adventures to the contiguous forty-eight. Never say never.

Turns out that most flights to Latin America are doable. Shorter flight times coupled with a few layovers make it all possible again. And as some of you have heard, I’d love to speak Spanish fluently.

So, here I am. For the next month. Writer pals Carol and Laura have joined me the first week. And thank God I had them to travel with.  The Delta flights were as expected. But look at what greeted me in Mexico City on the first Aeromexico flight.IMG_6655723843398The posts will be shorter, but sweeter. Fewer catchy openers and cute endings, but maybe some good pictures. And this one is to be continued. Right now there’s a margarita with my name on it.

5

It’s Personal

1219140414QA03ssIt’s easier to get political, to take action, when something hits close to home. And this time, it’s personal. Dial-A-Ride, a non-profit organization and, more importantly, my Friday morning ride to the grocery store, will close shop this coming week without further funding.

Sure, I can take JTA’s transportation service for the disabled, Connexion. I depend on them a lot. They drive all over Jacksonville, whereas Dial-A-Ride only services the beach communities of Atlantic, Neptune, and Jacksonville Beach. But, let me tell you how this works. Say, for a ride up the street to Publix. There’s no running in to check out a carton of milk in the express lane. No see ya in a half-hour. No way. It’s an all day event. A major affair. With lots and lots of waiting.

JTA schedules their time in half-hour windows. And there’s a minimum duration I have to be at any location before they’ll come back to get me. So, imagine they show up for me at 11:00 a.m. I could be cruising down the aisles by 11:05, but my pick-up time won’t be until 12:30 to 1:00 at the earliest and they’re often late. That’s two, two plus hours of my life I won’t get back. I’ve learned to take a book. And not buy ice cream.

Then, assuming they show up at all, the driver, usually someone I’ve never met because their turn over is sky high, is not allowed to help me with any bags. I’m only allowed to board with what I, a disabled person, can carry by myself. The Publix employees have learned to stack all my canvas bags on top of one another, looping them over the headrest of my power chair. I look like a homeless version of the crazy cat lady, carrying all my belongings at once, cat litter and toilet paper stacked on my lap.

Things could certainly be worse, though. I heard one horror story of a woman waiting on a ride with all of her bags at her feet. The JTA driver, who had just turned into the parking lot, took one look at her, shook his head in admonishment, and drove off. Just left her standing there. I should add that a store employee was waiting with her to load the groceries. Maybe the driver was anticipating having to help her on the other end, but something tells me she had that worked out, too. Not that he even stopped the vehicle to find out.

Contrast all of this to riding Dial-A-Ride. The soon-to-be-unemployed Josh picks me up at 11:00. (I’m fairly certain he’s the only driver.) There’s no 11:00 to 11:30 about it, so I don’t have to wait outside for half an hour. Then, he comes back for me at our agreed on time, depending on whether it’s a light or heavy shopping day. And he helps me with my bags, to the door, whatever’s needed. I’m usually unpacking groceries by 12:15 instead of inhaling parking lot fumes and watching bag boys.

But this good option of mine is soon to be a thing of the past. Founded in 1975 by the Beaches Council on Aging as a way for seniors and disabled citizens to access transportation to doctor’s appointments, grocery shopping and other necessary errands, Dial-A-Ride requires at least $4,000 a month to operate. I knew Dial-A-Ride ran on donations (including mine — the suggested fare is $5 round trip,) but I was surprised to read in Thursday’s issue of The Beaches Leader just how much fundraising goes on year round. Pancake breakfasts, ring toss rallies and theater events are all in the works. It reminds me of that bumper sticker that dreams of the day schools will have all the funding they need and the air force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber. Why are things like art education and social services for the elderly and disabled the first things to go?

But I know I can’t just mouth off about a problem without offering a solution. And for now it seems fundraising is all we have. Being in a wheelchair, people are always asking me how they can help. This is how you can help. This directly affects me, not to mention other disabled and senior members of the beach communities. If Dial-A-Ride gets the money they need, I may avoid spending next Friday afternoon sitting in the Publix parking lot. Waiting. And Josh will have a job. I realize none of you know Josh, but still. He’s a nice guy.

Donations can be sent to Dial-A-Ride, 281 18th Ave South, Jacksonville Beach, FL 32250. Volunteers and grant writers are also needed. Contact 904-246-1477 to help.

 

 

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