As most of you know, I love to read. Sometimes, moments, lines, or images from a novel linger in my mind long after I have read the final chapter. I read The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides when my mother was sick with brain cancer and I was sick with my eating disorder. A line resonated: "A half-eaten sandwich sat atop the landing where someone had felt too sad to finish it."
I could see the sandwich, and the image burned a hole in my throat, in the place where grief and loss lives. Sometimes, I imagine sadness as the sand in an hourglass. Your body can only hold so much, and when you are filled, it is impossible to fit in anything else. There is no room for anger, hope, love, or care. There is no room for food. I wonder now if my refusal of food was also a desperate attempt to shrink my body into a smaller vessel, where there would be less room for the sand of sadness to fill.
Yesterday, I tried to eat a Resees Peanut Butter Cup Congo Bar from a bakery in the North End. Should have tasted amazing, right? But it didn't. I told Marci it didn't taste good. She asked what it tasted like, and the first thing that came to my mind was a favorite children's book of mine, Kate DiCamillo's Because of Winn-Dixie. In it, there is a candy called a Littmus Lozenge:
"She unwrapped the Littmus Lozenge and put it in her mouth and nodded her head.
'Do you like it?' I asked her.
'Mmmm-hmmm." She nodded her head slowly. 'It taste sweet. But it also taste like people leaving.'
'You mean sad?' I asked. 'Does it taste like sorrow to you?'
'That's right,' she said. 'It taste sorrowful but sweet.'"
When Marci asked what that decadent brownie tasted like to me, all I could think of was Opal and Gloria and the Littmus Lozenge. I told her it tasted like sadness.
But what does sadness taste like? Sadness is that fullness that starts in your stomach and creeps into your throat and makes it impossible to let goodness in. Sadness tastes like a memory that you can't have back. It tastes like a taunt that you will never have happiness again. It tastes like feeling unworthy of that which is rightfully yours. It tastes like a fear of forgetting, a fear of abandoning, a fear of betraying.
Sadness tastes like not being able to enjoy something now, because you know that eventually it will be gone.
Those images, that of the neglected sandwich and the sorrowful candy, remain burned into my memory long after I closed each book. The sandwich, symbolizing a sadness so complete that people are unmotivated to take in that which sustains life; the Littmus Lozenge, tasting the great sorrow that lives buried in even something sweet.
I believe that eating disorders aren't caused by one factor. They are so complex and intricate that I think it is nearly impossible to pinpoint the "reason" an individual might develop one. I spent years telling myself that I didn't "deserve" to have an eating disorder, because my reasons for developing one weren't "good enough". Sounds crazy, right? But it gives you a little bit of insight into the distortions that the ED mind tells the sufferer. Looking back, I still don't think one thing caused me to develop my eating disorder. However, I do think that grief played a major role. Not just the enormous, life-shattering grief of losing a mother at a relatively young age, but also the more ambiguous developmental losses: the loss of childhood, the loss of relationships, the loss of identity.
Unfortunately, for me, grief and food are inextricably linked. Which might be the reason why my delicious Congo Bar tasted like sadness.
I would like to imagine a day when food tastes like hope. When it tastes nourishing and delicious and nurturing and life-affirming and... just yummy. Maybe someday. The message in Because of Winn-Dixie is ultimately that yes, there is sadness in the world, and that sadness is reflected in the particular taste of sorrow in the Littmus Lozenge, but that the sorrow coexists with sweetness and joy.
One day, in the future, I will take a bite of a dessert from a special Italian bakery and it will taste like sweetness -- the pleasure of taking it in; and sorrow -- the strength in remembering.
11 October 2011
22 August 2011
My Favorite Things (part 1)
Some of you know that I LOVE "The Sound of Music". One or two of you may have even witnessed my amazing performance as Maria in the 5th grade Watertown Children's Theater production (which was hilarious considering I can't sing even a little...) Anyway, we all remember the moment in the movie when Maria sings to the children about her favorite things. In her words: "When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad - I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don't feel so bad!" So, I decided to begin a list of my own favorite things in my journal, and I want to share them with you:
Babies with chubby legs
Dads who come to parent-teacher conferences still wearing their business suits
The sound of the phone ringing at 6am on a snow day, and the bliss of turning it off and falling back to sleep
Waiting until all of the books in a trilogy are released to read them so you don't have to wait to read the next one
Cards, notes, and letters that are not electronic
Vitamin Water
When my 3 year-old neighbor shouts "Good morning!" out his bedroom window while wearing his Buzz Lightyear pajamas and rubbing sleep from his eyes
When you're doing yoga or stretching and you crack that spot where all your tension is and you feel that amazing release
Discussing a good book
The first day of school (and Back-to-School shopping)
When the Dunkin' Donuts worker knows your (complicated) order by heart
Finding a parking spot at the mall on Black Friday
When the digital clock reads a palindrome
When a stranger compliments your outfit
The freedom that comes when you admit that you're bad at something
When you're on vacation and you lose track of what day it is
When you overhear someone saying something nice about you
The part in "The Sound of Music" when Captain VonTrapp is singing Edelweiss and gets choked up, and Maria steps in and sings with him
A jumbo Diet Coke at the movies
When a stranger smiles at you
Little Miss Match socks
When you see a child and it's obvious she picked out her own outfit
Remembering a time when you memorized phone numbers
When your favorite author writes a new book and you pre-order it on your Kindle so you have it the second it is released
When you try to read slowly because you don't want your book to end
Metaphors
When you go into Target for body wash and somehow end up spending $100 on things you didn't know you needed
When you cut yourself shaving and you're annoyed until you remember you get to use a Hello Kitty band-aid
When it's raining and you get to wear your super cute rainboots
The first day it's warm enough to wear flipflops
When you plan your entire outfit around your shoes
When someone says exactly what you need to hear
When someone tells you what you don't want to hear, but you know it's out of love and concern
When you're in an argument with someone and you start laughing because you realize that what you're saying is absurd
When you go to get a baby out of a crib and she reaches her arms out for you
What are your favorite things?
Love,
Kara
Babies with chubby legs
Dads who come to parent-teacher conferences still wearing their business suits
The sound of the phone ringing at 6am on a snow day, and the bliss of turning it off and falling back to sleep
Waiting until all of the books in a trilogy are released to read them so you don't have to wait to read the next one
Cards, notes, and letters that are not electronic
Vitamin Water
When my 3 year-old neighbor shouts "Good morning!" out his bedroom window while wearing his Buzz Lightyear pajamas and rubbing sleep from his eyes
When you're doing yoga or stretching and you crack that spot where all your tension is and you feel that amazing release
Discussing a good book
The first day of school (and Back-to-School shopping)
When the Dunkin' Donuts worker knows your (complicated) order by heart
Finding a parking spot at the mall on Black Friday
When the digital clock reads a palindrome
When a stranger compliments your outfit
The freedom that comes when you admit that you're bad at something
When you're on vacation and you lose track of what day it is
When you overhear someone saying something nice about you
The part in "The Sound of Music" when Captain VonTrapp is singing Edelweiss and gets choked up, and Maria steps in and sings with him
A jumbo Diet Coke at the movies
Little Miss Match socks
When you see a child and it's obvious she picked out her own outfit
Remembering a time when you memorized phone numbers
When your favorite author writes a new book and you pre-order it on your Kindle so you have it the second it is released
When you try to read slowly because you don't want your book to end
Metaphors
When you go into Target for body wash and somehow end up spending $100 on things you didn't know you needed
When you cut yourself shaving and you're annoyed until you remember you get to use a Hello Kitty band-aid
The first day it's warm enough to wear flipflops
When you plan your entire outfit around your shoes
When someone says exactly what you need to hear
When someone tells you what you don't want to hear, but you know it's out of love and concern
When you're in an argument with someone and you start laughing because you realize that what you're saying is absurd
When you go to get a baby out of a crib and she reaches her arms out for you
What are your favorite things?
Love,
Kara
19 August 2011
Magic Wands
"I'm erasing your guilt." If only someone had the power to do that for me. To take all of the irrational, self-loathing, illogical thoughts out of my brain and simply make them cease to exist. Erase them. Then where would I be? I could eat because I was hungry or because I felt like it, rather than having food dictated solely by what it says on my meal plan. I could stop counting exchanges (and calories). I could stop berating myself with every bite. I could believe that nourishing my body and my mind is natural and good and okay.
My nutritionist is away for a couple of weeks. Of course, she gave me her magic wand to borrow while she's gone :) It got me thinking. Maybe I need a magic wand of my very own...
Remember at the end of "The Wizard of Oz", the moment when Dorothy realizes that she had the power to get home to Kansas all along? What she needed wasn't actually to see the Wizard at all; the fact was, she had all she needed inside herself. Sure, she had some help from the Scarecrow, Tin Man, Lion, and of course (the sparkly, pink) Glinda. But as much as they loved her and wanted to help her find her way home, ultimately she needed to discover her own way. Even Glinda and her magic wand couldn't fix it for her.
For now, I'm going to borrow my nutritionist's magic wand and her hope and her belief in my recovery. And soon enough, I'm sure, I will have a magic wand of my very own. And you can bet that it will be very pink and sparkly.
love,
kara
30 July 2011
Book Review: The Hunger Games Trilogy
Good vs. Evil. Star-crossed lovers. Daring plot twists. Beautiful, outlandish descriptions of fashion. Brutal physical and psychological torture. Dazzling escapes. The power of sacrifice. Enduring love. What more could you ask for in a series?
The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins, along with the other two novels in the series, Catching Fire and Mockingjay, tell the story of Katniss Everdeen, a 16 year-old girl reaped from her village in District 12 (set in futuristic North America) to participate in a brutal, televised contest called "The Hunger Games". The Capitol, or the seat of power in the futuristic "Panem", led by evil dictator President Snow, holds the games annually, pitting children in a brutal fight against one another and Capitol-created "mutations". The winner of the Hunger Games is the last person left alive.
Katniss is surrounded by a colorful cast of characters-- Peeta, the sweet and kind boy who is also reaped from District 12 and becomes Katniss's ally and friend in the arena; Gale, Katniss's dark and brooding childhood friend and hunting partner; Prim, her innocent and captivating younger sister; Cinna, her flamboyant stylist from the Capitol; and Haymitch, her often drunk yet steadfastly loyal mentor in the arena. And the list goes on.
Collins creates a stark and terrifying vision of a future in which corruption, greed, and money rule. A future in which children are sacrificed to preserve governmental power. It is both a cautionary tale about the atrocities of war and a hopeful story of the power of one individual (namely, an ordinary girl!) to launch a revolution.
Collins does not attempt to sugercoat the horrors of war. Her tale is full of brutality, torture, impossible decisions, grief, loss and despair. And yet it is the underlying current of hope even in the darkest hour that keeps the pages turning.
I literally could not put these books down. I admit that at the beginning, I was skeptical. I am not a fan of science fiction and it took me a while to understand the dynamics of Panem, the Capitol, District 12, and the arena. Yet once immersed in the world, I couldn't let go. It was a series that I wanted to read slowly, to savor, but instead quickly devoured, leaving me hungry for more. Unfortunately, for that I will need to wait until the movie comes out on March 23rd, 2012.
The books are marketed as "Young Adult". Personally, I do not think I would recommend the series to my sixth grade students. Although many of them have read (and enjoyed) the books, I think that the mature themes and graphic violence are less than appropriate for a younger audience. In fact, one of the more disturbing scenes even gave me nightmares. If you are a parent, I would strongly recommend that you read the series before your children do, and determine whether they are ready for the mature content.
So, if you need a good beach book for those sweltering August days, or an exciting series to keep you up late at night, go pick up a copy of Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games. And, in the words of Effie Trinket, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Love,
Kara
Katniss is surrounded by a colorful cast of characters-- Peeta, the sweet and kind boy who is also reaped from District 12 and becomes Katniss's ally and friend in the arena; Gale, Katniss's dark and brooding childhood friend and hunting partner; Prim, her innocent and captivating younger sister; Cinna, her flamboyant stylist from the Capitol; and Haymitch, her often drunk yet steadfastly loyal mentor in the arena. And the list goes on.
Collins creates a stark and terrifying vision of a future in which corruption, greed, and money rule. A future in which children are sacrificed to preserve governmental power. It is both a cautionary tale about the atrocities of war and a hopeful story of the power of one individual (namely, an ordinary girl!) to launch a revolution.
Collins does not attempt to sugercoat the horrors of war. Her tale is full of brutality, torture, impossible decisions, grief, loss and despair. And yet it is the underlying current of hope even in the darkest hour that keeps the pages turning.
I literally could not put these books down. I admit that at the beginning, I was skeptical. I am not a fan of science fiction and it took me a while to understand the dynamics of Panem, the Capitol, District 12, and the arena. Yet once immersed in the world, I couldn't let go. It was a series that I wanted to read slowly, to savor, but instead quickly devoured, leaving me hungry for more. Unfortunately, for that I will need to wait until the movie comes out on March 23rd, 2012.
The books are marketed as "Young Adult". Personally, I do not think I would recommend the series to my sixth grade students. Although many of them have read (and enjoyed) the books, I think that the mature themes and graphic violence are less than appropriate for a younger audience. In fact, one of the more disturbing scenes even gave me nightmares. If you are a parent, I would strongly recommend that you read the series before your children do, and determine whether they are ready for the mature content.
So, if you need a good beach book for those sweltering August days, or an exciting series to keep you up late at night, go pick up a copy of Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games. And, in the words of Effie Trinket, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
Love,
Kara
20 July 2011
In one of the stars, I shall be living
"In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night." -- The Little Prince
Nine years ago today, I lost the brightest star in my sky. I remember that first lonely night, sitting in my dark living room and looking out onto the empty street, crying the deepest tears I had ever felt, whispering to myself, over and over again, "I don't have a mother."
What I didn't know then, and I do know now, is that the pain gets softer around the edges. I think about her every day, but the memory does not always cause the sharp pains in my stomach or the lump in my throat. Sometimes, I can think about her and laugh. Other times, I wonder what she would think about decisions and milestones in my life. Mostly, I feel her presence with me whatever I'm doing, wherever I am. What I didn't know the night she died, and I do know now, is that I most certainly DO have a mother, and always will have one.
Today, the sadness is there. The missed opportunities, the things left unsaid, the future she didn't get to see. The memories are there; the darkened nursing home, the screams of pain, the words, "She's gone." But I know that is not what she would want us to remember. So here, on this night of reflections, are the things my mother taught me, the lessons I gained, and what will remain with me forever:
Always take the time to wish on a star.
You are precious, you are special, you are important, you are loved.
Family first.
Laugh loudly and without apology.
Always wear sunscreen.
The people who have died are always with us.
Always keep hope.
Never go to bed angry.
Never leave the house angry.
Never tell Dad how much things really cost.
Always be the first to smile.
Listen to others.
Be generous with your spirit, your love, and your time.
Give hugs and don't let go.
Read because you love it.
Dogs are the best source of unconditional love; be sure to love them back.
The best gifts are not the most expensive, but the most thoughtful.
There is nothing to be afraid of.
Tomorrow will always feel better.
Believe in something.
You have unlimited potential and I believe in you.
People are inherently good.
So Mom, tonight I remember all the positive things that you imparted in your too-brief time with us. You were loved by so many and are missed by all who knew you and loved you, especially me. I hope that you are proud of me and you are in my heart today and always.
Love,
Kara
Nine years ago today, I lost the brightest star in my sky. I remember that first lonely night, sitting in my dark living room and looking out onto the empty street, crying the deepest tears I had ever felt, whispering to myself, over and over again, "I don't have a mother."
What I didn't know then, and I do know now, is that the pain gets softer around the edges. I think about her every day, but the memory does not always cause the sharp pains in my stomach or the lump in my throat. Sometimes, I can think about her and laugh. Other times, I wonder what she would think about decisions and milestones in my life. Mostly, I feel her presence with me whatever I'm doing, wherever I am. What I didn't know the night she died, and I do know now, is that I most certainly DO have a mother, and always will have one.
Today, the sadness is there. The missed opportunities, the things left unsaid, the future she didn't get to see. The memories are there; the darkened nursing home, the screams of pain, the words, "She's gone." But I know that is not what she would want us to remember. So here, on this night of reflections, are the things my mother taught me, the lessons I gained, and what will remain with me forever:
Always take the time to wish on a star.
You are precious, you are special, you are important, you are loved.
Family first.
Laugh loudly and without apology.
Always wear sunscreen.
The people who have died are always with us.
Always keep hope.
Never go to bed angry.
Never leave the house angry.
Never tell Dad how much things really cost.
Always be the first to smile.
Listen to others.
Be generous with your spirit, your love, and your time.
Give hugs and don't let go.
Read because you love it.
Dogs are the best source of unconditional love; be sure to love them back.
The best gifts are not the most expensive, but the most thoughtful.
There is nothing to be afraid of.
Tomorrow will always feel better.
Believe in something.
You have unlimited potential and I believe in you.
People are inherently good.
So Mom, tonight I remember all the positive things that you imparted in your too-brief time with us. You were loved by so many and are missed by all who knew you and loved you, especially me. I hope that you are proud of me and you are in my heart today and always.
Love,
Kara
20 June 2011
I Believe in Tutus
I am a lover of all things girlie. So is my friend Kendra. So, when we saw the tutu in the children’s section of TJ Maxx, we knew we had to buy it. It wasn’t just any tutu; it was a deep purple and teal, flouncy, with a ribbon, and the best part of all – it was reversible! Sure, it was a size 7/8, so I guess technically it was meant for a second grader, but it was stretchy. And besides, who says grown-ups can’t wear tutus?
I am a believer in coloring books and princesses, unicorn pillow pets and ballerina stickers. I am a believer in ladybugs, in TinkerBell, in Hello Kitty, and in all things pink. I am a believer in fairies, glitter, Shrinky Dinks, and hair ribbons. And yes, I am a believer in tutus.
I am a believer in coloring books and princesses, unicorn pillow pets and ballerina stickers. I am a believer in ladybugs, in TinkerBell, in Hello Kitty, and in all things pink. I am a believer in fairies, glitter, Shrinky Dinks, and hair ribbons. And yes, I am a believer in tutus. Tutus mean spinning until you collapse, laughing, in the wet grass. Tutus mean holding hands and dancing under the stars. Tutus mean believing you are special and unique. Tutus mean feeling pretty. And why should these things belong only to eight year-olds?
An eight year-old stands in front of the mirror. She is wearing the purple and teal tutu. She spins, watching it twirl. She looks in the mirror and sees her reflection. She does not think, “I am not enough.” She does not notice her flaws. Instead, she sees her tutu. She sees her beauty.
It’s a good thing I work in a school and not in a bank. I don’t think I’d do well in a business suit. Sure, I don’t wear my tutu to work, but my style is closer to the 12 year-olds that I teach than the grown-ups who work in offices. When I see real adults, going to real jobs, carrying briefcases and wearing high heels, I am so happy that I have a classroom with Hello Kitty and TinkerBell ceiling tiles and not a boring cubicle. I am happy I can carry my ladybug lunchbox and my water bottle decorated in pigs wearing – yes, tutus.
I believe in finding friends, like Kendra, who can appreciate a child’s spirit. I believe in remembering to not take yourself so seriously, that life should be fun, that the little moments are what count. I believe in twirling. I believe in childhood. I believe in tutus.
12 June 2011
Justice is Peace
He was guilty. Of that, all 12 jurors agreed. But, was there enough evidence to convict?
Last summer, I had the amazing opportunity to sit on a jury in a criminal case. Here is a brief rundown: On a summer day about 10 years ago, a man (H) allegedly sexually assaulted a six year-old girl (C). C never told anyone, until, 9 years later, on her way to her final dance recital as a senior in high school, she bumped into H at a gas station. She reacted to the trauma, broke down in tears, and arrived home to tell her mother what had happened that day when she was six. Her mother contacted the police. C did not perform in her dance recital that night.
After C made the allegation against H, K also came forward. As a little girl growing up in the same neighborhood as C, K had also been assaulted by H. She had told a friend in 7th grade about the incident; sworn to secrecy, that friend never told an adult. But after C came forward, K was able to gather the courage to tell what had happened to her when she was six years old.
So there we were, 12 strangers chosen to decide H's fate.
For a week and a half, we listened to the evidence. It was hard to hear. H had been a trusted friend and member of the community. His own children played with C and K. Listening to the evidence, I kept an open mind. But it became all to clear that H had committed the acts against these two small girls. What sealed it for me was the testimony of another little girl who had accused H of assaulting her at a Chuck E. Cheese. He was brought to trial at the time (in 1996) but was found not guilty.
Listening to C and K testify, it was clear that they were telling the truth. Why would they lie? C looked fragile, as if the events of the past few years had given her a wisdom, and a pain, beyond her 20 years.
As jurors, we were not allowed to discuss the case with anyone, including other jurors, until the testimony was completed. I longed to share what was happening in the courtroom with my family and friends. I like to hear the opinions of others; I make my decisions by weighing others' opinions and feelings before coming to a resolution. But this time, I was on my own. I had to trust myself, that voice inside of me that whispered my own truth.
After the closing statements were made (H pleaded not guilty), I found myself in a small room with eleven strangers. We started carefully weighing the evidence. The case for C was clear; he had done it, nobody had any doubts, guilty of rape and sexual assault of a minor. The case for K was less clear-cut. Her memories were vague and spotty; after all, we are talking about an incident that occurred more than ten years ago, when she was just a little girl. All jurors agreed that he had done it, that she was telling the truth. But was there enough evidence to convict?
At the beginning of deliberations, we were split pretty much down the middle, with a slight lean towards not guilty in the case of K. As I listened to the other jurors, I became more convinced of the truth of K's testimony. But, little by little, the other jurors that agreed with me were swayed. There wasn't enough evidence. Her memory was spotty. It couldn't have happened the way she told it. Yes, he did it, but there's not enough evidence to convict. It was so long ago. Besides, he is going away for a long time on the guilty verdict for C. So, there would be justice for K in that.
No, there wouldn't. Rarely have I ever felt such passion as I did in that deliberations room, fighting for K. I even shed some tears. The other jurors (particularly one man) told me that I shouldn't let my emotions, or my feelings for K, get in the way of justice. "I am fighting for justice," I told him. "K was assaulted. We all know she was assaulted. How can you go back into that courtroom, look her in the eye, look her family in the eye, and say not guilty? I'm sorry, but I can't live with myself if I did that."
Frustrated, after a long day of deliberations, it was 11-1 in favor of not guilty. I was the lone hold-out. We decided to come back for another day of deliberations.
The next morning, I entered deliberations with apprehension but a conviction that K should receive the justice, and peace, she deserved. I fought with everything I had. I stated my case clearly, with confidence. H had done this. We know he did it to C, and he did it to the little girl at Chuck E Cheese. Of course he did it to K. WHy would she lie? She had told a friend in 7th grade. It takes courage to speak of a sexual assault, especially when the victim is a child. Why would K put herself through the pain of a public trial if it had not happened? Yes, maybe the facts were blurred after 10 years. But, the bottom line is that the child had been assaulted. And as a jury it was our responsibility to give her the justice she deserved.
One by one, jurors came around and saw my side. I gained strength and conviction as the tide started to turn. Finally, after lunch on the second day of deliberations, we were unanimous: H was guilty on both counts, C AND K. The other jurors thanked me for sticking to my values and for fighting for what I felt was right. It felt like the world had been lifted off of my shoulders and I cried with relief. For now I could go into the courtroom, face K's family, and make a judgment based on truth.
Throughout this process, I learned a lot about myself as a person. I have always been indecisive and easily swayed. But I learned that when push came to shove, and the stakes were high, I could trust my own instincts and stand up for what I believed in. My voice is important and can make a difference. One person is enough.
After the trial, I heard that K had gotten a tattoo that read "Justice is Peace". I, too, am at peace, that I played a part in getting a young woman the justice she deserves.
Last summer, I had the amazing opportunity to sit on a jury in a criminal case. Here is a brief rundown: On a summer day about 10 years ago, a man (H) allegedly sexually assaulted a six year-old girl (C). C never told anyone, until, 9 years later, on her way to her final dance recital as a senior in high school, she bumped into H at a gas station. She reacted to the trauma, broke down in tears, and arrived home to tell her mother what had happened that day when she was six. Her mother contacted the police. C did not perform in her dance recital that night.
After C made the allegation against H, K also came forward. As a little girl growing up in the same neighborhood as C, K had also been assaulted by H. She had told a friend in 7th grade about the incident; sworn to secrecy, that friend never told an adult. But after C came forward, K was able to gather the courage to tell what had happened to her when she was six years old.
So there we were, 12 strangers chosen to decide H's fate.
For a week and a half, we listened to the evidence. It was hard to hear. H had been a trusted friend and member of the community. His own children played with C and K. Listening to the evidence, I kept an open mind. But it became all to clear that H had committed the acts against these two small girls. What sealed it for me was the testimony of another little girl who had accused H of assaulting her at a Chuck E. Cheese. He was brought to trial at the time (in 1996) but was found not guilty.
Listening to C and K testify, it was clear that they were telling the truth. Why would they lie? C looked fragile, as if the events of the past few years had given her a wisdom, and a pain, beyond her 20 years.
As jurors, we were not allowed to discuss the case with anyone, including other jurors, until the testimony was completed. I longed to share what was happening in the courtroom with my family and friends. I like to hear the opinions of others; I make my decisions by weighing others' opinions and feelings before coming to a resolution. But this time, I was on my own. I had to trust myself, that voice inside of me that whispered my own truth.
After the closing statements were made (H pleaded not guilty), I found myself in a small room with eleven strangers. We started carefully weighing the evidence. The case for C was clear; he had done it, nobody had any doubts, guilty of rape and sexual assault of a minor. The case for K was less clear-cut. Her memories were vague and spotty; after all, we are talking about an incident that occurred more than ten years ago, when she was just a little girl. All jurors agreed that he had done it, that she was telling the truth. But was there enough evidence to convict?
At the beginning of deliberations, we were split pretty much down the middle, with a slight lean towards not guilty in the case of K. As I listened to the other jurors, I became more convinced of the truth of K's testimony. But, little by little, the other jurors that agreed with me were swayed. There wasn't enough evidence. Her memory was spotty. It couldn't have happened the way she told it. Yes, he did it, but there's not enough evidence to convict. It was so long ago. Besides, he is going away for a long time on the guilty verdict for C. So, there would be justice for K in that.
No, there wouldn't. Rarely have I ever felt such passion as I did in that deliberations room, fighting for K. I even shed some tears. The other jurors (particularly one man) told me that I shouldn't let my emotions, or my feelings for K, get in the way of justice. "I am fighting for justice," I told him. "K was assaulted. We all know she was assaulted. How can you go back into that courtroom, look her in the eye, look her family in the eye, and say not guilty? I'm sorry, but I can't live with myself if I did that."
Frustrated, after a long day of deliberations, it was 11-1 in favor of not guilty. I was the lone hold-out. We decided to come back for another day of deliberations.
The next morning, I entered deliberations with apprehension but a conviction that K should receive the justice, and peace, she deserved. I fought with everything I had. I stated my case clearly, with confidence. H had done this. We know he did it to C, and he did it to the little girl at Chuck E Cheese. Of course he did it to K. WHy would she lie? She had told a friend in 7th grade. It takes courage to speak of a sexual assault, especially when the victim is a child. Why would K put herself through the pain of a public trial if it had not happened? Yes, maybe the facts were blurred after 10 years. But, the bottom line is that the child had been assaulted. And as a jury it was our responsibility to give her the justice she deserved.
One by one, jurors came around and saw my side. I gained strength and conviction as the tide started to turn. Finally, after lunch on the second day of deliberations, we were unanimous: H was guilty on both counts, C AND K. The other jurors thanked me for sticking to my values and for fighting for what I felt was right. It felt like the world had been lifted off of my shoulders and I cried with relief. For now I could go into the courtroom, face K's family, and make a judgment based on truth.
Throughout this process, I learned a lot about myself as a person. I have always been indecisive and easily swayed. But I learned that when push came to shove, and the stakes were high, I could trust my own instincts and stand up for what I believed in. My voice is important and can make a difference. One person is enough.
After the trial, I heard that K had gotten a tattoo that read "Justice is Peace". I, too, am at peace, that I played a part in getting a young woman the justice she deserves.
10 June 2011
Goodbye Jeans
My nutritionist and I recently had a party, and she and I blogged about it on her website. Please check it out!
http://marcird.com/_blog/blog/post/Good-Bye_Jeans
xoxo
kara
http://marcird.com/_blog/blog/post/Good-Bye_Jeans
xoxo
kara
07 June 2011
Ballerina
And then one day, somebody sees her. Watches her quietly for a while -- then entices her. Whispers. Come with me. I will make you better. I will make you stronger. I will make you delicate, fragile, enchanting, precise, ethereal. I will make you perfect. Take my hand. Come with me.
She goes willingly, trusting. She does not yet realize the magnitude of that which she leaves behind. At first, they work together. They are a team. She still loves to dance, she still sings her own song, but now he whispers to her from the wings. Point your toes, arch your back, faster now; sing softer, softer. Suddenly, she is aware of herself; corporal, flawed. She no longer dances at the beach, under the stars, but rather on stage, under the spotlight. Her movements are precise, practiced, routine; her music is an orchestra, her voice silenced. She looks to Him for direction. There is an audience now and they watch her, eyes wide, applaud her, give her flowers and kisses and admiration.
Sometimes she wishes she could go back to dancing on the beach. But He reminds her: You were nothing then. You were nothing without me.
Slowly, steadily, without really even noticing, she begins to grow hollow. She is voiceless and wooden; her dance, once a feeling in her soul, becomes nothing more to her than a progression of steps. Waiting in the wings, He calls to her, reprimands her, demands perfection, reminds her that He is in charge, that she will never be enough. And at the end of her dance each night, she no longer allows herself to enjoy the applause, because she knows that they do not belong to her, that they never will.
In time, His voice becomes intertwined with her own. She can no longer determine where he ends and she begins. The music from the orchestra grows louder, louder, louder, until it is deafening. She spins and spins and spins, faster, numb to her dizziness, her breathlessness, her inability to stop. The world around her becomes a blur. She cannot see the faces of the audience, eyes full of concern. She cannot hear them call to her, shouting to stop, please stop, you're hurting yourself, we are scared, you have to stop. Some people leave, unwilling or unable to watch her self-destruct. Others try to grab her by the wrist, slow her down, but she pulls away; all she can hear is His voice, seductive: Dance, dance, soon you will be enough; delicate, fragile, enchanting, precise, ethereal, perfect, dance, keep dancing, you were nothing without me, you will never be enough, dance.
The more she dances, the louder He screams; a deafening crescendo, a deadly duet. She keeps dancing because she is too afraid to stop. She dances until her feet are blistered and bloody. She dances until her heart flutters and her legs cramp, she dances until her body is broken and battered, she dances until she is blinded by the spotlight and her tears. She dances until she collapses, until she has nothing left to give, until she submits to exhaustion. She dances until she is nothing more than a shell of a girl lying down on a darkened stage in an empty auditorium.
He is gone.
At first she is too afraid to pick herself up. She waits for Him to tell her what to do next. She waits for His direction. But He is gone. Yet His presence lingers, and like the eerie pain of a phantom limb, the hurt resonates. She longs for Him, she longs for His comfort, His presence. She longs for the girl she was when she was with Him, because she is afraid of the girl she might become without Him. She longs for the audience, for the adoration, the accomplishment, the perfection. But, in her own time, she lets herself remember; they never belonged to her.
A child is dancing. She is not the same child she was before; her dance is no longer innocent, carefree. After years of being controlled, her feet are reluctant to take risks; after years of being silenced, her voice resists being heard. Her steps are tentative at first, her voice silent, then shaky -- broken, unsure. Her stage is the sand beneath her feet, her audience the stars. There is a vulnerability to her now, and also a strength in having survived. A grace in overcoming. A relinquishing of control that leads not to perfection, but to authenticity. Her dance is not perfect, but it is her own. And it is beautiful.
*****
So many of you, dear family and friends, have been by my side as I have battled this monster of an eating disorder. You have laughed with me, cried with me, pushed me, held me up, forgiven me, supported me, cared for me, loved me. I want to share my real self with you. Not the Kara stolen by anorexia, but the Kara who used to play soccer on Saturday mornings. The Kara who loved spaghetti and meatballs and hated spinach. The Kara who laughed like her mother.
I hope that you will join me as I reclaim my dance.
Love,
Kara
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