dyslexia was a blessing in disguise. The system I used to help myself read also worked well for the other students. I watched these books transform other kids as well and build their confidence, showing them they could care, and they could think. I saw their clothing and their hairstyles change, and their posture change, just like mine had. My group shone with comprehension and ownership of ideas. They were able to internalize the concepts and speak from their own lives, debating difficult material. It was good to feel proud of myself instead of scared and sad.
Ken invited me to speak with teachers at neighboring schools and to lead symposiums. It was funny to watch teachers react to a small blonde student showing up, and many were dismissive and condescending, though it was also fun to surprise them by being prepared and to shake them out of their hubris with wit and a sharply placed point.
I felt so empowered by all the ideas in the books I was reading that Igot a bit drunk on reason. It felt safe. If I applied logic and the dialectic process to my life, perhaps I could turn it around. Perhaps I could beat the fates and the stars I was born under. Even my journal writing at the time became less reflective and emotional, in favor of treatises and essays. I learned to hide in logic, and shutting my heart down felt safe.
One day my teacher wisely said to me, “Jewel, you are also deeply feeling. You might like some of the poets.” Another great change in my life. I began to read the works of Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, Gioconda Belli, and eventually Charles Bukowski and Anaïs Nin, and I felt the other half of my spirit find expression. My intuitive emotional self found a voice along with my analytical self. I began to understand that my mind and my emotions could be the ladder out of my life. Reading these works and feeling the ripple effect they had on my soul and creativity made me hopeful. They made me dream. Something I had lost.
While talking with my mom in Seward, I shared that I dreaded going back to Homer to live with my dad again, as was the custom in the summer. He was building himself a house on the homestead, and he and Atz Lee were living in a makeshift cabin there. My dad had a bed in the kitchen and Atz Lee had a tiny loft, narrow as a pocket, that he could barely crawl into, no room for sitting up. There wasn’t really room for me and I didn’t want to be back in a volatile cycle with my dad. My mom, always full of surprising ideas, said, “Why don’t you move out?”
Looking back now, I realize this is absurd. Most moms would say, Honey, you can always stay with me. You should never be afraid to live with a parent. You are safe here. Instead, she suggested I move out on my own. At fifteen. And anyway, why not? It’s what I had already been doing in many ways, though I’d never paid rent or bought groceries. That part would be new. But honestly the choice was not that hard: I could live in a cabin with an asshole, or I could just live in a cabin.
I did some asking around and found out my uncle’s cabin down theroad from my dad’s place was vacant. I made a deal with him for four hundred dollars a month, and when I went to find my box of cash for rent, it was gone. I searched the house frantically. I asked my mom if she had seen it. “Maybe some movers took it when I was selling all the antiques,” she offered. It didn’t seem a likely scenario. In the meantime, I went about gigging, babysitting, driving tractors, and cutting hay to earn the first month’s rent. I was relying heavily on the fact that a steady, if small, stream of cash would come in from doing shows with my dad.
ten
a sea change
I didn’t have much to move in with, other than a few cups and dishes my dad gave me from his storage shed, as I had been living out of a duffel bag for years. I was so proud when I moved into my little cabin. It was a tiny one-room box with an outhouse in the backyard. A kitchen counter with no
Ken invited me to speak with teachers at neighboring schools and to lead symposiums. It was funny to watch teachers react to a small blonde student showing up, and many were dismissive and condescending, though it was also fun to surprise them by being prepared and to shake them out of their hubris with wit and a sharply placed point.
I felt so empowered by all the ideas in the books I was reading that Igot a bit drunk on reason. It felt safe. If I applied logic and the dialectic process to my life, perhaps I could turn it around. Perhaps I could beat the fates and the stars I was born under. Even my journal writing at the time became less reflective and emotional, in favor of treatises and essays. I learned to hide in logic, and shutting my heart down felt safe.
One day my teacher wisely said to me, “Jewel, you are also deeply feeling. You might like some of the poets.” Another great change in my life. I began to read the works of Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, Gioconda Belli, and eventually Charles Bukowski and Anaïs Nin, and I felt the other half of my spirit find expression. My intuitive emotional self found a voice along with my analytical self. I began to understand that my mind and my emotions could be the ladder out of my life. Reading these works and feeling the ripple effect they had on my soul and creativity made me hopeful. They made me dream. Something I had lost.
While talking with my mom in Seward, I shared that I dreaded going back to Homer to live with my dad again, as was the custom in the summer. He was building himself a house on the homestead, and he and Atz Lee were living in a makeshift cabin there. My dad had a bed in the kitchen and Atz Lee had a tiny loft, narrow as a pocket, that he could barely crawl into, no room for sitting up. There wasn’t really room for me and I didn’t want to be back in a volatile cycle with my dad. My mom, always full of surprising ideas, said, “Why don’t you move out?”
Looking back now, I realize this is absurd. Most moms would say, Honey, you can always stay with me. You should never be afraid to live with a parent. You are safe here. Instead, she suggested I move out on my own. At fifteen. And anyway, why not? It’s what I had already been doing in many ways, though I’d never paid rent or bought groceries. That part would be new. But honestly the choice was not that hard: I could live in a cabin with an asshole, or I could just live in a cabin.
I did some asking around and found out my uncle’s cabin down theroad from my dad’s place was vacant. I made a deal with him for four hundred dollars a month, and when I went to find my box of cash for rent, it was gone. I searched the house frantically. I asked my mom if she had seen it. “Maybe some movers took it when I was selling all the antiques,” she offered. It didn’t seem a likely scenario. In the meantime, I went about gigging, babysitting, driving tractors, and cutting hay to earn the first month’s rent. I was relying heavily on the fact that a steady, if small, stream of cash would come in from doing shows with my dad.
ten
a sea change
I didn’t have much to move in with, other than a few cups and dishes my dad gave me from his storage shed, as I had been living out of a duffel bag for years. I was so proud when I moved into my little cabin. It was a tiny one-room box with an outhouse in the backyard. A kitchen counter with no
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