Short Story: The Stain

It was a themed submission that inspired this story. 

Medley, an International Literary Journal,  was seeking submissions for their 10th issue and the theme was "Daag". 

I didn't recognize the word but was intrigued when I read the theme description:  

In a world obsessed with filters and flawlessness — where anything remotely "stained" is scrubbed out of view — we chose to lean into the very things most people hide. Picking “Daag” as our tenth issue’s theme felt like touching a bruise — delicate, risky, but deeply necessary.

'Daag', that literally translates to stain/tainted. "Daag" says the hyperventilating newsreader, "Daag" says the cautious mother. Of unease, Of play, Of shame as much of shamelessness, Of unkindness, Of the genocide.

"Daag". A scar, a mark. Marring the mundane beauty of the universal, these bruises bleed in paradox. They make us imperfect, and imperfection's a gift of the soul — the canvas for a painting. They are our frailest memories recalled with stubborn strength.

This issue is an attempt to protagonise, for once, these very scars the world prefers hidden beneath its woollen sleeves.

Within minutes a story began to emerge. Distracting me, drawing my attention to it, calling me to notice: sort of like a stain.

 Below is that story. 

Originally published via Medley | International Literary Journal  

Click the link to read my story on their site (it is a fantastically unlittered site that allows for comfortable and easy reading) and while you are there I hope you will read other stories, essays, and poetry. And, if you are inclined, consider checking out the theme for their next issue and see if an idea of your own wants to manifest.

Thank you to Medley for offering a theme and sharing their audience.  

                                                                                                                     

the stain

It didn’t matter that she willed herself not to, with almost every pass Ramona made by the mirror she glanced toward that stain on her tooth.

Her small son was asleep in her arms, and they were alone. She had taken her two older boys to the elementary school – grateful they had both been in a singing mood that morning rather than a complaining and hitting each other one – and upon arrival home (a two car garage that had been renovated into a two bedroom apartment space) had glanced in the rear-view to peek in the backseat where her almost two-year-old’s car seat faced backwards. Without being able to see him she couldn’t be sure whether he had fallen asleep on the drive, but he was being quiet, so she’d decided to take a moment to pluck her eyebrows using the same mirror.

Adjusting the rear-view she was about to get her trusty tweezers from the tiny pocket in her purse when she was surprised to notice a light brown stain on one of her canines. Not a big stain, but one she had never noticed before. Coffee? Almost certainly.

Rather than pluck, she decided to brush her teeth. Gathering her not quite sleeping baby from the back she headed inside.

As always, the quiet of her apartment when the children were at school unnerved her. It was impossible to drown out the silence, but she didn’t want to become one of those women who needed distraction, so she always allowed time for the adjustment rather than turn on music. The silence would slowly edge away while sounds made themselves known. Electricity, traffic outside, birds in trees; these sounds and others could be attuned to if given the space.

Her small son was falling asleep so rather than brush her teeth Ramona chose to pace and bounce her body, giving him the motion needed to fall into deep slumber. But there was a large mirror in the tiny bathroom, and it was drawing her to it. She easily paced from one bedroom to the other (she slept with the baby in one room and her school-age boys slept in the other) attempting to avoid glancing too often at the mirror in the bathroom between the two rooms.

Anyway, a stain on her teeth was not a big deal. It was kind of cute, really. Light brown – like the skin on her second oldest son. Coffee was famous for staining teeth and coffee was a gift she had been giving herself since the age of thirteen in her rush to be a grown-up. Coffee, the beverage of adults, hadn’t taken much getting used to for her – she’d tried to like it black in order to feel the most adult, but in the end she always needed a little cream to love it. Now, as a single mom with three sons, it was still the grown-up gift in her life and a stain on her teeth might simply be a way of wearing that gift on the outside.

Now, if the stain had been a darker brown, like the skin on her oldest son, she might have worried. Not that the colour isn’t beautiful – how many years has she spent wishing she had been born with such dark beautiful skin! – but a darker stain might need attending to and she could not afford a dentist.

Her small son’s body grew heavy, and Ramona recognized this phase of sleep. She looked down at his sweet face without changing the rhythm in her bounce. How handsome he was! His pink cheeks, his soft sleeping skin, his toddler scented breath, his little lips with a finger to them, the copper tinted wisp of hair on his round head. She kept moving but couldn’t stop herself from kissing him gently.

How strange it was to have this pale child. How strange it was for it to be strange to have a pale child. Ramona herself was pale, yet this two-year-old– with skin the colour of her own – seemed almost foreign. Her older sons were dark, her oldest especially, looking much more like their biological father than like herself. They had his dark skin, and his hooked nose.

Of her they didn’t seem to have anything. She did not seem to have stained them at all. Though they were still young, only four and six, so there was time.

As Ramona slowed her pace in order to prepare the babe in her arms for a transition to the bed, she let herself explore this idea of staining her children.

It was true that they did not look like her, but it was her that was making all the decisions for them. She had decided for them that they didn’t need a dad, that her love would be enough to guide them. This whole business of needing fathers had seemed ridiculous to her. She and her sister hadn’t known their father, she hadn’t really noticed anybody’s fathers growing up, so how important could they be? Her own mother had raised her and her sister on her own and their home had been mostly wonderful. The three of them still had a good relationship, though there were too many miles between them to spend a lot of time together, they were still connected in a comfortable way.

Why would raising sons be different? “Boys need a father” people said to her. Why? Why did people act like gender mattered so much? Love was love, and Ramona loved her boys with every fiber of herself. She had loved them from the moment she was old enough to imagine having them. Ramona had imagined being a mom for as long as she could remember.

The fathers of her sons were nice enough guys, but they hadn’t wanted to commit.

Her first romance, she’d been engaged to be married to the father of her oldest two sons, had been a constant game of, “one day, one day,” any time she tried to get an actual plan from him. He was never around, always away on business, and when she did visit his home, it was never unpacked. Like he lived his entire life saying, “one day, one day,” and so she’d said no more. If one day is not today, then we are not going to be a family. And when he’d tried to keep the game of “one day,” going, she had said no. You can see your sons, but not as my partner. And so he had chosen not to see their sons.

His dark skin, his hooked nose, that’s all they had of him. His bloodline was unknown to her as well. He had an accent, he traveled around the world and spoke several languages, he said he’d been born in England and had family in India, but she didn’t really know much. And even what he had told her, she’d suspected were invented tales.

Were these decisions she made for her sons, to raise them on her own, without a father, without knowing where their beautiful dark skin and features came from, a mess she herself was making? A stain they would later grow up to notice in a rear-view mirror?

Interestingly it was Ramona’s more recent romantic relationship that had started her wondering about this.

She had been happy on her own, grateful to have found the garage apartment with the nice couple who lived in the house and were able to do maintenance or offer coffee when Ramona was running low. She could not work because she had to stay home with her children, but government assistance was just enough to live on and that’s all she needed. To live and be with her children.

It wasn’t what she’d imagined before becoming a mom of course. The boys fought and made messes and yelled at her and no matter how much love she tried to offer in response, they didn’t care. They needed discipline she wasn’t good at serving up and consistence she wasn’t good at maintaining and rules she wasn’t good at enforcing. She needed sleep, she needed cooking lessons, she needed gas money. It was hard, but she was happy.

And then she met him. As she remembered him, the way he had been with her sons, the way he had seen her specifically and noticed the little things she did, she smiled and looked down at their child. He seemed foreign to her still, at two years old. He was so different from her other two. Not only in colour but temperament. Quiet, always quiet.

He was fully asleep now, deeply so, and Ramona bounced her body toward the bed she shared with him so she could lay him down and get a better look at the stain on her tooth.

With him cradled in her arms she leaned expertly toward the bed and laid him softly down. He was sweaty in the places he’d been laying on her, and she was too. Their sweat mingled, stained.

She sat beside him and gently rubbed his back as he pulled his finger into that little mouth and nibbled gently. His father had been pale, had had copper hair, had nibbled on her fingers gently.

Ramona thinks she had loved him, and that he was the only man she had loved. She thought she had loved the older boy’s dad, but that had been more of a practical thing. He was there, he said he was offering her marriage and a family, they were nice to each other, she wanted to be a mom. They had been together for several years. It made sense.

But with him, things were different. Her heart skipped, her head reeled, her stomach fluttered. She had been working in the daycare at the therapy center where he worked.

For Ramona it was a temporary gig because the usual woman who worked there had broken her arm and needed six weeks off. It was a wild coincidence that she’d been able to step into the role.

She had been at a playground with her children when the boys made friends with a disabled girl playing at the park. According to the girl’s mom, she had spina bifida. Apparently, it was the sort of thing that affected each person differently but in this case the six-year-old could not use the bottom half of her body at all. She was playful and funny, and Ramona’s oldest son played with her for hours while Ramona chatted with the mother. As luck would have it her other son made friends with a boy who was also at the park and the day turned out to be hours of wonderful play. Those are the days parents of young kids live for.

The mom Ramona made friends with that day worked in a therapy center, one that had a day care for the children of therapists who work there. Which is why, when the usual worker broke her arm, Ramona was offered the position. One she took happily so long as she could bring her own children at no cost, which they – being desperate and it being temporary – agreed to.

It was during those six weeks that she met, fell in love with, and then lost him. It was during her late-night chats with him that she questioned her confidence regarding not needing a man for her sons. Because he questioned it, but not in an offensive way. He questioned it with honest curiosity. He was a therapist at the center who worked primarily with young men, and he felt one of the most important things for them was a strong male role model. He called the boys without fathers “strays” and even recommended Ramona watch a movie of that name to back up his reasoning. They had these talks easily because during the day when the boys were awake, he clearly marveled at Ramona’s parenting. He watched her with admiration and consistently noticed little lovely things she did. Things she hadn’t really noticed herself.

But when the six weeks ended and Ramona no longer worked there, he wouldn’t answer her calls. It was strange. She had felt such love from him, and then nothing. She could have let it go but then soon she recognized that she was pregnant and it became important to her to let him know. Hopefully, also, to find out what happened. What had scared him away.

She went to the therapy center and waited for him to get off of work, her boys playing wild in the car. They loved playing in there, unbuckled.

When he saw her car in the parking lot, he stopped. Ramona saw that stop, and saw the unhappiness on his face; she couldn’t believe how hard it was to hold back tears. Ramona was not a romantic person, but she was a person. And he clearly did not want to see her.

She told him about the baby. He told her about his wife. She was without words. Nothing came to her mouth or mind. He told her he was sorry, but he wouldn’t be able to take part in parenting. She told him he knew where to find her. With a stain on her heart, she left.

Again, she was certain her sons did not need a father, they needed love, and she had that to give. But had she stained them by making the decision to be fooled by this man? To make a baby with him?

She softly kissed her small son on his small head and carefully got up from the bed and headed into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. The stain was not noticeable. She leaned a little closer to the mirror, still smiling, and tilted her head a little.

There it was.

Light brown, probably coffee. Probably permanent.

She picked up her toothbrush and dipped it into the homemade toothpaste (more sustainable to make it herself, financially and environmentally) and began the delightful chore of brushing. How anyone could not love brushing their teeth Ramona did not understand. Perhaps people with sensory issues, okay. But otherwise?  What a wonderful feeling! To have the power to brush yourself clean and healthy.

Sure, maybe there was a stain but only because there was life.

Life had mess.

Some messes stained.

                           

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!

Tsara Shelton (X.com) 

 

 

 

 

Autism Answer: I Don't Know What It's Like To Be You

Rain in my yard

Right now I live in a poor neighborhood in a small, old, run down trailer house with my black much older than me mechanic husband, my big white gay son, my anti-social overly passionate mixed-race son, and my book reading white skinned woman hippie self. I sit and have coffee in my kitchen (avoiding the holes in the floor) with my socially struggling once-upon-a-time autistic brother. Together we talk often about how much we miss my brown skinned half Arab older sons who have moved away to another state.

I rarely notice all of that. Mostly, I live in my house with my family and hang out with my brother. 

But I would be lying if I didn't admit that I've changed and grown because of learning from

My hubby working with our boys

the experiences my black mechanic older husband shares with me, and the situations my white gay son tells me he's been in, and the reasons my overly passionate mixed-race son reveals for his anti-social behavior. My once-upon-a-time autistic brother relates realities that might have remained unknown to me while my brown skinned boys make choices to not grow their beards when certain racial tensions are high.  I'm certain, too, that my family has shifted when hearing me share stories of my book reading hippie-woman experiences.

Meanwhile, we've all learned things with and because of our neighbors who deal with poverty in vastly different ways. 

We are all different and should never try to change that. 

I believe in integration without the expectation of assimilation.

But we are all the same, too. We are all one race of alive beings on one alive planet. We all live together, and that's not negotiable. We can choose to do so with curious interest and love, or with mistrust and judgments. It's completely and totally up to us. 

As individuals and as society - which is made up of individuals who teach each other - we have the responsibility and power to tell the story of who we are and how we live together. Stories need controversy and obstacles to be intriguing, but they do not need "bad guys". (Although, if you want a story with bad guys you need not look further than most large man-made systems and corporations. As they grow they become dangerous.)

I live in a poor neighborhood with my diverse family. Together we share with each other how we experience the world. Although our beliefs often clash, always they are valid and valuable. 

The story of my life is filled with controversy, love, worry, life, death, hope, hurt, and diversity. There are not "bad guys" in my story to distract from the stuff that matters most to me; there are flavors and feelings.  

However, I'll admit that my husband believes in bad guys, so his story does include them. Yet we live together and let our clashing beliefs make a music we can both dance to. We find ways to harmonize and change both of our stories by sharing and shifting together. 

It's not always easy. But that's why I know we don't need bad guys to fill our world with interesting twists and turns! Loving each other and insisting on learning together is filled with intrigue and interesting plot twists!

The goal is not to pretend we aren't different. We are! And it's fascinating! The goal, or my goal at least, is to explore those differences from where we are the same. Where we remember that we are all equally valuable living beings with the same need to be free, accepted, and honored. We all eat, breathe, bleed, think, hope, dream, hurt, and love. But we are all born different, and become different, and are treated different, too.

The people I live with don't know what it's like to be a woman because they aren't women. I don't know what it's like to be a black man in small town Texas. I don't know what it's like to be a young gay man here, either. Or mixed race and passionately sensitive. I can barely imagine how it is to grow up autistic in a world that pities and fears cognitive disabilities and I have no clue what it means to walk around in brown skin with a handsome Arab face in America. But we can do our best to tell each other and listen, and to make necessary changes. We can, and we must. 

We can, we must, and I do. 

I get it wrong, but I do it anyway, hoping to get it right. 

Which is a place where we are all the same. 
We're all hoping to get it right.

Hugs, smiles, and love!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

My husband teaching our youngest son.

Autism Answer: Mother's Day, Hands Off Step-Mom Edition

My step-daughter and her boys.

I have three step-daughters but only one of my step-daughters was still a child when I married my husband. So, because two were already adults I don't really feel like a "step-mom" to them, but with the youngest I do. 

However, she is no longer a child. She is now the mother of two fabulous and funny boys! 

The other day I sent her this message:
"You know, I was just telling your dad that even though you and I are different styles of "mom" one thing we have in common is how freaking much we love our kids. It's written all over your face and soaked into the sound of your voice, as it is with me.
I hope you have a lovely Mother's Day planned for yourself!!
xoxo"

And her reply included this bit:
"Thank you to being a part of my life, not to be funny but i put your white girl Canadian twist to my parenting. And a Lil of my mom's white girl hood lol I love you so much. That's why I have so many pictures and books like you and Inspire my boys to think big and that they can be whatever they want to be. They can be a leader not a follower."

Now, that might not seem like much. 
But for me it meant the world!! 

When I married her dad I made a promise to myself that I would be a loving but "hands off" kind of step-mom. As a mom myself I knew that I wouldn't be comfortable overly sharing my own sons. I knew her mom wouldn't want to have me step in too obnoxiously. Also, I knew that it wasn't my privilege to step in obnoxiously, it was her mom's privileged. My step-daughter spent a lot of time with me and I loved to take her places and give her the gift of my love and my beliefs and my ideas when I could. My mom and my sister did as well. But I always remained somewhat on the sidelines. It seemed right. 

Sometimes, though, I worried that she'd think I didn't care. I am entirely different from her family. I live and love in ways that my step-daughter is unused to and I was afraid she wouldn't recognize. 

One of the greatest gifts my step-daughter has given me is letting me love her my own way. But now that greatest gift has grown bigger with her telling me that my way was not lost; that she felt it and held on to it. 

Some step-moms have a bigger role to play. When their children live with them or when the birth mom is largely absent, and you deserve to be hugely celebrated!!

But I think this post is mostly for those step-moms with a less sturdy and obvious role, with a more fluttering and inconsistent and almost unknowable role. The hands off step-mom, I guess!

For all you hands off step-moms out there, know that you have a beautiful and important role. Sometimes it's a really hard role, to step back and allow the parenting to happen with you gathering and giving from the sidelines. But you matter and your gifts are felt, your willingness to step in only sometimes doesn't mean you are forgotten but rather that you are kind enough not to take over. 

And for all of you step-children with step-moms and step-dads who are hands on or hands off, know that you are loved! Know that you are our world, even when it looks differently to you. We will certainly get stuff wrong, we might step in when we should step out, or step away when we should step up, but we know we're lucky to have you and want more than anything to do right by you. 

My step-daughter gave me a delicious gift the other day. She let me know that she felt my love, even as it fluttered about uncertainly. She offered me the opportunity to thank her for letting me know. 

And she takes care of her boys. Admittedly, in ways that sometimes makes me want to cringe, but with a love that is pure and real and willing, with a love that makes me proud of her and happy for her sons. 

Those boys are loved and they know they are loved!

And that is what a mother's first and most important job is. All of us moms. We will forever be working on the rest of that parenting stuff, but loving our kids and letting them know they are loved is our first and most important job.

For those of us who have step-moms and birth-moms and step-children and adopted children and birth children, well, we are lucky! We have plenty of ideas and love to work with!

Happy Mother's Day to every kind of mom!!!

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook) 

My step-daughter and some of our boys. Too many years ago!

Autism Answer: Me And My Hubby - Arm in Arm

When we're in public and I reach out to rub my husband's arm, or hold his hand, or wrap my arm around his waist, he usually pulls away from me, instinctively. He often then looks

Me and my hubby!

uncomfortably at the ground or around me - rarely at me. And then he'll say something completely unrelated to love. Like, did we remember to pay the gas bill?

I don't mind. I'm used to it. Also, I understand.

He's not got a sensory issue, like my youngest brother did. My youngest brother who also used to pull away when I'd go in for a hug. No, my husband is black and I am white and people don't like it, don't want to see it, and have always treated him unkindly because of it.

They don't treat me unkindly, much. I'm used to this too. 

I grew up going places with my brothers who all had different styles of functioning, and people would treat them unkindly. But they didn't treat me unkindly, much.

So I've grown accustomed to the people I love pulling away while the strangers that watch play an almost invisible role.

But it's not entirely invisible. I see it.

And when I use my privilege to point it out to them, an ever growing number of them see it too.

So I rub my husband's arm, I hold his hand, and I wrap my arm around his waist in public, even though I know he'll pull away, because he doesn't mind. Or, at least, he's learned not to mind. And I refuse to let the possible prejudices of strangers push their almost invisible judgements with such force that they knock all of us "strange" or "different" or "inconvenient" love display-ers down.

I have a vision: One day my husband will feel my arm around his waist, we'll be walking through the parking lot of our local grocery store, and everyone will be completely comfortable. 

I believe in this possibility.

My youngest brother, who had sensory sensitives (and still slightly does), reaches out to hug me now. His focus on being accepted, his hard work at finding where those accepting places are, and the control he has when he reaches for the hug first, have made him far more comfortable in his skin, even when it touches mine.

When we all take advantage of our differences and privileges, introduce ourselves to the world kindly and consistently, we actually do make a difference.

One day you'll see me & my hubby, arm and arm, comfortably disagreeing about the value of organic food; and if you stare at us it'll be because you like my boots.

Me and my brother!

Hugs, smiles, and love!! 
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook) 

Author's Note: I feel that this is a timely post, because it's voting season. I can't vote on a ballot where I live, but I can vote (actively!) with my actions. So, I do and I will and I invite you to join me. Hugs!! ~Tsara 

Autism Answer: Watermelon and Problem Solving -- Happy Birthday Hubby!

My husband and one of our grandsons, munching on melon!

Today is my husband's birthday!

Yesterday we hung out with one of his daughters and some of the grand-kids eating watermelon and talking about the challenges of growing older. The challenges faced by my hubby, our children, and our grandchildren. 

And though we were talking about the hard stuff (figuring out how to pay bills on time, finding work, broken down cars, looking for a school that the kids are comfortable in) we laughed, hugged, danced and gobbled down sweet juicy locally grown watermelon while we chatted. 

And that's how we do it! 

We don't pretend the hard stuff isn't real or important, but we don't feel obligated to sit in the stress without pushing back either. 

We bring our joy to the problem solving table.

And, because my husband's birthday would not be complete without it, we bring cold sweet watermelon! 

Happy birthday, honey!!!

Hugs, smiles, and love!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

One of my hubby's daughters and a few of our grandsons. Happy Birthday my love!!

 

Autism Answer: Moving in with my Husband (aka Learning to Live Together)

I'll admit, moving in with my husband is one of the least challenging challenges I've had to overcome in my life. But it was a challenge. One that was filled with fabulous, evergreen, life lessons!

My hubby and I have been happily married for fifteen years. We are as different as two people can be (he's black, I'm white, he's a hard working mechanic who's never left his small town Texas life, I'm a free spirited Canadian hippy type who never learned to stay in one place, he's twenty-three years older than me) yet our marriage is a comfortable and nourishing one. And it was always simple, too.

Mostly because we truly love and respect each other, but also because for thirteen years we lived in two separate homes.

Me in the woods where the kids (we have four sons--three are from my previous relationships) could run wild and make unlimited amounts of noise, and he in town where he could work on cars and watch the news. Our homes were not far from each other and we were together often, but there is a gift in not having to learn to live together as well.

Eventually, though, there was also the gift of learning to live together.

My hubby and the boys: Working Togehter

The house I was staying in with my boys was sold and we packed up any belongings we felt compelled to keep and moved into the tiny trailer house with my husband. By then two of our four boys had moved out on their own so we weren't crowded, but we were challenged to learn life more consistently together.

At first, I was an uncomfortable mix of overly polite and quietly defensive. Not defensive for myself but for our sons and their strange habits. Which is, admittedly, defensive of myself and my parenting, but I digress.

Our two youngest boys have social issues and sensory sensitivities that make them quirky and unusual. This is a lovely thing! But for my husband, who had always known about the quirks but never had to live with them, it was hard. He was now faced with a feeling of needing to parent. Because he was there in the middle of the night when our sixteen year old son wanted to empty drawers and invent stories and tape stuff together, he felt an obligation to teach this away. And when our fourteen year old son would hide in his room singing and laughing and watching videos and burning incense and eating sporadically, only coming out to go to school or to get a drink of water, my husband would feel a need to tell him to come out of his room and stop watching videos. 

On Money: Living together has meant that our vastly different views and beliefs on how and why money should be spent is much more in our face. When I choose expensive organics, my hubby sees it in the fridge. When he watches television, I see it in my living room (and on our children).

This has become a gift, but we had to make it one! Learning to argue and show and explain why we believe in spending money the way we do has made us better at teaching, while it's invited us to dig deeper into our beliefs about money. It's encouraged us to remember the value of patience and compromise, along with the value of sticking to your core belief when you must. Often, I must!

My handsome hubby and I are going to live together and spend money together for a long time so it's worth the discussions and flexibility. It's another important lesson I use when I step out into the world with the desire to listen, love, and be heard.

At our home in the woods, we had the freedom to be ourselves and with that freedom we grew confident in many ways. We also grew dangerously anti-social in other ways. So I knew that I wanted to learn life in town; life with people and social expectations. Not so we could become what was expected of us, but rather so we could grow more connected and compassionate. Human beings are social creatures, and we are no exception. 

So I allowed myself to be defensive with my hubby, but I also pushed myself to keep my eyes open. To see what others were seeing and to learn what lessons I agreed with- to raise the bar, as my mom always says.

Because my husband and I respect and love each other so much, and because we both believe in and are amazed by our impressive children, it didn't take long to love this more together life. My hubby has found comfort in the sound of our son awake in the night building cities out of trash and I've found pleasure in teaching him to respect our sleeping hours with quiet. My husband understands now the toll being social at school places on our other son and I adore the creative ways I've found to get him out of his room.

Also, I've gotten fabulously gifted at recognizing the difference between an annoying habit and a true problem. It's rare that my husband and I have to work something out between us, an issue or contradiction that's truly problematic, because mostly--as different as we are from each other-- we're coming from the same place. So when we do need to deal with something in our marriage, we both feel a deep respect for each other's point of view. Sure, it's frustrating when he keeps arguing for his wrong point of view (tee hee!!) but it's also not something we're working on only after a mountain of itty bitty issues have piled up. Living with my husband has given me the gift of seeing clearly the things to simply let go of. And I've become a better sister, mom, and friend because of it.

Our marriage has grown stronger and our sons have grown stronger and our dreams and futures are starting to grow more concrete. Because now we're truly and completely doing it together.

Moving in with my husband has challenged me to learn and value true collaboration. Not just with my immediate family where collaboration and comfort have almost always come naturally, but from outside of us as well. From people and places that have gifts and experiences to offer that I may have missed if I hadn't begun to incorporate new folks into my world. If I hadn't gained the skill of knowing the difference between annoying and truly problematic, and the value of allowing both the exist while collaborating and working together. 

Moving in with my husband has brought me a huge step closer to truly moving in with the world. 

And that is one great big huge fantastical evergreen life lesson!

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

A long ago picture of my hubby and me!

*For more fun stories and life lessons be sure to check out my book Spinning in Circles and Learning from Myself: A Collection of Stories that Slowly Grow Up. Available in ebook and paperback on Amazon, Barns & Noble, Powells, and Archway Publishing.

Autism Answer: The Baltimore Riots and The Incredible Hulk #NationalSuperHeroDay

Trending: 
#NationalSuperHeroDay
#BaltimoreRiots
____________________
The downtrodden need to remain passionate so as not to become complacent, without ever exploding in anger. It's not fair but it's necessary. 

Like Bruce Banner, they/we need to keep an eye on our rights and walk the edge of justified insistence when it comes to being treated fairly--without tripping over into blind anger. 

Again I admit, it's not fair but it's necessary.

It's hard to walk that line. 

When you're constantly treated as though your life is "less than" or as though being treated fairly is a gift you should be grateful for, then you  have to choose between giving up and pretending it's okay, or insisting on change and engaging in civil disobedience. It's an exhausting way to live.

And change is slow moving. So, sometimes people explode. Which is so sad and brings the movement farther away from where it needs to be. 

In Baltimore there were protests and pleas to look deeper into the possibility of police brutality and prejudice, following the death of Freddie Gray--a twenty-five year old black man who was arrested pretty peaceably but then died of an as yet unexplained spinal cord injury while in police custody. It's all pretty shady and not-so transparent. But also, it's all too familiar and easy for folks to make assumptions. Assumptions that grow out of the world they live in. 

In Baltimore there were protests. 

But there were also violent riots and heavy looting.  

And that's why I thought of Bruce Banner. 

He turns into The Hulk when he's angry, and he destroys everything in the process. His life, his city, his possibilities for a future. But if he doesn't stay at least a little bit angry then he also loses control of his life. He has to hide away from society, become useless, and be afraid of accidentally becoming angry. 

A line in The Avengers film offered by Bruce Banner (played by the ever sexy--oops! I mean talented--Mark Ruffalo) really resonates for me today. Throughout the movie the superheros wonder what his secret is, how it is that he mostly stays in control and doesn't turn into The Hulk. In the end, during the epic and obligatory end-of-a-Hollywood-action-movie battle, when they need The Hulk to appear and so tell Bruce to go ahead and get angry, he lets us in on his trick. "That's my secret," he says as he begins to turn green. "I'm always angry."

Now, I don't know that the downtrodden need to stay always angry. But they/we do need to stay always aware and brave. Willing to step up and insist on fairness or change, without tripping over into blind anger. It's emotionally and physically exhausting.

It's not fair.
And hopefully one day it won't be necessary. 

My heart goes out to those in Baltimore and elsewhere. Scrambling to get a foothold on how to express a passion and truth that needs to be acknowledged. 

Already many superheros have emerged. Volunteers and leaders changing the tone and insisting that the reason for the outburst not get lost in the rubble of the rioting. 

I stand with them and I hear their message.  


Hugs, smiles, and love.
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Yes, I did just compare the Baltimore Riots and a Civil Rights movement to Bruce Banner and The Incredible Hulk. Yes, my mind works in mysterious ways. But in my defense I have four sons! And an itty bitty crush on Mark Ruffalo!!